| q Seer Pa abe PA enemiesHPCE ee oes ne ier meo nd So yaeic AEE ST oa aay Pees a ae ee agae oR pease Som SR ~ BA 5 \ — oa i joe = BP OE) VR re ‘NE Capea? N. CGE LEON ro “ ii. H. Lanhon White a a i, rt cs & a Pi and on sp att ene se amagares Hyp Keema AT ee PT Ot Tee ant eek Seca S seaiiera inncei-recla Ean te 4 " wo ey a ee gee J} Oa na Ae aN " “i Baar) sR va Sev. a Tae te ES menace nena ea A eae: 5 Hi a : { i ! Ei fe i i ss i Bos | eae be. i ae 4 Es 4 pa G3 ie i oh ae i | ; t ae oe eT feelers MEN SAND tee Tey NEE DT pe yt ee eer ioen tenes)COMPLETE WORKS oFr ROBERT BURNS: CONTAINING HIS POEMS, SONGS, AND CORRESPONDENCE. WITH A NEW LIFE OF THE POET, NOTIONS, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL, BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED. BOS LON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 1859. = = ona ; x = BEN SeP AA EN Sacer caates ars ee ees it we ” a y fs i fey ~ + 7 Nae ar “Sif! ie, & ‘S ae AR WTS = < 5 ak al ea os 2 gs es vt i firs | SS aS 7 ier Nos oe ~ aa he is ae a Sees Bs , BC ae ee a RS i : Se rae ; sea pe a eS SN n asia y ee i ao x eS 2 . d y . CO a aaa aN y hs , > s ns Aor ieee ore 3 oie Pore x 2 He , ee aS 4 “ é tin fe le 1 en? Pa * ERS oe RNG TON DP AO ‘ SE IS and x Ne oe ee aaj \ } 3 ! j i f i f bs j j } Uy H ; | I H i ti H i } I i re 4 ar | a i H i V fs 7 I 1 ' b j H i | I ; f i / | i } i Se ee eT eelsARCHIBALD HASTIE, ESQ, MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR PAISLEY; THIS EDITION oF THE WORKS AND MEMOIRS OF A GRE AT POET, IN WHOSE SENTIMENTS OF FREEDOM HE SHARES, AND WHOSE PICTURES OF SOCIAL AND DOMESTIO LIFE HE LOVES, IS BESPECTFULLY AND GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. a naa nS aa AE LEED LS OT OT eS Se ele ati Do ancl Sapper : i a ra es eee enema eet ee ee ne ee a a ee{ | ke. { ' i ' i ' ri 5 vt i i ; y ; f 3 : F F 5 3 4 eT ae eaDEDICATION. TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. [On the title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, were these words: ‘Poems, chiefly in 7 99 ‘ the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns, printed for the Author, and sold by William Creech, 1787. The motto of the Kilmarnock edition was omitted ; a very numerous list of subscribers followed: the volume was printed by the celebrated Smellie. ] My Lorps AND GENTLEMEN : A Scorrisu Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is ‘to sing 1n his country’s service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native land: those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha—at the pLouas, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue; I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honoured protection: I now obey her dictates. Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours: that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do IT present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those favours: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that T glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and public (7) |: chan ile Lae repre es Pr ene Coe Peet LOE ee Ee SLAG | Ce a eee —ee " 7 na ————— oT ee ee ee ee eT he. ir li et le DEDICATION. spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the great fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party: and may social joy await your return! When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native seats; and may domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equally find you an inexorable foc! I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble servant, ROBERT BURNS. Eprinpuran, April 4, 1787. Pte tia EE Saat get tet er RC ea nen Ane a cn eens |PREFACE. I cANNOT give to my country this edition of one of its favourite poets, without stating that I have deliberately omitted several pieces of verse ascribed to Burns by other editors, who too hastily, and I think on insufficient testimony, admitted them among his works. If I am unable to share in the hesitation expressed by one of them on the authorship of the stanzas on “ Pastoral Poetry,” I can as little share in the feel- ings with which they have intruded into the charmed circle of his poetry such composi- tions as “Lines on the Ruins of Lincluden College,” ‘Verses on the Destruction of the Woods of Drumlanrig,” “ Verses written on a Marble Slab in the Woods of Aberfeldy,” and those entitled “The Tree of Liberty.’’ These productions, with the exception of the last, were never seen by any one even in the handwriting of Burns, and are one and all wanting in that original vigour of language and manliness of sentiment which dis- tinguish his poetry. With respect to “The Tree of Liberty” in particular, a subject dear to the heart of the Bard, can any one conversant with his genius imagine that he welcomed its growth or celebrated its fruit with such “ capon craws’’ as these? ‘‘Upo’ this tree there grows sic fruit, Its virtues a’ can tell, man; It raises man aboon the brute, It mak’s him ken himsel’, man. Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, He’s greater than a lord, man, An’ wi’ a beggar shares a mite QO’ a’ he can afford, man.” There are cleven stanzas, of which the best, compared with the “A man’s a man for a that” of Burns, sounds like a cracked pipkin against the “heroic clang” of a Damascus blade. That it is extant in the handwriting of the poet cannot be taken as a proof that it is his own composition, against the internal testimony of utter want of all the marks py which we know him—the Burns-stamp, so to speak, which is visible on all that ever came from his pen. Misled by his handwriting, I inserted in my former edition of his works an epitaph, beginning ‘« Here lies a rose, a budding rose,” (9) LR SEG SEN Bs Wee tO Sad Fre ed 8 ae Adaline Conia S oe heen nee SOT bat Pe ee oe oi ean eee eee ean Ce So ee OR A EE OIE SN POR a tna aioe cerita riedDe san Remar enmareer reais ye = | Seen wae eee SS es Ce ae ee ee Seas PREFACE. the composition of Shenstone, and which is to be found in the churchyard of Hales. Owen: as it is not included in every edition of that poet’s acknowledged works, Burns, who was an admirer of his genius, had, it seems, copied it with his own hand, and hence my error. If I hesitated about the exclusion of “The Tree of Liberty,” and its three false brethren, I could have no scruples regarding the fine song of “ Evan Banks,’ claimed and justly for Miss Williams by Sir Walter Scott, or the humorous song called “Shelah O'Neal,” composed by the late Sir Alexander Boswell. When I have stated that I have arranged the Poems, the Songs, and the Letters of B possible in the order in which they were written; that I have omitted no piece of either verse or prose which bore the impress of his hand, nor included any k reputation would likely be impaired, I have said that the following letter came too late for insertio and worth a place anywhere. urns, as nearly as y which his high all that seems necessary to be said, save n in its proper place: it is characteristic ALLAN CUNNINGHAM TO DR. ARCHIBALD LAURIE. Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786 Drag Sir, I have along with this sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the Songs. Ossian I am notin sucha hurry about; but I wish the Songs, with the volume of the Scotch Poets, returned as soon as they can conveniently be dispatched. If they are left at Mr. Wilson, the bookseller’s shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. My most respectful compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Laurie their happiness to the young ladies; particul qualified than ever David was, or could be, to charm an eyil spirit out of a Saul. Indeed, it needs not the feelings of a poet to be interested in the welfare of one of the sweetest Scenes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw: ; as I think the peaceful unity of St. Margaret’s Hill can only be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalyptic Zion. ; and a Poet’s warmest wishes for arly the fair musician, whom I think much better I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely, Rosert Burns,TABLE OF CONTENTS. Tse Lirs oF Rosert Burns . Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of 17 86 Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition of 1787 Winter. A Dirge . . ° ° ° Poor Mailie’s Elegy First Epistle to Davie, a Rother Post ° Second ° . ° . . ° Address to the Deil to his auld Mare Maggie To a Haggis The Death and dying Words of poor Mailic . . POEMS. PAGE 61 61 - 62 63 64 65 The auld Farmer’s New-year Morne Salutation « 68 A Prayer under the pressure of violent Anguish 69 A Prayer in the prospect of Death 69 Stanzas on the same occasion . ° 69 A Winter Night . ° ° . . 70 Remorse. A Fragment . . ° ° 71 The Jolly Beggars. A Cantata . ‘ ‘ 71 Death and Dr. Hornbook. A True Story. 76 The Twa Herds; or, the Holy Tulzie ° 7 Holy Willie’s Prayer ° ° . ° of 19 Epitaph on Holy Willie ° . . 80 The Inventory; in answer to a mandate by the surveyor of taxes ° ° ° ‘ 81 The Holy Fair > : . . . . 82 The Ordination ° ° ° ° ° 84 The Calf ° ° ° . . ° 86 To James Smith . . . ° . . 86 The Vision . ° ° ; ° 88 Halloween : = . . : 92 Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge 95 To Ruin = 96 To John Gondie of Rilmarnccls on the mablicas tion of his Essays . 97 To J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard. First Epistle . 7 To J. Lapraik. Second Bpistle 99 raGE . ° ° . ° . . « ‘xxii ° . ° . . . lix FAGE To J. Lapraik. Third Epistlo ; . 100 To William Simpson, Ochiltree ° : ame Address to an illegitimate Child . 103 Nature’s Law. A Poem humbly fatoriied to G. H., Esq. . . : 103 To the Rev. John M’ Math . : . . 104 To a Mouse : . . ° . ° 105 Stotch Drink : . 106 The Author’s earnest t Cry and Pray er to the Scotch Representatives of the House of Commons 107 Address to the unco Guid, or the rigidly Right- eous : . . : op LO Tam Samson’s Elegy ° : . 111 Lament, occasioned by the afortanats issue of a Friend’s Amour . ° ‘ : 112 Despondency. An Ode : a : - LIS The Cotter’s Saturday Night c ; : 114 The first Psalm . Le The first six Verses of the ninotieth Paalinte 118 Toa Mountain Daisy . : : : ~ 1S Epistle to a young Friend 119 To a Louse, on seeing one on & Lady’ 8 Bonnet at Church . ‘ a 120 Epistle to J, Rankine, enelosingy some ipaams 121 On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 122 The Farewell . . 123 Written on the Bank leaf of my Peoms! pre- sented to an old Sweetheart then married 123 A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. ‘ 123 Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux , 125 Letter to James Tennant of Glenconner . 125 On the Birth of a posthumous Child : 126 To Miss Cruikshank 4 ' 126 Willie Chalmers 127 (11) es as 55) say ele ato, ised yom He Pe Serre Caner n Se WS TSEC Ce - ‘ : ne ere ee a Some ee en Oe een aY = Sa ate ENS.comand CONTENTS. Verses left in the room where he slept . « 128 On seeing a woundéd Hare limp by me, which a To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recommending a boy 128 | Fellow had just shot . . : LOS To Mr. M’Adam, of Craigen-gillan . : 129 | To Dr. Blacklock. In answer to a Letter . 158 Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the Author Delia. An Ode : ; : . : . 159 bya Tailor. : : . : - 129 | To John M’Murdo, Esq. . : : : 159 To J. Rankine. “Iama keeper of the law.” 130 | Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, 1st Lines written ona Bank-note . ; : 130 | January, 1790 : ; ‘ : ; 159 A Dream . ; ; ; : : - 130 | Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland’s Benefit- A Bard’s Epitaph . : : . 3 132 night, Dumfries . : ; 160 The Twa Dogs. A Talo ; - Lines on meeting with Lord Daer Addres3 to Edinburgh : . : * 136 | and offered to continue it free of expense 161 Epistle to Major Logan , ; ; ; 37 | The Kirk’s Alarm. A Satire. First Version 162 The Brigs of Ayr - : . : - 138 | The Kirk’s Alarm. A Ballad. Second Version 163 On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Arnis- Peg Nicholson . . : . . . 165 ton, late Lord President of the Court of On Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman Session ; . . : ; . 141 who held the patent for his honours imme- On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John diately from Almighty God : . 165 M’Leod, Esq. : ; : ; ; 141 | The Five Carlins. A Scots Ballad . . 167 To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems . - 142 | The Laddies by the Banks o’ Nith : . 168 The American War. A Fragment, ‘ 142 | Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on The Dean of Faculty. Anew Ballad , . 148 the close of the disputed Election between Toa Lady, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking- Sir James Johnstone, and Captain Miller, glasses, . . . . ; . 144 for the Dumfries district of Boroughs - 269 To Clarinda : ; : - ; : 144 | On Captain Grose’s Peregrination through Scot- Verses written under the Portrait of the Poet land, collecting the Antiquities of that king- Fergusson : ; . ; : 144 dom. : : . . . : 170 Prologue spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit- Written in a wrapper, enclosing a letter to Cap- night, Monday, April 16,1787, . 145 tain Grose . . : . ; ; 171 Sketch, A Character . . . . - 145 | Tam O’Shanter. A Tale ‘ ‘ . 1A To Mr. Scott, of Wauchope 145 | Address of Beelzebub to the President of tho Fpistle to William Creech : : ; - 146 Highland Society . : : : 5 @1Y The humble Petition of Bruar-Water, to the To John Taylor : : : : 175 noble Duke of Athole . . . - 147 | Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach On scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit 148 of Spring 175 Written with a pencil, over the chimney-piece, The Whistle : Z ; i . 176 in the parlour of the Inn at Kenmure, Tay- Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . 178 mouth . : : . . . - 149 | Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . 278 Written with a pencil, standing by the Fall of Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of Fyers, near Loch Ness. ° ; . 149 Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem . 179 To Mr. William Tytler, with the present of the Address to the Shade of Thomson, gp crowning Bard’s picture ; - 150 Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on the banks of Nith, June, 1780. First Copy . 150 The same. December, 1788. Second Copy 151 To Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel. Extempore A Vision lines on returning a Newspaper . . 152 A Mother’s Lament for the Death of her Son, 152 | First Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray 152 On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 7 1158 night, Nov. 26,1792 , : : 182 Epistle to Hugh Parker rc . . . 154 Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice - 183 Lines, intended to be written under a Noble Epistle from Esopus to Maria : 184 “i Earl’s Picture . > + _« ~ 155 | Poem’on Pastoral Poetry : : a's 185 Ge. on the year 1788. A Sketch : - 155 | Sonnet, written on the 25th January, 1793, the ress tothe Toothache , . . . 155 birthday of the Author, on hearing a thrush Sacred to the luemory of Mrs. Oswald, of sing in a morning walk 185 Aucheneruive . a . . . 156 | Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of Fragment inscribed to the Right Hon. 0. J. Fox 156 | Glenriddel, April, 1794 186 ; : : rere rere PAGE | PAGE 132 | Sketch. New-year’s Day. To Mrs. Dunlop 160 35 | To a Gentleman who had sent hima Newspaper, his Bust at Ednam with bays ; . 179 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray 1 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on receiving afavour . . ; : ‘ ; - 18t . . : ; : 181 | To John Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his birthday 182 The Rights of Women, an occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit- LA eens uereene-we 7 SeerCONTENTS. Xl — PAGE | #20" a PAGE Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel’s birthday 186 | To Chloris ; . : . : 189 Liberty. A Fragment 186 | Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ- Verses to a young Lady . : 186 ence ‘ ; ; 189 The Vowels. A Tale . . . - 187 | The Heron Ballads. Ballad First 190 Verses to John Rankine : ‘ . 187 | The Heron Ballads. Ballad Second 190 On Sensibility. To my dear and mnch-hon- The Heron Ballads. Ballad Third 192 oured friend, Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop 188 | Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had of- Excise, Dumfries, 1796 193 fended i‘ : ’ 188 | To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with Johnedn’ 3 Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Musical Museum 193 Beneft-night - 188 | Poem on Life, addressed to Col 0 A de Peyater: On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite eka” Dumfries, 1796 193 racter 189 EPITAPHS, BPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, &e. PAGE PAGE On the Author’s Father 194 | Written on a pane of glass in the Inn at Moffat 199 On R. A., Esq. 194 | Spoken on being appointed to the Excise 199 On a Friend 194 | Lines on Mrs. Kemble 199 For Gavin Hamilton 194 | To Mr. Syme : ; . 200 On wee Johnny 195 | To Mr. Syme, with a ronan of a dozen of On John Dove, Innkeeper, M sachliite 195 porter 200 On a Wag in Mauchline 195 | A Grace 200 On a celebrated ruling Elder . 195 | Inscription on a goblet 200 On a noisy Polemic 195 | The Invitation 200 On Miss Jean Scott 195 | The Creed of Poverty 200 On a henpecked Country Squire . 195 | Written in a Lady’s pocket- Hoole 200 On the same 196 | The Parson’s Looks 200 On the same : ; ; 196 | The Toad-eater : . : : 201 The Highland Welcome ; z : . 196 | On Robert Riddel . : : : 201 On William Smellie . ° : 196 | The Toast 201 Written on a window of the Tat’s at Castel 196 | On a Person aiskaamiad the iumnrania 201 The Book-worms 196 | Lines written on a window 201 Lines on Stirling . < . ; ° 197 | Lines written on a window of the Globe Tavern The Reproof 197 Dumfries 201 The Reply 197 | The Selkirk Grace . 202 Lioes written under the Picture of the celebrated To Dr. Maxwell, on Jessie Staig’ 8 Recov ery 202 Miss Burns 197 | Epitaph . 202 Extempore in the Court of Session 197 | Epitaph on William ‘Nicol : 202 The henpecked Husband 197 | On the Death of a Lapdog, named Echo 202 Written at Inverary 198 | Ona noted Coxcomb 202 On Elphinston’s Translation of Martial’ 8 Epi- On seeing the beautiful Seat of Tord Galloway 202 grams : 198 | On the same : : . . . 203 Inscription on the Head! ious of Fer gusson . 198] On the same 203 OnaSchoolmaster . ‘ ; : 198 | To the same, on the peter Heine ihrestened A Grace before Dinner . . : ; . 198 with his resentment ; ae 203 A Grace before Meat : : . A 198 | On a Country Laird ‘ : 203 On Wat 198 | On John Bushby . . : ° ‘ 203 On Captain Francis iGross 199 | The true loyal Natives . ; ° ° 203 Impromptu to Miss Ainslie . ; 199 | On a Suicide . . C . 203 The Kirk of Lamington ; 3 199 | Extempore, pinned on a Lady’ s coach ‘ 203 The League and Covenant. ° ° 199 | Lines to John Rankine . ° . . 204 i RWS RN. 5 ‘\e eR es Ce * Re eo. Sie . a et ee en ee re ee ee een ee ee ma -, (raion hate S Diecast ame "fauna Raat TROT ni i ep a a neea CONTENTS. To the same | “ There’s naethin’ like tie Hotteat nappy” PAGE Jessy Lewars , ; : . . . 204 The Toast ° . ° 204 On Miss Jessy Lewars : . 204 On the recovery of Jessy Lewars . . ~ 204 | Tam the Chapman . ; ° ‘ 204 * Here’s a bottle and an honest friend” A « 205 ‘Tho’ fiokle fortune has deceived me” . 205 To John Kennedy : . : 205 On the blank leaf of a work by Hannah Mores presented by Mrs. C. ‘ To the Men and Brethren of the Mascnio Tiodge at Tarbolton . ‘ . > | Impromptu : ° ° . Prayer for Adam Nee ° . ° : SONGS AND BALLADS. PAGE Handsome Nell ° ° ‘ ° ° 207 Luckless Fortune ; : . ; 208 “T dream’d I lay where flowers were springing” 208 Tibbie, I hae seen the day 208 “My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border” : . ° ° ‘ . 209 John Barleycorn. A Ballad , : . - 210 The Rigs o’ Barley . ; : ; ’ 210 Montgomery’s Peggy . ‘ 211 The Mauchline Lady . ° : ° 211 The Highland Lassie , . . . snail Peggy ; . ‘ ° 212 The rantin’ Dog the Daddie o’t - 213 “My heart was ance as blithe and free” 2138 My Nannie 0 é < . . : - 213 A Fragment. ‘One night asI did wander” 214 Bonnie Peggy Alison « 214 Green grow the Rashes, 0 : : ‘. 214 My Jean ; . : ° . . eels Robin ° . . 215 “Her flowing Tock, the raven’s wing” 216 “O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles” . 216 Young Peggy . ; ° ; - 216 The Cure for all Care ° : ‘ ’ 217 Eliza ° ° . 4 - 217 The Sons of Ola Killie : ° - 217 And maun I still on Menie doate ; ;. - 218 The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James’s Lodge, Tarbolton ° : . - 218 On Cessnock Banks , ‘ ° : . 219 Mary . . ; » 220 The Lass of Ballochingte. . . 220 “The gloomy night is gathering fast” - 221 “O whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?” 221 The Joyful Widower 221 “0 Whistle, and I'll come ton you, my lad” , 222 “Tam my mammy’s ae bairn” : « 222 The Birks of Aberfeldy 5 . 222 Macpherson’s Farewell . . ° 3 228 Braw, braw Lads of Galla Water 223 Stay, my charmer, can you leaye me?” 224 Strathallan’s Lament . : 7 . | My Hoggie . e Her Daddie forbad, es Minnie forbad Up in the Morning early ° : The young Highland Rover ‘ . ° Hey the dusty Miller Duncan Davison Theniel Menzies’ bonnie Mary The Banks of the Devon Weary fa’ you, Duncan Gray . The Ploughman ; Landlady, count the Lawin “Raving winds around her blowing’? “ How long and dreary is the night” Musing on tho roaring Ocean Blithe, blithe and merry was she The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . O’er the Water to Charlie A Rosebud by my early walk Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie Where braving angry Winter’s Stocms Tibbie Dunbar ° . Bonnie Castle Gordon . . : My Harry was a gallant gay The Tailor fell through the bed, thimbles an’ a’ Ay Waukin 0! Beware o’ Bonnie Ann The Gardener wi’ his paidlo Blooming Nelly . The day returns, my bosom Burs My Love she’s but a lassie yet Jamie, come try me ° ° ° . . Go fetch to me a Pint 0’ Wino The Lazy Mist O mount and go . . . Of a’ the airts the wind can blag Whistle o’er the lave o’t O were I on Parnassus’ Hill “There’s a youth in this city” My heart’s in the Highlands John Anderson, my Jo ° . 206 206 206 ~ tn he on 2 N wr pb b> b> nt Nwowwrs st 233CONTENTS. Awa, Whigs, awa ° ° ° . ° Ca’ the Ewes to the Rabwes ‘ ° Merry hae I been teethin’ a heckle The Braes of Ballochmyle To Mary in Heaven . . ‘ . Eppie Adair : ° The Battle of Sherriff-muir Young Jockey was the blithest lad O Willie brewed a peck o’ maut The braes o’ Killiecrankie, O I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen The Banks of Nith . . : ° Tam Glen . . s ° ° Frae the friends and land I 13v6 ‘ Craigie-burn Wood . ° : ° Cock oe your Beaver : ° ° ° . O meikle thinks my luvo o’ my beauty Saas count the Lawin : : ; There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame The bonnie lad that’s far awa ° : ‘ I do confess thou art sae fair Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty ahd wide It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face When I think onthe happy days . : . Whan I sleep I dream : ‘ . “‘T murder hate by field or flood” : O gude ale comes and gudo ale goes . . Robin shure in hairst . ; ‘ c ; Bonnie Peg : . ‘ ; . Gudeen to you, Kimmer : ° ‘ ° Ah, Chloris, since it may na be ; Eppie M’Nab ° ; : a . ° Wha is thatat my bower-door . : What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man . Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing . ° The tither morn when I forlorn ‘ . e Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . : ° Lovely Davies : ° ° ° ‘ ° The weary Pund o’ Tow . . e ° Naebody ; . . e ° $ An O for ane and twenty, Tam ° ° . O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie . ° ° The Collier Laddie ; ; A ° ° Nithsdale’s Welcome Hame 3 . : As I was a-wand’ring ae Midsummer e’enin . Bessy and her Spinning-wheel . : . The Posie : : ° . : ° ° Ths Country Lass : . ‘ ° ° Turn again, thoufair Eliza . : . : Ye Jacobites by name e . + . Yeo flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon , . . Ye banks and braes 0’ bonnie Doon , . Willie Wastle ° ° . . ° ° O Lady Mary Ann ° ‘ . Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ; s The Carle of Kellyburn braes Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss ° . Lady Onlie : : . : . : PAGE 23 23 239 239 239 240 240 241 241 241 242 242 242 243 254 254 | 255 | 255 The Chevalier’s Lament . : . ; Song of Death : ; . . Flow gently, sweet Afton Bonnie Bell Hey ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’. - The Gallant weaver . . ‘ . The deuks dang o’er my Daddie She’s fair and faus ‘ The Deil cam’ fide ling thro’ ait town The lovely Lass of Inverness O my luve’s like a red, red rose Louis, what reck I by thee Had I the wyte she bade me . ; ° Coming through the rye Young Jamie, pride of a’ the ani Out over the Forth I look to the north The Lass of Ecclefechan . ; ° The Cooper o’ Cuddie . ° For the sake of somebody I coft a stane o’ haslock woo The lass that made the bed for me Sae far awa I'll ay ca’ in by yon town O wat ye wha’s in yon town O May, th Lovely Polly Stewart ; Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie Anna, thy charms my bosom fire Cassilis’ Banks : : : ° ‘ To thee, lov’d Nith : : . ° ° ¥. morn . . . . Bannocks o’ Barley ; . ¢ ~ | Hee Balou! my sweet wee Donald Wace is my heart, and the tear’s in my e’e Here’s his health in water : My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form Gloomy December . ° ° : . My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon "t | Amang the trees, where humming bees | The gowden locks of Anna. ° . | My ain kind dearie, 0 . Will ye go to the Indies, my si Mary | She is a winsome wee thing . : | Bonny Leslie : ° . ; : | Highland Mary . ‘ ° ° Auld Rob Morris . ; - . Duncan Gray O poortith cauld, and woatlees 1ove < ; GallasWater: © ik oe Lord Gregory ; ‘ . ; ° . Mary Morison . . : : : Wandering Willie, First Version Wandering Willie. Last Version : : Oh, open the door to me, oh! : ; . Jessie : : ° ° The poor ¢ and honest Reaver : ° : Meg o’ the Mill : . ° . Blithe hae I been on yon hill . ° : ' Logan Water . : . . . DPrPrrrmAnn a mm om wm CO W W bO oan ao bt br b> Ww bw hd bd bh be Cc bo ao o on bo ty Qo oon mS Ino oO bp bb bt o @ bw bo > Oo & oOo fw Nrwponwndswbv NW bv bw “Teeyur 3 “I I & GS wd bv wee KR cooocooeeo 8 CO wy DOH NYSNNNYNYNNYNNNYNNNNYNYNYNYNY WY WD WD Iya —~J ~y ~Y ~T ~7 como MOOonrtnt tT Dao OO bw bo o-r oO 281 oS fesrerpla BEN tO aN A a Nn re a yee cen af ant nl a tg ali Ne be cathe ns DAR Lk eb Raeena ita ah Sh z Soa ed Ss Cas On eat el eieiietet e ee is ¥ &hb By Allan stream : : O Whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad ° Adown winding Nith I did wander Come, let me take thee to my breast - ° Daintie Davie Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled. “First Version Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled. Second Version Behold the hour, the boat arrives : . Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . ° ; Auld lang syne : ° : “‘ Where are the joys Lhave met in the morning” “Deluded swain, the Biase Nancy Husband, Husband; cease your strife Wilt thou be my dearie? . But lately seen in gladsome green . ; ‘ “ Could aught of song declare my pains” Here’s to thy health, my bonnie lass It was a’ for our rightfw’ king O steer her up and haud her gaun (. O ay my wife she dang me : : . O wert thou in the cauld blast . The Banks of Cree. . ° : . On the seas and far away Ca’ the Yowes to the Knowes Sae flaxen were her ringlets O saw ye my dear, my Phely? . . : How lang and dreary is the night ° . Let not woman e’er complain The Lovers Morning Salute to his Mistress My Chloris, mark how green the groves Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks . ° CONTENTS. xvi PAGE “ Mrs. Dunlop. Mackenzie and tho Mirror and Lounger . : . . . 423 CXCI. To Collector Mitchell., A county meeting 424 CXCII. To Dr. Moore. “ Zeluco.” Charlotte Smith 425 OXCIII. To Mr. Murdoch. William Burns . 425 OXCIV. To Mr. M’Murdo. With the Elegy on Matthew Henderson . : . 426 CXCV. To Mrs. Dunlop. His pride Sounded 426 CXCVI. To Mr. Cunningham. Independence 426 COXCVII, To Dr. Anderson. “The Bee.” . 427 CXCVIII. To William Tytler, Esq. With some West- conn ballads . . . A227 CXCIX. To Crauford Tait, Esq. THerouaeie Mr. William Duncan . . : ° a Ae ROE ry pee Sa erent TTS ee ee nD th cpal ed tamemaliead att A ne eT pee a a a Sate ee aS)ee epee he TTY an - a ee mitt : ee - = SS ses tee xx CC. To Crauford Tait, Esq. “The CCI. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the grandchild. Tam O’Shanter 1791. CCII. To Lady M. W. Constable. the present of a gold snuff-box cc Elysium. CCIV. To Mr. Peter Hill. CCV. III. To Mr. William Dunbar. Sending a poem. To Mr. Cunningham. T CONTENTS PAGE | birth of her 429 Thanks for Kirk’s Alarm” 428 PAdE CCOXXXI. To Mr. S. Clarke. Humorous invi- to teach music to the M’Murdo family 444 tation CCXXXII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Love and Lesley Baillie . ; . : : : : . 445 CCOXXXIIL ToMr. Cunningham. Lesley Baillie 448 | COXXXIV. To Mr. Thomson. Promising his 429 Not gone to 429 Apostrophe to Poverty 430 am O’Shanter. Elegy on Miss Burnet ; 43 CCVI. To A. F. Ty tler, E Jsq. Tam O’Shanter 43 CCVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Miss Burnet. Elegy writing : . 431 CCVIII. To Rey. eons Alizon. Thanking him for his “ Essay on Taste” . . 432 CCIX. To Dr. Moore. TamO’Shanter. Elegy on Henderson. Zeluco. Lord Glencairn 432 CCX. To Mr. Cunningham. Songs 433 CCXI. To Mr. Alex. Dalzel. The death of the Karl of Glencairn - 434 CCXIL. To Mrs. Graham, of Tinteay. " With * Queen Mary’s Lament” é 434 CCXIII. Tothe same. With his rintedl Bosnia 435 CCXIYV. To the Rey. G. Baird. CCXY. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth CCXVI. To the same. CCXVII. To the same. Quaint pedantic critic CCXVIII. To Mr. Ganningiam: Mr. Clarke of Moffat, Schoolmaster CCXIX. To the Earl of Buchan. CCXXI. Michael Bruce of a son Apology for delay invective on a The case of With the Address to the shade of Thomson CCXX. To Mr. Thomas Sloan. crop gold well To Lady E. Cunningham: Apologies. His With the Lament for the Earl of Glencairn CCXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. State of aia His income . CCXXIII. Tool. Fallarton: Wuithigome Boone: His anxiety for Fullarton’s friendship . CCXXIV. CCXXYV, To Miss Davis. and PeOTse! Lo Mrs. Dunlop. Song of Death , . 1792. Lethargy, Indolence, Our wishes and our powers . Mrs. Henri. The CCXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. The animadver- CCXXVII. To Mr. William Smellio. v COXXIX. To Francis Grose, Esq. C sions of the Board of Excise cing Mrs. Riddel. SCXXVIII. To Mr. W. Nicol. Introdu- Ironical reply to a letter of counsel and reproof Stewart , CXXX. To tho same. Dugald Witch stories 35 435 436 439 439 440 440 443 assistance to his collection of songs and airs 447 CCXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Situation of Mrs. Henri . : : : = . 448 CCXXXVI. To the same. On the death of Mrs. Henri . : : : . 449 CCXXXVII. To Mr. Thoin mn. Thomson’s fas- tidiousness. “My Nannie 0,” &. . 449 CCXXXVIII. Tothe same. With “My wife’s 3 a winsome wee thing,” and “Lesley Baillie” 45¢ CCXXXIX. Tothesame. With Highland ao The air of Katherine Ogie . ° . . 450 CCXL. To the same. Thomson’s alterations and observations . ; : . . - Adl CCXLI. To the same. Wh’ “Auld Rob Mor- ris,’ and “Duncan Gray” . ; ; . 451 CCXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a daughter. The poet Thomson’s dramas : . 451 CCXLIII. To Robert Graham, Esq., of F intray. The Excise inquiry into his political conduct 452 CCXLIV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Hurry of business. Excise inquiry . : ° ° : . 453 1793. CCXLV. To Mr. Thomson. With “ Poortith cauld” and “Galla Water’ . : ; . 453 CCXLVI. To the same. William Tytler, Peter Pindar. : . ‘ . : . . 453 CCXLVII. To Mr. Cunningham The poet’s seal. David Allan : ‘ : : » 04 CCXLVIII. To Thomson. With “Mary Mo- rison” . ; ‘ 3 : ; : « 8455 CCXLIX. To the same. With “ Wandering Willie” : : ; : : . . 455 CCL. To Miss Benson. Pleasure he had in meeting her. : : : . . 455 CCLI. To Patrick Miller, Esq. With the pre- sent of his printed poems . : ; . Ads CCLU. To Mr. Thomson. Review of Scottish song. Crawfurd and Ramsay : CCLII. Tothesame. Criticism. Allan Ram- say. ; : : : . AbT CCLIV. To the same. “The last time I came o’er the moor”. . 4d. CCLY. To John Hranaia Byskingy. Big. Self- justifcetion: The Excise inquiry 45% CCLVI. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Answering letters. Scholar-craft . ‘ : : . 46¢ CCLVII. To Miss Kennedy. A letter of com- Pca ; : ‘ ‘ : . 461 CCLVIII. To Mr. Thomson! Frazer. ‘ Blithe 443 hae I been on yon hill” : : ‘ . 46)CCLXI. Tothe same. Hurt at the idea of pecu- mpense. Remarks on song. To the same. Note written in the name of Stephen Clarke ‘ CCLXIII. Tothesame. With “ Philli I “Had I a cave s the fair” V. Tothe same. With on some wild distant shore” CCLXV. To the same. With CCLXVI. To the same. With “0O whistle, and A lan Water” I'll come to you, my lad,” &¢e : ‘ CCLXVII. To the same. With “Come, let me take thee to my breast” . CCLXVIII. Tothesame. With “ t Dainty Davie OCLXIX. To Miss Craik. Wretchedness of poets ; : ; . . ; ; CCLXX. To Lady Glencairn. Gratitude. Ex- cise. Dramatic composition CLXXI. To Mr. Thomson. With hae wi’ Wallace bled” . CCLXXII. To the same. hour, the | CCLXXIIL. tish song « . ‘ ° OCLXXIV. Tothe same. Alterations in “Scots wha ha ’ Wallace bled” CCLXXYV. TE the same. alterations in ‘‘ Scots wha hae” rejectet CCLXXVI. To the With “Deluded swain, the pleasure,” and “Raving winds ‘Scots wha With “ Behold the oat arrive” To the same. Crawfurd and Scot- Further suggested 1 same. around her blowing” CCLXXVII. Tothe same. Erskine and Gavin Turnbull CCLXXVIU. To John M’Murdo, Esq. fadebt. ‘The Merry Muses” Pay- ment o CCLXXIX. To the same. With his printed poems . . CCLXXX. To C: aptain “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled” Riddel. The Dumfries Anxiety for his ac- dusinience: CCLXXXI. To Mrs. Theatre 1794. CCLXXXII. To a Lady. er’s benefit CCLXXXIII. To the Ez 1 of Bachan, copy of “ Scots wha hae” CCLXXXIV. To Captain Miller. of “Scots wha hae” , CCLKXXXV. To Mrs. Riddel. puppies CCLXXXVI. of the human genus . . . CCLXXXVIL. With “ Werter.” Her reception of him . : : ° In favour of a play- With a With a eOny Tabetarsconted on THe pinthoree class To the same. To the same, 463 464 464 A464 464 465 465 ” 466 466 466 467 468 468 470 470 AT1 471 473 473 474 AT4 A474 475 475 A75 A475 XXi i ear a CLXXXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel. Her cay rice 476 | COLXXXIX. Tothe same. Her neglect and unkindness . . : : . : . 476 CCOXC. To John Syme, Esq. Mrs. Oswald and “QO wat ye wha’s in yon town” . : 76 CCXCI. To Miss Obscure allusions to a friend’s death. His personal and poetic fame 477 CCXCII. To Mr. Cunningham. sas ac Requests consolation . 2 . - ATT CCXCIII. To the Earl of Glencairn. W_th his printed poems . - . ; : . Art CCXCIV. To Mr THOMHOn: David Allan. “The banks of Cree 7 ° ; : . 478 CCXCV. To David M’Culloch, Esq. Arrange- ments for a trip in Galloway : : . A479 CCXCVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Threatened with flying gout. Ode on Washington’s birthday 479 CCXOVIIL. To Mr. James Johnson. Low spirits. The Museum. Balmerino’s dirk ; . 480 CCXCVIII. To Mr. Thomson. Lines written in ‘‘Thomson’s Collection of songs” . . 480 CCXCIX. To the same. With “ How can my poor heart be glad”. ° . 480 CCC. To ie same. With “Ca’ nae yowes to the knowes’ . ; : ; . ASt CCCI. To fhe same. With “Sae flaxen were Epigram to Dr. Maxwell ee 4oL The charms of a Lo- her ringlets.” CCCII. To the same. rimer. “O saw ye my dear, my Phely,” &c. 482 CCCIIIL. To the same. Ritson’s Scottish | Songs. Love andsong . : : : ‘ . 483 CCCIV. Tothesame. Englishsongs. The air of “Ye banks and braes 0’ bonnie Doon” . 484 CCCV. To the same. With “O Enuly) Happy. be the day,” and “ Contented wi’ little . 485 CCCVI. Tothe same. With “Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy” . ° . 486 CCCVIL. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. Excise. Perry’s offer to write for the Morning Chroniclo 487 CCCVIII. To Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun. A poli- tical and personal quarrel. Regret . 487 CCCIX. To Mr. Thomson. With “Now in nee green mantle blithe nature arrays . . 487 1795 CCCX. To Mr. Thomson. With “For a’ that and a’ that” ; : : : . 488 CCCXI. To the same. Abuse of Ecclefechan A3$ CCCXII. To the same. With “0O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,” anc “The groves ¢f sweet myrtle” . . 488 CCCXIII. To the same. "With as How onal are the parents” and “ Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion” ; ; : a . 489 CCOXIV. Tothesame. Praise of David Allan’s 489 “Cotter’s Saturday Night” CCCXYV. To the same. With “ This is no my ain Mrs. Riddel. ‘ ° : . 489 Lassie.” ll PR OS Barts Pernt et) Bene os ene ee eet SO eee Seance ee Nee) eee f Ee - or ee ee eee Tit ead a lr - es = > Re Fe eh eet te re REN mil ee ee TL aesCONTENTS. Hi PAGE PAGE HH | CCCXVI. To Mr. Thomson. With “ Forlorn, CCCXXXII. To the same. “Here’s a health | my love, no comfort near” . ‘ ‘ . 490 to ane I loe dear” : ; ‘ : . 498 CCCXVII. To the same. With “Last May a CCCXXXIII. To the same. His anxiety to braw wooer,” and “ Why tell thy lover” . 490 review his songs, asking for copies : . 498 CCCXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel. A letter from the CCCXXXIV. To Mrs. Riddel. His increasing grave . ; . : : . 490 ill-health . : . : . . . 498 CCCXIX. To the same, = letter of compliment. CCCXXXYV. To Mr. Clarke, acknowledging mo- “ Anacharsis’ Travels’ : ; . 491 ney and requesting the loan of a further sum 499 CCCXX. To Miss Louisa Fontenelle: With a CCCXXXVI. To Mr. James Johnson. The Prologue for her benefit-night . . . A9l Scots Musical Museum. Request for a copy ti CCCXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop. His family. Miss of the collection . ‘ : . : . 499 ’ Fontenelle. Cowper’s “Task” . ; . 492 | CCCXXXVII. To Mr. Cunningham. Ilness CCCXXII. To Mr. Alexander Findlater. Ex- and poverty, anticipation of death : . 499 cise schemes ‘ 492 | CCCXXXVIII. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His ill- CCCXXIII. To the Editor of the Morning C Hr! health and debts . ; . 500 nicle, Wi ritten for a friend. A complaint . 493 | COCKXXIX. ToMr. James Aicoiees Batroating CCCXXIV. To Mr. Heron, of Heron. With two Mrs. Armour to come to her daughter’s con- political ballads . ; : . : - 493 finement ; . : ; ; ‘ . 500 CCCXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thomson’s Collec- CCCXL. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing affords tion. Acting as Supervisor of Excise - 494 little relief . ; : : : . 500 CCCXXVI. To the Right Hon. William Pitt. CCCXLI. To Mrs. Dunloa Her friendship. A Address of the Scottish Distille . 495 farewell : . : : ; : . ool CCCXXVIL. To the Provost, Bee and Town CCCXLII. To Mr. Thomson. Solicits the sum Council of Dumfries. Request to be made a of five pounds. “Fairest Maid on Devon freeman of the town . : . : - 496 Banks” : : « 001 ke CCCXLIII. To Mr. Janes Baraevas Soliciting 1796. the sum of ten pounds ; : : = OL CCCXXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel. “ Anarcharsis’ CCCXLIV. To James Gracie, Esq. His rheu- Travels.” The muses. ° : . » 495 matism, &c. &c.—his loss of appetite . - 502 CCCXXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. His ill-health . 496 CCCXXX. To Mr. Thomson. Acknowledging Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads . 502 his present to Mrs. Burns of a worsted The Border Tour . : : : ; « 522 i shawl . : : ‘ : . : . 497 | The Highland Tour ; . : - 527 CCOCXXXI. To the same, [l-health. Mrs. Burns’s Assignment of his W orks : : . 9530 Hyslop Allan’s etchings. Cleghorn - 497 | Glozsary . : ‘ ° . e . . 453] a - i L t te a 4| } | | | LIFE OF ReOsbetiehe i she UsheNes! Ropert Burns, the chief of the peasant poets of Scotland, was born in a little mud-walle¢ sottage on the banks of Doon, near * Alloway’s auld haunted kirk,” in the shire of Ayr, on the 26th day cf January, 1709. Asa natural mark of the event, a sudden storm at the same moment swept the land: the gabel-wall of the frail dwelling gave way, and the babe-bard was hurried through a tempest of wind and sleet to the shelter of a securer hovel. He was the eldest born of three sons and three daughters; his father, William, who in his native Kincardineshire wrote his name Burness, was bred a gardener, and sought for work in the West; but coming from the lands of the noble family of the Keiths, a suspicion accompanied him that he had been out—as rebellion was softly called—in the forty-five: a suspicion fatal to his hopes of rest and bread, in 1 a district: and it was only when the clergyman of his native parish certified his loyalty BO i L C that he was permitted tot ‘il. This suspicion of Jacobitism, revived by Burns himself, when he rose into fame, seems not to have influenced either the feelings, or the tastes of Agnes Brown, 4 young woman on the Doon, whom he wooed and married in December, 1757, when he was thirty- six years old. To support her, he leased a small piece of ground, which he converted into a nursery and garden, and to shelter her, he raised with his own hands that humble abode where cave birth to her eldest son. [he elder Burns was a well-informed, silent, austere man, who endured no idle gaiety, nor indecorous lecorous language: while he relaxed somewhat the hard, stern creed of the Covenanting times, he enforced all the work-day, as well as sabbath-day observances, which the Calvinistic kirk requires, and scrupled at promiscuous dancing, as the staid of our own day scruple at the waltz. lest with a singular fortitude of temper; was as devout while busied in her household concerns, to sweeten 1 ballads of her country, of which her store h, that he was induced to widen his views, His wife was of a milder mood: she was b of heart, as she was calm of mind; and loved, the bitterer moments of life, by chanting the songs ant was great. The garden and nursery prospered so muc lord, the laird of Doonholm, and the more questionable aid of named Mount Oliphant, extending to an asons proved rainy } and by the help of his kind lant borrowed money, he entered upon a neighbouring farm, hundred acres. This was in 1765; but the land was hungry and sterile; the se to his sorrow, the laird of Doonholm—~ aud rough; the toil was certain, the reward unsure; when s the rent, were exacted by a generous Ferguson,—died : the strict terms of the lease, as well a a harsh factor, and with his wife and children, he was obliged, after a losing struggle of six years, to relinquish the farm, and seek shelter on the grounds of Lochl parish of Tarbolton. When, in after-days, men’s characters were in the hands of his eldest son, 2a, some ten miles off, in the and wrong, in the ‘Twa Dogs.” the scoundrel factor sat for that lasting portrait of insolence He was strong of body and In this new farm William Burns seemed to strike root, and thrive. to his three sons, who, though very young, ardeut of mind: every day brought increase of vigour 22 Je aS Sed sae f ne a 5 ; ene na Ae * tat Nd rae < nl PST aoe | Eee ee : 8 A edad siete peat Sl ; — ee OER, a: eee eee ee a ee a a Ne St ; aes ee Ay mesa ge Nee aS een on XXIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. already put their hands to the plough, the reap-hook, and ths flail. But sisi d ss meee which he undertook was decreed in the end to prosper: after four seasons of Prosperity a lange ensued: the farm was far from cheap; the gains under any lease were then 80 Lethe: Be Ne loss of a few pounds was ruinous to a farmer: bad seed and wet BausoDd had their es ‘¢The gloom of hermits and the moil of galley-slayes,” as the poet, alluding to tncee days, said, were endured to no purpose; when, to crown all, a difference arose between the landlord and ae tenant, as to the terms of the lease; and the early days of the poet, and the declining years of his father, were harassed by disputes, in which sensitive minds are sure to suifer. Amid these labours and disputes, the poet’s father remembered the worth of religious and moral instruction: he took part of this upon himself. A week-day in Lochlea wore the sober looks of a Sunday: he read the Bible and explained, as intelligent peasants are accustomed to do, the sense, when dark or difficult; he loved to discuss the spiritual meanings, and gaze on the mystical splendours of the Revelaticns. He was aided in these labours, first. by the school-master of Alloway-mill, near the Doon; secondly, by John Murdoch, student of divinity, who undertook to teach arithmetic: grammar, French, and Latin, to the boys of Lochlea, and the sons of five neighbouring farmers. Murdoch, who was an enthusiast in learning, much of a pedant, and such a judge of genius that he thought wit should always be laughing, and poetry wear an eternal smile, performed his task well: he found Robert to be quick in apprehension, and not afraid to study when knowledge was the reward. He taught him to turn verse into its natural prose order; to supply all the ellipses, and not to desist till the sense was clear and plain: he also, in their walks, told him the names of different objects both in Latin and French; and though his know- ledge of these languages never amounted to much, he approached the grammar of the English tongue, through the former, which was of material use to him. in his poetic compositions. Burns was, even in those early days, a sort of enthusiast in all that concerned the glory of Scotland; he used to fancy himself a soldier of the days of the Wallace and the Bruce: loved to strut after the bag-pipe and the drum, and read of the bloody struggles of his country for freedom and existence, till ‘*a Scottish prejudice,” he says, “was poured into my veins, which will boil there till the flood-gates of life are shut in eternal rest.” In this mood of mind Burns was unconsciously approaching the land of poesie. In addition to the histories of the Wallace and the Bruce, he found, on the shelves of his neighbours, not onlr whole bodies of divinity, and sermons without limit, but the works of some of the best English, as well as Scottish poets, together with songs and ballads innumerable. On these he loved to pore whenever a moment of leisure came; nor was verse his sole favourite; he desired to drink knowledge at any fountain, and Guthrie’s Grammar, Dickson on Agriculture, Addison’s Spectator, Locke on the Human Understanding, and Taylor’s Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, were as welcome to his heart as Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Thomson; and Young. There is a mystery in the workings of genius: with these poets in his head and hand, we see not that he has advanced one step in the way in which he was soon to walk, ‘Highland Mary” and “Tam o’ Shanter” sprang from other inspirations. Burns lifts up the veil himself, from the studies which made him a poet. ‘In my boyish days,” he says to Moore, “I owed much to ‘an old woman (Jenny Wilson) who re family, remarkable for her credulity and superstition. in the country of tales and sided in the She had, I suppose, the largest collection Songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies rpunkies, kelpies, elfcandles, dead-lights, wraiths, towers, dragons, and other trumpery. » Witches, warlocks, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted This cultivated the latent seeds of poesie ; strong an effect upon my imagination that to this hour, in my noc keep a look-out on Suspicious pla lore of his native land: but had so turnal rambles, I sometimes ces.” Here we have the young poet taking le in the school of Janet Wilson he profited largely; her tales gave a hue, all their own, to many noble effusions, But her teaching was at the hearth-st in the fields, either driving a cart or w ssons in the classic one: when he was alking to labour, he had ever in his hand a collection of songs, such as any stall in the land could supply him with; ballad, and verge by verse, fastian ‘To this, and over these he pored, ballad by noting the true, tender, and the natural sub] ime from affectation and ” he said, “I am convinced th at I owe much of my critic craft, such as it is,”LETTER TO HIS FATHER. XXV His mother, too, unconsciously led him in the ways of the muse: she loved to recite or sing to him a Strange, but clever ballad, called ‘* the Life and Age of Man:”’ this strain of piety and imagina- 1on was in his mind when he wrote ‘‘ Man was made to Mourn.” ‘ He found other teachers f a tenderer nature and softer influence. ‘‘ You know,” he says to Moore, ‘‘our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was & bewitching creature, a year younger than myself: she was in truth a bonnie, sweet, s nsie lass, and unwittingly to herself, initiated me in } that icious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worn Faia eer Tons See ae ee é : philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys. How she caught the contagion I cannot tell; 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 evenings from our lahours: why the tones of her voice made my heart strings thrill like an AZolian 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 other love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly, and it was her favourite reel to which I attempted to give an embodied vehicle in rhyme; thus with me began love and verse.” This intercourse with the fair part of the creation, was to his slumbering emotions, a voice from heaven to call them into life and poetry. From the school of traditionary lore and love, Burns now went to 4 rougher academy. Lochlea, though not producing fine crops of corn, was considered excellent for flax; and while the culti- vation of this commodity was committed to his father and his brother Gilbert, he was sent to } Irvine at Midsummer, 1781, to learn the trade of a flax-dresser, under one Peacock, kinsman to his mother. Some time before, he had spent a portion of a summer at a school in Kirkoswald, learning mensuration and land-surveying, where he had mingled in scenes of sociality with ‘s, and enjoyed the pleasure of a silent walk, under the moon, with the young and the . smuggle io} beautiful. At Irvine he laboured by day to acquire a knowledge of his business, and at night he associated with the gay and the thoughtless, with whom he learnt to empty his glass, and indulge in free discourse on topics forbidden at Lochlea. He had one small room for a lodging, for which he gave a shilling a week: meat he seldom tasted, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal and potatoes sent from his father’s house. In a letter to his father, written with great purity and simplicity of style, ‘he thus gives a picture of himself, mental and bodily: ‘‘ Honoured Sir, I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on new years’ day, but work comes s0 hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent on that account, My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees: the weak- ness of my nerves had so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past wants nor look for- ward into futurity, for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces 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 principal and indeed my only pleasurable and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite trans- employment is looking backwards , perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the ported at the thought that ere long and disquietudes of this weary life. As for the world, I despair of ever am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I am in some measure prepared and pains and uneasinesses, making a figure in it: I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks daily preparing to meet them. en me, which were but too much neglected at the for the lessons of virtue and piety you have giv I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late.” This time of giving them, but which, ; it alludes to the illness remarkable letter was written in the twenty-second year of his age a nervous headache, brought on by con- which seems to have been the companion of his youth, his the common attendant of genius, stant toil and anxiety; and it speaks of the melancholy whic and its sensibilities, agg The catastrophe which happened ere this letter was well in his father’s hand, accords ill with quotations from the Bible, and hopes ‘6 welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took ” ravated by despair of distinction. fixed in heayen:—‘‘ As we gave,” he says, fire, and burnt to ashes, and | was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. — — me pT ATT LOEDAEDE LAID 2 ean mae ow AY EOLA ee eee ape) = “t PRE ath, mine tet | ne ae a ke aise in an anid eet S pnts senintenintanb et ih et eet eee tetera read es. wa hath SSapiee RT RTE ol ime oyoma : ———EEE—e—————E a -_ 6 —— areas Men iene’ = ~= LPL wt 7 : I eA SR NEC a ate xxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. This disaster was followed by one more grievous: his father was well in years when he was married, and age and a constitution injured by toil and disappointment, began to press him down, ere his sons had grown up to man’s estate. On all sides the clouds began to darken: the farm was unprosperous: the speculations in flax failed; and the landlord of Lochlea, raisiug @ question upon the meaning of the lease, concerning rotation of crop, pushed ithe matter to a Jawsuit, alike ruinous to a poor man either in its success or its failure. ‘‘ After three years tossing and whirling,” says Burns, ‘‘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 stept in and carried him away to where the ‘ wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ His all went among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice. The finishing evil which brought up the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus, ‘ Depart from me, ye cursed.’” Robert Burns was now the head of his father’s house. He gathered together the little that Jaw and misfortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline, containing one hundred and eighteen acres, at a rent of ninety pounds a year: his mother and sisters took the domestic superintendence of home, barn, and byre; and he associated his brother Gilbert in the labours of the land. It was made a joint affair: the poet was young, willing, and vigorous; and excelled in ploughing, sowing, reaping, mowing, and thrashing. His wages were fixed at seven pounds per annum, and such for a time was his care and frugality, that he never exceeded this small allowance. He purchased books on farming, held conversations with the old and the know- ing; and said unto himself, “«I shall be prudent and wise, and my shadow shall increase in the land.” But it was not decreed that these resolutions were to endure, and that he was to become a mighty agriculturist in the west. Farmer Attention, as the proverb says, is a good farmer, all the world over, and Burns was such by fits and by starts. But he who writes an ode on the sheep he is about to shear, a poem on the flower that he covers with the furrow, who sees visions on his way to market, who makes rhymes on the horse he is about to yoke, and a song on the girl who shows the whitest hands among his reapers, has small chance of leading a market, or of being laird of the fields he rents. The dreams of Burns were of the muses, and not of rising markets, of golden locks rather than of yellow corn: he had other faults. It is not known that William Burns was aware before his death that his eldest son had sinned in rhyme ; but we have Gilbert?s assurance, that his father went to the grave in ignorance of his son’s errors of a less venial kind —unwitting that he was soon to give a two-fold proof of both in ‘‘Rob the Rhymer’s Address to his Bastard Child??—a poem less decorous than witty. The dress and condition of Burns when he became a poet were not at all poetical, in the minstrel meaning of the word. His clothes, coarse and homely, were made from home-grown wool, shorn off his own sheeps’ backs, carded and spun at his own fireside, woven by the village weaver, and, when not of natural hodden-gray, dyed a half-blue in the village vat. They were shaped and sewed by the district tailor, who usually wrought at the rate of a groat a day and his food: and as the wool was coarse, so also was the w orkmanship. The linen which he wore was home-grown, home-hackled, home-spun, home-woyen, and home-bleached, and, unless designed for Sunday use, was of coarse, strong harn, to suit the tear and wear of barn and field. His shoes came from rustic tanpits, for most farmers t hen prepared their own leather ; were armed, sole and heel, with heavy, broad-headed nails, to endure the clod and the road: as hats were then little in use, save among small lairds or country gentry , westland heads were commonly covered with , with a stopple on its flat crown, made in thousands at Kilmarnock, s , and known in all lands by the name of scone bonnets. His plaid was a handsome red and white check— for pride in poets, he said, was no sin—prepared of fine wool with more than common care by the hands of his mother and sisters, and woven with more skill than the village weaver wag His dwelling was in keeping with his dress, a low, thatched house, with a kitchen, a bedroom and closet, with fl & few books on a shel a Coarse, broad, blue bonnet asually required to exert. oors of kneaded clay, and ceilings of moorland turf: f, thumbed by many a thumb; a few hams drying above head in the smoke,HIS EARLIER YERSES. XXVil which was in no haste to get out at the roof—a wooden settle, some oak chairs, chaff beds well covered with blankets, with a fire of peat and wood burning at a distance from the gable wall, on the middle of the floor. His food was as homely as his habitation, and consisted chiefly of oat- meal-porridge, barley-broth, and potatoes, and milk. How the muse happened to visit him in this clay biggin, take a fancy to a clouterly peasant, and teach him strains of consummate beauty and elegance, must ever be a matter of wonder to all those, and they are not few, who hold that noble sentiments and heroic deeds are the exclusive portion of the gently nursed and the far descended. Of the earlier verses of Burns few are preserved: when composed, he put them on paper, but he kept them to himself: though a poet at sixteen, he seems not to have made even his brother his confidante till he became a man, and his judgment had ripened. He, however, made a little clasped paper book his treasurer, and under the head of ‘‘Observations, Hints, Songs, and Scraps of Poetry,’’ we find many a wayward and impassioned verse, songs rising little above the humblest country strain, or bursting into an elegance and a beauty worthy of the highest of minstrels. The first words noted down are the stanzas which he composed on his fair companion of the harvest-field, out of whose hands he loved to remove the nettle-stings and the thistles: the prettier song, beginning ‘‘ Now westlin win’s and slaughtering guns,” written on the lass of Kirkoswald, with whom, instead of learning mensuration, he chose to wander under the light of } the moon: a strain better still, inspired by the charms of a neighbouring maiden, of the name of Annie Ronald; another, of equal merit, arising out of his nocturnal adventures among the lasses of the west; and, finally, that crowning glory of all his lyric compositions, ‘‘ Green grow This little clasped book, however, seems not to have been made his confidante till his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year: he probably admitted to its pages only the strains which he loved most, or such as had taken a place in his memory: at whatever age it was commenced, he had then begun to estimate his own character, and intimate his fortunes, for he calls himself in its pages ‘a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it.” We have not been told how welcome the incense of his songs rendered him to the rustic maidens of Kyle: women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse; they have little sympathy with dreamers on Parnassus, and allow themselves to be influenced by something more substantial than the roses and lilies of themuse. Burns had other claims to their regard than those arising from poetic skill: he was tall, young, good-looking, with dark, bright eyes, and words and wit at will: he hada sarcastic sally for all lads who presumed to cross his path, and a soft, persuasive word for all lasses on whom he fixed his fancy: nor was this all—he was adventurous and bold in love trystes and love excursions: long, rough roads, stormy nights, flooded rivers, and lonesome places, were no letts to him; and when the dangers or labours of the way were braved, he was alike skilful in eluding vigilant aunts, wakerife mothers, and envious or suspicious sisters: for rivals he had blow as ready as he had a word, and was familiar with snug stack-yards, broomy glens, and nooks of hawthorn and honeysuckle, where maidens love to be wooed. This rendered him dearer to woman’s heart than all the lyric effusions of his fancy ; and when we add to such allurements, a warm, flowing, and persuasive eloquence, we need not wonder that woman listened and was won; that one of the most charming damsels of the West said, an hour with him in the dark was worth a lifetime of light with any other body; or that the accomplished and beautiful Duchess of Gordon declared, in a latter day, that no man ever carried her so completely off her feet as {obert Burns. It is one of the delusions of the poet’s critics and biographers, that the sources of his inspira- tion are to be found in the great classic poets of the land, with some of whom he had from his youth been familiar: there is little or no trace of them in any of his compositions. He read and wondered—he warmed his fancy at their flame, he corrected his own natural taste by theirs, put he neither copied nor imitated, and there are but two or three allusions to Young and Shak- speare in all the range of his verse. He could not but feel that he was the scholar of a different school, and that his thirst was to be slaked at other fountains. The language in which those zreat bards embodied their thoughts was unapproachable to an Ayrshire peasant ; it was to an ag an almost foreign tongue: he had to think and feel in the not ungraceful or inharmonious ae sei il as aoe Toe nes Te < Wak ET, ce aol SID ent 08 gen Anneiesne ah eer Se) lacie TTL “eeeLIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. XXVILl language of his own vale, and then, in a manner, translate it into that of Pope or of Thomson, with the additional difficulty of finding English words to express the exact meaning of those of Scotland, which had chiefly been retained because equivalents could not be found in the more elegant and grammatical tongue. Such strains as those of the polished Pope or the sublimer Milton were beyond his power, less from deficiency of genius than from lack of language: he could, indeed, write English with ease and fluency; but when he desired to be tender or impas- sioned, to persuade or subdue, he had recourse to the Scottish, and he found it sufficient. The goddesses or the Dalilahs of the young poet’s song were, like the language in which he celebrated them, the produce of the district; not dames high and exalted, but lasses of the barn and of the byre, who had never been in higher company than that of shepherds or ploughmen, or danced in a politer assembly than that of their fellow-peasants, on a barn-floor, to the sound of the district fiddle. Nor even of these did he choose tke loveliest to lay out the wealth of his verse upon: he has been accused, by his brother among others, of lavishing the colours of his fancy on very ordinary faces. ‘He had always,” says Gilbert, ‘‘a jealousy of people who were richer than himself; his love, therefore, seldom settled on persons of this description. When ho selected any one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his parti- cular 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 capti- yator, as she appeared to others and as she scemed when invested with the attributes he gave her.” «My heart,” he himself, speaking of those days, observes, ‘‘was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other.” Yet, it must be acknowledged that sufficient room exists for believing that Burns and his brethren of the West had very diferent notions of the captivating and the beautiful; while they were moved by rosy cheeks and looks of rustic health, he was moyed, like a sculptor, by beauty of form or by harmony of motion, and by expression, which lightened up ordinary features and rendered them captivating. Such, been told, were several of the lasses of the West, to whom, if he did not surrender his heart, he rendered homage ; and both elegance of form and beauty of face were visible to all in those of whom he afterwards sang—the Hamiltons and the Burnets of Edinburgh, and the Millers and M’Murdos of the Nith. The mind I have of Burns took now a wider range: he had sung of the maidens of Kyle in strains not likely soon to die, and though not weary of the softnesses of love, he d on matters of a sterner kind—what those subjects were he tells us; hand, of a native nature and of Scottish growth: places celebrated famous in Grecian song—hills of y hurt,” tl esired to try his genius they were homely and at in Roman story, vales made ines and groves of myrtle had few charms for him. « I am 1us he writes in August, 1785, “to see other towns, rivers, woods, and haughs of Scot- land immortalized in song, while my dear native county, the ancient Baillieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous in both ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of inhabitants—a county where civil and religious liberty have ever found their first support and their asylum—a county, the birth-place of many famous philosophers , Soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of many great ey ents recorded in history, particularly the actions of the glorious Wallace—yet we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the mountainous source and winding sweep of the Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far unequal to the task, both in genius and education.” To fill up with glowing verse the outline which this sketch indicates, was to raise tl Aational song—to waken a strain to which the whole land would yie tempted—certainly unperformed—since the days of the Gentle Shepherd. It is true that the tongue of the muse had at no time been wholly silent; that now and like the song of « Mary, weep no more for me,” and of lasting me of “Tibbie Fowler,” proved that the fire of natural poesie smoulde the social strains of the unfortunate Fergusson r bf him who sang the ‘Monk and the Miller’ ductions of equal mer 1e long-laid spirit of ld response—a miracle unat- then a burst of sublime woe, rriment and humour, like that red, if it did not blaze ; while evived in the city, if not in the field, the memory S wife.” But notwithstanding these and other pro- it, Scottish poesie, it must be Oy vned, had lost much of its original ecstasyand fervour, and that the bol Douglas, of Lyndsay, and of the undying thunders of Corra. James the Fiftl MOSSGIEL. ; : dest efforts of the muse no more equalled the songs of Dunbar, of 1, than the sound of an artificial cascade resembles 1. areamniial hier 1} ¢ aranaintanec ; > ” To accomplish this requixedia an ac plane with man beyond what the forge, the change-house, and the market-place of the village supplied; a look further than the barn-yard and the furrowed et | die Neonlian know) Fan Y eC ey ey } field, and a livelier knowledge ad bene feeling of history than, probably, Burns ever possessed. “7 To all ready and accessible sources of knowledge he appears to have had recourse; he s yught ik matter for his muse in the meetings, religious as well as social, of the district—consorted with | : 2 pcre as EF ce 1% ns wn AY ry “A } } . } staid matrons, grave plodding farmers—with those who preached as well as those who listened— +] —— endive nares 5 . . . with sharp-tongued attorneys, who laid down the law over a Mauchline gill—with country squires, whose wisdom was great in the glers, who at that time hung, as r a cloud, on all the western coast of ae ee : ame-laws, and in contested elections—and with roving smug- Scotland. In the company of farmers and fellow-peasants, he witnessed scenes which he loved to embody in verse, saw pic- tures of peace and joy, now woyen into the web of his song, and had a poetic impulse given to him both by cottage devotion and c ottage merriment, If he was familiar with love and all its utgoings and incomings—had met his lass in the midnight shade, or walked with her under the moon, or braved a stormy night and a haunted road for her sake—he was as well acquainted with the joys which belong to social intercourse, when instruments of music speak to the feet, when the reek of punchbowls gives a tongue to the staid and demure, and bridal festivity, and harvest- homes, bid a whole valley lift up its yoice and be glad. It is more difficult to decide what poetic use he could make of his intercourse with that loose and lawless class of men, who, from love of gain, broke the |] laws and braved the police of their country : that he found among smugglers, as he says, ‘‘men of noble virtues, Mmagnanimity, generosity, disintereste: d friendship, and modesty,” is easier to believe than that he escaped the contamination of their sensual manners and prodi- gality. The people of Kyle regar led this conduct with suspicion: they were not to be execiey to know that when Burns ranted and boused with smu gglers, conversed with tinkers hud kiln. or listened to the riotous mi toe POWK led in a rth of a batch of ‘“‘randie gangrel bodies” as are ““toomed ks and pawned their duds,” for liquor in Po osie Nansie’s, he was taking sketches for the future entertainment and instruction of the world; they could not foresee that from all this moral ’ strength and poetic beauty would arise. While meditating something better than a ballad to his mistres to lay out the little skill he had in cultivating the grounds of Mossgiel. s’s eyebrow, he did not neglect The prosperity in which he found himself in the first and second seasons, induced him to hope that good fortune had not yet forsaken him: at first they came to Burns ; culture, calculated rotation of crops, attende: a genial summer and a good market seldom come together to the farmer, but 5 and to show that he was worthy of them, he bought books on agri- 1 sales, held the plough with diligence, used the scythe, the reap-hook, and the flail, with skill, and the malicious even began to say that there was something more in him than wild sallies of wit and foolish rhymes the bottom was wet, and in a third season, indiffer of half his crop; he seems to have regarded this as an intim and consoled himself with joyous friends and with the society cf he undertook would prosper: the muse. general on a field of battle, seems to have believed, very early in life, that he was none of the much of a genius ever to acquire wealth by steady prudence, or grubbing industry. And yet there wer sheaves, did not and at intervals of toil, sought to embellish his mind with such ehould chance, the goddess who ruled his lot, drop him upon some while he lived at Tarbolton, united with some half-doz land. He had, The judgment cannot be praised whic sowed it with unsound seed; but that man who despa airs fruits of the field, is unfit for the warfare of life, where fortitude is as when the tide of success threatens to flow against him. e hours and days in which Burns, even whe wholly despair of himself: he laboured, nay sometimes But the farm lay high, ‘ent seed and a wet hanvent robbed him at once ation from above, that nothing which h selected a farm with a wet cold bottom, and because a wet season robs him of the much required as by & The poet elect of Mammon; that he was too labour, or by, as he loved to call it, gin-horse n the rain fell on his unhoused he slaved on his farm; knowledge as might be useful, of the higher places of tha en young men, all sons of a ee nee ees eR eS ’ Lee eae Seieeaeaeaeen ae eee eS 4 SE of yh i OC ‘ ee ae ln ent See eee ey maLIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. SS 1)/] a farmers in that neighbourhood, in forming a club, of which the object was to charm away a few evening hours in the week with agreeable chit-chat, and the discussion of topics of economy or love. Of this little society the poet was president, and the first question they were called on to settle was this, ‘‘Suppose a young man bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in iM power to marry either of two women; the one a girl of large fortune, but BeLeer handsome in person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a fairint wiell encugh; the other of them, a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behaviour, ; but without any fortune, which of them shall he choose?” This question was started by the poet, and once every week the club were called to the consideration of matters connected with rural life and industry: their expenses were limited to threepence a week: and till the departure of Burns to the distant Mossgiel, the club continued to live and thrive; on his removal it lost the spirit which gave it birth, and was heard of no more; but its aims and its usefulness were revived in Mauchline, where the poet was induced to establish a society which only differed from the other in spending the moderate fines arising from non-attendance, on books, instead of liquor. Here, too, Burns was the president, and the members were chiefly the sons of husbandmen, whom he found, he said, more natural in their manners, and more agreeable than the self-sufficient mechanics of villages and towns, who were ready to dispute on all topics, and inclined to be con- vinced on none. This club had the pleasure of subscribing for the first edition of the works of its great associate. It has been questioned by his first biographer, whether the refinement of mind, which follows the reading of books of eloquence and delicacy,—the mental improvement resulting from such calm discussions as the Tarbolton and Mauchline clubs indulged in, was not injurious to men engaged in the barn and at the plough. reacher, in the sunny hours of June, listening to his eloquence, or partaking of the mystic bread ind wine; but in these our latter days, when discipline is relaxed, along with the sedate and the pious come swarms of the idle and the profligate, whom no eloquence can edify and no solemn rite affect. On these, and such as these, the poet has poured his satire; and since this desirable reprehension the Holy Fairs, east as well as west, haye become more decorous, if not more devout. His controversial sallies were accompanied, or followed, by a series of poems which showed that national character and manners, as Lockhart has truly and happily said, were once more in the hands of a national poet. These compositions are both numerous and yarious: they record the poet’s own experience and emotions; they exhibit the highest moral feeling, the purest patri otic sentiments, and a deep sympathy with the fortunes, both here and hereafter of his fellow-men, they delineate domestic manners, man’s stern as well as social hours, and mingle the serious with the joyous, the sarcastic with the solemn, the mournful with the pathetic, the amiable with the gay, and all with an ease and unaffected force and freedom known only to the genius of Shak- speare. In ‘The Twa Dogs” he seeks to reconcile the labourer to his lot, and intimates, by examples drawn from the hall as well as the cottage, that happiness resides in the humblest abodes, and is even partial to the clouted shoe. In ‘‘Scotch Drink” he excites man to love his country, by precepts both heroic and social; and proves that while wine and brandy are the tipple of slaves, whiskey and ale are the drink of the free: sentiments of a similar kind distinguish his ‘« Barnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons,” each of whom he exhorts by name to defend the remaining liberties and immunities of his country. A higher tone distinguishes the ‘‘ Address to the Deil:” he records all the names, and some of them are strange ones; and all the acts, and some of them are as whimsical as they are terrible, of this far kenned and noted personage; to these he adds some of the fiend’s doings as they stand in Scripture, together with his own experiences ; and concludes by a hope, as unexpected as merciful and relenting, that Satan may not be exposed to an eternity of torments. ‘‘The Dream” is 4 humorous sally, and may be almost regarded as prophetic. The poet feigns himself present, in slumber, at the Royal birth-day; and supposes that he addresses his majesty, on his household matters as well as the affairs of the nation. Some of the princes, it has been satirically hinted, behaved afterwards in such a way as if they wished that the scripture of the Burns should be fulfilled: in this strain he has imitated the license and equalled the wit of some of the elder Scottisk Poets. ‘¢Th¢ Wision” is wholly serious; it exhibits the poet in one of those fits of despondency which the dull, who have no misgivings, never know: he dwells with sarcastic bitterness on the opportu- nities which, for the sake of song, he has neglected of becoming wealthy, and is drawing a sad parallel between rags and riches, when the muse steps in and cheers his despondency, by assuring him of undying fame. ‘‘ Halloween” is a strain of a more homely kind, recording the super- stitious beliefs, and no less superstitious doings of Old Scotland, on that night, when witches and f men: it reaches far back into manners elves and evil spirits are let loose among the children o The tastes and feelings of husbandmen and customs, and is a picture, ¢1rious and valuable. ee ee aes i se netheeeerieinnennerenss ene eee 7 : oa fos : i eee ee 2 #3 2 i s iis + lee tn the ee ae elie Lae ne 7 fale ee ene ee “4 ew eae Ta ai es ss alee OTP TES re Ty a ‘ Haas : 8S ————————EeE———e———EE—eEeE—E—EeEE———E———EEEqK—K&K&;—;_—————————— SS eee < =. * en 8 waa tat ee ms eee re . tan Letak XXxil LIFE inspired ‘‘ The old Farmer’s lections of his days of cour OF ROBERT BURNS. Address to his old mare Maggie,” which exhibits some pleasing recol tship and hours of sociality. The calm, trai iquil picture of household happiness and devotion in ‘‘ the Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ has induced Hogg, among others, to > ee 7 . - all e anirit th; Oe Tey ured: believe that it has less than usual of the spirit of the poet, but it has all the spirit that was required; ‘ the toil of the week has ceased, the labourer has returned to his well-ordered home—h cozle P) ; i if ildre sside hir “ne hig : ingle and his clean hearth-stane,’”—and with his wife and children beside him, turns his thoughts to the praise of that God to whom he owes all: this he performs with a reverence and an awe, at once natural, national, and poetic. ‘‘ The Mouse” is a brief and hapj yy and very moying poem: happy, for it delineates, with wonderful truth and life, the agitation of the mouse when the coulter > 7 . . 7 1 > . € fa ,Ic broke into its abode; and moving, for the poet takes the lesson of ruin to himself, and feels the present and dreads the future. mm Cook ‘‘The Mountain Daisy,” once, more properly, called by Burns he Gowan,” resembles ‘‘ The Mouse” in incident and in moral, and is equally happy, in lan- guage and conception. ‘‘The Lament” is a dark, and all but tragic page, from the poet’s own life. ‘*Man was made to Mourn” takes the part of the humble and the homeless, against the coldness and selfishness of the wealthy and the powerful, a favourite topic of meditation with Burns. He refrained, for awhile, from making ‘‘Death and Doctor Hornbook” public; a poem which deviates from the offensiveness of personal satire, into a strain of humour, at once airy and original. His epistles in verse may be reckoned amongst his happiest productions: they are written in all moods of mind, and are, by turns, lively and sad; careless and serious ;—now giving advice, then taking it; laughing at yet admitting, that without Epistle to David Sillar is tl learning, and lamenting its want; scoffing the one he cannot be wise, nor wanting the 1e first of these compositions: the poet has at propriety and wealth, other, independent. The no news to tell, and no Serious question to ask: he has only to communicate his own emotions of joy, or of sorrow, and these he relates and discusses with singular elegance as well as ease, twining, at the same time, into the fabric of his composition, agreeable allusions to the taste and affections of his correspondent. He seems to haye rated the intellect of Sillar as the highest among his rustic friends: he pays him more deference, and addresses him in a higher vein than he observes to others. The Epistles to Lapraik, to Smith, and to Rankine, are in a more familiar, or social mood, and lift the veil from the darkness of the poet’s condition, and exhihit a mind of first-rate power, groping, and that surely, its way to distinction, in spite of humility of birth, obscurity of condition, and the cold- ness of the wealthy or the t itled. The epistles of other poets owe some of their fame to the rank or the reputation of those to whom they are addressed; those of Burns are written, one and all, to nameless and undistingu years, in which, with some ished men, Sillar was a country schoolmaster, Lapraik a moorland laird, Smith a small shop-keeper, and Rankine a farmer, who loved a gill and a joke. Yet these men were the chief friends, the only literary associates of the exceptions, his finest works were written. poet, during those early Burns, while he was writing the poems, the chief of which we have named, was a labouring husbandman on the little farm of Mossgiel, a pursuit which affords but few leisure hours for either reading or pondering; but to him the stubble-field was musing-ground, and the walk behind the plough, a twilight saunter on Parnassus. he was straying in haunted glens, when spirits have power—lookin ‘“«skelping barefoot,” in silks and in scarlets, to a field-preaching—wal the rosy widow, who on Halloween ventured to dip her left sleeve in the lands met—making the “bottle clunk,” with joyous smuggler or if his thoughts at all approached his acts—he W furrow which his own ploughshare had turned. have his own testimony, with that of his brother that he composed the greater p to the summer of 1786, would be evidence sufficient. him, when, in spite of the r hot and sweaty brows occasioned by reaping and tl a ees art of his immortal poems in two years, The muse must ains and sleets of the ‘‘ever-droppi rest” a Sleets of the ‘‘ever-dropping west As, with a careful hand and a steady eye, he guided his horses, and saw an evenly furrow turned up by the share, his thoughts were on other themes; g in fancy on the lasses king in imagination with burn, where three lairds’ s, on a lucky run of gin or brandy— as moralizing on the daisy oppressed by the That his thoughts were thus Wandering we Gilbert; and were both wanting, the certainty from the summer of 1784 have been strong within —when in defiance of the irashing—declining markets, and showeryXXxlil harvests—the clamour of his 1 for his rent, and the tradesman for his account, he persevered in song, and sought solace in verse, when all other solace was denied him. The circumstances under which his principal poems were composed, have been related: the ‘‘Lament of Mailie” found its origin in the catastrophe of a pet ewe; the ‘Epistle to Sillar” was confided by the poet to his brother while they were engaged in weeding the kale-yard; the ‘« Address to the Deil’’ was suggested by the many strange portraits which belief or fear had drawn Satan, and was repeated by the one brother to the other, on the way with their carts to the kiln, for lime; the ‘‘Cotter’s Saturday Night” originated in the reverence with which the worship of God was conducted in the family of the poet’s father, and in the solemn tone with W he desired his children to compose themselves for praise and prayer; ‘‘the Mouse,” and its moral companion ‘‘the Daisy,” were the offspring of the incidents which they relate; and «Death and Doctor Hornbook” was conceived at a freemason-meeting, where the hero of the piece had shown too much of the pedant, and composed on his way home, after midnight, by the poet, while his head was somewhat dizzy with drink. One of the most remarkable of his compo- sitions, » “ Jolly Beggars,” a drama, to which nothing in the language of either the North or South can be compared, and which was unknown till after the death of the author, was suggested by a scene jy he saw in a low ale-house, into which, on a Saturday night, most of the sturdy listrict had met to sell their meal, pledge their superfluous rags, and drink their gains. It may be added, that he loved to walk in solitary spots; that his chief musing-ground was the banks of the Ayr; the season most congenial to his fancy that of winter, when the winds were heard in the leafless woods, and the voice of the swollen streams came from vale and hill; and that he seldom composed a whole poem at once, but satisfied with a few fervent verses, laid ea the subject aside, till the muse summoned him to another exertion of fancy. In a little back closet, still existing in the farm-house of Mossgiel, he committed most of his poems to paper. But while the poet rose, the farmer sank. It was not the cold clayey bottom of his ground, nor the purchase of unsound seed-corn, nor the fluctuation in the markets alone, which injured him: neither was it the taste for freemason socialities, nor a desire to join the mirth of comrades, either of the sea or the shore; neither could it be wholly imputed to his passionate following of the softer sex—indulgence in the ‘‘illicit rove,” or giving way to his eloquence at the feet of one whom he leved and honoured; other farmers indulged in the one, or suffered from the other, yet were prosperous. His want of success arose from other causes: his heart was not wit) nis task, save by fits and starts: he felt he was designed for higher purposes than ploughing and harrowing, and sowing, and reaping: when the sun called on him, after a shower, to come to the plough, or when the ripe corn inyited the sickle, or the ready market called for the measured grain, the poet was under other spells, and was slow to avail himself of those golden moments, which come but once in the season. ‘To this may be added, a too superficial knowledge of the art of farming, and a want of intimacy with the nature of the soil he was called to cultivate. He could speak fluently of leas, and faughs, and fallows, of change of seed and rotation of crops, but practical i knowledge and application were required, and in these Burns was deficient. The moderate gain which those dark days of agriculture brought to the economical farmer, was not obtained: the close, the all but niggardly care by which he could win and keep his crown-pieces,—gold was seldom in the farmer’s hand,—was either above or below the mind of the poet, and Mossgiel, which, in the hands of an assiduous farmer, might have made a reasonable return for labour, was unproductive, under one who had little skill, less economy, and no taste for the task. Other reasons for his failure haye been assigned. It is to the credit of the moral sentiments of the husbandmen of Scotland, that when one of their class forgets what virtue requires, and dishonours, without reparation, even the humblest of the maidens, he is not allowed to go unpun- ished. No proceedings take place, perhaps one hard word is not spoken; but he is regarded with loathing by the old and the devout; he is looked on by all with cold and reproachful eyes—sorrow is foretold as his lot, sure disaster as his fortune; and if these chance to arrive, the only sympathy expressed is, ‘‘What better could he expect ?” Something of this sort befel Burns: he had already satisfied the kirk in the matter of ‘‘Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,” his daughter, by one of his mother’s maids; and pow, to use his own words, he was brought within point-blank 3 it a ee En ent (nd Se aeeemaeee ee Sn eR | een ee a cs a Ee Pe aS ne aaa = vee la 2 od Se : tn LTE a PTY eer, el ee teee eee eee 2 fe Sees ee Sa er ere XXXIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. c of the heaviest metal of the kirk by a similar folly. The fair transgressor, both for her father’s sake and her own youth, had a large share of public sympathy. Jean Armour, for it is of her | speak, was in her eighteenth year: with dark eyes, a handsome foot, and a melodious tongue, she Seca S = 5S 7 . and, as their stations in life were equal, it seemed that they made her way to the poet’s heart . ut had only to be satisfied themselves to render their union easy. But her father, in addition to being a very devout man, was a zealot of the Old Light; and Jean, dreading his resentment, was willing, while she loved its unforgiven satirist, to love him in secret, in the hope that the time would come when she migh‘ safely avow it: she admitted the poet, therefore, to her company in lonesome places, and walks beneath the moon, where they both forgot themselves, and were at last obliged to own a private marriage as a protection from kirk censure. The professors of the Old Light rejoiced, since it brought a scoffing rhymer within reach of their hand; but her father felt a twofold sorrow, because of the shame of a favourite daughter, and for haying committed the folly with one both loose in conduct and profane of speech. He had cause to be angry, but his anger, through his zeal, became tyrannous: in the exercise of what he called a father’s power, he compelled his child to renounce the poet as her husband and burn the marriage-lines; for he regarded her marriage, without the kirk’s permission, with a man so utterly cast away, as a worse crime than her folly. So blind is anger! She could renounce neither her husband ner his off- spring in a lawful way, and in spite of the destruction of the marriage lines, and renouncing ws name of wife, she was as much Mrs. Burns as marriage could make her. No one concerned seemed to think so. Burns, who loved her tenderly, went all but mad when she renounced him: he gaye up his share of Mossgiel to his brother, and roamed, moody and idle, about the land, with ne better aim in life than a situation in one of our western sugar-isles, and a vague hope of distinction as a poet. How the distinction which he desired as a poet was to be obtained, was, to a poor bard in a provincial place, a sore puzzle: there were no enterprising booksellers in the western land, and it was not to be expected that the printers of either Kilmarnock or Paisley had money to expend on a speculation in rhyme: it is much to the honour of his native county that the publication which he wished for was at last made easy. The best of his poems, in his own handwriting, had found their way into the hands of the Ballantynes, Hamiltons, Parkers, and Mackenzies, and were much admired. Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, a lady of distinction and taste, had made, accidentally, the acquaintance both of Burns and some of his songs, and was ready to befriend him; and so favourable was the impression on all hands, that a subscription, sufficient to defray the outlay of paper and print, was soon filled up—one hundred copies being subscribed for by the Parkers alone. He soon arranged materials for a volume, and put them into the hands of a printer in Kilmarnock, the Wee Johnnie of one of his biting epigrams. Johnnie was startled at the unceremonious freedom of most of the pieces, and asked the poet to compose one of modest lan- guage and moral aim, to stand at the beginning, and excuse some of those free ones which followed: Burns, whose “Twa Dogs” was then incomplete, finished the poem at a sitting, and put it im the van, much to his printer’s satisfaction. If the « Jolly Beggars” was omitted for any other cause than its freedom of sentiment and language, or ‘Death and Doctor Hornbook” from any other feeling than that of being too personal, the causes of their exclusion have remained a secret. It is less easy to account for the omission of many songs of high merit which he had among his papers: perhaps he thought those which he selected were sufficient to test the taste of the public. Before he printed the whole, he, with the consent of his brotl 1er, altered his name from Burress to Burns, a change which, I am told, he in after years regretted. in the summer of the year 1786, the little volume, big with the hopes and fortunes of the bard, madeiits appearance: it was entitled simply, ‘* Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect ; by Robert and accompanied by a modest preface, saying, that he submitted his book to his country with fear and with trembling, since it contained little of the art of poesie, and at the best was red, and uncouth, to the loves. the hopes, and the fears of his own e . . . *. s bosom. Had a summer sun risen on a winter morning, 1t could not have surprised the Lowlands of Scotland more than this Kilmarnock vy olume surprised and delighted the people, one and all. The mil kmaid sang his songs, the ploughman repeated his poems; the old quoted both, and even Burns ;” but:a voice given, rude, he feaHIS FIRST VOLUME OF POEMS. XX? the deyout rejoiced that idle verse had at last mixed a tone of morality with its mirth. The + o.ume penetrated even into Nithsdale. ‘‘ Keep it out of the way of your children,” said a rhen he s Cameronian divine, w lent it to my father, ‘‘ lest ye find them, as I found mine, reading it on the Sabbath.’? No wonder that such a yolume made its way to the hearts of a peasantry whose taste in poetry had been the marvel of many writers: the poems were mostly on topics with which they were familiar: the language was that of the fireside, raised above the vulgarities of common life, by a purifying spirit of expression and the exalting fervour of inspiration : and there was such a brilliant and graceful mixture of the elegant and the homely, the lofty and the low, the familiar and the elevated—such a rapid succession of scenes which moved to tenderness or tears; or to subdued mirth or open laughter—unlooked for allusions to scripture, or touches of sarcasm and scandal—of superstitions to scare, and of humour to delight—while through the whole was diffused, as the scent of flowers through summer air, a moral meaning bill a sentimental beauty, which sweetened and sanctified all. The poet's expectations from this little venture were humble: he hoped as much money from it as would pay for his passage to the West Indies, where 1e proposed to enter into the service of some of the Scottish settlers, and help to manage the double mystery of sugar-making and slavery. The hearty applause which I have recorded came chiefly from the husbandman, the shepherd, I and the mechanic: the approbation of the magnates of the west, though not less warm, was longer in coming. Mrs. Stewart of Stair, indeed, commended the poems and chee red their author: Dugald Stewart received his visits with pleasure, and wondered at his vigour of conver- cation as much as at his muse: the door of the house of Hamilton was open to him, where the table was ever spread, and the hand ever ready to help: while the purses of the Ballantynes and the Parkers were always as open to him as were the doors of their houses. Those persons must be regarded as the real patrons of the poet: the high names of the district are not to ke found among those who helped him with purse and patronage in 1786, that year of deep distress and hich distinction. The Montgomerys came with their praise when his fame was up; the Kennedys and the Boswells were silent: and though the Cunninghams gave effectual ald, it was when the muse was crying with a loud voice before him, “ Come all and see the man whom [ delight to honour.” It would be unjust as well as ungenerous not to mention the name of Mrs. Dunlop among the poet’s best and early patrons: the distance at which she lived from Mossgiel had kept his name from her till his poems appeared: but his works induced her to desire his acquaintance, and she became his warmest and surest friend. To say the truth, Burns endeavoured in every honourable way to obtain the notice of those who had influence in the land: he copied out the best of his unpublished poems in a fair hand, and inserting them in his printed volume, presented it to those who seemed slow to buy: he rewarded the attentions of that one with a sally of encomiastic verse: the notice of this one with a song he left psalms of his own composing in the manse when he feasted with a divine: he enclosed “oly Willie’s Prayer,” with an injunction to be grave, to one who loved mirth: he sent the) ‘“‘ Holy Fair’ to one whom he inyited to drink a gill out of a mutchkin stoup, at Mauchline market ; ae on accidentally meeting with Lord Daer, he immediately commemorated the event ly of verse, of a strain more free and yet as flattering as ever flowed from the lips of a 1ose on whom fortune had smiled, yet who had Alexander, a young beauty of in a sal court bard. While musing over the names of tl neglected to smile on him, he remembered that he had met Miss the west, in the walks of Ballochmyle; and he recorded the impression which this fair vision He had met her in the woods in from made on him in a song of unequalled elegance and melody. July, on the 18th of November he sent her the song, and reminded her of the circumstance which it arose, in a letter which it is evident he had laboured to render polished and complimen- tary. The young lady took no notice of either the song or the poet, though willing, it is said, te hear of both now :—this seems to have been the last attempt he made on the taste or the sympa- thies of the gentry of his native district: for on the very day following we find him busy in mak ing arrangements for his departure to J: umaica For this step Burns had more than rr cient reasons: the profits of his v Wee Johnnie, though the edition was olume amounted ta little more than enough to waft him across the Atlantic : ee ae B Se a BIE Wereck eer Paes Sm Se a al as Ce ee eae Sez aS he SS Pale ANAC it ee SPO PHeen et ee he ny eT Eat Tran LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Bier na = ee XXXVI all sold, refused to risk another on speculation: his friends, both Ballantynes ang Parkers, volunteered to relieve the printer’s anxieties, but the poet declined thetr bounty, une glvomuly indented himself in a ship about to sail from Greenock, and called on ate muse sorter farewell of Caledonia, in the last song he ever expected to measure in his native land. That aE lyric, beginning ‘‘ The gloomy night is gathering fast,” was the offspring of these a ments of xEeree ad sorrow. His feelings were not expressed in song alone: he remembered his mother and his natural daughter, and made an assignment of all that pertained to him at Mossgiel—and that was but little and of all the advantage which a cruel, unjust, and insulting law allowed in the proceeds of his poems, for their support and behoof. This document was publicly read in the presence of the poet, at the market-cross of Ayr, by his friend William Chalmers, a notary buble: Eyen this step was to Burns one of danger: some ill-advised person had uncoupled the mcrouess pack of the law at his heels, and he was obliged to shelter himself as he best could, in woods, it is said, by day and in barns by night, till the final hour of his departure came. That hour arrived, and his chest was on the way to the ship, when a letter was put into his hand which scemed to light him to brighter prospects. Among the friends whom his merits had procured him was Dr. Laurie, a district clergyman, who had taste enough to admire the deep sensibilities as well as the humour of the poet, and the generosity to make known both his works and his worth to the warm-hearted and amiable Black- iocle who boldly proclaimed him a poet of the first rank, and lamented that he was notin Edinburgh to publish another edition of his poems. Burns was ever a man of impulse: he recalled his chest from Greenock; he relinquished the situation he had accepted on the estate of one Douglas; took a, secret leave of his mother, and, without an introduction to any one, and unknown personally to all, save to Dugald Stewart, away he walked, through Glenap, to Edinburgh, full of new hope and confiding in his genius. When he arrived, he scarcely knew what to do: he hesitated to call on the professor; he refrained from making himself known, as it has been supposed he did, to the enthusiastic Blacklock; but, sitting down in an obscure lodging, he sought out an obscure printer, recommended by a humble comrade from Kyle, and began to negotiate for a new edition of the Poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman. This was not the way to go aboutit: his barge had well nigh been shipwrecked in the launch; and he might have lived to regret the letter which hindered his voyage to Jamaica, had he not met by chance in the street a gentleman of the west, of the name of Dalzell, who introduced him to the Earl of Glencairn, a nobleman whose classic education did not hurt his taste for Scottish poetry, and who was not too proud to lend his help- ing hand to a rustic stranger of such merit as Burns. Cunningham carried him to Creech, then the Murray of Edinburgh, a shrewd man of business, who opened the poet’s eyes to his true interests: the first proposals, then all but issued, were put in the fire, and new ones printed and diffused over the island. The subscription was headed by half the noblemen of the north: the Caledonian Hunt, through the interest of Glencairn, took six hundred copies: duchesses and countesses swelled the list, and such a crowding to write down names had not been witnessed since the signing of the solemn league and covenant. While the subscription-papers were filling and the new volume printing on a paper and ina type worthy of such high patronage, Burns remained in Edinburgh, where, for the winter season, he was a lion, and one of an unwonted kind. Philosophers, historians, and scholars had shaken the elegant coteries of the city with their wit, or enlightened them with their learning, but they weré all men who had been polished by polite letters or by intercourse with high life, and there was @ sameness in their very dress as well as address, of which peers and peeresses had become weary. They therefore welcomed this rustic candidate for the honour of giving wings to their hours of lassitude and we; winess, with a welcome more than common; and when his approach was announced, the polished circle looked for the advent of a lout from the plough, in whose uncouth manners and embarrassed address they might find m atter both for mirth and wonder. But they met with a barbarian who was not at all barbarous: as the poet met in Lord Daer feel- ings and sentiments as natural as those of a ploughman, so they met in a ploughman manners worthy of a lord: his air was easy and unperplexed: his address w as perfectly well-bred, and elegant in its simplicity : he felt neither eclipsed by the titled nor struck dumb before the‘ AY Tr HIGHLAND MARY. XxxXxvN Jearned and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one borntoit. In tha society of men alone he spoke out: he spared neither his wit, his humour, nor his sarcasm—he seemed to say to all—‘‘I am a man, and you are no more; and why should I not act and speak ike one ?”’—it was remarked, however, that he had not learnt, or did not desire, to conceal his emotions—that he commended with more rapture than was courteous, and contradicted with more luntness than was accounted polite. It was thus with him in the company of men: when woman approached, his look altered, his eye beamed milder ; all that was stern in his nature underwent a chang ul received them with deference, but with a consciousness that he could win their attention as he had won that of others, who differed, indeed, from them only in the texture of their kirtles. This natural power of rendering himself acceptable to women had been observed and envied by Sillar, one of the dearest of his early comrades; and it stood him in go d stead now, when he was the object to whom the Duchess of Gordon, the loveliest as well as the wittiest of women rected her discourse. Burns, she afterwards said, won the attention of the Edinburgh lad by a deferential way of address—by an ease and natural grace of manners, as new as it was unexpected—that he told them the stories of some of his tenderest songs or liveliest poems in a style quite magical—enriching his little narratives, which had one and all the merit of being short, with personal incidents of humour or of pathos. In a party, when Dr. Blair and Professor Walker were present, Burns related the circumstances under which he had comy osed his melancholy song, ‘‘ The gloomy night is gathering fast,’> in a way even more touching than the verses: and in the company of the ruling beauties of the time, he hesitated not to lift the veil from some of the tenderer parts of his own history, and give them impses of the romance of rustic life. A lady of birth—one of his most willing listeners—used, JT am told, to say, that she should never forget the tale which he related of his affection for Mary Campbell, his Highland Mary, as he loved to call her. She was fair, he said, and affectionate. ss as she was beautiful ; and as guilel - and beautiful he thought her in a very high degree. The first time he saw her was during one of his musing walks in the woods of Montgomery Castle; and the first time he spoke to her was during the merriment of a harvest-kirn. There were others there who admired her, but he addressed her, and had the luck to win her regard from them all. He soon found that she was the lass whom he had long sought, but never before found—that her zood looks were surpassed by her good sense; and her good sense was e jualled by her discretion and modesty. He met her frequently: she saw by his looks that he was sincere; she put full trust in his love, and used to wander with him among the green knowes and stream-banks till the sun went down and the moon rose, talking, dreaming of love and the golden days which awaited them. He was poor, and she had only her half-year’s fee, for she was in the condition of a ser- vant: but thoughts of gear never darkened their dream: they reso lved to wed, and exchanged vows of constancy and love. They plighted their vows on the S: ibbath to render them more sacred—they made them by a burn, where they had courted, that open nature might be a witness —they made them over an open Bible, to show that they thought of God in this mutual act—and when they had done they both took water in their hands, and scattered it in the air, to intimate that as the stream was pure so were their intentions. They parted when they did this, but they parted-never to meet more: she died in a burning fever, during a visit to her relations to prepare for her marriage; and all that he had of her was a lock of her long bright hair, and her Bible, which she exchanged for his. Even with the tales which he related of rustic love and adventure his own story mingled; and ladies of rank heard, for the first time, that in all that was romantic in the passion of love, snd in all that was chivalrous in sentiment, men of distinction, both by education and birth, were at least equalled by the peasantry of the land. They listened with interest, and inclined their feathers beside the bard, to hear how love went on in the west, and in no case it ran quite smooth. Sometimes young hearts were kept asunder by the sordid feelings of parents, 1aps an only one, on a wooer who could not count penny daughter to look higher than who could not be persuaded to bestow their daughter, perh for penny, and number cow for cow: sometimes a mother desired her to one of her station; for her beauty and her education entitle ~ather than the tenants: and sometimes, the devotional tastes of both father and mother, d her to match among the lairds, —___—_4 roles ime nein 5 4 - 7 Lit a 3 < ‘ Fy Lal 7 "1 Bait ee ea eee at oe OE TT Fi rents Seat en tenes oi cate Le Rc a a ne Ee piel ere TA Neee ee ae XXXVlil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. approving of personal looks and connexions, were averse to see a daughter bestow her hand on one, whose language in religion was indiscreet, and whose morals were suspected. Yet, neither the vigilance of fathers, nor the suspicious care of aunts and mothers, could succeed in keeping those asunder whose hearts were together; but in these meetings circumspection and invention were necessary: all fears were to be lulled by the seeming carelessness of the lass,—all perils were to be met and braved by the spirit of the lad. His home, perhaps, was at a distance, and he had wild woods to come through, and deep streams to pass, before he could see the signal-light, now shown and now withdrawn, at her window; he had to approach with a quick eye and a wary foot, lest a father or a brother should see, and deter him: he had sometimes to wish for a cloud upon the moon, whose light, welcome to him on his way in the distance, was likely to betray him when near; and he not unfrequently reckoned a wild night of wind and rain as a blessing, since it helped to conceal his coming, and proved to his mistress that he was ready to brave all for her sake. Of rivals met and baffled; of half-willing and half-unconsenting maidens, persuaded and won; of the light-hearted and the careless becoming affectionate and tender; and the coy, the proud, and the satiric being gained by ‘persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs,” as dames had been gained of old, he had tales enow. The ladies listened, and smiled at the tender narra- tives of the poet. Of his appearance among the sons as well as the daughters of men, we have the account of Dugald Stewart. ‘* Burns,” says the philosopher, ‘‘ came to Bdinburgh early in the winter: the attentions which he received from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country : his dress was suited to his station; plain and unpretending, with sufficient attention to neatness: he always wore boots, and, when on more than usual ceremony, buckskin breeches. His manners were manly, simple, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any indication of forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him, and listened with apparent deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he would have been still more interesting; but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of anything approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing perhaps was more remark- able among his various attainments, than the fluency and precision and originality of language, when he spoke in company; more particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. From his conversation I should have pronounced him to haye been fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. He was passionately fond of the beauties of nature, and I recollect he once told me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our , which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and worth which cot- tages contained.” Such was the impression which Burns made at first on the fair, the titled, and the learned of Edinburgh ; an impression which, though lessened by intimacy and closer examination on the part of the men, remained unimpaired, on that of the softer sex, till his dying-day. His com- pany, during the season of balls and festivities, continued to be courted by all who desired to he reckoned gay or polite. Cards of inyitation fell thick on him; he was not more welcome to the plumed and jewelled groups, whom her fascinating Grace of Gordon gathered about her, than he was to the grave diyines and polished scholars morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gaye a pleasure to his mind , who assembled in the rooms of Stewart, or Blair, or Robertson. The classic socialities of Tytler, afterwards Lord Woodhouslee, or the elaborate supper-tables of the whimsical Monboddo, whose guests imagined they were entertained in the manner of Lucullus or of Cicero, were not complete without the presence of the ploughman of Kyle; and the feelings of the rustic poet, facing such companies, thouch of surprise and delight at first, gradually subsided, he said, | . as he discerned, that man differed from man only in the polish, and not in the grain. > yy . - = z 3 A But Edinburgh offered tables and entertainers of a less order ySOGIETY OF EDINBURGH. XXX1X and staid character than those I have named—where the glass circulated with greater rapidity ; where the wit flowed more freely ; and where there were neither highbred ladies to charm con- n the bounds of modesty, nor serious philosophers, nor grave divines, to set a limit to the license of speech, or the hours of enjoyment. To these companions—and these were all of the better classes, the leyities of the rustic poet’s wit and humour were as welcome as were the tenderest of his narratives to the accomplished Duchess of Gordon and the beautiful Miss Burnet of Monboddo; they raised a social roar not at all classic, and demanded and provoked his sallies of wild humour, or indecorous mirth, with as much delight as he had witnessed among < =e o the lads of Kyle, when, at mill or forge, his humorous sallies abounded as the ale flowed. To these enjoyments the rough, but learned William Nicol, and the young and amiable Robert Ains- lie shared: the name of the poet was ¢ upled with those of profane wits, free livers, and that f law, or for a season or two wear the class of half-idle gentlemen who hang about the courts of livery of Mars, and han lle cold iron. Edinburgh had still another class of genteel convivialists, to whom the poet was attracted by principles as well as by } leasure: these were the relics of that once numerous body, the Jacobites, who still loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education rather than of judgment, and toasted *Stuart, when the last of the race had renounced his pretensions to a throne, for the 8a peace and the cross. Young men then, and high names were among them, annually met on the pretender’s birth-day, and sang songs in which the white rose of Jacobitism flourished ; toasted toasts announcing adherence to the male line of the Bruce and the Stuart, and listened to the strains of the laureate of the day, who prophesied, in drink, the dismissal of the intrusive Ilanoverian, by the right and might of the righteous and disinherited line. Burns, who was descended from a northern race, whose father was suspected of having drawn the claymore in 1745. and who loved the blood of the Keith-Marishalls, under whose banners his ancestors had f to a band in whose sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer. marched, readily united himself Ile was received with acclamation: the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and hig inauguration ode, in which he recalled the names and the deeds of the Grahams, the Erskines, the Boyds, an 1 the Gordons, was applauded for its fire, as well as for its sentiments. Yet, though he ate and drank and sang with Jacobites, he was only as far as sympathy and poesie went, of their number: his reason renounced the principles and the religion of the Stuart line ; and though their fallen fortunes—though he sympathized with the brave and honourable he shed a tear over 1 «the butcher, Cumberland,” and the bloody names that perished in their cause—though he curset spirit which commanded the heads of the good and the heroic to be stuck where they would affright iad no desire to see the splendid fabric of constitutional hrown wantonly down. His Jacobitism of his lyric compositions. the passer-by, and pollute the air—he | freedom, which the united genius of 1eart, and gave a mournful hue to many Burns made a few emendations of those all parties had raised, t influenced, not his head, but his | Meanwhile his poems were passing through the press. edition, and he added others carded and spun, since he passed Glenbuck. Some rather coarse lines were softened or omitted f his personal feelings, were made in the ‘‘ Vision:” published in the Kilmarnock which, as he expressed it, he had others, from a change 0 led before, was admitted now: the ‘¢ Dream” of Stair, and Mrs. Dunlop ; and the ‘“ Brigs of Ayr,’ nt to his patrons in his native district, and the ‘‘ Address to Edinburgh,” in honour of his titled and distinguished friends in that metropolis, were printed for the first time. his friends, classic, titled, and rustic, found t he was genetally of complimental in the ‘* Twa Dogs ;” <¢ Death and Doctor Hornbook,”’ exclut was retained, ix spite of the remonstrances of Mrs. Stewart, in complime Ile was unwilling to alter what he had once printed: stubborn and unpliable, in matters of criticism; ye hit mood: he loaded the robe of Coila in the ‘* Vision,” with more scenes than it could well contain, and he gave more -seats of his friends pect to his friend Mrs. Dunlop. Of that it was unfit ‘t include in the landscape, all the country of commendation to the Wallaces, out of res thread of their criticisms so fine satisfied with any Scottish that he mig! than their share Edinburgh he said, they spun the its scholars, he said, they were never ess they could trace him in Horace. One morning at Dr. Blair’s breakfast-table, when bject of conversation, the reverend critic said, ‘* Why should the critics of for either warp or weft; and of poet, unl the ‘‘ Holy Fair” was the su Rah eg AY es Ft ye < nl oes ie Sea Fr ANT oe ~ MEST Some yeay 4 eat) 57. ee EE eae oo 4 = ae 3 feeeeimetemn ee De ae a eee ee a RR Pe ee meee aie pena oeee = ba. Moody speel the holy door With tidings of salvation ?’ i i ith tidings mnati satire would have been the better and the bitterer.” if you had said, with tidings of damnation, the satire wou ar ce Excellent!” exclaimed the poet, ‘‘the alteration is capital, and I hope you will honour me by allowing me to say in a note at whose suggestion it was made.” Professor Walker, who tells the anecdote, adds that Blair evaded, with equal good humour and decision, this not yobs polite request; nor was this the only slip which the poet made on this occasion: some one asked him in which of the churches of Edinburgh he had received the highest gratification: he named tLo High-church, but gave the preference over all preachers to Robent Walker, the colleague and rival in eloquence of Dr. Blair himself, and that in a tone so pointed and decisive as to make all at the table stare and look embarrassed. The poet confessed afterwards that he never reflected on his blunder without pain and mortification. Blair probably had this in his mind, when, on reading the poem beginning ‘“‘ When Guildford good our pilot stood,” he exclaimed, ‘Ah! the politics of Burns always smell of the smithy,” meaning, that they were yulgar and common. In April, the second or Edinburgh, edition was published: it was widely purchased, and as warmly commended. The country had been prepared for it by the generous and discriminating criticisms of Henry Mackenzie, published in that popular periodical, «The Lounger,” where he says, ‘‘ Burns possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of a poet; that honest pride and Indep ete dence of soul, which are sometimes the muse’s only dower, break forth on every occasion, in his works.” The praise of the author of the ‘Man of Feeling” was not more felt by Burns, than it was by the whole island: the harp of the north had not been swept for centuries by a hand so forcible, and at the same time so varied, that it awakened every tone, whether of joy or woe: the language was that of rustic life; the scenes of the poems were the dusty barn, the clay-floored reeky cottage, and the furrowed field; and the characters were cowherds. ploughmen, and mechanics. The yolume was embellished by a head of the poet from the hand of the now vene- rable Alexander Nasmith; and introduced by a dedication to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, in a style of vehement independence, unknown hitherto in the history of sub- scriptions. The whole work, verse. prose, and portrait, won public attention, and k« pt it: and though some critics signified their displeasure at. expressions which bordered on profanity, and at a license of language which they pronounced impure, by far the greater number united their praise to the all but general voice: nay, some scrupled not to call him, from his perfect ease and nature and variety, the Scottish Shakspeare. No one rejoiced more in his success and his fame, than the matron of Mossgiel. Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of Burns in Edinburgh. He had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of Allan Ramsay; he traced out his residences, and rejoiced to think that while he stood in the shop of his own bookseller, Creech, the same floor had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He visited, too, the lowly grave of the unfor- tunate Robert Fergusson; and it must be recorded to the sl 1ame of the magistrates of Edinburgh, that they allowed him to erect a he adstone to his memory, and to the scandal of Scotland, that in such a memorial he had not been anticipated. scholars or philosophers; and he trod tl walked without any emotion. He seems not to have regarded the graves of 1¢ pavements where the warlike princes and nobles had He loved, however, to see places celebrated in Scottish song, and fields where battles for the independence of his country h his pocket which his poems had produced, and with a letter from a witty but weak man, Lord Buchan, instructing him to pull birks on the Yarrow, neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh Abbey, Robert Ainslie, of Berrywell. As the ad been stricken; and, with money in broom on the Cowden-knowes, and not to Burns set out on a border tour, accompanied by poet had talked of returning to the plough, Dr. Blair imagined that he was on his way back to the furrowed field, and wrote him a handsome farewell, saying he was leaving ‘dinburgh with a character which had name which would be placed with the Ramsays and the } that, in a second volume, on whic survived many temptations; with a ‘ergussons, and with the hopes of all, h his fate as a poet would very mucl 1 depend, he might rise yet higher in merit and in fame. Burns, who received this co mmunication when laying his leg over} « | a la ~ J s AT; A Sy +} 4 } - a ° y . , ( headed, and of Miss nslie. that she was amiable and handsome—of Dudgeon, the author f osc) AMfos4d that tends tl ’ to 1? thot } natrat : I The Maid that tends ie Goats,” that he had penetration an L modesty, and of the preacher, Bormaker, that he was a man of strong lungs and yigorous remark. On crossing the Tweed at On the 6th of May, 1787, Burns reached Berrywell: he recorded of the laird, that he was | | \ | i ea r’s Saturday Night on returning, he drank tea with Brydone, the traveller, a man, he | l and » cursed one Cole as an English Hottentot, for haying rooted out an | o len belong to a Romish ruin; and he wrote of Macdowal, of Cayerton-mill, tnat |b: r * sheep, he sold his flocks, ewe and lamb, for a cou] e of guineas each: tkat | he washed his sheep before shearing—and by his turnips impr yved sheep-husbandry; he a lded, i | shat lands were cenerally let at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre; the farmers rich, and, com- | ] l to Ayrshire, their houses magnificent. On his way to Jedburgh he visited an. ld gentleman in whose house was an arm-chair, once the property of the author of ‘* The Seasons;” he | | x ¢ l the reli 1d could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it: he was a warm In Jedburgh, Burns found much to interest him: the ruins of a splendid cathedral, and of a | strong castle—and, what was still more attractive, an amiable young lady, very handsome, with | l eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture,” and looks which betokened 1 | « hich order of female mind. He gave her his portrait, and entered this remembrance of her 4 attractions among his memoranda :—‘ My heart is thawed into melting pleasure, after being so long n up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. : I am afraid my bosom has nearly as much tinder as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks: sweet Isabella Lin lsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love!” With the freedom of Jedburgh, hand- by the magistrates, in his pocket, Burns made his way to Wauchope, the resi- | dence of Mrs. Scott, who had welcomed him into the world as a poet in verses lively and graceful: | he found her, he said, ‘‘a lady of sense and taste, and of a decision peculiar to female authors.”’ ‘th Sir Alexander Don, who, he said, was a clever man, but far from a match for hour among the beautiful ruins of his divine lady, a sister of his patron Glencairn, he spent an oa cea i one enero Ki ve anata ees passed, unconscious of the future | Dry! urgh Abbey; glanced en the splendid remains of Melrose ; over that ground on which have arisen the romantic towers of Abbotsford; dined with certain of the Souters of Selkirk; and visited the old keep of Thomas the Rhymer, and a dozen of the hills and streams celebrated in song. Nor did he fail to pay his respects, after returning through Dunse, to Sir James Hall, of eae a his lady, and was much pleased with the scenery of | their romantic place. He was now joined by a ge ntleman of the name of Kerr, and crossing the Tweed a second time, penetrated into England, as far as the ancient town of Newcastle, where 10 at dinner caused the beef to be eaten before the lest the hungry Scotch shou ld come broth was served, in obedience to an ancient injunction, - his own fortune—the | | he smiled-at a facetious Northumbrian, wl | and snatch it. On his way back he saw, what proved to be prophetic of roup of an unfortunate farmer’s stock: he took out his journal, and wrote with a troubled brow, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatis per- a nanan deans si i : Se Riz.d economy, and decent industry, ” He extended his tour to Carlisle, and from thence to the b: inks lisland, with the intention of trying once more his so), in such a scene of horror. of the Nith, where he looked at the farm of El fortune at the plough, should poetry and patronage f fail him. a few days with his mother at Mossgiel: he had he returned in fame and in sunshine, admired He felt offended alike with the patrician - and dreading On his way through the West, Burns spent left her an unknown and an almost banished man: by all who aspired to be t hought tasteful or refined. lebeian servility of the husbandmen of Ayrshire stateliness of Edinburgh os the p socket Milton, he y star which had hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a } animity, and noble the influence of the unlue said, for the purpose of studying the intrepl id independence and daring magn defiance of harelships, exhibited by Satan! Jn this mood he reached Edinbu rgh —i aly to leave it > ene allen eT PenneOF ROBERT BURNS. | | xl LIF i again on three hurried excursions into the Highlands. The route which he took and the senti- ments which the scenes awakened, are but faintly intimated in the memoranda which he made. His first journey seems to have been performed in ill-humour; at Stirling, his Jacobitism, provoked at seeing the ruined palace of the Stuarts, broke out in some unloyal lines which he had the indiscretion to write with a diamond on the window of a public inn. At Carron, where he was | refused a sight of the magnificent foundry, he avenged himself in epigram. At Inverary he resented some real or imaginary neglect on the part of his Grace of Argyll, by a stinging lampoon; nor can he be said to have fairly regained his serenity of temper, till he danced his wrath away with some Highland ladies at Dumbarton. His second excursion was made in the company of Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate: the reluctant { doors of Carron foundry were opened to him, and he expressed his wonder at the blazing furnaces and broiling labours of the place; he removed the disloyal lines from the window of the inn at Stirling, and he paid a two days’ visit to Ramsay of Ochtertyre, a distinguished scholar, and dis- cussed with him future topics for the muse. ‘I have been in the company of many men of genius,” said Ramsay afterwards to Currie, ‘‘some of them poets, but never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him—the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire.” From the Forth he went to the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan, where, for the first time, he saw the beautiful Charlotte Hamilton, the sister of his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauch- line. ‘She is not only beautiful,” he thus writes to her brother, ‘but lovely: her form is elegant, her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness, and the settled compla- cency of good nature in the highest degree. Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness and a noble mind. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne’s mistress : — ‘¢ Her pure and eloquent blood | Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one would almost say her b dy thought.” | Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, who, I in the belief that she had the blood of the royal Bruce in her veins, received the poet with some- thing of princely state, and, half in jest, conferred the honour of knighthood upon him, with her ancestor’s sword, saying, in true Jacobitical mood, that she had a better right to do that than some folk had! In the same pleasing company he visited the famous cataract on the Devon, called the Cauldron Linn, and the Rumbling bridge, a single arch thrown, it is said by the devil, over the Devon, at the height of a hundred feet in the air. It was the complaint of his compa- nions that Burns exhibited no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such magni- | ficent scenes. But he did not like to be tutored or prompted: ‘Look, look!” one, as Carron foundry belched forth flames—‘‘look, Burns, look! good heavens, what a grand sight!—look!” «J would not look—look, sir, at your bidding,” “‘were it into the mouth of hell!” exclaimed some said the bard, turning away, When he visited, at a future time, the romantic Linn of Cree- hope, in Nithsdale, he looked silently at its wonder 8s, and showed none of the hoped-for rapture. ‘* You do not admire it, I fear,” said a gentleman who accompanied him: ‘I could not admire it more, sir,” replied Burns, ‘if He who made it were to desire me to do it.’ for the silence of Burns amid the scenes of the Dey and the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, ¢ > See —— Cee ee ero ——— — —- ee seer ene el - eee — There are other reasons on: he was charmed into love by the sense und rendered her homage in that sweet song, ‘* The Banks and in a dozen letters written with more than tenderness. But the lady y ee Rote ean enoes of the Devon, his usual care, elegance, and ras neither to be won by verse nor by prose: TH 1) ‘ r } 91) + Yay « \ ¢ ] 7 i her hand to Adair, the poet's companion, and, what was less meritorious, ii the fire. she afterwards gave threw his letters into II The third and last tour into the North was in company of Nicol of the High-School of Edin- | I burgh: on the fields of Bannockburn and Falkirk—places of triumph and of woe to Scotland, he gave way to patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded tl | E 1em :—*‘‘ Stirling, August 26, 1787: this morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal | Wallace; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old Cal j | edonia, over the hole in a whins LTT TESCO NT ME Ns EN Se SOE - nea Ne ES EN AAR Ke A A AI AM SaHIGHLAND TOUR. xiii Sw ] [ao ™ | or ] ; ed his royal stan Jard on the banks of Bannockburn.” He then stone where Robert the Bruce fixed proceeded n rthward by Ochtertyre, the water of Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the tradi tionary grave of Ossian. He looked in at princely Taymouth ; mused an hour or two among the 1 amid the wild grandeur of the pass of Pp Birk t \ | ts lv: : } >* irks of Aberfeldy; gazed from Birnam top; pause Pe Snr ry icia } ce } } igs : \ ; ] Killiecrankie, at the stone which marks the spot where a sec nd patriot Graham fell, and spent a av at Riair. wher ; a 1 +] omnnett es } ] ‘ie : dsy ot Blair, where he experienced the gt .ceful kindness - -ne Duke of Ath l, and in a strain tray elegant, petitioned him, in the name of Bruar Water, to hide the utter nakedness of its 1 otherwise picturesque banks, wl h plantations « f birch and onk. Quitting Blair he foll wed the course of the Spey, and passing, as he told his brother, through a wild country, among cliffs gray with « al snows, and glens gloomy and savage, rea ‘hed Findhorn in mist and darkness ; visited Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered Duncan; hastened thr uch Inverness to Urquhart Castle. and the Falls of Fyers, and turned southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of Cullo- den. He admired the ladies of that classic region for their snooded ringlets, simple elegance of I dress, and expressive eyes: in Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock Castle, he found that matronly grace and dienity which he owned he loved; and in the Duke and Duchess of Gordon a renewal of that more han lkindnea 14 shal hac val ’ . + - 5 ? 1s : than kindness with which they had welcomed him in Edinburgh. But while he admired the bers, and was charmed by the condescensions of the noble ] roprietors, he forgot ochabe1 be pleased at fayours showered that he had left a companion at the inn, too proud and captious to i 4 ogy: he found the fiery ] ned back to the inn with an invitation and an apo pedant in a foaming rage, striding up and down the street, cursing in Scotch and Latin the loitering postilions for not yoking the horses, and hurrying him away. All apology and explanation was ‘n vain, and Burns, with a vexation which he sought not to conceal, took his seat silently beside the banks of Endermay the irascible pedagogue, and rt turned to the South by Broughty Castle, and Queensferry. He parted with the Hichlands in a kindly mood, and loved to recal the scenes .ople. both in conversation and in song. and the people, On his return to Edinburgh he had to bide the time of his bookseller and the public: the impression of his poems, extending to two thousand eight hundred copies, was sold widely : much bout the northern metropolis, ‘ma distance, and Burns lingered a and with the hope that those Ww an ornament to the land. But of the money had to come fr expecting a settlement with Creech, ho dispensed his country’s patronage might remember one who then, as now, was reckoned was slow in his payments; the patronage of the country was swal- of rank nodded their lly he uttered, they Sreech, a parsimonious man, lowed up in the sink of politics, and though noblemen smiled, and ladies 1e sung and every witty sa jewelled heads in approbation of every new song ] bservant man, saw all this; but hope reckoned any further notice or care superfluous: the poet, ano and he hoped and lingered on. ld business of love and verse. was the cordial of his heart, he said, Too active a genius to remain idle, he addressed himself to the twofo Beauty of the Devon, he sought consolation in the society of one, as had for a time deprived him of the use of one of his legs, he gave Edinburgh e Repulsed by the stately fair, and infinitely more witty; and as an accident riting a series of letters to this nchantress, in which he 1 addressed her under the name of Clarinda. James Grahame the poet called rea. ?latonic affection,” amid much affectation both of language and sentiment, and a desire to say e the proud heart of the poet throbbing in the dread of being The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and beauty, prillianey that of an icicle: n0 ‘s no doubt that Mrs. M’Lehose In aftertimes he loved ta wings to hours of pain, by w In these compositions, signed himself Sylvander, an ‘6a romance of whi-h no one can regard as serious, and which fine and startling things, we can se neglected or forgotten by his country. seems assumed and put on, for its rapture ig artificial, 1 and won in that Malvolio way; and there his boisterous display of regard. . Mac was his favourite toast. al Museum of Johnson, ® work 1ore of the true old music am acquainted. Burns and its woman was ever wooet felt as much offence as pleasure at t remember her :—when wine circulated, Mrs an his lyric contributions to the Music During this season he beg ontains n which, amid many imperfections of taste and arrangement, ¢ f Scotland, than any other collection with which IJ of tenderness or of humour, and genuine old songs 0 gathered oral airs, and fitted them with words of mirth or of woe, yments ed readiness and felicity; he eked 01¢ old frag and sobered down licentioua with unexamp! selina ite OE Te ———— en pn pn ey at tet env rae ee ae ope Te eS Paneer ee eat ae ae ae ae tn tne ee: 2 pes Se - , See ie sateen ted a7 ETERS 1g, el eeee . Mr i Se xliv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. strains so much in the olden spirit and feeling, that the new cannot be distinguished fro: the ancient; nay, he inserted lines and half lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarian, are perplexed to settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he abated nor of the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse of Scotland: he did not like her the egg because she walked like some of the maidens of her strains, high-kilted at times. and spoke ¥ ith the freedom of innocence. In these communications we observe how little his border-jaunt among illusion, to his lyrics; and how the fountains of ancient song contributed either of sentiment o deeply his heard, and felt in the Highlands. strains, whether of pity or of merriment, were coloured by what he had seen, and In truth, all that lay beyond the Forth was an undiscovered land to him; while the lowland districts were not only familiar to his mind and eye, but all their more romantic vales and hills and streams were already musical in songs of such excellence as induced him to dread failure rather than hope triumph. Moreover, the Highlands teemed with jacobitical feelings, and scenes hallowed by the blood or the sufferings of men heroic, and perhaps misguided; and the poet, willingly yielding to an impulse which was truly romantic, and believed by thousands to be loyal, penned his songs on Drumossie, and Killiecrankie, as the spirit of sorrow or of bitterness prevailed. Though peut: during his noviliern excursions, by friends whose socialities and conversation forbade deep thought, or even serious remark, it will be seen by those who read his lyrics with care, that his wreath is indebted for some of its fairest flowers to the Highlands. The second winter of the poet’s abode in Edinburgh had now arrived: it opened, as might have been expected, with less rapturous welcomes and with more of frosty civility than the first. It must be confessed, that indulgence in prolonged socialities, and in company which, though clever, could not be called select, contributed to this; nor must it be forgotten that his love for the sweeter part of creation was now and then carried beyond the limits of poetic respect, and the estrange the austere and to lessen the admiration at first delicacies of courtesy ; tending to common to all. he took no care to Other causes may he assigned for this wane of popularity : conceal his contempt for all who depended on mere schol: arship for eminence, and he had a perilous knack in sketching with a sarcastic hand the characters of the learned and the graye. Some indeed of the high literati of the north—Home, the author of Douglas, was one of them—spoke of the poet as a chance or an accident: and though they admitted that he was a poet, yet he was not one of settled grandeur of soul, brightened by study. Burns was probably aware of this; he takes occasion in some of his letters to suggest, that the hour may be at hand when he shall be accounted by scholars as a meteor, rather than a fixed light, and to suspect that the praise bestowed on his genius was partly owing to the humility of his condition. From his lingering so long about Edinburgh, the nobility began to dread a second volume by sub- Scription, the learned to regard him as a fierce Theban, who resolved to carry all the out- works to the temple of Fame without the la vbour of making regular approaches; while a third party, and not the least numerous, looked on him with distrust, as one who hovered between Jacobite and Jacobin; who disliked the loyal-minded, and loved to lampoon the reigning family. Besides, the marvel of- the inspired ploughman had begun to | novelty was worn off, and his fault lay in his unwillingness to sport which the Philistines expected, and ws subside; the bright gloss of see that he had made all the igs required to make room for some ‘‘salvage” of the season, to paw, and roar, and shake the mane. The doors of the titled, which at first opened Spontaneous, like those in Milton’s heaven, were now unclosed for him with a tardy courtesy: he and seldom requested to re peat his visit. Of this changed aspect of ‘ things he complained to a friend: vas received with measured stateliness, but his real sorrows were mixed with those of the faney:—he told Mrs. Dun] lop with what pangs of heart he was compelled to take shelter in @ corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gaping blocl In this land of titles and wealth such querulous sensibili Burns, who had talked lightly hitherto of resuming pbout it, for he saw it must come to that at last. acquirements, and who has the merit of he poet the choice of his farms, ona f khead should mangle him in the mire. ities must have been frequently offended. the plough, began now to think seriously Miller, of Dalswinton, a gentleman of scientific applying the impulse of steam to navigation, had offered air estate which he had purchased on the Nith aided by —$—HIS MARRIAGE. XiV ‘ a westland farmer, he selected Ellisland, a beautiful spot, fit alike for the steps of ploughman or ight poet. On intimating this he raagnates of Edinburgh, no one lamented that a genius and original should be driven to win his bread with the sweat of his brow: no one, with an indignant eye, ventured to tell those to whom the patronage of this magnificent empire was con- fided, that they were misusing the sacred trust, and that posterity woul 1 curse them for their ’ coldness or neglect: neither did any of the rich nobles, whose tables he had adorned by his wit, SP tebe bye CReys : 2S aes a } ffer to le him to toil free of rent, in a land of which he was to be a permanent ornament;— all were silent—all were cold—the Earl of Glencairn alone, aided by Alexander Wood, a gentle- lid the little that was done or attempted to De man who merits praise oftener than he is named, t done for him: nor was that little done on the peer’s part without solicitation:—‘‘I wish to go into the excise ;” thus he wrote to Glencairn ; ‘‘and I am told your lordship’s interest- will easily procure me the grant trom the commissioners: and your lordship’s patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, emboldens me to ask } f home that sheltered I that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. I am ill qualified to dog the an aged mother, | heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, a nd tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial.” The farm and the excise exhibit the poet’s humble sche! e of life: the money of the one he ho rht - la e art the toil of he other. a 1; h scheme f lle: the money f the one, he thought, would support the toil of the other, and 1n the fortunate management of both, he looked for the rough abundance, if not the elegancies suitable to a poet’s condition. While Scotland was disgraced by sordidly allowing her brightest genius to descend to the ich had witnessed both his the classic literata he excise, the poet hastened his departure from a city wl he bade farewell in a few well-chosen words to such of 1 welcomed the rustic bard —the Blairs, the Stewarts, the Mackenzies, and the Tytlers—as ha him: while in softer accents he bade adieu to the Clarindas and Chlorises of whose charms he had sung, and. haying wrung a settlement from Creech, he turned , and continued to countenance his steps towards Mossgiel and Mauchline. He had several reasons, and all serious ones, for taking Ayrshire in his way to the Nith: he desired to see his mother, his brothers and sisters, who had partaken of his success, and were now raised from pining penury to comparative affluence: he desired to see those who had aided him in his early struggles into the upper air—perhaps those. too, who had looked coldly on, and smiled at his outward aspirations after fame or distinc- hom he once and still dearly loved, who had been tion: but more than all, he desired to see one W mistress of his fireside and the sharer of a sufferer for his sake, and whom he proposed to make his fortunes. Even while whispering of love to Charlotte Hamilton, on the banks of the Devon, or sighing out the affected sentimentalities of platonic or pastoral love in the ear of Clarinda, his thoughts wandered to her whom he had left bleaching her braes—she had still his heart, and in spite of her own and her father’s his great poet, as well as of those webs among the daisies on Mauchline disclamation, she was his good people, the Armours, wife. It was one of the delusions of t and that Robert d by the destruction of the marriage-lines, that the marriage had been dissolve her yowed nor written themselves Burns and Jean Armour were as single as though they had neit Be that as it may, the time was come when all scruples their hands were united by Gavin Hamilton, 1 Mr. Auld, so mercilessly lampooned, ding the sacred ceremony man and wife. and obstacles were to be removed which stood in the way of their union: according to law, in April, 1788; and even the Reverent smiled forgivingly as the poet satisfied a church wisely scrupulous regar of marriage. degree, she had sense and intelligence, Though Jean Armour was but a country lass of humble affections of the poet, but to sanction and personal charms sufficient not only to win and fix the to Mrs. Dunlop, he thus describes her: a warm heart, gratefully devoted cheerfulness, set off to the best the praise which he showered on her in song. In a letter «‘The most placid good nature and sweetness of disposition, with ail its powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure: these I think in a woman may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures, nor have danced in & Sees ey 5 le cae nS eS Se ee eee Saal fad Sd te oo , . , : —_—— Ce eee oho a pat SE at ee 5 teed ET et ae eee———— eee a ee ame eer ee is = xlvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. - --— - — ~ —_———$ $F” brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding.” To the acc ymplished Margaret Chalmers, o1 Boinbucel: he adds, to complete the picture, ‘I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and kindest heart in the country: a certain late publication of Scots’ poems she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in the land, as she has the finest woodnote wild you ever heard.” With his young wife, a punch bowl of Scottish marble, and an eight-day clock, both presents from Mr. Armour, now reconciled to his eminent son-in-law, with a new plough, and a beautiful heifer, given by Mrs. Dunlop, with about four hundred pounds in his pocket, a resolution to toil, and a hope of success, Burns made his appearance on the banks of the Nith, and set up his staff at Ellisland. This farm, now a classic spot, is about six miles up the river from Dumfries; it extends to upwards of a hundred acres: the soil is kindly; the holmland portion of it loamy and rich, and it has at command fine walks on the river side, and views of the Friar’s Carse, Cowehill, and Dalswinton. For a while the poet had to hide his head in a smoky hovel; till a house to his fancy, and offices for his cattle and his crops were built, his accommodation was sufficiently humble; and his mind taking its hue from his situation, infused a bitterness into the letters in which he first made known to his western friends that he had fixed his abode in Nithsdale. ‘I am here,” said he, “at the very elbow of existence: the only things to be found in perfection in this country are stupidity and canting; prose they only know in graces and prayers, and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaiden-webs, by the ell: as for the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet.” ‘*This is an undiscovered clime,” he at another period exclaims, ‘it is unknown to poetry, and prose never looked on it save in drink. I sit by the fire, and listen to the hum of the spinning-wheel: I hear, but cannot see it, for it is hidden in the smoke which eddies round and round me before it seeks to escape by window and door. I have no converse but with the ignorance which encloses me: no kenned face but that of my old mare, Jenny Geddes—my life is dwindled down to mere existence.” When the poet’s new house was built and plenished, and the atmosphere of his mind began to clear, he found the land to be fruitful, and its people intelligent and wise. In Ridde Carse, he found a scholar and antiquarian; in Miller, of Dal 1, of Friar’s Swinton, a man conversant with Science as well as with the world: in M’Murdo, of Drumlanrig, : generous and accomplished gentleman ; and in John Syme, of Ryedale, a man much after his own heart, and a lover of the wit and socialities of polished life. Of these gentlemen Riddel, who was his neighbour, was the favourite: a door was made in the march-fence which separated Ellisland from Friar’s Carse, that the poet might indulge in the retirement of the Carse hermitage, a little lodge in the wood as romantic as it was beautiful, while a pathway was cut through gh the dwarf oaks and birches which fringed the river bank, to enable the poet to saunter and muse without let or interruption. ’ This attention was rewarded by an inscription for the hermitage, written with elegance as well ag feeling, and which was the first fruits of his fancy in this unpoetic land. remembered Matthew Henderson: this is one of the sweetest compositions. He heard of his friend’s death, In a happier strain he as well as happiest of his poetic and called on nature animate and inanimate, to lament the loss of one who held the patent of his honours from God alone, and who loved all that was pure and lovely and good. ‘The Whistle” is another of his E] contest which he has recorded with such spirit heroes were Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, lisland compositions: the and humour took place almost at his door: the Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, and Riddel, of the Friar’s Carse: the poet was present, and drank bottle and bottle when all was done he seemed much disposed, as take up the victor. about with the best, and an old servant at Friar’s Carse remembered, to Burns had become fully reconciled to Nithsdale, and was on the most intimate terms with the muse when he produced Tam O’Shanter, the crowning glory of al tale we are indebted to something like acc Friar’s Carse, and as he loved wine and w his friendly intercourse with the poet: ‘¢ lhis poems. For this marvellous ident: Francis Grose, the antiquary, happened to visit it, the total want of imagination was no hinderance to Alloway’s auld haunted kirk” was mentioned, and Grose faid he would include it in his illustrations of the antiquities of Scotland, if the bard of the Doon would write a poem to accompany it. Burns consented, and before he left the table, the varlous traditions which belonged to the ruin were passing through his mind. One of these wasO’SHANTER. ELLISLAND—TAM ieee lh a ° : wee oe . . yea et ' of a farmer, who, on a night wild with wind and rain, on passing the old kirk was star led Ly a ee tae th hn Nie sles : : : f licht glimmering inside the walls: on drawing near he saw a caldron hung over a fire, in which the heads and limbs of children were simmering: there was neither witch nor fiend to guard it <4 he nnhooked the caldr re . } ~ ; 5 so he unhooked the caldron, turned out the contents, and carried it home as a trophy. A second A * ~ tradition was of a man of Kyle, who, having been on a market night detained late in Ayr, on crossing the old bridge of Doon, on his way home, saw a light streaming through the gothic Wi beheld a batch of the district witches dancing mer ’ dow of Alloway kirk, and on riding near, to the sound of a bagp! He knew several of the old crones, an 1 smiled at their gambols, for they were dancing in their ae Oe Onn. . : - - emocks: but one of them, and she happened to be young and rosy, had on a smock shorter than those of her companions by two spans at least, W hich so moved the farmer that he exclaimed Satan stopped his music, the light was extinguish and out rushed the hags after the farmer, who made at the gallop for the bridge of Doon, knowing who was foremost, seized his horse’s ‘Weel luppan, Maggie wi’ the short sark! that they could not cross a stream: he escaped; but Maggie, atlont : ° “ . . : tail at the middle of the bridge, and pulled it off in her efforts to stay him. [his poem was the work of a single day: Burns walked out to his favourite musing path, wards the old tower of the Isle, along Nithside, and was observed to walk hastily which runs to and mutter as he went. His wife knew by these signs that he was engaged in composition, and 1 moreover wondering at the unusual leng h watched him from the window; at last wearying, an¢ and went to meet him; but as he seemed not among the broom to allow him to pass, which he did with a flushed a ey ee a Re f his meditations, she took her children with her to see her, she stept aside brow and dropping eyes, reciting these lines aloud :— ‘“Now Tam! O, Tam! had thae been queans, A’ plump and strapping 1n their teens, Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breeks o? mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, 0’ gude blue hair, 1 wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, ) For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies! He embellished this wild tradition from fact as well as from fancy: along the road which Tam came on that eventful night his memo for the A poor chapman had peris -y supplied circumstances which prepared him strange sight at the kirk of Alloway. hed, some winters before, in the d had been found by some early hunters ; le stane;” and a melancholy old woman herself at the bush aboon the well, as the poem relates: all these matters the poet and used them with a skill which adorns rather than snow: 2a murdered chil a tippling farmer had fallen Sean eee its fare Mery: lea ee “ ee ee ea from his horse at the expense of his neck, beside a “ meik had hanged presse into the service of the muse, as obscure: from Dumfries objected to the language 1at great master of your own art ” oppresses the legend. A pert lawyer «Obscure, sir!”