3 1822 01155 0258 m- SAN DltGO I 3 1822 01155 0258 r 4300 3-1 0' i\IH)(]if<^ (Hufvn^- fd/'- ^ifPT M THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS: CONTAINIKG HIS Pie)fm05 ^iSiiras^5, art ®ieiir]re^jpi0itte]raje< ILLUSTRATED BY W. H. BARTLETT, T. ALLOM, AND OTHER ARTISTS. A NEW LIFE OF THE POET, AND NOTICES, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL, BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. LONDON : GEORGE VIRTUE. LONDON : JOSEPH RICKEUBY, rUINTKR, SHERBOURN LANE. ARCHIBALD HASTIE, ESQ. MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR PAISLEY, EMBELLISHED EDITION THE WORKS AND MEMOIRS OF A GREAT POET, IN WHOSE SENTIMENTS OF FREEDOM HE SHARES, AND WHOSE PICTURES OF SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC LIFE HE LOVES, IS RESPECTFULLY AND GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. S i s p ^ *P:i4te*«V DEDICATION. NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT. [On the title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, were these words, " Poems, chiefly in the Scottisli Dialect, by llobcrt Burns, printed for the Author, and sold by AVilliam Creech, 1787." The motto of the Kilmarnock edition was omitted: a very numerous list of Subscribers followed: the volume was printed by the celebrated Smcllie.] My Lords and Gentlemen : A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in 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 ? Tlie poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha— at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue ; I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of Cale- donia, 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 I 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 Avith you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that I 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 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. DEDICATION. 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 ut 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 foe ! I have the honour to be, With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen, Your most devoted humble servant, ROBERT BURNS. Edinburgh, April 4, 1787, PREFACE. I CANNOT give to my country this embellished edition of one of its favourite poets without stating that I have deliberately omitted several pieces of verse ascribed to Burns by otlicr editors, who too hastily, and I think on insufficient testimony, admitted them among his works. If I am imable 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 liincluden College," " Verses on the Destruction of the AVoods 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 wJiich distinguish his poetr)^ 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 ahoon the brute, It mat's him ken hirasel', man. Gif auce the peasant taste a bit, He 's greater than a lord, man, An' wi' a beggar shares a mite O' a' he can afford, man." There are eleven 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 Da- mascus blade. That it is extant in the handwriting of the poet cannot be taken as a l)roof that it is his own composition, against the internal testimony of utter want of all tlie marks by which we know him — the Buiiis'-stanip, so to speak, whicJj 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," PREFACE. tlie composition of Slicnstone, and which is to be found in the churchyard ol'IIalcs-Owcn: as it is not inchided in every edition of that poet's acknowledged works, Bui-ns, 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 ar- ranged the Poems, the Songs, and the Letters of Burns as nearly as 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 by which his high reputation would likely be impaired, I have said all that seems necessary to be said, save that the following letter came too late for insertion in its proper place : it is characteristic and worth a place any where. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 'Zo i3r. ^rtl)ibnltJ Sauric. Mossgiel, \Zth Nov. 1786. Dear Sin, I HAVE along with this sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the Songs. Ossian I am not in such a huriy 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 I\Ir. Wilson, the book- seller's shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. My most respectful compliments to ls\v. and IMrs. Laurie ; and a Poet's wannest wishes for their happiness to the young ladies ; particularly the fair musician, whom I think much better qualified than ever David was, or could be, to chai-m an evil 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. I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely, Robert Burns. DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER. LIST 0¥ PLATES. Z\}e aifc. Portrait of Burvs to face- the Vupictte. Portrait of Allan Cunningham . . 1 The Genius of Poesie finding Burns AT THE Plough, to precede the Dedi- cation to the Edinburgh Edition. Wot ^ocms. Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet 4 The Auld Farmer's Address to his Mare 6 The Jolly Beggars 10 Death and Dr. Hornbook 14 The Holy Fair 19 Halloween 28 Man was made to Mourn 30 Scotch Drink 40 Burns and Hamilton at Nanse Tin- nock's 42 The Cotter's Saturday Night . . 48 The Twa Dogs 64 Burns Interview with Lord Daer . 66 Address to the Toothache .... 84 The Wounded Habe 86 Captain Gro.^e writing the ANTiciri- ties of Scotland 97 The Witches' Dance in Tam-o'Shan- ter 9!) Tam-o'Shanter*s Flight 100 Lament for Jajies Earl of Glen- cairn 104 Now Westlin' Wins 1,36 The Lass o' Ballochmylf. 144 .John Anderson my .To KK) Willie brew'd a peck o' ]\rArT . . . 164 Naebody 174 The Deil cam" Finni.iN" thro' t;ii; Town 184 Highland Mary 195 The Poor and Honest Sodger . . . 200 Scots wiia hae wi" Wallace rlkd . 205 Auld Lang Syne 206 Z\it 0orrc$ponticnce, $rc. 111--. Burns and her (Ihanddaugiiter 294 TABLE OF CONTENTS. Ihe Life of Robert Burns Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of 1786 Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition of 1787 Page. i xlix POEMS. Winter. A Dirge . . . . The Death and dying Words of Poor Mailie Poor Mailie's Elegy First Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet Second .... Address to the Deil The auld Farmer's New-year Morning Salutation to his auld Mare Maggie To a Haggis . . . . A Prayer under the pressure of violent Anguish A Prayer in the prospect of Death Stanzas on the same occasion A Winter Night Remorse. A Fragment The Jolly Beggars. A Cantata. . Death and Dr. Hornbook. A True Story The Twa Herds ; or, the Holy Tulzie Holy Willie's Prayer Epitaph on Holy Willie The Inventory ; in answer to a mandate by the surveyor of taxes The Holy Fair ... The Ordination The CaK To James Smith The Vision Halloween .... Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge . To Ruin .... To John Goudie of Kilmarnock, on the publica tion of his Essays . To J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard. First Epistle .... To J. Lapraik. Second Epistle To J. Lapraik. Third Epistle To William Simpson, Ochiltree Address to an illegitimate Child Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed to G. H. Esq. To the Rev. John M'Math . To a Mouse .... Scotch Drink The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Representatives of the House of Commons Address to the unco Guid, or the rigidly Righteous Tam Samson's Elegy 9 10 13 1.5 16 17 18 21 24 27 30 31 32 33 34 35 37 38 39 41 43 44 Page. Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend's Amour . . .45 Despondency. An Ode . . .46 The Cotter's Saturday Night . . 47 The first Psalm . . . .49 The first six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm 50 To a Mountain Daisy. . . . — Epistle to a young Friend . . 51 To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church . . .52 Epistle to J. Rankine, enclosing some Poems . ■ — On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies .53 TheFareweU . . . .54 Written on the blank leaf of my Poems, pre- sented to an old Sweetheart then married . A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux Letter to James Tennant of Glenconner On the Birth of a posthumous Child . To Miss Cruikshank Willie Chalmers .... Verses left in the room where he slept To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recommending a boy To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-gillan Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the Author by a Tailor .... To J. Rankine. " I am a keeper of the law." Lines written on a Bank-note A Dream .... A Bard's Epitaph The Twa Dogs. A Tale. Lines on meeting with Lord Daer Address to Edinburgh . Epistle to Major Logan The Brigs of Ayr . On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Amis- ton, late Lord President of the Court of Session .... On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John M'Leod, Esq. .... To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems The American War. A Fragment The Dean of Faculty. A new Ballad To a Lady, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking- glasscs .... To Clarinda .... 5.5 56 57 58 59 62 63 65 66 67 68 10 CONTENTS. Verses written under the Portrait of the Poet Fergusson . . . . Prologue spoken by ISIr. Woods, on his Benefit- night, Monday, April 16, 1787 Sketch. A Character To Mr. Scott, of Wauehope . Epistle to William Creech The humble Petition of Bruar-Water, to the noble Duke of Athole On scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit Written with a pencil, over the chimney-piece, in the parloui- of the Inn at Kenmure, Tay- mouth .... Written ^vith a pencil standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch Ness To Mr. William Tytlcr, with the present of the Bard's picture Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on the banks of Nith, Jime, 1780. First Copy The same. December, 1788. Second Copy To Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel. Extempore Unes on returning a Newspaper . A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son First Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . Epistle to Hugh Parker Lines, intended to be written under a Noble Earl's Picture Elegy on the Year 1788. A Sketch . Address to the Toothache Ode. Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruivc- Fragment inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow had just shot To Dr. Blacklock. In answer to a Letter Delia. An Ode .... To John M'Murdo, Esq. Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, 1st January, 1790 Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit- night, Dumfries Sketch. New-year's Day. To Mrs. Dunlop . To a Gentlemanwho had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of expense . The Kirk's Alarm. A Satire. First Version The Kirk's Alarm. A Ballad. Second Version Peg Nicholson On Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman who held the patent for his honours imme- diately from Almighty God The Five Carlins. A Scots Ballad. The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, on the close of the disputed Election between Sir James Johnstone, and Captain Miller, for the Dumfries district of Boroughs . On Captain Grose's Perigination through Scot- 'age. 74 75 P«8* 80 83 84 85 86 87 89 90 92 97 98 100 101 102 103 104 105 land, collecting the Antiquities of that king- dom .... Written in a WTapper, enclosing a letter to Cap- tain Grose .... Tam o'Shanter. A Tale Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland Society To John Taylor .... Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach of Spring .... The Whistle Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem. Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning his Bust at Ednam with bays . To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry . . - — To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, on receiving a favour .... 106 A Vision .... To John Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his birthday 107 The Rights of Woman, an occasional Address spoken bv Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit- night, Nov. 26, 1792 . . Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice Epistle from Esopus to Maria Poem on Pastoral Poetry Sonnet, written on the 2oth January, 1793, the birthday of the Author, on hearing a thrush sing in a morning walk Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, April, 1794 Impromptu on Mrs. Ridders. birthday Liberty. A Fragment . Verses to a young Lady The Vowels. A Tale . Verses to John Rankine On Sensibility. To my dear and much-hon oured friend, Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had of- fended Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit-night . , On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite cha racter ToChloris Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Indcpend ence • The Heron Ballads. Ballad First The Heron Ballads. Ballad Second - The Heron Ballads. Ballad Tliird Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796 . . 117 To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with Johnson's Musical Museum . . . 118 Poem on Life, addressed to Colonel de Peyster, Dumfries, 1796 . . . 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, &c. On the Author's Father On R. A., Esq. On a Friend For Gavin Hamilton On wee Johnny On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline On a Wag in Mauchline On a celebrated ruling Elder On a noisy Polemic Prkc. 119 120 On Miss Jean Scott On a henpecked Country Squire . On the same . On the same . . . The Ilii^hland Welcome On William Smellie Written on a window of the Inn at Carron The Book-worms Lines on Stirling P»fe. 120 121 CONTENTS. ]1 The Reproof The Reply .... Lines written under the picture of the celebrated Miss Burns Extempore in the Court of Session The henpecked Husband Written at Inverary On Elphinston's Translation of Martial's Epi grams Inscription on the Head-stone of Fergusson On a Schoolmaster A Grace before Dinner . A Grace before Meat On Wat On Captain Francis Grose . Impromptu to Miss Ainslie The Kirk of Lamington The League and Covenant Written on a pane of glass in the Inn at Moffat Spoken on being appointed to the Excise Lines on Mrs. Kemble . To Mr. Syme To Mr. S}'me, with a present of a dozen of porter A Grace Inscription on a goblet The Invitation The Creed of Poverty Written in a Lady's pocket-book The Parson's Looks The Toad-eater On Robert Riddel The Toast On a Person nicknamed The Marquis Lines written on a window 122 123 124 125 12G Lines written on a window of the Globe Tavern Dumfries .... The Selkirk Grace To Dr. Maxwell, on Jessie Staig's Recovery Epitaph Epitaph on William Nicol On the Death of a Lapdog, named Echo On a noted Coxcomb On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord Galloway On the same On the same To the same, on the author being threatened with his resentment On a Coiintry Laird On John Bushby . The true loyal Natives . On a Suicide Extempore, pinned on a Lady's coach Lines to John Rankine Jessy Lewars .... The Toast ... On Miss Jessy Lewars . On the recovery of Jessy Lewars Tam the Chapman " Here's a bottle and an honest friend" " Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me" To John Kennedy To the same .... " There's naethin' like the honest nappy" On the blank leaf of a work by Hannah More presented by Mrs. C. To the Men and Brethren of the Masonic Lodge at Tarbolton . Impromptu .... Prayer for Adam Armour Pag*. 126 127 128 129 130 131 SONGS AND BALLADS. Page. Handsome Nell . . .132 Luckless Fortune .... " I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing" Tibbie, I hae seen the day . . 133 "My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border" .... John Barleycorn. A Ballad The Rigs o' Barley Montgomery's Peggy The Mauchline Lady The Highland Lassie Peggy .... The rantin' Dog the Daddie o't "My heart was ance as blithe and free" My Nannie O . A Fragment. " One night as I did wander" Bonnie Peggy Alison Green grow the Rashes, O My Jean Robin .... " Her flowing locks, the raven's wing" " leave novels, ye Mauchline belles" Young Peggy The Cure for all Care Eliza .... The Sons of Old KiUie . And maim I still on Menie doat The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton On Cessnock Banks Mary .... The Lass of Balloehmylc '' The gloomy night is gathering fast" ''0 whar did ye got that hauvcr meal bannock ? " 145 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 Page. The Joyful Widower . . . 145 " whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad" . " I am my mammy's ae bairn " . . 146 The Birks of Aberfeldy Macpherson's Farewell . . . 147 Braw, braw Lads of Galla Water . " Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ?" Strathallan's Lament My Hoggie . . . .148 Her Daddie forbad, her Minnie forbad Up in the Morning early . . The young Highland Rover Hey the dusty""Miller . . .149 Duncan Davison Thcniel Menzies' bonnie Mary . . The Banks of the Devon . . 150 Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray , . The Ploughman Landlady, count the Lawin . . . 151 " Raving winds around her blowing" " How long and dreary is the night" . Musing on the roaring Ocean . 152 Blithe, blithe and merry was she . . The blude red Rose at Yule may blaw . O'er the Water to Charlie . . .153 A Rosebud by my early walk . . Rattlin', roarin' Willie . . . Where braving angry Winter's Storms . 154 Tibbie Dunbar .... Bonnie Castle Gordon . . . My Harry was a gallant gay . .155 The Tailor fell through the bed, thimbles an' a' — - Ay waiikiu O ! . . . . Beware o' bonnie Ann . . 156 u CONTENTS. The Gardener wi' his paidle Blooming Nelly The day returns, my bosom burns My Love she 's but a lassie yet Jamie, come try me Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine The Lazy Mist O mount and go Of a' the airts the wind can blaw AVTiistlc 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 . Awa, Whigs, awa . Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes Merry hae I been teethin' a heckle The Braes o' Ballochmyle To Mary in Heaven Eppie Adair The Battle of Sherriff-muir . Young Jockey was the blithest lad Willie brew'd a peck o' maut The braes o' Killiecrankie, O 1 gaed a waefu' gate yestreen The Banks of Nith Tam Glen Frae the friends and land I love . Craigie-burn Wood Cock up your Beaver meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty Gudewife, count the Lawin There '11 never be peace till Jamie com The bonnie lad that 's far awa 1 do confess thou art sae fair Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face When I think on the happy days Whan I sleep I dream . " I murder hate by field or flood" O gude ale comes and gude ale goes E.obin shure in hairst Bonnie Peg Gudeen to you, Kimmer Ah, Chloris, since it may na be Eppie M'Nab Wha is that at my bower-door What can a young lassie do wi' an auld Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing The tither morn when I forlorn Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . Lovely Davies The weary Pund o' Tow Naebody An O for ane and twenty Tam O Kenmurc's on and awa, Willie The Collier Laddie Nithsdale's Welcome Hame . As I was a-wand'ring ac Midsummer c Bessy and her Spinning-wheel The Posie The Country Lass Turn again, thou fair Eliza Ye Jacobites by name Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon Willie Wastle O Lady Mary Ann Such a parcel of rogues in a nation The Carle of Kellyburn braes Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss Lady bnlie The Chevalier's Lament Song of Death Flow gently, sweet Afton Bonnie Bell Hey ca' thro', ca' thro' . The Gallant Weaver hame wide I'age. I . 156 I The deuks dang o'er my Daddie . She's fair and fause The Deil cam' fiddling thro' the town 157 The lovely Lass of Inverness my luve 's like a red, red rose . Louis, what reck I by thee . 158 Had I the wyte she bade me Coming through the rye Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain 159 Out over the Forth I look to the north The Lass of Ecclefechan The Cooper o' Cuddie 160 For the sake of somebody 1 coft a stane o' haslock woo The lass that made the bed for me 161 Sae far awa I'll ay ca' in by yon town 162 O wat ye wha's in yon town . O May, thy morn Lovely Polly Stewart 163 Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 164 Cassilis' Banks To thee, lov'd Nith Bannocks o' Barley Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald 165 Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my Here 's his health in water 166 My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form Gloomy December My lady's go-ivn, there 's gairs upon 't 167 Amang the trees, where humming bees The gowden locks of Anna My ain kind dearie, O 168 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary She is a winsome wee thing 169 Bonny Lesley Highland Mary Auld Rob Morris Duncan Gray 170 O poortith cauld, and restless love Galla Water Lord Gregory Mary Morison 171 Wandering Willie. First Version Wandering Willie. Last Version Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 172 Jessie The poor and honest sodger Meg o' the Mill 173 Blithe hae I been on yon hill Logan Water 174 " O were my love yon lilac fair" Bonnie Jean Phillis the fair 175 Had 1 a cave on some wild distant shore By Allan stream O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 176 Adown winding Nith I did wander Come, let me take thee to my breast . Daintie Davie 177 Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. First Version 178 Scots wlia hae wi' Wallace bled. Second Version Bcliold the hour, the boat arrives - — ■ Tliou hast left me ever, Jamie 179 Auld lang sync " Where are the joys I have met in the " Deluded swain the pleasure" 180 Nancy Husband, husband, cease youi' strife 181 Wilt thou be my dearie ? But lately seen in gladsome green 182 " Could aught of song declare my pains " ■ — Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass It was a' for our rightfu' king 183 O steer hor up ami liaud her gaun O ay rny wife she dang me wert thou in the cauld blast 184 CONTENTS. 13 I'agc. The banks of Cree . . .211 On the Bcas and far away . . . Ca' the Yowcs to the Knowes . . 212 Sac flaxen were her ringlets . . Osaw ye my dear, my Phely ? . . How lang and dreary is the night . . 213 Let not woman e'er complain . . The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mistress . My Chloris, mark how green the groves . 214 Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe . . Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . Farewell, thou stream, that winding flows . 215 Philly, happy be the day . . — ^ Contented wi' little and cantie wi' raair . 216 Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy . . My Nannie 's awa . . O wha is she that lo'es me . . . 217 Caledonia .... O lay thy loof in mine lass . . . 218 The Fete Champetre . . . Here's a health to them that's awa . . 219 For a' that, and a' that . . Craigieburn Wood . . .220 O lassie, art thou sleeping yet . . Pafe. O tell na me o' wind and rain . . 220 The Dumfries Volunteers . . 221 Address to the Wood-lark . . . On Chloris being ill . . _ . 222 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon .... 'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin , How cruel are the Parents . . 223 Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion . . O this is no my ain lassie . . Now Spring has clad the grove in green . 224 O bonnie was yon rosy brier . . Forlorn my love, no comfort near . . Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen 225 Chloris ..... The Highland Widow's Lament , . 226 To General Dumourier , . . Peg-a-Ramsey . . . There was a bonnie lass . , • 227 O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . Hey for a lass wi' a tocher . . Jessy. " Here 's a health to ane I lo'e dear" . Fairest Maid on Devon banks , . 228 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 1781. Dec. 27. To William Burness. His health a little better, but tired of life. The Revelations Page. . 229 1783. His present studies and temper of mind His father's illness, and sad state of the country Jan. 15. To Mr. John Murdoch. June 21. To Mr. James Burness. n. d. To Miss E. Love n. d. To Miss E. Love .... n. d. To Miss E. Love ..... w. d. To Miss E. On her refusal of his hand n. d. To Robert Riddel, Esq. Observations on poetry and human life 229 230 231 232 233 1784. Feb. 17. To Mr. James Burness. On the death of his father Aug. To Mr. James Burness. Account of the Buchanites n. d. To Miss . With a book 238 239 1786. Feb. 17. To Mr. John Richmond. His progress in poetic composition March 3. To Mr. John Kennedy. The Cotter's Saturday Night March 20. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing his "Scotch Drink." April 3. To Mr. Aiken. Enclosing a stanza on the blank leaf of a book by Hannah More April 20. To Mr. John Kennedy. Enclosing " The Gowan." n. d. To Mon. James Smith. His voyage to the West Indies May 16 To Mr. John Kennedy. His poems in the press. Subscriptions June 12. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour's return, — printing his poems n. d. To Mr. Robert Aiken. Distress of mind .... July 9. To Mr. John Richmond. Jean Armour n. d. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Aiken's coldness. His marriage-lines destroyed July 17. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour. West Indies July 30. To Mr. John Richmond. West Indies. The Armours 71. d. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing " The Calf." n. d. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Sir William Wallace Aug. To Mr. John Kennedy. Jamaica . . . - Sept. 26. To Mr. James Burness. His departure uncertain Nov. 18. To Miss Alexander. "The Lass of Ballochmyle." n. d. To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton. Enclosing some songs. Miss Alexander ti. d. Proclamation in the name of the Muses .... Nov. 18. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing " Tam Samson." His Edinburgh expedition 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 14 CONTENTS. n. d. To Dr. Mackenzie. Enclosing the verses on dining with Lord Daer Dec. 7. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. llising fame. Patronage .... Dec. 13 To John Ballant}Tie, Esq. His patrons and patronesses. The Lounger Dec. 20. To Mr. Robert Muir. A note of thanks. Talks of sketching the history of his life Dec. 27. To Mr. William Chalmers. A humorous sally .... 1787. Jan. To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for his patronage Jan. 7- To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Love ...... Jan. U. To John BaUantjTie, Esq. Mr. Miller's offer of a farm Jan. To John BallantjTie, Esq. Enclosing "The Banks o' Doon." First copy. Jan. 15. To ISLrs. Dunlop. Dr. Moore and Lord Eglinton. His situation in Edinburgh Jan. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledgments for his notice . . . . _ Feb. 0. To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Reiiections on liis situation in life. Dr. Blacklock, Mackenzie Feb. 15. To Dr. Moore, Miss Williams ...... Feb. 24. To John Ballantyne, Esq. His portrait engraving 71. d. To the Earl of Glencairn. Enclosing " Lines intended to be \vritten under a noble Earl picture." ....... n. d. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a letter of advice March 21. To Mr. James Candlish. Still " the old man with his deeds." March. To . On Fergusson's headstone .... March 22. To Mrs. Dunlop. His prospects on leaving Edinbui-gh April 15. To Mrs. Dunlop. A letter of acknowledgment for the payment of the subscription n. d. To Mr. Sibbald. Thanks for his notice in the magazine April 23. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledging the present of his View of Society April 30. To Mr. Dunlop. Reply to criticisms ..... May 3. To the Rev. Dr. HughBlair. On leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness n. d. To the Earl of Glencairn. On leaving Edinburgh n. d. To Mr. William Dunbar. Thanking him for the present of Spenser's poems May 3. To Mr. James Johnson. Sending a song to the Scots Musical Museum May 13. To Mr. William Creech. His tour on the Border. Epistle in verse to Creech May 17. To Mr. Patison. Business ...... Jime 1. To Mr. W. Nicol. A ride described in broad Scotch . June 11. To Mr. James Smith. Unsettled in life. Jamaica June 18. To Mr. W. Nicol. Mr. Miller, Mr. Burnside. Bought a pocket Milton n. d. To Mr. James Candlish. Seeking a copy of Lowe's poem of "Pompey's Ghost" June 28. To Robert Ainslie, Esq. His tour Jime. To Mr. W. Nicol. Auchtertyre n. d. To :Mj. WiUiam Cruikshank. AuchtertjTe . June 30. To Mr. James Smith. An adventure July 7. To Mr. John Richmond. His rambles July 23. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Sets high value on his friendship July. To the same. Nithsdale and Edinburgh Aug. 2. To Dr. Moore. Account of his own life Aug. 23. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. A humorous letter Aug. 26. To Mr. Robert Muir. Stirling, Bannockbiim Aug. 28. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Of Mr. Hamilton's own family Sep. 5. To Mr. Walker. Bruar Water. The Athole family Sep. 17. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. Account of his Highland tour Sep. 28. To Miss Margaret Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton. Skinner. Nithsdale n. d. To the same. Charlotte Hamilton, and " The Banks of the Devon." Oct. 20. To James Hoy, Esq. Mr. Nicol. Johnson's Musical Museum Oct. 25. To Rev. John Skinner. Thanking him for his poetic compliment Nov. 6. To James Hoy, Esq. Song by the Duke of Gordon Nov. 23. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His fricndslup for him .... n. d. To the Earl of Glencairn. Requesting his aid in obtaining an Excise appointment n. d. To James Dalr}'mple, Esq. Rliyme. Lord Glencairn n. d. To Charles Hay, Esq. Enclosing his poem on the death ot the Lord President Dundas n. d. To Miss M — n. Compliments Nov. 21. To Miss Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton Dec. 12. To the same. His bruised limb. The Bible. The Ochel Hills Dec. 19. To the same. His motto — "I dare." His o-mi worst enemy Dec. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for his friendship. Of poets Dec. To Miss Williams. Comments on her poem of the Slave Trade Dec. 30. To Mr. Richard Brown. Recollections of early life. Clarinda Dec. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Prayer for his health ** . Dec. To Miss Chalmers. Complimentary poems. Creech 24.S 249 ]788. Jan. 21. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lowncss of spirits. Leaving Edinburgh Feb. 12. To the same. Religion .... Feb. 14. To the Rev. John Skinner. Tullochgorum. Skinner's Latin Feb. 15. To Mr. Richard Brown. His arrival in Glasgow . Feb. 17- To Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock. Recollections of Kilravock . 280 .Ml CONTKNTS. 15 Feb. 24. To Mr. Richard Brown. Friendsliip. The plcasurrs of tho present March 3. To Mr. William Criiikshaiik. EHishind. I'lans in life March 3. To Mr. Robert Ainslic. Ellisland. lidinburgh. Clarinda March 7. To Mr. Richard Bro\vn. Idleness. Farming March 7- To Mr. Robert Muir. His od'cr for Ellisland. The close of life !March 14. To Miss Chalmers. Taken Ellisland. Miss Kennedy March 17. To Mrs. Dunlop. Coila's robe ..... March 26. To Mr. Richard Brow-n. Apologies. On his way to Dumfries from Glasgow March 31. To !Mr. Robert Cleghorn. Poet and fame. The air of Captain O'Kean April 7. To Mr. William Dunbar. Foregoing poetry and w^t for farming and business April 7. To Miss Chalmers. Miss Kennedy. Jean Armour 71. d. To the same. Creech's rumoured bankruptcy n. d. To the same. His entering the Excise .... April 28. To Mrs. Dunlop. Farming and the Excise. Thanks for the loan of Dryden and Tasso April 28. To Mr. James Smith. Jocularity. Jean Armour May 3. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclosing some poetic trifles May 4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Dryden's Virgil. His preference of Dryden to Pope May 26. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His marriage May 27. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the treatment of servants June 13. To the same. The merits of Mrs. Burns June 14. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. The warfare of life. Books. Religion June 23. To the same. Miers' profiles June 30. To the same. Of the folly of talking of one's private afFau's . July 18. To Mr. George Lockhart. The Miss Baillies. Bruar Water •M. d. To Mr. Peter HiU. With the present of a cheese 71. d. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry. The Excise Aug. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Creech. Lines written in Friar's Carse Hermitage Aug. 2. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lines WTitten at Friar's Carse. Graham of Fintry Aug. 10. To the same. Mrs. Burns. Of accomplished young ladies Aug. 16. To the same. Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton. "The Life and Age of Man." Sept. 9. To Mr. Beugo. Ross and "The Fortunate Shepherdess." . Sept. 16. To Miss Chalmers. Recollections. Mrs. Burns. Poetry Sept. 22. To Mr. Morison. Urging expedition with his clock and other furniture for Ellisland Sept. 27. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mr. Graham. Her criticisms Oct. 1. To Mr. Peter HiU. Criticism on an " Address to Loch Lomond." Nov. 8. To the Editor of the Star. Pleading for the line of the Stuarts . Nov. 13. To Mrs. Dunlop. The present of a heifer from the Dunlops Nov. 15. To Mr. James Johnson. Scots Musical Museum Nov. 15. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical progress. His marriage Dec. 17. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing " Auld Lang Syne." Dec. To Miss Davies. Enclosing the song of " Charming, lovely Davies." Dec. 22. To Mr. John Tennant. Praise of his whisky 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 1789. Jan. 1, To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggested by the day. Jan. 4. To Dr. Moore. His situation and prospects Jan. 6. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His favourite quotations. Musical Museum Jan. 20. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclosing some poems for his comments upon Feb. 3. To Bishop Geddes. His situation and prospects Feb. 9. To Mr. James Burness. His wife and farm. Profit from his poems. Fanny Bums March 4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections. His success in song encouraged a shoal of bardlings n. d. To the Rev. Peter Carfrae. Mr. Mylne's poem March 23. To Dr. Moore. Introduction. His ode to Mrs. Oswald March 25. To Mr. WUUam Burns. Remembrance April 2. To Mr. Peter HiU. Economy and frugality. Purchase of books April 4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Sketch inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox April 15. To Mr. William Burns. Asking him to make his house his home May 2. To Mrs. M'Murdo. With the song of " Bonnie Jean." May 4. To Mr. Cunningham. With the poem of " The Wounded Hare." May 4. To Mr. Samuel Brown. His farm. Ailsa fowling May 21. To Mr. Richard Brown. Kind wishes May 26. To Mr. James Hamilton. Sympathy May 30. To WUliam Creech Esq. Toothache. Good wishes . June 4. To Mr. M'Auley. His own welfare June 8. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Overwhelmed with incessant toil June 19. To Mr. Murdo. Enclosing his newest song June 21. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on religion n. d. To Mr. . Fergusson the poet. n. d. To Miss Williams. Enclosing criticisms on her poems Aug. 7. To Mr. John Logan. With ''The Kirk's Alarm." Sept. 6. To Mrs. Dunlop. Religion. Dr. Moore's " Zeluco." Oct. 16. To Captain Riddel. " The Whistle." 71. d. To the same. With some of his ]\IS. poems Nov. 1. To Mr. Robert Ainslic. His Excise omplojTnent Nov. 4. To Mr. Richard Bro\vn. His Excise duties .... Dec. 9. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry. The Excise. Captain Grose Dr. M'GiU 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 16 CONTENTS. Dec. 13. To Mr.s. Dunlop. Reflections on immortality Dec. 16. To Lp.dy M. W. Constable. Jacobitism Dec. 20. To Provost Maxwell. At a loss for a subject Paga . 318 319 . 320 1790. n. d. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book-society in Nithsdale . w. d. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. A letter with a fictitious signature Jan. 11. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His farm a ruinous affair. Players n. d. To Mr. Sutherland. Enclosing a Prologue. Jan. 14. To Mr. William Dunbar. Excise. His Children. Another world Jan. 25. To Mrs. Dunlop. Falconer the poet. Old Scottish Songs Feb. 2. To Mr. Peter Hill. Mademoiselle Burns. Hurdis. Smollett and Cow-per Feb. 9. To Mr. W. Nicol. The death of Nicol's mare Peg Nicholson Feb. 13. To Mr. Cunningham. What strange beings we are. March 2. To Mr. Peter Hill. Orders for books. Mankind . April 10. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mackenzie and the Mirror and Lounger n. d. To Collector Mitchell. A county meeting July 14. To Dr. Moore " Zeluco." Charlotte Smith July 16. To Mr. Murdoch. William Burns .... Aug. 2. To Mr. M'Murdo. With the Elegy on Matthew Henderson Aug. 8. To ISIrs. Dunlop. His pride wounded . . . . Aug. 8. To Mr. Cunningham. Independence n. d. To Dr. Anderson. " The Bee." .... Aug. To William Tytler, Esq. With some West-country ballads Oct. 15. To Crauford Tait, Esq. Introducing Mr. WiUiam Duncan . 11. d. To the same. " The Kirk's Alarm" Nov. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the birth of her grandchild. Tam o'Shanter 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328 329 330 331 1791. Jan. 11. To Lady M. W. Constable. Thanks for the present of a gold snuffbox Jan. 17. To Mr. William Dunbar. Not gone to Elysium. Sending a poem Jan. 17. To Mr. Peter Hill. Apostrophe to Poverty . Jan. 23. To Mr. Cunningham. Tam o'Shanter. Elegy on Miss Burnet Feb. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. Tam o'Shanter Feb. 7. To Mrs. Dunlop. Miss Burnet. Elegy writing .... Feb. 14. To Rev. Arch. Alison. Thanking him for his " Essay on Taste" Feb. 28. To Dr. Moore. Tam o'Shanter. Elegy on Henderson. Zeluco. Lord Glencairn March 12. To Mr. Cimningham. Songs March 19. To Mr. Alex. Dalzel. The death of the Earl of Glencairn n. d. To Mrs. Graham, of Fintry. With " Queen Mary's Lament" n. d. To the same. With his printed Poems n. d. To the Rev. G. Baird. Michael Bruce April 11. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a son n. d. To the same. Apology for delay n. d. To the same. Quaint invective on a pedantic critic June 11. To Mr. Cunningham. The case of Mr. Clarke of Moffat, Schoolmaster Aug. 29. To the Earl of Buchan. With the Address to the Shade of Thomson Sept. 1. To Mr. Thomas Sloan. Apologies. His crop sold well M. d To Lady E. Cunningham. With the Lament for the Earl of Glencairn n. d. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. State of mind. His income . n. d. To Col. FuUarton. With some Poems. His anxiety for Fullarton's friendship n. d. To Miss Davis. Lethargy, Indolence, and Remorse. Our wishes and our powers Dec. 17. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mrs. Henri. The Song of Death 332 333 334 335 336 337 338 339 340 341 342 1792. Jan. 5. To Mrs. Dunlop. The animadversions of the Board of Excise . Jan. 22. To Mr. William Smellie. Introducing Mrs. Riddel Feb. 20. To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical reply to a letter of counsel and reproof n. d. To Francis Grose, Esq. Dugald Stewart .... July 16. To Mr. S. Clarke. Humorous invitation to teach music to the M'Murdo family Aug. 22. To Mrs. Dunlop. Love and Lesley Baillie .... Sept. 10. To Mr. Cunningham. Lesley Baillie .... Sept. 16. To Mr. Thomson. Promising his assistance to his collection of songs and airs n. d. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the death of Mrs. Henri ... n. d. To Mr. Thomson. Thomson's fastidiousness. " My Nannie 0," &c. Nov. 8. To the same. With " My wife 's a winsome wee thing," and "Lesley Baillie" Nov. 14. To the same. With Highland Mary. The air of Katherine Ogie Dec. 1. To the same. Thomson's alterations and observations Dec. 4. To the same. With " Auld Rob Morris," and " Duncan Gray" Dec. 6. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a daughter. The poet Thomson's dramas Dec. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry. The Excise enquiry into his political conduct Dec. 31. To Mrs. Dunlop. Hurry of business. Excise enquiry 342 343 344 345 346 348 349 350 351 352 Jan. Jan. 2G. March 3. March 20. March. March 21. April. AprU 7. April. April. April 13. AprU 26. n. d. June. June 25. July 2. July. Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug. Aug. n. d. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Sept. Oct. Dec. Dec. Dec. 5. n. d. CONTENTS. 1793. To Mr. Thomson. With " Poortith cauld" and " Gulia Water" To the same. William Tytler, Peter Pindar To Mr. Cuiiiiinf;ham. The poet's seal. Da^^d Allan To Thomson. With " Mary Morison" To the same. With " \Vandering Willie" To Miss Benson. Pleasure he had in meeting her To Patrick Miller, Esq. With the present of his printed poems To Mr. Thomson, lioview of Scottish song. Crawfui'd and Kamsay To the same. Criticism. Allan llamsay To the same. " The last time I came o'er the moor" To John Francis Erskine, Esq. Self-iustification. The Excise enquiry To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Answering letters. Scholar-craft To Miss Kennedy. A letter of compliment To Mr. Thomson. Frazer. " Blithe hae I been on yon hill" To the same. " Logan Water." " O gin my love were yon red rose" To the same. With the song of " Bonnie Jean" To the same. Hurt at the idea of pecuniary recompense. Rcmaiks on sony To the same. Note written in the name of Stephen Clarke To the same. With " Phillis the fair" To the same. With " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore" To the same. With " Allan Water" To the same. With " O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," &c. To the same. With " Come, let me take thee to my breast" To the same. With " Dainty Dane" To Miss Craik. Wretchedness of poets .... To Lady Glencairn. Gratitude. Excise. Dramatic composition To Mr. Thomson. With " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" To the same. With " Behold the hour the boat arrive" Crawford and Scottish song Alterations in " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" Further suggested alterations in " Scots wha hae" rejected With " Deluded swain, the pleasure," and " Raving winds around her To the same. To the same. To the same. To the same, blowing" . To the same. Erskine and Gavin Turnbull To John M'Murdo, Esq. Payment of a debt. " To the same. With his printed poems To Captain . Anxiety for his acquaintance. To Mrs. Riddel. The Dumfries Theatre The Merry Muses" " Scots wha hae w' Wallace bled" 17 Page. 353 354 355 356 357 359 360 361 362 363 364 365 366 367 368 369 370 371 1794. n. d. To a Lady. In favour of a player's benefit ..... 371 Jan. 12. To the Earl of Buchan. With a copy of " Scots wha hae " .... n. d. To Captain Miller. With a copy of " Scots wha hae" .... n. d. To Mrs. Riddel. Lobster-coated puppies ..... 372 n. d. To the same. The gin -horse class of the human genus . . . . n. d. To the same. With " Werter." Her reception of him . . . n. d. To Mrs. Riddel. Her caprice ....... n. d. To the same. Her neglect and unldndness ..... 373 n. d. To John Syme, Esq. Mrs. Oswald, and " wat ye wha's in yon town" . . n. d. To Miss . Obscure allusions to a friend's death. His personal and poetic fame . Feb. 25. To Mr. Cunningham. Hypochondria. Requests consolation .... 374 May. To the Earl of Glencann. With his printed poems .... 375 May. To Mr. Thomson. David Allan. " The banks of Cree" . . . , June 21. To Da\'id M'CuIloch, Esq. Arrangements for a trip in Galloway . . . June 25. To Mrs. Dunlop. Threatened with flpng gout. Ode on Washington's birthday . . 376 n. d. To Mr. James Johnson. Low spirits. "The Museum. Balmerino's dirk . . July. To Mr. Thomson. Lines wi-itten in " Thomson's Collection of Songs" . . . Aug. 30. To the same. With " How can my poor heart be glad" . . . 377 Sept. To the same. With " Ca' the yowcs to the knowes" .... Sept. To the same. With " Sae flaxen were her ringlets." Epigram to Dr. Maxwell . Oct. 19. To the same. The charms of Miss Lorimer. " O saw ye my dear, my Pheley," &c. . 378 Nov, To the same. Ritson's Scottish Songs. Love and song . . . 379 n. d. To the same. English songs. The air of " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon" . 380 Nov. 19. To the same. With " Philly, happy be the day," and " Contented wi' little" . 381 n. d. To the same. With " Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy" . . 382 Nov. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. Excise. Perry's oUcr to write for the Morning Chronicle n. d. To Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun. A political and personal (piarrel. Regret . . 383 Dec. To Mr. Thomson. With " Now in her ^rcen mantle blithe nature arravs" . — Jan. Feb. 7. 1795. To Mr. Thomson. With " For a' that and a' that" To the same. Abuse of Ecclefechan 383 18 CONTENTS. May. 71. d. May. 71. d. n. d. n. d. n. d. 71. d. n. d. Dec. 15. w. d. n. d. n. d. Dec. 20. 71. d. n. d. To Mr. Thomson. With "Ostay, sweet warbling woodlark,stay," and" The groves of sweet myrtle" ....... With " How cruel are the parents" and " Mark yonder pomp of costly To the same. fashion" To the same. To the same. To the same. To the same. Praise of David Allan's " Cotter's Saturday Night" . . With " This is no my ain Lassie." Mrs. Kiddcl . . . 385 With " Forlorn, my love, no comfort near" . . . With " Last May a braw wooer," and " Why tell thy lover" . . To Mrs. Riddel. A letter from the grave ..... To the same. A letter of compliment. " Anacharsis' Travels" . . . 386 To Miss Louisa FontcncUc. With a Prologue for her benerit-night . . To Mrs. Dunlop. His family. Miss Pontenelle (^owper's " Task" . . 387 To Mr. Alexander Findlater. E.Kcise schemes ..... To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle. Written for a friend. A complaint . . 388 To Mr. Heron, of Heron. With two political ballads .... To Mrs. Dunlop. Thomson's Collection. Acting as Supervisor of Excise . . 389 To the Right Hon. William Pitt. Addi-ess to the Scottish Distillers . . To the Provost, Bailies, and To^vn Coimcil of Dumfries. Request to be made a freeman of the town ......... 390 384 1796. Jan. 20. To Mrs. Riddel. " Anarcharsis' Travels." The muses . . . .391 Jan. 31. To Mrs. Dunlop. His ill-health . . . . . . Feb. To Mr. Thomson. Acknowledging his present to Mrs. Burns of a worsted shawl . . April. To the same. Ill-health. Mrs. Hyslop. Allan's etchings. Cleghorn . . 392 M. d. To the same. His anxiety to review his songs, asking for copies . . . June 4. To Mrs. Riddel. His increasing iU-health ..... 26 June. To Mr. Clarke, acknowledging money and requesting the loan of a further sum . . 393 July 4. To Mr. James Johnson. The Scots Musical Museum. Request for a copy of the collection July 7. To Mr. Cunningham. Illness and poverty, anticipation of death . . . July 10. To Mr. Gilbert Biuns. His ill-health and debts ..... July 10. To Mr. James Armour. Intreating Mrs. Armour to come to her daughter's confinement . 394 71. d. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing aifords little relief ..... July 12. To Mrs. Dunlop. Her friendship. A farewell .... 395 July 12. To Mr. Thomson. Solicits the sum of five pounds. " Fairest Maid on Devon Banks" . — • July 12. To Mr. James Burness. Soliciting the sum of ten pounds .... — i July 16. To James Gracie, Esq. His rheumatism, &c. &c. — his loss of appetite . . 396 Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads ....... 397 The Border Tour ......... 413 The Highland Tour ........ 418 Bums' Assignment of his AVorks ....... 421 Glossary ......... 343 >^^^^^**p/^ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS Robert Burns, the chief of the peasant poets of Scotland, was born in a little mud- walled cottage on the banks of Doon, near " Alloway's auld haunted kirk," in the shire of Ayr, on the 25th day of January, 1759. As a natural mark of the event, a sudden stonn at the same moment SAvept 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 so loyal a district ; and it was only when the clergyman of his native parish certified his loyalty that he was permitted to toil. 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, a young woman on the Doon, whom he wooed and married in De- cember, 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 she gave birth to her eldest son. The elder Burns was a well-informed, silent, austere man, who endured no idle gaiety, nor indecorous language : while he relaxed somewhat the hard, stern creed of the Cove- nanting 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. His wife was of a milder mood : she was blest with a singular fortitude of temper ; was as devout of heart, as she was calm of mind; and loved, while busied in her household concerns, to sweeten the bitterer moments of life, by chanting the songs and ballads of her country, of which her store was great. The garden and nursery prospered so much, that he was induced to widen his views, and by the help of his kind landlord, the laird of Doonholm, and the more questionable aid of borrowed money, he entered upon a neighbouring farm, named Mount Oliphant, ex- tending to an hundred acres. This was in 1765; but the land was hungry and sterile; the seasons proved rainy and rough ; the toil was certain, the reward unsure ; when to b il LIFK OF ROBERT BURNS. his sorrow, the laird of Doonhohn — a generous Ferguson, — died : the strict terms of the lease, as well as the rent, were exacted by 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 Lochlea, some ten miles off, in the parish of Tarbolton. When, in after- days, men's characters were in the hands of his eldest son, the scoundrel factor sat for that lasting portrait of insolence and wrong, in the " Twa Dogs." In this new farm "William Burns seemed to strike root, and thrive. He was strong of body and ardent of mind : every day brought increase of vigour to his three sons, who, though very young, already put their hands to the plough, the reap-hook, and the flail. But it seemed that nothing which he undertook was decreed in the end to prosper : after four seasons of prosperity a change ensued : the farm was far from cheap ; the gains under any lease were then so little, that the loss of a few pounds was ruinous to a farmer: bad seed and wet seasons had their usual influence : " The gloom of hermits and the moil of galley-slaves," as the poet, alluding to those days, said, were endured to no purpose ; when, to crown all, a difterence arose between the landlord and the 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 suffier. 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 Revelations. He was aided in these labours, first, by the schoolmaster 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: hefound Robert to be quick in apprehension, and not afraid to study when know- ledge was the reward. He taught him to turn verse into its natural prose order ; to sup- ply all the ellipses, and not to desist till the sense was clear and plain : he also, in their w^alks, told him the names of different objects both in Latin and French; and though his knowledge of these languages never amounted to much, he approached the grannnar 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 A^^al]ace 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 Bums was unconsciously approaching the land of poesie. In addi- tion to the histories of the Wallace and the Bruce, he found, on the shelves of his neighbours, not only 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, LIFE OF KOBl'RT L'LRNS, lij 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 tlie way in which he was soon to walk ; " Highland Mary" and " Tarn o' Shanter" spranf from other inspirations. Bums 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 resided in the family, remarkable for her credulity and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elfcandles, dead-lights, wraiths, appari- tions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poesie; but had so strong an effect upon my imagination that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a look-out on suspicious places." Here we have the young poet taking lessons in the classic lore of his native land : in the school of Janet Wilson he profited largely ; her talcs gave a hue, all their own, to many noble effusions. But her teaching was at the hearth-stone : when he was in the fields, either driving a cart or walking to labour, he had ever in his hand a collection of songs, such as any stall in the land could supply him with ; and over these he pored, ballad by ballad, and verse by verse, noting the true, tender, and the natural sublime from affectation and fus- tian. " To this," he said, " I am convinced that I owe much of my critic craft, such as it is." 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 imagination was in his mind when he wrote " Man was made to Mourn." He found other teachers — of 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 a bewitch- ing creature, a year younger than myself : she was in truth a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass, and unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid dis- appointment, gin-horse prudence, and book- worm 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 : in- deed I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evenings from our labours; why the tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an ^olian 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 a rougher academy. Lochlea, though not producing fine crops of corn, was considered excellent for flax ; and while the cultivation of this commodity was counuitted to his father and his brother Gilbert, he was sent to Irvine, at Midsummer, 1781, to learn the trade of a flax-drcsser, under one Peacock, kinsman to his mother. Some time before, he had spent a portion of a IV Lli'K OF ROBEKT BURNS. summer at a school in Kirkoswald, learning mensuration and land-surveying, where he had mingled in scenes of sociality with smugglers, and enjoyed the pleasure of a silent walk, under the moon, with the young and the 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 shillino" 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 fother, 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 year's day, but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be ab- sent 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 bv very slow degrees : the weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past Avants nor look forward into futurity, for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produce most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Some- times 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 pleasureable employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life. As for the world, I despair of ever mak- ing a figure in it : I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure pre- pared and dally preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of vii'tuc and piety you have given me, which were but too much neglected at the time of giving them, but wlilch, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late." This remarkable letter was written in the tAventy-second year of his age ; it alludes to the illness which seems to have been the companion of his youth, a nervous head-ache, brought on by constant toil and anxiety ; and it speaks of the melan- choly which is the common attendant of genius, and its sensibilities, aggravated by de- spair of distinction. The catastrophe which happened ere this letter was well in his father's hand, accords ill with quotations from tlic Bible, and hopes fixed in heaven : — " As we gave," he says, " a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 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 toll 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, raising a question upon the meaning of the lease, con- cerning rotation of crop, pushed the matter to a law-suit, alike ruinous to a poor man either in its success or its failure. " After three years tossing and whirling," says Bums, " in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail by a con- sumption, 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 LIFE OF nOBEUr BURNS. V 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 hope- less 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 law and misfortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline, contain- ing 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 tlie 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 knowing ; 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 agricul- turist 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 spim at his own fire-side, 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 vprought at the rate of a groat a day and his food ; and as the wool was coarse, so also was the workmanship. ' The linen which he wore was home-grown, home-hackled, home-spun, home-woven, and home-bleached, and, unless designed for Sunday use, was of coarse, strong ham, to suit the tear and wear of barn and field. His shoes came from rustic tan- pits, for most farmers then prepared their own leather ; were armed sole and lieel, 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, westlan heads were commonly covered with a coarse, broad, blue bonnet, with a stopple on its flat crown, made in thousands at Kil- marnock, and known in all lands by the name of scone bonnets. His plaid was a hand- some 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 was usually required to exert. His dwelling was in keeping c VI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. with his dress, a low, thatched house, with a kitchen, a bed-room and closet, with floors of kneaded clay, and ceilings of moorland turf: a few books on a shelf, thumbed by many a thumb ; a few hams drying above head in the smoke, w-hich 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 oatmeal-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 " Observa- tions, 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 wastlin 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 the rashes." 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 for- tunes, 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 some- thing more substantial than the roses and lilies of the muse. 