• . ; ' . ■ . ' • ' . ■ • ■ : . ■ •'- : ■' ' : ‘A \ : , •' < ■ ' ‘ ‘, •. ; v , * * , Xf.iA , v :>l & v !;VV:‘U ?■ ' \ * . * * *'.'*> * ft. ’ . . " •••<■> -•/• .I-.:.,:- •• V.-. v.A-;..v«* : *v.^»;V^ l~y*ZXi»M ) t. mim pH ft ■ , i‘. '. > ••■v': / • i ■ ;. •: -v ,■•••'-, ■ ■ . . '■ • • • fi&i “* * ' V <■ - 1 . ft \ ■■.*.• V * -//>,’ .‘*X '..a* , * i 5 ;/**■ ' l fa Si J *• ?;}'?■ jfyAv. i 1 . ’ - , '.*,»/ , . ; 'A «•«*/. ,, . ' ’ *♦-} ^ ( tf'f. ° > ^ , . . . . . \ : OF THE U N I VERS ITY Of ILLINOIS 57 435 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/cornpletepoetical00burn_1 1 THE COMPLETE flnetical ani( f) rxrjse ®nrls OF ROBERT BURNS: WITH LIFE, NOTES, AND CORRESPONDENCE* A. CUNNINGHAM, Esq.. WITH Original |pim8 from % Collection of Sir Cgerfon §rgl>ges, §art AND ILLUSTRATIONS. WORLD PUBLISHING HOUSE, 139 Eighth Street, NEW YORK. 1 8 7 6 . Contents. life nf Entort 38mm PA.QE Initiatory Remarks • • • • 1 Life 8 Letter of a Lady to the Dumfries Journal on the Character, &c., of Burns . 68 An Enquiry into the Literary Merits of Burn* «••••• 71 pa on Addenda : — Letter of Gilbert Burns to Dr. Carrie 87 Second Letter of Gilbert Burns . 88 Widow, Children, and ETother of Burns 94 Phrenological Development of Burn* , H ijMiral ttfnrks nf Enbert 38mm The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie ...••• 101 Poor Mailie’s Elegy • • • .102 Epistle to Davie . . • • • 102 Address to the Deil • . • .103 The Auld Farmer’s New-Year Morning Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie 105 Halloween .«•••• 106 A Winter Night . . . . . 108 Epistle to J. Lapraik . . . . 109 To the Same . . . • ; 110 To William Simpson • • • .111 Death and Dr. Hornbook . . . 113 The Holy Fair ...... 114 The Ordination . • • . . 117 To James Smith • . • • . . 118 The Jolly Beggars— A Cantata . • il9 Man was Made to Mourn • • .123 To a Mouse •••••• 124 The Vision : 124 The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prcyer 127 Scotch Drink 129 Address to the Unco Good • « • 130 Tam Samson’s Elegy . . . ,130 Despondency . . . . , 131 The Cotter’s Saturday Night • • • 132 To a Mountain Daisy . . . . 134 Epistle to a Young Friend . . .135 A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 136 A Dream ..••••• 137 A Bard’s Epitaph • « • • 13S 1 The Twa Dogs •«•••• 139 Lament •••*•• 141 Address to Edinburgh • . . .142 The Brigs of Ayr .... 142 On Captain Matthew Henderson . , 145 Tam O’ Shanter • . . • * 146 Tragic Fragment . . . . , 148 Winter, a Dirge 148 A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish 149 A Prayer on the Prospect of Death • 149 Stanzas on the same Occasion . • 149 Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux 149 The Calf 150 The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie • 150 Holy Willie’s Prayer . . • • 151 Epitaph on Holy Willie . . . .152 Epistle to John Gondie of Kilmarnock 152 Epistle to John Rankine . . • 152 Third Epistle to John Lapraik . . 152 Epistle to the Rev. John M’ Math • .153 The American War . . . . 154 Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 154 To Ruin 155 The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm .,,••• 155 The First Psalm • • • * .155 To a Louse .;•••• 156 The Inventory ..... 156 A Note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 157 Willie Chalmers • • • • • 157 * yiii CONTENTS. FA.GK I Lines Written on a Bank Note • . 158 To a Kiss . 158 Verses Written under Violent Grief . 158 Verses Left at a Friend’s House where the Author Slept one Night . . 158 To Mr. M‘Adam 159 Lines on Meeting with Basil, Lord Daer 159 Epistle to Major Logan . • . 159 I , ament on Leaving Scotland • «. .ICO On a Scotch Bard .... 160 Written on a Blank Leaf of a Copy of Poems 161 The Farewell 161 To a Haggis 161 To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems • 162 Extempore in the Court of Session . 162 To the Guidwife of Wauchope House . 162 Verses Written under the Portrait of Fergusson the Poet . . . 163 Inscription on the Headstone of Fergusson 163 Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Woods on his Benefit Night 163 Epistle to William Creech . . . 164 On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 165 On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch- Turit 165 The Humble Petition of Bruar Water . 166 The Hermit 166 Verses written over the Chimney-piece of the Inn at Kenmore, Tay mouth . 167 Elegy on the Death of Lord Dundas • 167 Verses written by the Fall of Fyers . 168 On Reading of the Death of John M‘Leod 168 On William Smellie . . . . 168 Address to Mr. William Tytler • .168 A Sketch 169 To Miss Cruikshanks .... 189 An Extempore Effusion, on being Ap- pointed to the Excise . . . 169 To Clarinda, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking Glasses . . . .169 To Clarinda, on his Leaving Edinburgh 169 Epistle to Hugh Parker . . . 170 Written in Friar’s Carse Hermitage, on . the Banks of Nith .... 170 Extempore to Captain Riddel • . 171 A Mother’s Lament . • • #171 Elegy on the Year 1788 • • 171 Address to the Tooth-Ache . . . 172 Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald 17? Letter to James Tennant . . . 172 A Fragment, Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 173 On Seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow had just Shot • 173 The Kirk’s Alarm, a Satire • • *174 To Dr. Blackiock .... 175 Delia 175 Sketch, New-Year’s Day • . * 175 Prologue, spoken at the Dumfries Theatre 176 Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland’s Benefit Night, Dumfries . . . . .176 Written to a Gentleman who had sent the Poet a Newspaper . • • 177 Peg Nicholson . • • • .177 To My Bed 173 First Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry • 178 The Five Carlines . . . . 179 Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry 180 On Captain Grose’s Peregrinations through Scotland 9 • • .181 Written in an Envelope, enclosing a Letter to Captain Grose Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland. Society Lament of Mary Queen of Scots . . The Whistle Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, Bart. Third Epistle to Mr Graham, of Fintry Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham, of Fintry The Rights of Woman .... A Vision ...... Liberty, a Fragment .... To Mr. Maxwell, on his Birth-Day On Pastoral Poetry .... Sonnet, on Hearing a Thrush Sing . The Tree of Liberty .... To General Dumourier Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had Offended Monody on a Lady Famed for Her Caprice Epistle from iEsopus to Maria Sonnet on the Death of Captain Riddel . Impromtu on Mrs. Riddel’s Birth-Day Verses to Miss Graham of Fintry . The Vowels, a Tale ..... Verses to John Rankine • • On Sensibility Address Spoken by Miss FonteneUe on her Benefit Night .... To Chloris Address to the Shade of Thomson Ballads on Mr. Heron’s Elections, Ballad First • Ballad Second, The Election Ballad Third, An Excellent New Song . On Life Inscription for an Altar to Independence On the Death of a Favourite Child . To Mr. Mitchell • The Ruined Maid’s Lament • The Dean of the Faculty Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig On the Duke of Queensberry Verses to John M‘Murdo . . • On Mr. M‘Murdo, Inscribed on a Pane of Glass in his House . • Impromtu on Willie Stewart . • To Miss Jessy Lewars . • . Tibbie, I hae seen the Day . . . Montgomery’s Peggy • • : Bonny Peggy Alison .... Here’s to thy Health, my Bonny Lass Young Peggy John Barleycorn ..... The Rigs o’ Barley . • • • The Ploughman . • • • Song composed in August • • • Yon Wild Mossy Mountains . • My Nannie, O . . . • . Green Grow the Rashes • • • • The Cure for all Care . • • • On Cessnock Banks • • • • The Highland Lassie . » • • Powers Celestial . . • « • From thee, Eliza . » • • Menie . ..•••• The Farewell • • & * < PAGl 182 182 182 183 181 l s 4 185 183 188 186 187 187 187 188 188 188 189 189 139 190 191 191 191. 191 192 192 192 193 193 193 193 194 195 195 195 196 198 198 197 197 197 197 198 198 198 198 198 198 199 199 200 200 200 20L 201 202 201 203 203 203 203 203 m CONTENTS. i* Flie Braes o* Ballochmyle • The Lass o’ Ballochmyle . . • The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast The Banks o’ Doon . . . • The Birks of Aberfeldy . ; • I’m owre Young to Marry Yet • » M‘Pher son’s Farewell . . . How Long and Dreary is the Night • Here’s a Health to Them that’s Awa Strathallan’s Lament . • • • The Banks of the Devon . Braving Angry Winter’s Storms ; My Peggy’s Face .... Raving Winds around her Blowing .» Highland Harry .... Musing on the Roaring Ocean • • Blythe was She . . . . The Gallant Weaver . . • . The Blude-red Rose at Yule may Blaw A Rose-bud by my Early Walk • • Bonnie Castle Gordon . . • When Januar’ Wind ...» The Young Highland Rover • • Bonnie Ann . • • • • Blooming Nelly . • • • My Bonnie Mary • . • • Ane Fond Kiss . • • • The Smiling Spring • • • • The Lazy Mist .... Of a’ the Airts the Wind can Blaw • Oh, were I on Parnassus’ Hill • The Che vallier’s Lament . • • My Heart’s in the Highlands • John Anderson . . • • • To Mary in Heaven • • • Young Jockey . • . • • The Day Returns . • • • Oh, Willie Brew’d . . • I Gaed a Wafu’ Gate Yestreen • The Banks of Nith .... My Heart is a-breaking, Dear Tittie There’ll never be Peace . . • Meikle thinks my Love . . • How can I be Blythe and Glad • • I do Confess thou art sae Fair • Hunting Song . . . • • What can a Young Lassie • • The Bonnie Wee Thing • • • Lovely Davies ..... Oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tam • • Kenmure’s on and Awa . . • Bess and her Spinning Wheel . . Oh Luve will Venture in In Simmer, when the Hay was Mawn Turn again, thou Fair Eliza . Willie Wastle Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation Song of Death She’s Fair and Fause ... Flow Gently, Sweet Afton . • . The Lovely Lass of Inverness . A red, red Rose ..... Louis, what Reck I by Thee • . The Exciseman . . • . . Somebody ..... I’ll aye ca’ in by yon Town • • Wilt thou be my Dearie ? . . Oh, Wat ye Wha’s in yon Town . But Lately Seen .... Could ought of Song .... FA.QS 201 205 205 205 205 206 206 206 206 207 207 207 207 208 208 208 208 20* 209 209 209 209 2 0 210 210 211 21 ! 211 211 211 212 212 212 213 213 213 213 213 214 214 214 214 215 215 215 215 215 216 216 216 217 217 217 217 218 218 218 219 219 219 219 220 220 220 220 220 221 221 221 221 rial Oh, Steel her up . . . • .223 It was a’ for our Rightfu’ King • 2 23 Oh, ivha is She that Loes me ? . ( 223 Caledonia 223 Oh, lay thy Loof in Mine, Lasa • . 223 Anna, thy Charms • • • • 223 Gloomy December ..... 223 Oh, Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet • 2^4 Cassillis’ Banks ..... 224 My Lady’s Gown, therj’s Gairs upon’t 224 The Fete Champetre .... 224 The Dumfries Volunteers ... 225 Oh, wert Thou in the Cault Blast • • 225 Lovely Polly Stewart .... 225 Yestreen I had a Pint o’ Wine . . 2 <6 The Lea Rig . * • • . 2.6 Bonnie Lesley . . . . .2 /3 Will ye go to' the Indies, my Mary T . 226 My Wife’s a Winsome Wee Thing . . 227 Highland Mary . . • •« • 227 Auid Rod Morris • • • • • 227 Duncan Gray . • . . • 227 Poort th Cauid • . . . • 228 Gala Water ...... 228 Lord Gregory •••••. 2^8 Mary Morison ..... 228 Wandering Willie ..... 229 The Soldier’s Return .... 229 Biythe hae I been on yon Hill • • 230 Logan Braes 230 Oh, gin my Love were yon Red Rose . 23C Bonnie Jean 230 Meg o’ the Mill • . • • • 231 Open the Door to me, oh * • . 23 1 Young Jessie 231 Adown winding Nith I did Wander . 231 Had I a Cave ...... 233 Phillis the Fair 233 By Allan Stream I chanc’d to Rove . 233 Come let me take Thee to my Breast . 232 Whistle and I’ll Come to you, my Lad . 233 Dainty Davie • • • . • 233 Bruce’s Address • • • • . 23$ Behold the Hour • • • • 233 Auld Lang Syne • • . . . 234 Where are the Joys? . • • . 231 Thou hast Left me Ever .... 234 Deluded Swain, the Pleasure • • 234 Thine I am, my Faithful Fair • .234 My Spouse, Nancy .... 2 >5 The Banks of Cree ..... 235 Oil the Seas and Far Away . . 235 Ca’ the Yowes to the Knowes . . , 236 She says she Loes me Best of A* . • 236 Saw ye my Philly ? 236 How' Long and Dreary is the Night ! . 2a6 Let not Woman e’er Complain . . 237 Sleep’st thou, or Wak’st thou . . 237 My Chloris, mark how Green the Groves 237 It was the Charn> : 3g Month of May . 237 Farewell, thou Stream that Winding Flows 237 Lassie wi’ the Lint-white Locks . . 238 Philly and Willy 238 Contented wi’ Little .... 238 Lan’st thou Leave me Thus my Katv? 239 For a’ That, and a’ That . . . .239 My Nannie’s Awa .... 239 Craigieburn \V ood • • . : j 240 Oh Lassie, art thou Sleeping yet • 244 CONTENTS. s TAGE Addiess to the "Woodlark • . • 240 On Chloris being 111 ... • 240 Their Groves o’ Sweet Myrtle • • 241 How Cruel are the Parents . . . 241 ’Twas na her Bonnie Blue Ee was my Ruin • 241 Mark yon Pomp of Costly Fashion • 241 Oh, this is no my Ain Lassie . . . 241 Now Spring has Clad the Grove in Green 242 Oh, Bonnie was yon Rosy Brier . • 242 Forlorn my Love, no Comfort near • 242 Hey lor a Lass wi’ a Tocher • • 243 Last May a Braw Wooer • • • «, 243 Fragment •..••• 243 Jessy 243 Fairest Maid on Devon Banks • « 244 Handsome Nell . . • • • 244 My Father was a Farmer • « . 244 Up in the Morning Early • • • 245 Hey, the Dusty Miller . • • • 245 Robin . . . . . • • 245 The Bells of Mauchline • • • 245 Her Flowing Locks • • • • 245 The Sons of Old Killie • • • • 246 The Joyful Widower • • • • 246 O, Whare did you Get t • • • 246 There was a Lass . . * « ,246 Landlady, Count the Lawin • • 246 Rattlin’ Roarin’ Willie . • • • 247 Simmer’s a Pleasant Time . • • 247 My Love she’s but a Lassie yet • • 247 The Captain’s Lady . . . • 247 First when Meggy was my Care • • 247 There’s a Youth in this City • • 248 Oh aye my Wife she Dang me • • 24s Eppie Adair ...••• 248 The Battle of Sheriff-Muir . • . 248 The Highland Widow’s Lament • • 249 Whare hae ye Been 1 . . • • 249 Theniel Menzie’s Bonnie Mary • • 249 Frae the Friends and Land I Love • 250 Gane is the Day • • • «, • 250 The Tither Morn • . « • • 250 Come Boat me o’er lo Charlie • • 250 It is na, Jean, thy Bonnie Face • *250 I hae a Wife o’ my Ain . • • 251 Withsdale’s Welcome Home • • .251 My Collier Laddie • • • • 251 As 1 was a -Wandering • • • .251 Ye Jacobites by Name • • • 252 Lady Mary Ann • • • • • 252 Out over the Forth . . • • 252 Jockey’s taen the Parting Kiss • • 252 The Carles o’ Dysart . . • • 252 Lady Onlie . . . . • • 253 Young Jamie, Pride of a’ the Plain • 253 Jenny’s a’ wat, Poor Body • • • 253 The Cardin’ o’t ..... « 253 To thee. Loved Nith • • • • 253 Sae Far Awa . . » « • 253 Wae is my Heart . . • • • 254 Amang the Trees . • • . 254 The Highland Laddie ' . • • • 254 Bannocks o’ Barley • • • • 254 ■Robin Shure in Hairst . • . • 254 Sweetest May . • . . . 255 The Lass of Ecclefechan • • • 255 Here’s a Bottle and an Honest Friend 255 On a Ploughman • • • . . 255 Xhe Weary Pund o’ Tow • • • 25$ The Laddies bj the Banks o’ Nith • 25S Epigrams, &c 256 On Captain Grose . . . .256 On a Henpecked Country Squire . 258 Another on his Widow-. . . . 256 On Elphinstone’s Translations of Mar- tial’s Epigrams 256 On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr . . . 258 On an Illiterate Gentleman . . 256 Written under the Picture of Miss Burns 256 Written on the Window of the Inn at Cnrron 256 Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat 257 Fragment 257 On Incivility shown him at Invernary 257 Highland Hospitality ... 257 Lines on Miss Kemble .... 257 On the Kirk at Lamington . . 257 The Solemn League and Covenant • 257 On a certain Parson’s Looks . . 257 On Seeing the Beautiful Seat of the Earl of * • * * 257 On the Earl of • • • • . . . 257 On the Same 257 To the Same, on the Author being threatened with his resentment . 257 On an Empty Fellow .... 258 Written on a Pane of Glass, oh the Occasion of a National Thanksgiving 258 The True Loyal Natives . • . . 258 Inscription on a Goblet • . . 25$ Extempore on Mr. Syme • • • 258 To Mr. Syme . . • • • 258 The Creed of Poverty .... 258 Written in a Lady’s Pocket Book • 258 To John Taylor • . • . • 258 To Miss Fontenelle • • • • 258 The Toast . . • . • « • 259 Excisemen Universal . . . 259 To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig’s recovery 259 On Jessy Lewars . • . • .259 Toast to the Same • • • . 259 Epitaph on the Same • « . . 259 To the Same . • • • . 259 Graces before Meat • • • • 259 Epitaphs . . . • • • 260 On the Author’s Father . . . 2 CQ On a Henpecked Country Squire • 260 On a Celebrated Ruling Elder • « 260 On a Noisy Polemic . • • • 260 On Wee Johnny 260 On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline 260 For Robert Aiken, Esq. ... 260 On a Friend . • • • • 260 For Gavin Hamilton . . . . 260 On Wat 360 On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire ..... 261 On Mr. W. Cruikshanks . • .261 For William Nicol . • . . 261 On W 261 On the Same .... .261 On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer . • 261 On John Busby, Writer, Dumfries . 261 On the Poet’s Daughter . . . 26! On a Picture representing Jacob’s Dream • • « . e « CONTENTS. *X nf %nm. PAGE Tc Mr. John Mur/ loch, Schoolmaster • 265 To . [An cany Love Letter] . 266 To the Same •••••• 266 To the Same • • • • • 267 To the Same ..;••• 268 To Mr. James Burness, Writer . • 268 To Mr. James Burness, Montrose • • 269 To the Same 269 To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline • • 270 To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh . 270 To Mr. John Kennedy . . • • 271 To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock • 271 To Mr. Aiken ,271 To Mr. M’Whinnie, Writer, Ayr • 272 To Mr. John Kennedy . . • • 272 To Mr. John Ballantine, of Ayr • • 272 To Mr. David Brice . • • ,272 To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . , 273 To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh • 273 To Mr David Brice, Shoemaker • 273 To Mr. John Richmond . . • .274 To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock , 274 To Mr. John Kennedy . • • .274 To Mr. Burness, Montrose • , • 274 To Mr. Robert Aiken . . « .275 To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair • • , 276 In the name of the Nine . • • 276 To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline . 277 To John Ballantine, Esq., Banker, Ayr . 277 To Mr. WilUam Chalmers, Writer, Ayr 278 To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline , • 278 To John Ballantine, Esq. • • • 278 To the Earl of Eglinton , , , 279 To John Ballantine, Esq. , , .279 To Mrs. Dunlop . . , • . 279 To Dr. Moore ..•••• 280 To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmills . 281 To James Dairy mple, Esq., Orangefield . 281 To Dr. Moore 282 To John Ballantine, Esq. , • . 282 To Mr. William Dunbar • , • 28 i To the Earl of Glencairn • . . 283 To Mr. James Candlish, Student in Physic 283 To , on Fergusson’s Headstone . 283 To the Earl of Buchan • • • 284 To Mrs. Dunlop . , , , . 285 To the Same .,,••• 285 To Dr. Moore , • • , • 286 To Mrs. Dunlop 286 To James Johnson, Editor of the “Scots Musical Museum ” . . • 286 To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair . . . 287 To William Creech, Esq., Edinburgh . 287 To Mr. James Candlish .... 287 To Mr. Patison, Bookseller, Paisley . 287 To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the High School, Edinburgh .... 288 To William Nicol, Esq 288 To Mr. W. Nicol, Master of the High School, Edinburgh .... 288 To William Cruikshank, St. James’s Square, Edinburgh . . . . 289 To Mr. John Richmond • • • . 289 To: Robert Ainslie, Esq. . • , 290 To the Same ...... 290 To Mr. Robert Muir • • • 290 To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. • 291 To Mr. Walker, of Blair Athole # 292 To Mr. Gilbert Burns # • 292 To Miss Margaret Chalmers • 293 To the Rev. John Skinner , • 293 To James Hoy, Esq., Gordon Castle 294 To the Same • 294 To Robert Ainslie, Esq., Edinburgh 295 To the Earl of Glencairn , • 295 To Charles Hay, Esq., Advocate 296 To Miss M N. . . • 296 To Miss Chalmers • • • 296 To the Same • • • • • 296 To the Same . • » • • 297 To the Same . . ; • * 297 To Sir John Whitefoord • i 298- Miss Margaret Chalmers , *98 To Miss Williams, on reading her Poem 299 To Mr. Richard Brown, Irvine 300 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton • # 301 To Clarinda . • . • 301 To the Same • • • • 302 To the Same • • • • 302 To the Same • • • • 303 To the Same • . • • 304 To the Same • • • • 305 To the Same • • • • 305 To the Same • • • • 306 To the Same . • • • 307 To the Same . • , • • 308 To Mrs Dunlop • » • 308 To Clarinda • • • • • 309 To the Same • • • 309 To the Same • • • • * 310 To th$ Same . • • • 310 To the Same « • • • • 310 To the Same • • • • 311 To the Same • • • • • 312 To the Same • • • 312 To the Same • • • • 312 To Mrs. Dunlop • • • 313 To Clarinda . 313 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry 313 To the Rev. John Skinner % 314 To Richard Brown 314 To Mrs. Rose, cf Kilravock • 314 To Clarinda . . . 315 To Miss Chalmers , • • • 315 To Richard Brown • • 316 To Miss Chalmers • • • • 316 To Clarinda . • 316 To Mr. William Cruikshank • 317 To Robert Ainslie, Esq. , 317 To Clarinda . . • • • 318 To Richard Brown • • 319 To Mr. Muir • s • • 3i9 To Clarinda • • • 320 To Miss . . . • 320 To Miss Chalmers • 320 To Mrs. Dunlop • • • • 321 To Richard Brown . • 321 To Mr. Robert Clegliorn • : 321 To Miss Chalmers . 322 To Mr. William Dunbar, Edinburgh CONTENTS. jdi #aOB To Mrs Dunlop • • • . , 323 To Mr James Smith, Avon Printfield 323 To Professor Dugald Stewart . . . 324 To Mrs. Dunlop • • « • 324 To Mr Robert Ainslie • « • . 324 To Mrs. Dunlop . • • • 324 To the Same . . • • • # 325 To Mr. Robert Ainslie • • • 325 To the Same . • • • • 326 To the Same . . • • • 326 To Mr. Peter Hill . . . • . 327 To Mr. George Lockhart • • 328 To Mrs. Dunlop . » • , 328 To Mr. William Cruikshanks » 329 To Mrs. Dunlop • . • • , 329 To the Same . • ; • • 330 To Mr. Beugo .... • , 331 To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh * 332 To Mr. Morrison, Mauchllne . • 333 To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . . 333 To Mr. Peter ITill . . 334 To the Editor of “ Edinburgh Evening Courant ” 335 To Mrs. Dunlop • • • • . 336 To Mr. James Johnson • . 336 To Dr. Blacklock . • • 337 To Mrs. Dunlop • . • • 337 To Miss Davies • • • . 338 To Mr. John Tennant . . . 338 To the Rev. F. Carfrae • . • 339 To Mrs. Dunlop . . • • : 339 To Dr. Moore . . • • • , 340 To Mr. Robert Ainslie . • • 341 To Professor Dugald Stew&rt • , 341 To Bishop Geddes • • • • 342 To Mr. James Burness • • • 342 To Mrs Dunlop • • • . 343 To Mr. .... i 344 To Dr. Moore • • • • 344 To Mr. Hill .... # . 345 To Mrs. Dunlop . . . • 346 To Mrs M’Murdo . • • . 346 To Mr. Cunningham . . • 346 To Mr. Samuel Brown, • . . 347 To Richard Brown . . • 347 To Mr James Hamilton . • # 348 To William Creech, Esq. . • 348 To Mr. M’Auley, ot Dumbarton . . 348 To Mr. Robert Ainslie • • • 349 To Mr. M’Murdo . • • # 319 To Mrs. Dunlop .... 350 To Miss Williams • • • • . 350 To Mr. John LogaB • • • 351 To Mrs. Dunlop ... . 351 To Captain Riddel, CarM • • 352 To Captain Riddel . . • . . 352 To Mr. Robert Ainslie . • • 353 To Mr. Richard Brown • • . . 353 To Robert Graham, Esq. • 354 To Mrs. Dunlop . . 354 To Lady Winfred Maxwell Constable 355 To Provost Maxwell . • . . 354 To Mr. Sutherland, Player . • 356 To Sir John Sinclair . . . 357 To Mr. Gilbert Burns . . • 357 To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. * . 358 To Mrs. Dunlop .... 358 To Mr. Peter Hill, Bookseller, Edinburgh 359 To Mr. W. Nicol . . • . 360 To Mr. Cunningham • 9 • • 361 To Mr Hill • • « • • 8 o 2 To Mrs. Dunlop ; • „ . 362 To Mr. Collector Mitchell. • . 363 To Dr. Moore . . « # 3C4 To Mr. Murdoch, London, « , 364 To Mr. M’Murdo . • • • 865 To Mrs. Dunlop • • • . 365 To Mr. Cunningham • • 5 365 To Dr. Anderson . • 4 . 366 To Crauford Tait, Esq. ; # 3G6 To Dr. Blacklock . • • , 367 To Mrs. Dunlop . , « # 367 To Charles Sharpe, Esq. . . . 368 To Lady W. M. Constable . . 368 To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. i 369 To Mr. Peter Hill • . . 369 To Mr. Cunningham • • . 370 To A F. Tytler, Esq. . . . 370 To , 370 To the Rev. G. Baird . • , 370 To Mrs. Dunlop . • • . 371 To the Rev. Arch. Alison • # 37 L To Dr. Moore . . . • , 372 To Mrs. Graham . . • # 373 To Mr. Cunningham . . . 373 To Mr. Alexander Dalziel • . 374 To Mrs Dunlop . . # . 374 To Mr. Cunningham • i # 375 To the Earl of Buchan • • . 375 To Lady E. Cunningham i . 376 To Mr Thomas Sloan • i i 376 To Colonel Fullarton • • . 376 To Miss Davies . • • • . 377 To Mrs. Dunlop . • • # 377 To Mr. Ainslie . • • • s . 378 To .... . 373 To Francis Grose, Esq., F.S.A. # 379 To Mr. William Smellie, Printer . 379 To Mr. William Nicol . 379 To Francis Grose, Esq., F.S.A. . 380 To Mr J. Clarke . • • . 381 To Mrs. Dunlop . • • . 382 To Mr. Cunningham . • • . 383 Mr. Thomson to Burns • . 384 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • . 384 To Mrs. Dunlop . • < . 385 To the Same . . # • . 3J-5 Mr. Thomson to Burns • . 385 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • # 386 Burns to Mr. Thomson • s 387 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • . 387 Mr. Thomson to Burns # . 383 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • . 389 Burns to Mr. Thomson • # 389 To Mrs. Dunlop . • • . 389 To R Graham, Esq., Fintry . 390 To Mrs. Dunlop • . • . 3; 0 To the Same .... . 391 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • . 391 Mr. Thomson to Burns ^ , 392 Poster. ipt, from the Hon. A. Erskine . 392 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 393 To Clarinda . . • • . 393 To Mr. Cunningham . • . 391 Burns to Mr. Thomson » • , 394 To Miss Benson . . • . 393 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • . 395 Mr. Thomson to Burns • . 3f r Burns to Mr. Thomson • « » 396 To Patrick Miller, Esq. 9 9 397 CONTENTS. PAGE T*. John Francis Erskine, . 397 Burns to Mr. Thomson • « Mr. Thomson to Burns . 399 Burns to Mr. Thomson « « # Burns to Mr. Thomson # , 399 Mr. Thomson to Burns • » Burns to Mr. Thomson . 400 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • # Mr. Thomson to Burns • . 400 Burns to Mr Thomson » « To Mr. Robert Ainslie. . 400 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • « • To Miss Kennedy . • . 401 Burns to Mr. Thomson # » Burns to Mr. Thomson . 402 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • • • Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 402 Mr Thomson to Burns » • Mr. Thomson to Burns . 402 Burns to Mr. Thomson • a „ • Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 403 Burns to Mr. Thomson • 0 Burns to Mr. Thomson . 403 To Peter Miller, Jun., Esq. • • • Mr Thomson to Burns • . 404 Mr. Thomson to Burns • « Burns to Mr. Thomson . 404 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • • i Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 404 Burns to Mr. Thomson * • Mr. Thomson to Burns . 40.3 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • « • Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 405 Burns to Mr Thomson • • Burns to Mr. Thomson . 4)5 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • • Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 406 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • Burns to Mr. Thomson . 406 To Mrs. Riddel • • • • Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 406 To the Same • • • • To Miss Craik . • . 406 To Mr. Heron, of Heron • • • To Lady Glencairn . • . 407 To Miss Fontenelle • • • Mr. Thomson to Burns . 408 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • # Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 408 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • Burns to Mr. Thomson . 409 Burns to Mr. Thomson • * . • Mr. Thomson to Burns • # 409 Mr. Thomson to Burns # • Burns to Mr. Thomson . 410 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • • • Burns to Mr. Thomson • • 411 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • Mr. Thomsen to Burns . 412 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • • # Burns to Mr. Thomson . . 412 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • Burns to Mr. Thomson * 413 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • • Burns to Mr. Thomson • . 413 To Mrs. Dunlop . • • • Mr. Thomson to Burns . 4 4 To Mr. Alexander Findlater . • To John M’Murdo, Esq. . . 414 To the Editor of the “Morning Cliron licle” To the Same . • # . 415 To Mrs. Dunlop . . . • To Captain # • • . 415 Address of the Scotch Distillers • # To Mrs. Riddel . • # 415 To the Hon. the Provost, Bailies, and To a Lady • . 416 Town Council of Dumfries • To the Earl of Buchan. . 416 To Mrs. Riddel • • • • # To Captain Miller • • . 416 To Mrs Dunlop • • • * To Mrs. Riddel • • • 416 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • To the Same • • • . 417 Burns to Mr Thomson • • To the Same • • • • 417 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • • To the Same • • • . 417 Burns to Mr. Thomson • * To the Same . . « . 417 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • • • To John Syme, Esq. • . 418 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • To Miss . • • 418 Burns to Mr. Thomson • • • • To Mr. Cunningham * . 419 To Mrs. Riddel • • • • Mr. Thomson to Burns . 419 To Mr. Clarke • • • • * Burns to Mr. Thomson . . 420 To Mr James Johnson, • # To the Earl of Glencairn . 420 To Mr. Cunningham « • • • To David Macculloch, Esq. . 421 To Mr. Gilbert Burns # • To Mrs. Dunlop . . 421 To Mrs. Burns • • • • • To Mr. James Johnson • . <121 To Mrs. Dunlop < • • Burns to Mr. Thomson • 422 To Mr. James Burness • • * i To Mr. Samuel Clarke, Jun , 422 Burns to Mr. Thomson « • Mr. Thomson to Burns » 422 Mr. Thomson to Burns • • , # Burns to Mr Thomson • • 422 To James Grade, Esq. , • Mr. Thomson to Burns • 423 To Mr. James Armour t • • • Noras to the Life of Burns •••••• Notes to the Poems of Burns •••••• Notes to the Correspondence of Burns • • • 9 • SiLOBBAUT xili noi 423 423 424 425 425 427 427 428 429 429 430 431 431 432 432 432 432 433 433 433 434 434 435 435 435 435 436 436 437 437 437 437 437 433 ’ 438 439 440 441 441 441 442 442 442 443 443 443 443 444 444 444 444 445 445 445 446 446 446 447 447 449 47S 511 m tiff of larto. lift nf Untied Sums. Saifiatnnj Ktraartti. Though the dialect in winch many of the happiest effusions of Robert Burns are composed be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputation has extended itself beyond the Jim.ts of that country, and his poetry has been admired as the offspring 1 of original genius, by persons of taste in every part of the sister islands. It seems proper, there- fore, to write the memoirs of his life, not with the view of their being read by Scotch- men only, but also by natives of England, and of other countries where the English language is spoken or understood. Robert Burns was, in reality, what he has been represented to be, a Scottish peasant. To render the incidents of his humble story generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, advisable to prefix some observations on the character and situation of the order to which he belonged — a class of men distinguished by many peculiarities : by this means we shall form a more correct notion of the advantages with which he started, and of the obstacles which he surmounted. A few observations on the Scottish peasantry will pot, perhaps, be found unw orthy of atten- tion in other respects — and the subject is, W a great measure, new. Scotland has £ produced persons of high distinction in every branch of philosophy and literature ; and her history, while a separate and inde- pendent nation, has been successfully ex* plored. But the present character of the people was not then formed, the nation then presented features similar to those which the feudal system and the Catholic religion had diffused over Europe, modified, indeed, by the peculiar nature of her territory and climate. The Reformation, by which such important changes were produced on the national character, was speedily followed by the accession of the Scottish monarchs # to the English throne; and the period which elapsed from that accession to the Union, has been rendered memorable, chiefly, by those bloody convulsions in which both divisions of the island were involved, and which, in a considerable degree, concealed from the eye of the historian the domestic history of the people, and the gradual varia- tions in their condition and manners. Since the Union, Scotland, though the seat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore the house of Stuart to the throne, has enjoyed a comparative tranquillity; and it is since this period that the present character of her peasantry has been in a great measure formed, though the political causes affecting LIFE OF BURNS. ft are, to be traced to the previous acts of her separate legislature. A slight acquaintance with the peasan- try of Scotland will serve to convince an unprejudiced observer, that they possess a degree of intelligence not generally found among the same class of men in the other countries of Europe. In the very humblest condition of the Scottish peasants, every one can read, and most persons are more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic ; and, under the disguise of their uncouth appear- ance, and of their peculiar manners and dialect, a stranger will discover that they possess a curiosity, and have obtained a degree of information, corresponding to these acquirements. These advantages they owe to the legal provision made by the Parliament of Scot- land in 1646, for the establishment of a school in every parish throughout the kingdom, for the express purpose of educa- ting the poor — a law which may challenge comparison with any act of legislation to be found in the records of history, whether we consider the wisdom of the ends in view, the simplicity of the means employed, or the provisions — made to render these means effectual to their purpose. This ex- cellent statute was repealed on the accession of Charles II. in 1660, together with all the other laws passed during the Common- wealth, as not being sanctioned by the Royal assent. It slept during the reigns of Charles and James II., but was re-enacted precisely in the same terms, by the Scottish Parlia- ment, in 1696, after the Revolution ; and this is the last provision on the subject. Its effects on the national character may be considered to have commenced about the period of the Union, and doubtless it co- operated with the peace and security arising from that happy event, in producing the extraordinary change in favour of industry and good morals, which the character of the common people of Scotland has since under- gone. The church establishment of Scotland happily coincides with the institution just anentioned, which may be called its school establishment. The clergyman, being every- where resident in his particular parish, becomes the natural patron and superinten- dant of the parish school, and is enabled in various ways to promote the comfort of the teacher, and the proficiency of the scholars. The teacher himself is often a candidate for holy orders, who, during the long course of study and probation required in the Scottish church, renders the time which can be spared from his professional studies useftd to others as well as to himself, by assuming the respectable character of a schoolmaster. It is common for the established schools, even in the country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy the means of classical instruction', and many of the farmers, and some even of the cottagers, submit to much privation, that they may obtain, for one of their sons at least, the precarious advantage of a learned education. The difficulty to be surmounted arises indeed, not from the expense of instructing their children, but from the charge of supporting them. In the country parish schools, the English lan- guage, writing and accounts, are generally taught at the rate of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten or twelve shillings, per annum. In the towns the prices are somewhat higher. It would be improper in this place to inquire minutely into the degree of instruc- tion received at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise estimate of its effects, either on the individuals who are the sub- jects of this instrnction, or on the com- munity to which they belong. That it is, on the whole, favourable to industry and morals, though doubtless with some indi- vidual exceptions, seems to be proved by the most striking and decisive experience ; and it is equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit of emigration and of adventure so prevalent among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Verulam, been denominated power ; by others it has, with less propriety, been denominated virtue or happiness : we may with confidence consider it as motion. A human being, in proportion as he is informed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as the means of gratifying those wishes. He may be considered as taking within the sphere of his vision a large portion of the globe on which we tread, and discovering advantage at a greater distance on its sur- face. His desires or ambition, once excited, are stimulated by his imagination; and distant and uncertain objects, giving freer scope to the operation of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind of the youthful adven- turer, an attraction from their very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a greater de- gree of instruction be given to the peasantry of a country comparatively poor, in the neighbourhood of other countries rich in natural and acquired advantages, and if the barriers be removed that kept them separate, emigration from the former to the latter will take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly as uniform those by RELIGIOUS EDUCATION, 1 rhicli heat diffuses itself among surrounding bodies, or water finds its level when left to its natural course. By the articles of the Union, the barrier was broken down which divided the two British nations, and know- ledge and poverty poured the adventurous natives of the north over the fertile plains of England ; and more especially, over the colonies which she had settled in the east ftnd in the west. The stream of population continues to flow from the north to the south, for the causes that originally impelled it continue to operate; and the richer country is constantly invigorated by the accession of an informed and hardy race of men, educated in poverty, and prepared for hardship and danger; patient of labour and prodigal of life. The preachers of the Reformation in Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and brought with them the temper as well as the tenets of that celebrated heresiarch. The Presbyterian form of worship and of church government was endeared to the people, from its being established by them- selves. It was endeared to them, also, by the struggle it had to maintain with the Catholic and Protestant episcopal churches ; over both of which, after a hundred years of fierce, and sometimes bloody contention, it finally triumphed, receiving the counte- nance of government and the sanction of law. During this long period of contention and of suffering, the temper of the people became more and more obstinate and bigoted ; and the nation received that deep tinge of fanaticism which coloured their public transactions, as well as their private virtues, and of which evident traces may be found in our own times. When the public schools were established, the instruction communicated in them partook of the re- ligious character of the people. The Cate- chism of the Westminster Divines was the universal school-book, and was put into the hands of the young peasant as soon as he had acquired a knowledge of his alphabet ; and his first exercise in the art of reading, introduced him to the most mysterious doctrines of the Christian faith. This prac- tice is continued in our own times. After the Assembly’s Catechism, the Proverbs of Solo- mon, and the New and Old Testament follow in regular succession; and the scholar de- parts, gifted with the knowledge of the sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines Recording to the interpretation of the West- minster Confession of Faith. Thus, with the instruction of infancy in the schools of Scotland, are blended the dogmas of the 2 national church; and hence the first and most constant exercise of ingenuity among the peasantry of Scotland, is displayed in religious disputation. With a strong attach- ment to the national creed, is conjoined a bigoted preference for certain forms of wor«. ship; the source of which would be often altogether obscure, if we did not recollect that the ceremonies of the Scottish Church were framed in direct opposition, in every point, to those of the Church of Rome. The eccentricities of conduct, and singu- larities of opinion and manners, which cha- racterised the English sectaries in the last century, afforded a subject for the comic muse of Butler, whose pictures lose their interest since their archetypes are lost. Some of the peculiarities common among the more rigid disciples of Calvinism in Scotland, in the present times, have given scope to the ridicule of Burns, whose humour is equal to Butler’s, and whose drawings from living manners are singularly expressive and exact. Unfortunately, the correctness of his taste did not always cor- respond with the strength of his genius. The information and the religious educa- tion of the peasantry of Scotland, promote sedateness of conduct, and habits of thought and reflection. These good qualities are not counteracted by the establishment of poor laws. Happily, in Scotland, the same legis- lature which established a system of instruc- tion for the poor, resisted the introduction of a legal provision for the support of poverty; hence it will not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry have a more than usual share of prudence and reflection, if they approach nearer than persons of their order usually do to the definition of a man — that of "a being that looks before and after.” These observations must indeed be taken with many exceptions ; the favour- able operation of the causes just mentioned is counteracted by others of an opposite tendency; and the subject, if fully examined, would lead to discussions of great extent. When the Reformation was established in Scotland, instrumental music was banished from the churches, as savouring too much of “ profane minstrelsy.” Instead of being regulated by an instrument, the voices of the congregation are led and directed by a person under the name of a precentor, and the people are all expected to join in the tune which lie chooses for the psalm which is to be sung. Church music is therefore a part of the education of the peasantry of Scotland, in which they are usually in- structed in the long winter nights by th« * * LIFE OF BURNS. parish schoolmaster, who is generally the precentor, or by itinerant teachers, more celebrated for their powers of voice. This branch of education had, in the last reign, fallen into some neglect, but was revived about thirty ox forty years ago, when the music itself was reformed and improved. The Scottish system of psalmody is, how- ever, radically Ibad. Destitute of taste or harmony, . it forms a striking contrast with the delicacy and pathos of the profane airs. Our poet, it will be found, was taught church music, in which, however he attained little proficiency. That dancing should also be very gene- rally a part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, will surprise those who have only seen this description of men ; and still more those who reflect on the rigid spirit of Cal- vinism, with which the nation is so deeply affected, and to which this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. The winter is also the season when they acquire dancing, and, indeed, almost all their other instruction. They are taught to dance by persons gene- rally of their own number, many of whom work at daily labour during the summer months. The school is usually a barn, and the arena for the performers is generally a clay floor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck in one end of a cloven stick, the other end of which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strathspeys, contra-dances, and hornpipes, are here practised. The jig, so much in favour among the English peasantry, has no place among them. The attachment of the people of Scotland of every rank, and particularly of the peasan- try, to this amusement, is very great. After the labours of the day are over, young men and women walk many miles, in the cold and dreary nights of winter, to these country dancing-schools; and the instant that the violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue seems to vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his features brighten with sympathy, every nerve seems to thrill with sensation, and every artery to vibrate with life. These rustic performers are indeed less to be admired for grace than for agility and animation, and for their accurate observance of time. Their modes of dancing, as well as their tunes, are com- mon to every rank in Scotland, and are now generally known. In our own day they have penetrated into England; and have established themselves even in the circle of royalty. In another generation they will be naturalised in every part of ►he island | The prevalence of thh fce, or rathef passion, for dancing, am. .4 a people so deeply tinctured with the P’f~ it and doc* triues of Calvin, is one «if those contra- dictions which the philosoplne observer so often finds in national character and manners. It is probably to be ascribed t^ the Scottish music, which, throughout all its varieties, is so full of sensibility, and which, in its livelier strains,, awakes those vivid emotions that find in dancing their natural solace and relief. This triumph of the music of Scotland over the spirit of the established religion, has not however, been obtained, without long -continued and obstinate struggles. The numerous sectaries who dissent from the Establishment on account of the relaxation which they perceive, or think they perceive, in the Church, from her original doctrines and discipline, universally condemn the prac- tice of dancing, and the schools where it is taught ; and the more elderly and serious part of the people, of every persuasion tolerate rather than approve these meetings of the young of both sexes, where dancing is 'practised to their spirit-stirring music, where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten, and prudence itself is sometimes lulled to sleep. (1) The Reformation, which proved fatal to the rise of the other fine arts in Scotland, probably impeded, but could not obstruct, the progress of its music — a circumstance that will convince the impartial inquirer, that this music not only existed previously to that era, but had taken a firm hold of the nation, thus affording a proof of it# antiquity stronger than any produced by the researches of our antiquaries. (2) The impression which the Scottish music has made on the people, is deepened by its union with the national songs, of which various collections of unequal merit arc before the public. These songs, like those of other nations, are many of them hu- morous, but they chiefly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love is the subject of the greater proportion. Without displaying the higher powers of the imagination, they exhibit a perfect knowledge of the human heart, and breathe a spirit of affection, and sometimes of delicate and romantic ten- derness, not to be surpassed 111 modern poetry, and which the more polished strains of antiquity have seldom possessed. The origin of this amatory character in the rustic muse of Scotland, or of th« greater number of these love-songs them* | selves, it would be difficult to trace ; thef SOCIAL INTERCOURSE OF THE SEXES. i feave accumulated in the silent lapse of time, and it is now perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of them in the order of their date, valuable as such a record ©f taste and manners would be. Their present influence on the character of the nation is, however, great and striking. To them we must attribute, in a great measure, the romantic passion which so often character- ises the attachments of the humblest of the people of Scotland, to a degree that, if we mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank of society in other countries. I The pictures of love and happiness exhibited in their rural songs, are early impressed on the mind of the peasant, and are rendered more attractive from the music with which they are united. They associate themselves with his own youthful emotions ; they ele- vate the object as well as the nature of his attachment; and give to the impressions of sense the beautiful colours of imagination. Hence, in the course of his passion, a Scottish peasant often exerts a spirit of adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need not be ashamed. After the labours of the day are over, he sets out for the habitation of his mistress, perhaps at many miles’ distance, regardless of the length or the dreariness of the way. He approaches her in secrecy, under the disguise of night. A signal at the door or window, perhaps agreed on, and understood by none but her, gives in- formation of his arrival ; and sometimes it is repeated again and again, before the ca- pricious fair-one will obey the summons. But if she favours his addresses, she escapes unobserved, and receives the vows of her lover under the gloom of twilight or the deeper shade of night. Interviews of this kind are the subjects of many of the Scottish tongs, some of the most beautiful of which Burns has imitated or improved. In the rrt which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; he ki^w and had practised all its mysteries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal, even in the humblest condition of man in every region of the earth. But it is not unnatural to suppose that it may exist in a greater degree, and in a more romantic form, among the peasantry of a country who are supposed to be more than commonly instructed; — who find in their rural songs expressions for their youthful emotions ; — and in whom the embers of passion are continually fanned by the breathings of a music full of tenderness md sensibility. The direct influence of physical causes on the attachment between *tie sexes is comparatively small, but it is modified by moral causes beyond any other affection of the mind. Of these, music and poetry are the chief. Among the snows of Lapland, and under the burning sun of Angola, the savage is seen hastening to hi* mistress, and everywhere he beguiles th* weariness of his journey with poetry and song. (3) In appreciating the happiness and virtu# of a community, there is perhaps no singl# criterion on wdiich so much dependence may be placed, as the state of the intercoms# I between the sexes. Where this display# ardour of attachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, the character and the influence of women rise in society, our imperfect nature mounts in the scale of moral excel- lence ; and, from the source of this single affection, a stream of felicity descends, which branches into a thousand rivulets that enrich and adorn the field of life. Where the attachment between the sexes sinks into an appetite, the heritage of our species is comparatively poor, and man approaches the condition of the brutes that 'perish . “ If we could with safety indulge the pleasing sup- position that Fingal lived and that Ossian sung” (4), Scotland, judging from this crite- rion, might be considered as ranking high in happiness and virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her situation by the same criterion in our own times, would be a delicate and a difficult undertaking. After considering the probable influence of her popular songs and her national music, and examining how far the effects to be expected from these are supported by facts, the in- quirer would also have to examine the influence of other causes, and particularly of her civil and ecclesiastical institutions, by which the character, and even the manners of a people, though silently and slowly, are often powerfully controlled. In the point of view in which we are considering the subject, the ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland may be supposed peculiarly fa- vourable to purity of conduct. The disso- luteness of manners among the Catholie clergy, which preceded, and in some measure produced the Reformation, led to an ex- traordinary strictness on the part of the reformers, and especially in that particular in which the licentiousness of the clergy had been carried to its greatest height— the intercourse between the sexes. On thia point, as on all others connected with auste- rity of manners, the disciples of Calvin assumed a greater severity than those of the Protestant Episcopal church. Th* punishment of illicit connection betwjof 8 LIFE OF Btnm the sexes was, throughout all Europe, a province vl lich the clergy assumed to them- selves ; and the church of Scotland, which at the Reformation renounced so many powers and privileges, at that period took this crime under her more especial juris- diction. WherS pregnancy takes place with- out marriage, the condition of the female- causes the discovery; and it is on her, therefore, in the first instance, that the clergy and elders exercise their zeal. After examination before the kirk-session, touch- ing the circumstance of her guilt, she must endure a public penance and sustain a public rebuke from the pulpit, for three Sabbaths successively, in th°! face of the congregation to which she belongs, and thus have her weakness exposed, and her shame blazoned. The sentence is the same with respect to the male, but how much lighter the punishment ! It is well known that this dreadful law, worthy of the iron minds of Calvin and of Knox,, has often led to consequences, at the very mention of which human nature recoils. (5) While the punishment of incontinence prescribed by the institutions of Scotland is severe, the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding it, afforded them by the law respecting marriage, the validity of which requires neither the ceremonies of the church, nor any other ceremonies, but simply the deliberate acknowledgement of each other as husband and wife, made by the parties before witnesses, or in any other way that gives legal evidence of such an acknowledgement having taken place. And as the parties themselves fix the date of their marriage, an opportunity is thus given to avoid the punishment, and repair the con- sequences, of illicit gratification. Such a degree of laxity respecting so serious a con- tract. might produce much confusion in the descent of property without a still farther indulgence ; but the law of Scotland, legi- timating all children born before wedlock, on the subsequent marriage of their parents, renders the actual date of the marriage itself of little consequence. Marriages con- tracted in Scotland without the ceremonies of the church, are considered as irregular , and the parties usually submit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the face *of their respective congregations, which is not how- ever necessary to render the marriage valid. Burns, whose marriage, it will appear, was irregular , does not seem to have undergone this part of the discipline of the church. Thus, though the institutions of Scotland arc in many particulars favourable to a con- duct among the peasantry founded upo* foresight and reflection, oh the subject oi marriage the reverse of this is true. Irre- gular marriages, it may be naturally sup- posed, are often improvident ones, in whatever rank of society they occur. The children of such marriages, poorly endowed by their parents, find a ,_certain degree of instruction of easy acquisition, but the comforts of life, and the gratifications of ambition, they find of more difficult attain- ment in their native soil; and thus the marriage laws of Scotland conspire, with other circumstances, to produce that habit of emigration, and spirit of adventure, for which the people are so remarkable. The manners and appearance of the Scot- tish peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the degree of their cultivation. In their own country, their industry is inferior to that of the same description of men in tha southern division of the island. Industry and the useful arts reached Scotland later than England; and though their advance has been rapid there, the effects produced are as yet far inferior both in reality and in appearance. The Scottish farmers have in general neither the opulence nor the com- forts of those of England, neither vest the same capital in the soil, nor receive from it the same return. Their clothing, their food, and their habitations, are almost everywhere inferior. (6) Their appearance in these respects corresponds with the appear- ance of their country ; and under the operation of patient industry, both are im- proving. Industry and the useful arts came later into Scotland than into England, be- cause the security of property came later. With causes of internal agitation and warfare, similar to those which occurred to the more southern nation, the people of Scotland were exposed to more imminent hazards and to more extensive and destructive spoliation, from external war. Occupied in the mainte- nance of their independence against their more powerful neighbours, to this purpose were necessarily sacrificed the arts of peace, and, at certain periods, the flower of their population. And when the union of the crowns produced a security from national wars with England,. for the century suc- ceeding, the civil wars common to both divisions of the island, and the dependence, perhaps the necessary dependence, of the Scottish councils on those of the more powerful kingdom, counteracted this disad- vantage. Even the union of the British nations w r as not, from obvious causes, im- mediately followed by all the bene 5 U which PATRIOTISM, OF THE SCOTCH. was ultimately destined to produce. At length, however, these benefits are distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged. Property is secure; manufactures and commerce in- creasing ; and agriculture is rapidly improv- ing in Scotland. As yet indeed, the farmers are not, in general, enabled to make improve- ments out of their own capitals, as in England ; but the landholders who have seen and felt the advantages resulting from them, contribute towards them with a liberal hand. Hence property, as well as population, is accumulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and the nation, enjoying a great part of the blessings of Englishmen, and retaining several of their own happy institutions, might be considered, if confidence could be placed in human foresight, to be as yet only in an early stage of their progress. Yet there are obstructions in their way. To the cultivation of the soil are opposed the extent and the strictness of the entails ; to the improvement of the people, the rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors, a de- testable practice, which includes in its con- sequences almost every evil, physical and moral. (7) The peculiarly social disposition of the Scottish peasantry exposes them to this practice. This disposition, which is fostered by their national songs and music, is perhaps characteristic of the nation at large. Though the source of many pleasures, it counteracts, by its conse- quences* the effects of their patience, in- dustry, and frugality, both at home and abroad, of which those especially who have witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in other countries must have known many striking instances. Since the Union, the manners and language of the people of Scotland have no longer a standard wnong themselves, but are tried by the standard of the nation to which they are united. Though their habits are far from being fleskble, yet it is evident that their manners mnd dialect are undergoing a rapid change. Even the farmers of the present day appear to have less of the peculiarities of their country in their speech than the men of letters of the last generation. Burns, who never left the island, nor penetrated farther into England than Carlisle on the one hand, or Newcastle on the other, had less of the Scottish dialect than Hume, who lived for many years in the best society of England and France — or perhaps than Robertson, who wrote the English language in a style of suen purity; and if he had been in other respects fitted. to take a lead in the British House of Commons, his pronunciation f would neither have fettered his eloquence^ nor deprived ifc of its due etfect. A striking particular in the character of the Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped will not be • lost — the strength of their domestic attachments. The priva- tions to which many parents submit for tha good of their children, and particularly to obtain for them instruction, which they con- sider as the chief good, has already been noticed. If their children live and prosper, they have their certain reward, not merely as witnessing, but as sharing of their pros- perity. Even in the humblest ranks of the peasantry, the earnings of the children may generally be considered as at the disposal of their parents : perhaps iy no country is so large a portion of the wages of labour applied to the support and comfort of those whose days of labour are past. A similar strength of attachment extends through all the domestic relations. Our poet partook largely of this amiable characteristic of his humble compeers : he was also strongly tinctured with another striking feature which belongs to them — a partiality for his native country, of which many proofs may be found in his writings. This, it must be confessed, is a very strong and general sentiment among the natives of Scotland, differing, however, in its character, according to the character of the different minds in which it is found — in some appearing a selfish prejudice, in others a generous affection. An attachment to the land of their birth is, indeed, common to all men. It is found among the inhabitants of every region of the earth, from the arctic to the ant-arctic circle, in all the vast variety of climate, of surface, and of civilisation. To analyse this general sentiment, to trace it through the mazes of association up to the primary affec- tion in which it has its source, would neither be a difficult nor an unpleasing labour. On the first consideration of the subject, we should perhaps expect to find this attachment strong in proportion to the physical advan- tages of t>;e soil; but inquiry, far from confirming this supposition, seems rather to lead to an opposite conclusion. In those fertile regions where beneficent nature yields almost spontaneously whatever is necessary to human wants, patriotism, as well as every other generous sentiment, seems weak and languid. In countries less richly endowed, where the comforts, and even necessaries o{ life, must be purchased by patient toil, tha affections of the mind, as well as the faculties of the understanding, improve under exertion, and patriotism flourishes amidst its kindred 9 LIFE OF BURNS. ▼?. ^s. Where it is necessary to combine for mutual defence, as well as for the supply of common wants, mutual good-will springs from mutual difficulties and labours, the social affections unfold themselves, and extend from the men with whom we live to the soil on which we tread. It will perhaps be found, indeed, that our affections cannot be originally called forth, but by objects capable, or supposed capable, of feeling our sentiments, and of returning them ; but when once excited, they are strengthened by exercise ; they are expanded by the powers of imagination, and seize more especially on those inanimate parts of creation, which form the theatre on which we have first felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, and first tasted the sweets of sympathy and regard. If this reasoning be just, the love of our country, although modified, and even ex- tinguished in individuals by the chances and changes of life, may be presumed, in our general reasonings, to be strong among a people, in proportion to their social, and more especially to their domestic affections. Under free governments it is found more active than under despotic ones, because, as the individual becomes of more consequence in the community, the community becomes of more consequence to him. In small states it is generally more active than in large ones, for the same reason, and also because the independence of a small community being maintained with difficulty, and frequently endangered, sentiments of patriotism are more frequently excited. In mountainous countries it is generally found more active than in plains, because there the necessities of life often require a closer union of the inhabitants; and more especially, because in such countries, though less populous than plains, the inhabitants, instead of being scattered equally over the whole, are usually divided into small communities on the sides of their separate vallies, and on the banks of their respective streams — situations well calculated to call forth and to concentrate the social affections, amidst scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, and makes a lasting impression on the memory. It may also be remarked, that mountainous countries are often peculiarly calculated to nourish sentiments of national pride and independence, from the influence of history on the affections of the mind. In such countries from their natural strength, inferior nations have maintained their independence against their more powerful neighbours, and valour, in all ages, has made its most success- ful efforts agoiiifit-oppression. Such countries present the fields of battle where the tide a' invasion was rolled back, and whereon th« ashes rest of those who have died in defence of their nation ! The operation of the various causes we have mentioned is doubtless more general and more permanent, where the scenery of a country, the peculiar manners of its in- habitants, and the martial achievements of their ancestors, are embodied in national songs, and united to national music. By this combination, the ties that attach men to the land of their birth are multiplied and strengthened, and the images of infancy, strongly associating with the generous affec- tions, resist the influence of time, and of new impressions ; they often survive in countries far distant, and amidst far different scenes, to the latest period of life, to soothe the heart with the pleasures of memory, when those of hope die away. If this reasoning be just, it will explain to us why among the natives of Scotland, even of cultivated minds, we so generally find a partial attachment to the land of their birth, and why this is so strongly dis- coverable in the writings of Burns, who joined to the higher powers of the under- standing the most ardent affections. Let not men of reflection think it a superfluous labour to trace the rise and progress of a character like his. Born in the condition of a peasant, he rose, by the force of his mind, into distinction and influence, and in his works has exhibited what are so rarely found, the charms of original genius. With a deep insight into the human heart, his poetry exhibits high powers of imagination — it displays, and as it were embalms, the peculiar manners of his country; and it may be considered as a monument, not to his own name only, but to the expiring genius of an ancient and once independent nation. In relating the incidents of his life, candour will prevent us from dwelling invidiously on those failings which justice forbids us to conceal ; we will tread lightly over his yet warm ashes, and respect the laurels that shelter his untimely grave. Robert Burns was, as is well known, the son of a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards himself a farmer there ; but, having been unsuccessful, he was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He had previously, however, at- tracted some notice by his poetical talents in the vicinity where he lived ; and having published a small volume of his poems at BOHNS’ SKETCH OF HIS OWN LIFE. I Kilmarnock, thD drew upon him more general attention. In consequence of the encouragement he received, he repaired to Edinburgh, and there published, by sub- scription, an improved and enlarged edition of his poems, which met with extraordinary ■uccess. By the profits arising from the sale of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having married a person to whom he had been long attached, he retired to devote the remainder of his life to agriculture. He was again, however, unsuccessful ; and, abandoning his farm, he removed into the town of Dumfries, where he filled an inferior office in the Excise, and where he termi- nated his life in July 1796, in his thirty- eighth year. The strength and originality of his genius procured him the notice of many persons distinguished in the republic of letters, and, among others, that of Dr. Moore, well known for his Views of Society and Manners on the Continent of Europe, for his Zeluco, and various other works. To this gentle- man our poet addressed a letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a history of his life, up to the period of his writing. In a composition never intended to see the light, elegance, or perfect correctness of composition, will not be expected. These, however, will be compensated by the oppor- tunity of seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, unfold the peculiarities of his character with all the careless vigour said open sincerity of his mind. " Mauchline, 2nd August, 1787. "Sir. — For some months past I have been rambling over the country, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miser- able fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country —you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf ; and I think a faithful account of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narra- tive, though I know it will be often at my own expense ; for I assure you sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom , I spmetimes think I resemble — I have, I say, like him turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and, like him, too frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. * * * After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some tu itching qualms of conscience, arising from suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do — a predicament he has more than once been in before.” “ I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which the pye- coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter I got acquainted in the Herald’s Office ; and, looking through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom ! but for me, ‘ My ancient hut ignoble blood Has crept thro* scoundrels ever since the flood.’ Gules, Purpurc, Argent, &c., quite disowned me.” My father was of the Jtorth of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large, where, after many years’ wanderings and sojourn- ings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who un- derstood men, their manners, and their ways , equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong ungovernable irasci- bility, are disqualifying circumstances, con- sequently I was born a very poor man’s son. For the first six or seven years of my life, my father was gardener to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye till they could discern between good and evil ; so, with with the assistance of his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years I was by no means a favourite with any body. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy some- thing in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiotic piety. I say idiotic piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar, and by the tirn^ I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and panicles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, ere- dulity, and superstition, the had, I sup- 10 LIFE OF BURNS. pose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, 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 sus- picious places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison’s, beginning, “How are thy servants blest, oh Lord!” I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear : — * For though on dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave.’ I met with these pieces in Mason’s English Collection, one of my school-books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were the Life of Hannibal, and TheHistory of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in rap- tures up and down after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood- gates of life shut in eternal rest.” “Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half mad ; and I, ambi- tious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c., used, a few years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscre- tion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy i&gainst me, winch has not ceased to this hour.” “ My vicinity to Ayr was of some advan- tage to me. My social disposition, when not checked by some modifications of spirited pride, was, like our Catechism definition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed several connections with other younkers who possessed superior advan- tages, the youngling • actors, who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they w ere shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at tins green age. that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense distance be- tween them and their ragged playfellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to givt the young great man that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor insigni- ficant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who were perhaps born in the same village. My young supe- riors never insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough-boy carcase, the two extreme* of which were often exposed to all the in- clemencies of all seasons. They would give me stray volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observa*. tions ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even the Mutiny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore afflic- tion ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My father’s generous master died; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and tc clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of Twa Dogs. My father was advanced in life when ha married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for labour. My father’s spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to weather these two years, we re- trenched our expenses. We lived very poorly. I was a dexterous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest to me 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 of the scoundrel factor’s inso- lent, threatening letters, which used to set us alL in tears.” % “ This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of hermit, with the unceasing toil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth year; a little before which period I first committed the sin of rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature a year younger than myself. My scarcity o t English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language; but yo/i know the Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet , sonsie lass. In short, shfc altoge- ther unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first BURNS’ LIBRARY n of ^uman joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell ; you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &fc., but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her when returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an HUolian harp ; and particularly, why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly; and it was her favourite reel to which I at- tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. (8) I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sang a song, which was said to be composed by a small country laird’s son, on one of his father’s maids, with whom he was in love, and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moor-lands, he had no more scholar -craft than myself.” " Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commencement of his lease ; otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. * For four years we lived comfortably here ; but a difference commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, after three years’ tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, after two years’ promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 1 * “It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this eriod, perhaps the most ungainly, awkward oy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon’s and Guthrie’s geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of literature and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope’s Works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pan* theon, Locke’s Essay on the Human Under- standing, Stackhouse’s History of the Bible, Justice’s British Gardener’s Directory, Bayle’s Lectures, Allan Ramsay’s W r orks, Taylor’s Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey’s Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them driving my cart, or w alking to labour, song by song, verse by verse — carefully noting the true, tender or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, such as it is.” “In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to a country dancing school. My father had an unac- countable antipathy against these meetings, and my going was, what to this moment I repent, in opposition to Ilia wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to strong passions ; from that instance of dis- obedience in me he took a sort of dislike to me, which I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity, of Presbyterian country life; for though the Will o’ Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to w r ant an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer’s Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father’s situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little, chicaning bargain-making. The hrst is so contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze myself into it; the last I always hated — there was contamination in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view- in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as from a pride of observation and remark — a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriasm that made me fly to solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like thevudiments of good sense, and it will not seem surprising that I was generally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met 12 LIFE OF BE UN’S. together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, «va3 un penchant a V adorable moitie du genre humain. My heart was completely tinder, end was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a renulse. At the plough, scythe, or reaphook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; end as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love- adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and, I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the in- trigues of half the courts of Europe. (9) The very goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song, and is with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love-adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptise these things by the name of follies. (10) To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty, they are matters of the most serious nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their enjoyments.” “ Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my mind and man- ners was, that I spent my nineteenth sum- mer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, end to mix without fear in a drunken i juabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a cftrnival in my bosom, when a charming filette, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, however struggled on with my sines and co-sincs for a few days more ; but, stepping into the garden one charming noon to take- the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, * Like Proserpine, gathering flon era, Herself*a fairer flower 5 It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless.” "I returned home very considerably im- proved. My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson’s and Shenstone’s Works. I had seen human nature in 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 correspondents, flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three farthings’ worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and ledger.” “My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. Vive V amour, et vive la bagatelle , were my sole principles of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and McKenzie — Tristram Shandy and The Man of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour.” “ I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my printed pieces; The Death of Poor Mailie, John Barleycorn, and songs first, second, and third. (11) Song second waa the ebullition of that passion which ended , & mentioned school-business” LUCKLESS FARMING SPECULATION. 11 "My twenly-third year was to me an im- portant era. Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing some- thing in .life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky ^ffair. My * * * ; and, to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to the new-year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ashes,and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence.” “1 was obliged to give up this scheme': the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round my father’s head ; and, what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle fille whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circum- stances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being in- creased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye ac- cursed !” • “ From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the principal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering his situa- tion in life. - The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea, where, after a variety of good and ill for- tune, a little before I was acquainted with him, he had been set on shore by an Ame- rican privateer, on the wild coast of Con- naught, stripped of everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow’s story without adding, that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames.” “ His mind was fraught with indepen- dence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some measure I succeeded — I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than myself, where woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity , of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded j Witlx horror. (12) Here his friendship did I me a mischief; and the consequence waa that, soon after I resumed the plough, 1 wrote the Poet’s Welcome. (13) My read- ing only increased, while in this town, by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but meeting with Fergusson’s Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my father died, his all went among the hell- hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect a little money in the family amongst us, with which to keep us together; my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but, in good sense, and every sober qualification, he was far my superior.” “ I entered on this farm with a full reso lution. Come , go to, I will be wise ! I read farming books — I calculated crop3 — I at- tended markets — and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the viorld, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- set all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his vomit, and the soiv that Was washed, to her wallowing in the mire” “ I mow began to be known in the neigh- bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque lamentation on 'a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personae in my Holy Fair. I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. (14) Holy Willie’s Prayer Hext made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane writers. Un- luckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point-blanksliot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- tunate story that gave rise to my printed poem — The Lament. This was a most me- i lancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given ma I one or two of the principal qualifications for 14 LIFE OF BURN'S. r plac« amour those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning, of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother — ‘in truth it was only nomi- nally mine — and made what little prepara- tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to piblish my poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power: I thought they had merit, and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver ; or per- haps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits! I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and ef my works as I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know myself had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself 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 (15) ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West-Indian scenes make me forget neg- lect. I tlirew off six hundred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. My vanity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public; and, besides, I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage-passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde ; for ‘Hungry ruin had me in the wind.’ "I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had un- coupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia — The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast — when a tetter from Dr. BlackJock to a friend of | mine overthrew all my schemes, by open inf new prospects to my poetic ambitioi i. The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to hope. Hi* opinion, that I would meet with encourage- ment in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting influ- ence in my zenith, for once made a revolu- tion to the nadir; and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oublie moi, Grand Dieu , si jamais je Voublie / ” “I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all attention to catch the characters and the manners living ax they rise. Whether I have profited, time will show. * * * ” “ My most respectful compliments to Miss W. (16) Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.” ( 17 ) At the period of our poet’s death, his brother, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that he had himself written the forgoing narra- tive of his life while in Ayrshire; and having been applied to by Mrs. Dunlop for some memoirs of his brother, he complied with her request in a letter, from which the following narrative is chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns afterwards saw the letter of our poet to Dr. Moore, he made some annotations upon it, which shall be noticed as we proceed. Robert Burns was born on the 25th day of January 1759, in a small house about two miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few hundred yards of Alloway church, which his poem of Tam o’ Shanter has rendered immortal. (J8) The name, which the poet and his brother modernised into Burns, was originally Burnes or Burness. Their father, William Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and haa received the education common in Scotland to persons in his condition of life ; he could read and write, and had some knowledge of arithmetic. His family having fallen into reduced circumstances, he was compelled tc leave his home in his nineteenth year, and turned his steps towards the south, in quest of a livelihood. The same necessity attended his elder brother Robert. '‘I have oftea WILLIAM BURNES OR KURNS. feeard my father” (says Gilbert Burns, in his letter to Mrs. Dunlop) “ describe the anguish of mind he felt when they parted on the top of a hill on the confines of their native place, each going off his several way in search of new adventures, and scarcely knowing whither he went. My father un- dertook to act as a gardener, and shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought hard when he could get work, passing through a variety of difficulties. Still, how- ever, he endeavoured to spare something for the support of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing him mention his having sent a bank-note for this purpose, when money of that kind was so scarce in Kin- cardineshire, that they scarcely knew how to employ it when it arrived.” From Edin- burgh, William Burnes passed westward into the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, with whom he lived two years ; then chang- ing his service for that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, being desirous of settling in life, he took a perpetual lease of seven acres of land from Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the view of com- mencing nurseryman and public gardener; and, having built a house upon it with his own hands, married, in December, 1757, Agnes Brown, the mother of our poet, who still survives. (19) The first fruit of this marriage was Robert, the subject of these memoirs, born on the 25th of January, 1759, as has already been mentioned. Before "William Burnes had made much progress in preparing his nursery, he was withdrawn from that undertaking by Mr. Ferguson, who purchased the estate of Doonholm, in the immediate neighbourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and overseer ; and this was his situation when our poet was bom. Though in the service of Mr. Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his wife managing her family and her little dairy, which con- sisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three milch-cows ; and this state of unambitious content continued till the year 1766. His son Robert was sent by him in his sixth year to a school at Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a person of the name of Campbell ; but this teacher being in a few months appointed master of the workhouse ftt Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunction with 6ome other heads of families, engaged John Murdoch in his stead. The education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in com- mon; and of their proficiency under Mr. Mur- doch, we have the following account : — * W ith him we learnt to read English ll tolerably well (20), and to write v little. He taught, us, too, the English grammar. I was too young to profit much from liig lessons in grammar, but Robert made some proficiency in it — a circumstance of con sisiderable weight in the unfolding of his genius and character; as he soon became remarkable for the fluency and correctness of his expression, and read the few books that came in his way with much pleasure and improvement : for even then he was a reader when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose library at that time had no great variety in it, lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the first book he read (the school- books excepted), and almost the only one he had an opportunity of reading while he was at school; for The Life of Wallace, which he classes with it in one of his letters to you, he did not see for some years after wards, vdien he borrowed it from the black, smith who shod our horses.” It appears that Wilkam Burnes approved himself greatly in the service of Mr. Fer- guson, by his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In consequence of this, with a view of promoting his interest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, of which we have ther following account : — “ The farm was upwards of seventy acres (21) (between eighty and ninety, En- glish statute measure), the rent of which was to be forty pounds annually for the first six years, and afterwards forty-five pounds. My father endeavoured to sell his leasehold property, for the purpose of stock- ing this farm, but at that time was unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred pounds for that purpose. He removed to his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It was, I think, not above two years after this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of the country ; and there being no school near us, and our little services being useful on the farm, my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in the winter evenings, by candle-light ; and in this way my two eldest sisteVs got all the education they received. I remember a circumstance that happened at this time, which, though trifling in itself, i3 fresh in my memory, and may serve to illustrate the early character of my brother. Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to take his leave when he was about to go into Carriek. He brought us as a present and memorial of him, a small compendium of English Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus Andronicus, and, by way of passing the evening, he began to read the play aloud. We we** all attention 16 LIFE OF BURNS. for some time, till presently the whole party was dissolved in tears. A female in the play (I have but a confused remembrance of it) had her hands chopt off, and her tongue cut out, and then was insultingly desired to call for water to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of distress, we with one voice desired he would read no more. My father observed, that if we would not hear it out. it would be needless to leave the play with us, Robert replied, that if it was left he jrould burn it. My father was going to chide him for this ungrateful return to his tutor’s kindness; but Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to see so much sensibility; and he left the School for Love, a comedy, translated I think from the 'French, in its place.” (22) “ Nothing,” continues Gilbert Burns, “ could be more retired than our general taanner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we rarely saw any body but the members of our cwn family. There were no boys of our own age, or near xt, 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. My father was for some time almost the only com- panion we had. He conversed familiarly on *11 subjects with us, as if we had been %en ; and was at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our knowledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salomon’s Geographical Gram- mar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the situation and history of the different countries of the world; while, from a book-society in Ayr, he pro- cured for us the reading of Durham’s Physico and Astro-Theology, and Ray’s Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse’s History of the Bible, then lately pub- lished by James Meuros in Kilmarnock: from this Robert collected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book was so voluminous as to slacken his in- dustry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches. A brother of my mother, who had lived with us some time, and had learned lome arithmetic by our winter evening’s tahdft?, went into a bookseller’s shop in Aye, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, of Tradesman’s Sure Guide, and a book to teach him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The Complete Letter-W riter, he got by mistake a small collection of letters by the most eminent writers, with a few sensible directions for attaining an easy epistolary style. This book wa3 to Robert of the greatest consequence. It inspired him with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it furnished him with models by some of the first writers in our language.” “My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, when my father, regretting that we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, during a summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, though between two or three miles distant, was the nearest to us, that we might have an opportunity of remedying this defect. About this time a bookish acquaintance of my father’s pro- cured us a reading of two volumes of Richardson’s Pamela, which was the first novel we read, and the only part of Richard- son’s works my brother was acquainted with till towards the period of his commencing author. Till that time, too, he remained unacquainted with Fielding, with Smollett (two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine Pickle, ex- cepted), with Hume, with Robertson, and almost all our authors of eminence of the later times. I recollect, indeed, my father borrowed a volume of English history from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtreehill’s gardener. It treated of the reign of James I., and his unfortunate son Charles, but I do not know who was the author ; all that I remember of it is something of Charles’s conversation with his children. About this time, Mur- doch, our former teacher, after having been in different places in the country, and having taught a school some time in Dumfries, came to be the established teacher of the English language in Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence to us. The re- membrance of my father’s former friend- ship, and his attachment to my brother, made him do every thing in his power for our improvement. He sent us Pope’s works, and some other poetry, the first that we had an opportunity of reading, excepting what is contained in the English Collection, and in the volume of the Edinburgh Magazine for 1772; excepting also those excellent new songs that are hawked about the country in baskets, or exposed on stalls in the streets.” “The summer after we had been at BURNS STUDIES LATIN, 17 Dalrymple school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, 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 weeks ; and this completes the account of his Bchool education, excepting one summer quarter, some time afterwards, that he attended the parish school of Kirkoswald (where he lived with a brother of' my mother’s), to learn surveying.” “ During the two last weeks that he was with Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning French (23), and he communi- cated the instructions he received to my brother, who, when he returned, brought home with him a French dictionary and grammar, and the Adventures of Telemachus in the original. In a little while, by the assistance of these books, he had acquired such a knowledge of the language, as to read and understand any French author in prose. This was considered as a sort of prodigy, and through the medium of Mur- doch, procured him the acquaintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at that time gabbling French, and the notice of some families, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, where a knowledge of French was a recommendation.” “ Observing the facility with which he had acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. Murdoch’s particular friend, having himself acquired a con- siderable knowledge of the Latin language, by his own industry, without ever having learned it at school, advised Robert to make the same attempt, promising him every assistance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he purchased the Rudiments of the Latin Tongue, but finding this study dry and uninteresting, it was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned to his Rudiments on any little chagrin or disappointment, particularly in his love affairs; but the Latin seldom predominated more than a day or two at a time, or a week at most. Observing, himself, the ridicule that would attach to this sort of conduct if it were known, he made two or three humorous stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, m * So I’ll to my Latin again.* "Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal means of my brother’s improve- Worthy man! though foreign to purpose, I cannot take leave 0 of him without tracing his future history. He continued for some years a respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, ha happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of l)r. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had not paid him that attention to which he thought himself entitled. In Ayr ha migtst as well have spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give up his appoint- ment. He went to London, where he still lives, a private teacher of French. H« has been a considerable time married, and keeps a 3hop of stationery w r ares.” (24) “The father of Dr. Paterson, now phy. sician at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, and was one of the estab- lished teachers in Ayr when my father settled in the neighbourhood. He early recognised my father as a fellow native of the north of Scotland, and a certain degree of intimacy subsisted between them during Mr. Paterson’s life. After his death, hi* widow, who is a very genteel woman, and of great worth, delighted in doing what sha thought her husband would have wished to have done, and assiduously kept up her attentions to all his acquaintances. She kept alive the intimacy with our family, by frequently inviting my father and mother to her house on Sundays, when she met them at church.” “ When she came to know my brother’* passion for books she kindly offered us the use of her husband’s library, and from her we got the Spectator, Pope’s Translation of Homer, and several other books that w ere of use to us. Mount Oliphant, the farm my father possessed in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that, notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the value of lands in Scotland, it was let,, after a considerable sum laid out in im- proving it by the proprietor, a few years ago, five pounds per annum lower than the rent paid for it by my father, thirty years ago. My father, in consequence of this, soon came into difficulties, which were increased by the loss of several of his cattle by accidents and disease. To the buffet- ings of misfortune, 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 beyond it, in the labours of thi farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen 18 LIFE OF BURNS. assisted in thrashing the crop of com, 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 fend difficulties, was very great. To think of our father growing old (for he was now above fifty), broken down with the long- continued fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances — these reflections produced in my brother’s mind and mine sensations of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this period of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits with which Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the even- ings with a dull headache, which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed in the night-time. “ By a stipidation in my father’s lease, he had a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at the end of every sixth year. He attempted to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the first six years, but failing in that attempt, he continued where he was for six years more. He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the parish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant in Liver- pool. He removed to this farm on Whit- sunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven yea :s. No writing had ever been made out of the conditions of the lease ; a mis- understanding took place respecting them ; fche subjects in dispute were submitted to arbitration, and the decision involved my father’s affairs in ruin. He lived to know of this decision, but not to see any execution in consequence of it. He died on the 13th of February, 1784.” “ The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the 19th to the 26th of my brother’s age), were not marked by much literary improvement ; but during this time, the foundation was laid of certain habits in my brother’s character, which afterwards became but too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. Though when young he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, yet, when he approached man- hood, his attachment to their society became very strong, and he was constantly the IktLu of come fair enslaver. The symp- toms of his passion wece often such as nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that ha fainted, sunk , and died away; but the agitations of his mind and body exceeded anything of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a particulai jealousy of people %ho were richer than himself, or who had more consequence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his par- ticular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when invested in the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick’s affections flowed out toward Ma- dame de L — at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions, which formed so many under- plots in the drama of his love. As these* connections were governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from which he never deviated till he reached his 23rd year), he became anxious to be in a situa- tion to marry. This was not likely soon to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stocking of the farm required a sum of money he had no probability of being master of for a great while. He began, therefore, to think of trying some other line of life. He and I had for several years 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 flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subser- vient to the flax raising. He accordingly wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that period, as neither agreeing with his health nor inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance of a free* manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose society prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him. To- wards the end of the period under review (in his 26th year), and soon after his father’s death, he was furnished with ihe subject of his epistle to John Rankin. During* this period also he became a freemason, which was his first introduction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, oc t withstand RUE\S AT MOSSGIEL. ■ 1 # Mg' tie circumstances and the praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his historians), I do not recollect, during these seven years, nor till towards the end of his commencing author (when his growing celebrity occasioned his being often in company), to have ever seen him intoxicated; nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger proof of the general sobriety of his conduct need not be reqfuired than what I am about to give. Daring the whole of the time we lived in the farm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed my brother and me such wages for our labour as he gave to other labour- trs, as a part of which, every article of our clothing manufactured in the family, was regularly accounted for. When my father’s affairs drew near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent of £90 per annum (the farm on which I live at present), from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, as an asylum for the family in case of the worst. It was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint concern among us. (25) Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the labour he performed on the farm. (26) My brother’s allowance and mine wai seven pounds per annum each. And during the whole time this family concern lasted, which was for four years, as well as during the preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded his slender income. As I was entrusted with the keeping of the family accounts, it is not possible that there can be any fallacy in this statement in my brother’s favour. His temperance and frugality were every thing that could be wished.” “ The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first fsttir years that we were on the farm were very frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops in consequence were very un- profitable ; and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to give up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable part of our original stock. It was during these four years that Robert formed his connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connexion could no longer be concealed about the time we came to a final determination to quit the farm. Robert durst not engage with -a family in his poor unsettled state, but was anxious to shield his partner, by every means in his power, from th# consequences of their imprudence. It waa agreed, there. I fore, between them, that they should maka J a legal acknowledgment of an irregular and | private marriage; that Ae should go to j Jamaica to push his fortune ; and that she j should remain with her father till it might i please Providence to put the means of suo» ! porting a family in his power.” i “ Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her | father’s. The intimation of a marriage wa* i the first suggestion he received of her real | situation. He was in the greatest distressj ! and fainted away. The marriage did not 1 appear to him to make the matter better. I A husband in Jamaica appeared to him | and his wife little better than none, and | an effectual bar to any other prospects of j a settlement in life that their daughter I might have. They therefore expressed a i wish to her, that the written papers which i respected the marriage should be cancelled, i and thus the marriage rendered void, in her melancholy state, she felt the deepest j remorse at having brought such heavy aliiic- • tion on parents that loved her so tenderly, j and submitted to their entreaties. Their I wish was mentioned to Robert. He felt j the deepest anguish of mind. He offered j to stay at home and provide for his- wife and j family in the best manner that his daily i labours could provide for them, that being- j the only means in his power. Even this 1 offer they did not approve of ; for humble J as Miss Armour’s station was, and though j great her imprudence had been, she still, in j the eyes of her partial parents, might look j to a better connection than that with my I friendless and unhappy brother, at that time j without house or biding-place. Robert at j length consented to their wishes ; but nis ! feelings on this occasion were of the most j distracting nature; and the impression j of sorrow wa3 not effaced, till by a regular j marriage they were indissolubly united. In | the state of mind which this separation pro- j duced, he wished to leave the country as j soon as possible, and agreed with Dr. | Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an assistant i overseer, or, as I believe it is called, a book- i keeper on his estate. As he had not suffi- ; cient money to pay his passage, and the ! vessel in which Dr. Douglas was to procure ! a passage for him was not expected to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him to publish his poems in the mean time by sub- scription, as a likely way of getting a little money, to provide him more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica, Agreably to this advice, subscription-bills were printed imme- diately, and the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparat ions going on at tbs 20 LIFE OF BURSTS. game time for Ills voyage. (27) The recep- tion, however, which his poems met with in the world, and the friends they procured kirn, made him change his resolution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. On his return, in happier circumstances, he renewed his connection with Mrs. Burns, and rendered it permanent by a union for life.” Thus, madam, have I endeavoured to give you a simple narrative of the leading circumstances in my brother’s early life. The remaining part he spent in Edinburgh, or in Dumfries-shire, and its incidents are as well known to you as to me. His genius having procured him your patronage and friendsliip, this gave rise to the correspond- ence between you, in which, I believe, his sentiments were delivered with the most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and which only terminated with the last days of his life.” This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as a commentary on the preceding sketch of our poet’s life by himself. It will be Been that the distraction of mind which he mentions arose from the distress and sorrow in which he had involved his future wife. The wdiole circumstances attending this •connexion are certainly of a very singular nature. (28) The reader will perceive, from the fore- going narrative, how much the children of William Burnes were indebted to their father, w r ho was certainly a man of uncom- mon talents, though it does not appear that he possessed any portion of that vivid imagination for which the subject of these memoirs was distinguished. In page 13, it is observed by our poet, that his father had an unaccountable antipathy to dancing- schools, and that his attending one of these brought on him his displeasure and even dislike. On this observation Gilbert has made the following remark, which seems entitled to implicit credit : — “ I wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that lasting resentment of his going to a danc- ing-school against his will, of which he was incapable. 1 believe the truth was, that he, about this time, began to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother’s passions, as well as his not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and which he would naturally think a dancing-school was not likely to correct. But he was proud of Robert’s genius, which he bestowed more expense in cultivating than on the rest of the family, in the instance of sending liim | to Ayr and ICirkosaaid schools; and he was greatly delighted with his warmth of heart and his conversational powers. He had, indeed, that dislike of dancing- schools which Robert mentions, but so far overcame it during Robert’s first month of attendance, that lie allowed all the rest ol 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.” * “ In the original letters to Dr. Moore, our poet described his ancestors as “renting lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and having had the honour of sharing their fate.” “ I do not,” continues he, “ use the word honour with any reference to political principles ; loyal and disloyal, I take to be merely relative terms, in that ancient and formidable court, known in this country by the name of Club-law, where the right is always with the strongest. But those who dare welcome ruin, and shake hands with infamy, for what they scarcely believe to he the cause of their God, or their king, are, as Mark Antony says in Shaks- peare of Brutus and Cassiu3, honourable men. I mention this circumstahce, because it threw my father on the world at large.” This paragraph has been omitted in print- ing the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns; and it would have been unnecessary to have noticed it on the present occasion, had not several manuscript copies of that letter been in circulation. “ I do not know r ,” observed Gilbert Burns, “how my brother could be misled in the account he has given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors. I believe the Earl Marischal forfeited his title and estate in 1715, before my father was born; and, among a collection of parish-certificates in his posession, I have read one, stating that the bearer had no concern in the late wicked rebellion” On'the information of one, who knew William Burnes soon after he arrived in the country of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a report did prevail that ha had taken the field with the young Cheva- lier — a report which the certificate mentioned by his son w r as, perhaps, intended to counter- act. Strangers from the north, in the low country of Scotland, were in those days liable to suspicions of having been, in the familiar phrase of the country, “Out in the forty-five” (1745), especially when they had any stateliness or reserve about them, as was the case with William Burnes. It may easily be conceived, that our poet would cherish the feelief of his father’s hav- | ing been engaged in the: daring enterprise 21 THE ORIGINAL OF THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. cf Prince Charles Edward. The generous attachment, the heroic valour, and the final misfortunes of the adherents of the house of Stuart, touched with sympathy his youth- ful and ardent mind, and influenced his original political opinions. (29) The father of our poet is described by one who knew him towards the latter end of his life, as above the common stature, thin, and bent with labour. His counte- nance was serious and expressive, and the scanty locks on his head were grey. He was of a rhligious turn of mind, and, as is usual among the Scottish peasantry, a good deal conversant in speculative theology. There is, in Gilbert’s hands, a little manual of religious belief, in the form of a dialogue between a father and his son, composed by him for the use of his children, in which the benevolence of his heart seems to have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scotch church, into something ap- proaching to Arminianism. He was a devout man, and in the practice of calling his family together to join in prayer. It is known that the following exquisite picture, in the Cotter’s Saturday Night, represents William Burnes and his family at their evening devotions: — The cheerful supper done, with serious face, [wide ; They, round the ingle (30), form a circle The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, The big /ra/WBible, once his father’s pride: His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, [bare ; His lyart haffets (31) wearing thin and Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, [care ; He wales (32) a portion with judicious And ‘Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; [aim : They tune their hearts, by far the noblest Perhaps Dundee's (33) wild warbling mea- sures rise, [name ; Or plaintive Martyrs (34), worthy of the Or noble Elgin (35) beets (36) the heavenly flame, The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays ; Compar’d with these Italian trills are tame, The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; [praise. No unison have they with our Creator’s The priest-like father reads the sacred page, (37) HowAbram was the friend of God on high: Or Moses bade eternal welfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie, [ire; Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah wild seraphic fire ; Ih other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. How guiltless blood for guilty man waj shed ; [name, How he who bore in heaven the second Had not on earth whereon to lay his head, How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Babylon’s doom pronounced* by Heaven’s command ! Then kneeling down to heaven’s eternal King, [prays ; The saint, the father, and the husband, ‘ Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,’ [days ; That thus they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear* Together hymning their Creator’s praise. In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round )§ an eternal sphere. • * • • © Then homeward all take off their seveni way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, And offer up to Heaven the warm requests That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide ; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divino preside I” Of a family so interesting as that which inhabited the cottage of William Burnes, and particularly of the father of the family, the reader will perhaps be willing to listen to some farther account. What follows is given by one already mentioned with so much honour in the narrative of Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the preceptor of our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph Cooper Walker, Esq., of Dublin, author of the Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bards, and of the His- torical Memoir of the Italian Tragedy, thus expresses himself : — “Sir. — I was lately favoured with a letter from our worthy friend, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he requested me to com- municate to you whatever particulars I could recollect concerning Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business being at present multifarious and harassing, my attention is consequently so much divided, and I am so little in the habit of express- ing my thoughts on paper, that at this distance of time I can give but a very im- perfect sketch of the early part of the life of that extraordinary genius, with which alone I am acquainted. William Burnes, the father of the poeS* LIFE OP BURNS. was Dorn in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten or twelve years before I knew him, and had been in the service of Mr Crawford of Doonside. He was afterwards employed as a gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, m the parish of Alloway, which is now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, on the roadside, a Scotch mile and a half from the town of Ayr, and half a mile from the bridge of Doon, Willian Burnes took a piece of land, consist- ing of about seven acres ; part of which he laid out in garden ground, and part of which he kept to graze a cow, &c., still continuing in the employ of Provost Fer- guson. Upon this little farm was erected a humble dwelling, of which William Burnes was the architect. It was, with the excep- tion of a 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 Night will give some idea of the temper and manners that pre- vailed there.” “In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school where I was improving in writ- ing, under my good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would come and speak to him at a certain inn, and bring my writing book with me. This was immediately com- plied with. Having examined my writing, he was pleased with it — you will readily allow he was not difficult — and told me that he had received very satisfactory infor- mation of Mr. Tennant, the master of the English school, concerning my improvement in English, and in his method of teach- ing. In the month of May following, I was engaged by Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, and accordingly began to teach the school at Alloway, which was situated a few yards from the argillaceous fabric above-mentioned. My five employers undertook to board me by turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the end of the year, provided my quarterly payments from the different pupils did not amount to that sum.” “ My pupil, Robert Burns, was then be- tween six and seven years of age ; his preceptor about eighteen. Robert, and his younger brother, Gilbert, had been grounded a little in English before they were put under my care. They both made a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable progress lu writing. In reading, dividing words into syllables by rule, spelling without bcok, pass* ing sentence, &c., Robert and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of the class, even when ranged with boys by far theii seniors. The books most commonly used in the school were the Spelling Book, the New Testament, the Bible, Mason’s Collec tion of Prose and Verse, and Fisher’-! English Grammar. They committed to memory the hymns, and other poems 0 / that collection, with uncommon facility This facility was partly owing to the method pursued by their father and me in instruct- ing them, which was, to make them tho- roughly acquainted with the meaning of every word in each sentence that was be committed to memory. By the bye, this may be easier done, and at an earlier period, than is generally thought. As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous ex- pressions for poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, are the means of knowing that the pupil understand* his author. These are excellent helps to the arrangement of words in sentences, as well as to a variety of expression.” “Gilbert always appeared to me to pos- sess a more lively imagination, and to be more of the wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a little church-music. Here they were left far behind by all the rest of the school. Robert’s ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice un- tunable. 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, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert’s face said. Mirth, with thee I mean to live ; and cer- tainly, if any person who knew the two boys had been asked which of them was tiie most likely to court the muses, he would surely never have guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind.” “In the year 1767, Mr. Burnes quitted his mud edifice, and took possession of 9 farm (Mount Oliphant), of his own improv- ing, while in the service of Provost Fergus son. This farm being at a considerable distance from the school, the boys could not attend regularly ; and some changes taking place among the other supporters of the school, I left it, having continued to conduct it for nearly two years and a half.” “In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one of five candidates who were examined) to teach the English school at Ayr; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to B URNS STUDIES FRENCH. 25 fcoard and lodge with me, for the purpose of revising English grammar, &c., that he might he better quail led to instruct his brothers and sisters at home. He was now with me day and night, in school, at all meals, and in all my walks. At the end of i one week, I told him, that, as he was now j pretty mrcli master of the parts of speech, i &c., I should like to teach him something of French pronunciation ; that when he should meet with the name of a French town, ship officer, or the like, in the news- papers, he might be able to pronounce it something like a French word. Robert was : glad to hear this proposal, and immedi- ! ately we attacked the French with good j courage.” “Now there was little else to be heard ! but the declension of nouns, the con- j jugation of verbs, &c. When walking ! together, and even at meals, I was con- j stantly telling him the names of different ! objects, as they presented themselves, in j French ; so that he was hourly laying in [ a stock of words, and sometimes little i phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in j ?earning, and I in teaching, that it is ; difficult to say which of the two was most • zealous in the business ; and about the end of the second week ofour study of the French, we began to read a little of the Adventures of Telemachus, in Fenelon’s own words.” " But now the plain* of Mount Oliphant began to whiten, and Robert was sum- moned to relinquish the pleasing scenes that surround the grotto of Calypso, and, armed I with a sickle, to seek glory by signalising j himself in the field of Ceres — and so he i Aid ; for, although but about fifteen, I was | ••old that he performed the work of a man.” i “ Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, j and consequently agreeable companion, at ; the end of three weeks, one of which was ; spent entirely in the study of English, and I the other two chiefly in that of French. ! I did not, however, lose sight of him, but j was a frequent visitant at his father’s house, j when I had my half holiday; and very • often went, accompanied with one or two < persons more intelligent than myself, that • good William Burnes might enjoy a mental j feast. Then the labouring oar was shifted I to some other hand. The father and the * son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a | conversation, wherein solid .reasoning, sensi- j ble remark, and a moderate seasoning of j jocularity., were so nicely blended, as to render it palatable to all parties. Robert had a hundred questions to ask me about ihe F reach, &c. ; and the father, who had always rational information in view, had still some questions to propose to my more learned friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or some such interesting subject. Mrs. Burnes, too, was of the party as much as possible ; ‘But still the house affairs would draw ter thence, [patch. Which ever as she could with haste dis- She’d come again, and with a greedy ear. Devour up their discourse’ — * and particularly that of her husband. all times, and in all companies, she listened to him with a more marked attention than to any body else. When under the neces- sity of being absent while he was speak- ing, she seemed to regret, as a real loss, that she had missed what the good man had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem for her hus- band of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I myself have always considered William Burnes as by far the best of the human race that ever I had the pleasure of being acquainted with — ■ and many a worthy character I have known. I can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from Gold- smith), * And ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.