? said Burns; ‘‘ you know not the language of tl —the devil. If you had a witch for your client you would not be able to manage her defence! omposed many songs: the sweet voice of Mrs. easure account for the number, but ea He wrote few poems after his marriage, but he ¢ hnson’s Museum will in some m not for tne2ir variety, which is truly wonderful. In the history of that mournful strain, of many of his lyrics, for they generally sprang from his personal ‘Robert, though ill of a ania ae aaa — Burns end the craving of Jo “Mary oi ir Heaven,” we read the story feelings: no poet has put more of himself into his poetry than Burns. all day—a day of September, 1789, with the shearers in d, was in good spirits ; but when he wandered first up the water- egged him to come into the house, as > but did not come: he threw and particularly at a large, ong after I had left him, he ary Campbell he dedicated cold,”? said his wife, ‘‘had been busy the field, and as he had got most of the corn into the stack-yar twilight came he grew gad about something, and could not rest: side, and then went into the stack-yard: I followed, and b he was ill, and the air was sharp and cold. He said, ‘Ay, ay, some loose sheaves, and lay looking at the sky, At last, but that was ] To the memory of M himself down cn bright star, which shone like another moon. irae ee ee A e came home-- the song was already composed.” ple reex] viii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS inti inuance of his early affection for ‘¢The fair hat touching ode; and he thus intimates the co tinuance of his early affc n for I hi g . } m5 tar of ths ime ‘S| Dunlon ‘¢Tf there is another life, it haired lass of the west,” in a letter of that time to Mrs. Dun p. a ° et ha <¢ Tahla <« l th . humane. What a flattering idea, : . : + for the 1ust the benevolent, the amiable, an { } must be only for the just, j Ther 1al] Wl speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my then, is a world tocome! There shall I, with speechless agony « | i y ] ] r§ Ts vit ruth nour, constancy, and love. lost, my ever dear Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, h 1 y; ; : 1; ] 17 rriAwat cienet ‘ ray I ir . ) Ts ° 9 ature lively and humorous: am These melancholy words gave w ay in their turn to others of a nature live j : es i NTs +] a ga ‘hanka > wrote Glen,” in which the thoughts flow as freely as the waters of the Nith, on whose banks he wrote : ‘ ; os anys nee ss Selo veman menionies it; ‘* Findlay,’’ with its quiet vein of sly simplicity; ‘‘ Willie brewed a peck 0° maut,” the first ns 1 y ) 7 f 1p , xwitl ‘The deil’s aw: VV a of social, and ‘‘ She’s fair and fause.” the Hrst of sarcastic songs, with ‘‘ The deil’s awa wi the ; . : . . Thich had besides its ow fears and it Exciseman,” are all productions of this period—a period which had besides its own fears and its own forebodings. : : ; aes i anitletiy For a while Burns seemed to prosper in his farm: he held the plough with his own hand, h } istri lally < g the furrows, and he reaped the guided the harrows, he distributed the seed-corn equally among the furrows, and he re pe Ay rop in its season, and saw it safely covered in from the storms of winter with « thack and ray 5 istwite: too, superintended the dairy with a skill which she had brought from Kyle, and as the harvest, for a season or two, was abundant, and the dairy yielded butter and cheese for the market, it seemed that ‘the luckless stay” which ruled his lot had relented, and now shone unboding and benignly. But much more is required than toil of hand to make a successful farmer, nor will the attention bestowed only by fits and starts, compensate for carelessness or oversight: frugality, not in one thing but in all, is demanded, in small matters as well asin great, while a careful mind and a vigilant eye must superintend the labours of servants, and the whole system of in-door and out-door econ: my. Now, during the three years which Burns stayed in Ellisland, he neither wrought with that constant diligence which farming demands, nor did he bestow upon it the unremitting attention of eye and mind which such a farm re juired: besides his skill in husbandry was but moderate—the rent, though of his own fixing, was too high for him and for the times: the ground, though good » WAS not so excellent as he might have had on the same estate—he employed more servants than the number of acres demanded, and spread for them a richer board than common: when we have said this we need not a induced by poetry, to keep readers from starting ld the expensive tastes , When they are told that Burns, at the close of j : 1 ] 7 . LL ON eee y } the third year of occupation, resigned his lease to the landlord, and bade farewell for ever to the ° ‘ ‘. plough. He was not, however, quite desolate; he had for a@ year or more been appointed on the excise, and had superintended a district extending to ten large parishes, with applause; indeed, it has been assigned as the chief reason for failure in his farm, that when the plough or the sickle Summoned him to the field, he wag to be found, either pursuing the defaulters of the reyenue, among the valleys of Dumfrieshire, or measuring out past He retired to a house in the Bank-vennel of Dumfries, ani it with an empty pocket, for Ellisland had swall neither a barn to produce meal nor oral verse to the beauties of the land. l commenced a town-life: he commenced owed up all the profits of his poems: he had now barley, a barn-yard to yield a fat hen, a field to which he nor a dairy to supply milk and cheese and butter to the table —he had, in snort, all to buy and little to buy with. had no farm-rent to provide, no b now confined to Dumfries, could go at Martinmas for a& mart, He regarded it as a compensation that he ankruptcies to dread, no hor and that the burthen of a barren f his muse at liberty to renew her unsolicited strains, But from the day of his departure from “the barren” Ellis] may be dated. The cold neglect of his country h and he hoped to gain from the furrowed field th to have provided: but he did not resume t] he first forsook it: he had revelled in the luxuries of polished ] expensive as well ag pure: he had witnessed, and he hoped for the pleasures of literary retire- ment, while the hands which had led jewelled dames over scented carpets to supper tables loaded with silver took hold of the hilts of the plough with more of reluctance than goodwill. Edinburgh, vith its lords and its ladies, its delights and its hopes, spoiled } new labours more acceptable to his haug se to keep, for his excise duties were arm was removed from his mind, and and, the downward course of Burns ad driven him back indignantly to the plough, at independence which it was the duty of Scotland 1e plough with all the advantages he possessed when ife—his tastes had been rendered 1im for farming. Nor were his hty spirit than those of the plough: the excise for aMIS DUTIES AS EXCISEMAN. xlix century had been a word of opprobrium or of hatred in the north: the duties which it imposed were regarded, not by peasants alone, as a serious encroa hment upon the ancient rights of the nation, and to mislead, a gauger, or resist him, event b] d. was considered by few as a fault. That the brightest geniusof the nation—one whose tastes and sensibilities were so peculiarly its own—should be, as a reward, set to look after run-rum and smuggled tobacco, and to vaca ale-wife’s barrels, was a regret aud a marvel to many, and a source of bitter merriment to Burns The duties of his situation were however performed punctually, if not with pleasure: he was & vicilant officer; he was also a merciful and considerate one: though loving a joke, and not at all averse to a dram, he walked among suspicious brewers, captious ale-wives, and frowning shop- keepers as uprightly as c yurteously: he smoothed the ruggedest natures into acquiescence by his gayety and humour, and yet never gave cause for a malicious remark, by allowing his vigilance to slumber. He was brave, too, and in the capture of an armed smuggler, in which he led the attack. showed that he neither feared water nor fire: he loved, also, to counsel the more forward of the smugglers to abandon their dangerous calling; his sympathy for the helpless poor induced him to cive them now and then notice of his approach; he has been known to interpret the severe laws of the excise into tenderness and mercy in behalf of the widow and the fatherless. In all this he did but his duty to his country and his kind: and his conduct was so regarded by a very ) > said Maxwell, of Terraughty, competent and candid judge. ‘* Let me look at the books of Burns, at the meeting of the district magistrates, ‘‘for they show that an upright officer may be a merciful one.” With a salary of some seventy pounds a year, the chance of a few guineas annually from the future editions of his poems, and the hope of rising at some distant day to the moro lucrative situation of supervisor, Burns continued to live in Dumfries; first in the Bank-vennel, and next in a small house in a humble street, since calledjbyhis.name. In his earlier years the poet seems to have scattered séne@s as thick as a summer eve scatters its dews: nor did he scatter them less carelestly: he m@ppears; indeed, to have thought much less of them than of his poems: the sweet song of Mary Morison, and sothers not at all inferior, lay unregarded among his papers till accident called then ent to sliine and be admired. Many of these brief but happy compositions, sometimes with his name; and oftener without, he threw in dozens at a time into Johnson, where they were noticed only by the captious Ritson: but now a work of higher pretence claimed a share in his skill: in September, 1792, he was requested by George Thomson to render, for his national collection, the poetry worthy of the muses of the north, and to take compassion on many choice airs, which had waited for a poet like the author of the Cotter’s Saturday Night, to wed them to ‘mmortal verse. To engage in such an undertaking, 3urns required small persuasion, and while Thomson asked for strains delicate and polished, the y stipulated that his contributions were to be without remuneration, and the poet characteristicall) As his heart was much in the matter, ,anguage seasoned with a sprinkling of the Scottish dialect. he began to pour out verse with a readiness and talent unknown in the history of song: his Johnson, gave birth to a series of songs as brilliant as varied, and as naturally easy as they were gracefully original. In looking over those very er that the songs which he wrote for the more stately work, while they are more polished and elegant than those which he contributed to the less pretending one, are at the same time less happy in their humour and less simple in their pathos. ‘*What pleases me as simple and naive,” says Burns to Thomson, ‘‘disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason ‘Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs,’ ‘Kye, let us a’ to the bridal,’ with several others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing, while ‘Saw ye my Father’ delights me the reasons of the difference between engagement with Thomson. and his esteem for dissimilar collections it is not difficult to discov with its descriptive simple pathos:” we read in these words the lyrics of the two collections. The land where the poet lived furnished ready materials for song: d in verse, were to be had in his walks hills with fine woods, vales with clear waters, and dames as lovely as any recorde y ‘ . . . humour, characters, in whose faces originality und them in the west. He had linary looks, and hanging the and his visits ; while, for the purposes of mirth or of was legibly written, were as numerous in Nithsdale as he had fo been reproached, while in Kyle, with seeing charms in very or¢ 4 sa iret tr A LORI = sna tS: eee ae ee ain manna P ei cs NT a eS, oa fi 2 ees preety SSS Se REY AE eget Sait tea enw iad TALIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. garlands of the muse on unlovely altars; he was liable to no such censure in Nithsdale; he poured out the incense of poetry only on the fair and captivating: his Jeans, his Lucys, his Phillises, and his Jessies were ladies of such mental or personal charms as the Reynolds’s and the Lawrences of the time would have rejoiced to lay out their choicest colours on. But he did not limit himself to the charms of those whom he could step out to the walks and | admire: his lyrics give evidence of the wandering of his thoughts to the distant or the dead—he loves to remember Charlotte Hamilton and Mary Campbell, and think of the sighs and vows on the Devon and the Doon, while his harpstrings were still quivering to the names of the Millers and the M’Murdos—to the charms of the lasses with golden or with flaxen locks, in the valley where he dwelt. OfJean M’Murdo and her sister Phillis he loved to sing; and their beauty merited ’ his strains: to one who died in her bloom, Lucy Johnston, he addressed a song of great sweet- ness; to Jessie Lewars, two or three songs of gratitude and praise: nor did he forget other beauties, for the accomplished Mrs. Riddel is remembered, and the absence of fair Clarinda is lamented in strains both impassioned and pathetic. But the main inspirer of the latter songs of Burns was a young woman of humble birth: of a Bil form equal to the most exquisite proportions of sculpture, with bloom on her cheeks, and merri- ment in her large bright eyes, enough to drive an amatory poet crazy. Her name was Jean i Lorimer; she was not more than seventeen when the poet made her acquaintance, and though she had got a sort of breyet-right from an officer of the army, to use his southron name of Whelp dale, she loved best to be addressed by her maiden designation, while the poet chose to veil her in the numerous lyrics, to which she gave life, under the names of ‘‘Chloris,” ‘The lass of Craigie-burnwood,” and “The lassie wi’ the lintwhite locks.” Though of a temper not much inclined to conceal anything, Burns complied so tastefully with the growing demand of the age i+ for the exterior decencies of life, that when the scrupling dames of Caledonia sung a new song in her praise, they were as unconscious whence its beauties came, as is the lover of art, that the | shape and the gracefulness of the marble nymph which he admires, are derived from a creature | who sells the use of her charms indifferently to sculpture or tolove. Fine poetry, like other arts called fine, springs from “strange places,” as the flower in the fable said, when it bloomed on the dunghill; nor is Burns more to be blamed than was Raphael, who painted Madonnas, and Magdalens with dishevelled hair and lifted eyes, from a loose lady, whom the pope, ‘‘ Holy at Rome—here Antichrist,” charitably prescribed to the artist, while he laboured in the cause of the church. Of the poetic use which he made of Jean Lorimer’s charms, Burns gives this account bl to Thomson. ‘The lady on whom the song of Craigie-burnwood was made is one of the finest women in Scotland, and in fact is to me in a manner what Sterne’s Eliza was to him—a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of platonic love. I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of my best songs. Do you think that the sober gin-horse | fai routine of existence could inspire a man with life and love and Joy—could fire him with enthusiasm, | or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no! Whenever I want to be | more than ordinary in song—to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs—do you imagine I i fast:and pray for the celestial emanation? Quite the contrary. I have a glorious recipe; the wv very: one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poesy, when erst he ll piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion are you delighted with my verses. | The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile, the divinity il of Helicon.” i aqinie ue ate) wee ue composed under the influences to which IT have alluded are of the | = : onnie Lesley,” “‘ Highland Mary,” “ Auld Rob Morris,” ‘“Duncan Gray,” “* Wan- dering Willie,” « Meg o’ the Mill,” «The poor and honest sodger,” “ Bonnie Jean,” ‘* Phillis the i | | | | ‘V1 2? ¢ / aa ry > . e at | fair,” “John Anderson my Jo,” ‘Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,” «« Whistle and ll come to you, my lad,” « Bruce’ | | | s Address to his men at Bannockburn,” « Auld Lang Syne,” «Thine am : ees 7 ¢ ” rs x i ¥ tal I, my faithful fair,” “* Wilt thou be my dearie,” «0 Chloris, mark how green the groves,” * Con- bil tented wi’ li ie wi’ mair,” “Their groves i i wi’ little, and cantie wi mair,”’ ‘‘Their groves of sweet myrtle,” ‘‘ Last May a braw wooer } | r ) . . came dawn the lang glen,” «Q Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet,” ‘* Hey for ¢ lass wi’ a tocher,”!THE HERON BALLADS. h 1 ‘Fere’s a health to ane I loe dear,” and the ‘‘Fairest maid on Devon banks.” Many of the latter :yrics of Burns were more or less altered, to put them into better harmony with the airs, and I am not the only one who has wondered that a oard so impetuous and intractable in most matters, should have become so soft and pliable, as to make changes which too often sacrificed the poetry for the sake of a fuller and more swelling sound. It is true that the emphatic notes of the music must find their echo in the emphatic words of the verse, and that words soft and liquid are fitter for ladies’ lips, than words hissing and rough; but it is also true that in changing a harsher word for one more harmonious the sense often suffers, and that happiness of expression, and that dance of words which lyric verse requires, lose much of their life and vigour. The poet’s favourite walk in composing his songs was on a beautiful green sward on the northern sids of the Nith, opposite Lincluden; and his favourite posture for composition at home was balancing himself on the hind legs of his arm-chair. While indulging in these lyrical flights, politics penetrated into Nithsdale, and disturbed the tranquillity of that secluded region. First, there came a contest for the representation of the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Patrick Miller, younger, of Dalswinton, and Sir James Johnstone, of Westerhall, and some two years afterwards, a struggle for the representation of the county of Kirkcudbright, between the interest of the Stewarts, of Galloway, and Patrick Heron, of Kerrouchtree. In the first of these the poet mingled discretion with his mirth, and raised a hearty laugh, in which both parties joined; for this sobriety of temper, good reasons may be assigned: Miller, the elder, of Dalswinton, had desired to oblige him in the affair of Ellisland, and his firm and considerate friend, M’Murdo, of Drumlanrig, was chamberlain to his Grace of Queensbury, on whose interest Miller stood. On the other hand, his old Jacobitical affections made him the secret well-wisher to Westerhall, for up to this time, at least till acid disappoint- ment and the democratic doctrine of the natural equality of man influenced him, Burns, or as & western rhymer of his day and district worded the reproach—Rob was a Tory. His situation, it will therefore be observed, disposed him to moderation, and accounts for the milkiness of his Epistle to Fintray, in which he marshals the chiefs of the contending factions, and foretells the fierceness of the strife, without pretending to foresee the event. Neither is he more explicit, though infinitely more humorous, in his ballad of ‘‘The Five Carlins,” in which he impersonates the five boroughs—Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, Lochmaben, Sanquhar, and Annan, and draws their characters as shrewd and calculating dames, met in much wrath and drink to choose & representative. But the two or three years which elapsed between the election for the boroughs, and that for the county adjoining, wrought a serious change in the temper as well as the opinions of the poet. His Jacobitism, as has been said, was of a poetic kind, and put on but in obedience to old feelings, and made no part of the man: he was in his heart as democratic as the kirk of Scotland, which educated him—he acknowledged no other superiority but the mental: said Professor Walker, ‘‘from constitutional temper, from education and the accidents of life, to abled birth and opulence ‘she was disposed, too,” a jealousy of power, and a keen hostility against every system which en ore . . : ven ” y , ‘ to anticipate those rewards which he conceived to belong to genius and virtue. When we add to this, a resentment of the injurious treatment of the dispensers of public patronage, who had neglected his claims, and showered pensions and places on men unworthy of being named with him, we have assigned causes for the change of side and the t infused into ‘The Heron Ballads.” Formerly honey was mixed with his gall: y J s:—no man has one of asperity and bitterness a little praise sweetened his censure: in these election lampoons he is fierce and even yenomou men descended without reproach from and conscientious are reproached as ‘J have privately,” thus writes a head but what is empty, nor a heart that is not black: lines of heroes are stigmatized as cowards, and the honest miserly, mean, and dishonourable. Such is the spirit of party. 5 of the ballads, and have sent them among friends ary, the sober detestation of mankind on the poet to Heron, ‘‘ printed a good many copie about the country. You have already, as your auxili re of Thalia, to muster on your side all the The ridicule was uncandid, and the al attachments: Miller gained the the heads of your opponents; and I swear by the ly votaries of honest laughter and fair, candid ridicule.” ‘\aughter dishonest. The poet was unfortunate in his politic soos ae ok een nc 10 Tania aren ae atin es ETT e — screener eS eid ee aeli LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. boroughs which Burns wished he might lose, and Heron lost the county which he foretold he would gain. : It must also be recorded against the good taste of the poet, that he loved to recite ‘‘ The Heron Ballads,” and reckon them among his happiest compositions. From attacking others, the poet was—in the interval between penning these election lampoons —called on to defend himself: for this he seems to have been quite unprepared, though in those yeasty times he might have expected it. ‘‘I haye been surprised, confounded, and distracted,’ he thus writes to Graham, of Fintray, ‘‘by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a per- son disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father: you know what you would feel, to se) the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless prattling little ones, turned adrift intc the world, degraded and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and respected. I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though eyen worse horrors, if worse can be than those I have mentioned, hung over my head, and I say that the allegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie! To the British constitution, on Revolution principles, next after my God, I am devotedly attached. To your patronage as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim; and your esteem as an honest man I know is my due. To these, sir, permit me to appeal: by these I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and which with my latest breath I will say I have not deserved.” In this letter, another, intended for the eye of the Commissioners of the Board of Excise, was enclosed, in which be dis- claimed entertaining the idea of a British republic—a wild dream of the day—but stood by the principles of the constitution of 1688, with the wish to see such corruptions as had crept in, amended. This last remark, it appears, by a letter from the poet to Captain Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, gave great offence, for Corbet, one of the superiors, was desired to inform him, ‘‘that his business was to act, and not to think; and that whatever might be men or measures, it was his duty to be silent and obedient.” The intercession of Fintray, and the explanations of Burns, were so far effectual, that his political offence was forgiven, ‘‘only I understand,” said he, ‘that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted.” The records of the Excise Office exhibit no trace of this memorable matter, and two noblemen, who were then in the government, haye assured me that this harsh proceeding received no countenance at head-quarters, and must have originated with some ungenerous or malicious person, on whom the poet had spilt a little of the nitric acid of his wrath. That Burns was numbered among the republicans of Dumfries I well remember: but then those who held different sentiments from the men in power, were all, in that loyal town, stigma- tized as democrats: that he either desired to see the constitution changed, or his country invaded by the liberal French, who proposed to set us free with the bayonet, and then admit us to the ‘fraternal embrace,” no one eyer believed. It is true that he spoke of premiers and peers with contempt; that he hesitated to take off his hat in the theatre, to the air of ‘‘God save the king;” that he refused to drink the health of Pitt, saying he preferred that of Washington—a far greater man; that he wrote bitter words against that combination of princes, who desired to put down freedom in France; that he said the titled spurred and the wealthy switched England and Scot- land like two hack-horses; and that all the high places of the land, instead of being filled by genius and talent, were occupied, as were the high-places of Israel, with idols of wood or of stone. But all this and more had been done and said before by thousands in this land, whose love of their country was never questioned. That it was bad taste to refuse to remove his hat when other heads were bared, and little better to refuse to pledge in company the name of Pitt, because ae preferred Washington, cannot admit of a doubt; but that he deserved to be written down traitor, for mere matters of whim or caprice, or to be turned out of the unenyied situation of ‘gauging auld wives’ barrels,” because he thought there were some st of the constitution, seems a sort of tyranny new in the history country is recorded in too many undying lines to admit of a doubt n love alone which men call romantic ; practised in every man’s life; expressive :— ains on the white robe of oppression. His love of ow: nor is it that chivalrous it is a love which may be laid up in every man’s heart and the words are homely, but the words of Burns are alwaysHIS ILLNESS—LETLER TO CLARKE. kK oe ‘The kettl f the kirk 1 state Pe ips a clout m fail in’t, But de a f on t le yn Shail ever ca’ a nail in’t. Be Brit to Britons true, Amang elves united; For never but by British hands Shall British wrongs be righted.” But while verses, deserving as these do to become the national motto, and sentiments loyal and generous, were OV erlooked and forgotten, all his rash words about freedom, and his sarcastw sallies about thrones and kings, were treasured up to his injury, by the mean and the malicious His steps were watched and his words weighed; when he talked with a friend in the street, he was supposed to utter se lition: and when ladies retired from the table, a nd the wine circulated loors, he was suspected of treason rather than of toasting, which he often did with much humour, the charms of woman; even when he gave as a sentiment, “ May our success be equal to the justice of our cause,” he was liable to be challenged by some gunpowder ca] tain, who thought that we deserved success in war, whether right or wrong. It is true that he hated with a most cordial hatred all who presumed on their own consequence, whether arising from officers he usually called ‘the epauletted puppies,” or commissions in the army ; ? , > who could but strut and stare and be and lords he generally spoke of as “* feather-headed fools,’ his was not to be endured meekly: scorn was answered with scorn ; no answer in kind to retort his satiric flings, his unfriends reported that it was unsafe for young insolent. Allt and haying men to associate with one whose principles were democratic, and scarcely either modest or safe for young women to listen to a poet whose notions of female virtue were so loose and his songs leman on a visit from London, told me he ] These sentiments prevailed so far that a gent leome back to his native place, so tree. I was dissuaded from inviting Burns to a dinner, given by way of we because he was the associate of democrats and loose people; and when a modest dame of Dumfries through a friend, a wish to have but the honour of spe ‘oet declined the interview, with a half-serious smile, saying, ‘‘ Alas! she expressed, aking to one of whose genius she was an admirer, the } know the character publicly assigned to me.” She escaped the danger of is handsome, and you } ed, it is likely, with the Annas and the Chlorises of his freer strains. he Excise, and the downfall of his hopes and for- Ith began to decline. His drooping ape from the stings of reflection being number The neglect of his country, the tyranny of t tunes, were now to bring forth their fruits—the poet’s hea lect of his person, his solitary saunterings, his esc looks, his neg mpany of beauty, all spoke, as plainly as with a into socialities, and his distempered joy in the co tongue, of a sinking heart and a declining body. hope did not at once desert him: he continued to pou 1 humour at the call of Thomson, as are Yet though he was sensible of sinking health, r out such tender strains, and to show such recorded of no other lyrist: neither did flashes of wit anc he, when in company after his own mind, hang the head, and speak mournfully, but talked and smiled and still charmed all listeners by his witty vivacities. On the 26th of June, 1795, he writes thus of his fortunes and condition to his friend Clarke, were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen Whether I shall ever get about again is only known Alas, Clarke, I begin to fear the worst! As if I were not: but Burns’s poor Here lam as weak as a woman’s enclosing the note: it << Still, still the victim of affliction ; to you, you would not know your old friend. to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. to my individual self I am tranquil, and would despise myself and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones, helpless orphans! I duly received your last, Again I must recuest you widow tear. Enough of this! ’tis half my disease. y in time, and J am much obliged to your punctuality. Be so very good as by return of post toe and it will seriously oblige me. mains. I knowI shall live in againis [ am afraid highly ilth, and the poverty of tha fish: porridge and milk he came extremel nelose me another note : ] to do me the same kindness. If I must go, I leave trust you can do so without inconvenience, a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness re their remembrance. O, dear, dear Clarke! that I shall ever see you This remarkable letter proves both the declining he: mprobable.” as so bad that he could taste neither flesh nor poet: his digestion w raat) Stee OR ee SAR Worn Tey Wen oe See ny FN = ss nie eee ee. ee PRATT SII e yt Feet HE a ee ee ee eS fae, SoLIFE BURNS. liv OF ROBERT could alone swallow, and that but in small quantities. When it is recollected that he had no more than thirty shillings a week to keep house, and live like a gentleman, no one need wonder that his wife had to be obliged to a generous neighbour for some of the chief necessaries for her coming confinement, and that the poet had to beg, in extreme need, two guinea notes from a distant friend. His sinking state was not unobserved by his friends, and Syme and M’Murdo united with Dr. Maxwell in persuading him, at the beginning of the summer, to seek health at the Brow-well, a few miles east of Dumfries, where there were pleasant walks on the Solway-side, and salubrious breezes from the sea, which it was expected would bring the health to the poet they had brought to many. For a while, his looks brightened up, and health seemed inclined to return: his friend, the witty and accomplished Mrs. Riddel, who was herself ailing, paid him a visit. 1M) ‘«T was struck,” she said, ‘‘ with his appearance on entering the room: the stamp of death was impressed on his features. His first words were, ‘ Well, Madam, have you any commands for the other world?’ I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest: he looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me so ill, with his usual sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing: we had a long conversatiun about his present state, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He showed great concern about his literary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works; he said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writing would be revived against him, to the injury of his future reputation; that letters and verses, written with unguarded freedom, would be handed about by vanity or malevolence when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent malice or envy from pouring forth their venom on his name. I had seldom seen his mind greater, or more collected. There was fi equently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies; but the concern and dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed willing to indulge.” This was on the evening of the oth of July; another lady who called to see him, found him seated at a window, gazing on the | sun, then setting brightly on the summits of the green hills of Nithsdale. ‘Look how lovely the Pi Sun is,” said the poet, ‘but he will soon have done with shining for me.” Me now longed for home: his wife, whom he ever tenderly loved, was about to be confined in | |i child-bed: his papers were in sad confusion, and required arrangement; and he felt that desire to die, at least, among familiar things and friendly faces, so common to our nature. He had not long before, though much reduced in pocket, refused with scorn an offer of fifty pounds, which a 1| speculating bookseller made, for leaye to publish his looser compositions; he had refused an ay offer of the like sum yearly, from Perry of the Morning Chronicle, for poetic contributions to his | paper, lest it might embroil him with the ruling powers, and he had resented the remittance of five pounds from Thomson, on account of his lyric ¢ more, unless he wished to quarrel with him; but his necessities now, and they had at no time : been so great, induced him to solicit five pounds from Thomson, and ten pounds from his cousin, James Burness, of Montrose, and to beg his friend Al Commissioners of Excise, to depart from their usual practice, and grant him his full salary; ‘for without that,” he added, “if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger.” Thomson sent the | ih five pounds, James Burness sent the ten, but the Commissioners of E merciful or generous, ontributions, and desired him to do so no exander Cunningham to intercede with the xcise refused to be either Stobie, a young expectant in the customs, was both;—he performed the duties of the dying poet, and refused to touch the salary. The mind of I the fears of want and the terrors of a jail; nor were those fears without foundation; one Wil- liamson, to whom he was indebted for the cloth to make his volunteer 1 one; and a feeling that he was wife, threatened the other. 3urns was haunted with regimentals, threatened the Without money for either his own illness or the confinement of his | | Burns returned from the Brow-well, on the 18th of July: as he walked from the little carriage | which brought him up the Mill hole-brae to his own door, he trembled much, and stooped with | weakness and pain, and kept his feet with difficulty: his ] GO one who saw him, and there we Hall | culated through Dumfries, thought ill of him ooks were woe-worn and ehastly, and re several, expected to see him again in life. It was soon cir- that Burns had returned worse from the , and that, in truth, he was dying. hn srow-well; that Maxwell The anxiety of all classes was great; difHIS DEATH. ly ferences of opinion were forgotten, in sympathy for his early fate: wherever two or three were met together their talk was of Burns, of his rare wit, matchless humour, the vivacity of his con- versation, and the kindness of his heart. To the poet himself, death, which he now knew was at hand. brought with it no fear; his good-humour, which small matters alone ruffled, did not forsake him, and his wit was ever ready. He was poor—he gave his pistols, which he had used against the smugglers on the Solway, to his physician, adding with a smile, that he had tried them and found them an honour to their maker, which was more than he could say of the bulk of mankind! He was proud—he remembered the indifferent practice of the corps to which he belonged, and turning to Gibson, one of his fellow-soldiers, who stood at his bedside with wet eyes, ‘“‘John,” said he, and a gleam of humour passed over his face, ‘‘ pray don't let the awkward- squad fire over me.” It was almost the last act of his life to copy into his Common-place Book, the 1 the charge against him of the Commissioners of Excise, and his own eloquent ‘ : Ey pee letters which containe refutation, leaving judgment to be pronounced by the candour of posterity. It has been injuriously said of Burns, by Coleridge, that the man sunk, but the poet was bright to the last: he did not sink in the sense that these words imply: the man was manly to the latest eht of breath. That he was a poet to the last, can be proved by facts, as well as by the word of the author of Christabel. As he lay silently growing weaker and weaker, he observed Jessie Lewars, a modest and beautiful young creature, and sister to one of his brethren of the Excise, watching over him with moist eyes, and tending him with the care of a daughter ; he rewarded her with one of those songs which are an insurance against forgetfulness. The lyrics of the north have nothing finer than this exquisite stanza :— ‘« Ajtho’ thou maun never be mine, Altho’ even hope is denied, ‘Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside.” His thoughts as he lay wandered to Charlotte Hamilton, and he dedicated some beautiful stanzas to her beauty and her coldness, beginning, ‘‘ Fairest maid on Deyon banks.” poet gradually sinking ; his wife in hourly expectation of her sixth It was a sad sight to see the a daughter, a sweet child, had died the year before confinement, and his four helpless children -with no one of their lineage to soothe them with kind words or minister to their wants. Jessie Lewars, with equal prudgnce and attention, watched over them all: she could not help seeing that the thoughts of the desolation which his death would bring, pressed sorely on him, for he loved his children, and hoped much from his boys. He wrote to his father-in-law, James Armour, at Mauchline, that he was dying, his wife nigh her confinement, and begged that his mother-in- He wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, saying, ‘‘I have writtep law would hasten to them and speak comfort. gain, but for the eir- to you so often without receiving any answer that I would not trouble you a cumstances in which lam. An illness which has long hung about me in all pro Your friendship, with which for many bability will speedily pend me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul: your conversation and your corre- spondence were at once highly entertaining and instructive—with what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one Farewell!” A tremor pervaded his frame; his tongue grew parched, lant, James Maclure, held his medi- eee a pulse more to my poor palpitating aeart. and he was at times delirious: on the fourth day after his return, when his atten¢ lly up, spread out his hands, sprang cine to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly, rose almost who He died on the 21st of forward nigh the whole length of the bed, fell on his face, and expired. July, when nearly thirty-seven years and seven months old. The burial of Burns, on the 25th of July, was an impressive and mournful scene: half the people of Nithsdale and the neighbouring parts of Galloway had crowded into Dumfries, to see their poet ‘ mingled with the earth,” and not a few had been permitted to look at his body, laid aut for interment. It was a calm and beautiful day, and as the body wa not a sound was heard but the s borne along the street towards the old kirk-yard, by his brethren of the volunteers, mnt crushing, no fierce elbowing—the oD) measured step and the solemn music: there was no impotle LD CC ST Sem erry Se n ie iar aS “Ee Les ry AS ] ‘ Rs. - aa i GO IRENN ; may ss | ls Ted 4 vas j ; ie a : \ee A “| i { i q i h \ # ! ne a a LIE Aon fmt eee nner am we a wlan a iar oa Pa iLIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. lvl crowd which filled the street seemed conscious what they were now losing for ever. ; ee mule this pageant was passing, the widow of the poet was taken an labour; but the ee ae i that unhappy hour soon shared his father’s grave. On reaching the northern Huo}: of ae yard, where the grave was made, the mourners halted; the coffin was divested of the mo1 is loth, and silently lowered to its resting-place, and as the first shovel-full of earth fell on the lid, the weinicerentoe agitated to be steady, justified the fears of the poet, by three ragged yOueyS: | Hp who now writes this very brief and imperfect account, was present: he thought then, as me thinks now, that all the military array of foot and horse did not harmonize with either the genius or the fortunes of the poet, and that the tears which he saw on many cheeks around, as the earth ves replaced, were worth all the splendour of a. show which mocked with unintended mockery us burial of the poor and neglected Burns. The body of the poet was, on the 5th of June, 1815, removed to a more commodious spot in the same burial-ground—his dark, waving locks looked then fresh and glossy—to afford room for a marble monument, which embodies, with neither skill nor grace, that well-known passage in the dedication to the gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt: —‘‘The poetie genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard, Elijah, did Elisha, at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me.” The dust of the bard was again disturbed, : Soe: : S : eee Pee oe when the body of Mrs. Burns was laid, in April, 1834, beside the remains of hex husband: his skull was dug up by the district craniologists, to satisfy their minds by measurement that he was equal to the composition of ‘Tam 0’ Shanter,”’ or ‘ Mary in Heaven.” This done, they placed the skull in a leaden box, « carefully lined with the softest materials,” and returned it, we hope for ever, to the hallowed ground. Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish poets: in his person he was tall and sinewy, and of such strength and activity, that Scott alone, of all the poets I have seen, seemed his equal: his forehead was broad, his hair black, with an inclination to curl, his visage uncom- monly swarthy, his eyes large, dark and lustrous, and his voice deep and manly. His sensibility was strong, his passions full to overflowing, and he loved, nay, adored, whatever was gentle and beautiful. He had, when a lad at the plough, an el equent word and an inspired song for every fair face that smiled on him, and a Sharp sarcasm or a fierce lampoon for every rustic who thwarted or contradicted him. As his first inspiration came from love, to love on, and was as ready with the lasting for the lasses of Kyle: his earliest he continued through life incense of the muse for the ladies of Nithsdale as song was in praise of a young girl who reaped by his side, when he was seventeen—his latest in honour of a lady by whose side he had wandered and dreamed on the banks of the Devon. He was of a nature proud and suspicious, and towards the close of his life seemed disposed to regard all above him in rank as men who unworthily possessed the patrimony of genius; he desired to see the order of nature restored, and worth and talent in precedence of the base or the dull. He had no medium in his hatred or the stupid, as if they were not to be endured bee innocent possessors of titles or wealth he was start doubts in religion which he knew inspiration only could solve with a latitude of language that grieved pious listeners. a degree, above all men, and scorned all th He was a steadfast friend his love; he never spared ause he was bright; and on the heads of the ever ready to shower his lampoons. He loved to , and he spoke of Calvinism He was warm-hearted and generous to at was selfish and mean with a scorn quite romantic. and a good neighbour: while he lived at Ellisland few without being entertained at his table seldom left his door but with blessings passed his door ; and even when in poverty, on the Millhole-brae, the poor on their lips. Of his modes of study he has himse which he loved to muse. the Ayr, or the Nith; lf informed us, as well as of the Seasons and places in Ife composed while he strolled along the seclude as the images crowded on his fane his highest moods he was excited even to tears. swelling flood d banks of the Doon, y his pace became quickened, and in He loved the winter for its leafless trees, its along the gloomy sky, with frost and snow on their —he has neglected to and he composed with a ha filled his mind and heart with th 8, and its winds which swept wings; but he loved the autumn more say why—the muse was then more liberal of her favours, ppy alacrity unfelt in all other seasons. He ¢ materials of song—and retired from gazing on woman’s beauty, ST Ir Nera ne: TeneHIS GENIUS AND INSPIRATION. lvi and from the excitement of her charms, to rec rd his impressions in verse, as ap inter delineates on his canvas the looks of those who sit to his penci. Ilis chief piace of study at Ellisland is still remembered: it extends along the river-l ank towards the Isle: there the neighbouring gentry love to walk and peasants t rather, and hold it sacred, as the place where he composed Tam O’Sharter. His favourite place of stu ly when + in Dumfries, was the ruins of Lincluden College made classic by that sul lime ode, ** The Vision,”’ and that level and clovery sward con- s to the College, on the northern side of the Nith: the latter place was his favourite resort ; tizuou 2 ge, i+ is known now by the name of Burns's musing ground, and there he conceived many ' f his latter lyrics. In case of interruption he completed the verses at the fireside, where he swung to and fro in his arm-chair till the task was ¢ >: he then submitted the song to the ordeal of his wife’s ‘ ‘ wi h was b th sweet cl ir, al l wh le she sung he | stened attentively, Quad altered or amended till the whole was in harmony, music and words. The genius of Burns is of a high order: in brightness of expression and unsolicited ease and natural vehemence of language, he stands in the first rank of poets: in choice of subjects, in happiness of conception, and Ss magination, he recedes into the second. He owes little of his fame to his subjects, for, saving the beauty of a lew ladies, they were all of an ordinary kind: he sought neither in romance nor in history for themes to the muse; he took up topics from life around which wer r to all, and endowed them with character, with passion, with tenderness, with humour—elevating all that he touched into the regions of poetry and morals. He went to no far lands for the purpose of sur] rising us with wonders, neither did he go to ets to attract the stare of the peasantry around him, by things which to them were as a book shut and sealed: ‘‘The Daisy” grew on the lands which he ploughed; ‘‘ The Mouse” built her frail nest on his own stubble-field; ‘*The Haggis” reeked on his own table ; ‘ I nearhand cowpit wi’ my hurry, OF ROBERT Although their face he ne’er had kend it, Just sh— in a kail Baith their disease, and what will mend it, ‘¢ And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles, { A’ kinds o’ boxes, Their Latin names as fast he rattles True sal-marinum o’ the seas; The farina of beans an? ~ease, put yet the bauld Apothecary, Withstood the shock ; { might as weel hae tried a quarry O’ hard whin rock. 1m he canna get attended, blade, and send it, 7 ; As soon’s he smells t, At once he tells’t. ’f a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles, mugs, an Dotties, He’s sure to hae; As ABC. ‘‘Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees; He has’t in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can content ye. ‘‘Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons ; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill’d per se; Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings, And mony mae.” ‘¢Waes me for Johnny Ged’s-Hole? now,” Quo’ I, ‘If that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi’ the plew; They’ll ruin Johnie 193 The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh, And says, ‘‘ Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh, Tak ye nae fear ; They'll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh In twa-three year. ‘¢Whare I kill’d ane a fair strae death, By loss o’ blood or want of breath, This night I’m free to tak my aith, That Hornbook’s skill Has clad a score i’ their last claith, By drap an’ pill. ‘<< An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel bred Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, Sut ne’er spak mair ssp EE a a oy oo ei ces Seo ee ie Sc a gr GALdige 1 Buchan’s Domestic Medicine. 2 The grave-71gges Leitrim gv ve bd wis a ine asa) a amntle hetewe nee cade rant web tbL paeceions mace aah L SE ae tea Ope Ree ree t a ce i - i i \ i i | { | | E } 4g i i a ' \ i oie oe er “9age me = er rer meee ery me eng ag nev ee ae ee eo ee te ees S acdoeesoibehanaahchee oes aie taoemn ac aiieniena ane ten tie ida dine iocah sac nian nhac emi anenia ncaa aeaaneniahtabelnaeienaiael — a —— - - THE 78 POETICAL ‘4 countra laird had ta’en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An’ pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel. «¢ A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, € one ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame; She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, In Hornbook’s care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there. ‘‘That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way ; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, Ki, an’ slay, An’s weel paid for’t; Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey, Wi’ his d—mn’d dirt: “But, hark! Pll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o’t; Ill nail the self-conceited sot, As dead’s a herrin’: Niest 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, XVI. THE TWA HERDS: OR, THE HOLY TULZIRE. (The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell , helpe toversy, and went, it is said, to blows. Well as laity, met with a roar of applause,’ ] Ow ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes, Dr wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes? r to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the ‘« Old Light,’ tucy forgot their brotherhood in the venemenc -e@ of con- “This poem,?? b2vs Burns, ‘‘ with a certain dese ription of the clergy as WORKS The twa best herds in a’ the wast, That e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, O! dool to tell, Ha’e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel. O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistle And think it fine: The Lord’s cause ne’er got sic a twistle Sin’ I ha’e min’, 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’ Moodie’s flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty every shank, Nae poison’d sour Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae Calvin’s well, ay clear they drank,— O sic.a feast! The thummart, wil’-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood, He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik’d to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like Russell tell’d his tale, His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale, He kend the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail, O’er a’ the height, And saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club, And New-Light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin; Could shake them o’er the burning dub, Or heave them in. Sic twa—O! do I live to see’t, Sic famous twa should disagreet, An’ names, like villain, hypocrite, Ilk ither gi’en, While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin’ spite, Say neither’s liein’){n’ ye wha tent the gos} el fauld, There’s Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot 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 heay’n to see them yet In fiery flame. Dalrymple has been lang our fae, Gill has wrought us meikle wae, Aud that curs’d rascal call’d M’Quhae, And baith the Shaws, ™nat aft ha’e made us black and blae, Wi’ vengefu’ paws. Aald Wodrow lang has hatch’d mischief, We thought ay 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. And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn-coats amang oursel, There’s Smith for ane, I doubt he’s but a grey-nick quill, An’ that ye’ll fin’. O! a’ ye flocks o’er a’ the hills, 3y mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cow 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 ca’d Common Sense, That bites sae salir, Bg 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, M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense, And guid M’ Math, Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance, May a’ pack aff. XVII. HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. ‘‘ And send the godly in a pet to pray.” g Pope. [Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies Uk manuscript were circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it continued inpublished till printed by Stewart with the Joly Beggars, in 1801 Holy Willie was a small farmer leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all loveis of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous in all outward | observances, and, what is known by the name of a * pro- fessing Christian.’? He experienced, however, a *' sore fall;?? he permitted himself to be ‘filled fou,’? and ina moment when ‘‘self got in’? made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name wie William Fisher.) O rHov, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel’, Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A’ for thy glory, And no for ony gude or ill They’ve done afore thee’ I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in nigh* That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts and grace, A burnin’ and a shinin’ 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, Thou might hae plunged me in hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wall, In burnin’ lake, Whar damned devils roar and yell, Cham’d to a stake. Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample ; I’m here a pillar in thy temple, Strong «s a rock, A guide, a buckler, an exumple, To a’ thy flock. But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust; Sey Spr a aes pet eed # oe) ee ae oe oo : : ‘ ee et Se a nn - Fa SY pC LP Ea Sag Fe haar Cee Ae ed ea ae a ee Nn SY ne eT end et ee TE inee ee seth eee ee aka THE And sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defil’d in sin. O Lord! yestreen thou kens, wi’ Meg— Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O! may’t ne’er be a livin’ plague To my dishonour, An’ [ll ne’er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow— But Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I came near her, Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, Beset thy servant e’en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, Cause he’s sae gifted; If sae, thy han’ maun e’en be borne Until thou lift it. Tord, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, Yet has sae mony takin’ arts, Wi grit and sma’, Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts He steals awa. An’ whan 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 bare Upo’ their heads, uord weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds. O Lord my God, that glib-tongu’d Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin’, Pesce ie Wad ne’er hae steer’d her. POETICAL WORKS To think how we stood groanin’, shakin’, And swat wi’ dread, While Auld wi’ hingin lips gaed sneakin’ And hung 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 ’em, And dinna spare. But, Lord, remember me an mine, Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell’d by nane, And a’ the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen! XVIII. EPITAPH ON HOLY Wilh Le. [We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, that when he was clerk in Gavin Hamilton’s office, Burns came in one morning and said, ‘‘ I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it.’ He repeated Holy Willie’s Prayer and Epitaph; Hamilton came inat the moment, and haying read them with delight, ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy Willie was other than godly: in one of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was need ful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found dead in the morning.] Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clay Takes up its last abode; His saul has ta’en some other way, I fear the left-hand road. Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun, Poor, silly body, see him ; Nae wonder he’s as black’s the grun, Observe wha’s standing wi’ him. Your brunstane deyilship I see, Has got him there before ye; 3ut 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 merey’s day is gaen.nr | = oo Ns but hear me, sir, dell as L c something to your creait; A coof like hin If it were kent ye did it. 1 wad stain your name, Ls THE INVENTORY N ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR [1 » heard of a poor play-actor who, by na humor his ee s,so n ed the ommis ne \ ix, that t remitted all claim on him rever; we know not that this very humor f Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the e taxes. It is dated ‘*M 7 and is remarkable tor wit ¢ } its, household, and agricultural implements. } Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu’ list, 0’ gudes, an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith, To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith. Imprimis, then, for earriage cattle, { have four brutes o’ gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My lan’ afore’s! a gude auld has been, An’ wight, an’ wilfw’ a’ his days been. My lan ahin’s? a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,® An’ 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 wilfiw creature sae I pat to, (L—d pardon a’ my sins an’ that too !) I play’d my fillie sic a shavie, She’s a’ bedevil’d with the spavie. My fur ahin’s* 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 cowt o’ cowt’s the wale, As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spar’d to be a beast, He’ll draw me fifteen pun’ at least.— Wheel carriages I ha’e but few, Three carts, an’ twa are feckly new; 1 The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. 2 The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough. 6 viel, February ind sprightliness, it gives us of the poet’s Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg an’ baith the trams are broken; a pt ker o’ the spin’le, ] An’ my auld mither brunt the trin’le. For men I’ve three mischievous boys, Run de’ils for rantin’ an’ for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’other. Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An’ aften labour them completely ; An’ ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith, wee Davock’s turn’d sae gleg, Tho’ scarcely langer tnan your leg, He’ll screed you aff Effectual calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I’ve nane in female servan’ station, (Lord keep me ay frae a’ temptation 1) I ha’e nae wife—and that my bliss is, An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses; An’ then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils darena touch me. Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel contented, Heay’n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace ; But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, I’ve paid enough for her already, An’ gin ye tax her or her mither, B’ the L—d! ye’se get them a’thegither. And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I’m takin’ ; Frae this time forth, I do declare I’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro’ dirt and dub for life P’ll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; My travel a’ on foot I'll shank it, ’ve sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. The kirk and you may tak’ you that, It puts but little in your pat; Sae dinna put me in your buke, Nor for my ten white shillings luke. This list wi’ my ain hand I wrote it, The day and date as under noted ; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Rosert Runs. —— ——el Subscripst hutc 3 Kilmarnock. 4 The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough i ee ee Fe ee en et er try een Se H i ak “ee | ek ; i ' i i ted. Hi i { [ Fi f 4 i i 1 Zz + | ee] } u a | | ) oe | Ma Ae i a i i i iM ; i 4a | | eae : 5 aT ee aoe ee oe eT esee XX. THE HOLY FAIR. 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-MODE. [The scene of this fine poem is the churchyard of Mauchline, and the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity of manners visible in matters so so emnand terrible as the adiministration of the sacrament. ‘‘This was indeed,” says Lockhart, ‘‘ an extraordinary performance: no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which indi- viduals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet.’’? ‘It is no doubt,’ says Hogg, ‘‘a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever ore, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I n¢mire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed from Pergusson.’’] Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature’s face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An’ snuff the caller air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi’ glorious light was glintin’ ; The hares were hirplin down the furs, The lay’rocks they were chantin’ Fw’ sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad, To see a soene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way; Twa had manteeles 0’ dolefw’ black, But ane wi’ lyart lining ; The third, that gaed -a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining Fw’ gay that day. The twa appear’d like sisters twin, In feature, form, an’ claes ; Their visage, wither’d, lang, an’ thin, An’ sour as ony slaes: The third cam up, hap-step-an’-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e 2r she saw me, Fu’ kind that day. THE POETICAL WORKS Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, ‘Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I’m sure I’ve seen that bonnie face, But yet I canna name ye.” Quo’ she, an’ laughin’ as she spak, An’ taks me by the hands, “Ye, for my sake, hae gi’en the feck, Of a the ten commands A screed some day. ‘‘My name is Fun—your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An’ this is Superstition here, An’ 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 Jaughin’ At them this day.” Quoth I, ‘‘ With a’ my heart Pll do’t; Pll get my Sunday’s sark on, An’ meet you on the holy spot; Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin’ !” Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time An’ soon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi’ monie a wearie body, In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin’ graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, Are springin’ o’er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, In silks an’ scarlets glitter ; Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An’ farls bak’d wi’ butter, Fw crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An’ 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 an’ stools, An’ some are busy blethrin’ Right leud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs, An’ screen our countra gentry, There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin’ at the entry.OF ROBERT BURNS. Here sits a raw of titlin’ jades, Wi’ heaving breast and bare neck, An’ there a batch o’ wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. Here some are thinkin’ on their sins, An’ some upo’ their claes; Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins, Anither sighs an’ prays: On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi’ screw’d up grace-proud faces ; On that a set o’ chaps at watch, Thrang winkin’ on the lasses To chairs that day. 0 happy is that man an’ blest! Nae wonder that it pride him! Wha’s ain dear lass that he 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 neck, 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’ damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, ’Mang sons o’ God present him, The vera sight 0’ Moodie’s face, To’s ain het hame had sent him Wi’ fright that day. Hear how he clears the points o’ faith Wi’ ratlin’ an’ wi’ thumpin’! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He’s stampin an’ he’s jumpin’! His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures, Oh, how they fire the heart devout, Like cantharidian plasters, On sic a day. But hark! the tent has chang’d its voice: There’s peace an’ rest nae langer: For a’ the real judges rise, They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals; An’ aff the godly pour in thrangs, I> gie the jars an’ barrels A lift that day. What signifies his barren shine, Of moral pow’rs and reason ? His English style, an’ gestures fine, Are a’ clean out 0’ season. Like Socrates or Antonine, Or some auld 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, Ascends the holy rostrum: See, up he’s got the word o’ God, An’ meek an’ mim has view’d it, | While Common-Sense has ta’en the road, | An’ aff, an’ up the Cowgate,’ Fast, fast, that day. Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, An’ orthodoxy raibles, Tho’ in his heart he weel believes, An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables: But faith! the birkie wants a manse, So, cannily he hums them ; | Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense Like hafflins-ways o’ercomes him At times that day. | Now but an’ ben, the Change-house fills Wi’ yill-caup commentators: | Here’s crying out for bakes and gills, An’ there the pint-stowp clatters ; While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang, Wi’ logic, an’ wi’ scripture, They raise a din, that, in the end, Is like to breed a rupture O’ wrath that day. Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair Than either school or college: It kindles wit, it waukens lair, It pangs us fou’ 0’ knowledge. Be’t whisky gill, or penny wheep, Or ony stronger potion, It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an’ body, Sit round the table, weel content, An’ steer about the toddy. aces the tent in Mauch-ine. 1 A stypet so called, which fi Lape ek ea, mie hat nn het - I AS a nw EL er) eevee Pe o . een deh oa cme. a at oD iS eens Sets See ee anne en ie ne ey ES eet ot eeen ens 84 THE POETICAL WORKS On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk, They’re making observations ; While some are cozie i’ the neuk, An’ formin’ assignations To meet some day. But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts, Till a’ the hills are rairin’, An’ echoes back return the shouts: Black Russell is na’ sparin’: His piercing words, like Highlan’ swords, Divide the joints and marrow ; His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell, Our vera sauls does harrow! Wi’ fright that day. A vast, unbottom’d boundless pit, Fill’d fou o’ lowin’ brunstane, Wha’s ragin’ flame, an’ scorchin’ heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! The half asleep start up wi’ fear, An’ think they hear it roarin’, When presently it does appear, "T'was but some neibor snorin’ Asleep that day. ’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past, An’ how they crowded to the yill, When they were a’ dismist: How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups, Amang the furms an’ benches: An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps, Was dealt about in lunches, Aw’ dawds that day. In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, An’ sits down by the fire, Syne draws her kebbuck an’ 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, An’ gies them’t like a tether, Fw lang that day. Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, Or lasses that hae naething; Sma’ need has he to say a grace, Or melvie his braw claithing! U wives, be mindfw’ ance yoursel How bonnie lads ye wanted, — 1 Shakspeare’s Hamlet. 2 Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the | | | An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, Let lasses be affronted ' On sic a day! Now Clinkumbell, wi’ ratlin tow, Begins to jow an’ croon; Some swagger hame, the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink, They’re a’ in famous tune For crack that day. How monie hearts this day converts O’ sinners and o’ lasses! Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane, As saft as ony flesh is. There’s some are fou o’ love divine; There’s some are fou 0’ brandy; An’ monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. XXI. THE ORDINATION. ‘¢ For sense they little owe to frugal heav’n— To please the mob they hide the little giv’n.’? [This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, ot parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786 That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.] KILMARNOCK wabsters fidge an’ claw, An’ pour your creeshie nations ; An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, Of a denominations, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an’ a’ An’ there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw, An’ pour divine libations ? For joy this day. Curst Common-Sense, that imp o’ hell, Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder ;2 admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk,OF } But Oliphant aft made her yell, An’ Russell sair misca’d her; skinlay taks the flail, Andi he’s the boy will ! laud her! He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, An’ set the bairns to daud her Wi’ dirt this day. O’ double verse come gie us four, An’ skirl up the Bangor: This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, Nae mair the knaves shall w rang 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, An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, How graceless Ham! leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a niger; Or Phineas? drove the murdering blade, Wi’ wh-re-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah,3 the scauldin’ jad, Was like a bluidy tiger T’ 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. Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, And toss thy horns fu’ canty ; Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty ; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An’ runts o’ grace the pick and wate, No gi’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 fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin’ : 1 Genesis, 1x. 22. 2 Numbers, xxv. 8. 2Ex «dus, iv. 25. ROBERT Come, screw the pegs, wi’ tunefu’ cheep, And o’er the thairms be tryin’ ; | Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep, 9 RON AIE RS 1 “y s An’ a’ like lamb-tails flyin Ku’ fast this day! Lang Patronage, wi’ rod o’ airn, Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin’, As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin: Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, 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, Robinson, harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever: Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton repair, And turn a carpet-weaver Aff-hand this day. Mutrie and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones: Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin’ baudrons: And ay’ he catch’d the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his honour maun detach, Wi’ a’ his brimstane squadrons, Fast, fast this day. See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes She’s swingein’ through the city; Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! I vow it’s unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, trunts out some Latin ditty ; And Common Sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint 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 an’ fell, As ane were peelin’ onions ! Now there—they’re packed aff to hell, And banished our dominions, Henceforth this day. PR TR nt Seer eet ee) eee ee oan A eeeetes are a APES a a ee Pe — I a DI OE aee nye pee ene ese en re 86 THE POETICAL WORKS — O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality’s demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, 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! mother’s son, From this time forth Confusion : If mair they deave us wi’ their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We’ll light a spunk, and ey’ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day. XXII. THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, On his text, MaLacui, iv. 2.—‘‘ And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVEs of the stall.’’ (The ‘augh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf—for the name it seems stuck—came to. Lon- don, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1790.]} Rieut, 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 stot! 1“ New Light?’ is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- and, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwieh has defended. | een - Tho’, when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o’ sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte. And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi’ justice they may mark your head— >) ‘¢ Here lies a famous Bullock XXIII. TO JAMES SMITH. ‘¢ Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet’ner of life and solder of society ! I owe thee much !—”’ BualiR. [The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shopkeeper in Mauchliné; and the comrade or rather follower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with ‘‘ Yill-caup commentators.’ He was present in Posie Nansie’s when the Jolly Beggars fs st dawned on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of tne poet’s heart were not generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788: but this was not to last; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his manners lively and unaffected.) DreAR Situ, the sleest, paukie thief, That e’er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts, For ne’er a besom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an’ moon, And ey’ry star that blinks aboon, Ye ve cost me twenty pair 0’ 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 ManJust now I’ve ta’en the fit o’ rhyme, My barmie noddle’s working prime, My fancy yerkit it up sublime Wi’ hasty summon: Hae yt a leisure-moment’s time To hear what’s comin’? Som rhyme a neighbour’s name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu’ cash: Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An’ raise a din; For me, an aim [ never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat ; But in requit, Has blest me with a random shot O’ countra wit. This while my notion’s ta’en a sklent, To try my fate in guid black prent; Sut still the mair I’m that way bent, I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye’ll shaw your folly. ‘‘ There’s ither poets much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o” letters, Hae thought they had ensur’d their 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, An’ teach the lanely heights an’ 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, [’ll lay me with th’ inglorious dcad, 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, e . i ° | Something cries ‘‘ Hoolie! OF ROBERT BURNS. 87 Tlis 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; See crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi’ wrinkl’d face, Comes hostin’, hirplin’, owre the field, | | For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d, | Wi’ creepin’ pace. } | Then fareweel vacant careless roamin’ ; | An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’, An’ social noise; An’ fareweel dear, deluding woman! The joy of joys! O Life! 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. 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 nor 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 seryan’, Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’ : To right or left, eternal swervin’, They zig-zag on; Til] curst with age, obscure an’ starvin’, They aften groan. When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin’, Fn en a ee TD oie eee nee ty a f , : ‘ a ee eS ee ee ae tel maa ae re z se ee TT)| | C THE POETICAL WORKS i | | ee -—————— ea i | Alas! what bitter toil an’ straining— Ye are sae graye, nae doubt ye’re wise; iy But truce with peevish, poor complaining! | Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise Hi HH {s fortune’s fickle Luna waning? The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, E’en let her gang! The rattling squad: HvHta Beneath what light she has remaining, I see you upward cast your eyes— Hn Let’s sing our sang. Ye ken the road— My pen I here fling to the door, Whilst I—but I shall haud me there— | he | AOE And kneel, ‘‘Ye Pow’rs,” and warm implore, | Wi’ you I'll scarce gang ony where— | | . . WN ‘Tho’ I should wander terra e’er, Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, Hi i} | . | ro aA In all her climes, But quat my sang, weit Grant me but this, I ask no more, Content wi’ you to mak a pair, Hi Ay rowth o’ rhymes. Whare’er I gang. Wt | } ! il ‘Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, vat A wie . n ° ATE Till icicles hing frae their beards; Halll Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, XXIV. | } cl , t . ; Hi And maids of honour! THE VISION MF And yill an’ whisky gie to cairds, H : Hi ‘ a TAN TYrem 1 Pap HH Until they sconner. DUN AIRE. H Tue ef : 1H) | [The Vision and the Briggs of AyT, are said by Jeffrey i. : HWE ‘A title, Dempster merits 1t; to be ‘* the only pieces by Burns which can be classed ae tH) A garter gie to Willie Pitt; under the head of pure fiction:’? but Tam o? Shanter rage Ht s ; : ant renty other of h -ompositions av i c Ee We Gie wealth to some be-ledger’d cit, | and twenty other of his compositions haye an equa. { HT I t t right to be classed with works of fiction. The edit. i! n cent. per cent. : : ; S Hi : eee corel of this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some il 7 RAS . “1 77 7 AC . ~ ° ~ f EA But give me real, sterling wit, particulars from the edition which followed in Edin- f i i] HH And I’m content. burgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to it I match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection H| ‘‘While ye are pleas’d to keep me hale, triumphed; and Jean, for whom the honour was rom i Pi Vl sit d ) t 1 the first designed, regained her place. The robe o ; sit down o’er my scanty me: tts pa | e€ y scanty meal, Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got | ) >? v6 > 7 . . 1: . ae Lt ! Be’t water-brose, 01 muslin-kail, more cloth than she could well carry.] t be | re . A Wi cheerfuw’ face, 1 14] ; 1 tH ) : Re 2 su ad clos’ e winter day | i i As lang’s the muses dinna fail Hu sunvhad clos'dithe winter/day, i We hi mn ae The curlers quat their roaring play, : Ai To say the grace. eee Pant An’ hunger’d maukin ta’en her way | An anxious e’e I never throws To kail-yards green, ; Behint my lug, or by my nose; While faithless snaws ilk step betray I jouk beneath misfortune’s blows Whare she has been. As weel’s I may; : \ FAG Ma waaArTd inoin’-tr Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, The thresher’s weary flingin’-tree The lee-lang day had tired me; I rhyme away. e lee-lang day had tired me; And when the day had clos’d his e’e O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Far i the west, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, : Nh Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool! I gaed to rest. ; ih How much unlike! i He Your hearts are just a standing pool, There, lanely; by, the ingleseheek, mI Your lives a dyke! Tse and ey a the spewing reek, 7 iit That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek, MV Nae hair-brain’d, sentimental traces, The auld clay biggin’ ; Hi In your unletter’d nameless faces ! An’ heard the restless rattons squeak ai In arioso trills and graces About the riggin’. i Ye never stray, — ——_—_—— —— : | | But gravissimo, solemn basses 1 Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions sete sentry of a digressive poem. Soe his ‘ Cath-Loda,”? vol. il. of Macpherson’s translation. Ye hum away. fics>, peewee ty ae Pe “Te But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme, | I started, mutt’ring, blockhead * cootf | And heay’d on high my waukit loof, To swear by a’ yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof | Till my last |} reath— When. click! the string the snick did draw: And, jee! the door gaed to the wa’; | An’ by my ingle-lowe I saw, | Now bleezin’ bright, A tight outlandish hizzie, braw Come full in sight. Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht; The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht ; I glowr’d as eerie’s I'd been dusht In some wild glen; | When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows, I took her for some Scottish Muse, 3y that same token; , A f . An’ come to stop those reckless vows, Wou’d soon be broken. A ‘‘hair-brain’d, sentimental trace” Was strongly marked in her face ; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her: Her 2} 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: (The Wallaces uld « niy ps er it: Sae straught, sae taper, tiglit, and clean, Nane else came near it. [er mantle large, of greenish hue, T = - 1 My gazing wonder chi lrew Deep lights and shade bold-mingling, threw And seem’d to my astonish’d view, A well-known 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 l The lordly dome. {ty boast, 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 ancient borough rear’d her head ; Still, as in Scottish story read, She boasts a race, To ev’ry nobler virtue bred, And polish’d grace. By stately tow’r, or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Bold stems of heroes, here and there, I could discern ; Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare, With feature stern My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race! heroic wheel, And brandish round the deep-dy’d steel In sturdy blows; While back-recoiling seem’d to reel Their southron foes. His Country’s Saviour,* mark him well! Bold Richardton’s? heroic swell; The chief on Sark‘ who glorious fell, In high command ; mand under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous tSir William Wallace. 3 Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immor- b.« preserver of Scottish independence. “Wallace. Laird of Craigie, who was second in com- battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 14448. Thas 3 principally oWins elorious vietory was to the judicious rof the gallant laird of Craigt®, conduct and intrepid valou who died of his wounds atter the acuion ca TTT aetna nt CELIA ELLE, ee Tt nee ieAnd He whom ruthless fates expel His native land. There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade! Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid, I mark’d a martial race portray’d | In colours strong ; yt Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d They strode along. Thro’ many a wild romantic grove,? 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, | The learned sire and son I saw, | To Nature’s God and Nature’s law | They gave their lore, Hi) This, all its source and end to draw; That, to adore. Brydone’s brave ward‘ 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 high And hero shone. DUAN SECOND. ; : . Wirn musing-deep, astonish’d stare, I view’d the heavenly-seeming fair; A whisp’ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister’s air She did me greet. ‘All hail! My own inspired bard! in me thy native Muse regard! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low! I come to give thee such reward As we bestow. 66 1 1 1 Know, the great genius of this land, Has many a light aérial band, ee 1 Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as traditioy Bilys8, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- Geld, where his buri l-plaee is still shown % Ba rsk I ; Burskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justico-Clerk AC Or tect THE POETICAL WORKS Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously, As arts or arms they understand, Their labours ply. ‘‘They Scotia’s race among them share; Some fire the soldier on to dare; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption’s heart. Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art. ‘<’Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; Or ’mid the venal senate’s roar, They, sightless, stand, To mend the honest patriot-lore, And grace the hand ‘¢ And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild, poetic rage In energy, Or point the inconclusive page Full on the eye. ‘¢ Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His ‘ Minstrel’ lays; Or tore, with noble 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 artisan ; All choose, as various they’re inclin’d The various man. ‘‘When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat’ning 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; Ss . iden’ i Some grace the maiden’s artless smile; (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of Session.) 3 Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Stewa ¢. 4 Colonel Fullarton.OF ROBERT BURNS. 91 Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains. ‘«Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man’s infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard: Ani careful note each op’ning grace, A guide and guard. ‘©Of these am I—Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fam3, Held ruling pow’: I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. ‘‘ With future hope, I oft would gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely carroll’d, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fir’d at the simple, artless lays Of other times. ‘©? saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through the sky, I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ‘Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth, And joy and music pouring forth In evy’ry grove, * 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, % xynt 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. | | ‘©T saw thy pulse’s maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way, Misled by Fancy’s meteor-ray, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. ‘“‘T taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o’er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, Become thy friends. ‘¢Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson’s landscape glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone’s art: Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow, Warm on the heart, ‘¢ Yet, all beneath the unrivall’d rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade «Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine * And, trust me, not Potosi’s mine, Nor king’s regard, Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, A rustic bard. ‘To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still 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. Fata i asia Sn an rt pe ee Spas aent Serer Oe te soe : red A pS FSS RCN oe PESO Os a rhe se er. Cira THE XXYV. HALLOWEEN! “Ves! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art.”? GOLDSMITH. {This Poem contains a lively soine of the superstitious observances of old Scotland: ov Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once al: but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portion of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene islaidon the romantic sliores of Ayr, at a farmer’s fireside, and the actors in the rustic druma are the whole household, including super- numerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engagements of harvest. ‘*I never can help regarding this,’? says James Hogg, ‘‘as rather a trivial poem !??} Uron that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans? dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance; Or for Colean the rout is ta’en, Beneath the moon’s pale beams; There, up the Cove,? to stray an’ rove Amang the rocks an’ streams To sport that night. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplin’, clear, Where Bruce ance rul’d the martial ranks An’ shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks Together did conyene, d , To burn their nits, an’ pou their stocks, An’ haud their Halloween Fw blythe that night. 1Is thought to be a night when Witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aérial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anni- Versary. 2 Certain little, romantic. rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. 3A noted cavern near Colean-house, c of Colean which, as well as C; m country story alled the Coye issilis Downans, is famed for being a favourite haunt of 4 Thou Camous family of that name, the Robert the great deliverer of his ¢ of Carrick. fairies. ancestors of Ountry, Were Earls 5 The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock, or plant of kail, They must go out, hand-in-hand, With eyes shut, and pull the first they meet being big or little With: its » Straight or crooked, IS prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells— tha husband or wife, If any yird, or earth, stick to the aneEeee POETIC and striking picture of AL WORKS The la sses feat, an’ ; Mair braw than when they’re fine; cleanly neat Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin’; The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer babs, Weel knotted on their garten, te, an’ some wi’ gabs 5 “> Some unco bl: Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’ Whiles fast at night. Then, first and foremost, thro’ the kail, Their stocks maun a’ be sought ance; They steek their een, an’ graip an’ wale, For muckle anes an’ straught anes. Poor hay’rel Will fell aff the drift, An’ wander’d through the bow-kail, An’ pou’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 an’ cry a’ throu’ther; The vera wee-things, todlin’, rin Wi’ stocks out-owre their shouther ; An’ gif the custoc’s sweet or sour, Wi’ joctelegs they taste them; Syne coziely, Wi aboon the door, annie care, they’ve placed them To lie that night. The lasses staw frae mang them a’ To pou their stalks 0? corn ;6 But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn: He grippet Nelly hard an’ fast; Loud skirl’d a? the lasses; sut her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kiuttlin’ in the fause-house7 Wi him that night. ———<—_________ root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them tl 1eir Ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question, 6 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is. the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in quest 1on will come to the marriage-bed any- thing but a maid. 7 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being toc green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an open- ing In the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: thia he calls a fause-house.The auld cuidwife’s weel hoordet nits Are round an’ round divided, An’ monie lads’ an’ lasses’ fates Are there that night decided: Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An’ 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, an’ this is me, She says in to hersel’ He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre him, As they wad never mair part; ‘Till, fuff! he started up the lum, An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart | To see’t that night. | Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt, | Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie; | An’ Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compar’d to Willie; Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling, An’ her ain fit it brunt 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 an’ Rob in; In loving bleeze they sweetly join, Til] white in ase they’re sobbin’ ; Nell’s heart was dancin’ at the view, She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t: tob, stowlins, prie’d her bonie mou’, Fw’ cozie in the neuk for’t, Unseen that night. But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks, And slips out by hersel’ : She through the yard the nearest taks, An’ to the kiln she goes then, 1 Burning the nutsisafamouscharm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be. 2 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln. and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn: wind it in a clue off the old one; and towards the ? arlkli 4 PATTI 7 } , An’ darklins graipit for the bauks, And in the blue-clue? throws then, Right fear’t that night An’ ay she win’t, an’ ay she swat, I wat she made nae jaukin’ ; Till something held within the pat, Guid L But whether ’twas the Deil himsel’, d! but she was quaukin’! 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 graunie says, ‘‘ Will ye go wi’ me, graunie! I'll eat the aj ples at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnnie :” She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap’rin’, She notic’t na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro’ that night. ‘‘ Ye little skelpie-limmer’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 Lis For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An’ liv’d an’ died deleeret On sic a night «« Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind’t as weel’s yestreen, I was a gilpey then, ’m sure I was na past fifteen: The simmer had been cauld an’ wat, An’ stuff was unco green; An’ ay a rantin’ kirn we gat, An’ just on Halloween It fell that night. ‘Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graez, A clever, sturdy fellow: ae latter end, something will hold the threas ; cemand ‘* wha hauds??) i.e. who holds? an answ6J ‘#-.1 ‘oe returned from the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse. 3 Take a candle, lass; eat and go alone to a looking-g j and some traditions say, you should the face of your conjuga. glass, as if peeping an apple before it, comb your hair all the time ; companion, to be, will bo seen in the over vour shoulder. pees i Pa ee ae ee PED Set tn Pee TA Raa eee Or eer a ees eat t h ita he \ z MY i y cy ii a iH Hl : - a I N { i oe (eee eee De pee a &94 TH E He’s sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean, That livd in Achmacalla: He gat hemp-seed,' I mind it weel, And he made unco light o’t; But monie a day was by himsel’, He was sae sairly frighted That vera night.” Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck, An’ he swoor by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; For it was a’ but nonsense; The auld guidman raught down the pock, An’ out @ handfw’ gied him ; Syne bad him slip frae ’mang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see’d him, An’ try’t that night. He marches thro’ amang the stacks, Tho’ he was something sturtin; The graip he for a harrow taks, An’ haurls at his curpin ; An’ ey’ry now an’ then he says, ‘‘Hemp-seed, I saw thee, An’ her that is to be my lass, Come after me, an’ draw thee As fast that night.” He whistl’d up Lord Lennox’ march, To keep his courage cheery; Altho’ his hair began to arch, He was sae fley’d an’ eerie; Till presently he hears a squeak, An’ then a grane an’ gruntle; He by his shouther gae a keek, An’ tumbl’d wi’ a wintle Out-owre that night. He roar’d a horrid murder-shout, In dreadfw’ desperation ! An’ young an’ auld cam rinnin’ out, An’ hear the sad narration ; I 1Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp- seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you, Repeat, now and then, ‘ Hemp-seed, I saw thee; hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee,’? Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appear- ance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, ‘“‘ Come after me, ard shaw thee,” that is, show thyself; in which case it simply wpears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, “Come after me, and harrow thee.” 2 This charm must likewise be performed, and alone. You go to the barn taking them off the hinges, if pos unperceived, » and open both doors, sible; for there is danger POETICAL WORKS He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, Till, stop! she trotted thro’ them a’; An’ wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night! Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, To win three wechts o’ naething ;? But for to meet the deil her lane, She pat but little faith in: She gies the herd a pickle nits, An’ twa red cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tam Kipples That vera night. She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw, An’ owre the threshold ventures; But first on Sawnie gies a ca’, Syne bauldly in she enters: A ratton rattled up the wa’, An’ she cried, L—d preserve her! An’ ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’, > An’ pray’d wi’ 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,® Was timmer-propt for thrawin’ ; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin; An’ loot a winze, an’ drew a stroke, *Till skin in blypes cam haurlin’ Aff’s nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlin; But, och! that night, amang the shaws, She got a fearfu’ settlin’! She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn, An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin, that the being about to appear may shut the docrs and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument ised in Winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht; and go through all the attituces of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass through thé barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinué marking the employment or station in life. 3 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three timesround. The last fathon of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appoar ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.Whare three lairds’ lands met at a burn,! To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. 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 dimpl’t ; Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rays, Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that night. Amang the brackens on the brae, Between her an’ the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey, Gat up an’ gae a croon: Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool! Near lay’rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an’ in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi’ a plunge that night. in order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three® are ranged, And ey’ry time great care is ta’en, To see them duly changed: Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys Sin Mar’s-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 na weary ; An’ unco tales, an’ funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an’ cheery ; Till butter’d so’ns? wi’ fragrant lunt, Set a’ their gabs a-steerin’ ; Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt, They parted aff careerin’ Fu’ blythe that night. 1 You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to p south running spring or rivulet, where ‘‘ three lairds’ Jands meet,” and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an apparition haying the exact figure of the grand object in puestion, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the ther side of it. 2 Take three dishes: put clean water in one, foul water n another, and leave the third empty ; blindfold a person OF ROBERT BURNS. 95 XXXVI. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. (The origin of this fine poem is alludcd tc te Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop: ‘I had an ok g:ard- uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blindere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of ‘ The Life and Age of Man.’*’ From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in col- lecting the Reliques, obtuined a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with ‘‘ Man was made to Mourn,” I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to hisown habitual feelings.) Wuen chill November’s surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ey’ning as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spy’d 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 rey’rend sage; ‘Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful 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 yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return, And ev’ry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. ‘©Q man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! pe eee and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the ba of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is nltered. 3 Sowens. with butter instexd of milk to them, isalways the Halloween suppé:. Se Penn ye Tt Vente net oe Php ey tee oe re ee ges a te Cie fo wo ets ates A wo cer te ewes ne ers Ln le A neTe ene nee THE POETICAL Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives nature’s law That man was made to mourn. ‘Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood’s active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; 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! “See yonder poor, o’erlabour’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 Pm design’d yon lordling’s slaye— By Nature’s law design’d— Why was an independent wish Ber planted in my mind? 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; Then age and want—oh! ill-match’d pair !— WORKS This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn ! ‘OQ 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 torn! But, oh! a blest relief to those > That weary-laden mourn.’ Xx XVII. TO RUIN. 5 [‘‘I have been,’? says Burns, in his common-placw book, ‘‘ taking a peep through, as Young finely says, ‘The dark postern of time long elapsed.’ *Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a rumed temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts. what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!” The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.] I. Aut 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-resoly’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’ning, Round my devoted head. II. And thou grim pow’r, by life abhorr’d, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! bear 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, ay} . . 1eSS aay; 10Oy a ? 5p ook Resign life’s a _ bings cease, Cold mould’ring in the clay ? no tear more, 1 f.} . lifeless Iace ; No fear more, To stain my Hnclasped, and grasped Within thy cold embrace! XXVIII. TO JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK. ON THE 7UBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. [This burniny commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in tue Macgill controversy, was first published the J ly Beggars, Jolly in 1801; it is akin in y Willie’s Prayer; and may be cited as a san.ple of the wit and the force which the poet -yought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of # Vest. ] ‘) Goupie! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev’rena wigs, Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girnin’, looks back, Wishin’ the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick. Poor gapin’, glowrin’ Superstition, Waes me! she’s in a sad condition: Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician, To see her water: Alas! there’s ground o’ great suspicion She’ll ne’er get better. Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, But now she’s got an unco ripple; Haste, gie her name up i’ the chapel, Nigh unto death ; See, how she fetches at the thrapple, An’ gasps for breath. En‘husiasm’s past redemption, Gaen in a gallopin’ 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! are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief, 1 Dr. Taylor, of Norwich But gin the Lord’s ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel, An’ twa red peats wad send relief, An’ end the quarrel X XIX. TO J. LAPRATIK. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (FIRST EPISTLE.) [‘* The epistle to John Lapraik,’’ says Gilbert Burns, ‘was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social incli a neighbour’s house; hence the As the nation of meeting in phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. connexion the phrase had with the implement was for gotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occa sions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well aa women.’’] Wuite briers an’ woodbines budding green, An’ paitricks scraichin’ loud at e’en, An’ morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien’ I pray excuse. On Fasten-een we had a rockin’, To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin’ , And there was muckle fun an’ 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 aught describ’d sae weel, What gen’rous manly bosoms feel, Thought I, ‘‘Can this be Pope or Steele, Or Beattie’s wark ?” They told me ’twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. eer ee pn an ee Se Jaca ee en ee ee ae On ee en RY la) Pe ee TESe a a a fs eee aS ieee ie Se eS ne ee 98 THE POETIC AL WORKS 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 injine, That, nane excell’d it, few cam near’t, It was sae fine. That, set him to a pint of ale, An’ either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel’, Or witty catches, ’T ween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith, Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie’s death At some dyke-back, A pint an’ gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an’ foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho’ rude an’ rough, Yet crooning to a body’s sel’, Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An’ hae to learning nae pretence, Yet what the matter? ‘Whene’er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, ‘‘ How can you e’er propose, You, 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 an’ stools ; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye’d better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. A set o’ dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks and come out asses, Plain truth to speak ; An’ syve 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 though I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee, Or Fergusson’s, the bauld and slee, Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it. Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I’se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that’s true— I’m on your list. I winna blaw about mysel ; As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends an’ folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me Tho’ I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses—Gude forgie me! For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair; May be some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare. But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair; I should be proud to meet you there! We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care, If we forgather, An’ hae a swap 0’ rhymin’-ware Wi’ ane anither. The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter, An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin’ water; Syne we'll sit down an’ tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better, Before we part. Awa, ye selfish, warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace, Ey’n love an’ friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack.ROBERT BURNS. Sut ye whom socia. pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, ‘‘Each aid the others,” Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! Bat, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle, Your friend and servant, TO J. LAPRATK. (SECOND EPISTLE.) [The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, and was a rustic worshipper of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western bubble, the Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, oeginning ‘¢ When I upon thy bosom lean.’? He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic so ‘row wus no settled power of sou..] April 21st, 1785. WHILE new-ca’d ky, rowte at the stake, An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This hour on e’enin’s edge I take To own I’m debtor, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, wi’ weary legs, Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs, , Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs Their ten hours’ bite, My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, I would na write. The tapetless ramfeezl’d hizzie, She’s saft at best, and something lazy, Quo’ she, ‘‘Ye ken, we’ve been sae busy, This month’ an’ mair, That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, An’ something sair.”’ Her dowff excuses pat me mad: *«Conscience,”’ says I, ‘‘ ye thowless jad! Dll write, an’ 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 show your parts, An’ thank him kindly ?” Sae I gat paper in a blink An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink: Quoth I, ‘‘ Before I sleep a wink, I vow I'll close it; An’ if ye winna mak it clink, By Jove I'll prose it!” Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ carp Tho’ fortune use you hard an’ sharp; Come, kittle up your moorland-harp Wi’ gleesome touch! Ne’er mind how fortune waft an’ warp; She’s but a b-tch. She’s gien me monie a jirt an’ fleg, Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig; But, by the L—d, tho’ I should beg Wi lyart pow, T’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg, As lang’s I dow! Now comes the sax an’ twentieth simmey I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer, Still persecuted by the limmer Frae year to year, But yet despite the kittle kimmer, I, Rob, am here. Do ye envy the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent. And muckle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie’s name? re parechl PaO) a oe od ee ee OE a Pee an a eT ae es OP ee ee EC Te Te BSA Se = reSn a - — Sn renter eae _— a Si Or is’t the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi’ ruffi’d sark an’ glancing cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks, While caps and bonnets aff are taen, As by he walks! ‘‘Q Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o? wit an’ 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 an’ great,” Damnation then would be our fata, Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heay’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, An’ none but he!” O mandate, glorious and divine! The followers o’ the ragged Nine, Poor thoughtless devils! yet may shine In glorious light, While sordid sons 0’? Mammon’s line Are dark as night. Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl, Their worthless nieyfw’ 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, an’ joys, In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship’s ties Each passing year! | | 100 THE POETICAL WORKS XXXI. TO J. LAPRAIK. (THIRD EPISTLE.) {I have heard one of our most distinguished English poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and } the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, ‘‘ tapetless,”’ ‘‘ ramfeezled,’’ and ‘ forjesket,’? as intrusions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.] Sept. 13th, 1785. Gur speed an’ furder to you, Johnny, Guid health, hale han’s, an’ weather bonny ; Now when ye’re nickan down fu’ canny The staff o’ bread, May ye ne’er want a stoup 0’ bran’y To clear your head May Boreas never thresh your rigs, Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs an’ haggs Like drivin’ wrack; But may the tapmast grain that wags Come to the sack. I’m bizzie too, an’ skelpin’ at it, 3ut bitter, daudin’ showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi muckle wark, An’ took my jocteleg an’ whatt it, Like ony clark. It’s now twa month that I’m your debtor For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, Abusin’ me for harsh ill nature On holy men, While deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re better, But mair profane. But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let’s sing about our noble sel’s; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an’ whiskey stills, They are the muses. Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it An’ if ye mak’ objections at it, Then han’ in nieve some day we'll knot it, An’ witness take, An’ when wi’ Usquabae we’ve wat it It winna breakOF ROB But if the beast and branks be spar’d Till kye be gaun without the herd, An’ a’ the vittel in the yard, An’ theekit right, I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night. Then muse-inspirin’ aqua-yite Shall make us baith sae blythe an’ witty, Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty, An’ be as canty, As ye were nine year less than thretty, Sweet ane an’ twenty! 3ut stooks are cowpet wi’ the blast, An’ now the sin keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest An’ quat my chanter; ‘ae I subscribe myself in haste, Yours, Rab the Ranter. XXXII. TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, OCHILTREE. [The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New I nark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more the poet’s comrades ;—of verses which rose not abc the barren level of mediocrity: ‘‘ one of his poems,”? si Chambers, ‘‘ was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul.’? In his verses to Burns, under the na of a Tailor, there is nothing to laugh at, though they are tntended to be laughable as well as monitory.] May, 1785. I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi’ gratefw’ heart I thank you brawlie; Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, An’ 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 Musie; Tho’ in sic phraisin’ terms ye’ye penn’d it, I scarce excuse ye. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, ER" 4a- of ve Lys me | I 1 BURNS. Iti Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield, The braes o’ fame; Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, A deathless name. (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts Il] suited law’s dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes Wad stow’d his pantry! Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they’re like to be my dead (O sad disease t) 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 winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measur’d stile ; She lay like some unkenn’d-of isle Beside New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Besouth Magellan. Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon, Nae body sings. Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefw’ line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine, An’ cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an’ burnies shine Up wi’ the best. We'll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells, Her moor’s red-brown wi’ heather bells, Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. ee 4 er. 5 Lf » cy BO a kw i dee OE Tee cap TN ts OS ee oe OTROS roy t tne eer TI 5 Pe ne Per. ae ee ee eAare a aa ee ade erie a 102 THE POETICAL WORKS At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood | But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace’ side, Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy’d. O sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin’ hares, in amorous whids Their loves enjoy While thro’ the braes the cushat croods With wailfw’ cry! Ey’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. O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi’ life an’ light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The muse, nae Poet ever fand her, ’Till by himsel’ he learn’d to wander, Adown some trotting burn’s meander, An’ no think lang; O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! The warly race may drudge an’ drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an’ strive, Let me fair Nature’s face descrive, And I, wi’ pleasure, Shall 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 an’ taxes ; While moorlan’ herds like guid fat braxies; While terra firma, on her axes Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice, In Roserr Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory’s no worth a preen: I had amaist forgotten clean, Ye bade me write you what they mean, By this New Light, ’Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans, At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon, Wore by degrees, ’till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An’ shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. This past for certain—undisputed ; It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it, An’ ca’d it wrang ; An’ muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an’ lang. Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; For ’twas the auld moon turned a neuk, An’ out 0’ sight, An’ backlins-comin’, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny’d, it was affirm’d; The herds an’ hissels were alarm’d: The rey’rend gray-beards ray’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 an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks, An’ monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi’ hearty crunt; An’ some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang’d an’ brunt This game was play’d in monie lands, An’ Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, That, faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi’ nimble shanks, Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks3ut New Light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an’-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye’ll find ane plac’d; An’ some their New Light fair avow, Just quite barefac’d. Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin’ ; Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin’: Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin’ Wi’ girnin’ spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie’d on By word an’ write. 3ut shortly they will cowe the loons; Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns Are mind’t in things they ca’ balloons, To tak a flight, An’ stay ae month amang the moons And see them right. Guid observation they will gie them: An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them, The hindmost shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them, Just i’ their pouch, An’ 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 tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, I hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. XX XIII. ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. [This hasty and not very decorous effusion, was Origi- nally entitled ‘‘The Poet’s Welcome; Or, Rab the Rhymer’s Address to his Bastard Child.’”? A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by 3uras himself, in his biographical letter to Moore. ‘¢ Bonnie Betty,’ the mother of the ‘ sonsie-smirking, dear-bought Bess,’ of the Inventory, lived in Largie- side: to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. Sho lived to be a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, where she died any of the rest of his children.] Tirov’s welcome, wean, mischanter fa’ me, If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, cn 1817. It is said she resembled Burns quite as much as Shall ever daunton me, or awe me, My sweet wee lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me Tit-ta or dadty. Wee image of my bonny Betty, I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee, As dear and near my heart I set thee Wi’ as gude will As a’ the priests had seen me get thee That’s out o’ hell. What tho’ they ca’ me fornicator, An’ tease my name in kintry clatter: The mair they talk I’m kent the better, E’en let them clash ; An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter To gie ane fash. Sweet fruit o’ mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a’ tint, Sin’ thou came to the warl asklent, Which fools may scoff at, In my last plack thy part’s be in’t The better ha’f o’t. An’ if thou be what I wad hae thee, An? tak the counsel I sall gie thee, A lovin’ father I’ll be to thee, If thou be spar’d; Thro’ a’ thy childish years I'll e’e thee, An’ think’t weel war’d. Gude grant that thou may ay inherit Thy mither’s person, grace, an’ merit, An’ thy poor worthless daddy’s spirit, Without his failins ; Twill please me mair to hear an’ see it Than stocket mailens XXXIV. NATURE’S LAW. A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H. ESQ. ‘¢Great nature spoke, observant man obey'd.’’ Pors [This Poem was written by Burns at Mossgie1, and ‘(humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.’ It ig sup- his intercourse with Jean Armour, posed to allude to have made with the circumstances of which he seems to These verses were well known to many of the admirers of the poet, but they ript till given to the word by Sir ring’s Aldine Edition of the many of his comrades acquainted. remained in manusc Harris Nicolas, in Picke British Poets.] Let other heroes boast their scars, The marks of sture and strife ; Pay Ee Raia Wetec ey reese) ema os nae ony Pipe) Conary WOT a fn ns Ee) SE SR Se ee RMNLETTEIIIG ne eT Pi nee eae ee Pee erI reSt el at ener NL ae oe Catt et ees 104 THE And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life; Shame fa’ the fan; wi’ sword and gun To slap mankind like lumber! I sing his name, and nobler fame, Wha multiplies our number. Great Nature spoke with air benign, ‘*Go on, ye human race! This lower world I you resign; Be fruitful and increase. The liquid fire of strong desire I've pour’d it in each bosom; Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, And there, is beauty’s blossom.” The hero of these artless strains, A lowly bard was he, Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plains With meikle mirth an’ glee; Kind Nature’s care had given his share, Large, of the flaming current; And all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent. He felt the powerful, high behest, Thrill vital through and through ; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due: Propitious Powers screen’d the young flowers, From mildews of abortion; And lo! the bard, a great reward, Has got a double portion! Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns, The third of Libra’s equal sway, That gave another Burns], With future rhymes, an’ other times, To emulate his sire; To sing auld Coil in nobler style, With more poetic fire. Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes; And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys: Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow’r of ancient nations ; And B[urns’s] spring, her fame to sing Thro’ endless generations ! POETICAL WORKS XXXYV. TO THE REV. JOHN M’MATH. [Poor M’Math was at the period of this epistle assist ant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton: he was a good preacher, a moderate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys. His depen: dent condition depressed his spirits: he grew dissipated ; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, ¢ at died in a foreign land,} Sept. 17th, 1785. WHILE at the stook the shearers cow’r | To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r, | Or in gulrayage 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, an’ ban’, and douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she’s done it, Lest they should blame her, An’ rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy, That I, a simple countra bardie, Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me, Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin’ cantin’ grace-proud faces, Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graceg, Their raxin’ conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces, Waur nor their nonsense. There’s Gaun,! miska’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. An’ may a bard no crack his jest What way they’ve use’t him See him, the poor man’s friend in need, The gentleman in word an’ deed, An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed By worthless skellums, An’ not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums ? 1 Gavin Hamilton, Esq.O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, To cheat the crowd. } God knows, I’m no the thing I shou’d be, Nor am I even the thing I cou’d be, An atheist clean, ‘han under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass, An honest man m Ly like a lass, But mean revenge, an’ malice fause He’ll still disdain, for gospel laws, 4’ then cry zeal Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth ; They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth, For what ?—to gie their malice skouth On some puir wight, An’ hunt him down, o’er right, an’ 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 thee; fo stigmatize false friends of thine Wer, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, Can ne’er defame thee. O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! i Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Tho’ blotch’d an’ foul wi’ mony a stain, Wi’ bickering brattle! An’ far unworthy of thy train, I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, With trembling voice I tune my strain Wi? murd’ring pattle! To join with those, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain I’m truly sorry man’s dominion In spite o’ foes: Has broken nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion, In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs, Which makes thee startle In spite of undermining jobs, At me, thy poor earth-born companion, Ty, spite o’ dark banditti stabs Aw’ fellow-mortal! At worth an’ merit, gy scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; But hellish spirit. What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, ‘S a sma’ request: Within thy presbyterial bound [ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, A candid lib’ral band is found And never miss’t! Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown’d, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; An’ manly preachers. Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’ | | ine ; . 1 ° 27 Qiy 1+ wiYP vv Yor NAT l. Sir, in that circie you are namd; Sir, in that circle you are fam’d ; {n’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d, (Which gies you h ynour, ) Eyen Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d, An’ winning manner. Pardon this freedom I have ta’en, An’ 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. 5 XXXVI. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. [This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the plough, on the farm ot Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out: and a man culled Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, an chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who ll quired what harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, ‘‘ What think you of our mouse now ?”’} Cl ee iged SPREE EN BAS Ytrecad rant) eae nd ene EL EPIC DERRCO aoe Po laa Pe need Pe aE eR Oe EN TO ee ey a ee Pe an ee anne ee ee ete, ele ee eee 1%a eee An’ naething g, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’, Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary winter comin’ fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, *Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro’ thy cell. That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, An’ cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes 0’ mice an’ men, Gang aft a-gley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain, F triaae or promis’d joy. Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But, Och! I backward cast my e’e, On prospects drear! An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear. XXXVII. SCOTCH DRINK. ‘“Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; An? liquor guid to fire his bluid, That’s prest wi? grief an? care; There let him bouse, an? deep carouse, Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An’ minds his griefs no more.?? SoLomcn’s PRovERB, xxxi. 6, 7, ‘“T here enclose you,’’ said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to wis friend Kennedy, ‘“my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of beeing you at Kilmarnock: when I intend we shall have a gill between us, ina mutehkin stoup.’?] Ler other poets raise a fracas . ye . > Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ dru’ken Bacchus, 106 THE POETICAL WORKS An’ crabbit names and stories wrack us, An’ grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, In glass or jug. O, 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 an’ wink, To sing thy name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, An’ aits set up their awnie horn, An’ pease an’ 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 souple scones, the wale o’ food! Or tumblin’ in the boilin’ flood Wi’ kail an’ beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame an’ keeps us livin’ ; Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’ When heavy dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin’ ; But, oil’d by thee, The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin,’ Wi’ rattlin’ glee. Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear; Thou cheers the heart 0? drooping Care ; Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair, At’s weary toil; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi’ gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, Wi’ gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind in time o’ need, The poor man’s wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o’ public haunts ; But thee, what were our fairs an’ rants? Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts, By thee inspir’d, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir’d.That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! Or reekin’ on a new-year morning In cog or dicker, An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, An’ gusty sucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, O rare! to see thee fizz an’ freath ’ th’ roe *¢ ! I’ th’ lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev’ry chap. Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel Wi’ dinsome clamour. When skirlin’ weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, Ilow fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight ; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When neibors anger at a plea, An’ just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree Cement the quarrel! It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee, To taste the barrel. Alake! that e’er my muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! But monie daily weet their weason Wi’ liquors nice, An’ hardly, in a winter’s season, E’er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source 0’ monie a pain an’ brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, O’ half his days; An’ 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, dearthfw’ wines to mell, Or foreign gill. OF ROBERT BURNS. O whiskey! soul 0’ plays an’ pranks! Thou comes May gravels round his blather wrench, An’ gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch O’ sour disdain, Out owre a glass o’ whiskey punch Wi’ honest men; Accept a Bardie’s gratefu’ thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses! , they rattle i’ their ranks At ither’s a—s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! , Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an’ 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 whiskey stells their prize! Haud up thy han’, Deil: ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An’ bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d—n’d drinkers Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an’ whiskey gill, An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, Tak’ a’ the rest, An’ deal’t about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. XXXVITI. THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. ‘ Dearest of distillation! last and best!—~ How art thou lost! 23 Paropy oN MILTON n,? says Burns, * before the (‘¢ This Poem was writte e Scottish distilleries, of session 1786, tor act anent th turn their most grate- which Scotland and the author re ful thanks.’? Befors the passing of this lenient sharp was the law 1n the North, that some distillers act, so ee Bacfel , SLRS ON ES AEE (Re 5 FSS SSS ERNE Pe ee eee om ace pan ed Ly i nae al Fn ee Ee ea Re RE SF eI OR Con. Siem oer ee ee) Pee TT ree i103 THE PORDLICAL WORKS relinquished their trade; the price of barley wasaffected, | Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, and Scotland, already exasperated at the refusal of a | | | —~— TE ‘ ? Hh | ng “: Sy the act mentioned by the poet. In an early Before them a’. | | eot¢y of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh i “ontgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton :— Paint Scotland greetin’ owre her thrizzle, Wi { Hh eae =. hi: < _ ire See i ; Hille ‘< Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle: a If bardies e’er are represented, An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle, ae oe Hi] ii I ken if that yere sword were wanted Seizin’ a stell, HA) Ye’d lend yere hand; 1° ° 9, 45 \ bas au Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel yt But when there’s aught to say anent it Or lampit shell. Yere at a stand.” 4 Ni | The poet was not sure that Montgo rw ink n : 1 ae ot sure that Montgomery would think | Then on the tither hand present her, the compliment to his ready hand an excuse in full for A blackguard smuggler, right behi the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the A blackguard sm ggler, right behint her, stanza.] An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, : ; . : Colleaguing join, HHA Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, oe ales i tH : ‘ Picking her pouch as bare as winter | : Nh | Wha represent our brughs an’ shires : : antl I Cae = Of a’ kind coin. | Aw’ doucely manage our affairs Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, To you a simple Bardie’s prayers | i] I} In Parliament, | But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, See eee | | Are humbly sent. To see his poor auld mither’s pot iI aneikeers A si ee Thus dung in staves, | i Hh Pep cee. Pours EIS a Hearee! An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat | | | fe Your Honouvs hearts wl’ grief ’twad pierce, By gallows knaves? tal To see her sittin’ on her a—e I {| re Nike Low i’ the dust, Alas! Pm but a nameless wight, | | ee An’ scriechin’ out prosaic verse, Trode i? the mire out 0? sight! tity An’ like to brust! But could I like Montgomeries fight, | 1a | | Tell them wha hae the chief direction Oz eap ike poswell, | || Seni naa Ge tae Senet There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, ME Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, Aue tiessome liose well WE Wer sin’ they laid that curst restriction | Hal On aquavite ; God bless your honours, can ye see’t, Va I Aw rouse them up to strong conviction, The kind, auld, canty carlin greet, | Hi An’ move their pity. An’ no get warmly on your feet, i iH bei SB eaniraci tact os An’ gar them hear it! HH ye pa Stand forth, an’ tell yon Premier youth, An’ tell them with a patriot heat, | The honest, open, naked truth: Ye winna bear it? Hh ii Tell him 0’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, ' I ik . a | | His servants humble: Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, til When The muckie devil blaw ye south, To round the period an’ pause, BLT | : : : Hae If ye dissemble! An’ wi’ rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues: Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom ? : Ha i au a Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s ai ii Hi i} speak out, an’ never ‘as , ~ : : ; BE an ea I ee over fash your thumb! Auld Scotland’s wrangs | | i) Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom z | | il | Wi’ them wha grant ’em: Dempster, a true blue Scot I’se warran’ ; A | ih) i| . x 1 ° ° rs I Vi If honestly they canna come, Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;! ¥ it {I i 1 ° ° ! (i i Far better want ’em. | An’ that glib-gabbet Highlaud baron, k } Habl| 1a a e net I | The Laird o’ Graham ;? p A | et n gath’rin vote ra Ns niece ) | | Ha ne th’rin votes you were na slack ° | Aw ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarrren, [ i| | i Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Dundas his name. i Pa —_____ elise ten A a Ee a AT} 18i erg F a | Hite Sir Adam Ferguson. 2 The Duke of Montrose. EgErskine, a spunkie Norland billie; i True Campbells, Frederick an’ Lay ; An’ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Wilhe: An’ monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers Arouse, my boys! exert your m¢ ttle, | | To get auld Scotland back her kettle: | 1 7 ] Or faith! [ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see’t or lang, She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin’ whittle, Anither sang. This while she’s been in crankous mood, Her lost militia fir’d her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play’d her that pliskie !) An? now she’s like to rin red-wud About her whiskey An’ L—d, if ance they pit her till’t, Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt, She’ll tak the streets, An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, T’ th’ first she meets! For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, An’ to the muckle house repair, Wi instant speed, An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit and lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks ; But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! F’en cowe the cadie! An’ send him to his dicing box, An’ sportin’ lady. Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s TV’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s! Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 1A worthy old hostess of tho author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid au.d Scotch drink. b H2 need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; *} She’s just a devil Wl arung,; young An’ if she promise auld or To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, She’ll no desert. An’ now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your mither’s heart support ye, Then, though a minister grow dorty, An’ kick your place, Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty, Before his face. God bless your honours a’ your days, Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise, In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamies: Your humble Poet signs an’ prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich clust’ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’er enyies, But blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, Tak aff their whiskey. What tho’ their Phebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish’d swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun’s a burden on their shouther ; They downa bide the stink o’ powther ; Their bauldest thought’s a’ hank’ring swither To stan’ or rin, Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throther 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, An’ there’s the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. tae res eee renee nS ee ee nt abd eatiha male ah a en a Ln) ee el reer ee——— ee eee ee = eee 110 L1HE POETICAL WORKS Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him ; An’ when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him In faint huzzas! Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek, In clime an’ season; But tell me whiskey’s name in Greek, Pll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather Ye tine your dam; Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!— Tak aff your dram! XAXKXIX. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. ‘*My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them ay thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e’er was dight May hae some pyles 0? caff in; So ne’er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o’ daffin.?? SoLomon.—Eccles. ch. vil. ver. 16. [‘‘ Burns,” says Hogg, ina note on this Poem, ‘ has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for hin; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted.’? Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the \ orld, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.} I. O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell Your neibor’s fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supply’d wi’ store o’ water, The heaped happer’s ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter. II. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door For glaikit Folly’s portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. III, 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 gaye, That purity ye pride in, And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave) Your better art o’ hiding. Iv. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his 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 makes an unco lee-way. Ve See social life and glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, "Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re grown Debauchery and drinking ; O would they stay to calculate Th’ eternal consequences ; Ox your more dreaded hell to state, D-mnation of expenses ! vi. Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty’d up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o’ cases; A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination—But, let me whisper, i’ your lug 5? Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. VII. Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Thoug? they may gang a kennin’ wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, ’tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord—its various tone, 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. AL. TAM SAMSON’S ELEGY. * An honest man’s the noblest work of God.?? PopE. (Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and sports- man, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be puried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy : when Tam heard o’ this he waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. ‘‘ This poem has always,’’ says Hogg, ‘‘ been a great country favour- {te : it abounds with happy expressions. ‘In vain the burns cam’ down like waters, An acre braid.’ What a p'2tzre of a flooded burn! any other poet would have giyen ua a long description: Burns dashes it down at On>¢ ix a style 80 graphic no one can mistake it. ‘Perhaps upon his mouldering breast Some spitefu’ moorfowl bigs her nest.? Match that sentence who can.’?] 1 When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir- fow.. season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, ** the last of his fields.”? 2 A preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II OF ROBERT BURNS. | Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great M’Kinlay? thrawn his heel ? a, Or Robinson? again grown weel, | To preach an’ read ? | ‘Na, waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel, Tam Samson’s dead! Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, An’ sigh, an’ sob, an’ greet her lane, An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean, In mourning weed ; To death, she’s dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson’s dead! The brethren o’ the mystic level May hing their head in woefw’ bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death’s gien the lodge an unco devel, Tam Samson’s dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the lochs the curlers flock, Wi’ gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? Tam Samson’s dead} He was the king 0’ 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 wi’ crimson hail, And eels weel ken’d for souple tail, And geds for greed, Since dark in death’s fish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead. Rejoice, ye birring patricks a’ ; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fw’ braw, Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa’— Tam Samson’s dead! That woefu’ morn be eyer mourn’d Saw him in shootin’ graith adorn’d, 3 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Orl» nation, stanza IX. a En ee a aes Denno lel Ri ee eo ener112 THE POEKTICAL While pointers round impatient burn’d, Frae couples freed; But, Och! he gaed and ne’er return’d! Tam Samson’s dead! In vain auld age his body batters ; In vair. the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns cam’ down like waters, An acre braid! Now evry auld wife, greetin’, clatters, Tam Samson’s dead! Owre many a weary hag he limpit, An’ ay the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi’ deadly feide ; Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet, Tam Samson’s dead! When at his heant he felt the dagger, He reel’d his wonted bottle swagger, Sut yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi’ weel-aim’d heed; «‘U.—d, five!”’ he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger ; Tam Samson’s dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither; Ik sportsman youth bemoan’d a father ; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether Tam Samson’s dead! There low he lies, in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an’ breed; Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest! Tam Samson’s dead! When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon graye, Three volleys let his mem’ry crave ©’ pouther an’ lead, Till echo answer frae her cave Tam Samson’s dead! Heavy’n rest his soul, whare’er he be! Is th’ wish 0’ mony mae than me; He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson’s dead! EPA PH. Tam SAmson’s weel-worn clay here lies, Ye canting zealots spare him! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye’ll mend or ye win near him. PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie, Tell ev’ry social honest billie To cease his grievin’, For yet, unskaith’d by death’s gleg gullie, Tam Samson’s livin’. XLI. LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND’S AMOUR. “Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe.’' Homnr. [The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. ‘§ This was a most melancholy affair,’”? says the poet in his letter to Moore, ‘‘ which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifi- cations for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality.’ Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was * written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham’s darling sweetheart slighting him and marrying another :—she acted a wise part.”> With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady’s wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.] I. O rHov 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, Jeneath thy wan, unwarming beam, And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream.OF ROBERT BURNS. 11s rey, \ joyless view thy rays adorn The Taintly marked distant hill: I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill: My fon lly -flutt ring heart, be still: [hou busy pow’r, Remembrance, cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill , : + 7 ' For ever bar returning peace! TTT. 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 ] lighted faith; The oft-attested Pow’rs above; the mutual flame; The promis’d father’s tender name; These were the pledges of my love! LV. Encircled in her clasping arms, How have the raptur’d moments flown! How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone! And must I think it!—is she gone, My secret heart’s exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost? v. 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 less? VI. 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! Ey’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d, And not a wish to gild the gloom! VII. 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 Phebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. VIII. 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: Evy’n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night. IX. O! thou bright queen, who o’er th’ expanse Now highest reign’st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance Obsery’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. x. Oh! scenes in strong remembrarce set! Scenes never, never to return! Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn! From ey’ry joy and pleasure torn, Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro’ ; And hopeless, comfortless, I’11 mourn A faithless woman’s broken vow. XLI1. DESPONDENCY. AN ODE. [‘‘ I think,’’ said Burns, ‘‘ it is one of the greatest plea sures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied forn. in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease.’? He elsewhere | says, ‘‘ My passions raged like so many devils till they | got vent in rhyme.’? That eminent painter, Fuseli, on | seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, ‘‘ Swear. | my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it wilt ease you!?? This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock | edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moments experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alike | deceived him. ] i. Oppress’p with grief, oppress’d with care, A burden more than I can bear, ee ee rE Peg Lene ye prrenal Oe oe) Wane Oa Shapes ne eneeeio Se penton S died eh sn rceent ee cad a eee Aeee ee Pre ere) 114 THE POETICAL WORKS I set me down and sigh: O life! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as IL! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sick’ning scenes appear! What sorrows yet may pierce me thro’ Too justly I may fear! Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom ; My woes here shall close ne’er But with the closing tomb! II. Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard! Ey’n when the wished end’s deny’d, Yet while the busy means are ply’d, 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, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain. I1I. How blest the solitary’s lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, 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. IV. 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, ra i 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! v. Oh! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze, To care, to guilt unknown! How ill exchang’d for riper times, To fee? the follies, or *he crimes, Of others, or my own! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage! The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age! XLII. THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. ‘Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure: Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful sinile, The short and simple annals of the poor.”? GRAY. [The house of William Burns was the scene of this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William himself was the saint, the father, and the husband, who gives life and sentiment to the whole. ‘‘ Robert had frequent- ly remarked to me,’’ says Gilbert Burns, ‘that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ‘Let us worship God!’ used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing family worship.” To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the ‘‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.?> He owed some little, how- ever, of the inspiration to Fergusson’s ‘ Farmer’s Irgle.” a poem of great merit. The calm tone and holy comp9o- sure of the Cotter’s Saturday Night have been mistaken by Hogg for want of nerve and life. ‘Itisa dull, heavy; lifeless poem,” he says, ‘‘and the only beauty 16 pos sesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of family picture of the poet’s family. The worst thing of all, it is not original, but is a decided imitation of I‘ergusson’s beautiful pastoral, ‘The Farmer’s Ingle:? I have a per- fect contempt for all plagiarisms and imitations.” Motherwell tries te qualify the censure of his brother editor, by quoting Ueckhart’s opinion—at once lofty and just, of this fine picture of domestic happiness and devyotion.]iS Bi LS ~ Head eo ’ et tne Ss Lae i a en) eo — pemneiathnee ri e o e ed ee ee pe sitchin ieee ee el ane a ee een at dalle aati St7‘ t ae : ne : ee i ; ie Pa ae 7 EE. bis iz oe i i | a | eee ee ee teOF ROBERT BURNS. 115 I. My lovy’d, my honour’d, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 4h! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! II. November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; The short’ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh: The black’ning trains o’ craws to their re- pose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, ward bend. IIl. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin’, stacher thro’ To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin’ noise an’ glee. {lis 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, Aw’ makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. IV. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun’: Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfw’ bloom, love sparkling in here’e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair won penny-fee, Yo help her parents dear, if they in hardship be And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hame- Vv. With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet, An’ each for other’s welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotie’d, fleet; Each tells the unco’s that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The Mother, wi’ her needle an’ her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new ;-— The Father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. vi. Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command, The younkers a’ are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, An’ ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play: ‘‘ And QO! 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 : They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright !” Vil. But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor, To do some errands, and conyoy her hame. The wily Mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek, With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Veel pleas’d the Mother hears it’s nae wild, worthless rake. VIII. Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappan youth; he taks the Mother’s eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows Wi’ joy, But blate, an laithfu’, scarce can weel be- have; The Mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfw’ and sae grave; Weel pleas’d to think her pairn’s respected like the lave. sions nO PO ey By Oe ae Ce eee ae . A Pe * = PERO a a ane nee a ne ae Oe116 THE POETIC Tex. O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures!—bliss beyond com- | pare! I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare— «Jf heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other’s arms, breathe out the tender tale, | Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the > ev ning gale.’ Is there, in human form, that 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 ? Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o’er their child? Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distrac- tion wild? RT. But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell, An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, Jlow ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell. XII. The cheerfw’ 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 an’ bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion slide, He wales a portion with judicious care ; And ‘Let us worship Gop!’ he says, with so- | lemn air. | x | | AL WORKS 7 XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise. XIV. The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. KY. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How Hr, who bore in Heaven the second name, 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 Bab’lon’s doom pronoune’d hy Heaven’s command. XVI. Then kneeling down, to HEAVEN’y iA 82NAL Kina, The Saint, the Father, and thy Hasbaud prays: Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing,’! That thus they all shall meet in futwre days: There ever bask in uncreated Lays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator’s praise, In sucn society, yot still move dear: While circiing Time moyes round in an eternal sphere. Coes 2 ee ee ee eee 1 Pope.OF ROBE! XVII. 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 desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, f I ] May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul ; And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. XVIIE. Then homeward all take off their sey’ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He, nest, who stills the raven’s clam’rous And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, Would For them and for their little ones provide ; , in the way His wisdom sees the best, But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her loy’d at home, rever’d abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, ‘©An honest man’s the noblest work of Gop ;”! And certes, in fair virtue’s heay’nly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin’d! xX O 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 ! And, 0! may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much- loy’d Isle. — —— 1 Pope. .T BURNS. 1 L xX XI. O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide That stream’d through Wallace’s undaunted heart: Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, t (The patriot’s God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward |) O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! XLIV. THE FIRST PSALM. [This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet’s works. It cannot be regarded as one of his happiest compositions: it is inferior, not indeed in ease but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scotland. Burns | had admitted ‘‘ Death and Dr. Hornbook”’ into Creech’s | edition, and probably desired to balance it with some thing at which the devout could not cavil.] Tue man, in life wherever plac’d, Hath happiness in store, Who walks not in the wicked’s way, Nor learns their guilty lore! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his Gop. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast, And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why? that Gop the good adore Hath giv’n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne’er be truly blest. TE Pn Ys a Ba en Vee Rye eee ee Pee a JES ele I eee ee : SO on ee nr es Oa OS 4 Teh insega ee = = ~ XLY. , ow aT THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. {The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns: the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reason- ing as the poem of ‘‘ Man was made to Mourn.’? These verses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition; and they inight have been spared; for in the hands of a poet igno- rant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary ?] O Tuov, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place! Before the mountains heay’d their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command; That Pow’r which rais’d 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 flood Thou tak’st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow’r, In beauty’s pride array’d; But long ere night, cut down, it lies All wither’d and decay’d. POETICAL } WORKS XLVI. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN > APRIL, 1786. (This was not the original title of this sweet poem: I have a copy in the handwriting of Burns entitled ‘‘ The Gowan.”’? This more natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonabie cause; and he changed it about the same time, forhe ceased to call himself Burnesa and his poem ‘‘ The Gowan,” in the first edition of hia works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely | only to those who are little acquainted with tillage—who think that in time and place reside the chief churms of verse ; and who feel not the beauty of ‘‘ The Daisy,”? till they seek and find the spoton which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who remember only what genius lovea to forget.] Wes, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r, Thou’s met me in an eyil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, Wi’ spreckl’d breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. 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, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!OF ROBERT I Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betray’d, And guileless trust, 'Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid Low i’ the dust. Snch is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, By human pride or cunning driv’n To mis’ry’s brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heay’n, He, ruin’d, sink! Ey’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! XLVII. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. [Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, to whom the Cotter’s Saturday Night is inscribed. He became a merchant in Liverpool, with what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The poet has beac charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy rather than truth to his ‘* Andrew dear;’’? but surely to -onceal one’s own thoughts and discover those of others, * azarcoly be called hypocritical: it 1s, in fact, a ver- si n of the celebrated precept of prudence, ‘* Thoughts close and looks loose.’