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 had a 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 Ictts 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 a })low 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 ren LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Vll dered him dearer to woman's heart than all the lyric effusions of his fancy ; and when we add to sucli 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 life-time 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 Robert Burns. It is one of the delusions of the poet's critics and biographers, that the sources of his inspiration 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 com- positions. He read and wondered — he warmed his fancy at their flame, he corrected his own natural taste by theirs, but he neither copied nor imitated, and there are but two or three allusions to Young and Shakspeare 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 great bards embodied their thoughts was unap- proachable to an Ayrshire peasant ; it was to him as an almost foreign tongue : he had to think and feel in the not ungraceful or inharmonious 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 impassioned, 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 bam 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 the loveliest to lay out the wealth of his verse upon : he has been ac- cused, 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 descrip- tion. "When he selected any one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination : and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others and as she seemed when invested 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 Bums and his brethren of the West had very different notions of the captivating and the beautiful ; while they were moved by rosy cheeks and looks of rustic health, he was moved, like a sculptor, by beauty of form or by harmony of motion, and by expression, which lightened up ordinary features and rendered them capti- vating. Such, I have been told, were several of the lasses of the West, to whom, if he VUl LIFE OF KUBEU'l" BURNS. did uot surrender his lieart, 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']\rurdos of the Nith. The mind 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 desu-ed to try his genius on matters of a sterner kind — what those subjects were he tells us ; they were homely and at hand, of a native nature and of Scottish growth : places celebrated in Roman story, vales made famous in Grecian song — hills of vines and groves of myrtle had few charms for him. " I am hurt," thus he writes in August, 1785, "to see other towns, rivers, woods, and haughs of Scotland 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 events 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 the long-laid spirit of national song — to waken a strain to which the whole land w^ould yield response — a miracle unattempted — 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 then a burst of sublime woe, like the song of " Mary, weep no more for me," and of lasting merriment and humour, like that of " Tibbie Fowler," proved that the fire of natural poesie smouldered, if it did not blaze ; while the social strains of the unfortunate Fergusson revived in the city, if not in the field, the memory of him who sang the " Monk and the Miller's wife." But notwithstanding these and other productions of equal merit, Scottish poesie, it must be owned, had lost much of its original ecstacy and fervour, and that the boldest efforts of the muse no more equalled the songs of Dunbar, of Douglas, of Lyndsay, and of James the Fifth, than the sound of an artificial cascade resembles the undying thunders of Corra. To accomplish this required an acquaintance 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 field, and a livelier knowledge and deeper feeling of history than, probably, Burns ever possessed. To all ready and accessible sources of knowledge he appears to have had recourse ; he sought matter for his muse in the meetings, religious as well as social, of the district — consorted with staid matrons, grave plodding far- mers — with those who preached as well as those who listened — with sharp-tongued attor- neys, who laid down the law over a Mauchline gill — with country squires, whose wisdom was great in the game-laws, and in contested elections — and with roving smugglers, who at that tune hung, as a cloud, on all the western coast of Scotland. In the company of farmers and fellov»--pcasants, he witnessed scenes which he; loved to embody in verse, saw pictures of peace and joy, now woven into the web of his song, and had a poetic impulse LIFE Ol' IKJBKRT RUKXS. j^ given to him both by cottage devotion and cottage merriment. If he was f;xmiliar with love and all its outgoings 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 die joys which belono- to social intercourse, when instruments of music speak to the feet, when the reek of punch- bowls gives a tongue to the staid and demure, and bridal festivity, and harvest- homes, bid a whole valley lift up its voice an I 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, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and modesty," is easier to believe than that he escaped the contamination of their sensual manners and prodigality. The people of Kyle re- garded this conduct with suspicion : they were not to be expected to know that when Burns ranted and boused with smugglers, conversed with tinkers huddled in a kiln or listened to the riotous mirth of a batch of " randie gangrel bodies" as they " toomed their powks and pawned their duds," for liquor in Posie 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 mistress's eyebrow he did not neglect to lay out the little skill he had in cultivating the grounds of Mosso-iel. 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 : a genial summer and a good market seldom come together to the farmer, but at first they came to Burns; and to show that he Avas wor- thy of them, he bought books on agriculture, calculated rotation of crops, attended 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. But the farm lay high, the bottom was wet, and in a third season indifferent seed and a wet harvest robbed him at once of half his crop ; beseems to have re- garded this as an intimation from above, that nothing which he undertook would prosper : and consoled himself with joyous friends and with the society of the muse. The judgment cannot be praised which selected a farm with a wet cold bottom, and sowed it with unsound seed ; but that man who despairs because a wet season robs him of the fruits of the field, is unfit for the warfare of life, where, fortitude is as much required as by a general on a field of battle, when the tide of success threatens to flow against him. The poet seems to have believed, very early in life, that he was none of the elect of Mammon ; that he was too much of a genius ever to acquire wealth by steady labour, or by, as he loved to call it, gin-horse prudence, or grub- bing industry. And yet there were hours and days in which Bums, even when the rain fell on his unhoused sheaves, did not wholly despair of himself : he laboured, nay sometimes he slaved on his farm ; and at intervals of toil, sought to embellish his mind with such knowledge as might be useful, should chance, the goddess who ruled his lot, drop him upon some of the higher places of the land. He had, while he lived at Tarbolton, united with some half-dozen young men, all sons of farmers in that neigh- X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. bourhood, in forming a club, of wbicli 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 firmer, but without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of two women ; the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them, a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behaviour, but without any fortune, which of them shall he choose ?" 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 convinced 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 discus- sions as the Tarbolton and Mauchline clubs indulged in, was not injurious to men en- gaged in the barn and at the plough. A well-ordered mind will be strengthened, as well as embellished, by elegant knowledge, while over those naturally barren and ungenial all that is refined or noble will pass as a sunny shower scuds over lumps of granite, bringing neither wannth nor life. In the account which the poet gives to Moore of his early poems, he says little about his exquisite lyrics, and less about " The Death and dying Words of Poor Maille," or her " Elegy," the first of his poems where the inspiration of the muse is visible; but he speaks with exultation of the fiime which those indecorous sallies, " Holy Willie's Prayer" and " The Holy Tulzie" brought from some of the clergy, and the people of Ayrshire. The west of Scotland is ever in the van, when matters either political or religious are agitated. Calvinism was shaken at this time, with a controversy among its professors, of which it is enough to say, that while one party rigidly adhered to the word and letter of the Confession of Faith, and preached up the palmy and wholesome days of the Covenant, the other sought to soften the harsher rules and observances of the kirk, and to bring moderation and charity into its discipline as well as its councils. Both be- lieved themselves right, both were loud and hot, and personal, — bitter with a bitterness only known in religious controversy. The poet sided with the professors of the New Light, as the more tolerant were called, and handled the professors of the Old Light, as the other party were named, with the most unsparing severity. For this he had sufficient cause: — he had experienced the mercilessness of kirk-discipline, when his frailties caused him to visit the etool of repentance ; and moreover his friend Gavin Hamilton, a writer in Mauchline, had LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xi been sharply censured by the same authorities, for daring to gallop on Sundays. Moodie, of Riccarton, and Russcl, of Kilmarnock, were the first who tasted of the poet'swrath. They, though professors of the Old Light, had quarrelled, and, it is added, fought : " The Holy Tulzie," which recorded, gave at the same time wings to the scandal ; while for " Holy Willie," an elder of Mauchline, and an austere and hollow pretender to righteousness, he reserved the fiercest of all his lampoons. In " Holy Willie's Pi'ayer," he lays a burn- ing hand on the terrible doctrine of predestination : this is a satire, daring, personal, and profane. AVillie claims praise in the singular, acknowledges folly in the plural, and makes heaven accountable for his sins ! In a similar strain of undevout satire he congratulates Goudie, of Kilmarnock, on his Essays on Revealed Religion. These poems, particularly the two latter, are the sharpest lampoons in the language. While drudging in the cause of the New Light controversialists. Burns was not uncon- sciously strengthening his hands for worthier toils : the applause which selfish divines be- stowed on his w^itty, but graceless effusions, could not be enough for one who knew how fleeting the fame was which came from the heat of party disputes; nor was he insensi- ble that songs of a beauty unknown for a century to national poesie, had been unregarded in the hue and cry which arose on account of " Holy Willie's Prayer" and " The Holy Tulzie." He hesitated to drink longer out of the agitated puddle of Calvinistic contro- versy, he resolved to slake his thirst at the pure well-springs of patriot feeling and domestic love ; and accordingly, in the last and best of his controversial compositions, he rose out of the lower regions of lampoon into the upper air of true poetry. " The Holy Fair," though stained in one or two verses with personalities, exhibits a scene glowing with character and incident and life : the aim of the poem is not so much to satirize one or two Old Light divines, as to expose and rebuke those almost indecent festivities, which in too many of the western parishes accompanied the administration of the sacrament. In the earlier days of the church, when men were staid and sincere, it was, no doubt, an impressive sight to see rank succeeding rank, of the old and the young, all calm and all devout, seated before the tent of the preacher, in the sunny hours of June, listening to his eloquence, or partaking of the mystic bread and 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 reprehen- sion the Holy Fairs, east as well as west, have 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 various : they record the poet's own experience and emotions ; they exhibit the highest moral feeling, the purest patriotic sentiments, and a deep sympathy with the fortunes, both here and hereafter, of his fellow-men; they delineate domestic man- ners, man's stem as well as social hours, and mingle the serious with the joyous, the sarcastic with the solenm, the mournful with the pathetic, the amiable with the gay, and all with an ease and an unafi'ected force and freedom known only to the genius of Shakspeare. In " The Twa Dogs" he seeks to reconcile the labourer to his lot, and Xii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. intimates, by examples drawn from the liall 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, whisky and ale are the drink of the free : sentiments of a similar kind distinguish his "• Earnest 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 dis- tinguishes 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 doinos 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. " Tlie Dream" is a humorous sally, and may be almost re- carded as prophetic. The poet feig-ns 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 after- wards 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 Scottish Poets. " The Vision" is wholly serious; it exhibits the poet in one of those fits of despondency -Nvhich the dull, who have no misgivings, never know : he dwells with sarcastic bitterness on the opportunities 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 superstitious beliefs, and no less superstitious doings of old Scotland, on that night, when witches and elves and evil spirits are let loose among the children of men : it reaches far back into manners and customs, and is a picture, curious and valuable. The tastes and feelings of husbandmen inspired "The old Farmer's Address to his old mare Maggie," which exhibits some pleasing recollections of his days of courtship and hours of sociality. The calm, tranquil picture of household happiness and devotion in " The Cotter's Saturday Night," has induced Hogg, among others, to believe that it has less than usual of the spirit of the poet, but it has all the spirit that was re- quired ; the toil of the week has ceased, the labourer has returned to his Avell-ordered home — his " cozie 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 happy and very moving poem : happy, for it delineates, with won- derful truth and life, the agitation of the mouse when the coulter broke into its abode, and moving, for the poet takes the lesson of ruin to himself, and feels the present and dreads the future. " The Mountain Daisy," once, more properly, called by Burns " The Gowan," resembles " The Mouse" in incident and in moral, and is equally happy, in language and con- ception. " 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 mcdita- LIFE OF IIOBEKT BURNS. xiii tion with Burns. He refrained, for uwhile, from niiiking " Death and Doctor Horn- book" piibhc ; 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 writ- ten in all moods of mind, and are, by turns, lively and sad; careless and serious; — now giving advice, then taking it; laughing at learning, and lamenting its want; scoffino- at propriety and wealth, yet admitting, that without the one he cannot be wise, nor wanting the other, independent. The Epistle to David Sillar is the first of these compositions : the poet has 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 aflfections of his correspondent. He seems to have 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 exhibit 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 coldness of the wealthy or the titled. 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 wi-itten, one and all, to nameless and undistinguished 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 poet, during those early years, in which, with some exceptions, his finest works were written. 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. 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 ; he was straying in haunted glens, when spirits have power — looking in fancy on the lasses " skelping barefoot," in silks and in scar- lets, to a field-preaching — walking in imagination with the rosie widow, who on Halloween ventured to dip her left sleeve in the burn where three lairds' lands met — making the " bottle clunk," with joyous smugglers, on a lucky run of gin or brandy — or if his thoughts at all approached his acts — he was moralizing on the daisy oppressed by the furrow which his own plough-share had turned. That his thoughts were thus wandering we have his own testimony, with that of his brother Gilbert ; and were both wanting, the certainty that he composed the greater part of his immortal poems in two years, from the summer of 1784 to the summer of 1786, would be evidence sufiicient. The muse must have been strong within him, when, in spite of the rains and sleets of the " ever-dropping west" — when in defiance of the hot and sweaty brows occasioned by reaping and thrashing — declining markets, and showery harvests — the clamour of his laird 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. XIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 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 " Epis- tle 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 of 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 wdth which he desired his children to com- pose 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 com- positions, the " 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 which he saw in a low ale-house, into which, on a Saturday-night, most of the f^^turdy beggars of the district 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 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 loved and honoured ; other farmers indulged in the one, or suffered from tlie other, yet were prosperous. His want of suc- cess arose from other causes ; his heart was not witli his 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 invited 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 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 keej) his crown-pieces, — gold was seldom in the farmer's 1,1 FK OF HUBERT BURNS. Xv hand, — was either above or below tlie iniiid of the 2>0L't ; and Mossgiel, which, in the hands of an assiduous fanner, 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 have been assigned. It is to the credit of the moral senti ments of the husbandmen of Scotland, that when one of their class forgets what virtue re- quires, and dishonours, without reparation, even the liuiublest of the maidens, he is not allowed to go unpunished. 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 for- tune ; 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 now, to use his own words, he was brought within point-blank 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 I speak, was in her eighteenth year ; with dark eyes, a handsome foot, and a melodious tongue, she made her way to the poet's heart — and, as their stations in life were equal, it seemed that they 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 might safely avow it : she ad- mitted 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 mar- riage 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 two- fold sorrow, because of the shame of a favourite daughter, and for having committed the folly with one both loose in conduct and profane of speech. He had cause to be anorv, 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 nor his offspring in a lawful way, and in spite of the destruction of the marriage-lines, and renouncing the name of wiie, 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 gave up his share of Mossgiel to his brother, and roamed, moody and idle, about the land, v»ith no 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 hand-writing, had found their way into the hands of the Ballan- tynes, Hamiltons, Parkers, and Mackenzies, and were much admired. Mrs. Stewart, of Stair Xvi LIFK OF KOliERT JiUUXS. and Afton, a lady of distinction and taste, liad made, accidentally, the acquaintance both of Burns and some of his sonnfs, 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 imceremonious freedom of most of the pieces, and asked the poet to com- pose one of modest language and moral aim, to stand at the beginning, and excuse some of those free ones which followed : Bums, whose " Twa Dogs" was then incomplete, finished the poem at a sitting, and put it in 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, A\ith the consent of his brother, altered his name from Burness 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, made its appearance : it was entitled simply, " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect ; by Robert Burns ;" and accompanied by a modest preface, saying, that he sub- mitted his book to his country with fear and with trembling, since it contained little of the art of poesie, and at the best was but a voice given, rude, he feared, and uncouth, to the loves, the hopes, and the fears of his own bosom. Had a summer sun risen on a winter morning it could not have surprised the Lowlands of Scotland more than this Kilmarnock volume surprised and delighted the people, one and all. The milkmaid sang his songs, the ploughman repeated his poems ; the old quoted both, and even the devout rejoiced that idle verse had at last mixed a tone of morality with its mirth. The volume penetrated even into Nithsdale. " Keep it out of the way of your children," said a Cameronian divine, when he lent it to my father, " lest ye find them, as I found mine, reading it on the Sabbath." No wonder that such a volume made its way to the hearts of a peasantry whose taste in poetry has been the marvel of many writers : the poems were mostly on topics with which they were familiar : the language was that of the fire- side, 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 mix- ture 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 — a sentimental beauty, which sweetened and sanctified all. The poet's expectations from this little ven- ture were humble : he hoped as much money from it as would pay for bis passage to the AVest Indies, where he 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 LIFE OF F.ORKRT liLRXS. Xvh shepherd and the mechanic : tlie approbation of the magnates of the west, though not less warm, was longer in coming. Mrs. Stewart of Stair, indeed, commended the poems and cheered their author : Dugald Stewart received his visits with pleasure, and wondered at his vigour of conversation 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 Ballantyncs and the Parkers were always as open to him as were the doors of their houses. Those persons must he regarded as the real patrons of the poet : the high names of the district are not to be found among those who helped hira with purse and patronage in 1786, that year of deep distress and high distinction. The Montgomeries came with their praise when his fame was up ; the Kennedys and the Boswells were silent : and though the Cunninghams gave effectual aid, it was when the muse was crying with a loud voice before him, " Come all and see the man whom I 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 Avay 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 notice of this one with a song — the atten- tions of that one with a sally of encomiastic verse : he left psalms of his own composing in the manse when he feasted with a divine : he enclosed " Holy Willie's Prayer," with an injunction to be grave, to one who loved mirth : he sent the " Holy Fair" to one whom he invited to drink a gill out of a mutchkin stoup, at Mauchline market ; and on accident- ally meeting vdth Lord Daer, he unmediately commemorated the event in a sally of verse, of a strain more free and yet as flattering as ever flowed from the lips of a court bard. While musing over the names of those on whom fortune had smiled, yet who had neg- lected to smile on him, he remembered that he had met Miss Alexander, a young beauty of the west, in the walks of Ballochmyle; and he recorded the impression which this fair vision made on him in a song of unequalled elegance and melody. He had met her in the woods in July, on the 18th of November he sent her the song, and reminded her of the circumstance from which it arose, in a letter which it is evident he had laboured to render polished and complimentary. The young lady took no notice of either the song or the poet, though willing, it is said, to hear of both now : — this seems to have been the last attempt he made on the taste or the sympathies of the gentry of his native district : for on the very day following we find him busy in making arrangements for his departure to Jamaica. For this step Bums had more than sufficient reasons : the profits of his volume amounted to little more than enough to waft him across the Atlantic : Wee Johnnie, though the edition was all sold, refused to risk another on speculation : his friends, both Bal- lantyncs and Parkers, volunteered to relieve the printer's anxieties, but the poet declined their bounty, and gloomily indented himself in a ship about to sail from Greenock, and called on his muse to take farewell of Caledonia, in the last song he ever expected to mea- sure in his native land. That fine lyric, beginning " The gloomy night is gathering fast," f X\lll LIFE OF ROBEKT BURNS. was the offspring of these moments of regret and sorrow. IHs feelings were not expressed in song alone : he remembered his mother and his natural daughter, and made an assign- ment of all that pertained to him at Mossgicl — 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 ])oet, at the market-cross of Ayr, by his friend William Chalmers, a notary public. Even this step was to Burns one of danger : some ill-advised person had uncoupled the merci- less 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 seemed to light him to brighter prospects. Among the friends whom his merits had procured him was Dr. Laurie, a district cler- gyman, 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 Blacklock, who boldly proclaimed him a poet of the first rank, and lamented that he was not in 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 negociate for a new edition of the Poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman. This was not the way to go about it : 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 Glencaim, a nobleman whose classic education did not hurt his taste for Scot- tish poetry, and who was not too proud to lend his helping hand to a rustic stranger of such merit as Burns. Cunningham carried him to Creech, then the Murray of Edin- burgh, a shrewd man of business, who ojiened 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 Glencaim, took six himdred copies : duch- esses 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 in a 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, histo- rians, and scholars had shaken the elegant coteries of the city with their wit, or enlight- ened them with their learning, but they were all men who had been polished by polite letters or by intercourse with high life, and there was a sameness in their very dress as well as address, of which peers and peeresses had become weary. They therefore wel- LIFE 01' llOBKliT BURNS. XIX corned this rustic candidate for the honour of giving wings to thc;ir hours of lassitude and weariness, with a welcome more than connuon; and when his a])proacli 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 matter both for mirth and wonder. But they met with a barbarian who was not at all barbarous : as the poet met in Lord Daer feelings 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 was perfectly well- bred, and elegant in its simplicity : he felt neither eclipsed by the titled nor struck dumb before the learned and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one bom to it. In the 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 like one ?' — it was remarked, however, that he had not learnt, or did not desire, to conceal his emotions — that he commended with more rap- ture than was courteous, and contradicted with more bluntness 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 change, and he re- ceived them with deference, but with a consciousness that he could win their attention as he had won that of others who dift'ered, 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 good stead now, when he was the object to whom the Duchess of Gordon, the loveliest as well as the wittiest of women — directed her discourse. Burns, she afterwards said, won the attention of the Edinburgh ladies 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 narra- tives, 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, Bums related the cir- cumstances under which he had composed 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 glimpses of the romance of rustic life. A lady of birth — one of his most willing listeners — used, I 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, and as guileless as she was beautiful ; 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 good looks were surpassed by her good sense ; and her good sense was equalled by her discretion and modesty. He met her frequently : she saw by his looks that he >vas 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, \X LITE OF JiOBEKT BURNS. dreaniin^ of love aiul the golden days wh'ch awaited them. He was poor, and .slie had only her half-year's fee, for she was in the condition of a servant ; but thoughts of gear never darkened their dream : they resolved to wed, and exchanged vows of constancy and love. They plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render them more sacred — they made them by a burn, where they had courted, that open nature might be a witness — they made thein 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 pvire so were their intentions. They parted when they did this, but they partt d 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 owTi story mingled ; and ladies of rank heard, for the first time, that in all that was romantic in the passion of love, and 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, who could not be persuaded to bestow their daughter, perhaps an only one, on a wooer who could not count penny for penny, and number cow for cow : sometimes a mother desired her daughter to look higher than to one of her station ; for her beauty and her education entitled