* “ He was an excellent husband, if I may judge from his assiduous attention to the ease and comfort of his worthy partner, and from her affectionate behaviour to him, as well as her unwearied attention to the duties of a mother.” “ He was a tender and affectionate father ; he took pleasure in leading his children in the path of virtue, not in driving them, as some parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe, A look of disapprobation was felt ; a re- proof was severely so ; and a strip with the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamen- tation, and brought forth a flood of tears.” “ He had the art of gaining the esteem and goodwill of those that were labourer! under him. I think I never saw him angry but twice ; the one time, it was with tha foreman of the band, for not reaping tha field as he was desired; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty inuendoes and double entendres. Were every foul-mouthed old man to receive 24 LIFE OF BORNS. a reas/riiable check in this way, it would be to the advantage of the rising generation. As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep booing and booing in the presence of a great man. He always treated superiors with a becoming respect ; but he never gave the smallest encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But I must not pretend to give you a description of all the manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues, of the venerable William Burnes. Tine would fail me. I shall only add that he carefully practised every known duty, and avoided every thing that was criminal ; or, in the apostle’s words. Herein did he exercise himself ’ in living a life void of offence towards God and towards men. Oh for a world of men of such dispositions ! We should then have no wars. I have often wished, for the good of mankind, that it were as customary to honour and perpetuate the memory of those who excel in moral rectitude as it is to extol what are called heroic actions : then would the mausoleum of the friend of my youth overtop and surpass most of the monuments I see in Westminster Abbey.” “ Although I cannot do justice to the cha- racter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, from these few particulars, what kind of person had the principal hand in the education of our poet. He spoke the English language with moie propriety (both with respect to diction and pronunciation) than any man I ever knew with no greater advantages. This had a very good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and reason like men, much sooner than their neighbours. I do not recollect any of their contempo- raries, at my little seminary, who afterwards made any great degree as literary charac- ters, except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain to Colonel Fullar ton’s regiment, and who is now in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and learning ; yet affable, and free from pedantry.” “ Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he could not rear his numerous family upon it. After being there some years, he removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tar- bolton, where, I believe, Robert wrote most of bis poems.” “ But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. I can tell you but little more relative to our poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you a copy of one of his letters to me, about the year 1733. } received ®ue since. but it is mislaid. Please remember me, hi the best manner, to my worthy friend Mr. Adair, when you see him, or write to him/* u Hart Street , Bloomsbury Square 9 London , Feb. 22, 1799.” As the narrative of Gilbert Bums was written at a time when he was ignorant of the existence of the preceding narrative of his brother, so this letter of Mr. Murdoch was written without his having any know- ledge that either of his pupils had been employed on the same subject. The three relations serve, therefore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenticate each other. Though the information they convey might have been presented within a shorter com- pass, by reducing the whole into one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be doubted, that the intelligent reader will be far more gratified by a sight of these original documents themselves. [The poet mentions in his own narrative his visit in his nineteenth summer to Kirk- oswald parish, and his mingling in scenes of dissipation there amongst the Carrick smugglers. The following additional par- ticulars respecting this period of his life will probably be interesting: they were col- lected by the present editor, but appeared originally in Chambers Edinburgh Journal. If Burns be correct in stating that it was his nineteenth summer which he spent in Kirkoswald parish, the date of his residence there must be 1777. What seems to have suggested his going to Kirkoswald school, was the connection of his mother with that parish. She was the daughter of Gilbert Brown, farmer of Craigenton, in this parochial division of Carrick, in which she had many friends still living, par- ticularly a brother, Samuel Brown, who resided, in the miscellaneous capacity of farm-labourer, fisherman, and dealer in wool, at the farm-house of Ballochneil, above a mile from the village of Kirkoswald. This Brown, though not the farmer or guidman of the place, was a person held to be in creditable circumstances in a district where the distinction between master and servant was, and still is, by no means great. His wife was the sister of Niven, the tenant; and he lived in the “ chamber ” or better portion of the farm-house, but was now a widower. It was with Brown that Burns lived during his attendance at Kirkoswald school, walking every morning to the village where the little seminary of learning was situated, and returning &£ night. HUGH RODGER THE SCHOOLMASTER. 2S The district into which the young poet of Kyle was’thus thrown, has many features of a remarkable kind. Though situated on the shore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers are every hour to be seen on their past, £e between enlightened and busy cities, it is to this day the seat of simple and patriarchal usages. Its land, composed of bleak green uplands, partly cultivated and partly pas- toral, was, at the time alluded to, occupied by a generation of primitive small farmers, many of whom, while preserving their native simplicity, had superadded to it some of the irregular habits arising from a concern in the trade of introducing contraband goods on the Carrick coast. (38) Such dealings did not prevent superstition from flourishing amongst them in a degree of vigour of which no district of Scotland now presents any example. The parish has six miles of sea coast ; and the village, where the church and school are situated, is in a sheltered situation about a couple of miles inland. The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, enjoyed great local fame as a teacher of mensuration and geometry, and was much employed as a practical land surveyor. On the day when Burns entered at the school, another youth, a little younger than himself, also entered. This was a native of the neighbouring town of Maybole, who having there completed a course of classical study, was now sent by his father, a respectable shopkeeper, to acquire arithmetic and men- suration under the famed mathematician of Kirkoswald. It was then the custom, when pupils of their age entered at a school, to take the master to a tavern, and implement the engagement by treating him to some liquor. Burns and the Maybole youth, accordingly united to regale Rodger with a potation of ale, at a public house in the village, kept by two gentlewomanly sort of persons named Kennedy — Jean and Anne Kennedy — the former of whom was destined to be afterwards married to im- mortal verse, under the appellation of Kirkton Jean, and whose house, in con- sideration of some pretensions to birth or style above the common, was always called “the Leddies’ House.” From that time. Burns and the Maybole youth became intimate friends, insomuch, that, during this Bummer, neither had any companion with whom he was more frequently in company th&n with the other. Burns was only at the village during school hours ; but w hen his friend Willie returned to the paternal dome on Saturday nights, the poet would accom- pany him, and stay till it was time for both to come back to school on Monday morning. There was also an interval between the morning and afternoon meetings of the school, which the two youths used to spend together. Instead of amusing themselves with ball or any other sport, like the rest of the scholars, they would take a walk by themselves in the outskirts of the village, and converse on subjects calculated to im- prove their minds. By and bye, they fell upon a plan of holding disputations or argu- ments on speculative questions, one taking one side, and the other the other, without much regard to their respective ©pinions on the point, whakyer it might be, the whole object being to sharpen their intellects. They asked several of their companions to come and take a side in these debates, but not one would do so ; they only laughed at the young philosophers. The matter at length reached the ears of the master, who, however skilled in mathematics, possessed but a narrow understanding and little gene- ral knowledge. With all the bigotry of th« old school, he conceived that this superero- gatory employment of his pupils was a piece of absurdity, and he resolved to correct them in it. One day, therefore, when the school was fully met, and in the midst of its usual business, he w^ent up to the desk where Burns and Willie were sitting opposite to each other, and began to advert in sarcastic terms to what he had heard of them. They had become great debaters, he understood, and conceived themselves fit to settle affairs of importance, which wiser heads usually le» alone. He hoped their disputations would not ultimately become quarrels, and that they would never think of coming from words to blows ; and so forth. The jokes of schoolmasters always succeed amongst the boys, who are too glad to find the awful man in any thing like good humour, to question either the moral aim or the point of his wit. They therefore, on this occa- sion, hailed the master’s remarks wdth hearty peals of laughter. Nettled at this, Willie resolved he would “speak up” to Rodger; but first he asked Burns in a whisper if ha would support him, which Burns promised to do. He then said that he was sorry to find that Robert and he had given offence ; it had not been intended. And indeed I 10 had expected that the master would hava been rather pleased to know of their endea- vours to improve their minds. He could assure him that such improvement wns the sole object they had in view. Rodger sneered at the idea of their improving their 26 LIFE OF BURNS. minds by nonsensical discussions, and con- I temptuously asked what it was they disputed about. Willie replied, that generally there was a new subject every day ; that he could not recollect all that had come under their attention ; but the question of to-day had been — “ Whether is a great general or a re- spectable merchant the most valuable mem- ber of society ? ” The dominie laughed outrageously at what he called the silliness of such a question, seeing there could be no doubt for a moment about it. “ W ell,” said Burns, “if you think so, I will be glad if you Jake any side you please, and allow me to take the other, and let us discuss it before the school.” Rodger most unwisely assented, and commenced the argument by a flourish in favour of the general. Burns answered by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of the merchant, and soon had an evident su- periority over his preceptor. The latter replied, but without success. His hand was observed to shake ; then his voice trembled; and he dissolved the house in a state of vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote, who can fail to read a prognostication of future eminence to the two disputants ? The one became the most illustrious poet of his country; and it is not unworthy of being m ntioned in the same sentence, that the other advanced, through a career of success- ful industry in his native town, to the pos- session of a large estate in its neighbourhood, and some share" of the honours usually reserved in this country for birth and aristo- cratic connection. The coast in the neighbourhood of Burns’s residence at Ballochneil presented a range of rustic characters upon whom his genius was destined to confer an extraordinary interest. At the farm of Shanter, on a slope overlook- ing the shore, not far from Turnberry Castle, lived Douglas Graham, a stout hearty speci- men of the Carrick farmer, a little addicted to smuggling, but withal a worthy and upright member of society, and a kind- na Lured man. He had a wife named Helen M Taggart, who was unusually addicted to superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading where this good couple lived is now no more, for the farm has been divided for the in- crease of two others in its neighbourhood ; but genius has given them a perennial ex- istence in the tale of Tam o’Shanter, where their characters are exactly delineated under the respective appellations of Tam and Kate. * * * * At Ballochneil, Burns engaged heartily in the sports of leaping, dancing, wrestling, 'putting (throwing) the g tone, and other# of the like kind. His innate thirst for distinc- tion and superiority was manifested in these as in more important affairs ; but tin ugh ha was possessed of great strength, as well as skill, he could never match his young bed- fellow, John Niven. Obliged at last ta acknowledge himself beat by this person in bodily warfare, he had recourse for amends to a spiritual mode of contention, and would engage young Niven in an argument about some speculative question, when, of course, he invariably floored his antagonist. His satisfaction on these occasions is said to have been extreme. One day, as he was walking slowly along the street of the village in a manner customary to him, with his eyes bent on the ground, he was met by the Misses Biggar, the daughters of the parish pastor. He would have passed without noticing them, if one of the young ladies had not called him by name. She then rallied him on his inattention to the fair sex, in preferring to look towards the inani- mate ground, instead of seizing the oppor- tunity afforded him of indulging in the most invaluable privilege of man, that of beholding and conversing with the ladies. “ Madam,” said he, “ it is a natural and right thing for man to contemplate the ground, from whence he was taken, and for woman to look upon and observe man, from whom she was taken.” This was a conceit, but it was the conceit of “ no vulgar boy.” There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in the beginning of August — on the same day, we believe, with a like fair at Kirkoswald in Northumberland, both places having taken their rise from the piety of one person, Oswald, a Saxon king of the heptarchy, whose memory is probably honoured in these observances. During the week pre- ceding this fair in the year 1777, Burns made overtures to his Maybole friend, Willie, for their getting up a dance, on the evening of the approaching festival, in one of the public-houses of the village, and in- viting their sweethearts to it. Willie knew little at that time of dances or sweethearts ; but he liked Burns, and was no enemy to amusement. He therefore consented, and it was agreed that some other young men should be requested to join in the under- taking. The dance took place, as designed, the requisite music being supplied by a hired band ; and anout a dozen couples par- took of the fun. W hen it was proposed to part, the reckoning was called, and found to amount to eighteen shillings and fourpenoe. It was then discovered that almost every one present had looked to his neighbour# tot BURNS IN LOVE WITH PEGGY THOMSON, 2 ? fee means’ of settling this claim. Burns, the originator of the scheme, was in the poetical condition of not being master of a single penny. Tire test were in the like condition, all except one, whose resources amounted to a groat, and Maybole Willie, who pressed about half-a-crown. The last individual, who alone boasted any worldly wisdom or experience, took it upon him to extricate the company from its diffi- culties. By virtue of a candid and sensible narration to the landlord, he induced that individual to take what they had, and give credit for the remainder. The payment of the debt is not the worst part of the story. Seeing no chance from begging or borrow- ing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, by merchandise. Observing that stationery articles for the school were procured at Kirkoswald with difficulty, he supplied him- self with a stock from his father’s warehouse at Maypole, and for some weeks sold pens and paper to his companions, with so much advantage, that at length he realised a suffi- cient amount of profit to liquidate the ex- pense of the dance. Burns and he then went in triumph to the inn, and not only settled the claim to the last penny, but gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of thanks into the bargain. Willie, however, took care from that time forth to engage in no schemes for country dances without looking carefully to the probable state of the pockets Of his fellow adventurers. Burns, according to his own account, con- cluded his residence at Kirkoswald in a blaze of passion for a fair filette who lived next door to the school. At this time, owing to the destruction of the proper school of Kirkoswald, a chamber at the end of the old church, the business of parochial instruction was conducted in an apartment i on the ground floor of a house in the main j street of the village, opposite the church- | yard. From behind this house, as from j behind each of its neighbours in the same I row, a small stripe of kail-yard (Anglice, { kitchen garden) runs back about fifty yards, I along a rapidly ascending slope. When Burns went into the particular patch behind | the school to take the suffis altitude, he had only to look over a low enclosure to see the j similar patch connected with the next house. | Here, it seems, Peggy Thomson, the { daughter of . the rustic occupant of that ; nouse, was walking at the time, though J more probably engaged in the business of , cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, j than imitating the flower-gathering Proser- , pine, or her prototype Eve. Hence the j bewildering passion of the poet. Peggy was the the. ne of his “ Son a composed in August,” beginning, “Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Brings Autumn’s pleasant w gather.” She afterwards became Mrs. Neilson, and lived to a good age in the town of Ayr, where her children still reside. At his departure from Kirkoswald, he engaged his Maybole friend and some other lads to keep up a correspondence with him. His object in doing so, as we may gather from his own narrative, was to improve himself in composition. “I carried this whim so far.” says he, "that, though I had not three farthings’ worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodd- ing son of day-book and ledger.” To Willie, in particular, he wrote often, and in the most friendly and confidential terms. When that individual was commencing business in his native town, the poet ad- dressed him a poetical epistle of appropriate advice, headed with the well-known lines from Blair’s Grave, beginning — “ Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul. Sweetener of life and solder of society.” This correspondence continued till the period of the publication of the poems, when Burns wrote to request hi3 friend’s good offices in increasing his list of subscribers. The young man was then possessed of little influence ; but what little he had, he ex- erted with all the zeal of friendship,' and with considerable success. A considerable number of copies was accordingly trans- mitted in proper time to his care, and soon after the poet came to Maybole to receive the money. His friend collected a few choice spirits to meet him at the King’s Arms Inn, and they spent a happy night together. Burns was on this occasion par- ticularly elated, for Willie, in the midst of their conviviality, handed over to him above seven pounds, being the first considerable sum of money the poor bard bad ever pos- sessed. In the pride of his heart, next morning, he determined that he should not walk home, and accordingly he hired from his host a certain poor hack mare, weB known along the whole road from Glasgow to Portpatrick — in all probability the first hirer! conveyance that Poet Burns had ever enjoyed, for even his subsequent journey to Edinburgh, aspicious as were the prospects under which it was undertaken, was per- formed on foot. Willie and a few othei youths who had been in his company on thf 28 LIFE OF BURN’S. preceding night, walked ont of town before him, for the purpose of taking leave at a particular spot; and before he came up, they had prepared a few mock-heroic verses in which to express their farewell. When Burns rode up, accordingly, they saluted him in this formal manner, a little to his surprise. He thanked them, however, and instantly added, "What need of all this fine parade of verse ? It would have been quite enough if you had said— Here comes Burns, On Itosinante ; She’s d — poor, But he’s d — canty.** The company then allowed Bums to go on his way rejoicing. (39.) Under the humble roof of his parents, it appears that our poet had great advantages; but his opportunities of information at school were more limited as to time than they usually are among his countrymen in his condition of life; and the acquisitions which he made, and the poetical talent which he exerted, under the pressure of early and incessant toil, and of inferior, and per- haps scanty nutriment, testify at once the extraordinary force and activity of his mind. In his frame of body he rose nearly to five feet ten inches, and assumed the proportions that indicate agility as well as strength. In the various labours of the farm he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns declares that in mowing, the exercise that tries all the muscles most severely, Robert was the only man that, at the end of a summer’s day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. But though our poet gave the powers of his body to the labours of the farm, he refused to bestow on them his thoughts or his care. While the plough- share under his guidance passed through the sward, or the grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was humming the songs of his country, musing on the deeds of ancient Tdlour, or wrapt in the illusion of fancy, as her enchantments rose on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man and beast rest from their labours. On this day, therefore. Burns could indulge in a free intercourse with the charms of nature. It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose stream is now im- mortal, and to listen to the song of the blackbird at the close of the summer’s day. But still greater was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave among the trees; and more elevated still his delight to ascend some eminence during the agita* tions of nature ; to stride along its summit, while the lightning flashed around him ; and, amidst the howlmgs of the tempest, to apos- trophise the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable to devotion: — "Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on the wings of the winds ! ” If other proofs were wanting of the character of his genius, this might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to every impression o< beauty and sublimity ; but with the higher order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. The gaiety of many of Burns’s writings and the lively and even cheerful colouring with which he has portrayed his own cha- racter, may lead some persons to suppose, that the melancholy which hung over him towards the end of his days was not an ori- ginal part of his constitution. It is not t« be doubted, indeed, that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in the progress of his life ; but, independent of his own and of his brother’s testimony, evidence is to be found among his papers, that he was subject very early to those depressions of mind, which are perhaps not wholly separable from the sensibility of genius, but which in him arose to an uncommon degree. The following letter, addressed to his father, will serve as a proof of this observation. It was written at the time when he was learning the business of a flax dresser, and is dated “Irvine, December Zl, 1781. "Honoured Sir. — I have purposely de- layed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-year’s- day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons, which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder ; and, on tfers whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that I dare neither review past events, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast, pro- duces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my prin- cipal, and indeed my only pleasurable em- ployment,^ looking backwards and foTvardi in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, that ere ion& BURNS’S DEBATING CLUB. 2S very soon/ 1 shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this' -weary life, for I assure you I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. ‘ The soul, uneasy and confin’d at home. Bests and expatiates in a life to come.’ u It is for this reason I am more pleased vith the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7.h chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm ft ith which they inspire me, for all that this world has to offer. (40) As for this world, 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. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. In- deed, I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obseurity probably await me ; I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety yon have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- sent my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you a merry New-year’s-day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son, “Robert Burns. u P. S. — My meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get more.” This letter, written several years before the publication of his poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition was humble, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indicates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns at this time possessed a single room for his lodging, rented perhaps at the rate of a shilling a- week. He passed his days in constant labour as a flax-dresser, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, 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 shordd obtain a sup- ply. (41) Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself pic- tures of eminence and distinction. His de- spair of making a figure in. the world, shows how ardently he wished for honourable fame; and his contempt of life, founded on this aespair, is the genuine expression of a youth- ful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark bounda- ries of our earthly horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, where there is neither thirst, nor hun- ger, nor sorrow ; and where happiness shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness. Such a disposition is far from being at va- riance with social enjoyments. Those who have studied the affinities of mind, know that a melancholy of this description, after a while, seeks relief in the endearments of society, and that it has no distant connection with t h* flow of cheerfulness, or even the er^ -' vagance of mirth. It was a few days arier the writing of this letter that our poet, “ in giving a wel- come carousal to the new year, with his gay companions,” suffered his flax to catch fire, and his shop to be consumed to ashes. (42) The energy of Burns’s mind was not ep*- hausted by his daily labours, the effusion aif hi3 muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary meditations. Some time previous to his en- gagement as a flax-dresser, having heard that a debating club had been established in Ayr, he resolved to try how such a meeting would succeed in the village of Tarbolton. About the end of the year 1780, our poet, his bro- ther, and five other young peasants of tha neighbourhood,, formed themselves into a so- ciety of this sort, the declared objects of which were to relax themselves after toil, to promote sociality and friendship, and to im- prove the mind. The laws and regulations were furnished by Burns. The members were to meet after the labours of the day were over, once a week, in a small public- house in the village, where each should offer his opinion on a given question or subject, supporting it by such arguments as h® thought proper. The debate wa3 to be con- ducted with order and decorum ; and after it was finished, the members were to choose a subject for discussion at the ensuing meet- ing. The sum expended by each was not ta exceed threepence; and, with the humble potation that this could procure, they were to toast their mistresses, and to cultivate friendship with each other. This society continued its meetings regularly for some time; and in the autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some account of their proceed- ings, they purchased a book, into which their laws and regulations were copied, with a preamble, containing a short history of their transactions down to that period. This! curious document, which is evidently tha work of our poet, has been discovered, andil deserves a ulace in his memoirs. SC LIFE OF BURNS. ** H fSTORY OP THE RISE, PRO '^rV'NtfS WND REGULATIONS OF THE EACH CLfrI*» * Of birth or blood we do not uossu. Nor gentry does our club afford ; But ploughman and mechanics we In Nature’s simple dress record.' •As the great end of human society is t<» become wiser and better, this ought there- fore to be the principal view of every man in every station of life. But as experience has taught us, that such studies as inform the head and meud the heart, when long con- tinued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it has been found proper to relieve and unbend the mind by some employment or another, that may be agreeable enough to keep its powers in exercise, but at the same time not so serious as to exhaust them. But auperadded to this, by far the greater part of mankind are under the necessity of earning the sustenance of human life by the labour of their bodies , whereby, not only the faculties of mind, but the nerves and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse to some amuse- ment or diversion, to relieve the wearied man, worn down with the necessary labours of life. “ As the best of things, however, have been perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under the pretence of amusement and diversion, men have plunged into all the madness of riot and dissipation ; and, instead of attend- ing to the grand design of human life, they have begun with extravagance and folly, and ended with guilt and wretchedness. Im- pressed with these considerations, we, the following lads in the parish of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas Wright, and William M ‘Gavin, resolved, for our mutual entertainment, to unite ourselves into a club, or society, under such rules and regulations, that while we should forget our cares and labours in mirth and diversion, we might not transgress the bounds of inno- cence and decorum ; and after agreeing on these, and some other regulations, we held our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, upon the evening of the 11th November, 1780, commonly called Hallowe’en, and after choosing Robert Burns president forthe night, we proceeded to debate on this question : ‘ Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of two women, the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person nor agreeable in conver- sation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune : which of them shall he choose ? Finding ourselves very happy in our society, vre resolved to continue to meet once a month in the same house, in the way and manner proposed, and shortly thereafter we chose Robert Ritchie for another member. In M*y, 1781, we brought in David Sillar, (43) and in June, Adam Jamaison, as mem- bers. • Aboul: the beginning of the year 1782, we admitted Matthew Patterson and John Orr, and in June following we choose James Patterson as aproper brother for such a society. The club being thus increased, we resolved to meet at Tarbolton on the race night, the July following, and have & dance in honour of our society. Accordingly, wt did meet, each one with a partner, and spent tbt evening in such innocence and merriment, sunh cheerfulness and good humour, that every brother will long remember it with pleasure and delight.” To this preamble are subjoined the iules and regulations. The philosophical mind will dwell with interest and pleasure on an institution that combined so skilfully the means of instruc- tion and of happiness ; and if grandeur looks down with a smile on these simple annals, let us trust that it will be a smile of benevo- lence and approbation. It is with regret that the sequel of the history of the Bache- lors’ Club of Tarbolton must be told. survived several years after our poet remove. \ from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained by his talents, or cemented by his social affec tions, its meetings lost much of their attrac tion ; and at length, in an evil hour, dissen* sion arising amongst its members, the insti tution was given up, and the records com mitted to the flames. Happily, the preambl, and the regulations were spared; and, at matter of instruction and of example, they are transmitted to posterity. After the family of our bard removed from, Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauch- line, he and his brother were requested to assist in forming a similar institution there. The regulations of the club at Mauchline were nearly the same as those of the club at Tarbolton ; but oue laudable alteration wash made. The fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been . spent in enlarging theil scanty potations : at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money so arising should be set apart for the purchase of books, and the first work procured in this manner was the Mir- ror, the separate numbers of which were at that time recently collected and published in volumes. After it, followed a number o t THE PECULIAR TASTES OF BURNS. 31 *thei works, chiefly of the same nature, and among these the Lounger. The so- ciety of Mauchline still [1800] subsists, and appeared in the list of subscribers to the first edition of the works of its celebrated associate. The members of these two societies were originally all young men from the country, and chiefly sons of farmers — a description of persons, in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in their manners, more virtuous in thei* conduct, and more susceptible of im- provement, than the self-sufficient mechanics of country towns. With deference to the Conversation Society of Mauchline, it may be doubted, whether the books which they purchased were of a kind best adapted to promote the interest and happiness of per- sons in this situation of life. The Mirror and the Lounger, though works of great merit, mav be said, on a general view of their contents, to be less calculated to increase the knowledge than to refine the taste of those who read them; and to this last object their morality itself, which is, however, always per- fectly pure, may be considered as subordi- nate. As works of taste, they deserve great praise. They are, indeed, refined to a high degree of delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is perhaps owing, that they exhibit little or nothing of the peculiar manners of the age or country in which they were produced. But delicacy of taste, though the source of many pleasures, is not without some disad- vantages; and, ^o render it desirable, the possessor should, perhaps, in all cases, be raised above the necessity of bodily labour, unless, indeed, we should include under this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over which taste immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be a blessing to him who has the disposal of his own time, and who can choose what book he shall read, of what di- version he shall partake, and what company he shall keep. To men so situated, the cul- tivation of taste affords a grateful occupation in itself, and opens a path to many other gratifications. To men of genius, in the possession of opulence ar d leisure, the culti- vation of the taste may b£ said to be essen- tial ; since it affords employment to those faculties, which without employment would destroy the happiness of the possessor, and corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use the expressions of Mr. Hume, that delicacy of passion, which is the bane of the temper- . anient of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, after he emerged from the condition of a peasant, had the delicacy of his taste equalled the sensibility of his passions, regu- lating all the effusions of his muse, and pre- siding over all his social enjoyments. But to the thousands who share the original condi- tion of Burns, and who are doomed to pass their lives in the station in which they were born, delicacy of taste, were it even of easy attainment, would, if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of taste may make many necessary labours irk- some or disgusting ; and should it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in his situa- tion, it presents no means by which that situation may be improved. Taste and lite- rature, which diffuse so many charms through- out society, which sometimes secure to their votaries distinction while living, and which still more frequently obtain for them pos- thumous fame, seldom procure opulence, or even independence, when cultivated with the utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- sued with advantage by the peasant in the short intervals of leisure which his occupa- tions allow. Those who raise themselves from the condition of daily labour, are usually men who excel in the practice of some useful art, or who join habits of industry and so- briety to an acquaintance with some of the more common branches of knowledge. The penmanship of Butterworth, and the arith- metic of Cocker, may be studied by men in the humblest walks of life ; and they will assist the peasant more in the pursuit of in- dependence than the study of Homer or of Shakespeare, though he could comprehend, and even imitate, the beauties of those im- mortal bards. These observations are not offered with- out some portion of doubt and hesitation. The subject has many relations, and would justify an ample discussion. It may be observed, on the other hand, that the first step to improvement is, to awaken the desire of improvement, and that this will be most effectually done by such reading a« interests the heart and excites the imagina- tion. The greater part of the sacred writings themselves, which iia Scotland are more especially the manual of the poor, ome under this description. It may be fur- ther observed, that every human being is the proper judge of his own happiness.and, within the path of innocence, ought to be per- mitted to pursue it. Since it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry to give a preference to works of taste and of fancy (44), it may be presumed they find a superior gratifica- tion in the perusal of such works ; and it may be added, that it is of more con- sequence they should be made happy is their original condition, than furnished 22 LIFE OF BURNS. with the means, or with the desire, of rising above it. Such considerations are, doubt- less, of much weight; nevertheless, the previous reflections may deserve to be examined, and here we shall leave the subject. Though the records of the society at Tarbolton ai\j lost, and those of the society at Mauchline have not been transmitted, yet we may safely affirm, that our poet was a distinguished member of both these associations, which were well calculated to excite and to develope the powers of his mind. From seven to twelve persons con- stituted the society of Tarbolton, and such a number is best suited to the purposes of information. Where this is the object of these societies, the number should be such, that each person may have an oppor- tunity of imparting his sentiments, as well as of receiving those of others; and the powers of private conversation are to be employed, not tfc&se of public debate. A limited society of this kind, where the subject of conversation is fixed beforehand, so that each member may revolve it pre- viously in his mind, is perhaps one of the happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for shortening the acquisition of knowledge, and hastening the evolution of talents. Such an association requires indeed some- what more of regulation than the rules of politeness, established in common conversa- tion, or rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of politeness, which in animated conver- sation are liable to perpetual violation, should be vigorously enforced. The order of speech established in the club at Tarbolton, ap- pears to have been more regular than was required in so small a society; where all that is necessary seems to be the fixing on a member to whom every speaker shall address himself, and who shall in return secure the speaker from interruption. Con- versation, which among men whom intimacy and friendship have relieved from reserve and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, to so many inequalities, and which, as it becomes rapid, so often diverges into sepa- rate and collateral branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, being kept within its channel by a simple limitation of this kind, which practice renders easy and familiar, flows along in one full stream, and becomes smoother, and clearer, and deeper, as it flows. It may also be observed, that in this way the acquisition of knowledge becomes more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual improvement of the faculty employed to convey it. Though some t attention has been paid to the eloquence of I the senate and the bar, which in this, as in all other free governments, is productive of so much influence to the few who excel in it, yet little regard has been paid to the humbler exercise of speech in private con- versation — an art that is of consequence to every description of persons under every form of government, and on which eloquence of every kind ought perhaps to be founded. The first requisite of every kind of elocu- tion, a distinct utterance, is the offspring of much time and of long practice. Children are always defective in clear articulation, and so are young people, though in a less degree. What is called slurring in uptech, prevails with some persons through life, especially in those who are taciturn. Ar- ticulation does not seem to reach its utmost degree of distinctness in men before the age of twenty, or upwards; in women it reaches this point somewhat earlier. Fe» male occupations require much use oSf speech, because they are duties in detail. Besides, their occupations being generally sedentary, the respiration is left at liberty. Their nerves being more delicate, their sensibility as well as fancy is more lively; the natural consequence of which is, a more frequent utterance of thought, a greater fluency of speech, and a distinct articulation at an earlier -age. But in men who have not mingled early and familiarly with the world, though rich perhaps in knowledge, and clear in apprehension, it is often painful to observe the difficulty with which their ideas are communicated by speech, through the want of those habits that con- nect thoughts, words, and sounds together ; which, when established, seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, but which, in truth, are the result of long and painful practice ; and when analysed, exhibit the phenomena of most curious and complicated association. Societies then, such as we have been describing, while they may be said to put each member in possession of the know- ledge of all the rest, improve the powers of utterance ; and by the collision of opinion, excite the faculties of reason and reflection. To those who wish to improve their minds in such intervals of labour as the condition of a peasant allows, this method of abbre- viating instruction, may, under proper regulations, be highly useful. To the student, whose opinions, springing out of solitary observation and meditation, are seldom in the first instance oorre.'t, and which have, notwithstanding, w r hile confined to himself, an increasing tendency to assume in his own eye the character of demonstrar JEAN ARMOUR. tiurw, fsn association of this hind, where they may be examined as they arise, is of the utmost importance ; since it may pre- vent those illusions of imagination, by which genius being bewildered, science is often debased, and error propagated through successive generations. And to men who having cultivated letters, or general science, in the course of their education, are en- gaged in the active occupations of life, and no longer able to devote to study or to books the time requisite for improving or preserving their acquisitions, associations of this jLind, where the mind may unbend from its usual cares in discussions of literature or science, afford the most pleas- ing, the most useful, and the most rational of gratifications. Whether in the humble societies of which he was a member, Burns acquired much direct information, may perhaps be ques- tioned. It cannot, however, be doubted, that by collision the faculties of his mind would be excited ; that by practice his habits of enunciation would be established ; and thus we have some explanation of that early command of words and of expression which enabled him to pour forth his thoughts in language not unworthy of his genius, and which, of all his endowments, seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, the most extraordinary. For associations of a literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable relish ; and happy had it been for him, after he emerged from the con- dition of a peasant, if fortune had permitted him to enjoy them in the degree of which he was capable, so as to have fortified his principles of virtue by the purification of his taste; and given to the energies of his mind, habits of exertion that might have excluded other associations, in which it must be acknowledged they were too often wasted, as well as debased. [The allusions in Burns’s letter, and that of his brother, to his connection with Jean Armour, afford but a vague account of that affair ; and it seems necessary that some farther and clearer particulars should now be given. Jolm Blane reports the following in- teresting circumstances respecting the attachment of the poet to Miss Armour: — There was a singing school at Mauchline, which Blane attended. Jean Armour was also a pupil, and he soon became aware of her talents as a vocalist. He even con- tracted a kind of attachment to this young woman, though only such as a country lad Cl his degree might entertain for the » 33 daughter of a substantial country mason. One night, there w r as a rocking at Mossgiel, where a lad named Ralph Sillar sang a number of songs in what was considered a superior style When Burns and Blana were retired to their usual sleeping place in the stable-loft, the former asked the latter what he thought of Sillar ’s singing, to which Blane answered that the lad thought so much of it himself, and had so many airs about it, that there w r as no occasion for others expressing a favourable opinion — yet, he added, "I would not give Jean Armour for a score of him.” “You are always talking of this Jean Armour,” said Bums; “ I wish you could contrive to bring me to see her.” Blane readily consented to do so, and next evening, after the plough was loosed, the two proceeded to Mauchline for that purpose. Burns went into a public- house, and Blane went into the singing- school, which chanced to be kept in the floor above. When the school was dis- missing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she would come to see Robert Burns, who was below, and anxious to speak to her. Having heard of his poetical talents, she said she would like much to see him, but was afraid to go without a female companion. This difficulty being overcome by the frankness of a Miss Morton — the Miss Morton of the Six Mauchlifie Belles — Jean went down to the room where Burns was sitting. “ From that time,” Blane adds very naively, “ I had little of the company of Jean Armoui ” Here for the present ends the stoiy of Blane. The results of Burns’s acquaint- ance with Jean have been already in part detailed. When her pregnancy could be no longer concealed, the poet, under the in- fluence of honourable feeling, gave her tt written paper, in which he acknowledged his being her husband — a document suffi- cient to constitute a marriage in Scotland, if not in the eye of decency, at least in that of law. But her father, from a dislike to Bums, whose theological satires had greatly shocked him, ana from hopelesness of his being able to support her as a husband, insisted that she should destroy this paper, and remain as an unmarried woman. Seme violent scenes ensued. The parents were enraged at the imprudence of their daughter, and at Bums. The daughter, trembling beneath their indignation, could ill resist the command to forget and abandon her lover. He, in bis turn, was filled with the extremest anguish when informed that she had given him up. Ano- ther event occurred to add to the torments H LIFE OF BURNS of the unhappy poet Jean, to avoid the immediate pressure of her father’s dis- pleasure, went about the month of May (1786) to Paisley, and took refuge with a relation of her mother, one Andrew Purdie, a wright. There was at Paisley a certain Robert Wilson, a good-looking young weaver, a native of Mauchline, and who was realising wages to the amount of perhaps three pounds a-week by his then flourishing profession. Jean Armour had danced with this “gallant weaver” at the Mauchline dancing-school balls, and, besides her relative Purdie, she knew no other person in Paisley. Being in much need of a email supply of money, she found it neces- sary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who received her kindly, although he did not conceal that he had a suspicion of the reason of her visit to Paisley. When the reader is reminded that village life is not the sphere in which high-wrought and romantic feelings are most apt to flourish, he will be prepared in some measure to learn that Robert Wilson not only relieved the necessities of the fair applicant, but formed the wish to possess himself of her hand. He called for her several times at Purdie’s, and informed her, that, if she should not become the wife of Burns, he would engage himself to none while she remained unmarried. Mrs. Burns long after assured a female friend that she never gave the least encourage- ment to Wilson; but, nevertheless, his visits occasioned some gossip, which soon found its way to Mauchline, and entered the soul of the poet like a demoniac possession. He now seems to have regarded her as lost to him for ever, and that not purely through the objections of her relations, but by her own cruel and perjured desertion of one whom she had acknowledged as her hus- band. It requires these particulars, little as there may be of pleasing about them, to make us fully understand much of what Burns wrote at this time, both in verse and prose. Long afterwards, he became con- vinced that Jean, by no part of her conduct with respect to Wilson, had given him just cause for jealousy: it is not improbable that he learned in time to make it the sub- ject of sport, and wrote the song, “ Where Cart rins rowing to the sea,” in jocular allusion to it. But for months — and it is distressing to think that these were the months during which he was putting his matchless poems for the first time to press —he conceived himself the victim of a faithless woman, and life was to him, as he himself describes it. I M a weary dream, ] Thp dream of ane that never wauks.** In a letter dated June 12, 1786, he says “ Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour cams home on Friday last. You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now, I don’t know ; one thing I do know, she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, a wo- man more than I. did her; and, to confess a truth between you and me, I do love her still to distraction, after all, though I won’t tell her so if I were to see her, which I don’t want to do. * * May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my very soul forgive her.” On the 9th July he writes— “ I have waited on Armour since her return home, not from the least view of reconcilia- tion, but merely to ask for her health, and — to you I will confess it — from a foolish hanker- ing fondness^ — very ill-placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am in- formed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the church, which, for that very reason, I intend to do. I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater , miserere mei. n In a letter of July 17, to Mr. David Brice of Glasgow, the poet thus continue* his story: — I have already appeared pub- licly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in my own seat. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, for all that, not to have had her company/* And again, July 30 — “Armour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I find secu- rity for an enormous sum. This they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of ; and I am wandering from one friend’s house to another, and, like a true son of the gospel, 'have no where to lay my head.’ I know you will pour an execration on her head, but spare the poor ill-adviaed girl, for my sake; though may ail the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover’s bosom, await her mother until her latest hour ! I write in e moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn/* JEAN ARMOUR’S TWIN CHILDREN. 89 Tti this dark period, or immediately before ft (July 22), the poet signed an instrument, in anticipation of his immediately leaving the kingdom, by which he devised all property of whatever kind he might leave behind, including the copyright of his poems, to his brother Gilbert, in considera- tion of the latter having undertaken to support his daughter Elizabeth, the issue of '‘Elizabeth Paton in Largieside.” Intima- tion of this instrument was publicly made at the Cross of Ayr, two days after, by William Chalmers, writer. If he had been upon better terms with the Armours, it seems unlikely that he would have thus devised his property without a respect for the claims of his offspring by Jean. After this we hear no more of the legal severities of Mr. Armour — the object of which was, not to abridge the liberty of the unfortunate Burns, but to drive him away from the country, so as to leave Jean more effectually disengaged. The Poems now appeared, and probably had some effect in allaying the hostility of the old man to- wards their author. It would at least appear that, at the time of Jean’s accouche- ment, September 3, the " skulking ” had ceased, and the parents of the young woman were not so cruel as to forbid his seeing her. We now resume the story of John Blane. At this time, Blane had removed from Mossgiel to Mauchline, and become servant to Mr. Gavin Hamilton; but Burns still remembered their old acquaintance. When, in consequence of information sent by the Armours as to Jean’s situation, the poet came from Mossgiel to visit her, he called in passing at Mr. Hamilton’s, and asked John to accompany him to the bouse. Blane w r ent with him to Mr. Armour’s, where, according to his recollection, the bard was received with all desirable civility. Jean held up a pretty female infant to Burns, who took it affectionately in his arms, and, after keeping it a little while, returned it to the mother, asking the bless- ing of God Almighty upon her and her infant. He was turning away to converse with the other people in the room, when Jean said, archly, “But this is not all — here is another baby,” and handed him a male child, which had been born at the same time. He was greatly surprised, but took that child too for a little into his arms, and repeated his blessing upon it. (This child was afterwards named Robert, and still lives : the girl was named Jean, but only lived fourteen months.) The mood of the taelancholy poet then changed to the mirth- ful, and the scene was concluded by Ilia giving the ailing lady a hearty caress, and rallying her on this promising beginning of her history as a mother. It would appear, from the words used by the poet on this occasion, that he was not without hope of yet making good his matri- monial alliance with Jean. This is rendered the more likely by the evidence which exists of his having, for some time during Sep- tember, entertained a hope of obtaining an excise appointment, through his friends Hamilton and Aiken ; in which case he would have been able to present a respect- able claim upon the countenance of the Armours. But this prospect ended in dis- appointment ; and there is reason to con- clude, that, in a very short time after the accouchement, he was once more forbidden to visit the house in which his children and all but wife resided. There was at this time a person named John Kennedy, who tra- velled the district on horseback as mercan- tile agent, and was on intimate terms with Burns. One day, as he was passing Moss- giel, Burns stopped him, and made the request that he would return to Mauchline with a present for “ his poor wife.” Kennedy consented, and the poet hoisted upon the pommel of the saddle a bag filled with the delicacies of the farm. He proceeded to Mr. Armour’s house, and requested per- mission to see Jean, as the bearer of a message and a present from Robert Burns. Mrs. Armour violently protested against his being admitted to an interview, and be- stowed upon him sundry unceremonious appellations for being the friend of such a man ; she was, however, overruled in this instance by her husband, and Kennedy was permitted to enter the apartment where Jean was lying. He had not been there many minutes, when he heard a rushing and screaming in the stair, and, immediately after, Burns burst into the room, followed closely by the Armours, who seemed to have exhausted their strength in endeavouring tc repel his intrusion. Burns flew to the bed. and putting his cheek to Jean’s, and then in succession to those of the slumbering infants, wept bitterly. The Armours, it is added by Kennedy, who has himself re- ported the circumstances (45), remained un- affected by his distress; but whether he was allowed to remain for a short time, or immediately after expelled, is not mentioned. After hearing this affecting anecdote of Burns, the Lament may verily appear to ta as arising from “No idly feigned poetic pains.” (46) LIFE OF BURNS. The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; but the banks of that river, as it bends to the eastward above Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, and they were frequented, as may be imagined, by our poet in his solitary walks. Here the muse often visited him. In one of these wanderings, he met among the woods, a celebrated beauty of the west of Scotland — a lady, of whom it is said that the charms of her person correspond with the character of her mind. (47) This inci- dent gave rise, as might be expected, to a poem, of which an account will be found in the following letter, in which he enclosed it to the object of his inspiration : — “To Miss “Mossgiel, 1 8th November, 1786. * Madam. — Poets are such outre beings, bo much the the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name- less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to pre- sent you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge, but it is the best my abilities can produce : and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. “ The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, madam, you do not recollect it, as I 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 hand, with a con- genial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regard- less of your harmonious endeavours to please fesn, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its wel- fare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering east- ern blast? Such was the scene, and such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, J spied one of the fairest pieces of nature’a workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet’s eye ; those vision- ary bards excepted who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had calumny and villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. “ What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. “The enclosed song was the work of my return home; and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene. (48) * * * “I have the honour to be, madam, yo»uf most obedient, and very humble servant, “Robert Burns/* ’Twas even— the dewy fields were green. On every blade the pearls hang : (49) The Zephyr wanton’d round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; In every glen the mavis sang. All nature listening seemed the while. Except where greenwood echoes rang, 1 Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward strayed, My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy, When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; Her look was like the morning’s eye, Her hair like nature’s vernal smile. Perfection whispered passing by, Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle ! (50) Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in Autumn mild ; When roving through the garden gay, Or wandering in the lonely wild : But woman, Nature’s darling child I There all her charms she does compile ; Even there her other works are foil’d By the bony lass o’ Ballochmyle. Oh had she been a country maid. And I the happy country swain ! Though sheltered in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland’s plain, Through weary winter’s wind and rain. With joy, with rapture I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonny lass o’ Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slippery steeps Where fame and honours lofty shine ; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine ; Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And every day have joys divine With the bony lass o’ Ballochmyle.” In the manuscript book in which our poet has recounted this incident, and into which the letter and poem are copied, he complains that the lady made no reply to his eil'usiona. SUSCEPTIBILITY OF BURNS. 37 tdd this appears to have wounded his self- love. It is not, howevei difficult to find an excuse for her silence. Burns was at this time little known ; and, where known at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his humour, than for those strains of tenderness in which he afterwards so much excelled. To the lady herself his name had, perhaps, never been mentioned, and of such a poem she might not consider herself as the proper judge. Her modesty might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to im- mortality on the banks of the Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that supposing the verse duly appreciated, delicacy might find it diffi- cult to express its acknowledgments. The fervent imagination of the rustic bard pos- sessed more of tenderness than of respect. Instead of raising himself to the condition of the object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his own, and to strain this high-born beauty to his daring bosom. It is tr ue, Burns might have found precedents for such freedoms among the poets of Greece and Rome, and, indeed, of every country. And it is not to be denied, that lovely wo- men have generally submitted to this sort of profanation with patience, and even with good humour. To what purpose is it to re- pine at a misfortune which is the necessary consequence of their own charms, or to re- monstrate with a description of men who are incapable of control ? “ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact. 5 ’ It may be easily presumed, that the beau- tiful nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have been, did not reject with scorn the adorations of our poet, though she received them with silent modesty and dignified reserve. The sensibility of our bard’s temper, and the force of his imagination, exposed him, in a particular manner, to the impressions of beauty ; and these qualities, united to his impassioned eloquence, gave him in turn a powerful influence over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions of a still tenderer nature, the history of which it would be improper to reveal, were it even in our power; and the traces of which will soon be discoverable only in those strains of nature and sensibility to which they gave birth. The song entitled Highland Mary is known to relate to one of these attachments. * It was written,” says Bur bard, “ on one of the most interesting fasaa^ia of my youthful days.” The object of this passion died early in life, and the im* pression left on the mind of Bums seems to have been deep and lasting. (51) Several years afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollections in the following impassioned lines. In the manuscript book from which we extract them, they are addressed To Mary in Heaven 1 “ Thou lingering star, with less’ning ruy. That lov’st to greet the early morn. Again thou usher’st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. Oh, Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast! That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love ! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past $ Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah ! little thought we ’twas our last ! Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, O’er hung with wild woods, thick’ning, green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin’d amorous round the raptured scene* The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim’d the speed of winged day. Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes. And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lo\er lowly laid 1 [breast P* Ilear’st thou the groans that rend his To the delineations of the poet by himself by his brother, and by his tutor, these addi- tions are necessary, in order that the reader may see his character in its various aspects, and may have an opportunity of forming a just notion of the variety, as well ae of the power of his original genius. (52) We have dwelt the longer on the early part of his life, because it is the least known, and because, as has already been mentioned, this part of his history is connected with some views of the condition and manners of the humblest ranks of society, hitherto little observed, and which will perhaps be found neither useless nor uninteresting. About the time of his leaving his native county, his correspondence commences ; and in the series of letters given to the world, the chief incidents of the remaining part of his life will be found. This authentic, though melancholy record, will supersede iv LIRE Of BUKN3. future the necessity of any extended narra- 1 tive. Burns set out for Edinburg a in the month of November, 1786. He was furnished with a letter of introduction to Dr. Blacklock (53) , from the gentleman to whom the doctor had addressed the letter which is represented by our bard as the immediate cause of his visiting the Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the university, and had been entertained by that gentleman at Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzeil (54) to the Earl of Glencairn, who had ex- pressed his high approbation of his poetical talents. He had friends, therefore, who could introduce him into the circles of lite- rature as well as of fashion, and his own manners and appearance exceeding every expectation that could have been formed of them, he soon became an object of general curiosity and admiration. (55) The following circumstance contributed to this in a con- siderable degree : — At the time when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical paper, entitled The Lounger, was publishing, every Saturday producing a successive number. His poems had attracted the notice of the gentlemen engaged in that undertaking, and the ninety-seventh number of those unequal, though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted to An Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire Ploughman, with extracts from his Poems, written by the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie. The Lounger had an extensive circulation among persons of taste and literature, not in Scotland only, but in various parts of England, to whose acquaintance, therefore, our bard was immediately introduced. The paper of Mr. Mackenzie was calculated to introduce him advantageously. The extracts are well selected ; the criticisms and reflec- tions are judicious as well as generous; and in the style and sentiments there is that happy delicacy, by which the writings of the author are so eminently distinguished. The extracts from Burns’s poems in the ninety- ee\ enth number of The Lounger, were copied into the London as well as into many of the provincial papers, and the fame of our bard spread throughout the island. Of the manners, character, and conduct of Burns at this period, the following account has been given by Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, m a letter to the editor, which he is particu- larly happy to have obtained permission to insert in these memoirs : — “ The iirst time I saw Robert Burns Tas 1 1 on the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the date particularly, by some verses which Burns wrote after he returned home, and in which the day of our meeting is recorded. My excellent and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. (56) The verses I allude to are among the most imperfect of his pieces ; but a few stanzas may perhaps be an object of curiosity to you, both on account of the character to which they relate, and of the light which they throw on the situation and feelings of the writer, before his name was known to the public. I cannot positively say, at this distance of time, whether, at the period of our first acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of hi9 poems had been just published, or was yet in the press. I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have still in my possession copies in his own handwriting of some of his favourite performances ; particularly of his verses On Turning up a Mouse with his Plough; on the Mountain Daisy ; and The Lament. On my return to Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mentioned what I knew of the author’s history to several of my friends ; and among others to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him to public notice in the 97th number of The Lounger. “ At this time Burris’s prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not however without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when Ins ambition aimed at no higher an object than the station of &n exciseman or gauger in his own country. “His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and inde- pendent; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but uot more than belonged to him ; and listened with apparent attention and deference oa subjects where his want of education de- prived him of the meani of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness 1 and accommodation in his temper, he would. BURNS VISITS | 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 mean- ness or servility, rendered his manner some- what decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, ras more remarkable among his various at- tainments, than the fluency, and precision. And originality of his language, when he spoke in company ; more particularly as he limed at purity in his turn of expression, ind avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. “He came to Edinburgh early in the winter following, and remained there for several months. By whose advice he took this ttep, I am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his own curiosity to see a tettle more of the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded the consequences from the first, Uid always wished that his pursuits and habits should continue the same as in the former part of life — with the addition of, what I considered as then completely within Lis reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of the country agreeable to his taste. “ The attentions he received during his stay in town from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect w hich they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners and ap- pearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- portance from the number and rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited to his station, plain and unpretend- ing, with a sufficient attention to neatness. If I recollect right, he always wore boots ; and, when on more than usual ceremony, buckskin breeches. “ The variety of his engagements, while in Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him ■o often as I could have wished. In the course of the spring, he called on me once or twice, at my request, early in the morn- ing, and walked with me to Braid Hills, in the neighbourhood of the town, when he charmed me still more by his private con- versation than he had ever done in company. He was passionately fond of the 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 bo many smoKing cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the 5 EDINBURGH. S9 happiness and the worth which they con- tained. “ In his political principles he was then a Jacobite ; which was perhaps owing partlj to this, that hi3 father was originally from the estate of Lord Mareschal. Indeed, he did not appear to have thought much on such subjects, nor very consistently. He had a very strong sense of religion, and ex- pressed deep regret at the levity with which he had heard it treated occasionally in some convivial meetings which he frequented. I speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; for afterwards we met but seldom, and our conversations turned chiefly cn his literary projects, or his private affairs. “ I do not recollect whether it appears of not from any of your letters to me, that you had ever seen Bums. (57) If you have, it is superfluous for me to add, that the idea which his conversation conveyed of the powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is suggested by his writings. Among the poets whom I have happened to know, I have been struck, in more than one instance, with the unaccountable disparity between their general talents, and the occa- sional inspirations of their more favoured moments. But all the faculties of Burns’s mind, were, as far as I could judge, equally vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry was rather the result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to that species of com- position. From his conversation I should have pronounced him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. “Among the subjects on which he was accustomed to dwell, the characters of the individuals with whom he happened to meet, was plainly a favourite one. The remarks he made on them were always shrewd and pointed, though frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His praise of those he loved w r as sometimes indiscriminate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, proceeded rather rather from the caprice and humour of the moment, than from the effects of attachment in blinding his judgment. His wit was ready, and always impressed with the marks of a vigorous understanding ; but, to my taste, not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at epigram, in his printed works, are the only performances, perhaps, that he has produced totally unworthy of his genius. “In summer 1787, 1 passed some week* in Ayrshire, and saw Bums occasionally, I think that he made a pretty long excur- 40 LIFE OF BURNS. •ion thaf; season to the Highlands, and that he also visited what Beattie calls the Arca- dian ground of Scotland, upon the banks of the Teviot and the Tweed. “ I should have mentioned before, that, not- withstanding various reports I heard during the preceding winter, of Burns’s predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I ♦hould have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he confessed to me, the first night he spent in my house after his winter’s campaign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was s 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 Mason Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated compliments to differ- ent individuals from whom he had no reason io expect a visit, and everything he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If I am not mistaken, he cold me, that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small flub of such of the inhabitants as had a taste for books, when they used to converse and debate on any interesting questions that occurred to them in the course of their tending. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution. “ I must not omit to mention, what I have always considered as characteristical in a high degree of true genius, the extreme facility and good-nature of his taste, in judging of the compositions of others where there was any real ground for praise 1 repeated to him many passages of English poetry with which he was unacquainted, and have more than once witnessed the tears of admiration and rapture with which he heard them. The collection of songs by Dr. Aikiu, which l first put into his hands, he read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding his former efforts in that very difficult species of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had some effect in polishing his sub- sequent compositions. “ In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equally sound. I once read to him a passage or two in Franklin’s works, which I thought very happily executed, upon the model of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or to perceive the beauty which they derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them with indiffe* rence, 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 their great and various excellences render some of them scarcely less objects of wonder than his poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson used to say, that considering his education, the former seemed to him the more extraordinary of the two. “ His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, of which he recited to me, frequently long compositions with the most minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part of them, he told me, he had learned in his childhood from his mother, who delighted in such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her son’s genius. “ Of the more polished verses which acci- dentally fell into his hands in his early years, he mentioned particularly the recom- mendatory poems by different authors, pre- fixed to Ilervey’s Meditations ; a book which has always had a very wide circula- tion among such of the country people of Scotland as affect to unite some degree of taste with their religious studies. And these poems (although they are certainly below mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took notice of this fact himself, as a probf how much the taste is liable to be influ- enced by accidental circumstances. “His father appeared to me, from the account he gave of him, to have been a respectable and worthy character, possessed of a mind superior to what might have been expected from his station in life. He as- cribed much of his own principles and feel- ings to the early impressions he had received from his instructions and example. I recol- lect that he once applied to him (and, he added, that the passage was a literal state- ment of the fact) the two last lines of the following passage in the Minstrel, the whole of which he repeated with great enthusiasm: ‘ Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive; Shall nature’s voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope t# live! LITERARY RECEPTION OF BURNS. 41 Is it r ov this fair virtue oft must strive ''•Vith disappointment, penury, and pain? flo ! Heaven’s immortal spring shall yet arrive ; And man’s majestic beauty bloom again, Bright thro’ th’ eternal year of love’s tri- umphant reign. [ taught : This truth sublime. Ms simple sire had In sooth , Hwas almost all the shepherd knew. 1 "With respect to Burns’s early education, I cannot say anything with certainty. He Biways spoke with respect and gratitude of the schoolmaster who had taught him to read English, and who, finding in his scholar a more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had been at pains to instruct him in the grammatical principles of the language. He began the study of Latin, but dropt it before he had finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor, &c., but they seemed to be such as he had caught from conversation, and which he repeated by rote. I think he had a project, after he came to- Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study under his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the gram- mar-school here ; but I do not know that he ever proceeded so far as to make the attempt. “ He certainly possessed a smattering of French; and if he had an affectation in anything, it was in introducing occasionally a word or phrase from that language. It is possible that his knowledge in this respect might be more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but this you can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. It would be worth while to inquire, whether he was able to read the French authors with such facility as to receive from them any improvement to his taste. For my own part, I doubt it much ; nor would I believe it, but on very strong and pointed evidence. “ If my memory does not fail me, he was well instructed in arithmetic, and knew something of practical geometry, particu- larly of surveying. All his other attain- ments were entirely his own. “ The last time I saw him was during the winter 1788-89,(59) when he passed an evening with me at Drumseugh, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, where I was then living. My friend, Mr. Alison, was the only other person in company. I never aaw him more agreeable or interesting. A present which Mr. Alison sent him after- wards of his Essays on Taste, drew from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which I •emember to have read with some degree of surprise, at the distinct conception he ap- peared from it to have formed of the genera? principles of the doctrine of association .” (60) The scene that opened on our bard in Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a variety of other respects highly interesting, especially to one of his disposition of mind. To use an expression of his own, he found himself “ suddenly translated from the veriest shades of life,” into the presence, and, indeed, into the society, of a number of persons, previously known to him by report as of the highest distinction in his country, and whose characters it was natural for him to examine with no common curi- osity. (61) From the men of letters, in general, his reception was particularly flattering. The late Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gregory, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and Mr. Fraser Tytler, may be mentioned in the list old 5S LIFE OF BURNS. blooded objection, which will be said rather than felt, "We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Selkirk’s. We had, in every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds and our senses were equally gratified. The poet was delighted with his company, and ac- quitted himself to admiration. The lion that had raged so violently in the morning, was now as mil(j and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I told you that, in the midst of the storm, on the wilds of Kenmure, Burns was wrapt in meditation. What do you think he was about ? He was charging the English army, along with Bruce, at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary’s Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the folio w- ing address of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for Balzell : — ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,’ &c. (103)” Burns had entertained hopes of promo- tion in the Excise ; but circumstances oc- curred which retarded their fulfilment, and which, in his own mind, destroyed all ex- pectation of their being ever fulfilled. The extraordinary events which ushered in the revolution of France, interested the feelings, and excited the hopes of men in every corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 6eemed about to disappear from among men, and the day-star of reason to rise upon a benighted world. In the dawn of this beautiful morning, the genius of French freedom appeared on our southern horizon with the countenance of an angel, but speedily assumed the features of a demon, and vanished in a shower of blood. Though previously a Jacobite and a cavalier. Burns had shared in the original hopes entertained of this astonishing revolution by ardent and benevolent minds. The novelty and the hazard of the attempt meditated by the First, or Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is probable, to recommend it to his daring temper ; and the unfettered scope proposed to be given to every kind of talent, was doubtless gratify- ing to the feelings of conscious but in- dignant genius. Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that was to be the im- mediate consequence of an enterprise, which, on its commencement promised so much happiness to the human race. And even after the career of guilt and of blood com- menced, he could not immediately, it may oe presumed, withdraw his partial fcaze from a people who had so lately breathed the sentiments of universal peace and benignity, or obliterate in his bosom the pictures of hope and of happiness to which those sentiments had given birth. Under these impressions, he did not always cor*, duct himself with the circumspection ar.d prudence which his dependent situation seemed to demand. He engaged, indeed, in no popular associations, so common at the time of which we speak ; but in com- pany he did not conceal his opinions of public measures, or of the reforms required in the practice of our government; and sometimes, in his social and unguarded moments, he uttered them with a wild and unjustifiable vehemence. Information of this was given to the Board of Excise, with the exaggerations so general in such cases. A superior officer in that department was authorized to inquire into his conduct. Burns defended himself in a letter ad- dressed to one of the board [Mr. Graham of Fintry], written with great independence of spirit, and with more than his accustomed eloquence. The officer appointed to inquire into his conduct gave a favourable re- port. (104) His steady friend, Mr. Graham of Fintry, interposed his good offices in his behalf; and the imprudent gauger was suffered to retain his situation, but given to understand that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on his future behaviour. This circumstance made a deep impres- sion on the mind of. Burns. Fame ex- aggerated his misconduct, and represented him as actually dismissed from his office; and this report induced a gentleman of much respectability [Mr. Erskine of Marr] to propose a subscription in his favour. The offer was refused by our poet in a letter of great elevation of sentiment, in which he gives an account of the whole of this transaction, and defends himself from the imputation of disloyal sentiments on the one hand, and on the other, from the charge of having made submissions for the sake of his office unworthy of his character. " The partiality of my countrymen,” he observes, "has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I hope have been found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and children, have pointed out my present occupation as the only eligible line of life within my reach. Still mj honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea of the degrading BURNS’S POLITICS. epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. Often in blasting anticipation have I listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held up to public view, and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind. “ In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of such slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but — I will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth poverty could not debase, and his independent British spirit oppression might bend, but could not subdue.” It was one of the last acts of his life to copy this letter into his book of manuscripts, accompanied by some additional remarks on the same subject. It is not surprising, that at a season of universal alarm for the safety of the constitution, the indiscreet expressions of a man so powerful as Burns should have attracted notice. The times certainly required extraordinary vigilance in those entrusted with the administration of the government, and to ensure the safety of the constitution was doubtless their first duty. Yet generous minds will lament that their measures of precaution should have robbed the imagination of our poet of the last prop on which his hopes of independence rested; and by embittering his peace, have aggravated those excesses which were soon to conduct him to an untimely grave. (105) Though the vehemence of Burns’s temper, increased as it often was by stimulating liquors, might lead him into many improper and unguarded expressions, there seems no reason to doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of government. In his common- place book, where he could have no tempta- tion to disguise, are the following senti- ments : — "‘Whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever abjured the idea. A con- stitution, which, in its original principles, experience has proved to be every way fitted for our happiness, it would be insanity to abandon for an untried visionary theory.” \n conformity to these sentiments, when the pressing nature of public affairs called, in 1795, for a general arming of the people. Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dumfries volunteers, and employed his poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism (106) ; and at this season of alarm, he brought forward the following hymn, worthy of the Grecian Muse, when Greece was most conspicuous for genius and valour : — Scene — A field of battle— Time of the day, evening— The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in tbs following song : — Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth and ye skies, Now gay with the bright settingsun ! Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [know, Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but No terrors hast thou to the brave ! Thou strik’st the dull peasant, he sinks in th6 dark, Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name ; Thou strik’st the young hero— a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame ! In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save — [sands, While victory shines on life’s last ebbing Oh ! who would not rest with the brave! (107) Though by nature of an athletic form. Burns had in his constitution the pecu- liarities and the delicacies that belong to the temperament of genius. He was liable, from a very early period of life, to that interruption in the process of digestion, which arises from deep and anxious thought, and which is sometimes the effect, and sometimes the cause, of depression of spirits. Connected with this disorder of the stomach, there was a disposition to head- ache, affecting more especially the temples and eye-balls, and frequently accompanied by violent and irregular movements of the heart. Endowed by nature with great sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his cor- poreal, as well as in his mental system, liable to inordinate impressions — to fever of body as well as of mind. This pre- disposition to disease, which strict tempe- rance in diet, regular exercise, and sound sleep, might have subdued, habits of a very different nature strengthened and inflamed. Perpetually stimulated by alcohol in one or other of its various forms, the inordinate actions of the circulating system became at length habitual; the process of nutrition 60 LITE OE BURN'S. was unable to supply the waste, and the powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a year before his death, there was an evident decline in our poet’s personal appearance, end though his appetite continued unim- paired, he was himself sensible that his constitution was sinking. In his moments of thought he reflected with the deepest regret on his fatal progress, clearly foresee- ing the goal towards which he was hastening, without the strength of mind necessary to stop, or even to slacken his course. His temper now became more irritable and gloomy; he fled from himself into society, often of the lowest kind. And in such company, that part of the convivial scene in which wine increases sensibility and excites benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the succeeding part, over which uncontrolled passion generally presided. He who suffers the pollution of inebriation, how shall he escape other pollution ? But let us refrain from the mention of errors over which delicacy and humanity draw the veil. [A similar view of the latter days of Burns is taken bv his biographers, Heron, Irving, Walker, and, in general, by all who wrote soon after his death. Mr. Lockhart, supported by attestations from Gilbert Burns, James Gray, then rector of the grammar-school of Dumfries, and Mr. Find- later, the poet’s superior officer, gives a more favourable representation. The letter of Gray presents so interesting a picture of Burns in all respects, that we cannot resist the temptation to connect it with the text of Currie : — “ I love Dr. Currie, but I love the memory Df Burns more, and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth. The poet of the Cotter’s Saturday Night, who felt all the charms of the humble piety and virtue which he sang, is charged (in Dr. Currie’s narrative) with Vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degraded of his species. As 1 knew him during that period of his life emphatically called his evil days, I am enabled to speak from my own observation. It is not my intention to extenuate hi3 errors, because they were combined with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, because the more led active, and deserve the more severe re- prehension ; but I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him It came under my own view pro- fessionally, that he superintended the educa- tion of his children with a degree of care ♦hat / have never seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bosom of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talenta. I have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the English poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English historians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drunkenness ? It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted by all classes of men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bowl, his wit flashed for hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from heaven ; but even in the hour of thoughtless gaiety and merriment, I never knew it tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, following an allusion through all its windings ; astonish- ing by its rapidity, or amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural com- binations, but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossness. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last night’s intemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From hia paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more celestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate, it would hardly have been possible to conceive z.ny being more interesting and delightful. I may likewise add, that, to the very end of his life, reading was his favourite amuse- ment. I have never known any man so intimately acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the poets by heart. The prose authors he could quote either in their own words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh and vigorous as when he composed the Cotter’.. Saturday Night. The truth is, tilt Burni was seldom intoxicated, lhe drunkard soou becomes besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he could not long have continued the idol of every HALITS OF INTOXICATION. 61 jmrty. It will be freely confessed, that the iiour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit marked by prudence; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situations where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at all times have listened to her voice ? “ The men with whom he generally asso- ciated were not of the lowest order, He numbered among his intimate friends many of the most respectable inhabitants of Dum- fries and the vicinity. Several of those were attached to him by ties that th e hand of the calumny, busy as it was, could never snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disadvantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished charac- ters in this country, and not a few females eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his mis- fortunes, and they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue alone inspires.” In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met nothing in his domestic circle but gen- tleness and forgiveness, except in the gnaw- ings of his own remorse. He acknowledged his transgressions to the wife of his bosom, promised amendment, and again and again received pardon for his offences. But as the strength of his body decayed, his resolu- tion became feebler, and habit acquired pre- dominating strength. From October 1795 to the January follow- ing, an accidental complaint confined him to the house. A few days after he began to go abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned home about three o’clock in a very cold morning, benumbed and intoxicated. (108) This was followed by an attack of rheuma- tism, which confined him about a week. His appetite now began to fail ; his hand shook, and his voice faltered on any exertion or emotion. His pulse became weaker and more rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in the hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his spirits, and too well aware of his real situation to entertain hopes of re- covery, he was ever musing on the approach- ing desolation of his family, and his spirits Milk into a uniform gloom. It was hoped by some of his friends, that if he could live through the norths of spring, the succeeding season might resto.re him. But they were disappointed. The genial beams of the sun infused no vigour into his languid frame; the summer wind blew upon him, but produced no refreshment. About the latter end of June he was advised to go into the country; and impatient of medical advice, as w ell as of every species of control, he determined for himself to try the effects of bathing in the sea. For this pur- pose he took up his residence at Brow, in Annandale, about ten miles east of Dum- fries, on the shore of the Solway Firth. It happened that at that time a lady with whom he had been connected in friendship by the sympathies of kindred genius, was residing in the immediate neighbourhood. (109) Being informed of his arrival, she in- vited him to dinner, and sent her carriage for him to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to w 7 alk. “I was struck,’* says this lady (in a confidential letter to a friend written soon after), “ with his appear- ance on entering the room. The stamp of death was imprinted on his features. He seemed already touching the brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ‘Well, madam, have you any commands for the other world? ’ 1 replied, that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there sopnest, and that I hoped he w r ould yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a bad state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kind ness, and expressed his concern at seeing me look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, and he com- plained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as well as feeling, as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotected, and hi# wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly expectation of lying in of a fifth. He men- tioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering marks of approbation he had received from his teachers, and dw T elt par- ticularly on his hopes of that boy’s future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. Passing from this sub- ject, he showed great concern about the cart '62 LIFE OF BUBNS. of iiis literary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writing would be revived against him to the injury of his future reputation; that letters and verses written with unguarded and improper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would re- strain them, or prevent the censures of shrill- tongued malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth all their venom to blast his fame. “ He lamented that he had written many epigrams on persons against whom he enter- tained no enmity, and whose characters he should be sorry to wound; and many in- different poetical pieces, which he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having de- ferred to put his papers in a state of arrange- ment, as he was now quite incapable of the exertion.” The lady goes on to mention many other topics of a private nature on which he spoke. “The conversation,” she adds, “ was kept up with great evenness and animation on his side. 1 had seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. There was frequently a considerable degree of viva- city in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the con- cern and dejection I could not disguise damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwilling to indulge. “We parted about sunset on the evening of that day (the 5tli of July 1796) : the next day I saw him again, and we parted to meet no more ! ” At first Burns imagined bathing in the sea had been of benefit to him : the pains in his limbs were relieved; but this was imme- diately followed by a new attack of fever. When brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to stand upright. At this time a tremor pervaded his frame : his tongue was parched, and his mind sank into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished. On the fourth, the sufferings of this great, but ill-fated genius, were terminated; and a life was closed in which virtue and passiouhad beenin perpetual variance. (110) The death of Burns made a strong and general impression on all who had interested themselves in his character, and especially on the inhabitant® of fchp town and county in which he had spent the latter years of hii life. Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, they had not deprived him of the re- spect and regard entertained for the extra- ordinary powers of his genius, and the generous qualities of his heart. The Gentle- men- Volunteers of Dumfries determined to bury their illustrious associate with military honours, and every preparation was made to render this last service solemn and impressive. The Fencible Infantry of Angus-shire, and the regiment of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in Dumfries, offered their assistance on this occasion ; the prin- cipal inhabitants of the town and neighbour- hood determined to walk in the funeral procession ; and a vast concourse of persons assembled, some of them from a considerable distance, to witness the obsequies of the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th of July, the remains of Burns were removed from his house to the Town Hall, and the funeral took place on the succeeding day. A party of the volunteers, selected to perform the military duty in the churchyard, station ea themselves in the front of the procession, with their arms reversed ; the main body of the corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on which were placed the hat and sword of their friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous body of attendants ranged themselves in the rear; while the Fencible regiments of infantry and cavalry lined the streets from the Town Hall to the burial ground in the southern churchyard, a distance of more than half a mile. The whole procession moved forward to that sublime and affecting strain of music, the Dead March in Saul ; and three vollies lired over his grave marked the return of Burns to his parent earth! The spectacle was in a high degree grand and solemn, and accorded with the general sentiments of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion had called forth. It was an affecting circumstance, that, on the morning of the day of her husband’s funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing the pains of labour ; and that during the solemn service we have just been describing, the posthumous son of our poet was born. This infant boy, who received the name of Maxwell, was not destined to a long life. He has already become an inhabitant of the same grave with his celebrated father. T he four other children of our poet, all sons (the eldest at that time about ten years of age), yet survive, and give every promise of pru- dence and virtue vhat can be expected f i om their tender years. They remain under th* ILLNESS AND DEATH OF BURNS. care of their affectionate mother in Dum- fries, and are enjoying the means of educa- tion which the excellent schools of that town afford ; the teachers of which, in their conduct to the children of Burns, do themselves great honour. On this occasion the name of Mr. Whyte deserves to be par- ticularly mentioned, himself a poet as well as a man of science. (Ill) Burns died in great poverty ; but the in- dependence of his spirit, and the exemplary prudence of his wife, had preserved him fnm debt. (112) He had received from his p >ems a clear prolit of about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum, the part expended on liis library (which was far from extensive) and in the humble furniture of his house, remained; and obligations were found for two hundred pounds advanced by him to the assistance of those to whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still more by those of esteem and affection. When it is con- sidered, that his expenses in Edinburgh, and on his various journies, could not be incon- siderable ; that his agricultural undertaking was unsuccessful ; that his income from the Excise was for some time as low as fifty, and never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ; that his family was large, and his spirit liberal — no one will be surprised that his circumstances were so poor, or that, as his health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sank under the secret consciousness of indigence, and the apprehensions of absolute want. Yet poverty never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness ever appeared in his conduct. He carried his disregard of money to a blameable excess. Even in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily to the world, and received with a jealous re- luctance every offer of friendly assistance. His printed poems had procured him great celebrity and a just and fair recompense for the latter offsprings of his pen might have produced him considerable emolument. In the year 1795, the editor of a London news- paper, high in its character for literature and independence of sentiment, made a proposal to him that he should furnish them, once a-week, with an article for their poetical department, and receive from them a recom- pense of fifty-two guineas per annum; an offer which the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet he had for several years fur- nished, and was at that time furnishing, the Museum of Johnson with his beautiful Ivncs, without fee or reward, and was obsti- nately refusing all recompense for his assist- ant to the greater work of Mr. Thomson, which the justice and generosity of that gentleman was pressing upon him. The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- proaching distress of his infant family, pressed heavily on Bums as he lay on the bed of death. Yet he alluded to his indi- gence, at times, with something approaching to his wonted gaiety. “What business,’* said he to Dr. Maxwell, who attended him with the utmost zeal, “ has a physician to waste his time on me ? I am a poor pigeon not worth plucking. Alas ! I have not feathers enough upon me to carry me to my grave.” And when his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in the same melan- choly train ; the horrors of a jail were con- tinually present to his troubled imagination, and produced the most affecting exclama- tions. As for some months previous to his death he had been incapable of the duties of his office. Burns dreaded that his salary should be reduced one half, as is usual in such cases. His full emoluments were, how r ever, continued to him by the kindness of Mr. Stobie (113), a young expectant in the Ex- cise, who performed the duties of his office without fee or rew ard ; and Mr. Graham of Eintry, hearing of his illness, though un- acquainted with its dangerous nature, made an offer of his assistance towards procuring him the means of preserving his health. Whatever might be the faults of Burns, in- gratitude was not of the number. Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs are found of the sense he entertained of Mr. Graham’s friendship, which delicacy towards that gen- tleman has induced us to suppress ; and on this last occasion there is no doubt that his heart overflowed towards him, though he had no longer the power of expressing his feelings. (114) On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened a subscription for the support of his wife and family ; and Mr. Miller, Air. M'Murdo, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syne, and Mr. Cunning- ham, gentlemen of the first respectability, became trustees for the application of the money to its proper objects. The subscript tion was extended to other parts of Scotland, and of England also, particularly London and Liverpool. By this means a sum was raised amounting to seven hundred pounds; and thus the widow and children were res* cued fyom immediate distress, and the most melancholy of the forebodings of Bumf happily disappointed. It is true, this sum, though equal to their present support, is in- sufficient to seer re them from future penury LIFE OF BURNS. to Their hops in regard to futurity depends on the favourable reception of these volumes from the public at large, in the promoting of which the candour and humanity of the reader may induce him to lend his assist- ance. Burns, as has already been mentioned, was nearly five feet ten inches in height, tind of a form that indicated agility as well as Strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and intelligence. His face was well formed. ; and his countenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. His mode of dressing, which was often slovenly, and a certain fulness and bend in his shoulders, characteristic of his original profession, dis- guised in some degree the natural symmetry tr acci- dent shall open to him; and, provided ha 66 LIFE OF BTJRN&. employ the talents he ha* cultivated, may hope for such impel feet happiness, and such limited success, as are reasonably to be ex- pected from human exertions. The pre-eminence among men, which pro- cures personal respect, and which terminates in lasting reputation, is seldom or never obtained by the excellence of a single faculty of mind. Experience teaches us, that it has been acquired by those only who have pos- sessed the comprehension and the energy of general talents, and who have regulated their application in the line which choice, or perhaps accident, may have determined, by the dictates of their judgment. Imagination is supposed, and with justice, to be the leading faculty of the poet. But what poet has stood the test of time by the force of this single faculty ? Who does not see that Homer and Sliakspeare excelled the rest of their species in understanding as well as in imagination ; that they were pre-eminent in the highest species of knowledge — the know- ledge of the nature and character of man? •On the other hand, the talent of ratiocination is more especially requisite to the orator; but no man ever obtained the palm of oratory, even by the highest excellence in this single talent. Who does not perceive that Demos- thenes and Cicero were not more happy in their addresses to the reason than in their appeals to the passions? They knew, that to excite, to agitate, and to delight, are among the most potent arts of persuasion ; and they enforced their impression on the understanding, by their command of all the sympathies of the heart. These observations might be extended to other walks of life. He who has the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, has the faculties which, duly governed, and differently directed, might lead to pre- eminence in other, and, as far as respects himself, perhaps in happier destinations. The talents necessary to the construction of an Iliad, under different discipline and application, might have led armies to vic- tory, or kingdoms to prosperity ; might have wielded the thunder of eloquence, or dis- covered and enlarged the sciences that con- stitute the power and improve the condition of our species. (118) Such talents are, indeed, rare among the productions of na- ture, and occasions of bringing them into full exertion are rarer still. But safe and salutary occupations may be found for men of g enius in every direction, while the useful And ornamental arts remain to be cultivated, while the sciences remain to be studied and to be extended, and principles of science to be applied to the correction and improve- ment of art. In the temperament of sensi- bility, which is, in truth, the temperament ol general talents, the principal object of disci- pline and instruction is, as has already been mentioned, to strengthen the self-command ; and this may be promoted by the direction of the studies, more effectually, perhaps, than has been generally understood. If these observations be founded in truth, they may lead to practical consequences of some importance. It has been too much the custom to consider the possession of poetical talents as excluding the possibility of application to the severer branches of study, and as, in some degree, incapacitating the possessor from attaining those habits, and from bestowing that attention, which are necessary to success in the details of business, and in the engagements of active life. It has been common for persons con- scious of such talents, to look with a sort of disdain on other kinds of intellectual excel- lence, and to consider themselves as in some degree absolved from those rules of prudence by which humbler minds are restricted. They are too much disposed to abandon themselves to their own sensations, and to suffer life to pass away without regular exertion or settled purpose. But though men of genius are generally prone to indolence, with them indolence and unhappiness are in a more especial manner allied. The unbidden splendours of imagi- nation may, indeed, at times irradiate tho gloom which inactivity produces ; but such visions, though bright, are transient, and serve to cast the realities of life into deeper shade. In bestowing great talents, Nature seems very generally to have imposed on the possessor the necessity of exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. Better for him than sloth, toils the most painful, or adven- tures the most hazardous. Happier to him than idleness were the condition of the peasant, earning with incessant labour hi* scanty food ; or that of the sailor, though hanging on the yard-arm, and wrestling with the hurricane. These observations might be amply illus- trated by the biography of men of genius of every denomination, and more especially by the biography of the poets. Of this last description of men, few seem to have enjoyed the usual portion of happiness that falls to the lot of humanity, those excepted who have cultivated poetry as an elegant amuse- ment in the hours of relaxation from other occupations, or the small number m ho have engaged with success in the greater or more arduous attempt ! of the muse, in which all INFLUENCES OF MELANCHOLY. 6T the faculties of the mind have been fully and permanently employed. Even taste, virtue, and comparative independence, do not seem capable of bestowing on men of genius peace and tranquillity, without such occupation as may give regular and healthful exercise to the faculties of body and mind. The amiable Shenstone has left us the re- cords of his imprudence, of his indolence, and of his unhappiness, amidst the shades of the Leasowes ; and the virtues, the learn- ing, and the genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of the epic muse, failed to procure him in the academic bowers of Cam- bridge that tranquillity and that respect which less fastidiousness of taste, and greater constancy and vigour of exertion, would have doubtless obtained. It is more necessary that men of genius should be aware of the importance of self- command, and of exertion, because their indolence is peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappiness, but to diseases of mind, and to errors of conduct, which are generally fatal. This interesting subject deserves a particular investigation ; but we must content ourselves with one or two cursory remarks. Belief is sometimes sought from the melan- choly of indolence in practices which, for a time, soothe and gratify the sensations, but which, in the end, involve the sufferer in darker gloom. To command the external circumstances by which happiness is affected, is not in human pow er ; but there are various substances in nature which operate on the system of the nerves, so as to give a fictitious gaiety to the ideas of imagination, and to alter the effect of the external impressions which w r e receive. Opium is chiefly em- ployed for this purpose by the disciples of Mahomet and the inhabitants of Asia ; but alcohol, the principle of intoxication in vinous and spirituous liquors, is preferred in Europe, arid is universally used in the Chris- tian world. (119) Under the various wrnunds to which indolent insensibility is exposed, and under the gloomy apprehensions respecting futurity to which it is so often a prey, how strong is the temptation to have recourse to an antidote by which the pain of these wounds is suspended, by which the heart is exhilirated, visions of happiness are excited in the mind, and the forms of external na- ture clothed with new beauty ! “ Elysium opens round, A pleasing phrenzy buoys the lighten’d soul, And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care; And what was difficult, and what was dire, Yields to your prowess, and superior stars : The happiest you of all that e’er were mad, Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. But soon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloom Shuts o’er your head * * * • Morning comes ; your cares return With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well May be endured— so may the throbbing head? But such a dim delirium, such a dream Involves you ; such a dastardly despair Unmans your soul, as madd’ning PentheuS felt, When, baited round Cithceron’s cruel sides. He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend.” —Armstrong' s Art of Preserving Health , b. iv. 1 . 163 . Such are the pleasures and pains of intoxi- cation, as they occur in the temperament of sensibility, described by a genuine poet, wfith a degree of truth and energy which nothing but experience could have dictated. There are, indeed, some individuals of this tem- perament on whom wine produces no cheer- ing* influence. On some, even in very moderate quantities, its effects are painfully irritating ; in large draughts it excites dark and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts still larger, the fierceness of insanity itself. Such men are happily exempted from a temptation to which experience teaches us the finest dispositions often yield, and the influence of which, when strengthened by habit, it is a humiliating truth, that the most powerful minds have not been able to resist. It is the more necessary for men of genius to be on their guard against the habitual use of wine, because it is apt to steal on them insensibly, and because the temptation to excess usually presents itself to them in their social hours, when they are alive only to warm and generous emotions, and w 7 hen prudence and moderation are often con- temned as selfishness and timidity. It is the more necessary for them to guard against excess in the use of wine, because on them its effects are, physically and morally, in an especial manner injurious. In pro- portion to its stimulating influence on the system (on which the pleasurable sensation! depend, is the debility that ensues — a de- bility that destroys digestion, and terminates in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insanity. As the strength of the body decays, the volition fails ; in proportion as I the sensations are soothed and gratified, the sensibility increases ; and morbid sensibility is the parent of indolence, because, while it impairs the regulating powder of the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles to exertion. Activity, perseverance, and self-command, become more and more difficult, and the great purposes of utility, patriotism, or of honour- 68 LIFE OF BURNS. able ambition, which had occupied the ima- gination,, die away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble efforts. To apply these observations to the subject of our memoirs, would be a useless as well as a painful task. It is, indeed, a duty we owe to the living, not to allow our admira- tion of great genius, or even our pity for its unhappy destiny, to conceal or disguise its errors. But there are sentiments of respect, and even of tenderness, with which this duty should be performed ; there is an awful sanctity which invests the mansions of the dead; and let those who moralise over the graves of their contemporaries, reflect with humility on their own errors, nor forget how soon they may themselves require the can- dour and the sympathy they are called upon to bestow Soon after the death of Burns, the follow- ing article appeared in the Dumfries Journal, from which it was copied into the Edinburgh newspapers, and into various other periodical publications. It is from the elegant pen of a lady, already alluded to in the course of these memoirs (120), whose exertions for the family of our bard, in the circles of literature and fashion in which she moves, have done her so much honour. “ The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with the loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Robert Bums ; a loss cal- culated to be severely felt throughout the literary world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It was aot, therefore, probable that such an evexit should be long unattended with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anec- dotes and memoirs which are usually circu- lated immediately after the death of every rare and celebrated personage : I had, how- ever, conceived no intention of appropriating to myself the privilege of criticising Burns’s writings and character, or of anticipating on the province of a biographer. “ Conscious, indeed, of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresenta- tion and calumny been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at least of those observations which an intimate ac- quaintance with Burns, and the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qualities ana nis failings for several years past, have enabled me to communicate. "It will actually be an injustice done t< Burns’s character, not only by future genera* tions and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotland, and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, and considered, with reference to his poetical talents only ; for the fact is, even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being per- sonally acquainted with him) was actually not his forte. Many others, perhaps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, but none certainly er outshone Burns in the charms, the sorcery, I would almost call it, of fascinating conver- sation, the spontaneous eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant repartee ; nor was any man, I be- lieve, ever gifted with a larger portion of the ‘ vivida vis animi? His personal endowments were perfectly correspondent to the qualifi- cations of his mind — his form was manly— his action, energy itself — devoid in a great measure perhaps of those graces, of that polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies where in early life he could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where such was the irresistible power of attraction that en- circled him, though his appearance and manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough exercises of agricul- ture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His features were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence; the animated expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself ; the rapid lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some flash of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiority* or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness or satire 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, animo sities. It was not always that sp artiveneija INADEQUACY OF NATIVE CRITICISM. Df humour, that * unwary pleasantry,’ which Sterne has depicted with touches so conci- liatory, but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the caprice 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 matter indeed) had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him to the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often accompa- nied with the least desire to wound. The- suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon- mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the calendar of taints; if so. Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather deficient in it. He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. * ’Twas no extravagant arithmetic,’ to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that f for every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ; ’ but much allowance will be made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom ' distress had spited with the world/ and which, unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper was indeed checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or in- active, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of retreating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed themselves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of decided enmity; for he possessed none of that negative insipidity of character, whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resentment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, the temper of his associates took the tincture from his own; for he ackuc-wledged in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrollable; and it has been fre- quently a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating where he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of appreciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges an adversary some who were unqualified in all respects for the honour if a contest at distinguished. "It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to ' love a good hater ’ — a tempera- ment 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 tl e warmth of his passions was fortu- nately corrected by their versatility. He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his re- sentments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his engage- ments of friendship. Much, indeed, has been said about his inconstancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe, that they origi- nated less in a levity of sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkindness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite senti- ment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its ascendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was carnlid and maul) in the avowal of his errors, and his avovml was a reparation. His native fierte never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank acknowledgment was en- hanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its never being attended with servility. His mind, organised only for the stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable to the efforts of super- ciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, and equally superior to the en- croachments of venal suggestions that might have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. "It has been observed that he was far from averse to the incense of flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that way him- self ; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity >f his heart. It has been sometimes represented by those who, it should seem, had a view to depreciate, though they could not hope wholly to obscure, that native brilliancy which the powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtain- ing the interests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no foil. The Cotter’s Saturday Night, Tam o’ Shan*? ter, and The Mountain Daisy, besides a 70 LIFE OF BURNS. Oumbtr of later productims, where tie maturity of his genius will be readily traced, and which will be given to the public as soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently for themselves ; and had ctiey fallen from a hand more dignified in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence they really Sprang, “ To the obscure scene of Burns’s educa- tion, and to the laborious, though honourable station of rural industry in which his parent- age enrolled him, almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. His only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; and our poet’s eldest 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 indigence, has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the loom. “That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of translations, is a fact of which all who were in the habit of conversing with him might readily be convinced. I have, indeed, seldom observed him to be at a loss in con- versation, unless where the dead languages and their writers have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a language which his happy memory would have so soon en- abled him to be master of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he 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 pur- suits, it should undoubtedly seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really helieve his classic erudition extended little, if any, farther. “The penchant Bums had uniformly ac- knowledged for the festive pleasures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature’s creation, has been the rallying point whence the attacks of his censors have been uniformly directed , and to these, it must be confessed, he showed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happiness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the tender and impassioned senti- ments in which beauty always taught him to aour forth bis cwn. 