? Whether he profited by all the eounsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: he was rauch respected—his name embalmed, like that of his futher, in the poetry of his friend, is net likely soon to perish J I. I nana hae thought, my youthfw’ friend, A something to have sent you, Though it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento ; 3U RNS. 11% But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine ; Perhaps it may turn out a sang, Perhaps, turn out a sermon. , II. Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad, And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev’n when your end’s attain’d ; And a’ your views may come to nought, Where ev’ry nerve is strained III. 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 An’ little to be trusted ; If self the wavering balance shake, It’s rarely right adjusted! LV. Yet they wha fa’ in Fortune’s strife, Their fate we should na censure For still th’ They equally may answer; important end of life A man may hae an honest heart, Tho’ poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor’s part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Vv. Ay 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 thro’ ev’ry other man, Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection. vi. The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th’ illicit rove, Tho’ naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing ; Sut, och! it hardens a’ within, And petrifies the feeling ! PE Pp yee a en ee at ere es ee . fp er ee SE ne Re Doe eC ems 9 eee eee eees ene ee a Rabe alas aici ad — _ 5 . ee a a a 9 0 THE Vil. To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ey’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. VIII. The fear o’ Hell’s a hangman’s whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that ay be your border: Its slighest touches, instant pause— Debar a’ side pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. UX: The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ey’n the rigid feature: Yet ne’er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist laugh’s a poor exchange For Deity offended! X. When ranting round in pleasure’s ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n, A conscience but a canker— A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n Ig sure a noble anchor! KY. Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne’er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, ‘God send you speed,’ Still daily to grow wiser: And may you better reck the rede Than ever did th’ adviser! POETICAL | WORKS XLVIII. TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET, AT CHURCH. [A Mauchline incident of a Mauchline Jady is relatec in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome: it appeared in the Ki marnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and péfr suasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out o: the Edinburgh edition. Instead of regarding it ns a seas able rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learned commentators called it coarse and vulgar—those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populous beard, and was proud of it.] Ha! whare 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 an’ sinner, How dare you set your fit 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; Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight, Below the fatt’rells, snug an’ tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right Till ye’ve got on it, The vera topmost, tow’ring height O’ Miss’s bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an’ gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o’t, Wad dross your droddun! I wad na been surpris’d to spy You on an auld wife’s flainen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On’s wyliecoat ; But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie! Tow daur ye do’t?— wv = oe OF RO O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, An’ set your beauties a’ abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie’s makin’! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, () wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us It wad frae monie a blunder free us An’ foolish notion; What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us, And ey’n devotion! X LIX. EPISTLE CO Je RANEINE, ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. | [The person to whom these verses are addressed lived | at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough | and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The hu- | morous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling all people of low degree ** Brutes!—damned brutes.”’ ‘¢] dreamed that 1 was dead,’’ said the rustic satirist to his superior, ‘*and condemned for the company I kept When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship’s friends gang, I chappit, and ‘Wha are ye, and where d’ye come frae?’ Satan exclaimed. J just said, that my | name was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship’s land. ‘Awawi’you,’ cried Satan; ‘ye cannacome here: hell’s ] 1 93) fou o? his lordship’s damned brutes already.’ ??] O rovuan, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drinkin’! There’s monie godly folks are thinkin’, Your dreams! an’ tricks | Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin’ | Straught to auld Nick’s. | Ye hae sae monie cracks an’ cants, And in your wicked, dru’ken rants, | An’ fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an’ wants, Are a’ seen through. RnR" L Ye mak a devil o’ the saunts, | Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! 1A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the country-side. r = —— BURNS. 121 Spare’t for their sakes wha aften wear it, The lads in black! But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Rives’t aff their back. Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithing, It’s just the blue-gown badge an’ claithing O’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them naething 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, an’ mair; Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, I will expect Yon sang,” ye’ll sen’t wi cannie care, And no neglect. Tho’ faith, sma’ heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely s] read her wing! I’ve play’d mysel’ a bonnie spring, An’ dane’d my fill! I'd better gaen an’ sair’t the king, At Bunker’s Hill Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I goed a roving wi’ the gun, An’ brought a paitrick to the grun’, A bonnie hen, And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt; L straikit it a wee for sport, Ne’er thinkin’ they wad fash me fou’t ; But, deil-ma-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld us’d hands had taen a ncte, That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot; I scorn’d to lie; TM o gat the whissle o’ my groat, An’ pay’t the fee. But, by my gun, o’ guns the wale, An’ by my pouther an’ my hail, An’ by my hen, an’ by her tail, I vow an’ swear! 1e game shall pay o’er moor an’ dale, For this niest year. — T ee 2A song he had promised the author _paswesenn [Ped Ry Re Rs SA) eee papeeneere ten Poe ete eee ee ea —sS : ie ae es Se eee ere ee en ee Se neeBi tit aii 11} WA bid ban ea Hh Whi ae i} 1 Taal THAI 1 | iu yk 1 enh HAL ei te WL 1 tit i } ea } 1 ee sith ] Hit A iaeoh Hi Wi ay | |) I | f ey a ; a a . a PH i baat Y (} itt By Lana aa Ai } vt } } tilt F } | hi iD | { 4 i f i I , a Fi iy bit ‘on | | E hy a 122 THE As soon’s the clockin-time is by, An’ the wee pouts begun to cry, L—d, I’se hae sportin’ by an’ by, For my gowd guinea; Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye For’t, in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro’ the feathers; An’ baith a yellow George to claim, An’ thole their blethers! It pits me ay as mad’s a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time’s expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. L. ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIEs. [Burns in tuis Poem, as well as in others, speaks open- ly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the con- fessional, to task He seems to have been fond of taking himself It was written when *‘ Hungry ruin had him.in the wind,’’ and emigration to the West Indies was the only refuge which he could think of, or his friends suggest, from the persecutions of fortune.] A’ yg wha live by sowps o’ drink, A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, A’ ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi’ me! Our Dillie’s gien us a’ a jink, An’ owre the sea. Lsment 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, An’ owre the sea! The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him ; WORKS The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless him, Wi’ tearfu’ e’e; For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him That’s owre the sea! O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen’ aff some drowsy bummle Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, ’Twad been nae plea, But he was gleg as onie wumble, That’s owre the sea! Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear; Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee; He was her laureate monie a year, That’s owre the sea! He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be! So, took a birth afore the mast, An’ owre the sea. To tremble under fortune’s cummock, On scarce a bellyfw’ o’? drummock, Wi’ his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock, An’ owre the sea. He ne’er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; WY him it ne’er was under hiding: He dealt it free; The muse was a’ that he took pride in, That’s owre the sea Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An’ hap him in a cozie biel ; Ye’ll find him ay a dainty chiel, And fou o’ glee; He wad na wraneg’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! Pll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho’ owre the sca!ae OF ROBERT BURNS. LI. | LII. THE FAREWELL. WRITTEN ‘The vas ant, in himself, what can he suffer? ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF MY POEMS, PRE- SENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED O- a. does he regard his single woes? | ' ' - | But when, alas! he multiplies himself, | T> denrer selves, to the lov’d tender ‘air This is another of the poet’s Iamentstaons, at the Io those whose bliss, whos« ys hane upon him prospect of ‘torrid climes” and the roars of tho Atl ntic To helpless « en! then, O then! eiracla To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west « f . z a Seotl his paradise: % tl and of dread "1 i i, The point of misery fest’ring in his heart, : land his para e; and the land of dre id, Jamaica! h if : z und these lines coy ad y 1e poet t a volun | i An we ikly weeps his! rtune like a cowar 1. I OUND ' it eon: ee BS eee De oe a i t i Such, such am 1! ndone.?? THOMSON which he presented to Dr. Geddes: they were aat ressed } { . I suc iT undone HOW N. | it is thought, to the ‘Dear E.?’ of his earliest corro } i (In these Be ious stanzas, W the comic, asin the | gspondence.] ii | lines to the Scottish bard, are not pe mitted to mingle, i i Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any Once fondly loy’d and still remember d dear ‘ 7 . if 3 claim. He seems to have looked on the sea as Only a Sweet early of ,cct of my youthful vows! ; place of peril, and on the W est Indies as a charnel-house . et . 3 . | 5 i : J | Accept this mark of fri sndship, warm, sincere,: \ 4 8 . ae ¥ M ; | Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows. i t 5 ) ie 4 { FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains : Pee See: ates And when you read the simple artless rhymes, j Far dearer than the torrid plains “ : . : VOLT Gy p ae ne One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,— | Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar Where rich ananas blow! APPS aR ast Sere Fe, Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear! A brother’s sigh! a sister’s tear! My Jean’s heart-rending throe! ¥arewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft Of my parental care, A faithful brother I have left, LIII. My part in him thou'lt share! | ae Adieu too, to you too, A DEDICATION My Smith, my bosom frien’ ; oO | 1a GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. When kindly you mind me, Q then befriend my Jean! [The gentleman to whom these manly lines are ad- dressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous Ets : nature: he was one of the first of the gentry of the west the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at What bursting anguish tears my heart! | to encourage From +hee, my Jeany, must I part! full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him | m : Bee, oN, 1? | to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who | Thou weeping answ’rest—‘‘ No! - a; % charged him with the sin of absenting himself from Alaal ~ofayr stares r face | r z Alas! misfortune stares my face, | church for three successive days; for having, without i L : a 2 ; And points to ruin and disgrace, the fear of God’s servant before him, profanely said | I for thy sake must go! damn it, in his presence, and for having gallopped on . . Sunday. These charges were contem ytuously dismissed Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, i : by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother otf of Devon, | the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks | A grateful, warm adieu; lover, as well as Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edi- J, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you! of a poet. tion, but not as an express dedication.] All-hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear she | = aia . : It 4H 1 wis ie lear shore! Expror na, Sir, in this narration, rustles, and whis . se ea . f wee A fleechin’, fleth’rin dedication, rer § > rail p ’Jl never see thee more! To roose you up, an’ ca’ you enid, An’ sprung o’ great an’ 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’ monie a fulsome, sinfw’ lia nent I* eh oe ens erp meee ements a st ener mes ware 7 ree en mn ee NN en 5 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, I can plough ; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, an’ that’s nae flatt’rin’, Its just sic poet, an’ sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, Iie may do weel for a’ he’s done yet, But only—he’s no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o’ me,) On evy’ry hand it will allow’d be, He’s just—nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What’s no his ain, he winna tak it; What ance he says, he winna break it; Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t, Till aft his guidness is abus’d; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev’n that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a’ that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that; It’s naething but a milder feature, Of our poor sinfu’, corrupt nature: Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works, ’Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters 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 damnation; [t’s just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens 0’ thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice! No—stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back; 124 THE POETICAL WORKS teal thro’ a winnock frae a whore, TR But point the rake that taks the door; Be to the poor like onie 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 an’ half-mile graceg Wi’ weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan, And damn a’ parties but your own; I’ll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin’! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror! When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav’n commission gies him While o’er the harp pale Mis’ry moans, And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans: Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication; But when divinity comes cross me My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see ’twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a’ my works I cid review, To dedicate them, Sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel’. Then patronize 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’ [ hae little skill o’t; I’m baith dead sweey, an’ wretched ill o’t; 3ut Tse repeat each poor man’s pray’r, That kens or hears about you, Sir— “‘ May ne’er misfortune’s gowling 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 Hamiltons, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen:———<—— Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an’ able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! Shine on the ey’ning o’ his days; ‘Till his wee curlie John’s-ler-oe, 1 flow, } i When ebbing life nae mair shal The last, sad, mournful rites bestow.” I will not wind a lang conclusion, With complimentary effusion : But whilst your wishes and endeavours 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, 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 hope in Heay’n! While recollection’s pow’r is given, 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, LIV. ELEGY ON Burns, and printed them in the Reliques tinguished. ] Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare, Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, OF ROBE] May health and peace, with mutual rays, Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours, THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Then Sir, your hand—my friend and brother. [Cromek 311 these verses among the loose papers of They contain a portion of the character of the poet, record his habitual Nae mair shall fear him; B’er mair come near him. carelessr.ess in worldly affairs, and his desire to be dis- | sent, Was a social man. BURNS. 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’em sae short, Then wi’ a rhyme or song he lash’t ’em, And thought it sport. Tho’ he was bred to kintra wark, And counted was baith wight and stark. Yet that was never Robin’s mark To mak a man; But tell him he was learned and clark, Ye roos’d him than! LY. LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, OF GLENCONNER. [The west country farmer to whom this letter way The poet depended on his Judg- ment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: but as Ellisland was his choice, his ski!l may be questioned.) Avutp comrade dear, and brither sinner, How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner? How do you this blae eastlin wind, That’s like to blaw a body blind? For me, my faculties are frozen, My dearest member nearly dozen’d. ’ve sent you here, by Johnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling, Aw’ Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled, An’ meikle Greek and Latin mangled, Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d, An’ in the depth of science mir’d, To common sense they now appeal, What wives and wabsters see and feel. But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly Peruse them, an’ 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, an’ Boston ; Till by an’ by, if I haud on, ll grunt a real gospel groan: Already I begin to try it, To cast my e’en up like a pyet, When by the gun she tumbles 0’er, Flutt’ring an’ gasping In her gore: — ee A —~ Pca fa sarin BN ani, me hace ntl cae an ROT Sas Cet Ae Tas Foot a etn earn enema aa en See, 3 en Bi Se Sepa ee ea ae ee ee ee SO ae pan eee A a Laeee Feeeererenrennegereecerasmeeriamnferrearaas as ie i a he beth ned ak he See a et 126 THE POETICAL WORKS Sae shortly you shall see me bright, A burning and a shining light. My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an’ wale of honest men: When bending down wi’ auld gray hairs, 3eneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An’ 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, An’ Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he’s a parent, lass or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-and-forty years thegither! An’ no forgetting wabster Charlie, I’m tauld he offers very fairly. An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock, Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock, An’ next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy ; An’ her kind stars hae airted till her A good chiel wi’ a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen’ it, To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet; Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious, For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them fashious; To grant a heart is fairly civil But to grant the maidenhead’s the deyil. Aw lastly, Jamie, for yoursel’, May guardian angels tak a spell, An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell: But first, before you see heaven’s glory, May ye get monie a merry story, Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, And aye eneugh, o’ needfw’ clink. Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you, For my sake this I beg it 0’ you. Assist poor Simson a’ ye can, Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man; Sse I conclude, and quat my chanter, Your’s, saint or sinner, Ros THE RANTER. LVI. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. [From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this ‘Sweet Flow’ ret, pledge o’ meik e love,’’? was the only sonof her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. ‘The mother soor foe. lowed the father to the grave: she died in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.] Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love, And ward o’ mony a pray’r, What heart o’ stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair! November hirples o’er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form; And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree, Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show’r, The bitter frost and snaw! May He, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life’s various stounds, Protect and guard the mother-plant, And heal her cruel wounds! But late she flourish’d, rooted fast, Fair on the summer-morn: Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter’d and forlorn. Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath’d by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land! LVII. TO MISS CRUIKSHANEK, A VERY YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. [The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis. ]OF ROBERT BURNS. BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay, Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet Blooming in thy early May, His honest heart enamours, , : , Never may’st thou, lovely flow’r, And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, Chilly shrink in sleety show’r! | Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers. Never Boreas’ hoary path, | Never Enrus’ poisonous breath, | ; a : : III. Never baleful stellar lights, | Taint thee with untimely blights! Auld Truth hersel’ might swear ye’re fair, Never, never reptile thief And Honour safely back her, } Riot on thy virgin leaf! And Modesty assume your air, Nor even Sol too fiercely view | And ne’er a ane mistak’ her: Thy bosom blushing still with dew! | And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy Palmers ; May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem, | Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been Richly deck thy native stem: To honest Willie Chalmers. | ’Till some evening, sober, calm, Fn aT Nee) Dropping dews and breathing balm, | vase ° | IV. \ While all around the woodland rings, And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings; I doubt na fortune may you shore | ‘ x : : ; Seek i | Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, Some mim-mou’d pouthered priestie, | = : | = ne a 2 ; fs] Shed thy dying honours round, Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, i And resign to parent earth And band upon his breastie: ( The loveliest form she e’er gave birth. 3ut Oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart’s the royal blue, And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. K LVIII. WILLIE CHALMERS. ! ! | | th | v. | | Some gapin’ glowrin’ countra laird, rere May warstle for your favour ; [Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world: May warstle for y ce ene he copied it from a small manuscript volume of Poems May claw his lug, and straik his beard, a given by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation And hoast up some palayer. in these words: *‘ W. Chalmers, agentlemanin Ayrshire, | My bonnie maid, before ye wed q a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic aa ; Sic clumsy-witted hammers, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as fol- Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelr lows.» Chalmers wasawriterinAyr. I haye not heard Awa wi’ Willie Chalmers. that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. [I had seen her, ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.} i Vi. I I. | Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom, c ~ be ae RE SE ae moe Wv braw new branks in mickle pride, vest And eke a braw new brechan, } (i a ; bie a | : My Pegasus I’m got astride, Inspires my muse to gie m his dues, | ( And up Parnassus pechin; For de’il a hair I TOOBS him. : Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush May powers aboon unite you soon, The doitie beastie stammers ; And fructify your amours,— eu © 7 ¢ 7 { Then up he gets and off he sets And eyery year come in mair dear \ e171 1 Ts1)% Y . H For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. To you and Willie Chalmers. : r Il 1 : i I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name | May cost a pair o’ blushes ; e I am nae stranger to your fame, Ner his warm urged wishes.—— ne ——e seen se nae st AN ew re me ee TN ENS ET Ti =e oS ~ THE POETICAL WORKS LIX. LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND’S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. [OF the origin of these verses Gilbert Burns gives the folowing account. ‘‘ The first time Robert heard the spinnet played was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and the mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world: his mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept.’’] I. O rHov dread Power, who reign’st above! I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love I make my prayer sincere. II. The hoary sire—the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleased to spare ; ™o bless his filial little flock And show what good men are. rT She who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, O, bless her with a mother’s joys, But spare a mother’s tears! IV. Their hope—their stay—their darling youth, In manhood’s dawning blush— Bless him, thou Gop of love and truth, Up to a parent’s wish! v. The beauteous, seraph sister-band, With earnest tears | pray, Thou know’st the snares on ev’ry hand— Guide Thou their steps alway. Vi. When soon or late they reach that coast, O’er life’s rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in,Heayen! LX. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE. (RECOMMENDING A BOY.) [Verse seems to have been _the natural language of 3urns. The Master Tootie whose skill he records, lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows: he was an artful anc contriving person, great in bargaining and intimate with all the professional tricks by which old cows are made to look young, and six-pint hawkies pass for those of twelve.] Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. I. I noxp it, Sir, my bounden duty, To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M’Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away "Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An’ wad ha’e done’t aff han’: But lest he learn the callan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him, Like scrapin’ out auld Crummie’s nicks, An’ tellin’ lies about them; As lieve then, I’d have then, Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. II. Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, An’ bout a house that’s rude an’ rough The boy might learn to swear; But then wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught, An’ get sic fair example straught, I havena ony fear. Ye’ll catechize him every quirk, An’ shore him weel wi’ Hell; Aw gar him follow to the kirk— —Ay when ye gang yoursel’. If ye then, maun be then Frae hame this comin’ Friday ; Then please Sir, to lea’e Sir, The orders wi’ your lady. II. My word of honour I hae gien, In Paisley John’s, that night at e’n, To meet the Warld’s worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An’ name the airles! an’ the fee, In legal mode an’ form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, 1 The airles—earnest money.get him. To phrase you, an’ praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns: 10oWledgment.] Srr, o’er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud; See wha tak’s notice o’ the bard I lap and cry’d 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! ’T was noble, Sir; ’twas like yoursel’, To grant your high protection: A great man’s smile, ye ken fu’ well, Is ay a blest infection. Tho’ by his! banes who in a tub Match’d Macedonian Sandy! On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub, I independent stand ay.— And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi’ welcome canna bear me; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O’ many flow’ry simmers! And bless your bonnie lasses baith, I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers! And Gop bless young Dunaskin’s laird, The blossom of our gentry ! And may he wear an auld man’s beard, A credit to his country. ! Diogenes. The pray’r still, you share still, Of grateful MinstreL Burns. LXI. TO MR. M’ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN. [lt seems that Burns, delighted with the praise which the Luird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses,— pr ly the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Wood- burn, his steward,—poured out this little unpremeditated ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. (The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is gene- lly believed to have been William Simpson, the school- master of Ochiltree: the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand, The 1 ral poet t 1a 1 re of the mask in which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extin- guished half the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the amazed dominie ‘‘Strangely fidge and fyke. It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.] Wuar ails ye now, ye lousie b—h, To thresh my back at sic a pitch? Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your natch, Your bodkin’s bauld, I didna suffer ha’f sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho’ at times when I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse, Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, An’ jag-the-flae. King David o’ poetic brief, Wrought ’mang the lasses sic mischief, As fill’d his after life wi’ grief, An’ bluidy rants, An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief O’ lang-syne saunts. And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants, My wicked rhymes, an’ druken rants, ’ll gie auld cloven Clootie’s haunts An unco’ slip yet, An’ snugly sit among the saunts At Davie’s hip get. But fegs, the Session says I maun Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan, Than garrin lasses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body, And sairly thole their mither’s ban Afore the howdy. This leads me on, to tell for sport, How I did wi’ the Session sort, DET ie eR Sk i ae hs it = er aie et Dee nce ee ere pel aaa haere a neat atom ee Sec Se o a rey -eane ae ne a ae een ee] che "yee ras ey na oe Mere Oh et nee ae Dates 130 THE POETICAL WORKS ——_——— Auld Clinkum at the inner port Cried three times—‘‘Robin! Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t, Ye’re blamed for jobbin’.” Wi’ pinch I pat a Sunday’s face on, An’ snoov’d away before the Session ; i made an open fair confession— I scorn’d to lee; An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o’ me. LXIIl. TO J. RANKINE. [With the Laird of Adamhill’s personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.] I am a keeper of the law In some sma’ points, altho’ not a’; Some people tell me gin I fa’ Ae way or ither, ‘The breaking of ae point, though sma’, Breaks a’ thegither. I hae been in for’t ance or twice, And winna say o’er far for thrice, Yet never met with that surprise That broke my rest, But now a rumour’s like to rise, A whaup’s i’ the nest. LXIV. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. (be bank-note on whicu these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the compo- sition.} Wake worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, Fell source 7 a’ my woe an’ grief; For lack o’ thee 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 wished, To crush the villain in the dust. For lack o’ thee, I leave this much-lov’d shore, Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R B LXV. A DREAM. ‘¢ Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne’er indicted treason.’ On reading, in the public papers, the ‘ Laureate’a Ode,’’ with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the nuthor was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himselt transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy made the following ‘‘ Address.” (The prudent friendsof the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it inthe Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allu- sions require no comment.) Gurp-mornIn’ to your Majesty ! May Heaven augment your blisses, On ey’ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes ! My bardship here, at your levee, On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day I see ye’re complimented thrang, By many a lord an’ lady; <©God save the king!” ’s a cuckoo sang That’s unco easy said ay ; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a dayOF For me, before a monarch’s face, Evy’n there I winna flatter ; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your grace, Your kingship to bespatter ; There’s monie waur been o’ the race, An‘ aiblins ane been better Than you this day. ’Tis very true, my sov’reign king, My skill may weel be doubted: But facts are chiels that winna ding, An’ downa be disputed: Your royal nest beneath your wing, Is e’en right reft an’ clouted, And now the third part of the string, An’ 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 o 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, faitb! I fear, that, wi’ the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I’ the craft some day. I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get, A name not envy spairges, ) That he intends to pay your debt, An’ lessen a’ your charges ; But, G—d-sake! let nae saving-fit Abridge your bonnie barges An’ boats this day. Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck Beneath your high protection; An’ may ye rax corruption’s neck, And gie her for dissection ! ROBERT BURNS. But since I’m here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an’ subjection This great birth-day Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! While nobles strive to please yo, Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gi’es ye? Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent, Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o’ Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An’ curse your folly sairly, That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales, Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been known To mak a noble aiver; | So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a’ their clish-ma-claver: | There, him at Agincourt wha shone | Few better were or braver; And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John, | He was an unco shaver For monie a day. } | For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho’ a ribbon at your lug, Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an’ get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye’ll stain the mitre Some luckless day. Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye’ye lately come athwart her ; A glorious galley,! stem an’ stern, Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter; But first hang out, that she’ll discern Your hymeneal charter, 1 Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain roya | sailor’s amour eal Ree re eef f | i i | | fs | } Hi} | | Teoma I ii | i 11) } ' ' Wiavat at F Way Ea ij Tea abe Ld j ny t i tA eet t } l\| | i Va f ai} H tH | i tev Hi ei | f Wty i VU Beato ! Ws VHilhe | i aa pi | f ii 7 aaa | ri } | i ula | i Hib ] ' Va \ 5 : Ha i 1] i , | eH ae ty Hh | Ju } Hanh | 1 nt ! HA A \ it ii | | it Hi | | j a | | ih yee | 1 | i tt | | a aa nee ae Deanna nt wane rae ssn Te 9a 132 THE Then heave aboard your grapple airn, An’, large upon her quarter, Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’, Ye royal lasses dainty, Heay’n mak you guid as weel as braw, An’ gie you lads a-plenty: But sneer na British Boys awa’, For kings are unco scant ay ; An’ 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: An’ I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow’t at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fw clean that day. LXVI. A BARD’S EPITAPH. [This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition: Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it: ‘Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the ‘ poor inhabitant? it is supposed to be inscribed that ‘ Thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name !? Who but himself—himself anticipating the but too pro- hbable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a confession at once devout, poeti- eal, and human—a history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer, than to have Fut his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding sud been realized and that the record was authentic ?’?] 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, POETICAL | WORKS That weekly this area throng, O, Fass 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 wave; Here pause—and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly g And softer flame, } | Ow, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain’d his name! Reader, attend—whether thy soul Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious self-control, Is wisdoni’s root. LXVII. THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. [Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed me, that the Twa Dogs was ina half-finished state, when the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, said, ‘‘'The Address to the Deil’? and ‘‘ The Holy Fair” were grand things, but it would be as well to have a calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on his way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of ‘© Wee Johnnie.’”? On the 17th of February Burns says to John Richmond; of Mauchline, ‘‘I have completed my Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have not shown it to the world.” It is difficult to fix the dates with anything like accuracy, to compositions which are not struck off at one heat of the fancy. ‘‘Luath was ne of the poet’s dogs, which some person had wantonly killed,’ says Gilbert Burns; ‘‘ but Caesar was merely the creature of the imagination.”?> The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of collies, says that Luath is true to the life, and that many a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark for very Joy when the cottage children were merry § ) ’Twas in that place 0’ Seotland’s isle That bears the name o’ Anid King Coil,Up mm fh } nnie d LV 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 Cesar, Was keepit for his honour’s pleasure ; His h hi i Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs ; } But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar Show’d him the gentleman and scholar; 3ut though he was o’ high degree, ’ The fient a pride—nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin’, Ev’n wi’ a tinkler-gypsey’s messin’. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e’er 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 an’ comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him, After some dog in Highland sang,! Was made lang syne—Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an’ faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face, Ay gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black ; His gaucie tail, wi’ upward curl, Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, An’ unco pack an’ thick thegither ; Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit, Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, An’ worry’d ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o’ the creation. CESAR. I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; 1 Cuchullin’s dog in Ogsian’s Fingal. Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a’ his stents; He rises when he likes himsel’ ; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca’s his coach, he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonnie silken purse As Jang’s my tail, whare, through the steeka The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e’en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An’ though the gentry first are stechin, Yet even the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That’s little short 0’ downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a’ the lan’; An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension LUATH. Trowth, Ceesar, whyles they’re fash’t eneugh A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie 0’ wee duddie weans, An’ nought but his han’ darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an’ rape. An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer An’ they maun starve 0’ cauld and hunger} But, how it comes, I never kenn’d yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented: An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. CESAR. But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit | L—d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle ; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock. T’ve notie’d, on our Laird’s court-day, An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae, RO ny pe I Soe) Pp ae eee Ot EO eee ee P- A a4 SE ths io Sem a a eee nn a- —— ee ah teh tan etal nn i apy eee Pere or ts iv 134 THE POETICAL WORKS Poor tenant bodies, scant 0’ cash, How they maun thole a factor’s snash: He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear, He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble, An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! 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 view o’t gies them little fright. Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided, They’re ay in less or mair provided; An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment, A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o’ their lives, Their grushie weans, an’ faithfu’ wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a’ their fire-side; An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy Can mak’ the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o’ patronage and priests; Wi kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation’s comin’, And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. As bleak-fae’d Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, 0’ ey ry station, Unite in common recreation ; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ 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, An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The luntin pipe, an 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 wi’ them. Still it’s owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play’d. There’s monie a creditable stock O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root and branch, , Some rascal’s pridefu Wha thinks to knit himsel’ the faster greed to quench, In favour wi’ some gentle master, Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin’, For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’— CESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it! For Britain’s guid! guid faith, I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An’ saying, aye or no’s they bid him, At operas an’ plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, an’ tak’ a whirl, To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’. There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father’s auld-entails ; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, an’ fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting amang groves 0’ myrtles Then bouses drumly German water, To mak’ himsel’ look fair and fatter, An’ clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras. For Britain’s guid!—for her destruction Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction. LUATH. Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last! O, would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports, It wad for ev’ry ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an’ 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 Cesar, Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e’er can steer then), The vera thought o’t need na fear themCESAR. L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ‘em. It’s true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat; They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: 3ut human bodies are sic fools, For a’ their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsels to vex them ; An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh ; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel: But Gentlemen, an’ Ladies warst, Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an’ lazy; Tho’ deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless ; An’ even their sports, their balls an’ races, t ng thro’ public places, Their galloping There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a’ in deep debauches ; Niest day their life is past enduring. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a’ as sisters; Sut hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither. Whyles, o’er the wee bit cup an’ platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks .ore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard, An’ cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard. There’s some exception, man an’ woman; But this is Gentry’s life in common. sy this, the sun was out o’ sight, An’ darker gloaming brought the night: The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, tesolv’d to meet some ither day. Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink and wh-ring, LXYVITl1. LINES MEETING WITH LORD DAER. (‘* The first time I saw Robert Burns,’’ says Dugald Stewart, ‘‘ was on the 23d of October, 1786; wher. he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our com- mon friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaint- ance. 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 wl ich was never eflaced The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most impertect yf his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his name was known to the public.” Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Sel kirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary’s Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science ; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, some- thing careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.] THis wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner’d wi’ a Lord. I’ve been at druken writers’ feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou’ ’mang godly priests, Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken: I’ve eyen 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 powTr! To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r, And how he star’d and stammer u, When goayan, as if led wi’ branks, An’ stumpan on his ploughman shanks, He in the parlour hammer’d. A a = Rea Speen eet erat ne ee Peete ey a Pe ee a om nies weed owes ae at nee i il wena a Ea Ss mene es teSe a eae inet oa ih HA abet Cae | MAP HS | Pete | Hike all ii eal tf AMAL Tat Jui | Whe a t Hlwerit i Hd He We iti a dabei titee dita il | Ht HA | A REE BL APPS yt Wt K| | Le t BU eta Era | ae bat Yea Hi | | | Wat Bn iy } 1 Hy Hata 13 THE I sidling shelter’d in a nook, An’ at his lordship steal’t a look, Like some portentous omen; Except good sense and social glee, An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon. I watch’d the symptoms o’ the great, he 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 ploughman. 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 Daer, For he but meets a brother. LXIX. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. [‘‘I enclose you two poems,” said Burns to his friend Chalmers, ‘‘ which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck, One b.ank in the Address to Edinburgh, ‘Fair B—,’ is the 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.??. Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and sup- pers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns some- times made his appearance. The ‘Address’? was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet’s hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.] I. Eprna! Scotia’s darling seat! Ali hail thy palaces and tow’rs, Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat Legislation’s soy’reign pow’rs ! From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, And singing, ‘one, the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade. POETICAL WORKS II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide As busy Trade his la ? bour plies; There Architecture’s noble pride Bids elegance ( Here Justice, from her native skies, and splendour rise ; } High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her Ill, il, kind, Thy sons, Edina! SOCli coy abode. With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg’d, their liberal.mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow’s wail, Or modest merit’s silent claim ; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky v z ~~? Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur’d Fair Burnet strikes th’ Heav’n’s beauties on thrill of joy ! adoring eye, my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine! Y. There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms, And mark’d with many a seamy 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. Wer, With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia’s kings of other years, Fam’d heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang’d the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild- wand ’ring roam, Tho’ rigid law cries out, ’twas just! o > WIT. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore,8 ee ee a an OF ROBERT And I l rrim aanee s lest LT Bold-following wl re your fathers led! VITI Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! All il thy palaces a tow rs Where once beneath a m rch’s feet Sat Leg ition’s sov ré poy g! Frommarking wildly-seatter’d flow’rs, As on the banks of A I stray d And singing ne, the ling’ring hours, Though fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly 1 was itten, with his mothe nd ster at Park- e, near Ayr. He \ 1 good musician, a Joyous ipanion, and something of a wit The Epistle was r e first U1 1! edition B is, in 1534, since then no other edition s wunted ] Hait, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie! ly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But tak’ it like the unback’d filly, Proud 0 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 an’ banter We’re forced to thole. Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O’ this wild warl’, Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair’d carl. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon © cankrie care. WITDrNA } 5 Bl RNS. 137 ' . May st l ye ir lift irom aay N ) ] + ‘ t reo in piay, T ‘ rot torte ‘ v Dut 1 CEITCULO OF Ut bn Encore! Bravo! A blessing on the cheery gang Wha dearly like a jig or sang, An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang But as the clegs o’ feeling stang 5 My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace— Their tuneless hearts! M Ly fireside discor ls jar a base To a their parts! But come, your hand, my careless brither, l’ th’ ither warl’, if there’s anither, An’ that there is I’ve little swither About the matter ; We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, | I’se ne’er bid better. 7 sarly early, granted ¢ We’ve faults and failings We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve’s bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerl For our grand fa’ ; But still, but still, I like them dearly— God bless them a’! Ochon! for poor Castalian drinkers, Vhen they fa’ foul 0’ earthly jinkers, The witching curs’d delicious blinkers Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi’ girnan spite. But by yon moon!—and that’s high swearin’- An’ every star within my hearin’! An’ by her een wha was a dear ane! lll ne’er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin’ In fair play yet. My loss I mourn, but not repent it, T’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it, Ance to the Indies I were wonted, Some cantraip hour, By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted, Then, vive Vamourl PIELER AL LLL ELIDA | POE Py od ee TN ere eel Peay Cena a ee CR A a SS Sota o ape eae ene ee ee Sil eete ae THE Faites mes baisemains respectueuse, To sentimental sister Susie, An’ honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure, An’ 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. Rosert Burns. Mossgiel, 80th October, 1786. LX XI. THE BRIGS OF AYR, A POEM, INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR. [Burns took the hint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causeway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr’ he wrote it for the second edition of his Poems, and in com- Ballan- tyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when pliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. the distresses of lis farming speculations pressed upon Mont- gomery’s courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and him: others of his friends feure in the scene: \T condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.] Tue 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 ; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton’d plovers, gray, wild-whistling o’er the hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel’d, And train’d to arms in stern misfortune’s field— Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 'A noted tuvern at the anld Brig end. POETICAL | WORKS No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward! 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 godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. ’Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 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, an’ flow’rs’ delicious spoils, Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom’d by man, that tyrant o’er the weak, The death o’ devils smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek* The thundering guns are heard on ey’ry side, The wounded coveys, 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 in field or meadow springs ; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the robin’s whistling glee, Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide blaze, | While thick the gossamer wayes wanton in the | rays. ’Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Inknown 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 rout, And down by Simpson’s! 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 nor why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock,? had number’d two, | And Wallace Tow’r? had sworn the fact was true: | The tide-swol’n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, | Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the A A Na nr shore. 2 The two steeples.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.— When. lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air, Swift as the gos! drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th’ 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 preside. l That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke t z , And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, And ev’n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles gothic in his face: He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got 5 In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead, Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head. anxious The Goth was stalking round with search, Spying the time-worn flaws in evry arch ;— It chane’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 nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o’er frae bank to bank ! 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 a boddle, S me fewer whigmeleeries 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, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet— 1 The gos-hawk or falcon. 2 A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 3 The banks of Garpal Water is one of the tew places im the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be- Compare wl’ Your ruin’d formless bulk o’ stane an’ lime, i’ bonnie Brigs o’ modern time? Ducat- There’s men o’ taste woud tak the stream,” Tho’ they shoul l cast the vera sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the view Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi’ windy pride !— This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn, I’ll be a Brig, when ye’re a shapeless cairn As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued a’-day rains, Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal® draws his feeble source, Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes ; While crashing ice born on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; And from Glenbuck,‘ down to the tatton-key,5 Auld Ayr is just one len¢then’d tumbling sea— Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, [skies. That Architecture’s noble art is lost! NEW BRIQ. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t ot! The L—d be thankit that we’ve tint the gates ot! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat’ning jut like precipices ; O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture Irest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, The craz’d creations of misguided whim 3; ings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pet tinaciously to inhabit. 4The source of the river Ayr. 6 A small landing-place above the large key. EE Fe ear nT ee Oe eee ey sa a ‘ : . " re i y A] ( \ | | | h } INn e ee cose et nee tee = tn Hiitiel Wa i | ii Ht | We HVA a pale VTS aia Pte | a et Wi Hit PE Baten el WE FA eae yy eget | il eH ; 1} ; Hl ci i Feb AL HMe Li | DOH a - i int | a LAL e Wy Watt tial Pa le i Hep STOR a j Hy Vu Pltey ta vi i] it i Hi il ba ate Ani 1 As yea Mah DOR TT [40 beret POH ITI 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. Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird or beast; Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace; Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection! And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- rection ! AULD BRIG. O ye, my dear-remember’d ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- ings! Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, Wl ae the paths o’ righteousness did toil ay; Ye dant Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, 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 gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers ; A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! Tow would your spirits groan in deep yexa- tion, And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen’rate race! Nae langer rey’rend men, their country’s plory. | In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid | story ! I'o see each melancholy alteration; Nae langer thrifty citizens an’ douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country ; Men three parts made by tailors and by bar- bers, Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on d—d new Brigs and Harbours! NEW BRIG Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through ; As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, | Corbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle: | Se CAL WORKS But under favour o’ your langer beard, Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d: T I must needs say, comparisons are odd. liken them to your auld-warld squad, s , Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle | To mouth ‘a citizen,’ a term o’ scandal; | Ni ae mair the Council waddles down the street, | In all the pomp of ignorant Socal: Men wha grew wise priggin’ owre hops an’ raisins, Or gather’d lib’ral views in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random pare Had shor’d them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray’c them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them | What farther clishmaclayer might been said, What bloody wars, if Eee had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear’d in a bright: Adown the glitt’ring stream they featly dane’d; Bright to the moon their various dresses glane’d: They footed owre 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.— lo had M’Lauchlan,! thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage; Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, The lover’s raptur’d joys or bleeding cares; How would his highland lug been nobler fir’d, And ey’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 moying 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, Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye: 1A well known performer of Scottish music on thé violin.OF ROBE o~ All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath’d with corn; Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow. ; “i Next follow’d Courage, with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, male form, came from the tow’rs of Stair: Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov’d ab dd Last, @ 3 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. THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNISTON ’ LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. [At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompa- nied by the following surly note :—* The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God’s world, Alexan- der Wood, took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship been a strolling fiddler who bad made free with his Lady’s name, fora silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity??? This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, ull the govern- nent patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pusl ed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. ‘The poem was first printed by me, in 1934.) Long on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the riyulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains ; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests an lye caves, Ye wling winds, and wintry swelling waves! Unheard, unseen, by buman ear or eye, Sad to ur sympathetic scenes I fly Where to the whistling blast and waters’ roar Pale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore. O 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 her rod Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow She sunk, abandon’d to the wildest woe. 7 Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of men: See from this 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: , > o < ~ Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times}; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtile Litigation’s pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur’d Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale, And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours th’ unpitied wail ! Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, To you I sing my grief-inspired strains: Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign, Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. LXXIII. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER i THE DEATH OF JOHN M’L EOD, ESQ. | BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S. [John M’Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and that Isabella M’Leod, for whom Burns, in The little brother to his correspondence, expressed great regard, teeta A Latent Me Late a ered i ee we A A a a ees Ks Fh a soe IF IS EE AALSeS emis ee 142 THE POETICAL Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses: I found a seventh in the M’Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M’Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes ] observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new | verse. because, he Says, lt repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have Tetained it.) Sap thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella’s arms. Sweetly deck’d with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella’s morn The sun propitious smil’d; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil’d. Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung: So Isabella’s heart was form’d, And so that heart was wrung. Were it in the poet’s power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella’s heart, To give that heart relief! Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound He gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella’s spotless worth Shall happy be at last. LXXIV. TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE’S POEMS FOR A NEW YEAR’S GIFT, Jan, 1, 1787. (Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of Camiarg, and the ‘sentimental sister Susie,” of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names Were early dropped out of the poet’s correspondence.] | WORKS AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv’n, And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heavy’n. No gifts have I from Indian 2oasts The infant year to hail: I send you more than India boasts In Edwin’s simple tale Our sex with guile and faithless love Is charg’d, perhaps, too true; But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you! LXXV. THE AMERICAN A FRAGMENT. W AR. (Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were un statesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, ang an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmenof Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter even- ings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration of ‘‘ Chatham’s Boy,’’ called down on him the dusty in dignation of the republican Ritson.] I. WueEn Guildford good our pilot stood, And did our hellim 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; An’ did nae less in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man, II. Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man; Down Lowrie’s burn he took a turn, And Carleton did ca’, man; But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Montgomery-like did fa’, man, WY sword in hand. before his band, Amang his en’mies a’, man.OF III. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, Was kept at Boston ha’, man; Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe For Philadelphia, man; Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin Guid Christian blood to draw, man: But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma’, man. IV. Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ 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, An’ did the buckskins claw, man; But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa’, man. Vv. Then Montague, an’ Guilford, too, Began to fear a fa’, man; And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, The German Chief to thraw, man; For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a’,man; An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box, An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man. vi. Then Rockingham took up the game, Till death did on him ca’, man; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man ; Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise, They did his measures thraw, man, For North an’ Fox united stocks, An’ bore him to the wa’, man. Vil. The clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes, H: swept the stakes awa’, man, Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair faux pas, man; The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads, On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man; An’ Scotland drew her pipe, an’ blew, ‘“‘Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!” VIII. Behind the throne then Grenyille’s gone, A secret word or twa, man; ROBERT BURNS. While slee Dundas arous’d the class, Be-north the Roman wa’, man: An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired Bardies saw, man) Wi’ kindling eyes cry’d ‘‘ Willie, rise! Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?’ I x. But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co., Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man, Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise Behind him in a raw, man; An’ Caledon threw by the drone, An’ did her whittle draw, man; An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ blood To make it guid in law, man. * * * * * LXXVII. THE DEAN OF FACULTY. A NEW BALLAD. [The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Erskine, and Robert Dundas: and their contention waa, as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Fa: culty of Advocates: Erskine was successful. It is sup- posed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remem- bered ‘‘ the incurable wound which his pride had got’! in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Reliques of Burns.] I. 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, Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job = Who should be Faculty’s Dean, Sir.— If. This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, Among the first was number’d; But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store, Commandment tenth remember’d.— Yet simple Bob the victory got, And won his heart’s desire ; Which shows ihat heaven can boil the pot, Though the devil p—s in the fire.— Pea eae ee TEE Pen ence pe a ee lates SN ee ee =e Sha a te a en ee aayNe ne ee tt cement ae| a re etn aed 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, Jo their gratis grace and goodness.— IV. echt As once on Pisgah purg’d was the si 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. LXXVITI. TO A LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES. (To Mrs. M’Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the drinking-glasses alluded to in the verses: they are, it seems, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high festivul, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a draught from them of ‘‘The blood of Shiraz’ scorched vine.’?]} Farr Empress of the Poet’s soul, 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 we love those who love not us !— A third—‘‘to thee and me, love!” TO CLARINDA. (This is the lady of the drinking-glasses ; the Mrs. Mac of mar 1 toas nong the puet’s acquaintances. She was, lI iw and beautitu nd we fear a .d l ay I g SII e ir liged In thi sen ental ang platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well- known letters to Clarinda The letters ter the poet’s le eared in print without her mission: she ob- tained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in foree, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the irjunction has been allowe: to slumber in the case of some editors though it has been enforced against others.] 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 frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv’d of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy. We part—but, by these precious drops That fill thy lovely eyes! No other light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet 4x My worship to its ray? LXXIX. VERSES WRITTEN UNDER YUX® PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, TH POET, IN A COPY GF THAT AUTHOR’S WORKS PRE- SENTED TO A YOUNG LADY. [Who the young lady wes to whom the poet presented the portrait and Poems of tho ill-fated Fergusson, we have not been told. The verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787.] Cursm on ungrateful man, that can be pleas’d, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! O thou my elder brother in misfortune, 3y 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?OF ROBERT BURNS. 145 — - —___----—_—— kx ——————— ee _*, Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire: May every son be worthy of his sire; LXxxX. PROLOGUE Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain: SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, | ..., ay ; | Still self-dependent in her native shore, Monpay, 16 April, 1787 | Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, [The Woods for whom this Prologue was written, was | Lill Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no i In those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He h id | more, | other clai 1 Burn eee I 18 comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some - = “== poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, Decemver 14th, 1802.] LXXXI. WHEN by a generous Public’s kind acclaim, a : ArT That dearest meed is granted—honest fame ; | SKETCH. When here your fayour is the actor’s 1 yt, [This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns Nor even the man in private life forgot; | Proposed to call ‘‘ The Poet’s Progress.’? He communi- What breast so dead to heavenly virtue’s glow, | cated tlie little he had done, for he was a courter of > ° re . : ‘ pinions, to Dugald Stewa ‘The nt fo ” But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe? | Pinions, to Dugald Stewart. 16 Hragment forms said he, ‘‘the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed ina > ae - 7 aga avwvhvnaw —_ ry - m Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, variety of lights. This particular part I send you, merely It needs no Siddons’ powers in Southerne’s song; | a8 asample of my hand at portrait-sketching.”’ It is pro- But here an ancient nation fam’d afar, bable that the professor’s response was not favourable : ; . : : for we hear no more of the Poem.] For genius, learning high, as great in war : Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, Before whose sons I’m honoured to aprentt | And still his precious self his dear delight; Where every science—every nobler art— (w Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, | Better than e’er the fairest she he meets: Is known: as grateful nations oft have found A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Learn’d vive la bagatelle, et vive l’amour: Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, So trayvell’d monkeys their grimace improve, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Rea- Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies’ love son’s beam; Much specious lore, but little understood; Here History paints, with elegance and force, Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: The tide of Empires’ fluctuating course; His solid sense—by inches you must tell, Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, | But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; And Harley! rouses all the god in man. | His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite, | Still making work his selfish craft must mend, With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, 7 oe Can only charm as in the second place, ) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, LXXXII. As on this night, I’ve met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, TO ee ge as Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive. OF WAUCHOPE. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet: Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name; [Tne lady to whom this epistle 1s addressed was s painter and a poetess: her pencil sketches aro said to have been beautiful ; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame. as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. ‘Taste and poetry belonged to her family: she was the niece of Mrs. ) Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand Cockburn, Seon of a beautiful variation of The : Flowers of the Forest.] Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d | land! I MIND it weel in early date, —- = a See es When I was beardless, young and blate, 1The Mani of Fee.ing. by Mac kenzio. An’ first could thresh the barn; 10 Ls angi ME a ae anlk etbaath me a ee of — - re ee ST er ee TS a a ne a ne Sd Se a re a ee en ee en ALD Sided sR eee eet)nn nn a ea ee Or haud a yokin at the pleugh; An’ tho’ forfoughten sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn: When first amang the yellow corn A man J reckon’d was, An’ wi the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing, The tither stooked raw, Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers, Wearing the day awa. F’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 usefw’ plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn’d the weeder-clips aside, An’ 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 an’ wrang, Wild floated in my brain; ’Till on that har’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, An’ we to share in common: The gust 0’ joy, the balm of woe, The saul o’ life, the heaven below, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfw’ 0’ your mither: She, honest woman, may think shame That ye’re connected with her. THE POETICAL WORKS | LXXXIII. —— eet 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 te barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware; ’Twad please me to the 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 heel then, An’ plenty be your fa’ ; May losses and crosses Ne’er at your hallan ca’. EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH. [A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his book- seller. Creech was a person of education and taste: he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and parsimonious, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.] Selkirk, 18 May, 1787. Avuutp chukie Reekie’s! sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest, Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo’es best, Willie’s awa! O Willie was a witty wight, And had o’ things an unco slight; Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, An’ trig an’ braw: But now they’ll busk her like a fright, Willie’s awa! The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d; The bauldest o’ them a’ he cow’d; a le 1/dinburgh.OF 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, Frae colleges and boarding-schools, May sprout like simmer puddock stools In glen or shaw; de wha could brush them down to mools, Willie’s awa! The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chaumer! May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ clamour; Ile 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 n’er saw; They a’ maun meet some ither place, Willie’s awa! Poor Burns—e’en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder’d chicken, Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw ; Grief’s gien his heart an unco kickin’, Willie’s awa! Now ev’ry sour-mou’d girnin’ blellum, And Calyin’s fock are fit to fell him; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Willie’s awa! Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve sped, And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, And Ettrick banks now roaring red, While tempests blaw ; But every joy and pleasure’s fled, Willie’s awa! ROBERT BURNS. 14? May I be slander’s common speech; A text for infamy to preach; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw; When I forget thee! Willie Creech, Tho’ far awa! May never wicked fortune touzle him! May never wicked man bamboozle him! Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa! LXXAXIV. THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. (The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beau- tiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene: ‘‘ he threw himself,”? said the Professor, ‘‘on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed.’ His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction: the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.] I. My Lorp, 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. II. The lightly-jumpin’ glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; 1 The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of waich Cre'+h was Secretary. | | 2 Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech’s house at breakfast. coal 1 5 ne eae pala dlasink a pee TEaNIN SY Pee nae Sopa Oe wel acne rela Pie eer mt! yan Lyn an mel a Ba Ns I pO IP OEE C StF oa EO cn Soe ie ee rer et— eee eens mere reenter ere an eg te es 8 Ew nan se Fr“ ew Wen ek nme — , - a ——————————————— 148 If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow. il. Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As Poet Burns came by, That to a bard I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Even as I was he shor’d me ; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. Iv. 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. Vv. 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. vi. 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 mayis mild and mellow; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. Vil. This, too, a covert shall insure To shield them from the storm ; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs ; Or find a shelt’ring safe retreat From prone-descending show’rs. THE POETICAL WORK S | of his Highland tours. Vitti. And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care. The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms The hour of heav’n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace. IX. 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. Xx. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows’ wat’ry bed! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggy cliffs adorn ; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn. XI So may old © sotia’s darling hope, Your little sngel band, Spring, like rseir fathers, up to prop Their honowr’d native land! So may thro’ A’bion’s farthest ken, To social-flow*ug glasses, The grace be—‘‘Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonnie lasses ?” L¥ XXV. ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOVWY IN LOCH-TURIT. [When Burns wrote *hese touching lines, he was Ing with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during oné Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hilly, and was welcome from its one liness to the heart of the poet.] Wuy, ye tenantg of the lake, For me your wat’ry haunt forsake % Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? gtay-OF Why disturb your social joys, “ Parent, filial, kindred ties 7?— 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 billow’s shock. Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. KMfan, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below: Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the 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 spend. Or, if man’s superior might Dare inyade 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. LXXXYVI. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. [The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Breadalbane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: has some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.] Apmirine Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; —————— ROBERT BURNS. 149 O’er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious I pursue, Till fam’d Breadalbane opens to my view.— | The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen livides, | The woods, wild scatter’d, clothe their ample | sides; T 1 outstretching lake, embosom’d ’mcng tne hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; The Tay, meand’ring sweet in infant pride, | The palace, rising on its verdant side; ’ S | The lawns, wood-fring’d in Nature’s native taste ; The hillocks, dropt in Nature’s careless haste ; | The arches, striding o’er the new-born stream ; | The village, glittering in the noontide beam— * * * * * 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 heay’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: Hore heart-struck Grief might heav’nward stretch her scan, And injur’d Worth forget and pardon man. * * * * * LXXXVII. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS [This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it, the Hign- land passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices In a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. Thera is anc>a3: ‘all further up the stream, very wild and Ee eee end Barth S eh ehh te CC a a IT a a ~ Ran a ee ee ks SOT et cs Ba acre ara ld oD aennn nn ee ee a Ts = av cspienjsren nt —e ery ant samyylsemwrimene Spi nen 150 ne gavage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious loaps into a deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirl- ing foam and agitated mist.] Amona the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream re- sounds, As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep-recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- scends, And viewless Echo’s ear, astonish’d, 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— * * * * * LXXXVIII. POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. W. LYTLE R, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD’S PICTURE. [When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Tytlers through three generations: an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poet’s hand- writing. ] REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart, But now ’tis despis’d and neglected. ; Rs : : Tho’ something like moisture conglobesin my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh, 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; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. THE POETICAL WORKS Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title’s ayow’d by my country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th’ Electoral stem? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them. 3ut loyalty truce! 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, the 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 eye, And ushers the long dreary night ; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. * * * ¥* * LXXXIX. WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON THE BANKS OF NITH. JuNE, 1788. [FIRsT copy. ] [The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, has enabled me to present the reader with the rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first- fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nith- side.] Tou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Day, how rapid in its 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.OF ROBERT Ambition is a meteor gleam; Fame, a restless idle dream: Pleasures, insects on the wing Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring; Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own; Those that would the bloom deyour, Crush the locusts—save the flower. For the future be prepar’d, Guard wherever thou canst guard; But, thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past, give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care: Keep the name of man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart Him whose wondrous work thou art; Keep His goodness still in view, Thy trust—and thy example, too. Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! Quod the Beadsman on Nithside. XC. WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITHSIDE. DECEMBER, 1788. [Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies in his own handwriting: I have seen three. Whencorrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Ellisland; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the dinmoad pencil of the bard. On Riddel’s death, the Jiermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay: I remem- Trou whom chance may hither lead, ber in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.] > 7 3e thou clad in russet weed, | Be thou deck’d in silken stole, Grave these counsels on thy soul. | Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; BURNS. 151 Hope not sunshine ey’ry hour, Fear not clouds will always lour. As Youth and Love with sprightly dance Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair: Let Prudence bless enjoyment’s cup, Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life’s meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life’s proud summits would’st thou scale? 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 song, Chants the lowly dells among. As the shades of evy’ning close, Beck’ning thee to long repose; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate, with sober thought, On all thou’st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man’s true genuine estimate, The grand criterion of 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 Heay’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! Hea’yn be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nithside napa firme BP at ae ble ln eve wet acne ra saben Sel le semen ee fn ba pineal aetah . ao FE ee ee Sree a ee ee a ee SAee ee ee : : st oes om ences Ween mremet nn THE XCI. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, OF GLENRIDDEL. EXTBMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. [Captsin Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was Burns’s neighbour, at Ellisland: + ble man, and a good antiquary. he was a kind, hospi- The ‘‘ News which he sent to the poet contained, I have and Review”’ heard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with his usual strong sense, set the proper value upon all contemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless ** chippers and hewers.’’ He demanded trial by his peers, and where were such to be found ?] 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-news ox: 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 a fabric complete, Pll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your good- ness Bestow’d 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! XCITI. A MOTHER’S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. [‘‘ The Mother’s Lament,”? says the poet, in a copy of the verses now before me, ‘ was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. Stewart, of Afton.?’] Fare gave the word, the arrow sped, And piere’d my darling’s heart ; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour’d laid: So fell the pride of all my hopes, My age’s future shade. POETICAL | WORKS The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her rayish’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, O, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest! XCIII. FIRST EPISTLE ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRAY. TO [In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the post says ‘accompanying a request.’? What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a situation as exciseman: for this the poet nad qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division He was appointed in due included ten in his own neighbourhood, time: his division was extensive, and parishes.] Wuen Nature her great master-piece designed, And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form’d 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, And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth: 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 Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grave de signs, 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, pronoune’d it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o’er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour moreOF ROBBER Some spumy, fiery, zgnis fatuus matter, rhtest breath of air might scat- o Such as the sl ter; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Natur2 may have her whim as well as we, Her H gzarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She formas che thing, and christens it—a Poet. Creacure, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow, Wy } 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 frequent all unheeded in his own. 3ut 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 state, A title, and the only one I claim, : : 7 | Attach’d him to the generous truly great, | m 7 ‘ i To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. | Pity the tuneful muses’ hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, That never gives—tho’ humbly takes enough ; The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage proverb’d wisdom’s hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that “the friendly e’er should want a friend!” Let prulence 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!) Wiro make poor will do wait upon I should— We own they’re prudent, but who feels 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! Whose arms of love would grasp the human race: Come thou who giy’st with al! a courtier’s grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! | Prop of mr dearest hopes for future times. Te BUNS: 153 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; But there are such who court the tuneful nine— Heavens! should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 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 as- cends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam’rous cry of starving want, They dun benevolence with shameless front: Oblige them, patronize 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 sublimex flight. ——_— ee XCIYV. ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. [1 found these lines written with a pencil in one of Burns’s memorandum-books: he said he had just coins posed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed in nothing from the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.] Tue lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Ai Ni ma LE ht ct ns be Msi aw es ne nT pe eee i i H } i ia | i i iH i re i i mar : | rf A i Tue | Se an KI t a i f 3 { A a i | ue f + i , ; } i H Hen en enn ee ee ean Se en See 164 THE Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell, Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train;! Or mus’d where limpid streams once hallow’d well,? Ox mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane.8 Th’ increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing’d, flew o’er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught 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, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d, That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar, And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.— ‘My patriot son fills an untimely grave!” With accents wild and lifted arms—she cried: Low lies the hand that oft was stretch’d to save, ‘Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride. wn n A weeping country joins a widow’s tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s ery; The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh! ‘¢T 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 worthless name! No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. ‘And I will join a mother’s tender cares, Thro’ future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs !”— She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast. —— 1 Tne King’s Park, at Holyrood-house. « St. Anthony’s Well. POETIGAL WORKS XCY. EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. [This little lively, of the poet’s Kilmarnock biting epistle was addressed to one companions. Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the sub- scribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns’s Poems: ha has been dead many years: the Epistle was recoveted, luckily, from his papers, and printed fo; the first time in 1834.] In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme; Where words ne’er crost the muse’s heckles Nor limpet in poetic shackles: 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 conyerse but Gallowa’ bodies, Wi’ nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.‘ Jenny, my Pegasean pride! Dowie she saunters down Nithside, And ay a westlin leuk 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 ?-- O had I power like inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation, To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; Or turn the pole like any arrow; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race, And cast dirt on his godship’s face ; For I could lay my bread and kail He’d ne’er cast saut 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; 3 St. Anthony’s Chapel. «His mare.OF ROBERT BURNS. But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle. Robert Burns. XCVI. LINES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER A NOBLE EARL’S PICTURE. [Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blac clock and the Earl of Glencairn, over his parlour chimney-plece at Ellisland: beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, Which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed: a rough copy, however, 1s preserved, and 1s now in the safe keeping of the Earl’s name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years: he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with whom this ancient race was closed,] Wuoss is that noble dauntless brow ? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E’en rooted foes admire ? Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take Js hand, whose vernal tints His other works inspire. Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; His guardian seraph eyes with awe The noble ward he loves— Among th’ illustrious Scottish sons That chief thou may’st discern ; Mark Scotia’s fond returning eye— It dwells upon Glencairn. XCVII. ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788 SKETCH, [Tins Poem was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. The poet loved to indulge in such sarcastic sallies: it is full pf character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty Kmes.] For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, E’en let them die—for that they’re born, But oh! prodigious to reflec’! A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! O 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, An’ my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead; The tulzie’s sair ’tween Pitt and Fox, And our guid wife’s wee birdie cocks; The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil: The tither’s something dour o’ treadin’, But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden— Ye ministers, come mount the pu’pit, An’ cry till ye be hearse an’ roupet, For Eighty-eight he wish’d you weel, An’ gied you a’ baith gear an’ 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 ha’e to gie again. Observe the very nowt an’ skeep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel’ does cry, For Embro’ wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn, An’ 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, mizl’d, hap-shackl’d Regen But, like himsel’ a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man! As muckle better as ye can. January 1, 1789. XCVIII. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. [‘‘I had intended,” says Burns to Creech, 30th May, 1789, ‘‘to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent tooth- lan, as to put itout ofmy ache so engrosses all my inner n Address to the power even to write nonsense.”? The poetic Toothache seems to belong to this period.) My curse upon thy venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang; a ae yee Teeter oe ee ne es aR poe OP ee NE ST ee er aos ee ee a en ee Shin oe TT peneee ee ahs oe 156 THE PORTI Anil 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 neighbours’ sympathy may ease us, Wi’ pitying moan ; But thee—thou hell 0’ a’ diseases, Ay mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I kick the wee stools o’er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O’ a’ the num’rous human dools, Ill har’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak’d i’ the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks 0’ knaves, or fash o’ fools, Thou bears’t 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 dreadfw’ raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell Amang them a’! O 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 0’ Scotland’s weal A towmond’s Toothache. XCIX. ODE SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD, OF AUCHENCRUIVE, [The origin of this harsh effusion shows under what feelings Burns sometimes wrote. He was, he says, on his way to Ayrshire, one stormy day in January, and had wade himself comfortable, in spite of the snow-drift, over a smoking bowl, at an inn at the Sanquhar, when in wheeled the whole funeral pageantry of Mrs. Oswald, CAL WORKS He was obliged to mount his horse and ride for quarters to New Cumnock, where, over a good fire, he penned, in | his very ungallant indignation, the Ode to the lady’s me- | mory. He lived to think better of the name.] | DweLLeR in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse? STROPHE. View the wither’d beldam’s face— Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of Humanity’s sweet melting grace? Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows, Pity’s flood there never rose. See these hands, ne’er stretch’d to save, Hands that took—but never gave. Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awhile forbear, ye tort’ring fiends ;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither 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 glitt’ring pounds a-year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mock’ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv’n! The cave-lodg’d beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heay’n. Cc. FRAGMENT INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. [It was late in life before Burns began to think very highly of Fox: he had hitherto spoken of him rather aa a rattler of dice, and a frequenter of soft company, them | asastatesman. glo gs bosoms truly feel it. r o selieve our glowing bosoms truly feel it Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads! As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land eet Would take the muses’ servants by the hand; ne I Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, Wie int CvI. And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; et a | SCOTS PROLOGUE, me ; tall And aiblins when they winna stand the test, | FOR MR. SUTHERLAND S BENEFIT NIGHT, Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best! DUMFRIES. Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caution : caves: Ye’ll soon hae poets o’ the Scottish nation, {Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some Will gar fame blaw il her trumpet crack vigorons lines, but they did not come in harmony from ill gar fame blaw until her ti peu crack, nis tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the love- And warsle time, an’ lay him on his back ! Wh a liness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was | For us and for our stage should ony spler, ‘‘Whase aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle | | | manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.—Burns | said his players were a very decent set: he had seen 42? them an evening or two.] here! My best leg foremost, [ll set up my brow, i} Wuar needs this din about the town 0’ ’ , \| | Av needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on, | We have the honour to belong to you! int | 17 ia IW NIDV ? « WT as oja Nin? ? ily ° « 5 . : Mh Hail How this new play an’ that newsang is comin’? | We're your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like, (iy Why is andish stuff sa sikle ‘ted ? . : Hi i y is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? But like good mithers, shore before ye strike.— | Does nonsens wr thiskev. when im- : : a | 1onsense mend like whiskey, when im- | ang gratefu’ still I hope ye’ll ever find us, ported ? For a’ the patronage and meikle kindness | Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets, and ranks: un a try to gie us songs and plays at hame? God help us! we’re but poor—ye’se get but For comedy abroad he need nae toil, thanks. | A fool and knave are plants of every soil; i - Vaal Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece } | | em) ti] To gather matter for a serious piece ; | Hl | There’s themes enough in Caledonian story, | Hl Would show the tragic muse in a’ her glory. Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell ass : How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Se et On: Where are the muses fled that could produce NEW YEAR’S DAY. IN Tu YL VE ° A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce; How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the ih) } | sword, [This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printeo HW ’Gainst mighty England and ber guilty lord, Rome a ECy Beetcn; ee Boer gale Oe HII And after bl 1 es: The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew nd after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was after- i I Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws ofruin? | wards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the TO MRS. DUNLOP. O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rosé To draw the lovely hapless Scottish Queen! to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and ‘ly, hs ss S ‘ish Q ! Hi) . ° all distinguished. HHI Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms z : By Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s Tus day, Time winds th’ exhausted chain, arms. To run the twelvemonth’s length again:OF ROBERT BURNS. 161 I see the old, bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair’d machine, To wheel the equal, dull routine. The absert lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer ; Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major’s with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila’s fair Rachel’s care to-day, And blooming Keith’s engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrow— —That grandchild’s cap will do to-morrow- - And join with me a moralizing, This day’s propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver? ‘¢ Another year is gone for ever.” And what is this day’s strong suggestion ? «The passing moment’s all we rest on!” 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 The voice of nature loudly cries, all such reasonings are amiss! 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. CVIII. TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE, [These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the great changes ive taken place incourt and camp, yet Austria, Russia timesin which they were written. Though he and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.] Kinp Sir, I’ve read your paper through, And, faith, to me ’twas really new ! How guess’d 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, any body spak o’t; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin’s 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 o’er 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, and fees were rax’d, Or if bare a—s yet were tax’d; The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshin’ still at hizzies’ tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a 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 yout Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790. FTES ees te gw. akin Sptveeet fry een ne nd SO ene nde CRIT OY ATS, © Eee Sey a a en ene POE a ana lal ete ee EE ST Ea tSAT ST nye ry nt Sr rt ee an et See nn en een aie pee te teeta Senna a a tthe bar THE OIX. THE KIRK’S ALARM;! A SATIRE. [FIRST VERSION. | M’ Gill, one of entertaining (The history of this Poem is curious. the ministers of Ayr, long suspected of heterodox opinions concerning original sin and the Tri- nity, published ‘‘ A Practical Essay on the Death of 9 Jesus Christ,’? which, in the opinion of the more rigid portion of his brethren, inclined both to Arianism and Socinianism. This essay was denounced as heretical, by a minister of the name of Peebles, in a sermon preached November 5th, 1788, and all the west country was in a flame. was warmly debated till M’Gill expressed his regret for The subject was brought before the Synod, and =] ¢ the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apo- logized for the challenged passages in his Essay, and de- clared his adherence to the standard doctrines of his mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his satire to the aid of M’Gill, but he appears to have done 80 with reluctance. ] OrtTHopox, 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,? 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, town of Ayr, It was mad. I declare, To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing ; Provost John? is still deaf To the church’s relief, And orator Bob ‘is its ruin. D’rymple mild,’ D’rymple mild, Thro’ your heart’s like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Auld Satan must hay ye, For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa. POETICAL Cry the book is wi’ heresy cramm’d; And roar every note of the damn’d. There’s a holier chase in your view; For puppies like you there’s but few. Unconscious what evil await? For the foul thief is just at your gate. A tod meikle waur than the clerk; And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. The corps is no nice of recruits ; If the ass was the king of the brutes. In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; wing wees He has cooper’d and cawd a wrang pin in’t. Pp Wi’ your liberty’s chain and your wit; Ye but smelt, man, the place where he —— WORKS Rumble John,® Rumble John, Mount the steps wi’ a groan, Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like adle, Simper James,” Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, I’ll lay on your head That the pack ye’ll soon lead, Singet Sawney,® Singet Sawney, Are ye herding the penny, Wi’ a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, Daddy Auld,® Daddy Auld, There’s a tod in the fauld, Though ye can do little skaith, Ye’ll be in at the death, Davie Bluster,!? Davie Bluster, If for a saint ye do muster, Yet to worth let’s be just, Royal blood ye might boast, Jamy Goose,'! Jamy Goose, Ye ha’e made but toom roose, But the Doctor’s your mark, For the L—d’s haly ark ; Poet Willie,!? Poet Willie, Gie the Doctor a volley, O’er Pegasus’ side Ye ne’er laid astride, 1 This: Poem was written a short time after the pub- cation of M’Gill’s Essay. 2Dr..M?Gill. 4 Robert Aiken 6 Mr. Russell, 8 John Ballantyne. 5 Dr. Dalrymple. 7 Mr. M’Kinlay. 8 Mr. Moody, of Riccarton, 9 Mr. Auld of Mauchiine. 10 Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree. 11 Mr. Young, of Cumnock. 12 Mr. Peebles, Ayr.OF ROBERT BURNS. 16d Andro Gouk,! Andro Gouk, Ye may slander the book, And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; Ye are rich and look big, But lay by hat and wig, And ye’ll ha’e a calf’s head o’ sma’ value. 3arr Steenie,? Barr Steenie, What mean ye, what mean ye? If yell meddle nae mair wi’ the matter, Ye may ha’e some pretence To havins and sense, Wi’ people wha ken ye nae better. Irvine side,? 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 dae grant you nae mair. Muirland Jock,* Muirland Jock, When the L—d makes a rock I'o 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,5 Holy Will, There was wit ’ your skull, When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor; The timmer is scant, When ye’re ta’en for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. Calyin’s sons, Calyin’s sons, Seize your spir’tual guns, Ammunition 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, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie, E’en tho’ she were tipsie, She could ca’ us nae waur than we are. OX. THE KIRK’S ALARM. A BALLAD, [SECOND VERSION. ] (This version is from the papers of Miss Logan, ol Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related to Gra ham of Fintry by the poet himself: ‘‘ Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire Which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, ana the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M’Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Thongh one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthvod of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winte winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I con- fess, too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too.”?> The Kirk’s Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, ‘A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire.’’} I. OrtHODOX, orthodox, Who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience— There’s a heretic blast, Has been blawn i’ the wast, That what is not sense must be nonsense, Orthodox, That what is not sense must be nonsense. TI, Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, Ye should stretch on a rack, And strike evil doers wi’ terror; To join faith and sense, Upon any pretence, Was heretic damnable error, Doctor Mac, Was heretic damnable error. IIl. Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, It was rash I declare, To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing ; Provost John is still deaf, To the church’s relief, And orator Bob is its ruin, Town of Ayr, And orator Bob is its ruin. 1Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton. 2 Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr. 3 My George Smith, of Galston. 4 Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. 6 Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Maucls hine. ee pe ee Eg ato ey ae Tae ey Peni ETT Se = ee ee aN i. 7 ™“ Cr, . a Se a a eZ SA Se nr re neene nn ne ee a 164 THE POETICAL WORKS Iv. D’rymple mild, D’rymple mild, Tho’ your heart’s like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, Old Satan must have ye For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa, D’rymple mild, For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa. Vv: Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons, Seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition ye never can need; Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Calvin’s sons ? And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. VI. Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d; Then lug out your ladle, Deal brimstone like aidle, And roar every note o’ the damn’d, Rumble John, And roar every note o’ the damn’d. Vil. Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames, There’s a holier chase in your view; Pll lay on your head, That the pack ye’ll soon lead, For puppies like you there’s but few, Simper James, For puppies like you there’s but few. VIII. Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, Are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what danger awaits ? With a jump, yell, and howl, Alarm every soul, for Hannibal’s just at your gates, Singet Sawnie, For Hannibal’s just at your gates. IX. Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, Ye may slander the book, And the book nought the waur—let me tell you; Tho’ ye’re rich and look big, Yet lay by hat and wig, And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head 0’ sma’ value, Andrew Gowk, And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ value. Xx. Poet Willie, 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 only stood by when he ; Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he ——. xT: Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, What mean ye? what mean ye? If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter, Ye may hae some pretence, man, To havins and sense, man, Wi’ people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie, Wi’ people that ken ye nae hetter. XII. Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, Ye hae made but toom roose, O’ hunting the wicked lieutenant ; But the doctor’s your mark, For the L—d’s holy ark, He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t, Jamie Goose, He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t. XIII. Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster, It’s a sign they’re no nice o’ recruits, Yet to worth let’s be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass were the king o’ the brutes, Davie Bluster, If the ass were the king o’ the brutes. XIV. Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins, If ill manners were wit, There’s no mortal so fit,OF ROBER T BURNS 163 To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance. XV. Cessnockside, Cessnockside, Wi’ your turkey-cock pride, O’ manhood but sma’ is your share; Ye’ve the figure, it’s true, Even our faes maun allow, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair. XVI. Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There’s a tod i’ the fauld A tod meikle waur than the clerk ;! | Tho’ ye downa do skaith, | Ye’ll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark. XVII. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Tho’ your Muse is a gipsy, Yet were she even tipsy, She could ca’ us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns, She could ca’ us nae waur than we are. POSTSCRIPT. Afton’s Laird, Afton’s Laird, When your pen can be spar’d, A copy o’ this I bequeath, On the same sicker score I mention’d before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton’s Laird, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. OXI. PEG NICHOLSON. These har*7 verses are to be found in a lettc? ad- dressed to Nicol. of the High School of Edinburgh, h~ the 1 Gavi. rlamilton, poet, giving him an account of the unlooked-for deatk of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joy ous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted te murder George the Third.] Pea Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on airn; 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 an’ thin ; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin. 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 oppress’d and bruis’d she was; As priest-rid cattle are, &c. Xe. CXII. ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HO- NOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. ‘‘ Should the poor be flattered ?” SHAKSPEARS But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew’s course was bright ; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless heav’nly light! [Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman cf very agreeable manners and great propriety of charactor, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune’s Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club. which was composed of all who desired to be thought w itty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poerr, says, ‘“I loved the man much, and have not flattered hia memory.’? Henderson seems indeed to have been uni- versally liked. ‘In our travelling party,” says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, “was Mattnew Hen- derson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and muck esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an of- ficer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson.” Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass, p. 17. O DeatH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! she weikle devil wi’ a woodie Sp peer ici Neen es siemardioeved ar ay Caen ye ES leg ee ener nt ere oA a pret. ee pa ee en anesTHE POETICAL WORKS THaurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O’er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie Wi’ thy auld sides! He’s gane! he’s gane! he’s frae us torn, The ae best fellow e’er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil’d! Ye hills! near neebors o’ the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers | Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens! Ye burnies, 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 0’ flow’rs. At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head, At ey’n, when beans their fragrance shed Y th’ rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade, Come join my wail. Mourn, ye wee songsters 0’ the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud ; Ye whistling plover; ; ne: ne An’ mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood !— He’s gane for ever ! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels: Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels tee Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Kair tor his sake. Mourn, clam’ring craiks, at close o’ day, >Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r; What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour *Till waukrife morn! O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains: But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! Ik cowslip cup shall kep a tear: Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear For him that’s dead! Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear: Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the 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 starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight, Ne’er to return. O, Henderson! the man—the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crost that unknown river Life’s dreary bound? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around? Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great, In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worths And weep the ae best fellow’s fate Ber lay in earth. Se a eeSarre OF ROBERT BURNS. 167 Solwayside, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the , Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, THE EPITAPH. Stop, passenger |—my stk ry’s brief, And truth I shall relate, man; and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone : the poet’s heart was w th the latter. Annan and Loch- I tell nae common tale o’ grief— mnben stood staunch by old names and old affections: For Matthew was a great man. : " Seon : aftera contest, bitterer than anything of tie sindremeu . : bered, the Whig interest prevailed.) tf thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn’d at fortune’s door, man, THERE were five carlins in the south, A look of pity hither cast— For Matthew was a poor man. They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, | To bring them tidings hame. If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man, Not only bring them tidings hame, i : 2 ea nwa ents . ~ : There moulders here a gallant heart— 3ut do their errands there ; ; | | For Matthew was a brave man And aiblins gowd and honour baith : a Might be that laddie’s share. If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man, There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith, Here lies wha weel had won thy praise— A dame wi’ pride eneugh ; For Matthew was a bright man. And Marjory o’ the mony lochs, A carlin auld and teugh. ; If thou at friendship’s sacred ca’ Wad life itself resign, man, Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’— And blinkin’ Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-side ; For Matthew was a kind man! And whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide. If thou art staunch without a stain, And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, O’ gipsey kith an’ kin ;— | Five wighter carlins were na found i Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o’ thy ain— For Matthew was a true man. The south countrie within. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne’er guid wine did fear, man, To send a lad to London town, They met upon a day; : And mony a knight, and mony a laird, i This errand fain wad gae. This was thy billie, dam and sire— For Matthew was a queer man. { If ony whiggish whingin sot, ; ; To blame poor Matthew dare, man, O mony a knight, and mony a laird, May docl and sorrow be his lot! This errand fain wad gae ; i For Matthew was @ rare man. But nae ane could their fancy please, | O ne’er a ane but twae. \ The first ane was a belted knight, Bred of a border band; And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand. AXTIT. : THE FIVE CaRBLINS. And he wad do their errands weel, A SCOTS BALLAD. And meikle he wad say ; j And ilka ane about the court | Tune—Chevy Chase. Wad bid to him gude-day. eh Pee ais aan oc ces meet aca mrenen ies atte, [This is a local and political Poem composed on the rontest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and The neist cam in a sodger youth, Johnstone, of Westerhall, for the representalon of the And spak wi’ modest grace, , Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each 1 to London town ; : . ad 226 ondo ] town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy And he wad gae to y } ite ° p iy w=NeuUYr t versenates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of If sae their pleasure was. 4 eee k ) 4 "3 Se eee en nn ee ee TRE ee _ : Sha 168 He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, Nor meikle speech pretend ; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne’er desert his friend. Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir carlins fell; For some had gentlefolks to please, And some wad please themsel’. Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith, And she spak up wi’ pride, And she wad send the sodger youth, Whatever might betide. For the auld gudeman o’ London court She didna care a pin; But she wad send the sodger youth To greet his eldest son. Then slow raise Marjory o’ the Lochs And wrinkled was her brow; Her anoient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scotch heart was true. ‘“‘The London court set light by me— I set as light by them; And I will send the sodger lad To shaw that court the same.” Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, And swore a deadly aith, Says, ‘I will send the border-knight Spite o’ you carlins baith. ‘For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, And fools o’ change are fain ; But I hae try’d this border-knight, Pll try him yet again.” Then whiskey Jean spak o’er her drink, ‘““Ye weel ken, kimmersa’, The auld gudeman o’ London court His back’s been at the wa’. ’ ‘And mony a friend that kiss’d hig caup, Is now a fremit wight; But it’s ne’er be sae wi’ whiskey Jean,— We'll send the border-knight.” Says black Joan o’ Crighton-peel, A carlin stoor and grim,— ‘The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman, For me may sink or swim. THE POETICAL WORKS } | | | ‘For fools will prate o’ right and wrang, While knaves laugh in their sleeve; But wha blaws best the horn shall win, Pll spier nae courtier’s leave.” So how this mighty plea may end There’s naebody can tell: God grant the king, and ilka man, May look weel to himsel’ ! CXIV. THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O’ NITH. [This short Poem was first published by Robert Uham- bers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry’s opinions, when he supported tne right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, with- out consent of Purliament, during the king’s illness, in 1788.] alarming Tue laddies by the banks o’ Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi’ a’, Jamie, But he’ll sair them, as he sair’d the King, Turn tail and rin awa’, Jamie. Up and waur them a’, Jamie, Up and waur them a’; The Johnstones hae the guidin’ o’t, Ye turncoat Whigs awa’. 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. 3ut wha is he, his country’s boast? Like him there is na twa, Jamie; There’s no a callant tents the kye, But kens 0’ Westerha’, Jamie. To end the wark here’s Whistlebirk, ! Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; And Maxwell true o’ sterling blue: Aud we'll be Johnstones a’, Jamie. —————$— $$ $$ — 1 Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector.OF ROBERT BURNS. 169 CXV. EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRAY: ON THS CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN 6 2 sAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. (‘‘I am too little a man,’’ said Burns, in the note to F:ntray, which accompanied this poem, ‘‘to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: in his power to be the father of a but a man who has it country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience.’ This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton ma- pose: to both families the poet was nuscripts for that pury | much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.) Finrray, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life, Are ye as idle’s J am? Come then, wi’ uncouth, kintra fleg, O’er Pegasus I’]l fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him. Ill 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 lowns, And kissing barefit carlins. Combustion thro’ 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 cautious Queensberry left the war, Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding: But left behind him heroes bright, Heroes in Cesarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading. O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, To muster o’er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig’s banner ; Heroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics, To win immortal honour, 1 John M’Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig. 2 Fergusson of Craigdarroch. 8 Ri del of Friars-Carse | | | | 1 } | | | | | | | | | | spc SAEED OLE LEI POE LP OLD OOO EI M’ Murdo! and his lovely spouse, (Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces: She won each gaping burgess’ heart, While he, all-conquering, play’d his part Among their wives and lasses. Craigdarroch? led a light-arm’d corps, Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder: Glenriddel,° skill’d in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory’s dark designs, And bar’d the treason under. In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig‘ who set at nought The wildest savage Tory: And Welsh,° who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground, High-way’d his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury. Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation! While Maxwelton, that baron bold, ’Mid Lawson’s® port intrench’d his hold, And threaten’d worse damnation. To these what Tory hosts oppos’d, With these what Tory warriors clos’d. Surpasses my descriying: Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving. What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie! Grim Horror grinn’d—pale Terror roar’d, As Murther at his thrapple shor’d, And hell mix’d in the brulzie. As highland craigs by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle: As flames among 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 the approaching fellers. 4 Provost Staig of Dumfries. 5 Sheriff Welsh. 6 A wine-merchant in Dumfries, Sa nett Je AE i ie he ni paloma mo - —— a ae eee a Seo ae ae a Sianee 170 THE POETICAL The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers. Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring: The muffied murtherer! of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls, All deadly gules it’s bearing. Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, Bold Scrimgeour? follows gallant Graham,3 Auld Covenanters shiver. (Forgive, forgive, much-wrong’d Montrose! Now death and hell engulph thy foes, Thou liy’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 and strength o’ man, ! Alas! can do but what they can! The Tory ranks are broken. O that my een were flowing burns, My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs’ undoing! That J might greet, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing! What Whig but melts for good Sir James! Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor! Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save ! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! And Stewart,‘ bold as Hector. Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; And Thurlow growl a curse of woe; And Melville melt in wailing! Iiow Fox and Sheridan rejoice! And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, Thy power is all prevailing ! For your poor friend, the Bard, afar He only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely ; So, when the storm the forests rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely. 1 The executioner of Charles i. was masked. 2 Scrimgeour, Lora Dundee, WORKS PER [This ‘ fine, fat, fodgel wight’? was a clever inan, a skilful well ac the wez tries of Nith, and there, at the social ‘‘ board of Glenriddel,”’ for the is said, bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pl ous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal ] Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat’s; If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, A chiel’s amang you taking notes, If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O’ stature short, but genius bright, And wow! he has an unco slight By Or It’s ten to one ye’ll find him snug in WY Uk Ye And you deep read in hell’s black grammar, Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight b s! It’s tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; CAPTAIN GROSE’S EGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was quainted with heraldry, and was conversant with 1pons and the armour of his own and other coun- He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent easure to the independent sentiments and humour- I rede you tent it: And, faith, he’ll prent it! That’s he, mark weel— O’ cauk and keel. some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, kirk deserted by its riggin, Some eldritch part, deils, they say, L—d save’s! colleaguin’ At some black art. ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer, gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, Warlocks and witches; 3 Graham, Marquis of Montrose 4 Stewart of Hillside.OF ROBERT BURNS. 171 ; a But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade, | of sending a rhyming inquiry after his fat friend, and | And dog-skin wallet, Cardonnel spread the condoling inquiry over the North And ta’en the—Antiquarian trade, Ig he\sla-a\by Highlan’ bocies : = 6 And eaten like a wether-haggis?”’ I think they call it. cee 4 > . - a ui Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose? \ He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: Igo and ago, Rusty airn caps and jinglin’ jackets, If he’s amang his friends or foes? Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, Iram, coram, dago. A towmont guid; Is he south or is he north? Igo and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth? And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Afore the flood. Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder; Iram, coram, dago. Auld Tubal-Cain’s fire-shool and fender ; That which distinguished the gender Igo and ago, | \ Is he slain by Highlan’ bodies? KS O’ Balaam’s ass; i : ; : a And eaten like a wether-haggis? A broom-stick 0’ the witch o’ Endor, I 5 i ram, coram, dago. Weel shod wi’ brass. 6 f RAL IOS TN NE ee aed eae Is he to Abram’s bosom gane? H | Forbye, he’ll shape you aff, fu’ gleg, Igo and ago, ; The cut of Adam’s philibeg: Or haudin’ Sarah by the SEN? | The knife that nicket Abel’s craig Iram, coram, dago. He’ll prove you fully, d be near him! Where’er he be, the L Igo and ago, Hl As for the deil, he daur na steer him! It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gully.— But wad ye see him in his glee, Iram, coram, dago. ‘iF For meikle glee and fun has he, if But please transmit the enclosed letter, Igo and ago, Which will oblige your humble debtor, F } Iram, coram, dago Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi’ him; And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye’ll see him! ~— ~- pain S rk an ees eet tal nant th _ So may he hae auld stanes in store, Iram, coram, dago. Now, by the pow’rs 0’ verse and prose! ees . . ' Igo and ago, i Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose !— f | Teas ) 1) The very stanes that Adam bore, | e } Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose, i | 4 \ a tees Iram, coram, dago. ie tae i [They sair misca’ thee; i 1 > Xe x > z Bh : é i , ; jl I’d take the rascal by the nose, So may ye get in glad possession, : I sav. Shs ? ! | Noe eld Fa Wad say, Shame fa’ thee! Igo and ago, an A The coins 0’ Satan’s coronation! 5 he a be 7 {i oS CXVII. CXVIII. i WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, TAM 0’ SHANTER A TALE. ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE. [Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary ‘Of brownys and of bogilis full Is this buke.” : : i me GAWIN DovuGLas. memoranda, respecting certain ruins in Kyle, and en- rlosed them ina sheet of a paper to Cardonnel, a north- ern antiquary. As his mind teemed with poetry he genius. could not. as he afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass | variety of power, in the same number of lines. [This is a West-country lecend, embellished by No other Poem in our language displays such It wasee tarierirr as mx dar hoy vice Deh SACRIRNPUNDERI ea rw acd > SSS eSATA. LS Na NLA TE aN DLA haem aR haan Ne a Se 172 THE POETICAL WORKS written as an inducement to Grose to admit Alloway- Kirk into his work on the Antiquities of Scotland ; and sy, that the poet shed tears in Written with such ecstasy the moments of composition. The walk in which it was conceived, on the braes of Ellisland, is held in remem- brance in the vale, and pointed out to poetie inquirers: while the scene where the poem is laid—the crumbling ruins - the place where the chapman perished in the snow —the tree on which the poor mother of Mungo ended her gurrows—the cairn where the murdered child was found by the hunters—and the old bridge over which Maggie bcre her astonished master when all hell was in pursuit, nre first-rate objects of inspection and inquiry in the ‘‘fand of Burns.” ‘In the inimitable tale of Tam o’ Shante ,”? says Scott ‘‘ Burns has left us sufficient evidence of his ability to combine the ludicrous with the nwful,and eventhe horrible. No poet, withthe exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions.’’] Wuen chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An’ folk begin to tak’ the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An’ 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’Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses. ) O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder, wi’ the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca’d a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou en; That at the Lord’s house, ey’n on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy7d, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon; Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen’d sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! —— es Orr But to our tale :—Ae market night, Tam had got planted: unco right; Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither ; They had been fow’ for weeks thegither ! The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter ; And ay 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. 3ut pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls 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 in; 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 de’il had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray 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 Scots sonnet; 1] VARIATION. The cricket raised its cheering cry, The kittlen chas’d its tail in joy.pee sof ieee A at tank, hae ated | omnia heer ESP CTY aI ERT eee YO TERNbi 1. 3 i i; 4 ee i Pet ee Wi i L ie i t Ee ee FB ! Ly i L Pe ee ee E | } ae ee H ee H ae i H en gl Soe ** 7 : ‘| + 3] or | 7 i 1 : 4 i | Su | i i Bi :i: i ee ee '- | a aes - bs ei : i ib ' G25 ee ca j ae fe is ae | ons } ' ob i oe pe ew | t i by ee } } JWhiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.— By this time he was cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor’d; And past the birks and meikle stane, Vhere drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane ; And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’. Before him Doon 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; } 5 When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, I } Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. eee”Vv. **T’ve seen sae mony changefw’ years, On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, J bear alane my lade o’ care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a’ that would my sorrows share. VI. ‘And last (the sum of a’ my griefs !) My noble master lies in clay; The flow’r amang our barons bold, His country’s pride! his country’s stay— In weary being now I pine, For a’ the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled. VII. ‘*« Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay— Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard [ gloom. Though brought from fortune’s mirkest VIIlI. ““TIn poverty’s low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involy’d me round ; Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found’st me, like the morning sun, That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care. 10>. 4. ‘“O! why has worth so short a date ? While villains ripen gray with time ; Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great, Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime ! Why did I live to see that day? A day to me so full of woe !— O had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low. Ks ‘The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; OF ROBERT BUKNS. 173 The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But Vll remember thee, Glencairn, And a’ that thou hast done for me!” CXXYV. LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART., OF WHITEFOORD. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. [Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in } Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literature, and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes of Burns.] TuHov, who thy honour as thy God rever’st, Who, save thy mind’s reproach, nought earthly fear’st, To thee this votive offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The friend thou yaluedst, I, the patron, !ov’d; His worth, his honour, all the world approv’d, We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. CXXVI. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAYS. [‘‘ Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of Septemter: for whiclr day perhaps his muse mny inspire an ode suited to the occa- sion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaying the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson’s pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Cale- donian virtue.’? Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns, To request the poet to lay down his | sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and traverse Fed ip ee rea oy Ye a Barnet ee ee “ ws “ FPP AR Tm) Cees ate ae SEHR Peete eee Ee epee er 2 natn a o ia ee = ar Sm a Ln tee a ce i ne lige se Pos Te a ed 7 nv eae a See Se oea NN haem STA Dh ah aa ~ a 180 THE POETIC | one of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, $$$ $$ $$ for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of the bad bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week’s | absence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst | not venture upon—but he sent this Poem. The poet’s manuscript affords the following interesting | variations :-— ‘¢ While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, Or pranks the sod in frolic Joy, A carpet for her youthful feet: ‘While Summer, with a matron’s grace, Walks stately in the cooling shade, And oft delighted loves to trace The progress of the spiky blade: «¢ While Autumn, benefactor kind, With age’s hoary honours clad, Surveys, with self-approving mind, ) Each creature on his bounty fed. Wurtz virgin Spring, by Eden’s flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Aolian strains between: While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh’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 his 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: So long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. CXXVITI. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ, OF BIN TRAY: By this Poem Burns prepared the way for his humble request to be removed to a district more moderate in its bounds than one which extended over ten country | Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, parishes, and exposed him both to fatigue and expenso. | wear: AL WORKS OO This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due time attended to, for Fintray was a gentleman at once kind and considerate.] Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg: Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest ;) Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey’d, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain: The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground: Th’ enyenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell; | Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power; Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug ; | Ey’n silly woman has her warlike arts, der tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts ;— But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child—the Bard! A thing unteachable in world’s skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still ; | No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun ; | No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn: No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon’s trusty cur, Clad in rich dullness’ comfortable fur ;— In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from every side. Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics !—appall’d I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame. Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes! | He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads’ daring into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must \OF ROBE! Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d, in the unequal strife, The hapless poet flounders on through life ; Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d, And fled each muse that glorious once inspir’d, 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 gen’rous steed deceas’d, For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast: By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch’s son. QO dullness! 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 de- serve, They only wonder ‘‘some folks” do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro’ disastrous 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 soaring heay’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:) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r!— Fintray, 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, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death! VL BURNS CXXVIII. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ,, OF FINTRAY. ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. [Graham of Fintray not only obtained for the poet the appointment in the Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but he also removed him. as he wished, to a better district; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence, Fintray did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fear of want. ] I caLt no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. | Thou orb of day! 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, along your wandering spheres, | Only to number out a villain’s years! CXXIX. A VISION. [This Vision of Liberty descended on Burns among tle magnificent ruins of the College of Lincluden, which stand on the junction of the Cluden and the Nith, a short mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision; perhaps, he dared not in those yeasty times venture on the song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The scene is chiefly copied from nature: the swellings of the Nith, the howlings of the fox on the hill, and the cry of the owl, unite at times with the natural beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins wee a favourite haunt of the poet.] As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air, Where th’ howlet mourns in her ivy bower And tells the midnight moon her care: The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot along the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. Serre Seren ien ae ie pene ee Bares Spereenh ene se) Deen an nee, dal eal Hac ee nice pamela eaters ocean Yami ama SAE a Sans Pe re er eS OR Ae Bae ldcae — Ee 182 THE POETICAL WORKS 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; Athort 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 on his bonnet gray’d was plain, The sacred posy—‘ 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, As ever met a Briton’s ear. He sang wi’ joy the former day, He weeping wail’d his latter times ; But what he said it was nae play, — J winna ventur’t in my rhymes. CXXxX. TO JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. [John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom these verses are addressed, though descended from the Eorls of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claim- ed merit only froma judgment sound and clear—a know- ledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns of life, and askili in handling the most difficult subjects, which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a re- fusal. He loved to meet Burns: not that he either cared for or comprehended poetry; but he was pleased with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and VARIATIONS. piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seven: ty-one years old when these verses were written, an¢ e survived the poet twenty years.] 1 To join yon river on the Strath. 2 Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-fac’d Cynthia rear’d ; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear’d. Heattu to the Maxwell’s vet’ran chief! Health, ay 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 three score eleven, And I can tell that bounteous Heaven (The second sight, ye ken, is given To ilka Poet) On thee a tack o’ seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow, May desolation’s lang teeth’d harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure— But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi’ mornings blythe and e’enings funny Bless them and thee! Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, And then the Deil he daur na steer ye; Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye; For me, shame fa’ me, If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While Burns they ca’ me! Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792. CXXXI. THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLH ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, Nov. 26, 1792. [Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses whom Wil- llamson, the manager, brought for several seasons ta Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumouradded, perhaps muiciously levities of action. The Rights ot Man had been advo cated by Paine, the Rights of Woman by Mary WulOF ROBERT BURNS. glouecroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regeneration of the world. The line ‘‘ But truce with kines and truce with constitutions,’ got an uncivil twist in re citation, from some of the audi- orce. The words were eagerly caught up. and had some hisses lsestowed on them.] Wuite Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things, {he tate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of state must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First on the sexes’ intermix’d connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm. Our second Right—but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate’s the fashion, Each man of sense has it so full before him, He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum.— There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days, A time, when rough, rude man had naughty WAYS} Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady’s quiet. Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men—and you are all well- bred— Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- tration Mc3* humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration! In tuat blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life—immortal love.— Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, ’Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares— When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions, Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN! | CXXXII. MONODY, ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. [The heroine of this rough lampoon was Mrs Riddel of Woodleigh Park: a lady young and gay, much ofa wit, and something of a poetess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his dis- pleasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some ‘‘epauletted coxcombs,’’ for so he sometimes designated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the poet, written With great beauty und feeling.) How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis- ten’d! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection re- mov’d; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov’d Loves, Graces, 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 Maria’s cold bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure tha 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 ce SR A Een amin Siar MPT aL, ices eae toe tiwone aed Cae YesSk en en THE CXXXIII. EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. (Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition: it 1s printed from the Poet’s own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. ‘The verse of the lady is held up to con- tempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her ‘¢ Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed ;”? and has a passing hit at her * Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.’’] 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: From 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 polled, 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 I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; Or haughty Chieftain, ’mid the din of arms, In Highland bonnet woo Malyina’s charms; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria’s prying eye. Blest Highland bonnet! dress, Once my proudest Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press. I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. I see her face the first of Ireland’s sons, ! And eyen out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; The crafty colonel? leaves the tartan’d lines, For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 1 Captain Gillespie. POETICAL WORKS 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 the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks ; Though there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer’s fale: Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal call’d Maria’s janty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, Whose spleen e’en worse than Burns’ 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 For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray’d?) A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin’d gipsies litter’d heretofore. Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell? Thou know’st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, The vices also, must they club their curse? Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for all? Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. As thou at all 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 deciphering defy, And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 2 Col. Macdouall.ie | CXXXIV. | | POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. | (TI h Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of s Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Cham- | leclares that he ‘* has scarcely a doubt that it is not \yrshire Bard,’ I must print it as his, for 1 have | . doubtonthe subject. It was found among the papers his own handwriting: the second, the bear the Burns’ stamp, 1e concluding verses iS been successful in co interfeiting : he verses of Beattie, to which Chambers npared them, as little as the cry of the eagle re- smibies Che Chirp ol the wren J | Hart Poesie! thou Nymph resery’d! In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swery’d Frae common sense, or sunk enery’d | ’Mang heaps o’ clayers ; Y ' , . . e id och! o’er aft thy joes hae starv’d Mid @ thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump’s heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang, To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang viel : ‘ But wi’ miscarriage ? In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus’ pen Will Shakspeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, ’till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives D>) Even 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 hunders, 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! OF ROBERT BURNS. Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes : Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi’ hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays At close o’ day. Thy rural loves are nature’s sel’ Nae bombast spates o’ nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell OQ’ witchin’ love; That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move CXXXY. SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. [Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the un- looked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.] Sin@ on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain: See, aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow’d brow. So, in lone Poverty’s dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank Thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away. Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share Re earls Were ee} eee eee =< SE pd ea nee LEROY IR oy Ce Tele eae ete A a ete Se GS ee ae hl ee TY oe eyen en ee CXXXVI. SONNET, Oy THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDELL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL, | | | | APRIL, 1794. | (The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the eeath of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while | he lived at Ellis!and, been his neighbour, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices en- tertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what the rustics of the vale called ‘‘queer quairns and swine-troughs,”’ is now scattered or neglected: IJ have heard a competent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland.] No more, ye warblers of the wood—no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest roar. How can ye charn, ye flow’rs, with all your dyes? | Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: | How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? That strain flows round th’ untimely tomb where Xiddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his ‘narrow house’ for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring o>? again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem’ry of my loss will only meet. CXXXVII. IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. R—’S BIRTHDAY. [By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smurt which his verses “On a lady famed for her caprice”? inflicted on the accomplished Mrs Riddel.] Oup Winter, with his frosty beard, THE POETIC AL WORKS What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night’s horrid car drags, dreary, slow: My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I’ve no more to say, Give me Maria’s natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic’d in glory. CXXXVIITI. LIBERTY. A FRAGMENT. [Fragments of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode commemorating the achievé- ment of liberty for America, under the directing genius of Washington and Franklin.] TueEx, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, fam’d for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; Where is that soul of freedom fled? Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallow’d turf where Wallace Hes! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! 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! CXXXIX. VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. (This young lady was the daughter of the poet @ mn = Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr’d,— | friend, Graham of Fintray; and the gift alluced to was @OF eopy of George Thomscn’s Select Scottish Songs: a work which owes many attractions to the lyric genius of Burns.] Here. where the Scottish muse immortal lives, Ja sacred strains and tuneful numbers join’d, Accept the gift;—tho’ humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; t 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 heaven-born piety her sanction seals. CXL. THE VOWELS. A TALE. {Burns admired genius adorned by learning ; but mere learning without genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too much about words he called eunuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him With writing obscure language in questionable grammar, he said, ‘* Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker be- "99 tween vowels and consonants !??] ’T was where the birch and sounding thong are ply’d, The noisy domicile of pedant pride; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows; Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate, Ilis awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to account.— First enter’d A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But, ah! deform’d, dishonest to the sight! His twisted head look’d backward on the way, And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai! Reluctant, E stalk’d in; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face! That name! that well-worn name, and all his own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant’s throne! The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; ROBERT BURNS. 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 woe; Th’ 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 brother scarcely knew! As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, In helpless infants’ tears he dipp’d his right, Baptiz’d him eu, and kick’d him from his sight CXLI. VERSES TO JOHN RANKINE. [With the ‘rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,” of Adam-hill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o’-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed that these lines were suggested by Falstaff’s account of his ragged recruits :— “‘P]] not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat !??] Ax day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl’ A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Asham’d himsel’ to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin’ at the bitches, «