her to match among the lairds, rather than the tenants ; and sometimes, the devotional tastes of both father and mother, approving of personal looks and connexions, were averse to see a daughter bestow her hand on one, whose lan- guage 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 keep- ing those asunder whose hearts >.vcre 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, per- haps, 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 wdndow ; he had to approach w'ith a quick eye and a wary foot, lest a fiither or a brother should see, and deter him : he had sometimes to vdsh for a cloud upon the moon, whose light, welcome to him on his way in the distance, was likely to betray hmi when near ; and he not unfreqnently reckoned a ^vild 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 livals met and baffled ; of half-willing and half-unconsenting maidens, persuaded and won ; of the light-hearted and the careless becoming affection- ate 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 narratives of the poet. Of his appearance among the sons as well as the daughters of men, we have the ac- count of Dugald Stewart. " Burns," says the philosopher, " came to Edinburgh early in the winter : the attentions which he received from all ranks and descriptions of per- sons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. He retained the same LIFE OF UOUKUT BUKNI?. XXI Bimplicity of manners and appearance which had struck nic so forcibly when I first saw him in the country : his dress was suited to his station ; ])laiii 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 for- wardness, arrogance, or vanity. lie 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 cf 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 any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his manner some- what decided and hard. Nothing perhaps was more remarkable 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 have 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 morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and worth which cottages 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 ex- amination, on the part of the men, remained unimpaired, on that of the softer sex, till his dying-day. His company, during the season of balls and festivities, continued to be courted by all who desired to be reckoned gay or polite. Cards of invitation 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 divines and polished scholars, who assembled in the rooms of Stewart, or Blair, or Robertson. The classic socialities of Tytler, afterwards Lord Woodhouslec, or the elaborate supper-tables of the whimsical Monboddo, whose guests imagined they were entertained in the manner of Lu- cullus or of Cicero, were not complete without the presence of the ploughman of Kyle ; and the feelings of the rustic poet, facing such companies, though 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. But Edinburgh offered tables and entertainers of a less orderly 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 high- bred ladies to charm conversation within the bounds of modesty, nor serious philosophers, nor grave divines, to set a limit to the licence of speech, or the hours of enjoyment. To these companions — and these were all of the better classes, the levities 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, wltli as much delight as he had •witnessed among the lads of Kyle, S xxii THE OF ROBERT BURNS. when, at mill or forge, his humorous sallies abounded as the ale flowed. In these enjoyments the rough, but learned William Nicol, and the young and amiable Robert Ainslie shared : the name of the poet was coupled with those of profane wits, free livers, and that class of half-idle gentlemen who hang about the courts of laAv, or for a season or two wear the livery of Mars, and handle cold iron. Edinburgh had still another class of genteel convivialists, to whom the poet was at- tracted by principles as w^ell as by pleasure ; these were the relics of that once nume- rous body, the Jacobites, who still loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education, rather than of judgment, and toasted the name of Stuart, when the last of the race had renounced his pretensions to a throne, for the sake of 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 Hanoverian, by the right and might of the righteous and disinherited line. Bums, who was descended from a northern race, whose father was suspected of ha\ing drawn the claymore in 1745, and who loved the blood of the Keith- Marishalls, under whose banners his ancestors had marched, readily united himself to a band in whose sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer. He was received with acclamation : the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and his inauguration ode, in which he recalled the names and the deeds of the Grahams, the Erskines, the Boyds, and 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 he shed a tear over their fallen fortunes — though he sympathized with the brave and honourable names that perished in their cause — though he cursed " the butcher, Cumberland," and the bloody spirit which commanded the heads of the good and the heroic to be stuck where they would affright the passer-by, and pollute the air — he had no desire to see the splendid fabric of constitutional freedom, which the united genius of all parties had raised, thrown wantonly down. His Jacobitism influenced, not his head, but his heart, and gave a mournful hue to many of his lyric compositions. Meanwhile his poems were passing through the press. Burns made a few emendations of those published in the Kilmarnock edition, and he added others which, as he expressed it, he had carded and spun, since he passed Glenbuck. Some rather coarse lines were softened or omitted in the " Twa Dogs ;" others, from a change of his personal feelings, were made in the " Vision :" " Death and Doctor Hornbook," excluded before, was admitted now : the " Dream" was retained, in spite of the remonstrances of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, and Mrs. Dunlop ; and the " Brigs of Ayr," in compliment to his patrons in his native dis- trict, and the " Address to Edinburgh," in honour of his titled and distinguished friends in that metropolis, were printed for the first time. He was unwilling to alter what he had once printed : his friends, classic, titled, and rustic, found him stubborn and unpliable, in matters of criticism ; yet he was generally of a complimental mood : he loaded the robe of Coila in the "Vision," with more scenes than it could well contain, that he might include in the landscape, all the country-seats of his friends, and he gave more than their share of LIFK OF llOBERT BURNS. XXI 11 coinmcndatlon to the Wallaces, out of respect to his friend, Mrs. Duiilop. Of the critics of Edinburgh he said, they spun the thread of their criticisms so fine that it was unfit for either warp or weft ; and of its scholars, he said, they were never satisfied with any Scottish poet, unless they could trace him in Horace. One morning at Dr. Blair's breakfast-table, when the " Holy Fair" was the subject of conversation, the reverend critic said, " Why should ' Moodie speel the holy door With tidings of salvation?' if you had said, with tidings of damnation, the satire would have been the better, and the bitterer." " 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." Pro- fessor Walker, who tells the anecdote, adds that Blair evaded, with equal good humour and decision, this not very 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 re- ceived the highest gratification : he named the High-church, but gave the preference over all preachers to Robert Walker, the colleague and rival in eloquence of Dr. Blair him- self, 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 vulgar 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 independence 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 bam, the clay-floored reeky cottage, and the furrowed field ; and the characters were cowherds, ploughmen, and mechanics. The volume was embellished by a head of the poet, from the hand of the now venerable Alexander Nasmyth ; and in- troduced by a dedication to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, in a style of vehement independence, unknown hitherto in the history of subscriptions. The whole work, verse, prose, and portrait, won public attention, and kept it : and though some critics signified their displeasure at expressions which bordered on profanity, and at a licence 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 Shakspcare. No one rejoiced more in his suc- cess and his fame, than the matron of Mossgiel. Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of Burns in Edin- burgh. He had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of Allan Ramsay; he traced XXIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS out his residences, and rejoiced to think that wliile he stood in the shop of his own book- seller, Creech, the same floor had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He visited, too, the lowly grave of the unfortunate Robert Fergusson ; and it must be recorded to the shame of the magistrates of Edinburgh, that they allowed him to erect a headstone to his memory, and to the scandal of Scotland, that in such a memorial he had not been anticipated. He seems not to have regarded the graves of scholars or philosophers ; and he trod the pavements where the warlike princes and nobles had walked without any emotion. He loved, however, to see places celebrated in Scottish song, and fields where battles for the independence of his country had been stricken ; and, with money in his pocket which his poems had produced, and with a letter from a witty but weak man, Lord Buchan, instructing hun to pull birks on the Yarrow, broom on the Cowden-knowes, and not to neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh Abbey, Bums set out on a border tour, accompanied by Robert Ainslie, of Berrywell. As the 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 Edinburgh with a character which had survived many temptations ; with a name which w^ould be placed with the Ramsays and the Fergussons, and with the hopes of all that, in a second volume, on which his fate as a poet would very much depend, he might rise yet higher in merit and in fame. Burns, who received this communication when laying his leg over the saddle to be gone, is said to have muttered, " Aye, but a man's first book is sometimes like his first babe, healthier and stronger than those which follow." On the 6th of May, 1 787, Burns reached Berrywell : he recorded of the laird, that he was clear-headed, and of Miss Ainslie, that she was amiable and handsome — of Dudgeon, the author of " The Maid that tends the Goats," that he had penetration and modesty, and of the preacher, Bowmaker, that he was a man of strong lungs and vigorous remark. On crossing the Tweed at Coldstream he took off his hat, and kneeling down, repeated :il( >ud the two last verses of the " Cotter's Saturday Night :" on returning, he drank tea with Jjrydone, the traveller, a man, he said, kind and benevolent : he cursed one Cole as an English Hottentot, for having rooted out an ancient garden belonging to a Romish ruin ; and he wrote of Macdowal, of Caverton-mill, that by his skill in rearing sheep, he sold his flocks, ewe and lamb, for a couple of guineas each : that he washed his sheep before shearing — and by his turnips improved sheep-husbandry; he added, that lands were generally lot at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre ; the farmers rich, and, compared to Ayrshire, their houses magnificent. On his way to Jedburgh he visited an old gentleman in whose house was an arm-chair, once the property of the author of " The Seasons ;" he reverently examined the relique, and could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it : he was a warm admirer of Thomson. In Jedburgh Bums 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 hand- some, with " beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture," and looks which betokened a high order of female Inind. He gave her his portrait, and entered this remembrance of her attractions among his memoranda : — " My ^ipart is thawed into melting pleasure, after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of in- diff"erencc, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. I am afraid my bosom has nearly lii'l; of itoBKirr iukns. xw as niiicli timlor as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and hallowed thy sylvan hanks: sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love !" With the freedom of Jedburgh handsomely be- stowed by the magistrates, in his pocket. Bums made his way to Waiiehope, the residence 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." After dining with Sir Alexander Don, who, he said, was a clever man, but far from a match for his divine lady, a sister of his patron Glencairn, he spent an hour among the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey ; glanced on the splendid remains of ]\Ielrosc ; passed, unconscious of the future, 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 Dunglass, and his lady, and was much pleased with the scenery of their romantic place. He was now joined by a gentleman of the name of Kerr, and crossing the Tweed a second time, penetrated into England, as far as the ancient town of Newcastle, where he smiled at a facetious Northumbrian, who at dinner caused the beef to be eaten before the broth was served, in obedience to an ancient injunction, lest the hungry Scotch should come and snatch it. On his way back he saw, what proved to be prophetic of his own fortune — the roup of an unfortunate farmer's stock : he took out his journal, and wrote with a troubled brow, " Rigid economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatis personoe, in such a scene of horror." He extended his tour to Carlisle, and from thence to the banks of the Nith, where he looked at the farm of Ellisland, with the intention of trying once more his fortune at the plough, should poetry and pa- tronage fail him. On his way through the West, Burns spent a few days with lus mother at Mossgiel : he had left her an unknown and an almost banished man : he returned in fame and in sunshine, admired by all who aspired to be thought tasteful or refined. He felt offended alike with the patrician stateliness of Edinburgh and the plebeian servility of the husbandmen of Ayrshire ; and dreadinw the influence of the unlucky star which had hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a pocket Milton, he said, for the purpose of studying the intrepid independence and daring magnanimity, and noble defiance of hard- ships exhibited by Satan ! In this mood he reached Edinburgh— only to leave it again on three hurried excursions into the Highlands. The route which he took and the sentiments 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 jaeobitism 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 mag-nificent 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 Dum- barton. His second excursion was madpivi the company of Dr. Adair, of Harrowgatc : thereluc- h xx\i I'IFl' OF ROBERT BURNS. tant doors of Canon foundry were opened to liini, and he expressed his wonder at the blazino- 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 discussed 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 im- pulse 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 Ham- ilton, the sister of his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline. " She is not only beautiful," he thus viTites to her brother, " 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. 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 body thought." Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce, of Clackman- nan, who, in the belief that she had the blood of the royal Bruce in her veins, received the poet with something 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 Rum- bling bridge, a single arch throvra, 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 companions that Bums exhibited no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such magnificent scenes. But he did not like to be tutored or prompted : " Look look !" exclaimed some one, as Carron foundry belched forth flames — " look. Burns, look ! good heavens, what a grand sight ! — look !" " I would not look — look, sir, at your bidding," said the bard, turning away, " were it into the mouth of hell !" When he visited, at a future time, the romantic Linn of Creehope, in Nithsdale, he looked silently at its wonders, 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 Bums, " if He who made it were to desire me to do it." There are other reasons for the silence of Burns amid the scenes of the Devon : he was charmed into love by the sense and the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, and rendered her homage in that sweet song, " The Banks of the Devon," and in a dozen letters written with more than his usual care, elegance, and tenderness. But the lady was neither to be won by verse nor by prose : she afterwards gave her hand to Adair, the poet's companion, and what was less meritorious, threw his letters into the fire. The third and last tour into the North was in the company of Nicol, of the High-School (>f Edinburgh: on the fields of Bannock burn and Falkirk — places of triumph and of woe to Scotland, he gave way to patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded them : — " Stirling, August 26, 17H7: this morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, LIFE OF KOUKUT F,i:UNS. XXVll tlie gallant friend of the immortal "Wallace; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia, over the hole in a whinstone where Robert the Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn." He then proceeded northward by Ochtertyre, the water of Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the traditionary grave of Ossian. He looked in at princely Taymouth ; mused an hour or two among the Birks of Aberfeldy ; gazed from Birnam top ; paused amid the wild grandeur of the pass of Kil- liecrankie, at the stone which marks the spot where a second patriot Graham fell, and spent a day at Blair, where he experienced the graceful kindness of the Duke of Athol, and in a strain truly elegant, petitioned him, in the name of Bruar Water, to hide the utter nakedness of its otherwise picturesque banks, with plantations of birch and oak. Quitting Blair he followed the course of the Spey, and passing, as he told his brother, through a wild country, among cliffs gray with eternal snows, and glens gloomy and savage, reached Findhorn in mist and darkness ; visited Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered Duncan ; hastened through Inverness to Urquhart Castle, and the Falls of Fyers, and turned southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of Culloden. He admired the ladies of that classic region for their snooded ringlets, simple elegance of dress, and expressive eyes : in Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock Castle, he found that matronly grace and dignity which he owned he loved ; and in the Duke and Duchess of Gordon a renewal of that more than kindness with which they had welcomed him in Edinburgh. But while he admired the palace of Fochabers, and was charmed by the condescensions of the noble proprietors, he forgot that he had left a companion at the inn, too proud and captious to be pleased at favours showered on others : he hastened back to the inn with an invitation and an apology : he found the fiery 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 in vain, and Bums, with a vexation which he sought not to conceal, took his seat silently beside the irascible pedagogue, and returned to the South by Broughty Castle, the banks of End- ermay and Queensferry. He parted with the Highlands in a kindly mood, and loved to recal the scenes and the people, both in conversation and in song. 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 of the money had to come from a distance, and Burns lingered about the northern metropolis, expecting a settlement with Creech, and with the hope that those who dispensed his country's patronage might remember one who then, as now, was reckoned an ornament to the land. But Creech, a parsimonious man, was slow in his payments; the patronage of the country was swallowed up in the sink of politics; and though noblemen smiled, and ladies of rank nodded their jewelled heads in approba- tion of every new song he sung and every witty sally he uttered, they reckoned any further notice or care superfluous : the poet, an observant man, saw all this ; but hope Avas the cordial of his heart, he said, and he hoped and lingered on. Too active a genius to remain idle, he addressed himself to the twofold business of love and verse. Re- pulsed by the stately Beauty of the Devon, he sought consolation in the society of one, as fair, and infinitely more witty; and as an accident had for a time deprived him of the use of one of his legs, he gave wings to hours of pain, by writing a series of letters to this x:c\iii life of koekrt ruKNS. Edinburgh enchantress, in which he signed himself Sylvander, and addressed her under the name of Clarinda. In these compositions, which no one can regard as serious, and which James Grahame the poet called " a romance of real Platonic affection," amid mueli affectation both of language and sentiment, and a desire to say fine and startling things, we can see the proud heart of the poet throbbing in the dread of being neglected or foro-otten by his country. - The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and beauty, seems assumed and put on, for its rapture is artificial, and its brilliancy that of an icicle : no woman was ever wooed and won in that Malvolio way ; and there is no doubt that Mrs. M'Lchose felt as much oftence as pleasure at this boisterous display of regard. In aftertinies he loved to remember her : — when wine circulated, Mrs. Mac was his fa- vourite toast. Durin(T this season he began his lyric contributions to the Musical Museum of Johnson, a work which, amid many imperfections of taste and arrangement, contains more of the true old music and genuine old songs of Scotland, than any other collection with which I am acquainted. Burns gathered oral airs, and fitted them -with Avords of mirth or of woe, of tenderness or of humour, with unexampled readiness and felicity; lie eked out old fragments and sobered down licentious strains so much in the olden spirit and feeling, that the new cannot be distinguished from the ancient ; nay, he inserted lines and half lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarians are perplexed to settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he abated none of the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse of Scotland : he did not like her the less because she walked like some of the maidens of her strains, high- kilted at times, and spoke with the freedom of innocence. In these communications we observe how little his border-jaunt among the fountains of ancient song contributed cither of sentiment or allusion, to his lyrics; and how deeply his strains, whether of pity or of merriment, were coloured by what he had seen, and heard, and felt in the Highlands. 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, tlie Highlands teemed with jacobitlcal 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 Drumossic, and Killlecrankie, as the spirit of sorrow or of bitterness prevailed. Though accompanied, during his northern 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 com- pany which, though clever, could not be called select, contributed to this ; nor must it be forgotten that his love for the sweeter pirt of creation was now and then carried beyond the limits of poetic respect, and the delicacies of courtesy ; tending to estrange the austere LIFE OF Uor.Klir HI KNS. XXiX and to lessen the admiration at iirst common to all. Other cauws may ho assigned for this wane of popularity: he took no care to conceal his contempt for all who depended on mere scholarship for eminence, and he had a perilous knack in sketching with a sar- castic hand the characters of the learned and the grave. 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 subscription, the learned to regard him as a fierce Theban, who resolved to carry all the outworks to the temple of Fame without the labour 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 sub- side ; the bright gloss of novelty was worn off, and his fault lay in his unwillingness to see that he had made all the sport which the Philistines expected, and was 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, w-ere now unclosed for him with a tardy courtesy : he was received with measured stateliness, and seldom requested to repeat his visit. Of this changed aspect of things he complained to a friend : but his real sorrows were mixed with those of the fancy : — he told Mrs. Dunlop with what pangs of heart he was compelled to take shelter in a corner, lest the rattlmg equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle him in the mire. In this land of titles and wealth such querulous sensibilities must have been frequently offended. Burns, who had talked lightly hitherto of resuming the plough, began now to think seriously about it, for he saw it must come to that at last. Miller, of Dalswinton, a gentleman of scientific acquirements, and who has the merit of applying the impulse of steam to navigation, had offered the poet the choice of his farms, on a fair estate which he had purchased on the Nith : aided by a westland farmer, he selected Ellisland, a beautiful spot, fit alike for the steps of ploughman or poet. On intimating this to the magnates of Edinburgh, no one lamented that a genius so bright 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 confided, that they were misusing the sacred trust, and that posterity would curse them for their coldness or neglect : neither did any of the rich nobles, whose tables he had adorned by his wit, offer to enable 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- man who merits praise oftener than he is named, did the little that was done or attempted to be 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 from the commissioners : and your lordship's i XXX LIFE OI- ROBERT BL'RX.S, patronage and goodness, which have already rescued nic from ohscurlty, wretchedness, and exile, emboldens me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at tlie thought of the cold promise as the cold denial." The farm and the excise exhibit the poet's humble scheme of life : the money of the one, he thought, would support the toil of the other, and in 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 plough and the excise, the poet hastened his departure from a city w^hich had witnessed both his triumj)h and his shame : he bade farewell in a few well-chosen words to such of the classic literati — the Blairs, the Stewarts, the Mackenzies, and the Tytlers — as had welcomed the rustic bard and continued to countenance him ; while in softer accents he bade adieu to the Clarindas and Chlorises of whose charms he had sung, and, having wrung a settlement from Creech, he turned 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 afiBuence : 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 distinction ; but more than all, he desired to see one whom he once and still dearly loved, who had been a sufferer for his sake, and whom he proposed to make mistress of his fireside and the sharer of 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 w-andered to her whom he had left bleaching her webs among the daisies on Mauchline braes — she had still his heart, and in spite of her own and her father's disclamation, she was his wife. It was one of the delusions of this great poet, as well as of those good people, the Armours, that the marriage had been dis- solved by the destruction of the marriage-lines, and that Robert Burns and Jean Armour were as single as though they had neither vowed nor written themselves man and wife. Be that as it may, tlie time was come when all scruples and obstacles were to be removed which stood in the way of their union : their hands were united by Gavin Hamilton, according to law, in April, 1788 ; and even the Reverend Mr. Auld, so mercilessly lampooned, smiled forgivingly as the poet satisfied a church wisely scrupulous regarding the sacred ceremony of marriage. Though Jean Armour was but a country lass of humble degree, she had sense and in- telligence, and personal charms suthcient not only to win and fix the affections of the poet, but to sanction the praise which he showered on her in song. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he thus describes her : " The most placid good nature and sweetness of disposition, a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure : these I think in a woman may make a good wife, though she should never have read a i)age but the Scriptures, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay i.irr: of iiobkrt burns. xxxi wedding." To the accoiujdishcd Margaret Chalmers, of Edinburgh, he adds, to complete the picture, " I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest consti- tution, 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 wood- note wild you ever hoard." 