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 ui so far to ‘chill the genial current of the soul,’ as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that Anacreon sang beneath his vine ? “I will not, however, undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never was free from irregulari- ties, as that their absolution may, in great measure, be justly claimed, since it is per- fectly evident that the world had continued very stationary in its intellectual acquire- ments, had it never given birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due regard to the decorums of tha world, have been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though there I cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even in- compatible; besides, the frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit, are more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere me- diocrity. It is only on the gem we are dis- turbed to see the dust ; the pebble may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccen- tric intuitions of genius too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always unbounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to its own. No wonder, then, if virtue her- self be sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling animation, or that the calm moni- tions of reason are not invariably found sufficient to fetter an imagination, which scorns the narrow limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid precepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved a source of frequent errors and misfortunes to him. Burns made his own artless apology in language more impressive than all the argu- mentatory vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- lineates the gradual expansion of his mmd to the lessons of the ‘ tutelary muse,’ who concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity and beautiftC poetry, with these lines « I saw thy pulse’s madd’ning play Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way ; Misled by Fancy’s meteojyjay, By passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray: Was light from heaven * PECULIARITIES, ETC. n have already transgressed beyond the bounds I had proposed to myself on first committing this sketch to paper, which com- prehends what at least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns’s mind and character. A literary critique I do not aim at — mine is wholly fulfilled if, in these pages, I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that distinguished him, of those talents which raised him from the plough, where he passed the bleak morning of 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 grati- tude ; and proudly remember that, beneath her cold sky, a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuri- ances — 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 private animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhausted all her shafts. I still trust, how- ever, that honest fame will be permanently affixed to Burns’s character, which I think it will be found he has merited, by the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And where a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications interpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately ex- alted his nature into the seraph, and sank it again into the man, to the tribunal which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — * Where they alike in trembling hope repo$e t —The bosom of his father and his God.’ . Guay’s Elegy. m Annandale, August 7, 1796.” After this account of the life and personal character of Burns, it may be expected that some inquiry should be made into his literary merits. It will not, however, be necessary to enter very minutely into this investigation. If fiction be, as some sup- pose, the soul of poetry, no one had ever less pretensions to the name of poet than Burns. Though he h as displayed great powers of imagination, yet the subjects on which he has written are seldom, if ever, imaginary ; his poems, as well as his letters, may be considered as the effusions of his sensibility, and the transcript of A is own plus mgs on the real incidents of hi* 'nimble life. If we add, that they also contain most happy delineations of the characters, man- ners, and scenery, that presented themselves to his observation, we shall include almost all the subjects of his muse. His writings may, therefore, be regarded as affording a great part of the data on which our account of his personal character has been founded ; and most of the observations we have ap- plied to the man, are applicable, with little variation, to the poet. The impression of his birth, and of hia original station in life, was not more evident on his form and manners, than on his poetical productions. The incidents which form the subjects of his poems, though some of them highly interesting, and susceptible of poetical imagery, are incidents in the life of a peasant who takes no pains to disguise the lowliness of his condition, or to throw into shade the circumstances attending it, which more feeble or more artificial min da would have endeavoured to conceal. The same rudeness and inattention appears in the formation of his rhymes, which are frequently incorrect, while the measure in which many of the poems are written has little of the pomp or harmony of modem versification, and is, indeed, to an English ear strange and uncouth. The greater part of his earlier poems are written in the dialect -of his country, which is obscure, if not unintelligible, to Englishmen; ard which, though it still adheres more or less to the speech of almost every Scotsman, all tbs polite and the ambitious are now endeavour- ing to banish from their tongues as well at their writings. The use of it in composition naturally, therefore, calls up ideas of vul- garity in the mind. These singularities are increased by the character of the poet, who delights to express himself with a simplicity that approaches to nakedness*, and with an unmeasured energy that often alarms deli- cacy, and sometimes offends taste. Hence, in approaching him, the first impression is, perhaps, repulsive : there is an air of coarse* ness about him, which is difficultly recon- ciled with our established notions of poetical excellence. As the reader, however, becomes better acquainted with the poet, the effects of hia peculiarities lessen. He perceives in hia poems, even on the lowest subjects, expres- sions of sentiment, and delineations of manners, which are highly interesting. The scenery he describes is evidently taken from real life ; the characters he int roduces, and the. incidents he relates, have the impression of nature and truth. His humour, though n LIIE OF BULOTL wild and unbridled, is irresistibly amusing, and is sometimes heightened in its effects by the introduction of emotion? of tenderness, with which genuine humour so happily unites. Nor is this the extent of his power. The reader, as he examines farther, discovers that the poet is not confined to the descrip- tive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; he is found, as occasion offers, to rise with ease into the terrible and the sublime. Every- where he appears devoid of artifice, per- forming what he attempts with little appa- rent effort, and impressing on the offspring of his fancy the stamp of his understanding. The reader, capable of forming a just esti- mate of poetical talents, discovers in these circumstances marks of uncommon genius, and is willing to investigate more minutely its nature and its claims to originality. This last point we shall examine first. That Burns had not the advantages of a classical education, or of any degree of ac- quaintance with the Greek or Roman writers in their original dress, has appeared in the history of hi3 life. He acquired, indeed, some knowledge of the French language, but it does not appear that he was ever much conversant in French literature, nor is there any evidence of his having derived any of his poetical stores from that source. With the English classics he became well ac- quainted in the course of his life, and the effect of this acquaintance are observable in his later productions ; but the character and styie of his poetry were formed very early, and the model which he followed, in as far as he can be said to have had one, is to be sought for in the works of the poets who have written in the Scottish dialect — in the works of such of them more especially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scotland. Some observations on these may form a proper introduction to a more particular examination of the poetry of Burns. The studies of the editor in this direction are indeed very recent and very imperfect. It would have been imprudent for him to have entered on this subject at all. but for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to acknowledge, and to whom the reader must ascribe whatever is of any value in the following imperfect sketch of literary compositions in the Scottish idiom. It is a circumstance not a little curious, and which does not seem to be satisfactorily explained, that in the thirteenth century, the language of the two British nations, if at all different, differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like the Welsh and Ar- I moric in the other, being confined to tlii i mountainous districts. The English under the Edwards, and the Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke the same language. We may observe also, that in Scotland, the his- tory of poetry ascends to a period nearly as remote as in England. Barber, and Blind Harry, James the First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, were coeval with the fathers of poetry in England ; and, in. the opinion of Mr. Warton, not inferior to them in genius or in composition. Though the language of the two countries gradually deviated from each other during this period, yet the difference on the whole was not con- siderable ; not perhaps, greater than between the different dialects of the different parts cl England in our own time. At the death of James V. in 1542, the language of Scotland wa3 in a flourishing condition, wanting only writers in prose equal to those in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. The first was the passion of the Scots for composition in Latin, and the second, the accession of James VI. to the English throne. It may easily be imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of letters in Italy, he would have left compositions in that language which might have incited othei men of genius to have followed his ex- ample (121), and given duration to the lan- guage itself. The union of the two crowns in the person of James, overthrew all rea- sonable expectation of this kind. That monarch, seated on the English throne, would no longer suffer himself to be ad- dressed in the rude dialect in which the Scottish clergy had so often insulted hi9 dignity. He encouraged Latin or English only, both of which he prided himself on writing with purity, though he himself never could acquire the English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scottish idiom and intona- tion to the last. Scotsmen of talents de- clined writing in their native language, which they knew was not acceptable to their learned and pedantic monarch ; and at a time when national prejudice and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they disdained to study the niceties of the English tongue, though of so much easier acquisition than a dead language. Lord Stirling, and Drum* mond of Hawthorn den, the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry in those times, were ex- ceptions. They studied the language oi England, and composed in it with precision LITERATURE OF SCOTLAND. 7 $ imd elegance. They were, however, the last of their countrymen who deserved to be considered as poets in that century. The muses of Scotland sank into silence, and did not again raise their voices for a period of eighty years. To what causes are we to attribute this extreme depression among a people compara- tively learned, enterprising, and ingenious ? Shall we impute it to the fanaticism of the Covenanters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart after their restoration to the throne? Doubtless these causes operated, but they seem unequal to account for the effect. In England, similar distractions and oppression took place, yet poetry flourished there in a remarkable degree. During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and Dry den, sang, and Milton raised his strain of unpa- ralleled grandeur. To the causes already mentioned, another must be added, in accounting for the torpor of Scottish litera- ture — the want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to employ. The civil wars had frightened away the Latin Muses, and no standard had been established of the Scottish tongue, which was deviating still farther from the pure English idiom. The revival of literature in Scotland may be dated from the establishment of the Union, or rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 1715. The nations being finally incorporated, it was clearly seen that their tongues must be in the end incorporate also ; or rather, indeed, that the Scottish language must degenerate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who would aim at dis- tinction in letters, or rise to eminence in the united legislature. Soon after this, a band of men of genius appeared, who studied the English classics, and imitated their beauties, in the same maimer as they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. They had admirable models of composition lately presented to them by the writers of the reign of Queen Anne ; par- ticularly in the periodical papers published by Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, which circulated widely through Scotland, and diffused everywhere a taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in English composition, and an union was formed of the literary talents, as well as of the legislatures of the two nations. On this occasion the poets took the lead. While Henry Home (122), Dr. Wallace, and their learned associates, were only laying in their intellectual stores, and studying to clear themselves of their Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallett, a id Hamilton of Bangour, had made their ap- pearance before the public, and been enrolled on the list of English poets. The writers in prose followed — a numerous and powerful band — and poured their ample stores into the general stream of British literature. Scotland possessed her four universities be- fore the accession of James to the English throne. Immediately before the Union, she acquired her parochial schools. These esta- blishments combining happily together, made the elements of knowledge of easy acquisi- tion, and presented a direct path by which the ardent student might be carried along into the recesses of science or learning. As civil broils ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died away, a wider field was opened to literary ambition, and the influence of the Scottish institutions for instruction, on the productions of the press, became more and more apparent. It seems, indeed, probable, that the esta- blishment of the parochial schools produced effects on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have not hitherto been suspected, and which, though less splendid in their nature, are not, however, to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider the happiness or the morals of the people. There is some reason to believe, that the original inhabitants of the British isles pos- sessed a peculiar and an interesting species of music, which being banished from the plains by the successive invasions of the Saxong, Danes, and Normans, was preserved with the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each other, but the difference may be considered as in dialect only, and probably produced by the influence of time, and like the different dialects of their common language. If this conjecture be true, the Scottish music must be more immediately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland tunes, though now of a character somewhat distinct, must have descended from the mountains in remote ages. What- ever credit may be given to conjectures, evidently involved in great uncertainty, there can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry have been long in possession of a number of song3 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 inhabi- tants, and in the succession of time varied probably as the condition of society varied. During the separation aid the hostility of 74 LIFE OP BURNS. the two nations these songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect documents enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as the Huntis of Cheviot, and the Battle of Harlaw. After the union of thq two crowns, when a certain degree of peace and of tranquillity took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed in softer accents. “In the want of real evidence respecting the history of our songs,” says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, u recourse may be had to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, that the most t eautiful of the Scottish tunes were clothed with new words after the union of the crowns. The inhabitants of the borders, who had formerly been warriors from choice, and husbandmen from necessity, either quitted the country, or were transformed into real shepherds, easy in their circum- stances, and satisfied with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which they are celebrated by Froissart, remained, sufficient to inspire elevation of sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. The familiarity and kindness which had long subsisted between the gentry and the pea- santry, could not all at once be obliterated, and this connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of mind, the love of poetry and music would still maintain its ground, though it would naturally assume a form congenial to the more peaceful state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical tales used once to rouse the borderers like the trumpet’s sound, had been, by an order of the legislature (in 1579), classed with rogues and vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish parlia- ment, but contended in vain with her rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tributary streams, one or more original geniuses may have arisen, who were destined to give a new turn to the taste of their countrymen. They would see that the events and pursuits which chequer private life were the proper subjects for popular poetry. Love, which had formerly held a divided sway with glory and ambition, be- came now the master passion of the soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears that agitate the breast of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, affords ample scope to the rural poet Love-songs of which Tibullus himself would .not have been asb -lined, might be composed by an unedu- cated rustic with a slight tincture of letters; fur if m these songs the character of the rustic be sometimes assumed, the truth o t character, and the language of nature, ara preserved. With unaffected simplicity and ten derm ss, topics are urged most likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled gloom which characterises the sweet- est of the Highland luenigs, or vocal airs. Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively and humorous, and some appear to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine descriptions of the manners of an energetic and sequestered people in their hours of mirth and festivity, though in their portraits some objects are brought into open view, which more fasti- dious painters would have thrown into shade. As those rural poets sang for amusement, not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, which, like the works of the elder minstrels, were seldom committed to writing, but treasured up in the memory of their friends and neighbours. Neither known to the learned nor patronised by the great, these rustic bards lived and died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, their story, and even their very names, have been forgotten. (123) When proper models for pastoral songs were produced, there would be no want of imita- tors. To succeed in this species of compo- sition, soundness of understanding, and sensibility of heart, were more requisite than flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. Great changes have certainly taken piace in Scottish song-writing, though we cannot trace the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces admired in Queen Mary’s time are now to be discovered in modern collec- tions. It is possible, though not probable, that the music may have remained nearly the same, though the words to the tunes were entirely new-modelled.” (124) These conjectures are highly ingenious. It cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scottish peasantry immediately on the union of the crowns, or indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth century. The Scottish nation, through all its ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the religious persecutions which succeeded each other in that disastrous period ; it was not till afcer the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent establishment of their beloved form of church government, that the peasantry of COMPARISON OF SCOTTISH POETS. fhc Lowlands enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that period that a great number of the most admired Scottish songs have been produced, though the tunes to which they are sung are in general of much greater antiquity. It fa not unreasonable to suppose that the peace and security derived from the Revolution and the Union, pro- duced a favourable change on the rustic oetry of Scotland; and it can scarcely be oubted, that the institution of parish schools in 1696, by which a certain degree of instruction was diffused universally among the peasantry, contributed to this happy effect. Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the Scottish Theocritus. He was born on the high mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annandale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Glengonar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the inquiring traveller. He was the son of a peasant, and probably received such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of his parents ad- mitted. (125) Ramsay made his appearance in Edinburgh in the beginning of the present century, in the humble character of an ap- prentice to a barber, or peruke-maker ; he was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired notice for his social disposition, and his talent for the composi- tion of verses in the Scottish idiom; and, changing his profession for that of a book- seller, he became intimate with many of the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable characters of his time. (126) Having pub- lished a volume of poems of his own in 1721, which was favourably received, he undertook to make a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the title of The Ever- green, and was afterwards encouraged to present to the world a collection of Scottish songs. “ From what sources he procured them,” says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, “ whether from tradition or manuscript, is uncertain. As in the Evergreen, he made some rash attempts to improve on the origi- nals of his ancient poems, he probably used still greater freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth cannot, however, be known on this point, till manuscripts of the songs printed by him more ancient than tike present century, shall be produced, or access be obtained to his own papers, if they are still in existence. To several tunes which either wanted words, or had words that were improper or imperfect, he, or his friends, adapted verses worthy of the melo- dies they accompanied, worthy indeed of the 8 n golden age. These verses were perfectly in- telligible to every rustic, yet justly admired by persons of taste, who regarded them as the genuine offspring of the pastoral muse. In some respects, Ramsay had advantage* not possessed by poets writing in the Scot- tish dialect in our days. Songs in the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire could never be popular, because these dialects have never been spoken by persons of fashion. But till the middle of the present century, every Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly Doric language. It is true, the English moralists and poets were by this time read by every person of condition, and considered as the standards for polite composition. But as national prejudices were still strong, the busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair, continued to speak their native dialect, and that with an elegance and poignancy, of which Scotsmen of the present day can have no just notion. I am old enough to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived all the members of the Union Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pronunciation and phraseology differed as much from the common dialect, as the language of St. James’s from that of Thames Street. Had we retained a court and parliament of our own, the tongues of the two sister-kingdoms would indeed have differed like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each would have had its own classics, not in a single branch, but in the whole circle of literature. “ Ramsay associated with the men of wit and fashion of his day, and several of them attempted to write poetry in his manner. Persons too idle or too dissipated to think of compositions that required much exertion, sncceeded very happily in making tender sonnets to favourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, and, transformiug them- selves into impassioned shepherds, caught the language of the characters they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, Robert Crawford of Auchinames wrote the modern song of Tweed Side (127), which has been so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of our lawyers who both spoke and wrote English elegantly, composed, in the character of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, beginning, ‘ My sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook,’ on the marriage of his mistress, Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawford. And about twelve years after- wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune of the Flowers of the Forest (128), and supposed to allude to 76 LIFE OF BURNS. the battle of Flowden. In spite of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and, though in some parts allegorical, a natural expres- sion of national sorrow The more modern words to the same tune, beginning, f I have seen the smiling of fortune, beguiling/ were written long before by Mrs. Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outlived all the first group of literati of the present century, all of whom were very fond of her. (129) I was delighted with her company, though, when I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know that is now lost.” In addition to these instances of Scottish songs produced in the earlier part of the present century, may be mentioned the ballad of Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw; the ballad of William and Margaret; and the song entitled the Birks of Endermay, by Mallett ; the love-song, beginning. “ For ever fortune, wilt thou prove,” produced by the youthful muse of Thomson; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the revival of letters in Scotland, subsequent to the Union, a very general taste seems to have prevailed for the national songs and music. “ For many years,” says Mr. Ram- say, “the singing of songs was the great delight of the higher and middle order of the people, as well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music has interfered with this amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years ago, the common people were not only exceedingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them with delight, when reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and Bruce against "die southrons. Lord Hailes was wont to call Blind Harry their bible, he being their great favourite next to the Scriptures. When, therefore, one in the vale of life felt the first emotions of genius, he wanted not models iui generis. But though the seeds of poetry were scattered with a plentiful hand among: the Scottish peasantry, the product was probably like that of pears and apples — of a thousand that spring up, nine hundred and fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five or more are passable and useful ; and the rest of an exquisite flavour. Allan Ilamsay and Burns are wildings of this last description. They had the ex- ample of the elder Scottish poets; they were not without the aid of the best English writers ; and, what was still of more im- portance, they were no strangers to Hie ook of nature, and to the book of God.” “From this general view, it is apparent that Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his country. His collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the name of The Evergreen, his collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the principal 01 which is the Gentle Shepherd, have been universally read among the peasantry of his country, and have in some degree superseded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was well acquainted with all these. He had also before him the poems of Fergusson in the Scottish dialect, which have been produced in our own times, and of which it will be necessary to give a short account. “ Fergusson was born of parents who had it in their power to procure him a liberal education—a circumstance, however, which in Scotland implies no very high rank in society. From a well-written and appa- rently authentic account of his life (130), we learn that he spent six years at the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and several years at the universities of Edin- burgh and St. Andrews. It appears that he was at one time destined for the Scottish church ; but, as he advanced towards man- hood, he renounced that intention, and at Edinburgh entered the office of a writer to the signet — a title which designates a separate and higher order of Scottish at- toinies. Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a warm and generous heart, and talenta for society of the most attractive kind. To such a man no situation could be more dangerous than that in which he was placed. The excesses into which he was led impaired his feeble constitution, and he sank under them in the month of October, 1774 in his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year. Burns was not acquainted with the poems of this youthful genius when he himself began to write poetry ; and when he first saw them, he had renounced the muses. But while he resided in the town of Irvine meeting with Fergusson’s Scottish Poems, he informs us that he “strung his lyre anew with emulating vigour.” Touched by the sympa- thy originating in kindred genius, and in the forebodings of similar fortane, Burns re- garded Fergusson with a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over his grave he erected a monument, as has already been mentioned ; and his poems he has, in several instances, made the subjects of his imitation. From this account of the Scottish poems known to Burns, those who .re acquainted SCOTTISH LITERATURE. with them w ill see that they are chiefly humorous or pathetic, and under one or Other of these descriptions most of his own oems will class. Let us compare him with is predecessors under each of these points of view, and close our examination with a few general observations. It has frequently been observed, that Scotland has produced, comparatively speak- ing, few writers who have excelled in humour. But this observation is true only when ap- plied to those who have continued to reside in their own country, and have confined themselves to composition in pure English; and, in these circumstances, it admits of an easy explanation. The Scottish poets who have written in the dialect of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which, indeed, many of them have excelled. It would be e«,sy to show, that the dialect of Scotland having become provincial, is now scarcely suited to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk of the Grene was written by James I. of Scotland (131), this accomplished monarch, who had received an English education under the direction of Henry IV., and who bore arms under his gallant successor, gave the model on which the greater part of the humorous productions of the rustic muse of Scotland has been formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay somewhat modernised in the orthography, and two cantos were added by him, in which he attempts to carry on the design. Hence the poem of King James is usually printed in Ramsay’s works. The royal bard describes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, and after- wards a contention in archery, ending in an affray. Ramsay relates the restoration of concord, and the renewal of the rural sports, with the humours of a country wedding. Though each of the poets describes the manners of his respective age, yet in the whole piece there is a very sufficient unifor- mity — a striking proof of the identity of character in the Scottish peasantry at the two periods, distant from each other three hundred years. It is an honourable dis- tinction to this body of men, that their ' character and manners, very little embel- lished, have been found to be susceptible of sn amusing and interesting species of poetry; and it must appear not a little curious, that the single nation of modern Europe which assesses an original rural poetry, should ave received the model, followed by their rustic bards, from the monarch on the throne* r ) , The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though objectionable in point of delicacy, are among the happiest of his productions. His chief excellence, indeed, lay in the description of rural characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not possess any very high powers either of imagination or of understanding. He was well acquainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their lives and opinions. The subject was in a great measure new ; his talents were equal to the subject ; and Re has shown that it may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle Shepherd, the characters are delineations from nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, the passions and affections of rural life are finely pourtrayed, and the heart is pleasingly interested in the happiness that is bestowed on innocence an£ virtue. Throughout the whole there is ai air of reality which the most careless reade» cannot but perceive ; and, in fact, no poen ever perhaps acquired so high a reputation, in which truth received so little embellish merit from the imagination. In his pastoral songs, and in his rural tales, Ramsay appear r to less advantage indeed, but still with cor - siderable attraction. The story of the Mon/ and the Miller’s Wife, though somevvhai licentious, may rank with the happiest pro- ductions of Prior, or La Fontaine. But when he attempts subjects from higher life, an i aims at pure English composition, he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom ever reaches mediocrity. Neither are his familiar epistles and elegies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much approbation. Though Fergusson had higher powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius was not of the highest order ; nor did his learning, which was considerable, improve his genius. His poems written in pure English, in which he often follows classical models, though supe- rior to the English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise above mediocrity; but in those com- posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very successful. He was in general, however, less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse. As he spent the greater part of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for hia amusement in the intervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly founded on the incidents of a town life, which, though they are susceptible of humour, do not admit of those delineations of scenery and manners, which vivify the rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The town-eclogues of Fergusson, if we may sq 78 LIFE OF BURNS. denominate them, are, however, faithful to nature, and often distinguished by a very happy vein of humour. His poems entitled The Haft Hays, The King’s Birth-day in Edinburgh, Leith Races, and the Hallow Fair, will justify this character. In these, particularly in the last, he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done before him. His Address to the Tron Kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be recollected, that his poems are the careless effusions of an irregular though amiable young man, who wrote for the periodical papers of the day, and who died in early youth. Had his life been prolonged under happier circumstances of fortune, he would probably have risen to much higher reputa- tion. He might have excelled in rural poetry; for though his professed pastorals, on the established Sicilian model, are stale and uninteresting, The Farmer’s Ingle (132), which may be considered as a Scottish pas- toral, is the happiest of all his productions, and certainly was the prototype of the Cot- ter’s Saturday Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, have shown that the cha- racter and manners of the peasantry of Scotland of the present times, are as well adapted to poetry as in the days of Ramsay, or of the author of Christis Kirk of the Grene. The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, as he himself informs us, he had u frequently in his eye, but rather witli a view to kindle at their flame, than to servile imitation.” His descriptive powers, whether the objects on which they are employed be comic or serious, animate or inanimate, are of the highest order. A superiority of this kind is essential to every species of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier poems, his plan seems to be to inculcate & legion of contentment on the lower classes of society, by showing that their superiors are neither much better nor happier than themselves ; and this he chooses to execute in the form of a dialogue between two dogs. He introduces this dialogue by an account of the persons and characters of the speakers. The first, whom he has named Caesar, is a dog of con- dition: — 44 His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Show’d him the gentleman and scholar.” Kigh-bred though he is, he is, however, full of condescension : — “ At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er so duddie, But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, And stroan’t on stanes and hillocks wi ’ , him.* The other, Luath, is a “ ploughman’s collie.** but a cur of a good heart and a sound un- derstanding. “ His honest, sonsie, bav s’nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place His breast was white, his towsie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glassy black ; His gaucie tail , wi’ upward curl , Hung o’er his hurdles wi’ a swirl.’* Never were twa dogs so exquisitely deli- neated. Their gambols before they sit down to moralise are described with an equal de- gree of happiness; and through the whole dialogue, the character, as well as the dif- ferent condition of the two speakers,, is kept in view. The speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the comforts of the poor, gives the following account of their merriment on the first day of the year : — “ That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win’s ; The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin pipe, and sneeshinmili. Are handed round wi* right guid will ; The canty auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro’ the house — My heart has been sae fain to see them. That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.” Of all the animals who have moralised on human affairs since the days of Hi sop, the dog seems best entitled to this privilege, as well from his superior sagacity as from his being, more than any other, the friend and associate of man. The dogs of Burns, ex- cepting in their talent for moralising, are downright dogs ; and not like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and Panther of Bryden, men in the shape of brutes. It is this cir- cumstance that heightens the humour of the dialogue. The “ twa dogs” are constantly kept before our eyes, and the contrast be- tween their form and character as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, heightens the humour, and deepens the impression of the poet’s satire. Though in this poem the chief excellence may be considered as hu- mour, yet great talents are displayed in its composition; the happiest powers of de- scription, and the deeptst insight into the human heart. (133) It :s seldom, however, that the humour of Burns appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of his sensi- bility frequently impels him to introduce into subjects of humour emotions of ten- derness or of pity; and, where occasion- admits, he is sometimes carried on to exert SCOTTISH LITERATURE. 79 the higher powers of imagination. In such instances, he leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, and associates himself with the masters of English poetry, whose language he frequently assumes. Of the union of tenderness and humour, examples may be found in The Death and Dying Words of poor Mailie, in The Auld Farmer’s New-Year’s Morning Salutation to his Mare Maggie, and in many of his other poems. The praise of whisky is a favourite subject with Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering influence in a va- riety of situations, he describes, with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its stimulating effects on the blacksmith working at his forge : — “ Nae mercy, then, for airn and steel ; The brawnie, bainie, plougman chiel, Brings hard ow re-hip, wi’ sturdy wheel, The strong fore-hammer, Till block and studdie ring and reel Wi’ dinsome clamour.” On another occasion (134), choosing to exalt whisky above wine, he introduces a comparison between the natives of more genial climes, to whom the vine furnishes their beverage, and his own countrymen who drink the spirit of malt. The description of the Scotsman is humorous : — “ But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland aill (135), Say such is royal George’s will, And there’s the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.” Here the notion of danger rouses the Imagination of the poet. He goes on thus : — “Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings teaze him ; Death comes— wi’ fearless eye he sees him, Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; And when he fa’s. His latest draught o’ breathing lea’es him In faint huzzas.” Again, however, he sinks into humour, and concludes the poem with the following most laughable but most irreverent apos- frephe “ Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! Tho’ whyles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather, Ye tine your dam : Freedom and whiskey gang thegither — Tak atf your dram ! ” Of this union of humour with the higher powers of imagination, instances may be found in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, and in almost every stanza of the Address to the Deil, one of the happiest of his productions. After reproaching this terrible being with all his “doings” and misdeeds, in the course of which he passes through a series of Scottish superstition and rises at times into a high strain of poetry, he concludes this address, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, not altogether unmixed with apprehension, in the following words : — “But, fare-ye well, auld Nickie-benI Oh wad you tak a thought and men’ I Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken — Sill hae a stake — I’m wae to think upon yon den E’en for your sake ! * Humour and tenderness are here so happily intermixed, that it is impossible to say which preponderates, Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the Causeway and the Plainstones (136) of Edinburgh. This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue between the Old and the New Bridge over the river Ayr. (137) The nature of such subjects requires that they shall be treated humorously, and Fer- gusson has attempted nothing beyond this. Though the Causeway and the Plainstones talk together, no attempt is made to per- sonify the speakers. A “cadie” (138) heard the conversation, and reported it to the poet. In the dialogues between the Brigs of Ayr, Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and occasion on which it occurred Is related with great circumstantiality. The poet, “pressed by care,” or “inspired by whim,” had left his bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter-night, to the mouth of the river, where the stillness was interrupted only by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. It was after midnight. The dun- geon-clock (139) had struck two, and the sound had been repeated by Wallace Tower. (140) All else was hushed. The moon shone brightly, and “ The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. Crept gently crusting, o’er the glittering stream.” In this situation the listening hard hears the “clanging sugh” of wings moving through the air, and speedily he perceives two beings reared, the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, whose form and attire he de- scribes, and whose conversation with each other he rehearses These genii enter into a comparison of the respective edinces over which they preside, and afterwards, as is usual between the old and young, comport 80 Lira OF BURNS. modern characters and manners with those of past times. They differ, as may be ex- pected, and taunt and scold each other in broad Scotch. This conversation, which is certainly humorous, may be considered as the proper business of the poem. As the debate runs high, and threatens serious con- sequences, all at once it is interrupted by a new scene of wonders : — • “all before their sight A fairy train appear’d in order blight ; Adown the glittering stream they featlv danc’d ; [glanc’d ; Bright to the moon their various dresses They footed o’er the wat’ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet; While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-enobling Bard's heroic ditties sung.” * * * * “ The Genius of the Stream in front appears — A venerable chief, advanc’d in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d, His manly leg with garter-tangle bound.” Next follow a number of other allegorical beings, among whom are the four seasons. Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Cou- rage. “ Benevolence, with mild benignant air, A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair ; Learning and wealth in equal measures trode, From simple Catrine, their long-iov’d abode ; Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel- wreath, « To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of Death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind’ling wrath.” This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, displays various and powerful talents, and may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In particular, it affords a striking instance of his being carried beyond his original purpose by the powers of imagination. In Fergusson’s poem, the Plainstones and Causeway contrast the characters of the different persons who walked upon them. Burns probably conceived, that by a dialogue between the Old and New Bridge, he might form a humorous contrast between ancient and modern manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue could only be supposed ,to pass in the stillness of night ; and this led our poet into a description of a midnight scene, which excited in a high degree the powers of his imagination. During the whole dialogue the scenery is present to his fancy, and at length it suggests to him a fairy dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the moon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the Brigs of Ayr is appeased. Incongruous as the different parts of this poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- pleases ; and we have only to regret that tbl poet did not bestow a little pains in making the figures more correct, and in smoothing the versification. The epistles of Burns, in which may ba included his Dedication to G. H., Esq., dis- cover, like his other writings, the powers of a superior understanding. They display deep insight into human nature, a gay and happy strain of reflection, great independ- ence of sentiment and generosity of heart. It is to be regretted, that, in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other poems, his humour degenerates into personal satire, and that it is not sufficiently guarded in other respects. The Halloween of Burns is free from every objection of this sort. It is interesting, not merely from its humorous description of manners, but as it records the spells and charms used on the celebration of a festival, now even in Scotland, falling into neglect, but which was once observed over the greater part of Britain and Ireland. (141) These charms are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, especially on the subject of marriage, the most interesting event of rural life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- forming one of the spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into a stream running towards the south. It was not necessary for Burns to give a description of this stream. But it was the character of his ardent mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion required, but what is ad- mitted ; and the temptation to describe so beautiful a natural object by moonlight, wai not to be resisted — “ Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. As through the glen it wimpl’t ; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dim pi’ t; Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rays, Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes. Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night.” Those who understand the Scottish dia- lect will allow this to be one of the finest instances of description which the records of poetry afford. (142) Though of a very different nature, it may be compared, in point of ex- cellence, with Thomson’s description of a river s woollen by the rains of winter, burst- ing through the streiglits that confine iti torrent, “ boiling, wheeling, foaming, and thundering along.” In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled equally as in that of a humorous lurid ; and, using less of the Scottish dialecj SENSIBILITY OF BURNS. 81 In Ilia serious poems, he becomes more ge- nerally intelligible. It is difficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse, whose nest was turned up with the plough, should be considered as serious or comic. Be this as it may, the poem is one of the happiest and most finished of bis productions. If we smile at the “ bickering brattle” of this little flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The descriptive part is admirable ; the moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly out of the occasion ; and in the con- clusion there is a deep melancholy, a sen- timent of doubt and dread, that rises to the sublime. The address to a Mountain Daisy, turned down with the plough, is a poem of the same nature, though somewhat inferior in point of originality, as well as in the interest produced. To extract out of incidents so common, and seemingly so tri- vial as these, so fine a train of sentiment and imagery, is the surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumph, of original ge- nius. The vision, in two cantos, from which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of The Lounger, is a poem of great and various excellence. The opening, in which the poet describes his own state of mind, retiring in the evening, wea- ried from the labours of the day, to moralise on his conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. The chamber, if we may so term it, in which he sits down to muse, is an exquisite painting : 44 There, lanely, by the ingle cheek I sat and ey’d the spewing reek, That filled wi’ hoast-provoking sme«k The auld clay biggin ; And heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin.” To reconcile to our imagination the en- trance of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, required the powers of Burns — he However succeeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, attitude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual beings, are distinctly pourtrayed. To the painting on her mantle, on which is depicted the most striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished characters, of his native countrry, some ex- ceptions may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis, and the shield of Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, •nd some of the objects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, according to the principles of design. The generous tem- perament of Burns led him into these exuberances. In his second edition he en- larged the number of figures originally introduced, that he might include objects to 9 which he was attached by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or patriotism. Th* second duan, or canto, of this poem, in which Coila describes her own nature and occupations, particularly her superinten- dence of his infant genius, and in which she reconciles him to the character of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the har- mony of numbers, with the higher produc- tions of the English muse. The concluding stanza, compared with that already quoted; will show to what a height Burns rises in this poem; from the point at which he set out: — “And wear thou this— she solemn said. And bound the holly round my head ; The polished leaves, and berries red. Did rustling play : And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away.” * In various poems, Burns has exhibited the picture of a mind under the deep im- pressions of real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this character. In the first of these poems, the 8th stanza, which describes a sleepless night from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns often indulged in those melancholy views of the nature and condition of man, which are so congenial to the temperament of sensibility. The poem entitled Man was Made to Mourn, affords an instance of this kind, and the Winter Night is of the same description. The last is highly characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and of the condition of Burns. It begins with a description of a dreadful storm on a night in winter. The poet represents himself as lying in bed, and listening to its howling. In this situation he naturally turns his thoughts to the owrie (143) cattle , and silly (144) sheep, exposed to all the violence of the tempest. Having lamented their fate, he proceeds in the fol- lowing manner : — 44 Ilk happing bird— wee, helpless thing! That, in the merry months o’ spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee ? Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing. And close thy ee ? ” Other reflections of the same nature occur to his mind; and as the midnight moon “ muffled with clouds ” casts her dreary light on his window, thoughts of a darker and more melancholy nature crowd upon him. In this state of mind, he heart a voice pouring thro ugh the gloom a solemn 82 LIFE OF BUENS. and plaintive strain of reflection. The mourner compares the fury of the elements with that of man to his brother man, and finds the former light in the balance. e * See stern Oppression’s iron grip, Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, Sending, like bloodhounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder, o’er the land.” He pursues this train of reflection through a variety of particulars, in the course of which he introduces the following animated apostrophe : — “Oh, ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown I 111 -satisfied keen nature’s clam’rous call*, Stretch’d on his straw he lays him down to sleep, While thro’ the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap.” The strain of sentiment which runs through this poem is noble, though the exe- cution is unequal, and the verification is defective. Among the serious poems of Bums, The Cotter’s Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to the first rank. The Farmer’s Ingle of Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of this poem, as has been already mentioned ; but after the plan was formed. Burns trusted entirely to his own powers for the execution. Fergusson’s poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the charms which depend on rural characters and manners happily pourtrayed, and exhibited under circumstances highly grateful to the imagination. The Farmer’s Ingle begins with describing the return of evening. The toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires to his comfortable fireside. The reception which he and his men-servants receive from the careful housewife, is pleas- ingly described. After their supper is over, they begin to talk on the rural events of the df-y. * ’Bout kirk and market eke their tales'gaeon, How Jock woo’d Jenny here to be his bride ; And there how Marion for a bastard son, Upo’ the cutty-stool was forced to ride, The waefu’ scauld o’ our Mess John to bide.” The “guidame” is next introduced as forming a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grandchildren, and while she spins from tlie iuck, and the spindle plays on her " russet lap,” she is relating to the young Ones tales of witches and ghosts. Thepcet exclaims, “Oil, mock na this, my friends I but rather mourn, Ye in life’s brawest spring wi’ reason clear, Wi’ eild our idle fancies a’ return. And dim our dolefu’ days wi’ bairnly fear; The mind’s aye cradled when the grave ia near.” In the meantime, the farmer, wearied with the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch which extends on one side of the fire, and the cat and house-dog leap upon it to re- ceive his caresses. Here resting at his ease, he gives his directions to his men-servants for the succeeding day. The housewife follows his example, and gives her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail, the fire runs low, sleep steals on this rustic group, and they move off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet concludes by bestowing his blessings on the “ husbandman and all his tribe.” This is an original and truly interesting pastoral. It possesses every thing required in this species of composition. We might have perhaps said every thing that it admits, had not Burns written his Cotter’s Saturday Night. The cottager returning from his labours, has no servants to accompany him, to partake of his fare, or to receive his instruc- tions. The circle which he joins, is com- posed of his wife and children only ; and if it admits of less variety, it affords an oppor- tunity for representing scenes that more strongly interest the affections. The younger children running to meet him, and clambering round his knee — the elder, re- turning from their weekly labours with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully depositing their little gains with their parents, and re- ceiving their father’s blessing and instruc- tions — the incidents of the courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughter, “woman grown” — are circumstances of the most in- teresting kind, which are most happily de- lineated ; and after their frugal supper, the representation of these humble cottagers forming a wider circle round their hearth, and uniting in the worship of God, is a picture the most deeply affecting of any which the rural muse has ever presented to the view. Burns was admirably adapted to this delineation. Like all men of genius, he was of the temperament of devotion, and the powers of memory co-operated in this instance with the sensibility of his heart, and the fervour of his imagina- tion. (145) The Cotter’s Saturday Night is tender and moral,' it is solemn and devo- tional, and rises at length into a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern poetry has not surpassed. The noble senti- ments of patriotism with which it eon* BURNS’S ORIGINALITY. 88 claries correspond with the rest of the poem In nc age or country have the pastoral muses breathed such elevated accents if the Messiah of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. It is to btf regretted that Burns did not employ his genius on other subjects of the same nature, which the manners and customs of the Scottish peasantry would have amply supplied. Such poetry is not to be esti- mated by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other human means, for giving permanence to the scenes and characters it so exquisitely describes. Before we conclude, it will be proper to offer a few observations on the lyric produc- tions of Burns. His compositions of this kind are chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, and always after the model of the Scottish songs, on the general cha- racter and moral influence of which some observations have already been offered. We may hazard a few more particular remarks. Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- land, it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has nowhere imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, since in this species of composi- tion, from its admitting the more terrible as well as the softer graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to have excelled The Scottish songs which served as a model to Burns, are, almost without exception, pas- toral, or rather rural. Such of them as are Comic, frequently treat of a rustic courtship or a country wedding ; or they describe the differences of opinion which arise in mar- ried life. Burns has imitated this species, and surpassed his models. The song, be- ginning, “ Husband, husband, cease your strife,’’ may be cited in support of this ob- servation. (146) His other comic songs are of equal merit. In the rural songs of Scotland, whether humorous or tender, the sentiments are given to particular characters, and very generally, the incidents are re- ferred to particular scenery. This last circumstance may be considered as the dis- tinguishing feature of the Scottish songs, and on it a considerable part of their attrac- tion depends. On all occasions the senti- ments, of whatever nature, are delivered in the character of the person principally in- terested. If love be described, it is not as it is observed, but as it ia felt ; and the passion is delineated under a particular aspect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of desire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the model of so many modern aonga. but those gentler emotions of tenderness and affection, 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 Scotland are honorably distinguished from the most admired classical compositions of the same kind ; and by such associations, a variety, as well as liveliness, is given to the representa- tion of this passion, which are not to be found in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of any other nation. Many of the love-songs of Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship; many may be considered as invocations from lovers to their mis- tresses. On such occasions a degree of in- terest and reality is given to the sentiments, by the spot destined to these happy inter- views being particularized. The lovers perhaps meet at the Bush aboon Traquair, or on the banks of Ettrick; the nymphs are invoked to wander among the wilds of Roslin, or the woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot merely pointed out ; the scenery i3 often described as well as the characters, so as to present a complete picture to the fancy. (147) Thus the maxim of Horace ut pictura poesis, is faithfully observed by these rustic bards, who are guided by the same impulse of nature and sensibility which in- fluenced the father of epic poetry, on whose example the precept of the Roman poet was perhaps founded. By this means the imagi- nation is employed to interest the feelings. When we do not conceive distinctly, we do not sympathise deeply in any human affec- tion ; and we conceive nothing in the ab- stract. Abstraction, so useful in morals, and so essential in science, must be aban- doned when the heart is to he subdued by the powers of poetry or of eluquence. The bards of a ruder condition of society paint individual objects ; and hence, among other causes, the easy access they obtain to che heart. Generalization is the vice of poets whose learning overpowers their genius ; of poets of a refined and* scientific age. The dramatic style which prevails 90 much in the Scottish songs, while it con- tributes greatly to the interest they excite, also shows that they have originated among a people in the earlier stages of society Where this form of composition appears ii» songs of a modern date, it indicates that they have been written after *he ancient model. (148) ' The Scottish songs are of very unequal poetical merit, and this inequality often extends to the different parts of the same 81 LIFE OF BURNS. sons' Those that are humorous, or cha- racteristic of manners, have in general the merit of copying nature; those that are serious, are tender, and often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high powers of imagination, which indeed do not easily find a place in this species of composition. The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs with the music, has in some instance given to the former a popularity, which otherwise they would not have obtained. The association of the words and the music of these songs, with the more beau- tiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same effect. It has given them not merely popularity, but perma- nence ; it has imparted to the works of man some portion of the durability of the works of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- perience of the past, we may judge with any confidence respecting the future, songs of this description are of all others least likely to die. In the changes of language they may no doubt suffer change ; but the associated strain of sentiment and of music will perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on Cowden-Knowes. The first attempts of Burns in song- tfriting were not very successful. His habitual inattention to the exactness of rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, arising probably from the models on which his versification was formed, were faults likely to appear to more disadvantage in •tfiis species of composition than in any other ; and we may also remark, that the strength of his imagination, and the exuberance of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained within the limits of gentleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which seemed to be assigned to the love-songs of his nation. Burns was better adapted by nature for following, in such compositions, the model of the Grecian than of the Scottish muse. By study and practice, he however surmounted all these obstacles. In his earlier songs, there is some rugged- ness, but this gradually disappears in his successive efforts; and some of his later compositions of this kind may be compared, in polished delicacy, with the finest songs in our language, while in the eloquence of sensibility they surpass them all. The songs of Burns, like the models he followed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of rural nature are everywhere associated with the passions and emotions of the mind. Disdaining to copy the works of others, he has not, like some poets of great name, admitted into his descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes he has painted, and the objects witn which they ara embellished, are, in every single instance, such as are to be found in his own country. In a mountainous region, especially when it is comparatively rude and naked, the most beautiful scenery will always be found in the vallies, and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiarly inter- esting at the close of a summer-day. As we advance northwards, the number of the days of summer, indeed diminishes; but from this cause, as well as from the mildness of the temperature, the attraction of the season increases, and the summer night becomes still more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the sun’s path on the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful season of twilight to the midnight hours ; and the shades of the evening seem to mingle with the morning’s dawn. The rural poets of Scotland, as may be expected, associate in their songs the expressions of passion with the most beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season of the year, and generally in those hours of the evening when the beauties oi nature are most interesting. (149.) To all these adventitious circumstance^ 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 particular scenery is not described, or allusions made to natural objects, remarkable for beauty or interest ; 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 this might be quoted from the Lea Rig, High- land Mary, the Soldier’s Return, Logan Water ; from that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie Jean, and a great number of others. Occasionally the force of his genius carries him beyond the usual boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural objects introduced have more of the character of sublimity. An instance of this kind is noticed by Mr. Syme, and many others might be adduced : “ Had I a cave on some wild distant shore. Where the winds howl to the wave’s dashing roar ; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should closer Ne’er to wake more.” In one song, the scene of which is laid in a winter night, the “wan moon” is des- cribed as “ setting behind the white waves REMARKS ON THE DIALECT. 85 In another, the " storms” are apo strophised, and commanded to "rest in the cave of their slumbers.” On several occasions, the genius of Burns lost sight entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of this kind appear in Libertie, a Vision ; and in his two war- Bongs, Bruce to his Troops, and the Song of Death. These last are of a description of which we have no other in our language. The martial songs of our nation are not military, but naval. If we were to seek a comparison of these songs of Burns with others of a similar nature, we must have recourse to the poetry of ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. Burns has made an important addition to the songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the music. He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his country, Many of her rivers and mountains, formerly unknown to the muse, are now consecrated by his immortal Terse. The Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Kith, and the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as classical streams, and their borders will be trodden with new and superior emotions. The greater part of the songs of Burns were written after he removed into the county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits formed iri early life, he usually composed while walking in the open air. When engaged in writing these songs, his favourite walks were on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; and this beauti- ful scenery he has very happily described under various aspects, as it appears during the softness and serenity of evening, and daring the stillness and solemnity of the moonlight night. There is no species of poetry, the produc- tions of the drama not excepted, so much calculated to influence the morals, as well as the happiness of a people, as those popular verses which are associated with national airs : and which being learnt in the years of infancy, make a deep impression on the heart before the evolution of the powers of the understanding. The compositions of Burns of this kind, now presented in a col- lected form to the world, make a most im- portant addition to the popular songs of his nation. Like all his other writings, they exhibit independence of sentiment ; they are peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which bind generous hearts to their native •oil, and to the domestic circle of their in- fancy; and to cherish those sensibilities which, under due restriction, form the purest happiness of our nature. If in his unguarded moments he composed some songs on which this praise cannot be bestow T ed, let us hope that they will speedily be forgotten. In several instances where Scottish airs were allied to words objectionable in point of delicacy. Burns has substituted others of a purer character. On such occasions, without changing the subject, he has changed the sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in the air of John Anderson my Joe, wdiich is now united to words that breathe a strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly moral as it is exquisitely affecting. Few circumstances could afford a more striking proof of the strength of Burns’s genius, than the general circulation of his poems in England, notwithstanding the dialect in which the greater part are written, and which might be supposed to render them here uncouth or obscure. In some instances he has used this dialect on subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general he confines it to sentiments or description of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where he rises into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer English style. The singular faculty he pos- sessed of mingling in the same poem humo- rous sentiments and descriptions with imagery of a sublime and terrific nature, enabled him to use this variety of dialect on some occa- sions with striking effect. His poem of Tam o’ Shanter affords an instance of this. There he passes from a scene of the lowest humour to situations of the most awful and terrible kind. He is a musician that runs from the lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish dialect enables him to add tw r o additional notes to the bottom of his scale. Great efforts have been made by the in- habitants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to approximate in their speech to the pure English standard. Yet an Englishman who understands the meaning of the Scottish words, is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, he is, perhaps, pleased with the rustic dialect. But a Scotchman inhabiting his owm country, if a man of education, and more especially if a literary character, has banished such words from his writings, and has at- tempted to banish them from his speech. . A dislike of this kind is, however, ac- cidental, not natural. It^b of the species of disgust which we feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress of a rustic; which, if she be really young and beautiful, a little habit will enable us to overcome. A 86 LIFE OF BURNS. lady who assumes such a dress puts her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fashion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of elegant and flowing drapery; but her native charms remain, the more striking, perhaps, because the less adorned, and to these she trusts for fixing her empire on those affections over which fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new association arises. The dress of the beautiful rustic be- comes itself beautiful, and establishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. And when, in after ages, the contemplative observer shall view her picture in the gallery that contains the portraits of the beauties of successive centuries, each in the dress of her respective day, her drapery will not deviate, more than that of her rivals, from the standard of his taste, and he will give the palm to her who excels in the lineaments of nature. Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of his country, and by them their native dialect is universally relished. To a nume- rous class of the natives of Scotland of another description, it may also be considered as attractive in a different point of view. Estranged from their native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the idiom of their country unites with the sentiments and the descrip- tions on which it is employed, to recal to their minds the interesting scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on this point for one hundred and fifty thousand of their expatriated countrymen. (150) To the use of the Scottish dialect in one species of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste of the public has been for some time reconciled. The dialect in question excels, as has already been observed, in the copiousness and exactness of its terms for natural objects; and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity which is very generally approved. Neither does the regret seem well founded which some persons of taste have expressed, that Burns used this dialect in so many other of his compositions. His declared purpose was to paint the man- ners of rustic life among his “ humble com- peers,” and it is not easy to conceive, that this could have been done with equal humour and effect, if he had not adopted their idiom. There are some, in#ed, who will think the subject too low for poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find their delicacies consulted in many a polite and learned author ; lei them not seek for gratification in the rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled humour, or in the overpowering sensibility of this bard of nature. To determine the comparative merit of Burns would be no easy task. Many per- sons, afterwards distinguished in literature, have been bora in as humble a situation of life; but it would be difficult to find any other, who, while earning hi's subsistence by daily labour, has written verses which have attracted and retained universal attention, and which are likely to give the author ft permanent and distinguished place among 'the followers of the muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well as energy; and these are indications of the higher order of genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits one of hi's heroes as excelling in strength, another in swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, these attributes are com- bined. Every species of intellectual supe- riority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrange- ment. One writer excels in force — another in ease; he is superior to them both, in whom both these qualities are united. Of Homer himself it may be said, that, like his own Achilles, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as well as strength. The force of Burns lay in the powers of his understanding and in the sensibility of his heart ; and these will be found to infuse the living principle into all the works of genius which seem destined to immortality. His sensibility had an uncommon range. He was alive to every species ol emotion. He is one of the few poets that can be men- tioned, who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sublimity; a praise unknown to the ancients, and which in modern times is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To compare the writings of the Scottish peasants with the works of these giants in literature, might appear presumptuous ; yet it may be asserted that he has displayed the foot of Hercules. How near he might have ap- proached them by proper culture, with lengthened years, and under happier auspices, it is not for us to calculate. But while we run over the melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; and as we survey the records of his mind, it is easy to see, that out of such materials have been reared the fairest and the most durable of tha mouumeuts of geuius. LETTER FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, sr Srfiarts ftnra 'jCittirs. FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIE, RESPECTING THE COMPOSITION OF HIS brother’s POEMS. “ Mossgiel, 2nd April, 1798. w I cannot pretend to be very accurate in respect to the dates of the poems, but none of them, excepting Winter, a Dirge (which was a juvenile production). The Death and Dying Words of poor Mailie, and some of the songs, were composed before the year 1784. The circumstances of the poor sheep were pretty much as he has described them. “Among the earliest of his poems was the Epistle to Davie. Robert often com- posed without any regular plan. When anything made a strong impression on his mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and concluding stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, I think, in summer 1784, when, in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail -yard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert’s becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay’s epistles ; and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression, but here there was a train of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet : that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and we talked of sending it to some magazine ; but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing how it would take, the idea was dropped. “ It was, I think, in the winter following, aa we were going together with carts for coal to the family fire (and T could ret point out the particular spot), that tie author first repeated to me the Address to the Deil. The curious idea of such an address was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have from various quar- ters of this august personage. Death and Doctor Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in the year 1785. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to eke out the scanty sub- sistence allowed to that useful class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsicallw attached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medicines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised that ^.Advice would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis.’ Robert was* at a mason meet- ing in Tarbolton, when the dominie unfor- tunately made too ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions he mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related whe* he repeated the verses to me next afternoon,, as I was holding the plough, and he was letting the water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He says in that poem, ‘ On Fasten e’en we had a rockin.’ I believe he has omitted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those primitive times, when the countrywomen employed their spare hours in spinning on the rock, or distaff. The simple implement is a very portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour’s house ; hence the phrase of going a-rocking, or with the rock. As the connection the phrase had with the implement was forgot- ten, when the rock gave place to the spin- ning-wheel, the phrase came fo 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 rankings at our E9 LIFE OF BURSTS. v>. - i house, when we had twelve or fifteen young eople with their rocks , that Lapraik’s song, eginning— -'When I upon thy bosom lean/ was sung, and we were informed who was the author. Upon this, Robert wrote his first epistle to Laipraik, and his second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mountain Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author was holding the plough ; I could point out the particular spot where each was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert for poetic composition, and some of his best verses were produced while he was at that exercise. Several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. Robert had fre- quently remarked to me -that he thought tiHere was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Let us worship God/ used by a decent, sober head of a family, introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the Cotter’s Saturday Night. When my brother had some pleasure in view, in which I was thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those precious breathing times to the labouring part of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays rs would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that l first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat the Cotter’s Saturday Night. I do not recollect to have read or heard any- thing by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth and. sixth stanzas, and the eight- eenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy through my soul. I mention this to you, that you may see what hit the taste of unlettered criticism. I should be glad to know, if the enlightened mind and refined taste of Mr. Roscoe, who has borne such honourable testimony to this poem/ agrees with me in the selection. Fergusson, in his Hallow Fair of Edinburgh, I believe, likewise fur- nished a hint of the title and plan of the Holy Fair. The farcical scene the poet there describes was often a favourite field of his observation, and the most of the incidents he mentions had actually passed before his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to mention, that The Lament was composed on that unfortunate passage in his matrimonial his- tory which I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the .first distraction of his feelings had a little subsided. The Twa Dogs was composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog, which he called Luath, that wai a great favourite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the night before my father’s death. Robert said to me, that he should like to confer such immortality as he could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book, under the title of Stanzas to the Memory of a Quadruped Friend ; but this plan was given up for the tale as it now stands. Caesar was merely the creature of the poet’s imagina- tion, created for the purpose of holding chat with his favourite Luath. The first time Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played ; the father and mother led down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas [which he wrote on the occasion] were left in the room where he slept. It was to Dr. Lawrie tha* Dr. Blacklock’s letter was addressed, which my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, mentions as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. * • ** LETTER OF GILBERT BURNS. ( First inserted in the Second Edition.) The editor [Dr. Currie] has particular pleasure in presenting to the public the following letter, to the due understanding of which a few previous observations are necessary. The biographer of Burns was naturally desirous of hearing the opinion of the friend and brother of the poet, on the manner in which he had executed his task, before a second edition should be committed to the press. He had the satisfaction of receiving this opinion, in a letter dated the 24th of August, approving of tne Life in very obliging terms, and offering one or two trivial corrections as to names and dates chiefly, which are made in this edition. One or two observations were offered of a differ- ent kind. In the 319th page [correspond- ing to the 66th page of the present reprint of Dr. Currie’s memoir], a quotation is made from the pasitoral song, Ettrick Banks, ana an explanation given of the phrase “mony feck,” which occurs in this quotation. Sup« posing tlie sense to be complete aftei ADDENDA, •mony,” the editor had considered "feck” a rustic oath which confirmed the assertion. The words were, therefore, separated by a comma. Mr. Burns considered this an error. "Feck,” he presumes, is the Scot- tish word for quantity, and “ mony feck” to mean simply, very many. The editor, in yielding to this authority, expressed some hesitation, and hinted that the phrase "mony feck” was, in Mr. Burns’s sense, a pleonasm, or barbarism, which deformed this beautiful song. His reply.to this obser- vation makes the first clause of the following letter. In the same communication he informed me, that the Mirror and the Lounger were proposed by him to the Conversation Club of Mauchline, and that he had thoughts of giving me his sentiments on the remarks I had made respecting the fitness of such works for such societies. The observations of such a man on such a subject, the editor conceived, would be received with particular interest by the public, and, having pressed earnestly for them, they will be found in the following letter. Of the value of this com- munication, delicacy towards his very re- spectable correspondent prevents him from expressing his opinion. The original letter is in the hands of Messrs. Cadell and Davies. " Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 24fA Oct., 1800. "Dear Sir.- — Yours of the 17tli instant came to my hand yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to write, you in return ; but when I shall be able to finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. I am sorry your conviction is not complete respecting feck. There is no doubt, that if you take two English words which appear synonymous to mony feck, and judge by the rules of English construction, it will appear a barbarism. I believe, if you take this mode of translating from any language, the effect will frequently be the same. But if you take the expression mony feck to have, as I have stated it, the same meaning with the English expression j tiery many (and such licence every translator must be allowed, especially when he trans- lates from a simple dialect which has never been subjected to rule, and where the precise meaning of words is, of consequence, not minutely attended to), it will be well enough. One 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 manners, the simple melodies, and the sim- ple dialect of his native country, un vitiated I 83 J>y foreign intercourse, 'whose sonl-proud science never taught to stray,’ ever dis- covered barbarism in the song of Ettiick Banks. “ The story you have heard of the gablr of my father’s house falling down, is simply as follows (151) : — AVhen my father built his * clay biggin,’ he put in two stone-jambs, aa they are called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in his clay-gable. The consequence was, that as the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, threw it off its centre ; and one very stormy morning, when my brother was nine or ten days old, a little before day- light, a part of the gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shattered, that my mother, with the young poet, had to be carried through the storm to a neighbour’s houses where they remained a week till their own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not think too meanly of this house, or of my father’s taste in building, by supposing the poet’s description in the Vision (which if entirely a fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take notice to you, that the house consisted of a kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father had constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, with a small closet at the end, of the same materials with the house ; and when altogether cast over, outside and in, with lime, it had a neat, comfortable appearance, such as no family of the same rank, in the present improved style of living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I wish likewise to take notice in passing, that although the ‘ Cotter ’ in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in hi? manners, his family-devotion, and exhorta- tions, yet the other parts of the descrip- tion do not apply to our family. None of us were ever ' at service out amang the nei- bors roun’.’ Instead of our depositing oui ‘ sair-won penny fee ’ with our parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be able to keep his children at home, thereby having an opportunity of watching the progress of our young minds, and forming in them early habits of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone did he engage in farming — the source of all his difiiculties and dis- tresses. “ When I threatened you in my last with a long letter on the subject of the books I recommended to the Mauchline Club, and the effects of refinement of taste on the labouring classes of men, I meant merely to write you on that subject, with the view that, in some future communication to tha 90 LIFE OF BURNS. public, you might take up the subject more at large; that by means of your happy manner of writing, the attention of people of power and influence might be fixed on it. I had little expectation, however, that I should overcome my indolence, and the diffi- culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to put my threat in execution ; till some time ago, before I had finished my harvest, having a call from Mr. Ewart (152), with a message from you, pressing me to the per- formance of this task, I thought myself no longer at liberty to decline it, and resolved to set about it 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 perhaps be led sometimes to write more %i the manner of a person communicating information to you which you did not know before, and at other times more in the style of egotism, than I would choose to do to any person, in whose candour, and even per- sonal good will, I had less confidence. “ There are two several lines of study that open to every man as he enters life : the one, the general science of life, of duty, and of ! happiness ; the other, the particular arts of his employment or situation in society, and the several branches of knowledge therewith connected. This last is certainly indispen- sable, as nothing can be more disgraceful than ignorance in the way of one’s own pro- fession ; and whatever a man’s speculative knowledge may be, if he is ill-informed there, he can neither be a useful nor a respectable member of society. It is, nevertheless, true, that ‘ the proper study of mankind is man to consider what duties are incumbent on him as a rational creature, and a member of society ; how he may increase or secure his happiness ; and how he may prevent or soften the many miseries incident to human life. 1 think the pursuit of happiness is too fre- quently confined to the endeavour after the acquisition of wealth. I do not wish to be considered as an idle declaimer against riches, which, after all that can be said against them, will still be considered by men of common sense as objects of importance, and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, after all the fine things that can be said of its advantages; ©n the nontrar), I am of opinion, that a great proportion of the miseries of life arise from the want of economy, and a prudent attention to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit of it. But however valuable riches may be as the means of com- fort, independence, and the pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of opinion that they may be, and frequently are, purchased at too great a cost, and that sacrifices areAnade in the pursuit, which the acquisition cannot compensate. I remember hearing my worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, relate an anecdt te to my father, which I think sets this matter in a strong light, and perhaps was the origin, or at least tended to promote this way of thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left Alio way, he went to teach and reside in the family of an opulent farmer who had a num- ber of sons. A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of conversation, asked the father how he meant to dispose of his sons. The father replied that he had not determined. The visitor said that, were he in his place, he would give them all good education and send them abroad, without, perhaps, having a precise idea where. The father objected, that many young men lost their health in foreign countries, and many their lives. True, replied the visitor, but as you have a number of sons, it will be strange if some one of them does not live and make a fortune. “ Let any person who has the feelings of a father, comment on this story ; but though few will avow, even to themselves, that such views govern their conduct, yet do we not daily see people shipping off their sons (and who would do so by their daughters also, if there were any demand for them), that they may be rich or perish? “The education of the lower classes is seldom considered in any other point of view than as the means of raising them from that station to which they were born, and of making a fortune. I am ignorant of the mysteries of the art of acquiring a fortune without any thing to begin with, and cannot calculate, with any degree of exactness, the difficulties to be surmounted, the mortifica- tions to be suffered, and the degradation of character to be submitted to, in lending one’s self to be the minister of other people’s vices, or in the practice of rapine, fraud, op- pression, or dissimulation, in the progress ; but even when the wished-for end is attained, it may be questioned whether happiness be much increased by the change. When I have seen a fortunate adventurer of the lower ranks of life returned from the East or West Indies, with all the hauteur ol’ a vulgar mind accustomed to be served by slaves, as- suming a character, which, from early habita of life, he is ill fitted to support — displaying magnificence which raises the envy cf some; ADDENDA. Mid the contempt of others — claiming an equality with the great, which they are un- willing to allow-— inly pining at the prece- dence of the hereditary gentry — maddened by the polished insolence of some of the unworthy part of them — seeking pleasure in the society of men who can condescend to flatter him, and listen to his absurdity for the sake of a good dinner and good wine — I cannot avoid concluding, that his brother, or companion, who, by a diligent application to the labours of agriculture, or some useful mechanic employment, and the careful hus- banding of his gains, has acquired a com- petence in his station, is a much happier, and, in the eye of a person who can take an enlarged view of mankind, a much more respectable man. “ But the votaries of wealth may be con- sidered as a great number of candidates striving for a few prizes : and whatever ad- dition the successful may make to their plea- sure or happiness, the disappointed will always have more to sutfer, I am afraid, than those who abide contented in the station to which they were born. I wish, therefore, the edu- cation of the lower classes to be promoted and directed to their improvement as men, as the means of increasing their virtue, and opening to them new and dignified sources of pleasure and happiness. I have heard some people object to the education of the lower classes of men, as rendering them less useful, by abstracting them from their pro- per business; others, as tending to make them saucy to their superiors, impatient of their condition, and turbulent subjects ; while you, with more humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort of education and read- ing I recommended, should render the evils of their situation insupportable to them. I wish to examine the validity of each of these objections, beginning with the one you have mentioned. “ I do not mean to controvert your criti- cism of my favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, although I understand there are people who think themselves judges, who do [ not agree with you. The acquisition of knowledge, except what is connected with human life and conduct, or the particular business of his employment, does not ap- pear to me to be the fittest pursuit for a peasant. 1 would say with the poet, * How empty learning, and how vain is art, Save where it guides the life, or mends the heart !’ “ There seems to be a considerable latitude m the use of the word taste. I understand 91 it to be the perception and relish of beauty* order, or any other thing, the contemplation of which gives pleasure aud delight to the mind. I suppose it is in this sense you wish it to be understood. If I am right, the taste which these books are calculated to cultivate (besides the taste for tine writing, which many of the papers tend to improve and to gratify), is what is proper, consistent, and becoming in human character and con- duct, as almost every paper relates to these subjects. “ I am sorry I have not these books by me, that I might point out some instances. I remember two ; one, tbe beautiful story of La Roche, where, besides the pleasure one derives from a beautiful simple story, told in M'Kenzie’s happiest manner, the mind is led to taste, with heartfelt rapture, the consola- tion to be derived in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and trust in Almighty God. The other, the story of General W , where the reader is led to have a high relish for that firmness of mind which disregards appearances, the common forms and vanities of life, for the sake of doing justice in a case which was out of the reach of human laws. “ Allow me then to remark,’ that if the morality of these books is subordinate to the cultivation of taste; that taste, that re- finement of mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are intended to give, are the strongest guard and surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other moralists guard, as it w r ere, the overt act ; these papers, by exalting duty into sentiment, are calculated to make every deviation from rectitude and propriety of conduct, painful to the mind ‘ Whose temper’d powers, Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.* “ I readily grant you, that the refinement of mind which I contend for increases our sensibility to the evils of life ; but what sta- tion of life is without its evils? There seems to be no such thing as perfect hap- | piness in this world, and we must balance the pleasure and the pain which we derive from taste, before we can properly appre- ciate it in the case before us. 1 apprehend, that on a minute examination it will appear, that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks of life derive their power to wound us, more from the suggestions of false pride, and the ‘contagion of luxury, weak and vile,* than the refinement of our taste. It was a favourite remark of my brother’s, that there was no part of tlie constitution of our na» 92 LIFE OF BURSTS. tu re to which we were more indebted, than tit it by which ‘ custom makes things familiar and easy ’ (a copy Mr. Murdoch used 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 em- ployment, or does not begin to compare his situation with those he may see going about at their ease. “ But the man of enlarged mind feels the respect due to him as a man ; he has learned that no employment is dishonourable in itself; that while he performs aright the duties of that station in which God has placed him, he is as great as a king in the eyes of Him whom he is principally desirous to please ; for the man of taste, who is con- stantly obliged to labour, must of necessity be religious. If you teach him only to reason, you may make him an atheist, a de- magogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach him to feel, his feelings can only find their proper and natural relief in devotion and religious resignation. He knows that those people who are to appearance at ease, are not without their share of evils, and that even toil itself is not destitute of ad- vantages. He listens to the words of his favourite poet : 6 Oh, mortal man, that livest here by toil, Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ! Tli at 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, [late ; And curse thy star, and early drudge, and Withouten that would come an heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases palel ’ “And while he repeats the words, the grateful recollection comes across his mind, how often he has derivtxi ineffable pleasure from the sweet song of ' nature’s darling child.’ I can say, from my own experience, that there is no sort of farm-labour incon- sistent with the most refined and pleasurable state of the mind that I am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. That, indeed, I have always considered as insupportable drudgery, and think the ingenious mechanic who invented the thrashing-machine, ought to have a statue among the benefactors of his country, and should be placed in the niche next to the person who introduced the culture of potatoes into this island. “ Perhaps the thing of most importance in the education of the common people is, to prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. I bless the memory of my worthy father for almost every thing in the. dispositions of my mind, and my habits of life, wuich I can approve of; and for nona more than the pains he took to impress, rny mind with the sentiment, that nothing was more unworthy the character of a man, that that his happi- ness should in the least depend on what lie should eat or drink. So early did he im- press my mind with this, that although I was as fond of sweetmeats as children gene- rally are, yet I seldom laid out any of the half-pence which relations or neighbours gave me at fairs, in the purchase of them ; and if I did, every mouthful I swallowed was accompanied with shame and remorse ; and to this hour I never indulge in the u«e of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable degree of self-reproach and alarm for the degradation of the human character. Such a habit of thinking I consider as of great consequence, both to the virtue and happi- ness of men in the lower ranks of life. And thus. Sir, I am of opinion, that if their minds are early and deeply impressed with a sense of the dignity of man, as such ; with the love of independence and of industry, economy and temperance, as the most ob- vious means of making themselves inde- pendent, and the virtues most becoming their situation, and necessary to their happi- ness ; men in the lower ranks of life may partake of the pleasures to be derived from the perusal of books calculated to improve the mind and refine the taste, without any danger of becoming more unhappy in thei/ situation, or discontented with it. Nor do I think there is any danger of their be- coming less useful. There are some hours every day that the most constant labourer is neither at work nor asleep. These hours are either appropriated to amusement or t (? sloth. If a taste for employing these hours in reading were cultivated, I do not suppose that the return to labour would be more difficult. Every one will allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, or even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to ab- stract men from their proper business, as the attachment to books ; while the one dissi- pates the mind, and the other tends to in- crease its powers of self-government. To those who are afraid that the improvement of the minds of the common people might be dangerous to the state, or the established order of society, I would remark, that tur- bulence and commotion are certainly very inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. Let the matter be brought to the test of ex- perience and observation. Of what descrip- tion of people are mobs and insurrections composed? Are they not universally owing to the want of enlargement and improve ADDENDA. went of mind among the common people ? Nay, let any one recollect the characters of those who formed the calmer and more de- liberate associations, which lately gave so much alarm to the government of this country. I suppose few of the common people who were to be found in such socie- ties, had the education and turn of mind I have been endeavouring to recommend. Allow me to suggest one reason for en- deavouring to enlighten the minds of the common people. Their morals have hitherto been guarded bv a sort of dim religious awe, which, from a variety of causes, seems wear- ing off. I think the alteration in this re- spect considerable, in the short period of my observation. I have already given my opinion of the effects of refinement of mind on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the religion in which they have been educated, the progress is quick and immediate to downright infidelity ; and nothing but refinement of mind can enable them to dis- tinguish between the pure essence of reli- gion, and the gross systems which men have been perpetually connecting it with. In addition to what has already been done for the education of the common people of this country, in the establishment of parish schools, I wish to see the salaries augmented in some proportion to the present expense of living, and the earnings of people of similar rank, endowments, and usefulness, in society; and I hope that the liberality of the present age will be no longer disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, such encouragement as may make parish schools worth the attention of men fitted for the important duties of that office. In fill- ing up the vacancies, I would have more attention paid to the candidate’s capacity of reading the English language with grace and propriety — to his understanding tho- roughly, and having a high relish for, the beauties of English authors, both in poetry and prose — to that good sense and know- ledge of human nature which would enable him to acquire some influence on the minds and affections of his scholars — to the general worth of his character, and the love of his king and his country — than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latin and Greek. I would then have a sort of high English class established, not only for the purpose of teaching the pupils to read in that graceful and agreeable manner that might make them fond of reading, but to make them under- stand what they read, and discover the beauties of the author, in composition and $3 sentiment. I would have established ia every parish a small circulating library, con- sisting of the books which the young people had read extracts from in the collec- tions they had read at school, and any othe? books well calculated to refine the mind, im- prove the moral feelings, recommend the practice of virtue, and communicate such knowledge as might he useful and suitable to the labouring classes of men. I would have the schoolmaster act as librarian ; and in recommending books to his young friends, formerly his pupils, and letting in the light of them upon their young minds, he should have the assistance of the minister. If once such education were become general, the low delights of the public-house, and other scenes of riot and depravity, would be con- temned and neglected ; while industry, order, cleanliness, and every virtue which taste and independence of mind could re- commend, would prevail and flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and enlightened populace, with high delight I should con- sider my native country as at the head of all the nations of the earth, ancient or modem. * Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat 1 * the fullest extent, in regard to the length of my letter. If I had not presumed on doing it more to my liking, I should not have un- dertaken it ; but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if I would, am I certain that I should succeed any better. I have learned to have less confidence in my capacity of writing on such subjects. “I am much obliged by your kind in- quiries about my situation and prospects. I am much pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the terms on which I possess it. I receive great encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, and other conveniences, from my landlord, Mr. G. S. Monteith, whose general character and conduct, as a landlord and country-gentleman, I am highly pleased with. But the land is in such a state as to require a considerable immediate outlay of money in the purchase of manure, the grubbing of brush-wood, removing of stones, &c., which twelve years’ struggle with a farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill- prepared me for. If I can get these things done, however, to my mind, I think there is next to a certainty that in five or six years I shall be in a hopeful way of attaining a situation which I think as eligible for happi- ness as any one I know ; for I have always been of opinion, that if a man bred to tha habits of a farming life;, who possesses a farm of good soil, on such terms as enable! him easily to pay all demands, is not happy* 94 LIFE OF BUENS. he ought to look somewhere else than to his tituation for the causes of his uneasiness. “ I beg you will present my most respect- ful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remem- ber me to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr Roscoe, Junior, the worth of whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, I shall never forget. I am, dear sir, your most obedient, and much obliged humble servant, “Gilbert Burns. * To James Currie, M.D., F.R.S. Liverpool .” ®!n 3#itar, fljilton, unit Srrfljtr nf lurns. At the time of Burn’s decease, his family consisted of his wife and four sons — Robert, born at Mauchline, in 1786 ; Francis Wal- lace, born at Ellisland, April 9, 1791 ; William Nicol, born at Dumfries, November 21, 1792; and James Glencairn. On the day of the poet’s funeral, Mrs. Burns pro- duced a fifth son, who received the name of Maxwell, but did not long survive. Francis Wallace, a child of uncommon vivacity, died at the age of fourteen. The three other sons yet (1838) survive. Robert received a good education at the academy of Dumfries, was two sessions at the university of Edin- burgh, and one at the university of Glas- gow ; and in 1804 obtained a situation in the Stamp Office, London, where he con- tinued for twenty-nine years, improving a narrow income by teaching the classics and mathematics. It is remarkable, that during that long time he and his mother, though on the best terms, never once met. In 1833, having obtained a superannuation allowance, he retired to Dumfries, where he now lives. He has the dark eyes, large head, and swarthy complexion of his father, and possesses much more than the average of mental capacity. He has written many verses far above mediocrity ; but the bent of his mind is towards geometry — a study in which his father was much more ac- complished than his biographers seem to have been aware of. William and James went out to India on cadetships, and have each risen to the rank of major in the Company’s service. “ Wherever these men wander, at home or abroad, they are re- garded as the scions of a noble stock, and receive the cordial greetings of hundreds who never saw their faces before, but who account it a happiness to grasp, in friendly ressure, the hand in which circulates the lood of Burns.” — M‘Diarmid’s Picture of pumfri *>* The only dependence of Mr9. Bums, after her husband’s death, was on an annuity of ten pounds, arising from a benefit society connected with the Excise, the books and other moveable property left to her, and the generosity of the public. The subscription, as we are informed by Dr. Currie, produced seven hundred pounds ; and the works of the poet, as edited with singular taste and judgment by that gentleman, brought nearly two thousand more. One half of the latter sum was lent on a bond to a Galloway gentleman, who continued to pay five per cent, for it till a late period. Mrs. Burns was thus enabled to support and educate her family in a manner creditable to tlio memory of her husband. She continued to reside in the house which had been occu- pied by her husband and herself, and “ never changed, nor wished to change her place.” For many years after her sons had left her to pursue their fortunes in the world, slia lived in a decent and respectable manner, on an income which never amounted to moro than £62 per annum. At length, in 1817, at a festival held in Edinburgh to celebrate the birth-day of the bard, Mr. Henry, (now Lord) Cockburn acting as president, it was proposed by Mr. Maule of Panmure (now Lord Panmure), that some permanent addi- tion should be made to the income of the poet’s widow. The idea appeared to be favourably received, but the subscription did not fill rapidly. Mr. Maule then said that the burden of the provision should fall upon himself, and immediately executed a bond, entitling Mrs. Burns to an annuity of £50 as long as she lived. This act, together with the generosity of the same gentleman to Nathaniel Gow, in his latter and evil days, must ever endear the name of Lord Panmure to all who feel warmly on the sub- jects of Scottish poetry and Scottish music. Mr. Maule’s pension had not been en- joyed by the widow more than a year and a half, when her youngest son James at- tained the rank of Captain with a situation in the commissariat, and was thus enabled to relieve her from the necessity of being beholden to a stranger’s hand for any share of her support. She accordingly resigned the pension. Mr. MDiarmid, who records these circumstances, adds in another place, that, during her subsequent years, Mrs. Burns enjoyed an income of about two hundred a-year, great part of which, as not needed by her, she dispensed in charities. Her whole conduct in widowhood wa° such as to seqire universal esteem in the tow& ADDENDA. 95 where she resided. She died, March 26, 1834, in the 68th year of her age, and was buried beside her illustrious husband, in the mausoleum at Dumfries. (153) Mr. Gilbert Burns, the early companion and at all times the steadfast friend of the poet, continued to struggle with the miserable glebe of Mossgiel till about the year 1797, when he removed to the farm of Dinning, on the estate of Mr. Monteith of Closeburn, in Nithsdale. The poet had lent him £200 out of the profits of the Edin- burgh edition of his works, in order that he might overcome some of his difficulties ; and he, some years after, united himself to a Miss Breckonridge, by whom he had a family of six sons and five daughters. In consideration of the support he extended to his widowed mother, the poet seems never to have thought of a reckoning with him for the above sum. He was a man of sterling sense and sagacity, pious without asceticism or bigotry, and entertaining liberal and enlightened views, without being the least of an enthusiast. His letter to Dr. Currie, dated from Dinning, October 24, 1800, shows no mean powers of composi- tion, and embodies nearly all the philan- thropic views of human improvement which have been so broadly realised in our own day. We are scarcely more affected by the consideration of the penury under which some of his brother’s noblest compositions were penned, than by the reflection that this beautiful letter was the effusion of a man who, with his family, daily wrought long and laboriously under all those circum- stances of parsimony which characterise Scottish rural life. Some years after, Mr. Gilbert Burns was appointed by Lady Blantyre to be land-steward or factor upon her estate of Lethington in East-Lothian, to which place he accordingly removed. His conduct in this capacity, during near twenty-five years, was marked by great fidelity and prudence, and gave the most perfect satisfaction to his titled employer. It was not till 1820, that he was enabled to repay the money borrowed from his brother in 1788 Being then invited by Messrs. Cadell and Davies to superintend, and improve as much as possible, a new edition of the poet’s works, he received as much in remuneration of his labour, as enabled him to perform this act of duty. The mother of Robert and Gilbert Burns Uved in the household of the latter at Grant’s Braes, near Lethington, till 1820, when she died at the age of eighty-eight, find was buried in the churchyard of Bolton. In personal aspect, Robert Burns resembled his mother ; Gilbert had the more aquiline features of his father. The portrait of Robert Burns, painted by a Mr. Taylor, and published in an engraved form by Messrs. Constable and Company a few years ago, bore a striking resemblance to Gilbert. This excellent man died at Grant’s Braes, November 8, 1827, aged about sixty-seven years. His sons, having received an excellent education, occupy respectable stations in society. One is factor to Lord Blantyre, and another is minister of the parish of Monkton, near Ayr. Two sisters of Bums, one of whom is by marriage Mrs. Begg, yet survive. They reside in the village e* Tranent, East- Lothian. ^ limtnlfigtral Urntlnpritt nf ftints. At the opening of the Mausoleum, March 1834, for the interment of Mrs. Burns, it was resolved by some citizens of Dumfries, with the concurrence of the nearest relative of the widow, to raise the cranium of the poet from the grave, and have a cast moulded from it, with a view to gratifying the interest likely to be felt by the students of phrenology respecting its peculiar de- velopment. This purpose was carried into effect during the night between the 31st March and the 1st April, and the following is the description of the cranium, drawn up at the time by Mr. A. Blacklock, surgeon, one of the individuals present : — “ The craniel bones were perfect in every respect, if we except a little erosion of tlieir external table, and firmly held together by their sutures ; even the delicate bones of the orbits, with the trifling exception of the os unguis in the left, were sound, and un- injured by death and the grave. The superior maxillary bones still retained the four most posterior teeth on each side, in- cluding the dentes sapientke, and all without spot or blemish; the incisores, cuspidati, &c., had, in all probability, recently dropped from the jaw, for the alveoli were but little decayed. The bones of the face and palate were also sound. Some small portions of black hair, with a very few grey hairs intermixed, were observed while de- taching some extraneous matter from the occiput. Indeed, nothing could exceed the high state of preservation in which we found the bones of the cranium, or offer a fairer opportunity of supplying what has so long been desiderated by phrenologists — a B6 LIFE OF BURNS. correct model of our immortal poet’s head : and in order to accomplish this in the most accurate and satisfactory manner, every particle of sand, or other foreign body, was carefully washed off, and the plaster of Paris applied with all the tact and accuracy of an experienced artist. The cast is admirably taken, and cannot fail to prove highly in- teresting to phrenologists and others. “Ha^ mg completed our intention, the skull, securely enclosed in a leaden case, was again committed to the earth, precisely where we found it. Archd. Blacklock.” A cast from the skull having been trans- mitted to the Phrenological Society of Edinburgh, the following view of tbe cere- bral development of Burns was drawn up by Mr. George Combe, and published in connection with four views of the cranhim. *W. and A. K. Johnston, Edinburgh ) : — • “ I. DIMENSIONS OF THE SKULL. Inches. Greatest circumference 22\ From Occipital Spine to Individuality, over the top of the head . . 14 n Ear to Ear vertically over the top of the head 13 9* Pliiloprogenitiveness to Individu- ality, (greatest length) . . . 8 •9 Concentrativeness to Comparison 7^ W Ear to Philoprogenitiveness . . 41 » „ Individuality .... 41 St ,, Benevolence n „ Firmness tt Destructiveness to Destructive- ness 5f tt Secretiveness to Secretiveness . 5| Cautiousness to Cautiousness * Ideality to Ideality 4f » Constructiveness to Constructive- ness 4a Mastoid process to Mastoid Pro- cess 4| *11, DEVELOPEMENT OF THE ORGANS. Scale 1 . Amativeness, rather large . . . 16 2. Philoprogenitiveness, very large . 20 3. Concentrativeness; large . . . . 18 4. Adhesiveness, very large . . . 20 5. Combativeness, very large • . . 20 6. Destructiveness, large . . . . 18 7. Secretiveness, large .... 8. Acquisitiveness, rather large . . 16 9. Constructiveness, full . . . . 15 10. Self-Esteem, large 18 11. Love of Approbation, very large . 20 12. Cautiousness, large , . , . . 19 Pc' 110 . 13. Benevolence, very large . ... 23 14. Veneration, large 19 15. Firmness, full .15 16. Conscientiousness, full . • « . 15 17. Hope, full 14 18. Wonder, large ....... 18 19. Ideality, large ....... 18 20. Wit, or Mirthfulness, full ... 15 21. Imitation, large . 19 22. Individuality, large 19 23. Form, rather large 16 24. Size, rather large ...... 17 25. Weight, rather large 16 26. Colouring, rather large .... 16 27. Locality, large . . ..... 18 28. Number, rather full 12 29. Order, full - 14 30. Eventuality, large 18 31. Time, rather large 16 32. Tune, full 1# 33. Language, uncertain 34. Comparison, rather large ... 1^ 35. Causality, large 1$ “ The scale of the organs indicates their relative 'proportions to each other; 2 i$ idiotcy — 10 moderate — 14 full — 18 large; and 20 very large. “ The cast of a skull does not show the temperament of the individual, but the por- traits of Burns indicate the bilious and nervous temperaments, the sources of strength, activity, and susceptibility; and the descriptions given by his contemporaries of his beaming and energetic eye, and the rapidity and impetuosity of his manifesta- tions, establish the inference that his brain was active and susceptible. “ Size in the brain, other conditions being equal, is the measure of mental power. The skull of Burns indicates a large brain. The length is eight, and the greatest breadth nearly six inches. The circumference is 22\ inches. These measurements exceed the average of Scotch living Leads, including the integuments, for which four-eighths of an inch may be allowed “ The brain of Burns, therefore, possessed the two elements of power and activity. “ The portions of the brain which manifest the animal propensities, are uncommonly large, indicating strong passions, and great energy in action under their influence. The group of organs manifesting the domestic affections (Amativeness, Philoprogenitive- ness, and Adhesiveness), is large ; Philopro- genitiveness uncommonly so for a male head. The organs of Combativeness and Destructiveness are large, bespeaking greaf ADDENDA. heat of temper, impatience, and liability to irritation. “ Secretiveness and Cautiousness are both large, and would confer considerable power of restraint, where he felt restraint to be necessary. “ Acquisitiveness, Self-Esteem, and Love of Approbation, are also in ample endowment, although the first is less than the other two ; these feelings give the love of pro- perty, a high consideration of self, and desire of the esteem of others. The first quality will not be so readily conceded to Burns as the second and third, which, indeed, were much stronger ; but the phrenologist records what is presented by nature, in full confi- dence that the manifestations, when the character is correctly understood, will be found to correspond with the developement, and he states that the brain indicates con- siderable love of property. “ The organs of the moral sentiments are also largely developed. Ideality, Wonder, Imitation, and Benevolence, are the largest in size. Veneration also is large. Con- scientiousness, Eirmness, and Hope, are full. “ The Knowing organs, or those of percep- tive intellect, are large; and the organs of Reflection are also considerable, but less than the former. Causality is larger than Comparison, and Wit is less than either. “ The skull indicates the combination of strong animal passions with equally powerful moral emotions. If the natural morality had been less, the endowment of the pro- pensities is sufficient to have constituted a character of the most desperate description. The combination ts it exists, bespeaks a mind extremely subject to contending emo- tions — capable of great good, or great evil — and encompassed with vast difficulties in preserving a Steady, even, onward course of practical morality. “ In the combination of very large Philo- progenitivefiess and Adhesiveness, with very large Benevolence and large Ideality, we find the elements of that exquisite tenderness and refinement, which Burns so frequently manifested, even when at the worst stage of liis career. In the combination of great Combativeness, Destructiveness, and Self- Esteem, we find the fundamental qualities which inspired "Scots wha has wi’ Wallace bled,’ and similar productions. “ The combination of large Secretiveness, Imitation, and the perceptive organs, gives the elements of his dramatic talent and humour. The skull indicates a decided talent for Humour, but less for Wit. The public are apt to confound the talents for I a ST Wit and Humour. The metaphysician^ however, have distinguished them, and in the phrenological works their different ele- ments are pointed out. Burns possessed the talent for satire ; Destructiveness, added to the combination which gives Humour, produces it. “An unskilful observer looking at the fore- head, might suppose it to be moderate in size ; but when the dimensions of the ante- rior lobe, in both length and breadth, are attended to, the Intellectual organs will be recognised to have been large. The anterior lobe projects so much, that it gives an ap- pearance of narrowness to the forehead which is not real. This is the cause, also, why Benevolence appears to lie farther back than usual. An anterior lobe of this magni- tude indicates great Intellectual power. The combination of large Perceptive and Re- flecting organs (Causality predominant), with large Concentrativeness and large organs of the feelings, gives that sagacity and vigorous common sense, for which Burns was distin- guished. “ The skull rises high above Causality, and spreads wide in the region of Ideality ; the strength of his moral feelings lay in that region. “ The combination of large organs of the Animal Propensities, with large Cautious- ness, and only full Hope, together with the unfavourable circumstances in which he was placed, accounts for the melancholy and internal unhappiness with which Burns was so frequently afflicted. This melancholy waa rendered still deeper by bad health. “The combination of Acquisitiveness, Cau- tiousness, Love of Approbation, and Con- scientiousness, is the source of his keen feelings in regard tc pecuniary independence. The great power of his Animal Propensities would give him strong temptations to waste ; but the combination just mentioned w r ould impose a powerful restraint. The head in- dicates the elements of an economical cha- racter, and it is known that he died free from debt, notwithstanding the smallness of his salary. “ No phrenologist can look upon this head, and consider the circumstances in which Burns was placed, without vivid feelings of regret. Burns must have walked the earth with a consciousness of great superiority over his associates in the station in which he was placed — of powers calculated for a far higher sphere than that which he was able to reach, and of passions which ha could with difficulty restrain, and which it I was fatal to indulge, if he had been placed 98 tIFE OF BURNS. from infancy in the higher ranks of life, liberally educated, and employed in pursuits corresponding to his powers, the inferior portion of his nature would have lost part of its energy, while his better qualities would have assumed a decided and per- manent superiority.” A more elaborate paper on the skull of Burns appeared in the Phrenological Journal, No. XII., from the pen of Mr. Robert Cox. This gentleman endeavours to show that the character of Burns was in conformity with the full development of Acquisitiveness. ‘"According to his own description,” says Mr. Cox, “he was a man who ‘had little art in making money, and still less in keep- ing it/ That his art in making money was sufficiently moderate, there can be no doubt, for he was engaged in occupations which his soul loathed, and thought it below his dignity to accept of pecuniary remuneration for some of his most laborious literary per- formances. lie was, however, by no means insensible to the value of money, and never threw it away. On the contrary, he was remarkably frugal, except when feelings stronger than Acquisitiveness came into play —such as Benevolence, Adhesiveness, and Love of Approbation; the organs of all which ire very large, while Acquiaitiveaeaa is only rather large. During his resident* at Mossgiel, where his revenue was not more than £7, his expenses, as Gilbert men- tions, ‘ never in any one year exceeded his slender income/ It is also well known that he did not leave behind him a shilling of debt ; and I have learned from good autli o- rity that his household was much mere frugally managed at Dumfries than at Ellis- land — as in the former place, but not in the latter, he had it in his power to exercise a personal control over the expenditure. I have been told also, that, after his death, the domestic expenses were greater than when he was alive. These facts are all consistent with a considerable development of Acquisi- tiveness, for, when that organ is small, there is habitual inattention to pecuniary con- cerns, even although the love of indepen- dence and dislike to ask a favour be strong. The indifference with respect to money, which Burns occasionally ascribes to him- self, appears therefore, to savour of affecta- tion — a failing into whhi he was not unfrequently led by Love of Approbation and Secretiveness. Indeed, in one of his letters to Miss Chalmers, he expressly intimates a wish to be rich.” The whole of this essay l L highly worthy of perusal by all who take an j interest in the character of the Ayrshire bard. ^ortiul Stoks nf JUkit loins. Sttras's |kM BMu ©lj? Sratlj aril Suing Kurils nf Ifim ffiailie. THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWB. AN UNCO aJOURNTU* TALE. (1) As Mailie, and her lambs tliegither. Were ae day nibbling on the tether. Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. And owre she warsled in the ditch : There, groaning, dying, she did lie. When Hughoc he cam doytin by. Wi’ glowering een and lifted han’s. Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ; He saw her days were near-hand ended. But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it He gaped wide but naething spak — At length poor Mailie silence brak. “ Oh thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu’ case I My dying words attentive hear, And bear them to my master dear. “ Tell him, if e’er again he keep As mnckle gear as buy a sheep. Oh bid him never tie them mair Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair ! But ca’ them out to park or hill, And let them wander at their will ; So may his flock increase, and grow To scores o’ lambs, and packs o’ woo’ I “ Tell him he was a master kin’. And aye was guid to me and mine ; And now my dying charge I gie him— Aiy helpless lambs 1 trust them wi’ him. “ Oh bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers’ knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill. Till they be fit to fend themsel; And tent them duly, e’en and morn, Wi’ teats o’ hay, and ripps o’ corn. “ And may they never learn the gaets Of other vile wanrestfu’ pets ; To slink through slaps, and reave and stea? At stacks o’ peas, or stocks o’ kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For many a year come through the shears ■> So wives will gie them bits o’ bread. And bairns greet for them when they’re dead. “ My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir. Oh, bid him breed him up wi’ care ; And if he live to be a beast. To pit ,ome havins in his breast ! “And warn him, what I winna name^ To stay content wi’ yoifes at hame ; And nc to rin and wear his cloots, Like itlier menseless, graceless brutes. “ And neist my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string ; Oh, may thou ne’er forgather up Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop. But aye keep mind to moop andmell Wi’ sheep o’ credit like tkysel. “ And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breatJl I lea’e my blessin’ wi’ you baith : And when you think upo’ your mithep. Mind 10 be kin’ to ane anitker. 102 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. "Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell ray master a’ ray tale ; And bid him burn this cursed tether. And, for thy pains, thou’s get my blether. 0 This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head. And clos’d her een amang the dead. ^3aar Mmlii's flip. 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 of his woes— Poor Mailie’s dead 1 It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear. That could sae bitter draw the tear. Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : He’s lost a friend and neibor dear. In Mailie dead. Thro’ a’ the toun she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile. she could descry him ; Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him. She ran wi’ speed : A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o’ sense. And could behave hersel’ wi’ mensc : I’ll say’t she never brak a fence. Thro’ thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin’ Mailie’s dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe. Her living image in her yowe. Comes bleating to him, owre the know©, For bits o’ bread ; And down the briny pearls row® For Mailie dead. She was nae get o’ moorland tips, Wi’ tawted ket, and hairy hips. For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed : A bonnier fleesh pe’er cross’d the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! It maks guid fellows girn and gape, Wi’ chokin’ dread ; And Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape For Mailie dead. Oh, a’ ye bards on bonnie Doom ! And wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join, the melancholious croon O’ Robin’s reed ! Hia heart will never get aboon— His Mailie’s dead 1 Epistle fa Daniil A BROTHER TOET. (2) January, 1784. While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blav% And bar the doors with driving snaw. And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time. And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme. In hamely westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drifts Ben to the chimla lug, ^grudge a wee the great folk’s gifi^ That live sa bien and snug : I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side ; But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride, It’9 hardly in a body’s power To keep, at times, frae being soup. To see how things are shar’d ; How best o’ chiels are whiles in want. While coofs on countless thousands r&nt» And 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 Ian’s we’re hale and fier : "Mair spier na, no fear na” (3), Auld age ne’er mind a feg. The last o’t, the warst o’t. Is only but to beg. (4) To lie in kilns and barns at e’en When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin. Is, doubtless, great distress ! Yet then content could make us blest ; Ev’n then, sometimes we’d snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that’s free frae a’ Intended fraud or guile. However fortune kick the ba’. Has aye some cause to smile : And mind still, you’ll find still, A comfort this nae sma’ ; Na mair then, we’ll care then, Nae farther we can fa’. What though, like commoners of air. We wander out we know not where. But either -house or hal’? Yet nature’s charms, the hills and woodsy The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground. And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts wik bound To see the coming year : ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 103 On braes when we please, then. We’ll sit and sowtli a tune ; Syne rhyme till’t, we’ll time till’t. And sing’t when we liae dune. It’s no in titles nor in rank ; It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank. To purchase peace and rest ; It’s no in makin’ muckle mair ; It’s no in books ; it’s no in lear. To mak us truly blest ; If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast. We may be wise, or rich, or great. But never can be blest : Nae treasures nor pleasures Could make us happy lang ; The heart aye’s the part aye That makes us right or wrang. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, Wi’ never-ceasing toil ; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way. As hardly worth their while ? Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood, God’s creatures they oppress ! Or else neglecting a’ that’s guid. They riot in excess ! Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell ! Esteeming and deeming It’s a’ an idle tale ! Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce ; Nor make our scanty pleasures less. By pining at our state ; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some, An’s thankfu’ for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth ; They let us ken oursel ; They make us see the naked truth. The real guid and ill. Though losses and crosses Be lessons right severe. There’s wit there, ye’ll get there. Ye’ll find nae other where. But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts ! (To say aught less w ad wrang the cartes, And flatt’ry I detest) This life has joys for you and I ; And joys that riches ne’er could buy : And joys the very best. There's a’ the pleasures o’ the heart. The lover and the frien’ ; Ye hae your Meg (5), your dearest part, And I ray darling Jean ! It warms me. it charms me. To mention but her name : It heats me, it beets me. And sets me a’ on llame 1 Oh, all ye pow’rs who rule above ! Oh, Thou, whose very self art love ! Thou know’st my words sincere ! The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart* Or my more dear immortal part. Is not more fondly dear ! When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest. Her dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. Thou Being, all-seeing. Oh hear my fervent pray’r 1 Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care ! All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! The smile of love, the friendly tear. The sympathetic glow ! Long since, this world’s thorny w r ayt Had number’d 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 1 Oh, how that name inspires my style 1 The words come skelpin’, rank and fik^ Amaist before I ken ! The ready measure rins as fine As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin’ owre my pen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp. Till ance he’s fairly het ; And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and jimpfc And rin an unco fit : But lest then, the beast then Should rue this hasty ride. I’ll light now, and dight now. His sweaty, wizen’d hide. Stoss in ill t Util. (6) Oh Prince ! Oh chief of many throned pow*r% That led th’ embattled seraphim to war.— Milxok. Oh thou ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie^ Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie. Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie. To scaud poor wretches t Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. And let poor damned bodies be ; I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie. E’en to a deil. To skelp and scaud poor dogs like ue. And hear us squeel l 104 BURK'S POETICAL WORKS. Great is thy pow’r, and great thy fame ; Far ken’d and noted is thy name ; And tho’ yon lowin’ heugh’s thy hame. Thou travels far ; And, faith ! thou’s neither lag nor lame. Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey a’ holes and corners tryin’ ; Whyles on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’, TirliiT the kirks ; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin 7 . Unseen thou lurks. I’ve heard my reverend granny say. In lanely glens ye like to stray ; Or where auld ruin’d castles, gray. Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way Wi’ eldritch croon. When twilight did my granny summon. To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin , , Wi’ eerie drone ; Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortries cornin’, Wi’ heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night. The stars shot down wi’ sklentin’ light, Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough ; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight Wi’ waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake. Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake, W'hen wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick — Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter’d, like a drake. On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, and wither’d hags. Tell how wi’ you, on ragweed nags. They skim the muirs and dizzy crags, Wi wicked speed ; And in kirk-yards renew their league* Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi’ toil and pain. May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain; For, oh ! the yellow treasure’s taen By witching skill ; And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gaen As yell’s the bill. When thowes dissolve the snawy hooord. And float the jinglin’ icy boord, Then water kelpies haunt the foord. By your direction ; And ’nighted travelers are allur’d To their destruction. And aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : The bleezin’, curst, mischievous monkiet Delude his eyes. Till in some miry slough he sunk is. Ne’er mair to rise. When masons’ mystic word and grip In storms and tempests raise you up. Some cock or cat your rage maun stop Or, strange to tell ! The youngest brother ye wad whip Alf straught to hell 1 Lang syne, in Eden’s bonny yard, When youtlifu’ lovers first were pair’d And all the soul of love they shar’d. The raptur’d hour. Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry sward. In shady bow’r (7) : Then you, ye auld snec-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog. And played on man a cursed brogue^ (Black be your fa !) And gied the infant warld a shog, ’Maist ruin’d a’. D’ye mind that day, when in a biza, Wi’ reekit duds, and reestit gizz. Ye did present your smoutie phi* ’Mang better folk. And sklented on the man of Uza Your spitefu’ joke ? And how ne gat him i’ your thrall. And brak him out o’ house and hall, While scabs and botches did him g&I^ Wi’ bitter claw. And lows’d his ill-tongued, wicked sc€ ^ Was warst ava? But a’ your doings to rehearse. Your wily snares and fetchin’ fierce. Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse, In prose or rhyme. And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin* A certain bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’. Some luckless hour will send him linkin’ To your black pit ; But, faith ! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’. And cheat you yet. But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! Oh wad ye tak a thought and men’ l Ye aiblins might— -I dinna ken — Still hae a stake — I’m wae to think upo’ yon den, Ev’n for your aakc ! NEW -YEAR MORNING SALUTATION. 101 <£jn> Sulfc /Hrmrr’s ffim-fm Stoning f aluiatimi ta tjis Sulil BtoB ffiuggin, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP O? CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie ; Tho’ thou’s howe-backit, now, and knaggie, I’ve seen the day Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, and crazy. And thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisy, I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek, and glaizie, A bonny gray ; He should been tight that daur’t to raise thee Ance in a day. Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, A filiy, buirdly, steeve, and swank. And set weel down a shapely shank As e’er tread ~yird ; And could hae flown out-owre a stank. Like ony bird. It’s now some nine-and-twenty year. Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s mere ; He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear And fifty mark ; Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won gear. And thou was stark. When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trottiu’ wi’ your minnies Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, and funnie. Ye ne’er was donsie ; But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie. And unco sonsie. That day ye pranc’d wi’ muckle pride, When ye bure harne my bonny bride : And sweet and gracefu’ she did ride, W r i’ maiden air ! Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. For sic a pair. Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hoble^ And wintle like a saumont-coble, T hat day ye was a jinker noble. For heels and win’ ! And ran them till they a’ did wauble. Far, far behin’ I 'When thou and I were young and skeigh. And stable-meals at fairs were dreigli. How thou wad prance, and snore, and skreigk And tak the road ! Town’s bodies ran, and stood abeigh. And ca’t thee mad. When thou was corn’t, and I was mellow, W e took the road aye like a swallow ; At brooses thou had ne’er a fellow For pith and speed ; But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow, Whare’er thou gaed. The sma’ droop-rumpl’t, hunter, cattle. Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle ; But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their mettle And gar’t them whaizle : Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle O’ saugh or hazle. Thou was a noble fittie-lan’. As e’er in tug or tow was drawn ! Aft thee and I, in aucht hours’ gaun. In guid March weather, Hae turn’d sax rood beside our han* For days thegither. Thou never braindg’t, and fecli’t, and fhskik But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. And spread abreed thy well-fill’d brisket, Wi’ pith and pow’r. Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and risket. And slypet owre. When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep And threaten’d labour back to keep, I gied thy c g a wee-bit heap Aboon the timmer ; I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer. In cart or car thou never reestit ; The steyest brae thou wad hae fac’t it ; Thou never lap, and sten’t , and breastit. Then stood to blaw ; But just thy step a wee thing hastit. Thou snoov’t awa. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a* ; Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw ; Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa. That thou hast nurst : They drew me thretteen pund and twa. The vera warst. Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought* And wi’ the weary warl’ fought ! And monie an anxious day I thought We wad be beat ! Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, Wi’ something yet. And think na, my auld trusty servan*. That now perhaps thou’s less deservin'. And thy auld days may end in starvin’. For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve aue Laid by for you. We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether, To some hain’d rig, Whare ye may i obly rax your leather, Wi’ sma’ fatigue. 103 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. lallttnrra. (§) Upon that night, when fairies light, On Cassilis Downans (9) dance. Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. On sprightly coursiers prance; Or for Coleon the route is ta’en. Beneath the moon’s pale beams ; There, up the cove (10), to stray and rove Amang the rocks and streams To sport that night. Amang the bonny, winding banks. Where Doon rins, wimplin’, clear. Where Bruce (11) ance rul’d the martial ranks. And shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene. To burn their nits, and pou their stocks. And haud their Halloween Fu’ blythe that night. The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they’re fine ; heir faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe. Hearts leal, and warm, and kin’ ; The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs, Weel knotted on their garten. Some unco blate, and some wi’ gabs. Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’ » Whiles fast at night. Then, first and foremost, thro’ the kail. Their stocks (12) maun a’ be sought ance; They steek their een, and graip, and wale. For muckle anes and straught anes. Poor hav’rel Will fell aff th? drift, And wander’d thro* the bow-kail. And j:ou’t, for want o’ better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow’t that night. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. They roar and cry a’ throu’ther ; The vera wee-things, todlin’, rin Wi* stocks out-owre their shouther : And gif the custoc’s sweet or sour, Wi’ joctelegs they taste them ; Byne coziely, aboon the door, Wi’ cannie care, they’ve placed them To lie that night. The lasses straw frae ’mang them a’ To pou their stalks o’ corn (13) ; But Bab slips out, and jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn : He grippet Nelly hard and fast ; Loud skirl'd a’ the lasses ; But bfT tap-pickle maist was lost, When kuittlin’ in the fause-house ( 14 ) Wi’ him that night. The auld guidwife’s weel-hoordet nits (15) Are round and round divided. And mony lads’ and lasses’ fates Are there that night decided : Some kindle, couthie, side by side, And burn thegither trimly ; Some start awa wi’ saucy pride. And jump out-owre the chimlie Fu’ high that night. Jean slips in twa wi’ tentie e’e ; Wha ’twas, she wadna tell ; But this is Jock, and this is me. She says in to hersel’ : He bleez’d owre her, and she owre him* As they waud never mair part ; Till, fuff ! he started up the lum. And Jean had e’en a sair heart To see’t that night. Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt. Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie ; And Mary, nae doubt, took the drun^ To be compared to Willie. Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling; And her ain fit it burnt it ; While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing; ’Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. Nell had the fause-house in her min/ She pits hersel and Rob in ; In loving bleeze they sweetly join. Till white in ase they’re sobbin*. Nell’s heart was dancin’ at the view. She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t : Rob, stowlins, prie’d her bonny mou* Fu’ cozie in the neux for’t. Unseen that night. But Merran sat behint their backs; Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; She lea’es them gashin’ at their crack% And slips out by hersel’ : She through the yard the nearest takf; And to the kiln she goes then. And darklins graipit for the bauks. And in the blue-clue (16) throws them Right fear’t that night. And aye she win’t, and aye she swat; I wat she made nae jaukin’ ; Till something held within the pat, Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' S But whether ’twas the deil himsel. Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’. Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did na wait on talkin’ To spier that night. Wee Jenny to her granny says, “ Will ye go wi’ me, granny ? I’ll eat the apple (17) at the glass; I gat frae uncle Johnny HALLOWEEN. She faff t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt. In wrath she was sae vap’rin’, ghe notic’t na, aizle brunt Her braw new worse! apron Out thro’ that night. m Ye little skelpie-liramer’s face ! I daur you try sic sportin’, As seek the foul thief onie place. For him to spae your fortune : Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Great cause ye hae to fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright. And lived and died deleeret. On sic a night. Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor— I mind’t as well’s yestreen, was a gilpey, then I’m sure I was na past fyfteen : The simmer had been cauld and wat^ And stuff was unco’ green ; And aye a rantin’ kirn we gat. And just on Halloween It fell that night. Our stibble rig was Rab M’Graen, A clever, sturdy fallow : He’s sin’ gat Eppie Sim w’ wean. That lived in Achmacalla : He gat hemp-seed (18), I mind it weel. And he made unco light o’t ; But mony a day was by himsel’. He was sae sairly frighted That very night.” Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck, And he swoor by his conscience. That he could sow hemp-seed a peck; For it was a’ but nonsense. The auld guidman raught down the pock. And out a handfu’ gied him ; Syne bade him slip frae ’mang the folk. Sometime when nae ane see’d him. And try’d that night. He marches through amang the stacks, Tho’ he was something sturtin : The graip he for a harrow taks. And hauls at his curpin ; And every now and then he says, “ Hemp -seed I saw thee, And her that is to be my lass. Come after me, and draw thee As fast this night.” He whistl’d up Lord Leonox’ march. To keep his courage cheery ; Altho’ his hair began to arch. He was sae fley’d and eerie : Till presently he hears a squeak. An \ then a grane and gruntle ; He bj his shouther gae a keek. And tumbl’d wi’ o wintle Out-owre that night. ior He roar’d a Lurid murder-shout. In dreadfu’ desperation ! And young and auld cam rinnin’ out. And hear the sad narration : He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, Till, stop — she trotted through them a*—* And wha was it but grump hie Asteer that night ! Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. To win three wechts o’ naething (19) ; But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat cut little faith in : She gies the herd a pickle nits. And twa red-cheekit apples. To watch, while for the barn she sets. In hopes to see Tam Kioplea That vera nighc. She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw. And owre the threshold ventura; But first on Sawny gies a ca’. Syne bauldly in she enters : A rat ton rattled up the wa’. And she cried, “L — d, preserve her !® And ran thro’ midden hole and a’. And pray’d with zeal and fervour, Fu’ fast that night. They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice ; They hecht him some fine braw ane ; It chanc’d the stack he faddom’t thrice (20X Was timmer-propt for thrawin’; He taks a surly auld moss oak For some black, grousome carlin ; And loot a winze, and drew a stroke. Till skin in blypes cam haurlin* Aff’s nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was. As canty as a kittlin ; But, och ! that night, amang the shawl, She got a fearfu’ settlin’ ! She thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, And owre the hill gaed scrievin, Where three lairds’ lands met at a burn (21X To dip her left sark-sleeve in. Was bent that night. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it whimpl’t ; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl’t ; Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rayf. Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cooyit underneath the braes^ Below the spreading hazel, f Unseen that night. Amang the brackens, on the bras^ Between her and the moon. The deil, or else an outler quey. Gat up %nd gae a croon : li 103 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Poor I .eezy’s heart raaist lap the hool ; Near lav’rock height she jumpii. Bat mist a fit, and in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi’ a plunge that night. In order, on the clean hearth-stane. The luggies three (22) are ranged. And every time great care is ta’en. To see them duly changed : Auld uncle John, wha’ wedlock’s joys Sin’ Mars’ year did desire, Because he gat the toom-dish thrice^ He heav’d them on the fire In wrath that night. Wi’ merry sangs, and friendly cracks, I wat they did nae weary : And unco tales, and funny jokes, Their sports were cheap and cheery ; Till butter’d so’ns (23), wi’ fragrant lont. Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’ ; Byne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt. They parted aff careerin’ Fu’ blythe that night. (24) 1 «?intrr gtg$t Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of tile pitiless storm ! How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, [defend you Your looped and windowed raggedness, From seasons such as these?— Shakspeare. When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r ; When Phoebus gies a short-lived glow’r Far south the lift. Dim-darkening thro’ the flaky show’r. Or whirling drift : Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up- choked. Wild eddying swirl. Or thro’ the mining outlet hocked, Down headlong hurl. listening, the doors and winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O’ winter war, [sprattle. And through the drift, deep-lairing Beneath a scaur. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. That in the merry months o’ spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee ! Whare wilt thou cow’r thy cluttering wing. And close thy e’e ? Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d. Lone from your savage homes exil’d. The blood-stain’d roost and sheep-cot spoil’d My heart forgets. While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. Dark muflied, view’d the dreary plair ; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul. When on my ear thrs plaintive strain Slow, solemn, stole : — " Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust l And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! Descend ye chilly, smothering snows ! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting. Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illummed man on brother man bestows ! See stern oppression’s iron grip. Or mad ambition’s gory hand. Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip Woe, want, and murder o’er a land l E’en in the peaceful rural vale. Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. How pamper’d Luxury, Flattery by her side. The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear. Looks o’er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind. Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind. Some coarser substance, unrefined. Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe^ With lordly Honour’s lofty brow. The powers you proudly own ? Is there beneath Love’s noble nama^ Can harbour dark the selfish aim. To bless himself alone ! Mark maiden innocence a prey To lo^-pre tending snares, This boasted Honour turns away. Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway, [ers l Regardless.of the tears and unavailing pray- Perhaps this hour in misery’s squalid nest. She strains your infant to her joyless breast, [rocking blast ! And with d mother’s fears shrinks at tha Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. Feel not a want but what yourselves create. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK. 10 $ Think for a moment on his wretched fate. Whom friends and fortune quite disown! ni satisfied keen nature’s clamorous call, Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, [wall. While through the ragged roof and clunky Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drii'ty heap; Think on the dungeon’s grim confine. Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! Guilt, erring man, relenting view l 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 hear nae mair, for chanticleer Shook olf the poutheray snaw. And hailed the morning with a chee — A cottage-rousing craw. But deep this truth impressed my mind — Through all his works abroad. The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God. f nistli in %. Tapraiit. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (25.) April 1, 1785. While briers and woodbines budding green. And paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en. And morning poussie whiddin seen. Inspire my muse. This freedom in an unknown frien* I pray excuse. On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin’. To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin ’ ; And there was muckle fun and jokin’, . Ye need na’ doubt ; At length we had a hearty yokin’ At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best. That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife : It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast, A’ to the life. I’ve scarce heard ought described sae weel. What gen’rous manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, “ Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie’s wark ?” They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t. And sae about him there I spier’t, Then a’ that ken’t him round declar’d He had ingine. That nane excell’d it, few cam near’fc, It was sae fine. That, set him to a pint of ale. And either douce or merry tale. Or rhymes and sangs he’d made himsel’. Or witty catches, ’Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had a few matches. Then up I gat, and swoor an aith, Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and greith. Or die a cadger pownie’s death At some dyke back A pint and gill I’d gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first and foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell ; Tho’ rude and rough. Yet crooning to a body’s sell, Hoes weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense. But just a rhymer, like by chance. And 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, wha ken hardly verse frae prose. To mak a sang ? ” But, by your leaves, my learned foes. Ye’re may be wrang. What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools. Your Latin names for horns and stools; If honest nature made you fools. What sairs your grammars f Ye’d better taen up spades and shools. Or knappin-hammers. A set o’ dull, conceited hashes. Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks, and come out asses. Plain truth to speak; And syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o’ Greek ! Gie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire ! That’s a’ the learning I desire ; Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub and mire At pleugh or cart. My muse, tho’ hamely in attire. May touch the heart. Oh for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee. Or Fergusson’s the bauld and slee. Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to b^ If I can hit it ! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it I no BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. Now, sir, if ye hue friends enow, Tho’ real friends I believe are few. Yet, if your catalogue be fou, Use no insist. But gif ye want ae friend that’s trus* I’m on your list. I winna blaw about mysel ; As ill I like my faults to tell ; But friends and folk that wish me well. They sometimes roose me ; Tho' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me* But Mauchline race (26), or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there ; We’se gic ae night’s discharge to care. If we forgather, And hae a swap o’ rhymin’- ware Wi’ ane anither. The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter, And kirsen him wi’ reekin’ water ; Syne we’ll sit down and tak our whitter. To cheer our heart ; And, faith, we’se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish war’ly race, Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, Ev’n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack ! I dinna like to see your face. Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms. Whose hearts the tide of kindness warm®, W Yo hold your being on the terms, “ Each aid the others.” Come to my bowl, come to my arms. My friends, my brothers ! But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle ; Twa lines true you wad gar me lissle. Who am, most fervent. While I can either sing or whissle. Your friend and servant. fa ill? £ana. April 21, 1785. While new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake. And pownies reek in plengh or braik. This hour on e’enin’s edge 1 take. To own I’m debtor. To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, wi’ weary legs, Rattlm’ the corn out-owre the rigs, Qt dealing thro’ amang the mags Their ten hours bite. My awkwart muse sair pleads and begs I would na write. The tapetless ramfeezPd hizzie. She’s saft at best, and something lazy, Quo’ she, “ Ye ken, we’ve been sae busy. This month and inair, That trouth, my head is grown right dizzi% And something sair.” Ker dowff excuses pat me mad : “ Conscience,” says I, “ ye thowless jad I I'll write, and that a hearty blaud. This vera night ; So dinna ye affront your trade. But rhyme it right. Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts, Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts. In terms sae friendly, Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts. And thank him kindly ? w Sae I gat paper in a blink. And down gaed stumpie in the inks Quoth I, “ before I sleep a wink, I vow I’ll close it ; And if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove I’ll prose it 1 * Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, hut whet he? In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither Let time mak proof ; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. My worthy friend, ne’er grudge and carp, Tho’ fortune use you hard and sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland-harp Wi’ gleesome touch ; Ne’er mind how fortune waft and warp— She’s but a b-tch ! She’s gien me monie a jirt and flcg. Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig ; But, by the L — d, tho’ I should beg Wi’ lyart pow. I’ll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg, As lang’s I dow ! Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer. Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year ; But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 1, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city gent, Behirit a last to lie and sklent. Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent, per cent, And muckle wame. In some bit brugh to represent A bailie’s name ? TO WILLIAM SpMPSONl 11 Or is’t the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi’ ruffl’d sark and glancing cane, Wha thinks hirnsel nae sheep-shank bane. But lordly stalks. While caps and bonnets aft are taen. As by he walks ? Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o’ wit and sense a lift. Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. Thro’ Scotland wide; Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift. In a’ their pride ! Were this the charter of our state, “ On pain’ o’ hell be rich and great,** Damnation then would be our fate. Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav’n, that’s no the gate We learn our creed. For thus the royal mandate ran. When first the human race began, “ The social, friendly, honest man, Whate’er he be, *Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan. And hone but he ! ” Oh mandate glorious and divine! The followers o’ the ragged Nine, Poor thoughtless devils yet may shine In glorious light. While sordid sons o’ Mammon’s line Are dark as night. Tho* here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl. Their worthless nievfu’ of a soul May in some future carcase howl. The forest’s fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, To reach their native kindred skies. And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys. In some mild sphere. Still closer knit in friendship’s ties Each passing year 1 fa William Sfimpsint], OCHILTREE. (27) May, 1785, Jl gat your letter, winsome Willie ; Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie ; Tho’ L maun say’t, I wad be silly. And unco vain. Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie, Your flatterin’ strain. But I’se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Music; Tho’ in sic phraisin terms ye’ve penn’d it 1 scarcely excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel. Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi’ Allan, or wi Gdberttield, The braes o’ fame; Or Fergusson, the writer clwel, A deathless name. (Oh Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 111 suited law’s dry musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstaue heart% Ye E’nbrugh gentry; The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes Wad stow’d his pantry!) Yet when a tale comes i’ my head. Or lassies gie my heart a screed, As whiles they’re like to be my dead, (Oh sad disease !) I kittle up my rustic reed ; It gies me ease. Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain. She’s gotten poets o’ her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winnahain, But tune their lays. Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise Nae poet thought her worth his whiles To set her name in measur’d style ; She lay like some unken’d-of-isle 1 Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Bam say and famous Fergusson Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings. While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Boon, Naetody sings. Th’ Illissus. Tiber, Thames, and Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line; But, Willie, set your fit to mine. And cock your crest, We’ll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi’ the best ! We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains and fells. Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells. Her banks and braes, her dens and dell% Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tell, Frae southron billies. At Wallace’ name what See fttish blood But boils up in spring-tide flood 1 Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace’ side, S;ill pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or gloriou3 died 1 11 * 112 BURNS’S POETICAL WQ&KS. Oh sweet are Coila’s haughs and woods. When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin’ hares, in amorous wliids. Their loves enjoy. While thro’ the braes the crushat croods With wailfu’ cry ! Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro’ the naked tree ; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray : Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, Dark’ning the day ! Oh nature ! a’ thy shows and forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi’ life and light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms. The lang, dark night ! The muse, nae poet ever fend her. Till by himsel he learn’d to wander, Adown some trotting burn’s meander. And no think lang ; Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder, A heart-felt sang 1 The war’ly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive; Let me fair nature’s face descrive. And I, wi’ pleasure, Bhall let the busy grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, “ my rhyme-composing brither !” We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither : Now let us lay our heads thegither. In love fraternal ; May envy wallop in a tether. Black fiend, infernal ! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes : While moorlan’ heads like guid fat braxies ; While terra firma on her axis Diurnal turns. Count on a friend, in faith and practice. In Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory’s no worth a preen ; I ha i amaist forgotten clean. Ye bade me write you what they mean. By this New Light, TJout which our herds sae aft hae been Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, and sic talents. They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, B Ht spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans. Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moos* Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon. Wore by degrees, till her last roon Gaed past their viewing. And shortly after she was done, > They gat a new one. Tins past for certain — undisputed ; It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt i^, Till chiels gat up and wad confute it* And ca’d it wrang ; And muckle din there was about it, Baith loud and lang. Some herds, well learn’d upo’ the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the think misteuk; For ’twas the auld moon turned a neuk. And out o’ sight, And backlins-comin’, to the leuk She grew mair bright. This was denied — it was affirmed ; The herds and hirsels were alarmed : The rev’rend grey-beards rav’d and storm'd That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform’d Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words and aiths to clours and nick*} And mony a fallow gat his licks, Wi* hearty crunt ; And some, to learn them for their trick*, Were hang’d and brunt. This game was play’d in monie lands. And Auld Light caddies bure sic hands. That, faith, the youngsters took the sandj Wi’ nimble shanks, Till lairds forbade, by strict commands. Sic bluidy pranks. But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin’d stick-and-stowe^ Till now amaist on every knowe. Ye’ll find ane plac’d ; And some their New-Light fair avow. Just quite barefac’d. Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleat n*f Their zealous herds are vex’d and sweatin’} Mysel’ I’ve even seen them greetin’ Wi’ girnin’ spite. To hear the moon sae sadly lied on By word and write. But shortly they will cowe the loons ! Some Auld Light herds in neebor town* Are mind’t in thinns they ca’ balloons. To tak a flight. And stay ae month among the moons And see them right. DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 113 Guid observation they will gie them ; Aud when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them. The hindmost shair’d, they’ll fetch it wi’them. Just i’ their pouch. And when the New Light billies see them, I think they’ll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter Is naething but a " moonshine matter;* But tlio’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mmd sic brulzie. tteatl; anil St. Jfnrnlinnlt. A TRUE STORY. ( 28 ) Some books are lies frae end to end. And some great lies were never penn’d ; E’en ministers they hae been kenn’d. In holy rapture, A rousing whid at times to vend. And nail’t wi’ Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell. Which lately on a night befell, Is just as true’s the deil’s in hell Or Dublin city : That e’er he ne nearer comes oursel ’s a muckle pity. The clachan yill had made me canty— I was na fou, but just had plenty ; I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches ; And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenned aye Frae ghaists and witches. The rising moon began to glow’r The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : To count her horns, wi’ a’ my pow’r, I set mysel; But whether sha had three or four, I could na tell. I was come round about the hill, And todlin’down on Willie’s mill (29) Setting my staff wi’ all my skill. To keep me sicker ; Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. I there wi’ something did forgather. That put me in an eerie switlier ; An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther, (dear-dangling, hang ; A three-taed leister on the itlier Lay, large and lang. Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e’er I saw, For fient a warne it had ava ; I And then, it3 shanks. They were as thin, as sharp and sraa', As cheeks o’ brauks. " Guid e’en,” quo’ I ; " Friend, hae ye beea When other folk are busy sawin’ ? ” [mawin*, It seem d to mak a kind o’ stan’, But naething spak; At length says I, “ Friend, whare ye gaun. Will ye go back?” It spake right howe — “ My name is Death, But be na fley'd.” Quoth I, “ Guid faith. Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie — • I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith. See, there’s a gully !” "Guidman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle^ I’m no designed to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear’d; I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out-owre my beard.” "Weel, weel!” says I, "a bargain be’t; Come, gies your hand, and sae we’re grie’t; We’ll ease our shanks and tak a seat— Come, gies your news ; This while ye hae been mony a gate. At mony a house.” " Ay, ay !” quo’ he, and shook his head, " It’s e en a lang time indeed Sin’ I began to nick the thread. And choke the breath t Folk maun do something for their bread. And sae maun Death. " Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin’ I was to the hutching bred, And mony a scheme in vain’s been laid^ To stap or scaur me ; Till ane Hornbook’s taen up the trade. And faith he’ll waur me. "Ye ken Jock Hornbook i* the clachan, Deil mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan ! He’s grown sae well acquaint wi’ Buchan (o()\ And ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin’. And pouk my hips. "See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart. They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; But Doctor Hornbook wi’ his art And cursed skill. Has made them both no worth a f — t ; Dgmn’d haet they’ll kill. " ’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane ; Wi’less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care. It just play’ d dirl on the bane. But did nae maur. 114 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. u Hornbrook was by wp ready art. And had sae fortified the part, That when 1 looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fieri! haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart Of a kail-runt. W I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I nearhand cowpit wi’ my hurry, Hut yet the bauld apothecary Withstood the shock; I might as wcel hae tried a quarry O’ hard whin rock. " And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles, Of a’ dimensions, shapes, and metals, A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, and bottles. He’s sure to hae ; Their Latin names as fast he rattle* As A B C. •'Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o’ the seas ; The farina of beans and peas. He has’t in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. w Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons ; Or mite-liorn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill’d \)er se ; Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings. And rnony mae.” u Waes me for Johnny Ged’s Hole (31) now,” Quo’ I ; “ if that tliae news be true. His braw calf-ward w hare go wans grew, Sae white and bonny, Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’the plew; They’ll ruin Johnny 1” The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. And says, “ Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kir ky aids will soon be till’d eneugh, Tak ye nae fear : They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh In twa-three year. * Whare I kill’d ane a fair strae death. By loss o’ blood or want o’ breath. This night I’m free to tak my aith. That Hornbook’s skill Has clad a score i’ their last claith. By drap and pill. " An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife’s twa nieveswere scarce well-bred. Gat tippence worth to mend her head. When it was sair; v 5th* wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne’er spak mair. * A countra laird had taen the batted Or rome curmurring in his guts; His only son for Hornbook sets. And pays him well — The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets. Was laird himscl. “ That’s just a swatch o’ llornbocV va* Thus goes he on from day to day. Thus does he poison, kill, and slay* An’s weel paid for’t; Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey Wi’ his curs’d dirt : "But hark ! I’ll tell you of a plot. Though dinna ye he speaking o’fc* 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 pleas’d mysel’. And sae did Death. Ejr< Salij /air. A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty observation ; And secret hung, with poison’d crust The dirk of Defamation ; A mask that like the gorget show’d, Dye-varying on the pigeon ; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy a-la-mgde. (II,} Upon a simmer Sunday morn. When Nature’s face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn. And snulf the cauler air. The rising sun owre Galston muir*, Wi’ glorious light was glintin ’ ; The hares were hirplin’ down the fur% The lav’rocks they were chantin’ Fu’ sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad. To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road. Cam skelpin’ up the way ; . Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ black, Buf ane wi’ lyart lining y The third, that gaed a-wee a-hack, Was in the fashion shining, Fu’ gay that day THE HOLY F.kHL Re tw a appear’d like «isters twin, In feature, form, and claes ; Their visage wither’d, lang, and thin. And sour as ony slaes : The third cam up, hap-step-an’-lowp. As light as ony lambie. And wi’ a curchie low did stoop. As soon as e’er she saw me, IV kind that day. Wi’ bonnet aflf, quoth I, “ Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I’m sure I’ve seen that bonny face. But yet I eanna name ye.” Q,u o’ she, and laughin’ as she spak. And tales me by the hands, * Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feek. Of a’ the ten commands A screed some^day. •My name is Fun — your cronie dear. The nearest friend ye hae; And this is Superstition here. And that’s Hypocrisy. I’m gaun to Mauchline holy fair, To spend an hour in daffin’ : Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair. We will get famous laughin' At them this day.” Qucth I “With a’ my heart. I’ll do’t; I ’ll get my Sunday’s sark on. And meet you on the holy spot — Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin ’ !** Then I gaed liame at crowdie-time. And soon I made me ready; For roads were clad, from side to side, Wi’ monie a wearie body, In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin’ graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; There, swan kies young, in braw braid-claith. Are springin’ o’er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin’ barefit, thrang. In silks and scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang. And farls bak’d wi’ butter, Fu’ crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, A greedy glow’r black bonnet throws. And we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show ; On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin’. Some carrying dails, some chairs, and stools. And some are busy blethrin’ Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs, And screen our country gentry. 115 There, racer, Jess (33), and ,twa-three wk-reo. Are blinkin’ at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin’ jauds, Wi’ heaving breast and bare neck. And there a batch o’ wabster lads. Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. Here sum are thinkin’ on their sins. And some upo’ their claes ; Ane curses feet that fyi’d his shins, Anither sighs and prays : On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi’ screw’d-up grace-proud lacea ; On that a set o’ chaps at watch, Thrang winkin’ on the lasses To chairs that day. Oh happy is that man and blest ! (Nae wonder that it pride him!) Wha’s ain dear lass that lie likes best^ Comes clinkin’ down beside him! Wi’ arm repos’d on the chair back. He sweetly does compose him ; Which, by degrees, slips round her neds An’s loof upon her bosom, Unkenn’d that day. Now a’ the congregation o’er Is silent expectation : For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi’ tidings o’ d-mn-tion. (34) Should Hornie, as in ancient days, ’Mang sons o’ God present him. The vera sight o’ Moodie’ s face, To’s ain bet hame had sent him Wi’ fright that day. Hear how he clears the points o’ faith Wi rattlin’ and wi’ thumpin’ ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. He’s stampin’ and lie’s jumpin’ ! His lengthened chin, his turn’d-up snout, His eldritch squeal and gestures. Oh, how they fire the heart devout. Like cantharidian plasters. On sic a day ! But hark ! the tent has chang’d its vole# 9 There’s peace and rest nae langer ; For a’ the real judges rise. They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his caul.l harangues On practice and on morals ; And aff the godly pour in thranga. To gie the jars and barrels A lift that day. What signifies his barren shine, Of moral powr’s and reason ? His English style and gesture fin® Are a’ clean out o’ season. 116 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some a aid pagan heathen. The moral man he does define. But ne’er a word o’ faith in That’s right that day. In guid time comes an antidote Against sic poison’d nostrum ; For Peebles, frae the water-fit (36), Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up lie’s got the word o’ God, And meek and mim has view’d it. While Common Sense (37) has ta’en the road, And aff, and up the Cowgate (38), Fast, fast, that day. Wee Miller (39) neisf the guard relieves. And orthodoxy raibles, Tho’ in his heart he weel believes. And thinks it auld wives’ fables; But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse. So, cannily he hums them ; Altho’ his carnal wit and sense Like hafflins-ways o’ercomes him At times that day. Now butt and ben the change-house fills, Wi’ yill-caup commentators ; Here’s crying out for bakes and gills. And there the pint-stoup clatters ; While thick and thrang, and loud and jang,. Wi’ logic and wi’ Scripture, They raise a din, that, in the end. Is like to brt ed a rupture O’ wrath that day. Leese me on drink ! it gies us mair Than either school or college : It kindles wit, it waukens lair. It pangs us fou o^ knowledge. Be’t whisky gill, or penny wlieep. Or ony stronger potion. It never fails, on drinking deep. To pittle up our notion By night or day. The lads and lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul and body. Sit round the table weel content. And steer about the toddy. On this ane’s dress, and that ane’s leuk. They’re making observations ; While some are cozie i’ the neuk, And formin’ assignations To meet some day. But now the L — d’s am trumpet touts. Till a’ the hills are rairin’. And echoes back return the shouts — Black Russell (40; is aa sparin’ : His piercing words, like Highlan’ sword*, Divide the joints and marrow ; His talk o’ hell, a h are devils dwell. Our vera sauls does harrow (4 1) Wi’ fright that day. A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit. Fill’d fou o’ lowin’ brunstane, Wha’s ragin’ flame, and seorchin’ heai* Wad melt the hardest whun-stanel The half asleep start up wi' fear. And think they hear it Soarin’, When presently it does appear ’Twas but some neebor snoria* Asleep that day. *Twad be owre long a tale, to tell How monie stories past. And how they crowded to the yill When they were a’ dismist : How drink gaed round, in cogs and caup% Amang the furms and benches : And cheese and bread, frae women’s laps^ Was dealt about in lunches. And dauds that day. In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. And sits down by the fire. Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife; The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother. Till some ane by his bonnet lays. And gi’es them’t like a tether. Fa’ lang that day. Waesuck ! for him that gets nae lasa, Or lasses that liae nathing ! Sma’ need has he to say a grace. Or melvie his braw claithing ! Oh wives be mindfu’ ance yoursel How bonny lads ye wanted, And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be affronted On sic a lay ! Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin’ tow. Begins to jow and croon ; Some swagger hame the best they dow 9 Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink. Till lassess trip their sboon : Wi’ faith and hope, and love and drml^ They’re a’ in famous tune For crack that day. How monie hearts this day converts O’ sinners and o’ lasses ! Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are A 3 saft as ony flesh is. There’ s some are fou o’ love divine ; There’s some are fou’ o’ brandy; And many jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandy. Some ither day. THE ORDINATION. lit f Ijb dtrhnatrini. •*For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n — To please the mob they hide the little giv’n.” (42) Kilmarnock wab sters fidge and claw. And pour your creesiiie nations ; And ye wha leather rax and draw. Of a’ denominations, (43) 6 with to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a*. And there tak up your stations ; Then aff to Begbie’s (44) in a raw. And pour divine libations. For joy this day. Curst Common Sense, that imp o’ hell. Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder (45) ; But Oliphant aft made her yell. And Russell sair misca’d her ; This day M taks the flail. And lie’s the boy will blaud her! He’ll clap a shangan on her fail. And set the bairns to daud her. Wi’ dirt this day. Mak haste and turn king David owre. And lilt wi’ holy clangor ; O’ double verse come gie us four. And skirl up the Bangor : This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. For Heresy is in her pow’r. And gloriously she’ll whang her Wi’ pith this day. Come, let a proper text be read. And touch it aff wi’ vigour. How graceless Ham (46) leugh at his dad. Which made Canaan a nigger; Or Phineas (47) drove the murdering blade, Wi’ wh-re-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah (48), the scauldin’ jad. Was like a bluidy tiger I’ th’ inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed. And bind him down wi’ caution. That stipend is a carnal weed He taks but for the fashion ; And gie him o’er the flock, to feed. And punish each transgression ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin’. Spare them nae day. How, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. And toss thy horns fu’ canty ; Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty. And runts o’ grace the pick and waif No g’en by way o’ dainty. But ilka day. Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep. To think upon our Zion ; And hing our nddles up to sleep. Like baby-clou^ a-dryin’ ; Come, screw the pegs, wi’ tunefu’ clieap And o’er the thairms be tryin’ ; Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. And a’ like lamb-tails flyin’ Fu’ fast this day ; Lang Patronage, wi’ rod o’ aim. Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoing As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin : Our patron, honest man ! Glencaira, He saw mischief was brewin’ ; And like a godly elect bairn He’s wal’d us out a true ane. And sound this day. Now, Robertson (49), harangue nae mair But steek your gab for ever : Or tiy the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear. Ye may commence a shaver ; Or to the Netherton (50) repair. And turn a carpet-weaver Aff-hand this day. Mutrie (51) and you were just a match. We never had sic twa drones : Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk w r atch* Just like a winkin’ baudrons : And aye he catched the tither wretch. To frv them in his caudrons : But now his honour maun detach, Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadron*, Fast, fast this day. See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes She’s swingein through the city; Hark, Ikw the nine-tail'd cat she plays i « I vow it’ s unco pretty : There, Learning, with his Greekish face^ Grunts out some Latin ditty. And Common Sense is g£un, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie (52) Her plant this day. But there’s Morality himsel’. Embracing all opinions ; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions ; See, how she peels the skin and fell. As ane were peelin’ onions ! Now there — they’re packed aff to hell. And banish’d our dominions. Henceforth this day. Oh, happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality’s demure decoys ^all here nae mair find quarter ; 113 BURNS’S Fulfil CAL WORKS. M ”, lliiiBell, are the boys. That Heresy can torture : They 'll gie her on a rape a hoyse. And cowe her measure shorter By th’ head some day. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in. And here’s, for a conclusion. To every New Light (53) mother’s son. From this time forth. Confusion : If mair they deave U3 wi’ their din. Or Patronage intrusion. We'll light a spunk, and every skin We’ll rin them aff in fusion, like oil some day. £h Saints iraitlr. (54) * Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul! fiweet’ner of life, and solder of society ! 1 owe thee much ! ” — Blair. Dear Smith, the slee’est, paukie thief, that e’er attempted stealth or rief, Te surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts ; For ne’er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun and moon. And ev’ry star that blinks aboon. Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon Just gaun to see you; And ev’ry ither pair that’s done, Mair ta’en I’m wi’ you. That auld capricious carlin. Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She’s turn’d you aff, a human Creature On her first plan ; And in her freaks, on every feature She’s wrote, the Man. !fust now I’ve ta : en the fit o’ ryhme. My barmie noddle’s working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime Wi’ hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time. To hear what’s comin* ! Some rhyme a neighbour’s name to lash ; Some rhyme (vain thought) for needfu* cash; Some rhyme to court the country clash, And raise a din*; For me, an aim I never fash — I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot. Has fated me the russet coat. And damn’d my fortune to the groat ; But in requit, Has blesi me wi’ a random shot O’ couutra wit. This while my notion ’s ta’en a sklent. To try my fate in guid black prent ; But still the mair I’m that way bent. Something cries “ Hoolie I red you, honest man, tak tent ! Ye’ll sliaw your folly. There’s ither poets much your betters. Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d then debtors A* future ages ; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. Their unknown pages.” Then farewell hopes o’ laurel-boughs. To garland my poetic brows ! Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang. And teach the lanely heights and howes My rustic sang. I’ll wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown, I’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dead. Forgot and gone ! But why o’ death begin a tale ? Just now we’re living sound and hale. Then top and maintop crowd the sail. Heave care o’er side ! And large before enjoyment’s gale. Let’s tak the tide. This life, sae far’s I understand. Is a’ enchanted fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand. That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. Dance by fu’ light. The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-and-forty’s speel’d. See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi’ wrinkl’d face. Comes hostin’, hirplin’ owre the field, Wi’ creepin’ pace. When ance life’s day draws near th« gloamin’. Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’ ; And fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’. And social noise ; And fareweel dear, deluding woman l The joy of joys ! Oh life 1 how pleasant in thy morning. Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing caution’s lesson scorning. We frisk away, like school -boys, at th’ expected warning To joy and play. THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 119 We wander there, we wander here. We eye the rose upon the brier. Unmindful that the thorn is near. Among the leaves ! And tho’ the puny wound appear. Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot. For which they never toil’d or swat ; They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain ; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim some Fortune chase; Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace ; Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race. And seize the prey : Then cannie, in some cozie place. They close the day. And others*, like your humble servan*. Boor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin’; To right or left, eternal swervin’. They zig-zag on ; Till curst with age, obscure and starvin,* They aften groan. Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — But truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is fortune’s fickle Luna waning? E’en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let’s sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door. And kneel, “Ye Pow’rs,” and warm implore, * Tho’ I should wander terra o’er. In all her climes. Grant me but this, I ask no more, Aye rowth o’ rhymes. Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds. Till icicles hing frae their beards ; Gie’ fine braw claes to fine life guards. And maids of honour ! And yill and whisky gie to cairds. Until they sconuer. A title, Dempster merits it ; A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent, per cent. But give me real, sterling wit. And I’m content. While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 1 ’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal. Bet water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu’ face. As lang’s the muses dinna fail To say the grace.** An anxious e’e I never throws Behiut my lug or by my nose; I jouk beneath misfortune’s blow# As weel's I may : Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose^ I rhyme away. Oh ye douce folk, that iiv e by rule. Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar’d wi’ you — oh fool ! fool ! fool ! How much unlike ; Your heart’s are just a standing pooS, Your lives a dyke ! Nae hair-brain’ d, sentimental trace% In your unletter’d nameless faces l In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray. But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise; Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, Tlie rattling squad : I see you upward cast your eye3— — Ye ken the road. Whilst I — but I shall haud me there— Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where — Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. But quat my sang. Content wi’ you to mak a pair, Whare’er I gang. f jje fallij f pggsra.— £ Cantata. Css) RECITATIVO. When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird. Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast ; When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skytt And infant frosts begin to bite. In hoary cranreuch drest ; Ae night at e’en a merry core O’ randie, gangrel bodies. In Poosie Nancy’s held the splore. To drink their orra duddie3 : Wi’ quaffing and laughing. They ranted and they sang; Wi’ jumping and thumping. The vera girdle rang. First, neist the fire, in auld red rag$, Ane sait weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags, And knapsack a’ in order ; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi’ usquebae and blankets warn— She blinket on her sodger : And aye he gies the tozie drab The tither skelpin’ kiss. While she held up her greedy gab Just like an aumos dish (56) 12 120 BURNS’ S POETICAL WORK& Ilk smack still, did crack still. Just like a cadger’s whip. Then staggering* and swaggering He roared this ditty up. AIR. Tune — Soldiers ’ Joy. I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, [come ; And show my cuts and scars wherever I This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, [the drum. When welcoming the French at the sound of Lai de daudle, &c. My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last, [of Abram (57) ; When the bloody die was cast on the heights I served out my trade when the gall aft t game was play’d, [sound of the drum. And the Morro (58) low was laid at the Lai, de daudle, &c. I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt’ries (59), [limb ; And there I left for witness an arm and a Yet let my country need me, with Elliot (60) to head me, [drum. I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a Lai de daudle, &c. And now tho* I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, > [bum. And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet. As when 1 us’d in scarlet to follow & drum. Lai de daudle, &c. What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, [a home, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for When the tother bag I sell, and the tother . bottle tell, [a drum. I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of Lai de daudle, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar ; While frighted rattons backward leuk. And seek the benmost bore ; A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, < He skirl d out “ Encore !’* But up arose the martial chuck. And laid the loud uproar. AIR. Tune — 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 wm jay daddie, No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie. Sing, Lai de lal, &c. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy. Transported I was with my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, [ehurch ; The sword I forsook for the Me of the He ventur’d the soul, and I risk’d the body— ’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal, 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 the fife I wag ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie Sing, Lal, de lal, &c. But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair, Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy. My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. And now I have liv’d — I know not how long And still I can join in a cup and a song ; But whilst with both hands I can hold thg glass steady Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. RECITATIVO. Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk. Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie ; They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk. Between themselves they were sae busy ; At length wi’ drink and courting dizzy. He stoiter’d up and made a face ; Then turn’d, and laid a smack on Grizzie, Syne tuned his pipes wP grave grimace, AIR. Tune— Auld Sir Symon. Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou. Sir Knave is a fool in a session : He’s there but a ’prentice I trow. But I am a fool by profession. My grannie she bought me a beulf^ And I held awa to the school ; I fear I my talent misteuk. But what will ye hae of a fool ? For drink I would venture my neck, A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft. But what could ye other expect. Of ane that’s avowedly daft ? THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 121 I ance was tied up like a stirk; For civilly swearing and quaffin’ ; I ance was abus’d in the kirk. For touzling a lass i’ my daffin. Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport. Let naebody name wi’ a jeer ; There's ev’n, I’m taught, i’ the court A tumbler ca’d the premier. Observ’d ye, yon reverend lad Maks faces to tickle the mob ; He rails at our mountebank squad— Ilfs rivalship just i’ the job. And now my conclusion I’ll tell. For faith I’m confoundedly dry ; The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’, Gude L — d ! he’s far dafter than I. RECITATIVO. Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, Wha keut fu’ weel to cleek the sterling. For monie a pursie she had hooked. And had in mony a well been ducked. Her dove had been a Highland laddie. But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie ! Wi’ sighs and sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman. AIR. Tune — O an ye were de%d Guidman. A Highland lad my love was born. The Lawland laws he held in scorn But he still was faithfu’ to his clan. My gallant braw John Highlandman. CHORUS. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman! Slug, ho, my braw John Highlandman! There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’ Was match for my John Highlandman. With his philabeg and tartan plaid. And guid claymore down by his side. The ladies’ hearts he did trepan. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey, And liv’d like lords and ladies gay ; For a Lawland face he feared none. My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. They banish’d him beyond the sea, But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. But, oh ! they catch’d him at the last. And bound him in a dungeon fast : My curse upon them every one, They’ye bang’d my braw John Highlandman Sing, hey, &c. And now a widow, I must mourn. The pleasurs’s that will ne’er return; No comfort but a hearty can. When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi’ his fiddle, Wha us’d at trysts and fairs to driddk. Her strappin’ limb, and gaucy middle (He reach’d na higher) Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle, . And blawn’t on fire. Wi’ hand on haunch, and upward e’e He croon’d his gamut, one, two, thre*. Then in an arioso key. The wee Apollo Set off wi’ allegretto glee His giga solo. AIR. Tune — Whistle oe'r the lave eft Let me ryke up to dight that tear. And go wi’ me and be my dear. And then you every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o’t. CHORUS. I am a fiddler to my trade. And a’ the tunes that e’er I play'd. The sweetest still to wife or maid. Was whistle owre the lave o’t. At kirns and weddings we’se be there^ And oh ! sae nicely’s we will fare ; We’ll bouse about tillDaddie Care Sings whistle owre the lave o’t. I am, &C. Sae merrily the banes we’ll pyke, And sun oursells about the dyke. And at our leisure, when ye like. We’ll whistle ow’re the lave o’t. I am, &c. But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charm% And while I kittle hair on thairni9. Hunger, cauld, and a sic harms. May whistle ow’re the lave o’t. I am, &c. RECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdy cakr’d* As weel as poor gut-scraper ; He taks the fiddler by the beard, And draws a roosty rapier— BURN? S POETICAL WORKS. 122 He swcor by a’ was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver. Unless he wad from that time forth Relinquish her for ever. Wi’ ghastly e’e, poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended. And pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face. And sae the quarrel ended. But tho* his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her. He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve. When thus the caird address’d her : AIR. Tune — Clout the Caudron. My bonny lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station : I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground In this my occupation : I’ve ta’en the gold. I’ve been enroll’d In many a noble squadron : But vain they search’d, when off I march’d To go and clout the caudron, I’ve tae’n the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp, Wi’ a’ his noise and capon,’ And tak a share wi’ those that bear The budget and the apron. And by that stoup, my faith and houp. And by that dear Kilbagie (61), If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant. May I ne’er weet my craigie. And by that stoup, &c. RECITATIVO. The caird prevail’d — the unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair. And partly she was drunk. Sir Violino, with an air That show’d a man of spunk. Wish’d unison between the pair. And made the bottle clunk To their health that night. But liurchin Cupid shot a shaft. That play’d a dame a shavie. The fiddler raked her fore and aft, Ahint the cl icken cavie. Her lord, a wight o’ Homer’s craft, Tho’ limping wi’ the spavie. He hirpl’d up, and lap like daft. And shor’d them Dainty Davie O’ boot that night He was a care-defying blade A s ever Bacchus .listed, Tho’ Fortune sair upon him hid. His heart she ever miss’d it. He had nae wish but — to be glad. Nor want but — when he thirsted; He had nought but — to be sad. And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night* AIR. Tune — For a ’ that, and a’ f/iat, T am a bard of no regard, Wi’ gentle folks, and a’ that : But Homer-like, the glowrin’ byke, Frae town to town I draw that. CHORUS. For a’ that, and a’ that. And twice as muckle’s a’ that; I’ve lost but ane, I’ve? twa behin/ I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that. I never drank the Muses’ stank, Castalia’s burn and a’ that ; But there it streams, and richly reams. My Helicon I ca’ that. For a’ that, &c. Great love I bear to a’ the fair, Their humble slave, and a’ that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a’ that, &c. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi’ mutual love and a’ that : But for how lang the flee may stang, Let inclination law that. For a’ that, &c. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that ; But clear your decks, and here s the *ex I like the jads for a’ that. CHORUS. For a’ that, and a’ that. And twice as muckle’s a’ that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid. They’re welcome till’t for a’ that. RECITATIVO. So sang the bard — and Nansie’s wa’s Shook with a wonder of applause. Re-echo’d from each mouth : They toom’d their pocks, and pawn'd fed! duds. They scarcely left to co’er their fuds. To quench their lowin’ drougth. Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request. To loose his pack and wale a sang, A ballad o’ the best ; He rising, rejoicing. Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, and found then Impatient for the ehorua. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. m AIR. Tune — Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses. Ste ! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus. And in raptures let us sing. CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected! Liberty’s a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest. What is title ? what is treasure t What is reputation’s care ? If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where ! ' A fig, &c. With the ready trick and fable. Round we wander all the day; And at night in barn or stable. Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove F Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love ! A fig, &c. Life is all a variorum. We regard not how it goes ; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c. Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets ! Here’s to all the wandering train ! Here’s our ragged brats and callets ! One and all cry out — Amen ! A fig for those by law protected ! Liberty’s a glarious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest. 2to raas 3Hato tn Stan. (62) A DIRGE. When chill November’s surly blast Made fields and forests bare. One ev’ning, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man whose aged step Seem’d weary, worn with care ; His face was furrow’d o’er with years. And hoary was his hair. •Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou? ” Began the rev’rend sage : •Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, . Or yo ithful pleasure’s rage ? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man. The sun that overhangs yon moors. Out-spreading far and wide. Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling’s pride : I’ve seen you weary winter-sun Twice forty times return. And ev’ry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. Oh man, while in thy early years^ How prodigal of time ! Misspending all thy precious hours^ Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives nature’s law k That man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime, / Or manhood’s active might ; Man then is useful to his kind. Supported is his right ; But see him on the edge of life. With cares and sorrows worn ; Then age and want — oh ! ill-match’d p*il!-** Show man was made to mourn. A few seem favourites of fate. In pleasure’s lap carest ; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh ! what crowds in every land. All wretched and forlorn ! Thro’ weary life this lesson learn— That man was made to mourn. Many and sharp the num’rous ills Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame ; And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man’s inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn t See yonder poor, o’e^iabour’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, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. If I’m design’d y:ra lordling’s slavit— By Nature’s law designed— Why was an independent wish E’er planted in my mind? 12 124 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. If not., why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ? Yet, let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast ; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born. Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! Oh Death ! the poor man’s dearest friend — The kindest and the best ! Welcome the hour, my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest ! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. From pomp and pleasure tom ! But, oh ! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn ! ” ®n e Mmt, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, November 1785. (63.) Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie. Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie 1 Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle ! I’m truly sorrow man’s dominion Has broken nature’s social union. And justifies that ill opinion. Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion. And fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen icker in a tlirave ’s a sma’ request : I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the laive. And never miss’t ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’ ! And naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green And bleak December’s winds ensuin’, Baith snell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare and w r aste. And weary winter cornin’ fast. And cozie here, beneath the blast, I hou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro’ thy cel L That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble^ Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou’s turn’d out for a’ thy trouble^ But house or haled To thole the winter’s sleety dribble. And cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou ait no thy lane. In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o’ mice and mea* Gang £ft a-gley. And lea’e us nought but grief and paii^ For promis’d joy. Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me 1 The present only toucheth thee : But, och ! I backward cast my e’e^ On prospects drear t And forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess and fear. Sjjf Lisina. DUAN FIRST. (64) The sun had clos’d the winter day. The curlers quat their roaring play (65), And hunger’d maukin ta’en her way To kail-yards green. While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The thresher’s w r eary flin gin’- tree The lee-lang day had tired me ; And when the day had clos’d his e’e. Far i’ the west, Ben i’ the spence (66), right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 1 sat and ey’d the spewing reek. That fill’d wi’ hoast-provoking smeek. The auld clay biggin’ ; And heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin*. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus’d on wasted time. How I had spent my youthfu’ primes And done nae thing. But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme. For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market. Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit My cash-account : While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkife If > a ’ th’ amount. THE VISION. 121 T started, mntt’ring, blockhead! coof l And heav’d on high ray waukit loof. To svveai by a’ yon starry roof. Or some rash aitli, That I henceforth would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath — When, click ! the string the snick did draw ; And, jee ! the door gaed to the \va’ ; And by my ingle-lowe I saw. Now bleezin’ bright, A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw. Come full in sight. Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht ; I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht In some wild gien ; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht. And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted gracefu’ round her brows ; I took her for some Scottish Muse, By that same token. And come to stop those reckless vows, Wou’d soon been broken. A “ hair-brain’d, sentimental trace” Was strongly marked in her face ; A wildiy-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her ; Her eye, ev’n turn’d on empty space. Beam’d keen with honour. Down flow’d her robe a tartan sheen. Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean Could only peer it ; Sae thought, sae taper, tight and clean, Nane else came near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue. My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand ; And seem’d, to my astonish’d view, A well-know i land. Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; There, mountains to the skies were tost : Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast With surging foam There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast. The lordly dome. Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his woods. On to the shore, And many a lesser torrent scuds. With seeming roar. Low in a sandy valley spread, - An anaent borough rear’d her head (67) ; Still, as in Scottish story read. She boasts a race, Tc ev’ry nobler virtue bred, And polish’d grace. By stately tow’r or palace fair. Or ruins pendent in the air. Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern ; Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to darsfe With feature stern. My heart did glowing transport feel. To see a race (68) heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy’d steel In sturdy blows ; While back-recoiling seem’d to reel Their suthron foes. His Country’s Saviour (69), mark him well 1 Bold Richardton’s (70) heroic swell ; The chief on Sark (71) who glorious fell In high command ; And he whom ruthless fates expel His native iand. There, wdiere a sceptr’d Pictish shade (72) Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid, I mark’d a martial race, portray’d In colours strong; Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismayed They strode along. Thro’ many a wild romantic grove (73), Near many a hermit-fancy’d cove (Fit haunts for friendship or for love). In musing mood. An aged judge, I saw him rove. Dispensing good. With deep-struck reverential awe (74), The learned sire and son I saw (75), To Nature’s God and Nature’s law They gave their lore, This, all its source and end to draw; That, to adore. Brydone’s brave ward (76) I well could spy Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye ; Who call’d on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a patriot-name on iugh And hero shone. DUAK SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish’d stare^ I view’d the heav’nly-seeming fair ; A whisp’ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet. When with an elder sisters’s ai? She did me greet. \26 BUllNS’S POETICAL WORKS. u All hail! my own inspired bard! In me thy native Muse regard ! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Tlius poorly low ! I come to give thee such regard As we bestow. ICn aw, the great geniu3 of this land Has many a light, aerial band, Who, all beneath his high command, H armoniously. As arts or arms they understand. Their labours ply. They Scotia’s race among them share ; Some fire the soldier on to dare ; Some raise the patriot on to bare Corruption’s heart : £cme teach the bard, a darling care. The tuneful art. *Mong swelling floods of reeking gore; They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; Or, ’mid the venal senate’s roar. They, sightless, stand. To mend the honest patriot-lore. And grace the hand. And when the bard, or hoary sage. Charm or instruct the future age. They bind the wild, poetic rage In energy. Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; Hence Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue ; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His f Minstrel lays ; * Or tore, with nobler ardour stung, The sceptic’s bays. To lower orders are assign’d The humbler ranks of human-kind. The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind. The artizan ; AT choose, as various they’re inclin’d. The various man. W hen yellow waves the heavy grain. The threatening storm some, strongly, rein: Some teach to meliorate the plain. With tillage-skill ; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe'o’er the hill. Some hint the lover’s harmless wile ; Some grace the maiden’s artless smile; Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil. For humble gains, And mak his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains. Borne, bounded to a district-space. Explore at large man’s infant race. To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard ; And careful note each op’ning grac^ A guide and guard. Of these am I — Coila my name (77) J And this district as mine I claim. [farae^ Where cnce the Campbells ( 78 ), diefs oi Held ruling pow’r : I mark’d thy embryo tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. With future hope, I oft would gas^ Fond, on thy little early ways. Thy rudely caroll’d, chiming phrase. In uncouth rhymes. Fir’d at the simple, artless lays. Of other times. I saw thee seek the sounding shore. Delighted with the dashing roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through the sky, I saw grim nature’s visage hoar Struck thy young eye. Or when the deep green -man tied earth Warm cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth. And joy and music pouring forth In ev’ry grove, I saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. When ripen’d fields, and azure skies, Called forth the reaper’s rustling noise^ I saw thee leave their evening joys. And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise In pensive walk. When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th’ adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song. To soothe thy flame. I saw thy pulse’s maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way. Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray. By passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Hepven. I taught thy manners-painting strains. The loves, the ways of simple swaias. Till now, o’er all my wide domains Thy fame extends ; And some, the; pride of Coila’s plains. Become thy friends. Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow ; Or wake the bosom-melting throe. With Shenstone’s art; Or pour^ with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. THE AUTHOR’S EARNEST CRY. 12T Yet, all beneath the unrivall’d rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; Tho : ' large the forest’s monarch throw* His army shade. Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade. Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And, trust me, not Potosi’s mine. Nor king’s regard, Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, A rustic bard. To give my counsels all in one — Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; Preserve the dignity of man. With soul erect; And trust, the universal plan Will all protect. And wear thou this” — she solemn said. And bound the holly round my head : The polish’d leaves, and berries red. Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ffifj? Mjnr's SsmA ®nj anfr |5raijrr TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN TIIE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (79) ** Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! How art thou lost 1” — Parody on Milton. Ye Irish lords, ye knights and squires, Wha represent our brughs and shires. And doucely manage our affairs In parliament. To you a simple Bardie’s prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roopit Muse is hearse ! Your honour’s heart wi’ grief ’twad pierce* To see her sittin’ on her a — Low i’ the dust. And scriecliin’ out prosaic verse, And like to brust ! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland and me’s in great affliction, E’er sin' they laid that curst restriction On aqua vitae ; And reuse them up to strong conviction. And move their pity. Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth (80), The honest, open, naked truth : Tell him o’ mine and Scotland’s drouth. His servants humble : The rauckle devil blaw ye south. If ye dissemble l Does ony great man gircneb. and gloom? Speak out, and never fas your thoorn ! Let posts and pensions sink or soom W’ them wha grant ’em* If honestly they canna come. Ear better want ’em. In gathrin’ votes you were na slack ; Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Ne’er claw your lug, and lidge your back. And hum and haw ; But raise your arm, and tell your crack Before them a’. Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle. Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle; And d-mn’d excisemen in a bussle. Seizin’ a stell. Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel Or lampit shell. Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a’ kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, But feels his heart’s bluid rising ho£ To see his poor auld mither’s pot Thus dung in staves. And plundered o’ her hindmost groat By gallows knaves ? Alas ! I’m but a nameless wight, Trod i’ the mire out o’ sight ! But could I like Montgomeries fight (81), Or gab like Boswell (82), There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight^ And tie some hose well. God bless your honours, can ye see’t. The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet. And no get warmly to your feet. And gar them hear it. And tell them, with a patriot heat. Ye winua bear it ? Some o* you nicely ken the laws. To round the period and pause. And wi’ rhetoric clause on clause To male harangues ; Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Auld Scotland’s wrangs, Dempster (83), atrueblue Scot I'se warran’, Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran (84) And that glib-gabbet Highland baron, The Laird o’ Graham (85) ; Aud ane, a chap that’s d-mn’d auldfarran, Dundas his name. (86) 128 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Erskine (87), a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick (8e>) and Ilay (89) ; And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; And monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully May’n own for brithers. See’ sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented. If bardies e’er are represented ; I ken if that your sword were wanted. Ye’d lend a hand. But when there’s ought to say anent it. Ye’re at a stand. (90) Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; Or faith ! I’ll wad my now pleugh-pettle. Ye'll see’t ere lang, fche’ll teach you wi’ a reekin’ whittle, Anither sang. This while she’s been in crankus mood, Her lost militia fir’d her bluid ; (Deil na they never mair do guid. Play’d her that pliskie !) And now she’s like to run red-wud About her whisky. And L — d ! if ance they pit her till’fc. Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, And durk and pistol at her belt. She’ll tak the streets. And rin her whittle to the hilt, I’ th’ first she meets ! For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair. And straik her cannie wi’ the hair. And to the muckle house repair, Wi’ instant speed. And strive, wi’ a’ your wit and lear. To get remead. Yon ill-tor.gu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks ; But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks ! E’en cowe the cadie ! An send him to his dicing box And sportin’ lady. Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s (91), I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks (92), And drink his health in auld Nause Tin- nock’s (93) Nine times a-week, if he some scheme, like tea and winnocks (94), Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach. I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He’ll need na fear their foul reprof :h. Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. The Coalition. Auld Scotland l>as a raucle tongua $ She’s juit a devil wi’ a rung ; And if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung; She’ll no desert. And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your mither’s heart support yej Then, though a minister grow dorty. And kick your place, Ye’ll snap your fingers poor and hearty; Before his face. God bless your honours a’ your days, Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise. In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes. That haunt St. Jamies! Your humble Poet sings and prays. While Rab his name is* POSTCRIPT. Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skie* See future wines, rich clust’ring, rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies. But blythe and frisky. See eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms. While fragrance blooms and beauty charmA When wretches range, in famish’d swarms* The scented groves. Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun’s a burthen on their shoulther ; They downa bide the stink o’ powther ; Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swithel To stan’ or rin. Till skelp — a shot — they’re atf, a’throwther; To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. Say such is royal George’s will. And there’s the foe. Fie has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease himj Death comes — wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him ; And when he fa’s. His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’s hha In faint huzzas ! Sages their solemn een may steek. And raise a philosophic reek. And physically causes seek, In clime and season ; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek, I’ll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather. SCOTCH DEINK. Till wiare ye sit, on craps o’ heather Ye tine your dam ; jfoecdom and whisky gang thegither !— - Take aif your dram ! Thou art the life o’ public haunts ; B it thee, what were our fairs and rants? Y. /’n godly meetings o’ the saunts. By thee inspir’d. Alien gaping they besiege the tents (98), Are doubly fir’d. frnfrjr Drink. * Gie him strong drink, until he vrink, That’s sinking in despair; And liquor guid to fire his bl\ id, That’s prest w’ grief and ca e ; There let him bouse, and deep carouse, Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er Till he forgets his loves or de* ts. jj And minds his griefs no me re.” (95.) i Solomon’s Pkovelb^ xxxi, 6, 7. [ , i Let other poets raise a fracas, 1 ’Bout vines, and wines, and dr /ken Bacchus, 1 And crabbit names and stores wrack us, \ And grate o «r lug, > I sing the juice Scotch bee? can mak us. In glass or jug. , Oh thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink; Whether thro’ wimplin’ worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o’er the brink. In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, To sing thy name ! Let husky wheat the hauglis adorn, A) d aits set up their awnie horn, And ut:as and beans, at e’en or morn. Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o’ grain ! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. In sou pie scones, the wale o’ food ! Or tumblin’ in the boilin’ flood Wi’ kail and beet ; But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood, There thou shines chief, Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin’; Tho’ life’s a gift- no worth receivin’, W hen heavy dragg’d wi’ pine and grievin’ ; But, oil’d by thee. The wheels o’ life gae down-hill scrievin’, Wi rattlin’ glee, Thoi: clears the head o’ doited Lear : Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care ; Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour /air, At’s weary toil ; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi’ gloomy smile. A ft clad in massy, siller weed, Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head (98) ; Yet humbly kind in time o’ need, The poor man’s wine. Hi* wee drap parti tch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. (S7) That merry night we get the com in. Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in! Or reekin’ on a new-year morning In cog or bicker, A.nd just a wee drap sp’ritual bum in. And gusty sucker ! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath. And ploughmen gather wi’ their graith. Oh rare! to see thee fiz*z and freath I* th’ lugget caup ! Then Burnewin comes on like death At ev’ry chap. Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel. The strong forehammer. Till block and studdie ring and reel Wi’ dinsome clamour. When skirlin’ weanies see the light. Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight j Wae worth the name 1 Nae howdie gets a social night. Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea. And just as wud as wud can be. How easy can the barley-bree Cement the quarrel I It3 aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee. To taste the barrel. Alake ! that e’er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason l But monie daily w r eet their weasoa Wi’ liquors nice. And hardly, in a winter’s season. E’er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! Fell source o’ monie a pain and brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash* O’ half his days ; And sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well. Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. Poor plackless devils like mysel. It sets you ill, Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell. Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench. And gouts torment hnn inch by ind^ BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. 13C Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a gluuch O’ sour disdain, Out owre a glass o’ whisky punch Wi’ honest men ! Oh whisky ! soul }’ plays and pranks ! Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! Thou comes they rattle i’ their ranks At ither’s a — ! Thee, Ferintosh ! oh sadly lost ! (99) Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! Now colic grips, and barkin’ hoast. May kill us a’ ; For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast, Is ta’en awa ! Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells their prize ! Haud up thy han’, Deil ! ance, twice, thrive ! There, seize the blinkers 1 And bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d — nd drinkers. Fortune ! if thou’ 11 but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill. And rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak a’ the rest. And deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. Stoss in ifre ftnrn OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 41 My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither ; ^ The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither ; The cleanest corn that e’er was dight Mav hae some pyles o’ caff in ; So ne’er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o’ daffin.” Solomon— Eccles. vii, 16. Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy. Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell Your neebour’s fauts and folly ! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. Supplied wi’ store o’ water. The heaped hap^er’s ebbing still. And still the clap plays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable co^e. As counsel for poor metals. That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door For glaiket Folly’s portals ; I, for their thoughtless, c \reless sakes. Would here propoi e d fences. Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. Their failings and mischance's. Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d. And shudder at the niffer. But cast a moment' s fair regard. What maks the mighty differ ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in. And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) Your better art o’ hiding. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, W r hat ragings mustdiis veins convulse^ That still eternal gallop : Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail. Right on ye scud your sea-way ; But in the teeth o’ baith to sail. It maks an unco lee-way. See social life and glee sit down. All joyous and unthinking. Till, quite transmugrified, they’re growa Debaucher^and drinking : Oh would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences ; Or your more dreaded hell to states D-mnation of expenses ! Ye high, exalted, virtuous dame*. Tied up in godly laces. Before ye gie poor frailty names. Suppose a change o’ cases ; A dear lov’d lad, convenience snu^ A treacherous inclination — But, let me whisper i’ your lug. Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. Then gently scan your brother maik. Still gentler sister woman ; Though they may gang a kennin’ % To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly du\ The moving why they do it : And just as lamely can ye ma.k. How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, ’tis lie dons Decidedly can try us. He knows each chord — its various tosv Each spring — its various bias : Then at the balance let’s be mute. We never can adjust it ; What’s done we partly may compute But know not what’s resisted. Cara larasnu’5 filrp. 44 An honest man’s the noblest work of God.* Pope. Has anld Kilmarnock seen the deil ? Or great M'Kinlay (100) thrawn his heel? Q? Robertson (101) again grown wed. To preach and read? DESPONDENCY. 131 * Na, wa ir than a’ ! ” cries ilka chiel — Tam Samson’s dead ! Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane. And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane, And deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, In mourning weed ; To death, she’s dearly paid the kane — - Tam Samson’s dead ! The brethren o’ the mystic level M ay hing their head in woefu’ bevel, ‘While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony head ; Death’s gi’en the lodge an unco devel — Tam Samson’s dead l When winter muffles up his cloak. And binds the mire like, a rock ; W hen to the lochs the curlers flock Wi’ gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock ? — • Tam Samson’s dead ? He was the king o’ a’ the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o’ need ; But now he lags on death’s hog-score — Tam Samson’s dead ! Now safe the stately sawmont sail. And trouts be-dropp’d vvi’ crimson hail, — And eels weel kenn’d for souple tail. And geds for creed, Since dark in death’s tish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead ! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’ ; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw, Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa’ — Tam Samson’s dead ! That woefu mourn be ever mourn’d Saw him in shootin’ graith adorn’d. While pointers round impatient burn’d, Frae couples freed; But, och ! he gaed and ne’er return’d ! — Tam Samson’s dead 1 In vain auld age his body batters; In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns cam’ down like waters. An acre braid ! Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin’, clatters, Tam Samson’s dead ! Owre many a weary bag he limpit. And aye the tither shot he tliumpit. Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi* deadly feide ; Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet, Tam Samson’s dead ! W r hen at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger. 1 But yet he drew tie mortal trigger Wi’ weel- aim d heed; "L — d, five*” he cried, and owre did stagger — Tam Samson’s dead ! Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither ; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father; You auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Wliare Burns lias wrote, in rhyming blether Tam Samson’s dead ! There now he lies, in lasting rest ; Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest. To hatch and breed ; Alas ! nae mair he’ll them molest !— - Tam Samson’s dead ! When August winds the heather wave. And sportsmen wander by yon grave. Three volleys let his mem’ry crave O’ pouther and lead. Till echoe answer frae her cave, Tam Samson’s dead ! Heav’n rest his saul, whare’er he be ! Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me ; He had twa fauts, or maybe three. Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man want we : Tam Samson’s dead! EPITAPH. Tam Samson’s weel worn clay here liea^ Ye canting zealots spare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye’ll mend or ye win near him. PER CONTRA. Jo, Fame, and canter like a filly Thro’ e the streets and neuks o’ Killie (102\ Tell ev’ry social, honest billy To cease his grievin’. For yet, unskaith’d by death’s gleg gulli*, Tam Samson’s livin’ (103) ! Djspniranj. AN ODE. Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with caw% A burden more than I can bear, I set me down and sigh ; Oh life ! thou art a galling load. Along a rough, a weary road. To wretches such as I ! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sick’ning scenes appear ! W T hat sorrows yet may pierce me thro?. Too justly I may tear l 13 132 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Still caring, despairing. Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne’er But with the closing tomb 1 Happy, ye sons of busy life. Who, equal to the bustling strife. No other view regard ! Ev’n when the wished end’s denied. Yet wdhle the busy means are plied. They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight* Unfitted with an aim. Meet ev’ry sad returning night And joyless morn the same; You, bustling, a^d justling, Forget each grief and pain; I listless, yet restless. Find every prospect vain. How blest the solitary’s lot, Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot. Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling rootl^ Sits o’er his newly-gather’d fruits. Beside his crystal well ! Or haply to his ev’ning thought. By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream ; While praising and raising His thoughts to heav’n on high. As wand’ring, meand’ring. He views the solemn sky. Than I, no lonely hermit plac’d Where never human footstep trac’d. Less fit to play the part ; The lucky moment to improve. And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art : But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys. Which I too keenly taste. The solitary can despise. Can want, and yet be blest ! He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate. Whilst I here, must cry here At perfidy ingrate 1 Oh! enviable, early days. When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze. To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchang’d for riper times. To feel the follies, or the crimes. Of others or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless spor^ Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court. When manhood is your wish! I he losses, the crosses. That active man engage ! ^he fears all. the tears all. Of dint jjedming age l ®1)E Cnitrr’s Mttrhtj Jligijt. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKIN, ESQ. ao# “ Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor.” (105)— Gray. My loved, my honour’d, much respected friend. No mercenary bard his homage pays : With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : [praise : My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene ; [ways ; The native feelings strong, the guileless What Aitken in a cottage would have been ; [there, I w een. Ah ! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier November chill blaw r s loud wi’ angry sough ; [close ; The short’ning winter- day is near a The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; [repose : The black’ning trains o’ craws to their The toil-w orn Cotter frae his labour goes. This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, [spend, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th’ expectant wee things toddlin, stacher thro’ [and glee. To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin’ nois® His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnily. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, [his toil. And make,} him quite forget his labour and Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. At service out amang the farmers roun’, Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town ; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, [e’e. In youthfu’ bloom, love sparklin’ in her Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra’ new gown. Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hard* ship be. THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. 134 With joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet, [spiers : And each for other’s weelfare kindly The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet ; [hears ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi’ her needle a* d her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weeks the new ; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. Their master’s and their mistress’s com- mand. The younkers a’ are warned to obey ; And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, [play ; And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or "And oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ! Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might : Lord aright ! ” They never sought in vain that sought the But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door, [same, Jenny wha kens the meaning o’ the Tells how a neibor lad cam o’er the moor. To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek, [name, Wi’ heart-struck anxious care, inquires his While Jenny hafllins is afraid to speak ; eel pleas’d the mother hears it’s nae wild worthless rake. Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; [e’e ; A strappin youth ; he taks the mether’s 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 lathefu’, scarce can weel behave ; [spy The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can W hat makes the youth sae baslifu’ an’ sae grave ; Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. Oh happy love !— where love like this is found ! [compare ! Oh heart -felt raptures; bliss beyond I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round. And sage experience oids me this de- clare — [spare, " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure One cordial in this melancholy vale,- *Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale, [the ev’ning gale.’* Beneath the milk-white thorn that scent* Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! — That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth ? [smooth I Curse on his perjur’d arts ! dissembling Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o’er their child ? [traction wild ? Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their dis- But now the supper crowns their simple board, [food ; The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’* The soupe their only hawkie does afford. That ’yont the liallan snugly chows her cood : [mood* The dame brings forth, in compliinental To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d keb- luck, fell. And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell. The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace. The big ha’-bible, ance his father’s pride; His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care ; And “Let us worship God ! ” he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; [aim : They tune their hearts, by far the noblest Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise, [name. Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame. The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays .* Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame ; [raise'; The tickl’d ear ro heart-felt rapture# Nae unison hae they with our Creator* praise. .134 BURNS 3 POETICAL W0EK3. The prie3t If Ve father reads the sacred page- - [high ; IIow Abram was the friend of God on Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny ; ©r how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire ; Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic tire ; FY other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme— (shed ; IIow guiltless blood for guilty man was How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, [head : Had not on earth whereon to lay his How his first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he, who lone in Patmos banished. Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; Ind heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounced by Heaven’s command. Then kneeling down to Heaven’s eter- nal King, [prays : The saint, the father, and the husband Hope “ springs exulting on triumphant wing,” (106) [days : That thus they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays. No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator’s praise. In such society, yet still more dear ; IChile circling time moves round in an eter- nal sphere. Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride. In all the pomp of method, and of art, "When men display to congregations wide. Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart ! The pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will de- sert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, iu some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul ; [enrol. And in his book of life the inmates poor Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent -pair their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heaven the warm re- quest, [nest. That He, who stills the raven’s clam’rous And decks tl e lily fair in flow’ry pride. Would, in the we; y his wisdom sees the beat* For them and for their tittle ones provides But, chiefly, in then hearts. with grace divina preside. From scenes like these old Scotia’s gran- deur springs, [abroad : That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, [God i 19 “ An honest man’s the noblest work of And certes, in fair virtue’s heav’nly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordlmg’s pomp ? — a cumbrous load, [kind Disguising oft the wretch of human Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d! Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content l [prevent And oh! may Heaven their simple lives From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile 1 Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much- lov’d isle. Oh Thou ! who pour’d the patriotic tide That stream’d through Wallace’s un- daunted heart. Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die the second glorious part, (The patriot’s God, peculiarly thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- ward !) Oh never, never, Scotia’s realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, [guard ! In bright succession raise, her ornament and ®n a JHmrataia Daisq. IN TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THB PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 . ( 107 ) 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 i3 past my pow’r. Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it’s no thy neibor sweet. The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the deivy weet I Wi’ speckl’d breast, When up-ward- spri aging, blythe, to greeS The purpling east. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 153 Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 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 flowers our gardens yield. High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield : But thou, beneath the random bield O’ clod or stane. Adorn the histie stibble-field. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad. Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head. In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betray’d. And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid Low i’ the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard. Oh life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore. Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er ! Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n. Who long with wants and woes has striv’n. By human pride or cunning driv’n To mis’ry’s brink, Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heav’n, He, ruin’d, sink ! Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate. That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom. Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight. Shall be thy doom. In a f%ung /rirai may, 1796. (108) I LANG hae thought, my youthfu’ friend, A something to have sent you. Though it should serve nae other end Thau just a kind momento ; But how the subject-theme may gang. Let time and chance determine ; 'Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Pbrhaps turn out a sermon. Ye’ll try the world fu* soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me. Ye ll find mankind an unco squad. And muckle they may grie\e ye: For care and trouble set vour thought, Ev n when your ends attained; And a’ your views may come to nought^ Where ev’ry nerve is strained. I’ll no say men are villains a’ : The real, harden’d wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law. Are to a few restricked But, och ! mankind are unco weak. And little to be trusted ; If self the wavering balance shake. It’s rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa’ in fortune s strife. Their fate we should na censure, For still th’ important end of life. They equally may answer ; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho’ poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neibor’s part. Yet liae no cash to spare him. Aye free, aff han, your story tell. When wi’ a bosom crony ; But still keep something to yoursel Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel as weel’s ye can Frae critical dissection ; But keek through ev’ry other man, Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love. Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th’ illicit rove, Tho’ naething should divulge iti I waive the quantum o’ the sin. The hazard of concealing ; But, och ! it hardens a’ within. And petrifies the feeling ! To catch dame Fortune’s golden t&siku Assiduous wait upon her ; And gather gear by ev’ry wile That’s justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge. Nor for a train-attendant. But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip To haud the wretch in order ; But where ye feel your honour grip. Let that aye be your border : Its slightest touches, instaut pau»~* Debar a’ side pretences ; And resolutely keeps its laws* Uncaring consequences. 13 * 136 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature. But still the preaching can forbear. And e’en the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist laugh’s a poor exchange For Deity offended ! When ranting round in pleasure’s riag, Religion may be blinded ; Or if she gie a random sting. It may be little minded ; But when on life we’re tempest driv*n, A conscience but a canker, A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n Is sure a noble anchor ! Adieu ! dear, amiable youth Your heart can ne’er be wanting ! May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow uudaunting ! In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,” Still daily to grow wiser : And may you better reck the rede Than ever did th’ adviser ! 1 Driiratiira in fanin Santilimr, fsij. (109) Expect na, sir, in this narration, A fleeching, fleth’rin dedication, To roose you up, and ca’ you guid. And sprung o’ great and noble bluid, Because ye’re surnam’d like his grace ; Perhaps related to the race ; Then when I’m tir’d, and sae are ye, Wi’ mony a fulsome, sinfu’ lie, Set up a face, how I stop short. For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do, sir, wi’ them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; For me ! — sae laigh I needna bow. For, lord be thankit, 1 can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, 1 can beg ; Sae I shall say, and that’s nae flatt’rin*. It’s just sic poet, and sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, L fear some ill ane skelp him. He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet. But only he’s no just begun yet. The Patron (sir, ye maun forgive me, I winna lie, come what will o’ me). On ev’ry hand it will ahowed be, He’» just— nae better than he should be. | I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want ; What’s no his aim he winna fak it, Wbat ance he says he winna break ft ; Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t Till aft his goodness is abus’d; And rascals whyles that do him wiang, Ev’n that, ho does na mind it lang : As master, landlord, husband, father. He does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a’ that ; Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that; It’s naething but a milder feature. Of our poor sinfu’, corrupt nature : Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works, ’Mang black Gentoos and pagau Turks, Or hunter’s wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he’s the poor man’s friend in need. The gentleman in word and deed, / It’s no thro’ terror of d-mu-tion ; It’s just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, * Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice 1 No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back ; Seal thro’ a winnock frae a wh-re. But point the rake that taks the door ; Be to the poor like ony whunstane. And haud their noses to the grunstane* Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving ! No matter — stick to sound believing! Learn three-mile pray’rs, and half-mile graces, WY weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan. And damu a’ parties but your own ; I’ll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. Oh ye wha leaves the springs o’ Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your am delvin’ 1 Ye sons of heresy and error. Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath. And in the lire throws the sheath ; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. Just frets, till heav’n commission giei him : While o’er the harp pale Mis’ry moan9. And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones. Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans 1 Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 1 maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me. My readers still are sure to loss luo. A DREAM. m Sc, Sir, ye see ”twas me daft vapour. But I maturely thought it proper. When a’ my woaks I did review. To dedicate them. Sir, to you : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something lik yoursel. Then patronise them wi’ your favour. And your petitioner shall ever I had amaist said, ever pray. But that’s a word I need na say : For prayin’ I hae little skill o’t ; I’m baith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't ; But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r. That kens or hears about you. Sir — “ May ne’er misfortune’s growling bark, Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk ! May ne’er his gen’rous, honest heart. For that same gen’rous spirit smart ! May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name Lang beet his hymeneal flame. Till Ilamiltons, at least a dizen. Are by their canty fireside risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout and able To serve their king and country weel. By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! May health and peace, with mutual rays. Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days. Till his wee curlie J ohn’s ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow.” I will not wind a lang conclusion. With complimentary effusion : But whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with fortune’s smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which pow’rs above prevent) That iron- hearted carl. Want, Attended in his grim advances. By sad mistakes and black mischances. While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am. Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor! But, by a poor man’s hopes in Heav’u l While recollection’s power is giv’n. If, in the vale of humble life. The victim sad of fortune’s strife, I, thro’ the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear. If friendless, low, we meet together, Then Sir, your hand — my friend and bro- ua. I In™. ‘‘Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason : [treason.” (110) But surely dreams were ne’er indicted Guid-mornin’ to your Majesty ! May Heaven augment your blisses On ev’ry new birth- day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! My hardship here, at your levee; On sic a day as this is, la sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresse* Sae line this day. I see ye’re complimented throng. By many a lord and lady ; “ God save the king ! ” ’s a cuckoo sang That’s unco easy said aye ; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d and ready. Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrong; But aye unerring steady. On sic a day. For me ! before a monarch’s face, Ev’n there I winna flatter ; For neither pension, post, nor places Am I your humble debtor : So, nae reflection on your grace. Your kingship to bespatter ; There’s mony waur been o’ the rac#. And aiblms ane been better Than you this day. ’Tis very true, my sov’reign king, My skill may weel be doubted But facts are duels that winna ding; And downa be disputed : Your royal nest, beneath your wing. Is e’en right reft and clouted. And now the third part of the string; And less, will gang about it Than did ae day. Far be’t frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. To rule this mighty nation ! But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire; Ye’ve trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. Wad better fill’d their station Than courts yon day! And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace| Her broken shins to plaister ; Your sair taxation does her fleece. Till she has scarce a tester; For me, thank God, my life’s a lease; Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith ! I fear, that, wi’ the geese; I shortly boost to pasture I’ the craft some day. m BUKNS’S POETICAL WOEK3. I*m no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (And Will’s a true guid fallow’s get (111) A name not envy spairges). That he intends to pay your debt, Ai d lessen a’ your charges ; But. G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit Abridge yourbonnie barges (112) And boats this day. Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek Beneath your high protection ; And may ye rax corruption’s neck, And gie her for dissection ! But since I’m here. I’ll no neglect. In loyat, true affection, To pay your Uueen, with due respect. My fealty and subjection This great birth-day. Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! WTiile nobles strive to please ye. Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gies you ? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent. Still higher may they heeze ye fn bliss, till fate some day is sent. For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails, I : m tauld ye’re driving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails. And curse your folly sairly. That e’er ye brak Diana's pales. Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie (113), By night or day. iet aft a ragged cowte's been known To mak a noble aiver ; €o, ye may doucely fill a throne. For a’ their clish-ma-claver : There, him at Agincourt wha shone. Few better were or braver ; And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John, He was an unco shaver For monie a day (114.) For you right rev’rend Osnaburg (115), INane secs the lawn-sleeve sweeter, iltho’ a ribbon at your lug, Wa 1 been a dress completer : As ye disown yon pauglitv dog That bears the keys of Peter, Tnen, swith ! and get awife to hug. Or, trouth! y i’ll stain the mitre, Some luckless day. Toung, "oyal Tarry Breeks (116), I learn. Ye’ve lately come athrawt her; 4 glorious galley \ 117), stem and stern, Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter; j But first hang out, that she *11 disc^a I Your hymeneal chartei, Then heave aboard your grapple aim, And, large upon her quarter, Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’. Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav’n mak ye guid as well as braw. And gie you lads a-plenty : But sneer na British boys awa’. For kings are unco scant eye ; And German gentles are but sma’, They’re better just than want ay# On onie day. God bless you a’ ! consider now. Ye’re unco muckle dautet ; But ere the course o’ life be thro*. It may be bitter sautet : And I hae seen their coggie fou. That yet hae tarrow’t at it ; But or the day was done, I trow. The luggen they hae clautet Fu’ clean that day. a Sari’s €pitapjj. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre-blate to seek, owre proud to snool. Let him draw near ; And owre this grassy heap sing dool. And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song. Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. That weekly this area throng. Oh, pass not by ! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear. Can others teach the course to steer. Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, Wild as the w 7 ave ; Here pause — and, through the starting te& 2 | Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below. Was quick to learn, and wdse to know; And keenly felt the friendly glow. And softer flame ; But thoughtless follies laid him low. And stain’d his name! Deader, attend — whether thy soul Soar’s fancy’s flights beyond the pole. Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious self- control Is wisdom’s root. TIIE TWA DOGS. ®ljt Sma lags, A TALE. (118) WAS in that place o’ Scotland’s isle That bears the name o’ Auld King Coil (119), Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing through 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 Caesar, Was keepit for his honour’s pleasure ; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailor’s gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar Show’d him the gentleman and scholar ; But though he was o’ high degree. The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour caressing E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messin’. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though ere sae duddie. But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, And stroan’t on stanes and hillocks wi’ him. The tither was a ploughman’s collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had I math ca’d him. After some dog in Highland sang (120), Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. He was a gash and faithful tyke. As ever lap or sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face. Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; His gaucie tale, wi’ upward curl, Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, A nd unco pack and thick thegither : Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit. Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkifc ; Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, And worried ither in diversion ; Until wi’ datfin’ weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down. And there began a lang digression About the lords o’ the creation. CASSAR. JVe aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; And when the gentry’s life I saw. What way poor bodies liv’d ava. Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, liia kain, and a’ his stents; 1Z* He rises when he likes him Eel ; 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, through the stteft^ The vellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e’en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; And though the gentry first are stechin. Yet e’en the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi* sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie: That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. Better than ony tenant man His hanour has in a’ the lan’ ; And what poor cot-folk pit their pamch ia» I own its past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Csesar, whyles they’re fash’t enough; A cotter howkin’ in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty staues biggin’ a dyke. Baring a quarry, and sic like ; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans, And nought but his hau’ dark, to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi’ sair disasters. Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters. Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. And they maun starve o’ cauld or hunge*; But, how it comes, I never kenn’d yet, Theyre’ maistly wonderfu’ contented : And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies. Are bred in sic a way as this is. €JE SAR. But then to see how ye’re neglecit. How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit 1 L — d, man, our gentry care as little For del vers, ditchers, and sic cattle, They gang as saucy by poor folk. As I wad by a stinkin’ brock. I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day. And mony a time my heart’s been wa$, Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash. How they maun thole a factor’s snash ; He’ll stamp and threaten, curse and swear. He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humbly And hear it a’, and fear and tremble I I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches! LUATH. They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think; Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink ; They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight. The viiw ot gies them little fright. no BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS Then chance and fortune are sae guided. They’re aye in less or mair provided ; And th-o’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment, A blink o’ rest’s sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o’ their lives, Their grushie weans and faithfu’ wives ; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a’ their tire-side ; And whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy Can make the bodies unco happy ; They lay aside their private cares. To mind the Kirk and State atfairs : They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests, Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts. Or tell what new taxation’s coming And ferlie at the folk in Lon’ on. As bleak-fac’d Hallowmas returns. They get the jovial, ranting kirns. When rural life, o’ ev’ry station. Unite in common recreation ; Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth. That merry day the year begins. They bar the door on frosty win’s ; The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream. And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill. Are handed round wi’ right guid will ; The cantie auld folks crackin’ crouse. The young anes rantin’ thro’ the house — My heart has been sae fain to see them. That I for joy hae barkit wit’ them. Still it’s owre true that ye hae said. Sic game is now owe aften play’d. There’s monie a creditable stock O’ decent, honest, fawsont fo’k. Are riven out baitfc root and branch, Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha’ aiblins thrang a parliamentin’, Tor Britain’s guid his saul indentin’ — — cmsAU. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; For Britain’s guid ! guid faith, I doubt it. Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. And saying ay or no’s they bid him : At operas and plays parading. Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or may be, in a frolic daft. To Hague or Calais takes a waft. To mak a tour and tak a whirl. To learn bun ton , and see the wort*. There' at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father’s atdd entails; Or by Madrid he takes the route, Tj thrum guitars, andfecht wi’ nowte; Or down Italian vista startles, W-re hunting at lang groves o’ myrtle* } Then bouses drumly German water. To mak himsel’ look fair and fatter, And clear the consequential sorrows. Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain’s guid ! — for her destructiott! Wi’ dissipation, feud, and faction. LUATH. Hech man ! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate l Are we sae foughten and harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last ! Oh would they stay aback frae courts. And please themselves wi’ countra sports, It wad for ev’ry ane be better. The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter! For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies, Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows ; Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer. Or speakin’ lightly o’ their limmer. Or shootin’ o’ a hare or moor-cock. The ne’er a bit they’re ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e’er can steer them. The vera thought o’t need na fear them, CiESAR. L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em. It’s true, they needna starve or sweat. Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat ; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes* And fill auld age wi’ grips and granes ; But human bodies are sic fools. For a’ their colleges and schools. That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themselves to vex them ; And aye the less they hae to sturt them. In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh. His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country girl at her w heel. Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel: But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst, Wi’ ev’n down want o’ w r ark are curst; They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; Tho’ deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless ; And e’en their sports, their balls and rarje% Their gallopping thro’ public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art. The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches. Then sawther a’ in deep debauches; LAMENT. Ul A« night they’re mad wi’ drink and wh-ring, i Niest day their life is past enduring. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, J As great and gracious a’ as sisters ; | But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither. They’re a’ nm deils and jads thegither. j Whyles, o’er the wee bit cup and platie, [ They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee-iang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks. Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard. And cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard. There’s some exception, man and woman ; But this is Gentry’s life in common. By this, the sun was out o’ sight And darker gloaming brought the night : The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin’ i’ the loan ; When up they gat, and shook their lugs. Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs ; And each took off his several way. Resolv’d to meet some ither day. faraint, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND’S AMOUR. (121) * Alas ! how oft does goodness w T ound itself ! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe ! ” Home I Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines. While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! Thou seest a wretch who inly pines. And wanders here to wail and weep! With woe I nightly vigils keep. Beneath thy wan, un warming beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep. How life and love are all a dream. I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly marked distant hill: I joyless view thy trembling horn. Reflected in the gurgling rill My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! Thou busy pow’r, remembrance, cease ! Ah! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning 'peace ! No idly-feign’d poetic pains, My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; No shepherd’s pipe — Arcadian strains ; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith; the mutual flame; The oft-attested Pow’rs above; The promis’d father’s tender name; These were the pledges of my love! Encircled in her clasping arms, How liave the raptur J moments fl^WB How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms, For her dear sake, and her’s alone! And must I think it — is sue gone. My secret heart’s exultiug boast? And does she heedless hear my groan ? And is she ever, ever lost ? Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. So lost to honour, lost to truth. As from the fondest lover part. The plighted husband of her youth ! Alas ! life’s path may be unsmooth ! Her way may lie thro’ rough distress ! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe* Her sorrows share, and make them lesaf Ye winged hours that o’er us past. Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d. Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly treasur’d thoughts employ’d. That breast, how dreary now, and void. For her too scanty once of room! Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d. And not a wish to guild the gloom ! The morn that warns th’ approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe : I see the hours in long array. That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe. Keen recollection’s direful train. Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. Shall kiss the distant, western main. And when my nightly couch I try, Sore-harass’d out with care and grief. My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief : Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : Ev’n day, all-bitter, brings relief. From sufch a horror-breathing night. Oh ! thou bright queen, who, o’er th’ ex- pause, [sway! Now highest reign’st, with boundless Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ’d us, fondly-wand’ring, stray ! The time, unheeded, sped away. While love’s luxurious pulse beat high. Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, To mark the mutual kindling eye. Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! Scenes never, never to return! Scenes, if in stupor I forget. Again I feel, again I burn I From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn, Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro* ; And hopeless, comfortless, I’ll mourn A faithless woman’s broken iow. 142 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Sites fn Edina ! Scotia’s darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and towr’rs. Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs ! From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs. As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d. And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide. As busy Trade his labour plies ; There Architecture’s noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here J ustice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes. Seeks Science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind. With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind. Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow’s wail. Or modest merit’s silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name ! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. Gay as the gilded summer sky. Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy ! Fair Burnet strikes til’ adoring eye, Heav’u’s beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high. And own his work indeed divine (122) ! There, watching high the least alarms. Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar : like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms. And mark’d with many a seaming scar : The pond’rous wall and massy bar. Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock ; Have oft withstood assailing war. And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia’s kings of other years. Fam’d heroes ! had their royal home : Alas, how chang’d the times to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ! Their hapless race wild- wan d’ring roam, Tho’ rigid law cries out, ’twas just ! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. Whose ancestors, in days of yore. Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gap 9 Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore : Ev’n 1 who sing in rustic lore, Haply, my sires have left their shed. And fac’d grim danger’s loudest roar. Bold following where your fathers led ! Edina ! Scottia’s darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow’rs. Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs I From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’re, As on the banks of Ayi I stray’d. And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade. -Brigs nf Igr. INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESOf AYR. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush ; [shrj**j The soaring lark, the perching red-breavA Or deep-ton’d plovers, grey, wild-whistihv o’er the hill ; Shall he, nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred. By early poverty to hardship steel’d, And train’d to arms in stern misfortune'! field — Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close. With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? No 1 though his artless strains he rudely sings, [strings. And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- ward! Still, if some patron’s gen’rous care he trace, Skill’d in the secret to bestow with grace ; When Ballantyne befriends his humble name. And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells. The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels. * Twas when the stacks get on theif winter-hap, [crap ; And thack and rape secure the toil-woa Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils. Unnumber’d buds and flow’rs’ delicious spoils, [piles, Seal’d up with frugal care in massive w*xen Are doom’d by man, that tyrant o’er th# weak, [reek: The death o’ devils smoor’d wi’ brimstone THE BRIGS OF AYR. The thundering guns are heard on ev’ry side, The wounded conveys, reeling, scatter wide ; The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie. Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds !) Nae mair the flow’r iu field or meadow springs ; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings. Except, perhaps, the robin’s whistling glee. Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree : r fhe hoary morns precede the sunny days. Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon- tide blaze, [the rays. Wliile thick the gossamour waves wanton in *Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi’ care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson’s (123) wheel’d the left about : (Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether, rapt in meditation high. He wander’d out he knew not where or why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock (124) had num- ber’d two, [was true : And Wallace Tower (125) had sworn the fact The tide-?woln Firth, with sullen sounding roar, [the shore. Through the still night dash’d hoarse along All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e : The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree : The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o’er the glittering stream. [Bard, When, lo ! on either hand the list’ning The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard , Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air. Swift as tlw gos (126) drives on the wheel- ing hare ; 4ne on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o’er the rising piers : Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry ’d The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr pre- side. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, [them.) &nd ev’u the vera deils they brawly ken Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race. The very wrinkles Gothic in his face j I4S He seem’ d as he wi* bad warstl’d lang^ Yet, teughly dome, he bade an unco bang. New Brig wasbuskit in a Draw new coat. That he at Lon’ on, frae ane Adams, got ; In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead, Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxictfcS search. Spying the time-worn flaws in ev’ry arch It chanc’d his new-come neebor took his e’e^ And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he ! Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien. He, down the water, gies him this guid- e’en : — AULD BRIG. I doubt na’, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nsa sheepshank, Ance ye were streekit o’er frae bank to bank I But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho’, faith, that day I doubt ye’ll never see; There’ll be, if that date come. I'll wad & boddle. Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense. Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense ; Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they # meet— [lime ; Your ruin’d, formless bulk o’ stane and Compare wi’ bonnie Brigs o’ modern time? There’s men o’ taste wou’d tak the Ducat* stream (127), [swim, Tho’ they should cast the vera sark and Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the view Of sic an ugly. Gothic hulk a3 you. AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi* windy pride — [tide ; This mony a year I’ re stood the flood and And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn. I’ll be a Brig, when ye’se a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter, i But twa-three winters will inform ye better. | When heavy, dark, continued a’ -day rains, i Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains ; 1 When from the hills where springs tho | brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil. Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, [source. Or haunted Garpal (128) draws his feebla Arous’d by blust’ring winds and spotting thowes, [rowes ; In mony a torrent down his snaw-brco BURNS'S POETICAL TORES. 144 While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, [gate ; Sweeps dams arid mills, and brigs, a’ to the And from Glenbuck (129), down to the Rat- ton-key (130), [sea — Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d tumbling Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the gunilie jaups up to the pour- ing skies. A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. That Arckietcture’s noble art is lost ! NEW BRIO. f ine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t ! [gate o’t ! The L — d be thankit that we’ve tint the Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with tlireat’ning jut like precipices; O’er -arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : Windows, and doors in nameless sculpture drest. With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream. The craz’d creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee. And still the second dread command be free. Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. [taste Mansions that would disgrace the building Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; Fit only for a doited monkish race. Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; Fancies that our good B)#igh denies protec- tion ! [resurrection ! And .soon may they expire, unblest with AULD BRIG. Oh ye, my dear-remember’ d ancient yeal- ings, [ings ! Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o’righteousness did toil aye; Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveneers, To whom our moderns are but causey- cleaners ; Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; Ye godly brethren o’ the sacred gown, Wha meekly ga’e your hurdies to the smi- tei s ; [writers ; And (what would now be strange) ye godly A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- tion, To see.eack melancholy alteration j And agonising, curse the time and pko When ye begat* the base, degen’rate race! Nae langer rev’rend men, their country*! glory. [braid story ! In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain Nae longer thrifty citizens and douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council- house ; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gen- try. The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men, three parts made by tailors and ay barbers, [new Brigs and Harbours ! Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on d — d * NEW BRIG. Now hand you there 1 for faith you’ve said enough, [through ; And muckle mair than ye can mak to As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little. Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : But, under favour o’ your langer beard. Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d: To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I needs must say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth “ a citizen,” a term o’ scandal ; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street. In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin’ owre hops and raisins. Or gather’d lib’ral views in bonds and seisins. If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor’d them with a glimmer of his lamp. And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them, [them. Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid What further clish-ma-claver might been said, [shed. What bloody wars, if Spirites had blood to No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear’d in order bright : Adown the glitt’ring stream they featly danc’d : [glanc’d : Bright to the moon their various dressea They footed o’er the wat’ry glass so neat. The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. Oh, had MT.auchlan (131), thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hearthis heavenly band engage. When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage ; Or when they struck oli Scotia’s nc citing air. The lover’s raptur’d joys Dr bleeding cares; ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. 143 How would his highland lug been nobler fir’ 1, And ev’n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d ! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. But all the soul of Music’s self was heard; Harmonious concert rung in every part. While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc’d in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d. His manly leg with garter tangle bound : Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; [ J oy. Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. Led yellow Autumn, wreath’d with nodding corn ; [show. Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Next follow’d Courage, with his martial stride ; [hide (132) ; From where the Feal wild woody coverts Benevolence, with mild, benignant air. A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair (133) ; Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d abode (134) ; [wreath. Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. ♦it Captain fflattlura Srntemt, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT TOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. (135) “ Should the poor be flattered Siiakspeare. But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew’s course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless heavenly light ! Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! The meikle devil wi’ a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. O’er hurcheon hides, And like atock-fish come o’er his studdie Wi’ thy auld sides ! He’s gane ! he’s gane ! he’s frae us torn. The ae best fellow e’er was born } L Thee Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn By wood and wild. Where, haply, Pity stray’s forlorn, Frae man exil’d ! Ye hills ! near neighbours o’ the stama, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns (135^1 Where echo slumbers ! Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairn^, My wailing numbers ! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! Ye haz’ly shaws and briary dens ! Ye bumies, wimplin’ down your glens, Wi’ toddlin ? din, Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens, Frae lin to lin ! Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea | Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie. In scented bow’rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree. The first o’ flow’rt. At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head. At ev’n, when beans their fragrance she^ I’ th’ rustling gale. Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade. Came join my wail. Mourn ye wee songsters o’ the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud ; Ye whistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood I** 6 * He’s gane for ever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels Circling the lake ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. Mourn, clam’ring craiks at close o’ day, ’Mang fields o’ flow’ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shores Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay Wham we deplore. Ye owlets, frae your ivy bow’r. In some auld tree, or eldritch towY, What time the moon, wi’ silent glowY Sets up her horn. Wail thro’ the dreary midnight houl Till waukrife morn ! Oh, rivers, forests, hills, and plains I Oft have ye heard my eanty stramsa POETICAL WOEKS. 143 now, what else for me remains But tales of woe ? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cow?!ip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear For him that’s dead. Thou, autumn, wi* thy yellow hair. In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air The roaring blast. Wide o’er the naked world declare The worth we’ve lost ! Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ; Mourn, empress of the silent night ! And you, ye twinkling starries bright, My Matthew mourn ! For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight. Ne’er to return. Oh, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! And art thou gone, and gone ft>r ever? And hast thou cross’d that unknown river. Life's dreary bound ? tike thee, where shall I lind another. The world around ? So to your sculptur’d tombs, ye grea^, In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state ! But by thy honest turf I’ll wait. Thou man of worth 5 And weep the ae best fellow’s fate E’er lay in earth. THE EPITAPH. Btop, passenger ! — my story’s brie# And truth I shall relate, man; | tell nae common tale o’ grief — For Matthew was a great man. If thou uncommon merit hast. Yet spum’d at fortune’s door, man, A look of pity hither cast — For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art. That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart— For Matthew was a brave man. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man. Here lies wha weal had won tin praise— For Matthew was a bright man If thou at friendship’s sacred ca’ Wad life itself resign, man. Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’— For Matthew was a krnu man I If thou art staunch without a stain. Like the unchanging blue, man. This was a kinsman o’ thine ain — For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. And ne’er guid wine did fear, man. This was thy billie, dam, and sire— ~ For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish whingin’ sot. To blame poor Matthew dare, man. May dool and sorrow be bis lot ! For Matthew was a rate mm. Cara ' A TALE. (137) “ Of bro wnysis and of bogilis full is this buk«." Gawin Douglas When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neighbours, neighbours meet. As market-days are wearing late. And folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy. And gettin’ fou and unco happy. We think na on the lang Scots miles^ The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. That lie between us and our hame. Where sits our sulky sullen dame. Gathering her brows like gathering storm. Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shan tor. As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses. For honest men and bonnie lasses). Oh Tam ! had’st thou but been sae wise. As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice ! She tauld the weal thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October: Ae market-day thou was rae sober; That ilka melder, wi’ the miller. Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev’ry naig w r as ca’d a shoe on. The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Mon* day. (138) She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown’d in Dooit Or catch’d wi’ w r arlocks in the mirk. By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. To think how mony com sels sw r eet. How mony lengthen’d sage advices. The husband frae the wife despises; But to our tale : — Ae maiket night, Tam had got planted unco right. TAM 0' SHANTE&. HI Fa^t by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither — They had been fou’ for weeks thegither ! The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter. And aye the ale was growing better : The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi* favours secret, sweet, and precious. The Souter tauld his queerest stories. The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus : The storm without might rair and rustle — Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E’en drown’d himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure. The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. O’er a ’ the ills o’ life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread. You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white— then melts for ever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow’s lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide, The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key- stane, That* dreary hour he mounts his beast on ; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last ; The rattling show’rs rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d. Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow’d : That night, a child might understand. The deil had business on his hand. Weal mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire. Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet. Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scot’s son- net ; Whiles glow’ring round wi prudent cares. Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh (139), Where ghaists and owlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford. Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d; And past the birks and meikle staue. Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck bane; And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn. Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn ; And near tbe thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo’s mither hang’d lierseL Before him Boon pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole. Near and more near the thunders roll ; When glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze ; Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou can’st make us scorn! Wi* tippenny, we fear nae evil ; Wi’ usquebae we’ll face the devil ! — The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s nodcEfl^ Fair play, he car’d nae deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d. Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d. She ventur’d forward on the light ; And, wow ! Tam saw r an unco sight ! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and rsela^ Put life and mettle in their heels : A winnock-bunker in the east. There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim and large. To gie them music was his charge ; He screw’d the pipes and garb them skir^ Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. Colli us stood round, like open presses. That sliaw’d the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light — • By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer’s banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen’d bairns ; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled, A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, •Whom his ain son o’ life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft : Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’. Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu 9 . As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d and curious. The mirth and fun grew fast and furious s The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleckit, Till ilka carline swat and reckit. And coost her duddies to the wark. And linket at it in her sark ; Now Tam, oh Tam ! had tliae been queans A’ plump and strapping, in their teen*; , 148 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS, Their sarks, instead o’ cieeshie flannen. Been snaw-wliite seventeen-hunder linen ! Their breeks o’ mine, my only pair. That ance were plusk o' guid blue hair, 1 wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies. For ae biink o’ the bonnie burdies ! But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Louping and Hinging on a cummock, I wonder did.na turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn’d what was what fu’ brawlie; There was a winsome wench and walie. That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn’d on Carrick shore ; For mony a beast to dead she shot. And perish’d mony a bonnie boat. And shook baith meikle corn and beer. And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn. That while a lassie she had worn. In longitude tho’ sorely scanty. It was her best, and she was vauntie — Ah ! little kenn’d thy reverend grannie, That sark slie coft ior her wee Nannie, Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches). Wad ever grac’d a dance o’ witches ! But here my muse her wing maun cour. Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang,) And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d. And thought his very een enrich’d ; Even Satan glowr’d and fldg’d fu fain. And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a’ thegither. And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark l” And in an instant all was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. When oat the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie’s mortal foes. When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market-crowd. When “ Catch the thief! ” resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi’ mony an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou’il get thy fairin’ ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin’ l In vain thy Kate awaits thy comm’ ! Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! Now r , do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane (14U) o’ the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross ! But ere the key-stane she could make. The fient a tail she had to shake 1 For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest. And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle. But little wist she Maggie’s mettle— Ae spring brought oft’ her master hal^ But left behind her ain grey tail ; The carline caught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read. Ilk man and mother’s son take heed : Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d. Or cutty- sarks run in your mind, Think ! ye may buy the joys over de*z— Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare. ftragir /raprat. (i4i) All devil as I am, a damned wretch, A harden’d, stubborn, unrepenting vilk*n. Still my heart melts at human wretchedness } And with sincere tho’ unavailing sighs, I view the helpless children of distress. With tears indignant I behold th’ oppressor Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction, W hose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity; Ye poor, despis'd, abandon’d vagabonds, W horn vice, as usual, has turn’d o’er to ruin. — Oh, but for kind, tho’ ill-requited friends, I had been driven forth like you forlorn. The most detested, worthless wretch among you ! ‘tBkitrr, a lirp. ( 142 ) The wintry west extends his blast. And hail and rain does blaw ; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw : While tumbling brown, the burn comes dowi^ And roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest. And pass the heartless day. “The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast” (1 13\ The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May : The tempest’s howl, it soothes my sou^ My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty schen&3 These w T oes of mine fulfil. Here, firm, I rest, they must be beat, Because they are thy will! ELEGY ON ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 141 Then all I want (oh, do thou grant This one request of mine !) Since to enjoy thou dost deny. Assist me to resign. 1 ISraqrr, UNDER THE PRESSURE OP VIOLENT ANGUISH. (144) Oh thou great Being! wliat thou art Surpasses me to know : Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all thy works below. Thy creature here before Thee stands, AH wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest. Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath ! Oh, free my weary eyes from tears. Or close them fast in death ! But if I must afflicted be. To suit some wise design ; Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine l SI ^raijir, ON THE PROSPECT OP DEATH. Oh ihou unknown. Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour. Perhaps I must appear ! If I have wander’d in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done. Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me. With passions wild and strong ; And list’ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. “Where human weakness has come short. Or frailty stept aside. Bo Thou, All-good ! for such thou art. In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have err’d, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good ; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. Itaniasf ON THE SAME OCCASION. (145) Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? Have I so found it full of pleasing , charms ? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- tween : [storms : Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? Or death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Fain would I say, “Forgive my foul of- fence ! ” Fain promise never more to disobey ; But should my Author health again dis- pense. Again I might desert fair virtue’s way: Again in folly’s path might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan ? [tation ran ? Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temp- Oh Thou, great Governor of all below I If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow. Or still the tumult of the raging sea : With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me. Those headlong furious passions to con- fine; For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be. To rule their torrent in the hallowed line; Oh, aid me with Thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! filrgij he tfis Draifj nf Halirrt IRuisstaar. (146.) Now Robin lies in his last lair. He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care. E’er mair come near him To tell the truth, they seldom fash’t him, Except the moment that they crush’t him; For sune as chance or fate had hush’t ’em. Tho’ e’er sae short, Then wi’ a rhyme or song he lash’t ’em. And thought it sport. Tho’ he was bred to kmtra wark, And counted was baith wight and stalk. Yet that was never Robin’s mark To mak a man ; But tell him, he was learned and dark. Ye roos’d him than l 150 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. ffte Ml TO THE BET. MR. JAMES STEVEN. (117) t)n his Text, Max. iv. 2. — “And they shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall.*’ Eight, Sir ! your text I’ll prove it true. Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance, there’s yoursel’ just now, God knows, an unco calf! And should some patron be so kind. As bless you wi’ a kirk, I doubt na. Sir, but then we’ll find. Ye’re still as great a stirk. But, if the lover’s raptur’d hour Shall ever be your lot. Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly power You e’er should be a Scot ! Tho’, when some kind, connubial dear. Your but-and-ben adorns. The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte. Few men o’ sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte. t . And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead. Below a grassy hillock, Wi’ justice they may mark your head— ** Here lies a famous bullock !” €\)t turn Mnfo, OR THE HOLY TULZIE. (148) Oh a* ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox. Or worrying tykes. Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks. About the dykes ? , The twa best herds in a’ the wast. That e’er gae gospel horn a blast. These five and twenty simmers past. Oh ! dool to tell, lla’e had a bitter black out-cast • Atween themsel. Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, Ilow could you raise so vile a bustle. Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle, And think it fine : The L — ’s cause ne’er got sic a twistle Sin’ I ha’e mine. O, Sirs ! whae’er wad ha’e expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit. To wear the plaid. But by the brutes themselves eleckit. To be their guide. What flock wi’ Hoodie’s fl ock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank ! Nae poison’d sour Arminian stank. He let them taste, Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, they drank—* Oh sic a fea it ! The thummart, wil’-cat, brock, and tod. Well kenn’d his voice through a’ the wood. He smelt their ilka hale and rod, Baith out and in. And weel he lik’d to shed cheir bluid. And sell their skin. What herd like Russell (1 i9) tell’d his tale^ His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale. He kenn’d the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail. O’er a’ the height. And saw gin they were sick or hale. At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. Or nobly fling the gospel dub. And New-Light herds could nicely drub. Or pay their skin ; Could shake them o’er the burning dub. Or heave them in. Sic twa — Oh ! do I live to see’t. Sic famous twa should disagreet. And names like villain, hy jocrite. Ilk ither gi'en. While New-Light .herds, wi’ laughin’ spite. Say neither's lyin’ ! A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld. There’s Duncan (150), d^ep, and Peebles shaul (151), But chiefly thou, apostle Auld (152), We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, het and cauld. Till they agree. Consider, Sirs, how we’re beset ; There’s scarce a new herd that we get But comes frae ’mang that cursed set I winna name ; I hope frae heav’n to see them yet In fiery flame. Dalrymple (153) has been lang our fae, M'Gill (154) has wrought us meikle wae. And that curs’d rascal ca’ i M‘Q,uhae (155), And baith the Shaws (156), That aft ha’e made us blark and blae, Wi’ vengefu’ paw3. Auld Wodrow (157) lang has hatch’d miscljH We thought aye death wad bring relief. But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha’ll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. HOLT WILLIE’S PRAYER. m And mony a ane fiat I could tell, YVha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn -coats amang oursel. There’s Smith for ane, I doubt he’s but a grey-nick quill. And that ye’ll tin’. Oh ! a’ ye flocks c er a’ the hills. By mosses, meadows, moors and fells. Come, join your counsel and your skills To cowe the lairds. And get the brutes the powers themsels To choose their herds. Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. And Learning in a woody dance. And that fell cur ea’d Common Sense, That bites sae sair. Be banish’d o’er the sea to France : Let him bark there. Then Shaw’s and Dalrymple’s eloquence, M' Gill’s close nervous excellence, Q,uhae’s pathetic manly sense. And guid M'Math, [158 Wi’ Smith, wba thro’ the heart can glance. May a’ pack aff. ffinltj WilUt’j f raisrr. (159) On Thou, wba in the heavens dost dwelt, Wha, as it pleases best thysel’. Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A’ f or thy glory. And no for ony giude or ill They’ve done afore thee ! I bless and praise thy matchless might. When thousands thou hast left in night. That I am here afore thy sight. For gifts and grac^ A burnin’ and a whinin’ light To a’ this place. What was I, or my generation. That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation. For broken laws. Five thousand years ’fore my creation. Thro' Adam’s cause. When frae my mither’s womb I fell, I’hou might hae piunged me into hell, Fo gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin’ lake. Where damned devils roar and yell, Cb lin’d to a stake. Vet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy graco is great and ample; r ’m here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, n buckler, an example; To a’ thy flock. But yet, oh Lord ! confess I muafe, At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust ; And sometimes, too, wi’ wardly trust, Vile self gets in ; But thou remembers we are dust, Deiil’d in sin. n * * £ Maybe thou lets’t this fleshly thorn. Beset thy servant e’en and morn. Lest he owre high and proud should turni ’Cause he’s sae gifted ; If sae, thy ban’ maun e’en be borne. Until thou lift it. Lord, bless tliy chosen in this place; For here thou hast a chosen race : But God confound their stubborn face; And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. Lord, mind Gaw’n Hamilton’s deserts. He drinks, and swears, and plays at carte% Yet has sae mony takin’ arts, Wi’ grat and sma’, Frae Godjg ain priests the people’s hearts He steals awa’. And when we chasten’d him therefore; Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. As set the warld in a roar O’ laughin’ at us ; — Curse thou his basket and his store; Kail and potatoes. Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray’r. Against the presbyt’ ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bar® Upo’ their heads. Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare. For their misdeeds. Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu’l Aiki% My very heart and saul are quakin’. To think how we stood groanin’, sliakin* And swat wi’ dread. While he wi’ hingin’ lips and snakin’. Held up his head.. Lord, in the day of vengeance try him. Lord, visit them wha did employ him. And pass not in thy mercy by ’em. Nor hear their pray’r; But for thy people’s sake destroy ’ea? 0 And dinna spare. But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine. That I for gear and grace may shine; I Excell’d by nane. And a’ the glory shall be thine; Amen, Amen \ 152 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. tfpitapji mt Snlti Uullif. Here Holy Willie’s sair-worn clay Taks up its last abode ; Kis soul has ta'en some other way, I fear the left-hand road. Stop ! there he is, as sure’s a gun. Poor, silly body, see him ; Nae wonder he’s as black’s the grim*. Observe vvha’s standing wi’ him. Your brunstane devilship, I see. Has got him there before ye ; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee. Till ance you’ve heard my story. Your pity I will not implore. For pity ye hae nane ; Justice, alas ! has gi’en him o’er. And mercy’s day is gaen. But hear me, sir, deil as ye are. Look something to your credit ; A coof like him wad stain your name. If it were keut ye did it. dFpisilf In Snim dJmtMr nf ISiltnarnnrlt. ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. (160) On G ou die! terror of the Wings, Dread of black coats and rev’rend wigs. Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girnin’, looks back, Wishin’ the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick. Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition, W r aes me ! she’s in a sad condition ; Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician. To see her water. Alas ! there’s ground o’ great suspicion She’ll ne’er get better. Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple. But now she’s g t an unco ripple ; Haste, gie’ her name up i’ the chapel. Nigh unto death ; See, how she fetches at the thrapple. And gasps for breath. Enthusiasm’s past redemption, Gane in a galloping consumption. Not a’ the quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption, Will ever mend her. Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. Death soon will end her. *Tis you and Taylor (161) are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief. But gin the Lord’s ain fauk gat leave, A toom tar-barrel And twa red peats wad send relief. And end the quarrel. f pistlr In Sfaljit ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. (162) Oh rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o’ cocks for fun and drinkin’ l There’s mony godly folks are thinkin’. Your dreams (161) and tricki Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin’, Straught to Auld Nick’s. Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants. And in your wicked, drunken rants. Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts. And till them fou (164); And then their failings, flaws, and wants, Are a’ seen through. Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! That holy robe, oh dinna tear it ! Spare’t for their sakes wha aften wear it. The lads in black ! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives’t alf their back. Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing. It’s just the blue-gown badge and clai thing O’ saunts ; tak that, ye lea’e them naethiug To ken them by, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware^ A’ that I bargain’d for, and mair ; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang (165), ye’ll sen’t wi’ canny carc^ And no neglect. • * * * ffiirir <£>pisito to fnfro fapraik. (i6S) September 13, 1785, Good speed and furder to you, Johnny, Guide health, hale han’s, and weather bonny } Now when ye’re nickan down fu’ canny The stalf o’ bread. May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ hran’y To clear your head. May Boreas never thresh your rig9. Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs and naggs Like drivin’ wrack ; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack. I’m bizzie too, and skelpin’ at it. But bitter, daudin’ showers hae w r at it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi’ muckle wark. And took my jotteleg and whatt’ it, Like ony clark. 151 EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M‘MATH. It’s now twa mon th that I’m your debtor. For your braw, nameless, dateless letter. Abusin’ me for harsh ill nature On holy men. While deil a litfir yourseT ye’re better. But mair profane. But let the ldrk-folk ring their bells, Lot’s sing about our noble sel’s ; We’el cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives and whiskey stills, They are the muses. Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it. And if ye mak objections at it. Then haiT in nieve some day we’ll knot it. And witness take. And when wi’ usquebae we’re wat it, It winna break. But if the beast and branks be spar’d Till kye be gaun without the herd. And a’ the vittel in the yard. And theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night. Then muse-inspirin’ aqua vitae Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty Till ye forget ye’re auld and gatty. And be as canty As ye were nine year less than thretty. Sweet ane and twenty ! But stooks are cowpet wi’ the blast. And now the sinn keeks in the west. Then I maun rin amang the rest And quat my chanter ; Sae I subscribe myself in haste Your’s Rab the Ranter. tfjrisflE tn tilt Urn. Sntjix ffi'Mj. (167) September 17, 1785. While at the stook the shearers cow’r To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r. Or in gulravage rinnin’ scow’r To pass the time. To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet On gown, and ban’, and douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she’s done it. Lest they should blame her. And rouse their holy thunder on it, And anathem her. I own ’twas rash, and rather hardy. That 1 , a simple, couutra bardie, Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi’ a single wordie. Louse h-U upon mo. But I gae mad at their grimaces. Their sighin’, cantin’, grace-proud faces. Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces Their raxin’ conscience, Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces, Waur nor their nonsense. There’s Gawn (168),misca’t waur than a beast Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid’s the priest "Wha sae abus’t him. And may a bard no cragk his jest What way they’ve use’t him! See him, the poor man’s friend in need. The gentleman in word and deed. And shall his fame and honour bleed By worthless skellum3. And not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums ? Oh, Pope, had I thy satire’s darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts. And tell aloud Their jugglin’ hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, ^’m no the thing I shou’d b* Nor am I even the thing I cou’d be. But twenty times I rather wou’d be An atheist clean, Then under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, An honest man may like a lass. But mean revenge, and malice fause^ He’ll still disdain. And then cry zeal for gospel laws. Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth , They talk o’ mercy, grace, and truth, For what ? — to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight. And hunt him down, o’er right and ruth. To ruin straight. All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. Who in her rough imperfect line. Thus daurs to name the©| To stigmatise false friends of thine Can ne’er defame thee. Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain. And far unworthy of thy train. With trembling voice I tune my strain To join with those "Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o’ foes : In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mob», In spite o’ undermining jobs. BURNS’S POETICAL 'WORKS. 154 Is spite o’ dark banditti stabs At worth andrit By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes, But hellish spite. Oh Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, "Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib’ral band is found Of public teachers. As men, as Christians too, renown’d. And manly preachers. Sir, in that circle you are nam’d ; Sir, in that circle you are fam’d ; And some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d (Which gies you honour), Ev’n Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d. And winning manner. Pardon this freedom I have ta’en. And if impertinent I’ve been. Impute it not, good Sir, in ane Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye. But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang’d ye. ©{ie Slmrriran ©Oar, A FRAGMENT. (169) When Guildford good our pilot stood. And did our helm thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea. Within America, man : Then up they gat the maskin’-pat. And in the sea did jaw, man ; And did nae less, in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man. Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man ; Down Low r rie’s burn he took a turn. And Carleton did ca’ man ; But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec^ Montgomery -like did fa’, man, "Wi’ sword in hand, before his band, Amang his en’mies a’, man. loor Tammy Gage, within a cage. Was kept at Boston ha’, man ; Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe For Philadelphia, man : Wi’ sword and gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to draw, man : But at New York, wi’ knife and fork. Sir-loin he hacked sma’, man. Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip. Till Fraser brave did fa’, man ; Then lost his way, ae misty day. In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought. And did the buckskins, claw, man ; But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save. He hun$ it to the wa , man. Then Montague, and Giuliford, tbo, Began to fear a fa’, man ; And Sackville dour, whn stood the atour^ The German Chief to thraw, man ; For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a’, man ; And Charlie Fox threw by the box. And lows’d his tinkler jaw, man. Then Rockingham took up the game^ Till death did on him ca’, man ; When Shelburne meek held up his chee^ Conform to gospel law, man ; Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise. They did his measures thraw, man. For North and Fox united stocks. And bore him to the wa’, man. Then clubs and hearts were Charlie’s carte% He sw r ept the stakes awa’, man. Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race^ Led him a sair faux pas , man ; The Saxon lad3, wi’ loud placads. On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man*; And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew, “Up, Willie, waur them a’, man !” Behind the throne then Grenville’s gon A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous’d the class, Be-north the Roman wa’, man ; And Chatham’s wraith, in heavenly graitl^ (Inspired Bardies saw, man) Wi’ kindling eyes cry’d, “ Willie, rise ! Would I hae fear’d them a’, man ?’* But, word and blow. North, Fox, and Co* Gowlf’d Willie like a ba’, man, Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man ; And Caledon threw by the drone. And did her whittle draw, man ; And swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt and blood* To make it guid in law, man. (170) » • • • $Ernaii tn lanit, A BROTHER POET. AULD NEIBOR, I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter ; Tho’ I maun say’t, I doubt ye flatter. Ye speak sae fair. For my puir, silly, rhymin’ clatter Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddla i Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle O’ war'ly cares, | Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle 1 Your auld, gray haira, THE FIRST PSALM. m But, Davie lad Fra red ye’re glaikit; Pm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit ; And gif it’s sae, ye sud be licket Until ye fyke ; Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faiket, Be hain’t wha like. For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, Rivin’ the words to gar them clink ; Whyles daez’t wi’ love, whyles daez’t wi’ drink, Wi’ jads or masons ; And whyles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, Commen’ me to the bardie clan ; Except it be some idle plan O’ rhymin’ clink. The devil-haet, that I sud ban. They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’livin’ Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’ ; But just the pouchie put the nieve in. And while ought’s there. Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’. And fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! it’s aye a treasure. My chief, amaist my only pleasure. At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie ! Tho’ rough and raploch be her measure. She’s seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warj’ may play you monie a shavie ; But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, Tho’ e’er sae puir, Na, even tlio’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie Frae door to door. If a ftniit. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ! For one has cut my dearest tie. And quivers in my heart. Then low’ring and pouring. The storm no more I dread ; Though thick ning and black’ uing, Bound my devoted head. And thou grim pow’r, by life abhon d. While life a pleasure can afford. Oh hear a wretch’s prayer ! No more I shrink appall’d, afraid; I court, I beg thy friendly aid. To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace. Resign life’s joyless day; My weary heart its throbbings cease. Cold mould’ ring in the clay ? N o fear more, no tear more. To stain my lifeless face ; Enclasped, and grasped Within thy cold embrace ! <£| \)t /irat iii Strata nf lljt Hintiitiji psalm. Oh Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling pla^e ! Before the mountains heav’d their heads. Beneath Thy forming hand. Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command ; That Pow’r which raised and still upholds This universal frame. From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that’s past. Thou giv’st the word : Thy creature, man. Is to existence brought ; Again Thou say’st, “ Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought ! ” Thou layest them with all their cares In everlasting sleep ; As with a floc-a Thou tak’st them (if With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r. In beauty,’ s pride array’d; But long here night, cut down, it lief All wither’d and decay’d. QTjj t /irat psalm. The man, in life wherever plac’d. Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked’* wig. Nor learns their guilty lore I 15 ! 53 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still u ilks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high. And Arm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt. Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sleeping blast. For why ? that God the good adore Hath giv’n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne’er be truly blest. $n a Itausa, ©N SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET, AT CHURCH. (171) Ha! wliare ye gaun, ye crowlin’ ferlie! Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho’, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin’, blastit wonner. Detested, shunn’d, by saunt and sinner. How dare you set your feet upon her, Sae fine a lady! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl and sprattle Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle. In shoals and nations ; Whore horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. How baud you there, ye’re out o’ sight. Below the fatt’rells, snug and tight; Na, faith ye yet ! ye’ll no be right Till ye’v& got on it. The vera tapmost, tow ’ring height O’ Miss’s bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your n( sc out, As plump and grey as ony grozet; Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet. Or fell, red smeddum, I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t, Wad dress your droddum ! 1 wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife’s flannen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy. On’s wyliecoat ; But Miss’s fine Lunardi ! fie ! (1 7ST How daur ye do’t ? Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head. And set your beauties a’ abread ! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie’s makin’ ! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. Are notice takin’ ! Oh wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us ! It wad frae mony a blunder free us And foolish notion : What airs in dress and gait wad lea’e us. And ev’n devotion ! ffljri Smmtfnnj. IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY TUB SURVEYOR OP THE TAXES, (173.) Sir, as your- mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu’ list O’ gudes and gear, and a’ my graith, To which I’m clear to gie my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o’ gallant mettle. As ever drew afore a pettle. My han’ afore’ s (174) a gude auld has been And wight and wilfu’ a’ his days been. My ban’ ahin’s (175) a weel gaun filly, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie (176)^ And your auld burro’ mony a time. In days when riding was nae crime— But ance, whan in my wooing pride, I like a blockhead boost to ride. The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to, (L — pardon a’ my sins and that too !) I play’d my filly sic a shavie. She’s a’ bedevil’d with the spavie. My fur ahin’s (177) a wordy beast. As e’er in tug or tow was trac’d. The fourth’s a Highland Donald hastie, A d — n’d red wud Kilburnie blastie ! Forbye a cowte o’ cowtes the wale, As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spar’d to be a beast, He 11 draw me fifteen pun’ at least— Wheel carriages I hae but few. Three carts, and tw T a a feckly new ; Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg and baith the trams are broken; I made a poker o’ the spin’le, And my auld mither brunt the trin’le WILLIE CHALMERS. 1ST For men, Lve three mischievous boys. Run tlciis for fan tin’ and for noise ; A gautisman ane, a thrasher t’other. Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. And aften labour them completely; And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly ; Till, faith, wee Davock’s turn’d sae gleg, Tho’ scarcely langer than your leg, He’ll screed you aff Effectual Calling (178), As fast as ony in the dwalling. I’ve nane in female servan’ station, (L- — keep me aye frae a’ temptation !) I hae nae wife— and that my bliss is. And ye have laid nae tax on misses ; And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils dare na touch me. Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented, Heav’n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess (179), She stares the daddy in her face. Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, I’ve paid enough for her already. And gin ye tax her or her mither, B’ the L — ! ye’se get them a’ thegither. And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence out I’m takin’ ; Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle. Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; My travel ao n foot I’ll shank it, I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. Sae dinna put me in your buke, Nor for my ten white shillings luke. This list wi’ my ain hand I’ve wrote it. The day and date as under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns, tiubscrijjsi huic, Robert Burns Mossgiel, February 22, 1786. 1 Erfi in (fain lamiltan, fsij., MAUCHLINE. (recommending a boy.) Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. I hold it. Sir, my bounden duty. To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M’Gami, Was here to hire yon lad away Tlout whom ye spak the tither day. And wad hae don’t aff han’ : But lest he learn the eallan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him. Like scrapin’ out auld Crummie’s nicks (180), And tellin’ lies about them : As lieve then, I’d have then, Your clerkship he should sair. If sae be ye may be Not fitted other where. Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough. And ’bout a house that’s rude and roughj The boy might learn to swear ; But then wi’ you he’ll be sae taught, A get sic fair example straught, I havena ony fear. Ye’ll catechise him every quirk. And shore him weel wi’ hell ; And gar him follow to the kirk— — Aye when ye gang yoursel. If ye then maun be then Frae hame this cornin’ Friday ; Then please, Sir, to lea’e. Sir, The orders wi’ your lady. My word of honour I hae gien, In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en. To meet the warld’s worm ; To try to get the t va to gree, And name the airless (181) and the fee, In legal mode and form : I ken he weel a snick can draw. When simple bodies let him ; And if a devil be at a’, In faith he’s sure to get him. To phrase you, and praise yon. Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray’r still, you share still. Of grateful Minstrel Burns. ttillif Cjiatars. O 82 ) Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride. And eke a braw new brechan. My Pegasus I’m got astride. And up Parnassus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush. The doited beastie stammers ; Then up he gets and off he sets For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name May cost a pair o’ blushes ; I am nae stranger to your fame. Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours. And faith ve’ll no be lost a whit, Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers. BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. m Auld truth herseF might swear ye’re fair. And honour safely back her, 'And modesty assume your air. And ne’er a ane misrak’ her : And sic twa love inspiring een Might fire even holy Palmers ; Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers. I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore. And band upon his breastie : But oh ! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars ; The feeling heart’s the royal blue. And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. Some gapin’ glowrin’ countra laird. May warsle for your favour ; May claw his lug, and straik his beard. And hoast up some palaver. My bonnie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy- witted hammers, $eek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers. Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom. Inspires my muse to gie’m his dues^ For deil a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon. And fructify your amours, And every >ear come in mair dear To you and W illie Chalmers. finis aBrittm ee a Sank Safi, (iss) Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf. Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief : For lack o’ tlice I’ve lost my lass. For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass. I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile Amid his hapless victim’s spoil, And, for thy potence, vainly wish’d To crush the villain in the dust. For lack o’ thee I leave this much loved shore, Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R. B. — Kyle. ®a a Was. (184) Humid seal of soft affections, Tend’rest pledge of future bliss. Dearest tie of young connections, *. Love’s first snow-drop, virgin kisau Speaking silence, dumb confession. Passion’s birth, and infants’ play. Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, Glowing dawn of brightei day. Sorrowing joy, adieu’s last action. When iing’ring lips no more must joiDJ What words can ever speak affection. So thrilling and sincere as tlnne I firsts ‘Umiira nnkrr 33inlmi Critf. ( 185 ) Accept the gift a friend sincere Wad on thy worth be pressin* ; Remembrance oft may start a tear. But oh ! that tenderness forbear. Though ’twad my sorrows lessen. My ’morning raise sae clear and fair, ] thought sair storms wad never Bedew the scene ; but grief and cart In wildest fury hae made bare My peace, my hope, for ever ! You think Pm glad ; oh, I pay weel. For a’ the joy I borrow. In solitude — then, then I feel I cfmna 10 mysel’ conceal My deeply ranklin’ sorrow. Farewell ! within thy bosom free A sigh may whiles awaken ; A tear may wet thy laughin’ ee. For Scotia’s son — ance gay like thee— Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken! LYING AT A FRIEND’S HOUSE ONE NIGHTS THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING firsts IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. ( 186 ) Oh thou dread Power, who reign’st above, I know thou wilt me hear. When for this scene of peace and lov* I make my prayer sincere 1 The hoary sire — the mortal stroke. Long, long, be pleased to spare, To bless his lilial little flock And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, Oh, bless her with a mother’s joys. But spare a mother’s Tears ! Their hope, their stay, their darling youtk^ In manhood’s dawning blush — Bless him, thou God of love and tr uth, | Up to a parent’s wish I 1st EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN, He beauteous, seraph sister-band, W ith earnest tears I pray, thou know’st the snares on every hand— Guide Thou their steps alway. When soon or late they reach that coast. O’er life’s rough ocean driven. May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in heaven! ®n fflr. 5H‘3irara, OF CRAIGEN-GI LLAN. Blit, o’er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud; ° See wha taks notice o’ the bard !” I lap and cried fu’ loud. Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. The senseless, gawky million : I’ll cock my nose aboon them a’— I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan ! *Twas noble. Sir ; ’twas like yoursel. To grant your high protection : A great man’s smile, ye ken fu’ well. Is aye a blest infection. Tho’ by his (187) banes who in a tub Match’d Macedonian Sandy ! On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub, 7. independent stand aye. And when those legs to guid, warm kail, Wi’ welcome canna bear me; A lee dyke-side, a sy bow-tail, A barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the b eath O’ many flow’ry simmers ! And bless your bonnie lasses baith- - I’m tauld they’re loosome kimme rs ! And God bless young Dunaskin’s aird. The blossom of our gentry ! And may he wear an auld man’s beard, A credit to his country. finis mt minting mitb Sksil, fnri) iatr. (188) This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-thir , A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the b ae, I dinner’d wi’ a L ird. I’ve been at drucken writers’ feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly priests, Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken ; I’ve ev’n join’d the honour’d jorum, When mighty squireships of the quorum. Their hydra drouth did sloken. But wi’ a Lord ! — stand out my shin, A Lord — a Peer — an Earl’s son ! Up higher yet my bonnet ! And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa. Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’. As I look o’er my sonnet. But, oh ! for Hogarth’s magic pow’r ! To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r. And how he star’d and stammer’d! When goavan, as if led wi’ branks, And stumpin’ on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer’!. I sidling shelter’d in a nook, And at his Lordship steal’t a look. Like some portentous omen 4 Except good sense and social glee. And (what surprised me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon. I watch’d the symptoms o’ the great. The gentle pride, the lordly state. The arrogant assuming ; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughing Then from his Lordship I shall learn. Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel’s another; Nae honest worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Paer, For he but meets a orother. fpisili in fflajnr fngstn. f 183 ) Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie ! Though fortune’s road be rough and hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie. We never heed, But take it like the unback’d filly. Proud o’ her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter. Some black bog-hole. Arrests us, then the scathe and banter We’re forced to thole. Hale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddlt Lang may your elbock jink and diddle. To cheer you through the weary widdle O this wild warl’, Until you on a crummock driddle A grey-hair’d carle. Come wealth, come poo r tith, late or sooi Heaven send your heart-strings aye in And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair. The melancholious, lazy croon O’ cankrie BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. May still your life from day to day Nae ‘lente largo” in the play. But “ allegretto forte” gay Harmonious flow A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey— Encore ! Bravo ! A blessing on the cheery gang Wha dearly like a jig or sang. And never think o’ right and wrang By square and rule. Bat as the clegs o’ feeling stang Are wise or fool. My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace — Their tuneless hearts 1 May fireside discords jar a base To a’ their parts ! But come, your hand, my careless brither, I’th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither — And that there is I’ve little swither About the matter — We cheek for chow shall jog thegither ; I’se^ne’er bid better. We’ve faults and failings — granted clearly, W e’re frail backsliding mortals merely, "Eve’s bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly For our grand fa’ ; But still, but still, I like them dearly — God bless them a’ 1 Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, When they fa’ foul o’ earthly jinkers. The witching curs’d delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi’ girnin’ spite. But by yon moon ! — and that’s high swearing And every star within my hearin’ ! And by her een wha was a dear anel I’ll ne’er forget ; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet. My loss I mourn, but not repent it* I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it. An X to the Indies I were wonted, Some cantrip hour, By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted. Then, vive V amour ! Faitcs wes bamemains respectueuses, To sentimental sister Susie, And honest Lucky ; no to roose you. Ye may be proud. That sic a couple fate allows ye Tb grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure And trowth, my rhymin’ ware’s nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure Be’t light, be't dark. Sir bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. Robert Burn&. Momgiel, 30 th October 1780. ITamrnf, WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOITf TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. O’ er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, [rave. Where the wild winds of winter incessantly What woes wring my heart while intently surveying [the wave. The storm’s gloomy path on the breast of Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail. Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore ; Where the flower which bloom’d sweetest in Coila’s green vale. The pride of my bosom, my Mary’s no more. No more by the banks of the streamlet we’ll wander, [the wave; And smile at the moon’s rimpled face in No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, [her grave. For the dew-drops of momiug fall cold on No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, [shore ; I haste with the storm to a far distant Where unknown, unlarnented, my ashes shall rest. And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. tt a Irnirl; ffiartr, GONE TO THE WEST IN®IES. $190) A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drinV A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, A’ ye wha live and never think. Come, mourn wi’ me ! Our billie’s gien us a’ jink. And owre the sea. Lament him a’ ye rantin’ core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar In social key ; For now he’s taen anither shore. And owrc the seal The bonny lasses weel may misa hrm. And n their dear petitions place hkn? TO A HAGGIS. IffI The widows, wives, and a* may bless him, Wi tearfu’ e’e ; For weal I wat they’ll sairly miss him That’s ovvre the sea ! Oh fortune, they ha’e room to grumble ! Had’ st thou taen aff some drowsy bumble, Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, ’Twad been nae plea ; But he was gleg as ony wumble. That’s owre the sea ! Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear And stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear ; ’Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. In flinders flee ; He was her laureat mony a year, That’s owre the sea ! He saw misfortune’s cauld nor-west; Tang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak hi» heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a berth afore the mast. And owre the sea. To tremble under fortune’s cummock/> On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock, Wi’ his proud, independent stomach. Could ill agree ; So row’t his hurdies in a hammock, And ovvre the sea. He ne’er was gien to great misguiding. Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi’ him.it ne’er was under hiding — He dealt it free : The muse was a’ that he took pride ia. That’s owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel. And hap him in a cozie biel : Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel. And fou’ o’ glee ; He wad na wrang’d the vera deil. That’s owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily. Now bonnilie ! I’ll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho’ owre the sea 1 IBrittm ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEET- HEART, THEN MARRIED. Once fondly lov’d and still remembered dear; Sweet early object of my youthful vows ! Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. Friendship ! ’tis all cold duty now allows. M And when you read the simple artless rhymes. One friendly sigh for him — lie asks no more Who distant burns in flaming torrid clime3. Or liaply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar. Cljc /arrmrU* “ The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer Or what does he regard his single woes 1 But when, alas ! he mulliplies himself, To dearer selves, to the lov’d tender fair, To ihose whose bliss, whose beings hung upon him, To helpless children!— then, oh then ! he feeli The point of misery fest’ring in his heart, And weakly weeps' his fortune like a coward. Such, such am I ! undone !” Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora . Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains Far dearer than the torrid plains Where rich ananas blow ! Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear ! A brother’s sigh ! a sister’s tear ! My Jean’s heart-rending throe ! Farewell, my Bess ! tho’ thou’rt bereft Of my parental care : A faithful brother I have left. My part in him thou’lt share ! Adieu too, to you too. My Smith, my bosom frien'j When kindly you mmd me. Oh then befriend my Jean! What bursting anguish tears my heart! From thee, my J eany, must 1 part ! Thou, weeping, answ’rest “Nol M Alas ! misfortune stares my face. And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go ! Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken deas^ A grateful, warm adieu ! I, with a much indebted tear. Shall still remember you ? All-hail then, the gale then. Wafts me from thee, dear shoitt! It rustles, and whistles — I’ll never see thee more! fa a Saggia. (i9i) Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face. Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race ! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or tha'jrci Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang’s my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fi3. Your hurdies like a distant hill, BUENS’S POETICAL WOBKS. x)ur pin wac’ frrlp to mend a mill In ti me o’ need. While thro’ jour pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour diglit, And cut you ujrwi’ ready slight. Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like orvy ditch ; And then, oh what a glorious sight. Warm-reekin’, rich ! Then horn for liorn they stretch and strive, Beil tak the hindmost, on they drive. Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve \ Are bent like drums ; Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, Bethankit hums. Is there that o’er his French ragout Or Olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi’ perfect scunner. Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On sic a dinner ! Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. As feckless as a wither’d rash. His spindle shank a guid whip-lash. His nieve a nit ; Thro’ bloody flood or held to dash. Oh how unfit ! But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade. He’ll mak it wliissle ; And legs, and arms, and heads will sned. Like taps o’ thnssle. Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r, Gie her a Haggis 1 Ed 3Hfes ICfigait, tnitl; taitirt ^dhiis, AS A NEW YEAR’S GIFT, JAN. 1 . 1787 . ( 192 ) Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv’n. And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav’n. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail ; I send you more turn India boasts In Edwin’s simple tale. Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg’d, perhaps, too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove , An Edwin still to you I fotrmpnrp in t!j? Cmirt nf frishra* TUN E — Cillicrankie. LORD ADVOCATE. ( 193 ) He clench’d his pamphlets in his fist. He quoted and he hinted. Till in a declamation-mist . His argument he tint it : He gaped for’t, he graiped for*t. He fand it was awa, man ; But what his common sense came shorty He eked out wi’ law, man. MR. ERSK1NE. ( 194 ) Collected Harry stood a wee. Then open’d out his arm, man : His lordship sat wi’ ruefu’ e’e. And ey’d the gathering storm, man; Like wind-driv’n hail, it did assail. Or torrents owre a linn, man ; The bench sae wise lift up their eyes, Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man. ®n tjjE (SntimifE of ttanrljnp? ftnsf. . ( 195 ) “ My can tie, witty, rhyming ploughman, I hafflins doubt it is na’ true, man, That ye between the stilts was bred, Wi’ ploughmen schooled, wi’ ploughmen fed I doubt it sair, ye’ve drawn your knowledge Either frae grammar-school or college. Guid troth, your saul and body baith War better fed, I’d gie my aith, Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch. And bummil through the single Carritch. Whaever heard the ploughman speak, Could tell gif Homer was a Greek J He’d flee as soon upon a cudgel, As get a single line of Virgil. And then sae slee ye crack your jokes O’ Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox : Our great men a’ sae weel descrive. And how to gar the nation thrive, Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them* And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; And though the cauld I ill can bide, Yet twenty miles and mair I’d ride O’er moss and moor, and never grumble, Though my auld yad should gie a stumble^ To crack a winter night wi’ thee, And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. Oh gif I kenn’d but where ye baide, I’d send to you a marled plaid ; ’Twad houd your shouthers warm and brair 9 And douce at k.irk or market shaw ; Fra’ south as weel as north, my lad, A’ honest Scotsmen loe the maud.” I mind it weel in early date. When I was beardless young, ai*4 hlate^ And first could thresh the bam ; Or baud a yokin’ at the plengh; And tho’ forfoughten sair eueug Yet unco proud to learn : PROLOGUE. 163 When first amang the yellow com A man I reckon’d was, And wi’ the lave ilk merry mom Could rank my rig and lass. Still shearing, and clearings The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, and haivers. Wearing the day awa. E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow*r— A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast— That I, for poor auld Scotland’s sake. Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make Or sing a sang at least The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside. And spar’d the symbol dear : No nation, no station. My envy e’er could raise, A Scot still, but blot still, I knew nae higher praise. But still the elements o’ sang • In formless jumble, right and wrang. Wild floated in my brain ; Till on that hur’st I said before. My partner in the merry core. She rous’d the forming strain : I see her yet, the sonsie quean. That lighted up her jingle. Her witching smile, her pauky een That gart my heart-strings tingle : I fired, inspired, At every kindling keek. But bashing and dashing I feared aye to speak. Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi’ merry dance in winter days. And we to share in common : The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe. The saul o’ life, the heaven below. Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. Be mindfu’ o’ your mitlier : Bhe, honest woman, may think shame That ye’re connected with her. Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye. Ilk honest birkie swears. For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre^ Thanks to you for your line : The marled plaid ye kindly spare. By me should gratefully be ware; *Twari please me to the nine. I’d be mair vauntie o* my hap. Douce hingin’ owre my curple^ Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial purple. Fareweel then, lang heal then* And plenty be your fa’. May losses and crosses Ne’er at your hallan ca*. Vnm WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSOW, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR ’M WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNO LADY Ilf EDINBURCII, MARCH 19, 1787. Curse on ungrateful man, that can bo pleas’d, [pleasure ! And yet can starve the author of the Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune. By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! Why is the bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? Snstriptinn ON TIIE HEADSTONE OF FERGU8SOW. Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, Born, Sept. 5, 1751. Died, Oct. 15, 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, “No storied urn nor animated bust;” This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust. ^faring®, 8POKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT. Monday, 1 6th April, 1787. (196) When by a generous Public’s kind acclaim. That dearest meed is granted — honest fame : When here your favour is the actor’s lot. Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heav’nly Virtue’s glow. But heavesimpassion’dwithtliegrateful throe. Poor is the task to please a barb’rous throng, [song. It needs no Siddons* powers in Southern’s But here an ancient nation fam’d afar. For genius, learning high, as great in war— Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear! Before whose sous I’m honour'd to appear l *64 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. Where every science — every nobler art — That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam; Here history paints with elegance and force. The tide of Empire’s fluctuating course ; Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan. And Harley (197) rouses all the god in man, When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace. Can only charm us in the second place). Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear As on this night, I’ve met these judges here ! But still the hope Experience taught to live. Equal to judge — you’re candid to forgive. No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. With decency and law beneath his feet ; Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name; like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. Oh thou dread Power; whose empire- giving hand [land ! Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire ! May every son be worthy of his sire! Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain ! Still self-dependent in her native shore. Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, [no more. Till fate the curtain drop on world’s to be ta William forrjr. (198) Auld chuckie Reekie’s (199) sair distrest, Down droops her ance week burnish’d crest, Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest. Can yield awa, Her darling bird that she lo’es best, Willie’s ava \ Oh Willie was a *itty wight. And had o’ thing? an unco slight; Auld Reekie aye he keopit tight. And trig and braw : But now they’ll busk her like a fright— Willie’s awa l The stillest o’ them a’ he bow’d ; The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d ; They durst nae mair than he allow’d, That was a law : We’ve lost a birkie weel worth gowd— Willie’s awa ! Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, Erae colleges and boarding-schools, May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw ; He wha could brush them down to mods, Willie’s awa ! The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chauraw ( 200 ) May morn their loss wi’ doolfu’ clamour ; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a’ ; I fear they’ll now mak mony a stammer— Willie’s awa ! Nae mair we see his levee door Philosophers and poets pour. And toothy critics by the score. In bloody raw ! The adjutant o’ a’ the core, Willie’s awa ! Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face, Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace As Rome ne’er saw ; They a’ maim meet some ither place, Willie’s awa ! Poor Burns — e’en Scotch drink cacjj a quicken. He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken. Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw ! Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’— Willie’s awa! Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum. And Calvin’s folk, are fit to fell him ; And self-conceited critic skellum His qnill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their belluxn, Willie’s awa! Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped. And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring re I, While tempests blaw; But every joy and pleasure’s fled — Willie’s awa ! May I be slander’s common speech; A text for infamy to preach ; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw ; When I forget thee, Willie Creech, i Thu’ far awn 1 ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT. 1G5 May never wicked fortune touzle him ! May never wicked men bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem He canty-claw ! Then to the Jessed New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa ! <®n tjjB Dcatlj nf lit Sanro Saater JSIatr. ( 201 ) The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave. [dark’ning air, TIT inconstant blast howl’d through the And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell. Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train (202) ; [well (203), Or mus’d where limpid streams once hallow’d Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane. (204) Th’ increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, [starry sky. The clouds, swift-wing’d, flew o’er the The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east. And ’mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately form. In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast. And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, ’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d : Her form majestic-droop’d in pensive woe. The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war. Reclin’d that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d. That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar. And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world. y My patriot son fills an uu timely grave ! ” With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried ; [save, * Low lies the hand that oft was stretch’d to Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride. A weeping country joins a widow’s tear ; The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry; ^ [bier; The drooping arts surround their patron’s And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh ! I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair freedom’s blossoms richly blow : But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthies* name? No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue And future ages hear his growing fame. And I will join a mother’s tender cares. Thro’ future times to make his virtue last ; That distant years may boast of other Blairs ! ” — [blast. She said, and vanish’d with the sweepirqf Iraring mm ajTaftr-^nmi iu f ar|p farit. A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTEHTJBE* Why ye tenants of the lake. For me your wat’ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly ? Why disturb your social joys. Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — Common friend to you and me. Nature’s gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave^ Busy feed, or wanton lave ; Or beneath the sheltering rock. Bide the surging billows shock. Conscious, blushing for our race. Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below : Plumes himself in Freedom’s prides Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from yon cliffy brow. Marking you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells. Strong necessity compels : But man, to whom alone is giv’n A ray direct from pitying Heav’n Glories in his heart humane — And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains. Only known to wand’ring swains. Where the mossy riv’let strays. Far from human haunts and ways; All on Nature you depend. And life’s poor season peaceful spe&4 Or, if man’s superior might Dare invade your native right. On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow 'rs you scorn ; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Other lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave. Scorn, at least, to be his slave. 168 BURNS’S POETIf JL WORKS. ®jlf Umit< fSrtitinn nf irnar U'atrr. TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. (305) My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne’er assails in vain ; Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear Your humble slave complain. How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride. Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. And drink my crystal tide. The lightly-jumpin’ glowrin’ trouts. That thro’ my waters play. If, in their random, wanton spouts. They near the margin stray ; If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat wi’ spite and teexr. As poet Burns came by. That to a bard I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry : A panegyric rhyme, I ween. Even as I was he shor’d mej But had I in my glory been. He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin ; There, high my boiling torrent smokes. Wild roaring o’er a linn : Enjoying large each spring and well. As nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’ Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees. And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You’ll wander on my banks. And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild. Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music’s gayest child. Shall sweetly join the choir. The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. The mavis mild and mellow ; The robin pensive autumn cheer. In all her locks of yellow. This, too, a '.overt shall insure To shield tnem from the storm; And cows rd maukin sleep secure^ Low in her grassy form : Here shall the shepherd make his se&t^ To weave his crown of flow’rs : Or find a shelt’ring safe retreat From prone descending show’rs. And here, by sweet endearing stealth. Shall meet the loving pair. Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care. The flow’rs shall vie in all their charm* The hour of heav’n to grace. And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. Some musing bard may stray. And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. And misty mountain gray ; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees. Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. Hoarse swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. My lowly banks o’erspread. And view, deep-bending in the pool. Their shadows’ water’y bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggy cliffs adorn ; And, for the little songsters nest. The close embow’ring thorn. So may old Scotia’s darling hope. Your little angel band. Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land ! So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken. To social flowing glasses. The grace be — “ Athole’s honest rnent And Athole’s bonnie lasses ! ” €Ijb Sennit. WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, IN HERMITAGE BELONGING TO THE DUKE C9 ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OP ABERFELDY. Whoe’er thou art, these lines now reading, Think not, though from the world receding, I joy my lonely days to lead in This desert drear ; That fell remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here. No thought of guilt my bosom sours; Free-will’d I fled from courtly bowers ; For well I saw in halls and towers That lust and pride. The arch-fiend’s dearest, darkest powen^ In state preside. ELEGY ON I J saw mankind with rice encrusted ; I 9uw that honour’s sword was rusted; That few for aught but folly lusted ; That he was still deceiv’d who trusted To love or friend ; And hither came, with men disgusted. My life to end. In this lone cave, in garments lowly. Alike a fee to noisy folly. And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, I wear away My life, and in my office holy Consume the day. This rock my shield; when storms are blowing, The limpid streamlet yonder flowing Supplying drink, the earth bestowing My simple food ; But few enjoy the calm I know in This desert wood. Content and comfort bless me more in This grot, than e’er I felt before in A palace — and with thoughts still soaring To God on high. Each night and morn with voice imploring. This wish I sigh. u Let me, oh Lord ! from life retire. Unknown each guilty worldly lire. Remorse’s throb, or loose desire ; And when I die. Let me in this belief expire — ■ To God i fly.” Stranger, if full of youth and riot. And yet no grief has marr’d thy quiet. Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at The hermit’s prayer — But if thou hast good cause to sigh at Thy fault or care ; If thou hast known false love’s vexation. Or hast been exiled from thy nation. Or guilt affrights thy contemplation. And makes thee pine, Oh ! how must thou lament thy station, And envy mine l Utrsi J WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CniMNEY- P1ECK, IN THE PARLOUR OP THE INN AT KEN- MORE, TAYMOUTH. Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, VUese northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O’er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th’ abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep. My savage journey, curious, I pursue. Till fam’d Breadelbane opens to my view. The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, Vhe woods, wild scatter’d* clothe their ample ■ des ; >PJ) DUNDAB. I6T Th’ outstretching lake, embosom’d ’mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay, meand’ring sweet in infant pride. The palace, rising on its verdant side ; The lawns, wood- fring’d in Nature’s native taste ; [haste ; The hillocks, dropt in Nature’s careless The arches, striding o’er the new-born stream ; [beam— The village, glittering in the noontide * * « * Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand’ring by the hermit’s mossy cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — * • * • Here Poesy might wake her heav’n-taught lyre. And look through nature with creative fire ; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil’d Misfortune’s lighten’d steps might wander ' wild ; And disappointment, in these lonely bounds. Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : [stretch her scan. Here heart-struck Grief might heav’nward And injur’d Worth forget and pardon man. * • « • (gltgtj na tljp B.atjj nf furii Bunks. (206) Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; [rains, Down from the rivulets, red with dashing The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains ; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groar 5 The hollow caves return a sullen moan. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; Where to the whistling blast and waters’ roaf Pale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore. Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! A loss these evil days can ne’er repair ! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance ey’d, and sway’d hef rod ; Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow She sank, abandon’d to the wilde it woe. Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of mens 1G8 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. See from his cavern grim Oppression rise. And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry. Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; View unsuspecting Innoceaj^e a prey. As guileful Fraud points oitf the erring way : While subtile Litigation’s pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and W rong : [tale, Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d And much-wrong’d mis’ry pours th’ unpitied Wail! Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains. To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign. Re nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine. To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. SJcracs WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. A icon g the heathy hills and ragged woods ; The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods. Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. Where, thro’ a shapeless beach, his stream resounds, A 3 high in air the bursting torrents flow. As deep-recoiling surges foam below. Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends. And viewless Echo’s ear, astonished, rends. Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show’rs. The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low’rs; Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils. And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — ♦ * * * CN KEAP'NG IN A NEWSPAPER fljB fratfr nf M)n feij., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICU- LAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S. Sad thy tale, thou idle page. And rueful thy alarms — Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella’s arms. Sweetly deck’d with pearly dew The morning rose may blow, Rut cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella’s mit William ^tntllit. (207) Shrew’d Willie Smellie to Crochallan (208) came, [same ; The old cock’d hat, the grey surtout, th# His bristling beard just rising in its might, ’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night ; [thatch’d His uncomb’d grizzly locks wild staring, A head for thought profound and clear >in match’d ; Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. IMnra in fflt. H$illiam fttj'Irr. WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD’S PICTURE. (209) Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart a name once respected — A name which to love was the mark of a true heart. But now ’tis despised and neglected. Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; [sigh, A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a Still more, if that wand’rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it ; [son. Those fathers would spurn their degenerate That name should he scoffingly slignt it. TO CLAIILNDA. 16 $ Still in prayers for King George I most hear- tily join. The Queen, and the rest of the gentry. Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; Their title’s avowed by my country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss* That gave us the Hanover stem ; If bringing them over was lucky for us, I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them. But loyalty, truce I we’re on dangerous ground. Who knows how the fashions may alter ? The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. To-morrow may bring us a halter ! I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer. Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your And ushers the long dreary night ; [eye. But you like the star that athwart gilds the Your course to the latest is bright, [sky^ 1 fkrfrjj. (210) A little, upright, pert, tart 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 vive la bagatelle , et vive V amour So travelled monkies their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. Much specious lore, but little understood; Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: His solid sense — by inches you must tell, But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ! His meddling vanity, a busy fiend Still making work his selfish craft must mend. to Mis foitofiattfcs. A VERY YOUNG LADY. (211) WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRE- SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. Blooming in thy early May, Never may’st thou, lovely flow’r. Chilly shrink in sleety show’r ; Never Boreas’ hoary path. Never Eurus’ poisonous breath. Never baleful stellar lights, Taint thee with untimely blights ! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf \ Nor even Sol loo fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew! May’st thou long, sweet crimson gen^ Richly deck thy native stem : ’Till some evening, sober, calm. Dropping dews and breathing balm. While all around the woodland ring^ And every bird thy requiem sings ; Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. Shed thy dying honours round. And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e’er gave birti. lit fxttrapnK $ ffnsimt, ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE Searching auld wives barrels, Och, hon ! the day ! That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; But — what’ll ye say ! These muvin’ things ca’d wives and wean% Wad muve the very hearts o* stanes ! fit (Marinira, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKIN9 GLASSES. (212) Fair Empress of the Poet’s sou^ And Queen of Poetesses ! Clarinda, take this little boon. This humble pair of glasses. And fill them high with generous juice^ As generous as your mind ; And pledge me in the generous toast— “ The whole of human kind ! ” “ To those who love us! ” — second fill; But not to those whom we love ; Lest us love those who love not us !— A third — “ To thee and me, love ! ** to Clarinira, ON HIS LEAVING EDINBURGH. Clarinda, mistress of my soul. The measur’d time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of froz^ night Shall poor Sylvander hie ; Depriv’d of thee, his life and lights The sun of all his joy. We part — but, by these precious dro £$ That fill thy lovely eyes ! No other light shall guide my stcpe Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex. Has blest my glorious day ; And shall a glimmering planet fis My worship to its ray ? 170 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. tfpistif In Siigji ^arkur. (213) In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; Where words ne’er crossed the muse’s Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; [heckles, A land that prose did never view it. Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it ; Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek. Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk, I hear it — for in vain I leuk. The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal : Here for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters, For life and spunk like ither Christians, I’m dwindled down to mere existence, Wi’ nae converse but Gallo wa’ bodies, Wi’ nae-kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes. Jenny, my Pegaseon pride ! Howie she saunters down Nithside, And aye a westlin heuk she throws. While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose ! Was it for this, wi’ canny care, Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? At howes or hillocks never stumbled. And late or early never grumbled ? Oh, had I power like inclination, I'd lieeze thee up a constellation. To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ! Or turn the pole like any arrow ; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Hown the zodiac urge the race. And cast dirt on his godship’s face ; For I could lay my bread and kail He’d ne’er cast salt upo’ thy tail. Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief, And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief. And nought but peat-reek i’ my head How can I write what ye can read ? Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June, Ye’ll find me in a better tune ; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle. Robert Burns. ttWitrit IJf friars’ carse hermitage, on the BANKS OF NITH. ( 214 ). Thou whom chance may hither lead. Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night ; in darkness lost ; Hay, how rapid in its flight — Day, how few must see the night; Hope not sunshine every hour. Fear not clouds will always lower. Happiness is but a name. Make content and ease thy aim. Ambition is a meteor gleam ; Fame a restless idle dream : Pleasures, insects on the wing Round Peace, the tend’rest flower of Spr'ngb Those that sip the dew alone. Make the butterflies thy own ; Those that would the bloom devour. Crush the locusts — save the flower. For the future be prepar’d. Guard wherever thou can’st guard; But thy utmost duly done. Welcome what thou can’st not shua. Follies past, give thou to air. Make their consequence thy care s Keep the name of man in mind. And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart. Him whose wondrous work thou art$ Keep his goodness still in view. Thy trust — and thy example, too. Strauger, go ; Heaven be thy guide! Quoth, the Beadsman on Nithside Thou whom chance may hither lead. Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deckt in silken stole. Grave these counsels on thy souL Life is but a day at most. Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine ev’ry hour. Fear not clouds will always lower. As youth and love with sprightly dancer Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair ; Let Prudence bless Enjoyment’s cup^ Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up, As thy day grows warm and high. Life’s meridian flaming nigh. Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life’s proud summits would' st thou scafcif Check thy climbing step elate. Evils lurk in felon wait : Dangers, eagle-pinion’d, bold. Soar around each cliffy hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet soog; Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of ev’ning close, Beck’ning.thee to long repose. As life itself becomes disease. Seek the chimney-neuk of ease ; There ruminate with sober thought. On all thou’st seen, and heard, and wrought J And teach the spovtive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. ELEGY. m Say, mm’« true, genuine estiaiatOj The grand criterion o* his fate. Is not — art thou high or low ? Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? Wast thou cottager or king ? Peer or peasant ? — no such thing! Did many talents gild thy span ? Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? Tell them, and press it on their mind. As thou thyself must shortly find. The smile or frown of awful Heav’n, To virtue or to vice is giv’n. Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. There solid self-enjoyment lies ; That foolish, selfish, faithless ways Lead to the wretched, vile and base. Thus resign’d and quiet, creep To the bed of lasting sleep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne’er awake. Night, where dawn shall never break. Till future life, future no more. To light and joy the good restore. To light and joy unknown before. Stranger, go ! Heav’n be thy guide! Q,uoth, the Beadsman of Nith-side. frfrmprt tn Captain HiiM, OF GLENRIDDLE, ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. (215) Ellisland, Monday Evening. Your news and review. Sir, I’ve read through and through. Sir, "With little admiring or blaming; The papers are barren of home-new3 or foreign. No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; But of meet or unmeet, in & fabric complete, I’ll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun. And then all the world. Sir, should know it ! 1 ffintljrr's Xantrnt. FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. ( 216 ) Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. And pierc’d my darling’s heart ! And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling dropsy In dust dishonour’d laid : So fell the pride of all my hopea^ My age’s future shade. The mother linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young ; So I, for my lost darling’s sake. Lament the live -day long. Death, oft I’ve fear’d thy fatal blow. Now, fond I bare my breast. Oh, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest l Clrgn Olf THE YEAR 1788 . For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn. E’en let them die — for that they're bornf But oh ! prodigious to reflec’ ! A towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! Oh Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space What dire events ha’e taken place ! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! In what a pickle thou hast left us ! The Spanish empire’s tint a head, And my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead; The tulzie’s sair ’tween Pitt and Fox, And our guidwife’s wee birdie cocks ; The tane is game, a bluidie devil. But to the hen-birds unco civil : The tither’s something dear o’ treadin*. But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden. Ye ministers, come mount the pu’pit* And cry till ye be hoarse or roupit, For Eighty-eight he wish’d you wee]. And gied you a’ baith gear and meal; E’en mony a plack, and mony a peck. Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! Ye bonnie lasses’ dight your e’en. For some o’ you ha’e tint a frien’ ; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta’en. What ye’ll ne’er hae to gie again. Observe the very nowte and sheep. How dowf and dowie now they creep f Nay, even the yirtli itsel’ does cry. For Embro’ wells are grutteu dry. Oh Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn. And no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak’ care. Thou now has got thy daddy’s chair, Nae hand-cuff ’d, muzzl’d, hap-shackl’d Rfri But like himsel’, a full free agent, [geojg Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest maul As muckle better as you can. 17a BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Sittes tc il}E tetjj-lrlji. My curse upon thy venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang ; And thro’ my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance ; Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, like racking engines ! When fevers burn, or ague freezes. Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Our neighbour’s sympathy may ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; Rut thee — thou hell o’ a’ diseases. Aye mocks our groan ! A down my beard the slavers trickle ! I kick the wee stools o’er the mickle. As round the tire the giglets keckle. To see me loup ; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O’ a’ the num’rous human dools, 111 har’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. Or worthy friends rak’d i’ the mools. Sad sight to see ! The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’ fools — Thou bear’st the gree. Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell. Whence a’ the tones o’ mis’ry yell. And ranked plagues their numbers tell. In dreadfu’ raw. Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell Amang them a’ ! Oh thou grim mischief-making chiel. That gars the notes of discord squeel. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ! — Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal A towmond’s Toothache ! Dif, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OR MRS. OSWALD. (217) Dy/eller in yon dungeon dark. Hangman of creation, mark ! Who in widow-weeds appears. Laden with unhonoured years. Noosing with care a bursting purser Eaited with many a deadly curse ! STROPHE. View the wither’d beldam’s face — Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity’s sweet melting grace? Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows, Tity’s flood there never roste. Bee these hands, ne’er stretch’d to save, Bands that took — but never gave. Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and urlnest She goes, but not to realms of everlas ting restl ANTI STROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awhile forbear, ye tort’ring fiends ;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hithei bends ? No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper skies; ’Tis thy trusty quondam mate. Doom’d to share thy fiery fate. She, tardy, hell- ward plies, EPODE. And are they of no more avail. Ten thousand giitt’ring pounds a-yeai? In other words, can Mammon fail. Omnipotent as he is here ? Oh, bitter mock’ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv*nf The cave-lodg’d beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav’n. tDrlirr tn Saints tenant, OP GLENCONNER. (218) Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner. How’s a’ the folk about Glenconnei ? How do you this blae, eastlin wind. That’s like to blaw a body blind ? For me, my faculties are frozen, And ilka member nearly dozen’d. I’ve sent you here, by Johnnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling. And Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled. And meikle Greek and Latin mangled. Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d. And in the depth of science mir’d. To common sense they now appeal. What wives and wabsters see and feel. But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strict^ Peruse them, and return them quickly. For now I’m grown sae cursed douce I pray and ponder butt the house ; My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin'. Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ) ’Fill bye and bye, if I haud on. I’ll grunt a blouset gospel groan : Already I begin to try it, To cast my e’en up like a pvet. When by the gun she tumbles o’er, Flutt’ring and gasping in her gore: Sae shortly you shall see me bright* A burning and a shining light. ITS ON SEEING A WOUNDED IIAEE. My henri-warm love to guid auld Glen, Ths ace and wale o’ honest men : When bending down-wi’ auld grey hairs. Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him. And views beyond the grave comfort him. His worthy fam’ly, far and near God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear ! • My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, And Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he’s a parent, lass or boy. May he be dad, and Meg the mither. Just tive-and-forty years thegither ! And no forgetting wabster Charlie, I’m told he offers very fairly. And, Lord remember singing Sannock, Wi’ hale breeks, sexpence, and a bapnock; And next my auld acquaintance Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy ; And her kind stars hae airted till her A good chiel wi’ a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen’ it. To cousin Kate and sister Janet; Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious, For, faith, they'll aiblins fin’ them fashious. And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, May guardian angels tak a spell. And steer you seven miles south o’ hell But first, before you see heaven’s glory. May ye. get mony a merry story, Mony a laugh, and mony a drink. And aye enough o’ needfu’ clink. Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi’ you. For my sake this I beg it o’ you. Assist poor Simson a ’ ye can. Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man : Bae I conclude, and quat my chanter, Your’s, saint or sinner, Rob the Ranter. I /ragntrnt. INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. IIow wisdom and folly meet, mix and unite ; How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; How genius, th’ illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- diction — [bustle, I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honour my story. Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, [wrong ; No man with the half of ’em e’er went far With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. No man with the half of ’em e’er weut quite right ; — ■ A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. For using thy name offers fifty excuses. Good L — d, what is man ? for as simple he looks ; [crooks. Do but try to develope his hooks and his With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, [devil. All in all he’s a problem must puzzle the On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours. That, like th’ Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours ; Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him ? Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system.. One trifling, particular truth should hava miss’d him ; For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. Mankind i3 a science defies definitions. Some sort all our qualities, each to its tribe. And think human nature they truly describe ; Have you found this, or t’other ! there’s more in the wind, [you’ll find. As by one drunken fellow his comrades But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. In the make of that wonderful creature call’d man. No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. Nor even two different shades of the same. Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, [other. Possessing the one shall imply you’ve the $it Imitg a -SJmtnMi 2kr? LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. ( 219 ) Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb’rous art. And blasted be thy murdet -aiming eye ; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. Go live, poor wanderer of the w'ood and field! The bitter little that of life remains ; No more the thickening brakes and ver- dant plains To thee shall home, or fo *d, or pastime yield. BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. 174 Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head. The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; I'll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn. And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. flit IRirb’s Harm. A SATIRE. (220) Orthodox, orthodox, Wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; There’s a heretic blast Has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense. Dr. Mac (221), Dr. Mac, You should stretch on a rack. To strike evil doers wi’ terror ; To join faith and sense Upon ony pretence. Is heretic, damnable error. • Town of Ayr (222), town of Ayr, It was mad, I declare. To meddle wi’ mischief a-brevring ; Provost John (223) is still deaf To the church’s relief. And orator Bob (224) is its ruin. D’rymple mild (225), D’rymple mild, Tho’ your heart’s like a child. And your life like the new-driven snaw. Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must have ye. For preaching that three’s ane and twa. Rumble John (226), Rumble John, Mount the steps wi’ a groan, Cry the book is wi’ heresy cramm’d ; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle. And roar every note of the damn’d. Simper James (227), Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames. There’s a holier chase in your view ; I’ll lay on your head, That the pack ye’ll soon lead. For puppies like you, there’s but few. Singet Sawney (228), Singet Sawney, Are ye huirding the penny. Unconscious what evil await ; Wi. a jump, yell, and howl. Alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Daddy Auld (220), Daddy Auld, There’s a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk (230) » Though ye do na skaith. Ye’ll be in at the death. And if ye canna bite, j e may bark. Davie Bluster (231), Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster. The corps is no nice of recruits ; Yet to worth let’s be just. Royal blood ye might boast. If the ass was the king of the brutes. Jamy Goose (232), Jamy Goose, Ye ha’e made but toom roose. In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the Doctor’s your mark. For the L — d’s haly ark ; He has cooper’d and cawt a wrong pin Poet Willie (233), Poet Willie, Gie the Doctor a volley, Wi’ your Liberty’s Chain and your wit; O’er Pegasus’ side Ye ne’er laid a stride. Ye but smelt, man, the place where he • Andro Gouk (234), Andro Gouk, Ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; Ye are rich, and look big. But lay by hat and wig, A.nd ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma’ value. Barr Steenie (235), Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye ? If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter. Ye may hae some pretence To havins and sense, Wi’ people wha ken ye know better. Irvine side (236), Irvine side, Wi’ your turkey-cock pride. Of manhood but sma’ is your share ; Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true. Even your faes will allow. And your friends they dare grant you n&g mair. Muirland Jock (237), Muirland Jock, When the Lord makes a rock To crush Common Sense for her sins. If ill manners were wit. There’s no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance. Holy Will (238), Holy Wdl, There was wit i’ your skull. When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poof; The ti miner is scant. When ye’re ta’en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an houj • SKETCH— NEW YEARS DAY. 17* Calvin’s sons, Cabin’s sons. Seize your spir’tual guns, AiidE/mnitioii you never can need; Your hearts are the stuff. Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o’ lead. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi* your priest-skelping turns, \$liy desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie : E'en though she were tipsie, She could ca’ us nae waur than we are. IK ANSWER ^TO A LETTER. Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? I kenn’d it still your wee bit jauntie. Wad bring ye to : Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye. And then yell do. The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! (239) And never drink be near his drouth ! He tauld mysel by word o’ mouth. He’d tak my letter ; I lippen’d to the chield in trouth. And bade (240) nae better. But aiblins honest Master Heron Had at the time some dainty fair one To ware his theologic care on. And holy study ; And tir’d o’ saulg to waste his lear on. E’en tried the body. But what d’ye think, my trusty fier, I’m turned a gauger — Peace be here ! Parnassian queans, 1 fear, I fear. Yell now disdain me I And then my fifty pounds a-year W T ill little gain me. Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wlia, by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies. Ye ken, ye ken. That strang necessity supreme is *Mang sons o’ men. 1 nae a wife and twa wee laddies. They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies ; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — I need na vaunt, But I’ll sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies. Before they want. Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ carol I’m weary sick o’t late and air ! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers ;• But why should ae man better fare. And a’ men britliers ? Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van. Thou stalk o’ carl hemp in man ! And let us mind, faint heart ne’er watt A lady fair : Wha does the utmost that he can. Will whyles do mair. But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ timo^) To make a happy fire-side clime To w r eans and wife. That’s the true pathos and sublime Of human life. My compliments to sister Beckie ; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e’er tread clay ! And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I’m yours for aye. Robert Bubka Ms. (241) Fair the face of orient day. Fair the tints of op’ning rose; But fairer still my< Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty shows. Sweet the lark’s wild warbled lay. Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; But, Delia, more delightful still. Steal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamoured busy bee. The rosy banquet loves to sip ; Sweet the streamlet’s limpid iaos© To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip. But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rov©; Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss. For, oh ! my soul is parched with lot* Kkrfrjr— ! Mm-fm's ®aq. TO MRS DUNLOP. (242) This day. Time winds th’ exhausted chaia^ To run the twelvemonth’s length again : I see the old, bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair’d machine. To wheel the equal, full routine. 176 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. The absent lover, minor heir. In vain assail him with their prayer ; Deaf as my friend, he secs them press. Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major’s (243) with the hounds. The happy tenants share his rounds ; Coila’s fare Rachel’-s (244) care to-day, And blooming Keith’s engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow — —Thai grandchild’s cap will do to-morrow — - And joifl with me a-moralizing : This day’s propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver? u Another year is gone for ever.” And what is this day’s strong suggestion ? ** The passing moment’s all we rest on ! ” Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? Or why regard the passing year ? Will time, amus’d with proverb’d lore^ Add to our date one minute more ? A few days may — a few years must— Repose us in the silent dust. Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! The voice of Nature loudly cries. And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies : That on this frail, uncertain state. Hang matters of eternal weight : That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone ; Whether as heavenly glory bright. Or dark as misery’s woeful night. Since, then, my honour’d, first of friends. On this poor being all depends. Let us th’ important now employ. And live as those who never die. Tho’ you, with days and honours crown’d. Witness that filial circle round, (A sight, life’s sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard ; Yourself, you wait your bright reward. ^rnlngitt, 8POKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON new-year’s-day evening. [I7S0] No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o’er our taste — the more’s the pity : Tho’, by-the-bye, abroad why will you roam ? Good sense and taste are natives here at home : But not for panegyric 1 appear, J[ come to wish you all a good new year I Old Father lime deputes me here before ye^ Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: The sage grave ancient cough’d, and bade me say, “ You’re one year older thi3 important day* If wiser, too — he hinted some suggestion, But ’twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; And with a would-be roguish leer and wini. He bade me on you press this one word— “ think ! ” Ye sprightly youths quite flushed with hops 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 ; He bids you mind, &mid your thoughtless rattle. That the first blow is ever half the battle ; That tho’ some by the skirt may try to snatch him. Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. That whether doing, suffering,,. or forbearing. You may do miracles by perseverving. Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair. Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care ! To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow. And humbly begs you’ll mind the important Now ! To crown your happiness he asks your leaver And offers bliss to give and to receive. For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours. With grateful pride we own your many favours ; And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it* Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 'fh'nlnpt, FOR MR. SUTHERLAND’S BENEFIT NIGIIl^ DUMFRIES. What needs this din about the town cf Lon’on, How this new play and that new sang if cornin’ ? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Docs nonsense mend like whiskey, when i ported ? I 3 there nae poet, burning keen for fame. Will try to gie us songs and plays at hamef For comedy abroad he needna toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece i PEG NICHOLSON”. 177 There’s th 3 mes enough in Caledonian story. Would show the tragic muse in a’ her glory. Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? \\ here are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce , How' here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword, ’Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, W rench’d his dear country from the jaws of ruin ? Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otw’ay scene To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms ’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’* arms. She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : A woman — tho’ the phrase may seem un- civil — As. able and as cruel as the Devil ! One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page, But Douglasses were heroes every age : And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife. Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right suc- ceeds. Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land Would take the muses’ servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them. And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, W r ink hard and say the folks hae done their best ! Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be cau- tion Ye’ll soon hae poets o’ the Scottish nation. Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle Time, and lay him on his back ! For us and for our stage should ony spier, w Who’s aught thae chiels maks a’ this bus- tle here? ” My best leg foremost. I’ll set up my brow. We have the honour to belong to you ! We’re your ao bairns, e’en guide us as ye like. But like gude mithers, shore before you strike. And gratefu’ still I hope ye’ll ever find us. For a’ the patronage and meikle kindness We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets and ranks ; God help us ! we re but poor — ye’se get but thanks. K tPriflnt TO A OENTLEMAN WHO HAT) SENT TUT? POET A NEWSPAPEIt, AND O FEKED TO CONTINUE IT FJHEE OF EXPENSE, Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper through. And, faith, to me ’twas really new ! How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted. To ken what French mischief was brewin’. Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin’ ; That vile doup-skelper. Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the Twalt: If Denmark, ony body spak o’t ; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t ; How cut-throat Prussian blades were liingin ;> How libbet Italy was singin’ ; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin’ or takin’ aught amiss; Or how our merry lads at hame. In Britain’s court, kept up the game : How royal George, the Lord leuk f. ev him! Was managing St Stephen’s quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin’. Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin’. If Warren Hastings’ neck was yeukin’; How cesses, stents, avid fees were rax’d. Or if bare yet were tax’d ; The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; If that daft uuckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin’ still at hizzies’ tails; Or if he was grown ouglitlins douser. And na o’ perfect kintra cooser. A’ this and mair I never heard of, And but for you I might despair’d of. So gratefu’, back your news I send you. And pray, a’ guid things may attend you » Ellisland, Monday Morning. |5rg HirljnlsEn. (245) Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. As ever trod on aim ; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o’ Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. And rode thro’ thick and thin ; i But now she’s floating down the Nitb, \ And wanting e’en the skin. 178 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. And ance she bore a priest ; But now she’s floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. And the priest he rode her sair ; And much oppressed and bruis’d she was. As pnest-rid cattle are — * • fa ait! *14. (246) Thou bed, in which I first began To be chat various creature — Man! And when again the Fates decree. The place where I must cease to be When sickness comes, to whom I fly. To soothe my pain, or close mine eye When cares surround me, where I weep. Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — When sore with labour, whom I court. And to thy downy breast resort — Where, too ecstatic joys I find, When deigns my Delia to be kind— And full of love, in all her charms. Thou giv’st the fair one to my arms. The centre thou — where grief and pain. Disease and rest, alternate reign. Oh, since within thy little space. So many various scenes take place ; Lessons as useful shalt thou teach. As sages dictate — churchmen preach; And man, convinced by thee alone. This great important truth shall own : ** That thin 'partitions do divide The hounds where good and ill reside; That nought is perfect here below : But bliss still bordering upon WOE.” (247) /irst Epistle In fflr. (Btaljittt OP FINTRY. When Nature ner great masterpiece designed. And fram’d her last best work, the human mind. Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. She formed of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, [birth: | And merchandise* whole genus take their Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; The caput mortuum of gross desires [squires ; Makes a material for mere knights and The martial phosphorus is taught % flow. She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grar® designs. Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th’ Aurora of the poles* The flashing elements of female souls. The order’d system fair before her stood. Nature, well-pleas’d, pronounc’d it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o’er. Half-jest, she cried one curious labour morfk Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter. Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we. Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow. When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow, A being form’d t’amuse his graver friends. Admir’d and prais’d — and there the homage ends: A mortal quite unfit for fortune’s strife. Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give. Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. Yet frequently unheeded in his own. But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind. She cast about a standard tree to find ; And, to support his helpless woodbine states Attach’d him to the generous truly great, A title, and the only one I claim. To lay strong hold for help on bounteoua Graham. Pity the tuneful muses’ hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main! Tneir hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff. That never gives — tho’ humbly takes enough; The little fate allows, they share as soon. Unlike sage proverb’d wisdom’s hard- wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend. Ah, that “the friendly e'er should want a friend!” Let prudence number o’er each sturdy son. Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool!) Who make poor will do wait upon I should— • We own they’re prudent, but who feela they’re good! Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy! But, come, ye who the godlike pleasure know. Heaven’s attribute distinguished — to bestow! THE FIVE CARLINES. 17S Whose aims of love would grasp the human j race: ' [grace; ! Come thou who giv’st with all a courtier’s Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. Backward, abash’d, to ask thy friendly aid? I know' my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; Biit there are ..ch who court the tuneful nine — Heavens! should the branded character be mine! [flows. Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur’d merit! Seek not the proofs in private life to find; Pity the best of words should be but wind! So to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. Iu all the clam’rous cry of starving want. They dun benevolence with shameless front; Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays. They persecute you all your future days! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain! My horny fist assume the plough again ; The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; On eighteen-pence a-week I’ve liv’d before. Tho’, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift ! I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That, plac’d by thee upon the wish’d for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. My muse may imp her wing for some sub- limer flight. fffre /itre foliniJ. (248) There were five carlines in the south. They fell upon a scheme. To send a lad to Lon’on town. To bring them tidings hame. Nor only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands there, And aiblins gowd and honour baith Might be that laddie’s share. There was Maggy fiy the binks o’ Nith, A dame with pride eneugh. And Marjory o’ the Monylochs, A carliue auld and teugh. And blinkin’ Bess o’ Annandale, That dwelt near Sol wayside, And whUky Jean, that took her gill. In Galloway sj&e wide. And black Joan, frie Crichton Peel, O’ gipsy kith and kin — Five wighter carlines warna foun* The south countra within. To send a lad to Lon’on town. They met upon a day. And mony a knight, and mony a laird. Their errand fain would gae. O mony a knight and many a laird. This errand fain would gae ; But nae ane could their fancy please^ O ne’er a ane but twae. The first he was a belted knight (249), Bred o’ a border clan. And he wad gae to Lon’on town. Might nae man him withstan’. And he wad do their errands weel. And meikle he wad say. And ilka ane at Lon’on court Would bid to him guid day. Then next came in a sodger youth (250)^ And spak wi’ modest grace. And he wad gae to Lon’on town. If sae their pleasure was. He wadna heclit them courtly gifti^ Nor meikle speech pretend. But he wad hecht an honest heart. Wad ne’er desert a friend, Now, wham to choose, and wham refuse^ At strife their carlines fell ! For some had gentle folks to please. And some would please themsel. Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nit^ And she spak up wi’ pride. And she wad send the sodger youth. Whatever might betide. For the auld guidman o’ Lon’on court (251) She didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodger youth To greet his eldest son. (25 2 ) Then up sprang Bess o’ Annandale, And a deadly aith she’s ta’en, Tfcat she wad vote the border knight, Though she should vote her lane. For far-aff fowls hae feathers fair. And fools o’ change are fain ; But I hae tried the border knight, And I’ll try him yet again. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, A carline stoor and grim. The auld guidman, aud the young guidma^ For me may smk or swim ; 17 180 BURNS S POETICAL WORKS. For fools will freat c’ right or wrang. While knaves laugh them to scorn ; But the sodger’s friends hae blawn the best. So he shall bear the horn. Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink. Ye weel ken, kimmers a’, The auld guidman o’ Lon’on court, llis back’s been at the wa’; And mony a friend that kiss’d his cup. Is now a fremit wight: But it’s ne’er be said o’ whisky Jean — I’ll send the border knight. Then slow raise Marjory o’ the Loch, And wrinkled was Iter brow. Her ancient weed was russet grey. Her auld Scots bluid was true ; There’s some great folks set light by me — I set as light by them; But I will seud to Lon’on town Wham I like best at hame. Sae how this weighty plea may end, Nae mortal wight can tell : God grant the king and ilka man May look weel to himsel. $Ernnfr tn 2Er- ©raliara, OF FINTRY. ( 253 ). Fintry, my stay in worldly strife. Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, Are ye as idle’s I am ? Come then, wi’ uncouth, kintra fleg. O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg. And ye shall see me try him. I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlings ; And bent on winning borough towns. Came shaking hands wi’ wabster louns. And kissing barefit carlins. Combustion through our boroughs rode Whistling his roaring pack abroad. Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl’d. And Westerha’ and Hopeton hurl’d To every Whig defiance. But Queen sbc rry, cautious, left the war, The unmannei ’d dust might soil his star. Besides, he hated bleeding ; But left behind him heroes bright. Heroes ill Caesarean tight Or Ciceronian pleading. O for a throat like huge Mons-meg (25T4J^ To muster e’er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig’s banners ; Heroes and heroines (©mmix All in the field of politics. To win immortal honours. MMurdo and his lovely spouse, (Til’ enamour’d laurels kiss her browsQf Led on the loves and graces ; She won each gaping burgess’ heart While he, all conquering, play’d his part Among their wives and lasses. Craigdarrocli led a light-arm’d corps; Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour. Like Ilecla streaming thunder ; Glenriddel, skill’d in rusty coins. Blew up each Tory’s dark designs. And bar’d the treason under. In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig, who set at nought The wildest savage Tory. And Welsh, who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground^ High wav’d his magnum bonum round With Cyclopean fury. Miller brought up the artillery ranks, The many pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation ; While Maxwelton, that baron bold. Mid Lawson’s port entrench’d his hold. And threaten’d worse damnation. To these, what Tory hosts oppos’d ; With these, what Tory warriors clos’d. Surpasses my descriving : Squadrons extended long and large, W T ith furious speed rush’d to the charga, Like raging devils driving. What verse can sing, what prose narrate^ The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie ? Grim horror grinn’d ; pale terror roar’d As murther at his thrapple shor’d; And liell mixt in the bruizie I As Highland crags, by thunder cleft. When lightnings fire the stormy lift. Hurl down wi’ crashing rattle ; As flames amang a hundred woods ; As headlong foam a hundred floods ; Such is the rage of battle. The stubborn Tories dare to die ; As soon the rooted oaks would fly, Before th’ approaching fellers ; The Whigs come on like ocean’s riar When all his wintry billows pour Agamsrt the Buchan Buller* (25$ CAPTAIN GROSE’S PEREGRINATIONS. m Lo, from the shades of death’s deep night. Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. And think on former daring; The muffled murtherer of Charles (256), The Magna Charta flag unfurls, All deadly gules its bearing. Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame ; Bold Scrimgeour (257) follows gallant Gra- hame — (258) Auld Covenanters shiver — (Forgive, forgive, much-wrong’d Montrose ! While death and hell engulf thy foes. Thou liv’st on high for ever ! ) Still o’er the field the combat burns ; The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; But fate the word has spoken — For woman’s wit, or strength of man, Alas ! can do but what they can — The Tory ranks are broken ! Oh that my e’en were flowing burns l My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cub’s undoing ! That I might greet, that I might cry. While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing ! What Whig but wails the good Sir James ; Dear to his country by the names Friend, Patron, Benefactor ? Not Pulteny’s wealth can Pulteny save! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! And Stuart bold as Hector ! Thou, Pitt, shaH rue this overthrow. And Thurlow growl a curse of woe. And Melville melt in wailing ! Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! And Burke shall sing, “ Oh prince, arise ! Thy power is all-prevailing ! ” For your poor friend, the Bard afar. He hears, and only hears the war, A cool spectator purely ; So when the storm the forest rends. The robin in the hedge descends And sober chirps securely. (faptain frast’s ^irrgrinaiians THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. (259) Hear, land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk (260) to Johnny Groats; If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, I rede you tent it : A chieLd’s amang you taking notes. And, faith, he’ll prent & i If in your bounds 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 and keel. By some auld houlet-haunted biggie Or kirk deserted by its riggin. It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in Some eldritch part, W r i’ deils, they say. Lord save’s ! colleaguin 1 At some black art. Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer. Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour. And you, deep-read in hell’s black gramme^ Warlocks and witches ; Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight bitches. It’s tauld he was a sodger bred. And ane wad rather fa’n than fled ; But now he’s quat the spurtle blades And dog skin wallet. And ta’en the — Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets. Rusty aird caps and jinglin’ jackets. Wad haud the Lothians three in tacket% A towmont guid ; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets. Before the Flood. Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender f That which distinguished the gender O’ Balaam’s ass ; A broom-stick o’ the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi’ brass. Forbye, he’ll shape you aff, fu’ gleg; The cut of Adam’s philabeg ; The knife that nicket Abel’s craig. He’ll prove you fully. It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gully. But wad ye see him in his glee. For meikle glee and fun has he. Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi’ him. And port. Oh port ! shine thou a wee. And then ye’ll see him ; Now, by the pow’rs o’ verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chiel, oh Grose ! — Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose. They sair misca’ thee; I’d take the rascal by the nose, W r ad say, sluice fa’ the^ its BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. •JXMtfru in an fnnslnp, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE. (261) Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose? Igo and ago, If he’s amang his friends or foes ? Irani, coram, dago. Is he south or is he north ? Igo and ago. Dr drowned in the river Forth ? Iram, coram, da g 186 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry side : Y’ampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion criiics cureless venom dart. Critics ! — appall’d I venture on the name. Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : [(267) Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! lie hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockhead’s daring into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants tom, who ne’er one sprig must wear : [strife, Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d, in the unequal The hapless poet flounders on through life ; Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d, And fled each muse that glorious once inspired. Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injur’d page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage ! So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- ceased. For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast : By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, lies senseless of each tugging bitch’s son. Oh dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest ! Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune’s polar frost or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up : Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder “some folks” do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easj picks his frog. And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. And thro’ disast’rous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that “ fools are fortune’s care.” So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle muses’ mad cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in scaling lieav’n, or vaulted hell. I dread thee fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet’s, husband’s father’s fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; (Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears^ And left us darkling in a world of tears) : Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish, pray’r!— • Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ; May bliss domestic smooth his private path. Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath, [death? With many a filial tear circling the bed ynartjj Cpistli In Blr. ©ralnrn, OF FINTRY ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. ( 263 ) I call no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit bums. And all the tribute of ray heart returns. For boons accorded, goodness ever new. The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; If aught that giver from my mind efface. If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace ; Then roll to me,alang your wandering spheres^ Only to number oUt a villaiu’s years 1 ®Jji Higljts nf 'HJrnnan, All OCCASIONAL audress spoken by miss FONTEiNELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. [nov. 26 , 1792 .] While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things. The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; While quacks of state must each product his plan. And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First, in the sexes’ intermixed connection. One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. Helpless, must fall before the blasts 3f fate. Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form. Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm. Our second right — but needless here, is caution, To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion ; Each man of sense has it so full before him. He’d die before he’d wrong it — ’ tis decorum. There was. indeed, in far less polish’d days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; Would swagger, swear, get drunk. Lick up t riot. Nay even thus invade a lady’s quiet. TO MR. MAXWELL, 187 Row, thank our nfcars! these Gothic times are fled ; [bred — Now, well-bred men — and you are all well Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) [ners. (26*9) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor man- For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, [nearest. That right to fluttering female hearts the Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration [tion ! Most humbly own — ’tis dear, dear admira- In that blest sphere alone we live and move: There taste that life of life — immortal love. Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, *Gains’t such an host what flinty savage dares ? — [charms. When awful Beauty joins with all her Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? But truce with kings and truce with consti- tutions. With bloody armaments and revolutions. Let majesty your first attention summon. Ah! Ca ira! the majesty of woman. a fisitra. As I stood by yon roofless tower (270), Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air. Where th’ owlet mourns in her ivy bower. And tells the midnight moon her care ; The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill, To the distant-echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path. Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s. Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whose distant roaring swells and fa’s. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi’ hissing eerie din ; Athwart the lift they start and shift. Like fortune’s favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes. And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise. Attir’d as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o’ stane, His darin’ look had daunted me; And o n his bonnet grav d was plain. The sacred motto — ■" Libertie !” And frae his harp sic strains did flow. Might rous’d the slumb’ring dead to hear; But oh ! it was a tale of woe. Ad ever met a Briton’s ear. He sang wi’ joy the former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times j But what he said it was nae play— I winna vcntur’t in my rhymes. fibril! — 3 /raprnt. Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song To thee I turn with swimming eyes! Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Immingled wdth the mighty dead ! [lies! Beueath the hallow’d turf where Wallace Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death l Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep. Nor give the coward secret breath. Is this the power in freedom’s war. That wont to bid the battle rage ? Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. Crushing the despot’s proudest bearing Behold e’en grizzly death’s majestic state When Freedom’s sacred glance e’en deat!| is wearing. £n fflt. JtanfU, OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, Health to the Maxwell’s vet’ran chief! Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief : Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sybil leaf This natal morn; I see thy life is stuff o’ prief. Scarce quite half worn. This day thou metes’st three score eleven. And 1 can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka poet) On thee a tack o’ seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow. May desolation’s lang teeth’d harrow, Nine miles an hour. Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brimstane shoure — But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses boiiiiie. May couthie fortune, kind and caunie. In social glee, Wi’ mornings blythe and e’enings funny. Bless them and thee ! Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. And then the deil he daurna steer ye : Your friends aye love, your facs aye fear ye For me, shame fa’ me. If near’st my heart I dinna wear ye While Burns they ca’ me! 183 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. n ftesforal $nrtnj. ( 271 ) IIail Poesie ! tliou Nymph reserv’d ! In chase 0’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d Erie common sense, or sunk unnerv’d ’Mang heaps 0’ clavers ; And och ! owre aft thy joes hae starv’d. Mid a’ thy favours ! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. While loud, -the trump’s heroic clang. And sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage ; Scarce ane has tried the sliepherd-sang But wi’ miscarriage ? In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus’ pen Will Shakspeare drives ; Wep Pope, the knurlin, ’till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Ev’n Sappho’s flame. But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? They’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s catches ; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O’ heathen tatters : I pass by hundred, nameless wretches. That ape their betters. In this braw age o’ wit and lear. Will nane the Shepherd’s whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace ; And wi’ the far fam’d Grecian share A rival place ? Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — There’s ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever ; The teeth o’, time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou’s for ever ! Thou paints auld nature to the nine*. In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines. Her griefs will tell 1 In goweny glens thy burnie strays. Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi’ hawthorns grey, ’Where bladcbirds join the shepherd’s lays At close 0’ day. Thy rural loves are nature’s sel’ ; Nae bombast spates 0’ nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O’ witchin’ love ; That charm that can the strongest quell. The sternest move. fmtitrf, WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY 1793, Til* BIRTHDAV OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRJSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafles* bough. Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign. At thy* blythe carol clears his furrow’d brow. So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear. Sits meek Content with light unanxioua heart, [part. Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them Nor asks if they bring ought ^ hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yoa orient skies ! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. What wealth could never give nor tak* away I Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mit* with thee I’ll share. CjjE Cm nf f ihrrtq. (27?) Heard ye o’ the tree 0’ France, I watna what’s the name o’t ; Around it a’ the patriots dance, Weel Europe kens the fame o’t. It stands where ance the Bastile stood, A prison built by kings, man. When Superstition’s hellish brood Kept France in leading strings, man. Upo’ this tree there grows sic fruit. Its virtue’s a’ can tell, man ; It raises man aboon the brute. It maks him ken himself, man. If ance the peasant taste a bit He’s greater than a lord, man. And wi’ the beggar shares a mite O’ a’ he can afford, man. This fruit is worth a’ Afric’s wealth. To comfort us ’twas sent, man : To gie the sweetest blush o’ health. And mak us a’ content, man. It clears the een, it cheers the heart, Maks high and low guid friends, maa 5 And he wha acts the traitor’s part. It to perdition sends, man. My blessings aye attend the chiel, Wha pitied Gallia’s slaves, man, Ar d staw’d a branch, spite o’ the dnh I'rae yon’t the w jstern waves, man? MONODY. 189 Fair Virtue water’d it wi’ care. And now she sees wi’ pride, man How weel it buds and blossoms there. Its branches spreading wide, man. But vicious folk aye hate to see The works o' Virtue thrive, man ; The courtly vermin’s banned the tree. And grat to see it thrive, man. King Loui’ thought to cut it down, When it was unco’ sma’, man ; For this the watchman cracked his crown. Cut aff his head and a’, man. A wicked crew syne, on a time. Did tak a solemn aith, man. It ne’er should flourish to its prime, I wat they pledged their faith, man ; Aw a, they gaed wi’ mock parade. Like beagles hunting game, man. But soon grew weary o’ the trade. And wished they’d been at hame, man. For Freedom, standing by the tree. Her sons did loudly ca’, man ; 6 he sang a song o’ liberty. Which pleased them ane and a’, man. By her inspired, the new-born race Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; The hirelings ran — her foes gied chase. And banged the despot weel, man. Let Britain boast her hardy oak. Her poplar and her pine, man, Auld Britain ance could crack her joke. And o’er her neighbours shine, man. But seek the forest round and round. And soon ’twill be agreed, man. That sic a tree can not be found, ’Twixt London and the Tweed, man. Without this tree, alack this life Is but a vale o’ woe man ; A scene 0’ sorrow mixed wi’ strife^ Nae real joys we know, man. We labour soon, we labour late. To feed the titled knave, man ; And a’ the comfort we’re to get. Is that ayont the grave, man. Wi’ plenty 0’ sic trees, I trow. The warld would live in peace, man ; The sword would help to mak a plough. The din o’ war wad cease, man. like brethren in a common cause, WVd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws Wad gladden everv isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat Sic wnal esome, dainty cheer, man ; I’d gie my shoon frae aff my feet. To taste sic fruit, i swear, man. Syne let us pray, auld England may Sure plant this far-famed tree, man ; And blythe we’ll sing, and hail the day That gave us liberty, man. fmral Sunnmricr. A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (2/3J You’re welcome to Despots, Dumouriei ; You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier. How does Dampiere do ? Ay and Bournonville too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier? I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; I will fight France with you, Dumourier I will fight France with you ; I will take my chance with you ; By my soul I’ll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about. Till freedom’s spark is out. Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt — Dumourier. f ittrs SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. (274) The friend whom wild from wisdom’s way. The fumes of wine infuriate send (Not moony madness more astray) — Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part. Ah, why should I such scenes outlive !— Scenes so abhorrent to my heart l ’Tis thine to pity and forgive. fflnnnirij ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. (275) How cold is that bosom which folly once fir’d, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d : [tired. How silent that tongue which the echoes oft How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen’d ! If sorrow and anguish their exit await. From friendship and dearest affection remov’d ; How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, [lov’d. Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived’st ua* 190 BURNS’S POETTCAL WORKS. Loves spaces, and virtues, I call not on you ! So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. And flowers let us cull for Eliza’s cold bier. We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower, [weed; We’ll roarn through the forest for each idle But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, Tor none e’er approached her but rued the rash deed. We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay ; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. What once was a butterfly gay in life’s beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect. Want only of goodness denied her esteem. fpistle from fops fa JEaria. (276) From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells. Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. And deal from iron hands the spare repast. Where truant ’prentices, yet young in sin. Blush at the curious stranger peeping in • Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no more : Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing. Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : Prom these dire scenes my wretched lines I date. To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate. •Alas! I feel I am no actor here !’* *Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make thy hair, tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d. By barber woven, and by barber sold. Though twisted smooth with Harry’s nicest care. Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more^ JL start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms. In Highland bonnet woo Malvina’s charms ; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high. And steal from me Maria’s eye. Blest Highland bonnet ! once my proudest dress. Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press, 1 see her wave thy towering plumes afar. And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; I see her face the first of Ireland’s sons (277), And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; The crafty colonel (278) leaves the tartaned lines For other wars, where he a hero shines ; The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. Who owns a Bushby’s heart without the head. Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display. That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; The shrinking bard adown ail alley skulks. And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks ; [state Though there, his heresies in church and Might well award him Muir and Palmers fate: Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal call’d Maria’s jaunty stagger. The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ; Whose spleen e’en worse than Burn’s venom, when He dips in gall unmix’d his eager pen. And pours his vengeance in the burning line^ Who christen’d thus Maria’s lyre divine. The idiot strum of vanity bemused. And even th’ abuse of poesy abused : Who call’d her verse a parish Workhouse, made [stray’d ?) For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or A Workhouse ! ah, that sound awakei my woes. And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose ! In durance vile here must I wake and weep. And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore. And vermin’d Gipsies litter’d heretofore. Why Lonsdale thus, tby wrath on vagranti pour ; Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell ? Thou know’st the virtues cannot hate the® worse ; The vices also, must they club their curse? Or must no tiny sin to others fall. Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for sdl ? Maria, send me too tby griefs; and car&s ; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares THE V As thou at afl mankind the flag unfurls, Who on my fair one satire’s vengeance hurls ? Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit? Who says that fool alone is not thy due. And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true? Our force united on thy foes we’ll turn And dare the war with all of woman born : For who can write and speak as thou and I ? My periods that decyphering defy. And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. &nmt f Off THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL OF GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. (279) No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul : [dant stole. Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver- More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow’rs, with all your dyes ? [friend ! Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my Hovv can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th’ untimely tomb where Riddel lies ! Yes, pour, ve warblers, pour the notes of woe ! And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his “ narrow house ” for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem’ry of my loss will oidy meet. impromptu ON MRS riddel’s birth-day. (280) Old Winter, with his frosty beard. Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr’d— * What have I done of all the year. To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning. But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this < vil ; Give me, and I’ve no more to say. Give me Maria’s natal day ! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, summer, autumn, cannot mat fli me.” WELS. 191 “ ’Tis done !” says Jove ; so ends my ate ry. And Winter once rejoic’d in glory. Jtos in ®i 05 ©rajiani OF FINTRY. (281) Here, where the Scottish muse iramortai lives, [join’d. In sacred strains and tuneful numbers Accept the gift; — tho’ humble he who gives. Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. So may no ruffian-feeling in tby breast. Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. Or pity’s notes in luxury of tears. As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; While conscious virtue all the strain endears. And h°aven-born piety her sanction seals. % franii, A TALE. ’Twas where the birch and sounding thong are plied. The noisy domicile of pedant pride; Where ignorance her dark’ning vapour throws. And cruelty directs the thick’ ning blows; Upon a time, Sir A-be-ce the great. In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount. And call the trembling vowels to account. First enter’d A, a grave, broad, solemn wighe. But, ah ! deform’d, dishonest to the sight ! His twisted head look’d backward on his way. And flagrant from the scourge he grunted , ait Reluctant, E stalk’d in ; with piteous race The jostling tears ran down his honest face f That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. Pale he surrenders at the tyrant’s throne ; The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound N ot all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; And next the title following close behind. He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign’d The cobweb’d Gothic dome resounded, Y ? In sullen vengeance, I, disdain’d reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. And knock’d the groaning vowel to the ground ! In rueful apprehension enter’d O, The wailing minstrel of despairing wo ej 192 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Tli’ Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art ; So grim, deform’d, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and by-other scarcely knew ! As trembling U stood staring ill aghast. The pedant in his left hand clutch’d him fast. In helpless infants’ tears he dipp’d his right, Baptiz’d him eu, and kick’d him from his sight. Stars In Snftit Sankira, Ane day, as Death, that grusome carle. Was driving to the tither warl’ A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad. And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; Black gowns of each denomination. And thieves of every rank and station, Prom him that wears the star and garter. To him that wintles in a halter : Ashamed himsel’ to see the wretches. He mutters, glowrin’ at the bitches, “ By G — , I’ll not be seen behint them. Nor ’mang the sp’ritual core present them. Without, at least, ane honest man. To grace this d — d infernal clan.” By Adamhill a glance he threw, “L — God !” quoth he, “I have it now. There’s just the man I want, i’ faith !” And quickly stoppit RankineV breath. <^a finsMittt. 90 XV DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FBXSND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. Sensibility how charming. Thou, my friend, canst truly teU : But distress with horrors arming. Thou hast also known too well l Fairest flower, behold the lily. Blooming in the sunny ray : Let the blast sweep o’er the valley. See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the w r ood-lark charm the forest. Telling o’er his little joys : Hapless bird ! a prey the surest. To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow ; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. Thrill the deepest notes of woe. Sifirra SPOKEN BY 'MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFH NIGHT ( 282 ). Still anxious to secure your partial favour. And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, ’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; And last, my Prologue-business sflily hinted. “Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes, [times : u I know your bent — these are no laughing Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears — Dissolve in sighs — and sentimental tears. With laden breath, and solemn-rounded sentence, [Repentance ; Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. Waving on high the desolating brand. Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?” I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, . [crying? D’ye think, said I, this face was made for I’ll laugh, that’s poz — nay more, the wo) Id shall know it ; And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet \ Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief That Misery’s another word for Grief; I also think — so may I be a bride ! — That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d. Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye; Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive — To make three guineas do the work of five : Laugh in Misfortune’s face — the beldam witch ! — Say, you’ll be merry, tho* you can’t be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur’st in desperate thought — a rope— thy neck — Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap : Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf! Laugh at her follies — laugh e’en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder — that’s your grand specific To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise. THE ELECTION. 191 U Cijlnrk (283) *Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair Nor thou the gift refuse, [friend. Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralising muse. Since thou, in all thy youth and charms. Must bid the world adieu, (A world ’gainst peace in constant arms) To join the friendly few. Since thy gay morn of life o’ercast. Chill came the tempest’s lower; (And ne’er misfortune s eastern blast Did nip a fairer llower.) Since life’s gay scenes must charm no more, Still much is left behind; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— The comforts of the mind! Thine is the self-approving glow. On conscious honour’s part; And, dearest gift of heaven belour. Thine friendship’s truest heart. The joys refin’d of sense and taster "With every muse to rove: And doubly were the poet blest. These joys could he improve. Sites in iju $jjais nf ®jjnmsmt, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. While virgin spring, by Eden’s flood. Unfolds her tender mantle green. Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. Or tunes Eolian strains between: While Summer with a matron grace Retreats to Dry burgh’s cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade: While Autumn, benefactor kind. By Tweed erects his aged head. And sees, with self-approving mind. Each creature on liis bounty fed: While maniac Winter rages o’er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar. Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: Bo long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son* fallais an Mr. lafna's fitrfina*. [ballad first] (284.) Whom will you send to London towi^ To Parliament and a’ that ? Or wha in a’ the o mntry round The best deserves to fa’ that? For a’ that, and a ’ that. Thro’ Galloway and a’ that ; Where is the laird or belted knighS That best deserves to fa’ that? Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yeti* And wha is’t never saw that ? Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree met And has a doubt of a’ that ? For a ’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! The independent patriot, The honest man, and a’ that, Tho’ wit and worth in either sex, St. Mary’s Isle can shaw that ; Wi’ dukes and lords let Selkirk mil, And weel does Selkirk fa’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! The independent commoner Shall be the man for a’ that. But 'why should we to nobles jouk? And is’t against the law that? For why, a lord may be a gouk, Wi’ ribbon, star, and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! A lord may be a lousy loun, Wi’ ribbon, star, and a’ that. A beardless boy comes o’er the hill^ Wi’ uncle’s purse and a’ that; But We’!! hae ane frae ’mang ourself A man we ken, and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! For we’re not to be bought and sou Like naigs, and nowt, and a’ that. Then let us drink the Stewartry, Kerroughtree’s laird, and a’ that, Our representative to be, For weel he’s worthy a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! A House of Commons such as he. They would be blest that saw that [ballad second.] $Ijb (Slrrtimi* Fy, let us a’ to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin’ there; For Murray ’s light-horse are to muster. And oh, how the heroes will sweai 1 194 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. And there will be Murray commander. And Gordon the battle to win ; Like brothers they’ll stand by each other, Sae knit in alliance an’ sin. And there will be black lippit Johnnie (285*), The tongue o’ the trump to them a’; An’ he get ua hell for his haddin’. The deil gets na justice ava’; And there will be Kempleton’s birkie^ A boy no sae black at the bane, B.it, as for his fine nabob fortune. We’ll e’en let the subject alane. (286) And there will be Wigton’s new sheriff ; Dame Justice fu’ brawlie has sped. She’s gotten the heart of a Busby, But, Lord, what’s become o’ the head? And there will be Cardoness (287), Esquire, Sae mighty in Cardoness’ eyes ; A wight that will weather damnation. For the devil the prey will despise. And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), New chris t’ning towns far and near ; Abjuring their democrat doings. By kissing the — o’ a peer ; And there will be Kenmure sae gen’rous. Whose honour is proof to the storm. To save them from stark reprobation. He lent then his name to the firm. But we winna mention Redcastle, The body, e’en let him escape 1 He’d venture the gallows for siller. An’ ’twere na the cost o’ the rape. And where is our king’s lord lieutenant, Sae fam’d for his gratefu’ return? The billie is gettin’ his questions. To say in St. Stephen’s the morn. And there will be lads o’ the gospel, Muirhead wha’s as guid as he’s true : And there will be Buittle’s apostle, Wha’s more o’ the black than the blue; And there will be folk from St. Mary’s, A house o’ great merit and note. The deil ane but honours them highly — • The deil ane will gie them his vote ! And there will be wealthy young Richard, ; Dame fortune should hing by the neck ; For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing. His merit had won him respect : And there will be rich brother nabobs, T1 o’ nabobs yet men of the first. And there will be Collieston’s whiskers. And Uuintin, o’ lads not the warst. And there will be stamp-office Johnnie, Tak tent how ye purchase gt dram; [(289) And there will be gay Cassencarrie, And there will be gleg Colonel Tam ; And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, Whose honour was ever his law. If the virtues w r ere packed in a parcel. His worth might be sample for a’. And can we forget the auld major, Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the Greys, Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other. Him only ’tis justice to praise. And there will be maiden Kilkerran, And also Barskimming’s guid knight* And there will be roarin’ Birtwhistle, Wha, luckily, roars in the right. And there frae the Niddesdale borders. Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Wali«t That griens for the fishes and loaves; And there will be Logan Mac Douall, Sculdudd’ry and he will be there. And also the wild Scot of Galloway, Sodgerin’ gunpowder Blair. Then hey the chaste interest o’ Broughton, And hey for the blessings ’twill bring 1 It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, In Sodom ’twould make him a king ; And hey for the sanctified Murray, Our land who wi’ chapels has stor’d; He founder’d his horse among harlots. But gied the auld naig to the Lord. [ballad third.] in firrtat Jim lnag, Tune — Buy broom besoms , Wha will buy my troggin (290), Fine election ware ; Broken trade o’ Broughton, A’ in high repair. Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o’ Dee ; Who wants troggin Let him come to me. There’s a noble Earl’s Fame and high renown (291), For an auld sang — It’s thought the gudes were strown Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s the worth o’ Broughton (29 2), In a needle’s ee : Here’s a reputation Tint by Balmaghie. (293) Buy braw troggin, &c« Here’s an honest conscience Might a prince adorn ; Frae the downs o’ Tinwald— So was never worn. (294) Buy braw troggin, &e. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD. m Here its stuff and lining, Cardoness’s head ; Fkie for a sodger A’ the wale o’ lead. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here’s a little wadset Buittle’s scrap o’ truth. Pawn’d in a gin shop Quenching holy drouth. Buy braw troggin, &C. Here’s armorial bearings, Frae the manse o’ Urr ; The crest, an auld crab-apple (295) Rotten at the core. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Satan’s picture. Like a bizzard gled, Pouncing poor Redcastle Sprawlin’ as a taed. Buy braw troggin, &C. Here’s the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast ; By a thievish midge They had been nearly lost. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here is Murray’s fragments O’ the ten commands ; Gifted by black Jock To get them aff his hands. Buy braw troggin, &C. Saw ye e’er sic troggin ? If to buy ye’re slack, Hornie’s turnin’ chapman— He’ll buy a’ the pack. Buy braw troggin Frae the banks o’ Dee ; Wha wants troggin Let him come to me. f iff, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTEP. (296) DUMFRIES, 1796. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the poet’s weal : Ah ! now sma’ heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. Oh what a canty warld were it, Would pain and care and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit. As they deserve ! (And aye a rowth roast beef and claret ; Syne wha wad starve ?) Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may tric'c her. And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I’ve found her still Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, ’Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches like baudrons by a rattan. Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on Wi’ felon ire ; Syne, whip ! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast s&ut He’s aff like fire. Auld Nick ! auld Nick ! it is na fair. First showing us the tempting ware. Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. To put us daft ; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare O’ hell’s damn’d waft. Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld damn’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy. And hellish pleasure ; Already in thy fancy’s eye. Thy sicker treasure ! Soon heel’s-o’er-gowdie ! in he gangs. And like a sheep-head on a tangs. Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs And murd’ring wrestle. As, dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet’s tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil. To plague you with this draunting drived Abjuring a’ intentions evil, I quat my pen : The Lord preserve us a’ frae the devil 1 Amen! Amen! Susrrijitintt FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. ( 297 ) Thou of an independent mind. With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d; Prepar’d Powers proudest frown to brave^ Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; Virtue alone who dost revere. Thy own reproach alone dost fear. Approach this shrine, and worship here, 45a iljp Dratjj nf a /aaaaritf Cljillr. (298) Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of the My dear little angel, for ever ; [graven For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slave. His hopes from existence to sever. 196 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Though cold be tnc clay where thou pillow’st thy head. In the dark silent mansions of sorrow. The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form, Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom. When thou shrunk’st fiae the scowl of the loud winter storm. And nestled thee close to that bosom Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death. Reclined on the lap of thy mother; When the tear trickled • bright, when the short stifled breath. Told how dear ye were aye to each other. My child, .thou art gone to the home of thy rest. Where suffering no longer can harm ye. Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest. Through an endless existence shall charm thee. While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn. Through the dire desert regions of sorrow. O’er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn, And sigh for this life’s latest morrow. fa Mu ffiiiljjrll, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alack ! alack ! the meikle diel Wi’ a’ his witches Are at it, skelpin’ jig and reel. In my poor pouches ! I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it. That one pound one, I sairly want it; If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it. It would be kind ; And while my heart wi’ lif-blood daunted, I’d bear’t in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin To thee and thine ; poj lestic peace and comforts crowning The hale design. POSTCRIPT. Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been Lcket* And by fell death was nearly nicket ; Grim loan ! lie got me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk ; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn’d a neuk. But by that health, I’ve got a shore o’t. And by that life, I’m promised mair o’t My. hale and weel. I’ll tak a care o’t, A ten tier way ; Then farewell folly, hide and hair o’t, For ance and aye 1 IRuinpir Haiti’s Tarawt. Oh, meikle do I rue, fause love. Oh sairly do I rue. That e’er I heard your flattering tongu^ That e’er your face I knew. Oh, I hae tent my rosy cheeks. Likewise my waist sae sma’ ; And I hae lost my lightsome heart. That little wist a fa’. Now I maun thole the scornfu’ sneer O’ mony a saucy quean ; When, gin the truth were a’ but kent. Her life’s been warse than mine. Whene’er my father thinks on me. He stares into the wa’ ; My mither, she has taen the bed Wi’ thinking on my fa’. Whene’er I hear my father’s foot. My heart wad burst wi’ pain ; Whene’er I meet my mither’s ee. My tears rin down like rain, Alas ! sae sweet a tree as love Sic bitter fruit should bear ! Alas ! that e’er a bonnie face Should draw a sauty tear I • • * * file Dtait nf tjje /arnlhj. A NEW BALLAD. (299) Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry ; And dire the discord Langside saw. For beauteous hapless Mary : But Scot with Scot ne’er met so hot. Or were more in fury seen. Sir, [job-* Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famoui Who should be Faculty’s Dean, Sir, 19 ? ON MR. M’MURDO. This Hal for genus, wit and lore. Among the first was number’d ; But pious Boh, ’mid learning’s store. Commandment ten remember’d. Yet simple Bob the victory got. And won his heart’s desire: Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot, Though the devil’s in the fire. Squire Hal besides had in this case Pretensions rather brassy. For talents to deserve a place Are qualifications saucy ; So their worships of the " Faculty* Quite sick of merit’s rudeness. Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see. To their gratis grace and goodness. As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight Of a son of Circumcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob’s purblind, mental vision : Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be open’d yet Till for eloquence you hail him. And swear he has the Angel met That met the Ass of Balaam. Verses ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANR1G. ( 300 ) As on the banks o’ wandering Nith, Ane smiling simmer-morn I strayed, And traced its bonnie howes and haughs. Where linties sang and lambkins play’d, T sat me down upon a craig. And drank my fill o’ fancy’s dream. When, from the eddying deep below. Uprose the genius of the stream. Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow. And troubled, like his wintry wave. And deep, as sighs the boding wind Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave— “ And came ye here, my son,” he cried, " To wander in my birken shade ? To muse some favourite Scottish theme. Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. * There was a time, it’s nae lang syne. Ye might liae seen me in my pride. When a’ my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide ; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool ; And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool ! u When glinting, through the trees, appeared The wee white cot aboon the mill. And peacefu’ rose its ingle reek. That slowly curled up the liilL But now the tot is bare andcauld, Its branchy shelter’s lost and gane^ And scarce a stinted birk is left To shiver in the blast is lane.” " Alas ! ” said I, " what ruefu’ chance Has twin’d ye o’ your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? Has stripp’d the deeding o’ your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast. That scatters blight in early spring ? Or was’t the wil’fire scorched their boughs, Or canker-worm wi’ secret sting ? ” "Nae eastlin blast,” the sprite replied: "It blew na here sae fierce and fell. And on my dry and whalesome bank9 Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : Man ! cruel man 1 ” the geniu3 sigh’d — As through the cliffs he sank him down-^ " The worm that gnaw’d my bonnie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.” $!t the into nf tewtsfranj. (soi) How shall I sing Drumlanrig’s Grace- Discarded remnant of a race Once great in martial story? His forbears' virtues all contrasted— The very name of Douglas blasted— His that inverted glory. Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; But he has superadded more. And sunk them in contempt; Follies and crimes have stain’d the name. But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim. From ought that’s good exempt. fenrs in Mjn ffl'jlnririr, fen; [with a present op books.] ( 302 .) Oh, could I give thee India’s wealth As I this trifle send. Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend. But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream ; Then take what gold could never buy— An honest Bard’s esteem. <$it fflr. -ftfjlliiritir. INSCRIBED ON A PANE OP GLASS II* HIS HOUSE. Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day! No envious cloud o’ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care. Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! Oh, may no son the father’s honour stain. Nor ever daughter give the mother painl 198 BERKS'S POETICAL 'WORKS. Sntgrnmpln na tGillia ifiraart, (303) You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, You’re welcome, Willie Stewart, There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May, That’s half sae welcome’s thou art. Come, bumpers high, express your joy. The bowl we maun renew it; The tap pit-hen gae bring her ben. To welcome Willie Stewart. May foes*be strang, and friends be slack. Ilk action may he rue it; May woman on him turn her back. That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. £n Mm %mw, Trarars. (with a present of books.] Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. And with them take the Poet’s prayer— That Fate may in her fairest page. With ev’ry kindliest, best presage Of future bliss enrol thy name : With native worth, and spotless fame. And wakeful caution still aware Of ill — but chief, man’s felon snare; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward; So prays thy faithful friend the Bard. Cilihir, % jj8* sirs tjii Satj. (304) Tune — Invercauld’s Reel. Oh Tibbie, I h&e seen the day Ye wad na been sae shy; For lack o’ gear ye slighted me, But, trowth, I care 11a by. Yestreen 1 met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; Ye geek at me because I’m poor. But fient a hair care I. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. Because ye hae the name o’clink. That ye can please me at a wink, VYhene’er ye like to try. But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean, Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean. That looks sae proud and high. Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart, if that he want the yellow dirt. Ye’ll cast your head another airt. And answer him fu’ dry. But if he hae the name o’ gear. Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier, Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear. Be better than the kye. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nicej The deil a ane wad spier your price. Were ye as poor as I. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would 11a gie her in her sark. For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousari’ mark; Ye need na look sae high. JHantgmnrnfs ^rgp. (305) Tu n e — Oalla- YVater. Altho’ my bed were in yon muir Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be. Had I my dear Montgomery’s Peggy. When o’er the hill beat surly storms. And winter nights were dark and rainy j I’d seek some dell, and in my arms I’d shelter dear Montgomery’s Peggy. Were I a baron proud and high. And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me. The sharin’ t with Montgomery’s Feggy, Snmtg ffoggn Slismt. (soe) T t jne — Braes 0 ’ Balquhidder. chorus. I’ll kiss thee yet, yet. And I’ll kiss thee o’er again; And i’ll kiss thee, yet, yet. My bonuie Peggy Alison ; Hk care and fear, when thou art near, I ever mair defy them, O ; Young kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am, O ! When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, O, I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to share. Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O ! And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I’m thine for ever, O I And on thy lips I seal my vow. And break it shall I never, O I lira’s ta tljij Hraltjj, mg fmnnq Tasa, Tune — Laggan Burn. Here’s to thy health, my bonnie lass. Quid night, and joy be wi’ t.bee ; I’ll come nae mair to thy bow’er-door. To tell thee that I loe thee ; JOHN BARLEYCORN. 199 Oh dinna think, my pretty pink. But I can live without thee : I vow and swear I dims a care How lang ye look about ye. Thou’rt aye sue free informing me Thou hast nae mind to marry; I’ll be as free informing thee Nae time hae I to tarry. I ken thy friends try ilka means, Frae wedlock to delay thee ; Depending on some higher chance— But fortune may betray thee. I ken they scorn my low estate, But that does never grieve me ; But Fm as free as any he, Sma’ siller will relieve me. I count my health my greatest wealth, Sae long as I’ll enjoy it : I’ll fear nae scant. I’ll bode nae want. As lang’s I get employment. But far off fowls hae feathers fair. And aye until ye try them : Tho’ they seem fair, still have a care. They may prove worse than I am. But at twiiit night, when the moon shines bright, My dear. I’ll come and see thee ; For the man that loes his mistress weel, Nae travel makes him weary. ^nttng |5rggtj. ( 3 °7) Tune — Last time I came o'er the Mui~. Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush is like the morning. The rosy dawn, the springing grass. With early 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 lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them ; They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight. And sweetly tempt to taste them : Her smile is, as the evening mild. When feather’d tribes 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 winning powers to lessen ; And fretful envy grins in vain The poison’d tooth to fasten. Ye pow’rs of honour, love and truth. From ev’ry ill defend her ; Inspire the highly-favour’d youth, The destinies intend her f Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom. And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom. faint Sarlttjcant. A BALLAD. ( 308 ) There were three kings into the east. Three kings both great and high ; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough’d him dovn^ Put clods upon his head ; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on And show’rs began to fall ; J ohn Barleycorn got up again. And sore surpris’d them ail. The sultry suns of summer came. And he grew thick and strong ; His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears. That no one should him wrong. The sober autumn enter’d mild, When he grew wan and pale ; His bending joints and drooping head Show’d he 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 taen a weapon, long and shar^, And cut him by the knee ! They tied him fast upon a cart. Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back. And cudgell’d him full sore ; They hung him up before the storm. And turn’d him o’er and o’er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the bran ; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. 200 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. They 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 us’d him worst of all. For he crush’d him ’tween two stones. And they hae taen his very heart’s blood. And drunk it round and round ; And still the more and more they drank. Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold. Of noble enterprise ; For if you do but taste his blood, ’Twill make your courage rise. *Twill make a man forget his woe ; ’Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, Tho’ the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland ! ®|rt ligs n' fkrltg. (309) Tune — Corn Rigs are bonnie . It was upon a Lammas night. When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light, I heft awa to Annie : The time flew by wi’ tentless heed, Till ’tween the late and early, Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed To see me thro’ the barley. The sky was blue, the wind was still. The moon was shining clearly ; I set her down wi’ right good will Amang the rigs o’ barley ; I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain ; I lov’d her most sincerely ; I kiss’d her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs 0 ’ barley. I lock’d her in my fond embrace ; Her heart was beating rarely : My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o’ barley 1 But by the moon and stars so bright. That shone that hour so clearly I 6he aye shall bless that happy night, Ato£nig vhe rigs o” barley. I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear$ I hae been merry dunkin’ ; I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin’ gear; I hae been happy thinkin’ ; But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly. That happy night was worth them Amang the rigs 0 ’ barley. CHORUS. Coni rigs, and barley rigs. And corn rigs are bonnie • I’ll ne’er forget that happy night Amang th^rigs wi’ Annie. flit f) Imtgjnmttr, Tune — Up wi } the Ploughman* The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad. His mind is ever true, jo ; His garters knit below his knee. His bonnet it is blue, jo. Then up wi’ my ploughman lad. And hey my merry ploughman 1 Of a’ the trades that I do ken. Commend me to the ploughman. My ploughman he comes hame at a’en. He’s aften wat and weary ; Cast off the wat, put on the dry. And gae to bed, my dearie 1 I will wash my ploughman’s hose, And I will dress his o’erlay ; I will mak my ploughman’s bed. And cheer him late and early. I hae been east, I hae been west, I hae been at Saint Johnston ; The bonniest sight that e’er I saw Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. Snaw-white stockins on his legs. And siller buckles glancin’ ; A guid blue bonnet on his head— And oh, but he was handsome l Commend me to the barn-yard. And at the corn-mou, man I never gat my coggie fou. Till I meet wi’ the ploughman. fnrtg tntnpffitii in Sngnst. ( 31 °) Tune — I had a horse , 1 had me mair. Now westling winds and slaught’ring guna Bring autumn’s pleasant weather; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather ; 201 m NANNIE, 0. Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, Delights the weary fanner ; [night And the moon shines bright, when I rove at To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves the fruitful fella ; The plover loves the mountains ; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; The soaring hern the fountains ; Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it ; The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush. The spreading thorn the linnet. Thus evVy 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 sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry. The flutt’ring gory pinion. But Peggy, dear, the ev’ning’s clear. Thick flies the skimming swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view. All fading-green and yellow ; Come, let us stray our gladsome way. And view the charms of nature ; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. And every happy creature. We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk. Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. Swear how I love thee dearly : Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’r^ Not autumn to the farmer. Bo dear can be as thou to me. My fair, my lovely charmer ! tiJilir JHnsstj fflmratains. (sii) Tune — Yon wild mossy Mountains . on wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, [Clyde, That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather to feed. And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes i on his reed. I Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ * the heather to feed. And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Not Gowrie’s rich vallies, nor Forth’s sunny shores, To me hae the charms o’ yon wild, mossy moors ; For there, by a lanely and sequester’d stream. Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. [stream. For there, by a lanely and sequester’d Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be mj path, [strath : ’Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow For there wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove. While o’er us unheeded flee the swift hours o* love. [rove. For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I While o’er us unheeded flee the swift hour* o’ love. She is not the fairest, altho’ she is fair ; O’ nice education but sma, is her share ; Her parentage humble as humble can be ; But I loe the dear lassie because she loes me. Her parentage humble as humble can be : But 1 loe the dear lassie because she loea me. To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, [sighs ! In her armour of glances, and blushes, and And when wit and refinement hae polish’d her darts. They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement hae polish’d her darts, [hearts. They dazzle our een, as they flee to our But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling e’e. Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; And the heart beating love as I’m clasp’d in her arms, [charms I Oh, these, are my lassie’s all-conquering And the heart beating love as I’m clasp’d in her arms. Oh, these are my lassie’s all-conquering charms 1 ffiij fiamtif, (D. ( 31 2) Tune — My Nannie, O. Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, ’Mang moors and mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos’d, And I’ll awa to Nannie, O. The westlin wind blaws loud and shrill ; The night’s baith mirk and rainy, O ; But I'll get my plaid, and out I’ll steal. And owre tbs hills to Nannie, O. 202 BURNS’ S POETICAL WORKS. My Nannie’s charming 1 , sweet, and young; Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O : May ill befa’ the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true. As spotless as she’s bonnie, O: The op’ning gowan, wet wi dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, G. A country lad is my degree. And few there be that ken me, Gj But what care I how few they be ? I’m welcome aye to Nannie, O. My riches a’s my penny-fee, And 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 and kye thrive bonnie, O ; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh. And has nae care but Nannie, O. Come weel, come woe, I care nae by. I’ll tak what Heav’n will sen’ me, O ; Nae ither care in life have I, But live, and love my Nannie, O. frrtn £>nnn ill? Hasjits. (313) Tune — Green grow the Rashes. CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O f Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O. There’s nought but care on ev’ry han*, In every hour that passes, O : What signifies the life o’ man. An ’twere na for the lasses, O. The warily race may riches chase. And riches still may fly them, O ; And tho’ at last they catch them fast. Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O, But gie me a canny hour at e’en. My arms about my dearie, O ; And warl’ly cares, and warl’ly men. May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O. For you sae douce, ye sneer at this. Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw. He dearly lov’d the lasses, O. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dear* Her noblest work she classes, O : Her ’prentice han* she tried on man. And then she made the lasses, Q. €jrr Cttrt for all Tune — Prepare, my dear Brethren , to tht Tavern let's fly. No churchman am I for to rail and to write. No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. No sly man of business contriving a snare — • For a big-bellied bottle’s the whole of my care. The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow ; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here. And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on his brother— his horse ; There centum per centum, the cit with hi* purse ; But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air ! There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair. That a big-bellied bottle’s a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck ; — » But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs. With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. " Life’s cares they are comforts” (314) — a maxim laid down By the bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown ; [hair ; And, faith, I agree with th’ old prig to a For a big-bellied bottle’s a heav’n of care. ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow. And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; May every true brother of the compass and square [care 1 Have a big-bellied bottle when harass’d with i£>ir fennrk Sanltt, Tune — If he be a Butcher neat and trim. On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. Could I describe her shape and mien; The graces of her weel-faur’d face. And the glancin’ of her sparklin’ een ! She’s fresher than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen. When dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. FROM THEE, ELIZA. 203 Blie’s stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between. And shoots its head above each bush ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. She’s spotless as the flow’ring thorn, With flow’rs so white, and leaves so green. When purest in the dewy morn ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. Her looks are like the sportive lamb When flow’ry May adorns the scene. That wantons round its bleating dam ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin een. Her hair is like the curling mist That shades the mountain -side at e’en. When flow’r-reviving rains are past ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow. When shining sunbeams intervene. And gild the distant mountain’s brow ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. Her voice is like the evening thrush That sings in Cessnock banks unseen. While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; And she’s twa glancin' sparklin’ een. Her lips are like the cherries ripe That sunny walls from Boreas screen— They tempt the ta3te and charm the sight ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. With fleeces newly washen clean. That slowly mount the rising steep ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom’d bean. When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; And she’s twa glancin’ sparklin' een. But it’s not her air, her form, her face, Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled queen. But the mind that shines in ev’ry grace. And chiefly in her sparklin’ een. fire Sigfjtanir (315) Tune — The Deuks dang o'er my Daddy l Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair. Shall ever be my muse’s care : Their titles a’ are empty show : Gie me my highland lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, I set me down wi’ right good will. To sing my highland lassie, O. Oh, were yon hills and vallies mine. Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! The world then the love should know I bear my highland lassie, O. But fickle fortune frowns on me. And I maun cross the raging sea ; But while my crimson currents flow. I’ll love my highland lassie, O. Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change. For her bosom burns with honour’s glcw. My faithful highland lassie, O. For her I’ll dare the billows’ roar. For her I’ll trace a distant shore. That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my highland lassie, O. , She has my heart, she has my hand. By sacred truth and honour’s band ! ’Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low I’m thine, my highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen sae bushy, O 5 Farewell the plain sae rushy, 0 1 To other lands I now must go. To sing my highland lassie, O. |5nnrers Ccltstial. Tune — Blue Bonnets. Powers celestial ! whose protection Ever guards the virtuous fair. While in distant climes l wander. Let my Mary be your care : Let her form sae fair and faultless^ Fair and faultless as your own. Let my Mary’s kindred spirit Draw your choicest influence down. Make the gales you waft around her Soft and peaceful as her breast. Breathing in the breeze that fans her. Soothe her bosom into rest : Guardian angel ! oh protect her. When in distant lands I roam ; To realms unknown while fate exiles m$ Make her bosom still my home. /ram tires, <0tija. Tune — Gilderoy, or Donald. From thee, Eliza, I must go. And from my native shore. The cruel Fates between us throw A boundkss ocean’s roar • 19 204 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. But boundless oceans roaring wide, Between my love and me. They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear. We part to meet no more ! The latest throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by. That throb, Eliza, is thy part. And thine that latest sigh I fflrttte. Tune — Johnny’s grey BreeJca, Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues. Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in morning dews. And maun I still on Menie doat And bear the scorn that’s in her ee ? For it’s jet, jet black, and like a hawk. And winna let a body be. In vain to me the cowslips blaw. In vain to me the vi’lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw. The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; But life to me’s a weary dream, A dream of ane that' never wauka. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims. And everything is blest but I. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap. And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide, Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. And raging bend the naked tree : Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. When nature all is sad like me ! % /arantll. TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES’S LCDGE» TARBOLTON. Tune — Good-night , and joy he wi’ yiu a*/ Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu l Dear brothers of the mystic tie 1 Ye favour’d, ye enlighten’d few. Companions of my social joy; Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune’s slipp’ry ba’. With melting heart and brimful eye. I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa’. Oft have I met your social band. And spent the cheerful, festive night } Oft honour’d with supreme command. Presided o’er the sons of light ; And by that hieroglyphic bright. Which none but craftsmen ever saw \ Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa.’ May freedom, harmony, and love Unite you in the grand design. Beneath th’ Omniscient eye above. The glorious Architect divine ! That you may keep th’ unerring line. Still rising by the plummet’s law. Till order bright completely shine. Shall be my pray’r when far awa’. And you, farewell ! whose merits claim. Justly, that highest badge to wear ! Heav’n bless your honour’d, noble name^ To masonry and Scotia dear; A last request permit me here. When yearly ye assemble a’. One round — I ask it with a tear— To him, the Bard that’s far awa’. ©Ije SaraEB n' fallatlrratjlE. (31$ Tune — The Braes o’ Ballochmyle. The Catrine woods were yellow seen. The flowers decay’d on Catrine lea, Nae lav’ rock sang on hillock green. But nature sicken’d on the ee. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel 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 with’ring bowers. Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. But, here, alas ! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm, or flow’ret smile ; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fare \veel : fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle I THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDT. 201 tfjji fai5 n* Salim {jin^lt. (317) Tune — Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff. *Twas even — the dew; fields were green. On every blade the pearlies hang. The zephyr wanton’d round the bean. And bore its fragrant sweets alang : In ev’ry glen the mavis sang. All nature list’ning seem’d the while. Except where greenwood echoes rang, Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray’d. My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy. When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy ; Her look was like the morning’s eye. Her air like nature’s vernal smile. Perfection whisper’d passing by. Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle 1 Fair is the morn in flow’ry May, And sweet is night in autumn mild ; When roving thro’ the garden gay. Or wand’ring in the lonely wild : But woman, nature’s darling child ! There all her charms she does compile; Ev’n there her other works are foil’d By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. Oh, had she been a country maid. And I the happy country swain, Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland’s plain. Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain. With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle ! Then pride might climb the slipp’ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine ; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. Or downward seek the Indian mine ; Give me the cot below the pine. To tend the flocks, or till the soil. And ev’ry day have joys divine With the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. Ejlf Higljt is fatjjtring /art. ( 318 ) Tune — Roslin Castle. The gloomy night is gatli’ring fast, I oud roars the wild inconstant blast ; 1 on murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain ; The hi. liter now has left the moor. The scatter’d coveys meet secure ; While here I wander, prest with care. Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The autumn mourns her rip’ning corn. By early winter’s ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure sky. She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave— » I think upon the stormy wave. Where many a danger I must dare. Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr ’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, *Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; Tho’ death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear ! But round my heart the ties are bound. That heart transpierc’d with many a wound j These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. To leave tjie bonny banks of Ayr. Farewell old Coila’s hills and dales. Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves. Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those— The bursting tears my heart declare ; Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! ffijjp Sattte n' Itann. (319) Tune — Caledonian Hunt's Delight . Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae weary fu’ o’ care ? Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird. That wanton’st thro’ the flowering thorn.8 Thou minds’st me o’ departed joys. Departed — never to return ! Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o’ its luve. And fondly sae did I o’ mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fuse luver stole my rose. But, ah ! he left the thorn wi’ me. ®Iji Sirks nf Skirfflig. (320) Tune — The Birks of Abergeldy. CHORUS. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go ; Bonnie lassie, will ye go. To the birks of Aberfeldy ? Now simmer blinks on flowry braes. And o’er the crystal streamlet plays ; Come, let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy. m BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS). The little birdies blythely sing. While o’er their heads the hazels hing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend, like lofty wa’s. The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws. The birks of Aberfeldy. The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi' flowers. White o'er the linns the burnie pours. And rising, weets wi’ misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Let fortune's gifts at random flee. They ne’er shall draw a wish frae mo Supremely blest wi’ love and thee, In the birks of Aberfeldy, M’m mm fusing fn fflarrg ^tl. Tune — I’m owre young to marry yet . 1 AM my mammy’s ae bairn, Wi’ unco folk I weary. Sir ; And if I gang to your house, I’m fley’d ’twill make me eerie, Sir. I’m owre young to marry yet • I’m owre young to marry yet ; I’m owre young — 'twad be a sin To take me frae my mammy yet. Hallowmas is come and gane. The nights are lang in winter. Sir j And you and I in wedlock’s bands. In troth, I dare not venture. Sir. I’m owre young, &c. Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir; But if ye come this gate again, I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. Pm owre young, &c. ffl'ftysrsnn's /arrmrll. ( 321 ) Tune — M’Pherson’s Rant. Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong. The wretch’s destinie : Macpherson’s time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he ; He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round. Below the gallows-tree. Oh, what is death but parting breath ?— On many a bloody plain I’ve dar’d his face, and in this place I gcom hun yet again ; Untie these bands from off my Tumda, And bring to me my sword ; And there’s no man in all Scotland, But I’ll brave him at a word. I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife ; I die by treacherie : It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be. Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright^ And all beneath the sky ! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die 1 Trntg anil Irrarg is {jja Uigjii How long and dreary is the night When I am frae my dearie ! I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn, Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary. I sleepless lie frae e’en to morn, Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary. When I think on the happy days I spent wi’ you, my dearie. And now what lands between us lie, How can I be but eerie ! And now what lands between us lie^ How can I be but eerie ! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and weary I It was ua sae ye glinted by. When f was wi’ my dearie. It was na sae ye glinted by. When I was wi’ my dearie. Jte’s s SSralilj ta ijjrm tljat’s ams. Tune — Here’s a health to them that’s Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa ; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cau^v May never guid luck be their fa’ ! It’s guid to be merry and wise, It’s guid to be honest and true. It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the buff 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 chm Altho’ that his band be sma’. May liberty meet wi’- success ! May prudence protect her frae evil ! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the miet, And wander their way to the dvvil l MY PEGGY S FACE. 207 Here's a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa ; [laddie, Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland That lives at the lug o’ the law ; Here’s freedom to him that wad read ! Here’s freedom to him that wad write ! There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard. But they wham the truth wad indite. Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa ; Here’s Chieftain M‘Leod, a Chieftain worth gow’d, Tho’ bred amang mountains o’ snaw ! Here’s friends on both sides of the Forth, And friends on both sides of the Tweed ; And wha wad betray old Albion’s rights. May they never eat of her bread. Itratljallan’s farnrnt. (322) Thickest night, o’erhang my dwelling! Howling tempests, o’er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing. Busy haunts of base mankind. Western breezes softly blowing. Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaged. Wrongs injurious to redress. Honour’s war we strongly waged. But the heavens denied succesa. Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us. Not a hope that dare attend : The wide world is all before us— But a world without a friend. Santa nf tlja Drmra. (323) Tune — Bliannerach dhon na chri. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, [blooming fair ! With green spreading bushes, and flowers But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon [Ayr. Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew ; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; [seizes And far bo thou distant, thou reptile that The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose : A fairer than either adorns the green vallies. Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. toning ingrg -BJintpr’si finrnts. (324) Tune — Neil Gow’s Lamentation for Abercaimy. Where, braving angry winter’s stormy The lofty Ochils rise. Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms First blest my wondering eyes ; As one, who by some savage strean\ A lonely gem surveys. Astonish’d, doubly marks its beam. With art’s most polish’d blaze. Blest be the wild sequester’d shade. And blest the day and hour. Where Peggy’s charms I first survey'd. When first I felt their pow’r ! The tyrant death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. 3Eg ^rggg’n /arc. Tune — My Peggy’s Face. My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form. The frost of hermit age might warm ; My Peggy’s worth, iny 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 but owns their magic sway ! Who but knows they all decay ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear. The gen’rous purpose, nobly dear. The gentle look, that rage disarm®- » These are all immortal charms. 19 * £08 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. SUraiag Whh Hrmrait Jirr Sinking. ( 325 ) Tune — Macgregor of Ruara’s Lament. Having winds around her blowing, Yellow leaves the woodlands s trowing. 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, Cheeiless night that knows no morrow I O’er the past too fondly wandering. On the hopeless future pondering ; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Bell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing. Load to misery most distressing. Gladly how would I resign thee. And to dark oblivion join thee !” Sigjjlanlr Sarrg. ( 326 ) My Harry was a gallant gay, Fu’ stately strode he on the plain i But now he’s banish’d far away, I’ll never see him back again. Oh for him back again ; Oh for him back again ! I wad gie a’ Knockliaspie’s land For Highland Harry back again. When a’ the lave gae to their bed, I wanner dowie up the glen : C .sit me down and greet my fill. And aye I wish him back again. Oh were some villians hangit high. And ilka body had their ain 1 f hen I might see the joyfu’ sight, My Highland Harry back again. basing mt ilre taring tontt. ( 32 7) Tune — Druimion Dubh. Musing on the roaring ocean Which divides my love and me ; Wearying Heaven in warm devotion. For his weal where’er he be. Hope and fear’s alternate billow Yielding late to nature’s law, WYiisp’ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that’s far awa. Ye whom sorrow never wounded. Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy surrounded. Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend me s Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me. Talk of him that’s far awa ! ShjtiiE mas iijf. (328) Tune — Andro and his Cutty Ghttfc, CH0RUS. Blythe, blythe and merry was she^ Blythe was she butt and ben : Blythe by the banks of Ern, And blythe in Glentwrit glen. By Auchtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw. Her looks were like a flower in May, Her smile was like a simmer mora ; She tripped by the banks o’ Ern, As light’s a bird upon a thorn. Her bonnie face it was as meek As ony lamb upon a lea ; The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet As was the blink o’ Phemie’s ee. The Highland hills I’ve wander’d wi<£i^ And o’er the 'lowlands I hae been j But Phemie was the blythest lass That ever trod the dewy green. ©jl t Gallant "lUratTpr. Tune — The Weaver’s March. Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea. By mony a flow’r and spreading tre*^ There lives a lad, the lad for me. He is a gallant weaver. Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine. They gied me rings and ribbons fine; And I was fear’d my heart would tine. And I gied it to the weaver. My daddie sign’d my tocher-band. To gie the lad that has the land ; But to my heart I’ll add my hand. And gie it to the weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; While bees delight in op’ning flowers ! WTiile corn grows green in simmor showenfe I’ll love my gallant weaver. WHEN JANUAIi’ WIND. ffi-jrc Slnte-rri 3ta at fwh mai] Slam* Tune — To daunton me. The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw. The simmer lillies bloom in snaw. The frost may freeze the deepest sea; But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me so young-, Wi’ his fause heart and flatt’ring tongue That is the thing you ne’er shall see : For an old man shall never daunton me. For a’ his meal and a’ his maut. For a’ his fresh beef and his saut. For a’ his gold and white monie. An auld man shall never daunton me. Ilis gear may buy him kye and yowes. His gear may buy him glens and kriowes; But me he shall not buy nor fee. For an auld man shall never daunton me. He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, Wi’ his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, And the rain rains down from his red bleer’d ee — That auld man shall never daunton me. 1 Ito-kir bn imj (Karhj UJalk. (329) Tune — The Rose-hud. A rose-bud by my early walk, Adown a corn -enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o* dawn are fled. In a’ its crimson glory spread. And drooping rich the dewy head. It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest, A little linnet fondly prest. The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood. The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood, A mang the fresh green leaves bedew’d. Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair! Oil trembling string or vocal air. Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tends thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and ga^, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. And bless the parent’s evening ray That watch’d thy early morning. Sunni* foil* total. 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, their 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. Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil; Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave : Give me the groves that lofty bravo The storms by Castle-Gordon. Wildly here without control. Nature reigns and rules the whole ; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood | life’s poor day I’ll musing rave. And find at night a sheltering cave. Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle-Gordon. aUIjtn Sannar’ -Etinir, ( 330 ) Tune — The Lass that made the Bed to A£& When Januar’ wind was blawing cauld. As to the north I took my way. The mirksome night did me enfauld, I knew na where to lodge till day. By my good luck a maid I met. Just in the middle o’ my care ; And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair. I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid. And thank’d her for her courtesie* I bow r ’d fu’ low unto this maid, And bade her mak a bed to me. She made the bed baith large and wide, Wi’ twa white hands she spread it down; She put the cup to her rosy lips. And drank, “ Young man, now sleep p* soun’.” I She snatch’d the candle in her hand. And frae my chamber went wi’ speed ; . But I call’d her quickly back again j To lay some rnair below my head. 210 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. A cod she laid below my head. And served me wi’ due respect; And to salute her wi’ a kiss, I put my arms about her neck. “ Haud atf your hands, young man,” she says, " And dinna sae uncivil be : If ye hae ony love for me, Oh wrang na my virginitie 1” Her hair was like the links o’ gowd. Her teeth were like the ivorie ; Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine. The lass that made the bed to me. Her bosom was the driven snaw, Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; Her limbs the polish’d marble stane, The lass that made the bed to me. I kiss’d her owre and owre again. And aye she wist na what to say ; C laid her ’tween me and the wa’ — The lassie thought na lang till day. Upon the morrow when we rose, I thank’d he* for her courtesie ; But aye sin nlush’d, and aye she sigh’d. And said, “ Alas ! ye’ve ruin’d me.” I clasp’d her w r aist, and kiss’d her syne. While the tear stood twinklin’ in her ee ; I said, “ My lassie, dinna cry. For ye aye shall mak the bed to me.” jghe took her mither’s Holland sheets. And made them a’ in sarks to me : Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me. The bonnie lass made the bed to me. The braw lass made the bed to me : I’ll ne’er forget till the day I die. The lass that made the bed to me ! ttjli f%ttg ©igjjlanir Huutr. Tune — Morag . Loud blaw the frosty breezes. The snaws the mountains cover ; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. Where’er he go, where’er he stray. May Heaven be his warden. Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! The trees now naked groaning. Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging. The birdies dowie moaning. Shall a’ be blythely singing. And every d owei be sprn giug. Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day. When by his mighty warden My youth’s returned to fair Strathjpa^ And bonnie Castle-Gordon. ®atntir Situ, (ssi) Air — Ye gallants bright. Ye gallants bright, I red ye right. Beware o’ bonnie Ann ; Her comely face sae fu’ of grace. Your heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night Her skin is like the swan ; Sae jimply lac’d her genty waist. That sweetly ye might span. Youth, grace, and love attendant mow*. And pleasure leads the van : In a’ their charms, and conquering arm% They wait on bonnie Ann. The captive bands may chain the handa. But love enslaves the man ; Ye gallants braw, I red you a’. Beware o’ bonnie Ann ! ■ ©Innming Uilltj. Tune — On a Bank of Flowers . On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. For summer lightly drest. The youthful blooming Nelly lay. With love and sleep opprest ; When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the wood. Who for her favour oft had sued, He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d^ And trembled where he stood. Her closed eyes like weapons sheath’d. Were seal’d in soft repose; Her lips still as she fragrant breath’d. It richer dy’d the rose. The springing lilies sweetly prest. Wild — wanton, kiss’d her rival breast ; He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d— His bosom ill at rest. Her robes light waving in the breeze, Her tender limbs embrace ; Her lovely form, her native ease. All harmony and grace : Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush 3-* And sigh’d his very soul. As flies the partridge from the brake. On fear-inspired wings. So Nelly starting, half awake. Away affrighted springs : OF A’ THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. But Willie follow’d, as he should. He overtook her in the wood ; He vow’d, he pray’d, he found the maid Forgiving all and good. 3Hij Smntic Slant. (332) Tune — Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine. Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine. And fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonny lassie : The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith, Eu’ loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry ; The siftp rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly. The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o’ war are heard afar. The battle closes thick and bloody ; But it’s not the roar o’ sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o’ war that’s heard afar — It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. lit! /uni Ufas. (333) Tune — Rory Ball's Port. Ane fond kiss and then we sever ; A ne fareweel, alas, for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee. Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him. While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy But to see her was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov’d sae kindly. Had we never lov’d sae blindly. Never met — or never parted, W e aad ne’er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare the weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ane fond l^ss, and then we sever ; Ane fareweel, alas ! for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee. Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee l m fEfrp Smiling Spring. Tune — The Bonny Bell . The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing. And surly winter grimly flies ; Now crystal clear are the falling waters. And bonnie blue are the sunny skies. Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning. The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell ; All creatures joy in the sun’s returning. And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. The flowery spring leads sunny summer. And yellow autumn presses near. Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. Till smiling spring again appear. Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. Old Time and Nature their changes tell. But never ranging, still unchanging, I adore my bonnie Bell. flit £a;tj ffist. Tune — The Lazy Mist. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, [rill; Concealing the course of the dark winding How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear ! As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown. And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ! How long I have liv’d — but how much liv’d in vain ! How little of life’s scanty span may remain ! What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn ! What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! How foolish, or worse, till our summit ij gain’d ! And downward, how weaken’d, how dark- en’d, how pain’d ! [give— This life’s not worth having with all it can For something beyond it poor man sur* must live. a’ i tyt 1 irts il/e ‘SJinir ratr 251am. (334) Ora* the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives. The lassie 1 loe best ; 112 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. There wild woods grow, and rivers row. And mony a liiil between ; But day and night my fancy’s flight Is ever wi’ my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, I hear her charm the air : There’s not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green. There’s not a bonnie bird that sings. But minds me o’ my Jean. Oh blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saffc Amang the leafy trees, Wi* balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring name the laden bees ; And bring the lassie bach to me That’s aye sae neat and clean ; Ane smile o’ her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean ! What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae passed atween ns twa ! How fond to meet, how wae to part^ That night she gaed awa ! The powers aboon can only ken. To whom the heart is seen. That nane can be sae dear to m® As my sweet lovely JeanJ $!i, mrrt % mt Parnassus’ Sill. (335) Tune. — My Love is lost to mu. Oh, were I on Parnassus’ hill! Or had of Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill. To sing bow dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse’s well. My muse maun be thy bonnie sel* ; On Corsincon I’ll glow’r and spell. And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! For a’ the lee-lang simmers day I could na sing, I couldna say. How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o’er the green. Tty wa.st sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Tny tempting lips, thy roguish een — By heaven and earth I love thee ! By night, by day, a-field, at hame. The thoughts c’ thee my breast inflame; And aye I muse and sing thy name — I only live to love thee. Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, „ Till my last weary sand was run ; * Till then — and then I love thee. ftpr C|)mallttr’0 lament (333) Tune — Captain O' Kean. The small birds rejoice iu the green leavsa returning, [the vale ; The murm’ring streamlet winds clear thro’ The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, [green dale : And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, [by care? While the lingering moments are numbered No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing. Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne ? His right are these hills, and his right are these vallies. Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. [forlorn ; But ’tis not my sufferings thus wretched. My brave gallant friends ! ’tis your ruin I mourn ! [trial— Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return I 3Htj Start’s in tjjt Sigjjlantrs. Tune — Failte na Miosg. My heart’s iu the Highlands, my heart is not here, [deer ; My heart’s in the Highlands a chasing the Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, [worth; The birth-place of valour, the country of Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow ; [below : Farewell to the straths and green vallies Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; [floods. Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, [deer : My heart’s in the Highlands a-ehasing tho Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. on, WILLIE BREW’D. 213 Sflljir Snftmmt. Tune — John Anderson my jo* John Anderson my jo, John, When we first acqnent, Your locks were like the raven. Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, W e clamb the hill thegither. And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. f# 3Hartf in Branrn. (337) Tune — Death of Captain Cook. Thou ling’ring star, with less’ning ray. That lov’st to greet the early morn. Again thou usher’st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. On Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget. Can I forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met. To live one day of parting love ! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace. Ah ! little thought we ’twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thick’ning green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. Twin’d am’rous round the raptur’d scene ; The flow’rs sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on every spray— Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim’d the speed of winged day. Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes. And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but th’ impression stronger makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Bee’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the £?$ans that rend his breast ? Surtax Tune — Young Jockey, Young Jockey was the blythest lad In a’ our town or here awa : Fu’ blythe he whistled at the gaud, Fu’ lightly danced he in the ha’. He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue. He roosed my waist sae genty sma% And aye 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 and sna\* And o’er the lea I leuk fu’ fain. When Jockey’s owsen hameward ca* And aye the night comes round again. When in his arms he takes me a’. And aye he vows he’ll be my ain. As lang’s he has a breath to ch aw. file Dili; Heinrra. (338) Tune — Seventh of November, The day returns, my bosom burns. The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d. Ne’er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a’ the pride that loads the tide. And crosses o’er the sultry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heav’n gave me more — it made thee mine While day and night can bring delight. Or nature aught of pleasure give. While joys above my mind can move. For thee, and thee alone, I live. When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part. The iron hand that breaks our band. It breaks my bliss — it breads mv heart ! ‘tEJilli* fcm’ir. (339) Tune. — Willie brew'd a Peck o’ Mult, Oh, Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut. And Rob and Allan cam to pree : Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night. Ye wad na find in Christendie. We are nae fou’, we’re no that fou’. But just a drappie in our ee ; The cock may craw, the day may da-% And aye we’ll taste the barley bree. Here are we met, three merry boys. Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; And mcny a night we’ve merry been, And mony mae we hope to be l 214 BUENS’S POETICAL WORKS. It is tlic moon, I ken her horn. That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie ; She shines sae bright to wile us hame. But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee ! Wha first shall rise to gang awa’, A cuckold, coward loon is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa*, He is the king amang us three ! % gartr a ttarfu’ fate $akm. (340) Tune — The Blue-eyed Lass . I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen, A gate, I fear. I’ll dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Twa lovely een o’ bonnie blue. *Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; Her lips like roses wet wi’ dew, Iler heaving bosom, lily-white — It was her een sae bonnie blue. She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she wil’d ; She charm’d my soul — I wist na how ; And aye the stound, the deadly wound. Cam frae her een sae bonnie blrne. Hut spare to speak, and spare to speed; She’ll aiblins listen to my vow : Should she refuse, I’ll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonnie blue ®{je Banks nf ffiftr. Tune — Robie donna Gorach. The Thames flows proudly to the sea. Where royal cities stately stand ; But sweeter flows the Nitli, to me. Where Cummins ance had high command ; When shall I see that honour’d land, That winding stream I love so dear ! Must wayward fortune’s adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here ? Bow lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, • Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, Where lambkins, wanton thro’ the broom ! Tho’ wandering, now, must be my doom. Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. May there my latest hours consume, Amang the friends of early days ! 2Uit Ijrart is a-toakittg, Drar ftittit ! Tune — Tam Glen. My heart is a-breaking;, dear Tittie * Some counsel unto me come leiT, To anger them a’ is the pity. But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen ? I’m thinking wi’ sic a braw fellow In poortith I might make a fen* ; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There’s Lowrie, the laird o’ Drumeller, “Guid day to you, brute!” he comes ben; He brags and he blaws o’ his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? My minnie does constantly deave me. And bids me beware o’ young men ; They flatter, she says, to deceive me. But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him. He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten : But if it’s ordain’d I maun take him. Oh wha will I get but Tam Glen ? Yestreen at the valentine’s dealing. My heart to my mou’ gied a sten ; For thrice I drew ane without failing. And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o’ Tam Glen 1 Come counsel, dear Tittie ! don’t tarry — I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen. Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I loe dearly, Tam Glen Cjtra'U nrntr hr Tune — There are few guid fellows wAm Willie's awa. By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it wa» grey ; And as he was singing, the tears down came, There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say’t, though we ken wha’9 to blame. There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, A rid now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. [dame — • It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu’ auld There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down. Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crow n ; But till my last moments my words are the same — Th( re’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hamel WIIAT CAN A IOUNG LASSIE. 2 IS Btaltfo ijiinks imj fuse. Tune — My Tocher's the Jewel. Oh meikle thinks my luve o’ my beauty. And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin ; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie My tocher’s the jewel has charms for him. It’s a ’ for the apple he’ll nourish the tree ; It’s a’ for the hiney he’ll cherish the bee ; My laddie’s sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller. He canna hae luve to spare for me. Your proffer o’ luve’s an arle-penny, My tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy ; But an’ ye be crafty, I am cunnin’, Sae ye wi’ another your fortune maun try. Ye’re like to the timmer o’ yon rotten wood. Ye’re like to the bark o’ yon rotten tree. Ye’ll slip frae me like a knotless thread. And ye’ll crack your credit wi’ mae nor me. fflnni ran % hr SliMr anil ©lab. Tune — The honnie Lad that's far awa. Ok how can I be blythe and glad. Or how can I gang brisk and braw. When the bonnie lad that I loe best Is owre the lulls and far awa ? When the bonnie lad that I loe best Is owre the hills and far awa ? It’s no the frosty winter wind, It’s no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my ee. To think on him that’s far awa. But aye the tear comes in my ee. To think on him that’s far awa. My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown’d me a*. But I hae ane will tak my part, The bonnie lad that’s far awa. But I hae ane will tak my part. The bonnie lad that’s far awa. A pair o’ gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa ; And I will wear them for his sake. The bonnie lad that’s far awa. And I will wear them for his sake. The bonnie lad that’s far awa. $ its innfp55 iljntt art sap /air. (3«) i do confess thou'art sae fair, 1 wad been owre the lugs in love, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could move. I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art sae thriftless o’ thy sweety Thy favours are the silly wind. That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy ; How sune it tines its scent and hue When pou’d and worn a common toy! Sic, fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile ! Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside like ony common weed and vile. hunting Imtg. Tune— I red you beware at the hunting. The heather was blooming, the meadow* were mawn. Our lads gaed a-hunting ane day at the dawn. Owre moors and owre mosses and mony a glen, [hen. At length they discover’d a bonnie moor- I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; [men ; I red you beware at the hunting young Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- ther bells, Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells ; Her plumage out-lustred the pride o’ the spring. And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. I red you beware, &c. Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep’d o’er the hill. In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae — His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. I red you beware, &c. They hunted the valley, they 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 you beware, &c. * * • • aUjjat ran a fating TasatP. Tune — What can a young lassie do wi* a% auld man. What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, [man ? What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld 216 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller and Ian* ! Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie [Ian’ ! To sell her poor Jenny for siller and He’3 always compleenin’ frae mornin to e’en in’, [lang ; He hoasts and he hirples the weary day He’s doyl’t and he’s dozin’, his bluid it is frozen, [man ! Oh, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld He’s doyl’t and he’s dozin’, his bluid it is frozen, Oh, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man ! He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him, do a’ that I can ; He’s peevish and jealous of a the young fellows : Oh, dool on the day I met wi’ amald man ; He’s peevish and jealous of a’ the young fellows : Oh, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man l My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity. I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I’ll cross h ; m, and wrack him, until I heart- break him. And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. I’ll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 1C mirlti fianirs. Tune — Miss Muir » 0 how shall I, unskilfu’, try The poet’s occupation. The tunefu’ powers, in happy hours* That whispers inspiration ? Even they maun dare an effort mail Than aught they ever gave us. Or they rehearse, in equal verse. The charms o’ lovely Davies. Each eye it cheers, when she appears. Like Phoebus in the morning. When past the shower, j&d ev’ry flower The garden is adorning. As the wretch looks o’er Siberia’s shore, When winter-bound the wave is ; Sae droops our heart when we maun part Frae charming lovely Davies. Her smile’s a gift, frae ’boon the lift. That maks us mair than princes ; A scepter’d hand, a king’s command. Is in her darting glances ; The man in arms, ’gainst female charms. Even he her willing slave is ; He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies. My muse to dream of such a theme. Her feeble powers surrender ; The eagle’s gaze alone surveys The sun’s meridian splendour : 1 wad in vain essay the strain. The deed too daring brave is ; Pll drap the lyre, and mute admire The charms 0’ lovely Davies. ®lli Snmtir ftliing. Tune — Bonnie wee thing . Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish. In that bonnie face o’ thine ; And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish. Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. In ane constellation shine ; To adore thee is my duty. Goddess o’ this soul 0’ mine ! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou nine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine 1 .<% far anr-ani-tonlij, &ara. Tune — The Moudiewort . CHORUS. And 0I1, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, I’ll learn my kin a rattlin’ sang An’ I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. They snool me sair, and haud me down. And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun’— % And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. A gleib 0’ Ian’, a claut 0’ gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam; At kith or kin I need na spier, An’ I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; But hear’st thou, laddie — there’s my loof— • I’m tbine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. IN SIMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN. 217 'tannin's irn anil Sima. ( 342 ) Tune — Oh Kenmure's on and awa, Willie . Dh Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie ! Oh Kenmure’s on and awa! And Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord. That ever Galloway saw. Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie ! Success to Kenmure’s band ; There’s na a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure’s hand. Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine ; Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine ; [blude. There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. Oh Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie ! Oh Kenmure’s lads are men ; Their hearts and swords are metal time — And that their faes shall ken. They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie ! They’ll live or die wi’ fame ; But soon, wi’ sounding victorie. May 'Kenmure’s lord come hame. Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie ! Here’s him that’s far awa ! And here’s the flower that I love best— The rose that’s like the snaw ! Sra anil jjtr Spinning tUjjrrl. Tune— The sweet lass that loes me. On leeze me on my spinning-wheel. Oh leeze me on my rock and reel ; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. And haps me fiel and warm at e’en ! - I’ll set me down and sing and spin. While laigh descends the simmer sun. Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal— Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! On ilka hand the burnies trot. And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk and hawthorn white. Across the pool their arms unite. Alike to screen the birdies nest. And little fishes’ caller rest : The sun blinks kindly in the biel’. Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail. And echo cons the doolfu’ tale ; The linhvhites in the hazel braes. Delighted, rival ither’s lays : The craik amang the clover hay. The paitrick whirrin’ o’er the ley. The swallow jinkin’ round my sliiel. Amuse mo at my spinning-wheel. | Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less, to buy, • A boon distress, below envy. Oh wha wad leave this humble state. For a’ the pride of a’ the great ? Amid their flaring, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? (Hill Imre mill 3Mttri ia. Tune — The Posie. Oh luve will venture in where it dauraa well be seen ; [has been ; Oh luve will venture in where wisdom ance But I will down yon river rove, among the wood sae green — And a’ to pu’ a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year, [dear. And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer — And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May. I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, [mou’ ; For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonnie The hyacinth for constancy, wi’ its un- changing blue — - And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May, The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there ; [air— The daisy’s for simplicity, and unaffected And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu’ wi’ its locks o’ siller grey, . [day. Where, like an aged man, it stands at break ol But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away — And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May, S n fintmrr, mfrrn ijre ®atj mss JEanra. Tune — The, Country Lass. In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav’d green in ilka field. While claver blooms white o’er the lea. And roses blaw in ilka bield ; Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel. Says — “ I’ll be v r ed, come o’t what wiU.* Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — * O’ guid advisement comes nae iU. 218 MIENS’ S POETICAL WORKS It’s ye hae woods mony ane, And, lassie, ye’re but young, ye keri; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale A routhie butt, a routine ben : There’s Johnnie o’ the Buskie-glen, Fu’ is his barn, fu’ is his byre ; Tak this fra'e me, my bonnie hen. It’s plenty feeds the luver’s fire.” •’For Johnnie o’ the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie ; He loes sae weel his craps and kye. He has nae luve to spare for me : But blythe’s the blink o’ Robie’s ee. And, weel I wat, he loes me dear : Ane blink o’ him I wad na gie For Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.” • Oh thoughtless lassie, life’s a faught ; The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; But aye fou han’t is fechtin best, And hungry care’s an unco care : But some 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.” *Oh, gear will buy me rigs o’ land. And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; But the tender heart o’ leesome luve The gowd and siller canna buy; We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and luve brings peace and joy — What mair hae queens upon a throne?” ®nrn again ifimj /air (Slija, (343) Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ane kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu’ heart ? Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; I# to love thy heart denies. For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship’s kind disguise ! Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? The offence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for thine wad gladly die ? While the life beats in my bosom. Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ane sweet smile on me bestow. Kot the bee upon the blossom. In the pride o’ sunny noon ; N ut the little sporting fairy. All beneath the simmer moon; • Not the poet in the moment Fancy lightens on his ee, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture That thy presence gies to me. Willh axtatlih (344) Tune — The Eight Men of Moidart. Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they called it Linkum-doddie: Willie was a wabster guid, Cou’d stown a clew wi’ ony bodie. He had a wife was dour and din. Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither. Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. She has an ee — she has but ane. The cat has twa the very colour : Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; A whiskin’ beard about her mou’. Her nose and chin they threaten ither.-^ Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her. She’s bough-hough’d, she’s hein-shinn’d, Ane limpin’ leg a hand-breed shorter ; She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left. To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast. The twin o’ that upon her shouther. Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her, Anld baudrons by the ingle sit3. And wi’ her loof her face a-washin’ ; But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushioni Her walie nieves like midden-creels. Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water. Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad na gie a button for her larlj a parrrl nf Ingnra in a Hatira. Tune — A parcel of rogues in a nation* Fa re we el to a’ our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory. Fare weel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam’d in martial story. Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands. And Tweed rins to the ocean. To mark where England’s province stands:-^ Such a parcel of rogues in a nation t What force or guile could not subdue^ Thro’ many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few. For hireling traitors’ wages. LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 21 $ The English steel we could disdain. Secure in valour’s station ; But English gold has been our bane:— Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! Oh would I had not seen the day That treason thus could fell us. My auld grey head had lien in clay, Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace ! But pith arid power, till my last hour. I’ll mak this declaration ; We’re buught and sold for English gold: — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! &nng nf Elcaffj. (345) Tune — Oran an Diog. Scene—A. field of battle.— Time of the day, evening.— The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song : — Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies. Now g;iy with the bright setting sun ; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties — Our race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe ! Go, frighten the coward and slave ; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know. No terrors hast thou to the brave! Thou strik’st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, . Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name ; Thou strik’st the young hero — a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame ! In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands. Our king and our country to save — While victory shines on life’s last ebbing sands. Oh ! who would not die with the brave ! IIjb’s /air anir fsm. Tune — She’s fair and fause. She’s fair and fause that causes my smart, I loed her meikle and lang ; She’s br oken her vow, she’s broken my heart. And I may e’en gae hang. A coof cam in wi’ routh o' gear, And / hae tint my dearest dear ; But woman is but warld’s gear, Sae let the bonnie lassie 6 ang. Whae’er ye be that woman love, Tb this be never blind, Nae ferlie ’tis tho’ fickle she prove, A woman has’t by kind. Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! An angel form’s fa’n to thy share, ’Twad been owre meikle to gien thee mair-*« I mean an angel mind. •/Inm Imwt Muir. (315) Tune — The yellow-haired Laddie. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. Flow gently. I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro* the glen, [den. Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny Thou green-ci ested lapwing thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring bills, [rills ; Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding There daily I wander as noon rises high. My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valliea below ; [blow; Where wild in the woodlands the primroses There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave. # Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy greea braes, [lays ; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not hse dream. flu Inmlq tm nf Snnrriras. Tune — Lass of Inverness. The lovely lass o’ Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e’en and morn she cries, alas f And aye the saut tear blin’s her ee m ; 20 * 220 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Drum ossie 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 see : And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman’s ee ! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair. That ne’er did wrong to thine or thee.# 1 riir, wir &nst. (347) Tune — Graham’s Strathspey. Oh, my luve’s like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June : Oh, my luve’s like the melodie. That’s sweetly play’d in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. So deep in luve am I : And I will luve thee still, my dear. Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun ; I will luve thee still, my dear. While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! And fare thee weel a while ! And I will come again my luve, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. Itanis mtiat rrrk % Iiij i{jr t. Tune — Louis , what reck I by thee, Louis, what reck I by thee. Or Geordie on his ocean ? Dyvor, beggar louns to me— » I reign in Jeanie’s bosom. Let her crown my love her law. And in her breast enthrone me* Kings and nations — swith, awa! Reii randies, I disown ye ! ®Ijb (giriarataa. (348) Tune — The deil cam fiddling through the town. The deil cam fiddling through the town, And danced awa wi’ the Exciseman, And ilka wife cries — “ Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o’ the prize man !” The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa, The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman; He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa, He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman! We’ll mak our maut, we’ll brew our drink. We’ll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil That danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman. The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa, The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman ; He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa, He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman. There’s threesome reels, there’s foursomt reels. There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; But the ae best dance e’er cam to the land Was — the deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman. The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa. The deil’s awa wi’ the Exciseman ; He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa, He’s danc’d awa wi’ the Exciseman. $amrlin}rt|! Tune — Tor the sake of somebody My heart is sair — I dare na tell — My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. Oh-ho, for somebody ! Oh-hey, for somebody ! I could range the world around. For the sake o’ somebody ! Ye powers that smile on virtuous love^ Oh, sweetly smile on somebody l Frae ilka danger keep him free. And send me safe my somebody. Oh-ho, for somebody ! Oh-hey, for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not ! For the sake o’ somebody ! %’\[ atjE ra’in Iiij pa Saran. Tune — Til gae nae mair to yon town. I’ll aye ea’ in by yon town. And by yon garden green, again ; I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town. And see my bonnie Jean again. There’s nane sail ken, there’s nane sail gueaij What brings me back the gate again. But she, my fairest faithfu’ lass. And stownlins we sail meet again; COULD OUGHT OF SONG. 221 She’ll wander by the aiken tree. When trystin-time draws near again ; And when her lovely form I see. Oh haith, she’s doubly dear again ! I’ll aye ca’ iri by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; ru aye ca’ in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. •Klilt tjjmt lie mg Dearie? (349) Air — The Sutor's Dochter. Wilt thou be my dearie ? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? By the treasure of my soul. That’s the love I bear thee ! I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and vow. Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou loes me ; Or if thou wilt nae be my ain. Say na tliou’lt refuse me : If it winna, canna be. Thou, for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die. Trusting that thou loes me. Lassie, let me quickly die. Trusting that thou loes me. dJjr, gc ttjja's in pit fnrait. (350) Tune — Til gae nae mair to yon town. On, wat ye wha’s in yon town. Ye see the e’enin’ sun upon ? The fairest dame’s in yon town. The e’enin’ sun is shining on. Now haply down yon gay green shaw. She wanders by yon spreading tree ; IIow blest ye flowers that round her blaw. Ye catch the glances o’ her ee ! How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year l And doubly welcome be the spring. The season to my Lucy dear. The sun blinks blythe on yon town. And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; But my delight in yon town. And dearest bliss, is Lucy lair. Without my love, not a’ the charm? O’ Paradise could yield me joy ; ’But gie me Lucy in my arms. And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky ! My cave wad be a lover’s bower, Tho’ raging winter rent the air ; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. Oh sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin’ sun’s gane down upon ; A fairer than’s in yon town His setting beam ne’er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe. And suffering I am doom’d to bear ; I careless quit ought else below. But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear t For while life’s dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart, And she — as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart 1 Sat laftlg Irra. Tune — The Winter of Life. But lately seen in gladsome green. The woods rejoiced the day ; Thro’ gentle showers the laughing flowers, In double pride were gay ; But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May, in rich array. Again shall bring them a’. But my white pow, nae kindly thowe Shall melt the snaws of age ; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. Sinks in Time’s wintry rage. Oh! age has weary days. And nights o’ sleepless pain ! Thou golden time o’ youthfu’ prime. Why comes thou not again ? Cnullt might if lung. Tune — Could ought of song. Could ought of song declare my pains. Could artful numbers move thee. The muse should tell, in labour’d strain^ Oh Mary, how I love thee ! They who but feign a wounded heart May teach the lyre to languish ; But what avails the pride of art. When wastes the soul with angu'efa? Then let the sudden bursting sigh The heart-felt pang discover ; And in the keen, yet tender eye. Oh read th’ imploring lover 1 222 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. For well I know thy gentle mind Disdains art’s gay disguising ; Beyond what fancy e’«r refin’d. The voice of nature prizing. <% iirtr jjrr tip. Tune — Oh steer her up, and baud her gaun. Oh steer her uj and hand her gaun — ■ Her mother’s at the mill, jo ; And gif she winna take a man, E’en let her take her will, jo ; First shore her wi’ a kindly kiss. And ca’ another gill, jo. And gif she take the thing amiss, E’ven let her flyte her fill, jo. Oh steer her up, and be na blate. And gif she take it ill, jo, Then lea’e the lassie till her fate. And time nae langer spill, jo : Ne’er break your heart for ane rebate. But think upon it still, jo ; Then gif the lassie winna do’t. Ye’ll find anither will, jo. St mss a* far nur TugljtlV lEing. ( 351 ) Tune — It was a’ for our rightfu* king. It was a’ for our rightfu’ king We left fair Scotland’s strand; It was a’ for our rightfu’ king We e’er saw Irish land. My dear ; We e’er saw Irish land. New a’ is done that men can do* And a’ is done in vain ; \Hy love and native land farewell. For I maun cross the main. My dear ; For I maun cross the main. He turned him right, and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gie his bridle-reins a shake. With adieu for evermore. My dear; With adieu for evermore. The sodger from the wars return^ The sailor frae the main ; But I hae parted frae my lovfy Never to meet again. My dear ; Never to meet again. When day is gane. and night is coms^ And a’ folk bound to sleep ; I think on him that’s far awa*. The lee-lang night and weep. My dear ; The lee-lang night and weep. <£>!j aUIra is $jjt tfrat furs m?. Tune — Morag. Oh wha is she that loes me. And has my heart a-keeping ? Oh sweet is she that loes me, As dews o’ simmer weeping. In tears the rose-buds steeping ! Oh that’s the lassie o’ my heart My lassie ever dearer ; Oh that’s the queen o’ womankind And ne’er a ane to peer her. If thou shalt meet a lassie In grace and beauty charming. That e’en thy chosen lassie. Ere while thy breast sae warming. Had ne’er sic powers alarming. If thou hadst heard her talking. And thy attentions plighted. That ilka body talking, But her by thee is slighted. And thou art all delighted. If thou hast met this fair one ; When frae her thou hast parted. If every other fair one. But her, thou hast deserted. And thou art broken-hearted ; Oh that’s the lassie o’ my heart. My lassie ever dearer ; Oh that’s the queen o’ womankind^ And ne’er a ane to peer her. felrtmnta. Tune — Caledonian Hunt’s Delight . There was once a day — but old Time then was young — [line. That brave Caledonia, the chief of her From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine ?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : Her heav’nly relations there fixed her reign. And pledg’d her their godheads town* rant it good. GLOOMY DECEMBER. 221 A lambkin in peace, but a Hon in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : Her grandsire old Odin, triumphantly swore “Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ en- counter sha)l rae ! ” [sport, With tillage or pasture at times she would To feed her fair docks by her green rustling corn ; [resort. Bn t chiefly the woods were her fav’rite resort, [the horn. Her darling amusement the hounds and Long quiet she reign’d; 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 plunder’d the land ; [cry. Their pounces were murder, and terror their They conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside; Bhe took to her hills, and her arrows let fly — [died. The daring invaders they fled or they The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, [the shore ; The scourge of the seas, and the dread of The wild Scandinavian boar issu’d forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore : [prevail’d. O’er countries and kingdoms their fury No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed. As Largs well can witness and Loncartie tell. The Cameleon-savage disturb’d her repose. With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; Provok’d beyond bearing, at last she arose. And robb’d him at once of his hopes and his life : The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin’d the Tweed’s silver flood : But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. He learned to fear in his own native wood. Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free, [run : Her bright course of glory for ever shall For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; I’ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Kectangle-triangle the figure we’ll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ; But brave Caledonia’s the hypothenuse ; Then ergo, she’ll match them, and match them always. iatj tjjq Itnnf in fflittj, lass. Tune — Cordwainet’s March . On 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 meikle waej But now he is my deadly fae. Unless thou be my 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 breast. For ever to remain. Oh 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. Inna, iljtj Cjtaim Tune — Bonnie Mary . Anna, thy charms my bosom fire; And waste my soul with care ; But, ah ! how bootless to admire. When fated to despair ! Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. To hope may be forgiv’n ; For sure ’twere impious to despair. So much in sight of Heav’n. DmntliBr. Tune — Wandering Willie . Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decern her ! Ance mair I hail thee, wi’ sorrow and care ; Sad was the parting thou makes me re- member, Parting wi’ Nancy, oh ! ne’er to raeet mair. Fond lovers’ parting is sweet painful plea- sure, [hour ; Hope beaming mild on the soft parting But the dire feeling, oh farewell for ever. Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. Wild as the winter nowteari ig the forest. Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown. Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. Since my last hope and last comfort m gone. 2*4 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care ; For sad was the parting thou makest me re- member, Failing wi* Nancy, oh ! ne’er to meet mair. ®!j ffialhfj tttrrJf, Ms.\lfs srarrt. Oh Hally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, Hally’s modest and discreet, Hally’s rare, Hally’s fair, Hally’s every way complete. As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanc’d to meet $ But oh the road was very hard For that fair maiden’s tender feet. It were mair meet that those fine feet Were weel lac’d up in silken shoon. And ’twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon. Her yellow hair, beyond compare. Comes trinkling down her swan- white neck; And her two eyes, like stars in skies. Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. fesillis’ Sanks. Now bank and brae are claith’d in green. And scatter’d cowslips sweetly spring ; By Girvan’s fairy-haunted stream The birdies flit on wanton wing. To Cassillis’ banks when e’ening fa’s. There wi’ my Hary let me flee. There catch her ilka glance of love. The bonnie blink o’ Hary’s ee l The child wha boasts o’ warld’s wealth Is aften laird o’ meikle care ; But Hary she is a’ my ain — Ah ! fortune cannie gie me mair. Then let me range by Cassillis’ banks, Wi’ her, the lassie dear to me. And catch her ilka glance o’ love. The bonnie blink o’ Mary’s ee 1 IHq laiiij’s ten, tire's foirs npnit’t. Tune — Gregg's Pipes. My Lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t. And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet. My lord thinks mickle mair upon’t. Hy lord a-hunting he is gane. But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nan«| By Colin’s cottage lies his game. If Colin’s Jenny be at harne. My lady’s white, my lady’s red. And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ bluid; But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid Were a’ the charms his lordship loed. Out owre yon muir, out owre yon raosa, Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pas9. There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness. Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs. Like music notes o’ lovers’ hymns : The diamond dew is her een sae blue. Where laughing love sae wanton swima^ My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest. The flower and fancy o’ the west ; But the lassie that a man loes best. Oh that’s the lass to make him blest. ®! it /rit (Mjantpfn. (352) Tune — Killicrankie. Oil wha will to Saint Stephen’s house. To do our errands there, man ? Oh wha will to Saint Stephen’s houses O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man ? Or will we send a man-o’-law ? Or will we send a sodger ? Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’ The meikle Ursa-Major ? Come, will ye court a noble lord. Or buy a score o’ lairds, man ? For worth and honour pawn their word. Their vote shall be Glencaird’s, man ? Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter ; Anbank, wha guess’d the ladies’ taste. He gies a Fete Champetre. When Love and Beauty heard the news, The gay green-woods amang, man ; Where, gathering flowers and busking bowery They heard the blackbird’s sang, man : A vow, they seal’d it with a kiss Sir Politics to fetter. As theirs alone, the patent-blisa^ To hold a Fete Champetre. Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, Owre hill and dale she flew, man ; Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man s LOVELY POLLY STEW ALT. 225 She summon’d every social sprite, That sports by wood or water, On th’ bonnie banks of Ayr to meet. And keep this Fete Champetre. Cauld Boreas, wi’ his boisterous crew. Were bound to stakes like kye, man : And Cynthia’s car, o’ silver fu’, Clamb up the starry sky, man : • Reflected beams dwell in the streams. Or down the current shatter ; The western breeze steals through the trees To view this Fete Champetre. How many a robe sae gaily floats ! What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony’s enchanting notes, As moves the mazy dance, man. The echoing" wood, the winding flood. Like Paradise did glitter. When angels met, at Adam’s yett, To hold their Fete Champetre. When Politics came there to mix And make his ether-stane, man : He circled round the magic ground, But entrance found he nane, man : (353) He blushed for shame, he quat his name. Forswore it, every letter, Wi’ humble prayer to join and share This festive Fete Champetre. ®1jb Duntfrira 35nlnnfttrj. Tune — Push about the Jorum , Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? Then let the loons beware. Sir; there’s wooden walls upon our seas^ And volunteers on shore. Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsieon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! Fal de ral, &c. Oh, let us not like snarling tykei In wrangling be divided ; Till, slap, come in an unco loon. And wi’ a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true. Among ours els united ; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted Fal de ral, &c. The kettle o’ the kirk and state, Perhaps a claut may fail in’t : But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. u Our father’s bluid the kettle bought. And wha wad dare to spoil it ; By heaven, the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. Fal de ral, &c. The wretch that wad a tyrant own. And the wretch his true-born brother. Who would set the mob aboon the throne , May they be damned together ! Who will not sing “ God save the King.” Shall hang as high’s the steeple ; But while we sing “ God save the King,” We’ll ne'er forget the PeoDle. Fal de ral, &c. mjrf ftljmt in tfjr folir Slast. (35$ Tune — Lass o’ Livistone. Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast On yonder lea, on yonder lea. My plaidie to the angry airt, I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee : Or did misfortune’s bitter storms Around the blaw, around thee blaw. Thy bield should be my bosom. To share it a’, to share it a’. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. The desert were a Paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there : Or were I monarch o’ the globe, Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign. The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. Innrlt! |M!ti firraart. Tune — Ye’re welcome , Charlie Stew ait. Oil lovely Polly Stewart ! Oh charming Polly Stewart ! There’s not a flower that blooms in May That’s half so fair as thou art. The flower it blaws, it fades and fa’s. And art can ne’er renew it ; But worth and truth eternal youth Will give to Polly Stewart. May he whose arms shall fauld thy chanaa Possess a leal and true heart ; To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart. Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! Oh charming Polly Stew’art ! There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May That’j half sd sweet as thou art. 226 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. f%ftro S trail a ^int n f Wm. Tune — Banks of Banna. Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine, A place where body saw na’ ; Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness Rejoicing o’er his manna. Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarch s tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah ! Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There I’ll despise imperial charms^ An empress or sultana. While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna ! Awa, thou flaunting god o’ day ! 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 a* And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi’ my Anna ! (flu In fvig. Tune — The Lea rig. When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin time is near, my jo ; And owsen frae the furrow’d field. Return sae dowf and weary O ; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O, If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee. My ain kind dearie O. Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild. And I were ne’er sae wearie O, I’d meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. The hunter loes the morning sun. To rouse the mountain deer, my jo t At noon the fisher seeks the glen. Along the burn to steer, my jo ; Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey. It maks my heart sae cheery Q, To meet thee on the lea-rig. My ain kind dearie O. ffinnni* Trslrtj. (355) Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lastfe Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, As she gaed owre the border ? She’s gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her. And love but her for ever ; For nature made her what she is, And never made anither ! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before theej Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o’ men adore thee. The deil he could na scaith thee. Or aught that wad belang the«; He’d look into thy bonnie face, And say “I canna wrang thee.** The powers aboon will tent thee ; Misfortune sha’ na steer thee ; Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely. That ill they’ll ne’er let near the& Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag, we hae a lass There’s nane again sae bonnie. t#ill ip §a in tljr SnMis, lmj JHarij. (35$ Tune — The Ewe-huchts. Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia’s shore ? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across the Atlantic’s roar ? Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange And the apple*on the pine ; But a’ the charms o’ the Indies Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be tru® ; And sae may the Heavens forget me. When I forget my vow ! Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia’s strand. We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join ; And curst be the cause that shall part tail The hour and the moment o’ time l DUNCAN GRAY. 221 23 ij Gift's a SBimratm ©to j£l;ing. Sh e is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bonnie wee thing. This sweet wee wife o’ mina, I never saw a fairer, I never loe’d a dearer ; And neist my heart I’ll wear he* For fear my jewel tine. On leeze me on my wee thing. My bonnie blythesome wee thing; Sae lang’s I hae my wee thing. I’ll think my lot divine. Tho’ warld’s care we shave o'fc. And may see meikle mair o’t ; Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it. And ne’er a word repine. Sigljlanir fflarg. (357) Tune — Katharine Ogie. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes. And there the langest tarry ; For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn’s blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp’d her to my bosom ! 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. W i’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace. Our parting was fu’ tender ; And, pledging aft to meet again. We tore oursels asunder ; But oh ! fell death’s untimely frost. That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay. That wraps my Highland Mary ! Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly ! And clos’d for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that loe’d me dearly ! But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary. Mir Snli ffiartis. There’s auld Rob Morris that won& in yon glen, [men ; He’s the king o’ guid fellows and wale o’ auld He has goud in his coffers, he has owsen and kine. And ane bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May* She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay : [lea. As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. But, oh ! she’3 an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird, [and yard ; And my daddie has naught but a oot-house A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 1 he wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; [gane: The night comes to me, but my rest it is I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, [breast. And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my Oh had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop’d she wad smil’d upon me ! [bliss, Oh, how past describing had then been my As now my distraction no words can expressl Dtumm fratj. Duncan Gray came here to woo^ Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. On blythe Yule night when we were fti*, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Maggie coost her head fu’ high. Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; Ha, ha, the. wooing o’t. Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d; Ha, ha, &c. Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, &c. Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleert and blin* 9 Spake o’ lowpin’ owre a linn ; Ha, ha, &c. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, 1m, &c. Slighted love is sair to bide, . Ha, ha, &c. 21 228 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to — France for me 1 Ha, ha, &c. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, &c. Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, Ha, ha, &c. Something in her bosom wrings. For relief a sigh she brings ; And oh, her een, they speak sic things Ha, ha, &e. Duncan was a lad o’ grace, Ha, ha, &c. Maggie’s was a piteous case, Ha, ha, &c. Duncan could na be her death. Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath •, Now they’re crouse and canty baith; Ha, ha, &c. ^5nnrfit|[ Caull Tune — I had a Horse. Oh poortith cauld, and restless love^ Ye wreck my peace between ye ; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An ’twere na for my Jeanie. Oh why should fate sic pleasure havs, Life’s dearest bands untwining ? Or why sae sweet a llower as love, Depend on Fortune’s shining? This warld’s wealth when I think or, Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t ; Fie, fie on silly coward man. That he should be the slave o*fc. Oh why, &c. Etr een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her o’erword aye. She talks of rank and fashion. Oh why, &c. Oh wha can prudence think upon. And sic a lassie by him ? Oh wha can prudence think upon. And sae in love as I am ? Oh why, &c. How blest the humble cotter’s fate ! He wooes his simple dearie ; The silly bogles, wealth and states Can never make ihern eerie. Oh why, &c. $ak mrtrr. (358) There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. That wander thro’ the blooming heather But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws. Can match the lads o’ Gala Water. But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a’ I loe him better; And I’ll be his and he’ll be mine, The bonnie lad o’ Gala Water. Altho’ his daddie was nae laird. And tho’ I hae na meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindness, truest love, W r e’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water. It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth. That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; The bands and bliss o’ mutual love. Oh, that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure \ fnrli fognrt}. Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. And loud the tempests roar ; A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower. Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father’s ha’. And a’ for loving thee ; At least some pity on me shaw. If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove By bonnie Irwine side. Where first I own’d that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied ? How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine ; And my fond heart, itsel sae true. It ne’er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast : Thou dart of heaven that flashest by. Oh wilt thou give me rest ! Ye mustering thunders from above Your willing victim see ; But spare and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to Heaven and me 1 JHanj 3Hnrimit. ( 359 > Tune — Bide ye yet . Oh Mary, at thy window be It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glanses let me see. That make the miser’s treasure pooff 3 T1IE SOLDIER’S RETURN. 223 How blytbely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun. Could I the rich reward secure. The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen when to the trembling string. The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’, Jo thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw. And yon the toast of a’ the town, I sigh’d, and said amang them a’ “ Ye are na Mary Morison.” Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt 11a gie. At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o’ Mary Morison. tta&rattg RKIIif. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie^ Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; Welcome now simmer and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, IIow your dread howling a lover alarms ! Wauken, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows ! And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms ! But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us thou wide-roaring main! May I never see it, may I never trow it. But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain ! Clje #0lter'0 Ithtrit. (3G0) Air — The mill , mill O. When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn. And gentle peace returning, Wi’ mony a sweet baber fatherless. And mony a widow mourning ; I left the lines and tented field. Where lang I’d been a lodger. My humble knapsack a’ my wealth, A poor but honest sodger. A leal, light heart was in my breast My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder : And for fair Scotia, hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o’ Coil, I thought upon my Nancy ; I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach’d the bonnie glen Where early life I sported ; 1 pass’d the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted: Wha spied I but my ain dear maid Down by her mother’s dwelling ! And turn’d me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “ Sweet lass. Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom. Oh ! happy, happy may he be. That’s dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I’ve far to gang. And fain would be thy lodger ; I’ve served my king and country lang^ Take pity on a sodger !” Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me, And lovelier was than ever ; Quo’ she, " A sodger ance I loe’d. Forget him shall I never : Our humble cot and hamely fare Ye freely shall partake o’t ; That gallant badge, the dear cockade. Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t She gaz’d — she redden’d like a rose — Syne pale like ony lily ; She sank within my arms, and cried, “ Art thou my ain dear Willie ?” < “ By Him who made yon sun and sky. By whom true love’s regarded, I am the man ; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. The wars are o’er, and I’m come liame. And find thee still true-hearted ! Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love. And mair we’re ne’er be parted.” Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish’d fairly ; And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad, Thou’rt welcome to it dearly.” For gold the merchant ploughs the mai% The farmer ploughs the manor; But glory is the sodger ’s prize. The sodger’s wealth is honour. 230 BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. Nor count him as a stranger : Remember lie’s his co intry’s stay In day and hour of danger. SSltli&i fiat % too Hit pit MU, Tune — Liggeram Cosh. Blytiie 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 longer sport and play, Alirth or sang ean please me % Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize ret, Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring : Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'f^ Sighing, dumb, despairing l If she winna ease the thrawa In my bosom swelling. Underneath the grass-green sod. Soon maun be my dwelling. fngttt faints. (36i) Tune — Logan Water. Oh Logan., sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie’s bride ; And years sinsyne hae o’er us run. Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow’ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. While my dear lad maun face his faea^ Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Again the merry month o’ May Has made our hills and rallies gay ; The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. The bees hum round the breathing flowers; Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye. And evening’s tears are tears of joy : My soul, delightless, a’ surveys, While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil. Or wi’ his songs her cares beguile : But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. Pass widow’d nights and joyless days. While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. Oh, wae upon you, men o’ state, That brethren rouse to deadly hat©! As ye make many a fond heart mourn, Utae may it on your head* return ! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tear, the orphan’s cry f But soon may peace bring happy day% And Willie hame to Logan braes ). 4>Jr, gin mg Imre min gmt M Hose! (ssaj Air — Hughie Graham. Oh, gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa'; And I mysel a drap o’ dew. Into her bonnie breast to fa’ ! Oh there, beyond expression blest. I’d feast on beauty a’ the night ! Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light. Oh, were my love yon lilach fair, Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring. And I, a bird to shelter there. When wearied on my little wing— How I wad mourn, when it was tom By autumn wild, and winter rude ! But I wad sing on wanton wing. When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d. Snttnit Sian. ( 363 ) There was a lass, and she was fair. At kirk and market to be seen ; When a’ the fairest maids were met. The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie’s war^. And aye ehe 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 danc’d wi Jeanie on the down; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. Her heart was tint, her peace w r as stow* As in the bosom o’ the stream The moonbeam dwells at dewy e’eu % So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean, 231 ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDEH. And now she woiks her mammie’s wark. And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain ; Yet wist na what her ail might be. Or what wad mak her weel again. But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light* And did 11a joy blink in her ee. As Robie tauld a tale o’ love Ae e’emn 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 0’ love : " Oh Jeanie fair, I loe thee dear ; Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ; Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot. And learn to tent the farms wi’ me ? At barn or 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. ffltg n’ flic mill. Air — Oh Bonnie Lass will you lie in a Barrack ? Oh ken ye wha Meg o’ the Mill has gotten ? And ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten ? She has gotten a coof wi’ a claut o’ siller. And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller. The Miller was 3 trappin’, the Miller was ruddy ; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : The Laird was a widdiefu’, bleerit knurl ; — She’s left the guidfellow and taen the churl. The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; [moving, The Laird did address her wi’ matter more A fine pacing horse wi’ a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. Oh wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ! And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen ! A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! <&prn itiB Innr in Mb, n!r! * 0 h! open the door, some pity to show. Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! [true, |W thou hast been false. I’ll ever prove Oh 1 open the door to me, oh l Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek. But caulder thy love for me, oh ; The frost that freezes the life at my heart. Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! The wan moon is setting behind the white wave. And time is setting with me, oh ! False friends, false love, farewell ! for maif I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, 0I1 l” She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide ; She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! "My true love !” she cried, and sank dowa by his side. Never to rise again, oh ! ^nnng Tune — Bonnie Dundee. True hearted was he, the sad swain 0* the Yarrow, [the Ayr, And fair are the maids on the banks o' But by the sweet side 0’ the Nith’s winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain s Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning. And sweet is the lily at evening close ; But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring : Enthron’d in her eeu he delivers his law; And still to her charms she * alone is • stranger — Her modest demeanour’3 the jewel of a*! SUlnnm minting fiitjj % iri!r 3#aniiBi:. Tune — The Mucking 0’ Geor die's Byre , Ad own winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring Adown winding Nith I did wander. Of Phillis to muse and to sing. CHORUS. Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties They never wi’ her can compare ; Wliaever has met wi’ my Phillis, Has met wi’ the queen 0’ the fail 232 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. The daisy amus’d my fond fancy. So artless, so simple, so wild ; Tliou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis, For she is simplicity’s child. The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest : How fair and how pure is the lily. But fairer and purer her breast. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour. They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie : Her breath is the breath o’ the woodbine. It's dew-drop o’ diamond her eye. Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. On music, and pleasure, and love. But, beauty, how frail and how fleeting — The bloom of a fine summer’s day ! While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. lail % a fan*. (364) Tune — Robin Adair. Hau I a cave on some wild distant shore. Where the winds howl to the waves’ dashing roar; There would I weep my woes. There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close. Ne’er to wake more ! Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare. All thy fond-plighted vows — fleeting as air ! To thy new lover hie. Laugh o’er thy perjury; Then in thy bosom try What peace is there* |5!iillis ijjE /air. (365) Tune — Robin Adair. While larks with the wing, Fann’d the pure air. Tasting the breathing spring. Forth 1 did fare ; Gay the sun’s golden eye. Peep’d o’er the mountains high ; Such thy morn ! did 1 cry, Phillis the fair. In each bird’s careless song. Glad did I share ; While yon wild flowers among. Chance led me there ; Sweet to the opening day. Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom ! did I say, Phillis the fair. Down in a shady walk. Doves cooing were; I mark’d the cruel hawk Caught in a snare ; So kind may fortune be, Such make his destiny. He who would injure the©, Phillis the fair. $tj Man Item % rjjanr’it la ®m». Tune — Allan Water. By Allan stream I chanc’d to rove. While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi; (366) The winds were whispering thro’ the grove. The yellow corn was waving ready : I listen’d to a lover’s sang, And thought on youtnfu’ pleasures mony; And aye the wild- wood echoes rang — • Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie l Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. The place and time I met my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She7 sinking, said, “Pm thine for ever!" While mony a kiss the seal imprest. The sacred vow, we ne’er should sever. The haunt o* spring’s the primrose brae. The simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro’ her shortening day. Is autumn in her weeds o’ yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart. Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure ? (ffnras lit ike taltE fjirE in tnq &rasi. Air — Cauld Kail. Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne’er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld s wealth and grandeur; And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move herf I ask for dearest life alone That I may live to love her. BEHOLD THE HOUR. 233 Unis in tny aims, wi’ all thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure ; I’ll seek nae mair o’ heaven to share. Than sic a moment’s pleasure : And by thy een sae bonnie blue, I swear I’m thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow. And break it shall 1 never ! ©Jlristl* anil S’ll Cntnr in tpnt, mtj Tail. Tune — JVhistle and Til come to you my lad. Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad. Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my iad ; Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad. Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me. And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see. And come as ye were 11 a cornin’ to me. And come, &c. At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me. Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d nae a flie ; But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black ee. Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me. Yet look, &c. Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court nae anither, tlio’ jokin’ ye be, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. . For fear, &c. JDaintij Dant*. (367) Tune — Dainty Davie. Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers. To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; And now come in my happy hours. To wander wi’ my Davie. CHORUS. Meet me on the warlock knowe. Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; There I’ll spend the day wi’ you, My ain dear dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa’. The merry birds are lovers a’. The scented breezes round us blaw. A- wandering wi’ my Davie. When purple morning starts the hare^ To steal upon her early fare. Then thro’ the dews I will repair. To meet my faithfu’ Davie. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o’ nature’s rest, I flee to his arms I loe best, And that’s my ain dear Davie. tart's Stoss. ( 338 ) Tune— H ey Tut tie Taittie. Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed. Or to victorie ! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour ; See approach proud Edward’s powefr-* Chains and slavery ! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw ; Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’. Let him follow me ! By oppression’s woes and pains 1 By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low 1 Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty’s in every blow !— Let us do, or die ! Sarjjnllr ijp Mm. (869/ Tune — Oran Gaoil. Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; Thou goest, thou darliug of my heart! Sever’d from thee, can I survive ? But fate has will’d, and we must part. I’ll often greet this surging swell. Yon distant isle will often hail : “E’en here I took the last farewell; There latest mark’d her vanish’d sail.** Along the solitary shore. While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. Across the rolling, dashing roar. I’ll westward turn my wistful eye ; Happy thou Indian grove. I’ll say. Where now my Nancy’s path may be ! While thro’ thy sweets she loves to stray* Oh, tell me, does she muse on me! 234 BUENS’S POETICAL WOEKS. Snlft fang Ign^ Shout D auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days o’ lang syne ? CHORUS. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, And pu’d the go wans fine ; But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot, Sin auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl’t i* the burn, Frae mornin’ sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roar’d. Sin auld lang syne. And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere. And gie’s a hand o’ thine ; And we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught. For auld lang syne. And surely ye’ll be your pint stoup. And surely I’ll be mine ; And weTl tak a cup o’ kindness yet For auld lang syne. aUfirrc are i!jt Saijs? - Tune — Saw ye my father? Where are the joys I have met in the morning. That danc’d to the lark’s early song ? Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring. At evening the wild woods among ? No more a-winding the 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 vallies. And grim surly winter is near ? No, no ! the bees humming round the gay roses. Proclaim it the pride of the year. Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. Yet long, long too well have I known. All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : — ■ Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish. Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe. f jinn Ijast Xrft me drntr. Tune — Fee him, Father. Tiiou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever, [me ever ; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left Aften hast thou vow’d that death only should us sever. Now thou’st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee never, Jamie, I’ll see thee never. Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me forsaken, [forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart ia breaking : Soon, my weary een I’ll close — never mail to waken, Jamie, Ne’er mair to waken. Drlnirrtt Iraain, lire 'plrasnr*. Tune — The Collier's Bonnie Lassie . Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee. Is but a fairy treasure — • Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. The billows on the ocean. The breezes idly roaming. The clouds’ uncertain motion. They are but types of woman. Oh ! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature ? If man thou would’st be namec^ Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow ! Good claret set before the* i Hold on till thou art mellow. And then to bed in glory. f jjinr % am, tmj /aiijjful /air. Tune — Liggeram Cosh [the Quaker's wife 3 Thine am I, my faithful fair. Thine, my lovely Nancy ; Ev’ry pulse along my veins, Ev’ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart. There to throb and languish: Tho’ despair had wrung its core. That would heal its anguish. OX THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 235 Take away these rosy lips. Rich with balmy treasure : Turn away thine eyes of love. Lest I die with pleasure. What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning : Jjeve’s the cloudless summer sun. Nature gay adorning. 3Hi( f prar, fennt. Tune — My Jo Janet. * Husband, husband, cease your strife. Nor longer idly rave, sir; Tho’ I am your wedded wife. Yet I am not your slave, sir.” " One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy ; Is it man, or woman, say, My spouse, Nancy ?” u If ’tis still the lordly word. Service and obedience ; I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, And so good-bye allegiance 1* a Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy, Yet I’ll try to make a shift. My spouse, Nancy.” u My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I’m near it : When you lay me in the dust. Think, think how you will bear it.” “I will hope and trust in heaven, Nancy, Nancy, Strength to bear it will be given. My spouse, Nancy.” ** Well, sir, from the silent dead. Still I’ll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you.* * I’ll wed another like my dear, Nancy, Nancy ; Then all hell will fly for fear. My spouse, Nancy.” ®jj r fSanks sf to. Tune — The Banks of Cree. Here is the glen, and here the bower. All underneath the birchen shade ; The ? illage-bell has toll’d the hour. Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 'Tis not Maria’s whispering call ; ’Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix’d with some warbler’s dying fall, The dewy stars of eve to hail. It is Maria’s voice I hear ! — So calls the woodlark in the grove His little faithful mate to cheer ! At once ’tis music and ’tis love. And art thou come ? — and art thou true ? Oh welcome, dear to love and me And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree. a tip Ira anh /ar Slmaij. Tun e — O'er the hills , Sfc. How can my poor heart be glad. When absent from my sailor lad ? How can I the thought forego. He’s on the seas to meet the foe ? Let me wander, let me rove. Still my heart is with my love ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are with him that’s far away. CHORUS. On the seas and far away. On stormy seas and far away ; Nightly dreams and thoughts by day Are aye with him that’s far away. Wien in summer’s noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant. Haply in the scorching sun My sailor’s thund’ring at his gun ; Bullets spare my only joy ! Bullets, spare my darling boy ! Fate, do with me what you may. Spare but him that’s far' away 1 At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power j As the storms the forest tear, And thunders rend the howling air. Listening to.the doubling roar. Surging on the rocky shore, All I can — I weep and pray. For his weal that’s far away. Peace, thy olive wand extend. And bid wild war his ravage end, Man with brotner man to meet. And as a brother kindly greet : Then may Heaven with prosperous g&la^ Fill Tny sailor’s welcome sails. To my arms their charge convey. My deo r lad that’s far away. 233 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Ca* t!jr in tjjB IBimML CHORUS. Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rows. My bonnie dearie. Hark the mavis’ evening sang Sounding Clouden’s woods amang; Then a-faulding let us gang. My bonnie dearie. We’ll gae down by Clouden side Thro’ the hazels spreading wide. O’er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly. Yonder Clouden’s silent towers. Where at moonshine, midnight hours. O’er the dewy bending flowers. Fames dance sae cheery. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; Thou’rt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near. My bonnie dearie. Fair and lovely as thou art. Thou hast stown my very heart; I can die — but canna part. My bonnie dearie. While waters wimple to the sea ; While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; Till clay-cauld death shall blin’ my ee. Ye shall be my dearie. $jjt sags sjj» X ars me ffirst af £’. Tune — Onagh’s Lock. Bah flaxen were her ringlets. Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o’er-arching Twa laughing een o’ bonnie blue. Her smiling, sae wiling. Would make a wretch forget his woe: What pleasure, what treasure. Unto these rosy lips to grow : 8uch was my Clitoris’ bonnie face. When first her bonnie face I saw, And aye my Clitoris’ dearest charm. She says she loes me best of a’. Like harmony her motion ; Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion. Wad make a saint forget the sky. Eae warming, sae charming. Her faultless form and graceful air; Ilk feature — auld nature Declared that she could do nae mair. Hers are the willing chains o’ love, By conquering beauty’s sovereign law j And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm. She says she loes me best of a’. Let others love the city. And gaudy show at sunny noon ; Gie me the lonely valley. The dewy eve, and rising moon Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling. The amorous thrush concludes his san^ There,- dearest Chi oris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. And hear my vows o’ truth and love. And say thou loes me best of a’ I lam ijt mil T'litlli} ? Tune — When she cam ben she hobbit . On, saw ye my dear, my Philly ? Oh, saw ye my dear, my Philly ? She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’ a new lov^ She winna come hame to her Willie. What says she, my dearest, my Philly ? What says she, my dearest, my Philly ? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgotj And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. Oh, had I ne’er seen thee, my Philly ! Oh, had I ne’er seen thee, my Philly ! As light as the air, and fause as thou’s fair, Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy Willy. $am Xnng ani irtarn is ijjt Higljt? (370) Tune — Cauld kail in Aberdeen. How long and dreary is the night When I am frae my dearie ? I restless lie frae e’en to morn, Tho’ I we’re ne’er sae weary. CHORUS. For oh ! her lanely nights are lang. And oh ! her dreams are eerie, And oh ! her widow’d heart is sair. That’s absent frae her dearie. When I think on the lightsome days I spent wi’ thee, my dearie. And now what seas between us roar. How can I be but eerie ? For oh ! &c. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours The joyless day, how dreary ! It was na sae ye glinted by. When I w as wi’ my dearie. For oh! &c. FAKE WELL THOU STREAM THAT WINDING FLOWS. *37 f rt nni RJntnaE I'rr ffaraplaii.- Tune — Duncan Gray . Let not woman e’er complain Of incoustancy in love ; Let net woman e’er complain Fickle man is apt to rove. Look abroad through Nature’s range. Nature’s mighty law is change; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove ? Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Ocean’s ebb, and ocean’s flow : Sun and moon but set to rise. Round and round the seasons go. Why then ask of silly man To oppose great Nature’s plan? We’ll be constant while we can— You can be no more, you know. ^Irrp’st ®jnra, nr iUak’st ®frna ? (37i) Tune — Deil tak the wars. Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest crea- Rosy morn now lifts his eye, [ture ? Numbering ilka bud, which Nature Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy : Now thro’ the leafy woods. And by the reeking floods. Wild Nature’s tenants, freely, gladly stray : The lintwhite in his bower Chants o’er the breathing flower. The lav’rock to the sky Ascends wi’ sangs o’ joy. While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. Phoebus gilding the brow o’ morning. Banishes ilk darksome shade. Nature gladd’ning and adorning; Such to me my lovely maid. When absent from my fair. The murky shades o’ care With starless gloom o’ercast my sullen sky ; But when in beauty’s light. She meets my ravish’d sight. When through my very heart Her beaming glories dart, *Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 2Hg Cljbris, mark jura (Iran tl;r fonts. Tune — My lodging is on the cold ground. My Chloris, mark how green the groves. The primrose banks how fair ; The balmy gales awake the flowers. Ami wave thy flaxen bait The lav’rock shuns the palace gay. And o’er the cottage sings : For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. To shepherds as to kings. Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string In lordly lighted ha’ : The shepherd stops his simple reed, Blythe, in the birken shaw. The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi’ scorn ; But are their hearts as light as oura Beneath the milk-white thorn ? The shepherd, in the flowery glen. In shepherd’s phrase will woo : The courtier tells a liner tale. But is his heart as true ? These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck That spotless breast o’ thine : The courtier’s gems may witness love— But ’tis na love like mine. St mas itir farming ffinntij if 32ag f ( 372 ) Tune — Dainty Davie. It was the charming month of May, When all the fiow’rs were fresh and gay. One morning, by the break of day. The youthful, charming Chloe,— From peaceful slumber she arose. Girt on her mantle and her hose. And o’er the flow’ry mead she goes,— The youthful, charming Chloe. CHORUS. Lovely was she by the dawn. Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o’er the pearly lawn. The youthful, charming Chloe. The feather’d people, you might see Perch’d all around on every tree. In notes of sweetest melody. They hail the charming Chloe ; Till, painting gay the eastern skica^ The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall’d by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe, Lovely was she, & c. /arantll, iijnit ftrrara fftat RJinMnj /liras. Tune — Nancy’s to the greenwood gane. Farewell, thou stream that winding floaTl Around Eliza’s dwelling ! Oh mem’ry ! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling : 238 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain. And yet in secret languish. To feel a fire in ev’ry vein. Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover : The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting groan. Betray the hapless lover. I know thou doom’st me to despair. Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But, oh ! Eliza, hear one prayer. For pity’s sake, forgive me ! The music of thy voice I heard. Nor wist while it enslaved me ; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d. Till fears no more had sav’d me. Th’ unwary sailor thus aghast. The wheeling torrent viewing, *Mid circling horrors sinks at last In overwhelming ruin. mi’ tjji lint-mljite farki. Tune — Rotkiemurche’s Rant. CHORUS. Lassie wi’ the lint-white losks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks W ilt thou be my dearie O ? Now Nature deeds the flowery lea. And a’ is young and sweet like thee : Oh, wilt thou share its joy wi’ me, And say thou’lt be my dearie O ? Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, &c. And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower, We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, &c. When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray. The weary shearer’s hameward way. Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray. And talk o’ love, my dearie O. Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, &c. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest. Enclasped to my faithful breast. I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O. Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, &c. fllilhcanii aUIUn. Tuna — The Sow's Tail , WILLY. On Philly, happy be that day When roving through the gather’d hay, fcfy youthfu’ Heart was stown away. And by thy charms, my Philly. . PHILLY. Oh Willy, aye I bless the grove W T here first I own’d my maiden love. Whilst thou didst pledge the powers abava To be my ain dear Willy. WILLY. As songsters of the early year Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, So ilka day to me mair dear And charming is my Philly. PHILLY. As on the briar the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows. So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. WILLY. The milder sun and bluer sky. That crown my harvest cares wi’ joy. Were ne’er sae welcome to my eye As is a sight o’ Philly. PHILLY. The little swallow’s wanton wing, Tho' wafting o’er the flowery spring. Did ne’er to me sic tidings bring. As meeting o’ my Willy. WILLY. The bee that thro’ the sunny hour Sips nectar in the opening flower. Compar’d wi’ my delight is poor. Upon' the lips o’ Philly. PHILLY. The woodbine in the dewy weet. When evening shades in silence meet. Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss o’ Willy. WILLY. Let fortune’s wheel at random rin. And fools may tyne, and knaves may wia* My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane. And that’s my ane dear Philly. PHILLY. What’s a* the joys that gowd can gie f I care nae wealth a single flie ; The lad I love’s the lad for me. And that’s my ain dear Willy. fnnltnttii mi' liitl*. Tune — Lumps o’ Pudding. Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair, Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp as they’re creepin’ alang, Wi’ a cog o’ guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. MY NANNIE’S AWA. m I whiles claw the elbow o’ troublesora thought ; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch. And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. A townmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’, A night o’ guid fellowship sowthers it a’ : When at the blythe end of our journey at last, [past ? Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road Le has Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way : [gae : Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade Come ease, or come travail : come pleasure, or pain, - [again !” My warst word is — “ Welcome, and welcome faa’jt ijnnt Isanr hie ft)tts, mq IKatq, ( 373 ) Tune — Roy's Wife. CHORUS. Can st thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou know’st my aching heart, And canst thou leave me thus for pity? Is this thy plighted, fond regard. Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? Is this thy faithful swain’s reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy? Farewell ! and ne’er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! Thou may’st find those will love thee dear — But not a love like mine, my Katy. /nr a’ ft liat, anil a’ ffjjat. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that ? The coward slave we pass him by. We dare be poor for a’ that l For a’ that, and a’ that. Our toil’s obscure, and a’ that. The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, (374) The man’s the goud for a’ that. What tho’ on hamely fare we dine. Wear hoddin grey, and a’ that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that ; For a’ that, and a’ that. Their tinsel show, and a’ that ; Fbe honest man, though e’er sae poor, la king o’ men for a’ that. Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; Tho’ hundreds worship at his word. He’s but a coof for a’ that:. For a’ that, and a’ that. His riband, star, and a’ that. The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a’ that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that : But an honest man’s aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that. The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth. Are higher ranks than a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may. As come it will for a’ that. That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that. It’s coming yet, for a’ that. That man to man, the warld o’er. Shall brothers be for a’ that. Samur’s Sima. Tune — There'll never be peace, tyc. Now in her green mantle blythe natura arrays, [braes. And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; But to me it’s delightless — my Nannie’s awa. The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 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 lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, [dawn. The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa’. Give over for pity — my Nannie’s awa. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey. And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay ; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me — now Nannie’s ari. - 22 240 BUKLS’S POETICAL WORKS. Craigirhnnt -ttelr. (375) Tune — Craigiehurn wood. Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigieburn, And bly the awakes the morrow ; But a’ the pride o’ spring’s return Can yield me nocht but sorrow. I see the flowers and spreading trees, I hear the wild birds singing ; But what & weary wight can please. And care his bosom wringing ? Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. Yet dare na for your anger ; But secret love will break my heart. If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me. If thou shalt love anither v When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. Around my grave they’ll wither. (376) <£$ lassie art tjjna llrrping ijptf Tune — Let me in this ane Night . Oh lassie art thou sleeping yet ? Or art thou wakin’, I would wit ? For love has bound me hand and foot. And I would fain be in, jo. CHORUS. Oh let me in this ane night. This ane, ane, ane night; For pity’s sake this ane night. Oh rise and let me in, jo 1 Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet, Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet; Tak pity on my weary feet. And shield me frae the rain, jo. The bitter blast that round me blaws Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s ; The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the caust Of a’ my grief and pain, jo. Reply to the Foregoing . Ok tell na me o’ wind and rain. Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain; Gae back the gait ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo ! CHORUS. I tell you now this ane night. This ane, ane, ane night ; And ance for a’ this ane night, J winna let yon in, jo. The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. That round the pathless wand’rer pours. Is nocht to what poor she endures That’s trusted faithless man, jo/ The sweetest flower that deck’d the me&4. Now trodden like the vilest weed; Let simple maid the lesson read. The weird may be her ain, jo. The bird that charm’d his summer- day. Is now the cruel fowler’s prey ; Let witless, trusting, woman say How aft her fate’s the same, jo. Stoss ta fljB -SJnniilarif. Tune — Where'll honnie Ann lie ? or, Lodh Eroch Side. Oh stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay. Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay. Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art : For surely that wad touch her heart* Wha kills me wi’ disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind. And heard thee as the careless wind ? Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join’<^ Sic notes o’ woe could wauken. Thou tells o’ never-ending care : O’ speechless grief, and dark despair; For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair. Or my poor heart is broken ! Da Cjjlnris htittg Sli. Tune — Aye wakin O. CHORUS. Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow* While my soul’s delight Is on her bed of sorrow. Can I cease to care, Can I cease to languish. While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish t Every hope is fled. Every fear is terror; Slumber even I dread. Every dream is horror. OH THIS lb NO MI AIN LASSIE. 2 il Hear me, Pow’rs divine ! Oh ! in pity hear me ! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me ! affair francs n' fmrct 32ptlc. Tune — Humours of Glen. Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, [perfume ; Where bright beaming summers exalt the Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, [broom. Wi’ the bum stealing under the lang yellow Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, [unseen : Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, , [Jean. A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay sunny vallies. And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave ; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, [and slave ! What are they ? — the haunt of the tyrant The slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain ; He wanders as free a3 the winds of his mountains, [his Jean ! Save love’s willing fetters — the chains o’ Sum ftwi art tfa 'f'r eti. ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGI/I8H BOND. Tune — John Anderson my Jo, How cruel are the parents; Who 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 wretched wife. The rav’ning hawk pursuing. The trembling dove thus flie% To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinion tries : Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer. And drops beneath his feet. %m% hh Ijrr Satinb th maa mtj Uniit. Tune — Laddie, lie near me. [ ’Twas na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin; Fair tho’ she be, that was ne’er my undoing : ’Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, [o’ kindness. ’Twa3 the bewitching, sweet, stown glance Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever. Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest. And thou hast plighted me love the dearest ! And thou’rt the angel that never can alter. Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 22 ark pH $nmp nf fnstlij /asfamt. Tune — Beil talc the Wars. Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar’d with real passion. Poor is all that princely pride. What are the showy treasures ? What are the noisy pleasures ? The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : The polish’d jewel’s blaze May draw the wond’ring gaze. And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight. But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, In simplicity’s array ; Lovely as yonder sweet op’ning flower is. Shrinking from the gaze of day. Oh then the heart alarming. And all resistless charming, In Love’s delightful fetters she chains the willing soul ! Ambition would disown The world’s imperial crown. Even Avarice would deny His worshipp’d deity. And feel thro’ ev’ry vein Love’s raptures roll fjl fljis is nn rap Sin Xassi?, Tune — This is no my ain House, chorus. Oh this is no my ain lassie. Fair tho’ the lassie be ! Oh weel ken I my ain lassie. Kind love is in her ee. 242 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. I ace a form, I see a face. Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place : It wants, to me, the witching graces The kind love that’s in her ee. She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and taU, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul. The kind love that’s in her ee. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a’ unseen ; But gleg as light are lovers’ een. When kind love is in the ee. It may escape the courtly sparks. It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks ^'he kind love that’s in her ee. Hara Spring lias dJIail tjji fan* in totn. ( 377 ) Now spring has clad the grove in green. And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers : The furrow’d, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers ; While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego. Oh why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe ! The trout within yon wimpling bum Glides swift — a silver dart ; And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler’s art. My life was ance that careless stream. That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi’ unrelenting beam. Has scorch’d my fountains dry. The little flow’ret’s peaceful lot, In yonder cliff that grows, Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows, Was mine ; till love has o’er me past. And blighted a’ my bloom. And now beneath the with’ring blast My youth and joy consume. The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs. And climbs the early sky, Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning’s rosy eye. As little reck’d I sorrow’s power. Until the flowery snare O’ witching love, in luckless hour. Made me the thrall o’ care. Oh, 1 ad my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric’s burning zone, Wi’ man and nature leagu’d my foes, So Peggy ne’er I’d kno 'vn 1 The wretch whase doom is, u hope nae mail," What tongue his woes can tell ! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. jj SmntiB mas pit $nsg Sriir. Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier, That blooms so far frae haunt o’ man; And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear! It shaded frae the e’enin’ sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. How pure amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover’s vow They witnessed in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower. That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ; But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life’s thorny path o’ care. The pathless wild and wimpling burn, Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the world, nor wiaa, nor scorn. Its joy 8 and griefs alike resign. (fntlant rag tm, u Cnmfurt ntss. Tune — Let me in this ane Night . Forlorn my love, no comfort near. Far, far from thee, I wander here ; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. CHORUS. Oh wert thou, love, but near me ; But near, near, near me : How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. And mingle sighs with mine, love. Around me scowls a wintry sky. That blasts each bud of hope and joy; And shelter, shade, nor Lome have I, Save in those arms of thine, love. Cold, alter’d friendship’s cruel part. To poison fortune’s ruthless dart — - Let me not break thy fan fiful hear^ And say that fate is mine, love. But dreary tho* the moments fleei. Oh let me think we yet shall meet l That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Cliloris shine, love. JESST. 24S $nj fnt a tuns mi' a fffnrljir. Tune — Balinamona ora. Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms. The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms. Oh, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms. Oh, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms. CHORUS. Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher; then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher. Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher — the nice yellow guineas for me. Your beauty’s a flower, in the morning that blows. And withers the faster, the faster it grows : But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes, [yowes. Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi bonnie white And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest, [possest ; The brightest o’ beauty may cloy when But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest, [carest. The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re fast 3Haq a Srani -Eton, Tune — The Lothian Lassie. Bast May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sail* wi’ his love he did deaye me ; I said there was naething I hated like men — The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me, The deuce gae wi’m to believe me. He spaK o’ the darts o’ my bonnie black een. And vow’d for my love he wa3 dying ; I said he might die when he liked for Jean — The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. The Lord forgie me for lying ! A well-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird. And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d, But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or less, The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess (378), [rnuld bear her, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi* care* I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock, And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. But owre my left shoutlier I gae him a blink. Lest neibors might say I was saucy ; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. And vow’d I was his dear lassie. I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweety Gin she had recovered her hearin’. And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet, [a-swearin’. But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin’. But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin’. He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife^ Or else I wad kill him wi, sorrow : So e’en -to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to* morrow, I think I maun wed him to-morrow. /ragmmt. Tune — The Caledonian Hunt 1 9 Delight. Why, why tell tby lover, Bliss he never must enjoy ? Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the He ? Oh why, while fancy, raptur’d, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme. Why, why wouldst thou cruel. Wake thy lover from his dream? StSStJ. (379) CHORUS. Here’s a health to ane I loe dear! Here’s a health to ane I loe dear ! [meet. Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lover’® And soft as their parting tear — Jessy! Altho’ thou maun never be mine, Altlio’ even hope is denied : ’Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Then aught in the world beside — Jessy I I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day. As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber, Bor then I am lock’t in thy arms — Jessy I BURNS’S TOETICAL WORKS. % & i guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love rolling ee ; But why urge the tender confession, 'Gainst fortune’s fell cruel decree — Jessy ! /airrst JHaiir an Dnran ®anks. Tun e — Rothiemurckc . CHORUS.. Fairest maid on Devon banks. Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside. And smile as thou were wont to do. Full well thou know’st I love thee dear, Could’st thou to malice lend an ear ? Oh, did not love exclaim " Forbear, Nor use a faithfu’ lover so l” Then come, thou fairest of the fair. Those wonted smiles, oh let me share ! And, by thy beauteous self I swear. No love but thine my heart shall know. iantorn? Sail. (380) Oh once I lov’d a bonnie lass. Ay, and I love her still ; And whilst that honour warms my breast. I’ll love my handsome Nell. As bonnie lasses I hae seen. And mony full as braw; But for a modest gracefu’ mien. The like I never saw. A bonnie lass, I will confess. Is pleasanFto the ee. But without some better qualities. She’s no the lass for me. But Nelly’s looks are blythe and sweet, And, what is best of a’. Her reputation is complete. And fair without a flaw. She dresses aye sae clean and neat. Both decent and genteel : And then there’s something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel. A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart ; But it’s innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. *Tis this in Nelly pleases me, ’Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast . She reigns without control. 3Hi| /atjjtr mas a /arratr. (381) Tune — The Weaver and his shuttle, O. My father was a farmer upon the Carried border, O, [order, O ; And carefully he bred me in decency and He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O ; For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world, my course I did determine, O ; Tho’ to be rich wa3 not my wish, yet to b® great was charming, O : My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O ; Resolv’d was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune’s favour, O ; Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O. Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d ; some- times by friends forsaken, O ; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. Then sore harass’d, and tir’d at last, with fortune’s vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O — The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried, O ; But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O. No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor per- son to befriend me, O ; So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O : To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O ; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O. Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* life I’m doom’d to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlas- ting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O ! I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to- morrow, O. But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O, Tho’ fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O : I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er caa make it farther, O ; But, as daily bread is all I reed, I do not much regard her, O. HER FLOWING LOCKS. 2 i When sometimes by my labour I earn a little mony, O, Some uuforseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O : Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur’cl folly, O ; But come what will, I’ve sworn it still. I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O. All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O : Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O. Up in ijjs Blaming iarlq. Tune — Cold Mows the Wind . i CHORUS. Up in the morning’s no for me. Up in the morning early : When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw, I’m sure it’s winter fairly. Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west. The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, I’m sure its winter fairly. The birds sit cluttering in the thorn, A’ day they fare but sparely ; And lang’s the night frae e’en to mom — I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 2rq, ijii Diustn Blillrr. Tune — The Busty Miller . Hey, the dusty miller. And his dusty coat ; He will win a shilling. Or he spend a groat. Dusty was the Coat, Dusty was the colour. Dusty was the kiss That I got frae the miller. Hey, the dusty miller. And his dusty sack ; Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck— Fill? the dusty peck. Brings the dusty siller ; I wad gie my coatie For the dusty miller. Mil. (382) Tune — Dainty Davie, There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o’ whatna style I doubt it’s hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi’ Robin. Robin was a rovin’ boy. Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin'; Robin was a rovin’ boy. Rantin’ rovin’ Robin ! Our monarch’s hindmost year but an© Was five-and-twenty days begun, ’Twas then a blast o’ Jan war’ win* Blew hansel in on Robin. The gossip keekit in his loof. Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof. This waly boy will be nae coof ; I think we’ll ca’ him Robin. He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma\ But aye a heart aboon them a’; He’ll be a credit till us a’ — We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin. But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line. This chap will dearly like our kin*. So leeze me on thee, Robin. ®ju ©Elis of B’mtrljlmr, (383) In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, [hood a’, ! The pride of the place and its neighbour- Tlieir carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon’on or Paris they’d gotten it a*. Miss Miller is fine. Miss Markland’s diving Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Iiett) is braw, [Morton ; There’s beauty and fortune to get wi’ Mis* But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’. (384) 8rr /laming £ arks. (S85) Her Sowing locks, the raven’s wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing ; How sweet unto that breast to cling. And round that neck entwine her ! Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew. Oh, what a feast her bonnie mou’ I Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner. 246 BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. &I# Inn of dMfr l&illh. ( 386 ) Tune — Sliawnboy . Ye sous of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation ; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I’ve little tc say, but only to pray, A s praying’s the ton of your fashion ; A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, *T s seldom her favourite passion. Ye powers who preside o’er the wind andthe tide. Who marked each element’s border ; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim. Whose sovereign statute is order ; Within this dear mansion may wayward contention Or withered envy ne’er enter ; May secrecy round be the mystical bound. And brotherly love be the centre. ffljB fmjfal 'ttiiramrr. Tune — Maggy Lauder . I married with a scolding wife. The fourteenth of November; She made me weary of my life. By one unruly member. Long did I bear the heavy yoke^ And many griefs attended ; But, to my comfort be it spoke. Now, now her life is ended. We lived full one-and-twenty years, A man and wife together ; At length from me her course she steer’d. And gone I know not whither : Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak, and do not flatter. Of all the women in the world, I never could come at her. Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave does hide her; But sure her soul is not in hell. The deil would ne’er abide her ! I rather think she is aloft. And imitating thunder ; For why ? — methinks I hear her voice Tearing the clouds asunder 1 , 'Utyarc Mil pa et ? ( 386 ) Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 0, whare did you get that hauver meal ban- nock ? Oh silly blind body, oh dinna ye see ? I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie. Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dun* dee. Oh, gin I saw the laddie that gae me’t ! Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, And send him safe hame to his babie and me ! My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie, My blessin’s upon thy bonnie ee-bree ! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodgei laddie, Thou’s aye the dearer and dearer to me l But I’ll big a bower on yon bonnie banks. Where Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear ; And I’ll deed thee in the tartan sae fine. And mak thee a man like thy daddie dean, CjjptB mas a tm. Tune — Duncan Davison. There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg, And she held o’er the moors to spin ; There was a lad that follow’d her. They ca’d him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, and Meg was skeigl\ Her favour Duncan could na win ; For wi’ the rock she wad him knock. And aye she shook the temper-pin. As o’er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green. Upon the banks they eas’d their shanks. And aye she set the wheel between : But Duncan swore a haly aith That Meg should be a bride the morn. Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith. And flung them a’ out o’er the burn. We’ll big a house — a wee, wee house. And we will live like king and queen, Sae blythe and merry we will be When ye set by the wheel at e’en. A man may drink and no be drunk ; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie las3. And aye be welcome back again. ICanitlairq, Cnunt ttjB Xantia! Tune — Hey tuttie , taitie. Landlady, count the lawin. The day is near the dawin ; Ye’re a’ blind drunk, boys. And I’m but jolly fou. Hey tuttie, taitie. How tuttie, taitie— Wha’s fou now ? FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE. 247 Cog, an ye were aye fou. Cog, an ye were aye fou, I wa d sit and sing to you. If ye were aye fou. Weel may ye a’ be ! Ill may we never see ! God bless the king, boys. And the companie J Milk’ Stark’ 3Miie, Tune — Rattlin' roarin' Willie, Oh, rattlin’ roarin’ Willie, Oh, he held to the fair. And for to sell his fiddle. And buy some other ware; But parting wi’ his fiddle. The saut tear blin’t his ee ; And rattlin’ roarin’ Willie, Ye’re welcome hame to me ! Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle. And buy a pint o’ wine. If I should sell my fiddle. The warl would think I was mad ; For mony a rantin’ day My fiddle and I hae had. As I cam by Crochallan, I cannily keekit ben— Rattlin’ roarin’ Willie Was sitting at yen board en*— Sitting at yon boaid ne’. And amang guid companie ; Rattlin roaring’ Willie, Ye’re welcome hame to me 1 $imntjr ’0 a 'ftlrasant film. Tune — Aye wankin 0. Simmer’s a pleasant time. Flowers of every colour ; The water rins o’er the heugh. And I long for my true lover. Aye waukin O, Waukin still and wearie : Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie When I sleep I dream. When I wauk I’m eerie : Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie. Lanely night comes on, A’ the lave are sleeping ; I think on my bonnie lad. And bleer my een wi’ greetin’. Inae ajir’a irat a Xaasie tjrf. Tune — Lady Badinscoth's Reel, My love she’s but a lassie yet. My love she’s but a lassie yet. We’ll let her stand a year or twa. She’ll no be half sae saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, O, I rue the day I sought her, O ; Wha gets her needs na say she’s woo’d. But he may say he’s bought her, O l Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet. Come, draw a drap o’ the best o’t yet ; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. But here I never miss’d it yet. We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t. We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t; The minister kiss'd the fiddler’s wife. And could na preach for thinking lj age mg sit Sang rat. Tune — My wife she Dang me . () aye my wife she dang me. And aft my wife did bang me, U ye gie a woman a’ her will, Guid faith, she’ll soon o’ergang ye. On peace and rest my mind was bent. And fool I was I married ; But never honest man’s intent As cursedly miscarried. Some sa’r o’ comfort still at last. When a’ my days are done, man; My pains o’ hell on earth are past. Pm sure o’ bliss aboon, man. Oh aye my wife she dang m«. And aft my wife did bang awe. If ye gie a woman a’ her will, Guid faith, she’ll soon o’erg&ug y& ippit i&air. Tune — My Eppie And oh ! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie ! Wha wadna be happy Wi’ Eppie Adair ? By love, and by beauty. By law, and by duty, I swear to be true to My Eppie Adair ! And oh ! my Eppie, My jewel, my Eppie, W T ha wadna be happy Wi’ Eppie Adair? A’ pleasure exile me. Dishonour defile me. If e’er I beguile thee. My Eppie Adair l ®tre Sattlt nf Tune — Cameronian Rant . u Oh cam ye here the figh* to shun. Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man ? Or were ye at the Sherra-mui*, And did the battle see, mac. ?” “ I saw the battle, sair and tough. And reekin’ red ran mony a sh^ugh, My heart, for fear, gaed sough *or sough To hear the thuds, and see the Yet I hae seen him on a day. The pride of a’ the parish en. ®n fljrr, Imrl llittr. To thee, lov’d Nith, thy gladsome plaint. Where late wi’ careless thought I rang’d, Though prest wi’ care and sunk in woe. To thee I bring a heart unchang’d. I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, Tho’ mem’ry there my bosom tear ; For there he rov’d that brake my heart. Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I far far Sara. Tune — Dalkeith Maiden Bridge . On, sad and heavy should I part. But for her sake sae far awa ; Unknowing what my way may thwart My native land sae far awa. BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. Sal Thou that of a' things Maker art. That form’d this fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start At this my way sae far awa. How true is love to pure desert. So love to her, sae far awa : And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart, While, oh ! she is sae far awa. Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but her’s, sae far awa ; But fairer never touch’d a heart » Than her’s, the fair sae far awt. ia tittj Irart. Tune — Wae is my Heart. Wae is my heart, and the tear’s in my ee; Lang, lang, joy’s been a stranger to me : Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear. And the sweet voice o’ pity ne’er sounds in my ear. Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved : [proved ; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. Oh, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle- green ; [me. For there he is wand’ring, and musing on Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis’s ee. Imang tlji fms. Tune — The King of France , he rade a Race. Amang the trees where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone. And to her pipe was singing, O ; *Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels. She dirl’d them alf fu’ clearly, O, When there cam a yell o’ foreign squcels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O. Their capon craws and queer ha, ha’s. They made our lugs grow eerie, O j The hungry bike did scrape and pike Till we were wae and weary, O. [ But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas’d, A prisoner aughteen year awa. He fir’d a fiddler in the North That dang them tapsalteerie, O, fl;? figiiiaml EaMfo. Tune — If thou’lt Play me Fair Pi&£ The bonniest lad that e’er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie^ Wore a plaid, and was fu’ braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie 5 His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie. Trumpets sound, and cannons roay, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar, Bonnie Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie. For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie Lowland lassie. The sun a backward course shall tal&i Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. Ere aught thy manly courage shaken Bonnie Highland laddie. Go ! for yourself procure renown, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; And for your lawful king his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie. f annnrks n’ $arbg. Tune — The Killogie . Bannocks o’ bear meal. Bannocks o’ barley ; Here’s to the Highlandmanii Bannocks o’ barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley! Bannocks 0’ bear meal. Bannocks o’ barley ; Here’s to the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley ! Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie?— • Wha but the lads wi’ The bannocks o’ barley? Jkiiin IJjurE in faint, CHORUS. Robin shure in hairst^ I shure wi’ him; Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him. THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O’NITH. 25$ I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o’ plaiden ; At his daddie’s yett, Wha met me but Robin? # Was na Robin bauld. Though I was a cotter. Play’d me sic a trick. And me the eller’s dochter? Robin promised me A’ my winttV vittle ; Kent haet he had but three Goose feathers and a whittle. gniErfest ffiaq. Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; Take a heart which he desires thee ; As thy constant slave regard it ; For its faith and truth reward it. Proof o’ shot to birth or money. Not the wealthy but the bonnie ; Not high-born, but noble-minded. In love’s silken band can bind it. ®jlE lm nf felrftriian. Tune — Jacky Latin . >*at ye me, oh gat ye me, Oh gat ye me wi’ naething Rock and reel, and spinnin’ wheel, A mickle quarter basin. Bye attour, my gutcher has A hich house and a laigh ane, A’ forbye my bonnie sel’. The lass of Ecclefechan. Oh haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, Oh hand your tongue and januier ; I held the gate till you I met, Syne I began to wander : I tint my whistle and my sang, I tint my peace and pleasure : But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, Wad airt me to my treasure. $Err*5 a fnitlr anil aa Jknrst /ricn&. Here's a bottle and an honest friend 1 Wha wad ye wish for mair, man ? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o’ care, man ? Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes na aye when sought, man. ir a fJlnngfyatait. As I was & w&.id’ring ane morning in spring. I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly tt sing; And as he was singing these words, he did say. There’s nae life like the ploughman’s in the month o’ sweet May. The lav’rock in the morning she’ll rise fr&a her nest, [breast. And mount to the air wi’ the dew on her And wi’ the merry ploughman she’ll whistle and sing, [again. And at night she’ll return to her nest back C|je ttranj ftonlr a’ ®nm. Tune — The Weary Puncl o’ Tow* The weary pund, the weary pund. The weary pund o’ tow ; I think my wife will end her life Before she spin luer tow. I bought my wife a stane o’ lint As guid as e’er did grow ; And a’ that she has made o’ thfit» Is ane poor pund o’ tow. There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle lowe. And aye she took the tither sonk. To drouk the stowrie tow. Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame* Gae spin your tap o’ tow ! She took the rock, and wi’ a knock She brak it o’er my pow. At last her feet — I sang to see’t— Gaed foremost o’er the knowe ; And ere I wad anither jad. I’ll wallop in a tow. Cj!E faiiiiiES bt| ijjE SBartlrs n' Utijr. ?9(» Tune — Up and waur them a\ The laddies by the banks o’ Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi’ a’, Jamie, But he’ll sair them as he sair’d the kin& Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. Up and waur them a’, Jamie, Up and waur them a’ ; The Johnstones hae the guidin’ 1% Ye turncoat whigs, awa. 23 * BURNS'S POETICAL WORKS. m The day he stude his country’s friend. Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie, Or frae puir man a blessin’ wan. That day the duke ne’er saw, Jamie. But wlia is he, his country’s boast ? Like him there is na twa, Jamie; There’s no a callant tents the kye. But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie. To end the wark, here’s Whistlebirck, Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; And Maxwell true o’ sterling blue. And we’ll be Johnstones a’, Jamie. (Epigrams, h. <$!t Captain ®rnsi, THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. (391) The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, [flying ; So whip ! at the summons, old Satin came But when he approach’d where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burden a- groaniug (392), A stonish’d, confounded, cried Satan, “ By I’ll want ’im, ere I take such a damnable load,’ €>n a ItnpnM Cmtntnj Ipirj. Oh death, hadst thou but spar’d his life Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchang’d the wife^ And a’ been weel content. E’en as he is, cauld in his graff. The swap we yet will do’t ; Tak thou the carlin’s carcase aff, Thou’se get the saul to boot. Snntijtr nit l;i5 UDitrntn. One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. When deprived of her husband she loved so well, [show’d her. In respect for the love and affection he She reduc’d him to dust, and she drank off the powder. But Queen Netherplace, of a different com* plexion, [tion. When call’d on to order the fun’ral direc- Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender pretence, [expense ! Not to show her respect, but — to save the n Clppitsiuitc’* translations nf JEartial’j Epigrams. (393) Oh thou, whom poesy abhors. Whom prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou that groan — proceed no further ; Twas laurelled Martial roaring murtherl Cn JHiss % $raft, nf 51 gr. Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times. Been Jeany Scott, as thou art; The bravest heart on English gruund. Had yielded like a coward. an Sllitrrafr Crnflrman, WHO HAD A FINE LIBRARY. Free through the leaves, ye maggots, make your windings ; [bindings f But for the owner’s sake, oh spare the SBrittrn UNDER THE PICTURE OF MISS BURNS, (394) Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings* Lovely Burns has charms — confess : Ti-ue it is, she had one failing— Had a woman ever less ? •fimttra bh a aUinirnm nf flit Sns AT CARRON. We cam na here to view your warke In hopes to be mair wise. But only, lest we gang to hell. It may be nae surprise : But whan we tirled at your door. Your porter dought ua hear us; Sae may, should we to hell’s yetts come* Your billy Satau sair us I ON THE EARL OF * * * • 257 'Sfrithn na a 1$m nf (©lass IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. (395) Ask why God made the gem so small. And why so huge the granite ? Because God meant mankind should set The higher value on it. /raptrat. (396) The black-headed eagle At keen as a beagle, He hunted owre height and owre howe ; But fell in a trap On the braes o’ Gemappe, E’en let him come out as he dowe. Snrinilitij slumm jjint at Swrriranj. (397) Whoe’er he be that sojourns here, I pity much his case, Unless he come to wait upon The Lord their God, his Grace. There’s naething here but Highland pride. And Highland scab and hunger; If providence has sent me here, ’Twas surely in his anger. lijjjjtanti Saspitalitii. (398) When death’s dark stream I ferry o’er, A time that surely shall come. In Heaven itself I’ll ask no more. Than just a Highland. welcome X inra ait ffliss Utmlilt. Kemble, thou cur’st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod ; At Yarico’s sweet notes of grief The rock with tears had flow’d. t|s IRitk st Xaminghra. A cauld day December blew, A cauld kirk, and in’t but few, A caulder minister never spak — They’ll a’ be warm ere I come back. a fnlmtt Xragtre anil Cmrmant. (399) The Solemn League and Covenant Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tearc: But it seal’d freedom’s sacred cause — If thou’rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. $n a firtain ^arsnn’s funks. That there is falsehood in his look# I must and will deny ; They say their master is a knave— And sure they do not lie. n #mug ike ffitairtifnl fiat OF THE EARL OF • . • * • What dost thou in that mansion fair?—’ Flit, * * * * and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave. The picture of thy mind ! ijit farl nf • • • * No Stewart art thou, * * * * The Stewarts all were brave ; Besides, the Stewarts were but fooll. Not one of them a knave. Oil the Same . Bright ran thy line, oh * * * * Thro’ many a far-farn’d sire ! ' So ran the far-fam’d Roman way* So ended in a mire. To the Same, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENS# WITH HIS RESENTMENT. Spare me thy vengeance, * * * * In quiet let me live : I ask no kindness at thy hand. For thou hast none to giv«. 258 BURNS’S POETICAL WORR&. ®n pit /l'llura, WITO IN COMPANY ENGROSSED THE CONVERS 4TION WITH AN ACCOUNT OF H*S GREAT CONNEXIONS. No more of your titled acquaintances boast. And what nobles and gentles you’ve seen ; An insect 'is still but an insect at most, Tlio’ it crawl on the curl of a Queen 1 Ityittnt mt a ^ani nf ©te, ON THE OCCASION OP A NATIONA THANKSGIVING FOR A NAVAL VICTORY Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks? — To murder men, and gie God thanks ! For shame ! gie o’er, proceed no further — God won’t accept your thanks for murther 1 ft jjs ftrn? lni|al Satinri ( 400 ) Ye true " Loyal Natives,” attend to my song In uproar and riot rejoice the night long : From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; But where is your shield from the darts o’ contempt ? Susrriptian an a (Poblpt. There’s death in the cup — sae beware! Nay, more — there is danger in touching; But *La can avoid the fell snare? The man and his wine’s sae bewitching l fxfpmpntp an $r. $p*. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cookery the first in the nation ; ft’ho is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation. ftn 3Hr, £ptp, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind. Or hops the flavour of thy wit, *Twere drink for first of human kind, A gift that e’en for Syme were fit. ftjtf ffrrrti nf ^anrrfij, ( 40 i> In politics if thou would’st mix, A nd mean thy fortunes be, Bear this in mind : — be deaf and blind* Let great folks hear and see. •UMftrn in a fairi]’s $nrkpi-Snnft. Grant me, indulgent Heav’n, that I may live, [ghe. To see the miscreants feel the pains they Deal freedom’s sacred treasures free as air. Till slave and despot be but things which were. ftn I njjtt ftaijlnr. ( 402 ) With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying. Through frosty hills the journey lay* On foot the way was plying. Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasu# Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker. Obliging Vulcan fell to work. Threw by his coat and bonnet. And did Sol’s business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet. Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead* Pity my sad disaster ; My Pegasus is poorly shod— I’ll pay you like my master. ftn Miss /nntcnrlln, ON SEEING HER IN A FAVOURIT1 CHARACTER. Sweet naivete of feature. Simple, wild, enchanting elf. Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting but thyself. Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. Spurning nature, torturing art ; loves and graces all rejected, Tien indeed thou’d’st act a part; GRACES BEFORE MEAT. 299 ©lit fast. (403) Instead of a song, boys. I’ll give you a toast — Here’s the memory of those on the twelth that we lost ! — That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav’n, that we found ; For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. [King! The next in succession. I’ll give you — the Whoe’er would betray him, on high may he swing ; [tution. And here’s the grand fabric, our free Consti- As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with politics not to be cramm’d. Be Anarchy curs’d, and be Tyranny damn’d : And who would to Liberty e’er prove disloyal. May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. fatsfittra Itninraal, WRITTEN ON A WINDOW. (404) Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer- ing [hearing, ’Gainst poor excisemen? give the cause a What are your landlords’ rent-rolls ? teazing ledgers : [mighty gaugers : What premiers — what ? even monarchs’ Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen ? ©n Sr. ftkrarell, ON MISS JESSY STAIG’S RECOVERY. Maxwell, if merit here you crave. That merit I deny — You save fair Jessy from the grave ! An angel could not die. n Stsstj 1 mars, (405) Talk not to me of savages From Afric’s burning sun ; No savage e’er could rend ray heart. As, Jessy, thou hast done. But Jessy’s lovely hand in mine, A mutual faith to plight. Not even to view the heavenly choir Would be so blest a sight. Toast to the Same. (406) Fill me with the rosy wine. Call a toast — a toast divine ; Give the poet’s darling flame^ Lovely Jessy be the name; Then thou mayest freely boast Thou hast given a peerless toast. Epitaph on the Same. (407) Say, sages, what’s the charm on earth Can turn death's dart aside? It is not purity and worth. Else Jessy had not died. To the Sam*. But rarely seen since Nature’s birth. The natives of the sky ; Yet still one seraph’s left on earth. For Jessy did not die. farrs Mart JKrut. Some hae meat and canna eat. And some would eat that want it. But we hae meat, and we can eat, Sae let the Lord be thankit. Oh Thou, who kindly dost provide For every creature’s w r ant ! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide. For all thy goodness lent : And, if it please Thee, heavenly guide. May never worse be sent ; But whether granted or denied. Lord, bless us with content 1 Amen Oh Thou, in whom we live and move Who mad’st the sea and shore ; Thy goodness constantly we prove. And grateful would adore. And if it please thee, Pow’r above. Still grant us, wdth such store. The friend we trust, the fair we love^ And we desire no more. m BURNS’S POETICAL WORKS. if tfflpjji n fjjr Sniljnr's /aifirr. Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity staims, Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains. The tender father, and the gen’rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; “Tor ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.” (408) dta 8 Irnprrk’ir tantnj fpirr. As father Adam first was fool’d, A case that’s still too common. Here lies a man a woman rul’d. The devil rul’d the woman $a a tabrairir Ruling flirrr. Here souter Hood in death does sleep — To hell, if he’s gane thither. Satan, gie him the gear to keep He’ll hand it weel tliegither. $8 a fiaisq 'fnlrntir, (409) Below these stanes lie Jamie’s banes: Oh Death, it’s my opinion. Thou ne’er took such a bleth’rin bitch Into thy dark dominion 1 n Stfri ®njinnt|. («o) HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. Whoe’er thou art, oh reader, know. That death has murder’d Johnny 1 And here his body lies fu’ low— For snul he ne’er had ony. n Snljn Snnt. INNKEEPER, MAHCHLINB. Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion ? Wha e’er desires to ken. To some other warl’ Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had none ! Strong ale was ablution — Small beer, persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full flowing bowl Was the joy of his soul. And port was celestial glory. /nr Unimt liken, fsg. Know thou, oh stranger to the fame Of this much lov’d, much honour’d namaH (For none that knew him need be told) A w r armer heart death ne’er made cold. H . Stop thief! dame Nature cried to Death, As Willie drew his latest breath ; You have ray choicest model taen Hon shall I make a fool again ? On the Same. Rest gently, turf, upon his breast, His chicken heart’s so tender ; — But rear huge castles on his head, His skull will prop them under. 4k a fakrirl Httjrar&sn*, BREWER, DUMFRIES, ( 409 ) Here Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct. And empty all his barrels ; He’s blest — if as he brew’d he drink— In upright honest morals. 4kn Snjrn ® nsjrhij, WRITER, DUMFRIES. Hsre lies John Bushby, honest man! Cheat him, devil, if you can. 4kn tl;i firet's iangSlttr. Here lies a rose, a budding rose. Blasted before its bloom ; Whose innocence did sweets disclose Beyond that flower’s perfume. To those who for her loss are griev’d. This consolation’s given — She’s from a world of woe reliev’d. And blooms a rose in heaven. 4k a b ^irinrt REPRESENTING JACOB’S DREAM* Dear , I’ll gie you some advice, You’ll tak it no uncivil : You shouldna paint at angels mair. But try and paint the d — L To paint an angel’s kittle wark, Wi’ auld Nick there’s less danger § You’ll easy draw a weel-kent face, But no sae weel a stranger. m Camsjmknre nf Sn ContHpattkttce nf Iie m. i >TO MR JOHN MURDOCH, SCHOOL- MASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. Lochlea, loth January, 1783. Pear Sir. — As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with plea- sure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and friendship. I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father and a masterly teacher, and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits, and, in this respect, 1 hope my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; but, as a man vif tire world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought that, bred as I have been, under a father, who has figured pretty well as un homme dies affaires , I might have been what the world calls a pushing, active fellow ; but to tell you the truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see and ob- serve ; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if t here be any thing original about him, which skowa me human nature in a different light from any thing I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to “ study mea, their manners, and their ways and for this dar- ling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other consideration., I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons of care ago g ; and if I have to an- swer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to any thing further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the, wretched does nor much terrify me : I know that even then, my talent for what country folks call a “ sensible crack,” when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me 266 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. »o much esteem, that, even then, I would learn to be happy. However, I am under no apprehensions about that ; for though indo- lent, yet so far as an extremely delicate con- stitution permits, I am not lazy, and in many things, especially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist— not, indeed, for the sake of the money, but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of sto- mach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any man living — above every thing, I abhor, as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. ’Ti3 this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his “ Elegies ; ” Thomson ; “ Man of Feeling” — a book I prize next to the Bible; — “Man of the World;” Sterne, especially his “Sentimental Journey ;” Mac- pherson’s “ Ossian,” & c. ; these are the glo- rious models after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and ’tis incongruous, ’tis absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benevolence to all the human race — he “who can soar above this little scene of things ” — can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the terne filial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! Oh how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, read- ing a page or two of mankind, and “ catching the manners living as they rise,” whilst the men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle incumbrance in their way. But I dare say I have by this time tired your pa- tience ; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story, but my warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare — and accept of the same for vourself, from, dear Sir, yours, R. B. NO. IL TO . [an early love letter.] Lochlea, 1783. I verily believe, my dear E., that the pure genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and piety. This, I hope, will account for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a hasty manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mis- tress as he would converse with his minister. I don’t know how it is, my dear, for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, ’tis something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my heart, every feeling of humanity; every prin- ciple of generosity, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of uni- versal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympatliise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure ou, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my endea- vours to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my * fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of a man, and, I will add, worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth- worm may profess love to a woman’s person, whilst in reality his affection is centered in her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge, and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself, if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils! I don’t envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner. R. B. NO. III. TO THE SAME. Lochlea, 1783. My Dear E. — I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinal way of falling in love, amongst people of ou* station in life. I do not mean the persons A LOYE LETTER. 267 who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person. Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance, more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are. It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves : some one of them i3 more agreeable to him than the rest — there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greater part of us ; and I must own, my dear E., it is a hard game such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware, that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have been descri- bing; but I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence, so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please — and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what they describe ; but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friend- ship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please Providence to spare us to the latest period of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age — even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of those noble qualities improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. Oh! happy state, when souls each other draw. When love is liberty, and nature law. I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous ; but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you. When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make no apology — I know your good nature will excuse what your good sense may see amis*. R. B. . NO. IV. TO THE SAME. Lochlea, 1783. I have often thought it a peculiar un. lucky circumstance in love, that though, in every other situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are hon- ourable. I do not think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and fidelity which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough to practice such detestable conduct; but to a man whose heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of 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 foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak, or what to write, I am altogether at a loss. There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimu- lation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be acted by any one, in so noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No^ my dear E., I shall never endeavour to 268 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. gain your favour by such detestable practices. If you will be so good, and so generous, as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and, I will add, of a Christian, There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this, that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure file of my fears by a generous consent. It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall only add further, that, if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imper- fectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness — if these are qualities you wish in a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover, R. B. no. v. TO THE SAME. Lochlea, 1783. I ought, in good manners, to have ac- knowledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the contents of it, that I can 'scarcely yet collect my thoughs so as to write to you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory : “you were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me” — what, without you, I never can obtain — “you wish me all kind of happiness.” It would be weak and unmanly to say that without you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life with you would have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste. Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, do not so much strike me : these, possibly, may be met with in a few instances in others ; but that amia- ble goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspt ing of a warm feeling heart- — these I never again expect to meet with, in such a degree, in this world. All these charming qualities, heightened by an education much beyond any thing I have ©:«r met in any v oman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagination has fondly flattered myself with* a wish, X dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress ; still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you ; and as I expect to remove in a few days a little further off, and you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon : and if an expression should perhaps escape me, rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss — (pardon me the dear expression for once) * * * R. B. NO. VI. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE. (1) Lochlea , 21st June, 1783. Dear Sir. — My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in almost every body’s else) in a dying condi- tion, lie has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father’s cor- respondence in the north die with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family. I shall only trouble you with a few pan ticulars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high — oatmeal, 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be got even at that price. We have indeed ' been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from England and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing incre- dibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving; and we are still car- rying on s good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a LETTER TO MR. BURNESS. 26 fc •tarring ©audition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren ; and our landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English and the Lothian3, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper methods in our improvements of farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have oppor- tunities of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble- men, and the major part of our knights and •quires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.’s bank, which no doubt you have heard of, has undone numbers of them; and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fop- peries, lias ruirmd as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them at the last: and happy were it for numbers of them if she would leave them no worse than. when she found them. My mother sends you a small present of a cheese ; ’tis but a very little one, as our last year’s stock is sold off ; but if you could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glas- gow, we would send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so far, and then to •end it to you by the Stirling carrier. I shall conclude this long letter with assur- ing you that I shall be very happy to hear from, you, or any of our friends in your country, when opportunity serves. My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his warmest wishes for yrur welfare and happiness; and my mother and the rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those iff, dear Sir, your affectionate cousin, R. B. NO. VII. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- TROSE. Lochlea , 17 th February, 1734. Dear Cousin. — I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have from day to day expected. On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had long warning of the impending stroke, still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn. I hope ray father’s friends in your country will not let their connexion in this place di® with him. For my part I shall ever with pleasure, with pride, acknowledge my con- nexion with those who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I shall ever honour and revere. I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any opportunity of lei ting me hear from you, which will very much oblige, my dear cousin, yours sincerely, R. B. NO. VIII. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MON- TROSE. Mossgiel , August, 1784. We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenomena in the moral world, which, I dare say, has happened in the course of this half century. We have had a party of Presbytery relief, as they call them- selves, for some time in this country. A -pretty thriving society of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till about two years ago a Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came among them, and began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and, in a short time, mada many converts ; and among others their preacher, Mr White, who, upon that account, has been suspended and formally deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private to his party, and was sup- ported, both he and their spiritual mother, as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest, several of whom 270 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. were in good cirenm stances ; till in spring last, the populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the town ; on which all her followers* voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and with such precipita- tion, that many of them never shut their doors behind them; one left a washing on the green, another a cow bellowing at the crib without food, or any body to mind her, and after several stages, they are fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon ; among others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breathing on them, w hich she does with postures and practices that are scandalously indecent. They have likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great farce of pre- tended devotion in barns and woods, where they lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no moral sin. I am personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the above mentioned are facts. This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leaving the guidance of sound reason and common sense in mat- ters of religion. Whenever we neglect or despise these ■acred monitors, the whimsical notions of a per tur bated brain are taken for the immedi- ate influences of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdi- ties, will meet with abettors and converts. Nav, I have often thought, that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the unhappy mis- taken votaries are the more firmly glued to them. R. B. NO. IX. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, MATJCH- LINE. Mossgiel, Monday Morning , 1786. My Dear Sir. — I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio, will cost my master, Charles Douglas, up- wards of fifty pounds, besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever. in consequence of hard, travelling' in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith ; but vessel sails from Greenock the 1st of September, right for the place of my destination. The captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin Hamilton’s, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter £ know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it ■ I’ll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg. As lang’s i dow. On Thursday morning if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o’clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cumnock. After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness for me among them : — Oh woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you To temper man ! — we had been brutes with- NO. X. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, EDIN- BURGH. (2) Mossgiel , February 17, 1786. My dear Sir. — I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among several others: — The Ordination, a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay’s being called to Kilmarnock; Scotch Drink, a poem; The Cotter’s Saturday Night ; An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not shown it to the world. My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to expres i great approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel, and I will remit you the money. I have no news to acquaint you with about 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 par- ticulars another time. I am extremely happy with Smith ; he is the only friend I LETTER TO MR. AIKEN. 271 have now in Man chime. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, and 1 beg you will let me hear from you regularly by Connel. If you would act your part as a friend, I am sure neither good nor bad fortune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got your’s but yesterday. I am, my dear Sir, yoiura* Robert Burns. no. XI. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786, Sir.- — I have done myself the pleasure of complying with your request in sending you my Cottager. If you have a leisure minute, I should be glad if you would copy ?t and return me either the original or the trans- cript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and 1 have a friend who wishes to see it. Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse E’er bring you in by Mauchline Corse (3), Lord, man, there’s lasses there wad force A hermit’s faney ; And down the gate, in faith, they’re worse, And mair unchancy. But, as I’m sayin’, please step to Dow’s, And taste sic beer as Johnnie brews. Till some bit callari bring me news That you are there ; And if we dinna haud a bouze. I’ll ne’er drink mair. It’s no I like to sit and swallow. Then like a swine to puke and wallow ; But gie me just a true good fallow, Wi’ right engine. And spunkie ance to make us mellow. And then we’ll shine. Now, if you’re ane o’ warld’s folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak. And sklent on poverty their joke, Wi’ bitter sneer, Wi’ you no friendship will I troke. Nor cheap nor dear. But if, as I’m informed weel. Ye hate, as ill’s the vera deil, The flinty heart that canna feel. Come, Sir, here’s tae you ! Hae, there’s my liaun’, I wiss you weel, And guid be wi’ you ! R. B. NO. XII. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAR. NOCK. Mossgiel, 2M March, 1785. Dear Sir. — I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you returned through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, I could not be in town before the evening. I here enclose you my “Scotch Drnk,** and “may the follow ” with a blessing for your edification. I hope, some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill between us in a mutchkin- stoup, which will be a great comfort and consolation to, dear Sir, your humble servant, Robert Burns. no. XIII. TO MR. AIKEN. Mossgiel, 3rd April, 1786. Dear Sir. — I received your kind lettef with double pleasure on account of the second flattering instance of Mrs. C.’s notice and approbation. I assure you I Turn out the burnt side o’ my skin, as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, says, at such a patroness. Present her my most grateful acknowledgements, in your very best manner of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank leaf of Miss More’s work : — Thou flattering mark of friendship kind. Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor. Thdfcgh sweetly female every part. Yet such a head, and more the heart. Does both the sexes honour. She showed her taste refined and just When she selected thee. Yet deviating own I must. For so approving me ; But kind still, I mind still. The giver in the gift — I’ll bless her, and wiss her A friend above the Lift. My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to pres®. I expect to heal from you by the first opportunity. I an% ever dear Sir, your’s, Robert Burn#. 272 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. NO. XIV. TO MR. M’WHINNIE, WRITER, AYR, Mossgiel, 17 th April , 1786. It ia injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the imnression of the good Creator, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the utmost of your power. I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need. Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment which stamps the die with — with — with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace of, my dear Sir, your humble, afflicted, tormented, Robert Burns. no. xv. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. Mossgiel , 20 th April, 1786. Sir. — By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request for a sub- scription paper till this day. I will not attempt any acknowledgement for this, nor the manner in which I see your name in Mr. Hamilton’s subscription list. Allow me only to say, Sir, I feel the weight of the debt. I have here, likewise, enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my productions. (4) I am a good deal pleased with some senti- ments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray says, “ melancholy has marked out for her own.” Our race comes on apace — that much expected scene of revelry and mirth : but to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting with which you last flattered the expecta- tion of. Sir, your indebted humble servant. R. B. MO. XVI. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, OF AYR. June, 1786. Honoured Sir. — My proposals came to hand last night, and, knowing that you would wish to have it in your power to do me a service as early as any body, I enclose you half a sheet of them. I must consult you, first opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a copy. If he is now reconciled to my charac- ter as an honest man, I would do it with all my soul ; but I would not be beholden to the noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky paper yesterday. Would you believe it? — though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her con- duct, yet, when he told me the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the new9. Perdition seize her falshood. R. B. NO. XVII. TO MR DAVID BRICE. (5) Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. Dear Brice. — I received your message by G. Paterson, and as 1 am not very strong at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say in the place of hope. I have no new* to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. (6) You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now I don’t know ; one thing I do know— > she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her ; and, to confess a truth between you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I won’t tell her so if I were to see her, which I don’t want to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms ! 1 1 is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely : I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my very soul forgive her ; and may his grace be with her and bless her in all her future life ! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drink- ing-matches, and other mischief, to drive hef out of my head, but all in vain. And non TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 27S mi a grand cure: the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland! and farewell, dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print ; and to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about 200 pages — it is just the last foolish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe me to be, dear Brice, your fr ; end and well- wisher, it. B. NO. XVIIL. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. Ayrshire, July, 1786. Madam. — I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome com- pliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly “acquainted with me. Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his country. Great patriot hero! ill- requited chief! flie first book I met with in my early years, ' which I perused with pleasure, was “ The Life of Hannibal;” the next was "The History of Sir William Wallace ; ” for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a - solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to . shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortu- J nate stories. In those boyish days I re- ' member, in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace’s story where these hues occut : — Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late. To make a silent and a safe retreat. I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half-a- dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Legten wood, wifh as mu long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender deli cacy with which he enters into my interests, I am sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have heen feeling all the various rota- tions and movements within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business ; the consequences of my fol- lies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides, I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know : — the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, w'hen attention is not called away by the calls of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, over- balances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it. You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment w r hich strikes home to my very soul ; though sceptical in some points of our current belief, yet I think I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence : if so, then, how should 1 in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Au- thor of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy ? Oh thou great unknown Power ! — thou Al- mighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! — I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the per- fection of thy 'works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thickening over my folly- devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me (8), perhaps it may not be in my power in that way, to reap the fruit of your friendly effort* 3 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 2*3 Y’hat f have written in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my present resolution ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only threaten to entail further misery * * * To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint ; as the world, in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining, distrustful snarl of the misan- thrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the bye, was rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- ties, there was something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted, who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the “ hallachores” of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was “ stand- ing idle in the market-place,” or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whnn. You see. Sir, that if to know one’s errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; but according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it. R. B. NO. XXVI. TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 1786. Madam. — The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me from per- forming my promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., which never made their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertainment to you, but of that I am far from being an ade- quate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick Banks (The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle), you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit, both as a tolerable des- cription of one of nature’s sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest piece* of i nature’s workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young woman (9); but I' have no common friend to procure me that permission, with- out which I would not dare to spread the copy. I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great conde- scend to take notice of him should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and god-like qualities and 'actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers; and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion. One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remember — the recep- tion I got when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good deal of benevo- lence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their inferiors by condescension and affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with every look the height of their ele- vation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. NO. XXVII. In the name of the NINE. Amen. We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of January, anno domini one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine (10), Poet La.ureat, and Bard-in-Chief. in and over the districts and count/ies of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John M’Adam, students and practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confound- ing wright and wrong. Right Trusty — Be it known unto you. That whereas in the course of our care and watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and venders of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — We hav- discovered a certain nefarious, abominable TO JOHN BALLAT1NE, ESQ. 277 and waited song or ballad, a copy whereof We have here enclosed; Our Will therefore is that ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of that most execrable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nickname of The Deil’s Yell Nowte (11): and after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noon-tide of the day, put into the said wretch’s merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked song, to be consumed by fire in presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terror to, all such compositions and composers. And this in nowise leave ye un- done, but have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before the twenty- fourth current, when in person We hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. Given at Maucliline this twentieth day of November, anno domini one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. God save the Bard 1 NO. XXVIII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa, MAUCHLINE. Edinburgh, Dec. 7th, 1786. Honoured Sir. — I have paid every at- tention to your commands, but can only say, what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I know not ; Mauchlauds, Haugh Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird ; And Adam-hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald’s folks. 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 trouble you with it; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner nor better. For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan ; and you may expect hence- forth to see my birth-day inserted among the wonderiul events, in the Poor Robin’s and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the black Monday, and the battle of Bothwell-bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskme, have taken me under their wing ; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the*lfeighth wise man of the world. Through my lord’s influence, it is iuserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, •ubscribe for the second edition. My sub- scription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post. 1 have met in Mr. Dairy nyle of Orangefield, tvhat Solomon 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. Aiken, and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of a poet. I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. May cauld ne’er catch you but a hap (12), Nor hunger but in plenty’s lap ! Amen ! R. B. NO. XXIX. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esa., BANKER, AYR. Edinburgh, Dec. 13 th, 1786. My Honoured Friend. — I would not write you till I could have it in my power to give you some account of myself and my matters, which, by the bye, is often no easy task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se’n- night, and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable head-ache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall remem- ber when time shall be no more. By his interest it is passed in the "Caledonian Hunt,” and entered in their books, that they are to take each a copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patro- nesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty (13) — the Dean of Faculty— Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati ; Professors Stew- art, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the “ Man of Feeling.” An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk, — and drank a glass of claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly agieed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post; whea I intend writing to my first kind patron* *7S CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is very well. Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodical paper called the Lounger (14,) a copy of which I here enclose you. I was. Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure; now 1 tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glar* uf polite and learned observation. I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, write you an account of my every step ; and belter health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle. I have the honour to be, good Sir, your ever grateful humble servant, R. B. If any of my friends write me, my direc- tion is, care of Mr Creech, bookseller. NO. xxx. TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, WRITER, AYR. Edinburgh , Dec. 27th, 1783, My Dear Friend. — I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner; but of all men living, I bad intended to have sent you an entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding conceited majesty preside over the dull routine of business — a heavily-solemn oath this ! — I am and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour as to write a commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third persecution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was on some account or other known by the name of James the Less — i»fter throwing him into a caldron of boiling oil, from wljich he was miraculously pre- served, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh; which, a — circumstanc® not very uncommon in story-telling — brings me back to where I set out. Tj make you some amends for what before you reach this paragraph, you wil have suffered, I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I passed Glen- buck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh — “ Fair B ,” is heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once There has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the great Creator has formed, since Milton’s Eve on the first day of her existence. My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, merchant. Bridge Street. R. B. NO. XXXI. TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE ; ENCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER. Wednesday Morning, 1787. Dear Sir. — I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure, as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the professor [Dugald Stewart]. I would be delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, though I were not the object; he does it with such a grace. I think his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus — foil parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and two parts Shaikspeare’s Brutus. The foregoing verses were really ex- tempore, but a little corrected since. They may entertain you a little, with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of, dear Sir, your very humble servant, R. B, NO. XXXII. TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. January, 1787. While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, and tells me is going to Ayr. By heavens ! say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the magic of that sound, auld toon o’ Ayr, conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. Bailantine. Her# it is — Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye biume sae fair ; How can ye chant, ye little bird*, Aud I i&e fu’ of care ! — &ar Sir, Ac. R. B. 283 LETTER TO NO. XLIJ, TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. Edinburgh,, February, 1787. My Lord. — I wanted to purchase a pro" file of your lordship, which I was told was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering painter has spoiled a human face divine.” The enclosed stanzas 1 intended to have written below a picture or profile or your lordship, could I have been eo happy as to procure one with any thing of a likeness. As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Al- low me, my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure ycur lordship, by the honest throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of bene- volence, by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition. I owe much to your lcrdship ; and, what has not in some other instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart as independent as your lordship’s, than which I can say nothing more : and I would not be beholden to favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified character in life, and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride; and 1 would be jealous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I was under the patronage of one of the much- favoured sons of fortune. Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their coun- try : allow me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I have the honour to be, your lordship's highly indebted, and ever grateful humble servant, R. B. NO. XLIII. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH, fifUDENT IN PHYSIC, GLASGOW COLLEGE. Edinburgh, March 21$£, 1787. My Ever Dear Old Acquaintance. — -I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say you will think, by my delaying so long to write to you, that I am so drowned in the intoxica- tion of goM fortune as to be indifferent to old, and once dear co ri unions. The truth is, I was determined to write a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all *hat. I thought of it, and thought of it, and by my soul I could not ; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don’t give yourself credit, though, that the strength of your logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated: that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of sin- gularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first ac- quainted, in the pride of despising old women’s stories, ventured in the “daring path Spinosa trod but experience of the weakness, not the strength of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. I am still, in the Apostle Paul’s phrase, “The old man with his deeds,” as when we were sporting about the “ Lady Thorn.” I shall be four weeks here yet at least, and so 1 shall expect to hear from you; welcome sense, welcome nonsense. I am, with the warmest sincerity, yours, &c., R. B. NO. XLIV. TO v ON fergusson’s headstone, Edinburgh, March 1787. My Dear Sir. — You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrate- ful fellow', having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say “thank you”; but if you knew what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome, yelping cur powers sufficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as the infant frosts of ail autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- sequences of folly in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of the damned. 1 have enclosed you by way of expiation, somo verses and prose, that, iff they merit a 284 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. place in your tru1> entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. The inscription on the stone is as fol- lows : — “Hl^RE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, 16tli October, 1774. “No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, ‘No storied urn, nor animated bust;’ This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust.’ ” On the other side of the stone is as fol- lows : — “By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to to the memory of Robert Eergusson.” Session-house within the JcirJc of Ccmongatc, the twenty -second day of February , one thousand seven hundred eighty-seven years. Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Kirk-yard funds of Canongate. Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of date the 6th current, which was read and appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor follows : — “ To the honourable bailies of Canongate, Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents for ages to come will do honour to our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and un- known. Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed a tear over the ‘ narrow house’ of the bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson’s memory — a tribute 1 wish to have the honour of paying. 1 petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble servant, (sic subscribitur) Robert Burns.” Therefore the said managers, in considera- tion of the laudable and disinterested mo- tion 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 keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all time coming. Extracted forth of the recoid® of the managers, by William Sprott, Clerk NO. XLV. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. My Lord. — The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever grate- fully remember : — Praise from thy lips ’tis mine with joy to boast. They best can give it who deserve it most. Your lordship touches the 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 pilgrimage through my native coun- try ; to sit and muse on those once hard- contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry moral-looking phantom strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic word 3 : — “I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the ill- closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you pain : I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart I will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have despised ; I have given you line upon line and precept upon precept; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the path, contemning me to my face : you know the consequences. It is not yet three months since home was so hot for you that yru were on the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your misfortune. “Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will- o’-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? I grant that the utmost ground you can oc- cupy is but half a step from the veriest poverty ; but still it is half a step Lou it* TO MILS DUNLOP. 255 If all that I can urge b< ineffectual, let her vi ho ‘seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppres- sion : you know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, independence and character, on the one hand; I tender you servility, dependence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a choice.” This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse, in ray wonted way, at the plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear. R. B. NO. XLVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinburgh, March 2 2nd, 1737. Madam. — I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pa- tronised, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friend among the literati heie, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures ; his hints, with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly. You kindly interest yourself in ray future views and prospects ; there I can give you no light. It is all Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun Was roll’d together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound. The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish •eenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish t;> 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 to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are all Utopian thoughts ; have dallied long enough with life ; ’tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for, and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excusable — nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character ; but where God and nature have intrusted the welfare of others to his care — where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear — that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these con- nexions will not rouse to exertion. I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my authorship; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to have any intention, to return to my old acquaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to give up poetry; being bred to labour secures mo independence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life ; but while following my plough, c* building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. R. B. NO. >LVIt. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinburgh, April 15 th, 17 Q 7. Madam. — There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my part, Madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility* and too little prudence for selfishness. | CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. have this moment broken open your letter, but Rude am I in speech. And therefore little can I grace my cause Iu speaking for myself — so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart and say, I hope I ahall ever have the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. I come abroad, in print, for certain on Wednesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore’s and Miss Williams’s copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle when I have the honour of waiting on you. Dr. Smith (19) was just gone to London the morning before I received your letter to hint. R. B. M9. XLVIII. TO DR. MOORE. Edinburgh, April , 23rd 1787. I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of imagina- tion for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you. Sir, for the honour vou have done me, and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your book is, what I have in common with the world, but to regard these volumes as a mark of the author’s friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and, after a few pilgrim- ages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cowdeu Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid ray meteor appearance will by no means :ntitle me to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and literature. My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, J may probably endeavour to return her poetic compliment in kind. R. B. (20) NO. XLIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP Edinburgh, April 30th, 1787. Your criticisms, Madam, I under- stand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right m your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered those who possessed the adven- titious qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no created being, either in prose or verse. I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, &c., as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect from the world by and bye — illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. I am happy. Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are distinguished by your particular approbation. For my Dream, which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, in it3 defence in person. R. B. NO. L. TO JAMES JOHNSON, EDITOR OF THE SOOTS MUSICAL MUSEUM. Lawnmarket, Friday Noon, May 3rd, 1787. Dear Sir. — I have sent you a song never before known for your collection ; the air by M’Gibbon, but I know not the author of the words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. Farewell, my dear Sir ! I wished to hava seen you, but I have been dreadfully throng (21), as I march to-morrow. (22) Had my acquaintance with you been a little older, I would have asked the favour of your correspondence, as I have met with few people w'hose company and conversation gave me so much pleasure, because I have met with few whose sentiments are so con- genial to my own. When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hang- ing somewhere about my heart. Keep the original of this song tiP we m *et again, whenever that may be. R. B. TO MU. PA XTSON. 287 KO. LI. TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. Lawnmarlcet, Edinburgh, May 3rd , 1787. Rev. and much-Respected Sir. — I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half aline, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage and friendship you have shown* me. I often felt the embarrass- ment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark, and honoured by the notice of those illustrious names of my country, whose works, while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and litera- ture, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man, I knew very well that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over ; 1 have so made up my mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, Will not surprise me in my quarters. I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo’s work (23) for me, done on Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony wdth what heart-warm gratitude I am, &c. R. B. (24) NO. LI I. TO WILLIAM CREECH, Es• Tt CLARTKDA 303 gloriously formed — for all the most refined luxuries of love — Why was that heart ever wrung"? O Clarinda! shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence ; and where the chill north- wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery flelds of enjoyment? If we do not, man was made in vain! I deserved most of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my head; they were the wages of my labour: but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole on the confidence of unmistrusting busy Fate, and dashed your cup of life with undeserved sorrow ? Let me know how long your stay will be out of town ; I shall count the hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids your seeing me just now ; and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edin- burgh adieu. Lord, why was I born to see misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? I look back with the pang of unavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you sooner : all last winter, these three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not lost ! Perhaps, though, ’twas better for my peace. You see I am either above, or incapable of, dissimu- lation. I believe it is want of that particu- lar genius. I despise design, because I want either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. I am interrupted. — Adieu! my dear Clarinda! Sylvandeh. NO. LXXXYI. (59) TO THE SAME You are right, my dear Clarinda; a fnendiy correspondence goes for nothing, except one writes his or her undisguised sen- timents. Yours please me for their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are yours, which, I assure you, is to me a high recom- mendation. Your religious sentiments, Madafii, I revere. If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle, learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly important a matter as real religion, you have, my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend. * I am not mad, most noble Festus !” Have you ever met a perfect character ? Do we not sometimes rather exchange faults than get rid of them ? For instance, I am perhaps tired with, and shocked at, a life too much the prey of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless follies; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, because the most unaffected devotion is not at all inconsistent with my first character— I join the world in congratulating myself on the happy change. But let me pry more narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bot- tom, any thing of a secret pride in these endowments and emendations? Have I nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypo- critical severity, when I survey my less regular neighbours ? In a word, have I missed all those nameless and numberless modifications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our ov/n eyes that we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and which the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the ordinary observer ? My definition of worth is short; truth and humanity respecting our fellow-creatures; reverence and humility in the presence of that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every reason to believe, will one day be my Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature of unbiassed in- stinct ; the last is the child of after reflection. Where I found these two essentials, I would gently note, and slightly mention, any at- tendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the conse- quences, of human nature. I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong imagination and keen sensibility must derive from religion, particularly if a little in the shade of mis- fortune : but I own I cannot, without a marked grudge, see Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming, a woman as my friend Clarinda; and should be very well pleased at a circumstance that would put it in the power of somebody (happy somebody!) to divide her attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an earthly attachment. You will not easily persuade me that you have not a grammatical knowledge of trie English language. So far from being inac- curate, you are eloquent beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one, whom I wish you knew. Your last verses to me have so delighted me that I have got an excellent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the Scots Musical Museum, a work publishing by a friend of mine in this town. I want four stanzas ; yr u gave me but three, and one of them alluded to a* expression in my former letter; so I have taken your first two verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and have added a third ; but you must help me to a fourth. Here they : the latter half of 804 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho ; I am in raptures with it. Talk not of love, it gives me pain. For love has been my foe ; He bound me with an iron chain, And sunk me deep in woe. But Friendship’s pure and lasting joys My heart was formed to prove ; There, welcome, win, and wear the prize. But never talk of love. Your friendship much can make me blest, O why that bliss destroy ! [only] Why urge the odious one request, [will] You know I must deny. The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a slight inaccu- racy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to your choice, and have left two words for your determination. The air is ‘ The Banks of Spey/ and is most beautiful. To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a visit at Park Place to a much-valued old friend. If I could be sure of finding you at home (and I will send one of the chairmen to call), I would spend from five to six o’clock with you, as I go past. I sannot do more at this time, as I have some- thing on my hand that hurries me much. I propose giving you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss as I return home. Do not break any engage- ment for me, as I will spend another evening with you, at any rate, before I leave town. Do not tell me that you are pleased when your friends inform you of your faults. I am gnorant what they are ; but I am sure they must be such evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental accomplish- ments, that I would despise the ungenerous narrow soul who would notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have, any other way than in the most delicate, agree- able raillery. Coarse minds are not aware how much they injure the keenly feeling tie of bosom friendship, when, in their foolish officiousness, they mention what nobody cares for recollecting. People of nice sensi- ability and generous minds have a certain in- trinsic dignity that fires at being trifled with, or lowered, or even too nearly ap- proached. You need make no apology for long let- ters : I am even with you. Many happy new years to you, charming Clarinda ! I can’t dissemble, were it to shun perdition. I Hb who sees you as 1 have doub, and doaa I not love you, deserves to be damn’d for hit stupidity ! He who loves you, and would injure you, deserves to be doubly damn’d for his villiany ! Adieu. Sylvander. P. S. What would you think of this for a fourth stanza? Your thought, if love must harbour there. Conceal it in that thought. Nor cause me from my bosom teal The very friend I sought. NO. LXXXVII. TO THE SAME. Monday Evening , 11 o' clocks Januanj 21s#, 1788. Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda ? To-day I expected it; and before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced with rapture; but behold, ’twas some fool who had taken it in his head to turn poet, and made me an offering of the first-fruits of his nonsense. “ It is not poetry, but prose run mad.” Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstone, who has given a translation of Martial, a famous Latin poet ? — The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal his prose notes. I was sitting in the shop of a mer- chant of my acquaintance, waiting some- body; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did. TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, &c. O thou, whom poesy abhors ! Whom prose has turned out of doors ! Heard’st thou that groan? proceed no further; *Twas laurel’d Martial roaring Murther. I am determined to see you, if at all pos- sible, on Saturday evening. Next week I must sing — The night is my departing night, The morn’s the day I maun awa ; There’s neither friend nor foe o’ mine. But wishes that I were awa ! What I hae done, for la k o’ wit, I never, never, can reca’ ; I hope ye’re a’ my friends as yet, Guid night, and joy be wi’ you a’ ! If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I would not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at your expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace ! I shall certainly be ashamed of thus TO CLARINDA. 305 •crawling whole sheets ot incoherence. The only unity (a sad word with poets and critics!) in my ideas is Clarinda. There my heart ** reigns and revels.” ••What art thou. Love? whence are those charms, That thus thou bear’st an universal rule? For thee the soldier quits his arms. The king turns slave, the wise man fool. In vain we chase thee from the field, And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke; Next tide of blood, alas! we yield ; And all those high resolves are broke!” I like to have quotations for every occasion. They give one’s ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression ade'quate to one’s feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures, attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his Muse : — *Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, Thou found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so.” My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my own legs to dinner. It is only next street — Adieu. Sylvander. NO. LXXXVIII. TO THE SAME. Saturday Noon, January 26th, 1788. Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, like the “ ten righteous persons in Sodom,” save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miser- able months and years of life. One of these hours, my dear Clarinda blessed me with yesternight. “ One well spent hour. In such a tender circumstance for friends. Is better than an age of common time ! ” Thomson. My favourite feature in Milton’s Satan id his manly fortitude in supporting what can- not be remedied — in short, the wild broken fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a favourite hero of mine. I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my life : it is x trutn, every word of it ; and will give you the just idea of a man whom you have hon- oured with your friendship. 1 am afraid you will hardly be able to make sense of so torn a piece. — Your verses I shall muse on deli- ciously, as I gaze on your image in my mind's eye, in my heart’s* core ; they will be in time enough for a week to come. I am truly happy your head-ache is better. — O, how can pain or evil be so daringly, unfeel- ingly, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a form ! My little fellow is all my name-sake.— Write me soon. My every, strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda ! Sylvander. I know not what I have written — I am pestered with people around me. NO. LXXXIX. TO THE SAME. Sunday Night, January 27th, 1788. The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indisposition, to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before me all this evening, to write to my dear Clarinda, but— “ Fools rush’d on fools, as waves succeed to waves.” I cursed them in my soul ; they sacrilegi- ously disturbed my meditations on her who holds m$ heart. What a creature is man 1 A little alarm last night and to-day, that ] am mortal, has made such a revolution ou my spirits! There is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. ’Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda ; I can scarcely hold up my head ; but I am happy you do not know it, you would be so uneasy. Svlvander. Monday Morning, January 28 tli, 1788. I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the whole ; but I have a horrid langour on my spirits. “ Sick of the world, and all its joys. My soul in pining sadness mourn# j Dark scenes of woe my mind employs. The past and present in their turns.** m CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. Have yoi ever met with a saving of the great, anil likewise good Mr. Locke, author of the famous Essay on the Human Under- standing r He wrote a letter to a friend, directing it “ not to be delivered till after my decease : ” it ended thus — “ 1 know you loved me when living, and will preserve my memory now 1 am dead. All the use to be made of it is, that this life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu ! I leave my best wishes with you. — J. Locke/* Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. Thou Almighty Preserver of men ! thy friendship, which hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure it, shall all the future days and nights of my life, be my steady care 1 The idea of my Clarinda follows — •'Hide it my heart, within that close disguise. Where mix’d with God’s, her lov’d idea lies.” But I fear that inconstancy, the conse- quent imperfection of human weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence, and the chances and changes of fortune ? Perhaps “ such things are one honest man I have great hopes from that way : but who, except a romance writer, would think on a love that could promise for life, in spite of distance, absence, chance, and change ; and that, too, with slender hopes of fruition ? For my own part, 1 can say to myself in both requisitions, “Thou art the man !” I dare, in cool resolve I dare, declare myself that friend, and that lover. If womankind is capable of such things, Clarinda is. I trust that she is ; and feel I •hall be miserable if she be not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, nor one sentiment which does honour to the sex, that she does not possess, superiorly to any woman 1 ever saw r : her exalted mind, aided a little, perhaps, by her situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic love-enthusiasm. May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wednesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I tremble for censorious remark, f'M* your sake ; but in extraordinary cases, may not usual and useful precaution be a little. dis- pey sed with ? Th ee evenings, three swift- winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past ; 1 dare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss — -- ’s to morrow evening: •twill be a farewell call. 1 have written out my last sheet of paper, M 1 am reduced to my last half-sheet. What 9 strange mysterious faculty is that thing called imagination ! We have no ideas almost at all of another world ; but I have often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed by small alterations — alterations that we can fully enter into, in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and l, just as we are at present; the same reason- ing powers, sentiments, and even desires; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our minds ; and imagine our bodies free from pain and the necessary supplies for the w ants of nature at all times, and easily within our reach: imagine further, that we were set free from the laws of gravitation, which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without inconvenience, through all the yet uncon- jectured bounds of creation, what a life of bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love I 1 see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous Mahometan ; but I am certain I would be a happy creature, beyond any thing we call bliss here below ; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you too. Don’t you see us, hand in hand, or rather, my arm about your lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars ; or surveying a comet, flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark the passing pomp of a tra- velling monarch ; or in the shady bower of Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to love, in mutual converse, relying honour, and revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted strains of poesy and harmony would be the ready, spontaneous language of our souls ! Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart; so it is of mine: what incentives then to, and powers for, reverence, gratitude, faith, and hope, in all the fervours of adora- tion and praise to that Being, whose un- searchable wisdom, power and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired, every sense and feeling ! — By vhis time, I dare say, you will be blessing the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper ! Sylvandeb wo. xc. (CO) TO THE SAME. Tuesday Night, 1 788. I am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for religion. Those TO CLARINDA. 307 ©f either sex, but particularly the female, who are lukewarm in that most important of all things, “ O my soul, come not thou into their secrets!” — I feel myself deeply inter- ested in your good opinion, and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. He who is our Author and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be (not for his sake in the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts,) the object of our reverential awe and grateful adoration : He is Almighty and all-bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every other sort of devotion. “ He is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to everlasting life;” consequently, it must be in every one’s power to embrace his offer of “everlasting life;” otherwise he could not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, truth and charity, though it does not merit heaven, yet is an absolutely necessary pre-requisite, without which heaven can neither be obtained nor enjoyed ; and, by divine promise, such a mind shall never fail of attaining “ever- lasting life;” hence the impure, the deceiv- ing, and the uncharitable exclude themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate administration of all this, for wise and good ends known to himself, into the hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, whose relation to him we cannot compre- hend, but whose relation to us is a guide and Saviour ; and who, except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, w ill bring us all, through various ways, and by various means, to bliss at last. These are my tenets, my lovely friend; and which, I think, cannot be well disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of Jamie Dean’s grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire: “Lord, gran/ that we may lead a guid life ! for a guid life maks a guid end, at least it helps weel ! ” I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in my packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and may guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say, “ Talk not of love,” &c., for indeed he has “plunged me deep in woe!” Not that I ever saw a woman who pleased unexceotionably, as my Clarinda elegantly says, “in the companion, the friend, and the mistress.” One indeed I could except — One , before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I knew the first of women ! Her name is indelibly written in my heart’s tfore — but 1 dare aot look in on it— a degree of agon / would be the consequence. Oh l tho.i perfidous, cruel, mischief-making demon, who presidest over that frantic passion— thou mayest, thou dost poison my peace, but thou shalt not taint my honour — 1 would not, for a single moment, give an asylum to the most distant imagination that would shadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is twisted with the threads of my existence. May she be as happy as she deserves ! And if my tenderest, faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss, I shall, at least, have one solid mine of enjoy- ment in my bosom! Don't guess at these ravings ! I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed. It has been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours’ bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with me but the port. One ’Tis now “witching time of night;” and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spelts ; for I can’t look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don’t care for to-morrow’s criticisms on it. You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda ; may good angels attend and guard you as constantly and faitlifully as my good wishes do ! " Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep. Shot forth peculiar graces.” John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my pillow to-night ! O for a little of the cart-horse part of human nature 1 Good night, my dearest Clarinda I Sylvan Dili it. NO. *XCI. TO THE SAME. Tuesday Noon , January 17 th, 1788. I am certain I saw you, Clarinda ; bat you don’t look to the proper story for a poet’# lodging— " Where speculation’s roosted near the sky. H I could almost have thrown myself over for very vexation. Why did’ut you look higher? It hfis spoiled my peace for this day. To be so near my charming Clarinda; to miss her look when it was searching for me — I am sure the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into an iniiaia- matoiy fever. m CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. You have convert el me, Clarinda. I shall love that name while I live : there is heavenly music in it. Booth and Amelia I know well. (61) Your sentiments on that subject, as they are on every subject, are just and noble. “To be feelingly alive to kindness and to unkindness,” is a charming female character. W hat I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling sociality only know for me. By yours, I understand my good star has been partly in my horizon, when I got wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has almost all my life shed its baneful rays on my devoted head, been, as usual, in my zenith, I had certainly blabbed something that would have pointed out to you the dear object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of me, something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was merely chance, or kind stars, that it did not, I had been undone ! You would never have written me, except perhaps once more ! O, I could curse circumstances, and the coarse tie of human laws, which keep fast what common sense would loose, and which bars that happiness itself cannot give — happiness which otherwise Love and Honour would warrant ! But hold — I shall make no more hair breadth ’scapes.” My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both strong and eternal. I told you i had but one male friend: I have but two female. I should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blandishments of flattery and courtship. * * * I register in my heart’s core — * * * *. Miss N can tell how divine she is. She is worthy of a place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the highest compli- ment I can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember Sylvanjdsr ko. xeii. TO THE SAME. Saturday Morning , January \9th, 1788. Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust me, when 1 say ’tis also my favourite topic ; but mine is the religion of the bosom. 1 hate the very idea of a controversial divinity ; as I ilrmly believe that every honest upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to bint, contain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don’t send them, I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I fondly love, or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach. “ Reverence thyself ” is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. 1 think I .old you Lord Bolingbroke’a saying to Swift : — ■ " Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faultr I love thee entirely; make an effort to love me with all mine.” A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no friendship ! I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, Clarinda — you merit it all 1 Perhaps, too — > I scorn dissimulation! — I could fondly love you : judge then, what a maddening sting your reproach would be. “ O ! I have sins to Heaven, but none to you /” — With what pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the fly. I hope to be able to see you on foot about the middle of next week. I am interrupted — perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me — but I won’t anticipate blame. O, Clarinda! did you know how dear to me is your look of kind- ness, your smile of approbation ! you would not, either in prose or verse, risk a censo- rious remark. “ Curst be the verse, how well soe’er it flow. That tends to make one worthy man my foe l ” Sylvander. NO. XCI1I. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinburgh , January 21$f, 1788. After six weeks’ confinement I am be- ginning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an oflicer resigns a com- mission : for 1 would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately X was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet — a little more conspicuously wretched. 1 am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, i could wish, like some other soldiers, to have a? much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or tonceal my cowardice. As soon as I can bear the journey, whicb TO CLARINDA 309 rill be, I suppose, about the middle of next reek, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I *hall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop- House. It. B. NO. XCIY. TO CLARINDA. Tuesday Morning , January 20th , 1788. I cannot go out to-day, my dearest Cla- rinda, without sending you half a line, by way of a sin-offering ; but, believe me, ’twas the sin of ignorance. Could you think that I intended to hurt you by any thing I said yesternight? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness, your delicacy, your sensibility. — O why should such glorious qualifications be the fruitful source of woe ! You have “murdered sleep” to me last night. I went to bed, impressed with an idea that you were unhappy: and every time I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic misery that I would almost be persuaded you were not well this morning. “ If I unwittingly have offended. Impute it not ” ■ “But while we live. But one short hour, perhaps, between us two Let there be peace.” If Mary is not gone by the time this peaches you, give her my best compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest love. I send you a poem to read, till I call on you this night, which will be about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm that would protect injury, or restore to rest that bosom-chord, “trem- blingly alive all o’er,” on which hangs your peace of mind. I thought, vainly, I fear, thought that the devotion of love — love strong as even you can feel — love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of ' virtue, and all the pride of honour; 1 thought such a love would make you happy — will I be mistaken ? I can no more for hurry * • • * NO. XCY. TO THE SAME. of ideas, my sentiments of love and friencU ship, I next devote myself to you. Yesterday night I was happy — happiness “that the world cannot give.” — I kindle at the recol- lection ; but it is a flame where innocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by a sacred guard. — Your heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to bestow : your person is unapproach- able by the laws of your country ; and he loves not as I do who would make you mise- rable. You are an angel, Clarinda ; you are surely no mortal that “ the earth owns.”— To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more exquisite bliss that the dear- est favours that the fairest of the sex, your- self excepted, can bestow. Sunday Evening. You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is the condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling under the idea of dreaded vengeance ! and what a placid calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feelings of friendship, and the fond throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall of fretiul impa- tience, the sullen frost of louring resentment, or the corroding poison of withered envy ! They eat up the immortal part of man ! If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate objects of them, it would be something in their favour : but these miserable passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love! do tb|ta give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man’s cup ! — Is it a draught of joy ? — warm and open my heart to share it with cordial, uncn- vying rejoicing ! Is it the bitter potion of sorrow ? — melt my heart with sincerely sym- pathetic woe ! Above all, do thou give me the manly mind that resolutely exemplifies, ■ in life and manners, those sentiments which I w r ould wish to be thought to possess! The friend of my soul — there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there may the most sacred, inviolate honour, the most faithfu, kindling constancy, ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination ! Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of Religion, your darling topic? Sunday Miming, February 3rd, 1788. I have just been before the throne of my Gal, Clarinda ; according to my association “ *Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morm- ing bright ! * Tie this that gilds the horrors of our night ; 810 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. When wealth forces us, and when friends are few, [pursue ; When friends are faithless, or when foes *Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the i smart, Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : Within the breast bids purest rapture rise. Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloud- less skies.” I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with them that I have them by me, copied at school. Good night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda! Sylvander. NO. XCVI. TO THE SAME. I was on the way, my Love, to meet you, (I never do things by halves) when I got your card. M goes out of town to- morrow morning to see a brother of his who is newly arrived from . I am deter- mined that he and I shall call on you to- gether ; so, look you, lest I should never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night! • and you may put off tea till about seven; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, * an the beast be to the fore, an the branks bide hale/ expect the humblest of your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We propose 8tayingonly half an hour, ‘for ought we ken/ I could suffer the lash of misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment : all else is of the stuff and stocks of stones. Sylvander. HO. XCVII. TO THE SAME. Thursday Morning, February 7th, 1788. •* Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.” I have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, shy a woman who for native genius, poig- nant wit, strength of mind, generous sin- cerity of soul, and the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms have few, very, very few parallels among her sex ; why, or how she thould fall to the blessed lot of a poor harum scaruir poet, whom Fortune had kept for hex particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill-humour. One time I conjectured that, as Fortune fa the most capricious jade ^ver known, shl may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift merely for the maggot’s sake, to see how this fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the coquet- tish goddess some such hint as, “ Here is a paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again ; you have cast her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of my making; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this master- piece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind which no woman of any age ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters of this age are better able to confer.” Evening, 9 o'clock. I am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter — pretty hearty after a bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set it (62) finely. 1 have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk your health twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in this world. Sylvander. no. XCVIII. TO THE SAME. Saturday Morning , February 9th, 1788. There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of Love and Friendship give such delight as in the pen- sive hours of what our favourite, Thomson, calls “Philosophic Melancholy.” The sportive insects who bask in the sunshine of prospe- rity ; or the worms that luxuriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth — they need no Clarinda : they would despise Sylvander — if they durst. The family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters » they need a resting-place to their souls : unnoticed, often condemned by the world J TO CLARINDA, m in §©nie decree, perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a com- y assionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are coubly dear. " Tis this, my Friend, that streaks our morning bright ; *Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night.” I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, “the dark postern of time long elaps’d ; ” and, you will easily guess, ’twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly ! My life reminded, me of a ruined temple ; what strength, what pro- portion in some parts ! what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before the Father of mercies, and said, “ Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son ! ” I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the .religion of a man. “The future,” said I to myself, “is still before me ; ” there let me “ On reason build resolve. That column of true majesty in man ! w “I have difficulties many to encounter,” said I; “but they are not absolutely in- superable : and where is firmness of mind shewn but in exertion ? mere declamation is bombastic rant.” Besides, wherever I am, or in whatever situation I may be— * *Tis nought to me : Since God is ever present, ever felt. In the void waste as in the city full ; And where He vital breathes, there must be joy!” Saturday Night — half-after Ik... What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yester-night ! My ever-dearest Cla- rinda, you have stolen away my soul : but you have refined, you have exalted it : you have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and % stronger relish for piety. — Clariuda, first of your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you ; if ever your lov ely image is effaced from my soul, "May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; And find uo earth that’s base enough to $ury ine I ” What trifling silliness is the childish fond-, ness of the every-day children of the world r ’tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields and forests : but where Senti- ment and Fancy unite their sweets , where Taste and Delicacy refine; where Wit adds the flavour, and Goodness gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught ia the hour of tender endearment ! — Beauty and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, in all the luxury of mutual love. Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realized ? Not in all its very richest colour- ing- • Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the glorious picture. Inn ocence Look’d gaily smiling on ; while rosy Pleasure Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath. And pour’d her cup luxuriant; mantling high. The sparkling heavenly vintage. Love and Bliss! Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature’s making — two of Nature’s noblest productions ! — when they drink together of the same cup of Love and Bliss, attempt not, ye coarser stuffs of human nature, profanely to measure enjoyment ye never can know! — Good night, my dear Clarinda! Sylvan der. wo. xeix. TO THE SAME. February, 1788. My ever Dearest Clarinda. — I make a numerous dinner party wait me wb .ie I read yours, and write this. Do not r.quire that I should cease to love you, to adore you in my soul — ’tis to me impossible ; — your peace and happiness are to me dearer than my soul; name the terms on which you wish to see me, to correspond with me, and you have them; I must love, pine, mourn, and adore in secret — this you must not deny me; you will ever be to me — “ Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes. Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart !” I have not patience to read the puritanic scrawl. — Vile sophistry ! — Ye heavens ! thou God of nature ! thou Redeemer of mankind! ye look down with approving eyes on % S12 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. passion inspired by the purest flame, and guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour ; but the half-inch soul of an unfeeling, cold-blooded pitiful, presbyterian bigot cannot forgive any thing above his dungeon bosom and foggy head. Farewell; I’ll be with you to-morrow evening ; and be at rest in your mind ; — I will be yours in the way you think most to your happiness ! I dare not proceed — I love, and will love you, and will with joyous confidence approach the throne of the Al- lnighty Judge of men, with your dear idea, and will despise the scum of sentiment, and the mist of sophistry. Sylvandeb. NO. 0. TO THE SAME. Tuesday Evening, Feb. 12 th, 1788. That you have faults, my Clarinda, I pever doubted ; but I knew not where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. O Clarinda, why will you wound my soul, by hinting that last night must have lessened my opinion of you ? True, I was “ behind the scenes with you but what did I see ? A bosom glow- ing with honour and benevolence : a mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and reflection, and exalted by na- tive religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship, love and pity. These I saw. — I saw the noblest immortal soul creation ever showed me. I looked long, ipy dear Clarinda, for your letter ; and am vexed that you are complain- ing. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea, that the commerce you have with one friend hurts you, if you cannot tell every tittle of it to another. Why have you bo injurious a suspicion of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be any thing else than an object of His divine approbation ? I have mentioned, in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel ! how soon must we part ! and when can we meet again ! I looked forward on the horrid interval witli tearful eyes ! What have I lost by not knowing you sooner ! I fear, I fear my acquaintance with you is too short to make that lasting impression tm your heart I could wish. Sylvandeb, NO. Cl. TO THE SAME. "I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!” I have suffered, Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal ; I dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend, God forgive me ! But, Clarinda, be com- forted : let us raise the tone of our feelings a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us, who spurns us without just cause, though once our bosom friend — up with a little honest pride — let hirr go! How shall I comfort you, who am the cause of the injury ? Can I wish that I had never seen you? that we had never met? No! I never will. But have I thrown you friendless?— there is almost distraction in that thought. Father of mercies ! against Thee often have I sinned ; through Thy grace I will en- deavour to do so no more ! She who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care, all her future days and nights ! Strengthen her tender noble mind, firmly to suffer, and magnanimously to bear ! Make me worthy of that friendship she honours me with. May my attachment to her be pure as devia- tion, and lasting as immortal life ! O Almighty Goodness, hear me! Be to her at all times, particularly in the hour of distress or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide and Guard. “ How are Thy servants blest, O Lord, How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide. Their help, Omnipotence !” Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you ! To-night I shall be with you ; as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you, Sylvandeb. NO. CII. TO THE SAME. Two o'clock. I just now received your first letter of yesterday, bj the careless negligence of tho penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grewn TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 813 Tery serious with us ; then seriously hear I me, and hear me, Heaven : — I met you, my dear * * * *, by far the first of woman- kind, at least to me ; I esteemed, I loved you at first sight , the longer I am acquainted v/ith you, the more innate amiableness and worth I discover in you. — You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship, — if every endeavour to oe worthy of your friend- ship, — if a love, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of religion — if all these can make anything like a compensation for the evil I have occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in his hour of need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda ! I esteem you, 1 love you as a friend ; I admire you, I love you as a woman, beyond any one in all the circle of creation ; I know I shall' continue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for your sake. Expect me at eight. — And believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, yours most entirely, Sylvander. NO. CIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Edinburgh, February 12 th, 1788. Some things in your late letters hurt me : Dot that you say them, but that you mistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever been “ more fool than knave.” A mathematician without religion is a probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster, . R. B. NO. CIV. TO CLARINDA. February 14 th, 1783. When matters, my love, are desperate, V'e must put on a desperate face : — On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man.” Or, as the same author finely says in another place — - “ Let thy soul spring up, And lay strong hold for help on him that made thee.” I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look forward ; in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out of the possibility of seeing you : till then, I shall write you often, but visit you seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me than any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love ! the present moment is the worst : the lenient hand of Time is daily and hourly either lightening the burden, or making is insensible to the weight. None of these friends, I mean Mr. • and the other gentleman, can hurt your worldly support, and for their friendship, in a little time you will learn to be easy, and, by and bye, to be happy without it. A decent means of livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one firm, trusty friend — can anybody that has these be said to be unhappy ? These are yours. To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight ; probably for the last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of these two unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am the man, I do not think they are entitled to any information. As to their jealousy and spying, I despise them. — Adieu, my dearest Madam 1 Sylvander. NO. CV. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRY. February, 1788. Sir. — When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole House, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shakespeare, asked old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers: — “Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master.” For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of au application I lately made to your Board tu be admitted an officer of Excise. I have* according to form, been examined by a super 314 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. visor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a request for an order for instructions. In tliis affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronising friend, Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any thing like business, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 1 had intended to have closed my late ap- pearance on the stage of life in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable manner, which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws of a jail, — whence death, the poor man’s last and often best friend, rescued him. I know. Sir, that to need your goodness, is to have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be appointed to a division — where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my situation. R. B. NO. cvi. TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. (63) Edinburgh , February, 14 th, 1788. Reverend and Dear Sir — I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been very much hurried besides, or else I would have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the publication of the Magazine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you will forgive it. The second volume of the Songs I men- tioned to you in my last is published to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark of the veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your cha- racter, and of the claim I make to your con- tinued acquaintance. Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index; as I assure you. Sir, I have heard your “ Tullochgorum,” particularly among our west-country folks, given to many differ- ent names, and most commonly to the im- mortal author of “ The Minstrel,” who, indeed, never wrote anything superior to * Gie a sang, Montgomery cried.” Your brother has premised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntly’s reel, which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruikshank, of the high-School here, and said to be one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to make you his grate- ful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours that I borrowed for him from your acquaint- ance and much respected friend in this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. (64) Mr. Cruik- shank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to the tune of “ Dumbarton Drums,” and the other, which you say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank you for a copy of each. I am ever, reverend Sir, with the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, R. B. NO. CTII. TO RICHARD BROWN. Edinburgh, February 15 th, 1788. My Dear Friend — I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if possible, you will meet me on Tuesday. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at Davies’s Black Bull inn. I am hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday; or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauchline; and name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight from this date, where I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest, friend, yours, R. B. NO. CVIII. TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCK. Edinburgh, February 17 lh, 1788. Madam — You are much indebted t« some indispensable business I have had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for your obliging favour as would have tired your patience. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say, that l am sensible of your kindness : it may be said of heaits such as yours is, and such, i TO MISS CHALMERS. 811 tope, mine is, much more justly than Addison applies it : — Some souls by instinct to each other turn. There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different from the cold, obse- quious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost got into my head that friend- ship had occupied her ground without the intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather transfuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock ; the venerable grandeur of the castle ; the spread-* ing woods ; the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with apparent delight as he passes the fairy walk at the bottom of the garden ; your late distressful anxieties; your present enjoy- ments ; your dear little angel, the pride of your hopes; my aged friend, venerable in worth and years, whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and his peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how much such feelings delight me; they are my dearest proofs of my own in mortality. Should I never revisit the north, aj probably I never will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, to see your little fellow’s name making a proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be included ; among others I have given ‘Morag,” and some few Highland airs which pleased me mosrt, a dress which will Re more generally known, though far, far inferior in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed ; the Man of Feeling, that first of men, has promised to transmit it by the first opportunity. I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend, and to your little Highland chieftain. When you see the “ two fair spirits of the hill,” at Kil- drummie (65), tell -them that I have done myself the honour of setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty years to come, consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the same r riod ; but, as the Apostle Paul says, “this ask of grace, not of debt.” I have the kHsiour to be. Madam, &c., NO. CIX. TO CLARINDA. Glasqow, Monday Evening, 9 o* clock , Feb 17 th, 1783. The attraction of love, I find, is in an in- verse proportion to the attraction of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another the stronger is the attractive force ; in my system, every mile-stone that marked my progress from Clarinda, awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my love ? Is your heart ill at ease? I fear it. — God forbid that these persecutors should harass that peace which is more precious to me than my own. Be assured I shall ever think of you, muse on you, and, in my moments of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in all my thoughts — “ be that hour darkness ! let the shadows of death cover it ! let it not be numbered in the hours of the day !” — “ When I forget the darling theme, Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more ! And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !* I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain ; guess ray pleasure ; — to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are we three spending the evening. I arrived here too late to write by post ; but I’ll wrap half a dozen sheets of blank paper together, and send it by the fly, under the name of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post town. I would write you a long letter, but for the present circumstance of my friend. Adieu, my Clarinda! I am just going to propose your health by way of grace-drink. Sylvan dee. no. cx. TO MISS CHALMERS. Edinburgh, February, 1788. To-morrow, my dear Madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all my plana of future life. A farm that I could live in, I could net find; and, indeed, afrer the necessary support my brother and the rest of the family required, I could not venture on farming in that style suitable to in/ R. B. 28 * 316 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. feelings. l)u will condemn me for the next step 1 have taken. I have entered into the Excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for eix weeks* instructions ; afterwards, for I get employ instantly, I go oil il plait a Dieu —et mon Roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The ques- tion is not at what door of fortune’s palace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open to us l I was not likely to get any tiling to do. I wanted un but , which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on, or mortifying soli- citation ; it is immediate bread, and though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, *tis luxury in com- parison' of all my p eceding^life : besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaint- ances, and all of them my firm friends. R.3. NO. CXI. TO RICHARD BROWN. Mossgiel 9 February 2,4th, 1788. My Dear Sir — I cannot get the proper direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the following will do : — To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg’s, Esq., care of Mr. Benja- min Henriquez, merchant. Orange Street, Kingston. I arrived here, at ray brother’s, only yesterday, after fighting ray way through Paisley and Kilmarnock against those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world, and the flesh — so terrible in the fields of dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life which gave me so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship. *Oh youth! enchanting stage, profusely blest.” Life is a fairy scene : almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in comes repining age, in all the gravity of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the, bewitching phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the course of economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and independence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy with a few of the com- panions of youth, that they may be the friends of age ; never to refuse my liquorish humour a handful of the sweet-meats of life, when they come not too dear ; and, for futurity — j The present momei fc is our aim. The next we never saw ! How like you my philosophy ? Give my best compliments to Mrs. B., and believe in€ to be, my dear Sir, yours most truly, R. B. (66) HO. CXI1. TO MISS CHALMERS. March , 1788. Now for that w r ayw r ard, unfortunate thing, ’ myself. I have broke measures w r ith Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me upon his honour that I should have the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a word from him. God have mercy on me! a poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortu- nate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagina- tion, agonising sensibility, and bedlam passions ! “ I wish that I were dead, but I*m no like to die!” I hid lately “a hair-breadth ’scape in th’ imminent deadly breach ” of love too Thank my stars, I got off heart-whole, “ more fleyd than hurt.” — Interruption. I have this moment got a hint ; I fear I am something like — undone — but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride and un- shrinking resolution ; accompany me through this, to me, miserable world ! You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously though, life at this moment presents me with but a melancholy path: but — my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on. R. B. HO. CXIIX. TO CLARINDA. Cumnock, March 2nd, 1783. I hope, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda will not think my silence, for now a long week (67), has been in any degree owing to my forgetfulness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I wrote you ; and am here, returning from Dumfries -shire, at an inn, the post-office of TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ES& 811 the place, with just so long time as my horse eats his coru, to write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation (» i most equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch’s mandate, when he forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the venerable prophet been as throng as I, he had not broken the decree, at least not thrice a-day. I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy intelligent farmer, my father’s friend and my own, has been with me on the spot : he thinks the bargain prac- ticable. I am myself, on a more serious review of the lands, much better pleased with them. I won’t mention this in writing to any body but you and . Don’t accuse me of being fickle : I have the two plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the one most likely to procure me indepen- dence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. I long to see you : your image is omnipre- sent to me; nay, I am convinced I would soon idolatrize it most seriously ; so much do absence and memory improve the medium through which one sees the much-loved object. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you — at the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home to night, to find a letter from you at the post-office in Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear hand since I left Edinburgh— a letter indeed which much affected me. Tell me, first of womankind ! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest friendship, my correspondence, will they be any compensation for the sacri- fices you make for my sake ! If they will, they are yours. If I settle on the farm l propose, I am just a day and a half’s ride from Edinburgh. We will meet — don’t you say, “ perhaps too often !” Farewell, my rair, my charming Poetess ! May all good things ever attend you ! I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours, Sylvander. NO. CXIV. TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSflANK. Mauchline , March 3rd, 1788. My Dear Sir — Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies for not bulging — the apology better than the song. I have fought my way severely through the savage hospitality of this country, to send every guest drunk to bed if they flan I executed your commission in Glasgow and I hope the cocoa qpne safe. *Twas the same price and the very same kind as your former parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buying there perfectly well. I should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor wayfaring bard, who was spent and almost overpowered, fighting with prosaic wicked- nesses in high places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenever you come to the passage, so I pass over it in silence. I am just returned from visiting Mr 4 Miller’s farm. The friend whom I told you I would take with me (68) was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, without exception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life before me ; I I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of next week : I would be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions. I only mention these ideas to you; and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writing to to-morrow, 1 will not write at all to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would send my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be hurt if he knew I wrote to any body and not to him ; so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest conqiliments to my worthy hostess, and the sweet little rose- bud. So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from a regular correspondence with the only man almost I ever saw who joined the most attentive prudence with the warmest gene- rosity. I am much interested for that best of men, Mr. Wood; I hope he is in better health and spirits than when I saw him last. I am ever, my dearest friend, your .obliged humble servant, R. B. NO. CXY. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, Esq. Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. My Dear Friend — I am just returned from Mr. Miller’s farm. My old fmad S18 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. whom I took with me was highly pleased with the bargain, aqd advised me to accept of it. He is the most intelligent, sensible farmer in the country, and uis advice has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans before me : I shall endeavour to balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in the "ame favourable dis- position as when I saw him last, I shall in all probability turn farmer. I have been through sore tribulation, and under much buffetting of the wicked one, since I came to this country. Jean I found banished, forlorn, destitute and friendless ; I have reconciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother. I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next week. My farming ideas I shall keep pri- vate till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmar- nock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. In- deed, she is the only person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul and body putting up ? — a little like man and wife, I suppose. R. B. ito. cxvi. TO CLARINDA. Mossgiel , March 7th, 1788. Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness — a sin so unlike rne, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles excepted — that I believe I shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have often allowed me the head to judge, and the heart to feel, the influence of female excellence. Was it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could abate my passion ? You, my Love, may have your cares and anxieties to disturb you, but they are the usual occurrences of life ; your future views are fixed, and your miud in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, make a little allowance for a man, after long absence, paying a short visit to a country full of friends, relations and early intimates? Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious fore- bodings, hopes and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen sensibility, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, l’ is em- ployment, his very existence, through future life? Now that, not my apology, but my defence, is made, I feel my soul respire more easily. I know you will go along with me in my justification — would to Heaven you could in my adoption too ! I mean an adoption beneath the stars — an adoption where I might revel in the immediate beams of " Her, the bright sun of all her sex.” I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss ’s coldness. ’Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness — we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character ; and when, on full ex- amination, we know where we stand, and how much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property : and those who seem to doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their prejudices, or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you will say this is self conceit; but I call it self-know- ledge. The one is the overweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he wishes himself to be thought ; the other is the honest justice that a man of sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this standard, this column in our own mind, we are per- petually at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very weakness and wickedness of our fellow- creatures. I urge this, my dear, both to confirm my- self in the doctrine which, I assure you, I sometimes need; and because I know that this causes you often much disquiet. — To return to Miss : she is most certainly a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very few, in goodness of heart. But can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even prejudice will dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far beyond her : to wit, Miss dare make no pretence ; to Clarinda’s wit. scarcely any of her sex dare make pretence. Per- sonal charms, it would be ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life, Mis9 was never called out, either much to do or to sulfer ; Clarinda has been both ; and has performed her part where Miss would have sunk at the bare idea. Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Let us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbar- chan — “ Lord, send us a guid conceit o TO MR. imrsel!' Or, in the words of the auld Bang, u Who do< s me disdain, I can scorn them again, And Fll never mind any such foes.” There is an error in the commerce of in- timacy with those who are perpetually taking what they, in the way of exchange, have not .n equivalent to give us; and, what is still worse, we have no idea of the value of our goods. Happy is our lot, indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, who is qualified to deal with us on our own terms ; but that is a rarity. With almost every body we must pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn, in the old Scotch phrase — “ To gie sic like as we get.” For this rea- son, one should try to erect a kind of bank or store-house in one’s own mind ; or as the Psalmist says, “ We should commune with our own hearts, and be still.” This is ex- actly ***** [ rest wanting .] NO. CXVII. TO RICHARD BROWN. Mauchline, March 7th, 1788. I have been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not had an opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will be gone out of the country too. I have been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the routine; but you will say a “ great effort is worthy of you.” I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I can think of. Men of grave, geometrical minds, — the sons of “ which # was to be demonstrated,” — may cry up reason as much as they please ; but I have always found an honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost always Comes to me. like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to add her reproaches to his other grievances. I am gratified with your hind inquiries after Jean; as, after all, I may say with Othello — * "Excellent wretch \ Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!” I go for Edinburgh on Monday. Yours, R. B. MUIR. 319 NO. CXVIII. TO MR MUIR. Mossgiel, March 7i h 1788. Dear Sir — I have particularly changed my ideas, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller’s farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can live by it. In this case, I shall not stay in Edin- burgh above a week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but there are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and Newmills, and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my business and reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort at home, there was not any friend- ship or friendly correspondence that promised me more pleasure than yours ; I hope I will not be disappointed. I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roll’d together, or had tried his beami Athwart the gloom profound. But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the valley, be it so; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes and wants : if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent destruction of the man — away with old- wife prejudices and tales l Every age and every nation has had a different set of stories ; and as the many are always weak of consequence, they have often, perhaps always, been deceived : a man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow-creatures — even granting that he may have been the sport at times of passions and instincts — he goes to a great unknown Being, who could have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy, who gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force. These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, particularly in a case where all 320 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. men aTe equally interested, and where, in- deed, all men are equally in the dark. Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful meeting: 1 R. B. mo. cxix. (69) TO CLARINDA. I own myself guilty, Clarinda ; I should have written you last week ; but when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that your’s of this night’s post is only the third I have got from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindness. I have always some kind of idea, not to sit down to write a letter, except I have time and possession of my faculties so as to do some justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation. For instance, yester- day I dined at a friend’s at some distance ; the savage hospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night over the nauseous potion in the bowl: this day — sick — head ache — low spirited — miserable - — lasting, except for a draught of water or small beer : now eight o’clock at night — only able to crawl ten minutes’ walk into Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasure- able hope of hearing from the mistress of my soul. But, a truce to all this ! When I sit down to write to you, all is harmony and peace. An hundred times a-day do I figure you, before yofir taper, your book or work laid aside, as I get within the room. How happy have I been ! and how little of that scantling portion of time, called the life of man, is sacred to happiness ! I could moralize to-night like a death’s head : — “O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all! A drop of honey in a draught of gall.” Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. “None saith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night; who teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more understanding than the fowls of the air.” Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! Give me to act up to the dignity of my nature ! Give me to feel “ another’s woe ; ” and continue with me that dear-lov’d friend that feels with mine l The dignified and dignifying conscious^ ness of an honest man, and the welh grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial sources of happiness. $ 9 * * * 9 Sylvander. NO. CXX. TO MISS . My Dear Countrywoman — I am so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins’s Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I will forward them by you ; if not, you must apologise for me. I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid you will “feelingly convince me what I am.” I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the jnatter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I would say. Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know net. I have no formed design in all this, but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me ; but I wish you would not — just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of friendship. I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least fifty miles off from the heart; but I will conclude with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and har 1 yon by the covert snare of deceit. R. B. NO. CXXI. TO MISS CHARMERS. Edinburgh, March 14 th, 1783. T know, my ever dear friend, that you v» ill be pleased with the news when I tell yo^ f TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 321 * * * I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of Ellis- land, on the banks of the Nith, between live and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c. ; and Heaven be my help ! for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures — a motley host ! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends which I have incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson’s observation, “ Where much is attempted, something is done.” Firmness, both in suffering and exertion, i3 a character I would wish to be thought to possess ; and have always despised the whining yelp of com- plaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this winter, and begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is 'often made in vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure ; formed indeed for, and highly susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture ; but that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times com- paratively unfeeling, and often brutal. R. B, NO. CXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Mossgiel, March 17 th, 1788. Madam — The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner, with any little wit I have, 1 do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the devil, at least as Milton describes him ; and though I may be rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but you are sure of being respect- able — you can afford to pass by an occasion to display your wit, because you may de- pend for fame on your sense; or, if you choost to be silent, you know you can rely vn the gratitude of maay, and the esteem v cf all ; but God help us, who are wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported 1 I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coda. I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ros3, the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coda (’tis a poem of Beattie’s in the Scot- tish dialect, which perhaps you have never seen) : — Ye shak your head, but o’ my fegs, YVve set auld Scota on her legs : Lang hid she lien wi’ beffs and flegs, Bumbaz’d and dizzie. Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, Wae’s me, poor hizzie. R. B. NO. CXXIII. TO RICHARD BROWN. Glasgow , March 26th, 1738. I am monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, in not writing to you, and sending you the Directory. I have been getting my tack extended, as I have taken a farm, and I have been racking shop accounts with Mr. Creech ; both of which, together with watch" ing, fatigue, and a load of care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in some de- gree actually fevered me. 1 really forgot the Directory yesterday, which vexed me; but I wa3 convulsed with rage a great part of the day. I have to thank you for the ingenious, friendly and elegant epistle from your friend Mr. Crawford. I shall certainly write to him, but not now. This is merely a card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries- shire, where many perplexing arrangements await me. I am vexed about the Directory ; but, my dear Sir, forgive me : these eight days I have been positively crazed. My compliments to Mrs. B. I shall tvrite to you at Grenada. I am eve?, my dearest friend, yours, R. B NO. CXXIY. TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. Mauchline, March 1788. Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a tract of melancholy, joyless i iuirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it be vug 22 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalm9, and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite air, “ Captain O’Kean,” coming at length into my head, I tried these words to it. (70) You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated. I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I ' leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music. I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming project of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting farming : at present, the world sets such a load on my mind that it has effaced almost every trace of the poet in me. My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. R. B. IfO. CXXY. TO MISS CHALMERS. Mauchline, April 7th, 1788. I am indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange! how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judgments of one another ! Even I, who pique my skill in marking characters — be- cause I am too proud of my character as a man to be dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth, and too proud of my situa- tion as a poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty — I was unacquainted with Miss K.’s very uncommon worth. I am going on a good deal progressive in mon grand but , the sober science of life. I have lately made some sacrifices, for which, were I viva voce with you to paint the situa- tion and recount the circumstances (71), you would applaud me. R. B. wo. cxxvi. TO MR. WILLAM DUNBAR* EDINBURGH. Mauchline, April 7th, 1788. I have not delayed so long to write you. much respected friend, because I thought no farther of my promise. I have long sue# given up that kind of formal correspondence, where one sits down irksomely to wiite a ^letter, because we think we are in duty bound so to do. I have been roving over the country, aa the farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters ; but most of all, lam earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind. As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn ; add to this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipa- tion have enervated my mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most serious and hourly study. I have dropped all conversation and all reading (prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Except on® worthy young fellow, I have not one single correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits, and gens comme il faut which I lately left, and with whom I never again will intimately mix — from that port. Sir, I expect your Gazette : what les beaux esprit s are saying, what they are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelli- gence from my sequestered walks of life; any droll original ; any passing remark, important forsooth, because it is mine ; any little poetic effort, however embroyth ; these, my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must have it always understood, that I appeal from your wit and taste to your friendship and good nature. The first would be my favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; but the last, where I declined justice. I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or two. I trust that this will find you in better health than I did last time I called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me. at Mauchline, were it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal at peace. Now, never shun the idea of writing me, because perhaps you may be - out of humour or spirits. I could give you a hun- dred good consequences attending a dull letter ; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine some other time — it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much r®« spected Sir, your obliged friend and humbla servant* r. a TO MR. JAMES SMITH. 323 NO. CXXVIf. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Mauchline, April 28th, 1788. Madam — Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though 1 was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the Excise business without solicitation, and as it costs me only six months’ attendance for instruc- tions, to entitle me to a commission — which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be resumed; I thought five-and thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if for- tune in her jade tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to which she has lately helped him up. For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, where the force of the winds and rains was only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In consequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a violent cold. You see, Madam, the truth of the French maxim le vrai n’est pas toujours le vraisem- blable. Your last was so full of expostula- tion and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began to | tremble for a correspondence, vrhich I had with grateful pleasure set down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. Your books have delighted me, Virgil, Dryden and Tasso, were all equally strangers to me; but of this more at large in my next. R, B. N&. CXXVIII. TO MR JAMES SMITH. AVON RRIN TFIELD, LINLITHGOW. Mauchline, April 28tli, 1788. Beware of your Strasburgli, my good ftii 1 Look on this as the opening of a correspondence, like the opei ling of a twenty- four gun battery ! 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 masters of only one idea on any given sub- ject, and by far the greatest part of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, T25 — 15 — 1‘75 (or some such frac- tional matter) ; so to let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young huzzy of your acquaint- ance, to whom I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. Bode a robe and wear it. Bode a pock and bear it, says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage ill-luck; and as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually are to their partners of our sex, in similar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding day : these twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossip- pings, twenty-four christenings (I mean one equal to two), and I hope, by the blessing of the God of my fathers, to make them twenty, four dutiful children to their parents, twenty* four useful members of society, and twenf ,w four approved servants of their God ! * * + “ Light’s heartsome,” quo’ the wife w) m she was stealing sheep. You see wh 9 a lamp 1 have hung up to lighten your pa when you are idle enough to explore ho combinations and relations of my if :as. ’Tis now as plain as a pike-staff w] y a twenty-four gun battery was a metaph r I could readily employ. Now for business. I intend to pr< lent Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an ar dele of which 1 dare say you have variety : ’tis my first present to her since I have in evo- cably called her mine, and I have a kL.d of whimsical wish to get her the first said present from an old and much valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on v/hose friendship I count myself possessed oC a3 a life-rent lease. Look on this letter as a “ beginning of sorrows ;” I will write you till youi cyea ache reading nonsense. Mrs. Burns (’tis only her private desig* nation) begs her best compliments tc y >u. K B, 29 524 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. NO. CXXIX. TO PROCESSOR DUGALD STEWART. Maitchline, May 3rd , 1788. Sir — I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great, unknown Being who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and happiness will attend your visit to the con- tinent, and return you safe to your native shore. Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it 6s my privilege to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes; as I am sure I could say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, your friendly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my late success in life. R. B. NO. CXXX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Mauchline, May 4th, 1788. Madam — Dry den’s Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgies are to me by far the best of Virgil. It i3 indeed a species of writing entirely new to me, and has tilled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas ! when I read the Georgies, and then survey my own powers, *tis like the idea of a Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am disappointed in the Hineid. Faultless correctness may please, and does highly please the lettered critic: but to that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my preten- sions to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many pas- sages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means improved, Homer. Nor can I think there is anything of this owing to the translators; for, from everything I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of language. Pope’s master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion — m soiae future letter ybu shall have my ideas of him; though I am conscious my criti- cisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my want of learning most. R. B. NO. CXXXI. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. Mauchline, May 2 6th, 1783. My dear Friend— I am two kind letter* in your debt ; but I have been from home, and horridly busy, buying and preparing for my farming business, over and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will finish. As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' correspondence: between ns, , tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have the pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely fortunate in all my buyings and bargainings hitherto — Mrs. Burns not ex- cepted; which title I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased with this last affair ; it has indeed added to my anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability to my mind and resolutions unknown before ; and the poor girl has the most sacred en- thusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her deportment. I am interrupted. — Farewell ! my dear Sir, R. B. NO. CXXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. May 27th , 1788. Madam — I have been torturing my plii«. losophy to no purpose, to account for that kind partiality of yours, which has followed me, in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my late will-o’-wisp appearance, that “ here I had no continuing city ;” and, but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of con- ceit with the 3worn companions of my road through life — insignificance and poverty. There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the good thing* of this life that give n& more vexation (J. TO MRS. DUNLOP. 32S mean In what I see around me) than the im- portance the opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman's fire-side, where the planks that composed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. *Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolution among those creatures, who, though in appearance partakers, and equally noble partakers, of the same nature with Madame, are from time to time — their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay a good part of their very thoughts — sold for months and years, not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices, of the im- portant few. We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor devils the honour to commend them. But light be the turf upon his breast who taught, “ Reverence thyself.” We looked down on the unpolished wretches, their im- pertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his pride. R. B. KO. CXXXIII. TO THE SAME. Ellisland, June 13 th, 1783. Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see. My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, [chain. And drags, at each remove, a lengthen’d Goldsmith. This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every object I love, or by whom I am beloved; not any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares and novel plaus hourly insult my awkward igno- rance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- jects seem larger then the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and disappointments, at that period of my exist- ence when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? Or what need he regard his single woes ? &c. Your surmise. Madam, is just ; I am in- deed a husband'. * * • * • o To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger My preservative from the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and her attachment to me: my antidote against the last is my long and deep-rooted affection for her. In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute, she is eminently mistress : and during my absence in Niths- dale, she is regularly and constantly ap- prentice to my mother and sisters in their dairy and other rural business. The muses must not be offended when I tell them, the concerns of my wife and family will, in my mind, always take the pas ; but I assure them their ladyships will ever come next in place. You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more friends ; but, from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would seldom have been of the number. I found a once much-loved and still much-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but I enabled her to purchase a shelter — there is no sporting with a fellow-creature’s happi- ness or misery. The most placid good-nature ' and sweet- ness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; these, £ think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny pay wedding. R. B. m CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. WO. CXXXIV. TO MR. ROBERT AIN SITE. Ellisland, June 14 th, 1788. This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in these regions ; and during these three days you have occu- pied more of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding : in Ayrshire I have several variations of friendship’s compass, here it points invariably to the pole. My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but 1 hate the language si complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well — “ Why should a living man complain ? ” I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky imperfection in the very framing and construction of my soul; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my ingenuous- ness, or to hint that the defect is in con- sequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart, some modification of dullness. In two or three instances lately, I have been most shamefully out. I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms among the light- horse — the piquet-guards of fancy — a kind of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battallions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, besides the great studies of your profession? You said something about religion in your last. I don’t exactly remember what it was, as the letter is in Ayrshire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. You will make a noble fellow if once you were married. I make no reservation of your being well married : you have so much sense and knowledge of human nature, that though you may not realise, perhaps, the ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill married. W *re it not fo : the terrors of my ticklish situation respecting provision for a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the >*♦«!) T have taken is vastly for my happi- ness. (72) As it is, I lock to the Excise scheme as a certaVaiy of maintenance; a maintenance! — luxury to what either Mrs. Burns or I were bom to. Adieu ! R. B. wo. cxxxv. TO THE SAME. Mauchline, June 23rd , 1788. This letter, my dear Sir, is only a busi- ness scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in your town, has executed a profile of Dr. Blacklock for me ; do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which put in the same size as the doctor’s. The account of both profiles will be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James Connel, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when you give him the parcel. You must not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is short ; when I sat to Mr. Miers, I am sure he did not exceed two minutes. I propose hanging Lord Glencairn, the doctor, and you, in trio over my new chimney-piece that is to be. Adieu. R. B. NO. CXXXVI. TO THE SAME. Ellisland , June 30 th, 1788. My Dear Sir — I just now received youi brief epistle ; and, to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last corner. I am vexed at that affair of the * * * but dare not enlarge on the subject unti you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be altered on your late master and friend’s death. (73) I am concerned for the old fellow’s exit, only as I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any respect — for an old man’s dying, except he have been a very benevolent character, or in some particular situation of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy situation here in this vexatious world, and has such a whore-son, hungry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, passions and desires about him, ready ta devour him for want of other food, that it TO MR. PETER HILL. 327 fact lie must lay aside his jares for others that he may look properly to himself. You have been imposed upon in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. I did not mention it in my letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr. Miers any such order. I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have any such profile in my possession. I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only fifteen shillings to him, I will rather enclose you a guinea-note. I have it not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a so- journer in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there I have the bank-notes through the house like salt permits. There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one’s private affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neighbours, who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes by his silly, garru- lous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own, too ; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell! Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence ; but ’tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, im- prudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than imprudence respecting character. I have no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; but I appeal to your observation if you have not met, with the same disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and dis- integritive depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked- of world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes, and virtue deserves, may be all matter-of-fact. But in things belonging to and terminating in this present scene of existence, man has serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of in- significance : whether he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy conve- nience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness of self-approving mind, or sink beneath a galling load of regret and remorse — these are alternatives of the last moment. You see how I preach. You used occa- sionally to sermonise too; I wish you ▼oull, in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbioke writes to Dean Swift: — "Adieu, dear Swift! with all thy faults I love thee entirely ; make an effort to love me with all mine!” Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now such a pros- tituted business, that honest friendship, in her sincere way, must have recourse to her primitive, simple, farewell ! E. B, NO. CXXXVII. TO MR. PETER HILL. My Dear Hill — I shall say nothing to your mad present. (74) You have so long and often been of important service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on con- ferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift up my face before you. In the mean- time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, 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 plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. Indigestion is the devil ; nay, ’tis the devil and all. It besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of successful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the noise and noneense of self-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner; the proud man’s wine so offends my palate, that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulverised, feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril, that my sto- mach turns. If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no niggard of your good things among your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There, in my eye, is our friend Smellie ; a man positively of the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I ever met with ; when you see him — as, alas ! he too is smarting at the pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated by the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like Uig morning mist before the summer sun. 29 * 328 CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of some of his superabundant modesty, you would do well to give it him. David (75), with his Courant, comes, too, across my recollection, and I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to digest those be- daubing paragraphs with which he is eternally larding the lean characters of cer- tain great men in a certain great tow r n. I grant you the periods are very well turned; so, a fresh egg is a very good thing, but when thrown at a man in a pillory, it does not at all improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish dlso to be a partaker; not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night’s wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps. (76) Among our common friends I must not forget one of the dearest of them — Cun- ningham. (17) The brutality, insolence and selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help him to anything that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. As to honest John Somerville, he is iuch a contented, happy man, that I know not what can annoy him, except, perhaps,