o If. But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I Io’e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me. CLY. THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. Tune—‘‘Jacky Latin.” {Burns in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan was amused with a rough old district song, which some 3) one sung: he rendered, at a leisure moment, the language more delicate and the sentiments less warm, and sent it to the Museum.] I. Gat ye me, O gat ye me, O gat ye me wi’ naething ? Rock and reel, and spinnin’ wheel, A mickle quarter basin. Ateteesrd maple Mk PT sctatl, mine alee ata do bewen tt Sen Sapte Cees YT IS Le eT a ee SoS ia a SRLS i a enSe aaieieeaienimeeed Seal 4 oh em : —— Salotienaaae See ae aE COT et a eee ei Db ee ee ee ra ee i A [The wit of this song is better than its delicacy: it is printed in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.] THE POETIC Bye attour, my gutcher has A hich house and a laigh ane, A’ for bye, my bonnie sel’, The toss of Ecclefechan. II. O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, O haud your tongue and jauner ; T 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. CLVI. THE COOPER O’ CUDDIE. Tune—‘‘ Bab at the bowster.”’ I. The cooper o’ Cuddie cam’ here awa, And ca’d the girrs out owre us a’— And our gude-wife has gotten a ca’ That anger’d the silly gude-man, O. Vell hide the cooper behind the door ; —_ Behind the door, behind the door; We’ll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, O. II. He sought them out, he sought them in, Wi’, deil hae her! and, deil hae him! But the body was sae doited and blin’, He wist na where he was gaun, O. III, They cooper’d at e’en, they cooper’d at morn, Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; On ilka brow she’s plonted a horn, And swears that they shall stan’, O. We'll hide the cooper behind the door, Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, O. AL WORKS CLVII. SOMEBODY. Tune—‘‘ For the sake of somebody.” [Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lines of this lyric from Ramsay: he sent it to the Museum.) I. My heart is sair—I dare na tell— My heart is sair for somebody ; I could wake a winter night For the sake o’ somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody ! Jh-hey ! for somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o’ somebody ! Il. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon! for somebody! Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake 0’ somebody! CLYVIII. THE CARDIN’ O’T. Tune—‘‘ Salt-fish and dumplings.’ ? [‘‘ This song,’ says Sir Harris Nicolas, “is in the Mu. sical Museum, but not with Burns’s name toit.’? It wag given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.] I. I corr a stane o’ haslock woo’, To make a wat to Johnny o’t; For Johnny is my only jo, I lo’e him best of ony yet. The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ 0’t ; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the lynin o’t. II. For though his locks be lyart gray, And tho’ his brow be beld aboon; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a’ the parishen. The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the lynin o’t.hKOBLRT BURNS. 267 CLIX. WHEN JANUAR’ WIND. Tune—‘‘ Zhe lass that made the bed for me.” {Burns fonnd an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, recording an adventure which Charles the Second, while unde> Presbyterian rule in Scotand, had with a young lady of the house of Port Letham, and exercising nis taste and skill upon it, produced the present f ree son3 for the Museum. ] I. Vouen 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. LG By my good luck a maid I met, Just in the middle o’ my care; And kindly she did me inyite To walk into a chamber fair. Iil. 1 bow’d fw’ low unto this maid, And thank’d her for her courtesie ; I bow’d fw’ low unto this maid, And bade her mak a bed to me. IV. 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 ye soun’.” V. She snatch’d the candle in her hand, And frae my chamber went wi’ speed; But I call’d her quickly back again To lay some mair below my head. VI. 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. WeOUI. ‘«Haud aff your hands, young man,” she says, ‘¢ And dinna sae uncivil be: {f ye hae onie love for me, O wrang na my yirginitie !” still too Valle Her hair was like the links 0’ gowd, Her teeth were like the ivorie; Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, The lass that made the bed to me. Ix: 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. K. I kiss’d her owre and owre again, And ay she wist na what to say; I laid her between me and the wa’— The lassie thought na lang till day. XI Upon the morrow when we rose, I thank’d her for her courtesie ; But aye she blush’d, and aye she sigh’d, And said, ‘‘ Alas! ye’ve ruin’d me.” XII. I clasp’d her waist, and kiss’d her syne, While the tear stood twinklin’ in her e’e; I said, ‘‘ My lassie, dinna cry, For ye ay shall mak the bed to me.” XIII. She took her mither’s Holland sheets, And made them a’ in sarks to me: Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me. XIV. The bonnie lass made the bed to me, The braw lass made the bed to me Ill ne’er forget till the day I die, ‘he lass that made the bed to me! CLX. SAE FAR AWA. Tune—‘‘ Dalkeith Maiden Bridge.” [This song was sent to the Musoum by Burns, in nia own handwriting.] I. O, sap and heavy should I part, But for her sake sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa. sents hemmeeieescieiedenrsineemeerteiees nents ek et acd ee ed eS ee OS eS Lae ee aE ne eee ee ey — = es Ps a a I a MOREE en AGee perce Se reese rc cence See en ens eweasbee peeve aioe epee eo ~— : - . - the teeta i ee et eer een eee ns 268 THE 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. II. 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 hers, sae far awa; But fairer never touch’d a heart Than hers, the fair sae far awa. CLXI. I by AY SCA IN BY YsO'IN “LO WIN: Tune—‘‘ 1’ll gae nae mair to yon town.” {Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromek’s Reliques: t was first printed in the Museum.] I. TPL ay ca’ in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; Pll ay ca’ in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. There’s nane sall ken, there’s nane sall guess, What brings me back the gate again; But she my fairest faithfw’ lass, And stownlins we sall meet again. II. She’ll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin-time draws near again ; And when her lovely form I see, O haith, she’s doubly dear again! Pll ay ca’ in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again; ’ ne 192 ss arse Pll ay ca’ in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. CLXII. O, WAT YE WHA’S IN YON TOWN. Tune—“ Pll ay ca in by yon town.” [The beautiful Luey Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song: it was pot, however, composed expressly in honour of her charms. ‘“Asl wasa good deal pleased,” he says ina POETIC AL WORKS letter to Syme, ‘‘ with my performance, I, in my first fer: vour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald.’? He sent it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.] CHORUS. O, wat ye wha’s in yon town, Ye see the e’enin sun upon ? The fairest dame’s in yon town, That e’enin sun is shining on. I. Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders ty yon spreading tree; How blest ye flcw’rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o’ here’e! II. How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear. III. The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Iv. Without my love, not a’ the charms O’ Paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky! V. 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. VI. O 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. VII. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom’d to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me—spare me, Lucy dear! VIIX. For while life’s dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart,OF ROBERT BURNS. And she—as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart ! O, wat ye wha’s in yon town, Ye see the e’enin sun upon? The fairest dame’s in yon town That e’enin sun is shining on. CLXIII. O MAY, THY MORN. Tune—‘‘ May, thy morn.” [Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain so the accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by Chambers in his ‘‘ People’s Edition”? of Burns.] Is O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet As the mirk night 0’ December; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber: And dear. was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember. And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember. II. And here’s to them, that, like oursel, Can push about the jorum ; And here’s to them that wish us weel, May a’ that’s guid watch o’er them, And here’s to them we dare na tell, The dearest o’ the quorum. And here’s to them we dare na tell, The dearest 0’ the quorum! CLXIV. LOVELY POLLY STEWART. Tune—‘‘ Ye’re welcome, Charlie Stewart.” [The poet’s eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind seems to have been with Charlie Stewart, and the Jacob- ite ballads, when he penned these words ;—they are in the Museum.] I. O tovey Polly Stewart! O 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. I. May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms Possess a leal and true heart; To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart. O lovely Polly Stewart ! O charming Polly Stewart! There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May That’s half so sweet as thou art. CLXYV. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. Tune—‘‘ Jf thow’ lt play me fair play.” [A long and wearisome ditty, called ‘‘ The Highland Lad and Lowland Lassie,’? which Burns compressea inta these stanzas, for Johnson’s Museum. ] I. Tue bonniest lad that e’er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wore a plaid, and was fu’ braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie. II. Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar, Bonnie Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie Lowland lassie. III. The sun a backward course shall .ake, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yourself procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; And for your lawful king, his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie. Tita LE, ET ell, mln tath ath nthe ene a A Rn OA a Gn rw a Sa ie end ete en nna : Teas ¥§ ean San eee! ae KA + Am fat eeonlhit oma = "s a eT ee en eee eeSr te eee ee y = — Se at Dt ee Dera ee > - : . a eee ret te eee ee THE POETICAL WORKS CLXVI. ANNA, THY CHARMS. Tune—‘‘ Bonnie Mary.” [The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknown: it was inserted in the third edition of his Poems.] 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. CLXVII. CASSILLIS’ BANKS. Tune—[unknown. ] [It is supposed that ‘Highland Mary,’? who lived sometime on Cassillis’s banks, is the heroine of these verses.] I. Now bank an’ brae are claith’d in green, An’ 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 Mary let me flee, There catch her ilka glance of love, The bonnie blink o’ Mary’s e’e! II. The chield wha boasts o’ warld’s walth Is aften laird o’ meikle care; But Mary she is a’? my ain— Ah! fortune canna 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 0’ Mary’s e’e! CLXVIII. TO THEE, LOVED NITH. Tune—[unknown. ] {There are several variations extant of these verses, and among others one which transfers the praise from | the Nith to the Dee: but to the Dee, if the poet spok3 ia | . | his own person, no such influences could beiong.] I. To thee, lov’d Nith, thy gladsome plains, Where late wi’ careless thought I rang’d, Though prest wi’ care and sunk in woe, To thee I bring a heart unchang’d. Il. I love thee, Nith, thy banks and traes, Tho’ mem’ry there my bosom tear ; For there he rov’d that brake my heart, Yet to that heart, ah! still how dear! CLXIX. BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY. Tune—‘‘ The Killogie.” (‘‘ This song is inthe Museum,”’ says Sir Harris Nicolas, “hut without Burns’s name.’? Burns took up anold song, and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobite spirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museum.) I. BANNOCKS 0’ bear meal, Bannocks o’ barley; Here’s to the Highlandman’s ‘Bannocks 0’ barley. Wha in a brulzie Will first cry a parley? Never the lads wi’ The bannocks 0’ barley. Drs Bannocks o’ bear meal, Bannocks 0’ barley ; Here’s to the lads wi’ The bannocks 0’ barley. Wha in his wae-days Were loyal to Charlie ? Wha but the lads wi’ The bannocks 0’ barley? CLXX., : HEE BALOU. Tune—‘ The Highland Balou.” [‘‘Published in the Musical Museum,”? says Sir Harris Nicolas, ‘‘ but without the name of the author.” ItisanOF plc etrain, eked out and amended by Burns, and sent to | $.e Museum in his own handwriting.) I. Her balou! my sweet wee Donald, Picture o’ the great Clanronald; Brawlie kens our wanton chief Wha got my young Highland thief. Il. Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, An’ thou live, thou’ll steal a naigie: Travel the country thro’ and thro’, And bring hame a Carlisle cow. III, Thro’ the Lawlands, o’er the border, Weel, my babie, may thou furder: Herry the louus o’ the laigh countree, Syne to the Highlands hame to me. CLXXI. WAE IS MY HEART. Tune—‘‘ Waeis my heart.” [Composed, it is said, at the request of Clarke, the ROBERT musician, who felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, |} Phillis M’Mardo.] I. WaeE is my heart, and the tear’s in my e’e; Lang, lang, joy’s been a stranger to me; Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, And the sweet voice of pity ne’er sounds in my ear. Wi Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved ; Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved; | But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, I can fel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. LUT. O, if IL were happy, where happy I hae been, Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle green; For there he is wand’ring, and musing on me, Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis’s e’e. | —— | BURNS. CLXXII. HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. Tune—‘‘ Zhe job of journey-work.” [Burns took the hint of this song from an older and lesa decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been suid in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jean Ar mour found herself before marriage; as if Burns couid be capable of anything so insulting. The words are iz the Museum.] ALTHO’ my back be at the wa’, An’ tho’ he be the fautor; Altho’ my back be at the wa’, Yet here’s his health in water! O! wae gae by his wanton sides, Sae brawlie he could flatter ; Till for his sake I’m slighted sair, And dree the kintra clatter. But tho’ my back bé at the wa’, And tho’ he be the fautor; But tho’ my back be at the wa’, Yet here’s his health in water | CLXXIII. MY PEGGY'S FACE. Tune— ‘“ My Peggy's Face.” [Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, after wards Mrs. Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, the wittiest of all the poet’s lady correspondents. Burns, in the note in which he communicated it to Johnson, said he had a strong private reason for wishing it to apyear in the second volume of the Museum.] I. My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form, The frost of hermit age might warm; My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy’s angel air, Her face so truly, heav’nly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy’s heart II. The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway? Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The gen’rous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms— These are all immortal charms. a ip a ee LOTS eee, Toe) Oe ae oe SESS BE el TT aye eet ae a adeT _ or eet = ~ ees. Teh the Dee acer _ ae ee - on ee ET ee ge met tt che ee eee een ee THE CLXXIV. GLOOMY DECEMBER. Tune—‘‘ Wandering Willie.” [These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, and must be taken asa record of his feelings at parting with one dear to him to the latest moments of existence --the Mrs. Mae of many a toast, both in serious and fes- tive hours.] I. ANCE mair J hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care: Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair. Fond lovers’ parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure. EI. Vild as the winter now tearing the forest, Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown, Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Since my last hope and last comfort is gone! Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; For sad was the parting thou makes me remem- ber, Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair. CLXXY. MY LADY’S GOWN, THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T. Tune—‘‘ Gregg’s Pipes.” [Most of this song is from the pen of Burns: he cor- rected the improprieties, and infused some of his own lyric genius into the old strain, and printed the result in the Museum.] I. My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; Brut Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t. My lord a-hunting he is gane, But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane; By Colin’s cottage lies his game, If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. Ii. My lady’s white, my lady’s red, And kith and kin 0’ Cassillis’ blude; POETICAL WORKS But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. LIT: Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness. Iv. Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes 0’ lovers’ hymns: The diamond dew is her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims Ve My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, The flower and fancy o’ the west; But the lassie that a man lo’es best, O that’s the lass to make him blest. 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 meikle mair upon’t. CLXXVI. AMANG THE TREES. Tune—‘‘ The King of France, he rade a race [Burns wrote these verses in scorn of those, and *«w are many, who prefer “The capon craws and queer ha ha’s!?? of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious srs, | Highland and Lowland, of old Caledonia: the song m4 | fragment—the more’s the pity.] I. Amana the trees, where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, 0; ’Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, She dirl’d them aff fw’ clearly, O, When there cam a yell o’ foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O. II. Their capon craws and queer ha ha’s, They made our lugs grow eerie, 0; The hungry bike did scrape and pike, Till we were wae and weary, O; But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas’d A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir’d a fiddler in the north That dang them tapsalteerie, 0.OF ROBE CLXAXYVII. THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. Tune—‘‘ Banks of Banna.” [‘‘ Anne with the golden locks,’ one of the attendant maidens in Burns’s howff, in Dumfries, was very fairand very tractable, and, as may be surmised from the song, had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the customers than the serving of wine. Burns recommended this song to Thomson; and one of his editors makes him eay, ‘I think this is one of the best love-songs I ever composed,”’ but these are not the words of Burns; this contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought that the bard had the bad taste to préfer this strain to dozens of others more simple, more impassioned, and more natural.] I. YESTREEN I had a pint 0’ 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. II. Ye monarchs tak the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah | Gie me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna. There Ill despise imperial charms, An empress or sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take with Anna! III. 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 a3 And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi’ my Anna! Iv. The kirk an’ state may join and tell— To do sic things I maunna : The kirk and state may gang to hell, And [ll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine of my e’e, To live but her I canna: Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna. 18 kT BURNS. CLXXVIII. MY AIN KIND DEARIE oO. [This is the first song ‘composed by Burns for the national collection of Thomson : it was written in Octo- ber, 1792. ‘* On reading over the Lea-rig,’’ he says, ‘I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after | all, I could make nothing more of it than the following:.?? | The first and second verses were only sent: Burns acded the third and last verse in December.] Ee 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! Til; In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I’d roye, and ne’er be eerie, 0; If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie 0! 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 0! III. The hunter lo’es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, | Alang the burn to steer, my jo; | Gie me the hour o’ gloamin gray, It maks my heart sae cheery, O, To meet thee on the lea-ring, My ain kind dearie 0! CLXXIX. TO MARY CAMPBELL. [‘‘In my very early years,’ says Burns to Thomson, ‘¢when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, so ae sues j : i ‘ ele y 1 For “scented birks,’’ in some copies, ‘‘ birken buds. ee Lt ee ee EY et ene Se We Fees ao aioe a a a ar al i ae274 THE POETICAL WORKS ‘ ‘aithfu.ly inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicit; Tad was, as they say of wines, their race.” The heroine of She is a winsome wee thing, f this early composition was Highland Mary.] | She is a handsome wee thing | ) a hé ‘ , I. | She is a bonnie wee thing, 1 7 ~ 7 77 > * Witt ye go to the Indies, my Mary, This sweet wee wife o’ mine. And leave old Scotia’s shore ? Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th’ Atlantic’s roar ? Iv. The warld’s wrack we share o’t, The warstle and the care o’t; Il. Wi’ her Pll blythely bear it, O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And think my lot divine. And the apple on the pire; But a the charms o’ the Indies Can never equal thine. III. CLXXXI. I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, BONNIE LESLEY. I | I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; ] ” r ny And sae may the Heavens forget me [‘‘I have just,’? says Burns to Thomson, ‘ been look WI Titarcet . ' ing over the ‘ Collier’s bonnie Daughter,’ and if the fol ‘nen ret My vow. salary © Ors J lowing rhapsody, which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Leslie Baillie, as she passod IV. through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome.’? This lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming, of Logie.) O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia’s strand. I. O saw ye bonnie Lesley Vil Vv. As she ga’ed o’er the border ? We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, She’s gane, like Alexander, In mutual affection to join; To spread her conquests farther. And curst be the cause that shall part us! The hour and the moment o’ time! Its To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, CEREXEX:. And never made anither! THE WINSOME WEE THING. TT? Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, a a ea ae re a eee a eS = a $ [These words were written for Thomson: or rather i made extempore. ‘I might give you something more Thy subjects we, before thee: i profound,’ says the poet, ‘“‘yet it might not suit the Thou art divine, fair Lesley, F ight-horse ga.i f the air, so well < ligh orse ga.iop of the air, so well as this random The hearts 0’ men adore thee. i eliik.’?) ; i | Ts Iv. : | SHE is a winsome wee thing, The deil he could na scaith thee, E a Shes a handsome wee thing, Or aught that wad belang thee; . : : : é . | | i She is a bonnie wee thing, He’d look into thy bonnie face, i | ‘ ace . . This sweet wee wife o’ mine. And say, ‘‘I canna wrang thee.” Il. Vv. i | t | , ‘ vr : | | I never saw a, fairer, The powers aboon will tent thee; ee ver lo’ rarer: . a | I never lo’ed a dearer ; Misfortune sha’ na steer thee: ; ] | | And niest my heart [’ll wear her, Thou’rt like themselves so lovely, Hi | For fear my jewel tine. That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. i i i i} ;OF vi. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie; That we may brag, we hae a lass There’s nane again sae bonnie. CLXXXII. HIGHLAND: MAR Y: Tune—‘‘ Katherine Ogie.” (Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns has sung with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a mariner, who lived in Greenock. She became acquainted with the poet while on service at the castle of Mont- gomery, and their strolls in the woods and their roaming trystes only served to deepen and settle their affections. heir love had much of the solemn as well as of the ro- mantic : on the day of their separation they plighted their mutual faith by the exchange of Bibles: they stood with a running-stream between them, and lifting up water in their hands vowed love while woods grewaad waters ran. The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly bound: ‘Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,’ was written in the bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath was his name, and his mark asa freemason. They parted to meet no more: Mary Campbell was carried off sud- denly by a burning fever, and the first intimation which the poet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he visited her friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whi- ther she had gone to make arrangements for her mar- riage. The Bible is in the keeping of her relations: we have scen a lock of her hair; it was very long and very bright, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. The song was written for Thomson‘s work.] V, Yr 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 farewell O’ my sweet Highland Mary. II. How sweetly bloom’d 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! ROBERT BURNS. 270 —________., IIl, Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace, Our parting was fu ender; 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! IV. O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And clos’d for ay the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust, That heart that lo’ed me dearly— But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary! CLXXXITI. AULD ROB MORRIS. (The starting lines of this song are from one of no tute merit in Ramsay’s collection: the old strain is sarcastic; the new strain is tender: it was written for Thomson.] I. Tuere’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He’s the king o’ guid fellows and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. Il. She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May , She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e. III. But oh! she’s an heiress,—auld Robin’s a laird, And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed; The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. il a aa an Need ee) eee noe a ey ae ee! sel teehee a ae a Sa a era ae A ; a ot vi: Solita tertile 2 mer ; - : ren eee ea Fires mercmasencerairns TET ey en 276 THE LV. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. Vv. © had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop’d she wad smil’d upon me! O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express! CLXXXIYV. DUNCAN GRAY. (This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common with the wild old song of that name, save the first line, and a part of the third, neither has it any share in the senti- ments of an earlier strain, with the same title, by the game hand. It was written for the work of Thomson.] I. Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; On blythe yule night when we were fou, 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. WI. Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d, Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’, Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. III. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t. POETICAL WORKS IV. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t; Meg grew sick—as he grew heal, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings: And 0, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Vv. Dunean was a lad o’ grace, Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t; Maggie’s was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. Duncan could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath ; Now they’re crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. CLXXXY. O POORTITH CAULD. Tune—‘‘ I had a horse.” [Jean Lommer, the Chloris and the ‘‘ Lassie with the lint-white locks’? of Burns, was the heroine of this ex< quisite lyric: she was at that time very young; het shape was fine, and her ‘‘dimpled cheek and cherry mou’? will be long remembered in Nithsdale.] I. O poorTITH cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An’ twere na’ for my Jeanie. O why should fate sic pleasure haye, Life’s dearest bands untwining? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on fortune’s shining ? II. This warld’s wealth when [ think on, It’s pride, and a’ the lave o’t— Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o’t! IIIf. Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o’erword ay, She talks of rank and fashionIv. QO wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? G wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am? V. How blest the humble cotter’s fate !} He wooes his simple dearie ; The silly bogles, wealth and state, Can never make them eerie. O why should Fate sic pleasure have, Life’s dearest bands untwining ? Or why sae sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune’s shining? CLXXXVI. GALLA WATER. L'‘Galla Water’ is an improved version of an earlier song by Burns: but both songs owe some of their attrac- tions to an older strain, which the exquisite air has made popular over the world. It was written for Thomson.] I. TuHEReE’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander thro’ the blooming heather ; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o’ Galla Water. II. lsat there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a’ [ lo’e him better ; And [ll be his, and he’ll be mine, The bonnie lad o’ Galla Water. III. Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. IV. It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; The bands and bliss o’ mutual loye, O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure ! ‘«eTne wild-wood Indian’s Fate,’ in the original MS. OF ROBERT BURNS. CLXXXVII. LORD GREGORY. [Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Thomson’4 collection, in imitation of which Burns wrote his, and the Englishman complained, with an oath, that the Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his compo- sition. Wolcot’s song was, indeed, written first, but they are both but imitations of that most exquirite old ba.« lad, “‘ Fair Annie of Lochryan,”? which neither Wo.cot nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpasses Loth their songs.] I. O mrrk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest’s roar; A waefw’ wanderer seeks thy tow’r, Lord Gregory, ope thy door! II. 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. III. Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove By bonnie Irwin-side, Where first I own’d that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied ? Iv. How often didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for ay be mine ; And my fond heart, itsel’ sae truo, It ne’er mistrust 2d thine. v. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast— Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, O wilt thou give me rest! VI. Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see! But spare and pardon my fause love, His wrangs to heaven and me! CLXXXVIII. MARY MORISON. Tune—‘‘ Bide ye yet.” [‘‘ The song prefixed,” observes Burns to Thomson “Cis one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands Oa ro Land at een Se) ee ae oe a a ee a eee ete ec aL a Ee LE el ee a nt eA a Os Nas iar ater te eeee Oe eee 5 we = DN re ea ENS ee ee re a By Tan S Lio et a ho ] do not think it very remarkable eithe s.? ‘Of all the productions of Burns,”’ says its demerit hich he Hazlitt, ‘the pathetic and serious love-songs W has left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison.” The song is supposed to have been written on one ofa family of Morisons at Mauchline.] I. O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let my see That make the miser’s treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison! II. Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’, To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or 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.” III. O 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 na gie, 78 THE POETICAL WORKS eee aT a At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o’ Mary Morison. CLXXXIX. WANDERING WILLIE. [FIRST VERSION. | [The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same namo published by Herd: the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs. Riddel. Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it. Burns approved of their alterations; but he approved no doukt, in bitterness of spirit.] ) I. ure awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; r for its merits or | Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie, And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. II. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part- ing ; It sie the blast brought the tear in my ee; Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. III. Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave 0’ your slumbers ! O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. Iv. But if he’s forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, O still flow 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. CXC. WANDERING WILLIE. [LAST VERSION. | [This is the ‘‘ Wandering Willie” as altered by Er- skine and Thomson, and approved by Burns, after reject- ing several of their emendations. The changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the words with the music—an Italian mode of mending the harmory of the human voice.] L 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 If. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part ing, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e’e. Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.LUT; Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slum- bers, How your dread howling a lover alarms! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. Iv. 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. CXCI. OPEN THE DOOR TO MB, O8F! {Written for Thomson’s collection: the first version which he wrote was not happy in its harmony: Burns altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then said, ‘‘T do not know if this song be really mended.’’] I. OH, open the door, some pity to show, Oh, open the door to me, Oh!! Tho’ thou has been false, I’ll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, Oh! > II. 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! III. The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, Oh! False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, Oh! Iv. 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 down by his side, Never to rise again, Oh! 1 This second line was originally—‘‘If love it may na ke, Oh'”’ OF ROBERT BURNS. a7 9 md CXCII. JESSIE. Tune—‘‘ Bonnie Dundee.” [Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost o Dumfries, was the heroine of this song. She bocame a wife and a mother, but died early in life: she is still af- fectionately remembered in her native place.] Is TRUE hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o’ the Ayr, But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain; Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain II. O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily at evening close; But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron’d in her een he delivers his law: And still to her charms she alone is a stranger— Her modest demeanour’s the jewel of a’! CXCIII. THE POOR AND HONEST SODGEh Air—* The Mill, Mill, O.” [ Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popus lar, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adventures, at Brownhill, in Nithsdale: it was published by Thoms son, after suggesting some alterations, which were pro- perly rejected.] I. WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi’ mony a sweet babe 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 and honest sodger. Il. A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder ; Ele LES el is ai ons Sha that A on cs hehe 2a Fa a Se i as —— 2 eee se —o = ote SCNT saan an. a A a OE OLA?) len a Oe eeTHE POETICAL WORKS ———— 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. III. At length I reach’d the bonny glen, Where early life I sported ; I pass’d the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted: Wha sped 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. Iv. WY alter’d voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom, O! happy, happy, may he be That’s dearest to thy bosem! My purse is light, Pve far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger ; I’ve serv’d my king and country lang— Take pity on a sodger. Vv. Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me, And lovelier was then ever; Quo’ she, a sodger ance I lo’d, Forget him shall I never: Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it, That gallant badge—the dear cockade— Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t. Vi. She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose— Syne pale like onie 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, fam the man; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded! VII. The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame, And find thee still true-hearted ; Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love, And mair we’se ne’er be parted. Quo’ she, my grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish’d fairly ; And come, my faithful sodger lad, Thow’rt welcome to it dearly! VIII. For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor ; But glory is the sodger’s prize, The sodger’s wealth is honour ; The brave poor sodger ne’er despise, Nor count him as a stranger ; Remember he’s his country’s stay, In day and hour of danger. CXCIY. MEG O’ THE MILL. Air—“ Hey! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack 2” [Do you know a fine air,’? Burns asks Thomson, April, 1793, ‘‘called ‘Jackie Hume’s Lament?’ I have a song of considerable merit to that air: Ill enclose you both sung and tune, as I have them ready to send to the Museum.”’? It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old song with the samo starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, aud published it in the Museum.] I. O Ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten ? An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi a claute o’ siller, And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller. Ii. The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady: The Laird was a widdiefuw’, bleerit knurl ; She’s left the guid-fellow and ta’en the churl. Til. The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; The Laird did address her w? matter mair moving, A fine pacing horse wi’ a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle. LY. O 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!OF ROBER i BURNS: 28% CXCV. BLYTHE HAE I BEEN. Tune—‘‘ Liggeram Cosh.” (Burns, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Thomso2 for w'>23 work he wrote it, that ‘‘ Blythe hae I beea ow yon hi.!,’? was one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Les- .ty Baillie.] I. BuytTHE 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 langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. If. Heavy, heavy is the task, Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glow’r, Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the grass-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling. CXCOVI. LOGAN WATER. ) |‘* Have you ever, my dear sir,’? says Burns to Thom- s0n, 25th June, 1793, ‘* felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of en hva’s meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit.’? The post had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale poet.] I. O Loaan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie’s bride! And years synsyne 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 faes, Far, fir frae me and Logan braes! II. Again the merry month 0’ May Has made our hills and valleys 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. III. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; Her faithfw’ mate will share her toil, Or wi’ his song 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 IV. O wae upon you, men 0’ state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return! How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry °! But soon may peace bring happy days And Willie hame to Logan braes! CXCVII. THE RED, RED ROSE. Air—‘‘ Hughie Graham.” [There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the re- storer has been. ‘This seems the case with the first verse of this song, Which the poet found in Witherspoon, and completed by the addition of the second verse, which he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his owo the first verse, and let the other follow, which word conclude the strain with a thoughtas beautiful as it wag original. ] I. O were my love yon lilac fair, Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! 1 Originally— ‘© Ye mind na, ’mid your cruel joys, The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cries ”? FT SISOS SPAS TT eee eS RS Te i Lah naan ant od s Sa aE Se OR Fe ee A a A la ET RT fee elt ee TL ene bee]ca ee re ae > wm ee wm m5 eA yn et es = - a2 A Se nee ee ee et ee ne ties, How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu’ May its bloom renewed. II. O 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 ao’ the night; Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley’'d awa by Phoebus’ light. CXCVIII. BONNIE JEAN. (Jean M’Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest daughter of John M’Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in merit and look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and justified the poet from the charge made against him in the West, that his beauties were not other men’s beau- ing, there is a well-merited compliment which has slipt out of the printed copy in Thomson :— “Phy handsome foot thou shalt na set In barn or byre to trouble thee.’’] I. THERE was ao 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. Il. And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark, And ay she sang so merrilie: The blithest bird upon the bush Had ne’er a lighter heart than she. Ill. 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. Iv. 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. Ec Oe OK cee THE POETICAL WORKS In the M’ Murdo manuscript, in Burns’s handwrit- Vv. He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryste, He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down; And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown vi. As in the bosom o’ the stream, The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en ; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast 0’ bonnie Jean. VII. And now she works her mammie’s wark, And ay she sighs wi’ care and pain; Yet wist na what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again. VIII. But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light, And did na joy blink in her e’e, As Robie tauld a tale of love, Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea? IX. 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 o’ love: O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; O canst thou think to fancy me! Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot, And learn to tent the farms wi’ me? XI. 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. SLT 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 ay between them twa’OF ROBERT BURNS. 283 CXCIX. PHILLIS THE FAIR. , Tune—‘‘ Robin Adair.’ [Ths ladies of the M’Murdo family were graceful and peautiful, and Jucky in finding a poet capable of record- ing their charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this sonz was Phillis M’Murdo; a favourite of the poet. The verses wero composed at the request of Clarke, the mu- gician, who believed himself in love with his ‘‘ charming pupil.’ She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.] I. WuiLe larks with little wing Fann’d the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun’s golden eye Peep’d o’er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry, Phillis the fair. II. In each bird’s careless song, Glad I did share ; While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there: Sweet to the opening day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; Such thy bloom! did I say, Phillis the fair. IIf. Down in a shady walk Doves cooing were, I mark’d the cruel hawk, Caught in a snare: So kind may fortune be, Such make his destiny! He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair. CO. HAD IA CAVE. Tune—‘* Robin Adair.”’ [Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love- adventure Burns composed this song for Thomscz, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, well connected, and of agreea- ble and polished manners. The story of his faithless mistress was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1793, when these words were written: the hero of the lay has been long dead; the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.) I. Hap 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. II. 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! CCI. BY ALLAN STREAM. [{‘‘ Bravo! say I,’? exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for Thomson. ‘It isa good song. Should you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season; I make more verses in it than all the year else.’?> The old song of ‘‘O my love Annie’s very bonnie,’’ helped the muse of Burns with this lyric.] I. By Allan stream I chanced to rove While Phcebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds were whispering through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready ; I listened to a lover’s sang, And thought on youthfu’ pleasures mony. And aye the wild wood echoes rang— O dearly do I lo’e thee, Annie! II. O 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, She, sinking, said, ‘‘I’m thine for ever ?’ While mony a kiss the seal imprest, The sacred yow,—we ne’er should sever. Se) ye SDA Won rehl ehey aut oat SLL) anit id a an TE Obs Le SLED eae pS Paar SAR ee omen «Sa, =a ae: = re a SEES ll ee eeSi a ee a ee, ee rere nn en eee een on ene oS th THE POETICAL WORKS a rc a EE SS I EE ET ARTE TTY I1t. The haunt o’ Spring’s the primrose brae, ‘he Simmer joys the flocks to follow; Ilow cheery, thro’ her shortening day, {ts Autumn, in her weeds 0’ yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart, Oy chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure ? CCII. O WHISTLE, AND ’LL COME TO YOU. [In one of the variations of this song the name of the heroine is Jeanie: the song itself owes some of the senti- ments as well as words to an old favourite Nithsdale chant of the same name. ‘Is Whistle, and Ill come to you, my lad,’? Burns inquires of Thomson, ‘‘one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it.’ The poet, two years afterwards, altered the fourth line thus :— “Thy Jeany will venture wi? ye, my lad,” and assigned this reason: ‘‘In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces ha e attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with light- ning ; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare.’?] I. O wutstLx, and I’ll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and Ill come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and [ll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when you 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 na comin’ to me, And come as ye were na comin’ to me. ToT A. kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flie ; But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e, Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me. Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me. III. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither, tho’ jokin’ ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and Pll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mither and a’ shouid gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. CCIII. ADOWN WINDING NITH. [‘‘ Mr. Clarke,’ says Burns to Thomson, “ begs you té give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a par ticular flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M’Murdo sister to ‘Bonnie Jean; they are both pupils of his.’ This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath.] I. Apown 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. Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties, They never wi’ her can compare: Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis, Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair. rT: The daisy amus’d my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis, For she is simplicity’s child. Il. The rose-bud’s the blush 0’ my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest: How fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast. Iv. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne’er wi’? my Phillis can vie: Her breath is the breath o’ the woodbine, Its dew-drop o’ diamond, her eye. Vv. Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grova When Pheebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. VI. But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a fine summer’s day! While worth in the mind 0’ my Phillis Will flourish without a decay.Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties, They never wi’ her can compare: Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair. CCIY. COME, LET ME TAKE THERE. Air—‘*‘ Cauld Kail.” [Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradi- sion says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. ‘That tune, Cauld Kail,’ he says to Thomson, ‘is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yester- day for a gloamin-shot at the Muses; when the Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the fol- lowing.’?] I. Comp, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne’er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld’s wealth and grandeur: And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her? I ask for dearest life alone, That I may live to love her. If. Thus in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure; T’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 I never. CCV. DAINTY DAVIE. [From the old song of *‘ Daintie Davie’? Burns has borrowed only the title and the measure. The ancient Btrain records how the Rev. David Williamson, to escape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecu- tion, washid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrees, in the game bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to have six wives beside the daughter of the Lady of Cher- tytrees and other children besides the one which his = Ho ee ee ee OF ROBERT BURNS. 285 hiding from the dragoons produced. When Charles the Second was told of the adventure and its upshot, he ia said to have exclaimed, ‘‘ Ged’s fish! that beats me ane the oak: the man ought to be made a bishop.”’] I. Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowerg; And now comes in my happy hours, To wander wi’ my Davie. Meet me on the warlock knovwe, Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, There I’ll spend the day wi’ you, My ain dear dainty Davie. II. The crystal waters round us fa’, The merry birds are lovers a’, The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi’ my Davie. IIt. When purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro’ the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfw’ Davie Iv. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o’ nature’s rest, I flee to his arms I lo’e best, And that’s my ain dear Dayie. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, There Ill spend the day wi’ you, My ain dear dainty Davie. @ cCcvVI. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN. [FIRST VERSION. ] Tune—‘‘ Hey, tuttte taitie.”’ [Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was zom- posed during a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway: the poet himself gives an account much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson, he says, ‘‘ There is a tradition which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthu siasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which l threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that ae ee emanate ieee teen eres meinen Uae tales ici nd = _nanees ee rer arts es ere er naes eee ORCe a a pent eee, _— 3 x = aa a eX rn ee eer ten msi a eee a heh et ee eo een ar 286 THE POETICAL WORKS one might suppose to be the royal Scot’s address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning.’? It was written in September, 1793.] I. Scors, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to yictorie! Te Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour: See approach proud Edward’s pow’r— Chains and slaverie! DI. 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! IV. Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’, Let him follow me! v. By oppression’s woes and pains! By our sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! vi. Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow !— Let us do or die! CCVII. BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. [SECOND VERSION. ] [Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial and national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to substitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. But Lewis Gordon required a couple of syllables more in every fourth line, which loaded the verse with exple- ttves, and weakened the simple energy of the original : Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight resistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded in this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of 3ruce’s day ever resisted more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. ‘‘ The only line,’? says the mu sician, ‘‘ which I dislike in the whole song is, ‘Welcome to your gory bed ?? gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and e prudent general would avoid saying anything to his sol- diers which might tend to make death more frightful than 5D it is.’ ‘*My ode,” replied Burns, ‘‘ pleases me so much that I cannot alter it: your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame.”? Thomson cries out, like the timid wife of Coriolanus, ‘‘Oh, God, no blood!” while Burns exclaims, like that Roman’s heroic mother, ‘“Yes, blood! it becomes a soldier more than gilt hie trophy.’ The ode as originally written was restored afterwards in Thomson’s collection.] I. Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie! Il. Now’s the day, and now’s the hour— See the front o’ battle lour; See approach proud Edward’s power— Edward! chains and slaverie ! ILI. Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Iv. Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa’, Caledonian! on wi’ me! Vire By oppression’s woes and pains! By our sons in seryile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be—shall be free! VI. Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Forward! let us do, or die!Sata hal Ta fe ee eS ee vee oe ES ee RT 4 | . e: | i ! ; ib H a Seta I att Taea 2 eee er eee are corye: - re - — ina me EEN of = BE iS SS ‘ i NY i ESR My vy NINN EEN NY SAAN NC 3 Sa x ‘ rn We Aw we i iy, ey SS SST . So SSS SSS Se = Se SS SS = ~ = SS S SS Ses SS SNS SS SSE SS a e Ss = SS os = S ~ rey S Wh SSN > SS WH SAA, Suis he gee,Ss is _ | i - 4 i i . | ; 14 5 a: | a oF H i | H a a TREE aa OSE - 8 ‘Ate ce ee eT: F ae | Fs a ok i er i j oi) ; es ey ke eG t f i faa fe is ee Pe oe ee ee | S ae fe [ee i Lo Le z oe } 5 fe te : ee se if 4% te ce bette Rent be Tete ts Pe Lat Tt tee adsOF ROBERT CCVIII. BEHOLD THE HOUR. Tune—‘‘ Oran-gaoil.” [‘‘ The following song I have coinposed for the Highland nir that you tell me in your last you have resolved to give aplace to in your book. Ihave this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing fromthe mint.”? These are the worlds of Burns to Thomson: he might have add.d tiat the song was written on the meditated voyage of Clarinda to the West Indies, to join her husband.] I. BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! Sever’d from thee can I suryive ? But fate has will’d, and we must part. Pll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail: ‘ 29th of August, 1794, ‘‘as I was straying out,’? says Burns, ‘and thinking of ‘ O’er the hills and far away,’ I spun the following stanzas for it. I was pleased with several lines at first, but I own now that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness.’ 1 How can my poor heart be glad, When absent from my sailor lad? How can I the thought forego, He’s on the scas to meet the foe?OF ROBERT BURNS. 293 Let me wander, let me rove, Still my heart is with my love: Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are with him that’s far away. On the seas and far away, On stormy seas and far away; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are ay with him that’s far away. Il. When in summer’s noon I faint, As weary flocks around me pant, Haply in this scorching sun My sailor’s thund’ring at his gun: sullets, spare my only joy! 3ullets, spare my darling boy! Fate, do withme what you may— Spare but him that’s far away! I1I. At the starless midnight hour, When winter rules with boundless power: 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. Iv. Peace, thy olive wand extend, And bid wild war his ravage end, Man with brother man to meet, And as a brother kindly greet: Then may heaven with prosp’rous gales, Fill my sailor’s welcome sails, To my arms their charge convey— My dear lad that’s far away. On the seas and far away On stormy seas and far away ; Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, Are ay with him that’s far away. CCXXYV. CA’ THE YOWES. | Burns formed this song uponan old lyric, an amended version of which he had previously communicated to the Museum: he was fond of musing in the shadow of Lin- cluden towers, and on the banks of Cluden Water. ] I. Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, ta them whare the heather growes, Ca’ them whare the burnie rowes—- My bonnie dearie! Hark the mavis’ evening sang Sounding Cluden’s woods amang! Then a faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie. II. We'll gae down by Cluden side, Thro’ the hazels spreading wide, O’er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly. IIl. Yonder Cluden’s silent towers, Where at moonshine midnight hours, O’er the dewy bending flowers, Fairies dance so cheery. Iv. Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; Thowrt to love and heaven sae dear, Nocht of ill may come thee near, My bonnie dearie. V. Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart; Ican die—but canna part— My bonnie dearie! Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them whare the heather growes; Ca’ them where the burnie rowes— My bonnie dearie! CCXXVI. SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A’. Tune—‘‘ Onagh’s Waterfall.” [The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already been nor ticed: she is described in thissong with the accuracy 91 a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one: ili needless to add her name, or to say how fine her four and how resistless her smiles.] I. Sak flaxen were her ringlets, Her eyebrows of a darker hue, Bewitchingly o’er-arching Twa laughin’ een o’ bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling, Wad make a wretch forget his woe: What pleasure, what treasure, Unto these rosy lips to grow: EI Le Ee iN etna ht best Ne En Al em an et A mS i ec i at al alm nh ae te = ee ee a ne EDT SEES alee eT nae 54ee Se ee noes Such was my Chloris’ bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw; And ay my Chloris’ dearest charm, She says she lo’es me best of a’. ls Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ankle is a spy, Betraying fair proportion, Wad mak a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming, Her faultless form and gracefw’ air; Ik feature—auld Nature Declar’d that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains 0’ love, By conquering beauty’s sovereign law; And ay my Chloris’ dearest charm, She says she lo’es me best of a’. II. Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon; Fair beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang ; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o’ truth and love, And say thou lo’es me best of a’? CCXXVII. SAW YE MY PHELY. [ QUASI DICAT PHILLIS. | Tune—‘‘ When she came ben she bobbit.”’ [The despairing swain in this song was Stephen Clarke, musician, and the young lady whom he per- guaded Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness wag Phi.lis M’Murdo.] I. O saw ye my dear, my Phely? O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? She’s down 1’ the grove, she’s wi’ a new love! She winna come hame to her Willy. Il. What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? What says she, my dearest, my Phely? She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, And for ever disowns thee, her Willy. THE POETICAL WORKS ILI. O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely! O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely! As light as the air, and fause as thou’s fair, Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy Willy. CCX XVIII. HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. Tune—‘‘ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.” [On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, with that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former has more of elegance and order: the latter quite as much nature and truth: but there is less of the new than of the old in both.] I. How lang and dreary is the night, When I am frae my dearie ; I restless lie frae e’en to morn, Though I were ne’er sae weary. 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. II. 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? TDI. How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; The joyless day how dreary ! It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi’ my dearie. 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. CCXXIX. LET NOT WOMAN E’ER COMPLAIN Tune—‘‘ Duncan Gray.” [‘‘ These English songs,” thus complains the poet, 18 the letter which conveyed this lyri to Thomson, ‘ grac | vel me to death: I have not that command of the language tnat J have of my native tongue. I have been at | ‘Duncan Gray,’ to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. Fo instance:’?] I. LET not woman e’er complain Of inconstancy in love; Let not woman e’er complain Fickle man is apt to rove: Look abroad through nature’s range, Nature’s mighty law is change ; Ladies, would it not be strange, Man should then a monster prove? LT 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. CCXXX. THE LOVER’S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. Tune—‘‘ Deil tak the Wars.”’ [Burns has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that this morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by aitting till the duwn at the punch-bowl, and walking past her window on his way home.] I. Steep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature ? Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, Nu.nbering ilka bud which nature Waters wi’ the tears 0’ joy: Now through the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods, Wi nature’s tenants freely, gladly stray; The lintwhite in his bower Chants o’er the breathing flower ; The lav’rock to the sky Ascends wv sangs 0’ joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. If. Phoebus gilding the brow o’ morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, Nature gladdening and adorning ; Such to me my lovely maid. BURNS. When absent frae my fair, The murky shades 0’ care | With starless gloom o’ercast my sullen sky; But when, in beauty’s light, She meets my ravish’d sight, When thro’ my very heart Her beaming glories dart— ’Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. o CCXXXI. CHLORIS. Air—*‘ My lodging is on the cold ground.” [The origin of this song is thus told by Burns to Thom son. ‘*On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris, that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspi ration, she suggested an idea which J, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song.’? The poetié elevation of Chloris isgreat: she lived, when her charm faded, in want, and died all but destitute.’’]} I. My Chloris, mark how green the groves The primrose banks how fair : The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flaxen hair. II. 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 III. Let minstrels sweep the skilfw’ string In lordly lighted ha’: The shepherd stops his simple reed, Blythe, in the birken shaw. LV. The princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi’ scorn; But are their hearts as light as ours, Beneath the milk-white thorn ? Vv. The shepherd, in the flow’ry glen, In shepherd’s phrase will woo: The courtier tells a finer tale— But is his heart as true? SO ce Pe a TTS ee eed Tn) Se ee eet eee rd ee ee ee ee Saieeatepetceieeeeieree te SO an a eT Te pe iee ee ee et en 296 THE POETIC 3 See ee al heh a Se can ns Vi. 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. COX XXII. CHLOE. Air—** Daintie Davie.”’ [Burns, despairing to fit some of the airs with such verses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for the English part of his collection, took the liberty of be- stowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ram- gay’s miscellany: the bombast is abated, and the whole rauch improved.] I. Ir was the charming month of May, When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay, One morning, by the break of day, The youthful charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o’er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o’er the pearly lawn, The youthful charming Chloe. II. 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 skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall’d by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthfrl, charming Chloe. CCXXXTII. LASSIE WY THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. Tune—‘‘ Rothemurche’s Rant.” [‘‘ Conjugal love,” sas the poet. “isa passion which 1 deeply feel and highly venerate: but somehow it does to AL WORKS not make such a figure in poesie as that other species of the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Mu- sically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intel- lectual modulations of the human soul.’? It must be owned that the bard could render very pretty reasoxrs fo his rapture about Jean Lorimer.] I. LASSIE wi’ the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, 0? Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a’ is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joy wi’ me, ‘And say thoul’t be my dearie, 0? II. 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. III. When Cynthia lights wi’ silver ray, The weary shearer’s hameward way ; Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray, And talk 0’ love, my dearie, O. Iv. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest ; Enclasped to my faithfw’ breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie, 0? CCXXXIV. FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. Air—‘“ Nancy’s to the greenwood gane.” [This song was written in November, 1794: Thomson pronounced it excellent. ] I. FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza’s dwelling! O mem’ry! spare the cruel throes Within my bosom swelling:OF ROBERT BURNS. ro © Jj 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. II. 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! III. The music of thy voice I heard, Nor wist while it enslav’d me; I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d, Till fears no more had say’d me: The unwary sailor thus aghast, The wheeling torrent viewing ; ’Mid circling horrors sinks at last ‘ In overwhelming ruin. CCOXXXYV. 0 PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. Tune—‘‘ The Sow’s Tail.”’ [‘‘ This morning’? (19th November, 1794), ‘though a keen blowing frost,’? Burns writes to Thomson, ‘fin my walk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say: but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old.’’] HE. O Putty, happy be that day, When roving through the gather’d hay, My youthfw’ heart was stown away, And by thy charms, my Philly. SHE. O Wik3, ay I bless the grove Where first I own’d my maiden love, Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, To be my ain dear Willy. HE. 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. wit and humour, and SHE. As on the brier the budding rose Still richer breathes and fairer blows, So in my tender bosom grows The love I bear my Willy. HE. 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. SHE. 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. HE. 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. SHE. The woodbine in the dewy weet When evening shades in silence meet, Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet As is a kiss 0’ Willy. HE. Let Fortune’s wheel at random rin, And fools may tyne, and knaves may win: My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane, And that’s my ain dear Philly. SHE. What’s a’ joys that gowd can gie? I care nae wealth a single flie ; The lad I love’s the lad for me, And that’s my ain dear Willy. CCXXXVI. CONTENTED WIL LITTUE. Tune—‘ Lumps o’ Pudding.” [Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more eritical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely “ Todlin Hame” he called an unequalled composition tor ‘¢ Andro wi? his cutty Gun.” te mt tO Se nnn Cet een ee ee Ee a an OE Ene eae eh a aa I SR te TT{LLL ae ae eee Q “= . . nae — ~ — 3 Ske ~ a ~—s ~ were peta OE) ent ee 298 THE work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, | ‘Contented wi? Little.’’] | I. | 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. Il. I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought ; But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : My mirth and guid humour are coinin my pouch, And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. III. A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’, A night o’ guid fellowship sowthers it a’: | When at the blithe end o’ our journey at last, | Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past ? IV. Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade gae: Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or | pain ; | My warst word is—‘‘ Welcome, and welcome Onto et again ‘ CCXXXVII. CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. Tune—‘‘ Roy’s Wife.” [When Burns transcribed the following song for Thom- son, on the 20th of November, 1791, he added, ‘‘ Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am rese'ved to have my juantum of applause from somebody.’? The poet in this eoug complains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady alec in a strain equally tender «nd forgiving.] I. Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou know’st my aching heart— | And canst thou leave me thus for pity? | {n this thy plighted, fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? | Is this thy faithful swain’s reward— An aching, broken heart, my Katy! POETICAL WORKS II. 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! Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Well thou know’st my aching heart— And canst thou leaye me thus for pity? CCXXXVIII. MY NANNIBE’S AWA. , Tune—‘‘ 7here ll never be peace.’ [Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of this song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, for the work of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edin- burgh: on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beauti- fully says, ‘‘ The wine-cup shines in light,”? he seldom forgof to toast Mrs. Mac. ] I. Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa! Il. 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 Nanny’s awa! Irl. Thou lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o’ the gray-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa’, Give over for pity—my Nannie’s awa! IV. Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow ani gray, And soothe me with tidings o’ nature’s decay: The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa!Or CCXXXIX. uv WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES ME. Tune—‘ Morag.” [‘*‘ This song,’ says Sir Harris Nicolas, ‘is said, in Thomson’s collection. to have been written for that work by Burns: but itis not included in Mr. Cunningham’s ) edition If sir Harris would be so good as to look at page 245, vol. V., of Cunningham’s edition of Burns, he will find the song: and if he will look at page 28, and page 193 of vol. III. of his own edition, he will find that he has not committed the error of which he accuses his | fellow-editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II., and at page 189, vol. I1I., and of ** Ae day a braw wooer came down the lang glen,’? which appears both at page 224 of vol. II., and t page 183 of vol. II1.] I. O wua is she that lo’es me, And has my heart a-keeping ? O sweet is she that lo’es me, As dews of simmer weeping, In tears the rose-buds steeping! O that’s the lassie of my heart, My lassie ever dearer; O that’s the queen of womankind, And ne’er a ane to peer her. rer: If thou shalt meet a lassie In grace and beauty charming, That e’en thy chosen lassie, Erewhile thy breast sae warming Had ne’er sic powers alarming. III. 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. IV. 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 ; O that’s the lassie 0’ my heart, My lassie ever dearer ; O that’s the queen o’? womankina, And ne’er a ane to peer her. CCXL. CALEDONIA. Tune ‘“« Caledonian Hunt's Delight.” [There is both knowledge of history and elezunce ol allegory in this singular lyric: it was first printed by Currie.] I. THERE was once a day—but old Time then was young— That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 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 to warrant it good. Il. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore ‘¢Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue!” With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; But chiefly the woods were her fay’rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. ITI. 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: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They’d conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside ; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly— The daring invaders they fled or they died. IV. The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of tha shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issu’d forth To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore; ae pi Led ee eo nee teh nts debe ne im eet ah em a ee a ae Ane Pt ae pen ae a ne ee aL le mEne tert eae gig eens ee ote cet see eee pitt ste te 300 0’er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail’d, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail’d, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. V. The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; Provok’d beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb’d him at once of his hope 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. vi. Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be; Ill prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: Rectangle-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. CCXLI. O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. Tune—‘‘ Cordwainer’s March.” [The air to which these verses were written, is com- monly played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on King Crispin’s day. Burns sent it to the Museum.] 1 O Lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. A slave to love’s unbounded sway, He aft has wrought me meikle wae; But now he is my deadly fae, Unless thou be my ain. Il. There’s monie 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. THE POETICAL WORKS : O lay thy loof in mine, lass, In mine, lass, in mine, lass; And swear on thy white hand, lass, That thou wilt be my ain. CCXLII. THE FETE CHAMPETRE. Tune—‘‘ Killiecrankie.”’ [Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of Enterkin, to the public. banks of Ayr, decorated with shrubs, and strewn with Tents were erected on the flowers, most of the names of note in the district were invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but no dissolution of parliament followed as was expected, and the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat amorg the ‘“* Commons,”’ poured out his wine in yain.] I. O wHA will to Saint Ste phen’s house, To do our errands there, man? O wha will to Saint Stephen’s house, O’ th’ merry lads ef 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? II. 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 Féte Champétre. III. When Love and Beauty heard the news, The gay green-woods amang g, man; Where gathering flowers and busking bowers They heard the blackbird’s sang, man; A vow, they seal’d it with a kiss, Sir Politicks to fetter, As theirs alone, the patent-bliss To hola a Féte Champétre. Iv. Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing, O’er hill and dale she flew, man; Ik wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:OF ROBERT BURNS. She summon’d every social sprite That sports by wood or water, On th’ bonny banks of Ayr to meet, And keep this Féte Champétre. v. 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 thro’ the trees, To view this Féte Champétre. Vi. How many a robe sae gaily floats! What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony’s enchanting notes, As moves the mazy dance, man. ‘fhe echoing wood, the winding flood, Like Paradise did glitter, When angels met, at Adam’s yett, To hold their Féte Champétre. Vil. When Politics came there, to mix And make his ether-stane, man! He circled round the magic ground, But entrance found he nane, man: He blush’d for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter, Wi’ humble prayer to join and share This festive Féte Champétre. CCXLITII. HERE’S A HEALTH. Tune—‘‘ Here’s a health to them that’s awa.” [The Charlie of this song was Charles Fox; Tammie was Lord Erskine; and M’Leod, the maiden name of the Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of influ- ence both in the Highlands and Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these Ferses.] I. Hern’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 cause, May never guid luck be their fa’! T | 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. 1G 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 of the clam Altho’ that his band be sma’. May liberty meet wi’ success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil! IIIf. Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa; Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie That lives at the lug 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. IV. 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 gowd, Tho’ bred amang mountains 0’ snaw! 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 cause, May never guid luck be their fa’! CCXLIV. IS THERE, FOR HONEST PO- VERTY. Tune—‘‘For @ that, and a that.” {In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the nafaral right of his species. He modestly says to Thoiescr, cy do not give you this song for your book, txt merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece 28 really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme.”? ‘Thosason took the song, but iazarded no praise.] I. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that? OAT OI a La BEE OL et AlN enki ie A sat cewek a lee a BL amet See pe pe Seema eee Le ae aan Ke Se a . - nein ee ee siemens a Tee eee .ee EA re ee ea ee nes 302 THE POETICAL and The coward-slave we pass him by, We dare be pocr for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a? that; The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that! II. What tho’ on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a’ that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man, for a’ that! For a that, and a’ that, Their tinsel show, and a’ that; The honest man, though e’er sae poor, Is king o’ men for a’ that! III. Ye see von birkie, ca’d—a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a that: For a that, and a’ that, lis riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that. IV. A king can make 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. Vv. 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 comin’ yet for a’ that, That man to man, the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a that! CCOXLY. CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. | Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson: the heroine was Jean Lorimer. Hove -x‘ten the blooming | looks and elegant forms of very indifferent characters lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry.] O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET. [The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fait Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed thia song for Thomson. of more spirit than decorum.] | | | | WORKS Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigie-burn, And blithe awakes the morrow; 3ut 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; 3ut what a weary wight can please, And care his bosom wringing ? Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, Yet dare na for your anger; 3ut secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langer. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither, When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my graye they’ll wither. O Lassig, art thou sleeping yet, Or art thou waking, I would wit? For love has bound me hand and foot, Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet! Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet: Tak pity on my weary feet, I. II. III. IV. CCXLVI. Tune—‘‘ Let me in this ae night.” The idea is taken from an old 'yric, I. And I would fain be in, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity’s sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo! II. And shield me frae the rain, jo.OF ROBE III. The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s; The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause Of a my grief and pain, jo. O let me in this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; For pity’s sake this ae night, O rise and let me in, jo! CCXLVII. U TELL NA ME O’ WIND AND RAIN. [ The poet’s thoughts, as rendered in the lady’s answer, are, at all events, not borrowed from the sentiments ex- pressed by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to insong CCXXXVII.; there she is tender and forgiving: here she is stern and rold.] eC I. O TELE na me oO’ wind and rain, Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain ! Gae back the gate ye cam again, I winna let you in, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night, And ance for a’ this ae night, I winna let you in, jo! II. 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. TUT The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed: Let simple maid the lesson read, The weird may be her ain, jo. IV. The bird that charm’d his summer-day, [x now the cruel fowler’s prey ; Let witless, trusting woman say How aft her fate’s the same, jo. I tell you now this ae night, This ae, ae, ae night; Anil ance for a’ this ae nicht o 3 RT BURNS. 303 I winna iet you in jo! CCXLVIII. THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. Tune—‘* Push about the yorum.” (This national song was composed in April, 1795. The poet had been at a public meeting, where he was lesa Joyous than usual: as something had been expected fion him, he made these verses, when he went home. and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor ot the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kind ness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is now befo-re me. ] 1: Dors 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 Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally! II. O let us not, like snarling tykes, In wrangling be divided; Till slap come in an unco loon And wi’ a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united; For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted! III. The kettle o’ the kirk and state, Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. Our fathers’ bluid the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it; By heaven! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it. LV. 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 people. oo TT LS WOE Lee stat heey ikea A eeiaiies wh ecbewwnmr SS ree es LS ane ee ee nay rte i EES) eear ade beter ee at ee Ds as abelian tale < r . — = saan ——————— . 5 % SS > > 0 em a ye ete Deed eet ee a ee eee on norte ee aT rt CCOXLIX. ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. Tune—‘‘ Where’ll bonnie Ann lie.” [The old song to the same air is yet remembered: but the humour is richer than the delicacy ; the same may be said of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder days of Caledonia. These verses were composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.] I. O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay ! Nor quit for me the trembling spray ; A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing fond complaining. Lit Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that would touch her heart, Wha kills me wi’ disdaining. III. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join’d, Sic notes 0’ woe could wauken. Iv. 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 ! CCL. ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. Tune—‘‘ Ay wakin’, O.” jAx old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and yappy song for Thomson: some of the verses deserve to de hel 1 in remembrance. Ay waking, oh, Waking ay and weary; Sleep I canna get For thinking o’ my dearie.] I. Lona, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul’s delight Is on her bed of sorrow. THE POETICAL WORKS Can I cease to care? Can I cease to languish ? While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish ? II. Every hope is fled, Every fear is terror ; Slumber even I dread, Every dream is horror. DIT. Hear me, Pow’rs divine ! Oh, in pity hear me! Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me! Long, long the night, Heavy comes the morrow, While my soul’s delight Is on her bed of sorrow. CCLI. CALEDONIA. Tune—‘' Humours of Glen.” [Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Burns with his personal attachments, and in few moré beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson the heroine was Mrs. Burns.] 5 THEIR groves 0’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green brockan, Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom : Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. II. Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Catrepontra’s blast on the wave ; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they?—The haunt of the tyrant and slave!The slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- tains, Save love’s willing fetters, the chains 0’ his Jean, CCLII. ‘TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN. Tune—‘‘ Laddie, lie near me.” (Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her name: yet tradition, evenin this, wavers, when it avers one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that Jean J.orimer was the heroine. ] I. *Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin; Fair tho’ she be, that was ne’er my undoing: "T'was the dear smile when naebody did mind us, ‘Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance 0’ kindness. II. 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, Quéen shall she be in my bosom for ever. III. Mary, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest! And thou’rt the angel that never can alter— Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. CCLIII. HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. Tune—‘ John Anderson, my jo.” (‘I am at this moment,’? says Burns to Thomson, when he sent him this song, ‘‘ holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to throw away ona pro- saic dog, such as you are.’? Yet there is less than the poet’s usual inspiration in this lyric, forit is altered from an English one.] I, How cruel are the parents OF ROBERT BURNS. 305 a 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. II. The rayening hawk pursuing, The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinions tries; Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat, She trusts the ruthless falconer, And drops beneath his feet! Who riches onty prize, 20 CCLIV. MARK YONDER POMP Tune—‘‘ Deil tak the wars.” [Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is ina high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. ‘‘ You see,”? said he, ‘‘how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual.’? This strain in honour of Chloris is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.] I. 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. Il. But, did you see my dearest Chloris In simplicity’s array ; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, Shrinking from the gaze of day; O then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, Hen epee netamecnmeemnrvern ene: Pann ate en ~ ae ED ale ert LO eeeee re er er ee a In Love’s delightful fetters she chains the wil- ling soul! Ambition would disown The world’s imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worship’d deity, And feel thro’ every vein Love’s raptures roll. CCLY. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. «This is no my ain house.” Tune [Though composed to the order of Thomson, and there- fore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspira- When the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the ‘* fair tion, this is one of the happiest of modern songs. dame at whose shrine,’ he said, ‘‘I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus.” ] I. O ruts is no my ain lassie, Fair tho’ the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e’e. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place: It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that’s in her e’e. Il. She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And ay it charms my very saul, The kind love that’s in her e’e. III. 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 e’e. IV. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that’s in her e’e. O this is no my ain lassie, Fair tho’ the lassie be; O weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e’e. | POETICAL WORKS CcLVI. NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Compored in reference to a love disappointment of the poet’s friend, Alexander Cunningham, which alse ovca sioned the song beginning, “Had Ia cave on some wild distant shore.’?} I. 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, O why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe? II. The trout within yon wimpling burn 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. III. 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. Iv. The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky, Winnvowing blythe her dewy wings In morning’s rosy eye; As little reckt I sorrow’s power, Until the flow’ry snare 0’ witching love, in luckless hour, Made me the thrall o’ care. Vv. O had my fate been Greenland snows, Or Afric’s burning zone oD > | Wy man and nature leagu’d my foes, | So Peggy ne’er 1d known!OF —_—_—————— eee The wretch whase doom is, « hope nae mair,’ What tongue his woes can tell ! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. CCLVII. - BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER ve [ To Jean Lorimer, the herome of this song, se2.tel a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory scription, in which he moral- izes upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast {riendship, and signs himself Ci ila.) [. UO BONNIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man, And bonnie she, and ah. how dear! It shaded frae the e’enin sun. TI. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green: But purer was the lover’s vow They witness’d in their shade yestreen. IIT. 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. Lv. The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, Its joys and eriefs alike resign. Co o CCLVIII. FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COM- FORT NEAR. Tune—‘ Let me in this ae night.” [‘‘How do you like the foregoing??? Burns asks Fhomson, after having copied this song for his collection. *T have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom | I. Fortorn, 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. ,OBERT BURNS. Burns pre- | | | How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 507 ey O wert thou, love, but near me; But near, near, near me; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, | And mingle sighs with mine, love Around me scowls a wintry sky, | That blasts each bud of hope and joy: | And shelter, shade, nor home have I: | Save in those arms of thine, love. IIt. Cold, alter’d friendship’s cruel part, To poison Fortune’s ruthless dart, Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love. IV. But dreary tho’ the moments fleet, O let me think we yet shall meet! That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. O wert thou, love, but near me ; But near, near, near me; And mingle sighs with mine, love. CCLIX.,. LAST MAY A BRAW WOOE R. Tune—‘“‘ The Lothian Lassie.” [‘‘ Gateslack,’? says Burns to Thomson, ‘is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Low- ther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrieshire : Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and burial-ground ” ‘To this, it may be added that Dalearnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author of Waverley finds O\d Mc rtality ~epair- ing the Cameronian grave-stones.] I. Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, And sair wi’ his love he did deave me: I said there was naething I hated like men, The deuce gae wi’m, to believe, believe me, The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me! II. He spak o’ the dartsgfn my bonnie black een, And vow’d for my love he was dying; I said he might die when he liked for Jean, The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lying! ee a allie een Lee ieeeee ee re ee er eer THE POHTIC 308 ee il. A weel-stocked mailen—himsel’ for th And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d, But thought I may hae waur offers, waur e laird— offers, But thought I might hae waur offers. IV. But what wad ye think? less— The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. In a fortnight or IV. AL WORKS > charming sensations of the toothache, so have nota word to spare—such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit at.’ This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris. I. Way, why tell thy lover, Bliss he never must enjoy: Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie? Il. O why, while fancy raptured, slumbers, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, Wake thy lover from his dream ? CCLXI. 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. II. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And yow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow’d I was his dear lassie. VII. J spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, Gin she had recovered her hearin’, And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled feet, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’, a swearin’, But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’. VIII. He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow; So, e’en to preserve the poor body in life, row, IT think I maun wed him to morrow. COLX. CHLORIS. Tune—‘‘ Caledonian Hunts Delight.” I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- {‘¢I am at present,’’ says Burns to Thomson, when he communicated these verses, ‘quite occupied with the THE HIGHLAND WIDOW’S LAMENT. [This song is said to be Burns’s version of a Gae.i¢ lament for the ruin which followed the rebelliox of the year 1745: he sent it to the Museum. ] I. Ou! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Without a penny in my purse, To buy a meal to me. II. It was na sae in the Highland hills, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the country wide Sae happy was as me. III. For then I had a score o’ kye, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Feeding on yon hills so high, And giving milk to me. Iv. And there I had three score 0’ yowes, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, And casting woo’ to me. v. I was the happiest of a’ the clan, Sair, sair, may I repine ; For Donald was the brawest lad, And Donald he was mine. VI. Till Charlie Stewart cam’ at last, Sae far to set us free ;OF ROBERT BURNS. 305 My Donald’s arm was wanted then, For Scotland and for me. Vil. Their waefu’ fate what need [I tell, Right to the wrang did yield: My Donald and his country fell Upon Culloden’s field. VIII. Oh! I am come to the low countrie, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Nae woman in the world wide Sae wretched now as me. CCLXII. TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. [Burns wrote this ‘‘ Welcome” on the unexpected de- ‘ection of General Dumourier.] I. You’ReE welcome to despots, Dumourier ; Youw’re welcome to despots, Dumourier ; How does Dampiere do? Aye, and Bournonville, too? Why did they not come along with you, Du- mourier ? II. 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, Dumou- rier. III. 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. CCLXIII. PEG-A-RAMSEY. Tune—‘‘ Cauld is the e enin blast.” [Most of this song is old: Burns gave it a brushing for ve Museum.] I, CAULD is the e’enin’ blast OQ’ Boreas o’er the pool, And dawin’ it is dreary When hirks are bare at Yule. II. O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast When bitter bites the frost, And in the mirk and dreary drift The hills and glens are lost III. Ne’er sae murky blew the night That drifted o’er the hill, But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey Gat grist to her mill. CCLXIV. THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. [A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for tk Museum.] I. THERE was a bonnie lass, And a bonnie, bonnie lass, And she lo’ed her bonnie laddie dear; Till war’s loud alarms Tore her laddie frae her arms, Wi mony a sigh and tear. Td: Over sea, over shore, Where the cannons loudly roar, He still was a stranger to fear; And nocht could him quell, Or his bosom assail, But the bonnie lass he lo’ed sae dear. CCLXV. O MALLY’S MEEK, MALLY’S SWFF™ [Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on neeting a country girl, with her shoes and stockings in her .ap walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He waa struck with her beauty, and as beautifully has he rec: rdea it. This was his last communication to the Mu:eum.] I. O Mattiy’s meek, Mally’s sweet, Mally’s modest and discreet, Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, Mally’s every way complete. re ee ee POM OTS RE Oe et TE ne eerie alll a Perm men sey ce aa ors bees aN 2 en eee a ae ae Pe a ee ee ee ee ert isdit hhh Led Sled tel cote eee ahi Da a Guibheiebeaeeiies ee ee . 0 ot eh ee a ———————E———— > ee 310 oe epret a o eS As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chane’d to meet; 3ut O the road was very hard For that fair maiden’s tender feet. II. 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. Ili. Her yellow hair, beyond compare, } her swan-white neck; | Comes trinkling down And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, Mally’s modest and discreet, Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, Mally’s every way complete. CCLXVI. HEY FOR A LASS WY A TOCHER. Tune—‘‘ Balinamona Ora.” (Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to be printed as part of the poet’s contribution to the Irish nelodies: he calls it ‘¢a kind of rhapsody.’’] I. Awa wi’ your witchcraft 0’ beauty’s alarms > The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: o d o O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms ID ’ O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms. Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher, Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher; Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me. 11. 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, Dk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes. ITY. And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest, THE POETICAL WORKS ; : The brightest 0’ beauty may cloy when possest ; But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie im- prest, The langer ye hae them—the mair they’re carest. 2 lass wi’ a tocher, Then hey for Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher; Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me. CCLX VII. JESSY. Tune—‘‘ Here’s a health to them that’s awa.” (Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mrs Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attentions soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortality can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded.] T. Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, And soft as their parting tear—Jessy ! I I. Altho’ thou maun never be mine, Altho’ even hope is denied; ’Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Then aught in the world beside—Jessy ! III. I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms: But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber, For then I am lockt in thy arms—Jessy! Lv. I guess by the dear angel smile, I guess by the love rolling e’e; But why urge the tender confession ’Gainst fortune’s fell cruel decree ?—Jessy ! Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear ; Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovera meet, And soft as their parting tear—Jessy !OF ROBBER’ = BURNS. dl] CCLAVIII. FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. ; ; Tune—‘‘ Rothemurche. [Or the 12th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, on tb.¢ & way, his thoughts wandered to early days, and tliizs song, the .ust lie was to measure in this world, was dedicated to Chariotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.] I. Farrest 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! O! did not love exclaim ‘ forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so.” DT) Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, O let me share; | | And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, | Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do? ENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. I. TO WILLIAM BURNESS. {This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, when learning flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest of his letters which has rerched us. It has much of the scriptural deference to paternal authority, and more of the Complete Letter Writer than we look for in an origi- nai mind.]} Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. HONOURED SIR, I HAVE purposely delayed 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 the whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my yaind, that [dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most un- happy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, | glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religicus way; I am quite trans- | ported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps | very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life: for I assure youl am heartily tired of it; and if I do not very much deceive my- self, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. ? dv zc v oD ‘ eall <¢a sensible crack,” when once it is sanc- tified by a hoary head, would procure me 80 much esteem, that even then—I would learn to be happy.! However, Iam under no appre- hensions about that ; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution per- mits, 1am not lazy; and in many things, expe- cially in tavern matters, I am a strict econo- mist; not, indeed, for the sake of the money; but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach; and I scorn to fear the face of any man living: above every- thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun—possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. ’Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, in- deed, 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 ;’? Macpherson’s ‘‘Os- sian,” &c.; these are the glorious 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 dis- tends with benevolence to all the human race— he ‘“*who can soar above this little scene of things’”’—can he descend to mind the paltry con- cerns about which the terreefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves! O how the glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget that Iam a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- kets, when I happen to bein them, reading 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 en- cumbrance in their way.—But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Mur-~ doch—not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story; but my warmest, kindest 1 The tast shift alluded to here must be the condition of an itinerant beggar.—CuRRIE.li OF ROBERT BURNS. dls wishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself, from, Dear Sir, yours.—R. B. III. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE. ! (James Burness, son of the poet’s uncle, lives at Mont- rose, and, as may be surmised, is now very old: fame has come to his house through his eminent cousin Robert, and dearer still through his own grandson, Sir Alexander Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity the world is well acquainted. ] 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 everybody’s else) in a dying condition, he has only, with great diffi- culty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy rea- son, 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 correspon- My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family. dence in the north die with him. I shall only trouble you with a few particu- lars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high; oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be | 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 Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and conse- quently 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 opportunities of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble- men, and the major part of our knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.’s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of them ; and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. Thereis a great trade of smug- gling carried on along our coasts, which, how | ever 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 gotten even at that price. We have indeed been | when she found them. pretty well supplied with quantities of white My mother sends you a small present of a peas from England and elsewhere, but that re- | cheese, ’tis but a very little one, as our last year’s source 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 incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way, but We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely puch reduced from what it was. ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving con- dition on account of it. Farming is also at a 1 This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my father’s), when he was very young, lost his father, and having discovered 1n his father’s repositories some of my father’s letters, he requested that the correspondence m glitbe renewed. My father continued till the last year ' his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any cor- respondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so send you a proper one in the season. far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier. I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be very happy to hear from) ou, or any of our friends in your country, when op- portunity serves. afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my brother’s tetters to his cousin are introduced, for the purpose of exhibiting the poet before he had attracted the notice of the public, and in his domestic family re lations afterwards.—GILBERT BuURNs. Spee een ape SCT erent een ee Sinan ye sue er Or eere oe Pn ee mr 55a SE haere ape So A i wee ne a en nn eel ee i ee eeSS oe Daf a Dee ns = as — an = a ee a > * ee ee ee en Spe 8 nek = en newer yom cen peer weeny emer Ft ee ee ee eee eee + erm ee eres , for the last his warmest wishes for your My father sends you, probably time in this world, welfare and happiness ; and my mother and the desire to enclose their kind rest of the family compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest | . 5 : . | of your family, along with those of, | Dear Sir, Your affectionate Cousin, R. B. IV. TO MISS E. | | | [The name of the lady to whom this and the three suc- ceeding letters were addressed, seems to have been Dr. Currie. who introduced them in his first but excluded them from his second known t edition, They were restored by Gilbert Burns, without nanting the lady.] 1783. Lochl a, I verity 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 uncom- mon style of all my letters to you. By uncom- mon, I mean their being written in such a serious to tell you the truth, shoul manner, which, has made me often afraid lest you d take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his minister. I don’t though, except your company, there is nothing on earth know how it is, my dear, for gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives lked of thought that me those giddy raptures so | much ta among lovers. I have often 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 principle of generosity kindles in my preast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are but too apt to infest creature in the arms of me I grasp every aniversal benevolence, and equally participate im the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Dis- poser 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 wD may bless my endeavours to make your life a: both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural tem- comfortable and happy as possible, | least in my view, worthy of a man, \ > YMnm yp tT ITNRPDPDRADYMPANDYDUN NN GHN HR Ali LJ iv Lv mo L INDENCE per, and bettering the unkindly circumstances is a passion, at I will earth- of my fortune. This, my dear, and add worthy of a Christian. The sordid ofess love to ¢ , his affection is centred worm may pl! woman’s person, whilst in realit her and the eae drudge may go a-wooing rket to and as we may pocket : as he goes to the horse-ma choose one who is stout and firm, say of an eood drudge and ] I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. old horse, one who will be a draw kindly I would be eae tily out of humour with myself if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils! I don’t envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner. R. B. TO MISS E. Lochlea, 1788. My prar E.: I po not remember, in the course of your ac- quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ee way of falling love, amongst people of our station of life: I do not mean the persons 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 skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to who are much better 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 ac- the females, keep them quaintance and customary for cecasion le to him than the rest; there is something, he knows him to company when serves: some one of them is more acreeal 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, dear E., itis a hard game, such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a refuse but he is sincere, and lover. You cannot yet though you use him ever so favourably, per.haps 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. Iam aware that perhaps the next time I ha-e 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 describing; you will do me the justice to believe me, when but I hope, my dear E., J 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 con- tinue 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 friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please Providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still pos- sessed of those noble qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her. ‘¢Q! happy state when souls each other draw, When Jove is liberty and nature law.??! I know were I to speak in such a style tomany 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 amiss. R. B. _ — 1 Pope. lotsa to Abelard, TO MISS BE. Lochlea, 1783. I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucky 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 diffi culty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his inten: tions are honourable. 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 vil- lain enough to practise such detestable conduct: but to a man whose heart glows with the princi ples of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon re- finement of sentiment and purity of manners— to such an one, in such circumstances, I can as- sure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such anumber of foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when J 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 prac- tised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something somean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation 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 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 bo- som friend through life, there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport; but I shall never think of purchasing your hana by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this ; that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when conyenient. I shall only add further that, if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the I re pen Rent pel eet Coe ne ne See re ee bh bee em ae Se Se et a an | wae. a ea at a a ND ee EA as- rn net 5 5 > ———S . “- ees an meer Sess sree NO ATE ELBE EN ge ANT ty tel ey ener BURA ener et 316 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour —SSS— to promote your happiness ; if these are quali- ties you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend, and sincere lover. R. B. Vii. TO MISS E. Lochlea, 1783. I oveut, in good manners, to have acknow- ledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked, with the contents of it, that I canscarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on re- ceiving your letter. L[readit over and over, again and again, and though it was in the politest lan- guage 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, with- out 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, in a few instances may be met with in others; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming oifspring of a warm feeling heart—these I never again expect to meet with, in such a degree, in this world. All these charming qualities, height- ened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart taat I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagination had fondly flattered myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. 1 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. more of you as a mistress; still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish te be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to I must now think no | | they do to those which appear in print.”»—SHENSTONE remove in a few days a little further off, and you, I suppose, will perhaps 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. VIII. TO ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL. [These memoranda throw much light on the early days of Burns, and on the history of his mind and composi- Robert Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, to whom these fragments were sent, was a good man as well as 9 tions. distinguished antiquary.] My Dear Sir, ON rummaging over some old papers I lighted on a MS. of my early years, in which I had de- termined to write myself out; as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that some time or other, even after I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of appreciating their value. It sets off thus :— ‘““OpseERVATIONS, Hints, Sonas, ScRAPS OF Poetry, &c., by Ropert Burness: a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it; but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irra- tional.—As he was but little: indebted to scho- lastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished, rustic way of life; but as I be- lieve they are really his own, it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature to see how a ploughman thinks, and feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anx- lety, gricf, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I ? believe, on all the species.’ “There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an opinion of their own abilities to put them upon recording their observa- tions, and allowing them the same importance whickQF ‘“¢ Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, Such the soft image of ovr youthful mind.’’—Jbdid. April, 1788. Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads & young inexperienced mind into; still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest en- comiums that have been passed uponit. If any- thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of affection. August. There is certainly some connexion between love and music, and poetry; and therefore, I have always thought it a fine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love-composition: “* As towards her cot she jogged along, Her name was frequent in his song.”? For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were | in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart. The following composition was the first of my performances, and done at an early period of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity ; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The performance is indeed, very puerile and silly; but I am al- ways pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed onher. I not only had this opinion of her then—but I actually think s0 still, now that the spell is long since broken, and the enchantment at an end. O once I lov’d a bonnie lass. ! Lest my works should be thought below cri- ticism: or meet with a critic, who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and favour- able an eye, I am determined to criticise them myself. The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy strain of our ordinary street ballads: and, on the other hand, the second ROBERT BURNS. distich is too much in the other extreme. The expression is a little awkward, and the senti- ment too serious. Stanza the second I am well pleased with; and I think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part of the sex—the agreeables; or what in our Scotch dialect we call a weet sonsie lass. The third stanza has a little : the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has been widowed these m: any months, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating but Tam afr: aid you will ‘“feelingly convince me what I am. I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter with 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 say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no formed design in all this: but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere i 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 arene | I will not subscribe myself your humble ser- | vant, for that is a phrase, I think at least fifty | miles off from the heart; but I will conclude with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare of deceit. R. B. | | | Z | XII, TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, OF EDINBURGH. al (John Richmond, writer, one of the poet’s Mauchlins friends, to whom we are indebted for much valuable in- formation concerning Burns and his productions—Connet was the Mauchline carrier.] Mossgiel, Feb. 17, 1786. My DEAR Sir, Ihave not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and neglect; I shall only say [ | 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 Satur- day Night;” ‘*An Address to the Deyil,” &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 express great approbation of my works. Beso good as send me Fergusson, by TA ae a oer aS Went OE) ee eee ee rae oe Sa ete ne eed ata Rb naan as ee ee cK en S00 ee ce el ne re er Ba i ee TT eePe Pale Dee | 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 important news with respect to my- | self, not the most agreeable—news that I am gure you cannot guess, but I shall give you the | particulars another time. I am extremely | happy with Smith; he is the only friend I | have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive | your long neglect of me, and I beg you will let | me hear from you regularly by Connel. If | you would act your part as a friend, I am sure | neither good nor bad fortune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday. I am, my dear Sir, Yours, R. B. XIII. TO.MR. JOHN KENNEDY, DUMFRIES HOUSE. (Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addessed this note, enclosing ‘‘ The Cotter’s Saturday night,”’ it is now, perhaps, vain to inquire: the Kennedy to whom | Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas—perhaps a re- lation.] Mossgiel, 3d March, 1786. SIR, { nave done myself the pleasure of comply- ing with your request in sending you my Cot- tager.—If you have a leisure minute, I should be glad you would copy it, and return me either the original or the transcript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and I have a friend who wishes to see it. ‘‘Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse.””! Rost. BuRnEss. XIV. ad TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK. fThe Muirs—there were two brothers—were kind and geneous patrons of the poet. They subscribed for half-a- hundred copies of the Kilmarnock edition of his works, gnd befriended him when friends were few.] Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786. DEAR SiR, GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | <¢may the 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 Drink,” and follow with a blessing for your I hope, some time before we hear edification.” 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, Rost. BuRNESS. XY. TO MR. AIKEN. [Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the ‘ Cotter’s Saturday Night”? is inscribed, is also introduced in the ‘«‘ Brigs of Ayr.’? This is the last letter to which Burns seems to have subscribed his name in the spelling of his ancestors.] Mossgiel, 8d April, 1786. Dear Sir, Trecetvep your kind letter with double plea- sure, on account of the second flattering in- stance of Mrs. C.’s notice and approbation, I assure you I ‘Turn out the burnt side o’ my shin,” as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, says, at such a patroness. Present her my most grateful acknowledgment in your very best manner of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank leaf of Miss More’s Work:— My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect to hear from you by the first opportunity. I am ever, dear Sir, Yours, Rost. BURNESs. XVI. TO MR. M’WHINNIE, WRITER, AYR. (Mr. M’Whinnie obtained for Burns several subscrip- tions for the first edition of his Poems, of which this note I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of enclosed the proposals. | — nd 1 Poem LXXV. 2 See Poem LXXVIII. eto nt red eee ee StMossgiel, 17th April, 1786. Ir is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the impression of the good Cre- ator, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend; for this reason, I only tell you thatI gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly offices with respect to the en- closed, 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, per- haps, the eternal disgrace of, My dear Sir, Your humble, afflicted, tormented, Rosert Burns. XVII. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. L‘‘ The small piece,” the very last of his productions, which the poet enclosed in this letter, was ‘‘ The Moun- tain Daisy,” called in the manuscript more properly “The Gowan.’’] Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. Sir, By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request for a subscription paper ’till this day. I will not attempt any ac- knowledgment 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 like wise enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my productions. Iama good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray bays, ‘‘ melancholy has marked for her own.” Our race comes on a-pace; that much-ex- pected scene of revelry and mirth; but to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting with which your last fattered the expectation of, Sir, Your indebted humble servant, OF ROBERT R. B. BURNS. 3 AVIII. TO MON. JAMES SMITH, MAU CHLINE. [James Smith, of whom Burns said he was small of stature, but large of soul, kept at that time a draper? shop in Mauchline, and was comrade to the poet in many a wild adventure.] Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786. My DEAR Sir, I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully re- solved to take the opportunity 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, upwards of fifty pounds; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever, in conse- quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sep- tember, 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, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it ;— “Tl laugh an’ sing, an’ shake my teg, 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 Cum: nock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still happiness forme among them: “OQ woman, lovely woman! Heaven design’d you To temper man !—we had been brutes without you, #1 R. B XDKe TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. [Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present: 16 was seeking patrons in every quarter for his contem- plated volume, and he was composing for it some of hig most exquisite poetry.] Mossgiel, 16 May, 1794. DEAR SIR, I wAvE sent you the above hasty copy as ] promised. In about three or four weeks I shall 1 Otway. Venice Preserved. SE EEF NS Yc Vp al tty eee | eed Ss SO ee a Se A = Sa EL ee Oe Rn eee EE OY HOTT oT a a a Soe a eee eet a a en Te RTa : ithe hist aS 5 4 > Seam sneer ee 326 GENERAL probably set the press a-going. I am much hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so very friendly in my subscription, should have a more lengthened acknowledgment from, Dear Sir, Your obliged servant, R. B. XX. TO MR. DAVID BRICE. [David Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith the confidence of the poet in his love afairs. working in Glasgow when this letter was written. } Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. DEAR BRICE, I RECEIVED your message by G. Patterson, and as I am not very throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. ill-advised Armour came Poor ungrateful home on Friday last. You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair itis. 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 It is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! but for her sake I feel most severely: I fore- see 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 for- give 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 br2ast on her account. I have tried often to fcrget her; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland! He was | CORRESPONDENCE and farewell dear ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to com- mence poet in print; and to morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred 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 friend and well-wisher, R. B: X XI. TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. [This letter was written under great distress of mind. That separation which Burns records in ‘‘ The Lament,”? had, unhappily, taken place between him and Jean Ar- mour, and it would appear, that fora time at least a coldness ensued between the poet and the ‘patron, occa- sioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful subjeet of sor- row and disquiet. The letter, I regret to say, is not wholly herv.] [ Ayrshire, 1786. ] SIR, I was with Wilson, my printer, t’other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven | pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- | teen: he offers to agree to this for the printing, | if I will advance for the paper, but this, you | know, is out of my power; so farewell hopes of | a second edition till I grow richer! an epocha | which I think will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely anything hurts me so much | in being disappointed of my second edition, as | not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of “The Brigs of Ayr.” I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my greateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gra- titude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- tion; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maximg and views to settle into selfish habits.Ol ROBERT BURNS. I have been feeling all the various rotations nud movements within, respecting the excise. i here are many things plead strongly against t; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; the consequences of my follies, which may per- haps 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 dis- appointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- dering stabs of remorse, which never fail to set- tle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of so- cial mirth, my gayety is the madness of an in- toxicated criminal under the hands of the exe- cutioner. 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, overbalances every- thing that can be laidin the scale against it. * * You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical im 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 I, in the presence of, that tre- mendous Being, the Author 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? O, thou great unknown Power ?— thou almighty God! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! —I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- saken 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, perhaps it may not be in my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your frien lly efforts. What I have written in the pre- ceding pages, is the settled tenor of my present resolution; but should inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoy- ing it only threaten to entail farther misery Ke KX To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- plaint; 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, distrust- ful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmospherg 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 creature destined for a progressive struggle; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast); still, more than these passive qualities, 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 ‘‘standing idle in the market- | place,” or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. * * * * You see, Sir, that if to know one’s errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance: but according to the reverend West- minster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying ’ 7 So lit. ¥* * * x R. B XXII. TO JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH. [The minister who took upon him to pronounce Burau a single man, as he intimates in this letter, was the Rev. Mr. Auld, of Mauchline: that the law of the land and the law of the church were at variance on the subject no one can deny.] Mossgiel, 9th July, 1786. My DEAR FRIEND, Wiru the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly a son of misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear from you how your health goes on; if it is in any way re-estab- lishing, or if Leith promises well; in short, how you feel in the inner man. No news worth anything: only godly Bryan was in the inquisition yesterday, and half the country-side as witnesses against him. He still stands out steady and denying: but proof was led yesternight of circumstances Lighly suspi- 2 CE a RD OE PE RTT SIR ey 8 nt Pee IE I TE eh PPR DIAN pul oe ent) ed Sea ne et ee te as et ras re nn ay ed ence em lee ee ea eecious: almost de facto, one of the servant girls made faith that she upon a time rashly entered the house—to speak in your cant, ‘‘in the hour of cause.” I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from any the least view of reconcili- ation, but merely to ask for her health and—to you I will confess it—from a foolish hankering fondness—very ill placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the penitence that might have been expected. How- ever, the priest, 1 am informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the church, which for that very reason I intend to do. I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes I am indulged so far as to appear in Peccavi, pater, miserere mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers, return them by Connel. The Lord stand with the righteous: amen, amen. R. B. this day. my own seat. XXIII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, OF AYR. [There isa plain account in this letter of the destruction of the Jines of marriage which united, as far asa civil contract ina manner civil can, the poet and Jean Ar- | see you before I leave the country. mour. Aiken was consulted, and in consequence of his advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed.] HonourepD 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 anybody, 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: ns an honest man, I would do it with all my If he is now reconciled to my character 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 yester- day. Would you believe it? though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct; yet, when he told me the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news. Per- dition seize her falsehood ! R. B. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | | | | | you are so well in Glasgow. XXIV. TO MR. DAVID BRICE. SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. [The letters of Burns at this sad period of his life ara full of his private sorrows. Had Jean Armour Leen lef to the guidance of her own heart, the story of her early years would have been brighter.] Mossgiel, 17th July, 1786. I HAVE been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as much time as tc write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the house, nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of stand- ing in my own seat. Ido this to get a certi- ficate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has pro- mised me. I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that she shouldstand 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. I have no news to tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that I must certainly I shall ex pect to hear from you soon, and am, Dear Brice, Yours,—R. B. XXYV. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. [When this letter was written the poet was sku kirg from place to place: the merciless pack of the Jaw had been uncoup.ed at his heels. Mr. Armour did not wisk to imprison, but to drive him from the country.] Old Rome Forest, 80th July, 1786. My pEAR RICHMOND, My hour is now come—you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have orders within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard tke Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and call at Antigua. This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret about Mauchline. Would you believe it? ArOF ROBE LT BURNS. 329 mour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I am wandering from one friend’s- house to another, and, like a true son of the gospel, ‘‘have nowhere to lay my head.” I know you will pour an execration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover’s bosom, await her mother until her latest hour! I write in a moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable I can write no more—let me hear from you by the situation—exiled, abandoned, forlorn. 3 return of coach. I will write you ere I go. I am dear Sir, Yours, here and hereafter, XXXVI. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK. (Burns never tried to conceal either his joys or his sor- rows: he sent copies of his favourite pieces, and intima- tions of inuch that befel him to his chief friends and com- rades—this brief note was made to carry double.] Mossgiel, Friday noon. My Frirenp, my Broruer, Warm recollection of an absent friend presses so hard upon my heart, that I send him the prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a kind of distant language of friend- ship. You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some with tender pressure and some with fore- boding anguish, through my soul. The poem was nearly an extemporaneous pro- dustion, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, that I wouli not produce a poem on the subject in a given time. If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this world and that which is to come. I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive. but more of this when, in the latter Se é part of next week, you shall be troubled witha visit from, My dear Sir, Your most devoted, R. B. XXVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. (Mrs. Dunlop was a poetess, and had the blood of the Wallaces in her veins: though she disliked the irregu- larities of the poet, she scorned to get into a fine moral passion about follies which could not be helped, and con tinued her friendship to the last of his life.} Ayrshire, 1786. Mapam, 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 compliments 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 cele- brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. ‘¢ Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!?’! The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was, ‘‘The Life of Hannibal;” the next was, ‘‘The History of Sir William Wallace :” for several of my earlier years I had! few other authors; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortunate stories. In thcs$ boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace’s story where these lines occur— ‘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 1 Thomson. FT Pe Eye Ae ne CSET eS Se Oe nae a a tte ai hare a TT TO. ARES Sel eA We Sek a ne a eae“5 ~ sho hen ieh the a a Ln ee ee 4 5 © Sn nn en a ng en Reet eT en ee 330 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE eee of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- grim did to Loretto; and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. R. B. XXVIII. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. [It is a curious chapter in the life of Burns to count the nuinber of letters which he wrote, the number of fine poeins he composed, and the number of places which he visited in the unhappy summer and autumn of 1786.] Kilmarnock, August, 1786. My pear Sir, Your truly facetious epistle of the 8d inst. gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go fov Jamaica; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day.—I have at last made my public appearance, and am solemnly inaugu- rated into the numerous class.—Could I have got a carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers for my authorship; but now you have them, let them speak for themselyes.— Fareweil, my dear friend! may guid luck hit you, And ’mang her favourites admit you! If e’er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him! And ony de’il that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him. R. B. XXIX. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MONTROSE. (The ¢ .0d and generous James Burness, of Montrose, Was ever rendy to rejoice with his cousin’s success or Bympathize with his sorrows, but he did not like the change which came over the old northern surname of | | | 3urness. when the bard modified it into Burns: the name, now a rising one in India, is spelt Burnes.] Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sept. 26, 1786 My DEAR SIR, I THIS moment receive yours—receive it with the honest hospitable warmth of a friend’s welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens al- ways up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections of my parental friends carries as far as it will go. ’Tis there that man is blest! ’Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something within him above the trodden clod! The grateful reve- rence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being —the burning glow when he clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom—the tender yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence—these nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man who neyer rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, | loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not com- When it will be I don’t know, but if I can make my wish ply with your friendly invitation. good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some time before. My best compliments to Mrs. ——; I should [be] equally mortified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that I sup- pose there is little chance. What I have wrote heaven knows; I have not time to review it; so accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase —perhaps rather more than the ordinary sin- cerity, I am, dear Sir, Ever yours, R. B, XXX. TO MISS ALEXANDER. [This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded y-ith requesting Miss Alexander to allow the poet to print the song Which it enclosed, in a second edition of his Poems. Her neglect in not replying to this request is a very good poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns’s letterg have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough This drafts found among the poet’s papers at his death. is one.]OF Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. MapDAM, Ports are such outré beings, so much the ehildren of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger .atitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober suns of judgment and prudence. I men- tion this as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the en- closed poem, which he begs leave to present you with Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, Iam not the proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can prodace; 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 gayety of the vernal year. The even- ing 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 har- mony on every hand, with a congenial 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, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to dis- cover 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 welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the wither- ing eastern blast? Such was the scene,—and such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, [ spied one of the fairest pieces of nature’s workmanship that ever crowned a poetic land- scape or met a poet’s eye, those visionary bards exceptel who hold commerce with aérial beings! Wad 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 measure. ROBERT BURNS. 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. I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most obedient and very humble Servant, R. B XXXI TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR AND AFTON, (Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, was the first person of note in the West who had the taste to see and fee! the genius of Burns. He used to relate how his heart fiut- tered when he first walked into the parlour of the towerg of Stair, to hear that lady’s opinion of some of his songs J [1786. ] Mapam, THe hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me from performing my promise so soon asI 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 adequate judge. The song to the tune of ‘‘ Ettrick Banks” [The bonnie lass of Bal- lochmyle] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit: both as a tolerable description of one of nature’s sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of nature’s workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young woman;! but I have no common friend to pro- cure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. Iam quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the in- cense 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 Tam altogether unfit. Besides a certain disquali- fying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no access to where 1 Miss Alexander Re a Op a IN FS OP RL PE ERT SIR ins Ca Se Net Se Th Ye RN Wr eee eeT| thee ane “ Oi Neal ern mer bree ns bh et eh hn a.Se Dene eae en epee = — (reese reenyense tenn ee er perry ee Peete tt eet a ees GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE your real character is to be found—the company of your compeers: and more, I am afraid that ever 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 reception I got when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, bat I know a good deal of beneyolence of tem- rer and goodness of heart. Surely did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their inferiors by conde- scension and affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with eyery look the height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. XXXII. IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AMEN. [The song or ballad which one of the ‘Deil’s yeld Nowte’’? was commanded to burn, was ‘‘ Holy Willie’s Prayer,’ itis believed. Currie interprets tho ‘- Deil’s yeld Nowte,”’ to mean old bachelors, which, if right, points to some other of his compositions, for purgation by fire. Gilbert Burns says it is a scoffing appellation sometimes given to sheriffs’ officers and other executors of the law.] 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,! Poet Laureat, and Bard in Chief, in and over the districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty and well-beloved William Chal- mers and John M’Adam, students and practi- tioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right and wrong. Rigut 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, poctasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad- singers, &c. &c. &c. &e., male and female — We have discovered a certain nefarious, abo- miuable, and wicked 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 exe- erable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nick-name of The Deil’s Yeld Nowte: and ( His birth-day. after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide 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 the presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and composers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it exe- cuted in every point as this our mandate bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when in per- son We hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of No- vember, Anno Domini one thousand sev2n hun- dred and eighty-six. God saye the Bard! XXXII. TO MR. ROBERT MUIK. [The expedition to Edinburgh, to which this short letter alludes, was undertaken, it is needless to say, in consequence of a warm and generous commendation of the genius of Burns written by Dr. Blacklock, to the Rev. Mr. Lawrie, and communicated by Gavin Hamilton to the poet, when he was on the wing for the West Indies.] Mossgiel, 18th Nov., 1786. My DEAR SIR, ENcLosED you have ‘‘ Tam Samson,” as I in- tend to print him. Iam thinking for my Edin- burgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come se’ennight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first. I am ever, Your much indebted, R. B. XXXIV. TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE; ENCLOSING THE VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER. (To the kind and venerable Dr. Mackenzie, the poe was indebted for some valuable friendships, and his bio- graphers for some valuable information respecting the early days of Burns.] Wednesday Morning. 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 de- voirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, theOF ROBERT BURNS. od oS Oo professor. [Dugald Stewart.] I would be de- lighted 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 charac- ter, divided into ten parts, stands thus—four parts Socrates—four parts Nathaniel—and two parts Shakspeare’s Brutus. The foregoing verses were really extempore, but a little corrected since. They may enter- tain 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. XXXV. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ, MAUCHLINE. {From Gavin Hamilton Burns and his brother took the farm of Mossgiel: the landlord was not slow in perceiv- ing the genius of Robert: he had him frequently at his table, and the poet repaid this notice by verse not likely soon to die.] Edinburgh, Dec. 7th, 1786. HonovureED Sir, I HAVE paid every attention to your com- mands, but can only say what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muir- kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. 8., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh, Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fothering- ham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adamhill 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 be- coming as eminent as Thomas 4 Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin’s and Aberdeen Alma- nacks, along with the Black Monday, and the battle of Bothwell bridge.—My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing; and by all proba- bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise manin the world. Through my Jord’s influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition.— My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post.—I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls ‘‘a friend that stick- eth 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. IT 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, Nor hunger but in plenty’s lap! Amen! XXXVI. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ, BANKER, AYR. [This is the second letter which Burns wrote, after hig arrival in Edinburgh, and it is remarkable because it dis- tinctly imputes his introduction to the Earl of Glencairn, to Dalrymple, of Orangefield: though he elsewhere says this was done by Mr. Dalzell ;—perhaps both those gen- tlemen had a hand in this good deed.) Edinburgh, 13th Dec. 1786. My HoNOURED FRIEND, I woutp not write you till I could have it in my power to give you some account of myself and my matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task. —I arrived here on Tuesday was se’ennight, and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable headache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better.—I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orange- field, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me, I shall remember when time shall be no more.—By his interest itis passed in the “ Cale- donian Hunt,” and entered in their books, that they are to take each a copy of the second edi- tion, for which they are to pay one guinea.— I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patronesses are the Duchess of Gordon—the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty '— the Dean of Faculty—Sir John Whitefoord—I — 1 Lady Betty Cunningham. es ae Pe ae CNT Ie eee Te) Weer aie De Oe Sel es « = a td eT Scam ee a a ER a Pe) OP OE PEE ERTS SVE te yee et aanSTART Dm a or 6 non Se ee a ee ee he eT nt ee ee a nn on ens ya af ln et) heen, ne — é ae — == a 3 334 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE have likewise warm friends among the literati; Professors Stewart, 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 gene- rous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of claret with him, by invitation, at his own house, yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post; when I intend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. Isaw 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,! a copy of which I here enclose you.