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 stafi" at EUisland. This farm, now a classic spot, is about six miles up the river from Dumfries ; it extends to up- wards 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, Cowe- hill, 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 bitter- ness 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 im- known 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 Riddel, of Friar's Carse, he found a scholar and antiquarian ; in Miller, of Dalswinton, a man conversant with science as well as with the world ; in M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, a 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 EUisland 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 the dwarf oaks and birches which fringed the river bank, to enable the poet to saunter and muse without lett or interruption. This attention was rewarded by an inscription for the hermitage, written with elegance as well as feeling, and which was the first fruits of his fancy in this unpoetic land. In a happier strain he remembered Matthew Henderson : this is one of the sweetest as well as happiest of his poetic compositions. He heard of his friend's death, and called on nature animate and in- animate, 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 EUis- land compositions : the contest which he has recorded with such spirit and humour took XXXll r.lFE OF ROBERT BURNS. place almost at his door : the heroes were Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, Sir Robeit Laurie, of Maxwelltown, and Riddel, of the Friar's Carse : the poet was present, and di-ank bottle and bottle about with the best, and when all was done he seemed much disposed, as an old servant at Friar's Carse remembered, to take up the victor. Burns had become fully reconciled to Nithsdale, and wms on the most intimate terms with the muse when he produced Tarn o' Shanter, the crowning glory of all his poems. For this marvellous tale we are indebted to something like accident : Francis Grose, the antiquary, happened to visit Friar's Carse, and as he loved wine and wit, the total want of imagination was no hinderance to his friendly intercourse with the poet : " Alloway's auld haunted kirk" was mentioned, and Grose said he would include it in his illustrations of the antiquities of Scotland, if the bard of the Doon w'ould write a poem to accompany it. Bums consented, and before he left the table the various traditions which belonged to the ruin were pat?sing through his mind. One of these was of a farmer, who, on a night wild with wind and rain, on passing the old kirk was startled by a light glinmiering 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 were neither witch nor fiend to guard it, so he unhooked the caldron, turned out the contents, and carried it home as a irophy. A second 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 window of Alloway kirk, and on riding near, beheld a batch of the district witches dancing merrily round their master, the devil, who kept them " louping and flinging" to the sound of a bagpipe. He knew several of the old crones, and smiled at their gambols, for they were dancing in their smocks : 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, which so moved the farmer, that he exclaimed " Weel luppan Maggie wi' the short sark !" Satan stopped his music, the Hght was extinguished, and out rushed the hags after the farmer, who made at the gallop for the bridge of Doon, knowing that they could not cross a stream : he escaped ; but Maggie, who was foremost, seized his horse's tail at the middle of the bridge, and pulled it off in her efforts to stay him. This poem was the work of a single day : Burns walked out to his favourite musing path, which runs towards the old tower of the Isle, along Nithside, and was observed to walk hastily and mutter as he went. His wife knew by these signs that he was engaged in composition, and watched him from the window ; at last, wearying, and moreover won- dering at the unusual length of his meditations, she took her children with her and went to meet him ; but as he seemed not to see her, she stept aside among the broom to allow him to pass, which he did with a flushed brow and dropping eyes, reciting these lines aloud : — " Now 'J'am ! O, Tarn ! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannon, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breaks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gicn them aff" my hurdies For iw blink o' the bonnie hurdies !" LIFK OF HOr.KKT ULRNS. XXxiii lie cmbclHshcd this wild tradition from fact as vvfll as from fancy : alonortlic road wliicli Tarn canic on that eventful night his mtnnory supplied circumstances which prepared him for the Sftrange sight at the kirk of Alloway. A poor chapman had perished, some winters before, in the snow ; a murdered child had been found by some early hunters ; a tippling farmer had fallen from his horse at tlie expense of his neck, beside a " meikle stane ;" and a melancholy old woman had hanged herself at the bush aboon the well, as the poem relates : all these matters the poet pressed into the service of the muse, and used them with a skill which adorns rather than oppresses the legend. A pert lawyer from Dumfries objected to the language as obscure : " Obscure, Sir !" said Burns ; " you know not the language of that great master of your own art — the devil. If you had a witch for your client you would not be able to manage her defence !" He wrote few poems after his marriage, but he composed many sono-s : the sweet voice of Mrs. Burns and the craving of Johnson's Museum will in some measure account for the number, but not for their variety, which is truly wonderful. In the history of that mournful strain, " Mary in Heaven," we read the story of many of his lyrics, for thev generally sprang from his personal feelings : no poet has put more of himself into his poetry than Burns. " Robert, though ill of a cold," said his wife, "had been busy all day — a day of September, 1789, with the shearers in the field, and as he had o-ot most of the corn into the stack-yard, was in good spirits; but when the twilight came he o-rew sad about something, and could not rest : he wandered first up the water-side, and then went into the stack-yard : I followed, and begged him to come into the house, as he was ill, and the air was sharp and cold. He said, ' Aye, aye,' but did not come : he threw him- self down on some loose sheaves, and lay looking at the sky, and particularly at a large, bright star, which shone like another moon. At last, but that was lono- after I had left him, he came home — the song was already composed." To the memory of Mary Campbell he dedicated that touching ode ; and he thus intimates the continu- ance of his early affection for "The fair-haired lass of the west," in a letter of that time to Mrs. Dunlop. " If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the benevo- lent, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! There shall I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love." These melancholy words gave way in theii* turn to others of a nature lively and humorous : " Tarn Glen," in which the thoughts flow as freely as the waters of the Nith, on whose banks he wrote it ; " Findlay," with its quiet vein of sly simplicity ; " Willie brewed a peck o' maut," the first of social, and " She's fair and fause," the first of sarcastic songs, with " The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman," are all productions of this period — a period which had besides its own fears and its own forebodings. For a while Burns seemed to prosper in his farm : he held the plough with his own hand, he guided the harrows, he distributed the seed-corn equally among the furrows, and he reaped the crop in its season, and saw it safely covered in from the storms of winter with "thack and rape;" his wife, 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 star" which ruled his lot had relented, and now shone uuboding and benigidy. But nuich more is re- k XXXIV LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. quired than toil of band 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 as in 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 economy. Now, durlnG: tlie three years which Burns stayed in Ellisland, he neither wrought with that constant diligence which farming demands, nor did he bestow xipon it the unremitting attention of eye and mind which such a farm recjuircd : besides his skill in liusbandry 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 tlie same estate — he employed more servants than the number of acres de- manded, and spread for them a richer board than common : when we have said this we need not add the expensive tastes induced by poetry, to keep readers from starting, when they arc told that Burns, at the close of 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 liad 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 was to be found, either pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, among the valleys of Dumfrieshire, or measuring out pastoral verse to the beauties of the land. He retired to a house in the Bank-vennel of Dumfries, and commenced a town-life : lie com- menced it with an empty pocket, for Ellisland had swallowed up all the profits of his poems : he had now neither a barn to i)roduce meal nor barley, a barn-yard to yield a fat hen, a field to which he could go at Martinmas for a mart, nor a dairy to supply milk and cheese and butter to the table — he had, in short, all to buy and little to buy with. He regarded it as a compensation that he had no farm-rent to provide, no bankruptcies to dread, no horse to keep, for his excise duties were now confined to Dumfries, and that the burthen of a barren farm was removed from his mind, and his muse at liberty to renew her unsolicited strains. But from the day of his departure from " the barren" Ellisland, the downward course of Burns may be dated. The cold neglect of his country had driven him back indignantly to the plough, and he hoped to gain from the furrowed field that independence which it was the duty of Scotland to have provided : but he did not resume the plough with all the advantages he possessed when he first forsook it : he had revelled in the luxuries of polished life — his tastes had been rendered exi)cnsive as well as pure : he had witnessed, and he hoped for tlie pleasures of literary retirement, while the hands which had led jewelled dames over scented car])ets to supper-tables loaded with silver, took hold of the hilts of the plough with more of reluctance than goodwill. Edinburgh, with its lords and its ladies, its delights and its hopes, spoiled him for farming. Nor were his new labours more acceptable to his haughty spirit than those of the plough : the excise for a 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 encroachment upon the ancient rights of the nation, and to mislead a ganger, or resist him, even to blood, was considered by few as a fault. That the brightest genius of the nation — one whose' tastes and sensibilities were so peculiarly its own — should be, as a reward, set to look after run- MKK (II' IIOI'.KUT MCJRNS. XXXt mm anil smuggled tobacco, and to gauge ale-wife's barrels, was a regret and a marvel to many, and a source of bitter merriment to Burns hiiusclf The duties of his situation were however performed punctually, if not with pleasure : he was a vigilant 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 shopkeepers as uprightly as courteously : he smoothed the ruggedest natures into acquiescence by his gaiety and lunuour, and yet never gave cause for a mali • cious remark, by allowing his vigilance to slumber. lie was brave, too, and in the cap- ture of an armed smuggler, in which he led the attack, showed that he neither feared water nor fire : he loved, also, to cotinscl the more forward of the smugglers to abandon their dangerous calling ; his sympathy for the helpless poor induced him to give them now and then notice of his approach ; he has been kno^^^l to interpret the severe laws of tlie 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 competent and candid judge. " Let me look at the boolcs of Burns," said Maxwell, of Terraughty, at a 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 more 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 called by his name. In his earlier years the poet seems to have scattered songs as thick as a sunmier eve scatters its dews ; nor did he scatter them less carelessly : he appears, indeed, to have thought much less of them than of his poems : the sweet song of Mary Morison, and others not at all inferior, lay unregarded among his papers till accident called them out to shine 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 immortal verse. To engage in such an undertaking, Burns re- quired small persuasion, and while Thomson asked for strains delicate and polished, the poet characteristically stipulated that his contributions were to be without remuneration, and the language seasoned with a sprinkling of the Scottish dialect As his heart was much in the matter, he began to pour out verse with a readiness and talent unknown in the history of song ; his engagement with Thomson, and his esteem for Johnson, gave birth to a series of songs as brilliant as varied, and as naturally easy as tliey were gracefully original. In looking over those very dissimilar collections it is not difficult to discover 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 pretendino- one, are at the same time less happy in their humour and less simple in their pathos. " What pleases me, as simple and naYve," says Burns to Thomson, " disgusts you as ludicrous and ';ow. For this reason ' Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs,' ' Fyc, let us a' to the bridal,' with XXXvi I'lVli Ol" KOliKKT HUKNS. several others of that cast, are to me highly jilcasing, while ' Saw ye my Father' delights me with its descriptive simple pathos :" we ri-ad in these words the reasons of the dif- ference between the lyrics of the two collections. The land where the poet lived fnrnishcd ready materials for song : hills with fine woods, vales with clear waters, and dames as lovely as any recorded in verse, were to be had in his walks and his visits ; while, for the pnrposcs of mirth or of humonr, characters, in whose faces originality was legibly written, were as numerous in Nithsdale as he had found them in the west. He had been reproached, while in Kyle, with seeing charms n very ordinary looks, and hanging the garlands of the muse on unlovely altars ; he was iable to no such censure in Nithsdale ; he poured out the incense of poetry only on the fair and the 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 d'stant or the dead — he loves to re- member 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. Of Jean 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 sweetness ; 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 impas- sioned and pathetic. But the main inspirer of the latter songs of Burns was a yoxmg woman of humble birth : of a form equal to the most exquisite proportions of sculpture, with bloom on her cheeks, and merriment in her large bright eyes, enough to drive an amatory poet crazy. Her name was Jean Lorimer ; she was not more than seventeen when the poet made her acquaintance, and though she had got a sort of brevet-right from an officer of the army, to use his southron name of Whelpdale, 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." Tlrough of a temper not much inclined to conceal any- thing, Burns complied so tastefully with the growing demand of the age for the exterior de- cencies 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 to love. 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 givesthis account to Thomson. "The lady on whom the song of Craigie-burnwood was made r,IFK OF U0I5KIIT HUUNS. X.XXV11 is one of the finest women in Seotland, and in fact is to in(! in a manner what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or wliat 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 vou think that the sober gin-horse 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 ge- nius of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celes- tial emanation ? Quite the contrary. I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poesy, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I j)ut myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in pro- portion 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 of Helicon." Most of the songs which he composed under the influences to which I have alluded are of the first order : " Bonnie Lesley," " Highland Mary," " Auld Rob Morris," " Duncan Gray," " Wandering AVillic," '' Meg o' the Mill," " The poor and honest sodger," " Bonnie Jean," " Phillis the fair," " John Anderson my Jo," " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore," " AVhistle and I'll come to you, my lad," " Bruce's Address to his men at Ban- nockburn," " Auld Lang Syne," " Thine aia I, my faithful fair," " Wilt thou be my dearie," " O Chloris mark how green the groves," " Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair," " Their groves of sweet myrtle," " Last May a braw wooer came down the lang glen," " O ]\Ially's meek, Mally's sweet," " Hey for a lass wi' a tocher," " Here's a health to ane I loe dear," and the " Fairest maid on Devon banks." Many of the latter lyrics 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 bard 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 side of the Nith, opposite Lin- cluden ; 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 dis- turbed 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 Kirkudbright, between the interest of the Stewarts, of Galloway, and Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree. 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 afi'air of Ellisland, and his firm 1 XXXviii I.H'E OF UOJJKUT BLUNS. and considerate friend, M'j\Iurdo, of Drumlanrig, was chamberlain to his Grace of Qucensbury, on whoso interest IMiller stood. On the other hand, his old Jacobitical aifcctions made him the secret well-wisher to "NVesterhall, for up to this time, at least till acid disappointment and the democratic doctrine of the natural equality of man inHueneed him, Burns, or as a 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 ac- counts for the milkincss of his Epistle to Fintry, 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, Lochmabcn, Sanquhar, and Annan, and draws their charac- ters as shrewd and calculating dames, met in much wrath and drink to choose a 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 acknow- ledged no other superiority but the mental : " he was disposed, too," said Professor Walker, " from constitutional temper, from education and the accidents of life, to a jea- lousy of power, and a keen hostility against every system which enabled birth and opulence 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 dis- pensers 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 tone of asperity and bitterness, infused into " The Heron Ballads." Formerly honey was mixed with his gall ; a little praise sweetened his cen- sure : in tliese election lampoons he is fierce, and even venomous : — no man has a head but what is empty, nor a heart that is not black : men descended without reproach from lines of heroes are stigmatized as cowards, and the honest and conscientious are reproached as miserly, mean, and dishonourable. Such is the spirit of party. " I have privately," thus writes the poet to Heron, " printed a good many copies of tlie ballads, and have sent them among friends about the country. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind, on the heads of your <)])ponents ; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia, to muster on your side all the votaries of honest laughter and fair, candid ridicule." The ridicule was uncandid, and the lau'diter dishonest. The poet was unfortunate in his political attachments: Miller gained the borouglis which Burns wished he might lose, and Heron lost the county which he foretfdd 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 hajipiest compositions. From attacking others, the ])oet was — in the interval between ])enniug tliese election lampoons — called on to defend liiui.self : for this he seems to have l)eeu (piite unprepared, though in those yeasty times lie uiiglit have expected it. " I liave been surprised, con- I.IIE.OF KOlUiKT IJf^KNS. XXXIX fnundcd, and di^tractt-d," lie thus writes to Crahani, of Fintry, " by Mr. Mitchell, the col- k'ctor, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inc^uire into my jiolitical conduct, and blaming nu- as a person disaffected to Government. 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. 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, what- ever 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 a^? 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 Com- missioners of the Board of Excise, was enclosed, in which he disclaimed 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 >\rar, 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 Fintry, and the explana- tions 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 iccords of the Excise Office exhibit no trace of this memorable matter, and two noble- men, who were then in the government, have assured me that this harsh proceeding icecived no countenance at head-quarters, and must have originated with some ungene- n.vis 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, stigmatized 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 ever believed. It is true that he spoke of premiers and peers with contempt; that lie 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 saidthe titled spurred and the wealthy switched England andScotlaiid 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 he preferred Washington, cannot admit of a doubt ; but that he deserved to Xl LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Le written down traitor, for mere matters of whim or caprice, or to be turned out of tlie uncnvied situation of •' gauging auld wives' barrels," because he thought there were some stains on the white robe of the constitution, seems a sort of tyranny new in the history of oppression. His love of country is recorded in too many undying lines to admit of a doubt now : nor is it that chivalrous love alone which men call romantic ; it is a love which may be laid up in every man's heart and practised in every man's life ; the words are homely, but the words of Burns are always expressive : — " The kettle of the kirk and state Perhaps a clout may fail iu't, But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Be Britons still to Britons true, Amang ourselves united ; For never but by British hands Shall British wrongs be riglited " But while verses, deserving as these do to become the national motto, and sentiments loyal and generous, were overlooked and forgotten, all his rash words about freedom, and his sarcastic 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 sedition ; and when ladies retired from the table, and the wine circulated with closed doors, he was suspected of trea- son 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 captain, who thought that we de- served 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 wealth, titles, or commissions in the army; officers he usually called " the epauletted puppies," and lords he generally spoke of as " feather-headed fools," who could but strut and stare and be insolent. All this was not to be endured meekly : scorn was answered with scorn ; and having no answer in kind to retort his satiric flings, his xmfriends reported that it was unsafe for young 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 so free. These sentiments prevailed so far that a gentleman on a visit from London, told me he was dissuaded from inviting Burns to a dinner, given by way of welcome back to his native j)lace, because he was the associate of democrats and loose people ; and when a modest dame of Dumfries expressed, through a friend, a wish to have; but the honour of speaking to one of whose genius she was an admirer, the poet declined the interview, with a half- serious smile, saying, " Alas ! she is handsome, and you know the character publicly assigned to me." She escaped the danger of being numbered, it is likely, with the Annas and the Chlorises of his freer strains. The neglect of his country, the tyranny of the Excise, and the downfall of his hopes and fortunes, were now to bring forth their fruits — the poet's health began to I.Il'K Ol' IJOUKRT lUIRNS. xli decline. His droo]Miig looks, his neglect of his person, his solitary sauntcrings, his escape from the stings of reflection into socialities, and his distempered joy in the company of beauty, all spoke, as plainly as with a tongue, of a sinking heart and a declining body. Yet though he was sensible of sinking health, hope did not at once desert him : he continued to pour out such tender strains, and to show such flashes of wit and humour, at the call of Thomson, as are recorded of no other lyrist : neither did 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 2()th of June 17n(), he writes thus of his fortunes and condition to his friend Clarke, " Still, still the victim of affliction ; were jon to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke, I begin to fear the worst ! As to my individual self I am 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 ! Here I am as weak as a woman's tear. Enough of this ! 'tis half my disease. I duly received your last, enclosing the note ; it came extremely in time, and I am much obliged to 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 : I trust you can do so without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remembrance. 0, dear, dear Clarke ! that I shall ever see you again is I am afraid highly improbable." This remarkable letter proves both the declining health, and the poverty of the poet : his digestion was so bad that he could taste neither flesh nor fish : porridge and milk he could alone swallow, and that but in small quan- tities. 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 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 S}Tne and M'JMurdo united with Dr. Maxwell in persuading him, at the beginning of the summer, to seek health at the Brow-well, a few miles east from 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. " I 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 conversation 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 m xlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. him, to the injury of his future reputation ; tliat letters and verses, written with un- o-uardcd 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 frequently 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 5th 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 sun is," said the poet, " but he will soon have done with shining for me." He now longed for home : his wife, whom he ever tenderly loved, was about to be confined in 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 oflPer of fifty pounds, which a speculating bookseller made, for leave to publish his looser compositions ; he had refused an offer of the like sum yearly, from Perry of the ]\Iorning Chronicle, for poetic contributions to his paper, lest it might embroil him Avith the ruling powers, and he had resented the remittance of five pounds from Thomson, on account of his lyric contributions, and desired him to do so no more, unless he wished to quarrel with him ; but his necessities now, and they had at no time been so great, induced hun to solicit five pounds from Thomson, and ten pounds from his cousin, James Burness, of Montrose, and to beg his friend Alexander Cunningham to intercede with the Commission- ers 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 w^ith hunger." Thomson sent the five pounds, James Burness sent the ten, but the Commissioners of Excise refused to be either merciful or generous. Stobie, a young expectant in the customs, was both ; — he per- formed the duties of the dying poet, and refused to touch the salary. The mind of Bums was haunted with the fears of want and the terrors of a jaU ; nor were those fears without foundation ; one Williamson, to whom he was indebted for the cloth to make his volunteer regimentals, threatened the one ; and a feeling that he was without money for either his own illness or the confinement of his wife threatened the other. Bums 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 ovm door, he trembled much, and stooped with weakness and pain, and kept his feet with difficulty : his looks were woe-worn and ghastly, and no one who saw him, and there were several, expected to see him again in life. It was soon circulated through Dumfries, that Burns had returned worse from the Brow-well ; that Maxwell thought ill of him, and that, in tmth, he was dying. The anxiety of all classes was great, differences 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 conversation, 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 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xliii 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 ! lie was proud — he remembered the indiffer- ent practice of the corps to which he belonged, and turning to Gibson, one of his fellow - soldiers, who stood at his bed-side 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 letters which contained the charge against him of the Commissioners of Excise, and his own eloquent 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 draught 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 : — " Altho' thou maun never bo 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 Devon banks." It was a sad sight to see the poet gradually sinking ; his Avife in hourly expectation of her sixth confinement, and his four helpless children — a daughter, a sweet child, had died the year before — with no one of their lineage to soothe them with kind words or minister to their wants. Jessie Lewars, with equal prudence 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-law would hasten to them and speak comfort. He wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, saying, " I have written to you so often without receiving 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 bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul : your con- versation and your correspondence were at once highly entertaining and instructive — with what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell !" A tremor pervaded his frame ; his tongue grew parched, and he was at times delirious : on the fourth day after his return, when his attendant, James Maclure, held his medicine to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly, rose abuost wholly up, spread out his hands, sprang forward nigh the whole length of the xliv i.ii'K OF Koi'.Kirr wikns. bed, fell on his face, and expired. 1 lo died on the 21st of July, wlien nearly thirty-seven years and seven months old. The burial of Burns, on the 25th of July, v^^as an im})rcssive and mournful scene : half the people of Nithsdalc and the neighbouring parts of Galloway had crowded into Dum- fries, to see their poet " mingled vnth tlie earth," and not a few had been permitted to look at his body, laid out for interment. It was a calm and beautiful day, and as the body was borne along the street towards the old kirk -yard, by his brethren of tlie volun- teers, not a sound was heard but the measured step and the solemn music : there was no impatient crushing, no fierce elbowing — the crowd which filled the street seemed conscious what they were now losing for ever. Even while this pageant was passing, the widow of the poet was taken in labour ; but the infant born in that unhappy hour soon shared his father's grave. On reaching the northern nook of the kirk-yard, where the grave was made, the mourners halted ; the coffin was divested of the mort-cloth, and silently lowered to its resting-place, and as the first shovel-full of earth fell on the lid, the volunteers, too agitated to be steady, justified the fears of the poet, by three ragged vollies. He who now writes this very brief and imperfect account, was present : he thought then, as he 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 was replaced, were worth all the splendour of a show which mocked with unintended mockery the bui'ial 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 alford 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 poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard, Elijah, did Elisha, at the plough, and threw her mspiring mantle over me." The dust of the bard was again disturbed, when the body of JMrs. Burns was laid, in April, 1834, beside the remains of her husband : his skull was dug up by the district craniologists, to satisfy their minds by measurement that he was equal to tlie composition of " Tarn o' Shanter," or " Mary in Heaven." This done, they placed the skull in a leaden box, " carefully lined with the softest materials," and re- turned it, we hope for ever, to the liallowed ground. Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish poets : in liis person he was tall and sinewy, and of such strength and activity, that Scott alone, of all tlie poets I have seen, seemed his equal : his forehead was broad, his liair black, with an inclination to curl, his visage uncommonly 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 eloquent 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, he eontiniied through life to love on, and vv^as as ready with the lasting incense of the muse for the ladies of Nithsdalc as for the lasses of Kyle : his earliest song was in praise of a young girl who reaped by his side, when ho was seventeen — his latest in honour of a lady by whose side he had wandei'ed and dreamed on the banks of the Devon. He was of a nature proud and suspicious, and I-ll'K OF K015KRT BUUNS. xlv towards the close of his life seemed disposed to regard all above lilm in rank as men who unworthily possessed the patrimony of genius ; ho desired to see the order of nature restored, and worth and talent in precedence of the base or the dull. lie had no medium in his hatred or his love ; he never spared the stupid, as if they were not to be endured because he was bright ; and on the heads of the innocent possessors of titles or wealth he was ever ready to shower liis lampoons. lie loved to start doubts in religion which he knew inspiration only could solve, and he spoke of Calvinism with a latitude of language that grieved pious listeners. He was warm-hearted and generous to a degree, above all men, and scorned all that was selfish and mean with a scorn quite romantic. He was ii steadfast friend and a good neighbour : while ho lived at Ellisland few passed his door without being entertained at his table ; and even when in poverty, on the Millholc-brae, the poor seldom left his door but with blessings on their lips. Of his modes of study he has himself informed us, as well as of the seasons and places in which he loved to muse. He composed while he strolled along the secluded banks of the Doon, the Ayr, or the Nith ; as the images crowded on his fancy his pace became quickened, and in his highest moods he was excited even to tears. He loved the winter for its leafless trees, its swelling floods, and its winds which swept along the gloomy sky, ■with frost and snow on their wings ; but he loved the autumn more — he has neglected to say why — the muse was then more liberal of her favours, and he composed with a happy alacrity unfelt in all other seasons. He filled his mind and heart with the mate- rials of sonof — and retired from gazing on woman's beauty, and from the excitement of her charms, to record his impressions in verse, as a painter delineates on his canvas the looks of those who sit to his pencil. His chief place of study at Ellisland is still remem- bered : it extends along the river-bank towards the Isle : there the neighbouring gentry love to walk and peasants to gather, and hold it sacred, as the place where he composed Tarn o' Shanter. His favourite place of study, when residing in Dumfries, was the ruins of Llncluden College, made classic by that sublime ode, " The Vision," and that level and clovery sward contiguous to the College, on the northern side of the Nith : the latter place was his favourite resort ; it is known now by the name of Burns's musing ground, and there he conceived many of his latter lyrics. In case of interruption he completed the verses at the fireside, where he swimg to and fro in his arm-chair till the task was done : he then submitted the song to the ordeal of his wife's voice, which was both sweet and clear, and while she sung he listened attentively, and altered or amended till the whole was in harmony, music and words. The genius of Bums 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 loftiness of imagination, he recedes into the second. He owes little of his fame to his subjects, for, saving the beauty of a few 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 were familiar 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 surprising us with wonders, neither did he go to crowns or coronets to attract the stare of the peasantry around him, by things which to them wore as a book shut and sealed : u xlvi LIFE OF ROr.ERT BUrxNS. " The Daisy" grew on the lands which he ploughed ; " The Mouse" built her frail nest on liis own stubblc-ficld ; " The Haggis" recked on his own table ; " The Scotch Drink" of which he sang was the produce of a neighbouring still ; " The Twa Dogs," which con- versed so wisely and wttily, were, one of them at least, his OAvn collies; " The Vision" is but a picture, and a brilliant one, of his own hopes and fears ; " Tarn Samson" was a friend whom he loved ; " Doctor Hornbook" a neighbouring pedant ; " Matthew Henderson" a social captain on half-pay ; " The Scotch Bard" who had gone to the West Indies was Burns himself ; the heroine of " The Lament" was Jean Armour ; and " Tam o' Shanter" a facetious farmer of Kyle, who rode late and loved pleasant company, nay, even " The Dcil" himself, whom he had the hardihood to address, was a being whose eldrich croon had alarmed the devout matrons of Kyle, and had wandered, not unseen by the bard himself, among the lonely glens of the Doon. Burns was one of the first to teach the world that hifrh moral poetry resided in the humblest subjects : whatever he touched became elevated; his spirit possessed and inspired the commonest topics, and endowed them with life and beauty. His songs have all the beauties and but few of them the faults of his poems : they flow to the music as readily as if both air and words came into the world together. The sentiments are from nature, they are rarely strained or forced, and the words dance in their places and echo the music in its pastoral sweetness, social glee, or in the tender and the moving. He seems always to write with woman's eye upon him : he is gentle, per- suasive and impassioned : he appears to watch her looks, and pours out his praise or his complaint according to the changeful moods of her mind. He looks on her, too, with a sculptor's as well as a poet's eye : to him who works in marble, the diamonds, eme- ralds, pearls, and elaborate ornaments of gold, but load and injure the harmony of proportion, the grace of form, and divinity of sentiment of his nymph or his goddess — so with Burns the fashion of a lady's bodice, the lustre of her satins, or the sparkle of her diamonds, or other finery with which wealth or taste has loaded her, are neglected as idle frippery ; while her beauty, her form, or her mind, matters which are of nature, and not of fashion, are remembered and praised. He is none of the millinery bards, Avho deal in scented silks, spider-net laces, rare gems, set in rarer workmanship, and who shower dia- monds and pearls by the bushel on a lady's locks : he makes bright eyes, flushing cheeks, the magic of the tongue, and the " pulses' maddening play" perform all. His songs are, in general, pastoral pictures : he seldom finishes a portrait of female beauty without enclosing it in a natural frame-work of waving woods, running streams, the melody of birds, and the lights of heaven. Those who desire to feel Burns in all his force, must seek some summer glen, when a country girl searches among his many songs for one which sym- pathizes with her own heart, and gives it full utterance, till wood and vale is filled with the melody. It is remarkable that the most naturally elegant and truly impassioned songs in our literature were written by a ploughman in honour of the rustic lasses around him. His poetry is all life and energy, and bears the impress of a warm heart and a clear understanding : it abounds with passions and opinions — vivid pictures of rural happiness and the raptures of successful love, all fresh from nature and observation, and not as they are seen through the spectacles of books. The wit of the clouted shoe is there without its LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlvii coarseness : there is a prodigality of humour without licentiousness, a pathos ever natural and manly, a social joy akin sometimes to sadness, a melancholy not unallicd to mirth, and a sublime morality which seeks to elevate and soothe. To a love of man he added an affection for the flowers of the valley, the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field : he perceived the tie of social sympathy which united animated with unanimated nature, and in many of his finest poems most beautifully he has enforced it. His thoughts arc original and his style new and unborrowed : all that he has written is distinguished by a hapi>y carelessness, a bounding elasticity of spirit, and a singular felicity of expression, simple yet inimitable ; he is familiar, yet dignified, careless, yet correct, and concise, yet clear and full. All this and much more is embodied in the language of humble life — a dialect reckoned barbarous by scholars, but which, coming from the lips of inspiration, becomes classic and elevated. The prose of this great poet has much of the original merit of his verse, but it is seldom so natural and so sustained : it abounds with fine outflashings and with a genial warmth and vigour, but it is defaced by false ornament and by a constant anxiety to say fine and forcible things. He seems not to know that simplicity was as rare and as needful a beauty in prose as in verse ; he covets the pauses of Sterne and the point and antithesis of Junius, like one who believes that to write prose well he must be ever lively, ever pointed, and ever smart. Yet the accoimt which he wrote of himself to Dr. Moore is one of the most spirited and natural narratives in the language, and composed in a style remote from the strained and groped-for witticisms and put-on sensibilities of many of his letters : — " Simple," as John Wilson says, " we may well call it ; rich in fancy, over- flowing in feeling, and dashed off in every other paragraph with the easy boldness of a great master." PREFACE. [The first edition, pi-inted at Kilmarnock, July, 1786, by John Wilson, bore on the title-page these simple words : — "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Bums;" the following motto, marked " Anony- mous," but eyidently the poet's own composition, was more ambitious:— " The simple Bard, unbrokc by rules of art, He pours the wild effusions of tlie heart: And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs Laspire — Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."] The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for com- mencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him in his and their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship awakened his vanity so far as to make him think any thing of his worth showing : and none of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings — the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears — in his own breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and trem- bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, tliat even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as— an impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a genius to o 1 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word genius, the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abi- lities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaf- fected sincerity, declares, that even in his liighest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly-admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the follow- ing pieces, but rather with a view to kindle at their flame than for servile imitation. To his Subscribers, the Author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and circumstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS. Minte x. A DIIIGE. [This is one of the earliest of the poet's recorded compositions: it WBs written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert burns, ' a juvenile production.' To walk by ativer while flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the storm howl- ing among the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. " In such a season," he said, "just after a, trail) of misfortunes, I com- posed Winter, a Dirp^e."] The wintry west extends his blast, And liail and rain does blaw ; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The bhnding sleet and snaw j While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae ; And bird and beast in covert rest. And pass the heartless day. " The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,''' The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May : The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul. My griefs it seems to join ; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine ! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scliome These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will ! Then all I want (O, do thou gi-ant This one request of mine !) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign ! 1 Dr. Younpr. II. DEATH AND D Y I N G W O R D S OP ^oor iWailie, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET Y O \V E. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. [This tale is partly true ; the poet's pet ewe got entangled in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch ; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this was related by Hu^hoc, the herd-boy, amused Bums so mucli, who was on his way to the plough, that he iminedi. ately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when they met in the evening • the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell ai'e still jjointed out.] As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on tlie tether Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch : There, groaning, dying, slie did lie, When Hughoc^ he cam doytin by. Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted ban's, Poor Hughoc like a statue stan'.s ; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it ! He gaped \vide but naething spak — At length poor Mailie silence brak. " thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! My dying words attentive hear. An' bear them to my master deai-. " TeU him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O bid him never tie thorn mair Wi' wicked strings o' lieinp or hair ! But ca' them out to park or hill. An' let them wander at their will ; ' A neibor Iierd-callon. THE POETICAL WORKS So may liis flock increase, aud grow To scores o' lambs, an' imcks of woo' ! " Tell him he was a master kin' An' ay was gudc to me an" mine ; An' now my dying cliarge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust tliem wi' him. " O, bid him save their harmless lives Fi"ae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives ! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till tliey be fit to fend themsel ; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, "NVi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. " An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For nionie a year come thro' the sheers ; So wives will gie them bits o' bread. An" bairns greet for them when they're dead. " My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care ; An' if ho live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast ! An' wai-nhim what I winna name, To stay content wi' yowcs at hame ; An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. " An' niest my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! O, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. But ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thj-sel ! " And now, juy bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kind to aue anither. " Now, honest Ilughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale ; An' bid him burn this cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." This said, poor Mailie tum'd her head. And clos'd her een amang the dead. in. [Bums, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he rcganis himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegant morsel : but says that it resembles too elosely "ThcEwicand tlie Crof.leJ Horn," to be admired as original: the Shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's "Life and Death of the I'iper of Kilbarchan."] Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; Our bardie's fate is at a close. Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; Poor Mailie's dead ! It's no the loss o' warl's gear. That could sae bitter draw the tear. Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed : He's lost a friend and neebor dear. In Mailie dead. Thro' a' tlie toun she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi' kindly bleat, when she ditl spy him. She ran wi' speed : A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him Than Mailie dead. I Avat slio was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave horsel wi' mense : I'll say't, she never brak a fence. Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the sponce Sin' Mailie's dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living imago in her yowe. Comes bleating to him, owre the knowo, For bits o' bread ; An' down the briny pearls rowe For ^Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips,^ Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed : A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! It maks gnid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin dread ; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! Come, join tiie inelancholious croon O' Robin's reed ! His heart will never get aboon ! His Mailie's dead ! ' VAHIATION. 'She was nae get o' nmted rams, Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams. She was the flower o' Kairlie lambs, A famous breed ! Now Robin, greetin, cliews the hams O' Mailie dead.' OF KOllfJUT BURNS. IV iFirst lajJistlc to 3Dabic, A BROTUER POET. fin tlic summer of 1/(14, Burns, while at work in the panlcn, re- peated this Kpistle to his brother Gilbert, who was much pleased witli the i)ci fiirmancc, which he considered equal if ncit superiiir to some of Allan Uainsay's Epistles, and said if it were printed be liad no doubt that it would be well received by people of taste.] -January, [17^4.] While winds frac afF Ben-Lomond blaw. And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And liing us owre tlie ingle, I set me down to pass the time, And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. In hamely wcstlin jingle. Wliile frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, That live sae bien an' snug : I tent less and want less Their roomy fire-side ; But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's power To keep, at times, frae being sour. To see how things are shar'd ; How best o' chiels are wliiles in want. While cools on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't ; But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread. As lang's M'c're hale and fier : " JIair spier na, nor fear na," ' Auld age ne'er mind a feg. The last o't, the warst o't. Is only but to beg. To lie in kilns and bams at e'en When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress ! Yet then content could make lis blest ; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste O' truest hajipiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile. However Fortune kick the ba'. Has ay some cause to smile : And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma' ; Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther we can fa' ' Ramsay. Wliat tho', like commoners of air. We wander out we know not where. But either house or hall ? Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, A re free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the gi'ound. And blackbirds whistle clear, Witli honest joy our hearts will bound To see the coming year : On braes when we please, tlicn, We'll sit and sowth a tune ; Syne rhyme till't we 11 time till't, And sing 't when we hae done. It's no in titles nor in rank ; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purcliase peace and rest; It's no in makin muckle mair ; It's no in books, it's no m lear, To make us truly blest ; If happiness hae not her scat And centre in the breast. We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest : Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang ; The heart ay's the part ay That makes lis right or wrauj Think ye, that sic as yon and I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wlia scarcely tent us in their way. As hardly worth their while ? Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood God's creatures they oppress ! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess ! Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell ! Esteeming and deeming Its a' an idle tale ! Then let us cheerfn' acquiesce ; Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By Joining at our state ; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet. They gie the wit of age to youth ; They let us ken ourscl' ; They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses, and crosses. Be lessons right severe, Tliere's wit there, ye'U get there Ye'll find nae other wliere. THE rOI-lTICAL AVOKKS But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest,) This life has joys for you and I ; And joys that riches ne'er could buy : And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien' ; Ye hac your INIeg your dearest part, And I my darling Jean ! It warms me, it channs me. To mention but her name : It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame ! 0, all ye pow'rs who rule above ! O Thou, whose \erj self art love ! Thou know'st my words sincere ! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part, Is not more fondly dear ! "When heart-corroding care and grief Deprive my soul of rest, Iler dear idea brings relief And solace to my breast. TJiou Being, All-seeing, O hear my fervent pray'r ! Still take her, and make her Thy most peculiar care ! All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! Tlic smile of love, the friendly tear, The sjTupatlietic glow ! Long since, this world's thorny ways Uad numbered out my weary days, Had it not been for you ! Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill ; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender stUl. It lightens, it brightens The tenebrific scene. To meet with, and gi-eet with My Davie or my Jean ! O, how that name inspires my style ! 'J'he words come skelpln, rank and file, Amaist before I ken ! The ready measure rins as fine. As Phoebus and the famous Nine Were glowrin owre my jjen. My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 'Till auce he's fairly het ; And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, An' rin an unco fit : But least then, the beast then Should rue this hasty ride, I'll light now, and dight now Ilis sweaty, wizen'd hide. .^cconD 1cpi0tlc to Dabic, A BROTHER POET. [David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time master of a country school, and was velcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of virse. This epistle he prefixed U) his pncms printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1739 : he loved to speak of his early comrade, and supplied Walker with some ver>' valuable anecdotes : he died one of the magistrates of Inine, on the 2nd of May, I(i3l1, at the age of seventy.] AULD NIBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor. For you auld-farrent, irien'ly letter ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair. For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you thro' the weary widdle O' war'ly cares, TiU bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld, gray hairs. But Davie, lad, I"m red ye're glaikit ; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket Until ye fyke ; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons ; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink. The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; But just the pouchie put the nieve in. An' while ought's there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair. Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. My chief, amaist my only pleasure. At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure. The Muse, poor hizzie i Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. She's seldom lazy. Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; OF ROBERT BURNS. But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tlio' e'er sa puii', Na, even tlio' limpiu' wi' the spavie Frae door to door. VI. aiiDtcgs to i\)t Dcil *' O rriiicc I O Chief of many throned Pov/rs Tliat led th' embattled Seraphim to war." Milton. [The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes moved the heart of one of the coldest of our critics. " It was, I think," says , Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. How pamjjer'd luxury, flattery by her side, The i:)aiasite empoisoning her ear, \\'ith all the servile wretches in the rear. Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; And eyes the simijle rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind, Some coareer substance, unrefiu'd. Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow. The powers you proudly own ? Is there, beneath love's noble name, Can harbour, dai-k the selfish aim. To bless himself alone ! ]Mark maiden innocence a prey To love-pretending snai-es. This boasted honour turns away. Shunning soft pity's rising sway. Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers ! Perhai)S this hour, in misery's squalid nest. She strains your infant to her joyless breast. And Avith a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- ing blast ! Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down. Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! I'll satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, Stretched on his straw ho lays himself to sleep, Willie thiough the ragged roof and chinky wall. Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! Tiiink ou tiu^ dimgeon's giini confine, Whei'(! j>iiilt and jkjoi' misfortune jjine ! Guilt, ei'i'ing man, relenting view ! liut shall tliy legal rage pursue 'J'ho wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? Aflliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite tho bliss !" I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the j)ouLliery snaw, And hailed the morning with a cheer — A cottage-i'ousing craw ! But deep this truth impressed my mind •• Through all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God. XIIT. A F R A G M E N T. [" I entirely agree," says Ruins, " with the autlior of the TliHoi-y of Moral Sentiments, tnax Ittmoise is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human busom ; an ordinary pitch of fortitude mayhearupHdmiralily wcU, under those calamities, m the procure- ment of which we ourselves ha\e had no hand : but v>-hen our follies or crimes have made us wretched, to bear all with manly firmness, and at the same time ha\e a proper penitential sense of our niiscot- duct, is a glorious effort of self-command."] Of all the nimierous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish. Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every other circumstance, the mind, Has this to say, ' It was no deed of mine;' But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self !' Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt, — Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved oth; rs; The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd i:s, Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! burning hell ! in all thy store cf torments, There's not a keener lash ! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his he;at Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? O, happy ! hapiiy ! enviable man ! glorious magnanimity of soul ! 10 THE VOETICAL WORKS XIV. A CANTATA. This InimitahU' poem, unknown to Currie and unhcsini of while ;hc p»«t U\c. £ 5S-^ OF UOIJKUT ]jrKNS. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious ligiit was glintiu' ; Tlie hares were liii-plin down the furs, The lav'rocks they were chautiu' Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomcly I glowr'd abroad, To see a sceue sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way ; Twa liad mauteeles o' dolefu' black, But aue wi' lyart lining ; The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in tlie fashion shining, Fu' gay that day. The twa appear' d like sisters twin, In f(.>ature, form, an' claes ; Their visage witherd, lang, an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes : The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony lanibie. An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon us e'er slie saw me, Fu' kind that day. AVi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me ; I'm sure I've seen that bounie face. But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laugliin' 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, xVn' that s Hypocrisy. I'm gauu to Maucliline holy fair. To spend an hour in dafSn : Gin ye'U go there, yon runkl'd pair, We will get famous laughin' At them this day." Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't ; I'll get my Sunday's sark on, An' meet you on the holy spot ; Faith we'se hae fine remarkin' !" Then I gaed liame 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 fiirmers gash, in ridin' graitli Gaed lioddin by their cottars ; There, swankies young, in br,aw braid-claitli, 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, Fu' crump that day. Wlien by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An' Avo maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show. On cv'ry side they'r gath'rin'. Some carrying dails, some cliairs an' stools. An' some are busy blethrin' Right loud 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. Here sits a raw of tittlin' 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, Anitlier sighs an' praj's : 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. O happy is that man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him I 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 Ilornie, as in ancicait days, 'ISIang sons o' God present him, Tiie vera sight o' Sloodie's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' friglit that day. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' rattlin an' 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. 20 TUE rOKTICAL WORKS Smith opens out his caulJ harangues, On practice and on morals ; An' afF tlie godly pour in thrangs, To gie the jars an" barrels A lift that day. What signifies his barren shine, Of moral pow'rs and reason ? His EngUsh style, an' gestures fine, Are a' clean out o' 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 ]?eebles, frae the water-fit, Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mini has view'd it, "While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,' Fast, fast, that day. Wee IMiller, 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 hafilins-wise o'ercomes him At times that day. Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills, "\Vi' 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, ^\ i' logic, an' wi' scripture, They raise a din, that, in the end. Is like to breed a rupture 0' wrath that day. Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair Than either school or college : It kindles wit, it wauken's lair. It pangs us fou o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. Or ony stronger potion. It never faibj, on drinking deep. To kittle up our notion liy night or day. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body. Sit round the table, weol content. An' steer about the toddy. On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're making observations ; I A su^cec 90 callnl, which facn the tent In Mauchline. While some are cozie i' the neuk. An' foi'min' 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' spairin' : His piercing words, like llighlan' swords. Divide the joints an marrow ; His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell. Our veia 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 Avi' fear, An' think they hear it roarin', When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neebor 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 di-ink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches : An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps. Was dealt about in lunches. An' dawds that day. In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. An' sits down by the tire, 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' gi'es them't lilie a tether, Fu' 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 ! O wives be niiudfu', ance yoursel How bonnie lads ye wanted. An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be afl^ronted On sic a day ! Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, Begins to jow an' croon ; Some swagger hame, thi best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, 'i'ill lassi'S strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink. They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. Shakspcare's Hamlet. OF UOIJIiUT BURNS. 21 How monle hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' hisses ! Their hearts o' stanc, g-in night, arc gane, As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are Ibii o' love divine ; Tliere's some are fou o' brandy; An' monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. XXL "Cj^c CDcDination. ' Kor sense they little owe to frugal heav'n— To please the mob they hide tlie little giv'n.' [This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay.asoiieof the ministers to the Laijjh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the (jtli of April, 178(i. That reverend pei-son was an Auld LiRlit professor, and his ordination incensed all tlie NewLiethts, hence the bitter le\ily of the poem. These dissensions ha\-e long since passed away : Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though imwclcome at first, he soon learned to regai-d them only as a proof of the powers of tile poet. ] Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw Of a' denominations, Swith to the Laigli Kii-k, 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 ; ^ But Oliphant aft made her yell. An' Russell sair misca'd her ; This day Mackinlay taks the flail, And he's the boy will bland her ! He'll clap a shangan on her tail, An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 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 wrang her. For Heresy is in her pow'r. And gloriously she'U whang her Wi' pith this day. I Alluding to a scoflRng ballad which was made on the admis- sion of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to tlic Laij^h Kirk. Come, let a proper text be read, An' touc-h it aft' wi' vigour. How graceless llain' leugli at his dad, Which made Canaan a niger ; Or Phineas'* drove the murdering blade, Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,' the scauldin' jad. Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks but for the fashion ; And gie him o'er the flock, to feed. And punish each transgression ; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin. Spare them nae day. Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock tliy tail. And toss thy horns fu' canty ; Nae mair thoul't 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 wale, 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' : Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep, And o'er the tharims be tryin' ; Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. An' a' like lamb-tails flyin' Fu' fast this day ! Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', As lately Fen wick, 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' baiidrons : 1 Genesis, ix. 22. _ « Numbers, xxv. ft. 5 Enodus, iv. 25. 22 THE rOETICAL WORKS And ay' liecatcli'd the tither wretch, To fry them iu his caiidrons ; But now his honour maun detach, Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons. Fast, fast this day See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein through tlie city ; Hark, how the nine-taii'd cat she plays ! I vow its unco pretty : There, Learning, with liis Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty ; And Common Sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. But there's :Morality himseP, Embracing all opinions ; Hear, how lie gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions ; See, how she peels the skin an' fell, As ane were peeliu onions ! Now there — they're packed afFto hell. And banish' d our dominions. Henceforth this day. O, happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! Come bouse about the porter ! Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter : Mackiulay, 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 tliey deave us Avi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day. XXTT. ^&e CTalf. ro THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, On hU text, Malachi, iv. 2.—" And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CA tVES of the stall." [ThclauKh which this little poem rMscd against Steven was a loud one. Hums composed it during the sermon to which it rilates 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 Uurns heard him preach in Co- vcnt Garden Chapel, in lyw.] Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true. Though Heretics may Laugh ; For instance ; there's youjsel' just now, God knows, an unco Calf! 1 "New Light" i' was principaliy owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Lainiof Crai^,'ic, who died of his wounds after the action. 5 Coilus, king of the I'icts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to tiike its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the fa- mily seat of the Montgomeries of Coils-field, where his burial-i>laee is still sliown. 6 Barskimming, the scat of the late lord Justice-Clerk (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlcc, afterwards President of the Court irf Session.) 7 Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Stewart. « Colonel Fullarton. '2G THE POETICAL WORKS " All hail ! my own inspired burd ! 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. " Know, the great genius of this land Has many a light aerial band. Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously, As arts or arms they imderstand. Their hibours ])Iy. " 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. " 'i\Iong swelling floods of I'ceking 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 liand. " 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 a.ssign*d Hie humbler ranks of liuman-kind, The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, The artisan ; All choose, as vai'ious they're inclin'd The various man. " \\ lien yellow waves the heavy grain. The thrcat'ning storm some, strongly, rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain, With tillage-skill ; And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe o'er the liill. " Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; Some grace tlic maiden's artless smile ; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, For h u m bl e gai n s. 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 : And 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 fame. Held ruling pow'r ; I mark'd thj' embryo-tuneful flame. Thy natal hour. " With future hope, I oft would gaze. Fond, on thy little early ways. Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays. Of other times. " I saw thee seek the sounding shore. Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the north his fleec^y store Drove through the sky, I saw grim NatTire's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. " Or when the deep gi-een-mautled earth Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'rets birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, I saw thee eye the genei-al mirth With boundless love. " When ripend fields, and azure skies, Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys, And lonely stalk. To vent thy bosom's swelling rise In pensive walk. " When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name I taught thee how to pour in song. To soothe tl»y flame. " I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee i)leasure's devious way. Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray. By passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. " I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains. Till now, o'er all my wide; donu\ins 'J"hy fame extends , And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Become thy friends. OF KORKRT BURNS. 27 " Thou canst not loarn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's huulscape-glow ; Or wake the bosom-meltin-,' tliroc, With Shcnstone's art ; Or pour, with Gray, tlie 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 tiiy humble sphere to shine ; And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, Nor king's regard, Can give a bliss o'erraatcking 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 pohsh'd leaves and berries red, Did rustling play ; And like a passing thought, she fled In light away. XXV. " Tes! 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." Goi.usMrTH [This Poem contains a lively and striking picMire of some of the superstitious ohsenances of old Scotlarid : on Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but uni\'ersal in the north; and the charms and spells which Bums 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 is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fire-side, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including siipc;riuuicrary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the cnya,emcnts uf harvest. '* I never can help regarding this, "says James Hogg, " as rather a trivial poem !"J Upon that night, when fairies light. On Cassilis Downans^ dance. Or owre the lays, in sjilendid blaze. On sprightly coursers prance ; ' Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mis- chief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight er- r«nd her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. Whyles owre a linn the buruie plays. As through the glen it wimpl't ; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dinipl't ; ^V'hyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; AVhyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel. Unseen that night. if possible ; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take tliat instru- mentusedin winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call awecht; and go through all the attitudes of lerting down corn sgainstthe wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an appa- rition will pass through the barn, in at the windy dimr, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life. ' 'I'akc an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke- fellow. 2 You po out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where " three lairds' lands 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 having the exact figure of the grand ob- ject ill question, will come and turn the slce\'e, as if tu drj' the othc aide of it. 30 THE POETICAL WORKS Amang the brackens on the brae, Between her an' tlie moon, The deil, or else an outler qiiey, Gat up an' gae a croon : Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; Near lav'rock-height she juinpit, 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 higgles three ' are ranged, And ev'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, an' 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 hint. Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; SjTie, wi' a social glass o' strunt. They parted afF careerin' Fu' blythe that night. XXVI. iJilan luas maUc to if^ouin. [Theorigin of this fine poem is alluded to by Biims m one of his Setters to Mrs. Dunlop : " 1 had an old grand-uncle witli whom my mother lived in her girlish years : the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time Iiis highest enjoyment was to sic and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of ' Tlie Life and Age of Man.'" From that truly \cnerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek.in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Thougli the tone and sentiment coincide closely with " Man wss made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart, that Uums wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.] When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, ' Take three dishes: putclean waterin one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty ; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged ; he (or slie) dips the left hand ; if by chance in tlie clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar 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, anu c\ cry lime the arrangement of the dishes is altered. 2 Sowcns, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Hal- loween Sl'PPCT. 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 rev'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, Wliere 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. " O man ! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time ! Mispending 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 liis kind, Supported in his right : J >ut see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn ; Then age and want — oh ! ill match'd pair !- 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, Begret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose lieaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! " See yonder poor, o'crlabourd wiglit, So abject, mean, and vile, Wlio begs a brotiicr of tlie earth To give him leave to toil ; s t.~- OF ROBERT BURNS. 31 And see his lordly fellow-worm Tlie poor petition spurn, Unniindful, tliout^^h a weeping wife And helpless ott'spring mourn. " If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — By Nature's law design'd — Why was an independent wisli K'er i)lanted in my mind ? If not, wliy am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and ])ower To make his fellow mourn ? "Yet, let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast ; This partial view of liuman-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 ! " O 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." XXVIl. ^0 iXnin. ["I have been," says Burns, in his common-place 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 ruined temple. \\'hat 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.] All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; For one has cut my dearest tie, And qiuvers in my heart. Then low'ring and pouring. The storm no more I dread ; Thongh thick'ning and black'ning. Round my devoted head. And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd. While life a pleasure can afford, Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer ! No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; I court, I beg thy friendly aid. To close this scene of care ! When shall my soul, in silent peace, Resign life's joyless day ; My weary heart its throbbings cease. Cold mould'ring in the clay ? No fear more, no tear more. To stain my lifeless face ; Enclasped, and gi-asped Within thy cold embrace ! XXVIII 3)oI)u Couliic of IStlmarnocfe. ON THE rUBLICATIO.N OF HIS ESSAYS. [This burning corrimentarj-, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in lfi«l ; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer ; and may be cited as a sample of the «'it and the force which the poet brought to the great, hut now forgotten, controversy of the Wcst.J O Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs. Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girnin', looks back, Wishin" the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick. Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 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. Enthusiasm'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, But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel. An' twa red peats wad send relief. An' end the quarreL Dr. Taylor, of Nnrwich 32 THE POETICAL WOIIKS XXIX. % Sapraife. yK OLD SCOTTISH DAItD. AprU ).rt, 1785. (first El'ISTLE.) r" The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Hums, " was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking, is a term derii'Bd from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple in- strument is a ver>- portable one ; and well (i tted to the social inclina- tion of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had witli Uie implement was forgotten wlien the roke gave place to the spin- ning-wheel, tlie phrase came to be used by both sexes, on social occa- sions, and men talk of going with their rokcs as well as women. "J While briers au' woodbines budding green, An" paitricks scraicliin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excusa 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, araang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband liad addrcst To some sweet wife; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, " Can tliis be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?" They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. And sae about him there I spicr't, Then a' that ken't him round dcclar'd He had ingine, That, nane exceli'd it, fcvr cam ncar'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, 'Tween 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 pownies' death, At some dyke-baclc, 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 enough. I am nae poet in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance. An' hae to learning nae pretence. Yet what the matter ? ^A'hene'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 j.argon 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' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o' Greek 1 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 liamely in attire. May touch the heart. 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 encugh for me, If I could get it ! Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tlio' 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. 1 winna blaw about mysel ; As ill I like my fauts to tell ; But friends an' folk that wish me well. They .sometimes roosc me; Tlio' I maun own, as monie still As far abuse me. OK UUUKUT BUKNS. 83 There's ae wee faiit they wliiles hiy to uie, 1 like the hisses — (Jiule forgieme ! For inonie a phick they wheedle fiae me, At dance or fair; May be some ither tiling they gie me They weel can spare. But Maucliline race, or Mauchline fair ; I should l>e proud to meet you there ! We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rliymin'-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 bavins, sense, an' grace, Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 'i'o catch-the-plack ! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. Who hold your being on the terms, " Each aid the others," Come to my bowl, come to my arms. My friends, my brothers But, to conclude my lang epistle. As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. Who am, most fervent. While I can either sing or whistle, Your friend and servant. XXX. % Sapratfe. (second epistle.) [The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed lived at Dalfram in the neiKhhourhocxl of Muirkirk, and was a rustic wor- thipper of the Muse: he unluckily, however, involved himself in that Western bubble, the Ayr Hank, and consoled himself liy composing in his distress that song which moved tlie heart of Burns, begin- ning " When I upon thy bosom lean." He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved that ihe inspiration in liis song of domestic sorrow was no settled power of soul.] April 21aY, 17(i5. While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, This liouron e'enin'scdge 1 take To own I'm debtor, To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, For his kind letter. Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, Ilattlin' 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' inair, That troutli, my Jiead is grown right dizzie, An' something sair." Iler dowff excuses pat me mad : " (Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad ! I'll write, an' that "a hearty blaud. This vera night ; So dinna ye aifront your trade. But rhjTne it right. " Siiall bauld Lapi-aik, the king o' hearts, Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts. In terms sae friendl}'. Yet ye'll neglect to shaw 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 aft-loof. My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, Tho' fortune use you hard an' shai-p ; 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 W^i' lyart pow, I'll laugh, an" sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow ! Now comes tho sax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 84 THE POETICAL WORKS Still persecuted by the limiiicr Frae year to year ; But yet despite the kittle kiininer, I, Rob, am here. Do ye env)^ the city gent, Behint a kist to lie and sklent, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. And muekle wame, In some bit brugh to represent A bailie's name ? Or is't the paughty, feudal Tliane, Wi' ruffl'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 I " Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! Gie me o' wit an' sense a Hft, 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 fate. Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav'n, tliat's no the gate We learn onr 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, thouglitless devils ! yet may shine In glorious light. While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, Their worthless nievfu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light. Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. To reach tlioir native kindred skies. And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, In some mild sjjliere. Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year ! XXXI. TO % SLaptaife. (t II I R » EPISTLE.) [I have heard one of our most distinffiiishcd English poets recite with a sort ofccstacysomeof the versesof these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thounlits. He avciTtd, how- ever, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, " tapetless," " ramfeezled," and " forjcsket," a» inQ-usions in our dialect. These words seem indeed, tosomeScotcn- men, strange and uncouth, but they are true words of the west.] Sept. I3th, I78;>. GuiD speed an' furder to you Johnny, Guid health, hale ban's, an' weather bonny ; Now when ye' re nickan down fu' canny The staff o' bread. May ye ne'er want a stoup o' 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' skclpin' at it. But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muekle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, Like ony dark. 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' yo're better, But mair profane. But let the kirk-follf 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 ban' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take. An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break. But if the beast and branks be spar'd Till kye bo gaun without the herd. An' a' the vittel in the yard. An' theekit right, 1 mean your ingle-side to guard Ac winter night. OF ROIiEKT BURNS. 35 Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitsc 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 tliretty, Sweet ane an' twenty ! But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast, An' now the sin keeks in the west, Then I maun rin amang the rest An' quat my chanter ; Sae I subscribe myself in haste, Your's, Rab the Ranter. XXXII. TO 3Sltniam Simpson, OCHILTREE. 'The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was sclioolmastcr of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New Lanark: he was a writer of verses too, like many more of the poet's comra many of the admirers of the poet, but they remamed in manuscript till given to the world by Sir Harris Nico- las, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of the British Poets.] Let other heroes boast their scars. The marks of sturt and strife ; And other poets sing of wars, Tlie plagues of human life; Shame fa' the fun ; 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 inci'ease. 