—I was, Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation. I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an account of my every step; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle. T have the honour to be, Good Sir, Your ever grateful humble servant, R. B. If any of my friends write me, my direction is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. XXXVII. "TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. [‘‘Muir, thy weaknesses,” says Burns, gentleman to Mrs. Duntop, « thy aberrations of human nature; writing of this weaknesses were the but thy heart glowed with everything generous, manly, and noble: and if ever emacacion from the All-good Being animated a human form, 5 was thine. myer oe ‘ - Edinburgh, Dec. 20th, 1786. My DEAR FRrienp, I HAVE just time for the carrier, to tell you that I reéeived your letter ; of which I shall s1y no more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bastard wean; she said she «qd id pees ae | na ken wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o’ the bonny blackguard smugglers, for it was like them.” So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. I en: Your affair of sixty copies is also like you; but it close you a parcel of subscription bills. would not be like me to comply. Your friend’s notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketching it in some o o future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles and Mr. Parker. X. B. XXXVIII. TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS 3 WRITER, AYR. [William Chalmers drew out the assignment of the copyright of Burns’s Poems, in favour of his brother Gilbert, and for the maintenance of bis natural child, when engaged to go to the West Indies, in the autumn of 1786.] Edinburgh, Dee. 2, 1786. My DEAR FRIEND, I conress I haye sinned the sin for which there is hardly any forgiveness—ingratitude to friendship—in not writing you sooner; but of all men living, I had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- jesty, preside over the dull routine of business —a heavily solemn oath this!—I am, and have been, ever since I came to Ediaburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- vine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- pasian 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 throw- | ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to | distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by the name of James the Less after throwing him into a cauldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- raculously preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and ! Th> paper here alluded to, was written by Mr. Mac- | S&W as many wild beasts as I have scen since I kenzi2, the celebrated author of “Lhe Man of Feeling.» g, came to Edinburgh; which, a circumstance notvery uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, [ enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I past Glenbuck. One blank in the address to Edinburgh — ‘« Fair B——,” is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all the sombinations of beauty, grace, and goodness ‘he great Creator has formed since Milton’s Eve on the first day of her existence. My direction is—care of Andrew Bruce, mer- ’ chant, Bridge-street. R. B XXXIX. TO THE EARL OF EGLINTOUN. | [Archibald Montgomery, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, | and Colonel Hugh Montgomery, of ceeded his brother in his titles and estates, were patrons, | and kind ones, of Burns.] * Coilsfield, who suc- Edinburgh, January 1787. My Lorp, As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citi- zen of the world, but have all those national prejudices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour and welfare of my country : and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life; but never did a heart pant more ardently than ae : | mine to be distinguished; though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray | of light. It is easy then to guess how much I Was gratified with the countenance and appro- day on the part of your lordship. Your muni- ficence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledgments; but your patro- nage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feel- ings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know, whether there be not some im- | | Propriety in troubling your lordship with my hee OF ROBERT BURNS 5. 38h From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it Selfish ingratitude lL hope I am incapable of, ty, I trust, I shall eye have so much honest pride | and mercenary servili as to detest. R. B: XE. TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. [This letter was first published by Robert C hambers, who considered it as closing the inquiry, ‘was Burns a married man??? No doubt Burns thought himself un. | | married, and the Rey. Mr. Auld was of the same Opinion, since he offered him a certificate that he was single: but nO opinion of priest or lawyer, including the disclama- tion of Jean Armour, and the belief of Burns,.could have, In my opinion, barred the claim of the children to full legitimacy, according to the law of Scotland.] Edinburgh, Jan. 7, 1787. To tell the truth among friends, I feel a mi serable blank in my heart, with the want of her, and I don’t think I shall ever meet with so de- licious an armful again. She has her faults ; and so have you and I; and so has everybody Their tricks and craft hae put me daft; They’ve ta’en me in and a’ that; But clear your decks, and here’s the sex, I like the jads for a’ that. For a that and a’ that, And twice as muckle’s a’ that. - . . . . I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian farmer’s daughter, whom I have almost per- suaded to accompany me to the west country, should I ever return to settle there. By the bye, a Lothian farmer is about an Ayrshire squire of the lower kind; and I had a most de- licious ride from Leith to her house yesternight, in a hackney-coach with her brother and two sisters, and brother’s wife. Wehad dined alto- gether at a common friend’s house in Leith, and danced, drank, and sang till late enough. The bation of one of my country’s most illustrious night was dark, the claret had neen gool, and o | : we MM HM HY 2 sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yester-,|Tthirsty, * * * * * Eo XLI. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. [This letter contains the first intimation that the poet thanks, vut my heart whispered me to do it. | desired to resume the labours of the farmer. The old Bw LE aS Ta, ms a mts cern bo eke iatline ae eh SL ee ee De ee Oe z mS a en ne OE SST Es sili ee ne eeee Shee ee ee —- as po ae wat enero = . — - —— = = 5 ; . a Se Tk. Se eer i ee 330 saw of ‘Willie Gaw’s Skate,’’ he picked up from his mother, who had a vast collection of such sayings. ] Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. My HONOURED FRIEND, Ir gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw’s Skate, “(past redemption ;” for I have still this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I do it. I am still ‘dark as was Chaos”! in respect to futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dal- swinton, which he has lately bought, near Dum- fries. Some life-rented embittering recollec- tions whisper me that I will be happier anywhere | than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land; and though I dare say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May. I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful Grand Master Charters, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meeting was numerous and elegant; all the | different lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentleman and mason, among other general toasts, gave ‘‘ Caledonia, and Caledonia’s Bard, Brother Burns,” which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, 1? ‘Very well indeed!” which set me something to rights again. I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. I am ever, Dear Sir, Your much indebted humble servant, R. B. 1 See Blair’s Grave. This was a favourite quotation with Burns. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | me for ungrateful neglect. XLII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE. [I have not hesitated to insert all letters which show what Burns was musing on as a poet, or planning asa man.]} January —, 1787. Wuute 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 sodger, and tclls me he 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 sent my last song to Mr. Ballantyne. Here it is— Ye flowery banks 0’ bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ 0’ care !? XLIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop purified, while it strengthened the national prejudices of Burns.] Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. Mapam, Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib —I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you; but though every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to him has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of ‘‘the sons of little men.” To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a mer- chant’s order, would be disgracing the little character I have; and to write the author of “The View of Society and Manners” a letter of sentiment—I declare every artery runs cold I shall try, however, to write His kind inter- at the thought. to him to-morrow or next day. position in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglintoun, with ten guineas, by 2 Song CXXXI.OF ROBERT BURNS. 337 way of subscription for two copies of my next edition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your im- mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- son; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot re- collect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed anything on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print; and the enclosed, which I will print in this edition. You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my “‘ Vision” long ago, I had attempted a description of Koyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the ‘‘ Saviour of his Country,” which sooner or later I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet; alas! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. Ido not mean any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to velieve that my abilities deserve some notice; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company—to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and erude unpolished ideas on my head—I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, with- out any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height, where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. Ido not say this in the ridi- culous affectation of self-abasement and mo- desty. I have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy; and, however a friend or the world may differ from me in that particular, I | J stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with 99 | | : : : | all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about it.—But, “¢ When proud fortune’s ebbing tide recedes,?? you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxi- cated with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve to tho hastening time, when the blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eager- ness of vengeful triumph. Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and character as a poet, [ rejoice in; it exalts me in my own idea; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace? R. B. XLIV. TO DR. MOORE. [Dr. Moore, the ex2complished author of Zeluco and father of Sir John Moore, interested himself in the fame and fortune of Burns, as soon as the vublication of his Poems made his name known to the world.] Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. Sir, Mrs. Duntor has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with reverence: only I am sorry they mostly came too late: a peccant passage or two that I would certainly have altered, were gone to the press. The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by far the greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strong- est wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing lan- guage and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing to admit that Ihave some poetical abilities; and as few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are in- timately acquainted with the classes of mankind : E ay Tr S By ety RES Ns aa ews Spe eae Pe Net Tt re tee < ER pe a Oe ere eet ene Se I Stk pac een it nena ay it ln rn nm ee ee ee eee a 2 soyns © CE eee 7 ee - 5 ee ee te las Se Se. rer 9O0 308 a amorg whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have and manners in a different phasis from which may assist originality seen men what is common, of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of my character has by far the great in the learned and polite notice I have lately had; and in a _ language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear ; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttel- ton and Collins described the heart, I am not yain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. R. B. XLY. TO THE REV. G. LAURIE, NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. [It nas peen said in the Life of Burns, that for some time after ne went to Edinburgh, he did not visit Dr. Black- .ock, whose high opinion of his genius induced him to try his fortune in that c1ty: 1t will be seen by thus letter that he had neglected also, for a time, at least, to write to Dr. Laurie, who introduced him to the Doctor. ] Edinburgh, Feb. 5th, 1787. R¥VEREND AND DEAR SIR, Wuen I look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches me severely with ingrati- tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you with any account, by way of apology, of my hurried life and distracted at- tention: do me the justice to believe that my delay by no means proceeded from want of re- spect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you the wmingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE cf pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual powers before I came here; I have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall est share | take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, early years. have found what I would have expected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. Edinburgh must be placed to the account of Miss Laurie and her piano-forte. I cannot help repeating to you and Mrs. Laurie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated ‘‘ Man of Feeling,” paid to Miss Laurie, the other night, reverence for a father. I thank you, Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant reports; but, in reality, I have no great tempta- tion to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the attention of mankind awhile; to it l owe my present éclat; butI see the time not far distant when the popular tide which has borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent ce- lerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the affectation of modesty; I see the consequence is unayoidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a good deal . In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I By far the most agreeable hours I spend in at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till I saw Miss Laurie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to Mr. Macken- zie he asked me who she was; I told him ’twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. He returned, there was some- thing very striking, to his idea, in her appear- ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to say, ‘‘She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a country girl.” My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret’s. R. B. XLVI. TO DR. MOORE. [In the answer to this letter, Dr. Moore says that the poet was a great favourite im his family, and that huis youngest son, at Winchester school, had translated part of ‘‘ Halloween”? into Latin verse, for the benefit of h.s comraaes.] a Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. Sir, Parpon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many months ago I knew no other employ- ment than following the plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judg- ment: but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the | world, this of late I frequently meet with, andtremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny; but I see with frequent wringings of heart, that the no- velty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities. For the honour Miss Williams has done me, F ease, Sir, return her in my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never before heard of her; but the other day I got her poems, which for several reasons, some be- longing to the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore; there are, I think, two characteristic features in her poetry —the. unfettered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous sombre tenderness of ‘ time- settled sorrow.” I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why. R. B. XLVITI. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. (The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait atluded to in this letter, was painted by the now vene- rable Alexander Nasmyth—the eldest of living British artists :—it is, with the exception of a profile by Miers, the only portrait for which we are quite sure that the poet sat.]} Edinburgh, Feb. 24th, 1787. My HONOURED FRIEND, I wiILL soon be with you now, in guid black prent ;—in a week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- scribers’ names; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, they must be sent in to Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, I will appear in ‘my book, looking like all piher fools to my title-page. R. B. XLVII. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [The Earl of Glencairn seems to have refused, from motises of delicacy, the request of the poet: the verses, OF ROBERT BURNS. 339 long lost, were at last found, and are now, through the Kindness of my friend, Major James Glencairn Burns, printed with the rest of his eminent father’s works. ] Edinburgh, 1787 My Lor D, I wanTED to purchase a profile of your lord- | ship, which I was told was to be got in town; | but Lam truly sorry to see that a blundering painter has spoiled a ‘“*human face divine.” | The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written | below a picture or profile of your lordship, | could I have been so happy as to procure one | with anything of a likeness. As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted | to have something like a material object for ny | gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to [say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my | publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to by the honest throe of gratitude, by the. gene- rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition. I owe much to your lordship: and, what has not in some other instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart as independent as your lordship’s, than which I can say nothing more; and I would not be beholden to favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified cha- racter in life, and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride; and I 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 country ; 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. XLIX. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. [The Earl of Buchan, a man of talent, but more than tolerubly vain, advised Burns to visit the battle-fields and scenes celebrated in song on the Scottish border, with the hope, perhaps, that he would drop a few ot his een. a ere ee cannon ae et oan ee faniaadsile Sk ee a ees in nner nmenvetnee ee ee eeeERAL CORRESPONDENCE GEN nt Pai: | B40 | ae \ ; appy verses in Dryburgh Abbey, the residence of his | dependence, and character, on the one hand; I happy ve y g yy I } i lordship.] tender you civility, dependence, and wretched- a Sahat athe bien ett eee CO eae ee et oat ; E donia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory andfame; and, f a hi catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless SSS ee i Hi i i names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of NO these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, Li: H Wi moral-looking phantom strides across my i mre 00ee 9 TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. ye imagination, and pronounces these emphatic ib words :-— [James Candlish, a student of medicine. was well ac : i oL Wisdom, dwell with Prudence Friend, | quainted with the poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime H\ he ill-cl 1 1 f lyric, ‘‘ Mary’s Dream,” and at the request of Burns sent rn = g . a 5 . 5 I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds Of | 7 (Wes classic song of ‘‘ Pompey’s Ghost,”’ to the Mu- } | ! your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you | sical Museum.] F | i i Oi} L Wa) Und yain: I wish through these w ounds to imprint a ae Le aA P : I : Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. ae lasting lesson on your heart. T will not mention | L Wy re My EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE, H | lit how many of my salutary advices you have des- f na ; : q : I was equally surprised and pleased at your 1A] pised: I have given you line upon line and pre- atiae th fra Tahink b is Ha : 5 etter, though I dare say you will thin ym } | cept upon precept ; and while I was chalking 2 2 eae ymy | Haat 3 delaying so long to write to you that I am so : a out to you the straight way to wealth and cha- 3 : ae : | 1} : ae : s | drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as H i| racter, with audacious effrontery you have z1g- ar enn } iN : ; . to be indifferent to old, and once dear con- } i zagged across the path, contemning me to my ie Z : } i : epe rious: The truth is, I was determined to | a face: you know the consequences. It is not 1 eal) of KG ia ot . | write a good letter, full of argument, amplil- i yet three months since home was so hot for you ‘ 2 We a B oo 1 = p tia) . cation, erudition, and, as bayes says, @ at. | ) that you were on the wing for the western shore | 1 i 2 i Mom : 1 ; yeas ‘a Uhge ; | atte . thought of it, and thought of it, and, by m 1 of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to | 2 ; 2 2 2 °9 y H | soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake I | p | | ness, on the other. J will not insult your un- My Lorp, Tue honour your lordship has done me, by and advice in yours of the Ist in- derstanding by bidding you make a choice.” This, I must re- turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. your notice my lord, is unanswerable. stant, I shall ever eratefully remember :— (( Praise from thy lips, ’tis mine with joy to boast, t.771 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 They best can give it who deserve -t mos Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart when you advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrim- age through my native country ; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fiel ls, where Cale- 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. hide your misfortune. - ees ae aus silenc just sit v ‘Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in the cause of my silence, I just sit down to uae youso. Don’t give yourself eredit, though, that forefathers, will you follow these will-o’-wisp | the strength of your logic scares me: the truth meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you | is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at once more to the brink of ruin? I grant that | | all. You have shown me one thing which was that strong pride of rea- the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a | to be demonstrated : step from the veriest poverty; but still itis half | soning, with a little affectation of singularity, If all that I can urge be ineffec- I likewise, your power to return to the situation of your | may mislead the best of hearts. a step from it. | | ry © tual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, | since you and I were first acquainted, in the let the call of pride prevail with you. } > . * ce > ar) , 5 1) x¢ > 2? how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless op- | in ‘the daring path Spinosa trod ; | ence of the weakness, not the strength of human | powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed | pride of despising old woman’s stories, ventured You know but experi- pression: you know how you bear the galling pneer of out the conveniences, the comforts of life, in- =| contumelious greatness. I hold you religion. | I am still, in the Apostle Paul’s phrase, | The old man with his deeds,” as when we 1 [mitated from Pope’s Eloisa to Abelard.OF ROBERT BURNS. 344 were sporting about the ‘‘ Lady Thorn.” I shall be four weeks here yet at least; and so I shall expect to hear from you; welcome sense, wel- come nonsense. I am, with the warmest sincerity, R. B. LI. TO —. [The name of the friend to whom this letter was ad- ressed is still unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an inscrip- tion in honour of the Ayrshire poet, to the original head- stone. The cost to the poet was £5 10s.] Edinburgh, March, 1787. My DEAR Sir, You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you; 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 unac- countable as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use; but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun: and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native consequences of folly, in the very yortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feel- ings of the damned. I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. The inscription on the stone is as follows :— “HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. Born, September Sth, 1751—Died, 16th October, 1774. ‘‘ No sculptur’d marble here, nor pompous lay, ‘No storied urn or animated bust;? This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way To pour her sorrows o’er her poet-a lust.”? n the other side of the stone is as follows: ‘* By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns who erected this stone, this burial place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson.” Session-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, the twenty-second day of February, one thousand seven hundred eighty-seven ycars. 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 ap- pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor follows :— ‘¢To the honourable baillies 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 unknown. ‘“‘Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed a tear over the ‘narrow house’ of the bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergus- son’s memory: a tribute I wish to have the honour of paying. ‘‘T petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his death- less fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble servant (sie subscribitur), Rosert Burns.” Thereafter the said managers, in considera- tion of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fer- gusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all time coming. Extracted forth of the records of the managers, by Witiiam Sprorr Clerk. LII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The poet alludes in this letter to tne profits of tne Edinburgh edition of his Poems: the exact sum is no pe ey oy Ger” TS Net mele . Se n> ne pene ae oe ane de na om en er ee ae Ne Sr 2 a CSU A py ral ea Se a>; Dennen ee er nas Be > eee Peer aera. See ae donee nt tt OD TROL GENERAL faa 842 where stated, but it could not have been less than seven nundred pounds. } Edinburgh, March 22d, 1787. Mapam, I reap 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, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reve- I have made some small alterations in I have the advice rence. what I before had printed. of some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it neces- sary to claim the privilege of thinking for my- self. 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 re- spect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- plicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects; there I can give you no light. It is all «“ Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun Was 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 and Scottish story are the themes I could wish I have no dearer aim than to have it scenes to sing. 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 venc- rable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are all Utopian thoughts: I have dallied long enough with life; ’tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for: and some other bosom ties perhaps equally cender. 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 wel- fare of others to his care; where the trust is zacred, and the ties are dear, that man must he far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to CORRESPONDENCE reflection, whom these connexions 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 ac- quaintance, 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 me independence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life; but while following my plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace. Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. R. B. LIIl. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [This seems to be a letter acknowledging the payment of Mrs. Dunlop’s subscription for his po ems.] Edinburgh, 15th April, 1787. Manpam, THERE is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pause 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. I have this moment broken open your letter, but ‘¢Rude am I in speech, And therefore little can I grace my cause In speaking for myself—”? 2 sol 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 shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. I come abroad in print, for certain on Wed- nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you that J was paid before for Dr. Moore’s and Miss Wil- liams’s copies, through the medium of Commis- sioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle whenI have the honour of waiting on you. 1 Blair’s Grave. 2 From Othello.ROBERT BURNS 343 OF Dr. Smith! was just gone to London the mor- | den Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., ning before I received your letter to him. I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- R. B. hood never more to quit them. 1 have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction civ. to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I TO MR. SIBBALD, have no equivalent to offer; and I am afraid my BOOKSELLER IN EDINBURGH. meteor appearance will by no means entitle me : to asettled correspondence with any of you, who [This letter first appeared in that very valuable work, . . - “ i 2 ights g i € i ‘ re. icholl’s Illustrations of Literature] are the permanent lights of genius and literature My most respectful compliments to Miss Lawn Market. Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine S srk, were over, and I were returned to my wonted So little am I acquainted with the words and : i. leisurely motion in my old circle, I may pro- Bice : . bably endeavour to return her poetic compli- of life, that I often feel myself much embar- waar oe ; ment in kind. R. B. rassed how to express the feelings of my heart, manners of the more public and polished walks OE OF YR IT Sn) tne particularly gratitude :— aN ‘¢Rude am I in my speech, And little therefore shali I grace my cause j In speaking for myself—”’ i i ‘ : : LVI. The warmth with which you have befriended an obscure man and a young author in the last TO MBS. DUNLOP. three magazines—I can only say, Sir, I feel the nae ree eS ee me en ae nieeenen eee ere a [This letter was in answer to one of criticism and re- ie | ; Ss monstrance, from Mrs. Dunlop, respecting ‘¢ The Dream,” dig my sense of It. In the mean time accept of the which she had begged the poet to omit, lest it should weight of the obligation, I wish I could express conscious acknowledgment from, harm his fortunes with the world.] Sir, Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. Your obliged servant, Your criticisms, Madam, I under- stand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your LV. guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered TO DR. MOORE. those who possessed the adventitious qualities {The book to which the poet alludes, was the well- of wealth and power, that Iam determined to known View of Society by Dr. Moore, a work of spirit | flatter no created being, either in prose or and observation.) verse! Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, I received the books, and sent the one you | &c., asall these respective gentry do by my bard- mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in} ship. I know what I may expect from the beating the ec. 7erts of imagination for metaphors | world, by and by—illiberal abuse, and perhaps of gratitude. 1 thank you, Sir, for the honour | contemptuous neglect. you have done me; and to my latest hour will I am happy, Madam, that some of my own warmly remember it. Tobe highly pleased with | favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- your book is what I have in common with the | ticular approbation. For my ‘¢Dream,”’ which world; but to regard these volumes as a mark | has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- of the author’s friendly esteem, is a still more | sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, ia its defence I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days | in person. RB. | a a a ee er supreme gratification. or a fortnight, and after a few pilgrimages over ’ some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- —_—_—_—_—_—_——_ a 1 Adam Smith. 9 A a Re Fe a a ee meenree ee“ are eee re rales OT ha ee a ee er eet er ee ee GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE LVII. TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. [The answer of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the folowing passage: ‘¢ Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular: and in being brought out all at oace from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy you have stood it so well, and, as far as I have known, or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your character or bshaviour.’’] Lawn-market, Edinburgh, 8d May, 1787. REVEREND AND MUCH-RESPECTED SIR, I reAve Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment 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 coun- try whose works, while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. appearance in the world might attract notice, However the meteor-like novelty of my and honour me with the acquaintance of the per- manent lights of genius and literature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- ture of man, I knew very well that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over; I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my quar- ters. I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo’s work! for me, done on Indian paper, as a tri- fling but sincere testimony with what heartwarm gratitude Iam, &c. R. B. LVIIt. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [The poet addressed the following letter to the Earl of Glencairn, when he commenced his journey to the Border, Jt was first printed in the third edition of Lock- hart’s Life of Burns; an eloquent and manly work.] My Lorp, I Go awsy to-morrow morning early, and al- low me to vent the fulness of my heart, in thanking your lordship for all that patronage, The portrait of the poet after Nasmyth. that benevolence and that friendship with which you have honoured me. With brimful eyes, I pray that you may find in that great Being, whose image you so nobly bear, that friend which I have found in you. My gratitude is not selfish design—that I disdain—it is not dodging after the heels of greatness—that is an offering It is a feeling of the same kind R. B. you disdain. with my devotion. LIX. TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR. [William Dunbar, Colonel of the CrochaJlan Fencibles. The name has a martial sound, but the corps which he commanded wasa club of wits, whose courage was exer- cised on *‘paitricks, teals, moorpowts, and plovers.’’] Lawn-market, Monday morning. DEAR SIR, In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in the language could have been a more agreeable present to me; and in justice to you, allow me to say, Sir, that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to whom I would so willingly have been indebted for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, and the handsome volumes of Spenser for which I am so much indebted to your goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion to one another; but be that as it may, my gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark of esteem as yours. The time is approaching when I shall return to my shades; and I am afraid my numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a con- struction, that they will not bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the few that I could wish of a more robust constitution. It is indeed very probable that when I leave this city, we part never more to meet in this sublunary sphere; but I have a strong fancy that in some future eccentric planet, the comet of happier systems than any with which astronomy is yet acquainted, youand I, among the harum scarum sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall recognise old acquaintance: ‘¢ Where wit may sparkle all its rays, Uncurs’d with caution’s fears; That pleasure, basking in the blaze Rejoice for endless years ”?OF ROBERT I have the honour to be, with the warmest sincerity, dear Sir, &c. RB; LX. TO JAMES JOHNSON. {James Johnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, and zroprietor of the Musical Museum; a truly national work, for which Burns wrote or amended many songs.] Lawn-market, Friday noon, 3 May, 1787. Dear Sir, I HAVE sent you a song never before known, for your collection; the air by M’Gibbon, but I know not the author of the words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. Farewell, my dear Sir! I wished to have seen you, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I march to-morrow. 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 whose company and conversa- tion gives me so much pleasure, because I have met with few whose sentiments are so congenial to my own. When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging somewhere about my heart. Keep the original of the song till we meet again, whenever that may be. Rh. B. UXI. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. EDINBURGH, [This characteristic letter was written during the poe*’s border tour: he narrowly escaped a soaking with wiiskey, as well as with water; for, according to the I.ttrick Shepherd, ‘‘a couple of Yarrow lads, lovers of poesy and punch, awaited his coming to Selkirk, but would not believe that the parson-looking, black-avised man, syho rode up to the inn, more like a drouket craw than a pcet, could be Burns, and so went disappointed away.’’] Selkirk, 13th May, 1787. My HONOURED FRIEND, Tut enclosed I have just wrote, nearly ex- tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day’s riding. I have been over most of Hast Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and le 1 James, Ear! of Gleneairn. BURNS. H+3 Selkirk-shires; and next week I begin a tour through the north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble patron,! Quem Deus conservet! | would write till I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I dare say by this time you are with wretched | verse, but I am jaded to death; so, with a | grateful farewell, I have the honour to be, Good Sir, yours sincerely, Auld chuckie Reekie’s sair distrest, Down drops her ance weel burnish’d crest, Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest Can yield ava; Her darling bird that she loves best, Willie’s wwa.? | | | LXII. | TO MR. PATISON, | BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY. | [This letter has a business air about it: the name of Patison is nowhere else to be found in the poet’s corres pondence.] | Berry-well, near Dunse, May 17th, 1787 | DEAR Sir, I am sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to the classic scenes of this country, when I was favoured with yours of the 11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley banking company on the royal bank, for twenty- two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies of my book I sent you. According to your motions, I see you will have left Scotland | before this reaches you, otherwise I would send you ‘Holy Willie” with all my heart. I was | so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things | I ought to have minded, among the rest sending books to Mr. Cowan; but any order of yours will be answered at Creech’s shop. You will please remember that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is Creech’s profit; but those who have subscribed, though their names have been | neglected in the printed list, which is very in- correct, are supplied at subscription price. I | was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for Lon- | don; and I think Mrs. Fame is very idle to tel] RR ee enna POE ETO ST Le - cee a ~— ae Oe ays ee ee ene ee ee ee ee iee Eat arr ee era Le eo GENEKAL CORR so many lies on a poor poet. When you or Mr. Cowan write for copies, if you should want any direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. Creech’s shop, and I write to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either of your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech’s first clerk, and Creech himself is presently in London. I euppose I shall have the pleasure, against your return to Paisley, of assuring you how much I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. LXIII. TO W. NICOL, ESQ, MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. [Jenny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw the stool on which she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh’s head, when, in 1637, he attempted to introduce a Scottish Liturgy, and cried as she threw, ‘¢ Villain, wilt thou say the mass at my lug!” The poet named his mare after this virago.] Carlisle, June 1., 1787. KIND, HONEST-HEARTED WILLIE, I’m sitten down here after seven and forty miles ridin’, e’en as forjesket and forniaw’d as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion 0’ my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrow- fu’ hour that Isheuk hands and parted wi’ auld Reekie. My auld, ga’d gleyde o’ a meere has huch- yall’d up hill and down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi’ me. It’s true, she’s as poor’s a sang-maker andas hard’s a kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks the gate, first like a lady’s gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle; but she’s a yauld, poutherie Girran for a that, and has a stomack like Willie Stalker’s meere that wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she’ll whip me aff her five stimparts o’ the best aits at a down-sittin and ne’er fash her thumb. When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and | cramps, are fairly soupl’d, she beets to, beets z-, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies, that | for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty miles a day, | the deil-stricket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. I hae dander’d owre a’ the kintra frae Dum- | bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather’d wi’ monie a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar’d huzzie. I met wi’ twa dink quines in particular, ane 0’ them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and ESPONDENCE bonnie; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar’d winch, as blythe’sa lintwhiteona flowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest’s a new- blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and enie ane o them hadasmuckle smeddum and rumblegum- tion as the half o’ some presbytries that you and I baith ken. They play’d me sik a deevilo’a shavie that I daur say if my harigals were turn’d out, ye wad see twa nicks Y the heart o’ me like the mark o’ a kail-whittle in a castock. I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouriously bitchify’d the day after kail-time, that I can hardly stoiter but and ben. My best respecks to the guidwife and a’ our common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruik- shank, and the honest guidman o’ Jock’s Lodge. I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale. Gude be wi’ you, Willie! Amen! R. B. LXIV. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, AT MILLER AND SMITH’S OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. [Burns, it seems by this letter. had still a belief that he would be obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies: he soon saw how hollow all the hopes were, which had been formed by his friends of ‘‘ pension, post or place,”? in his native land.] Mauchline, 11th June, 1787. My EVER DEAR SIR, I pare this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday evenlast, I slept at John Dow’s, and called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton and family ; your mother, sister, and brother; my quondam Eliza, &c., all well. If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Ar- mour’s family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it. Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Mil- ton’s Satan: Hail, horrors! haij Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell, Receive thy new possessor! he who brings A mind not to be chang’d by place or time! I cannot settle to my mind.—Farming, the only thing of which | know anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms as | they are. If I do not fix I will go for Jamaica.Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would only dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what J] intend shall compensate my little ones, for tue stigma I have brought on their names. I shall write you more at large soon; as this letter costs you no postage, if it be worth read- ing you cannot complain of your penny-worth. I am ever, my dear Sir, Yours, R. B. P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but I have provided a fine buffalo-horn, on which I am going to affix the same cipher which you will remember was on the lid of the cloot. LXV. TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. ~lhe charm which Dumfries threw over the poet, seems to have dissolved like a spell, when he sat down in Ellisland: he spoke, for a time, with little respect of ejther place or people.) Mauchline, June 18, 1787. My prEAR FRIEND, I aM now arrived safe in my native country, after a very agreeabie jaunt, and have the plea- sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith; and was highly pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- cellent appearance and sterling good sense. I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him again i ~ 1 August. From my view of the lands, and his reception of my bardship, my hopes in that business are rather mended; but still they are but slender. I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks— Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember ; and his wife, Gude forgie me! I had almost broke the tenth commandment on her account. Siniplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her manner and heart: in short—but if I say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with her. I never, my friend, thought mankind very ca- pable of anything generous; but the stateliness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I returned home, OF ROBERT BURNS. O41 have nearly put me out of conceit altcgether | with my species. I have bought a pocket Mil ton, which I carry perpetually about with me, | in order to study the sentiments—the dauntless | magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inde- | pendence, the desperate daring, and noble de- | fiance of hardship, in that great personage, Sa- | TAN. ‘Tis true, I have just now a little cash; | but I am afraid the star that hitherto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith; that noxious planet so baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon.— Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; the poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit for the walks of business; add to all, that thought- less follies and hare-brained whims, like so many ignes fatui, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-be- witching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless bard, till, pop, ‘‘ he falls like Lu- cifer, never to hope again.” God grant this may be an unreal picture with respect to me! but should it not, I have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay you—the many ties of acquaintance and friendship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, and, damn them, they are almost all of them of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least ad- verse breeze of fortune; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the aposto- lic love that shall wait on me ‘through good report and bad report’’—the love which Solo- mon emphatically says ‘‘is strong as death.’ My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our common friends. P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the lat- ter end of July. R. B. LXVI. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. [Candlish was a classic scholar, but had a love for the songs of Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greece and Rome.] Edinburgh, 1787. My prEAR FRIEND, Ir once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure | of that correspondence being renewed which LE ey a re et LD tees eee Tt a a eee ae SS Sk ae ee ee eee oreSn a eee a I : 5 , a et ee Da To ee eee ee ee eat Dare! 348 has been so long broken. At present I have time for nothing. Dissipation and business en- | gross every moment. I am engaged in assist- ing an honest Scotch enthusiast,‘ a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs set to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, ig an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songsI could meet with. Pompey’s Ghost, words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his second number: the first is already published. I shall show you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two; you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. Direct to at Mr. W. Cruikshank’s, St. James’s Square, New Town, Edinburgh. me LXVII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [‘‘ Burns had a memory stored with the finest poetical passages, which he was in the habit of quoting most nptly in his correspondence with his friends: and he de- lighted also in repeating them in the company of those friends who enjoyed them.?? These are the words of Ainslie, of Berrywell, to whom this letter is addressed.] Arracher, 28th June, 1787. My DEAR Sir, I write on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which sparingly support as savage inhabitants. My Jast stage was Inverary—to-morrow night’s stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- swered your kind letter, but you know I am a man of many sins. R. B. LXVIII. TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. [This visit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, veginning *‘ Blythe, blythe and merry was she ;? and the 1 Johnson, the publisher and proprietor of the Musical Mfuseum. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE lady who inspired it was at his side, when he wrote this etter.] Auchtertyre, Monday, June, 1787. My DEAR SIR, I rnp myself very comfortable here, neither oppressed by ceremony nor mortified by neg- lect. Lady Augusta is a most engaging woman, and very happy in her family, which makes one’s outgoings and incomings very agreeable. I called at Mr. came up the country, and am so delighted with him that I shall certainly accept of his invita- tion to spend a day or two with him as I return. I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. Ramsay’s of Auchtertyre as I Make my kind compliments to Mr. and Mrs Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is returned. I am eyer, dear Sir, Your deeply indebted, R. B. LXIx. TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, ESQ. ST. JAMES’S SQUARE, EDINBURGH. [At the house of William Cru kshank, one Mossgiel, Tth July, 1787. My pear RiIcHMOND, I aw all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confounder of right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to an- swer his indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the practice of the court so different from the practice in which he has for so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connexions truly of that tremble well left- handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, kind, which I rather doubt, may for his sake. His chicane, his to such good purpose, here, like other accom- plices in robbery and plunder, will, now the | piratical business is blown, in all probability | turn the king’s evidences, and then the devil’s bagpiper will touch him off ‘‘ Bundle and go!” If he has left you any legacy, I beg your par- don for all this; if not, I know you will swear to every word I said about him. I have lately been rambling over by Dumbar- ton and Inverary, and running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- landman; his horse, which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged | across before my old spayin’d hunter, whose name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all, and down came Jenny and my bardship; so I have got such a skinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at least four weeks before I dare venture on my journey to Edinburgh. Not one new thing under the sun has hap- pened in Mauchline since you left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or, if heaven pleases, more so; but, at all events, I trust you will let me know of fourse how matters stand with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor consolation to tell the world when ‘aatters go wrong; but you know very well your ronnexion mine stands on a and different | footing. I am ever, my dear friend, yours, R. B. | gree of his esteem. LXXII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [This letter, were proof wanting, shows the friendly and familiar footing on which Burns stood with the Ajnslies, and more particularly with the author of that popular work, the ‘* Reasons for the Hope that is in us.’’] Mauchline, 23d July, 1787. My pEAR AINSLIE, THERE is one thing for which I set great store by you as a friend, and it is this, that I have not a friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk nonsense without forfeiting some de- Now, to one like me, who never cares for speaking anything else but non- sense, such a friend as you is an inyaluable treasure. I was never a rogue, but have been a fool all my life; and, in spite of all my endea- yours, I see now plainly that I shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my heart to have met with such a fellow as you, who, thougn you are not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never listen so much to the temptations of the devil as to grow so very wise that you will in the least disrespect an honest follow be- cause he is a fool. Inshort, I have set you down as the staff of my old age, when the whole list of my friends will, after a decent share of pity, have forgot me. Though in the morn comes sturt and strife, Yet joy may come at noon; And I hope to live a merry, merry life When a’ thir days are done. Write me soon, were it but a few lines just to tell me how that good sagacious man your father is--that kind dainty body your mother— that strapping chiel your brother Douglas—and my friend Rachel, who is as far before Rachel of old, as she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. R. B LX XII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [The ‘savage hospitality,”’of which Burns complains in this letter, wasat that time an evil fashion in Scotland: | the bottle was made to circulate rapidly, and every glass was drunk ‘* clean caup out.’’] Mauchline, July, 1787. My pEAR Sir, My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued hurry; that savage hospitality whichOF knocks a man down with strong liquors, is the devil. I Eave a sore warfare in this world; the devil, the world, and the flesh are three formi- dable foes. The first I generally try to fly from; the second, alas! generally flies from me; but the third is my plague, worse than the ten plagues of Egypt. I have been looking over several farms in this country ; one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my offer to the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence farmer at Whit- Sunday. If farming do not appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my other shift: but this to a friend. I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning; now long I stay there is uncertain, but you will know so soon asI caninform you myself. How- ever I determine, poesy must be laid aside for some time; my mind has been vitiated with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to habituate it to the routine of business. I am, my dear Sir, Yours sincerely, R. B. LXXIV. TO DR. MOORE. | Dr. Moore was one of the first to point out the beauty of the lyric compositions of Burns. ‘*‘Green grow the Rashes,’ and of the two songs,” says he, ‘* which follow, beginning ‘Again rejoicing nature sees, and ‘The gloomy night is gathering fast; the latter is exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such compositions which you ought to indulge: no kind of poetry deinands more delicacy or higher polishing.» On this letter to Moore all the biographies of Burns are founded. } Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. Srr, For some mouths 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 miserable 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 faith- ful account of what character of a manI am, anit how I came by that character, may perhaps bmuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative, though I know it will be often at my own expense ; forI assure you, Sir, ROBERT BURNS. 00) I have, like Solomon, whose character, except- ing in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes 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 pe. rused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitching 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 as- sume that character which the pye-coated guar- dians 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 but ignoble blood Has crept thro’ scoundrels ever since the flood.”? Pope. Gules, purpure, argent, &c., quite disowned me My father was of the north of Scotlund, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis fortunes on the world at large; where, after many years’ wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observa- tion and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom—lI have met with few who understood men, their man- ners, and their ways, equal to him; but stub- born, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungo- vernable irascibility, are disqualifying circum- stances; consequently, 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 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 favourito with anybody. Iwas a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot! piety. I say idiot piety, because 1 was then 1 Tdiot for idiotic. eI Se Tae eel en ee ee - es pn rn Se ei tne a eel pe al ok ea oe > Fee TE a a a NN A a ol TE eeeBo2 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE but a child. Though it 20st the schoolmaster | bounds or limits. I formed several connexiong son’s beginning, ‘‘ How are thy servants blest, | with these my young friends and benefactors, as O Lord!” I particularly remember one half- | they occasionally went off for the East or West stanza which was music to my boyish ear— { | = 1 Teer. . ere ‘ 7 m 7 | e ° = ° Tella was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addi- | tainted, helped me to alittle French. Parting | | Indies, was often to me a sore afiliction; but l \ | | some thrashings, I made an excellent English | with other younkers, who possessed superior ad- | | | | scholar; and by the time I was ten or eleven years | vantages; the youngling actors who were busy a of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and | in the rehearsal of parts, in which they were | | particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, | shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, | | I owed much to an old woman who resided in | alas! I was destined to drudge behind the ; the family, remarkable for her ignorance, cre- scenes. Itis not commonly at this green age, | i dulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, | that our young gentry have a just sense of the tl | the largest collection in the country of tales and | immense distance between them and theirragged Hie songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brow- | playfellows. It takes a few dashes into the ma nies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf- | world, to give the young great man that proper, Hi candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, can- | decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insig- H traips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and | nificant stupid devils, the mechanics and pea- i! other trumpery. ‘This cultivated the latent | santry around him, who were, perhaps, born in vail seeds of poetry; but had so strong an effect on | the same village. My young superiors never my imagination, that to this hour, in my noc- | insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough- Ha turnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look | boy carcase, the two extremes of which were be an | out in suspicious places; and though nobody | often exposed to all the inclemencies of all tho : | | can be more sceptical than I am in such mat- | seasons. They would give me stray volumes of ters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy | hooks; among them, even then, I could pick up f to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest | some observations, and one, whose heart, I am iH composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, | sure, not even the ‘‘ Munny Begum” scenes have | i i ee be ‘“¢ For though in dreadful whirls we hung | was soon called to more serious evils. My High on the broken wave—”’ | father’s generous master died! the farm proved I met with these pieces in Mason’s English Col- | aruinous bargain; and to clench the misfortune, rit lection, one of my school-books. The first two | we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for | books I ever read in private, and which gave me | the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of | more pleasure than any two books I ever read | ««The Twa Dogs.” My father was advanced in since, were The Life of Hannibal, and The Histo- | life when he married; I was the eldest of seven ry of Sir William Wallace. ‘Jannibal gave my | children, and he, worn out by early hardships, | young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in | was unfit for labour. My father’s spirit was ani raptures up and down after the recruiting drum | soon irritated, but not easily broken. There and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to | was a freedom in his lease in two years more, | } 1 | be a soldier; while the story of Wallace poured | and to weather these two years, we retrenched || a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will | our expenses. We lived very poorly: I was a boil along there till the floodgates of life shut | dexterous ploughman for my age; and the next in eternal rest. ee - .- ee — ant : : ae | eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who could | Ka | J olemigal divinity about this bimenyas putting | drive the plough very well, and help me to | the CO half mad, and I, ambitious of shin- | thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, HH ing in conversation parties on Sundays, between | have viewed these scenes with some satisfac- | sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years after- | tion, but so did not I; my indignation yet boils | wards to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat | at the recollection of the scoundrel factor’s in- | | and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and ery of | golent threatening letters, which used to set us | | heresy against me, which has not ceased to this | all in tears. mani hour. | his kind of life—the cheerless gloom of a ail My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to | hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- | | slave, brought me to my sixteenth year; a little before which period I first committed the sin of | | bur catechism definition of infinitude, without | rhyme. You know our country custom of cou- ST a Se en ae I | ; ay ' . ° eye | EA me. My social disposition, when not checked Hi by some modifications of spirited pride, was like ee a eresOF ROB KR au iv T BURNS. pling 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 of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language, but you know the Scottish idiom: she was a ‘‘bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass.’ In short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and bookworm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below! How she caught the contagion I cannot tel) ; you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c.; 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 Aolian harp; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over hor little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her fa- vourite reel to which I attempted giving an em- bodied vehicle in ryhme. I was not so presump- tuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin; but my girl sung a song which was said to be composed by a small coun- try laird’s son, on one of his father’s maids, with whom he was in loye; and I saw no rea- son why I might not rhyme as well as he; for excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me began love and poetry; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest en- joyment. 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 coun- try. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at tl wise the affair would have been impracticable. 1e commencement of his lease, other- For four years we lived comfortably here, but a difference commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, after three years tossing kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest! 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 period, perhaps, the most ungainly awkward boy in the parish—no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon’s and Guthrie’s Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of mo- dern 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 Pantheon, Locke’s Essay on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse’s His tory of the Bible, Justice’s British Gardener’s Directory, Boyle’s Lectures, Allan Ramsay’s Works, 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 walking to labour, song by song, verse and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father yas just saved from the horrors of a jail, by a consumption, which, after two years’ promises, 23 by verse; carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. Iam con- vinced 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 unaccountable antipathy against these meetings, and my going was, what to this moment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was sub- ject to strong passions; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissi- I say dissipation, comparatively with the strict- pation which marked my succeeding years. ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presby- terian 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 mis- fortune of my life was to want 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 were the gate of nig- gardly economy, or the path of little chican- I Ta ae nT ee ee) = “ : = SISTER SP ANTI ee) PEA NT eee ee eee it Oe as IK ao ae a a ee a a EE aayGENERAL CORR JSPONDENCE | . ; : “st is ac é spent my nineteenth summer on a smug- | ing bargain-making. The first is so contracted co I spent my Se 0 smug ii | an aperture [ never could squeeze myself into gling coast, a good distance from home, at a | Way it--the last I always hated—there was con- noted school to learn mensuration, surveying, { il ‘amination in the very entrance. Thus aban- | dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good | { i} doned of aim or view in life, with sociability, as well from native a strong | progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband appetite for trade was at that time very successful, and it hilarity as from a pride of observation and re- mark; a constitutional melancholy or hypochon- sometimes happened to me to fall in with those : C LAaTyPleE } Ga c TV OCeAr)] +y j driasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these | who carried it on. scenes of swaggering riot incentives to social life, my reputation for book- | and roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to me: but I was no enemy to social life. Here, ish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense; and it will not seem | without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went surprising that I was generally a welcome cuest | on with a high hand with my geometry, till the S : > € s J oD | = ’ where I visited, or any great wonder that | sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette, Liha hnath th always, where two or three met together, there was among them. But far beyond all other | who lived next door to the school, overset my impulses of my heart, was un penchant a Vadora- | trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from ble moitié du genre humain. My heart was com- the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other; and, as in every other on with my sines and co-sines for a few days more; but stepping into the garden one charm- heehee at! warfare in this world, my fortune was various; | Ing noon to take the sun’s altitude, there I met sometimes I was received with favour, and some- | my angel, . . | times I was mortified with a repulse. At the ‘«« Like Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fuirer flower 221 plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no com- petitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; It was in vain to think of doing any more as é gs : as yer are § »y ‘oY Ty abo rs zs . . ae a ee ere red farther so my lab a good at school. The remaining week I stayed I than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the | giq nothing but craze the faculties of my soul renings in the way : y own heart. evenings in the way ater my own heart. A'| gpout her, or steal out to meet her; and the country lad seldom carries on a love adventure two last nights of my stay in the country had . . . c 5 os J) mes vi) without an assisting confidant. I possessed a sleep been a mortal sin, the image Ofte modest curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that re- | ang innocent girl had kept me guiltless. commended me as a proper second on these I returned home very considerably improved Oconsions), and I dare say, I felt as much plea My reading was enlarged with the very import- sure in being in the secret of half the loves of | ant addition of Thomson’s and Shenstone’s Oe — - oo —s athe hd oe parish a Tarbolton, a8 ucudid statesman | works; I had seen human nature in a new c oO 3 5 . ste : : s Se eae ess! (non, wae ea a US! ep lows to keep up a literary correspondence with seems to know instinctively the well-worn path of 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 be- tween 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 the day-book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course my imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; and is with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love-adyentures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage: but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice baptize these things by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty they are mat- ters 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 ne ¢ . 1 . ‘ . Toe = gome alteration in my mind and manners, was, 1 Paradise Lost, b. 1Vv eee ae et ete eee: oreOF ROBERT BURNS. 355 ua ss | a eee till my twenty-third year. Vive Vamour, et vive | gave him a genteel education, with a view of la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out into Gave me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie | the world, the poor fellow in : ‘ 2 . | > —Tristram Shandy and the Man of Feeling were | sea; where, after The addition of two more authors to my library despair went tc a variety of good and ill-for- my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling | tune, a little before I was acquainted with him walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in | he had been set on shore by an Americ: an pri- according to the humour of the hour. I had I vateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, strip- | ues of everything. I cannot quit this poor fel- took up one or other, as it suited the moment: ry | low’s story without adding, that he is at this tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it | usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand: time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging bordered on fatigue. My passions, cat once | to the Thames. lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they His mind was fraught with independence, got vent in rhyme; and then the conning over magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet! | and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and None of the rhymes of those days are in print, | of course strove to imitate him. In some mea- except ‘‘ Winter, a dirge,” the eldest of my | sure I succeeded; I had pride before, but he printed pieces; ‘‘The Death of poor Maillie,” | taught it to flow in proper channels. His know- ‘‘John Barleycorn,” and songs first, second, and | ledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, third. Song second was the ebullition of that | and I was all attention to learn. He was the passion which ended the forementioned school- only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than business. | myself where woman was the presiding star; My twenty-third year was to me an import- | but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a ant «ra. Partly through whim, and partly | sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- that I wished to set about doing something in | ror. Here his friendship did mea mischief, and the consequence was, that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the ‘*Poet’s Welcome.”! My reading only increased while in this town life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair. My * * * and to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to | Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth | idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious a@ sixpence. pieces that are in print, I had given up; but I was obliged to give up this scheme; the | meeting with Fergusson’s Scottish Poems, I clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round | strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emu- my father’s head; and, what was worst of all, | lating vigour. When my father died, his all he was visibly far gone in a consumption; and | went among the hell-hounds that growl in the to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I | kennel of justice; but we made a shift to col- adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet | lect a little money in the family amongst us, me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with | with which, to keep us together, my brother and peculiar circumstances of mortification. The I took a neighbouring farm. My brother want- finishing evil that brought up the rear of this | ed my hair-brained imagination, as well us my infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy | social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, being increased to such a degree, that for three | and every sober qualification, he was far my su- months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be | perior. envied by the hopeless wretches who have got I entered on this farm with a full resolution, . : . . 7. 72 . 1) _ . sy . their mittimus—depart from me, ye cursed! *“come, go to, I will be wise!” I read farming From this adventure I learned something of a books, I calculated crops; I attended markets ; town life; but the principal thing which gave and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed wich | and the flesh, I believe I should have been a a young fellow, a very noble character, but a | Wise man; but the first year, from unfortunately hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of | buying bad seed, the second from a late har- 1 “Rob the Rhymer’s Welcome to his Bastard Chi'd * —See Poem XXXIITI. a simpi2 mechanic; but a great man in the | keighbourhood taking bim under his patronage, RTE eC Pupp nT peer en tee) Se ee - - ae DIS RT pea RAY PE aba 1 Ade Pele et ee —o A a eT a A Re ee eeeSk Seen oe enn x te tte hae at vai ak LA ah ali r on nel ee a Reet are 356 vest, we lost half our crops. This overset all | and I returned, ‘like the dog to | my wisdom, at was washed, to her his vomit, and the sow th wallowing in the mire.” I now began to be known in the ne The first of my poetic as a burlesque la- ighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. offspring that saw the light, w a quarrel between two reverend mentation on Calvinists, both of them dramatis persone in “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, put that I thought it pretty clever. With a cer- tain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. “ Holy Willie’s Prayer” next 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 pro- fane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wander- ings led me on another side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- tunate story that gaye rise to my printed poem, ‘«¢The Lament.” This was a most melancholy | merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had aifair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the | chest was on the road to Greenock; I had com- principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reck- oning of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother; in truth it was only nominally mine; and made what little prepara- tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my native country for ever, I resolved | applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion, to publish my poems. I weighed my produc- tions as impartially as was in my power; I | Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so thought they had merit; and it was a deli- cious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears—a y ero-driver— . eth : . : : . poor negro-driver—or perhaps a victim to that | shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits! I can truly say, that pawvre inconne as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion that the mis- takes and blunders, both in a rational and reli- gious point of view, of which we see thousands | classes of men, but all of them new to me, and daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselyes.—To know myself had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone; I balanced myself with others; I watched every rT AT \ GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE iS r!C«r | . . means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet; I studied assiduously Nature’s design in my formation— where the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confident my poems | would meet with some applause; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, of which I had got sub- scriptions 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. was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. This sum came very seasonably, as I As soon as I ras master of nine guineas, the price of waft- ing me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage pas- sage 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 uncoupled the taken the last farewell of my few friends; my posed the last song I should ever measure in Jaledonia—‘‘The gloomy night is gathering fast,” when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose that I would meet with encouragement in much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of in- troduction. The baneful star that had so long made a revolution to the nadir; and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glen- cairn. Oublie-moi, grand Dieu, si jamais Je Voublie! I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was ina new world; I mingled among many I was all attention to “catch” the characters and «the manners living as they rise.” Whe. ther I have profited, time will show. * x ¥ * | | | |OF ROBER My most respectful compliments to Miss Wil- Jiams. Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is re- quisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. | R. B. LXXY. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ, BERRYWELL DUNSE. (This characteristic letter was first published by Sir Harris Nicolas; others, still more characteristic, ad- dressed to the same gentleman, are abroad: how they ascaped from priyate keeping is a sort of a riddle.]} Lidinburgh, 23d August, 1787. *f As I gaed up to Dunse To warp a pickle yarn, Robin, silly body, He gat me wi? bairn.” From henceforth, my dear Sir, I am deter- T BURNS. gn | If this does not please you, let me hear from you; if you write any time before the 1st of September, direct to Inverness, to be left at the post-office till called for; the next weak at Aberdeen, the next at Edinburgh. The sheet is done, and I shall just conclu le with assuring you that I am, and ever with pride shall be, My dear Sir, &e. R. B, Call your boy what you think proper, only interject Burns. What do you say to a Scrip- ture name? Zimri Burns Ainslie, or Archito- phel, &c., look your Bible for these two heroes, if you do this, I will repay the compliment LXXVI. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. [No Scotsman will ever read, without emotion, the mined to set off with my letters like the period- | poet’s words in this letter, and in “‘Scots wha hae wi : ; n . : Talla -¢ : a}e : Steg ies. ical writers, viz. prefix a kind of text, quoted | Wallace bled,” about Bannockburn and its glories.] from some classic of undoubted authority, such as the author of the immortal piece, of which my text is a part. What I have to say on my text is exhausted in a letter which I wrote you the other day, before I had the pleasure of re- ceiving yours from Inverkeithing; and sure never was anything more lucky, as I have but the time to write this, that Mr. Nicol, on the opposite side of the table, takes to correct a proof-sheet of a thesis. They are gabbling Latin so loud that I cannot hear what my own soul is saying in my own skull, so I must just give you a matter-of-fact sentence or two, and end, if time permit, with a verse de rei e@enera- tione. To-morrow I leave Edinburgh in a chaise; Nicol thinks it more comfortable than horseback, to which I say, Amen; so Jenny Geddes goes home to Ayrshire, to use a phrase of my mother’s, wi’ her finger in her mouth. Now Tor a modest verse of classical authority: The cats like kitchen; The dogs like broo; The lasses like the lads weel, And th’ auld wives too. CHORUS, And we’re a’ noddin, Nid, nid, noddin, We re a’ noddin fou at e’en. Stirling, 26th August, 1787. My prEaAR Sir, IT INTENDED to have written you from Edin- burgh, and now write you from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inver- ness, with a truly original, but very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the High-school, in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, and have passed, besides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- kirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morn- ing I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer, for Old Caledonia, over the hole in a blue whin- stone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops are very strong, but so very late, that there is no harvest, except a ridge or two per- haps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from Edinburgh. I left Andrew Bruce and family all well. I will be at least three weeks in making my tour, as I shall return by the coast, and haye many people to call for. Hd neha Tete. nti isesiee Sn natin i en a ee EN en ee ar rein ella eee a asa ay areca a a ee ee eee ee0 iy wi ———————— ee ———————E—————Ee—E ee rea SP ashi ait tc dean an eda Liao vores CE ON ee tet ge 358 Delis fe Se My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and fellow-saint ; and Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. I hope Hughoe is going on and prospering with God and Miss M‘Causlin. If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you hear every other post; but a dull, mat- ter-of-fact business, like this scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes, the better. Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and ever shall be, My dear Sir, Your obliged, R. B. LXXVII. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. [It is supposed that the warmth of the lover came in this letter to the aid of the imagination of the poet, in his account of Charlotte Hamilton. } Stirling, 28th August, 1787. My DEAR Sir, Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk and Sterling, and am delighted with their ap- pearance: richly waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no harvest at all yet, except, in one or two places, an old wife’s ridge. Yesterday GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE morning I rode from this town up the meander- ing Devon’s banks, to pay my respects to some After breakfast, we made a party to go and see the famous Cau- Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, about five miles above Harvieston; and after spending one of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the evening. not had any prior tie; though they had not They are a family, Sir, though I had been the brother and sisters of a certain gene- rous friend of mine, I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen them these several years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks are now. Your brother is as tall as you are, but slender rather than other- wise; and I have the satisfaction to inform you that he is getting the better of those consump- tive symptoms which I suppose you know were threatening him. His make, and particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. (I put in the word s/il to please Mrs. Hamilton.) the same time a just idea of that respect that Good sense, modesty, and at man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking features in his charac- ter; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a heart that might adorn the breast of a poet! Grace has a good figure, and the look of health and cheerfulness, but no- thing else remarkable in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first; but as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the native frankness of her manner, and the Of Charlotte I cannot speak in common terms of admiration: sterling sense of her observation. she is not only beautiful but lovely. Her form is elegant; her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness and the settled complacency of good nature in the highest degree; and her complexion, now that she has happily recovered her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet’s. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne’s mistress :— «Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinetly wrought, That one would almost say her body thought.” Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realm might own with pride; then why do you not keep up more correspondence with these so amiable I had a thousand questions to I had to describe the little They young folks? answer about you. ones with the minuteness of anatomy. were highly delighted when I told them that John was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie was going on still very pretty ; but I have it in commission to tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore throat somewhat marred our enjoyment. I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ham- ilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. | I shall probably write him from some stage 0! | | other. I am ever, Sir, Yours most gratefully,ROBERT BURNS. dd LXXVIII. TO MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE. {Professor Walker was a native of Ayrshire, and an accomplished scholar; he saw Burns often in Edinburgh ; fe taw himat the Earl of Athol’s on the Bruar: he visited hin :90 a) Dumfries; and after tne copyright of Currie’s edition fF xe poet’s works expired, he wrote, with much taste anc resting, his life anew, and edited his works— what passed under his own observation he related with truth and ease.] Inverness, 5th September, 1787. My prEar Sir, I HAVE just time to write the foregoing,! and to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) the effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol’s chat and the jogging of the chaise would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to | the noble family of Athol, of the first kind, { shall ever proudly boast; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my hour of need! I shall never forget. The ‘little angel-band !” I declare I prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble duchess, with her smiling little seraph in her lap, at the head of the table; the lovely ‘olive plants,” as the Hebrew bard finely says» round the happy mother: the beautiful Mrs. G—; the lovely sweet Miss C., &c. I wish I had the powers of Guido to do them justice! My Lord Duke’s kind hospitality —markedly kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintray’s charms 9 of conversation—Sir W. Murray’s friendship. In short, the recollection of all that polite, agreeable company raises an honest glow in my bosom. LXXIX. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. [The letters of Robert to Gilbert are neither many nor mm portant: tie latter was a calm, considerate, sensible man, with nothing poetic in his composition: he died lately. much and widely respected.] 1 The Humble Petition of Bruar-water Edinburgh, 17th September, 1787. My pEAR Broruer, I arrivep here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling neat six hundred miles, windings included. My farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through the heart of the Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among cascades and druidical circles of stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athol; thence across the Tay, and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the duke’s seats, where I had the honour of spend- ing nearly two days with his grace and family; thence many miles through a wild country, among cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down the stream through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish music; Badenoch, &c., till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed the country for Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth; there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition says king Duncan was murdered: lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. Ireturned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive, where James Burness, from Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn, though born the same year with our father, walks as vigorously as I can: they have had | several letters from his son in New York. Wil- | liam Brand is likewise a stout old fellow; but | further particulars I delay till I see you, which | will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my | stages are not worth rehearsing: warm as I vas from Ossian’s country, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or fertile carses? I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie’s one night, and dined at Gordon (as- tle next day, with the duke, duchess and fami- ly. I am thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty and many compliments from the north to my mother; and my brotherly compliments tothe rest. I have been trying for a berth for William, but am not likely to be suc cessful. Farewell. Ria as OE Pn aay ee ena toe) ee On ne EE SaaS Ariana tie: obs Seri neon aacio anf en ennai 8 lg aes spa ea Soe ema leetaas banite fan n b Al paeeanaanaE Ba! Se OL a NeSee CSTR ri ceeery orn es eet ee ae T teak ek fail akabeadiae bak eco ts 8 Len esa er eet Od 860 GENERAL if LXXX. | TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. (NOW MRS. HAY.) [To Margaret Chalmers, the youngest daughter of James Chalmers, Esq., of Fingland, it is said that Burns | confided his affection to Charlotte Hamilton: his letters to Miss Chalmers, like those to Mrs. Dunlop, are dis- tinguished for their good sense and delicacy as well as freedom.] | Sept. 26, 1787. | I senp Charlotte the first number of the | songs ; I would not wait for the second number ; ate delays in little marks of friendship, as I nate dissimulation in the language of the heart. | Lam determined to pay Charlotte a poetic com- pliment, if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in number second.’ small attempt on a shred of paper in the book: but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it a description of some kind: the whining cant of love, except in real pas- sion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insuf- ferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that far- | z DA 28 ; | following letter.] , rago, are just a Mauchline * * * * a senseless rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable author of ‘‘ Tullochgo- rum,” ‘“‘ John of Badenyon,” &c. It is by far the finest I suppose you know he is a clergyman. poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you a cop) of it. I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to vait on Mr. Miller about his farms.—Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me ““T Wisdom dwell What a blessed fire-side! credit for a little wisdom. with Prudence.” How happy should I be to pass a winter evening under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe | of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them! What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz! What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- cretion and folly! And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs! Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- Lered in the old way to you. I used all my elo- quence, all the persuasive flourishes of the | 1 Of the Scots Musical Museum You will see a | | CORRESPONDENCE oh | hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to Harvieston, but allinvain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect on the lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day—but that is a ‘tale of other years.” —In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something like the admi- ration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator’s workmanship; I am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their motions, and—wish them good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion dont jat eu Vhonneur @étre un miserable esclave: as for | friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, permanent pleasnre, “ which the world cannot give, nor take away,” I hope; and which | will outlast the heavens and the earth. | | R. B: LXXXI. TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. (That fine song, ‘‘ The Banks of the Devon,’’ dedicated to the charms of Charlotte Hamilton, was enclosed in the Without date. IHAve been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that country. I am rather hopeless in it; but as my brother | is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an ex- ceedingly prudent, sober man (qualities which are only a younger brother’s fortune in our | family), I am determined, if my Dumfries bu- | siness fail me, to return into partnership with | him, and at our leisure take another farm in the neighbourhood. I assure you! look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that [have, to the best of my power, paid her a poetic com- pliment, now completed. The air is admirable: It was the tune of a Gaclic which an Inverness lady sung me when I true old Highland. song, was there; and I was so charmed with it that I begged her to write me a set of it from her sing- ing; for it had never been set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson’s next number ; so Charlotte and you need not spend your pre- I won’t say the poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is cious time in contradicting me.E OF ROBES LT BURNS. 301 very well; and, what is not always the case with compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, fut just. R. B. LXXXII. TO JAMES HOY, ESQ. GORDON CASTLE, [James Hoy, librarian of Gordon Castle, was, it is said, the gentleman whom his grace of Gordon sent with ninessage inviting in vain that ‘‘obstinate son of Latin prose,”’ Nicol, to stop and enjoy himself.] Edinburgh, 20th October, 1787. Sir, I wit defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of Christian principles— << Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.’”—I shall cer- tainly, among my legacies, leave my latest curse to that unlucky predicament which hurried— May that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to tore me away from Castle Gordon. Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league paragraphs; while Declension and Conjugation, Gender, Number, and Time, under the ragged banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eter- nally rank against him in hostile array. Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your acquaintance, by the following re- quest. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edin- burgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest, Scotch enthusiasm, set about collect- ing all our native songs and setting them to music; particularly those that have never been set before. Clarke, the well known musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler, of Wood- houselee, and your humble servant to the utmost of his small power, assist in collecting the old poetry, or sometimes for a fine air make a stanza, when it has no words. The brats, too tedious to _iention, claim a parental pang from my bard- ship. I suy;ose it will appear in Johnson’s se- cond number—the first was published before my acquaintance with him. My request is—‘‘ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,” is one intended for this number, and I beg a copy of his Grace of Gor- don’s words to it, which you were so kind as to repeat tome. You may be sure we won’t pre- fix the author’s name, except you like, though I look on it as nosmall merit to this work that the names of many of the authors of our old Scotch bongs, names ulmos* forgotten, will be inserted. | I do not well know where to write to you—I | rather write at you; but if you will be so oblig- | ing, immediately on receipt of this, as to write | me a few lines, I shall perhaps pay you in kind, | though not in quality. Johnson’s terms are:— | each number a handsome pocket volume, to con- | sist at least of a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the harpsichord, &. The price to | have three numbers I conjecture. subscribers 5s.; to non-subscribers 6s. He will My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr. William Cruikshank’s, St. James’s-square, New-town, Edinburgh. I am, Sir, Your’s to command, R. B. LXXXIII. TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. (The songs of ¢ Tullochgorum,” and ‘ John of Baden- yon,”? have made the name of Skinner dear to all lovers of Scottish verse: he was a man cheerful and pious, nor did the family talent expire with him: his son became Bishop of Aberdeen. ] Edinburgh, October 25, 1 REVEREND AND VENERABLE SIR, 787 Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you | received. have conjured up an airy demon! of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother’s dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw— «‘ Tullochgorum’s my delight!’ The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making, if they please, but, as Job says—‘‘ Oh! that mine adversary had written a book !”—let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and ex- pression, which peculiarly marks them, not only from English songs, but also from the modern efforts of song-wrights in our native manner and language. The only remains of this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rests with you. Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was like- ecannie’?—a ‘wild warloek’- he ‘‘sons of the morn- | | | | wise ‘‘owre | but now he sings among t | ing.” | I have often wished, and will certainly endesa- Demet ed te eal, oie ihested | ete deine a eS ne ee en Le NT Se eed AS ee ee ee Sen ea eel Le eee he ‘) Se Ri J ) Se a Oe Since ok heater ee aE et as tts COR 362 GENERAL your to form a kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic alf ?? overlook most of us; but ‘‘reverence thyself. pur suits, may The world is not our peers, so we challenge the jury. We can lash that world, and find our- selves a very great source of amusement and happiness independent of that world. {dinburgh, There is a work going on in just now, which claims your best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, with the Songs in the English but Beattie and music, that can be found. language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, the music must all be Scotch. Drs. Blacklock sician in town presides over are lending a hand, and the first mu- that department. I have been absolutely crazed about it, collect- ing old stanzas, and every information respect- This last is but at the end of ing their origin, authors, &c. &e. but a very fragment business; his second number—the first is already published —a small account will be given of the authors, particularly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, ‘‘ Tullochgorum,” ‘John of Badenyon,” and ‘‘Ewie wi’ the crookit horn,” go in this second number. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write you, begging that you would let me know where the editions of these pieces may be found, as you would wish them to continue in future times: would b and if you e so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others, that you would think proper to publish, your name will be in- serted among the other authors,—‘ Nill ye, will ye.” One half of Scotland already give your songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you; the sooner the better, as I | leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. — Iam, With the warmest sincerity, Sir, Your obliged humble servant,—R. B. LXXXIV. TO JAMES HOY, ESQ. AT GORDON CASTLE, FOCHABERS. [In singleness of heart and simplicit y of manners James Hoy is said, by one who knee him well, to have rivalled Dominie Sampson: his love of learning and his scorn of wea.th are stil remembered to his honour.] SSI | | | | | | one’s ,ESPONDENCH Edinburgh, 6th Novemcer, .787. DEAR SIR, I woutp have wrote you immediately on re- ceipt of your kind letter, but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered me that I ought to send you something by way of return, When a poet owes anything, particularly when heis indebted for good offices, the payment that usually recurs to him—the only coin indeed in which he probably is conversant—is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: my return I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not obvious reasons, seen, or, perhaps, for cannot see. These I shall send you before I leave | Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending precious hours and still more precious breath: small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful at any rate, they will be, though a esteem for a gentleman whose further acquaint- ance I should look upon as a peculiar obliga- tion. The duke’s song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expres- sion peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old venerabl the author of ‘‘ Tullochgorum,” &c., and the late 5 ’ ? e Skinner, Loss, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay with his contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the world of deathless The mob that many-headed beast, existence and truly immortal song. of mankind, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old song; but as Job says written 4 Baail Ne that mine adversary had Those who think that com- posing a Scotch song is a trifling business—let them try. I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper at- tention to the Christian admonition—“ Hide net your candle under a bushel,” but ‘let your light shine before men.” I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal worse employed: nay, I question if there are perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heayen has favoured with tre tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorioug gift. half a dozen better: dear Sir, Your obliged humble servant, R. B. I am,ROBERT BURNS. LXXXY. TG MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, EDINBURGH. , ‘IT set you down,’’ says Burns, elsewhere, to Ainslie, ‘Cas the staff of my old age, when all my other friends, after a decex, show of pity, will have forgot me.” I 7) 5 Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, Nov. 23, 1787. I Bea, my dear Sir, you would not make an ? appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie’s to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitution, present state of my health, some little vexatious night. Ishall be in to-day till one o’clock if you have a leisure hour. You will think it romantic when I tell you, sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude. My brother’s farm is but a wretched lease, | but I think he will probably weather out the re- maining seven years of it; and after the assist: ance which I have given and will give him, to keep the family together, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two hundred pounds, and instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to find, a farm that I can | certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall | lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred de- posit, expecting only the calls of uncommon soul concerns, &c., I find I can’t sup abroad to- | distress or necessitous old age. These, my lord, are my views: I have resolved | from the maturest deliberation; and now I am that I find the idea of your friendship almost | necessary to my existence.—You assume a pro- per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest wishes at my good things.—I don’t know upon the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in God’s world, but you are so to me. I tell you this just now in the conyiction that some in- equalities in my temper and manner may per- fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship’s pa- tronage is the strength of my hopes; nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at the idea of applying | to any other of the great who have honoured haps sometimes make you suspect that lam not | s0 warmly as I ought to be your friend. R. B. LXXXVI. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [The views of Burns were always humble: he regarded B place in the excise as a thing worthy of paying court for, both in verse and prose.] Edinburgh, 1787. My Lorp, I Know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in a request I am going to make to you; but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, my situation, my hopes and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise; I am told that your lordship’s interest will easily procure me the grant from the commissioners; and your lordship’s patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that shel- tered an aged mother, two brothers, and three me with their countenance. Iam ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the imperti- nence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial; but to your lordship I have not only the honour, the comfort, but the plea- sure of being Your lordship’s much obliged And deeply indebted humble servant, R. B. LXXXVII. TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ, ORANGEFIELD. [James Dalrymple, Esq., of Orangefield, was a gentio man of birth and poetic tastes—he interested himself is the fortunes of Burns.) Edinburgh, 17 87. Dear Sir, I surrose the devil is so elated with his sus- cess with you that he is determined by a coup de main to complete his purposes on you all at once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me; hummed over the rhymes; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- self, they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that I shall ever value witk grateful respect, ‘‘I gapit wide, but naething spak.” I was nearly as much struck as the OE ey pe ees Went nn) Ween oe od eRSe RP ett ork 364 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, wken they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a word. | I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and | as soon as my wonder-scared imagination re- gained its consciousness, and resumed its func- tions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon and the Protestant interest; or St. Peter’s keys to * * * * * %, You want to know howI come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in ‘“‘auld use and wont.” The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent Being, whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, than any that pliilosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their At best, they are but ill- digested lumps of chaos, only one of them primitive nothing. strongly tinged with bituminous particles and the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped my muse’s fire; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an oppor- tunity of declaring that I have the honour to be, Sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. LXXXIX. TO MISS M N. [This letter appeared for the first time in the ‘‘ Letters to Clarinda,’ a little work which was speedily sup- pressed—it is, on the whole, a sort of Corydon and Phil- lis affair, with here and there expressions too graphic, and passages over-warm, Who the lady wasis not known— or known only to one. } Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James’s Square, New Town, Edinburgh. Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- atious minutes, my head askew, bending over the intended card; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured around ; my pendu- lous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the future letter, all for the important pur- pose of writing a complimentary card to accom- pany your trinket. sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at ‘‘the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.” R. B. LXXXVIII. xO CHARLES HAY, ESQ,, ADVOCATE. The verses enclosed were written on the death of the Lord President Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, Hsy., advoeate, afterwards a judge, under the title of Lord Newton.] Sir, TuE enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion, last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of next morning’s sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other fay that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, Compliment is such a miserable Greenland ex | pression, lies at such a chilly polar distance | from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you. As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands. The hinge of your box I put into the hands The broken glass, likewise, went under review; but deliberative of the proper connoisseur. wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric. I am, dear Madam, With all sincerity of enthusiasm, Your very obedient servant, R. BOF xO, TO MISS CHALMERS. {Some dozen or so, it is said, of the most beautiful ietters that Burns ever wrote, and dedicated to the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, were destroyed by that lady, ina moment when anger was too strong for reflection.} Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 1 HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-wel- come, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte’s goodness,—it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- possible that even you two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of ex- cellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they make a good speech, I shall, after afew letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e’en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly neces- sary appendage to female bliss—A LOVER. Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- ing-places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle: I glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought a wise man—I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, Iam afraid I am a lost subject. ‘*Some folk hae a hantle 0’ fauts, an’ I’m but a ne’er-do-weel.” Afternoon—To close the melancholy reflec- tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carr-ck by the title of the ‘‘ Wabster’s grace :”— ‘¢ Some say we’re thieves, and e’en sae are we, Some say we lie, and e’en sae do we! Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he! ——Up and to your looms, lads.”’ R. B. XCI. TO MISS CHALMERS. [The ‘‘ Ochel-Hills,’? which the poet promises in this etter, is a song, beginning, ROBERT BURNS. 36d ‘¢ Where braving angry winter’s storms The lofty Ochels rise,” written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with the ‘*‘ Banks of the Devon,” in Johnson’s Mu sical Museum. Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion; and ths tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunk- en coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bo- dily constitution, hell, and myself have formed a ‘quadruple alliance” to guaranty the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town; and bind it with all the elegance of his craft. I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of making it, to have youand Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. I enclose you a proof copy of the ‘‘ Banks of the Devon,” which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The ‘Ochel-hills” you shall pro- bably have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches! R. B. XCII. TO MISS CHALMERS. [The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding s2is- graph of this letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he criticised Cromek’s Reliques of Burns, in the Edinburgh Review. ] Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787 I Brain this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my bardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best leg with an air! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed RAR TEE ne Tap Pe RICA Wear eet re) Wn eine ee EE atte areien Soe itemise etm peta me SAS Lg te i Seal ae Se A rs - nr st ry a a er ee OY SFT Cece SA Cr ere CE er —— 366 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE a | ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed shower! earth, after the long-expected shower: I can’t say I am altogether at my ease when Isee anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty ; attended as he always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering contempt; but I have sturdily withstood his Luffctings many a hard-laboured day already, and still my motto is—I pare! My worst enemy is moi-méme. I lie so miserably open to the in- roads and incursions of a mischievous, light- armed, well-mounted banditti, under the ban- ners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wis- dom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of per- petual warfare, and, alas! frequent defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without en- joyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. v. B. XCITTI. TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. (The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested them- relves inal! mattersconnected with literature: the power or the family, unluckily for Burns, was not equal to their taste. ] Edinburgh, December, 1787. Sin, Mr. Mackenzin, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by ***** friends to them, and ho- noured acquaintances to me! but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevo- lence and goodness of heart has interested him- self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these mat- ters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whe- ther formal duty bade, or cold propriety disal- lowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view ma, that you will do me the jus- tice tc believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on | those in upper life, who honour him with a Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a pro- little notice of him or his works. verb, as may, In some measure, palliate that | prostitution of heart and talents, they have at I do not think prodigality times been guilty of. ¢ is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent attention to economy, is almost inseparable from it; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature’s making, a certain mo- dest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the politesse of life—yet is as poor as I am. For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder; learning never elevated my ideas above the peasant’s shed, and I have an inde- pendent fortune at the plough-tail. I was surprised to hear that any one who pre- tended in the least to the manners of the gentle- man, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. Iam, I acknowledge, | too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever pre- | serve. I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness but one—a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unacceptable—the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- piness, and every one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever ca- lumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship he by to ward the blow! XCIV. TO MISS WILLIAMS, ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE. (The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely known; nor 1s ita small honour to her muse that hes tender song of ‘* Evan Banks’? was imputed to Burns byCromek; other editors since hive continued to include it in his works, though Sir Walter Scott named the true author. ] | Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. I Know very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages Etrike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty. The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th and 10th in particular, ‘Where ocean’s unseen bound Leaves a drear world of waters round,” are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurri- cane is likewise fine; and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly From verse 8lst to verse 50th is a Verse 36th, ‘‘ That ”? above it. pretty eulogy on Britain. foul drama deep with wrong,” is nobly expres- sive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather un- worthy of the rest; ‘‘to dare to feel” is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 60th, is admirable. Kither my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses seems ungrammatical :— “ Powers With no gradations mark’d their flight, But rose at once to glory’s height.” Ris’n should be the word instead of rose. Try itin prose. Powers,—their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, ‘For this,” is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and ®2d: but let us try how the thread of connex- son runs,— “For this . The deeds of mercy, that embrace A distant sphere, an alien race, Shal! virtue’s lips record and claim The fairest honours of thy name.?? I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, but this appears to me the only imperfect pas- gage in the poem. The comparison of the sun- beam is fine. The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, OF ROBERT BURNS. I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. The thought, “¢ Virtue ‘ Sends from her unsuliued source, The gems of thought their purest force,” is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 3ist to the 85th, that the ‘* blest decree” is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse 108th, is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery of the captive on the other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus: ‘« Nor ever gut her narrow maze.”’ We are said to pass a bound, but we guita maze. Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful :— ““They, whom wasted blessings tire.’ Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors; **to load a span” is, I am afraid, an unwarrant- In verse 114th, ‘‘Cast the is a fine idea. able expression. universe in shade,” From the 115th verse to the 142d is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, ‘‘ The load of unremitted pain,” is a re- markable, strong expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 148d to verse 208th, is animated with the true life of genius. ‘he picture of oppres- sion,— ‘While she links her impious chain, And calculates the price of pain; Weighs agony in sordid scales, And marks if death or life prevails,”?— is nobly executed. What a tender idea is in verse 108th! In- deed, that whole description of home may vie with Thomson’s description of home, some- where in the beginning of his Autumn. I do not remember to have seen a stronger expres- sion of misery than is contained in these verses :— ‘« Condemned, severe extreme, to live When all is fled that tife can give ”’ The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally original and striking. The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a well done though a hor- rid picture. Iam not sure how far introduc- ing the sailor was right; for though the sailor’s common characteristic is generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an uncon- cerned witness, but, in some degree, an efficient i ts a Tg Tk Ts al, Nike ata Nn mas etn Eg a ee a eT ae a ea aeet Seer eee Sea Sn nn eT PAT ee te ee Teen is~en a eens See ~ the wife wl he Z aghts arts ,’ quo’ the wife when s dence, which I had with grateful pleasure set | was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my | have hung up to lighten your paths, when you future life. | : a ee | are idle enough to explore the combinations an¢OF ROBERT BURNS. relations of my ideas. pike-staif, why a twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I could readily employ. Now for business.—I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which I dare say you have variety: ’tis my first pre- sent to her since! have irrevocably called her mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the first said present from an old and much-vyalued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself pos- sessed of as a life-rent lease. Look on this letter as a ‘‘ beginning of sor- rows;” I will write you till your eyes ache read- ing nonsense. Mrs. Burns (‘tis only her private designation) begs her best compliments to you. R. B. CXVIII. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. [Dugald Stewart loved the poet, admired his works, and enriched the biography of Currie with some genuine reminiscences of his earlier days.] Mauchline, 83d May, 1788. Six, I ENCLosE you one or two more of my baga- If the fervent wishes of honest grati- tude have any influence with that great unknown telles. being who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and happiness will attend your visits to the continent, and return you safe to your native shore. Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as my privilege to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes; as I am sure I could say it with truth, that next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to make life more eomfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your counte- nance, your patronage, your friendly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my tate success in life. R. B. CXIxX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. TA poem, something after the fashion of the Georgics, zus long present to the mind of Burns: had fortune a : | Tis now as plain as a | been more friendly he might have, in due time, produced it.] Mauchline, 4th May, 1788. Mapa, DrypDeEn’s Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with me but the Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en tirely new to me; and has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation: but, alas! when I read the Georgics, 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 dis appointed in the Aineid. Faultless correctness may please, and does highly please, the letterea critic: but to that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions 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 passages where Virgil has ev: dently copied, but by no means improved, Ho mer. Nor can I think there is anything of this owing to the translators; for, from everything I have seen of Dryden, I think him in genius and fluency of language, Pope’s master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion: in some future letter, you shall have my ideas of him; though I am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my want of learn- ing most. v. B. CXX. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. [I have heard the gentleman say, to whom this brie letter is addressed, how much he was pleased with tne intimation, that the poet had reunited himself wth Jear Armour, for he knew his heart was with her.] Mauchline, May 26, 1788. My pEAR FRIEND, I am two kind letters in your debt, but I have been from home, and horribly 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 yaa? future years’ correspondence between us, ‘tis te LE. el a Saat, tnt hk att 5 nent So deerme an LY 5 nL I Meg TL Oe ALT TOL oy eet ee = one a — ee eee Se ee ee ae tae EL ee ee a a ra a il tai nim hn¥ ets eee m= i 4 if S hstnias a Aetna in ee teliteaiieta hin reece ie ee ee ee 18 OR rem teenie ae oe a <— Perak tots dk DN cicada tak ea ek a aa oat y eet ee Tht a dull the istles; letter may be a very kind one. I have to tell you that I have been extremely foolish to talk of excusing dull ep pleasure te in all my buyings, and bargainings fortuna hitherto ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased | it has indeed added to my ~ with this last ¢ anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stabi- resolutions unknown be- has the most sacred lity to my mind, and fore: and the poor girl enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her deport- I am interrupted.—Farewell! my dear R. B. ment. Sir. CXXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. This letter, on the hiring season, is well worth the consideration of all masters, and all servants. In Eng- land, servants are engaged by the month; in Scotland by the half-year, and therefore less at the mercy of the changeable and capricious.] 27th May, 1788. Mapam, I wAveE been torturing my philosophy 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 conceit with the sworn companions of my road through life—insignificance and poverty. There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the good things of this life that give me more vexation (I mean in what J see around me) than the importance the epulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on the con- tracted seale of a cottage. and china. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE but, the caprices of the important few. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman’s fireside, where the planks that com- posed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver 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 Ma- dame, 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 conveniencies, We talked of the insignificant creatures; nay, not- withstanding their general stupidity and ras- cality, 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 impertinent 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 wanton- ness of his pride. R. B. CXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MR. DUNLOP’S, HADDINGTON. [In this, the poet’s first letter from Ellisland, he lays down his whole system of in-door and out-door economy : while his wife took care of the household, he was te manage the farm, and “‘ pena stanza’’ during his hours | of leisure.] Ellisland, 13th June, 1788. << 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, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.” GoLDsMITH. Tus is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- mate of an old smoky spense; far from every object I love, or by whom I am beloved; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul | in the hour of care; consequently the dreary Extreme | objects seem larger than the life. | sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the | gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and dis- | appointments, at that period of my existence 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.OF ROBE RT BURNS Sy © ‘(The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? Or what need he regard his single woes?” &e. Your surmise, Madam, is just; I am indeed » husband. * % x To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stran- ger. 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 affec- tion for her. In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute, she is eminently mistress; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is re- gularly and constantly apprentice to my mo- ther 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 enjoy- ment of my own mind, and unmistrusting con- fidence 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 happiness or misery. The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition; a warm heart, gratefully de- voted with all its powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly hand- some figure; these, I 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. CXXIII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [Had Burns written his fine song, beginning ‘‘ Con- tented wi? little and cantie wi? mair,’? when he penned this letter, the prose might have followed asa note to “le verse: he ralls the Excise a luxury.] Se Ne Ellisland, June 14th, 1788. THs is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in these regious; and during these three days you have occupied more of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding: in Ayrshire I have several variations of friend- ship’s compass, here it points invariably to the pole. My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well—‘‘why should a living man com plain ?” I have lately been much mortified with con templating 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 fel- low-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence 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 modi- fication of dulness. In two or three small in- stances 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 battalions, who haye 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 stu- dies of your profession? You said something about religion in your last. I don’t exactly re- member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- shire; but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- low if once you were married. I make no reser- vation of your being well-married: you have so much sense, and knowledge of human nature, that though you may not realize perhaps the ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- ried. Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situ- | ation respecting provision for a family of chil- | dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step ] | have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, aS os Sa EEE Sint, mtr amine) ee eet eee ao Pac i ofan eh nana kn nnn ms z - mts ‘ a a a a) enn EO Pee SE HAR IY Coat Oty 7. ae ee EE eee 5 — andes Sacre ee ee SPT taat hetiteedeetetatinem a en eo . eee OO ee Parone tk aaa a Se eee viata kel 882 I look to the Excise scheme as certainty of j se Rynrns maintenance !-—luxury to what either Mrs. Burns er I were born to. Adieu. R. B. CXXIV. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [The kindness of Field, the profilist, has not only in- julged me with a look at the original, from which the srofile alluded to in the letter was taken, but has put me in possession of a capital copy.] Mauchline, 23d June, 1788. 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 Connell, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when you give him the parcel. You must not, my friend, refuse tosit. The time isshort: 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 chim- ney-piece that is to be. Adieu, R. B. CXXY. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [‘‘ There is a degree of folly,” says Burns in this let- ter, ‘“in talking unnecessarily of one’s private affairs.” The folly is scarcely less to write about them, and much did the poet and his friend write about their own private affairs as well as those of others.] Lillisland, June 30th, 1788. My prar Sir, I gust now received your brief epistle; and, to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, tak ig she owriti ; en a long sheet of writing-paper, and uave begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last corner. dare not enlarge on the subject until you send tue your direction, as I suppose that will be al- tered on your late mastar and friend’s death. I a ae ae | | Tus letter, my dear Sir, is only a business | | I did not mention it in my letter to you, nor ————""" CEHNERAT CORRESPONDENCE | am concerned for the old LI fellow’s exit, only ag I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any respect—for an old man’s dying, except he hag C been a very benevolent character, or in somé@ particular situation of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event of tne most trifling moment in the world. Manis naturally a kind, benevo- lent animal, but heis dropped into such a needy situation here in this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson hungry, growling, multiplying | pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and | desires about him, ready to devour him for want of other food; that in fact he must lay aside his cares for others that he may look pro- | perly tohimself. You have been imposed upon in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. 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 men- tioned only fifteen shillings to him, I would ra- ther enclose you a guinea note. I have it not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner 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 per- mits. There is a great degree of folly in talking un- | necessarily of one’s private affairs. I have just | | now been interrupted by one of my new neigh- bours, who has made himself absolutely con- temptible in my eyes, by his silly garrulous pru- |riency. 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, spend- thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend forsooth to crack their jokes on prudence; but tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters 1s much more pardonable than imprudence respect- | ing 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, and often met, with the same disingenu- ousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the un- feeling children of parsimony. I have every I am vexed at } Po iy . > ee . d at that affair of the * * *, but 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 ters nsOF ROBERT BURNS. minating in this present scene of existence, man | was in the Highlands. When you 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 convenience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty; whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- ing load of regret and remorse—these are alter- natives of the last moment. You see howI preach. You used occasion- ally to sermonize too; I wish you would, in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift:—<‘ Adieu dear Swift! with all thy faults I love thee en- tirely: make an effort to love own Way. me with all mine !” Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted busimess, that honest friendship, in her sincere way, must have re- farewell ! R. B. course to her primitive, simple, CXXVI. TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, MERCHANT, GLASGOW. [Burns, more than any poet of the age, loved to write out copies of his favourite poems, and present them to his friends: he sent ‘‘ The Falls of Bruar’? to Mr. Lockhart. ] Mauchline, 18th July, 1788. My pear Sir, sia ee return ta Scotland, let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. Mauchline in about ten days. My compliments to Mr. Purdon. truth, but at present in haste, Yours,—R. B. I return ta I am in CXXVII. TO MR. PETER HILL. [Peter Hill wasa bookseller in Edinburgh: David Rar say, printer of the Evening Courant: William Dunbar, an advocate, and president of a club of Edinburgh wits- and Alexander Cunningham, a jeweller, who loved mirth and wine.] My pEar Hitt, I sHALL say nothing to your mad present— you have so long and often been of important service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on conferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift up my face before you. Inthe mean time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it hap- pened to be a cold day in which he made his will, ordered his servants great coats for mourn- ing, so, because I have been this week plagued | | | | | | | | I am just going for Nithsdale, else I would | certain:y have transcribed some of my rhyming things f@ you, in Edinburgh. ‘Fair and lovely are thy works, Lord God Almighty! Who would not praise thee for these thy gifts in thy goodness to the sons of men!” admire them. I declare, one day I had the honour of dining at Mr. Baillie’s, I was almost in the predicament of the children of Israel, when they could not look on Moses’ face for the glory that shone in it when he descended from Mount Sinai. The Miss Baillies I have seen It needed not your fine taste to I did once write a poetic address from the Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I | 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 suc- cessful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the noise and nonsense of self-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me bj 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 pulvilised, feathered, pert coxcomb is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach turns. If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of my cheese. [ know that you are no niggard of your good things amcng your | friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There, in my eye is our friend Smel- lie; aman positively of the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with; when you see him, as, alag’ he | too is smarting at the pinch of distressful cir- cumstances, aggravated by the sneer of contu- melious greatness—a bit of my cheese alone wil se a TO ne OP ee TT LT ESTE Pee ee ee tate) es eae en a a ns ae is inl mle om LI ne TE eeSN Te Neen ene Pah ois Lk Deeb sewer DT et ee eh oT 384 A 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 the morning | mist before the summer sun. 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 super- abundant modesty, you would do well to give it him. David,! 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 bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally larding the lean characters of certain great men in acertain great town. I grant you the periods are very well turned; so, a fresh er 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 he egg. of L My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish also to be a partaker: not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night’s wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps.” Among our common friends I must not forget one of the dearest of them—Cunningham. 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, andif you can help him to anything that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. As to honest J———- S———ee, he is such a contented, happy man, that I know not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- dotes which a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in town. Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have nothing to do with them professedly —the faculty are beyond my prescription. As to their clients, that is another thing; God knows they have much to digest! The clergy I pass by; their profundity of erulition, and their liberality of sentiment; their total want of pride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. 1 Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 2 A club of choice spirits. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE I was going to mention a man of worth whom T have the honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdarroch; but I have spoken to the landlord | of the King’s-Arms inn here, to have at the next | 6 : | county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfries-shire Whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queens- berry’s late political conduct. I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would > not digest double postage. R. B. CXXVIII. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ, OF FINTRAY. [The filial and fraternal claims alluded to in this letter were satisfied with about three hundred pounds, two hun- dred of which went to his brother Gilbert—a sum which made a sad inroad on the money arising from the second edition of his Poems.) Sir, Wuen 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 Shakspeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers, ‘‘ Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master.” For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an officer of Excise. I have, ac- cording to form, been examined by a supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a re- quest for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for; but with anything like business, except manual labour, I am to- tally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late appear- ance 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.OF 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 inde- pendence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my situation. R. B. CXXIX. TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. [The verses which this letter conveyed to Cruikshank were the lines written in Friars-Carse Hermitage: ‘‘ the first-fruits,’? says the poet, elsewhere, ‘‘of my inter- course with the Nithsdale muse.??] Hilisland, August, 1788. i HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer all the particulars of your last kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some business very soon; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall discuss matters vivd voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely well; and an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well remember the circum- stance you allude to, respecting Creech’s opinion of Mr. Nicol; but, as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle in the affair. It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the consequence of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-com- missioned scoundrel A————. If, notwith- standing your unprecedented industry in public, and your irreproachable conduct in’ private life, he still has you so much in his power, what ruin may he not bring on some others I could name ? Many and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the lovely little pledge of your happy union. May the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life delightful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both, which you so ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve! Glance over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu. R. B. ROBER T BURNS. 985 CXXX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The lines on the Hermitage were presented by the poet to several of his friends, and Mrs. Dunlop was among the number.] Mauchline, August 2, 1788. Honovrep Mapam, Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the noble lord’s apo- logy for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once ina fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- sides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house; as at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce ‘where to lay my head.” There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. ‘‘The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith.” The repository of these ‘‘sor- rows of the heart” is a kind of sanctum sancto- rum: and ’tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at particular sacred times, who dares enter into them :— ‘¢ Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords That nature finest strung.” You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this sub ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentle- man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the muses have con- ferred on me in that country :— Thou whom chance may hither lead.! Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- nock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of 1 See Poems LXXXIX and XC Ey Dee ARN Meare eee | aa ie f oy ce STs tar ae ERE a AO iy]nT prank ea Lk Da ha i ea Ee Le a 386 oe the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen not only of this country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts ‘* unhousel’d, unanointed, unan- neal’d :”?— “ * + * * Pity the tuneful muses’ helpless train ; Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main: The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; Ah, that ‘the friendly e’er should want a friend !” The little fate bestows they share as soon; Unlike sage, proverb’d, wisdom’s hard-wrung boon. Let Prudence number o’er each sturdy son, Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; Instinct’s a brute and sentiment a fool! Who make poor will do wait upon J should ; We own they’re prudent, but who owns they’re good ? Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye; God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy! % *% % “ But come x % x Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony’s writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow! you vex me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall.be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell. R. B. CXXXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. {This letter has been o*.en cited, and very proper y, as a proof of the strong attachment of Burns to one who was, in many respects, worthy.] Mauchline, August 10, 1788. My MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend—my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, an- swering a speech from the best of kings! I ex- GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE press myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not from old reason, that I donot read your letters. All your very your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found her- who love their self ‘as women wish to be lords,” as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. got the hint; and not only forbade me her com- Her parents pany and their house, but, on my rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my about- to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my éclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began te be- tray her; and, as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her till my return, when our marriage ras declared. Her happiness or misery were in my hands, and who could trifle with sich a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- of life; but, upon my honour, I have neyer seen the individual in- nion for my journey stance. Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c., without probably entail- ing on me at the same time expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed boarding-schoo’ acquire~ ments, which (pardonnez moi, Madame,) are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry. I like your way in your church-yard lucubra- tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind is my pru- riency of writing to you at large. A page of postis on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, woe IOF tnat I cannot abide it; and double yeast In my miscellaneous revery manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. R. B. CXXXII. TO MBS. DUNLOP. (Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent: she wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay.] Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac epistle; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian :-— ** Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn? Why sinks my soul, beneath each wintry sky ?”? My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country—gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of Pamacl ouetces of my own inability for the struggle of the world—my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children ;—I could indulge these reflections till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, [have sat down to write to you; as I declare upon My soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr. Miller the first time. ’s to dinner for My reception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house quite flatter- ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, tnpromptu. She repeated one or two to the ad- miration of all present. My suffrage as a pro- fessional man, was expected: I for once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- don me, ye my adored household gods, inde- pendence of spirit, and integrity of soul! In the course of conversation, Museum,” ‘‘Johnson’s Musical a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, ‘* Raving winds around her blowing.?? 1 The air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose were the words. Mine, Madam—they are indeed my very best verses ;” she took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says well, ‘‘kino’s caff is re letters, at See Song LII. | R. B. ROBERT BURNS. 387 — better than ither folks’ corn.” I was going ta make a New Testament quotation about “casts | ing pearls” but that would be too virulent, for | the ce is actually a woman of sense and | | taste. | After all that has been said on the other sida | of the question, man is by no means a happy | creature. Ido not speak of the selected few, | favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are | tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected | many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days | are sold to the minions of fortune. eT thought you had never seen it, I would | transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish | ballad, called, ‘‘The Life and Age of Man,” beginning thus: | ‘Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God and fifty-three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, As writings testifie.”’ I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- | ther lived awhile in her girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment | was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of ‘‘the Life and Age of Man.” | Itis this way of thinking; it is these melan- | choly truths, that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men.—If it is a | mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- gination of enthusiasm, ‘¢ What truth on earth so precious as a lie.?? My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; | the soul affianced to her God; the correspond- | ence fixed with heaven; the pious supplication constant as the vicis- and devout thanksgiving, situdes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare | of public life? No: to find them in their pre- | clous importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappoint~ ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the length of my letters. I | return to Ayrshire middle of next week: and it | quickens my pace to think that there will ' be a letter from you waiting me there. | must be here again very soon for my harvest. ad i LE, ath: ence Ceti nani haabrw enor an ial tas ba penn a ae ne TT —by soi, toa LAA See ee SS eel Se CORRESPONDENCE 888 GENERAL ¢ a eo I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in eae making the author you mention place a map of TO MR. BEUGO, Iceland instead of his portrait before his works ‘twas a glorious idea. ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. : : Could you conveniently do me one thing ?— nown engraverin Edinburgh: | whenever you finish any head I should like to [Mr. Beugo was a well-l he engraved Nasmyth’s portrait ol Burns, for Creech have a proof copy 6f at. oo might tell youl r Jition of his Poems; and as he could draw a little, : Z eae long story about your fine genlus; but as what he imoroved, as he called it, the engraving from sittings cannot have escaped you, I nore like, and a little everybody knows less poetic. ] shall not say one syllable about it. R. B. Ellisland, 9th Sept. 1788. of the poet, and made it a little nm My DEAR SIR, Tupre is not in Edinburgh above the number of the graces whose letters would have given me g OF tg CXXXIV. s0 much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which only reached me yesternight. I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest; : me EDINBURGH. but for all that most pleasurable part of life called socIAL CoMMUNICATION, I am here at the very elbow of existence. The only things that TO MISS CHALMERS, [To this fine letter all the biographers of Burns are largely indebted. ] are to be found in this country, in any degree — ar = : ns a2 ao Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16th, 1788. of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose ‘ WHERE are you? and how are you? and is they only know in graces, prayers, &e., and the : : oe ee ae a | Lady Mackenzie recovering her health? for I value of these they estimate as they do their ; eae : : have bad but one solitary letter from you. I plaiding webs—by the ell! As for the muses, : RS ; = ‘ will not think you have forgot me, Madam ; and they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as “ of a poet. For my old capricious but good- natured huzzy of a muse— for my part— «« When thee, Jerusalem. I forget, 7 ee Skill part from my right hand !”” By banks of Nith I sat and wept When Coila I thought on, In midst thereof I hung my harp The willow-trees upon.”’ ‘“‘ My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea.”’ Ido not make my pro- gress among mankind as a bowl does among its I om generally about half my time in Ayrshire | fellows—rolling through the crowd without bear- with my “darling Jean,” and then I, at lucid | ing away any mark of impression, except where intervals, throw my horny fist across my becob- | they hit in hostile collision. webbed lyre, much in the same manner as an I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks old wife throws her hand across the spokes of | by bad weather ; and as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting your- J will send you the ‘‘ Fortunate Shepherdess” | selves much 2 Végard de moi, I sit down to beg as soon as L return to Ayrshire, for there I keep | the continuation of your goodness. I can truly her spinning-wheel. it with other precious treasure. I shall send | say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never Lvabyea/caretulsband, jas) T would not, for.any- | saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feel- thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do not | ings of my soul—I will not say more, put so wish to serve you from any benevolence, or | much as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. other ore Christian virtue; ’tis purely a sel- | When I think of you—hearts the best, minds ne cape oe of my own feelings whenever I | the noblest of human kind—unfortunate even r oe functions would give y lei | an the aladesior lifes wnen I think J hae met Py ot — meee : you lei. | with you, and have lived more of real life with ane a aikOVeAy ea ies happy; you in eight days than I can do with almost any eee deer ee ry Keep nor looks for | body I meet with in eight years—when I think Be Sansa Sennen a I hate the idea of | on the improbability of meeting you in this ue igec tonwrite a letter. I sometimes | world again—I could sit down and cry like a write a friend twice a week, at other times once | child! If ever you honoured me with a place & quarter. : in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more nlOF desert. Iam secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls; and a late important step in my life has kindly taken me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however over- looked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of VILLANY. Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I > married ‘‘my Jean.”? This was not in conse- quence of the attachment of romance, perhaps ; but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- ture’s happiness or misery in my determina- ‘ion, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If Chave not got polite tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, Iam not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of board- fmg-school affectation: and [have got the hand- somest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest zonstitution, and the kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that [ am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnéte homme in the universe; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together either on prose or verse. I must except also from this last a cer- tain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly ; and all the ballads in the country, as she has (O the partial lover! you will cry) the finest ‘‘wood-note wild” I ever heard. Iam the more particular in this lady’s character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house; for this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls; and I am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bar- gain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle éclat, and bind every day after my reapers. To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise in- structions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I vould set all before your view, whatever disre- | ROBERT BURNS. 38U Se re Sc ac this business, I know you would approve of my idea. I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail; I know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fel: low-partakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything unworthy—if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not equats? And if the bias, the instinctive bias, of their souls run the same way, why may they not be rrrenps ? When I may have an opportunity of sending you this, Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, ‘* When one is confined idle within doors by bad weather, the best antidote against ennui is to read the letters of or write to, one’s friends ;” in that case then, if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl you half a quire. I very lately—to wit, since harvest began— wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- ner, of Pope’s Moral Epistles. It is only a short essay, just to try the strength of my muse’s pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of I have likewise been laying the foundation of some it, when once I have heard from you. pretty large poetic works: how the supersitruc ture will come on, I leave to that great maker and marrer of projects—timre. Johnson’s col- lection of Scots songs is going on in the third volume; and, of consequence, finds me a con- One of the most tolerable things I have done in that sumpt for a great deal of idle metre. way is two stanzas I made to an air, a musical gentleman of my acquaintance composed for the anniversary of his wedding-day, which hap- pens on the seventh of November. ‘Take it ag follows :— ‘‘The day returns—my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet,” &c.} I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall make it another letter; and then you may allow your patience a week’a respite between the two. I have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty farewell. &pect you, in common with the world, have for 1 Song LXIX., Sik staan PIN LE, wel aT scth, xX te ee ciikt Ln mnt oe habe ne is oho a Se Le See ee a eet ae Ses ec ee Te ne NTS Sear ee ee eeTIRE a ee lee eee ee ee ~ = = ; ate + : Ne ee ee Farha Lk Dacha a me tt ee eh ae — 390 TD! T N { > IENERAL © OR ee = To make some amends, mes chores Mesdames, | 70 is sec sheet, and for dragging you on to this second sheet, to relieve a little the tiresomeness le prose, I shall transcribe though of my unstu- died and uncorrectib you some of my late poetic I have, these eight or ten months, done very One day in a hermitage on bagatelles ; little that way. the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman In my neighbourhood, who is so good as give mea key at pleasure, I wrote as follows ; myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of supposing the lonely mansion. LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE. « Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed.””! R. B. CXXXV. TO MR. MORRISON, MAUCHLINE. [Morison, of Mauchline, made most of the poet’s fur- niture, for Ellisland: from Mauchline, too, came that eight-day clock, which was sold, at the death of the poet’s widow, for thirty-eight pounds, to one who would have paid one hundred, sooner than wanted it.] Ellisland, September 22, 1788. My prEAR Sir, Necessity obliges me to go into my new house I will inhabit the one end until the other is finished. even before it be plastered. About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him that was ready to perish; if ever you were in a situation that a little kindness would have res- cued you from many evils; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being—get these matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in the beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. I an, After all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours, R. B. ———_—_____ 1 Poems LXXXIX. and XC, RESPONDENCEH OXEXEXGVAL. DUNLOP, DUNLOP. TO MRS. OF [Burns had no great respect for critics who found ble mishes without perceiving beauties: he expresses hi contempt for such in this letter.J Mauchline, 27th Sept. 1788. I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more than once; but scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th instant. To make myself understood; I had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very day he had received mine; andI am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or kind. Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, caterpillar critic; nor are they the fair state- ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- feeling exactitude the pro and con of an author’s merits; they are the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the beauties of I have just arrived from Nithsdale, | | the piece. | and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- back this morning by three o’clock ; for between my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit as follows: ‘‘Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch’s lamenta- tion for the death of her son; an uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years ora?) of age. ‘Fate gave the word—the arrow sped, And pierced my darling’s heart.’” You will notsend me your poetic rambles, but, you seelamno niggard of mine. Iam sure your impromptus give me double pleasure; what falls from your pen can neither be unentertain- ing in itself, nor indifferent to me. The one fault you found, is just; but I cannot please myself in an emendation. What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent! You interested me much in your young couple. I would not take my folio paper for this epis- I am so jaded with my dirty long journey that I was afraid to tle, and now I repent it. | drawl into the essence of dulness with anys 2 Poem XCII. eeOF ROBERT BURNS. 39% ture. CXXXVII. TO MR. PETER HILL. such a genius as his required :—e. g. “To soothe the throbbing passions into peace.” > to the ‘* Seasons.’ “Truth, The soul of every song that’s nobly great.’ nobly great. thing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out another rhyme of this morning’s manufac- cheerfully, to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- shire. R. B. [‘‘ The ‘ Address to Lochlomond,’ which this letter criticises,’’ says Currie in 1800, ‘‘ was written by a gentle- man, now one of the masters of the High-school of Edin- purgh, and the same who translated the beautiful story of ‘ The Paria,’ published in the Bee of Dr. Anderson.’’] Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. I HAVE been here in this country about three | grand picture has interjected a circumstance, days, and all that time my chief reading has been the ‘‘ Address to Lochlomond” you were so obliging as to send tome. Were I impan- nelled one of the author’s jury, to determine his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my | dark between,’ walks of study and composition, before him as a model. Though your author had not men- tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to hint | which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern that his im’'ation of that immortal bard is in | muses altogether. I know not how far this ‘*'To soothe the maddening passions all to peace.”? ADDRESS. THOMSON. I think the ‘“‘ Address” is in simplicity, har- mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal his pinion; only, I do not altogether like— Fiction is the soul of many a song that is Perhaps Iam wrong: this may | be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, page 6, ‘‘Great lake,” too much vulgar- ized by every-day language for so sublime a I will pay the sapientipotent George, most | poem? ‘Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,’? is perhaps no emendation. His enumeratioy of @ comparison with other lakes is at once har- monious and poetic. Every reader’s ideas must sweep the ‘Winding margin of an hundred miles.’? The perspective that follows mountains blue —the imprisoned billows beating in vain—the wooded isles the digression on the yew-tree— ‘* Ben-lomond’s lofty, cloud-envelop’d head,” &c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject which has been often tried, yet our poet in his so far as I know, entirely original :— “the gloom Deep seam’d with frequent streaks of moving fire.” In his preface to the Storm, “the glens how ’ is noble highland landscape! verdict should be ‘guilty! a poet of nature’s | The ‘‘rain ploughing the red mould,” too, is making!” It is an excellent method for im- | beautifully fancied. ‘‘Ben-lomond’s lofty, path- prvvement, and what I believe every poet does, | less top,” is a good expression; and the sur to place some favourite classic author in his own | rounding view from it is truly great: the ——_——_——“‘ silver mist, Beneath the beaming sun,”? is well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with a little of that passion two or three places rather more servile than } episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain’s wish to carry ‘‘some faint idea of the | vision bright,” to entertain her ‘partial lis tening ear,” is a pretty thought. But in my opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Lochlomond’s ‘‘hospitable flood;” their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, Like Thomson, too, he has | &c.; and the glorious description of the sports- looked into nature for himself: you meet with | man. This last is equal to anything in the no copied description. One particular criticism | «‘Seasons.” The idea of ‘‘the floating tribe I made at first reading; in no one instance has | distant seen, far glistering to the moon,” pro- he said too much. He neyer flags in his pro- | yoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, gress, but, like a true poet of nature’s making | is a noble ray of poetic genius. ‘‘ The howling kindles in his course. His beginning is simple | winds,” the ‘‘hideous roar” of the white cas- and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of | cades,” are all in the same style. I forget that while I am thus holding forth with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps turing you with nonsense. I must, however, mention that the last verse of the six- teenth page is one of the most elegant compli a eS t Sae Fie LL tt as atl antnans biaoed S aoa et cere a | =e a pt A a Ae Yt Ly ak ne aba Sa a a a ne a er eI EE Las BS2S ERATE ESE: Neen en ee en eee ee — STENT OT Py eT EITN oz Re RE et ore tan 892 [ie a eS ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph beginning, ‘‘The gleaming lake,” &c. I dare not go into the | particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossiantec. | I must beg your pardon for this lengthened | scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began—I should like to know who the author is; but, whoever he be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me. A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, ‘Letters on the Religion essen- tial to Man,” a book you sent me before; and «« The World unmasked, or the Philosopher the Send me them by the first greatest Cheat.” opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | elegant; I only wish it had been in two volumes. | R. B. CXXXVIII. TO THE EDITOR OF “THE STAR.” [The clergyman who preached the sermon which this letter condemns, was a man equally worthy and stern—a divine of Scotland’s elder day: he received ‘‘a harmoni- ous call’ to a smaller stipend than that of Dunscore— and accepted it. ] November 8th, 1788. Sir, NOTWITHSTANDING the opprobrious epithets with which some of our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature—the prin- ciple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have given us; still the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that they are not natives of the human heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind, who is undone, the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes, who but sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother ? We forget the injuries and feel for the man. I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- ment to the AUTHOR OF ALL Goon, for the con- sequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To that auspicious event we owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious; to it we are like- wise indebted for the present Royal Family, the ruling features of whose administration have ever been mildness to the subject, and tender- ress of his rights. Bred and educated in revolution principles, 1 the principles of reason and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which made my heart revolt at the harsh abusive man~ ner in which the reverend gentleman mentioned the House of Stewart, and which, I am afraid, | was too much the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be the authors of those | evils; and we may bless Gop for all his good- ness to us as a nation, without at the same time cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who | only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most of us would have done, had we been in their situation. «The bloody and tyrannical House of Stew- art”? may be said with propriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family, and the sentiments of our days; but is there no allowance to be made for the manners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stewarts more attentive to their subjects’ Might not the epithets of ‘bloody and at least equal justice, rights ? tyrannical” be, with applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors ? The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be this:—At that period, the science of govern- ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- tween kingand subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and bar- barity. The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- ing; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation and the rights of sub- jects. In this contest between prince and people, the consequence of that light of science which had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of France, for example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of his people: with us, luckily the monarch failed, and his unwarrant- able pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- ling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine; but likewise happily for us, the kingly power was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they owed the throne solely to the callOF of a free people, could claim nothing incon- sistent with the convenanted terms which placed them there. The Stewarts have been condemned and taughed at for the folly and impracticability of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they fai.ed, I bless Gop; but cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who does not know that the abilities.or defects of leaders and com- marders gre often hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency; and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- men, just as they are for or against us ? Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- consistent being; who would believe, Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- finement, while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated with such indignation against the very memory of those who would have subverted them—that @ certain people under our national protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our WHOLE LEGISLATIVE BopyY, for similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our forefa- thers did of the house of Stewart! I will not, I cannot enter into the merits of the cause; but I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as the English Convention was in 1688; and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the wrong-headed House of Stewart. To conclude, Sir; let every man who has a tes: for the many miseries incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- man) who ever looked with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistaks: of the kings of his forefathers. R. B. CXXXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. (The heifer presented to the poet by the Dunlops was ought, at the sale of Ellisland stock, by Miller of Dal- #winton, and long grazed the vastures in his ‘‘ policies’? by the name o*% ‘‘ Burns.’ ] ROBE! ‘T BURNS. 395 Mauchline, 13th November, 1788. MApAm, I wap the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- men because they are weak; if it is so, poets must be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. und Miss G. M’K., with their flattering attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned my head. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron, but they so intoxi- cated me with their sly insinuations and deli- cate inuendos of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection, how much addi- tional weight and lustre your good opinion and friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say one word how much I was charmed with the Major’s friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute re- mark, lest I should be thought to overbalance my orientalisms of applause over-against the finest quey! in Ayrshire, which he made me a present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am determined an- nually, as that day returns, to decorate her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, under the guarantee of the Major’s hospitality. There will soon be threescore and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and now that your friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the heart-strings of. my enjoy- ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of ‘The feast of reason and the flow of Sone B. B. CXL. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, ENGRAVER. [James Johnson, though not an ungenerous man, meanly refused to give a copy of the Musical Museum to Burns, who desired to bestow it on one to whom his family was deeply indebted. This was in the last year of the poet’s life, and after the Museum had been bright« ened by so much of his lyric verse.] Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. My pEaAR Sir, I HAVE sent you two more songs If you have 1 Heifer. Loar SRI i Mk Tse sak, Notes hat tis cheapo as a Sar —— x > = . = Tore ceemnememeteemmne tesserae ee Te ae aL ne SLAeee nn eer ee nt rere oe Le ed eek eh has B94 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE got any tunes, or anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. Ican easily see, my dear friend that you will yery probably have four volumes. Perhaps you may not find your account lucratively in this business; but you are a patriot for the music of your country; and I am certain posterity will look on themselves as highly in- debted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your name shall be immortal. I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every day new musical publications advertised; but what are they? Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then yanish for ever: but your work will outlive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of time. Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion? Let me know a few of her qualities, such as whether she be rather black, or fair; plump, or thin; short, or tall, &c.; and choose your air, and I | shall task my muse to celebrate her. R. B. CXLI. TO DR. BLACKLOCK. (Blacklock, though blind, was a cheerful and good man. ‘‘ There was, perhaps, never one among all man- kind,”? says Heron, ‘whom you might more truly have called an angel upon earth.’?] Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are, or were, out of town, I do not know where this may find you, or whether it will find you atall. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of matrimony, in June; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a stat> of health and spirits te take notice of au idic packet. Ihave done many little things for Johnson, since I had the pleasure of seeing you; and J] lave finished one piece, in the way of Pope’s ‘‘Morai Epistles ;” but, from your silence, I have everything to fear, so I have only sent you two meJancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well suit the tone of your pre- sent feelings, In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to = Do = Nithsdale; till then, my direction is at thig place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, were it but half a line, to let me know how you are, and where you are. CanlI be indifferent to the fate of 2 man to whom I owe so much? A man whom I not only esteem, but venerate. My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and Miss John. ston, if she is with you. I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased with the step I took respecting ‘‘my Jean.” Two things, from my happy experience, I set down as apothegms in life. A wife’s head is immaterial, com- pared with her heart ; and—‘ Virtue’s (for wis- dom what poet pretends to it?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.” Adieu! R. B: [Here follow ‘‘ The Mother’s Lament for the Loss of her Son,’ and the song beginning ‘* The lazy mist hanga § Des 8 J = | from the brow of the hill.??] CXLII. TO MBS. DUNLOP. [The ‘‘Auld lang syne,’? which Burns here introduces to Mrs. Dunlop as a strain of tbe olden time, is as surely his own as T'am-o-Shanter.] Ellisland, 17th December, 1788. My DEAR HONOURED FRIEND, Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very vabappy. ‘Almost blind and wholly deaf,” are melancholy news of | human nature; but wien told of a much-loved and honoured frieod. cbey carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a tie which has gradually en- twisted itself araonz tbe dearest chords of my bosom, andJ trembie at che omens of your late | and present ailirg papi and shattered health. You miscaJeulate matters widely, when you for- | bid my wetins, un you, lest it should hurt my worldly couccras. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what you have Jauly seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that 94 ic may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand considera- tions for which I live: if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions of my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or amagpie at once, and then I shoul¢OF not have been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and picking up grubs; not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, crea- tures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to either of us; but if I hear you are got so well again as tc be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for J will make my threaten- ings good. I am to be at the New-year-day fair of Ayr; and, by all that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you. Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfellow and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world!—They spoil ‘‘ these social offsprings of the heart.”” Two veterans of the ‘‘men of the world” would have met with little more heart- workings than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, ‘‘Auld lang syne,” exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage. ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot !’?1 Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven- inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- ment. There is more of the fire of native genius in it than in half-a-dozen of modern English Bacchanalians! Now I am on my hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which please me mightily :— *‘Go fetch to me a pint of wine.’’2 R. B. CXLIII. TO MISS DAVIES. (The Laird of Glenriddel informed ‘the charming, fovely Davies” that Burns was composing a song in her praisa. The poet acted on this, and sent the song, en- ¢losed in this characteristic letter.] December, 1788. Mapam, I unDERSTAND my very worthy. neighbour y y oD > Mr. Riddel, has informed you that I haye made J you the subject of some verses. There is some- thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- ° So oD then of a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and 1 See Song CCX. 2 See Song LX XII. ROBERT BURNS 393 se meekness, could have resisted the curlosity te know what that ballad was: so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never intended; and reduced me to the un fortunate alternative of leaving your curlosity ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished production of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman who had some genius, much eccen- tricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a character ina more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota bene, to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentleman’s pencil was to him, my muse is to me; and the verses I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste; but I am so often tired, disgusted and hurt with insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a person ‘‘after my own heart,” I positively feel what an orthodox Pro- testant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration; and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an Afolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were gray-bearded-age; but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment are equally striking and unaffected—by heavens! though I had lived three score years a married man, and three score years before I was a mar- ried man, my imagination would hallow the very idea: and I am truly sorry that the in- closed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject. R. B. CXLIV. TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. [The mull of John Currie stood ona small stream which fed the loch of Friar’s Carse—near the house of the dame of whom he sang, ‘‘ Sie a wife as Willie had.?] December 22, 1788. I yesterpay tried my cask of whiskey for the first time, and I assure you it does you great iad ae ak en ered So eee eee 2 mre A A ge at a A a sie gee al Lp nc a clee a ee at a ewret Sa tath Sonne bea Gn nok, eee ieee notional pe) 8 eet) . ee ee ides Os sb EY Fh ee ee =o LTE ATE ee PLOT PERT ee ere SS ees 396 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE Se credit. It will bear five waters strong; or SIX The whiskey of this country liquor ; and, by consequence, ordinary toddy. is a most rascally only drank by the most rascally part of the in- habitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a fo ting here, you might do a great deal of busi- ness, in the way of consumpt; and should you commence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am ignorant if, in your pre- sent way of dealing, you would think it worth your while to extend your business so far as this country side. I write you this on the account of an accident, which I must take the merit of having partly designed to. A neigh- bour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse- mill--a man who is, in a word, a “very” good man, even for a £500 bargain—he and his wife were in my house the time I broke open the cask. They keep a country public-house and sell a great deal of foreign spirits, but all along thought that whiskey would have degraded this house. They were perfectly astonished at my whiskey, both for its taste and strength; and, by their desire, I write you to know if you could supply them with liquor of an equal quality, and what price. Please write me by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife and fork very much at your service. My compliments to Mrs. Ten- nant, and all the good folks in Glenconnel and Barquharrie. Rep CXLY. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The feeling mood of moral reflection exhibited in the following letter, was common to the house of William Burns: ina letter addressed by Gilbert to Robert of this date, the poet is reminded of the early vicissitudes of their name, and desired to look up, and be thankful.] Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. Tunis, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came under the apostle James’s description !—the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. In that case, Madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings : everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquil- lity and self-enjoyment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, should be yours. I own myself so little o Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and beasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habitual routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce our exist- ence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little su- perior to mere machinery. This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end, of autumn; these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ‘‘ The Vision of Mirza,” a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capa- ble of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables: “(On the 6th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer.” We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thine, or struck with that, which, on minds of a g; different cast, makes no extraordinary impres- sion. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare- bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- ding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal morn- ing, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the Aolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the pass- ing accident? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself partial to such proofs of those aw- ful and important realities—a God that made all things—man’s immaterial and immortal nature —and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave. R. B. CXLVI, TO DR. MOORE. [The poet seems, in this letter, to perceive that Ellis- | | land was not the bargain he had reckoned it: he intimated, ene eraOF ROBERT BURNS. 297 - ps the reader will remember, something of the same kind to Margaret Chalmers.] Ellisland, 4th Jan. 1789. Sir, As often as I think of writing to you, whick has been three or four times every week these six months, it gives me something so like the idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a conversation with the Rhodian colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair always mis- carries somewhere between purpose and resolve. Ihave at last got some business with you, and business letters are written by the stylebook. I bay my business is with you, Sir, for you never had any with me, except the business that be- nevolence has in the mansion of poverty. The character and employment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of my late eclat was owing to the singularity of my situation, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do look upon myself as having some pretensions from Nature to the poetic character. [have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the muses’ trade, is a gift bestowed by him ‘who forms the secret bias of the soul ;’—but I as firmly believe, that excellence in the profes- sion is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least lam resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. Another appearance from the press I put off to a very distant day, a day that may never arrive—but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of the profession, the talents of shining in every species of composition. I shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) whether she has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has been so often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye, that one loses, in a good mea- Sure, the powers of critical discrimination. Here the best criterion I know is a friend—not only of abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, Jest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases —heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely indebted to your good- hess, ask the additional obligation of your being that friend tome? I enclose you an essay of mine in a walk of poesy to me entirely new; I mean the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert Graham of Fintray, Esq., a gentleman of uncom: mon worth, to whom I lie under very great ob- ligations. The story of the poem, like most 0° my poems, is connected with my own story, and to give you the one, I must give you something of the other. I cannot boast of Mr. Creech’s ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept ine hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before he would condescend to give me a statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even then, but fora angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. ‘I could” not a “tale” but a detail “unfold,” but what am I that should speak against the Lord’s anointed Bailie of Edin- burgh? I believe I shall in the whole, 1002. copy-right included, clear about 400/. some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what the gentle man has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because you did me the honour to | interest yourself much in my welfare. I give | you this information, but I give it to yourself only, for I am still much in the gentleman’s mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes tempted to have of him—God forbid I should! « A little time will try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the busi- ness if possible. To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married ‘‘my Jean,” and taken a farm: with the first step I have every day more and more reason to be satisfied: with the last, it is rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, who supports my aged mother; another still younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 1807. to save them fromruin. Not that I have lost so much.—I only interposed between my brother and his impending fate by the loan of somuch. I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part: I was con- scious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affec- tion into the scale in my favour, might nelp to smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There is still one thing would make my circumstances quite easy: I have an excise officer’s commis- sion, and I live in the midst of a country divi- sion. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners of excise, was, if in hig power, to procure me that division. If I were near PRN AS, iB en ithe, mbntew ete Leann Seder awre REE SR NS a, ek ee nse PTH « Mk a Pe The ballad is in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, sd. 1833, vol. iii. p, 304 ROBERT BURNS. 41S only your anxiety about his fate, but my oOwk esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly | young fellow, in the little I had of his ac- quaintance, has interested me deeply in hig | | | wreck,” fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the ‘«Ship- which you so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea- thering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth; but he was the son of ob- scurity and misfortune. He was one of those daring advénturous spirits, which Scotland, be- yond any other country, is remarkable for pro- ducing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may here- after wander, and what may be his fate. I re- member a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart: “¢ Little did my mother think, That day she cradled me, What land I was to travel in, Or what death I should die!”"1 Old Scottish song are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine, and nowI am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish :— “©O that my father had ne’er on me smil’d; O that my mother had ne’er to me sung! O that my cradle had never been rock‘d ; But that I had died when I was young ! O that the grave it were my bed; My blankets were my winding sheet; The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a’, And O sae sound as I should sleep !”? I do not remember in all my reading, to have met with anything more truly the language of misery, than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love ; to speak its langnage truly, the author must have felt it. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson? the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, Icannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees 2 The bard’s second son, Francis. Aiken Tere ek tesa, nina ated S neiadetrrwe st ae me al ya eae at cae a Pt SE ne a Oe A oe ROR So ee ee isSiete t teamed pe A a cree EUR RT ROTES 42.0 pa es —_— | | wledges him to be the finest, hand- him, ackno I am myself de- somest child he has ever seen. lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, e dignity in the carriage and a certain miniatur f his fine black eye, of his head, and the glance 0 which promise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. I thought tc have sent you some rhym time forbids. I promise you poetry until you of it, next time I have the honour of es, but | are tired assuring you how truly I am, &c. R. B. CLKXXVI. TO MR. PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. [The Mademoiselle Burns whom the poet inquires about, was one of the ‘ladies of the Canongate,’”? who | desired to introduce free trade in her profession into a close borough: this was refused by the magistrates of Edinburgh, though advocated with much eloquence and humour in a letter by her namesake—it 1s coloured too strongly with her calling to be published.] Ellisland, 2d Feb., 1790. No! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not writing.—I am a poor, ras- cally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where canI find time to write to, or importance to interest anybody? the upbraidings of my conseience, nay the up- braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on your account these two or three months past.— | I wish to God I was a great man, that my cor- vespondence might throw light upon you, to let the world see what you really are: and then I would make your fortune without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. What are you doing, and how are youdoing? Have you lately seen any of my few friends? What is become of the BOROUGH RE- FORM, or how is the fate of my poor namesake, Mademoiselle Burns, decided? O man! but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, that beauteous form, and that once | innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the affectionate mother; and shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have | no. claim on thy humanity ! GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE I saw lately in a Review, some extracts from a new poem, called the Village Curate; send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of The World. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to mention me so kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the copy of his book—I shall write him, my first leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing. Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with further commissions. I call it troubling you,—because I want only, BOOKS; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I want Smollette’s works, for the sake of his in- comparable humour. I have already Roderick Random, and Humphrey Clinker.—Peregrine Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand Count Fathom, I still want; but as I said, the | yeriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am | nice only in the appearance of my poets. I | forget the price of Cowper’s Poems, but, I be- lieve, I must have them. I saw the other day, proposals for a publication, entitled ‘‘Banks’s new and complete Christian’s Family Bible,” | | | | printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster-row, London. —He promises at least, to give in the work, I think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to | which he has put the names of the first artists in London.—You will know the character of the performance, as some numbers of it are pub- lished; and if it is really what it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and send me the published numbers. Let me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust me you shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me to pursue my course in the quiet path of methodical routine. R: B CLAXXVI1. TO MR. W. NICOL. | | | | | | [The poet has recorded this unlooked-for death of the | Dominie’s mare in some hasty verses, whic’ are not much superior to the subject. ] Ellisland, Feb. 9th, 1790. My DEAR SIR, Twat d-mned mare of yoursisdead I wouldOF ROBE RT BURNS. 42] freely have given her price to have saved her; | she has vexed me beyond description. Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can | ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to | have the mare with me. That I might at least show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I took every care of her in my power. She was never crossed for riding above half a score of times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three, for one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in fine order for Dumfries fair; when four or five days before the fair, she was seized with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the neck; with a weakness or total want of power in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebra of her spine seemed to be diseased and un- hinged, and in eight-and-forty hours, in spite of the two best farriers in the country, she died and be d-mned to her! The farriers said that she had been quite strained in the fillets be- yond cure before you had bought her; and that the poor devil, though she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, she was under my own eye, and I assure you, my much valued friend, everything was done for her that could be done; and the accident has vexed me to the heart. In fact I could not pluck up spirits to write to you, on account of the unfortunate business. There is little new in this country. Our the- atrical company, of which you must have heard, leave us this week.—Their merit and character are indeed very great, both on the stage and in private life; not a worthless creature among them; and their encouragement has been ac- cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds a night: seldom less than the one, and the house will hold no more than the other. There have been repeated instances of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be built by subscription; the first stone is to be laid on, Friday first to come. Three hundred guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, and thirty more might have been got if wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was introduced to me by a friend from Ayr; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I have rarely met with. Some nf our clergy haye slipt in by stealth now and ) < | then; but they have got up a farce of their own, | You must have heard how the Rey. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rey. Mr. Kirk- patrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that fac- tion, have accused in formal process, the an- fortunate and Rey. Mr. Heron, of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, feloni- ously and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the confession of faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and the word of God! Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- fully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with fatigue. For these two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. Sutherland two Prologues; one of which was delivered last week. I have likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un fortunate mare, beginning (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) ‘¢Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trod on airn; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o’ Cairn.” My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the family ; I hope Ned isa good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and apples with me next harvest. R. B CLXXXVIII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Burns looks back with something of reg ret to the daya of rich dinners and flowing wine-cups which he experi- enced in Edinburgh. Alexander Cunningham and h’s unhappy loves are recorded in that fine song, ‘ Had la cave on some wild distant shore.’?] Ellisland, 13th February, 1790. I Bea your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- able, unsightly sheet— «¢ My poverty but not my will consents.” But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my ple beian fool’s-cap pages, like the widew of a man ee! Lik inti sg A et Ts sal, komme i meet d amenhige acorns > Creme ae nT eS Oe ne ee ET ST SE eee ee Pa Ee eae a NE SI kan” el ee ee ee a ‘WHA F j } | | | Re ie lt rere LA ane aA $22 vf fashion, whom that anpolite scoundrel, Ne- cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- | apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- | bearing help-mate of a village-priest; or a glass of whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow | of a foot-padding exciseman—lI make a vow to | enclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments | in that my only scrap of gilt paper. | I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three | friendly letters. I ought to have written to | you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have | scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will not write to you; Miss Burnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke of Queensbury to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I cannot write to you; should you doubt it, take the following fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and be convinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute pe- riods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology. December, 1789. My DEAR CUNNINGHAM, WHERE are you? And what are you doing? Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion; or are you, like some other of the worthiest fellows in the | world, the victim of indolence, laden with fet- ters of ever-increasing weight ? What strange beings we are! Since we have | a portion of conscious existence, equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life; whether method, economy, and fertility of expedients be not applicable to enjoyment, and whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which renders our little scantling of happiness still less; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- rence. There is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent competency, respec- table friends, are real substantial blessings ; and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good things contrive not- withstanding to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them haye fallen? I believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct 1S owing to a certain stimulus, with us called umbition, which goads us up the hill of life, not %s we ascend other eminences, for the laudable GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE curiosity of viewing an extended landscapn, but rather for the dishonest pride of look ing down on others of our fellow-creaturesg, seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, & &e. Sunday, 14th February, 1790. Gop help me! I am now obliged to “ Jom night to day, and Sunday to the week.?! If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am d—mned past redemption, and what is worse, d—mned to all eternity. |] am deeply read in Boston’s Four-fold State, Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie’s Trial of a Saving Interest, &c.; but ‘‘there is no balm in Gilead, there is no physician there,” for me; so I shall e’en turn Arminian, and trust to ‘‘sin- cere though imperfect obedience.” Tuesday, 16th. Luckily for me, I was prevented from the dis- cussion of the knotty point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and care are of this world: if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist: but I fear, every fair, unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a sceptic. Itis not that there are any very stag- | gering arguments against the immortality of man; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c., the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want data togoupon. One thing frightens me much: that we are to live for ever, seems too good news to be true. That we are to enter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt from want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends without satiety or separation—how much should I be indebted to any one who could fully assure me that this was certain! My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his concerns! And may all the powers that preside over conviviality and friendship, be pre- sent with all their kindest influence, when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet! IJ wish I could also make one. Finally, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever things are kind, thisx on these things, and think on RR: B: 1 Young. Satire on Women.OF ROBERT BURNS. ie CLXXXIX. TO MR. PETER HILL. {That Burns turned at this time his thoughts on the Arama, this order to his bookseller for dramatic works, ns well as his attendance at the Dumfries theatre, afford proof, Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. Ar a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it was resolved to augment their library hy the following books, which you are to send us as soon as possible: — The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, (these, for my own sake, I wish to have by the first carrier), Knox’s History of the Reforma- tion; Rae’s History of the Rebellion in 1716; any good history of the rebellion in 1745; A Display of the Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. Gibb; Hervey’s Meditations ; Beveridge’s Thoughts; and another copy of Watson’s Body of Divinity. I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months ago, to pay some money he owed me into your hands, and ldtely I wrote to you to the same purpose, but I have heard from neither one or other of you. In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very much An Index to the Ex- cise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Statutes now in force relative to the Excise, by Jellinger Symons; I want three copies of this book: if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. An honest country neighbour of mine wants too a Family Bible, the larger the better; but second-handed, for he does not choose to give above ten shillings for the book. wise for myself, as you can pick them up, second- handed or cheap, copies of Otway’s Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson’s, Dryden’s, Congreve’s, Wycherley’s, Vanbrugh’s, Cibber’s, or any dra- matic works of the more modern, Macklin, Gar- rick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere, in French, I much want. other 2.0d dramatic authors in that language I want also, but comic authors, chiefly, though I ahould wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Vol- taire too. I am inno hurry for all, or any of these, but if you accidentally meet with them very cheap, get them for me. And now to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my dear friend? and how is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings ag livinely as ever. My good wife too has a | | | | | 1 want like- | charming ‘‘wood-note wild;” now could we four . I am out of all patience with this vile world, for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevo- lent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly in- stances. Ido not think that avarice of the good things we chance to have, is born with us; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in order that we may Exist! Still there are, in every age, a few souls, that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when [ contemplate myself on this side of my disposition and character. God knows Iam no saint; I have a whole host of follies and sin, to answer for; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all fa) yes. Adieu! R. B CXC. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [It is not alittle singular that Burns says, in this letter, he had just met with the Mirror and Lounger for the first time: it will be remembered that a few years before a generous article was dedicated by Mackenzie, the editor, to the Poems of Burns, and to this the poet often alludes in his correspondence. } Ellisland, 10th April, 1790. I HAvE just now, my ever honoured friend | enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper Any | of the Lounger. You know my national preju- dices. I had often read and admired the Spec- tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; but still with a certain regret, that they were so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas! have I often said to myself, what are all the boasted advantages which my country reaps from the union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and cyen her very name | I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poct, | Goldsmith— ‘“ States of native liberty possest, r ? Tho? very poor, may yet be very blest.’ Nothing can reconcile me to the common I 2 ” terms, ‘‘ English ambassador, English court, &c. And I am out of all patience to see that So os Peelers Seasicliees See ee equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by | ‘the Commons of England.” Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my conscience such ideas as ‘‘my country ; ber in- dependence ; her honour ; the illustrious names ° si ? 22)? 2 that mark the history of my native land ;” &c. —I believe these, among your men of the world, men who in fact guide for the most part and sovern our world, are looked on as so many mo- They know difications of wrongheadedness. the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead THE RABBLE; but for their own private use, with almost all the able statesmen that ever | existed, or now exist, when they talk of right | and wrong, they only mean proper and im- | proper; and their measure of conduct is, not what they ovaHt, but what they pare. For | the truth of this I shall not ransack the history | of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges of men that ever lived—the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. thoroughly control his vices whenever they in- In fact, a man who could terfered with his interests, and who could com- pletely put on the appearance of every virtue on the Stanhopean plan, the perfect man; a man to as often as it suited his purposes, is, Jead nations. But are great abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of the world ; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give the stygian doctrine a loud negative! the standard of human excellence ? How- ever, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of an existence beyond the grave, then the true measure of human conduct is, proper and improper: virtue and vice, as dis- positions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarce- ly the same import and value to the world at large, as harmony and discord in the modifica- tions of sound; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may some- times give the possessor an ecstasy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the indi- vidual would be as happy, and certainly would be « 2S 7 : j aTe es much respected by the true judges of boclety as it would then stand, without either a good ear or a good heart. You must know I have just met with the Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and Iam quite In raptures with them; I should be glad to have your opinion of some of the pavers. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCH ———— The one I have just read, Lounger, No. 61, hag | cost me more honest tears than anything I haye read of a long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison, If he has not Addison’s exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender and the fa- thetic. His Man of Feeling (but I am not counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I esti« mate as the first performance in its kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or even pious, | : . . . . will the susceptible young mind receive impres- sions more congenial to humanity and kindness, generosity and benevolence; in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to others—than from the simple affecting tale of poor Harley? Still writings, 1 do not know if they are the fittest , with all my admiration of Mackenzie’s reading for a young man who is about to set out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think, Madam, that among the few favoured of heaven in the structure of their minds (for such there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, ebsolutely disqualifying for the truly important business of making a man’s way into life? IfI am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, A*%**%* xX % is very much under these dis- qualifications; and for the young females of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common acquaint- ance, or as my vanity will have it, an humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind which may render them eminently happy—or peculiarly miserable! I have been manufacturing some verses late- ly; but when I have got the most hurried sea- son of excise business over, I hope to have more leisure to transcribe anything that may show how much I have the honour to be, Madam, Yours, &e. R. B. CXCI. TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. [Collector Mitchell was a kind and considerate gentle man: to his grandson, Mr. John Campbell, surgeon, ix Aberdeen, I owe this characteristic letter.] Ellisland, 1790. Sir, I sHALL not fail to wait on Captain Riddel eeto-night—I wish and pray that the goddess of justice herself would appear to-morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part I have gal- loped over my ten parishes these four days, unti! this moment that I am just alighted, or rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me down; for the miserable devil hes been on his knees half a score of times within the last twenty miles, telling me in his own way, ‘Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these many years!’ In short, Sir, I have broke my horse’s wind, and almost broke my own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing 1 saddle. I find that every offender has so many great men to to 2a hard-hearted stone for espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am committed to the strong hold of the law to-morrow for insolence to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. IT have the honour to be, Sir, Your obliged and obedient humble RB. B; CXCII. TO DR. MOORE. 18 sonnets alluded to by Burns were those of Char- The ts alluded to by B tl} f Cl lotte Smith » the poet’s copy is now before me, with a few marks of his pen on the margins.] Dumfries, Lxcise- Office, 14th July, 1790. Sir, CoMING into town this morning, to attend my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way to London; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking is at present under a tem- porary death. I shall have some snatches of leisi se through the day, amid our horrid busi- ness and bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can; but let my letter be as stupid as xx x + XX ¥ ¥ ¥ as miscellaneous as a news- paper, as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause ; asill-spelt as country John’s billet-doux, or as un- sightly a scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker’s answer to it; I hope, considering circumstances, you will forgive it; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- on about it. Le 423 s é vv no t rf iY . ’y ; | Tam sadly ungrateful in not returning you | my thanks for your most valuable present, Ze- | > . luco. In fact, you are in some degree blameable for my neglect. You were pleased to express a | wish for my opinion of the work, which so flat- | | tered me, that nothing less would serve my | overweening fancy, than a formal criticism on | the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a | comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, in your different qualities and | merits as.novel-writers. This, I own, betrays | my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never | bring the business to bear; and I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of Job—‘* And I said, I will also declare my opi- nion,” I have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my annotations. I never take it up without at the same time taking my peucil, and marking with asterisms, parentheses, &c., wher- ever I meet with an original thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkable well- turned period, or a character sketched with un- common precision. Though I should hardly think of fairly wri- ting out my ‘‘Comparative View,” I shall cer- | tainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the book of Revelations— > | «¢ That time shall be no more!’ The little collection of sonnets have some | charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- | debted to the fair author for the book, and not, | as [rather suspect, to a celebrated author of | the other sex, I shouid certainly have written to the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. Re B: CXCrIil. TO MR. MURDOCH, TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. [The account of himself, promised to Murdoch by Burns, was never written.] Ellisland, July 16, 1790. My DEAR Sir, I nEecHiveD aletter from you a long time ago. ernie Bes ea a tier ne ee tenant: 5 cream mim raonenn a mif t Saeae eta me i Sn hain i ma ity gina 3b paige ta Riiaenn a tea aaa EL a a eile cl SE el eT eee Aa NTs eben ak Lk el eh Sali Aah a 8 5 a ZO but unfortunately, as it was in the time of my peregrinations and journeyings through Scot- land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence your direction along with it. Luckily my good star brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours: and by his means and mediation I hope to re- place that link which my unfortunate negligence had so unluckily broke in the chain of our cor- respondence.. I was the more vexed at the vile accident, as my brother William, a journeyman saddler, has been for some time in London; and wished above all things for your direction, that he might have paid his respects to his father’s friend. His last address he sent me was, ‘‘ Wm. Burns, at Myr. Barber’s, saddler, No. 181, Strand.” 1 writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask him for your address; so, if you find a spare half-minute, please let my brother know by¢ card where and when he will find you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving friends of the man whose name, and Christian name too, he has the honour to bear. The next letter I write you shall be a long one. I have much to tell you of “ hair-breadth > *scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach,” with all the eventful history of a life, the early years of which owed so much to your kind tutorage; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest com- pliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. I am ever, my dear Sir, Your obliged friend, R. B. CXCIYV. TO MR. MMURDO. [ This hasty note was accompanied by the splendid elecy on Matthew Hlenderson, and no one could better feel than M ‘Murdo, to whom it is addressed, the difference between he music of verse and the clanzour of polities.] Lillssiazd, 2d August, 1790. Sir, = Now that you are over with the sirens of Flat- tery, the harpies of Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities, that on all sides, and in all parties, preside over the villa- nous business of politics, permit arustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you with a song.— 5 496 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE You knew Henderson—I have not flattered his memory. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your obliged humble servant, R. B, CXCV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Inquiries have been made in vain after the name of Burns’s ci-deyant friend, who had so deeply wounded his feelings. ] 8th August, 1790. Dear MapAm, Arrer a long day’s toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed itso long! It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty other things ; in short to any- thing—but forgetfulness of la plus armable de son sexe. _By the bye, you are indebted your best courtesy to me for this last compliment; as I pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth— a quality rather rare in compliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping times. Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised to-day! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene He has wounded my R. B. dangerously ere it cure. pride! Cxcyvi. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [“‘ The strain of invective,” says the judicious Currie, of this letter, ‘‘ goes on some time longer in the style in which our bard was too apt to indulge, and of which the reader has already seen so much.’’] Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. Forcive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. I laid down my goose-feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christening: a bride on the market-day before her marriage; or a tavern-keeper at an election-dinner; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, thad recemnariedOF ROBERT BURNS. blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he may deyour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who would not choose) to bind down with the crampets of attention the brazen four lation of integrity, | may rear up the super- structure of Independence, and from its daring turrets bid defiance to the storms of fate. And is uot this a ‘‘consummation devoutly to be wishel ?” ‘« Thy spirit, Independencé, let me share; Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky !”? Are not these noble verses? ‘They are the introduction of Smollett’s Ode to Independence: if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to you.—How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the great! To shrink from every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of self-cdnsequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art and perhaps not so well formed as thou art—came into the world a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it, as all men must, a naked corse. R. B. excVII. TO DR. ANDERSON. [The gentleman to whom this imperfect note is ad- dressed was Dr. James Anderson, a well-known agri- cultural and miscellaneous writer, and the editor of a weekly miscellany called the Bee.] Sir, I am much indebted to my worthy friend, Dr. Blacklock, for introducing me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson’s celebrity ; but when you do me the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed publication, alas, Sir! you might as well think to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an adrceate’s wig, or humility under the Geneva band. Iam a miserable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the excise! and, like Milton’s Satan, for private reasons, am forced “To do what yet though damn’d I would abhor.” —and, except a couplet or two of honest exe- eration * * * = = CXCVIII. TO WILLIAM TYTLER, ESQ, OF WOODHOUSELER. [William Tytler was the ‘‘revered defender of tha beauteous Stuart’’—a man of genius and a gentleman ] Lawn Market, August, 1790. Sir, EncLosep I have sent you asample of the old pieces that are still to be found among our pea- santry in the west. I had once a great many of these fragments, and some of these here, entire; but as I had no idea then that anybody cared for them, I have forgotten them. I invariably hold it sacrilege to add anything of my own to help out with the shattered wrecks of these venerable old compositions; but they have many various readings. If you have not seen these before, I know they will flatter your true old- style Caledonian feelings; at any rate Iam truly happy to have an opportunity of assuring you how sincerely I am, revered Sir, Your gratefully indebted humble servant, R. B. CXCIX. TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ, EDINBURGH. [Margaret Chalmers had now, it appears by this .etter, become Mrs. Lewis Hay: her friend, Charlotte Hamilton, had been for some time Mrs. Adair, of Scarborough: Miss Nimmo was the lady who introduced Burns to the far-famed Clarinda.] Ellisland, 15th October, 1790. DEAR SIR, Attow me to introduce to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known and long loved. His father, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire, and has bred the p< ung man to the law, in which department he comes up an adventurer to your good town. I shall give you my friend’s character in two words: as to his head, he has talents enough, and mors his heart, ay that than enough for common life; as to when nature had kneaded the kindly cl ««T can no more.” were born under kinder I well know composes it, she said, You, my good Sir, stars; but your fraternal sympathy, Tian Sei Le EO mate a betes tL er ae So OP OR DET RET Se Ce Dee, ro cs Se. =i. “ re ee en s a rhee oe Pen ec C2R oer ety F ~ot 128 GENERAL CORRESPON NDENCE ean enter into the feelings of the young man, who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to Je somet thing among his fellow-creatures; but whom the consciousness of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and wounds to the soul! Fven the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent spirit, and that ingenu- ous modesty, qualities inseparable from a noble mind, are, with the million, circumstances not a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their notice and patronage, to brighten the counte- nance and glad the heart of such depressed youth! Iam not so angry with mankind for their deaf economy of the purse :—the goods of this world cannot be divided without being les- sened—but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes no- thing from our own means of enjoyment? We wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our souls! I am the worst hand in the world at asking a favour. That indirect address, that insinuating implication, which, without any positive request, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me then, for you can, in what periphrasis of language, in what circumyvolution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not conceal this plain story.—‘‘My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, isa young lad of your own profession, and a gentleman of much modesty, and great worth Perhaps it may be in your power to assist him in the, to him, important consideration of getting a place ; but at all events, your notice and acquaintance and I dare pledge myself that he will never disgrace your fayour.” 7% will be a very great acquisition to him You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a etter from me; ’tis, Lown, in the usual way of calculating these matters, more than our ac- quaintance entitles me to; but my answer is short -—_ mans 4 } ~ if, short:—Of all the men at your time of life, whom I k in Edi nor 7 1 I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most accessible on the side on which I have assailed TC V aYo v ; 7 you. tou are very much altered indeed from what you were when I knew you, if generosity point the path you will not tre: vd, or humanity call to you in vain, ——_______« As to myself, lieve you are still a well-wisher; a being to whose interest I be- I am here, breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and and then. Every situation has its share of the cares and pains of life, and my rhyming now situation I am persuaded has a full ordinary allowance of its pleasures and enjoyments, My best compliments to your father and Mis Tait. please re- member me in the solemn league and covenant If you have an opportunity, of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. Iam a wretch for not writing her; but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation in that way, that my con- science lies in my bosom with scarce the sen- sibility of an oyster in its shell. Whereis Lady M’Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless her! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with com- pliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton; Mrs. Hamilton and family; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that country. Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please remember me kindly to her. R. B. CC. TO ——. [This letter contained the Kirk’s Alarm, as satire writte to help the cause of Dr. M’Gill, who recanted his heresy rather than be removed from his kirk.] Elllisland, 1790. Dear SiR, Wuetuer in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is I fear very Ajax’s shield consisted, I think, of doubtful. 3 of brass, which and a plate altogether set Hector’s utmost force at defiance. Alas! Iam not a Hector, and the worthy Doe- tor’s foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. seven buil-hides Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- levolence, self-conceit, envy—all strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good God, Sir! to such a shield, humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun of a school- boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, God only can mend, and the devil only can punish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impo- tent as a child to the ardour of my wishes! 0 for a withering curse to blast the germins of their wicked machinations! O for a poisonous . > <. Ml. * tornado, winged from the torrid zone of Tar ce CT— taras, to sweep the spreading zrop of their villanous contrivances to the lovest hell! R. B. TO MRS. DUNLOP. ‘Tho poet wrote dut several copies of Tam o’ Shanter and sent tnem to his friends, requesting their criticisms: he wrote few poems so universally applauded. LEllisland, November, 1790. « As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.” Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- row which I have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the apestle—‘‘ Rejoice with them that do rejoice’’—for me, fo sing for joy, is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. I read your letter—I literally jumped for joy —How could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument in- dispensably necessary in my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride—quick and quicker—out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little’s is a more elegant, yut not a more sincere compliment to the sweet tittle fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured gut to him in the following verses :— Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love And ward o’ mony a prayer, What heart o’ stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, an’ fair. November hirples o’er the lea Chill on thy lovely form; But gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree Should shield thee frae the storm. Tam much flattered by your approbation of my Zam o’ Shanter, which you express in your former letter ; though, by the bye, you load me in that said letter with accusations heavy and many; to all which I plead, not guilty! Your book is, I hear, on the road toreach me. As OF ROBERT BURNS. 429 to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly: as to the punctuation, the printers do that themselves. I have a copy of Zum o’ Shanter ready to send you by the first opportunity: it is too heavy to send by post. I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in consges quence of your recommendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon with an account of your good folks; if Mrs. H. is re- covering, and the young gentleman doing well. R. B. CCII. TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. (The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of Queen Mary on the lid.] Ellisland, 11th January, 1791 My Lapy, Noruina less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your lady- ship’s elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- turning you my warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I shall set it apart—the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my inspiring genius. When I would breathe the compre- hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship; when I would interest my fancy in the distresses in- cident to humanity, 1 shall remember the unfor- tunate Mary. R. B. ccril. TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. 3. [This letter was in answer to one from Dunbex in which the witty colonel of the Crochallan Fencib ea supposed the poet had been translated to Elysium to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not been heard of late on earth.] Ellisland, 17th January, 1791. I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in this sublunary world, serv- ing my God, by propagating his image, and i LE BR etek. mice ibadiad benthic, dabwore——. . 5 = | *); siete ent | oe , 1 lar a “ | honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- | bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writheg / | | Ola! Y 5 < Hai in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of va jects. | Many happy returns of the season await my | arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Ona by thee, friend. May the thorns of care never beset his | the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition | plants him at the tables of the fashionable and | Bil Wed path! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, | Hil i and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May | polite, must see in suffering silence, his remark AH | | the blood-hounds of misfortune never track his | neglected, and his person despised, while shal- low greatness in his idiot attempts at wit, shal] Hi steps. nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his | } . f fat lwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and | meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it i x o° oe Jve | i | pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the | only the family of worth that have reason te | Vv Gale A d ev , | oh bard! “Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and | complain of ues : the children of folly and vice, Bit cursed be he that curseth thee!!!” though in common with thee the offspring of Bile . 1] hi As a further proof that I am still in the land | evil, smart equally. under thy rod. Owing to | . We ee att of existence, I send you a poem, the latest I | thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and el have composed. I have a particular reason for | neglected education, is condemned as a fool for 5 ats h iiedeetenetions ; | wishing you only to show it to select friends, | his dissipation, despised and shunned as a f 1H) | should you think it worthy a friend’s persual; | needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring i | | | H but if, at your first leisure hour, you will favour | him to want; and when his unprincipled ne- Ye ee me with your opinion of, and strictures on the | cessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is a | performance, it will be an additional obligation abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the | 1 on, dear Sir, your deeply indebted humble ser- | justice of his country. Sut far otherwise is ss i i HI vant, R. B. ite lot of the man of family and fortune. is 2 I | | ese early follies and extravagance, are spirit and . | ee | fire; Ais consequent wants are the embarrass- i | ments of an honest fellow; and when, to remedy i | i Co: the matter, he has gained a legal commission to | | | TO MR. PETER HILL. plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the Xs alar ¢ styonhe to noverty hne no lit . ay aes f ahs pee [The poet’s eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and feeling in it: he beheld the money which his poems . ; respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord.— Nay needy prostitute, who has shivered at the cor- brought melt silently away, and he looked to the future With more fear than hope.] worst of all, alas for helpless woman! the ’ Ellisland, 17th January, 1791. Take these two guineas, and place them over ner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of eee casual prostitution, is left neglected and in- against that d-mned account of yours! which . ik ee sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of has gagged my mouth these five or six months! > ee i ‘ | the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty I can as little write good things as apologies to ae | the man I owe money to. O the supreme cw assignation; she who without the same necés- e@s re aC “se iets . ° . . | I sities ad. niots niehtly, Ss guilt of making three guineas do the business of five! | Bates 60. Pigncusenoue mently aed a : | trade. Not all the labours of H ees not all the | ] e | ee 2 ea eee : ace | Hebrews’ three centuries of Ee ptian bondage, | Well! divines nay say ORY what they please; | eerewetcnitan dingaperable ane are 2 but execration is to the mind what phlebotomy s ‘ able Siness, such an]. . . infernal task!! Poverty! thou half-sister of is to the body: the vital sluices of both aré : oe y: ( ‘ -sister oO . 3: : 43 , death, thou cousin-german of hell : where shall wonderfully relieved by their respective evacua- = . 7 3 ‘ : ’ t} 3 R. L. I find force of execration equal to the amplitude ote 4 of thy demerits? Oppressed by thee, the vene- : | rable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of j 1 } Tar TH) 7 i Se every virtue, laden with years and wretched- oN % | Hk ness, implores a little—little aid to support his TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. ik f ' | existence e, from a stony -hearted son of M: ammon, [To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally commu: E whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; nicated his favourite compositions.] a and is by him denied ¢ oe Ney by tl ] ae Oppressed Eltisland, 28d January, 1791. f | HI y thee, the min of se > rhose i - i sentiment, whose heart Many happy returns of the season to you, Pp Ows with indepenc e Its wi ; i Bea : pendence, and melts with sensi- my dear friend! As many of the good things : ) i ee fOF ROBER Al BURNS. 43 of this life, as is consistent with the usual mix- ture of good and evil in the cup of being! I have just finished a poem (Tam o’ Shanter) which you will receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way of tales. I have these several months been hammering at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet. ther than the following fragment, on which I have got, and can get, no far- please give me your strictures. In all kinds of poetic composition, I set great store by your opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poetry | of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more | value on the infallibility of the Holy Father than I do on yours. I mean the introductory couplets as text verses. ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. Life ne’er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow, As that which laid th’ accomplish’d Burnet low Let me hear from you soon. Adieu! R. B. CCcVI. HO AE DYTLER, HS:Q: [‘‘I have seldom in my life,’’ says Lord Woodhouselee, “tasted a higher enjoyment from any work of genius than I received from Tam o? Shanter.’’] Ellisland, February, 1791. Sir, Noruina less than the unfortunate accident I haye met with, could have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the muses entirely new to him, where crustquently his hopes and fears were on the Most anxious alarm for his success in the attempt; to have that poem so much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious Vibration that ever thrilled alon: y oO the heart- strings of a poor poet. However, Providence, to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the good, which it seems is necessary in this éublunary state, thought proper to check my exultation by avery serious misfortune. ] > hat follows. I have proceeded Your kind letter, with your kind reme of your godson, came safe. is scarcely what my pride can bear. finest boy I have for a long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, and measles over, has cut several teeth, and I am truly happy to hear that the “little floweret” is blooming so fresh and fair, and that the ‘“‘mother plant” is rather recovering Soon and well may her ‘«‘ cruel wounds” be healed. far with a good deal of difficulty. a little abler you shall hear farther from, CCVIII. ARCH. ALISON. tion of the principles laid down in his ingenious and popu- fries, 1 4th Feb. 1791. time have set me down as one of the most ungrateful of men. me the honour to present me with a book, which does honour to science and the intel- and I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you yourself are tered as I was by your telling me that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with the look-out of a eritic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did not even know the first principles. first glance, several of your propositions star- gour of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twin- gle twangle of a jew’s-harp: that the delicate Gexure of a rose-twig, mbrance This last, Madam, As to partiality apart, the has the small-pox Ihave written thus When I get Madam, yours, R. B. itis said, with this recogni- You did 4 } + to blame for it. Flat- a I own, Sir, that at That the martial clan- CORRESPONDENCE — ne flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub of a burdock; and that from some- thing innate and independent of all associations of ideas ;—these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my faith.—In short, Sir, except Euclid’s Ele- ments of Geometry, which I made a shift to un- rayel by my father’s fire-side, in the winter evening of the first season I held the plough, I never read a book which gave me such a quan- tum of information, and added so much to my stock of ideas, as your ‘‘ Essays on the Prin- ciples of Taste.” One thing, Sir, you must for- give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, I mean the language. ‘To clothe ab- stract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds something like a contradiction in terms; but you have convinced me that they are quite com- patible. I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one in print’is my first essay in the way of telling a tale. I am, Sir, &c. R. B. CCIX. TO DR. MOORE. [Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on Queen Mary, and the Elegy on Captain Matthew Hen- derson : Tam o? Shanter he thought full of poetical beau- ties.—He again regrets that he writes in the language of Scotland.) Ellisland, 20th February, 1791. I po not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- scriber to Grose’s Antiquities of Scotland. If you are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, still this will answer the prin- cipal end I haye in view: it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for all your eood= ness to the rustic bard; and also of showing you, that the abilities you have been pleased to commend and patronize are still employed in the way you wish. The Llegy on Captain Henderson, is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets ND, when the half-blown | 1 Tam o? Shanter.renee OF ROBERT BURNS. 433 Se | lave in this the same advantage as Roman Ca- | fa] tholics; they can be of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne where all | Earl of Glencairn: ; the patron from whom all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, | my fume and fortune took its rise. Independent after all, either the one or the other be of any | of my grateful attachment to him, which was real service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- | indeed go strong that it pervaded my very soul, matical; but I am sure they are highly grati- | and was entwined with the thread of my exist- | €nce: So soon as the prince’s friends had got in | (and every dog you know has his day), my get- ting forward in the excise would have been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was good things, and ought to be received and en- | be wished, yet, joyed by his creatures with thankful delight. | As almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the l into the file of supervisors hip by seniority. I have had an immense loss in the death of the fying to the living: and as a very orthodox text, I forget where in scripture, says, « what- soever is not of faith is sin;” so say I, what- soever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all & consummation devoutly to thank Heaven, I can live anc rhyme as Iam; and as to my boys, poor little | fellows! if I cannot place them on as high an | elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall, if I am | favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix them on as broad and inde- dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world | pendent a basis as possible. Among the many eis of spirits. | wise adages which have been treasured up by The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I | our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, was busy with Percy’s Reliques of English Poetry. | Better be the head o’ the commonality, than the tail By the way, how much is every honest heart, | 0’ the gentry. idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved friend, or still more which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, But lam got on a subject, which however in obliged to you for your glorious story of Bu- | teresting to me, is of no manner of consequence chanan and Targe! Twas an unequivocal proof | to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I should have been mortified to the ground if you had not. I have just read over, once more of many times, your Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the honour to be, Yours, &c. R. B. Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young lady, whom I had | formerly characterized under the denomination of The Rose Bud. * * * as I went along, every passage that pleased me particularly above the rest; and one or two, I think, which with humble deference, I am dis- posed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least so much of them &4 to point where they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that strongly depict the TO MR. CUNNINGHAM human heart, is your and Fielding’s province | > a é ; CCX. beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted; but unhappily, dramatis persone are beings of another world; and however they may captivate the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper years. (Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sire aru morous song; nor was he without a feeling for the deay. sensibilities of his friend’s verse.] Ellistand, 12th March, 1791. Ir the foregoing piece be worth your stric- | tures, let me have them. For my own part, a | thing that I haye just composed always appears through a double portion of that partial medium As to my private concerns, I am going on, a | in which an author will ever view his own Works: mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have | I believe in general, novelty has something in it lately had the interest to get myself ranked | that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not | dissipates and fumes away like other intoxica- yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall | tion, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with 28 INES AR iets Ree Ih AHL NY ON Tose Petco SeSTY Le ot Olea AE ne ea Ban AR rp a ans eet ee Eee Seed ee Sn a eya Say ———— rn See Seen en ae EY oe Oat te tit ree th Eber GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | 43h ee al — | and begged that the poet would let him know what his A striking instance of this | | views in the world were, that he might further them.] an aching heart. might be adduced, hymeneal honeymoon. in the revolution of many But lest I sink into ilegiously intrude on | rall fill up the | I wave taken the liberty to frank this letter Ellisland, 19th March, 1791. stupid prose, and so sacr My DEAR SIR, the office of my parish-priest, I sl and give you another song which will appear per- which I send you; and God knows you may | perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read it | through. Not that this is my own opinion; but | the author, by the time he has composed and corrected his work, has quite pored away all of critical discrimination. page in my own way, to you, as it encloses an idle poem of mine, of my late composition, haps in Johnson’s work, as well as the former. You must know @ beautiful Jacobite. air, There ll never be peace tll Jamie comes hame. When political combustion ceases to be the ob- ject of princes and patriots, it then you know | his powers s the lawful prey of historians and poets. | Ican easily guess from my own heart, what | you have felt on a late most melancholy event. | God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of | 7 ; my best friend, my first and dearest patron and become By you castle wa’ at the close of the day, IT heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey; | g, the tears fast down | penefactor; the man to whom I owe all that I And as he was singing Co ae am and have! I am gone into mourning for ? ; . ¢ J ‘ ; Q . . . ° cnn There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. | him, and with more sincerity of grief than I : ud | fear some will, who by nature’s ties ought to If you like the air, andif the stanzas hit your | : f 5 ; ae a | feel on the occasion. ancy, you cannot imagine, my dear Iriend, how : 3 , ‘ Yd Ope ae eas ; f I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, yy the charms 0 : ; : x to let me know the news of the noble family, roe ee , | how the poor mother and the two sisters sup- effusion to ‘the memory of joys that are past, . : aS : oe i port their loss. I hada packet of poetic baga- to the few friends whom you indulge in that : 5 telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw much you would oblige me, if } your delightful voice, you would give my honest pleasure. But I have scribbled on ’till I hear ne : ages z the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the the clock has intimated the near approach of : a same channel that the honoured REMAINS of my noble patron, are designed to be brought to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let me know privately before the day of interment, that I may cross the country, and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever revered benefactor? It will oblige me R. B, That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane.— So good night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams! Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on the tapis? beyond expression. I look to the west when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; Far, far in the west 13 he I lo’e best, CCXII. The lad that is dear to my babie and me! TO MRS. GRAHAM, Good night, once more, and God bless you! OF FINTRAY. R. B. [Mrs. Graham, of Fiutray, felt both as a lady and 8 ae Scottish one, the tender Lament of the fair and unfortus nate princess, which this letter contained.) . Ellisland, 1791. CCXI. MapbamM, Wueruer it is that the story of our Mary ct on the in the en- al poetic TO MR. ALEXANDER D 2 ALZEL, Queen of Scots has a peculiar offe | FACTOR , N feeli ! , FINDLAYSTON. | feelings of a poet, or whether { have, UCromek says that Alexander Dalzel introduced the | Cea, Buco ced ed bene ee poetry of Burns to the notice of the Kar] of Glencairn, who | sa-ried the Kilmarnock edition with him to Edinburgh, | success, I know not; but it has pleased me be- yond any effort of my muse for a good while apast; or that account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the purity of my motives may be suspected. I am already deeply in- debted to Mr. Graham’s goodness; and what, in the usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- portance, Mr. G. can do me service of the ut- most importance in time to come. Iwas born a poor dog; and however I may occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must live and diepoor: but I will indulge the flatter- ing faith that my poetry will considerably out- live my poverty ; and without any fustian affec- tation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary craving of the latter s,all ever make me do anything injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever may be my failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may they ever be those of a generous heart, and an independent mind! It is no fault of mine that I was born to dependence; nor is it Mr. Graham’s chiefest praise that he can command influence; butit is his merit to bestow, not only with the kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman; and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with thankfulness, and re- member with undiminished gratitude. R. B. CCXITT. TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRAY. [The following letter was written on the blank leaf of 43t $$ $$ $e | to his mother, a woman eighty years old | helpless, and Burns was asked for | lmpulse to the publication. } » and poor ang a poem to give a new Ellisland, 1791 REVEREND Sir, Wuy did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on the business of poor Bruce? Don’t I know, and havelI not felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh ig heir to? You shall have your choice of all the | unpublished poems I haye; and had your letter had my direction, so as to have reached me sooner (it only came to my hand this moment), I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the sub- scription bills, may bear, that the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce’s mother. I would not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remark able generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings (anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appellation), that by way of some balance, however trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power to a fellow- creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retrospection. R. B. CCXV. nnew edition of his poems, presented by the poet, to one Who he regarded, aud justly, as a patroness.] Ir is probable, Madam, that this page may be read, when the hand that now writes it shall be mouldering in the dust: may it then bear Witness, that I present you these volumes as a tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. Graham’s goodness to me has been generous and noble! May every child of yours, in the hour of need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine, that their father found in you. R. B. CCXIV. TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. (It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems af Michael Bruce, by subscription, and give the profits Moines TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Francis Wallace Burns, the godscn of Mrs. Dunlop, to whom tuis letter refers, died at tho age of fourteen - he was a fine and a promising youth.] Eillisland, 11th April, 1791. I am once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and particu- larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, that my evil genius had in store for me. How- ever, life is chequered—joy and sorrow—for on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine boy; rather stouter, but not so handsome as your godson was at his time of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake te be my chef d’cwuvre in that species of manufac Shanter to be my ture, as I look on Tam 0’ : on as standard performance in the poetical line. ’Tis ee eee ae een Fee et eee Ve ae el Penel C nae ie Se Te ~ ne ae iy oe wih a ESeed era ee H regret On toner emt en ee ———eeeeeeeeeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeEeee eempene ERAGE SOLE LITE GENERA £50 eS ern | true, both the one and the other discover a spice | oeery, that might perhaps be as but then they also show, in my | of roguish wa well spared; opinion, a fore that I despair of ever excelling. as lustily about her e of genius and a finishing polish | of g | Mrs. Burns 1s getting stout again, and laid to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn- | ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and bless- msels, that are bred We cannot hope for ing of our hale, sprightly da among the hay and heather. that highly polished mind, that charming deli- cacy of soul, which is found among the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and which is certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is in- deed such an inestimable treasure, that where +t can be had in its native heavenly purity, un- stained by some one or other of the many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species of caprice, I declare to Heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased at the expense cf every other earthly good! But as this angelic creature is, | am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally denied to such a humble one as mine, we meaner mortals must put up with the next | rank of female excellence—as fine a figure and face we can produce as any rank of life what- ever; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, and unsullied purity; nature’s mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste; a simplicity of soul, un- suspicious of, because unacquainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenu- ous world ; and the dearest charm of alfithe rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a gener- ous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing with a more than equal return; these, with a healthy frame, a sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life. This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me hear, by first post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. May almighty goodness preserve and restore him! R. B. CCXYVI. TO {That lis works found their way to the newspa; ers ; cat 5 ‘ } ? need have occasioned no surprise: the poet gave copies SST er : : L CORRESPONDENCE ] a ~ of his favourite pieces freely to his friends, as soon ag they were written: who, in their turn, spread their fame among their acquaintances. ] Ellisland, 1791. DEAR SIR, I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago; but the truth is, that I am the most indolent of all human beings; and when I ma- triculate in the herald’s office, I intend that my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, ‘‘ Deil tak the fore- most.”?> So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for your kind execution of my commission. I would have sent you the poem; but some- how or other it found its way into the publia papers, where you must have seen it. I am ever, dear Sir, Yours sincerely, Re 1B CCXVII. TO [This singular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed to a critic, who had taken him to task about obscure lan- guage, and imperfect grammar. ] Ellisland, 1791. Tuov eunuch of language: thou Englishman, who never was south the Tweed: thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms: thou quack, vending the nostrums of empirical elocution: thou marriage-maker between vowels and con- “nants, on the Gretna-green of caprice: thou dobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory : thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets of absurdity: thou butcher, imbruing thy hands in the bowels of orthography: thou arch- heretic in pronunciation: thou pitch-pipe of affected emphasis: thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints of jarring sentences: thou squeaking dissonance of cadence: thou pimp of gender: thou Lion Herald to silly etymology: thou antipode of grammar: thou executioner of: construction: thou brood of the speech-distract- ing builders of the Tower of Babel; thou lingual confusion worse confounded: thou scape-gallows from the land of syntax: thou scavenger of mood and tense: thou murderous accoucheur of infant learning; thou zgnis faiuus, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance : thou pickle- thou herring in the puppet-show of nonsense: thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom : eee,— = persecutor of syllabication: thou baleful meteor, ef Nox and Erebus. R. B. CCOXVITI. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, 1t is said, ad- jressed several letters, which on his death were put into the fire by his widow, because of their license of lJan- guage.] 11th June, 1791. LET me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, prin- cipal:schoolmaster there, and is at present suf- fering severely under the persecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is accused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science, in a fellow’s head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cud- gel: a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator. The patrons of Moffat-school are, the minis- ters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- burgh, and as the business comes now before them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every- thing in his power to serve the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman to whomyou have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to pro- duce. I need not name the historian of Charles V. I tell him through the medium of his nephew’s influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentle- man who will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and bay it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. God help the children of dependence! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and tco often, alas! almost unexceptionably, received by their eee foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach | OF ROBERT BURNS. 43) | friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating advice. O! to be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of his deserts; rather than in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature! Every man has his virtues, and no man is with- out his failings; and curse xt 7 a sense and honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter to town with her, and send it to you, is a character that, even in your own way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an a : Be acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary to the muses; and as I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the com- mon run of the lady-poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer of your book; and, hearing me say that I was acquainted with you, she beecred to be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was, to desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, Craig- darroch, to have you at his house while she was there; and lest you might think of a lively West Indian girl, of eighteen, as girls of eigh- teen too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. To be im- partial, however, in appreciating the lady’s merits, she has one unlucky failing: a failing which you will easily discover, as she seems rather pleased with indulging in it; and a fail- ing that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself ;—where she dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it, than where she esteems and respects. I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of the season, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that | ForRTUNE may never throw your SUBSISTENCE to the mercy of a KNavs, or set your CHARACTER on the judgment of a Foon; but that, upright and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall say, here lies a man who did honour to science, and men of worth Bhall say, here lies a man who did honour to human nature. CCXXVIII. TO MR. © THOU, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze W. NICOL. [This ironical letter was in answer to one from Nicol, ‘ontalning counsel and reproof.] | R. B. 20th February, 1792. ,ESPONDENCH of prudence, full-moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors! How infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super-emi- nent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest be- nignly down on an erring wrctch, ¢f whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of cal- culation, from the simple copulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be it! For me! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing! From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes of my political heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a summer sun! Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quota- tion of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan’s many hills? As for him, his works are perfect: never did the pen of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged | from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine like the constellation of thy intellectual powers! —As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of the -wers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- descended and heaven-bound desires: never did the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weakness! Then should I lie down and rise up, and none to make me afraid.—May thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality! thy devoted slave, R. B.OF ROBE RT Amona the many witch stories I have heard, | relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember ‘Captain Grose was introduced to Burns, by h_s brother only two or three Antiquary, of Fria: ¢ Carse: he was collecting materials o COXXITX: - Dumfries, 1792. TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. | ‘or lus work o- t. Antiquities of Scotland.] | Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls i asi | of wind, and bitter blasts of hail; in short, oa Dumfries, 1792. . . ae . such a night as the devil would choose to take DLE, . : . he air it , ; ' BELIZVE£ among all our Scots Literati you Whe Tait aya rin cr Oe tach siscuen Gn asplods i . ‘ ding an¢ as o ( war ; - ST haye not mét with Professor Dugald Stewart, g and plashing homeward with his plough . . ae irons on hiss lder, having been getting s who fills the moral philosophy chair in the Uni- on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them ata neishbouring smithy. His versity of Edinburgh. ‘To say that he is a man | N a - Ws by > 7 { = of the first parts, and what is more, a man of | way lay by the kirk of Alioway, and being ra , . 1er 0 a in § { é the first worth, to a gentleman of your general | ther on the anxious look-out in approaching a : : | place so well kno be a fi e hi , acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the | place’so welll known tolbe abtavourite nauny F : : i : the devil and > devil’s friends : emissaries luxury of unencumbered freedom and undis- e deyil and the devil’s friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering through turbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation | | o . } enough:—but when I inform you that Mr. | the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a ‘hi ; Pane Ren te . | light, which on his nearer ¢ ‘oach plainly if Stewart’s principal characteristic is your fa- | © ” ye s nearer approach plainly at a TS ee Oe) eee eT ee : ; . . showed itself to proceed from the haunte vyourite feature; that sterling independence of i | procee the haunted edifice. Whether he had been fortified from mind, which, though every man’s right, so few ‘ 5 men have the courage to claim, and fewer still, aoe, te ne ge outisuppicanon asa suas Melmaenanimity, to support:—when I tell you many with people ‘ hen they suspect the cms that, unseduced by splendour, and undisgusted diate presence of Satan; or whether, according by wretchedness, he appreciates the merits of to another custom, he had got courageously the various actors in the great drama of life, | drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to deter- mine; but so it was that he ventured to go up merely as they perform their parts—in short, to, nay, into, the very kirk. As Inck would have he is a man after your own heart, and I comply it, his temerity came off unpunished. with his earnest request in letting you know : A The members of the infernal junto were all that he wishes above all things to meet with | Ne OL PE ER EMT HOR Ty Cet Ae eT out on some midnight business or other, and he you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a ; : ; saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 1 mile of Sorn Castle, which you proposed visit- . ve Nore i r » roof, over the fire, simmering i ing; or if you could transmit him the enclosed, pending from the r0oN Nee thorure, = ae yA he would with the greatest pleasure meet you | some heads of unchristened children, limbs of ine é executed malefactors, &c., for the business of ‘tes anywhere in the neighbourhood. I write to ak a Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I have the night.—It was in for a penny infor a pound, acquitted myself of my promise. Should your | with the honest ploughman: 80 par: oe He time and spirits permit your meeting with Mr. | mony he unttooked the caldron oe 0 the are: Stewart, ’tis well; if not, I hope you will for- and pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- give this liberty, and I have at least an oppor- tunity ¢f assuring you with what truth and verted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, | where it remained long in the family, a living evidence of the truth of the story. Another story, which I can prove to be equally =~ ee Tispect, — an I am, Sir, Your great admirer, And very humble servant, R. B. On amarket day in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whese way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, w hich CORAS ! is about two or three hundred yards farther on ‘than the said gate, had been detained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway it en night and morn- | | authentic, was as follows: | | } i} | TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. [This letter, interesting to all who desire to see howa | wag the wizard hour, betwe post works beauty and recularity out of a vulgar tradi- net t 7 - ng tion, was first printed by Sir Egerton Brydges, in the : 2 oka! | Though he was terrified with a blaze stream ea ne DE SRT eA ae Censura Literaria.’?] re lil Rie a .% ' Seana Farsi ik Al shai ca ten ee AE sh OR eT Se ing from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions 1s run- ning by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently : dvanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was sur- prised and entertained, through the ribs and arches of an old gothic window, which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches aerrily footing it round their old sooty black- znard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bag-pipe. The farmer stopping his horse to observe them alittle, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was dressed tradition does not say ; but that the ladies were all in their smocks: and one of them happening unluckily to have a smock which was considerably too short to an- swer all the purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst out, with a loud laugh, ‘‘ Weel luppen, Maggy wi’ the short sark!” and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of his speed. I need not mention the universally known fact, that no diabolical power can pur- sue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, were so close at his heels, that one of them actually sprung to seize him; but it was too late, nothing was on her side of the stream, but the horse’s tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; but the far- mer was beyond her reach. However, the un- sightly, tailless condition of the vigorous steed vas, to the last hour of the noble creature’s life, an awful warning to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr markets. The last relation I shall give, though equally true, is not so well identified as the two former, with regard to the scene; but as the best au- thorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. On a summer’s evening, about the time that nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and was returning home. As he passed the kirk, in be adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men | son pulled a Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, its rider. The foolish voy iikewise pulled hig 444 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | until the morning, foe to the imps and works of | darkness, threatened to throw light on the mat- | ter, and frightened them from their carousals, | some of the people belonging to the merchant. | Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him and women, who were busy pulling stems of the pliant Ragwort. He observed that as each per- 199 and called out, ‘‘ Up horsie!”’ on which the Rag- wort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with Lagwort, and cried with the rest, ‘‘Up horsie !”’ and, strange to tell, away he flew with the com- pany. The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt, was a merchant’s wine-cellar in Bordeaux, where, without saying by your leave, they quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford, The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stran- ger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest took horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day by what he was, he said such-a-one’s herd in Al- loway, and by some means or other getting home again, he lived long to tell the world the won- drous tale. Iam, &c., R. B. CCXXXI. TO MR. 8S. CLARKE, EDINBURGH. [This introduction of Clarke, the musician, to the M’Murdo’s of Drumlanrig, brought to two of the ladies the choicest honours of the muse.] July 1, 1792. Mr. Burns begs leave to present his most respectful compliments to Mr. Clarke.—Mr. B. some time ago did himself the honour of writing to Mr. C. respecting coming out to the coun- try, to give a little musical instruction in a highly respectable family, where Mr. C. may have his own terms, and may be as happy as indolence, the devil, and the gout will permit him. Mr. B. knows well how Mr. C. is en- gaged with another family; but cannot Mr. C. find two or three weeks to spare to each of them? Mr. B. is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious of, the high importance of Mr. C.’s time, whether in the winged moments of sym- phonious exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while listening seraphs cease, their own less de- cnet eOF ROBER _——————— ightful strains; or in the drowsy arms of slum- | l’rous repose, in the arms of his dearly beloved elbowchair, where the frowsy, but potent power of indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, and sheds her dews on the head of her darling gon. But half a line conveying half a meaning from Mr. C. would make Mr. B. the happiest of mortals. CCX XXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [To enthusiastic fits of admiration for the young and the beautiful, such as Burns has expressed in this letter, he loved to give way :—we owe some of his best songs to these sallies.] Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. Do not blame me for it, Madam ;—my own | conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- lies, indolence, &c., has continued to unish me , ’ sufficiently. X XXX KX Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for many fayours; to esteem for much worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old | acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- gressive, increasing friendship—as for a single day, not to think of you—to ask the Fates what they are doing and about to do with my much- loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can? Apropos! (though how it is apropos, I have not leisure to explain,) do you not know that I am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ?—Almost! said I—I am in love, souse! over head and ears, deep as the most unfathom- able abyss of the boundless ocean; but the word Love, owing to the intermingledoms of the good and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- pressing one’s sentiments and sexsations, I must do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. Know, then, that the heart-struck awe; the distant humble approach; the delight we should have in gazing upon and listening to a messenger of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity | of his celestial home, among the coarse, pol- luted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and T BURNS. 44 —— their imaginations soar in transport—such, s¢ delighting and so pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Misa Mr. B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. Lesley Baillie, your neighbour, at M H. of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to England, did me the honour of calling on me; on which I took my horse (though God knows I could ill spare the time), and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day with them. *Twas about nine, I think, when I left them, and riding home, I composed the following ballad, of which you will probably think you have a dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat of postage. You must know that there is an old ballad beginning with— ‘‘ My bonnie Lizzie Baillie I’ll rowe thee in my plaidie, &c.’’ | So I parodied it as follows, which is literally | the first copy, ‘‘unanointed, unanneal’d;” as Hamlet says.— O saw ye bonny Lesley As she gaed o’er the border? She’s gsne like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, notwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three people, who would be the happier the .oftener they met together, are, almost without exception, always so placed as never to meet but once or twice a-year, which, considering the few years of a man’s life, is a very great ‘‘evil under the sun,” which I do not recollect that Solomon has | mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe that there is a stats of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former intimacies, with this endearing addition, that, ‘‘ we meet to part no more!” “Tell us, ye dead, e secret, Will none of you in pity disclose th What ’tis you are, and we must shortly be ?”’ BLAIR. A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of men, put not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the question. ghost would blab it I, my friend, <‘Q that some courteous out!’ but it cannot be; you and pee ee Pe hier Weyer anee) ume oe od Sans OO TE oS a aera a nena Cee ee ree re ~ y és situation will mend in this world;” so, alas, the experience of the poor and the needy too often affirms; and ’tis nineteen hundred thou- sand to one, by the dogmas of * * * ¥ * ¥ XX that you will be damned eternally in the world to come! But of all nonsense, religious nonsense is the most nonsensical; so enough, and more than enough of it. Only, by the by, will you or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sec- tarian turn of mind has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart? They are orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known them merciful: but still your children of sanc- tity move among their fellow-creatures with a nostril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurn- ing filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that your utled + * * * * * * * or any other of your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries stand- ing, display when they accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave.—How ignorant are plough-boys !—Nay, I have since discovered that a godly woman may be a *? —But hold—Here’s t’ye again—this rum is generous Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like, the married life? Ah, my friend! matrimony is quite a different thing from what your love- sick youths and sighing girls take it to be! But marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and J shall never quarrel with any of his insti- fisi.as. I am a husband of older standing than you and shall give you my ideas of the conjugal state, (en passant; you know I am no Latinist, is not conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke?) Well, then, the scale of good wifeship I divide into ten parts :—good-nature, four; good sense, two; wit, one; personal charms, viz. a sweet | face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful car- riage (I would add a fine waist too, but that is 80 s00n spoilt you know), all these, one; as for the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such as fortune, connexions, educa- fion (I mean education extraordinary) family, 447 | blood, &c., divide the two remaining degrees among them as you please; only, remember that all these minor properties must be ex- pressed by fractions, for there is not any ore of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled te the dignity of an integer. As for the rest of my fancies and reveries=— how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world— how I accompanied her and her father’s family fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure devo- tion, to admire the loveliness of the works of God, in such an unequalled display of them— how, in galloping home at night, I made a ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make a part— Thou, bonny Lesley, art a queen, Thy subjects we before thee; Thou, bonny Lesley, art divine, The hearts 0’ men adore thee. The very deil he could na scathe Whatever wad belang thee! He’d look into thy bonnie face > And say, ‘‘I canna wrang thee.’ —hbehold all these things are written in the chronicles of my imaginations, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more con- venient season. Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed bosom-companion, be given the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things brought forth by the moon, and the benignest influences of the stars, and the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, and by the tree of life, for ever and ever! Amen! CCXXXIV. TO MR. THOMSON. {George Thomson, of Edinburgh, principal clerk to the trustees for the encouraging the manufactures of Scotland, projected a work, entitled, ‘‘ A select Collection of Origi- nal Scotti3h Airs, for the Voice, to which are added intro ductory and concluding Symphonies and Accompaniments forthe Piavoforte and Violin, by Pleyel and Kozeluch, with select and characteristic Verses, by the most ad- mired Scottish Poets.”? To Burns he applied for help in the verse : he could not finda truer poet, nor one to whom such a work was more congenial.) FO a er eg Pe ey Sree eee oe x Ee ene EE TT Se © eee Fe Cae cE ee ee ee Ke nae a AS a Le ne NT SET eS eet ee ee eeeSoar ah eee AMAIA IT? Pah, wy SR ee ae ene eA ba AL ed eth eh Leth eed a a —— a —_ = rT InP 448 GEN ER AL COR Dumfries, 16th Sept. 1792. Sir, I nave just this moment got your letter. As e to me will positively add the request you make enjoyments in complying wit h it, I shall to my ill the small enter into your undertaking with portion of abilities I have, siaiied to their ut- most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don’t ‘«Deil tak the hindmost” t “7p e r Y 0 is by no means the cri de guerre of my muse. hurry me— Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in en- thusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old C: cheerfully promised my mite of assistance—will uledonia, and, since you request it, have you let me have a list of your airs with the first line of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may alteration y have an opportunity of suggesting You leaving any that may occur to me? know ’tis in the way of my trade; still you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of pub- lishers to approve or reject, at your pleasure for your own publication. Apropos, if you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only allowed at least Enclish particularly the works of Scotsmen, I hope to please myself in being a sprinkling of our native tongue. verses, that have merits are certainly very eligible. ‘«Tweedside!” ‘* Ah! the poor shepherd’ ful fate !?”' ¢ ae ! Chi &c., you cannot mend;! but such es stuff s mourn- oris, could I now but sit,” as ‘To Fanny fair could I impart,’ set to “The Mill, Mill, 0!” the collections in which it has already appeared, and would , usually is a ee to doubly disgrace a collection that will have the very superior merit of yours. But more of further prosecution of the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments—I say amendments, for I will not alter except where I myself, at least, think that I amend. this in the As to any remuneration, you may think my gongs either above or below price; for they the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I emb should absolutely be the one or ark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, na wc., would be downright prostitution of soul! a nroct of each of the songs th: at I com- Ll“ Tweedside”? is by Crawfurd ; « Ah, herd.” &c. » by Hamilton, of Bz ingzour; ¢¢ &¢e., by Sir Charles Sedley—Burns | Bir Peter Halket, of Pitferran. the poor shep- Ah! Chloris,” 1a8 attributed it to RESPONDENCE - pose or amend, I shall receive as a fayouf. Ty the rustic phrase of the season, “Gude speed the wark! I am, Sir, Your very humble servant, CCXXXYV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop was married to M. Henri, a French gentleman, who died 1n 1790, at Lou- don Castle, in Ayrshire. The widow orphan son to France, went with her and lived for awhile amid the dangers of the revolution.] Dumfries, 241) this moment, September, 1792 I HAVE my dear Madam, All your proaches, your news, &c., are out of my head when I rea Good God! young woman—in a strange, yours of the twenty-third. other kind re- d and think on Mrs. H———’s situ- ation. a heart-wounded helpless foreign land, and that land conyulsed with every horror that can harrow the human feelings—sick—looking, long- but finding too:—but it is too much: he ing for a comforter, none—a mo- ther’s feelings, who wounded (he only can) may He heal! % * * * * * I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- quisition to his family. * * * * * T cannot say THEY unconscionable rent, that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. as a farmer paying a dear, a cursed life! As toa laird farming his own property ; sowing his own corn in hope; and reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in glad- ness; knowing that none can say unto him, ‘ what dost thou?’—fattening his herds; shear- ing his flocks; rejoicing at Christmas; and be- daughters, until he be the venerated, gray-haired leader of a little tribe— tis a heavenly life! but devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine months’ race is run, which may perhaps be in tnree or four She, too, seems determined to make me the patriarchal leader of a ‘pand. However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to getting sons and weeks. let me have them in the proportion of three boys i to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if Iam spared with them, to show & ooeens set of boys that will do honour to my cares and name; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your little godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, has com- pletely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is quite the | pride of his schoolmaster. You know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear to our heart: you can ex- cuse it God bless you and yours! R. B. CCXXXVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. {This letter has no date: it is supposed to have been written on the death of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, whose orphan son, deprived of the protection of all his relations, was preserved by the affectionate kindness of Mademoi- salle Susette, one of the family domestics, and after the Revolution obtained the estate of his blood and name.] I wap been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much-yalued, much-afflicted friend! I can but grieve with you; consolation I have none to offer, except that which religion holds out to the children of affliction—children of affliction!—how just the expression! and like every other family they have matters among them which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of which the world has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks indifferently on, makes the passing remark, and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. Alas, Madam! who would wish for many years? What is it but to drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave usin a night of misery: like the gloom which blots out the Stars one by one, from the face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howl- ing waste! I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me again. R. B. 1 Song CLXXVII 21t is pp merning worse in the Edinburgh edition— OF ROBERT BURNS. CCXXXVII. TO MR. THOMSON. (Thomson had delivered judgment on some old Scottish songs, but the poet murmured against George’s decree.} My prar Sir, Ler me tell you, that you are too fastidious in | your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you specify in your list have, all but one, the faults you re- mark in them: but who shall mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say, ‘Goto! I will make a better?” For instance, on reading over ‘The Lea-rig,” I immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough. When o’er the hill the eastern star, &c.! Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy’s ballad to the air, ‘‘ Nannie, 0!” is just. It is, besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scot- tish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a some thing that one may call the Doric style and dia- lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay pecu- liarly, apposite. For this reason, and upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) that my ballad of ‘‘ Nannie, 0!” might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don’t let it enter into your head, that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to my own repu- tation in the business of authorship, and have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Thougk you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity. In the printed copy of my ‘‘Nannie, 0!” the name of the river is horribly prosaic.? I will alter it: Behind yon hills where Lugar flows. Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables. ‘‘ Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows »»__Poems, px 322. Fee P Sak SRS Te 2 pee Lek tl Aastha theeSAT ) et a eek a eg eae VETTE Sees as sme ER ETRE LOMO £50 I will soon give you a great many more re- marks on this business ; but I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free | an expense that it is ill able to pay: of postage, iments to honest Allan, so, with my best compl Gude be wi’ ye, &c. Friday Night. Saturday Morning. As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my conveyance goes away, I will | give you ‘Nannie, O !”? at length. Your remarks on ‘“‘ Ewe-bughts, Marion,” are just; still it has obtained a place among our more classical Scottish songs; and what with many beauties in its composition, and more pre- judices in its favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it. In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, ce Lem a wt and has nothing of the merits of ‘‘Ewe-bughts;” but it will fill up this page. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- ings of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary? &c.! “Gala Water” and “Auld Rob Morris” I think, will most probably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on my verses, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. bigot of opinidtreté, but cordially to join issue with you in the furtherance of the work. R. B. CCXXXVIII. TO MR. THOMSON. (The poet loved to describe the influence which the enarms of Miss Lesley Baillie exercised over his imagi- nation., : November 8th, 1792 JLe in your collection shall be poetry of the first | Song CLXXIX. 2 Song CLXXX ~~ 8 Song CLXXXI. z poi GENERAL C JRRESPONDENCE My wish is not to stand aloof, the uncomplying | Ir v 4 ; aCe F you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs | merit, I am afrai u Wi i erit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty | in the undertaking than you are aware of, There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature-noteg of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- stance, in the air, ‘‘ My wife’s a wanton wee thing,” if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The fol- lowing were made extempore to it; and though on further study I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light- horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink :— My wife’s a winsome wee thing, &c.? I have just been looking over the ‘Collier's | bonny dochter ;”’ and if the following rhapsody, | which I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your taste better than the ‘‘Collier Lassie,” fall on and welcome :— O, saw ye bonny Lesley? &c.° T have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into | the hands of the potter, to make one vessel t¢ honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, & R. Bi COX X XIX. TO MR. THOMSON. notes on the songs which the poet wrote in her honour. Thomson says, in his answer, ‘¢I have heard the sad story of your Mary ; youalways seem inspired w write of her.’’} | [The story of Mary Campbell’s love is related’ in the | hen you 14th November, 1792. My DEAR Sir, I AGREE With you that the song, “ Kathering | Ogie,” is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- | gether unworthy of so beautiful anair. I tried | to mend it; but the awkward sound, Ogie, re- curring so often in the rhyme, spoils every at- tempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. I think it a The foregoing sone‘ pleases myself; golug g° } 4 Ye wanks and braes and streams around Tne castle o? Montgomery. ‘ Song CLXXXIL eS3s in my happiest manner: you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days, and 1 own that I should be muzh flattered to see the verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, ’tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition. I have partly taken your idea of ‘‘ Auld Rob Morris.” I have adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, sans ceremonie, make what use you choose of the productions. Adieu, &c. R. B. CCXL. TO MR. THOMSON. [The poet approved of several emendations proposed by Thomson, whose wish was to make the words flow more readily with the music: he refused, however, to adopt others, where he thought too much of the sense was eacrificed.] Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. Your alterations of my ‘Nannie, 0!” are perfectly right. So are those of ‘‘ My wife’s a winsome wee thing.” Your alteration of the second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom which character- izes our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter ‘Bonnie Lesley.” You are right; the word “ Alexander” makes the line a little uncouth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexan- der, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that “he went forth conquering and to conquer.” For nature made her what she is, And never made anither. she is.) (Such a person as This is, in my opinion, more poetical than ‘‘Ne’er made sic anither.”’ However, it is im- Material: make it either way. ‘‘Caledonie,” I agree with vou, is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; but I cannot | help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. Re Bi OF ROBERT BURNS. ee CCXII. TO MR. THOMSON. [Duncan Gray, which this letter contained, became 4 favourite as soon as it was published, and the same may | be said of Auld Rob Morris.] 4th December, 1792. Tue foregoing [‘*Auld Rob Morris,” and “Duncan Gray,”'] I submit, my dear Sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them or con- demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. ‘Duncan Gray” is that kind of light-horse gal- lop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature. R. B. CCXLII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Burns often discourses with Mrs. Dunlop on poetry and poets: the dramas of Thomson, to which he alludes, are stiff, cold compositions.] Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. I sHAtt be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; | and, if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of | visiting at Dunlop-house. Alas, Madam! how seldom do we meet in this | world, that we have reason to congratulate our- | selves on accessions of happiness! I have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man’s life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not see some names that I have known, and which I, and other acquaintances, little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with apprehension for our own fate. But of how different an importance are the lives of different individuals? Nay, of what importance is one period of the same life, more than ano- ther? A few years ago, I could have laid down in the dust, ‘‘careless of the voice of the morn- ing ;” and now not a few, and these most help- less individuals, would, on losing me and my exertions, lose both their ‘staff and shield.” By | the way, these helpless ones have lately got an addition; Mrs. B——— having given me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charm: 1 Songs CLK XXIII. and CLXX¥TV SUE UATE: rts x w Se Se Se il aatamian Fit el LE dE Test, mines seer Lp aendhcs 6 enone » Le ee EE mT See en ieee Se Te: a a had a ER SR et ah. rite ee oe reShe. nos * dita tat hen Ae A cola ee a Se ee PEREGO SO ERT ee ere GENERAL CORR ISPONDENCEH ee 452 Delis ee Pees io Ne : ing passage int Thomson's ‘ Edward and Eleo- nora :” « The valiant in himself, what can he suffer ? Or what need he regard his single woes?” &c. As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another from the same piece, pecu- liarly, alas! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Madam, to your present frame of mind : ‘6 Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him Glad o’er the summer main! the tempest comes, The rough winds rage aloud; wnen from the helm, This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies Lamenting—Heavens ! if privileged from trial, How cheup a thing were virtue ?” I do not remember to have heard you men- tion Thomson’s dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, from his ‘‘ Alfred :” ‘¢ Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds And offices of life; to life itself, With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.”’ Probably I have quoted some of these to you formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, Lam apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much more bounded than that of the imagination; so the notes of the former are | | | | | With his fair-weather virtue, that exults | | | | extremely apt to run into one another; but in | return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I must still give you another quotation, which I am almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot resist the temptation., The subject is religion—speaking of its importance to mankind, the author says, ‘Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright.” I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e’en scribble out t’other sheet. We, in this country here, have many alarms of the reform- ing, or rather the republican spirit, of your part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, lam a placeman, you know; a very humble one in- deed, Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter. % % ra % *& # I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty actress’s benefit night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page, talled «The rights of woman :” : While Bur Vu atrntts . Vhile Europe’s eye is fixed on mighty things.” | cisms in person at Dunlop. miserable existence. | I shall have the honour of receiving your criti: R. B. CCXLITII. TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ, FINTRAY. [Graham stood by the bard in the hour of peril recorded in this letter : and the Board of Excise had the generosity to permit him to eat its ‘‘ bitter bread”? for the rema‘ador of his life.] December, 1792. Sir, I nave been surprised, confounded, and dis- tracted by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your Board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person disaffected to govern- ment. Sir, you are a husband—and a father.—You know what you would feel, to see the much- loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced from a situation in which they had been respectable and respected, and left almost without the necessary support of a Alas, Sir! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot! and from the d-mned, dark insinuations of hellish, ground- less envy too! I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, that the allegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie! To the Britsh constitution on Reyvo- lution principles, next after my God, I am most devoutly attached; you, Sir, have been much and generously my friend.—Heaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I haye thanked you.—Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent; has given you patronage, and me dependence.—l would not for my single self, call on your huma- nity; were such my insular, unconnected situ- ation, I would despise the tear that now swells in my eye—I could brave misfortune, I could face ruin; for at the worst, ‘‘ Death’s thousand doors stand open;” but, good God! the tender concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around | me, how they unnerve courage, and wither r¢so ateee OF ROBERT BURNS. ) 458 lution! To your patronage, as a man of some | I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a genius, you have allowed me aclaim; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due: to these, Sir, permit me to appeal; by these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and which, with my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved. R. B. CCXLIV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. {Burns was ordered, he says, to mind his duties in the Excise, and to hold his tongue about politics—the latter part of the injunction was hard to obey, for at that time politics were in every mouth.] Dumfries, 31st December, 1792. Dear Mapam, A HURRY of business, thrown in heaps by my absence, has until now prevented my returning my grateful acknowledgments to the good family of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness which rendered the four days I spent under that genial roof, four of the pleasantest I eyer enjoyed.—Alas, my dearest friend! how few and fleeting are those things | we call pleasures! on my road so Ayrshire, I Bpent a night with a friend whom I much valued; a man whose days promised to be many ; and on Saturday last we laid him in the dust ! Jan. 2, 1798. I wave just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your situation. However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though not quite free of my complaint.—You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my Of that I have enough; but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. way of life I want exercise. Against this 1 have again and again bent my resolution, and have greatly suc- ceeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned: it is the private parties in the family way, among the hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, that do me the mischief—but even this I have more than half given over. Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present; at least I should be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for Beveral years. I must wait the rotation of the list. aud there are twenty names before mine. settled supervisor was ill, or aged; but that hauls me from my family, as I could not remove them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, malicious devil, has raised a little demu on my political principles, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself too much in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, hence- forth, a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky poli- tics; but to you I must breathe my sentiments. In this, as in everything else, I shall show the un- disguised emotions of my soul. War I depre- cate: miscry and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. R. B CXLV. TO MR. THOMSON. (The songs to which the poet alludes were ‘ Poortith Cauld,” and ‘‘Galla Water.’’] Jan. 1798. Many returns of the season to you, my dear will CLXXXV. and I should like to know what songs you print to each tune, In short, I would wish to give you my opinion on all the Sir. How comes on your publication? these two foregoing [Songs CLXXXVI.] be of any service to you? besides the verses to which it is set. poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful hints that escape men of much superior parts and endowments in other things. If you meet with my dear and much-valued Cunningham, greet him, in my name, with the compliments of the season. Yours, &c., R. B. CCXLVI. TO MR. THOMSON. [Thomson explained more fully than at first the p’zm of his publication, and stated that Dr. Beattie had prcwised an essay on Scottish music, by way of an introduction to the work.] 26th January, 1798. I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans Dr. Beattie’s essay will, of itself, be a treasure. On my part I mean to draw up an appendix to the Doctor’s essay, containing my stock of anec< dotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late Mr ok re Tiles aryl Mk BPs al tea dta ted) anita er rls ain nN ee EL ——— ar ethan Eee de nnenon einai lac ng aes sini harn oe pais recites beeen! 5 gna pales aL ca et re a es a a em Pm i al mr reis Nee Ne ee ara [eereee ert gr ek | eee en ea eT te ate Pe Na : 454 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE “a a Tytler’s anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. Iam such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its rise, “Lochaber” and the ‘‘ Braes of Ballenden”’ excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. Ido not doubt but you might make a very valuable c llection of jacobite songs; but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think that some of them, particularly “‘ The > sow’s tail to Geordie,” as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your col- ection of lively songs? If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a navieté, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our uatiye music, than any English verses what- ever. The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi- tion to your work. His ‘‘ Gregory” is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter —that would be presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it. [Here follows ‘‘ Lord Gregory.» Song CLXXXVII.] My most respectful compliments to the ho- nourable gentleman who favoured me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon. Yours, R. B. CCXLVII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. {The seal, with the coat-of-arms whic h the poet in- rented, is still in the family, and regarded asa relique.] 8d March, 1798. 1 TAR yy 7 SINCE I wrote to you the last lueubrious sheet z ? | have not had time to write you further. When ey I say that I had not time, that as usual means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so completely shared my hourg among them, as not to leave me a five minutes’ fragment to take up a pen in. Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- wards with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson’s songs, [| dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much admired old Highland air called ‘*The Sutor’s Dochter?” It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with great applause in some fashionable circles by Major Roberston, of Lude, who was here with his corps. There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- sent from a departed friend which vexes me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make a very decent one; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it; will you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business? I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all; but I have invented arms for my- self, so you know I shall be chief of the name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be These, however, I do I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my entitled to supporters. not intend having on my seal. arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shepherd’s pipe and crook, saltier-wise, also proper in chief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottos; round the top of the crest, Wood-notes wild: at the bot- tom of the shield, in the usual place, Better a 3y the shepherd’s pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of paint- wee bush than nae bield. ers of Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan’s quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd By the bye, do you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius—Why is he not more known ?—Has he no patrons ? or do ‘‘Poyerty’s cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and I once, and but once, got 4 > on him? glance of that noble edition of the noblest pas: toral in the world; and dear as it was, I mean heavyOF dear as to iy pocket, I would have bought it; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they has hit genuine pastoral costume. narrow and harden the heart so? I think, that wero I as rich as the sun, I should be as gene- rous as the day; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other | man’s, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this, is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches as anabob or government contractor possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it. R. B. CCXLVIII. TO MR. THOMSON. gourns in these careless words makes us acquainted with one of his sweetest songs.] 20th March, 1798. My DEAR Sir, Tue song prefixed [‘‘ Mary Morison”'] is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. What is become of the list, &c., of your songs? I shall be out of all temper with you, by and bye. I have always looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot, bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else. R. B. CCXLIX. TO MR. THOMSON. [For cre ‘* Wandering Willie’ of this communication Thomson offered several corrections. ] March, 1798. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame; vome to my bosom, my ae only dearie, [same. And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the ' Song CLXXXVIII. ROBERT BURNS. 45) Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part: ing ; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e; Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o’ your slumbers ! Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms! Awaken, ye breezes! blow gently, ye billows! And waft my dear laddie ance mair to wy arms. But if he’s forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, O still flow between us, thou wide, roaring main ; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain! I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine whether the above, or the old ‘‘Thro’ the lang muir I have followed my Willie,” be the best. R. B. CCL. TO MISS BENSON. (Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a visit to Arbigland, the beautiful seat of Captain Craik} she is now Mrs. Basil Montagu.] Dumfries, 21st March, 1798. Mapam, Amone many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is | this in particular, that when they met with any- body after their own heart, they had a charm- ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- ings with them in after-life. Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as this miser- able being is, it is none of the least of the mise- ries belonging to it, that if there 1s any mis- | ereant whom you hate, or creature whom you | | despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, oD ¥ | and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- ner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and sister TO LS 8 Ts al, micas ett S sent beer oY oN cement ee Ene etal ot di Sas ie Oe ee e tea ad da SRPy ae 4 eee tn tts nS a sina bonian Wahuunne dna abaERCR vate PROCITE I 456 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE will not allow your indignation or contempt a | moment’srepose. AsI am a sturdy believer in | the powers of darkness, I take these to be the | doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. | It is well-known that he has some kind of short- hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I | make no doubt he is perfectly acquainted with | my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: how much I admired her abilities and valued her | worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself | in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my | dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again. | e | Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real | truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may | have the opportunity of declaring with how | much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c. R. B. CCLI. TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ, OF DALS WINTON. [The time to which Burns alludes was the period of his occupation of Ellisland.] Dumfries, April, 1793. Sir, My poems having just come out in another edition, will you do me the honour to accept of a copy? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a gentleman to whose goodness I have been much indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion of the liberties of my country ; and of my veneration for you, as a man, whose be- nevolence of heart does honour to human na- ture. There was a time, Sir, when I was your de- pendent: this language then would have been like the vile incense of flattery—I could not have used it. Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute of respect from, Sir, Your much indebted humble servant, R. B. 1 Burns here calls himself the “ Voice of Coila,” in {mitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the ‘‘ Voice of Cona.’»—Cr gRiz. oa CCLII. TO MR. THOMSON. [This review of our Scottish lyrics is well worth the attention of all who write songs, read songs, or sing songs.] Tth April, 1798, THANK you, my dear Sir, for your packet | You cannot imagine how much this businessg of composing for your publication has added to my enjoyments. What with my early attach. ment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever | fortification was Uncle Toby’s; so Ill e’en canter | it away till I come to the limit of my race—God grant that I may take the right side of the win- ning post!—and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, ‘‘Sae merry as we > a hae been!” and, raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of ‘«Coila’”’! shall be, ‘‘Good night, and joy be wi’ you a’!” So much for my last words: now for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at random, on looking over your list. The first lines of ‘*The last time I came , o’er the moor,” and several other lines in it, are beautiful ; but, in my opinion—pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay!—the song is un- | worthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. ‘‘For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,’? is a charming song; but ‘‘ Logan burn and Logan braes” is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery ; Vl try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of ‘Logan Water” (for I know a good many different ones) which I think pretty :— ‘¢ Now my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.’’8 ‘My Patie is a lover gay,” is unequal. ‘His is a muddy expression > mind is never muddy,’ indeed. *¢' Then Ill resign and marry Pate, And syne my cockernony—”? This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay or your book. My song, ‘‘ Rigs of barley,” to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments 2 By Thomson, not the musician, but the poet. 8 This song isnot old; its author, the late John Mayne, long outlived Burns.OF —_—— ROBERT BURNS. 45% out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. «¢The lass 0’ Patie’s mill” is one of Ramsay’s best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in jt, which my much-yalued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. In Sir John Sinclair’s statistical volumes, are two claims—one, I think from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire—for the honour of this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe: Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking, out together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still called ‘‘ Patie’s mill,” where a bonnie lass was ‘‘tedding hay, bare- headed on the green.” My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he pro- duced at dinner. ‘‘One day I heard Mary say,”! is a fine song; but, for consistency’s sake, alter the name *‘ Adonis.” Were there ever such banns pub- lished, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary! I agree with you that my song, «“There’s nought but care on every hand,” is much superior to ‘‘ Poortith cauld.” The ori- ginal song, ‘‘The mill, mill, O!’’% though ex- cellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow as an English set. ‘‘The Banks of the Dee” is, you know, literally ‘‘Langolee,” to slow time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it: for instance, ‘‘ And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree.” In the frst place, the nightingale sings in a low busk, but never from atree; and in the Second place, there never was a nightingale Been or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rurai imagery is always comparatively flat. If ! could hit on another stanza, equal to ‘ The small birds rejoice,” &c., I do myself honestly 1 By Crawfurd. 2 By Ramsay. 3The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet and some time Judge of the police-court in Edinburgh, pssented to this, and altered the line to, ‘CAnd sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree.” tbe. | avow, that I think it a superior song.4 “John Anderson, my jo’—the song to this tune in Johnson’s Museum, is my composition, and I think it not my worst:> if it suit you, take it, and welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very com- plete; but not so your comic ones. Where are ‘¢Tullochgorum,” ‘‘Lumps o’ puddin,” “ Tibbie Fowler,” and several others, which, in my hum- ble judgment, are well worthy of preservation ? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the Museum, which never was known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl’s singing. It is called ‘‘Craigieburn wood,” and, in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most connoisseurs. You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. ‘Shepherds, I have lost my love!” is to me a heavenly air—what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? Ihave made one to ita good while ago, which I think * * *, but in its original state it is not quite a lady’s song, I enclose an altered, not amended copy for you,® if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow. Mr. Erskine’s songs are all pretty, but his «Lone vale” 7 is divine. Yours, &c. R. B. Let me know just how you like these random hints. CCLII. TO MR. THOMSON. [The letter to which this is in part an answer, Currié says, coutains many observations on Scottish songs, and on the manner of adapting the words to the music, whicb at Mr. Thomson’s desire are suppressed.] April, 1798 I wave yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I shall answer it and your former letter, in my desultory way of saying whatever comes upper most. 4 Song CXXXIX. 5Song LXXX. 6 Song CLXXVII. 7 «6 How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feeling, 1 ) y r bP) Yon nightingale’s notes Which in melody meet. The song has found its way into several co\leetions Seiya Saw ly Mis kA Das aN. oKines ata sents actroeer ens ed AlN a ee ee a Pe on ah eae en EE SI EIA Sta le ee eeeport te ee re ies nt atest % eee aie iste Sa Pik ES eer et EERE PO THERA Tee Rion aot 458 GENERAL he business of many of our tunes wanting, at the beginning note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. «¢ There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, That wander through the blooming heather,” - you may alter to ‘‘ Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, Ye wander,’’ &c. My song, ‘‘ Here awa, there awa,’ as amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- turn you. Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is, in my opinion, repre- hensible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad—l mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his pieces; still I can- not approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. Walker proposes doing with ‘‘ The ,ast time I came o’er the moor.”? Leta poet, if he choose, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own; but to mangle the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and nar- row house—by Heaven, ’twould be sacrilege! I crant that Mr. W.’s version is an improvement ; but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much; let him mend the song, as the Highlander mend- ed his gun—he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel. 1 do not, by this, object to leaving out impro- per stanzas, where that can be done without CORRESPONDENCE will never suit. | | | | | | | | | | spoiling the whole. One stanza in ‘‘ The lass o’ Patie’s mill” must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. Iam not sure if we gan take the same liberty with ‘‘ Corn rigs are > ponnie.” Perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it, ‘‘Cauld kail in Aber- you must leave with me yet awhile, I ’ deen,’ have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses 3eS, **Poortith cauld and restless love.” At any rate, my other song, ‘‘ Green grow the rashes,”’ > = “™) 1 Songs CXCII. and CXCIIT ARERR , That song is current in Scot o, what fiddlers call a starting- | land under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name, which, of course, would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book will be the standard of Scots songs for the future: let this idea ever keep your judgment on the alarm. I send a song ona celebrated toast in this country, to suit ‘‘ Bonnie Dundee.” I send yeu also a ballad to the ‘‘ Mill, mill, O!”! “The last time I came o’er the moor,” I would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let Ramsay’s be the English set. You shall hear from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come by Dumfries? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me, which I have picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly; but your learned Jugs would perhaps be displeased with the very feature for which I like them. 1 call them simple; you would pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air called ‘‘Jackie Hume’s Lament?” I have a song of consider- able merit to that air. Ill enclose you both the song and tune, asI had them ready to send to Johnson’s Museum.? I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from viva voce.§ Adieu. CCLIV. TO MR. THOMSON. [Thomson, it would appear by his answer to this letter, was at issue with Burns on the subject-matter of simpli- city: the former seems to have desired a sort of diplo- matic and varnished style: the latter-felt that elegancé and simplicity were ‘‘ sisters twin.’’] April, 1793, My DEAR SIR, I wap scarcely put my last letter into the post- office, when I took up the subject of ‘The last time I came o’er the moor,” and ere I slept drew the outlines of the foregoing.4 How I have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other 0¢ I own my vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a place in | casion, to you to decide. your elegant and superb work; but to be of service to the work is my first wish. As I have | eee ee | 2 Song CXCIV. 3 Song CXCVIUII. | 4 Song CCXXXIV.os. OF ROBERT BURNS —— often told you, Ido not in asingle instance wish you, out of compliment to me, to insert any- thing of mine. One hint let me give you— whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs, I mean in the song department, but let our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, nerhaps, depends a great part of their effect. R. B. CCLYV. TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ, OF MAR. [This remarkable letter has been of late the subject of soine controversy: Mr. Findlater, who happened then to be inthe Excise, is vehement indefence of the ‘‘ honoura- ble board,’? and is certain that Burns has misrepresented the conduct of his very generous masters. In answer to shis it has been urged that the word of the poet has in no other thing been questioned: that in the last moments of his life, he solemnly wrote this letter into his memoran- dum-book, and that the reproof of Mr. Corbet, is given by him either as a quotation from a paper or an exact recol- lection of the words used: the expressions, ‘‘not to think” and be ‘‘ silent and obedient’? are underlined.]) Dumfries, 13th April, 1793. Sir, DEGENERATE as human nature is said to be, and in many instances, worthless and unprinci- pled it is, still there are bright examples to the contrary ; examples that even in the eyes of su- perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of man. Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came forward to patronize and befriend a distant, obscure stranger, merely because po- verty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much esteemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read ) ) J me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude ; for words would but mock the emotions of my soul. You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise; I am still in the Bervice.—Indeed, but for the exertions of a gen- tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham ef Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much as a hearing, or the slightest previous S: 159 ! See a ——<— | intimation, been turned adrift, with my helpless | family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had any other resourse, probably I might. hfive’saved them the trouble of a dismission; but the little money I gained by my publication, is almost | every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an | only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, | is by no means one of the most fortunate of men. In my defence to their accusations, I said, that whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the idea!—That a consTituTION, which, in its ori- ginal principles, experience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried vi- sionary theory :—that, in consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, either personally, or as an author, in the present busi- ness of Rrerorm. But, that, where I must de clare my sentiments, I would say there existed a system of corruption between the executive power and the representative part of the legis- lature, which boded no good to our glorious con- STITUTION; and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended.—Some such senti- ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- rous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before the Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark gave great offence; and one of our supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was in- structed to inquire on the spot, and to docu- ment me—‘‘ that my business was to act, noi to think ; and that whatever might be men or mea- sures, it was for me to be silent and obedient.” Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been partly forgiven; only I understand that all hopes of my getting officially forward, are blasted. Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest you. The partiality of my COUNTRYMEN has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given mea character to support. In the Porr I have av wed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and family, have pointed out as the eligible, and; situated as I was, the only eligible line of life for me} my Still my honest fame 1s m] present occupation. orn PSY FES, SOM (ptecal met ea po See oe fac eel Manreneeeen 2m a one eternal me AD a cient nhs ban owe eben mag tennant eli spn REL pe et hE eS LT oe a oi oa eye ae ath eR SEEs a ee ee a eo os Le - seer eS Tho ee ee 160 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE dearest concern; and a thousand times have I | trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. Ihave often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling paragraphs—‘ Burns, notwith- standing the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to public view and to public estimation as aman of some genius, yet quite desitute of re- sources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant ex- istence in-the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind.” In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal ond defiance of these slan- derous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but I will say it! the sterling of his honest worth, no poverty could debase, and his independent British mind, oppression might bend, but could not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more precious stake in my country’s welfare than the richest dukedom in it ?—I have a large family of chil- dren, and the prospect of many more. I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of staves.—Can I look tamely on, and see any machination to wrest from them the birthright of my boys,—the little independent BrivTons, in whose veins runs my own blood ?— No! I will not! should my heart’s blood stream around my attempt to defend it! Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can be of no service; and that it does not be- long to my humble station to meddle with the concern of a nation? I can tell him, that itis on such individuals as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. The uninformed mos may swell a nation’s bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, may be its feathered ornament; but the number of those who are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect; yet low nough to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court !—these are anation’s strength. I know not how to apologize for the imperti- nent length of this epistle; but one small re- quest I must ask of you further—when you h ave honoured this letter with a perusal, please to commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose be half you have so generously interested yourself, I have here in his native colours drawn as he is, but should any of the people in whose hands ig the very bread he eats, get the least knowledge of the picture, it would ruin the poor BARD for ever ! My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent gratitude, with which I have the honour to be, Sir, Your deeply indebted, And ever devoted humble servant, R. B. CCLVI. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [‘‘ Up tails a’, by the light o’ the moon,” was the name of a Scottish air, to which the devil danced with the witches of Fife, on Magus Moor, as reported by a war- lock, in that credible work, ‘‘ Satan’s Invisible World discovered.’’]} April 26, 1793. I am d-mnably out of humour, my dear Ains- lie, and that is the reason, why I take up the pen to you? ’tis the nearest way (probatum est) | to recover my spirits again. I received your last, and was much enter- tained with it; but I will not at this time, nor at any other time, answer it.—Answer a letter? lL never could answer a letter in my life !—I have | written many a letter in return for letters 1 have received; but then—they were original matter—spurt-away! zig here, zag there; as if the devil that, my Grannie (an old woman in- deed) often told me, rode on will-o’-wisp, or, 12 her more classic phrase, SPUNKIE, were looking over my elbow.—Happy thought that idea has engendered in my head! Spunxre—thou shalt henceforth be my symbol signature, and tutelary genius! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here- awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up- tails-a’-by-the-light-o’-the-moon,—has been, is, and shall be, my progress through the mosses and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of ours. Come then, my guardian spirit, like thee may I skip away, amusing myself by and at my own hight: and if any opaqae-souled lubber of mans kind complain that my elfine, lambent, glim preOF ROBERT BURNS. 461 merous wanderings have misied his stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs, let the thickheaded blunderbuss recollect, that he is not SPuNKIE: —that ‘¢ SpuNKIE’s wanderings could not copied be: Amid these perils none durst walk but he.’??— * % * % * 1 have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught, as a Scotchman catches the itch,—by. frictivn. How else can you account for it, that born bluckheads, by mere dint of handling books, grow so wise that even they themselves are equally convinced of and surprised at their own parts? I once carried this philosophy to that degree that in a knot of country folks who had a library amongst them, and who, to the honour of their good sense, made me factotum in the business; one of our members, a little, wise- looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over the leaves, to bind the book on his back.—Jonnnie took the hint; and as our meetings were every fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, another in returning, Bodkin was sure to lay his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous folio, with, and under which, wrapt up in his gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all the way home. He carried this so far, that an old musty Hebrew concordance, which we had in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theology as the said priest had done by forty years pe- rusal of the pages. Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory. Yours, SPUNKIE. CCLVII. TO MISS KENNEDY. {Miss Kennedy was one of that numerous band of ladies who patronized the poet in Edinburgh ; she was related to the Hamiltons of Mossgiel.] Mapam, Permit me to present you with the enclosed Song as a small though grateful tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the unembellished simple manner of descriptive TRUTH.—Flattery, I leave to your LOVERS, whose exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still nearer perfectiou than you really are. Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most for- cibly the powers of BEAUTY; as, if they ars really ports of nature’s making, their feelings must be finer, and their taste more delicate than most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of SPRING, or the pensive mildness of auruMN; the grandeur of suMMER, or the hoary majesty of WINTER, the poet feels a charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far the finest part of God’s works below), have sen- sations for the poetic heart that the HERD of man are strangers to.—On this last account, Madam, I am, as in many other things, indebt- ed to Mr. Hamilton’s kindness in introducing me to you. Your lovers may view you with a wish, I look on you with pleasure; their hearts, in your presence, may glow with desire, mine rises with admiration. That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your Aear{—that the snares of villany may never beset you in the road of life—that InNocENCE may hand you by the path of Honour to the dwelling of PEace, is the sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, &c. R. B. CCLYIII. TO MR. THOMSON. [The name of the friend who fell a sacrifice to those changeable times, has not been mentioned: itis believed he was of the west country.] June, 1793. Wuen I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine in whom I am much interested, has fall- en a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads. My own loss as to pecuniary matters is trifling; but the total ruin of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Par- don my seeming inattention to your last com- mands. I cannot alter the disputed lines in the ‘“ Mill, ES a ENTS a 2S ee ie eee Se el ts ed ne ee re a yy nn ae i Ne) OI aE EY NTT FIM Vow SNe TGF, ons Sa a Dre aes ee ee —— Smmenien Cie] &.eS a nS Retain ahaa A eA Nee ee £62 GENERAL COR Mill, O!”! What you think a defect, I esteem ps a positive beauty; so you see how doctors differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your commands. You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in Edinburgh—he is here, instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this county. Among many of his airs that please me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the name of ‘The Quaker’s Wife;” and which, I remember, a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of ‘ Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass.” Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an enthusiast about it, that I made a song for it, which I here subjoin, and enclose Fra- zer’s set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, they are at your service; if not, return me the tune, and I will put it in Johnson’s Museum. I think the song is not in my worst manner. Blythe hae I been on yon hill.? I should wish to hear how this pleases you. R. B. CCLIX. TO MR. THOMSON. [Against the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet was ever ready to set the sharpest shafts of his wrath: the times in which he wrote were sadly out of sorts.] June 25th, 1798. HAVE you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation, on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdoms, de- solate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of ‘‘Logan Water,” and it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive indig- nation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with private distress, the con- sequence of a country’s ruin. If I have done 1 «© The lines were the third and fourth: ‘Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mou rning.? A8 our poet he aintained < 1 poet had maintained a long silence, and the first number of Mr. Thomson’s musical work was in the press 28S, ica « AO “2 , \ 1 this gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine’s ady | ice, to sub- atatute for them, in that publication, RESPONDENCE anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour’s meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit :— O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide. Do you know the following beautiful little fragment, in Wotherspoon’s collection of Scots songs ?4 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 Pheebus light!” This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After ba- lancing myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the fol- lowing. The yerses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess: but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place ; as every poet who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. Oh were my love yon lilac fair, Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring; And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! How I wad mourn, when it was torn 3y autumn wild and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfw’ May its bloom renewed.® R. B. ‘And eyes again with pleasure beam’d That had been blear’d with mourning.’ Though better suited to the music, these lines are inferio to the original.’?—-CuRRIE. £ Song CXV. 3 Song CXCVI. 4 Better known as Herd’s. Wotherspoon was one @ the publishers. 6 See Song CXCVif. EE Th oie hell sparen (oe LAeee ROBERT BURNS. 463 CCLX. TO MR. THOMSON. [Thomson, in his reply to the preceding letter, laments that anything should untune the feelings of the poet, and begs his acceptance of five pounds, as a small mark of nis gratitude for kis beautiful songs.] July 2d, 1793. My prar Sir, I HAVE just finished the following ballad, and, as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns’s wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some young ladies of the first fashion here. If you do not like the air enough to give it a place in your collection, please return it. The song you may keep, as I remember it. There was a lass, and she was fair.! I have some thoughts of inserting in your index, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, the themes of my songs. J do not mean the name at full; but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M’Murdo, daughter to Mr. M’Murdo, of Drumlanrig, one of your subscribers. Ihave not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager. R. B. CCLXI. TO MR. THOMSON. {Burns in this letter speaks of the pecuniary present which Thomson sent him, in a lofty and angry mood: he Who published poems by subscription might surely have accepted, without any impropriety, payment for his songs. ] July, 17938. I AssuRE you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- grades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would savour of affectation; but, as to any mor¢ trafic of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that Honour which crowns the up- right statue of Roperr Burns’s IntEGRity— on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spern the bypast transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to you! Burns’s cha- tacter for generosity of sentiment and indepen- -.unug CXCVIIL. ® Miss Rutherford, of Fernilee in Selkirkshire, by mar- dence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants which the cold unfeeling ore can supply ; at least, I will take care that such a character he shall deserve. Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold in any musical work such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably written, only your partiality to me has made you say too much: however, it will bind me down to double every effort in ine future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or perhaps contra- dictory. ‘The Flowers o’ the Forest,” is charming as a poem, and should be, and must be, set to the notes; but, though out of your rule, the three stanzas beginning, “Ive seen the smiling of fortune beguiling,”’ are worthy of a place, were it but to immortal- ize the author of them, who is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn, I forget of what place, but from Roxburghshire.2 What a charming apostrophe is **O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day ?” The old ballad, ‘‘I wish I were where Helen lies,” is silly to contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson’s, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of them notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries), has the best set. It is full of his own interpolations—but no matter. In my next I will suggest to your considera- tion a few songs which may have escaped your hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed your character and fame, which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons anp Data TERS OF TAsTE—all whom poesy can please or music charm. Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- sions to second sight; and I am warranted by the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great- grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, with honest pride, ‘‘ This so much admired se: $ . ne }) lection was the work of my ancestor: a riage Mrs. Patrick Cockburn, of Ormiston. She died in | 1794, at an advanced agv. SIONS tape aT Speer TTS We oe oe eee PREG POLS Ye tel a ee ee en eS pee LE TY Te i a a a Te ae pe altEe Senos ee ee De et oe 4 rl ieee Re st ree tone LA Pee ae tot 464 GENERAL CORR JSPONDENCEH a penned ce CCLXII. CCLXIV. TO MR. THOMSON. TO MR. THOMSON. (Stephen Clarke, whose name is at this strange note, [The infusion of Highland airs and north country sub | was a musician and composer ; he was a clever man, and | jects into the music and songs of Scotland, has invigora- We c Ue « © = ? 5 2 es . 7 - ~ 7 ; i ini f hi m powers. ted both: Burns, who had a fine earas well asa fine had 2 high opinion of his own po ] taste, was familiar with all, either Highland or Low- August, 1793. land.] My pEAR THOMSON, August, 1798. I noxp the pen for our friend Clarke, who at Trav crinkum-crankum tune, ‘‘ Robin Adair,” my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks 18 | my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this rather out of tune; so, until he rectify that | present is studying the music of the spheres at | has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in | morning’s walk, one essay more. You, my dear matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, and worthy friend Cunningham’s story, which hap if more are wanted, he says you shall have | pened about three years ago. That struck my them. fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice % % * * * “ me . as follows: Confound your long stairs! mY = a . S. CLARKE. Had I a cave on some wild distant shore.? By the way, I have met with a musical High lander in Breadalbane’s Fencibles, which are CCLXIII. | quartered here, who assures me that he well TO MR. THOMSON | remembers his mother singing Gaelic songs to \ 4 ve a wD aN. both ‘“‘Robin Adair,” and ‘‘Grammachree.” (‘Phillis the Fair” endured much at the hands of both | They certainly have more of the Scotch than Burns and Clarke. The young lady had reason to com- | Irish taste in them plain, when the poet volunteered to sing the imaginary | ans aan : Acie This man comes from the vicinity of Inver ness: so it could not be any intercourse with + 1793 | ; 7 August, 1793. | Treland that could bring them; except, what I Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages love of that fantastic fiddler.] shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering > in my 66 é Totep oo onto . i s in my song of “‘ Logan Water,” is right in one minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go fre instance; but it is dificult to mend it: if I can, quently errant through the wilds both of Seot land and Ireland, and so some favourite airs not appear in the same light to me. might be common to both. A case in point— [have tried my hand on “ Robin Adair,” and, | they have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish you will probably think, with little success; but ; I will. The other passage you object to does air, as they say, called ‘‘Caun du delish.” The fact is, in a publication of Corri’s, a great while ago, you will find the same air, called a High- land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is ‘‘Oran Gaoil,” and a Somuch for namby-pamby. I may, after all, | fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan or the Rev. try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I | Gaelic parson, about these matters. always find myself most at home. R. B. I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for ‘‘Cauld kail in Aberdeen.” If it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- ine is a favourite of mine; if not, I shall also be pleased; because I wish, and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business. ’Tis a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way mea- | sure, that I despair of doing anything better to | it. | While larks with little wing.! CCLXY. | | TO MR. THOMSON. [While Burns composed songs, Thomson got some ¢ | the happiest embodied by David Allan, the painter, whose which JOU 7 T a : y owe yourself. illustrations of the Gentle Shepherd had been favourably R. B. received. But save when an old man was admitted to 1 Song CXCIX. 2 Song CCene scene, his designs may be regarded as failures: his inaidens were coarse and his old wives rigwiddie carlins.] August, 1798. My DEAR SiR, ‘‘LeT me in this ae night” I will reconsider. Iam glad that you are pleased with my song, ‘Had I a cave,” &c., as I liked it myself. I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand, when turning up «Allan Water,” ‘‘ What numbers shall the muse repeat,” &c., as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that it is_on your list, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit I may be wrong; but I think it notin my worst style. the measure. You must know, that in Ramsay’s Tea-table, where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is ‘Allan Water,” or ‘My love Annie’s very bonnie.” This last has certainly been a line of the original song; oO? so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the line in its place, which I presume it formerly occupied ; though I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy: By Allan stream I chanced to rove. Bravo! say I; itis a good song. Should you think so too (not else) you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than all the year else. God bless you! R. B. CCLXVI. TO MR. THOMSON. [Phillis, or Philadelphia M’Murdo, in whose honour Burns composed the song beginning ‘‘ Adown winding Nith I did wander,’ and several others, died September 5th, 1825.] August, 1793. Is ‘“‘ Whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,” one of your airs? I admire it much ; and yes- terday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom I have met with here, begged them of me, as he admires the air much ; but as I under- stand that he looks with rather an eyil eye on your work, I did not choose to comply. How- ever, if the song does not suit your taste I may ona CCI 2 Song CCII. ee OF ROBERT BURNS. | muckin’ 0’ Geordie’s byre.” 465 a possibly send it him. The set of the air which I had in my eye, is in Johnson’s Museum. O whistle, and I’ll come to yoa, my lad.2 Another favourite air of mine is, ‘*The When sung slow, with expression, I have wished that it had had better poetry ; that Ihave endeavoured to supply as follows: Adown winding Nith I did wander.’ Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his, and out of compliment to him I have made the song. She isa Miss Phillis M’Murdo, sister to ‘‘ Bonnie Jean.” They are both pupils of his. You shall hear from me, the very first grist I get from my rhyming-mill. R. B CCLXVII. TO MR. THOMSON. [Burns was fond of expressive words: ‘ Gloaming, the twilight,’ says Currie, ‘‘is a beautiful poetic word, which ought to be adopted in England.”? Burns and Scott have made the Scottish language popular over the world.] August, 1793. THat tune, ‘‘ Cauld kail,” is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses ; when the muse that presides o’er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whis- pered me the following. I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet simple in- spirer that was by my elbow, ‘‘ smooth gliding without step,” and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. Im the first place, since I left Coila’s native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her, so I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or, at least, makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you, is the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson’s Museum. Come, let me take thee to my breast.‘ If you think the above will suit your idea of 3 Song CCIII. 4 Song CCIV, ene S158 Ss as ae REE eee. —— os ed a a sh a LT) Nr Tn Le BEY od in tte, hom ieee) aan: es a ae . . sane NL Ser OT TE ES BE ST OO aSee a VE Ppt eee GY LIT ey eh CBE RETESTED Fi Ne nnn nn ee ae teas te eee ht abla cae LA re 466 your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. “6 The last time I came o’er the moor” I cannot meddle with, as to mending it; and the musical world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay’s words, that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well received. lam not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not made one for the foregoing. R. B. | CCLX VIII. TO MR. THOMSON. [‘* Cauld kail in Aberdeen, and castocks in Strabogie,” are words which have no connexion with the sentiment of the song which Burns wrote for the air.] August, 1793. Sona. Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers.’ The chorus, you know, | See Clarke’s set | So much for Davie. is to the low part of the tune. of it in the Museum. N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out | the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of chorus, is the way.? CCLXIX. TO MISS CRAIK [Miss Helen Craik, of Arbigland, had merit both asa poetess and novelist: her ballads may be compared with those of Hector M’Neil: her novels had a seasoning of satire in them.] Dumfries, August, 17938. Mavpam, Somz rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- vented my doing myself the honour of a second visit to Arbigland, as I was so hospitably in- vited, and sc positively meant to have done.— & wever, I still hope to have that pleasure be- fore the busy months of harvest begin. I enclose y 7 7 iece se you two of my late pieces, as some kind of return for the pleasure I have received in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in ee eee Sy Te cry tie possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one with an old song, is a proverb, whose force, you ~ ’ Madam, I know, will not allow. What is said 1 Song CCV 2 See Song LXVII. GENERAL CORRESPONDENC! a | lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by be- = 4 a of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry, none ever despised it who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be melancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. —In the comparative view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensi- bility, which between them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions than are the usual lot of man; implant in him an irre- sistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies—in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase; | stowing on him a spurning sense of his own | dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as S To you, Madam, I need miserable as a poet. not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- witching poetry is like bewitching woman; she has in all ages been accused of misleading man- kind from the councils of wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- tex of ruin; yet, where is the man but must own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the name—that even the holy hermit’s solitary prospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the glitter | | | of a northern sun rising over a frozen region, | compared with the many pleasures, the name- less raptures that we owe to the lovely queen of the heart of man! R. B: CCLXX. TO LADY GLENCAIRN. of this lettet life to think of h Sir Walter | | (Burns, as the concluding paragraph | proves, continued to the last years of his | the composition of a Scottish drama, whic eeOF ROBERT BURNS. 468 Scott laments he did not write, instead of pouring out multitudes of lyrics for Johnson and Thomson.] My Lavy, Tue honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given him, came very seasonably to his aid, amid the cheerless gloom and sinking despond- sncy of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could use those old verses which please me more in their rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I ever saw. ‘Tf thee, Jerusalem, [ forget, Skill part from my right hand. My tongue to my mouth’s roof let cleave, If I do thee forget, Jerusalem, and thee above My chief joy do not set.2’>— When I am tempted to do anything improper, I dare not, because I look on myself as account- Now and then, when I have the honour to be called to able to your ladyship and family. the tables of the great, if I happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of self-sufficient squires, or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by calling to remembrance that I am patronized by the noble house of Glencairn; and at gala- times, such as new-year’s day, a christening, or the kirn-night, when my punch-howl is brought from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with,—Zhe Countess of Glencairn ! My good woman. with the enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries, My Lord! and so the toast goes on until I end with Lady Har- riel’s little angel! whose epithalamium I have pledged myself to write. When I received your ladyship’s letter, I was Just in the act of transcribing for you some verses Lhave lately composed; and meant to have sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my farm. Those fears were indeed too true; it is a bargain would have ruined me, but for the lucky circum- ftance of my haying an excise commission. People may talk as they please, of the igno- mMiny of the excise; 50/. a year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of the world; and I would much rather have it said that my profession borrowed credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my pro- ee fession. Another advantage I have in this business, is the knowledge it gives me of the various shades of human character, consequently assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for the muses when nobody knew me, but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled now that my lord Glencairn’s goodness has introduced me to all the world. Not that I am in haste for the press, Ihave no idea of publishing, else I certainly | had consulted my noble generous patron; but | after acting the part of an honest man, and | Supporting my family, my whole wishes and | views are directed to poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I were to give performances to the world superior to my former works, still if they were of the same kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet witb ; would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts | on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse. * “ % % Does not your ladyship think that an Edin- burgh theatre would be more amused with affec- tation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than manners which by far the greatest part of the audience can only know at second hand? I have the honour to be, Your ladyship’s ever devoted And grateful humble servant, R. B CCLXXI. TO MR. THOMSON. [Peter Pindar, tha name under which it was the p-ea- sure of that bitter but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to write, was a man of little lyrical talent. He purchased a good annuity for the remainder of his life, by tue copy- right of his works, and survived his popularity many years. ] m Sept. 1793. You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in my power is heartily at your service, But one thing I must hint to you; the very name of Peter Pindar is of great service to your publication, so get a verse from him now and : é jection, as well as I then; though I have no object , can, to bear the burden of the business. You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of nature’s instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- sical ¢ sitions articularly son, many musical compositions, partic Mei OL FEY EN I, peincat Aer h| eS Sas eR Pe a Ee Sl ae a te Ee SEto Te ees ee LLL ITT 5 eters eee rt ae 168 ee — SSS where much of the merit lies in counter point, however they may transport and ravish the ears of your connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am de- lighted with many little melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the old air ‘ Hey tuttie | taitie,” may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Frazer’s haut-boy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is & tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in yesternight’s evening walk, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot’s address to his heroic followers on the eventful morning. Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.! So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as he did that day! Amen. P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving | myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- dental recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. Clarke’s set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in the Museum, though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. R. B. CCLXXIT. TO MR. THOMSON. |'This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns for tne airs of the Highlands, } Sept. 1798. I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspondence is persecution. No matter, I can’t help it; a ballad is my hobby- horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when once it ———<—— 1 Song CCVII. 2 Song CCVIII. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE | has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle- gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- yond any useful point or post in the common race of men. The following song I have composed for ‘‘Oran-gaoil,” the Highland air that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from | the mint. If it suit you, well!—If not, ’tis also well! Behold the hour, the boat arrive! Re Be CCLX XIII. TO MR. THOMSON. [This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottish song, which poets and musicians would do well to read and consider.] Sept. 1793. I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on it.° ‘‘Down the burn, Davie.”? I have this mo- ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of the last stanza, thus: As down the burn they took their way, And thro’ the flowery dale; His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale. With ‘‘ Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew?” Quoth Mary, ‘‘ Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you.”* “‘ Thro’ the wood, laddie’—I am decidedly of opinion that both in this, and ‘ There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame,”’ the second or high part of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only for instru- mental music, and would be much better omit- ted in singing. “< Cowden-knowes.” Remember in your index that the song in pure English to this tune, be: | ginning, <¢ When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,” 3 Mr. Thomson’s list of songs for his publication. 4 This is an alteration of one of Crawfurd’s songs Ais the prc luction of Crawfurd. Robert was his Christian name.! ‘‘Laddie, le near me,” must lie by me for some time. Ido not know the air; and until I am complete master of a tune, inmy own singing (such as it is), can never compose for it. My way is: I consider the poetic sentiment corre- spondent to my idea of the musical expression ; then choose my theme; begin one stanza: when that is composed, which is generally the most dificult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects of na- ture around me that are in unison and harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom ; humming every now and then the air with the verses [haveframed. WhenIfeel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire-side of my study, and there commit my effu- sions to paper; swinging at intervals on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invari- ably my way. What cursed egotism ! «Gil Morice” I am for leaving out. Itisa plaguy length; the air itself is never sung; and its place can well be supplied by one or two songs for fine airs that are not in your list—for instance ‘‘ Craigieburn-wood” and ‘‘ Roy’s wife.” The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty, and the last has high merit as well as great celebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air, in the handwriting of the lady who composed it; and they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has yet geen. ‘Highland laddie.” a mere Scotch ear best; and the new an Italian- The old set will please ised one. There is a third, and what Oswald calls the old ‘‘‘Highland laddie,” which pleases me more than either of them. It is sometimes called ‘‘ Ginglin Johnnie ;” it being the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, ‘‘I hae been at Crookieden,” &c. I would advise you, in the musical quandary, to offer up your prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and in the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. Proba- jum est. 1 His Christian name was William. 2 Song CXCV. Ue. OF ROBERT BURNS. ‘Auld Sir Simon” I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place “ The Quaker’s wife.” ‘‘ Blythe hae I been on yon hill,”2is one of the finest songs ever I made in my life, and, be- sides, is composed on a young lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world As I purpose giving you the names and desig- nations of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include ‘‘ The | bonniest lass in a’ the warld,” in your col- lection. ‘‘Dainty Davie” I have heard sung nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always with the chorus to the low part of the tune; and nothing has surprised me so If it will not suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the much as your opinion on this subject. stanzas together, and then make the chorus fol- low, exactly as Lucky Nancy in the Museum. ‘Fee him, father:” I enclose you Frazer’s set of this tune when he plays it slow: in fact he makes it the language of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas, in that style, merely to try if it will be any improvement. Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make I do not give I com- an admirably pathetic song. these verses for any merit they have. posed them at the time in which ‘‘ Patie Allan’s mither died—that was about the back o’ mid- night ;” and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company ex- cept the hautbois and the muse. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie. “‘ Jockie and Jenny” I would discard, and in its place would put ‘‘ There’s nae luck about the house,’’4 which has a very pleasant air, and which is positively the finest love-ballad in that style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other language. ‘When she came ben she bobbit,” as an air is more beautiful than either, and in the andante way would unite with a charming sentimental ballad. | out, ‘‘Saw ye my father?” is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before last, I wandered and began a tender song, in what I think is its native style. I must premise that the old and the way to give most effect, is to have all it, but to way, no starting note, as the fiddlers ¢ 3 Song CCIX. 4 By William Julius Mickle 409 sil sie ese ats, mead) lt Siew Fan a ne eS OY Speen eee Pe os See a ee a — >ee ee ae tpg FItN Pera me LAY ere ap eo tA RROL £70 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE burst at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings ‘‘ Saw ye my father ?” &e. My song is but just begun; andl should like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct Eng- lish.! “‘Todlin hame.” Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been mine, that this air is highly susceptible of pathos : accordingly, you will soon hear him at your concert try it to a song of mine in the Museum, ‘Ye banks and braes 0’ bonnie Doon.” One sony more and I have done; ‘‘Auld lang syne.” ‘he air is but mediocre; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any air.? Now, I suppose, I have tried your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, haye a number of ballads, properly so called. <‘‘ Gil Morice,” ‘‘Tranent Muir,” ‘‘ Macpherson’s fare- well,” ‘Battle of Sherriff-muir,” or, ‘‘ We ran, and they ran,” (I know the author of this charm- ing ballad, and his history,) ‘‘Hardiknute,” ‘Barbara Allan” (I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared ;) and besides do you know that I really have the old tune to which ‘“‘The cherry and the slae” was sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known air in ‘* Scotland’s Complaint,” 3 a book published It was then called “The banks of Helicon;” an old poem which before poor Mary’s days? Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytler’s history of Scottish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit; but it is a great curiosity. I have a | good many original things of this kind. R. B. CCLXXIYV. TO MR. THOMSON. {Burns listened too readily to the suggestion of Thom- son, to alter ‘‘ Bruce’s Address to his troops at Bannock- porn :’? whatever muy be the merits of the air of ‘‘ Louis ” 7 sins Gordon,” the sublime simplicity of the words was in- 1 The song here alluded to is one which the poet after- wards sent in an entire form :— ‘Where are the joys I hae met in the morning.”? % Song CCX. ssn pci ~ jured by the alteration: it is now sung as originality | written, by a.l singers of taste.] September, 1798. I am happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleaseg you so much. Your idea, ‘‘honour’s bed,” ig, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you please, we will let the line stand as it is, I have altered the song as follows :—* N.B. Ihave borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace— ‘* A fase usurper sinks in every foe, And liberty returns with every blow. A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my correspondence. The post | goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- fort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for last night’s joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen. R. B CCLXXYV. TO MR. THOMSON. [The poet’s good sense rose at last in arms against the criticisms of the musician, and he refused to lessen the dignity of his war-ode by any more alterations.] September, 17938. ‘‘Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?” My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged | to you for putting me on reconsidering it, as I | think I have much improved it. Instead of “‘sodger! hero!” I will have it ‘‘Caledonian, on wi’ me!” I have scrutinized it over and over; and to | the world, some way or other, it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan’s verses. I have finished my song to ‘‘Saw ye my fa- ther?” and in English, as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the expression of the air, is true; but, allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter: however, in that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak 8 A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwards edited. 4 Song CCVII.OF ROBERT BURNS. 47) with confidence; but the music is a business | twenty-five of them in an additional number ? where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffi- | We could easily find this quantity of charming dence. airs; I will take care that you shall not want The old verses have merit, though unequal, | songs; and I assure you that you would find it and are popular: my advice is to set the air to | the most saleable of the whole. If you de not 2 . 7 ay lat ~ > c mi <= c . ny) y° ¢ > = CC + of > zi e 5 if the old words, and let mine follow as English | approve of Loy’s wife,” for the music’s sake, | verses. Here they are :— | we shall not insert it. ‘‘Deil tak the wars” is : . : a charming song; so is, ‘‘Saw y + Peogy 2” Where are the joys I have met in the morn- & song; so is, “Saw ye my Peggy oa | «*There’s nae luck about the house” well de- serves a place. I cannot say that ‘‘O’er the Adieu, my dear Sir! the post goes, so I shall | hills and far awa” strikes me as equal to your defer some other remarks until more leisure. R. B. selection. ‘*Thisis no my ain house,” isa great | favourite air of mine; and if you will send me I 36 : ; | your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest CCLAXVI. effort. What is your opinion of “I hae laid a a herrin’ in saut?” Ilike it much. Your jaco- al TO MR. THOMSON. bite airs are pretty, and there are many others of the same kind pretty ; but you have not room {For “Fy! let us a’ to the bridal,” and “Fy! gieme | for them. You cannot, I think, insert “Fy! A sein LS ath Te ale hen eet) ati ene my coggie, Sirs,’ and ‘‘ There’s nae luck about the | ; : yoy es Bees amet ess : | let’s a’ to the bridal,” to any other words than house,’”? Burns puts in a word of praise, from a feeling | , that Thomson’s taste would induce him to exclude the | 1ts own. first—one of our most original songs—from his collec- What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- tion.] s sai gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this rea- September, 1798. oe ae ; uae fae son, ‘‘ Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs,” ‘Fy! let’s a’ to the bridal,” with several others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing; while, ‘‘Saw I HAVE been turning over some volumes of songs, to find verses whose measures would suit the airs for which you have allotted me to find , ; . a re y ye my father, or saw ye my mother ?” delights English songs. ee Soe : r i si me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus For ‘“‘Muirland Willie,” you have, in Ram- : . yo : my song, ‘‘Ken ye what Meg o’ the mill has say’s Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning : ; Cee © | gotten?” pleases myself so much, that I cannot «¢ Ah, why those tears in Nelly’s eyes?” As for «The Collier’s Dochter,” take the following old bacchanal :— try my hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this; >ut ‘‘ilka man wears his belt his ain ‘‘Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c.’”? gait.” R. B The faulty line in SLogan-Water, I mend thus: - ns CCLXXVII. How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry ? TO MR. THOMSON. The song otherwise will pass. As to ‘ M’Gre- [Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was commu- nicated in a letter to Burns by Thomson, which the wri- ter has withheld. He was a gentleman of talent, and joint projector of Thomson’s now celebrated work.] October, 1798. Ravine winds around her blowing.’ # ao pound ne — Your last letter, my dear Tomson, was eS inecomnrneennn — é o es o hee me tr eesti 8 es gee 8 a ae Sen eng he Aeterna! i mi at teh nena titel Bo ST goira Rua-Ruth,” you will see a song of mine eae an to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins, ae Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Irish. If they were like the “Banks of Ban- | Erskine 14 The recollection that he Was & CO- na,” for instance, though really Irish, yet in the | adjutator in your publication, has till now scared Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since | me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to | on composing for you. 4 « have stirred the poet tu such invectives as this lettet exhibits. ] I with wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but whether in the morning I am not sure, Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu- siness, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment for a poet’s pen! There is a species of the human genus that I call the gin-horse class: what en- viable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round they go,—Mundell’s ox that drives his cotton-mill is their exact prototype—without an idea or wish beyond their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d-mn’d melange of fretfulness and melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor, my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am per- suaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold—‘‘ And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!” If my resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and ipa * * % * x Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of R. B. CCLKXXXVII. TO MRS. RIDDEL. [The bard often offended and often appeased this whim- sical but very clever lady.] I nave this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it ® good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him anything again. I have sent you ‘ Werter,” truly happy to have any the smallest opportunity of obliging rou. Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea; and that once froze the very life- blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence -f death on him ee ee en TS eee ee eee ee eex rs eee a ONT esreers ee ae ek ad eee eee en aS ee CE A OE ee ert hee ey ee GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE could only have envied my feelings and situa- tion. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak on it. One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute of esteem, and appre- ciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her. R. B. CCLXXXVIII. TO MRS. RIDDEL. {Burns often complained in company, and sometimes “n his letters, of the caprice of Mrs. Riddel.] I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it; even per- haps while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could anything estrange 1e from afriend such as you?—No! To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting on you. Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women; even with all thy little caprices! R. B. CCLXXXIX. TO MRS. RIDDEL. [The offended lady was soothed by this submissive let- ter, and the bard was re-established in her good graces.] Mapam, 1 RETURN your common-place book. JI have perused it with much pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value. If it is true that “ offences come only from the heart,” before you I am guiltless. To ad- mire, esteem, and prize you as the most accom- plished of women, and the first of friends—if these are crimes, I am the most offending thing alive. In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly confidence, now to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn—is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, how- ever, some kind of miserable good luck, and while de haut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a ten- dency to rouse a stubborn something in hig bosom which, though it cannot heal the wounds ee A snsensSaresn of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. With the profoundest respect for your abili- ties; the most sincere esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable manners; and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most deyoted humble servant, R. B. CCXC. TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. [John Syme, of the stamp-office, was the companionas well as comrade in arms, of Burns: he was a well-in- formed gentleman, loved witty company, and sinned in rhyme now and then: his epigrams were often happy.] You know that among other high dignities, you have the honour to be my supreme court of critical judicature, from which there is no appeal. I enclose you a song which I composed since I saw you, and I am going to give you the history of it. Do you know that among much that I admire in the characters and man- ners of those great folks whom I have now the honour to call my acquaintances, the Oswald family, there is nothing charms me more than Mr. Oswald’s unconcealable attachment to that incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. 0.? A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior; self-evident amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous upright mind, and that informed, too, much beyond the usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- tune: and to all this, such a woman!—but of her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of saying anything adequate: in my song I have | endeavoured to do justice to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As] ama good deal pleased with my performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald, but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, might, from the well-known character of poverty and poetry, be construed into some modification or other of that servility which my soul abhors. R. PB aROBERT BURNS. ATT CCXCI. TO MISS ——. [Burns, on other occasions than this, recalled both his atters ana verses: itis to be regretted that he did not recall more of both.] Dumfries, 1794. Mapam, Noruine short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me trouble you with this let- ter. Except my ardent and just esteem for your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with the friend of my soul and his amiable con- nexions! the wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wanderings of a weary world! and the cutting reflection of all, that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight! These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary unguish.—However, you also may be offended with some imputed improprieties of mine; sen- sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me. To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me, is not the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and against direct malevolence I can be on my guard; but who can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly ? I have a favour to request of you, Madam, and of your sister Mrs. , through your means, You know that, at the wish of my late friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written. They are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust, may live when the hate of those who “watch for my halting,” and the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has made my su- periors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of obliyion; I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts—Will Mrs. the goodness to destroy them, or return them have tome? As a pledge of friendship they were be- stowed; and that circumstance indeed was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer possess; and I hope that Mrs. ’s goodness, which I well know, and evet will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man whom she once held in some degree of estimation. With the sincerest esteem, I have the honour to be, Madam, &e, QB CCXCII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted, but at times it burst out, as in this letter, with 6 oquenca and fervour, mingled with fear.] 25th February, 1794. Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst thou give to a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me? * * * x x % For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own | kept its native incorrigibility. Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. The ong is composed of the different modifica- | tions of a certain noble stubborn something in | man, known by the names of courage, fortitude ST ae Deen ene Wet See er ee 0 ee ene ens s aS ar ee rae ae na ne ial i ae hn ere a Sn RST nT Oe Rane PE EE MT ET SPO Leen ite ye See a aie ne Tl% Ne nen er tne ae hee heehee es (INT Pre Dee ee ee — z Py ery ee ran 4 magnanimity. The orHerR is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfi- gure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human soul; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- pression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful, obscure realities—an all-powerful, and equally beneficent God; and a world to eome, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field: the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- ligion at all. J know some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty Frw, to lead the undis- cerning MANY; or at most as an uncertain ob- security, which mankind can neyer know any- thing of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with re- ligion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an ima- gination, delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of spring; himself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature’s God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusi- asm of Thomson, ‘“'These, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God.—The rolling year Is full of thee.” And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that tharming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask what of the delights among the sons of men are superior ? | | | | | | | | | 78 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE not to say equal to them? And they have thig precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God. R. B CCXCIII TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN, [The original letter is in the possession of the Hon Mrs. Halland, of Poynings: 1t is undated, but from a memorandum on the back it appears to have been written | in May, 1794.] May, 1794. My Lorp, ae WHEN you cast your eye on the name at tha bottom of this letter, and on the title-page of the book I do myself the honour to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me that it must be a name not en- tirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; and to him | owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to express in a poem to his memory, which I haye now published. This edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my respect for the living (fame belies you, my lerd, if you possess not the same dignity of man, which was your noble brother’s characteristie feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in town :—allow me to present it you. I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal conta- | gion which pervades the world of letters, that | | | | | professions of respect from an author, particu- larly from a poet, to a lord, are more than sus- picious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to tha too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship’s name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of an honest man, I come before your lordship with an offering, however humble, ’tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of you, my lord,—’tis all I have to ask of you,— that you will do me the honour to accept of it I have the honour to be, R. B.CCXCIV. TO MR. THOMSON. [The correspondence between the poet and the musi- ian was interrupted in spring, but in summer and au- jumn the song-strains were renewed.] May, 1794. My DEAR Sir, I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would humbly propose, in- stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite charmed with Allan’s manner. I got > him a peep of the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd ;” and he pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence. For my part, I look on Mr. Allan’s choosing my favourite poem for his subject, to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received. I am quite vexed at Pleyel’s being cooped up in France, as it will put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and bye. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls ‘‘The Banks of Cree.” Cree is a beauti- ful romantic stream; and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it. Here is the glen and here the bower.! RB. B. CCXCYV. TO DAVID M’CULLOGBH, ESQ. OF ROBERT BURNS. 478 | — } three o’clock, I shall be happy to takea draught of M’Kune’s best with you. Collector Syme will be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you cf your kind promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can muster, for I am in: deed ill at ease whenever I approach your ho- nourables and right honourables. Yours sincerely, R. B. CCXCVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it wag in other days called ‘‘ The Carlinwark,” but accepted its present proud name froman opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland, England, and America.] Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am Iset by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may.—Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard’s favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have onearth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medi- cal friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken. Iam just going to trouble your critical pa- tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design | . ‘ 7 . 5 it as an irregular ode for General Washington’s (The endorsement on the back of the original letter | shows in what far lands it has travelled :—‘‘ Given by Da- vid M’Culloch, Penang, 1810. A. Fraser.”? ‘‘ Received, 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain Frazer’s widow, by me, Thomas Rankine.’’? ‘‘'Transmitted to Archibald Pigt'9, Esq., London, March 27th, 1824, from Bombay.?’] Dumfries, 21st June, 1794. My prar Sir, My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or 1 Song CCXXIII. | birth-day. After having mentioned the dege- neracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus :— Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies! Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep.” PA ee LOe DE TC ee pan pes TN een) eee ee el a Ee TL ee eee ee ET kaa ae Pa eT) ery bar tr dcr a dae a ESE RE ae eSSaiaiabatos eb lomaiem mani trae. ws —— os rw ee ER ETHEL OTT es Ne Se LIT LTT Sia ete Le a 130 | GENERAL CORRESPONDENOE with additions of That arm which nerved with thundering fate, Braved usurpation’s boldest daring ! One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, power- less age. You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two. R. B. CCOXCVII. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. (The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a new edition of his poems.] Dumfries, 1794. My DEAR FRIEND, You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and plue devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees. I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- ness, finds me in full employment. I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty- a — know I am no connoisseur: but that I am ag amateur—will be allowed me. Reis CCXCVIII. TO MR. THOMSON. (The blank in this letter could be filled up without writing treason: but nothing has been omitted of an original nature.] July, 1794. Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Or is your work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the sayage thraldom of democrat discords? Alas the day! And woe isme! That auspicious period, preg- | nant with the happiness of millions.* * * # I have presented a copy of your songs to the | daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured | friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I | wrote on the blank side of the title-page the | following address to the young lady: one songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot | finish it in any other way, what would you think | of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel’s, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the Mu- seum a book famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever. I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it once was the dirk of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. Ihave some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad.—Our friend Clarke has done indeed well! "tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, &c.! RB. B: CCXCIX. TO MR. THOMSON. [Thomson says to Burns, ‘‘ You have anticipated my opinion of ‘ O’er the seas and far away.’?? Yet some of the verses are original and touching. ] 80th August, 1794. Tue last evening, as I was straying out, and thinking of ‘‘O’er the hills and far away,” I spun the following stanza for it; but whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture | of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your | anything that has pleased me so much. You een, usual candid criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it at first, but I own that now it appears rather a flimsy business. This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a critique. We have many sailor songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. J must here make one sweet exception—‘‘ Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came.” Now for the song:— How can my poor heart be glad.? 2 Song CCXXIV 1 Poem CCXXIX.OF { give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. R. B. CCC. TO MR. THOMSON. {The stream on the banks of which this song is sup- posed to be sung, is known by three names, Cairn, Dal- gonar, and Cluden. It rises under the name of Cairn, runs through a wild country, under the name of Dalgo- nar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine scenes, and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of Lincluden College, and then unites with the Nith.] Sept. 1794. I sHALL withdraw my ‘‘On the seas and far away” altogether: it is unequal, and unworthy the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 60n :. you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you produce him to the world to try him. For that reason I send you the offspring of my brain, abortions and all; and, as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn them. Iam flattered at your adopting ‘Ca’ > the yowes to the knowes,” as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the | song, and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to- day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi- ties and imperfections on its head. Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, &c.! I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. R. B. CCCI. TO MR. THOMSON. | Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises of the poet, had the honour of being named by Burke in the House of Commons: he shared in the French revolution, 1 Song CCXXV 2Song CCXXVI. 31 ROBERT BURNS. 481 ee oe pe ees the guillotine, like many other Sept. 1794. Do you know a blackguard Irish song called ‘‘Onagh’s Waterfall?” The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at all. On this principle I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- seum; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above mentioned, for that work. If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing in the company of ladies. Sae flaxen were her ringlets.? Not to compare small things with great, my taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of Prussia’s taste in painting: we are told that he frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- cried, and always without any hypocrisy con fessed his admiration. Iam sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar. because people of undisputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for ‘“‘ Rothemurche’s rant,” an air which puts me in raptures; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will pit against any of you. ‘‘Rothe- murche,” he says, ‘‘is an air both original and beautiful;” and, on his recommendation, I have taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part for the song. Iam but two stanzas deep in the work, and poss:bly you may think, and justly, that the poetry is ag little worth your attention as the music. [Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning ‘‘ Las- sie wi? the lint-white locks.”? Song CCXXXIII.] I have begun anew, ‘‘ Let me in this ae night.” Do you think that we ought to retain the old chorus? I think we must retain both the old chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I I a a a ee ee ee OT ET PTE ete, NTE aaa Fane ne ee en) eee one ee i err de er eT ie tahny. —— ia .Tee RS WEAR, Neen nnn mimmabitte acer beteiie cette fl ee eee ha aN iaie ie te te ape 182 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE do not altogether like the third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be successful or other- wise ?—should she ‘‘let him in” or not? Did you not once propose ‘‘ The sow’s tail to Geordie” as an air for your work? I am quite delighted with it; but I acknowledge that is no mark of its real excellence. I once set about yerses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting together. I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Thomson’s Christian name, and yours, I am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else I had meant to have made you the hero and heroine of the little piece. How do you like the following epigram which I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl’s recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the physician who seemingly saved her from the graye ; and to him I address the following: TO DR. MAXWELL, ON MISS JESSIE STAIQG’S RECOVERY. Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny: You save fair Jessy from the grave ?— An angel could not die! God grant you patience with this stupid epistle! R. B. CcCcril. TO MR. THOMSON. {The poet relates the history of several of his best songs in this letter: the true old strain of ** Andro and nis cutty gun”? is the first of its kind.] 19th October, 1794. My DEAR FRIMND, By this morning’s post I have your list, and, in general, | highly approve of it. more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day’s fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his opinion in general: you know his taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, so please do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do—persuade you to adopt my fa- vourite ‘‘Craigieburn-wood,” in your selection: it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The I shall, at lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland; and in fact (entre nous) ig in a manner to me what Sterne’s Eliza was to him—a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in (Now, don’t put any of your squinting constructions the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could of your best songs of mine. inspire a man with life, and love, and joy— could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! ordinary in song—to be in some degree equal to no! Whenever I want to be more than your diviner airs—do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Tout au con- traire! Ihave a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divi- nity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in pro- portion to the adorability of her charms, in pro- portion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnas- sus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon! To descend to business: if you like my idea of ‘‘ When she cam ben she bobbit,” the follow- ing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they were formerly, when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas :— O saw ye my dear, my Phely.! «The Posie” (in the Museum) is my composition; the Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. air was taken down from Mrs. Burns’s voice. It is well known in the west country, but the old By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think words are trash. it is the original from which “Roslin Castle” The second part in particular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. <‘‘ Strathallan’s Lament” is mine; the music is by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Masterton. ‘‘ Donocht-Head”’ is not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the New- castle post-mark on it. ‘* Whistle o’er the lave ot’ ig mine: the music said to be by & John is composed. 1 Song CCXXVII. rh PREC a a eee a = = 0 : zr 2a AD EsOF ROBERT BURNS. 483 Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a about the beginning of this century. red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people here is be- lieved to be the author of it. «‘ Andrew and his cutty gun.” The song to which this is set in the Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmore. ‘* How long and dreary is the night!” I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I haye taken a stride or two across my room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other page. How long and dreary is the night, &c.! Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings at the same time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to see any of her songs sent into the world, as naked as Mr. What-d’ye-call-um has done in his London collection.? These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at ‘“Duncan Gray,” to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance :— Let not woman e’er complain, &c.3 Since the above, I have been out in the coun- try, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with a lady whom I mentioned in the second page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usual, I got into song; and returning home I composed the following: Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature &e.4 If you honour my verses by setting the air to them, I will vamp up the old song, and make it English enough to be understood. I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East In- dian air, which you would swear was a Scottish “Song CCX XVIII. 2 Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was ablished this year. ten one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gen- tleman who brought it over is a particular ac quaintance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I'send you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke | has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into | the Musical Museum. Here follow the verses I | intend for it. But lately seen in gladsome green, &c.5 I would be obliged to you if you would pros cure me a sight of Ritson’s collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will | thank you for another information, and that ag | | speedily as you please: whether this miserable | drawling hotchpotch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence? VARIATION. Now to the streaming fountain, Or up the heathy mountain, The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray ; In twining hazel bowers, His lay the linnet pours; The lav’rock to the sky Ascends wi’ sangs 0’ joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. When frae my Chloris parted, Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, The night’s gloomy shades, cloudy, dark 0’e= cast my sky. 3ut when she charms my sight, In pride of beauty’s light ; When through my very heart Her beaming glories dart; Tis then, ’tis then I wake to life and joy! R. B. CCCIII. TO MR. THOMSON. (The presents made to the poet were far from nt 2ér ous: the book for which he expresses his thanks, Wau the work of the waspish Ritson.] November, 1794, Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present; it is a book of the utmost importance tome. Ihave yesterday begun my anecdotes, &e.. for your work. I intend drawing them up in the form of a letter to you, which will save ______—_* 4 Song GO XSXeX:. 6 Song CCXVI. 3 Song CCXXIX. pi PLL Nip tas Po LES wlth Tl, len haa bnew ns i ee Saar ta te SL Ni Oe 1Seee. as . ee peer R RE ety nS oie teraz nee cane deli apr bar Lehn aaa RE 184 ee or Renae me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the song you had selected for ‘‘My lodging is on the cold ground.” On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following song. My Chloris, mark how green the groves.! How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think it pretty well. I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of ‘‘ma chere amte.” I as- sure youl was never more in earnest in my life, than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, ‘¢ Where love is liberty, and nature law.’ Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, lam avery poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price; and Justice forbids and generosity disdains the pur- chase. Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of which the measure is something similar to what IT want; and, with a little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor Have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE have cut down for an English dress to yout ‘Dainty Davie,” as follows :— It was the charming month of May.2 You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be sur- prised that I have made so much of it. I have finished my song to ‘‘ Rothemurche’s rant,”’ and you have Clarke to consult as to the set of the air for singing. Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, &c.° This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; if not, I will insert it in the Museum. R. B Ccccliy. TO MR. THOMSON. [Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, ‘that at last the writing a series of songs for large mu- sical collections degenerated into aslavish labour which no talents could support.’’] I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as ‘‘ Deil tak the wars,” to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- ness of ‘“‘Saw ye my father ?”—By heavens! the odds is gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well modernized into the Scottish language, is originally, and in the early editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D’Urfey, so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- tion. There is a pretty English song by Sheri- dan, in the ‘‘ Duenna,” to this air, which is out of sight superior to D’Urfey’s. It begins, «‘When sable night each drooping plant restoring.” The air, if I understand the expression of it | properly, is the very native language of simpli- | city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone | gone over my song to the tune. Now for my English song to ‘‘ Nancy’s to the greenwood,” &c. Farewell thou stream that winding flows.* There is an air, ‘The Caledonian Hunt’s De- light,” to which I wrote a song that you will find will find in R soya M : eye ‘ Z ; : id in Ramsay’s Tea-table Miscellany, I | in Johnson, ‘‘ Ye banks and braes 0 bonnié iSong CCXXXI. 2 Song CCX XXII. it a pees 3 Song CCX XXIII. 4 Song CCXXXIV.OF ROBELE > v T BURNS. | > Doon :’ among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. this air I think might find a place Do you know the history of the air? Itis cu- rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentle- man whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the be able to compose a Scots air. black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune in ques- tion. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how diffi- cult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that ‘this was an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess informed me, that the first person who introduced the air into this country, was a baronet’s lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them. I thank you for admitting ‘‘ Craigieburn- wood;” and I shall take care to furnish you with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a new ‘‘Craigieburn-wood” altogether. My heart is much in the theme. Iam ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; ’tis dunning your generosity; but in & moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your Songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- Sary information out of them, I will return you Ritsov’s volumes, The lady is not a little proud that she is ta make so distinguished a figure in your collec- tion, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over. R. B. CCCY. TO MR. THOMSON. (Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this let- ter contained, carry on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce, and the lovers are reduced to silence.] 19th November, 1794. You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- respondent I am ; though, indeed, you may thank yourself for the tediwm of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old O Philly, happy be the day.! Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out whatever you think faulty. I am much pleased with your idea of singing our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember your objections to the name Philly, but it is the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has to my ear a vul- garity about it, which unfits it for anything except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poets asters of the day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity; where- as, simplicity is as much elowgnée frceri vulgarity on the one hand, as from affectei point and puerile conceit on the other. I agree with you as to the air, “ Craigieburn- wood,” that a chorus would, in some degree, spoil the effect, and shall certaiuly have none 1 Song CCXXXV. INTRES ny t. 3 i es my ae SA ET ae Baan es OnE Rete CD eee ee —~ ee nn ent eS ET SE eet Se Tie, ae at) RS per a = ~ ta tL ee a AN STE Non) TS weee Ne ne ee eee ee fe rates lee hee he eae ne cont case ery ear ttt 486 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE sn my projected song to it. Itis not, however, a case in point with <‘Rothemurche;” there, as in ‘“‘Roy’s Wife of Aldivalloch,” a chorus goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with ‘‘ Roy’s Wife,” as well as ‘“‘Rothemurche.” the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity In fact, in depends so much of their beauty, that we must e’en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could couiterbalance the want of. Tt Oh Roy’s wife of Aldivalloch. a O lassie wi’ the lint-white locks. and Roy’s wife of Aldivalloch. compare with : 5 : : P Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks. Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you? Inthe last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild ori- ginality of the air; whereas, in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste; if Iam wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscentt. ‘‘The Caledonian Hunt” is so charming, that it would make any subject in a song go down; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- tish bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are excellent. For instance, ‘“‘Todlin hame,” is, for wit and humour, an unparalleled composition; and ‘‘ Andrew and his cutty gun” is the work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ache. Apropos to bacchanalian songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air [ like much—‘‘ Lumps 0’ pudding.” Contented wi’ little and cantie wi’ mair.! If you do not relish this air, I will send it to Johnson, R. B. CCCVI. TO MR. THOMSON. | The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems of an order as rude and incapable of fine 1 Song CCXXXVI. $e | sounds as the whistles which school-hoys make in spring from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree.] Since yesterday’s penmanship, I have framed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng: lish song to ‘* Roy’s Wife.” You will allow me, that in this instance my English corresponds in | sentiment with the Scottish. | | instrument. Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?2 Well! I think this, to be done in two or threa turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss, You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from somebody. Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude It is composed of three parts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton ham; the horn, which is a common Highland cow’s horn, cut | off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the horn until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and lastly, an | oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that which you see every shepherd boy have, when The reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the corn-stems are green and full grown. the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while the stock, with the horn hang- ing on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventages on the upper side, and one back-ventage, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country. However, either it isnot quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- ing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother- brush with him. ‘Pride in poets is nae sin;” and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world. 18%, 1s}, — 2 Song CCXXXVII a s¥fROBERT BURNS. CCOVII. TQ0 PETER MILLER, JUN. ESQ, OF DALSWINTON. rin a conversstion with James Perry, editor of the Morning Chronicle, }Ir. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, kindly represented the po- verty o¢ She poet and the increasing number of his family: Perry ai once offered fifty pounds a year for any contri- butions he might choose to make to his newspaper: the reasons for his refusal are stated in this letter.] Dumfries, Nov. 1794. Drar SiR, Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most | sincerely do I thank you for it; but in my pre- sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and | were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife anda family of children, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services: I then could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued. My prospect in the Excise is something; at least it is, encumbered as Iam with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of help- less individuals, what I dare not sport with. In the mean time, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them insertit as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me. —Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which any- * thing will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle In the present hurry of that I may write. Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may per- haps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose seniing into the world though the medium of fom: newspaper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed. With the most grateful esteem I am ever, Dear Sir, R. B. CCCVITII. TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN, DUMFRIES. [Political animosities troubled society during the cays of Burns, as much at least as they disturb it now~thia letter 1s an instance of 1t.] 2 Sunday Morning. DEAR SIR, I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Capt. ———— made use of to me, had I had no- body’s welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and a family of children in a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain po- litical opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction I dread lest last night’s business may be misre- presented in the same way.—You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. Itax your wish for Mr. Burns’s welfare with the task of waiting as soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was the obnoxious toast? ‘* May our success in the pre- sent war be equal to the justice of our cause.” —A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning you will wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so , should use high in my estimation as Mr. me in the manner in which I conceive he has | done. R. B. | | ———————— | | CCCIX. | | TO MR. THOMSON. | [Burns allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a degree of lyric merit which the world haa | | refused to sanction.] ‘ | December, 1794. Ir is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to | do anything to forward or add to the value of and as I agree with you that the your book ; he Museum to “‘ There’ll never ‘acobite song in t jac D> nm sp A IEA ELLA ODL ar ee nT Rte en PE Se Se eed oa ee OE hal a CN Sot SO i ees tio] 4et en ee NEN 488 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE be peace till Jamie comes hame,” would not so well consort with Peter Pindar’s excellent love- song to that air, I have just framed for you the following :— Now in her green mantle, &c.! low does this please you? As to the point of time for the expression, in your proposed print from my ‘‘Sodger’s Return,” it must certainly be at—‘*She gaz’d.” The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her counte- nance, and the gushing fondness, with a mix- ture of roguish playfulness, in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours. R. B. CCCX. TO MR. THOMSON. [In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on Thomson one of the finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedoin.] January, 1796. I rear for my songs; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been describing the spring, for instance; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be & sameness in the imagery, &c., of these said rhyming folks. A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song- writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be al- lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme. Is there for honest poverty. I do not give you the foregoing song for your book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; for the piece is not really poetry. How will the following do for * Craigieburn-wood ??— Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigieburn. Farewell! God bless you! R. B. 1 Song COXXXVIIL. 2 Song CCLXIV CCCXI. TO MR. THOMSON. [Of this letter Dr. Currie writes, ‘‘ the poet must have been tipsy indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at thia rate ;”? itis one of thé prettiest of our Annandale vi. lages, and the birth-place of that distinguished biogra pher.] Ecclefechan, 7th February, 17965, My DEAR THOMSON, You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I haye acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfor- tunate, wicked little village. I have gone for- ward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress: I have tried to ‘‘gae back the gate I cam again,” but the same obstacle hag shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them: like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed), I of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service! I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; and, Heaven knows, at present I have not ca- pacity. Do you know an air—I am sure you must know it—‘‘ We’ll gang nae mair to yon town?” I think, in slowish time, it would make an ex-~ cellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your atten- tion, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it. As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. R. B. CCCXII. TO MR. THOMSON. [The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, wad accompanied by two others in honour of the poet’s mix 3 Song CCXLV.ee tress: the muse was high in song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them.] May, 1795. | 0 stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay !? | Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song. Tow @> you like the foregoing? The Irish air, ‘‘Mumours of Glen,” is a great favourite | of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the ‘¢ Poor Soldier,” for it, I have written for it as follows :— there are not any decent verses Their groves 0’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon.? Let me hear from you. R. CCCXIII. TO MR. THOMSON. [The poet calls for praise in this Jetter, a species of coin which is always ready.] How cruel are the parents.+ Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.® Well, this is not amiss. You see how I an- swer your orders—your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poet- izing, provided that the strait-jacket of criti- cism don’t cure me. If you can, in a post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating po- tion of your applause, it will raise your humble servant’s phrensy to any height you want. I am at this moment “holding high converse” with the muses, and haye not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. R. B. CCCXIV. TO MR. THOMSON. [Thomson at this time sent the drawing to Burns in which David Allan sought to embody the ‘‘ Cotter’s Saturday Night:” it displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist.] May, 1795. Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre- gent—though I am ashamed of the value of it, 1 Song CCXLIX. 2 Song CCL. 3 Song CCLI. OF ROBERT anal \ BURNS. e 459 being bestowed on a man who has not, by any means, merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner’s apprentice, whom Mrs. Burns employed to break ; oT gE | / \ Long, long the night.? | up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew | A it at once. My most grateful compliments tu Allan, who has honoured my rustic music so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the felonious attempt on the cat’s tail, is the most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d—n’d, wee, rumblegairie urchin of mine, whom from that propensity to witty wickedness, and man- fu’ mischief, which, even at twa days auld, I | | | | | foresaw would form the striking features of his = disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a cer- tain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be nameless. Give the enclosed epigram to my much-va- | lued friend Cunningham, and tell him, that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whoni his friendly partiality in speaking of me in a manner introduced me—I mean a well- known military and literary character, Colonel Dirom. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned? R. B CCCXYV. [In allusion to the preceding letter, Thomson says to | | TO MR. THOMSON | | “You really make me blush w hen you tell me ‘For 3urms, you have not merited the drawing from me. The ‘ a) that and a? that,’?? which went with this letter, was, it is believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.]} r ai 599 In “‘ Whistle, and Pll come to ye, my lad, the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement :—- « Oh whistle, and P’ll come to ye, my lad; Oh whistle, and I’ll come to ye, my lad ; Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad, Thy Jeanie will venture wi’ ye, my lad. In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- nassus—a dame whom the Graces have attired 4 Song CCLIII. 6 Sone CCLIV ca EON ISEIIA LOTION aan _ ntti se pierre Lek pte cath. alee tered) ots dete ewee eT emcees me a ne 1S ieee eel ne ip ja anna i aon os ee ee SET TE ae ae el ee eT eae ved Ss2 ae Sat Re cece ati en a TT mw aa) bo ae n aem ne ~ os aa inion a + ae es A FR tS a ae ee nen ae AO GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning—a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dis- pute her commands if you dare? This is no my ain lassie,! &c. Do you know that you have roused the torpi- dity of Clarke at last? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to pre- sent to my valued friend Cunningham. I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspec- tion, and that you may copy the song ‘‘ Oh bon- nie was yon rosy brier.” I do not know whether I am right, but that song pleases me; and as it is extremely probable that Clarke’s newly- roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish verses to the air of ‘‘ I wish my love was in a mire;” and poor Erskine’s English lines may follow. I enclose you a *‘ For a that and a’ that,” which was never in print: it is a much superior song to mine. Ihave been told that it was composed by a lady, and some lines written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris :— To Chloris.? Une bagaielle de V amitié. Comma. CCCXVI. TO MR. THOMSON. {In the double service of poesy and music the poet had C f c F; t as y >} y * re to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.] ForLoRN my love, no comfort near, &c.3 How do you like the foregoing? I have writ- ten it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom ? R. B. I Song CULV 2 Poems, No. CXLVI 36 Song CCLVITI. RR CSN CCCXVILI. TO MR. THOMSON. | [The unexampled brevity of Burns’s letters, and the extraordinary flow and grace of jis songs, towards the close of his life, have not now for the first time teen remarked. ] Last May a braw wover.! Why, why tell thy lover.§ Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it. lam at present quite occupied with the charm- ing sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare. R. B, CCCXVITI. TO MRS. RIDDELL. Supposes himself to be writing from the dead to the living. [Ill health, poverty, a sense of dependence, with the much he had deserved of his country, and the little he had obtained, were all at this time pressing on the mind of Burns, and inducing him to forget what was due te himself as well as to the courtesies of life.] Mapam, I pare say that this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time and the manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night 4 Song CCLIX. 6 Song CCLX.OF ROBERT BURNS. 491 so much injured, I think it would be an allevia- tion to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apology.—Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it There was a Miss I——, too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners—do make on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch’s | best apology to her. A Mrs. G——, a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness.—To all the other ladies please present my humblest contri- tion for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them that my errors, though great, were involuntary—that an intoxi- cated man is the vilest of beasts—that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one—that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me—but— Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell- hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me! spare me! Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your humble slave. R. B. CCCXIX. TO MRS. RIDDEL. [Mrs. Riddel, it is said, possessed many more of the poet’s letters than are printed—she sometimes read them to friends who could feel their wit, and, like herself, make allosyance for their freedom.’ Dumfries, 1795. Mr. Burne 2 compliments to Mrs. Riddel— is much obliged to her for her polite attention in serding him the book. Owing to Mr. B.’s deing at present acting as supervisor of excise, a department that occupies his every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention co Mrs. R.’s beautiful song, ‘To thee, loved Nith’—which it so well deserves. When “Ana. | charsis’ Travels” come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public li- | brary, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of it previous to her sending it to the library, as it is | a book Mr. B. has never seen: he wishes to have a longer perusal of them than the regulations of the library allow. Friday Eve. P. §. Mr. Burns will be much obliged te Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a peru. sal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have seen. R. B CCCXX. TO MISS LOUISA FONTENELLE. {That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deserve the high praise which Burns bestows may be guessed: the lines to which he alludes were recited by the lady on her benefit-night, and are printed among his Poems.] Dumfries, December, 1795. Mapam, In such a bad world as ours, those who add to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are posi- tively our benefactors. To you, Madam, on our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would insure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical talents would in- sure admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious com- pliment of the frivolous or interested; I pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime of nature excites my admiration, or her beauties give me delight. Will the foregoing lines be of any service to you in your approaching benefit-night ? If they will I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore: I know they have no great merit; but though they should add but little to the entertainment of the evening, they give me the happiness of an opportunity to de- clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. R. B. a ae ne eS ee et en ee a EE Ae nae se) CL as ema Ne TT EAM eat a SA SaSieh sears eee OTS OT et er eee Ee SATO ee oe kal eer LEELA AE RELI OP ee CCCXXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Of the sweet girl to whom Burns alludes in this letter he was deprived during this year: her death pressed sorely on him.] 15th December; 1795. My DEAR FRIEND, As 1 am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid as even the Deity of Dul- ness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sympathize in it: these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or less, threatened to terminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures an- nexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exer- tions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! IfI am nipt off at the command of fate! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am—such things happen every day—gracious God! what would become of my little flock! ’Tis here that I envy your people of fortune.—A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I—but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject! To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad— ‘*O that I had ne’er been married, I would never had nae care; Now lve gotten wife and bairns, They cry crowdie! evermair. Crowdie! ance; crowdie! twice; Crowdie! three times ina day; An ye crowdie! ony mair, Ye?ll crowdie! a’ my meal away.?— % * x % x x December 24th. Ve have had a brilliant theatre here this sea- son; only, as all other business does, it experi- ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical complaint of the country, want of cash. I men- tioned our theatre merely to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of yne of the actresses, and which is as follows:— GENERAL CORRESPONDENCH ———— ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, pEc. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &e 25th, Christmas-Morning. This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes—accept mine—so heaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my favourite author, ‘“‘ The Man of Feeling,” ‘‘ May the Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the | arrow that brings them rest !” Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? Js not the “Task” a glorious poem? The religion of the ‘‘ Task,” bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and nature; the religion that exalts, that en- nobles man. Were not you to send me your ‘‘Zeluco,” in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. I have lately collected, for a friend’s perusal, all my letters; I mean those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty | papers, which, from time to time, I had par- celled by, as trash that were scarce worth pre- serving, and which yet at the same time I did not care to destroy ; I discovered many of these rude sketches, and have written, and am writ- ing them out, ina bound MS. for my friend’s library. As I wrote always to you the rhap- sody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book. R. B. CCCXXII. TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. [The person to whom this letter is addressed, is the same who lately denied that Burns was harshly used by the Board of Excise: but those, and they are many, who believe what the poet wrote to Erskine, of Mar, cannot agree with Mr. Findlater.] Sir, ENcLOsED are the two schemes. I would not have troubled you with the collector’s one, but eeOF ROBERT ee for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine promised me to make it right, if you will have the goodness to show him how. As I have no copy of the scheme for myself, and the altera- tions being very considerable from what it was formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this scheme I send you, when I come to face up my new books. So much for schemes.—And that no scheme to betray @ FRIEND, or mislead a sTRAN- ger; to seduce a YOUNG GIRL, or rob a HEN- Roost; to subvert LIBERTY, or bribe an EXCISE- MAN; to disturb the GENERAL ASSEMBLY, or annoy a GOSSsIPPING; to overthrow the credit of orTHODOXY, or the authority of OLD SONGS; to oppose your wishes, or frustrate my hopes—May prospeR—is the sincere wish and prayer of R. B. CCCXXIII. TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORN- ING CHRONICLE. {Cromek says, when a neighbour complained that his copy of the Morning Chronicle was not regularly de- livered to him from the post-office, the poet wrote the following indignant letter to Perry ona leaf of his excise- book, but before it went to the post he reflected and recalled it.] Dumfries, 1795. Sir, You will see by your subscribers’ list, that I have been about nine months of that number. I am sorry'to inform you, that in that time, seven or eight of your papers either have never been sent me, or else have never reached me. To be deprived of any one number of the first newspaper in Great Britain for information, ability, and independence, is what I can ill brook and bear; but to be deprived of that most admirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, when he made the great though ineffectual at- tempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too true), “to saye a SINKING sTATE”’—this was a %oss that I neither can nor will forgive you.— That paper, Sir, never reached me; but I de- mand it of you. Jama Briron; and must be interested in the cause of LIBERTY:—I am a MAN; and the riguts of HUMAN NATURE cannot be indifferent to me. However, do not let me mislead you: I am not a man in that situation of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to whom SITUATION OF LIFE ALONE is the criterion of MAN.—I am but a plain tradesman, in this BURNS. 493 distant, obscure country town: but that humble domicile in which I shelter my wife and children is the CastELLuM of a Briron; and that scanty, hard-earned income which supports them is as truly my property, as the most magnificent fortune, of the most PUISSANT MEMBER of yor HOUSE of NOBLES. These, Sir, are my sentiments; and to them I subscribe my name: and were I a man of ability and consequence enough to addregs the PUBLIC, with that name should they appear. Tam, &c. CCCXXIV. To MR. HERON, OF HERON. [Of Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, something haa been said in the notes on the Ballads which bear his name. ] Dumfries, 1794, or 1795. Sir, I ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po- litical ballads; one of which, I believe, you have never seen. Would to Heaven I could make you master of as many votes in the Stew- artry—but— ‘6 Who does the utmost that he can, Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more.”? In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the foe, I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and have sent them among friends all about the country. To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter dereliction of all prin- ciple, in a profligate junto which has not only outraged virtue, but violated common decency ; which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry ini- quity below their daring ;—to unmask their flagitiousness to the proadest day—to deliver such over to their merited fate, is surely not merely innocent, but laudable; is not only pro priety, but virtue. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on the heads of your opponents; and 1 swear by the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all ries of honest laughter, and fair, candia the yota ridicule ! | I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. At present my situation in tionary, at Syme showed me. life must be in a great measure sta ag eg eT On ee Oe) Cree ed a a Se eel ee ee PL eee a, A Er A Fan ene rl me PS oe ee oo = 5 D ree aE ema ET Sere Seer esSe en eee eane tial eT ry ee See iar ee ae tS Pais me LA ie Pot eel em eee CORRE — 494 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE ag) Q The etote > is least for two or three years. The statement is this—I am on the supervisors’ list, and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and be | appointed of course. Then, © FRIEND might be of service to mein getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor’s income varies from about a hundred and twenty to two hundred a year; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pur- suit. The moment I am appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector’s list; and this is always a busi- ness purely of political patronage. A collector- ship varies much, from better than two hundred ayear to near a thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list; and have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent competency, is the summit of my wishes. It vould be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say that I do not need, or would not be indebted to a political friend; at the same time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependent situation on your benevolence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where the good offices | of a gentleman of your public character and political consequence might bring me forward, I shall petition your goodness with the same frankness as I now do myself the honour to sub- Bcribe myself R. B. CCCXXY, TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. {In the correspondence of the poet with Mrs. Dunlop ne rarely mentions Thomsun’s Collection of Sones, though his heart was set much upon it: in the Dunlop from the poet, it 1s said which have not been published.] Abrary there are many letters ) Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. I HAVE been prodigiously disa ppointed in this In the first place, when your last to me reached D London journey of yours. ufries, I was In “he country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter ; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take this route: and aow I know not what is become of you, or ee whether this may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you and yours in prospering health and good spirits! Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. As I hope to get a frank from my friend Cap- tain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scot tish songs which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does over the English. é December 29th. Since I began this letter, I have been ap- pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of business, and what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to have written you anepistle. This appointment is only temporary, and during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look forward to an early period when J shall be appointed in full form: a consumma- tion devoutly to be wished! My political sing seem to be forgiven me. This is the season (New-year’s-day is now my date) of wishing; and mine are most fervently offered up for you! May life to you be a posi- tive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your friends! What a transient business is life! Very lately IL was a boy; but t’other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o’er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I look on the man, who is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, su- perintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot—I felicitate such a man as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress; anda neyer-failing anchor of hope, when he looks bes yond the grave.OF January 12th. You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be rememberedto him. I have just been reading over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and Manners; and still I read it with delight. His humour is perfectly original—it is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of anybedy but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluco, remember that, when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. He haw paid me a pretty compliment, by quot- ing ua¢ in his last publication.! t % * x *% % CCCXXVI. ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. [This ironical letter to the prime minister was found among the papers of Burns. ] Sir, WuiLe pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweat- ing under the weight of heavy addresses, per- mit us, the quondam distillers in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, not with venal approbation, but with fraternal condolence ; not as what you are just now, or for some time haye been; but as what, in all probability, you will shortly be.—We shall have the merit of not deserting our friends in the day of their calamity, and you will have the satisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad- dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- section of human nature; nor do you need the assistance of a fellow-creature’s bosom to in- form you, that man is always a selfish, often a perfidious being.—This assertion, however the hasty conclusions of superficial observation may doubt of it, or the raw inexperience of youth may deny it, those who make the fatal experi- ment we have done, will feel.—You are a states- man, and consequently are not ignorant of the trafic of these corporation compliments—The little great man who drives the borough to market, and the very great man who buys the borough in that market, they two do the whole business; and you well know they, likewise, 1 Edward. ROBER have th which yc Sir, and T BURNS. 499 eir price. With that sullen disdain yu can so well assume, rise, Ulustrioug spurn these hireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best they are the compliments of a man’s friends on the morning of his execution: they tak e a decent farewell, resign you to your fate, and hurry away from your approaching hour. If fame say true, and omens be not very much mistaken, you are about to make your exit from that wor paths of | with the | passage ld where the sun of gladness gilds the prosperous man: permitus, great Sir, sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your to the realms of ruin. Whether the sentiment proceed from the those wh some de; selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immate- rial; but to point out to a child of misfortune o are still more unhappy, is to give him gree of positive enjoyment. In this light, Sir, our downfall may be again useful to you:—though not exactly in the same way, it is not perhaps the first time it has gratified your feel evil star ings. It is true, the triumph of your is exceedingly despiteful.—At an age | when others are the votaries of pleasure, or un- | derlings est wish ordinary you over sage, wh in business, you had attained the high of a British statesman; and with the date of human life, what a prospect was before you! Deeply rooted in Royal favour, shadowed the land. The birds of pas- ich follow ministerial sunshine through every clime of political faith and manners, flocked to your branches; and the beasts of the field (the crowded watcher, and criec lordly possessors of hills and valleys) under your shade. ‘But behold a a holy one, came down from heaven, 1 aloud, and said thus: Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches; shake off his leaves, a away frc branches nd scatter his fruit; let the beasts get ym under it, and the fowls from his '? A blow from an unthought-of quar- ter, one of those terrible accidents which pecu- liarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But turn your eyes, Sir, to the tragic scenes of our fate :—an ancient nation, that for many ages had gallantly maintained the une qual struggle | powerful which sh In consi was cove stipulate: for independence with her much more neighbour, at last agrees to a union ould ever after make them one people. leration of certain circumstances, it nanted that the former should enjoy a J alleviation in her share of the publie re immer en Le | lO atl me eas | a ee eer So hs i SE aA ie le ee Te peeen ee rns | a ae aliea bear eae Lineal a sow err oe h TE tite a PEE 96 tENERAL COR burdens, particularly in that branch of the re- venue calledthe Excise. This just privilege has of late given great umbrage to some interested, | powerful individuals of the more potent part of | the empire, and they have spared no wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to subyert what they dared not openly to attack, from the dread which they yet entertained of the spirit of their ancient enemies. In this conspiracy we fell; nor did we alone suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A number of (we will say) respectable individuals, largely engaged in trade, where we were not only useful, but absolutely necessary to our country in her dearest interests; we, with all that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed without remorse, to the infernal deity of politi- cal expediency! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark envy, and the views of unprincipled am- bition ! brave to take an ungenerous advantage; you Your foes, Sir, were avowed; were too fell in the face of day.—On the contrary, our enemies, to complete our overthrow, contrived to make their guilt appear the villany of a nation. — Your downfall only drags with you your private friends and partisans: in our mi- sery are more or less involved the most nume- rous and most valuable part of the community -all those who immediately depend on the cul- tivation of the soil, from the landlord of a pro- vince, down to his lowest hind. Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at another rich vein of comfort in the dreary regions of adversity ;—the gratulations of an approving conscience. In a certain great assem- bly, of which you are a distinguished member, panegyrics on your private virtues have so often wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- tress you with anything on the subject. There is, however, one part of your public conduct which our feelings will not permit us to pass in silence: our gratitude must trespass on your modesty ; we mean, worthy Sir, your whole be- haviour to the Scots Distillers.—In evil hours, when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the sense, let that, Sir, come like an h -aling angel, and speak the peace to your soul which the world can neither give nor take away. We have the honour to be, Sir, 7 L ,ESPONDENCE | | TO THE HON. PROVOST, BAILIES, AND Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers, And grateful humble servants, JOHN BARLEYCORN—Prexges. | desideratum to a son of the muses. card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. J | grateful respect with which I have the honour | must warmly feel the obligation you have laid CCXXVII. TOWN COUNCIL OF DUMFRIES. [The Provost and Bailies complied at once with the modest request of the poet: both Jackson and Staig, who were heads of the town by turns, were men of taste and feeling.] GENTLEMEN, Tue literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably filled the various depart- ments of your schools, as to make it a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my large family, and very stinted income, to give my young ones that education I wish, at the high school fees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me. Some years ago your good town did me the honour of making me an honorary burgess.— Will you allow me to request that this mark of distinction may extend so far, as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of the town, in the schools? If you are so very kind as to grant my re- quest, it will certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve you; and will, if possible, increase that to be, Gentlemen, Your devoted humble servant, Re Bs CCCXXYVIII. TO MRS. RIDDEL. [Mrs. Riddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the great cause of human liberty, and lamented with him the excesses of the French Revolution.] Dumfries, 20th January, 1796. I CANNOT express my gratitude to you, for allowing me a longer perusal of ‘‘ Anacharsis.” In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me somuch; and J, as a member of the library, us under. Indeed to me the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our society; as ‘“‘Anacharsis” is an indispensable . . = ’ The health you wished me in your morning 8OF ha ow © have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. The muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached stanza I intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd. R. B. CCCXXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [lt seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of Burns, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld or delayed her usual kind and charming communica- | tions.] Dumfries, 31st January, 1796 THESE many months you have been two packets in my debt—what sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly-valued a friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas! Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep in the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter | and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- gun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been be- fore my own door in the street. ‘“ When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, Affliction purifies the visual ray, Religion hails the drear, the untried night, | And shuts, for ever shuts! life’s doubtful day.” R. B. CCCXXX. TO MR. THOMSON. [Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the ‘handsome, elegant present’? mentioned in this letter, was a common worsted shawl.] February, 1796. Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- Home, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for 1 Song CCLXVI. BEI e~ r ee Aw ( >= © , ~ 8. 497 my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance inmy power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for. I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of | rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much. Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms.! If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing, the name Chloris—I meant it as the | fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more amendments to propose. What you once mentioned of ‘ flaxen locks” is just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of | beauty. Of this also again—God bless you !? R. B. CCCXXXI. TO MR. THOMSON [lt is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan’s illus- trations: but at that time little nature and less elegance | entered into the embellishments of books.] April, 1796. Axtas! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again! ‘By Babel streams I have sat and wept” almost ever since I wrote you last; I have only known ex- | istence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the reper- cussions of pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. Ilook on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson, ‘‘ Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?” This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my hone and where 2 Our fost never peice what name he co have substituted for Chloris—Mr. THOMSON. a SSW CS Sak oe ~ EPO ee eee aaa Spereend OOS eee eo eeOt en TT eee nm Pwr yet Pare sand Pere 498 our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry | squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan’s etchings. > 9) <¢ Woo’d an’ married an’ a’, The grouping is beyond all is admirable! praise. ‘fhe expression of the figures, conform- able to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire “ Turnim- What I like least is ‘‘ Jenny said to 3esides the female being in her ap- spike.” Jockey, ’ pearance * * * %, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathize with him. Happy I am to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health As for me—but R. B. and enjoyment in this world. that is a sad subject. CCCX XXII. TO MR. THOMSON. [The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want, —his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his early compositions. ] My DEAR SIR, I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired—‘“‘ Here’s a health to them that’s awa, hiney,” but I forget if you took any notice of it. verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to I have just been trying to suit it with your attention once more. it. [Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, be- ginning, I have only begun Here’s a health to ane I loe dear ;! the fourth was found among the poet’s MSS. after his death.] R. B. CCCXXXII-. TO MR. THIMSON. {.* 92 Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, Fas a sce msn Jessie Lewars was his sister, and at this time but in ner teens.] Tus will be deliv S will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a v Jae young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, If you choose, to write me by him: and if you 1 Song CCLXVII. ther e< WE a ki re 5 | gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentle- | | that my complaint is a flying gout have a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my a sount. [ haye no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy te review them all, and possibly may mend some 2f them; so when | you have complete leisure, I will thank you for 2 J had rather be either the originals or copies. the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of re- turning health. I have now reason to believe a sad busi- | ness! Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- ber me to him. This should have been delivered to you a month ago. Iam still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you. R B. CCCXXXIY. TO MRS. RIDDEL, Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day As- sembly on that day to show his loyalty. [This is the last letter which the poet wrote to this accomplished lady.] Dumfries, 4th June, 1796. I am insuch miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba- lanm—‘‘ Come, curse me Jacob; and come, defy me Israel!” So say I—Come, curse me that east wind ; and come, defy me the north! Would you have me in such circumstances copy you out a love-song? I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball Why should I? ‘‘man delights not me, nor woman either!” Can you supply me with the song, ‘‘Let us all be un- happy together ?”—do if you can, and oblige, R. B. le pauvre miserable ee ———_ 2 «Jt is needless to say that this revisal Burns did not live to perform.’’—CurRIRE.CCCXXXYV. TO MR. CLARKE, SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. [Who will say, after reading the following distressing | letter, late:y come to light, that Burns did not die in | great peye. see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get,about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose crea- turelam. Alas, Clarke! I begin to fear the worst. As to my individual self, Iam tranquil, and would despise myself, if I were not; but Burns’s poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones—helpless orphans !—there I am weak as a woman’s tear. Enough of this! ’Tis half of my disease. I duly received your last, enclosing the note. It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good, as, by return of post, to enclose me another note. inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remem- brance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever Bee you again, is, I am afraid, highly improba- ble. R. B. CCCXXXVI. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, EDINBURGH. [‘‘Ir. this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed gratuitously no’ less than one hundred and eighty-four original, alt>ei, and collected songs! The editor has seen one hundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the ‘Museum.?”—Cromer. Will it be believed that this ‘humble request”? of Burns was not complied with! The work was intended asa present to Jessie Lewars.] Dumfries, 4th July, 1796. How are you, my dear friend, and how comes On your fifth volume? You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and tee | | | your publication will be the text-book I trust you can do it without | BURNS. 499 sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what wo have so well begun. * * ss x You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world—because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This pro- tracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to other and far more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of sentiment! However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeayour to cherish it ag well as I can. Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. —Your work is a great one; and now that it is finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or three things that might be mended; yet I will venture to prophesy, that to future ages and standard of Scottish song and music. I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the ‘‘ Scots Musical Museum.” If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- ing as to send it by the very first jly, as I am anxious to have it soon. The gentleman,’ Mr. Lewars, a particular friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready) or any message you may have, I am extremely anxious for your work, as in- deed I am for everything concerning you, and your welfare. Farewell, R. B. P. 8. You should have had this when Mr, Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags mis- carried. CCCOXXXVII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Few of the last requests of the poet were effectual: Clarke, it is believed, did not send the second note he wrote for: Johnson did not send the copy of theMuseum RE op a Sans Wp oeeld Pon D0) Wm td SL Fee Sion De ee Rinne he cn a eS A a es en seat. Mes ae eet rele en TE SEN ee ns. pe en Deaneeaemrerres vnirerrecummes meriand aie mada’ 500 GENERAL COR ——_————_——- which he requested, and the Commissioners of Excise refused the continuance of his full salary.] Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July, 1796. My pEAR CUNNINGHAM, ] RECEIVED yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you mention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. not know me if you saw me—Pale, emaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally tc need heip from my chair—my spirits fled! fled! but I can no more on the subject—only the medical folks tell | me that my last only chance is bathing and country-quarters, and riding.—The deuce of the matter is this; when an exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to 35/. instead of 50/.— What way, in the name of thrift, shall I main- tain myself, and keep a horse in country quar- ters—with a wife and five children at home, on | RESPONDENCHEH 10th July, 1796. Dear BROTHER, Ir will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has re duced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea- | bathing, and IJ will continue there, or in 4 | friend’s house in the country, all the summer. | little [leave them in your hands. me to my mother. 85/.? I mention this, because I had intended to | beg your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our commis- sioners of excise to grant me the full salary; I If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with dare say you know them all personally. an exit truly en poéte—if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger. I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not serve me with, and I have no copy here; butI shall be at home soon, when [ will send ‘it you.—Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable designation of Alexander Cunningham Burns. My last was Janes Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell. R. B. CCCXXXVIII. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. [This letter contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns: the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, waa not all, though the worst.] God keep my wife and children: if I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. [ have contracted one or two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from s | too much thoughtlessness as to expense, when You actually would | 2 d é P , | I came to town, that will cut in too much on the Remember Yours, R. B CCCXXXIX. TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, MAUCHLINE. (The original letter 1s now in a safe sanctuary, the hands of the poet’s son, Major James Glencairn Burns.] | to come if possible. July 10th [1796.] For Heaven’s sake, and as you value the we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour My wife thinks she can yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people order me, as J value my existence, to fly to sea- bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thou- sand chances to one that I shall not be within a dozen miles of her when her hour comes. What a situation for her, poor girl, without a single friend by her on such a serious moment. I have now been a week at salt-water, and though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business wil be dangerous if not fatal. Your most affectionate son, R. B. CCCXL. TO MRS. BURNS. [Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was inju- , dicious: but it was felt that Burns was on his way to the ecOF ROBERT BURNS. 501 | grave, and as he desired to try the influence of sea-water, as well as sdu-air, his wishes were not opposed.] Lrow, Thursday. My DEAREST LOVE, I DELAYED writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me; but No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are my appetite is still extremely bad. the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday. Your affectionate husband, R. B. CCCXLI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [{‘‘ The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfac- ) tory explanation of this lady’s silence,’ says Currie, ‘Cand an assurance of the continuance of her friendship to his widow and children.’’} Brow, Saturday, 12th July, 1796. MapanM, I HAvE written you so often, without receiv- ing any answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that Your friend- ship, with which for many years you honoured bourn whence no traveller returns. me, was a friendship, dearest tomysoul. Your conversation, and especially your correspon- dence, were at once highly entertaining and in- structive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!! R. B. CCCXLII. TO MR. THOMSON. (Vhomson instantly complied with the dying poet’s request, and transmitted the exact sum which he re- quested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was atraid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he would, he says, have sent a lurger sum. He has not, ‘owever, told us how much he sent to the all but deso- 4 late widow and children, when death had released him from all dread of the poet’s indignation.] Brow, on the Solway-firth, 12th July, 1796. ArreR all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his Lead that I am dying, has commenced a process, De, for God’s sake, send me that sum, and that by re- and will infallibly put me into jail. turn of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- tracted. 1 do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds’ worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on ‘“‘ Rothemurche” this morn ing. The measure is so difficult that it is im- possible to infuse much genius into the lines ; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me! Fairest maid on Devon’s banks.! R. B. CCCXHLIII. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE. [The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July—he sent five pounds afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the boys, and educate him in his own profession of a writer All this was unknown to the world till lately.] Brow, 12th July. My prEAR CovsIN, Wuen you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable pill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced process against me, and will infalli- bly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds ? O James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used tc keg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my dis- then my horrors since this business 2ASe 5 guess If I had it settled, I would be, I think, began. How shall I use the quite well in a manner. 1 Song CCLXVIII te eS ee et ee en ees cineca, et a P " sr ¥ a EO EO I ee eee eet acne angen nents nr nae mary ener ft a a ee a ee ee RE SLOP ON a SY eeen pee ~ Awe NE ee teen ated teen 502 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. language to you, O do not disappoint me! but strong necessity’s curst command. I have been thinking over and over my bro- ther’s affairs, andI fear I must cut him up ; but on this I will correspond at another time, par- ticularly as I shall [require] your advice. Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post ;—save me from the horrors of a jail! My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have writ- ten. The subject is so horrible I dare not look it over again. Farewell. R. B. CCCXLIV. TO JAMES GRACIE, ES@. [James Gracie was, for some time, a banker in Dum fries: his eldest son, a fine, high-spirited youth, fell by a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to the attack on Washington.] Brow, Wednesday Morning, 16th July, 1796. My DEAR SiR, Ir would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it already; but alas! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer this week, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry. So God bless you. R., Be REMARKS ON SOOL TMS H SONGS AND BALLADS. [THE following Strictures on Scottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, in the interleaved copy of Johnson’s Musical Museum, which the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friar’s Carse; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques. ] THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. Turis Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by Mr. M’Vicar, purser of the Sole- bay man-of-war.—This I had from Dr. Black- lock, BESS THE GAWKIE. Tuis song shows that the Scottish muses did not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- wald, as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this. OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY. Iris somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Ren- frew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dum- fries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c., can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these countries. This, I conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called, both by tradition and in printed col- lections, ‘‘The Lass of Lochroyan,” which I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway. THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. Turis song is one of the many attempts that English composers have made to imitate the Scottish manner, and which I shall, in these strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the ap-a o REMARKS ON peat pellation of Anglo-Scottisb productions. The music is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt. “BE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. TH33 song, as far as I know, for the first time appear: here in print.—When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- member to have heard those fanatics, the Bu- chanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air. ROSLIN CASTLE, TuEsE beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who is the author of the second song tothe tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- tory of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald’s own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune. SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? QUO’ SHE. Tu1s song, for genuine humour in the verses, and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. I take it to be very old. CLOUT THE CALDRON. A TRADITION is mentioned in the ‘‘ Bee,” that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, nothing would soothe his mind so much by the way as to hear “Clout the Caldron” played. I have met with another tradition, that the old song to S2is tune, ‘Hae ye onie pots or pans, Or onie broken chanlers,”’ was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in the cavalier times; and alluded to an amour he had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the name of ‘©The blacksmith and his apron,’’ which from the rhythm, seems to have been & line of some old song to the tune. COTTISH SONG. 505 SAW YE MY PEGGY. Turis charming song is much older, and in deed superior to Ramsay’s verses, ‘‘ The Toast,” as he calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to ba the original one, but though it has a very great | deal of merit, it is not quite ladies’ reading. The original words, for they can scarcely be called verses, seem to be as follows; a song fa- miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. “Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie, Saw ye my Maggie Linkin o’er the lea? High kilted was she, High kilted was she, High kilted was she, Her coat aboon her knee What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, What mark has your Maggie, That ane may ken her be ?”” Though it by no means follows that the silliest verses to an air must, for that reason, be the original song; yet I take this ballad, of which I have quoted part, to be old verses. The two | songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, are never to be met with in the fire-side circle of our peasantry ; while that which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd’s mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection. THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. Tu1s song is one of the many effusions of | Scots Jacobitism.—The title “‘ Flowers of Edin- | burgh,” has no manner of connexion with the | present verses, so I suspect there has been an | older set of words, of which the title is all that | remains. By the bye, it is singular enough that the Scottish muses were all Jacobites.—I have paid more attention to every description of Scots | songs than perhaps anybody living has done, | and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even | the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has to the families | the least panegyrical reference | of Nassau or Brunswick; while there are hun- | dreds satirizing them.—This may be thought no | panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it ag For myself, I would always take it as a said, that my heart ran compliment to have it ly the gallant though | | such. | | before my head, —and sure a co en ate ee TS ee nes eee neeT er Ts dh Te ta rot _ ar Chek eet cee Set lor en et TN NEN a 504 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. unfortunate house of Stewart, the kings of our % fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme ¥ * * * % JAMIE GAY. JAMIE Gay is another and a tolerable Anglo- Scottish piece. MY DEAR JOCKIE. ANoTHER Anglo-Scottish production. FYE, GAE RUB HER O’ER WI’ STRAE. Ir is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay’s beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the réason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by. To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay’s verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard: “¢ Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae; But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, Fye, gae rub her o’er wi? strae. Fye, gue rub her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gae rub her o’er wi? strae: An gin ye meeta dirty hizzie, F ye, gue rub her o’er wi? strae.”? THE LASS 0? LIVISTON. Tux old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit ag to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.— It begins, ‘“The Bonnie lass 0? Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, And she has written in her contract To lie her lane, to lie her lane.” &e. &e. THE LAST TIME I CAME O’ER THE MOOR. Ramsay found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming | air, and then composed the rest of the verses fq | suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air. JOCKIE’S GRAY BREEKS. TuovueH this has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the north of Ireland, called “The Weaver and his Shuttle 0,” which, though | Sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. THE HAPPY MARRIAGE, ANOTHER, but very pretty Anglo-Scottisn piece. THE LASS OF PATIE’S MILL. In Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland, this song is localized (a verb I must use for | want of another to express my idea) somewhere | in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed | by Ayrshire.—The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl of Loudon. The then Earl of Loudon, and father to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place called Patie’s Mill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would bea fine theme for a song.—Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song. THE TURNIMSPIKE. THERE is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour, omitted in this set.—Where I have placed the asterisms. ‘* They tak the horse then by te head, And tere tey mak her stan’, man; Me tell tem, me hae seen te day, Tey no had sic comman’, man.”? | HIGHLAND LADDIR. As this was a favourite theme with our later Scottish muses, there are several airs and songsREMARKS ON of that name. That which I take to be the old- est, is to be found in the ‘‘ Musical Museum,” beginning, ‘‘I hae been at Crookie-den.” One reason for my thinking so is, that Oswald has it in his collection, by the name of ‘‘The Auld Highland Laddie.”’ name of ‘‘Jinglan Johnie,” which is a well- It is also known by the known song of four or five stanzas, and seems tc be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As a proof of this, it is little known to the pea- santry by the name of ‘Highland Laddie;” } i while everybody knows ‘‘Jinglan Johnie.” The song begins “ Jinglan John, the meickle man, He met wi’ a lass was blythe and bonte.”’ Another ‘‘Highland Laddie” is also in the ‘‘Museum,’’ vol. v., which I take to be Ram- say’s original, as he has borrowed the chorus— S Li sae bah } 9) S * ‘QO my bonie Highland lad,” &c. It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus; and has humour in its composition—it is an excellent, but somewhat licentious song.—It begins ‘“As I cam o’er Cairney mount, And down among the blooming heather.” This air, and the common “ Highland Laddie,” seem only to be different sets. Another ‘‘ Highland Laddie,” also in the ’ ‘“‘Museum,” vol. v., is the tune of several Jaco- bite fragments. One of these old songs to it, only exists, as far as I know, in these four lines— ‘Where hae ye been a? day, Bonie Jaddie, Highland laddie ? Down the back o? Bell’s brae, Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie.’’ Another of this name is Dr. Arne’s beautiful alr, called the new ‘ Highland Laddie.” THE GENTLE SWAIN. To sing such a beautiful air to such exe- orable vers2s, is downright prostitution of com- mch sense! The Scots verses indeed are tole- rable. YE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY. Tus is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no means a ba] one, Ha ” S COTTISH SONG. FATREST OF THE FAIR. Ir is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy’s charm- ing song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song.—I was not acquainted with the editor until the first volume was nearly finished, else, had I known in time, I would have pre vented such an impudent absurdity. THE BLAITHRIE O’T. Tue following is a set of this song, which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I picked it up, every word, at first hearing. ‘¢O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand To sing you a song which you did me command ; But my memory’s so bad I had almost forgot That you called it the gear and the blaithrie o’t. Ill not sing about confusion, delusion or pride, Ill sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride, For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o’t.— g Tho’ my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne; I wad rather hae my lassie, tho’ she cam in her smock, mn Than a princess wi? the gear and the blaithrie o’t.— Tho? we hae nae horses or menzies at command, We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi? our hand; And when wearied without rest, we’ll find it sweet in any spot, And we’ll value not the gear and the blaithrie o’t— lf we hae ony babies, we’ll count them as lent; Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content; For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins bu groat, Than the miser wi’ his gear and the blaithrie o’t.— 1) not meddle wi th? affairs of the kirk or the queen They’re nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them sWim; On your kirk I’ll ne’er encroach, but Pll hold it stil remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o’t.” MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN, ‘Kare of Aberdeen” is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church com- ing past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in somé6 stream near Durham, his native country, his yeverence reprimanded Cunningham very se . er Bt eI ELL ELLE ILD a RE PROT se a AD RETIN 5 AAs IER S OME Ane) ee PS Seen! aieee r ee ante hata, |e necinininweeee Piet one ge A ten ee eee eT IT ee Det rar me Le rs rT Lt NAC i ST \ A 506 REMARKS ON 5 verely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which wag his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, ‘‘as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!” This, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true. TWEED SIDE. In Ramsay’s Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publica- tion were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &.—Old Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the 7ea-table, were the com- position of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France.—— THE POSY. It appears evident to me that Oswald com- posed his Rostin Castle on thé modulation of this air.—In the second part of Oswald’s, in the three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed the three first bars of the old air; and the close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. ‘OTTISH SONG took down the notes from a country girls voice, had no great merit.—The following is 4 specimen: «© There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went; Wi? her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black hair; And she has met a young man a comin o’er the bert, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, Wi? thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black hax ¢ Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. What if I gang alang with thee, my ain pretty May, Wi? thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair; Wad I be aught the warse o’ that, kind sir, she says, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. MARY’S DREAM. Tur Mary here alluded to is generally sup- posed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. John Lowe, who likewise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey’s Ghost.—I have seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.—By the strain of the verses, it ap- peared that they allude to some love affair. THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS, BY MR. DUDGEON. Turis Dudgeon is a respectable farmer’s son in Berwickshire. I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE. I NevER heard more of the words of this oid song than the title. ALLAN WATER. Tuts Allan Water, which the composer of the music has honoured with the name of the air, I have been told is Allan Water, in Strathallan. THERE’S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. Tuts is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots, or any other language.—The two lines, ‘‘ And will I see his face again! And will I hear him speak !”? as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by anything I ever heard or read: and rareaag r*hial ++ 7 } The old verses to which it was sung, when I | the lines, DIS OERA CRE a — LEAT ELLIE DAA AES EEL.REMARSXS ON SCOTTISH SONG. DOT ‘©The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw,’’— are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior to Ramsay’s days. About the year 1771, or 72, it came rst on the streets as a ballad; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much arterior to that period. TARRY WOO. THis is a very pretty song; but I fancy that the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much older than the rest of the words. GRAMACHREE, THE song of Gramachree was composed by a Mr. Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the ‘‘ Molly,” whe is the subject of the song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manu- script of his most beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line that has more true pathos than «« Flow can she break that honest heart that wears her in its core !”? But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do to this collection. THE COLLIER’S BONNIE LASSIE. Tur first half stanza is much older than the ays of Ramsay.—The old words began thus: “ The collier hasa dochter, and, O, she’s wonder bonnie! A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands and money. She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she be a lady, But she wad hae a collier, the colour o’ her daddie.”’ MY AIN KIND DEARIE—O. Tue old words of this song are omitted here, old words began thus: ‘¢T?ll rowe thee o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, Ill rowe thet o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. Altho? the night were ne’er sae wat, And I were ne’er sae weary, O; Dll rowe thee o’er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O.’’— serted; which were mostly composed by poor Fergusson, in one of his merry humours. The Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the | MARY SUOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. | | | Dryhope, and married into the Harden family Her daughter was married to a predecessor of the present Sir Francis Elliot, of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heathfield. There is a circumstance in their contract 0x marriage that merits attention, and it strongly | marks the predatory spirit of the times. The | father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for | some time after the marriage; for which the son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits of the first Michaelmas moon! DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. I HAvE been informed, that the tune of ‘‘Down the burn, Davie,” was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale BLINK 0’ER THE 3URN, SWEET BETTIE. Tux old words, all that I remember, are,— ‘¢ Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night: It rains, it hails, it thunders, The moon she gies nae light: It’s a) for the sake o’? sweet Betty, That ever J tint my way; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee Until it be break 0’ day.— O, Betty will bake my bread, And Betty will brew my ale, And Betty will be my -.ove, When I come over the dale: Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me, And while I hae life, dear lassie, My ain sweet Betty thou’s be.” mough much more beautiful than these in- THE BLITHSOME BRIDAL I rinp the ‘ Blithsome Bridal” in James Watson’s collection of Scots poems, printed at Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the pub- is the first of its nature which has lisher says, : Scots dialect been published in our own native —it is now extremely scarce. STE a See a TS Oe eee Oe SS ee ee ned a a a OP ee PO ENS OY IPS rn Se = erie aoe ATS me mraee sa eh ee a a EE OIA SSO a SaNE TT er eri ’ eee aT Tots REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. LL ET NET ew OPT F JOHN HAY’S BONNIE LASSIE. Joun Hay’s ‘‘ Bonnie Lassie” was daughter of John Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, and late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh.—She died at Broomiands, near Kelso, some time be- twecu the years 1720 and 1740. THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE. Tur two first lines of this song are all of it that is old. The rest of the song, as well as those songs in the Museum marked T., are the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon; a mortal, who, though he drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee- | buckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of- God, and Solomon-the-son-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths of Elliot’s pompous | Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed at half a guinea a week! SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA’E BEEN. Tus song is beautiful.—The chorus in parti- cular is truly pathetic. I never could learn anything of its author. CHORUS. ‘ Sae merry as we twa ha’e been, Sae merry as we twa ha’e been; My heart is like for to break, When I think on the days we ha’e seen.”? THE BANKS OF FORTH. Tus air is Oswald’s. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. Tuts is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw- furd’s composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shows the old “ Bush :” ) which, whe saw it, i year 17 7 on i saw it, in the year 1787, was composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The 7 > om ie Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls ‘‘ The New Bush.” | CROMLET’S LILT. Tue following interesting account of thig plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Rid- del by Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq., of Wood- houselee. ‘In the latter end of the sixteenth century, the Chisolms were proprietors of the estate of Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of Ardoch. ‘‘At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned | if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother-tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education. At that period the most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, | when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay-brother of the monas- tery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbour- hood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. ‘This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of | Helen’s charms. He artfully prepossessed her | with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus; and, by misinterpreting or keeping up the letters and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connexion was broken off betwixt them; Helen was inconsolable, and Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad called ‘Cromlet’s Lilt,’ a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. ‘‘When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen’s sorrow, he pro- posed himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate: but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother, with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probably very well pleased to get her off his hands—she submitted, rather than consented to the cere- | mony; but there her compliance ended; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite | frantic from it, screaming out, that after three | | | gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, | she heard Cromlus’s voice, crying, ‘ Helen, Helen, mind me!’ Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was disREMARKS JN SCOTTISH SONG. covered,—her marriage disannulled,—and Helen became Lady Cromlecks.” N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 y ears. MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. ANOTHER beautiful song of Crawfurd’s. SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN. Tuer old set of this song, which is still to be found in printed collections, is much prettier than this; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- say, took it into his head to clear it of some seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more chaste and more dull. GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. [am not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. There is a song, apparently as ancient as ‘‘Ewe-bughts, Marion,” which sings to the same tune, and is evidently of the North.—It begins thus: ‘©The Lord o? Gordon had three dochters, Mary, Marget, and Jean, They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, But awa to Aberdeen.”? LEWIS GORDON. TuIs air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes comes to be composed out of another. I have one of the earliest copies of the song, and it has prefixed, “ Tune of Tarry Woo.”’?— Of which tune a different set has insensibly varied into a different air.—To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line, ‘Tho’ his back be at the wa’,’”? —must be very striking. It needs not a Ja- cobite prejudice to be affected with this song. The supposed author of ‘‘Lewis Gordon” was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie. st O HONE A RIE. Dr. Buackuock informed me that this song wag composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. VLL NEVER LEAVE THEE, THIS is another of Crawfurd’s songs, but I do not think in his happiest manner.—What en absurdity, to join such names as Adonis and Mary together ! CORN RIGS ARE BONITE. Aut the old words that ever I could meet to this air were the following, which seem to have been an old chorus: ‘‘ O corn rigs and rye rigs, O corn rigs are bonie; And where’er you meet a bonie lass, Preen up her cockernony.”’ THE MUCKING OF GEORDIE’S BYRE, Tue chorus of this song is old; the rest ig the work of Balloon Tytler. BIDE YE YET. TuEReE is a beautiful song to this tune, begin: ning, ‘¢ Alas, my son, you little know,”— which is the composition of Miss Jenny Graham, of Dumfries. WAUKIN O’ THE FAULD. THERE are two stanzas still sung to this tune, which I take to be the original song whence Ramsay composed his beautiful song of that name in the Gentle Shepherd.—It begins <¢O will ye speak at our town, As ye come frae the fauld.” I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the delicacy of this old fragment is not equal to its wit and humour. TRANENT-MUIR «Tranent-Muir,” was composed by a Mr. Skirving, a very worthy respectable farmer near Haddingion. I have heard the anecdote often, that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in tho ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the oA SE ah ~AAN Sa Nm FH Lk elie ae inten eh) ahs aerate ee en Se sd po wah a eT ee en eee eT hada Lp OG gS NIA lg oe & ? ll— ‘ ee eee en nn tee eee oe tenet 2g Mee TTF Fen oe La nants ee a publication of the song, and sent a challenge to Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and an- swer for the unworthy manner in which he had noticed him in his song. ‘Gang away back,” said the honest farmer, ‘“‘and tell Mr. Smith that ] hae nae leisure to come to Haddington ; but tell him to come here, and I’!l tak a look 0” him, and if I think I’m fit to fecht him, Vll fecht him; and if no, I’ll do as he did—2U rin awa.’ — TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO. THE chorus of this song is old, the rest of it is mine. Here, once for all, let me apologize for many silly compositions of mine in this work. Many beautiful airs wanted words; in the hurry of other avocations, if I could string a parcel of rhymes together anything near tole- rable, I was fain to let them pass. He must be an excellent poet indeed whose every perform- ance is excellent. POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. Tue author of ‘ Polwarth on the Green” is Capt. John Drummond MW’Gregor, of the family of Bochaldie. STREPHON AND LYDIA. Tue following account of this song I had from Dr. Blacklock. The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the ““Gentle Jean,” celebrated somewhere in Ha- milton of Bangour’s poems. —Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a recipro- cal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of su2h a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon’s expedition to Carthagena. The author of this song was William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. I’M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. Tue chorus of this song is old. The rest of it, such as it is, is mine d10 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONw. MWPHERSON’S FAREWEML. M’PuHerson, a daring robber, in the begin. ning of this century, was condemned to be hanged at the assizes of Inverness. He is said, when under sentence of death, to have composed this tune, which he called his own lament or farewell. Gow has published a variation of this fine tune as his own composition, which he calls ‘‘The Princess Augusta.” MY JO, JANET. JoHunson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this humorous ballad. x % Ne a x x THE SHEPHERD’S COMPLAINT. | Tuer words by a Mr. R. Scott, from the town | or neighbourhood of Biggar. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. I composep these stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 7 THE HIGHLAND LASSIE O. THIs was a composition of mine in very early life, before I was known at all in the world. My Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with generous love. After a pretty long tract of the most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where | we spent the day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands, to ar- range matters among her friends for our pro- | jected change of life. At the close of autumn following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days, before I could even hear of her last illness. FIFE, AND A’ THE LANDS ABOUT IT. | Tuts song is Dr. Blacklock’s. He, as well as | I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enoughREMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. perhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the music. WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE. Lorp Haiurs, in the notes to his collection of ancient Scots poems, says that this song was | Lady Grissel Baillie, the composition of a laughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, and zife of George Baillie, of Jerviswood. YHE YOUNG MAN’S DREAM. THe song is the composition of Balloon Tytler. STRATHALLAN’S LAMENT. Tus air is the composition of one of the waorthiest and best-hearted men living—Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause. To tell the matter-of-fact, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. Tue chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are mine. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Dr. BuacKtocxk told me that Smollet, who was at the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these beautiful and pathetic verses on the infamous depredations of the Duke of Cumberland after the battle of Culloden. WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE DIE. Dr. WALKER, who was minister at Moffat in 1772, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural History in the University of Edinburgh, told the following anecdote concerning this air.— He said, that some gentlemen, riding a few years ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Moss Platt, when they were struck with this tune, which an old woman, spinning on a rock at her door, was singing. All she could tell concern- » 5 ing it was, that she was taught it when a child, | sician. and it was called ‘* What will I do gin my Hog- gie die?” No person, except a few females at Moss Platt, knew this fine old tune, whichin all probability would have been lost had not one of the gentlemen, who happened to have a fluta with him, taken it down. I DREAM’D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING, THESE two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces. AH! THE POOR SHEPHERD’S MOURNFUL FATE. Tune—‘ Gallashiels.”? THE old title, ‘‘Sour Plums o’ Gallashiels,” probably was the beginning of a song to this air, which is now lost. The tune of Gallashiels was composed about the beginning of the present century by the Laird of Gallashiel’s piper. THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. THESE verses were composed on a charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now | married to James M’Kitrick Adair, Esq., phy- She is sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon. I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work. MILL, MILL O. Tue original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay’s is still extant.—It runs thus, CHORUS. ‘The mill, mill O, and the kill, kill O, And the coggin 0’ Peggy’s wheel, O, The sack and the sieve, and a’ she did leava And dane’d the miller’s reel O.- As I came down yon waterside, And by yon shellin-hill O, There I spied a bonie bonie lass, And a lass that I lov’d right well O.? %* * * %* — ERE RAS. SA Ss alk ainsi Ed aS, cent) nent air wome Sa a | ee ee ee Eee ene Sy ae 22 mera I ew Ril et ee cit1 ; i, { | et it mali a mi a , | . , ) je nt i is it ia} 4 if Hi | 4 Best } | et : i} tae ta ht i el net py tate iit 1) an | 1 ea mH Hi ik any) li | Li il | | | i j | iat | Hii jicmews 4 1it at) ale ee : } ; ieee vel ||| ii} | | a Veil } On th a pi i] ; al | iii ae Pall il irae! £| |i) ; i: i) ' ih} : me | ' ti Nee ee eteeb aaa bode ania heathen inh ee ae eet Pea oe LA ees weer WE RAN AND THEY RAN. Tue author of ‘‘We ran and they ran’’—was a Rev. Mr. Murdoch M’Lennan, minister at Crathie, Dee-side. WALY, WALY. In the west country I have heard a different } edition of the second stanza.—Instead of the four lines, beginning with, ‘‘ When cockle-shells, &c.,” the other way ran thus :— ‘“©OQ wherefore need I busk my head, Or wherefore need 1 kame my hair, Sin my fause luve has me forsook, And says, he’ll never luve me mair.’? DUNCAN GRAY. Dr. Buacxiock informed me that he had often heard the tradition, that this air was composed hy a carman in Glasgow. DUMBARTON DRUMS. Tus is the last of the West-Highland airs; and from it over the whole tract of country to the confines of Tweed-side, there is har ly a tune or song that one can say has taken its origin from any place or transaction in that part of Scotland.—The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stew- arton Lasses, which was made by the father of the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- ham, alias Lord Lysle; since which period there has indeed been local music in that country in great plenty.—Johnie Faa is the only old song which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- tansive county of Ayr. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. HIS song is by the Duke of Gordon.—The nld verses are, “ There’s cauld kail in Aberdeen And castocks in Strathbogie; When ilka lad maur hae his lass. Then fye, gie me my coggie. CHORUS. My coggie, Sirs, my coggie, Sirs, I cannot want my. coggie ; I wadna gie my three-girr’d cap Far e’era quene on Bogie,— fhere’s Johnie Smith has got a wire, That scrimps him o? his coggie, If she \vere mine, upon my life I wad douk her in a bogie.”? 512 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. FOR LAKE OF GOLD. The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of the line— ‘¢ She me forsook for a great duke,”? say, ‘For Athole’s duke she me forsook :?? which I take to be the origina. reading. These were composed by the late Dr. Austin, physican at Edinburgh.—He had courted a lady, to whom he was shortly to have been married ; but the Duke of Athole having seen her, became so much in love with her, that he made pro- posals of marriage, which were accepted of, and she jilted the doctor. HERE’S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &c. Tus song is Dr. Blacklock’s. He told me that tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scot- land. HEY TUTTI TAITI. I HAvE met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannock- | burn. RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. I composrep these verses on Miss Isabella M’Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more me- lancholy death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudon; who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances. TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE, A part of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. YE GODS, WAS STREPHON S PICTURE BLEST? Tune—“ Fourteenth of October. Tue title of this air shows that it alludes to | the famous king Crispian, the patron of the ho- ; nourable corporation of shoemakers.—St. Cris- | pian’s day falls on the fourteenth of October old style, as the old proverb tells: ** On the fourteenth of October Was ne’er a sutor sober.??REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 513 SINCE ROBB’D OF ALL THAT CHARM’D MY VIEWS. Tre old name of this air is, ‘‘the Blossom o ? the Raspberry.” The song is Dr. Blacklock’s. YOUNG DAMON. Tuts air is by Oswald. KIRK WAD LET ME BE. TRADITION in the western parts of Scotland | tells that this old song, of which there are still three stanzas extant, once saved a covenanting clergyman out of ascrape. It was a little prior to the revolution, a period when being a Scots covenanter was being a felon, that one of their clergy, who was at that very time hunted by | the merciless soldiery, fell in, by accident, with a party of the military. The soldiers were not exactly acquainted with the person of the reve- rend gentleman of whom they were in search; but from suspicious circumstances, they fancied that they had got one of that cloth and oppro- brious persuasion among them in the person of this stranger. ‘‘Mass John” to extricate him- self, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike the gloomy strictress of his sect; and among other convivial exibitions, sung (and some tra- ditions say, composed on the spur of the occa- sion) ‘Kirk wad let me be,” with such effect, that the soldiers swore he was ad d honest fellow, and ¢bat it was impossible he could be- long to those hellish conventicles; and so gave bim his liberty. The first stanza of this song, a little altered, is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted at country weddings, in the south-west parts of the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up like an old begger; a peruke, commonly made of carded tow, represents hoary locks; an old bonnet; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw rope for a girdle; a pair of old shoes, with straw ropes twisted round his ankles, as is done by shepherds in snowy weather: his face they disguise as like wretched old age as they | Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. can: in this plight he is brought into the wed- | ding-house, frequently to the astonishment of strangers, who are not in the secret, and begins to sing— *°O, Iam a silly auld man, My name it is auld Glenae,’’ &c He is asked to drink, and by and bye to dance, which after some uncouth excuses he ig prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, which here is commonly called ‘‘Auld Glenae ;” in short he is all the time so plied with liquor | that he is understood to get intoxicated, and with all the ridiculous gesticulations of an old drunken beggar, he dances and staggers until he falls on the floor; yet still in all his riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on the floor, with some or other drunken mouon of his body, he beats time to the music, till at last he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. I composED these verses out of compiiment to a Mrs. M’Lachlan, whose husband is an officer in the East Indies BLYTHE WAS SHE. I composep these verses while I stayed at The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia Mur- ray, of Lentrose; she was called, and very justly, «The Flower of Strathmore.” JOHNNIE FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. Tue people in Ayrshire begin this song— ‘The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis’ yett.””— They have a great many more stanzas in this song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy.— The castle is stillremaining at Maybole, where his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life. TO DAUNTON ME. Tue two following old stanzas to this tune have some merit : ‘¢'To daunton me, to daunton me, O ken ye what it is that?]l daunton me 7— There’s eighty-eight and eighty-nine, And a’ that I hae borne sinsyne, There’s cess and press and Presbytrie, I think it will do meikle for to daunton me But to wanton me, to wanton mé@;) O ken ye what it is that wad wanton me To see gude corn upon the rigs, And banishment amang the Whigs, And right restor’d where right sud be, I think it would do meikle for to wanton me a ee ena Wet ee ee) nn a -d cy I a aN Dr a OE Pe ATE a CIR Ee A ST ER I CO IE AG LA i eA eS ASE OIE ET nd VT a Vie PRE OLE viv TS et ee teers denPerea Se a ee t Dears et ee ee Serr rempeeR COELHO o14 REMAR THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. «Tym Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me,” was composed on an amour of Charles II. when skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the time of the usurpation. He formed wne petite affaire with a daughter of the house of Portle- tham, who was the ‘lass that made the bed t: him :” A sonG in the manner of Shenstone. 7 ~ ¢ air A y 7 21a alr] . . This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock. | genciple regiments. I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR. THI ter, ancestor to a very respectable farming fa- mily, who live in a place in the parish, I think, —two verses of it are, ‘C] kiss’d her lips sae rosy red, While the tear stood blinkin in her e’e; I said, My lassie, dinna cry, For ye ay shall make the bed to me. She took her mither’s holland sheets, And made them a’ in sarks to me ; Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me.” ABSENCE. s story is founded on fact. of Galston, called Bar-mill, was hero that ‘had a horse and had nae mair.”— For some little youthful follies he found it ne- cessary to make a retreat to the West-High- lands, where ‘he feed himself to a Highland | Tuts song I composed about the age of seven Laird,” for that is the expression of all the oral | teen. editions of the song I ever heard.—The present Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the great- grandchild of our hero. UP AND WARN A’ WILLIE. Tuis edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. sion ‘Up and warn a’ Willie,” alludes to the “Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart, near \ ¢ reé¢ . 7 7 . 1 SS 7 a’ , 7 ~ > 1 2 - Crantara, or warning of a Highland clan to | Peterhead. He is likewise author of ‘ Tulloch arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders | gOrum,” ‘‘ Ewie wi’ the crooked Horn,” ‘John in the west and south say, ‘Up and waur them | 0 Badenyond,” &c., and what is of still more DemaOCCs A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 1k HIS song * she 1g I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- | poser of strathspeys of the age. I have been Boaule only child of my worthy friend Mr. Wil- | told by somebody, who had it of Marshall him liam Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edin- burgh. This ‘air is by a David Si g is alr 1s by a David Sillar, quondam KS ON SCOTTISH SONG. ' merchant, and now schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to whom I address my printed poet- ical epistle in the measure of the Cherry and the Slae. AULD ROB MORRIS, Ir is reraark-worthy that the song of ‘ Holy and Fairly,” in all the old editions of it, is called ‘‘ The Drunken Wife 0’ Galloway,” which | localizes it to that country. RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. Tue last stanza of this song is mine; it was composed out of compliment to one of the wor- thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- lonel of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER STORMS: T Za > HIS song I composed on one of the most ac- A John Hun- Sitcom DOS’ © tac complished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers, that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Jo.’8 bank, Edinburgh. ihe lachless Co.’s bank, Edinburgh TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. NANCY’S GHOST. THIs song is by Dr. Blacklock. TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, ETC. TuIs song was composed by the Rev. John The expres- consequence, he is one of the worthiest of man- | kind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical his- tory of Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, ‘butler to the Duke of Gordon; the first com- self, that he took the idea of his three most , celebrated pieces, ‘The Marquis of Huntley’s ee— Reel,” his ‘‘ Farewell,” and ‘‘ Miss Admiral Gor- don’s Reel,” from the old air, ‘‘The German Lairdie.” GILL MORICE. Tarts plaintive ballad ought to hava been called Child Maurice, and not Gil Maurice, In its present dress, it has gained immortal honour from Mr. Home’s taking from it the ground- work of his fine tragedy of Douglas. But I am of opinion that the present ballad is a modern composition; perhaps not much above the age of the middle of the last century; at least I should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the present words prior to 1650. That it was taken from an old ballad, called ‘‘Child Maurice,” now lost, [ am inclined to believe; but the pre- sent one may be classed with ‘‘ Hardyknute,” REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. d16 | ‘¢Kenneth,” ‘‘Duncan, the Laird of Wood- | houselie,” ‘‘Lord Livingston,” ‘‘ Binnorie,” «The Death of Monteith,” and many other mo- dern productions, which have been swallowed by many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by Mr. M’Gibbon, the selector of a collection of Scots tunes. R. B. In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, I add, that of the songs which Captain Riddel mentions, ‘‘ Kenneth” and ‘‘ Duncan” are juve- nile compositions of Mr. M’ Kenzie, ‘‘ The Man of Feeling.”—M’Kenzie’s father showed them in MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the productions of his | son, from which the Doctor rightly prognosti- cated that the young poet would make, in his more advanced years, a respectable figure in the world of letters. This I had from Blacklock. TIBBIE DUNBAR. Tus tune is said to be the composition of John M’Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it after his own name. WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN. THis song was the work of a very worthy facetious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dal- fram, near Muirkirk; which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some con- nexion as security for some persons concerned MM that villanous bubble rue AYR BANK. He u has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting o’er their misfortunes. MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. Tune—‘‘ Highlander’s Lament.?? Tue oldest title I ever heard to this air, was, ‘‘The Highland Watch’s Farewell to Ireland.” The chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane; the rest of the song is mine. THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER. Turs tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, and called by him ‘The Highland, or 42d Regiment’s March.” The words are by Sir | Harry Erskine. LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW. THERE is in several collections, the old song of ‘‘Leader-Haughs and Yarrow.” It seems to have been the work of one of our itinerant min- strels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of his song, ‘‘ Minstrel Burn.” THE TAILOR FELL THRO’ THE BED, THIMBLE AN’ A’. Tus air is the march of the corporation of tailors. The second and fourth stanzas are mine. BEWARE 0’ BONNIE ANN. I composEp this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- allan’s Lament, and two or three others in this work. THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. Tue first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram say’s. The old words are— ‘¢ This is no mine ain house, My ain house, my ain house ; This is no mine ain house, I ken by the biggin 0’t. Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks ; Bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, And pancakes the riggin 0’t. Lh epee LE kath mt eed ne ewer Se Eee SOIC eet ee een oe Te, ~~ , S a a ee ee a 2 ne a ol a i a in i the nm Ree ee G2,ee opener INET Py as wae LS ee are Th ari ae tT TT PTT REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. This is no my ain wean ; My ain wean, my ain wean; This is no my ain wean, I ken by the greetie o’t. I'll tak the curchie aff my head, Aff my head, aff my head ; V’ll tak the curchie aff my head, And row’t about the feetie o’t.”’ The tune is an old Highland air, called ‘¢Shuan truish willighan.” LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. Turs song is by Blacklock. THE GARDENER AND HIS PAIDLE. THis air is the ‘‘Gardener’s March.” The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine. THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune.—‘‘ Seventh of November.”’ I composep this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married cou- ples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glen- riddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this country put together ; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours of my life. THE GABERLUNZIE MAN. Tue ‘‘Gaberlunzie Man” is supposed to com- memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. Callander, of Craigforth, published some years ago an edition of “ Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” and the ‘‘ Gaberlunzie Man,” with notes critical and historical. James the Fifth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was suspected by his contemporaries, that m his frequent excursions to that part of the country, he had other purposes in view besides golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one of them resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- bourhood), were occasionally visited by their royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to the following advice to his majesty, from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyon. ‘Sow not your seed on Sandylands, nend not your strength in Weir, And ride not on an E) »* ant, For gawing 0’ your gear.?? MY BONNIE MARY. Tuis air is Oswald’s; the first half stanza of the song is old, the rest mine. THE BLACK EAGLE. Tus song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits ag & prose writer are well known. JAMIE, COME TRY ME. Tuis air is Oswald’s; the song mine. THE LAZY MIST. THIs song is mine. JOHNIE COPE. THis satirical song was composed to comme- morate General Cope’s defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the Clans. The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remem- ber the title, which was, ‘¢ Will ye go the coals in the morning.” I LOVE MY JEAN, THIS air is by Marshall; the song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. N. B. It was during the honeymoon. CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO EXPLORE. THE song is by Dr. Blacklock; I believe, but am not quite certain, that the air is his too. AULD ROBIN GRAY. THis air was formerly called, ‘‘The bride- groom greets when the sun gangs down.” The words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Bal- carras family.REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. DONALD AND FLORA. Tuis is one of those fine Gaelic tunes, pre- served from time immemorial in the Hebrides; they seem to be the ground-work of many of our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of this song were written to commemorate the un- fortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in America, in 1777. O WERE I ON PARNASSUS’ HILL. Tuis air is Oswald’s; the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. THE CAPTIVE ROBIN. Tuts air is called ‘‘ Robie donna Gorach.” THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. Tuts air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the song is old; the rest mine. MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS. The first half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine. UA? THE EWES AND THE KNOWES. Tus beautiful song is in true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know that either air or words were in print before. THE BRIDAL 0’'T. Tuts song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called ‘‘ The Fortu- nate Shepherdess.” ‘They say that Jockey ’ll speed weel o’t, They say that Jockey ’ll speed weel 0’t, For he grows brawer ilka day, I hope we’ll hae a bridal o’t: For yesternight nae farder gane, The backhouse at the side wa’ 0’t, He there wi’ Meg was mirden seen, I hope we'll hae a bridal o’t. An’ we had but a bridal o’t, Aw we had but a bridal o’t, Wed leave the rest unto gude luck, Altho? there should betide ill 0’t ; For bridal days are merry times, And young folks like the coming o’t, And scribblers they bang up their rhymes, And pipers they the bumming 0’t. The lasses like a bridal o’t, The lasses like a bridal o’t, Their braws maun be in rank and file, Altho? that they should guide ill o’t: The boddom o’ the kist is then Turn’d up into the inmost o’t, The end that held the kecks sae clean, Is now become the teemest 0’t The bangster at the threshing 0’t, The bangster at the threshing o’t, Afore it comes is fidgin-fain, And ilka day’s a clashing 0’t: He’|1 sell his jerkin for a groat, His linder for anither 0’t, And e’er he want to clear his shot, His sark’ll pay the tither o’t The pipers and the fiddlers 0’t, The pipers and the fiddlers o’t, Can smell a bridal unco’ far, And like to be the middlers 0’t; Fan! thick and threefold they convene. Ilk ane envies the tither 0’t, And wishes nane but him alane May ever see anither o’t. Fan they hae done wi’ eating 0’t, Fan they hae done wi’ eating o’t, For dancing they gae to the green, And aiblins to the beating 0’t: He dances best that dances fast, And loups at ilka reesing 0’, And claps his hands frae hough to hough, And furls about the feezings 0’t.” TODLEN HAME. Tus is perhaps the first bottle song that eve was composed. THE BRAES 0’ BALLOCHMYLE. THis air is the composition of my friend Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed the verses on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John’s misfortunes had obliged him to sell the estate. THE RANTIN’ DOG, THE DADDIE O'T. I composepD this song pretty early in life, and a young girl, a very particular ac- sent it to ho was at -nat time under quaintance of mine, W a cloud. —_— 1 Fan, when—the dialect of Angus. mm P mT det a fs OF 9 Ys ray I) Ae nd need oe ra tere le ema ten ale mn 4B ya ec mene oi Fo aA oa a a a a ES EN SY Yh 3 lil Ries ee ee reha eae a | ae a | Bites 7) 4 {at eee feel a ie oie (a Bast dpa te Hibaaig 1 ont fay if fy { ! | { S Nee en ate aMaaIaEaiee ioaie anne RennmCNa at Pe Toes ie Ferns LAY Pe tae te a ee REMARKS ON 8 COTTISH SONG. THE SHEPHERD’S PREFERENCE. Tus song is Dr. Blacklock’s.—I don’t know how it came by the naine, but the oldest appel- lation of the air was, ‘‘ Whistle and Pll come to you, my lad.” | It has little affinity to the tune commonly | known by that name. THE BONIE BANKS OF AYR. I composep this song asI conveyed my chest go far vx sae road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land. JOHN O’ BADENYON. Ts excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. ‘¢ When first ] cam to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth, And fain the world would know ; In best attire I stept abroad, With spirits brisk and gay, , And here and there and everywhere, Was like a morn in May; No care had I nor fear of want, But rambled up and down, And for a beau I might have pass’d In country or in town; I still was pleas’d where’er I went, And when I was alone, I tun’d my pipe and pleas’d myself Wi John o? Badenyon. Now in the days of youthful prime A mistress I must find, For love, I heard, gave one an air And ev’n improved the mind: On Phillis fair above the rest Kind fortune fixt my eyes, Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice; To Cupid now with hearty prayer I offer’>d many a vow; And dane’d, and sung, and sigh’d, and swore, As other lovers do; But, when at last [ breath’d my flame, I found her cold as stone; I left the jilt, and tun’d my pipe To John o’? Badenyon. When ¢ove had thus my heart beguil’d With foolish hopes and vain, To friendship’s port I steer’d my course, And laugh’d at lover’s pain A friend I got by lucky chance *T was something like divine, And now, whatever might betide, A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom I freely might apply; A strait soon came: my friend I try’d; He heard, and spurn’d my moan; I hy’d me home, and tun’d my pipe To John o’? Badenyon. Methought I should be wiser next, And would a patrzot turn, Began to doat on Johnny Wilks, And cry up Parson Horne. Their manly spirit I admir’d, And prais’d their noble zeal, Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain’d the public weal ; But e’er a month or two had past, I found myself betray’d, Twas self and party after all, For a’ the stir they made; At last I saw the factious knaves Insult the very throne, I curs’d them a’, and tun’d my pipe To John o’ Badenyon.”’ A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. I pickeD up this old song and tune from a country girl in Nithsdale.—I never met with it elsewhere in Scotland. ‘¢ Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, Whare are you gaun, my hinnie, She answer’d me right saucilie, Aneirand for my minnie. O whare live ye, my bonie lass, O whare live ye, my hinnie, By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken, In a wee house wi’ my minnie. But I foor up the glen at e’en, To see my bonie lassie; And lang before the gray morn cam, She was na hauf sa sacie. O weary fa’ the waukrife cock, And the foumart lay his erawin! He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep, A wee blink or the dawin. An angry wife I wat she raise, And o’er the bed she brought her; And wi? a mickle hazle rung She made her a weel pay’d dochter. O fare thee weel, my bonie lass! O fare thee weel, my hinnie! Thou art a gay and a bonie lass, But thou hast a waukrife minnie.’’ TULLOCHGORUM. Tus first of songs, is the master-piece of my DY) An honest friend’s a precious gift, Anc such a gift was mine: , | old friend Skinner. He was passing the dayREMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. O19 — | | : : : at the town of Cullen, I think it was, in a | friend’s house whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of Mr. Skinne~, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish sang, in this most excellent ballad. These particulars I had from the author’s son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT. Tus song is mine, all except the chorus. AULD LANG SYNE. Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and the first line, from the old fragment which may be seen in the “ Museum,” vol. v. WILLIE BREW’D A PECK 0’ MAUT. Tuis air is Masterton’s; the song mine.— The occasion of it was this:—Mr. W. Nicol, of the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit.—We had such a joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business. KILLIECRANKIE. Tue battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand made by the clans for James, after his abdica- tion. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the moment of victory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. General Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, said, ‘‘Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this advantage.” great stene marks the spot where Dundee fell. THE EWIE WI’? THE CROOKED HORN. ANOTHER excellent song of old Skinner’s. CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. Ir is remarkable of this air that it is the con- Yne of that country where the greatest part of | dale. our Towland music (so far as from the title, | words, &c., we can localize it) has been com- - } Na Abate © . posed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, unti' one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp- This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood.—The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad. FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. I ADDED the four last lines, by way of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is HUGHIE GRAHAM. THERE are several editions of this ballad.— This, here inserted, is from oral*tradition in Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a popular song.—It originally had a simple old tune, which I have forgotten. ‘Our lords are to the mountains gane, A hunting o’ the fallow deer, And they have gripet Hughie Graham, For stealing o’ the bishop’s mare. And they have tied him hand and foot, And led him up, thro’ Stirling town; The lads and lasses met him there, Cried, Hughie Graham, thou arta lour O lowse my right hand free, he says, And put my braid sword in the same; Hle’s no in Stirling town this day, Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, As he sat by the bishop’s knee, Five hundred white stots I'll gie you, If ye’ll let Hughie Graham gae free. O haud your tongue, the bishop says, And wi’ your pleading let me be; For tho’ ten Grahams were in his coat, A | Hughie Graham this day shall die. Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, | As she sat by the bishop’s knee ; Five hundred white pence Ill gie you, If ye’ll gie Hughie Graham to me. O haud your tongue now, lady fair, And wi? your pleading let it be; Altho’ ten Grahams were in his coat, | It’s for my honour he maun die. They’ve ta’en him to the gallows know®: * He looked to the gallows tree, Yet never colour left his cheek, Nor ever did he blink his ee (IE EIS ND AG NAS 3 maa eg Y a ™ 4 “ 9 AN NE I a ge ES = Bes ih tone ¥ H So eae nc ce fm a hE pl at I LL nc rg LE ka Ld atte ene hea Lt eine a ealeew en, e a a Ne I SN ae neen eae ae a ee rar Peete Ret teeta ee PLE ER IIT Or Pasa Enel ee rt RTO TOS 520 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. At length he looked around about, I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. To see whatever he could spy: Tus song is altered from a poem by Six : saw his auld father : ppreaewec ane Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and And he was weeping bitterly. J ee saree Ann, Queens of Scotland.-—The poem is to be 7 : r fatl 3 ° . ‘ i : O haud your tongue, my father dear, found-ih Jamés Wateon's Gollecnnnmee Sacks And wi’ your weeping let it be; . ->oems 2 earlies llection prin in Scot- Thy weeping’s sairer on my heart, Poems, the earliest collectic Pp ted in Scot Than a’ that they can do to me. land. I think that I have improved the simpli- ity sentiments, by givine them a Scot And ye may gie my brother John city of the sentiments, by g g tne Scots My sword that’s bent in the middle clear ; dress. And let him come at twelve o’c'ock, - And see me pay the bishop’s mare. : THE SODGER LADDIE, And ye may gie my brother James oe : My sword that’s bent in the middle brown ; THE first verse of this is old; the rest is by And bid him come at four o’clock, Ramsay. The tune seems to be the same with And see his brother Hugh cut down. a slow air, called «« Jackey Hume's laments Remember me to Maggy my wife, or, ‘‘ The Hollin Buss’”—or ‘‘ Ken ye what Meg The neist time ye gang o’er the moor, o the Mill has gotten ?”’ Tell her she staw the bishop’s mare, Tell her she was the bishop’s whore. And ye may tell my kith and kin, iad WHERE WAD BONNIE ANNIE LIE. THE old name of this tune is,— I never did disgrace their blood; And when they meet the bishop’s cloak, To mak it shorter by the hood.” ‘¢ Whare’ll our gudeman lie.” A silly old stanza of it runs thus— *€O whare’ll our gudeman lie, A SOUTHLAND JENNY. Tuts is a popular Ayrshire song, though the notes were never taken down before. It, as well as many of the ballad tunes in this collec- tion, was written from Mrs. Burns’s voice. Gudeman lie, gudeman lie, O whare’ll our gudeman lie, Till he shute o’er the simmer? Up amang the hen-bawks, The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks, Up amang the hen-bawks, Amang the rotten timmer.?? MY TOCHER’S THE JEWEL. ‘tu1s tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow.—It 13 notoriously taken from ‘“‘The muckin 0’ Gor- I WAVE seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) die’s byre.”—It is also to be found long prior | to this tune, called ‘The Wooing of the Maiden.” to Nathaniel Gow’s era, in Aird’s Selection of | These entertainments are now much worn out Airs and Marches, the first edition under the | in this part of Scotland. ‘Two are still retained name of ‘The Highway to Edinburgh.” | in Nithsdale, viz. ‘‘Silly Pure Auld Glenae,” ee | and this one, ‘‘The Wooing of the Maiden.’ | THEN, GUID WIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN’. ae Tux chorus of this is pant of an old song, no gtauza of which I recollect. GALLOWAY TAM. AS I CAM DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA. Tuts is a very popular Ayrshire song. THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME., | Tis tune is sometimes called ‘‘There’s few gude fellows when Willie’s awa.”—But I never have been able to mect with anything else of the song than the title, wees LORD RONALD MY SON. Tuts air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, ig evidently the original of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern airs have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical shepherd, composed the simple, artless original air; which being picked np by the -REMARKS ON § wee nee COTTISH SONG. 521 more learned musician, took the improved form it bears. O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. Tis sorg is the composition of a Jean Glover, a git) who was not only a whore, but also a thief: and in one or other character has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West. the song down from her singing, as she was hand blackguard. TO THE ROSE-BUD. John- Tu1s song is the composition of a son, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from ‘‘ Jockie’s Gray Breeks.’ d 1 YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. THis tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to a part of my private history, which it is of no consequence to the world to know. IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. TuEse were originally English verses :—I gave them the Scots dress. EPPIE M’NAB. Tux old song with this title has more wit than decency. WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. Tuts tune is also known by the name of ‘‘ Lass an I come near thee.” ‘The words are mine. THOU ART GANE AWA. THis tune is the same with ‘‘ Haud awa frae me, Donald.” THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. THis song of genius was composed by a Miss Cranston. It wanted four lines, to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the four first of the last stanza. strolling through the country, with a sleight-of- EDEL IEIO ~ sa ED TOE In ‘*No cold approach, no alter’d mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between, He made me blest—and broke my heart !”? THE BONIE WEE THING. CoMPOSED on my little idol ‘‘the charming | lovely Davies.” She was born I believe in Kilmarnock,—I took | | THE TITHER MORN. Turs tune is originally from the Highlands. | I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which 1 was | | | lady’s song. told was very clever, but not by any means a A MOTHER’S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Tus most beautiful tune is, I think, the hap- piest composition of that bard-born genius, John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr. The words were composed to commemo- rate the much-lamented and premature death of James Ferguson, Esq., jun. of Craigdarroch. DAINTIE DAVIE. Tus song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson’s begetting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her house to appre- hend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant. The pious woman had put a lady’s night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter’s bea- fellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in Herd’s collection, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas, and were their delicacy equal to their wit and humour, they would merit a place in any collection. The first stanza is ‘<< Being pursued by the dragoons, Within my bed he was laid down j And weel I wat he was worth his room, For he was my Daintie Davie.”’ s song, ‘‘ Luckie Nansy,” though he Ramsay’ seems to he ealls it an old song with additions, all his own except the chorus: ‘¢y was a telling you, Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nansv nitrile JE, Perna sink, ante beth) nent 5 Coder a 0 5S SN RY 5 re on I Ny a eh oe A LL OTN FAR oe) Cnn SD “ a ees Tame EE er — fo ee enna ee a re a rene os a em me) eee ee ys Dette STs a 5 sind tT A NEN rie THE BORDER TOUR. Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me.”? | | Which I should conjecture to be part of a song | prior to the affair of Williamson. BOB O’? DUMBLANE. Ramsay, as usual, has modernized this song. The original, which I learned on the spot, from my old hostess in the principal inn there, is— | «¢ Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle, And Il] lend you my thripplin-kame ; My heckle is broken, it canna be gotten, And we'll gae dance the bob 0’? Dumblane. THE BORDER Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, Twa gued to the wood—three came hame; An it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit An? it be na weel bobbit, we’ll bob it again.” I insert this song to introduce the following anecdote, which I have heard well authenti- cated. In the evening of the day of the battle of Dumblane, (Sheriff Muir,) when the action was over, a Scots officer in Argyll’s army, observed to His Grace, that he was afraid the rebels would give out to the world that they had gotten the victory.—‘‘ Weel, weel,” returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, ‘‘if they think it be nae weel bobbit, we’ll bob it i199 again. TOUR. Lert Edinburgh (May 6, 1787)—Lammer- muir-hills miserably dreary, but at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the Merse—Reach Berrywell—old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon character ;—his hobbies, agricul- ture, natural philsopohy, and politics.—In the first he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever met with; in the other two, very intelligent:—As a man of busi- ness he has uncommon merit, and by fairly de- serving it has made a very decent independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, amiable old woman.—Miss Ainslie—her person a little embonpoint, but handsome; her face, par- ticularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good humour—she unites three qualities rarely to be found together; keen, solid penetration; sly, witty observation and remark; and the gentlest, most unaffected female modesty—Douglas, a clever, fine, promising fellow. —The family-meeting with their brother; my com- young 1 The author of that fine song, ‘‘ The Maid that tends the Goats.” 2“ During the discourse Burns produced a neat im- promptu, conveying an elegant compliment to Miss Ains- lie. Dr. B. had selected a text of Scripture that contained a heavy denuncintion against obstinate sinners. In the course of the sermon Burns observed the young lady turning over the leaves of her Bible, with much earnest- SAT RTS CCIE pagnon de voyage, very charming; particularly the sister. The whole family remarkably at- tached to their menials—Mrs. A. full of stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the kitchen.—Mr. A. high in the praises of an Afri- can, his house-servant—all his people old in his 5 service—Douglas’s old nurse came to Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birth- day. A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,! a worthy remarkable character—natural penetration, a | great deal of information, some genius, and ex- | \ treme modesty. Sunday.—Went to church at Dunse2—Dr. Howmeker a man of strong lungs and pretty judicious remark; but ill skilled in propriety, and altogether unconscious of his want of it. Monday.—Coldstream—went over to England —Cornhill—glorious river Tweed—clear and majestic--fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with ness, in search of the text. He took outa slip of paper, ‘ and with a pencil wrote the following lines on it, which he immediately presented to her. ‘Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue :— ’T was guilty sinners that he meant,— Not angels such as you.” CRo MEK. eex Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman—beat Mr. F in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone—Mr. Brydone a most excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent ; put a good deal of the French indiscriminate complaisance—from his situation past and pre- sent, an admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a large estate— | Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her per- son and manners; the tones of her voice re- markably sweet—my reception extremely flat- tering—sleep at Coldstream. Tuesday.—Breakfast at Kelso—charming situ- ation of Kelso—fine bridge over the Tweed— enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, particularly the Scotch side; in- troduced to Mr. Scott of the Royal Bank—an excellent, modest fellow—fine situation of it— ruins of Roxburgh Castle—a holly-bush, grow- ing where James II. of Scotland was acciden- tally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by an English hottentot, a maitre d’hotel of the duke’s, a Mr. Cole—climate and soil of Berwick- shire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire—-bad roads. Turnip and sheep hus- bandry, their great improvements— Mr. M’- Dowal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ains- lie’s, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb together, at two guineas a piece —wash their sheep before shearing—seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece—low markets, consequently low rents—fine lands not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre—mag- Teyiot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a zood night. in Jed- Wednesday.—Breakfast with Mr. burgh—a squabble between Mrs. , a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old maid, respecting a relief minister—Miss gives Madam the lie; and Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle the said minister, then a widower, in the net of matrimony—go about two miles out of Jed- burgh to a roup of parks—meet a polite, sol- dier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many years through the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians—charm- ing, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gar- dens, orchards, &c., intermingled among the nificence of farmers and farm-houses—come up | THE BORDER TOUR. | | | and a half | O23 cL houses—fine old ruins—a once magnificent ca- thedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the people extremely idle—Jed a fine romantic little river. Dine with Capt. Rutherford—the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money in his farming way; showed a particular respect to my lard- ship—his lady exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss Rutherford a beau- tiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much of a fine swelling bosom—her face very fine. Return to Jedburgh—walk up Jed with some adies to be shown Love-lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, a very clever fellow; and Mr. Somer- ville, the clergyman of the place, a man and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning.— and The walking party of ladies, Mrs. Miss These two appear still more comfortably ugly her sister, before mentioned.—N.B. and stupid, and bore me most shockingly. Two Miss Miss Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. y y gir, ghing , tolerably agreeable. Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl; rather short et embonpoint, but handsome, and extremely graceful—beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture untout ensemble that speaks —an engaging face her of the first order of female minds — her sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful efforts, of Mrs. —— and Miss ——, and some- how or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay’s arm. My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Miss seems very well pleased with Edinburgh. fter hip’s distinguishing her, and a some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, re titter round at defiance, and kindly and when parted luction to Mr my bards she sets tl allows me to keep my hold; by the ceremony of my intro , to resume My s1tu- Somerville, she met me half, ont ation.——Nota Bene—The poet within a p of being d-mnably in love—I am afraid my bosom is still nearly as much tinder as ever. The old cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slan- derous Miss , with all the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancie her bursting breast, by nt maid, stops me very unseasonably to ease | ee reer Md Fatal, makndos theta | atheros SR IN ee TORE AS tone ae al el be eT eeea re age Sennen falling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, par- ticularly on my Dulcinea;—I hardly refrain from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious slander on one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excel- lence! Sup at Mr. ’s; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as and Miss they only are wanting. Mrs. still improve infernally on my hands. Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, Mrs. Scott—breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line; now retired to a romantic, but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole —he accompanies us almost to Wauchope—we traverse the country to the top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee Hill. Wauchope—Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to Sancho Panca—very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfre- quently stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold, critical decision, which usually dis- tinguish female authors.—Sup with Mr. Potts —agreeable party.—Breakfast next morning with Mr. Someryille—the bruit of Miss Lindsay and my bardship, by means of the invention and malice of Miss Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family to breakfast if convenient, but at all events to send Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes.—I find Miss Lindsay would soon play the devil with me—I met with some little flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a finefamily.—Mr. Ainslie, and Mrs.§ with Mr. ,junrs., , Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to Bee Hsther, a very remarkable woman for recit- ing poetry of all kinds, and sometimes makine qa 7 > = Scotch doggerel herself—she can repeat by heart almost everything she has ever read, particularly Pope’s Homer from end to end— has studied Euclid by herself, and in short, is a woman of very extraordinary abilities.—On conversing with her I find her fully equal to the character given of her.!— She is very much 1“ This extraordinary woman then moved in a very umble walk of life:—the wife of a common working gardener. She is still living, and, if | am rightly in- forme’ her time is principally occupied in he attentions THE BORDER TOUR flattered that I send for her, and that she sees a poet who has put out a book, as she says.— She is, among other things, a great florist—and is rather past the meridian of once celebrated beauty. I walk in Lsther’s garden with Miss Lindsay, and after some little chit-chat of the tender kind, I presented her with a proof print of my Nob, which she accepted with something more tender than gratitude. She told me many little stories which Miss had retailed concerning her and me, with prolonging pleasure—God bless her! Was waited on by the magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melan- choly, disagreeable sensations. —Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love! That love-kindling eye must beam on another, not on me; that graceful form must bless an- other’s arms; not mine! Kelso. Dine with the farmers’ club—all gentlemen, talking of high matters—each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds value, and attends the fox-huntings in the coun- try—go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie’s, to lie—Mr. Ker a most gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine children—his mind and manner astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock everything in Mr. Ker’s most elegant—he offers to accompany me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don— a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a match for his divine lady.—A very wet day * * *—_Sleep at Stodrig again; and set out fot Melrose—visit Dryburgh, a tine old ruined ab- bey—still bad weather—cross Leader, and come up Tweed to Melrose—dine there, and visit that far-famed, glorious ruin—come to Selkirk, up Ettrick ; the whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony. Monday,—Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Tra- quair, where having dined, and drank some Galloway-whey, I here remain till to-morrow— to a little day-school, which not being sufficient for her subsistence, she is obliged to solicit the charity of het benevolent neighbours. ‘Ah, who would love the lyre !? "—CrRoMEK,.a - — 7 | | saw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the other side of | dinner. Fishing the Tweed. Tuesday.—Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with | Mr. Horseburgh.—Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee—Proposal for a four- horse team to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland: Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr: Ballan- | tyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd: Horsburgh of | Horsburgh.—Dine at a country inn, kept by a | by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping miller, in Earlston, the birth-place and residence of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer—saw the | well ham, and Pease-bridge.—Call at Mr. Sheriif’s ruins of his castle—come to Berrywell. Wednesday.—Dine at Dunse with the farmers’ club-company—impossible to do them justice— | Rey, Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. | Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills.—TZhursday, breakfast at knife made by a cutler there, and to be pre- sented to an Italian prince.—A pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his sister, to Mr. Thomson’s, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie’s.—Company—Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson’s, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the neighbourhood. Friday.—Ride: to Berwick—An idle town, rudely picturesque.—Meet Lord Errol in walk- Ing round the walls.—His lordship’s flattering notice of me.—Dine with Mr. Clunzie, mer- chant—nothing particular in company or con- versation—Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country to Eyemouth—sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve’s. Saturday.—Spend the day at Mr. Grieve’s— made a royal arch mason of St. Abb’s Lodge.! —Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow— takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song.— Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, B good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after 1 The entry made on this occasion in the Lodge-books Edinburgh, by of St. Abb’s is honourable to ‘The brethren of the mystic level.” “ Byemouth, 19th May, 1787. ‘At a general encampment held this day, the follow- ing brethren were made royal arch masons, viz. Robert Burns, from the Lodge of St. James’s, Tarbolton, Ayr- \ hire, and Robert Ainslie, from the Lodge of St. Luke’s, BORDER TOUR. | Eyemouth. | | | | | sets out with us to Dunbar. ship’s heart got a brush from Miss Betsey. mily-circle, so fond, that when he is out, which where Mr. A. and I dine.—Mr. S. talkative and conceited. evening, while her brother escorts home some companions like himself.—Sir James Hall of Dunglass, having heard of my being in the ag neighbourhood, comes to Mr. Sheriff’s to break- Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous | f,5t_takes me to see his fine scenery on the stream of Dunglass—Dunglass the most roman- tic, sweet place I ever saw—Sir James and his lady a pleasant happy couple.—He points out way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart D23 of all kinds pays tithes at Sunday.—A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, The Miss Grieves very good girls.--My bard- Mr. William Grieve’s attachment to the fa- Pass the famous Abbey of Colding- I talk of love to Nancy the whole a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he owes much. Miss will accompany me to Dunbar, by of hers, among her relations. She mounts an old cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house; a rusty old side-saddle without girth, or stir- rup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth— herself as fine as hands could make her, in cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, &e. devil, and almost shake her to pieces on old Jolly—get rid of her by refusing to call at her I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the uncle’s with her. Past through the most glorious corn-country I ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little town.—Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent merchant, and most respectable character, but e, as he exhibits no marked traits. fully more undescribab! Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting ; clever in the fine arts and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummate Ce SO ee — —S ‘ (penny James Carmichael, Wm. Griev3. Daniel Dow, John Clay, Robert Grieve, &c. &e. Robert Ainslie paid one guinea admission dues; but on account of R Burns’s remarkable poetical genius, the encampment t him gratis, and considered unanimously agreed to admi le! a man of such shining themselves honoured by having abilities for one of their companions.” Extracted from the Minute Book of the Lodge by Tuomas BowBlLuh. o POE PEG 1 Ve Oe Tats Wparveehy RRS WS SNS RS SOCEM ee ea Sao coe ee enh an AS ieee ieee LL ee ee = ee ore a Aas Rsee ee P Pn tal eet Canter Sahat Th Anan ST Bek ie Seabee Pe) som Lo ok a | ag et eas A assurance of her own abilities. —Call with Mr. Robinson (who, by the bye, I find to be a worthy, much respected man, very modest ; warm, social heart, which with less good sense than his would be perhaps with the children of prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that respect which is man’s due from man) with him I call on Miss Clarke, a maiden in the Scotch phrase, ‘‘ Gued cnough, but no brent new:” a clever woman, with tolerable pretensions to remark and wit; while time had blown the blushing bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy confidence. She wanted to see what sort of rorce show an author was; and to let him know, that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet it was not destitute of people of parts. Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. Lee’s, afarmer of great note.—Mr. Lee, an ex- cellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; warm-hearted and chatty—a most judicious, sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains me till next morning.—Company at dinner.—My Rev. ac- quaintance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling old fellow.—Two sea lieutenants; a cousin of the landlord’s, a fellow whose looks are of that kind which deceived me in a gentleman at Kelso, and has often deceived me: a goodly handsome figure and face, which incline one to give them credit for parts which they have not. Mr. Clarke, a much cleverer fellow, but whose looks a little cloudy, and his appearance rather ungainly, with an every-day observer may pre- judice the opinion against him.—Dr. Brown, a medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow whose face and manners are open and engaging. —-Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along o | | | with collector ——, a lad of slender abilities | and bashfully diffident to an extreme. Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sen- sible, the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ains- | lie, all alone at Berrywell.—Heavenly powers, who know the weakness of human hearts, sup- THE BORDER TOUR. eisteioe ———— , wrung by the evils of this life of sorrows, or by the villany of this world’s sons! Thursday.—Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at Mr. Hood’s on our way to England. I am taken extremely ill with strong feverish symptoms, and take a servant of Mr. Hood’s to watch me all night—embittering remorse scares my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death.— I am determined to live for the future in such a manner as not to be scared at the approach of death—I am sure I could meet him with indif. ference, but for ‘‘The something beyond the grave.”—Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to England if we will wait till Sunday. Friday.—I go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of an unfortunate farmer’s stock—rigid economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatis persona in such 3 scene of horror. Meet iny good old friend Mr. Ainslie, wha calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take fare- well of my bardship. This day I feel myself warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Great Preserver of men, who has kindly restored me to health and strength once more. A pleasant walk with my young friend Dou- glas Ainslie, a sweet, modest, clever young fellow. Sunday, 27th May.—Cross Tweed, and traverse the moors through a wild country till I reach Alnwick—Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of Northumberland, furnished in a most princely manner.—A Mr. Wilkin, agent of His Grace’s, shows us the house and policies. Mr. Wilkin, a discreet, sensible, ingenious man. Monday.—Come, still through by-ways, to Warkworth, where we dine.—Hermitage and old castle. Warkworth situated very pictu- | resque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, port mine! What happiness must I see only to | remind me that I cannot enjoy it! Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to Dunse, very wild.—Dine with the farmer’s club at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. I there, but nothing worth remembrance when the following circumstance is sumsden considered—I walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to Berrywell in the evening with Miss A how well-bred, how frank, inslie— how good she is! arm; Yachae Charming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be the seat of an old monastery, facing it a little in the sea; and the small but romantic river Coquet, running through it.—Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little town, and on next day to Newcastle.--Meet with a very agreeable, sen- sible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us a great many cirilities, and who dines and sups with us. Wednesday.—Left Newcastle early in the morn ing, and rode over a fine country to Hexham to breakfast—from Hexham to Wardrue, the cele brated Spa, where we slept.—Thursday—reachLongtown to dine, and part there with my good friends Messrs. Hood and Ker—A hiring day in Longtown—I am uncommonly happy to see so I come to many young folks enjoying life. Varlisle.—(Meet a strange enough romantic ad- venture by the way, in falling in with a girl and her married sister—the girl, after some over- tures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little cut with the bottle, and offers to take me in for n Gretna-Green affair.—I, not being such a gull, as she imagines, make an appointment with her, by way of vive la bagatelle, to hold a con- ference on it when we reach town.—lI meet her 25th August, 1787. I LEAVE Edinburgh for a northern tour, in THE HIGHLAND TOUR. | company with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose originality of humour promises me much enter- tainment. — Linlithzow—a_ fertile improved country—West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always observe in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupidity of the peasantry. This remark I have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. For this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, a ‘Man of Feeling,” will be | better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent | mainds of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry they are all below the justice of peace) than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers nt the same time, he considers the vandalism of their plough-folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an unenclosed, half improven country , when 1s to me actually more agreeable, and gives me more pleasure as a prospect, than a country cultivated like a garden.—Soil about Linlith- gow light and thin.—The town carries the ap- pearance of rude, decayed grandeur—charming- ly rural, retired situation. The old royal palace a tolerably fine, but melancholy ruin—sweetly situated on a small elevation, by the brink of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful, ‘wnjured Mary Queen of Scots was born—a pretty govd old Gothic church. The infamous stool in town and give her a brush of caressing, and a bottle of cider; but finding herself un peu trompé in her man she sheers off. ) Next day I meet my good friend, Mr. Mitchell, and walk with him round the town and its environs, and through his printing-works, &e.—four or five hundred people employed, many of them women and children.—Dine with Mr. Mitchell, anc leave Carlisle.—Come by the coast to Anan. —Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish of a shoemaker, and miner, from Cumberland mines. [Here the manuscript abruptly terminates. | of repentance standing, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor pimping business is a Presbyte- rian place of worship; dirty, narrow, and squalid; stuck in a corner of old popish gran deur such as Linlithgow, and much more, Mel- rose! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of man- kind, both in religious and civil matters.—Dine, —Go to my friend Smith’s at Avon printfield- find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sen- sible, modest, good body; as useful, but not so ornamental as Fielding’s Miss Western—not rigidly polite a la Francais, but easy, hospitable, and housewifely. An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, whom I promised to call for in Paisley—like old lady W her conversation is pregnant with strong sense , and still more like Mrs. C ; and just remark, but like them, a certain air of self-importance and a duresse in the eye, seem to indicate, as the Ayrshire wife observed of her cow, that ‘‘she had a mind o’ her ain.” Pleasant view of Dunfermline and the rest of the fertile coast of Fife, as we go down to that see a horse- dirty, ugly place, Borrowstones race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol’s, a Bailie 1om I know too little to attempt through ‘the rich carse of Falkirk nothing Cowan, of wl his portrait—Come Falkirk to pass the night. sn PE AO DE OT EES ee COLE A OE hear iowa Leh tBP eesti, Nets basin h nematic rebve re — eee cee EN SET pe Le eees Neen tae dele ater tre tetas ee 528 THE HIGHL oo remarkable except the tomb of Sir John the Graham, over which, in the succession of time, four stones have been placed.—Camelon, the ancient metropolis of the Picts, now a small yil- jage in the neighbourhood of Falkirk.—Cross the prand canal to Carron.—Come past Larbert and admire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine taste—a charming amphitheatre bounded by Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way to Dunnipace-—The Carron running down the bosom of the whole makes it one of the most charming little prospects I have seen. Dine at Auchinbowie—Mr. Monro an excel- lent, worthy old man—Miss Monro an amiable, sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling Mrs. Grierson. Come to Bannockburn—Shown the old house where James III. finished so tra- gically his unfortunate life. The field of Ban- nockburn—the hole where glorious Bruce set his standard. Here no Scot can pass unin- terested. —I fancy to myself that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen coming o’er the hill and down upon the plunderers of their coun- try, the murderers of their fathers; noble re- venge, and just hate, glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe! I see them meet in gloriously triumphant congra- tulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and in- dependence! Come to Stirling.—Monday go to Haryieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and tumbling brig, and Diel’s mill. Return in the evening. Supper—Messrs. Doig, the school- master; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the castle—Doig a queerish figure, and something of a pedant—Bell a joyous fellow, who sings a good song.—Forrester a merry, swearing kind of man, with a dash of the sodger. Tuesday Morning. — Breakfast with Captain Forrester—Ochel Hills—Deyon River —Forth 1 Another northern bard has sketched this eminent musiclan— “The blythe Strathspey springs up, reminding some Of Lights when Gow’s old arm, (nor old the tale,) Unceasing, save when reeking cans Went round Made heart and heel leap light as bounding oat Alas! no more shall we behold that look ; So venerable, yet so blent with mirth, And festive joy sedate; that ancient garb Unvaried,—tartan hose, and | ; No more shall Beau The full intoxi sonnet blue! ty’s partial eye draw forth cation of his strain, AND TOUR. and Tieth—Allan River—Strathallan, a fing country, but little improved—Cross Tarn te Crieff—Dine and go to Arbruchil—cold reception at Arbruchil—a most romantically pleasant ridge up Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie to Arbru- chil—Sup at Crieff. Wednesday Morning. —Leave Crieff—Glex Amond—Amond river—Ossian’s grave—Loch Fruoch—Glenquaich—Landlord and landlady remarkable characters—Taymouth described in rhyme—Meet the Hon. Charles Townshend. Thursday. —Come down Tay to Dunkeld— Glenlyon House—Lyon River—Druid’s Temple —three circles of stones—the outer-most sunk | —the second has thirteen stones remaining— the innermost has eight—two large detached ones like a gate, to the south-east—Say prayers in it—Pass Taybridge—Aberfeldy—described in rhyme—Castle Menzies—Inver—Dr. Stewart | —sup. Friday—Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard to Birnam top—fine prospect down Tay- | Craigieburn hills—Hermitage on the Branwater, with a picture of Ossian—Breakfast with Dr. Stewart Neil Gow! plays—a short, stout-built, honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair shed on his honest social brow—an- interesting face, marking strong sense, kind openhearted- ness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity—visit his house—Marget Gow. Ride up Tummel River to Blair—Fascally a beautiful romantic nest—wild grandeur of the pass of Gilliecrankie—visit the gallant Lord Dundee’s stone. Blair—Sup with the Duchess—easy and happy from the manners of the family—confirmed in | my good opinion of my friend Walker. Saturday.—Visit the scenes round Blair— fine, but spoiled with bad taste—Tilt and Gairie rivers—Falls on the Tilt—Heather seat—Ride in company with Sir William Murray and Mr. Walker, to Loch Tummel—meanderings of the e, exuberantly rich! Mellifluous, stron No more, amid the pauses of the dance, Shall he repeat those measures, that in days Of other years, could soothe a falling prince, And light his visage with a transient smile Of melancholy joy,—like autumn sun Gilding a sear tree with a passing beam! Or play to sportive children on the green Dancing at gloamin hour; or willing cheer With strains unbought, the shepherd’s bridal day.”’ British Georgics, p. 81 . 2 aPHE AIGHI —— Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan Robertson’s estate from Loch Rannach to Loch Tummel—Dine at Blair —Company— General Murray — Captain Murray, an honest tar — Sir William Murray, an honest, worthy man, but tormented with the hypochondria—Mrs. Graham, belle et aimable—Miss Catchcart — Mrs. Murray, a painter—Mrs. King—Duchess and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, Ed- ward, and Robert—Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and children dance—Sup—Mr. Graham of Fintray. Come up the Garrie—Falls of Bruar—Dalde- cairoch—Dalwhinnie—Dine—Snow on the hills 17 feet deep—No corn from Loch-Gairie to Dal- whinnie—Cross the Spey, and come down the Straths rich—les environs pic- stream to Pitnin turesque—Craigow hill—Ruthven of Badenoch — Barracks—wild and magnificent — Rothe- murche on the other side, and Glenmore Grant of Rothemurche’s poetry—told me by the Duke of Gordon—Strathspey, rich and ro- mantic—Breakfast at Aviemore, a wild spot— dine at Sir James Grant’s—Lady Grant, a sweet, pleasant body—come through mist and dark- ness to Dulsie, to lie. Tuesday.—Findhorn river—rocky banks— come on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered King Duncan—saw the bed in which King Duncan was stabbed—dine at Kilravock —Mrs. Rose, sen., a true chieftain’s wife—Fort George—Inyerness. Loch Ness—Braes of Ness—Ge- Wednesday. neral’s hut—Falls of Fyers—Urquhart Castle and Strath. Thursday.—Come over Culloden Muir—reflec- tions on the field of battle—breakfast at Kilra- vock-—old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm heart, strong passions, and honest pride, all in an uncommon degree—Mrs. Rose, jun., a little milder than the mother—this perhaps owing to her being younger—Mr. Grant, minister at Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inverleithing— Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to Kildrummie—two young ladies—Miss_ Rose, who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely —Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and ami- able—both of them gentle, mild; the sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them! —Dine at Nairn—fall in with a pleasant enough gentleman, Dr. Stewart, who had been long abroad with his father in the forty-five; and Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted Tan j ; ; Norland, and a nonjuror—Brodie-house to lie. 34 i LAND TOUR: 529 Friday.—Forres—famous stone at Forres— Mr. Brodie tells me that the muir where Shak- speare lays Macbeth’s witch-meeting is still | haunted—that the country folks won’t pass it by night. % x x % | Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey—A grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but not near so beautiful—Cross Spey to Fochabers—fine | palace, worthy of the generous proprietor—Dine | —company, Duke and Duchess, Ladies Char- | lotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie, and Lady, Mr. Gordon and Mr. | a venerable, aged figure—the Duke makes me , a clergyman, happier than ever great man did—noble, | | gay and kind—the Duchess witty and sensible | princely ; yet mild, condescending, and affable ; —God bless them! Come to Cullen to lie—hitherto the country is sadly poor and unimproven. Come to Aberdeen—meet with Mr. Chalmers, printer, a facetious fellow—Mr. Ross a fine | fellow, like Professor Tytler,—Mr. Marshal one of the poete minores—Mr. Sheriffs, author of “Jamie and Bess,” a little decrepid body with some abilities—Bishop Skinner, a nonjuror, son of the author of ‘‘ Tullochgorum,” a man whose mild, venerable manner is the most marked of any in so young a man—Professor Gordon, a good-natured, jolly-looking professor | —Aberdeen, a lazy town—near Stonhive, the meet my relations coast a good deal romantic | _Robert Burns, writer, in Stonhive,, one of | those who love fun, a gill, and a punning joke, and have not a bad heart—his wife a sweet hospitable body, without any affectation of what | is called town-breeding. | Tuesday.—Breakfast with Mr. Burns—lie at | Lawrence Kirk—Album library—Mrs. a | jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow— Howe of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still unenclosed country. Wednesday. —Cross North Esk river and a rich country to Craigow. Go to Montrose, that finely-situated handsome hie, and sail along that x | town—breakfast at Mut ast, and see the famous caverns, | particularly the Gariepot —land and dine at Arbroath—stately ruins of Arbroath Abbey—- come to Dundee through a fertile country— | Dundee a low-lying, but pleasant town—old Steeple— Tayfrith — Broughty Castle, a finely jutting into the Ta wild rocky co situated ruin, ee rE a Se Re a ey ee en eed eee K BN AR a SR pA ga RI aN a SOT} ieee ene eeeCe ee nn ne en nee tea One ene tae bene bik leat iat me oe eaal Pent PoPeca tr et trey : Te kel ee ee THE POETS ASS = IGNMENT. ——————— Friday.- -Breakfast with the Miss Scotts—Miss Bess Scott like Mrs. Greenfield—my bardship almost in love with her—come through the rich \ “Cc harvests and fine hedge-rows of the Carse of along the romantic margin of the o Perth—fine, fruitful, hilly, Gowrie, Grampian hills, t woody country round Perth. Saturday Morning.—Leave Perth—come up trathearn to Endermay—fine, fruitful, culti- io) THE POET’S ASSIGNMENT OF Know all men by these presents that I Robert 3urns of Mossgiel: whereas I intend to leave Scotland and go abroad, and having acknow- ledged myself the father of a child named Eli- zabeth, begot upon Elizabeth Paton in Largie- side: and whereas Gilbert Burns in Mossgiel, my brother, has become bound, and hereby binds and obliges himself to aliment, clothe, and | educate my said natural child in a suitable | manner as if she was his own, in case her | mother chuse to part with her, and that until | she arrive at the age of fifteen years. There- fore, and to enable the said Gilbert Burns to make good his said engagement, wit ye me to have assigned, disponed, conveyed and made over to, and in favours of, the said Gilbert Burns, his heirs, executors, and assignees, who are always to be bound in like manner, with cattle, horses, nolt, sheep, household furniture and all other moveable effects of whatever kind that I shall leaye behind me on my departure > himself, all and sundry goods, gear, corns, | | | | | from this Kingdom, after allowing for my part of the conjunct debts due by the said Gilbert Burns and me as joint tacksmen of the farm of Mossgiel. And particularly without prejudice of the foresaid generality, the profits that may arise from the publication of my poems pre- sently in the press. And also, I hereby dispone and convey to him in trust for behoof of my said natural daughter, the copyright of said poems in sc far as I can dispose cf the same by law, after she arrives at the above age of fifteen years complete Surrogating and substituting the said Gilbert Burns my brother and his fore- saids in my full right, title, room and place of the whole premises, with power to him to intromit with, and dispose upon the same at pleasure, and in general to do every other thing vated Strath—the scene of “Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray,” near Perth—fine scenery on the banks of the May—Mrs. Belcher, gaweie, frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, &c.—Lie at Kinross—reflections in a fit of the colic. Sunday.—Pass through a cold, barren country to Queensferry—dine—cross the ferry and on to Edinburgh. HIS WORKS. in the premises that I could have done myself before granting hereof, but always with and And I oblige myself to warrant this disposition and under the conditions before expressed. | assignation from my own proper fact and deed allenarly. Consenting to the registration hereof | in the books of Council and Session, or any other Judges books competent, therein to remain for preservation and constitute. Proculars, &c. In witness whereof I have wrote and signed these presents, consisting of this and the preceding page, on stamped paper, with my own hand, at the Mossgiel, the twenty- second day of July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six years. (Signed) ROBERT BURNS. Upon the twenty-fourth day of July, one thou sand seven hundred and eighty-six years, L William Chalmer, Notary Publick, past to the Mercat Cross of Ayr head Burgh of the Sheriff | dome thereof, and thereat I made due and law- ful intimation of the foregoing disposition and assignation to his Majesties lieges, that they might not pretend ignorance thereof by reading the same over in presence of a number of people assembled. Whereupon William Crooks, writer, in Ayr, as attorney for the before designed Gilbert Burns, protested that the same was law- fully intimated, and asked and took instruments These things were done betwixt the hours of ten and eleven forenoon, before and in presence of William M’Cubbin, and Wil liam Eaton, apprentices to the Sheriff Clerk of Ayr, witnesses to the premises. (Signed) Wittram Cuaumer, N P. Witi1am M’Cussin, Witness. Witiiam Eaton, Witness. in my hards.“THe ch and gh have always the guttural sound. GT O.S'8. 4,8 Y. The sound of the English diphthong 00 is zommonly spelled ow. The French u,a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked 00 or wi. The a, in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a single con- sunant, sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. often, sound like the French e masculine. A’, all. Aback, away, aloof, backwards. Abeigh, at a shy distance. Aboon, above, up. Abread, abroad, in sight, to publish. Abreed, in breadth. Ae, one. Aff, off. Ajf-loof, off-hand, extempore, without premeditation. Afore, before. Aft, oft. Aften, often. Agley, off the right line, wrong, awry. Aiblins, perhaps. Ain, own. Airn, iron, a tool of that metal, a mason’s chisel. Airles, earnest money. Airl-penny, a silver penny given as erles or hiring money. Airt, quarter of the heaven, point of the compass. Agee, on one side. Attour, moreover, beyond, besides. Aith, an oath. Aits, oats. Aiver, an old horse. Aizle, a hot cinder, an ember of wood. Alake, alas. Alane, alone. Akwart, awkward, athwart. Amaist, almost. Amang, among. An’, and, if. Ance, once, Ane, one. Anent, overagainst, concerning, about. Anither, another. Ase, ashes of wood, remains of a hearth fire, fisteer abroad, stirring in a lively manner, Ee Aqueesh, between. Aught, possession, as “in a’ my aught,” in all my possession. Auld, old. Auld-farran’, auld farrant, saga- cious, prudent, cunning. Ava, at all. Awa, away, begone. Awfw, awful. Auld-shoon, old shoes literally, a discarded lover metaphori- sally. Aumos, gift to a beggar. Aumos-dish, a beggar’s dish in which the aumos is received. Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. Awnie, bearded. Ayont, beyond. B. Ba’, ball. Babie-clouts, child’s first clothes. Backets, ash-boards, as pieces of backet for removing ashes. Backlins, comin’, coming back, returning. Back-yett, private gate. Baide, endured, did stay. Baggie, the belly. Bairn, a child. Bairn-time, a family of children, a brood. Baith, both. Ballets, ballants, ballads. Ban, to swear. Bane, bone. Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel. Bannock, flat, round, soft cake. Bardie, diminutive of bard. Barefit, barefooted. Barley-bree, barley-broo, blood of barley, malt liquor. Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty. Batch, a crew, a gang. Batts, botts. Bauckie-bird, the bat. Baudrons, a cat, The Scottish diphthong ae always, and ea very The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei.” Bauld, bold. Baws’nt, having a white stripe down the face. Be, to let be, to give over, to cease. Beets, boots. Bear, barley. Bearded-bear, barley with its bristly head. Beastie, diminutive of beast. Beet, beek, to add fuel to a fire, to ask. Beld, bald. Belyve, by and by, presently, quickly. Ben, into the spence or parlour. Benmost-bore, the remotest hole, the innermost recess. Bethankit, grace after meat. Beuk, a book. Bicker, a kind of wooden dish, a short rapid race. Bickering, careering, hurrying with quarrelsome intent. Birnie, birnie ground is where thick heath has been burnt, leaving the birns, or uncon- sumed stalks, standing up sharp and stubley. Bie, or bield, shelter, a sheltered place, the sunny nook of a wood. Rien, wealthy, plentiful. Big, to build. Biggin, building, a house. Biggit, built. Bill, a bull. Billie, a brother, a young fellow, a companion. Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &e. Birdie-cocks, young cocks, still be longing to the brood. Birk, birch. Birkie, a clever, a forward con- eeited fellow. ; Birring, the noise of partridges when they rise. (531) Set Te oo ee Sanat pene toe) We Se OPES ee a See Sa a lie ee eaeDeck ietanicesanaiinene ae Cee ame tin ae eta Rone cage ee er — ete cient aa tn er a ee al Birses, bristles. Bit, crisis, nick of time, place. Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. Black’s the grun’, as black as the ground. Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term of contempt, full of mis- chief. Blastit, blasted. Blate, bashful, sheepish. Blather, bladder. Blaud, a flat piece of anything, to slap. Blaudin-shower, a heavy driving rain; a blauding signifies a beating. Bluw, to blow, to boast; “ blaw i’ my lug,” to flatter. Bleerit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with weeping. Bleer my een, dim my eyes. Bleezing, bleeze, blazing, flame. Blellum, idle talking fellow. Blether, to talk idly. Bleth’rin, talking idly. Blink, a little while, a smiling Jook, to look kindly, to shine by fits. Blinker, a term of contempt: it means, too, a lively engaging girl, Blinkin’, smirking, smiling with the eyes, looking lovingly. Blirt and blearie, out-burst of grief, with wet eyes. Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get annually, on the king’s birth-day, a blue cloak or gown with a badge. Bluid, blood. Blype, a shred, a large piece. Bobbit, the obeisance made by a lady. Bock, to vomit, to gush intermit- tently. Bocked, gushed, vomited. Bodle, a copper coin of the value of two pennies Scots. Bogie, a small morass. Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beau- tiful. Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a small jannock or loaf made of oatmeal. See Ban- nock. Boord, a board. Bore, a hole in a wall, a cranny. Boortree, the shrub elder, planted much of old in hedges of barn- yards and gardens. Becst, behoved, must needs, wil- fulness. Botch, blotch, an angry tumour. Bousing, drinking, making merry with liquor. Bowk, body. Bow-kail, cabbage. Bow-hought, out-kneed, crooked at the knee joint. Bowt, bowlt, bended, crooked. Brackens, fern. Brae, a declivity, a precipice, the slope of a hill, Braid, broad. GLOSSARY. aa Braik, an instrument for rough- dressing flax. Brainge, to run rashly forward, to churn violently. Braingt, “the horse braing’t,” plunged and fretted in the harness. Brak, broke, became insolvent. Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. Brankie, gaudy. Brash, a sudden illness. Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. Drattle, a short race, hurry, fury. Braw, fine, handsome. Brawlys, or brawlie, very well, finely, heartily, bravely. Bru.cies, diseased sheep. Breustie, diminutive of breast. Breastit, did spring up or forward ; the act of mounting a horse. Brechame, a horse-collar. Breckens, fern. Breef, an invulnerable or irresisti- ble spell. Breeks, breeches. Brent, bright, clear; ‘a brent brow,’ a brow high and smooth. Brewin’, brewing, gathering. Bree, juice, liquid. Brig, a bridge. Brunstane, brimstone. Brisket, the breast, the bosom. Brither, a brother. Brock, a badger. Brogue, a hum, a trick. Broo, broth, liquid, water. Broose, broth, a race at country weddings; he who firstreaches the bridegroom’s house on re- turning from church wins the broose. Browst, ale, as much malt liquor as is brewed ata time. Brugh, a burgh. Bruilsie, a broil, combustion. Brunt, did burn, burnt. Brust, to burst, burst. Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among the rocks on the coast of Buchan. Buckskin, an inhabitant of Vir- ginia. Buff our beef, thrash us soundly, give us a beating behind and before. Buff and blue, the colours of the Whigs. Buirdly, stout made, broad built. Bum-clock, the humming beetle that flies in the summer even- ings. Bummin, humming as bees, buz- zing. Bummle, to blunder, a drone, an idle fellow. Bummler, a blunderer, one whose noise is greater than his work. Bunker, a window-seat. Bure, did bear. Burn, burnie, water, a rivulet, a small stream which is heard as it runs. Burniewin’, burn the wind, the blacksmith. Burr-thistle, the thistle of Scot land. Buskit, dressed. Buskit-nest, an ornamented resk dence. Busle, a bustle. But, bot, without. But and ben, the country kitchexr and parlour. By himself, lunatic, distracted, be. side himself. Byke, a bee-hive, a wild bee-nest, Byre, a cow-house, a sheep-pen. C. Ca’, to call, to name, to drive. Ce’t, called, driven, calved. Cadger, a carrier. Cadie, or caddie, a person, a young fellow, a public messenger. Caff, chaff. Caird, a tinker, a maker of horn spoons and teller of fortunes. Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a rustic monument. Calf-ward, a small enclosure for salves. Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton cloth worn by ladies. Callan, a boy. Caller, fresh. Callet, a loose woman, a follower of a camp. Cannie, gentle, mild, dexterous. Cannilie, dexterously, gently. Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. Cantraip, a charm, a spell. Cap-stane, cape-stone, topmost stone of the building. Car, a rustic cart with or without wheels. Careerin’, moving cheerfully. Castock, the stalk of a cabbage. Carl, an old man. Carl-hemp, the male stalk of hemp, easily known by its superior strength and _ stature, and being without seed. Carlin, a stout old woman. Cartes, cards. laudron, a cauldron. Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay Cauld, cold. Caup, a wooden drinking vessel a cup. Cavie, a hen-coop. Chanter, drone of a bagpipe. Chap, a person, a fellow. Chaup, a stroke, a blow. Cheek for chow, close and united, brotherly, side by side. Cheekit, cheeked. Cheep, a chirp, to chirp. Chiel, or cheal, a young fellow. Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, fire-place. Chimla-lug, the fire-side. Chirps, cries of a young bird. Chittering, shivering, trembling. Chockin, choking. Chow, to chew; a quid of tokacca Chuckie, a brood-hen.GLOSSARY. Chuffie, fat-faced. Clachan, a small ‘village about a church; a hamlet. Olaise, or claes, clothes. Claith, cloth. Claithing, clothing. Clavers and havers, agreeable non- sense, to talk foolishly. Clappe r-claps, the clapper of a mill: it is now silenced. Clap-clach, clapper of a mill. Clartie, dirty, filthy. Clarkit, wrote. Clash, an idle tale. Clatter, to tell little idle stories, an idle story. Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. Claut, to clean, to scrape. Clauted, scraped. Claw, to serateh. Cleed, to clothe. Cleel, hook, snatch. Cleekin, a brood of chickens, or ducks. Clegs, the gad flies. Clinkin, “clinking down,” sitting down hastily. Clinkum-bell, the church bell; he who rings it; a sort of beadle. Clips, wool-shears. Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. ‘lock, to hatch, a beetle. Clockin, hatching. Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &e. Clootie, a familiar name for the devil. Clow, a bump, or swelling, after a blow. Cloutin, repairing with cloth. Yuds, clouds, Clink, the sound in setting down an empty bottle. Coaxin, wheedling. Coble, a fishing-boat. Cod, a pillow. Cost, bought. Cog, and ecoggie, a wooden dish. Coila, from Kyle, a district in Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- dition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Pictish monarch: Collie,a general, and sometimes a particular name for country curs. Collie-shangie, a quarrel among dogs, an Irish row. Commaun, command. Convoyed, accorapanied lovingly. Cool’'d in her linens, cool’d in her death-shife. Cood, the cud. oof, a blockhead, a ninny. Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits. Cooser, a stallion. Coost, did cast. Coot, the ankle, a species of water- fowl. Corbies, blood crows. Cootie, a Wooden legeed, dish, rough- Y. Core, corps. party, clan, Slop ” fed i 3 ynrt. fea with oats. Coxter, the inhabitant of a cot- house, or cottage. Couthie, kind, loving. Cove, a cave. Cowe, to terrify, to keep under, to lop. Corp, to barter, to tumble over. Cowp the cran, to tumble a full bucket or basket. Cowpit, tumbled. Cowrin, cowering. Cowte, a colt. Coste, snug. Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. Creuks, a disease of horses. Crack, conversation, to converse, to boast. cracked, conversed. Craft, or croft, a field near a house, in old husbandry. Craig, craigie, neck. Craiks, cries or calls incessantly, a bird, the corn-rail. crambo-jingle, Crackin’, conversing, Crambo-clink, or rhymes, doggrel verses. ‘rank, the noise of an ungreased wheel—metaphorically inhar- ~ monious verse. Crankous, fretful, captious. Cranreuch, the hoar-frost, called in Nithsdale “ frost-rhyme.” rap, &® crop, to crop. Craw, a crow of a cock, a rook. Creel, a basket, to have one’s wits in a creel, to be crazed, to be fascinated. Creshie 9 greasy. Crood, or Croud, to coo as a dove. roon, a hollow and continued moan; to make a noise like the low roar of a bull; to hum a tune. Crooning, humming. Crouchie, crook-backed. Crouse, cheerful, courageous. Crously, cheerfully, courageously. Crowdie, a composition of oatmeal, boiled water and_ butter; sometimes made from the broth of beef, mutton, &e. &e. Crowdie time, breakfast time. rowlin, crawling, a deformed creeping thing. Crummie’s nicks, marks on the horns of a cow. Crummock, Crummet, & Cow with crooked horns. Yummock driddle, walk slowly, leaning on a staff with a crooked head. rump-crumpin, hard and brittle, spoken of bread; frozen snow yielding to the foot. é Cunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. Cuddle, to clasp and caress. Cummock, a short staff, with a crooked head. Curch, a covering for the head, a aQ So 2 kerchief. t Curchie, a curtesy, female obei- sance. Curler, a player at a gamo on the a a Sea lee, practised in Scotland called curling. Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in ringlets. Curling, a well-known game on the ice. Curmurring, murmuring, a slight rumbling noise. Curpin, the crupper, the rump, Curple, the rear. Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon Cutty, short, a spoon broken in the middle. Cutty Stool, or, Creepie Chatr, the seat of shame, stool of re- pentance, D. Daddie, a father. Dajjin, merriment, foolishness. Daft, merry, giddy, foolish; Da ¢t- buckie, mad fish. Daimen, rare, now and then; Daz- men icker, an ear of corn oc casionally. Dainty, pleasant, good-humoured, agreeable, rare. Dandered, wandered. Darklins, darkling, without light. Daud, to thrash, to abuse; Daudin- showers, rain urged by wind Daur, to dare; Daurt, dared. Daurg, or Daurk, a day’s labour, Daur, daurna, dare, dare not. Davoc, diminutive of Davie, ag Davie is of David. Dard, a large piece. Dawin, dawning of the day. Datit, dawtet, fondled, caressed. Dearies, diminutive of dears, sweethearts. Dearthfw, dear, expensive. Deave, to deafen. Deil-ma-care, no that. Deleerit, delirious. Descrive, to describe, to perceive Deuks, ducks. Dight, to wipe, to clean corn from chaff. Ding, to worst, to push, to surpass, to excel. Dink, neat, lady-like. Dinna, do not. Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke o pain, a tremulous motion. Distain, stain. Dizzen, a dozen. Dochter, daughter. Doited, stupified, silly from age. Dolt, stupified, crazed; alsoa fect. Donsie, unlucky, affectedly neat and trim, pettish. Doodle, to dandle. Dool, sorrow, to lament, to mourn, Doos, doves, pigeons. Dorty, saucy, nice. : Douse, or douce, sober, wise, Pru dent. | Doucely, soberly, prudently. | Dought, was or were able. Doup, backside. : Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. matter for all ~ eae oe ee STS nee Pe ee Te eS a aay Seren tear Posten as S40 SV Sen Recent fe re A el i A enn ew Da ne a Ns a a i a eeSE ua Fee TTT Oe RET IMT Seer ee SSS ete tas Nour and din, sullen ard sallow. Douser, more > pruden 2. Dow, am or are able, e~a. Dowff, pithless, wav2ing force. Dowie, worn witb aricf, faague, &c., half asleep. Downa, am or are not not. Doylt, wearied, exhausted. Dozen, SOHC the effects of age, to dozen, to benumb. Drab, a young female beggar; to spot, to stain. Drap, a drop, to drop. Drapping, dropping. ; Draunting, drawling, speaking with a sectarian tone. Dreep, to ooze, to drop. Dreigh, tedious, long about it, lin- gering. Dribble, drizzling, trickling. Driddle, the motion of one who tries to dance but moves the middle only Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, snow moved by the wind. Droddum, the breech. Drone, part of a bagpipe, the chanter. Droop rumpl't, that droops at *he crupper. Droukit, wet. Drouth, thirst, drought. Drucken, drunken. Drumly, muddy. Drummock, or Drammock, meal and water mixed, raw. Drunt, pet, sour humour. Dub, a small pond, a hollow filled with rain water. Duds, rags, clothes. Duddie, ragged. Dung-dang, worsted, stricken. Dunted, throbbed, beaten. Dush-dunsh, to push, or butt as a ram. Dusht, overcome with superstitious fear, to drop down suddenly. Dyvor, bankrupt, or about to be- come one. able, can- pushed, i. Ee, the eye. Een, the eyes, the evening. Eebree, the eyebrow. Eenin’, the evening. Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading spirits. Fild, old age. Elbuck, the elbow. Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish. in’, end. Enbrugh, Edinburgh. Eneugh, and aneuch, enough. Especial, especially. Ether-stone, stone formed by ders, an adder bead. Ettle, to try, attempt, aim. Eydent, diligent. ad- F, Fa’, fall, lot, to fall, fate. Fa that, to enjoy, to try, to inherit. GI.OSZcaRY. Faddon’t, fathomed, with the extended arms. Faes, foes. Faem, foam of the sea. Faiket, forgiven or excused, aba- ted, a demand. Fainness, gladness, overcome JOY: Fairin’, fairing from a fair. Fallow, fellow. Fand, did find. Farl, a cake of bread; of a cake. Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to care for. Fasheous, troublesome. Fasht, troubled. Fasten e’en, Fasten’s Vaught, fight. Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, fallow. Fauld, and Fald, a fold for sheep, to fold. Faut, fault. Fawsont, decent, seemly. Feal, loyal, steadfast. Fearfw, fearful, frightful. Fear’t, affrighted. Feat, neat, spruce, clever. Fecht, to fight. Fechtin’ ; fighting. Peck and fek, number, quantity. Fecket, an under-waistcoat. Feckfw, large, brawny, stout. Feckless, puny, weak, silly. Feckly, mostly. eg, a fig. Fegs, faith, an exclamation. Feide, feud, enmity. with , a present brought | third part even. Fell, keen, biting; the flesh im- mediately under the skin; level moor. Felly, relentless. Fend, Fen, to make a shift, con- trive to live. Ferlie or ferley, to wonder, a won- der, a term of contempt. Fetch, to pull by fits. FeteW’t, pull’d intermittently. Mey, strange; one marked for death, predestined. Fidge, to fidget, fidgeting. Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure. Fient, fiend, a petty oath. Fien ma the care, devil may care. Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother, a friend. Fierrie, bustle, activity. Fissle, to make a rustling noise, to fidget, bustle, fuss. Fit, foot. Fittie-lan, the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in the plough. Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss, custunbance: Flaffen, the motion of rags in the wind; of wings. Flainen, flannel. — Llandrekins, foreign generals, sol- ere of Flanders. Flang, threw with violence. measured | Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. Fleechin, supplicating. Fleesh, a fleece. Fleg, a kick, a random blow, a fight. FPlether, to decoy by fair words. Llethrin, jlethers, flattering = smooth wheedling words. Filey, to scare, to frignten Flichter, flichtering, to flutter as young nestlings do when their dam approacheg. Flinders, shreds, broken pieces. Flingin-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of partition be- tween two horses in a stable; a flail. Flisk, flisky, to fret at the yoke Flisket, fretted. Flitter, to vibrate like the of small birds. Flittering, fluttering, vibrating, moving tremulously from place to place. Flunkie, a servant in livery. Flyte, flyting, scold; flyting, scolding. Foor, hastened. Foord, a ford. Forbears, forefathers. Forbye, besides. wings Forfuirn, distressed, worn out, jaded, forlorn, destitute. Forgather, to meet, to encounter with. Forgie, to forgive. Forinawed, worn out. Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. Fow, full, drunk Loughten, forfoughten, troubled, fatigued. Foul-thief, the devil, the arch- fiend. Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough. Fow, a measure, a pitchfork. Frae, from. Freath, froth, the frothing of ale in the tankard. Frien’, friend. Frosty-calker, the heels and front of a horse-shoe, turned sharp- ly up for riding on an icy road. Fw, full. Fud, the scut or tail of the hare, coney, &e. Fuff, to blow intermittently. Fu-hant, full-handed; said of one well to live in the world. Funnie, full of merriment. Fur-ahin, the hindmost horse on the right hand when plough- ing. Furder, further, sueceed. Furm, a form, a bench. Fusionless, spiritless, without sap or soul. Fyke, trifling cares, to be ina fusi about trifles. Fyte, to soil, to dirty. Hylt, soiled, dirtied. a bushel: also eo tenite aS eeGLOSSARY. 939 _ aa | G. fab, the mouth, to speak boldly or pertly. Gaberlunzie, wallet-man, or tinker. Gae, to go; gaed, went; gane or gaen, gone; gaun, going. Gaet or gate, Way, Manner, road. Gatrs, parts of a lady’s gown. Gaay, to go, to walk. Gangrel, a wandering person. Gar, to make, to force to; gart, forced to. Garten, a garter. Gash, wise, sagacious, talkative, to converse. Gatty, failing in body. Gaucy, jolly, large, plump. Gaud and gad, a rod or goad. Gaudsman, one who drives the horses at the plough. Gaun, going. Gaunted, yawned, longed. Gawkie, a thoughtless person, and something weak. Gaylies, gylie, pretty well. Gear, riches, goods of any kind. Geck, to toss the head in wanton- ness or scorn. Ged, a pike. Gentles, great folks. Genty, elegant. Geordie, George, a guinea, called Geordie from the head of King George. Get and geat, a child, a young one. Ghaist, ghaistis, a ghost. Gie, to give; gied, gave; gien, given. Giftie, diminutive of gift. Giglets, laughing maidens. Gillie, gillock, diminutive of gill. Gilpey, a half-grown, half-inform- ed boy or girl, a romping lad, a hoyden. Gimmer, an ewe two years old, a contemptuous term for a wo- man. Gin, if, against. Gipsey, a young girl. Girdle, a round iron plate on which oat-cake is fired. Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, agony, &¢c.; grin- 4. ENS. Gizz, a periwig, the face. Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. Glatve, a sword. Glizie, glittering, smooth, like glass. Glaumed, grasped, snatched at eagerly. Girran, a poutherie girran, a little vigorous animal; a_ horse rather old, but yet active when heated. Gled, a hawk. Gleg, sharp, ready. Gley, a squint, to squint; a-gley, off at a side, wrong. Gleyde, an old horse. Glib-gabbit, that speaks smoothly and readily. Glieb o’ lan’, a portion of ground. The ground belonging to a | manse is called “the glieb,” | or portion. | Guidman and guidwife, the mastet and mistress of the house; young guidman, a man newly married. Gully or Gullie, a large knife. Crulravage, joyous mischief. Gumlie, muddy. Gumption, discernment, ledge, talent. Gusty, gustfw, tasteful. Gut-scraper, a fiddler. Gutcher, grandsire. Glint, glintin’, to peep. Glinted by, went brightly past. Gloamin, the twilight. Gloamin-shot, twilight-musing; a shot in the twilight. Glowr, to stare, to look; a stare, a look. Glowran, amazed, looking suspi- ciously, gazing. Glun, displeased. H. Gor-cocks, the red-game, red-cock, | Ha’, hall. — 105 moor-cock. Ha Bible, the great Bible that lies Gowan, the flower of the daisy, | in the hall. dandelion, hawkweed, &e. | Haddin, house, home, dwelling- know- place, a possession. Hae, to have, to accept. Haen, had (the participle of hae) ; haven. Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of negation; nothing. Ha/ffet, the temple, the side of the Gowany, covered with daisies. Goavan, walking as if blind, or without an aim. Gowd, gold. Gowl, to howl. Gowff, a fool; the game of golf, to strike, as the bat does the ball at golf. ” head. Gowk, term of contempt, the | Haflins, nearly half, partly, not cuckoo. | fully grown. Grane or grain, a groan, to groan; | Hag, a gulf in mosses and moors, graining, groaning. moss-ground. Graip, a pronged instrument for | Haggis, a kind of pudding, boiled | in the stomach of a cow, or sheep. Hain, to spare, to save, to lay out at interest. cleaning cowhouses. Graith, accoutrements, furniture, | dress. Grannie, grandmother. Grape, to grope; grapet, groped. Hain’d, spared; hain’'d gear, Great, grit, intimate, familiar. hoarded money. Gree, to agree; to bear the gree, to Hairst, harvest. Haith, a petty oath. Haivers, nonsense, speaking with. out thought. Hal’, or hald, an abiding place. Hale, or haill, whole, tight, heal- be decidedly victor; gree’t, | agreed. Green-graff, green grave. Gruesome, loathsomely, grim. | aly, holy; “haly-pool,” holy well with healing qualities. Tame, home. | Hammered, the noise of feet like bN mers at a lying-in. Groat, to get the whistle of one’s groat; to play a losing game, to feel the consequences of one’s folly. Groset, a gooseberry. Grumph, a grunt, to grunt. Grumplhie, Grumphin, & SOW ; the snorting of an angry pig: Grun’, ground. Grunstone, a grindstone. Gruntle, the phiz, the snout, a : grunting noise. | Grunzie, a mouth which pokes out like that of a pig. ae Y . . es , ; nal. Grushie, thick, of thriving grow th. of an an 1 sigh ROME Gude, guid, guids, the Supreme | Hap-shacktead, When © d . | hind foot of aram are fastene | Greet, to shed tears, to weep; greetin’, weeping. thy. : Grey-neck-quill, a quill unfit for a | Hallan, a particular partition-wall pen. | in a cottage, or more pro- Griens, longs, desires. perly a seat ol turf at tho Grieves, stewards. | outside. Grippit, seized. | Hallowmass, Hallow-eve, 31st Oc- Groanin-Maut, drink for the cum- tober. | the din of hammers. Han’s breed, hand’s breadth. Hanks, thread as it comes from the measuring reel, quanti- ties, &e. Hansel-throne, throne when first occupied by a king. | Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &e.; te wrap, to cover, to hap. ‘ Harigals, heart, liver, and lights Being, good, goods. 1 a ‘ yeether to prevent leaping, G id-has-been, Was once ex- togethe } ane a ; he is said to be hap-shackled. 2rellent. ms eee sd “the kirk’s Guid-mornin’, good-morrow. é wie cae t . ’ . ap-shackle, Guid-e’en, good evening. 1Bp-s h . y or, opper of Guidfather and guidmother, father- | Happer, a hopper, the hopE in-law, and mother-in-law. | a mill. a Poe ng nS Peete) eee eS ene ES TORRES SRS APO ais pes a satel Ym a pat Le neler ld ae ne ee Fa at ps LR Xt a SO SO A ele ee eee: Sitptch sah naeunaamanr ta eked — Se i kk heh es Neen ee ne en PRT aera tae a te aad em 2 5 ‘ c Dee aan ae es 536 Aupping, hopping. Hap-step-an -loup, hop, step, and | leap. Harkit, hearkened. Harn, a very coarse linen. Hash, a fellow who knows not how to act with propriety. Hastit, hastened. Haud, to hold. Haughs, low-lying, rich valleys. Haul, to drag, to pull violently. Haurlin, tearing off, pulling roughly. Haver-meal, oatmeal. Haveril, a half-witted person, half- witted, one who _ habitually talks in a foolish or incohe- rent manner. Havins, good manners, good sense. Hawlvie, a cow, properly one with a white face. Heapit, heaped. Healsome, healthful, wholesome. Hearse, hoarse. Heather, heath. Hech, oh strange! an exclamation during heavy work. Hecht, promised, to foretell some- thing that is to be got or given, foretold, the thing fore- told, offered. Feckie,a board in which are fixed a number of sharp steel prongs upright for dressing hemp, flax, &e. Hee balou, words used to soothe a child. Heels-owre-gowdie, topsy-turvy, turned the bottom upwards. Heeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift. Hellim, the rudder or helm. Herd, to tend flocks, one who tends flocks. Herrin’, a herring. Herry, to plunder; most properly to plunder birds’ nests. Herryment, plundering, devasta- tion, Hersel-hirsel, a flock of sheep, also a herd of cattle of any sort. : fet, hot, heated. Heugh, a crag, a ravine; coal- heugh, a coal-pit; lowin heugh, a blazing pit. Hilch, hilchin’, to halt, halting. Ainey, honey. Hing, to hang. Hsple, to walk crazily, tc walk lamely, to creep. Ave, dry, chapt, barren. Hitcht, a loop, made a knot. Hizzie, huszy, a young girl. Hoddin, the motion of a'husband- man riding on a cart-horse, bumble. Hoddin-gray, woollen cloth of a coarse quality, made by min- gling one black fleece with a dozen white ones. Hogyic, a two-year-old sheep. Hog-scort, a distance line in curl- land, decorum, | | GLOSSARY. a | ing drawn across the rink. When a stone fails to cross it, a cry is raised of “A hog, a | hog!” and it is removed. Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play " by justling with the shoulder ; to justle. Hoodie-craw, a blood crow, corbie. Hool, outer skin or case, a nutshell, a pea-husk. Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. Hoord, a hoard, to hoard. Hoordit, hoarded. Horn, a spoon made of horn. Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. | Host, or hoast, to cough. | Hostin, coughing. | Hotch’d, turned topsy-turvy, | blended, ruined, moved. Houghmagandie, loose behaviour. Howlet, an owl. | Housie, diminutive of house. | Hove, hoved, to heave, to swell. Howdie, a midwife. Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell. Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a horse. How{f, a house of resort. Howk, to dig. Howkit, digged. Howkin’, digging deep. Hoy, hoy’t, to urge, urged. Hoyse,a pull upwards. “ Hoyse a creel,” toraise a basket; hence “hoisting creels.” Hoyte, to amble crazily. Hughoc, diminutive of Hughie, as Hughie is of Hugh. Hums and hankers, mumbles and | seeks to do what he cannot | perform. | Hunkers, kneeling and falling back on the hams. | Hurcheon, a hedgehog. | Hurdies, the loins, the crupper. Hushion, a cushion, also a stock- ing wanting the foot. Huchyalled, to move with a hilch. I. Icker, an ear of corn. leroe, a great grandchild. ilk, or ilka, each, every. Ill-deedie, mischievous. Lil-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. Ingine, genius, ingenuity. Ingle, fire, fireplace, Ingle-low, light from the fire, flame from the hearth. I rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye. Pse, I shall or will. ther, other, one another. J. Jad, jade; also a familiar term among country folks for a giddy young girl. Jauk, to dally, to trifle. Jaukin’, trifling, dallying. Jauner, talking, and not always to the purpose. Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk, ag agitated water. Jaw, coarse raillery, to pour out, to shut, to jerk as water. Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. Jimp, to jump, slender in the waist, handsome. Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a sudden turning, a corner. Jink aw diddle, moving to music, motion of a fiddler’s elbow, Starting here and there with a tremulous movement. Jinker, that turns quickly, a gay sprightly girl. Jinkin’, dodging, the quick motion of the bow on the fiddle. Jirt, a jerk, the emission of water, to squirt. Jocteleg, a kind of knife. Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head, to conceal, Jow, to jow, a verb, which in- cludes both the swinging mo- tion and pealing sound of a large bell; also the undula- tion of water. Jundie, to justle, a push with the elbow. K. Kae, a daw. Kail, colewort, a kind of broth. Kailrunt, the stem of colewort. Kain, fowls, &e., paid as rent by a farmer. Kebars, rafters. Kebbuck, a cheese. Keckle, joyous ery; to cackle asa hen. Keek, a keek, to peep. Kelpies, a sort of mischievous water-spirit, said to haunt fords and ferries at night, es- pecially in storms. Ken, to know; ken’d or ken’t, knew. Kennin, a small matter. Ket-Ketty, matted, a fleece of wool. Kiaught, carking, in a flutter. Kilt, to truss up the clothes. Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. Kin’, kindred. Kin’, kind. King’s-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox. Kintra, kintrie, country. Kirn, the harvest supper, a churn Kirsen, to christen, to baptize. Kist, chest, a shop-counter. Kitchen, anything that eats with anxiety, to be bread, to serve for soup, gravy. Kittle, to tickle, ticklish. Kittling, a young cat. The ace of diamonds is called among rustics the kittlin’s e’e. Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking stones; snap, te strike er break.—_ Knurlin, crooked but strong, hnotty. Knowe, a small, round hillock, a knoll. Kuittle, to cuddle; /uitlin, cud- dling, fondling. Kye, cows. Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. Kyte, the belly. Kythe, to discover, to show self. one’s L. Labour, thrash. Laddie, diminutive of lad. Laggen, the angle between the side and the bottom of a wooden dish. Laigh, low. Lairing, lairie, wading, and sink- ing in snow, mud, &c., miry. Laith, loath, impure. Laithfw, bashful, sheepish, ab- stemious. Lallans, Scottish dialect, Low- lands. Lambie, diminutive of lamb. Lammas moon, harvest-moon. Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, .a limpet. Lan’, land, estate. Lan’-afore, foremost horse in the plough. Law -ahin, hindmost horse in the plough. Lane, lone; my lane, thy lane, &e., myself alone. Lanely, lonely. Lang, long; to think lang, to long, to weary. Lap, did leap. Late and air, late and early. Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. Laveroch, the lark. Lawlan’, lowland. Lay my dead, attribute my death. Leal, loyal, true, faithful. Lear, learning, lore. Lee-lang, live-long. Leesome luve, happy, love. Leeze me, a phrase of congratula- tory endearment; I am happy in thee or proud of thee. Leister, a three-pronged and barb- ed dart for striking fish. Leugh, dia laugh. Leuk, a look, to look. Libbet, castrated. Lick, licket, beat, thrashen. Lift, sky, firmament. Lightly, sneeringly, to sneer at, to undervalue. Lilt, a ballad, a tune, to sing. Limmer, a kept mistress, a strum- pet. Limp’t, limped, hobbled. Link, to trip along; linkin, trip- ping along, Linn, a waterfall, a cascade. Vint, flax; lint ? the bell, flax Rower. gladsome _ I QB | eres Lint-white, a linnet, flaxen. Loan, the place of milking. Loaning, lane. Loof, the palm or ize hand. Loot, did let. Looves, the plural of loof. Losh man! rust:e exclamation modified from Lord man. Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin, a woman of easy virtue. | Loup, leap, startled with pain. Louper-like, lan-louper, a stranger of a suspected character. Lowe, a flame. Lowin’, flaming; burning desire for drink. Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. Lowse, to loose. Lowsed, unbound, loosed. Lug, the ear. Lug of the law, at the judgment- | seat. Lugget, having a handle. Luggie, a small wooden dish, with a handle. Lum, the chimney; chimney-top. Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &e. Lunt, a column of smoke, to smoke, to walk quickly. Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray. lowin-drouth, lum-head, M. Mae, and mair, more. Maggot’s-meat, food for the worms. Mahoun, Satan. Mailen, a farm. Maist, most, almost. Maistly, mostly, for the greater part. Mak’, to make; makin’, making. Mally, Molly, Mary. Mang, among. Manse, the house of the parish minister is called “the Manse.” Manteele, a mantle. Mark, marks. This and several other nouns which in Eng- lish require an s to form the plural, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, deer, the same in both numbers. Mark, merk, a Scottish coin, value thirteen shillings and four- pence. Marled, party-coloured. Mar’s year, the year 1715. Called Mar’s year from the rebel- -lion of Erskine, Earl of Mar. Martial chuck, the soldier’s >amp- comrade, female comparion. Mashlum, mixed corn. ; Masi:, to mash, as malt, &c., to in- fuse. Maskin-pat, teapot. Maukin, a hare. Maun, mauna, must, must not. Maut, malt. Mavis, the thrush. Jaw, to mow. 037 Mawin, mowine: maun, mowed; maw d, mowed. Meawn, a small basket, without a handle. Meere, a mare. Melancholious, mournful. Melde r,a load of corn, &¢c., sent to the mill to be ground, Mell, to be intimate, to meddle, also a mallet for pounding | barley in a stone trough. Melvie, to soil with meal. Men, to mend. Mense, good manners, decorum. Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent, Merle, the blackbird. Messin, a small dog. Middin, a dunghill. Middin-creels, dung-baskets, pan- niers in which horses carry manure. Middin-hole, a gutter at the bot- tom of a dunghill. Mitkin’-shiel, a place where cows or ewes are brought to hea milked. Mim, prim, affectedly meek. Mim-mowd, gentle-mouthed. Min’, to remember. Minawae, minuet. Mind’t, mind it, resolved, intend- ing, remembered. Jfinnie, mother, dai. Mirk, dark. Misea’, to abuse, to call names; mtsea’d, abused. Mischanter, accident. Misleard, mischievous, nerly. Misteuk, mistook. Mither, mother. Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed, mish-miasis. Moistify, moistified, to moisten, to soak ; moistened, soaked. Mons-meg, a large piece of ord- nance, to be seen at the Castle of Edinburgh, composed of iron bars welded together and then hooped. Mools, earth. Mony, or mon ve, many. Moop, to nibble as a sheep. Moorlan, of or belonging to moors. Morn, the next day, to-morrow. Mou, the mouth. Moudiwort, a mole. Mousie, diminutive of mouse. Muekle, or mickle, great, much. Muses-stank, muses-rill, a stank, slow-flowing water. Musie, diminutive of muse. Muslin-kail, broth, composed sim. ply of water, shelled bar- ley, and greens; thin poor broth. Miadtehkin, an English pint. Mysel, myself. unmar- big, N. Na’, no, not, nor. Nae, or na, no, not anys ED: A Antanas r LE k etal he bead bn ae Sebo SY a nn a a Pt RP LT HI Tope) See Pe We mas tn PE men Bees ee erry a Ee NT SFOS an Me weaN EEE ee a . - ¥ ai ateawn Ke c ee eee) Ee eal TT oem ere (ETI PETE OED F GLOSSARY. Naething, or natthing, nothing. Naig, a horse, a nag. Nane, none. Nappy; ale, to be tipsy. NV jleckut, neclecte d. Neebor, a neighbour. Neuk, nook. Neist, next. Nieve, nie, the fist. Nievefw, handful. Niffer, an exchange, to barter, Niger, a negro. Nit, a nut. north. Notic’t, noticed. Novwte, black cattle. 0. O’, of. O’ergang, overbearingness, to trea tread, O’erlay, an upper cravat. Ony, or onie, any. Or, is often used for ere, before. Orra-duddies, superfluous rags, old clothes. O’t, of it. Ourte, drooping, shivering. Oursel, oursels, ourselves. Outlers, outliers; cattle unhoused. Ower, owre, over. Owre-hip, striking with a fore- hammer by bringi~ Ath a swing over the uip. Owsen, oxen. Oxtered, carried or supported un- der the arm. Pp. Pack, intimate, familiar: twelve stone of wool. Paidle, paidlen, to walk with diffi- culty, as if in water, Painch, paunch. Paitrick, a partridge. Pang, to cram. Parle, courtship. Parishen, parish. Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well-known Scotch drink. Pat, did put, a pot. Pattle, or pettle, a small spade to clean the plough. Paughty, proud, haughty. Pauky, cunning, sly. Pay’t, paid, beat. © Peat-reek, the turf, a whisky. Pech, to fetch the breath shortly, as in an asthma. Pechan, the crop, the stomach. Pechin, respiring with difficulty. Pennie, riches. : Pet, a domesticated she favourite. Pettle, to cherish. Philabeg, the kilt. Phraise, fair speeches flatter. smoke of burning bitter exhalation, ep, &., a » flattery, to ee Nine-tailed cat, a hangman’s whip. Norland, of or belonging to the Phraisin, flattering. Pibroch, a martial air. of corn. Pigmy-scraper, player. Pint-stowp, a two-quart measure. Pine, pain, uneasiness. children’s sops. third part of an penny. ney. -laidie, diminutive of plaid. Platie, diminutive of plate. Plew, or pleugh, a plough. | Plishie, a trick. | Plumrose, primrose. Pock, a meal-bag. with indignity, literally to | Poind, to seize on cattle, or take } land allow, for rent, &e. Poorteth, poverty. Posie, a nosegay, a garland. Pou, powd, to pull, pulled. Pouk, to pluck. | Pouasie, a hare or cat. | Pouse, to pluck with the hand. | Pout, a polt, a chick. | Port, did pull. | Poutherey, fiery, active. Pouthery, like powder. | Pow, the head, the skull. | Pownie, a little horse, a pony. Powther, or pouther, gunpowder. Preclair, supereminent. | Preen, a pin. | Prent, printing, print. | Prie, to taste; prie’d, tasted. | Prief, proof. | Prig, to cheapen, to dispute; prig- gin, cheapening. | Primsie, demure, precise. | Propone, to lay down, to propose. | Pund, pund o’ tow, pound, pound weight of the refuse of flax. | Pyet, a magpie. | Pyle, a pyle, o’ caff, a single grain of chaff. Pystle, epistle. | | Quat, quit. Quak, the ery of a duck. | Quech, a drinking-cup made of wood with two handles. Quey, acow from one to two years old, a heifer. | Quines, queans. | Quakin, quaking. Q. Ragweed, herb-ragwort. Raible, to rattle, nonsense. | Rair, to roar. Raize, to madden, ic inflame. Ramfeezled, fatigued, overpower- ed. Rampin’, raging, | R. ene one nena Pickle, a small quantity, one grain little fiddler; a term of contempt for a bad Pingle, a small pan for warming Plack, an old Scotch coin, the English | Raught, reached. Plackless, pennyless, without mo- the goods as the laws of Scot- —_—_—- | Ramstam, thoughtless, forwaru. 7 j; ~ 1 . . | Randie, a scolding sturdy beggar, a shrew. Rantin’, joyous. | Ltaploch, properly a coarse cloth, 1 but used for coarse. | Rarely, excellently, very well, | Lash, a rush; rash-buse, a bush 0 rushes, | fatton, a rat. | ftaucle, rash, stout, fearless, reck. less. r~ | Raw, a row. Rax, to stretch. Ream, cream, to cream. | Leamin’, brimful, frothing, Reave, take by force. | Rebute, to repulse, rebuke. —eck, to heed. fede, counsel, to counsel, to dis- course. fted-peats, burning turfs. ted-wat-shod, valking in blood over the shoe-tops, | Red-wud, stark mad. fee, half drunk, fuddled; a ree yaud, a wild horse. Reek, smoke. | Reekin’, smoking. | Reekit, smoked, smoky. teestit, stood restive ; withered. | Remead, remedy. | Requite, requited. | Ltestricked, restricted. | Lew, to smile, look affectionately, | tenderly. Rickles, shocks of corn, stooks, Riddle, instrument for purifying corn. Rief-randies, men who take the property of others, accom- panied by violence and rude words. | Rig, a ridge. fin, to run, to melt; rinnin’, run- ning. Rink, the course of the stones, a term in curling on ice. Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. | Lipples, pains in the back and | loins, sounds which usher in | stunted, death. | ipplin-kame, instrument for dressing flax. | Riskit, a noise like the tearing of roots. Rockiv, a denomination fer a friendly visit. In former times young women met with their distaffs during the win- ter evenings, to sing, and spin, and be merry; these were called “rockings.” Roke, distaff. Rood, stands likewise for the plu- ral, roods. Roon, a shred, the selvage of wool- | len cloth. Foose, to praise, to commend. Roun’, round, in the circle of | neighbourhood. | Zoupet, hoarse, as with a cold.—— GLOSS TAC RAYE 039 a Row, to roll, to rap, to roll as water. Row’t, rolled, wrapped. Rowte, to low, to bellow. Rowth, plenty. Rowtin’, lowing. Rozet, rosin, Rumble-gumption, rough common- sense. 2un-deils, downright devils. Rung, a cudgel. Runt, the stem of colewort or cab- bage. Runkled, wrinkled. Ruth, a woman’s name, the book so called, sorrow. Ryke, reach. 8. Sae, So. Saft, soft. Sair, to serve, & Sore; satrie, sor- rowful. Sairly, sorely. Sair’t, served. Sark, a shirt. Sarkit, provided in shirts. Saugh, willow. Saugh-woodies, withies, made of willows, now supplanted by ropes and chains. Saul, soul. Saumont, salmon. Saunt, sauntet, saint; to varnish. Saut, salt. Saw, to sow. Sawin’, sowing. Sax, Six. Scaud, to scald. Scauld, to scold. Scaur, apt to be scared; a preci- pitous bank of earth which the stream has washed red. Scarol, a scold. Scone, a kind of bread. Sconner, a loathing, to loath. Seraich and Seriegh, to scream, as a hen or partridge. Screed, to tear, a rent; screeding, tearing. Serieve, serieven, to glide softly, gleesomely along. Serimp, to scant. Serimpet, scant, scanty. Scroggie, covered with underwood, bushy. Sculdudrey, fornication. eszin’, selzing. Se?, self; a body’s sel’, one’s self alone. Sift, did sell. Sen’, to send. Servan’, servant. Setilin’, settling; to get a settlin’, to be frighted into quietness. Sets, sets off, goes away. Shachlet-feet, ill-shaped. Shair’d, a shred, a shard. Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for pulling the tail of a dog, &c., by way of mischief, or to frighten him away. Shank-it, walk it; shanks, legs. Shaul, shallow. | | Shaver, a humorous wag, a barber. | Shavie, to do an ill turn. Shaw, to show; a small wood in « hollow place. Sheep-shank, to think one’s self nae sheep-shank, to be conceited. Sherra-muir, Sheriff-Muir, the fa- mous battle of, 1715. Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. Shiel, shealing, a shepherd’s cot- tage. Shill, shrill. Shog, a shock, a push off at one side. Shoo, ill to please, ill to fit. Shool, a shovel. Shoon, shoes. Shore, to offer, to threaten. Shor’d, half offered and threat- ened. Shouther, the shoulder. Shot, one traverse of the shuttle from side to side of the web. Sic, such. Sicker, sure, steady. Sidelins, sideling, slanting. Silken-snood, a fillet of silk, a token of virginity. Siller, silver, money, white. Simmer, Summer. Sin, ® son. Sinsyne, since then. Skaith, to damage, to injure, in- jury. Skeigh, proud, nice, saucy, met- tled. Sheigh, shy, maiden coyness. Skellum, a noisy reckless fellow. Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart tripping step, a smart stroke. Skelpi-limmer, a technical term in female scolding. Skelpin, skelpit, striking, walking rapidly, literally striking the ground. Skinklin, thin, gauzy, scaltery. Skirling, shrieking, crying. Skirl, to ery, to shriek shrilly. Skirlt, shrieked. Sklent, slant, to run aslant, to de- viate from truth. Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction. Skouth, vent, free action. Skreigh, a scream, to scream, the first ery uttered by a child. Skyte, a worthless fellow, to slide rapidly off. Skyrin, party-coloured, the checks of the tartan. Slae, sloe. Slade, did slide. Slap, a gate, a breach in a fence. -— | Slaw, Slow. * Slee, sleest, sly, slyest. Sleekit, sleek, sly. Sliddery, slippery: Slip-shod, smooth shod. Sloken, quench, slake. Slyre, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the plough. Slypet-o’er, fell over with a slow reluctant motion. Sma’, small. Smeddum, dust, powder, mettle sense, sagacity. Smiddy, smithy. ‘ Smirking, good-natured, winking. Smoor, smoored, to smother, smo- thered. Smoutie, smutty, obscene; sinoutia phiz, sooty aspect. Smytrie, @ numerous collection of small individuals. | Snapper, mistake. Snash, abuse, Billingsgate, imper. tinence. Snaw, snow, to snow. Snarw-broo, melted snow. | | | | | | Snawie, snowy. Snap, to lop, to eut off. Sned-besoms, to cut brooms, Sneeshin, snuff. Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. Snell and snelly, bitter, biting; snellest, bitterest. Snick-drawing, trick, contriving, Snick, the latchet of a door. | Snirt, snirtle, concealed laughter, | to breathe the nostrils in a | displeased manner. Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppressive slavery; to submit tamely, to sneak. Snoove, to go smoothly and con- | stantly, to sneak. | Snowk, snowkit, to scent or snuff | as a dog, scented, snuffed. | Sodger, a soldier. ; | Sonsie, having sweet engaging looks, lucky, jolly. | Soom, to swim. Souk, to suck, to drink long aad | enduringly. | Souple, flexible, swift. | Soupled, supple ib | Souther, to solder. | Souter, a shoemaker. | Sowens, the fine flour remaining among the seeds of oatmeal made into an agreeable pud- ding. Sowp, a ‘spoon ful, a small quantity of anything liquid. Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. Spae, to prophesy, to divine. Spails, chips, splinters. Spaul, a limb. Spairge, to clash, to mire. Spates, sudden floods. ) A | soil, as with Spaviet, having the spavin, ‘ Speat, a sweeping torrent altel rain or thaw. Speel, to climb. Spence, the parlour of or cottage. Spier, to ask, to inquired. Spinnin-graith, and lint. : é : ar | Splatter, to splutter, a splutter pouch. a farmhouse inquire; spiert, | wheel and roke | | Spleughan, & tobacco-po | Splore, a frolic, noise, T10% Sprachled, scrambled. | Sprattle, to scramble. a LT, ante ik ated th Se eben ae Sa ee ae S ee eT Eeebeeline bie ote Se aa Ft eee a er oe ere — Tr GLOSSARY. Spr ‘eckled, s spotte dd, sp ec kle d. ¢ Spring, a nick air in music, a Scottish reel. Sprit, spret, a tough-rooted plant something like rushes, joint- ed-leaved rush. Sprittie, full of spirits. Spunk, fire, mettle, wit, spark. ‘i mettlesome, fiery; will o’ the wisp, or ignis fatuus; the devil. Spurtle, a stick used making oatmeal pudding or porridge, a notable § Spunkie, scottish dish. Squad, a crew or party, a squad- ron, Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild-duck, &e. Squattle, to sprawl the act of hiding. Squeel, a scream, a screech, to screaln. Stacher, to stagger. Stack, a rick of corn, Staggie, a stag. hay, peats. Staig, a two year-old horse. Stalwart, stately, strong. Stang, sting, stung. Stcr’t, to stand; stan’t, did stand. Stane, stone. Stank, did stink, a pool of stand- ing wei r, slow-moving wate Yr. Stap, stop, stave. Stark, stout, potent. Startle, to run as cattle the gadfly. Staulin, stalking stung by walking dis- dainfully, walking without an aim. Stawnre L a bloc} che ad , he alf-witte 1. Saw, did steal, to surfeit. Stech, to cram the be lly. Stechin: cramming. Steek, to shut, a stitch. Steer, to molest, to stir. Steeve, firm, compacted. Stell, a still. Sten, to rear as a horse, to leap suddenly, Stravagin, w andering without aim. Stents, tribute an , dues of any kind. Stey, steep styest, stee pest. Stibble, stul ble: stubble-rig, the ae in harvest who takes > le ad. ee -stow, tot: lly, altoge ther, Stilt-stilts, a crutch: to limp, to halt ; poles for crossing a river, r. Stinpart, the eighth part of a Winchester bu shel, we Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. ; Stovk, a plant of colewort, cab- bages, Stockin’, stocking; throwing the stockin’, when the bride and bridegroom are put into bed, the former throws a stocking at random among the com- pany, and the person whom 1t falls on is the next that will be married, Stook, stooled, a made in Stot, a young to shocks. bull or ox. Stound, sudden pang of the heart. a kind of high with a Stoun,. or stowp, - . . narrow jug or dish handle for holding liquids Stowre, dust, dustin motion ; Stownlins, by stealth. stolen. more stowrie, wfown, Stoyte, the walking of ad len man. Straek, did strike. Strae, straw; to die a fair strae de ath, to die in bed. Strath, to stroke ;.straiket, stroked. Strappen, tall, handsome, vigorous. Strath, low alluvial land, a holm. piraught straight. Stree, stretched, to stretch. Soridele, to eee aTe to spout, to piss. Stroup, the spout. Studdie, the anvil. Stumpie, Stroan, grub pen. Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind; to walk sturdily, to be affronted. Stuf, corn or pulse of any kind. Sturt, trouble: to molest. Startin, frighted,. Styme, a glimmer, Sucker, sugar. Sud, should. Sugh, the continued rushi of wind or water. Suwnph, a pluckless fellow, little heart or soul. Suthron, Southern, an of the English. Siwaird, sword. Swall’d, swelled. Swank, stately , jolly. Swankie »or ananhon a ti ght strap- ‘ping young fellow or girl. Swap, an exe hange, to barte or. Swarfed, swooned. Swat, did sweat. Swatch, a aon] le. drix worth. Sweer, lazy, averse: dead-sweer, extremely averse. Sow 007, ng noise with old name Swats, x, Go ale, new ale or swore, did swear. Swinge, to beat, to whip. Swinke, to labour hard. Swirlees knaggy, full of knots. an eddying blast or pool, a knot in the wood. Swith, get aw ay. Swither, Swirl, a curve, to hesitate in choice, an irresolute w avenng in choice. Syebow, a thick-necked onion, Syne, since, ago, then, m Tackets, broad-headed nails the heels of shoes. Tae, a toe; for three-taed, hay ing three prongs, | Tak, to take; takin, taking. we ees eer shock of corn, particularly dusty. diminutive of stump; a | | | | Tangle, a sea-weed used as salad, Tap, t the top. Tapetless, heedless, foolish. Tur ge, targe them tightly, Cross. question them severely, Tarrow, to murmur at one’s allow. ance. Tarr ‘Yf- breek. 8, & sailor. Tassie, 2 small measure for liquor, Tauld, or tald, told. Taupie, a foolish, thoughtles young person. Tauted, or tautie, matted together (spok en of hair and wool), Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be handled (spoken of a cow, horse, &c.) Teat, 2 small quantity. Teethless bawtie, toothless cur. mouth wanting an expression of Teethless gab, a the teeth, scorn. Ten-hours-bite, a slight feed to the horse while in the yoke in the forenoon. Tent, a field pulpit, heed, caution ; to take heed. Tentie, heedful, cautious. Tentless, heedless, careless. Teugh, tough. Thack, thatch; thack an’ rape, clothing and necessaries. Thae, these. Thairms, small cuts, Thankit, thanked. Theehkit, thatched. Thegither, together. Themsel’, themselves. Thick, intimate, familiar. Thigger, crowding, make a noise; a seeker of alms. Thir, these. Thirl, to thrill. Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. Thole, to suffer, to endure. Thowe, a thaw, to thaw. Thowless, slack, lazy. Thrang, throng, busy, a crowd. Thrapple, throat, windpipe. Thraw, to sprain, to twist, to con- fiddle-strings, tradict. Thrawin’, twisting, &e. Thrawr, sprained, twisted, con- tradicted, contradiction. Threap, to maintain by dint of as- sertion. Threshin’, threshing; tree, a flail. Threteen, thirteen. Thristle, thistle. Through, to go on with, to make out. Throuther, pell-mell, (through- ither). Thrwn, sound of a spinning-wheel in motion, the thread remain- ing at the end of a web. Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise. Thummart, foumart, polecat. Thumpit, thumped. Thysel’, thyself. Tilv’'t, to it. Timmer, timber. threshin’- confusedlyGLOSSARY. 64) Tine, to lose; tiat, Jost, Waker, s tinker, Thy, & ram. | ‘Tippence, twopence, monty. Teh to make a slight noise, to | Tyke, a dog, uncover. Firlin’, tirtef, uncovering. Tither, the othor, Tittle, to whisper, to prate Idly. Tittia, whispering. Tocler, Marriage portion; ftocker banda, marringe bonds. Tod, a fox. “Tod i the faucd,” fox in the fold. Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child; todlen-dow, toddling dore, Too-fa’, “Too fa’ 0’ the nicht,’ when twiligbt darkens inw night; a building added, lean-to, Toom, crnpty. Toomed, emptied. Tcop a ram, Tees, % West, Tosie, worm and warmnth, toxicating, Toun, a hainlet, 8 farmhouse. Tout, the blast of a horn or trum. pet, blow s born or trempet. Tourtes, touting, romping, ruilling the clothes, Tow, a rope. Toromond, a twelyemonth. Tuwste, rough, shagzy. Ty, a very old fashion of female head-drees. Foyie, to totter like old nee. rama, burrow-trams, the baudles of a barrow. Tranamyritied, trupswigrated, metamorphosed, Trasktnie, trash, rubbish. Trickie, full of tricks, Trig, epruce, neat. Trimly, cleverly, excellenuy, in a. scetnly manner, Trinte, trintle, the wheel of a bar. TOR, bo ro)l, Trinklin, trickling, ; Troggers, troggin’, wanderin & mer- chants, goods to track or dis. pose of. Trow, ta bolieve, t trust to. Trowth, truth, a petty oath, ruddy with good-looking, in- Trysts, appointiocnty, love meot- | Ings, cattle shows, Twa faul, twofold, Twin, to part Twistle, twisting, the art of making 6 rope, Tysday, Tuesday. ° 0, Unback'd filly, a young mare hitherto unsadded, Unco, strange, uncouth, very, very great, prodigions, Uncoa, news, Unfauld, unfold. Unkenn’d, unknown, Unaicker, uncertain, wavering, Sn- secure. Unekaithed, undamaged, anburt, Upo’, upon. Vv. Vap’rin vaponring. baa joy ra, cm ligli whic cannot contain itself, Vera, very. ‘irl, a ring round a column, &c. Vogie, vain. W. Wa', wall; wr’s, walls. Wabster, a weaver. Wad, would, to bet, a bet, ao ' { ’ ; Tumbler-wheeds, the wheels of a | kind of low cart “Gr raw hile, of which {np old ime plough-traees Were fre- quently made, ug bor fow, either {fn leather or Tilaie, a quar Rght Thou, two; twa fad, twofold. v7 rel, to quarrel, to W4-taree, a ty Tread, it would, rae, Wwelve; tiealpennie worth, | * staal] quantity, a penny. | Worth,—N, B. One English ly 12. Stn i Wat, wet; J wat—ZJ wot—I know. pledge. Wadua, would vot ¢ Wacet, land on which money {s lent, 9 mortgayve, Wae, wey uefa’, Wailing, Warf stooodie, haugman’s rope. Waevucks/ Ware's me! Alas! 0 the pity! Wa’ ylow er, wali-flower, Wayt, woof; the cross thread that Rocz from the shattle through the web, Waifs an’ crocks; stray sheep and old ewes past breeding. Watr, t lay out, to expend, Wale, choice, to choose, Wat'd, chose, chosen. Walie, ample, large, jolly, also an exclamation of distress. Waiae, the belly. Wamecfu’,a bellyful. Wanchanete, unlucky. Wanrest, wanreat/u'’, restless, un- restful. Wark, work - Wark-lume, & tool to work with, Warld's-worm, a miser. Warle, or warld, world. sorrowful; Wat, a mau’s upper dross; a sort of mantle, Water-brose, vrore made of meal aad water simply, without the eddition of milk, butter, da Wattle, a twig, a wand, Waikle, to swing, to reel. Wauktin, waking, watebing, Wauk:t, thickened as fullers do cloth, Waukrife, not apt to sleep, Waur, worse, to worst Wavr’t, worsted, Weaan, a child, Weary-widdle, tollsome contest of lifo, Weason, wearand, windpipe Weaven’ the to. knit stockings. Weeder-olips, {netroment for re dtocking, moviog weeds. Wee, little; wee things, tittle ones, wee dita, aw emell coctter. Weel. vell: scedtfare, walfara Meet, alu, >etussus t vet We've, we suall, Wha, who. Whatzle, to whoeze, Whatpit, whelped, Whang, @ leatborn thong, 6 per of ebveso, bread, &c. Whare, where; whare'er, whe. ever. Wheep, © fly nimbly, to jerk penny-wheep, swall-becr. Whaeg, wha’a, whoso—who is. What reck, nevorthcless Ward, the motion of a hare run- ning, but not frighted~~a lie, Whidden, running as a hare o? coney. Whigmeteeries, whims, fancies, crotchets. Wath, which. Whingin’, eryipg, cowplaluing, fretting, Wairitigguma, uscless ornanien‘a, (riding appendages. Wavssle, a whistle, to whistle Whiskt, silence; to hold one’s what, be silent. Whisk, whisket, to sweep, to Jash, WaAisdetn’ beard, a beard ftike the whiskers of a crt. Wahrtekis, lashed, the motion ot a horse’s tail removiug fics. Whirter,a bearty draughtof liquor Whittle, a kaife. Whunatane, a whinstone. W7’, with. Wick, to strike 2 stone in an ob. Warlock, awizard; warlock-hnowe, a kuoli where warlocks once held tryste, Warly, worldly, eager in amasslog lique direction, @ term jn curling. Widdi/n, twisted like a withy, om Who merits hanging. ‘ Wiel, a small whirlpool. Wijieewrfidie, a diminutive o1 en learing name for wife wealth, A Warran’, a warrant, to warrant. Wanrele, wrestle. Warst'd, or warwt’led, wrested. Waatrye, prodigality, Weght, stout, onduring Wiilyart.glower, « bewildered dis- mmayed stare. Wimple-womplet, to meander, ms nudeéred, to enfold. Wimplin, waving, msandering. Be G TYRE Dei patrcnd Weel aes eed Saag Um Se na ee ee a ee To SP ee Le ere |i a ah eee et nee ee ee : et hae yaw) 645 Win’, to wind, to winnow. Winutn’-thread, putting _ §nto banks. Win's, winded og a bottom of yarn, Win’, wind, Win, live. Winaa, will not Winnock, a window. Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. Wintie, s staggering motion, to stagger, to reel. Wiss, to wish. Withouien, without. Wize ned, hide-bound, surunk, Wiire, a curse or Impreention. Wonaer, a wonder, & coulemptuous appellation. Woo’, wool. Fn, to court, to roake love to, Widdie, ® rope, more properly que of wills or wUlowe. thread dried, ‘GLOSSARY. Woer-bobs,the garter knitted below theknee witha couple of loops. Wordy, worthy. Worsel, worsted, Wrack, to tease, tQ vex. Wud, wild, wads wud-mad, dis- tracted, Wurible, a wimble, Wraith, a spirit, a ghost, au ap- parition exactly like a living person, Whose appearance is said to forbode tbe person’s upprosching death; also wrath, Wrang, wrong, to wrong. Wreetk, a drifted heap of snow. Wyliecoat, a Mannel vest Wyte, blame, to blame. Y. ; Ye, thie pronoun w frequeatly ased for thon. Yearns, longe much. Ycalings, born in tho same year, cocvale. Year, is used both. for singular und plural, years. Yell, barren, that gives no milk, Yerk, to lash. to jerk. Yerket, jerked, lashed, * Yestrecn, yesternight, Yer, s gate. Yenk’s, itches, Yrtly ale. Yird, yirded, earth, earthed, bu ned. Yok in’, yoking. Yous, ayont, beyond, Yirr, lively. Yowe, an ewe, Yowie, dininative of yous. Yule, Christmes,ih ae