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 sharCj Large, of the flaming current ; And all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent. He felt the powerful, high behest, ThriU -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 B[urns], With future rhymes, an' other times. To emulate his sire ; To sing auld Coil in nobler style, With more poetic fire. 38 THE rOETICAL WORKS Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes ; And bless auld Coiia, largo 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, Tliro' endless generations ! XXXV. [Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle assistant to Wod- row, minister of Tarboltdn: he was a good preacher, a mode- rate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of the Coils- field Montgomerys. His dependent condition depressed his spirits : he grew dissipated ; and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common sol- dier, and died in a foreign land.] Sept. \7tf1, 1785. While at the stook the shearers cow'r To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r To pass the time, To you I dedicate the hour In idle rhyme. My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' 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, Sliou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if thcj' 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, an hauf-mile graces, Their raxin' conscience, Wliase 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. ' (ja\in Hamilton Ei.q. See him, the poor man's friend in need. The gentleman in word an' deed, An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless slcellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blcllums ? O Pope, had I thy satire's darts To gie the rascals their deserts, I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. An' tell aloud Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts To cheat the crowd. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be. But twenty times, I rather wou'd be An atheist clean, Than under gospel colours hid be Just for a screen. An honest man may like a glass. An honest man may like a lass. But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain. An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, Like some we ken. They take religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth, For what ? — to gie their 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 ; To stigmatize false friends of tliine Can ne'er defame thee. Tho' blotch' d an' foul wi' mony a stain, An' far unworthy of thy train, With trembling voice 1 tune my strain To join witli those. Who boldly daur thy caiise maintain In spite 0' foes : In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite of undermining jobs. In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. But hellisli spirit. O Ayr I my dear, my native ground. Within thy presbyterial bound A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as Christians too, renown'd. An' manly preachers. OF ROBERT BURNS. :i^> Sir, in tliat circle you are iiaiu'd ; Sir, ill that circle you are fain'd ; An' some, by whom your doctrine's Mam'd, (Which gics you honour,) Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner. Pardon this freedom I have ta'cn, An' if impertinent I've been. Impute it not, good Sir, in ano Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye. XXXVI 'STo a iWougc, ON TUIIXING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE I'LOUGH, NOVEJIBEU, 1785. [This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the iil(iut;h, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out; and a man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed. Bums 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 ?"] Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle ! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion. Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal ! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; Wiiat then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. And never miss't ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! An' naetliing, now, to big a new ane, O' fog;gage green ! An' bleak December's winds cnsuin', Baitli suell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wa.ste, An' weary winter coiniii' fast. An' cozie here, beneath tlie 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 liald. 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 o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley. An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For 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. 5cotc& Urtnfe. " Giehim strong drink, until he wink. That's sinking in despair ; An' liquor guid to tire his bluid. That's prest wi' grief an' care ; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flo\ving o'er. Till he forgets his loves or debts. An' minds his griefs no more." Solomon's Provkrb, xxxi. (i, 7. [" I here enclose you," says Bums, 20 March, 1786, to his fiiend Kennedy, " my Scotch Drink ; I hope some time before we hear tlia gowk, to haie the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock : when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."J Let other poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' -wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus An' crabbit names an' 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, riclily brown, ream o'er the brink, In glorious faem. Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink. To sing thy name ! 40 THE POETICAL WORKS Let liusky wheat the haughs adorn, An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn. Perfume the plain, Leeze mc on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain ! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o' food ! Or turablin' 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' ; AVlien 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 o' drooping Care ; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair. At 's weary toil ; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy, siller 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 bicker, 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 I' th' lugget caup ! Then Bumewin 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 forehammcr. Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirliu' weanios see the light. Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ; Wae worth the name ! Nae howdie gets a social niglit. Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley -bree Cement tho 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 trasli ! Fell source o' 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, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. 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 ; O whiskey ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses ! Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks At ither'sa — 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, Wiia m:ik the whiskey stells their prize ! Hand up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice .' There, seize the blinkers I An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d — n'd drinkers. OK ROHEUT BlIllN'S. 4J Forttiiio ! il" tliou'U but ^ie me st'U Hale breeks, a scone, an' wliislcey gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak' a' the rest. An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. XXXVIII. THE author's lEarnf^t ®rg ant) ^vayei- TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THK HOUSE OF COMMONS, " Dearest of distillation ! last and liest ! How art thou lost ! " Parody on Milton ( " This Poem was wniten, says Bums, " before tne act anent (he Scottish distilleries, of session IJBfi. for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks." Before the passinRof this Ictiicnt act, so sharp was the law in the North, that some distillers relinquished their trade ; the price of barley was affected, and Scot- land, already exasperated at the refusal of a militia, for whicli she was a petitioner, began to handle her claymore, and was perhaps only iiindered from drawing it by the act mentioned by the poet. In an early copy of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh Mont- gomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton : — " Thee, sodgerHugh, my watchman stcnted. If bardies e'er are represented, 1 ken if that yere sword were wanted Ye'd lend yere hand ; But when there's aught to say anent it Yere at a stand." The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think the compli- ment to his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to his un- ready tongue, and omitted the stanza, j Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires. An' doucely manage our affairs In parliament. To you a simple Bardie's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! Your honour's hearts wi' grief twad pierce, To see her sittin' on her a — e Low i' the dust, An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, An' like to brust ! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On aquavitfc ; An' rouse them up to strong conviction, An' move their pity. Staud forth, aif tell yon Premier youth. The honest, ojien, naked truth : Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. His servants humble : The muckle devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble ! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom AVi' them wha grant 'em If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath'rin votes you were na slack ; Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, An' hum an' haw ; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. Paint Scotland greetin' owi-e her tlirissle, Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle. Seizin' astell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Or lampit shell. Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, CoUeagiiing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! But could I like Montgomeries fight. Or gab like Bosvrell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. An' tie some hose well. God bless your honours, can ye see't, The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, An' no get warmly on your feet. An' gar them hear it ! An' tell thorn with a patriot heat. Ye winna bear it ? Some o' you nicely ken the laws. To round the period an' jjause. An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues : Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. 42 THE POETICAL WORKS Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran' ; Thee, aith-dotesting, chaste Kilkerran ; ' An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron. The Laird o' Graham An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; An' Livingstone, thebauld Sir Willie: An' monie ithers, Wliom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, To get aidd Scotland back her kettle : Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle. Ye' 11 see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in crankous mood, Tier 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 anco 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, I' th' fu-st 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 ! E'en cowe the cadie ! An' send liim to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's I'll be liis 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. ' Sir Adam Ferguson. 2 The Duke of Montrose. 3 A worthy old hostess of the author's in MauchTinc, where he son.ctimea btu'Hm | wonted ])ottle swagger, But yet he dnnv the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; " L — d, five !" he cry'd, an' owrc did staggei'; Tam Samson's dead ! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane, araang tlie heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming bletlior, Tam Samson's dead ! OF ROBERT RURNS. 45 Tkove low Ik" lies, in Ousting rost ; Perluips upon his mould'rin<^' breast Some spitefu' niuirfowl bigs lier 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 grave, Three volleys let his mem'ry crave O' pouther an' load, 'Till Echo answer frae her cave Tam Samson's dead ! Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er lie be ! Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man want we : Tam Samson's dead ! lEpitap]^. Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies, Ye canting zealots spare him ! If honest wortii in heaven rise, Ye'U mend or ye win near him. ht ©ontra. 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. Sament, 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." HOMK. [The hern and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and .lean Armour. " This was a most melancholy affaii," says thepoet in his letter to Moore, " which I cannot yet bear to reflect Mil, and hail very nearly given me one or two of the principal qua- lifications for a place among those wlio have losttlie chart and mis- ulten the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an trnorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this I'oem 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 ivhom they jointly edited it is needless to say : and how they could rfad the last two lines of the third verse, and commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies defini- tion. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a SBCond issue of the volume] O THOU pale orb, that silent shines. While care-untroubled mortals sleep 1 Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders hero to wail and woop ! With woe I niglitly vigils keep, Beneath tiiy wan, unwarming beam, And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. I joyless view thy rays adorn The faintly marked distant liill I joyless view thy trembling horn, Itofloctcd in tlio gurgling rill : My fondly-fluttering heart, bo still! Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! Ah ! must the agonizing thrill For ever bar returning peace ! III. No idly-feign'd poetic pains. My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; The promis'd father's tender name; These were the pledges of my love ! Encircled in her clasping arms. How have the raptur'd moments flown I How have I wisli'd for Ibrtime's charms, For her dear sake, and lier's 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 ? Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. So lost to honour, lost to tiiitli, 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 Ye winged hours that o'er us past Enraptur'd more the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-trcasur'd thoughts cmploy'd That breast, how dreary now, and void. For her too scanty once of room ! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to gild the gloom ! The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe : 4fi tup: roFTicAL works I see the hours in long array, That I must suffer, lingering: slow. Full many a pang, and many a tliroe, Keen recollection's direful train, ^lust wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. And when my nightly couch I try, Sore-harass'd out w-ith care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, From such a horror-breathing night. ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! The time, unheeded, sped away, "While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. To mark the mutual kindling eye. Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! Scenes never never to return ! Scenes, if in stupor I forget. Again I feel, again I burn ! From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn. Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow. XLII. [" I think," said liums, " it is one of thegrcatcst pleasures attend- ing a poetic genius, that wc can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied fonn in verse, which to me is ever immediate case." He elsewhere says, " My passions raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme." That eminent painter, Fuseli, on see- ing his wife in a passion, said composedly, " Swear, my love, Mvear heartily: yuu know not how much it will ease you !" This poem was printed In the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true pic- ture of those hitter moments experienced by the bard, when lo\e and fortune alike deceived him.] Oppress'd with gilef, oppress'd with care, A burden more tluin I can bear. I set me down and sigh : O life ! thou art a galling load, Along a rough a weary road, To wretches such as I ! Dim-l)ackward 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 ! Happy, ye sons of busy life. Who, equal to the bustling strife. No other view regard ! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd. Yet while the busy me.ans 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, andjustling. Forget each grief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain. How blest the solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, aU-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. 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 jjleasures, loves, and joys. Which I too keenly taste. The solitary can despise. Can want, and yet be blest! lie needs not, lie lieeds not, Or human love or liate, Whilst I here, must cry liere At perfidy ingrate ! OF ROBFKT BURNS. 47 Oil ! enviable, early days, When dancing thongiitless pleasure's maze, To c-are, to guilt unknown ! Tlowill exchang'd for riper times, To feel tlie tbilios, or the crimes, Of others, or my own ! Yi' tiny elves that guiltless sport. Like linnets in tlie bush. Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish ! The losses, the crosses, That active man engage ! The fears all, the tears all. Of dim declining a'f the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occaiion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the diaracter to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before hi< name was knov/n to the public." Uasil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was bom in the year 170'9, 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 liis birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty- third year: was very tall, something careless in his dress, and bad the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-tliird year.] Tuis wot ye all whom it concerns, 1, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October tw-enty-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 dniken writers' feasts. Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. When mighty squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken. 66 THE POETIC AT, WORKS 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 ! — hxng Scotch ells twa. Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. As I look o'er my sonnet. But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! To show Sir Bardie's Millyart glow'r, And how he stard and stammer' d, When goavan, as if led wi' brauks, An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks. He in the parlour hammer'd. I sidling shelter'd in a nook. An' at his lordship steal' t a look, Like some portentous omen ; Except good sense and social glee, An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, I marked nought uncommon. I watch'd the sj-mptoms o' the gi-eat, The gentle pride, the lordly state, The aiTogant assuming; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, JIair than an honest ploughman. Then from his lordship I shall learn. Henceforth to meet %\-ith 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. St)liw0$ to Ictjtnburgl^. I" 1 enclose you two poems," said Bums to his friend Chalmers, •' which I have carded and spun since I passed (Jlenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, « Fair B ,' is the heavenly Miss Bur- net, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly l:ke 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 specu- lations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and juppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falemian was wreathed with flow- ers. At these suppers Burns sometimes 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 iwople, were elegant and happy.] Edtna ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, "Whore once beneath a monarcli's feet Sat Legislation's eov'reign pow'rs ! From mnrlving wildly-scatter' d flow'rs, As on the banks of Ajt I stray *d, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour' d shade. Here wealth still swells the golden tide. As busy Trade his labour plies ; There Architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here Justice, from her native skies. High wields her balance and her rod Th(!re Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind. With open arms tJie stranger hail ; Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive stUl to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never en\'y blot their name ! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. Gay as the gilded summer sky. Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high. And own his work indeed divine ! 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 witlistood assailing war. And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Wliore 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 ! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. Whose ancestors, in days of yore. Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'dgaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : OF UdBEKT IJUllNS. 07 Ev'u I who sing in rnstic lore, ITaply, my siros have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led ! Edma ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'i-s ! From making wildly-sratter'd flow'rs. As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I slielter in thy honour'd shade. LXX. lEpigtlc to iMajot Sogan. [Major Logan, of Camlarp, lived, when this hasty Poem wasnTit- ten, with his mother and sister, at Park-house, near Ayr. He was a t;nod musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in J 334, and since then no otlier edition has wanted it.] Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unbacked filly, Proud o' her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter YiiT, 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' tills 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 sci-ew your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon O' cankrie care. May still your life from day to day Nae " lonte largo" in the play. But "allegretto forte" gay Harmonious flow A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey — Encore ! Bravo ! A blessing on the cheery gang Wlia dearly like a jig or sang. An' never think o' right an' wrang By square an' rule, But as the clegs o' feeling stang Are wise or fool. My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortitJi as disgrace — Their tuneless hearts ! May fireside discords jar a base To a' their parts ! But come, your hand, my careless britlier, I' th' itherwarl' 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. We've faults and failings — granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonny squad priests wyte them slieerly For our grand fa' ; But still, but still, I like them dearly — God bless them a' ! Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, W^hen they fa' foul o' 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 1 I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet. My loss I mourn, but not repent it, I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, Ance to the Indies I Avere wonted. Some cantraip hour. By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted. Then, vive rumour ! Faites mes batssemains respectvetise, 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. 68 THE I'CKTICAL WORKS 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 lip^ht, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. Robert Burns. Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786. LXXI. ^i)c Brigs of Sgr, A POEM, INSCRIBED TO J. BALLAXTYNE, ESa., AYR. [Hums took the hint of this Poem from the Planestancs and Causeway of Fergussoii, but all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr : he wrote it for the second cdi- tion of his Poems, ai-.d in compliment to the patrons of his genius in the west Ballantyne, to whom the I'oeiri is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: others of his friends figure in the scene : Montgomery's courage, the learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mn>. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded.] The simple Bard, i-ough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; The chanting linnet, or tlie 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, AVitii all the venal soid of dedicating prose i No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncoutlily o'er the strings. He glows with all the spirit of tlio 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 ; Wlien Ijallantyne befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, Witli 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-^von crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd l)uds an' tlow'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 ev'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 tlow'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 gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ajt, 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 impcU'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 nuinber'd two. And Wallace Tow'r'^ had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. 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 gUttering 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 tli' Auld Brig his airy slu'.pe uproars, The itlier flutters o'er the rising piers: Our warlock Bhymer instantly descry 'd The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr pre- side. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them. And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 1 A noted tavern at the auld Drig end. - The two steeples. 3 The gos-hawk, or falcon. OF ROBERT BURNS. 69 Auld Brig appcar'd of ancioiit Pictish race, The very wrinkles fjjotliic in his face : He se.'m'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd hmg, Yet, teiigiily doure, he bade an unco bang. New IJrig was buskit in a braw new coat, Tliat he at Lon'on, frac anc Adams, got ; In's liand five taper staves as smootli's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; — It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e. And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! Wi' tliieveless sneer to see liis modish mien. He, down the water, gies him this guide'en : — • AULD BRIG. I doubt na', frien', ye'U 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'Il never see ; There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a bod- dle. Some fewer whigmelecries in your noddle. NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; AVill your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. Where twa wheel-barrows ti-emble when they meet — Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste Avou'd tak the Ducat- stream,^ Tho' they should 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'erfow the plains ; When from the hills where springs the braAvling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains l)oil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal' draws his feeble source, 1 A noted ford, just above the Auld CriR. " The banks of (iarpal Water is one of the few places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. Arous'd by blust'riiig winds an' spotting thowcs, Jn mony a torrent down the snaw-brou rowes ; While crashing ice borne on the roaring speat. Sweeps dams an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; And from Glenbuck,' down to the Tlatton-ko/ ^ Auld Ayr is just one Icngthcn'd tumbling so.i — Then down ye' 11 hurl, deil nor ye never rise I And dash the gumlie jaups up to tho pouring skies. A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BRIG. Fine Arcliitccture, trowth, I needs must say't o't! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! Gaunt, gliastly, ghaist-alluring edifices. Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; O'er-arcliing, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Sujiporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : W^indows, and doors in nameless sculpture drcst. With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; Forms might be worshipp'd oa 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 latter 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- i-ection ! 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, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; Ye dainty 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 gae your hurdies to the smiters; And (what woidd now be strange) ye godly writers ; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboou the broo. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- tion. To see each melancholy alteration ; ' The source of the ri\cr Ayr. 2 A small landing-place above the large key. 70 THE POETICAL WOKKS And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'ratc race ! Kae langer rev'rend men, thoir country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, Tlie 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 baud 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 : But under favour o' your langer beard, Abuse o' ^lagistrates might weel be spar'd : To lUven tliem to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth ' a citizen,' a term o' scandal ; Nae mair the CouncQ waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew ^vise priggih' owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral ^^ews in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them. Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. What farther clishmaclaver might been said What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell ; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright : Adown the glitt'ring stream they fcatlydanc'd ; Briglit to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : W'liile arts of minstrelsy among tlunn rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. — O had M'Lauclilan,' 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, Tlie lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd. And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! • A wcU known performer of Scottish music on the violin. 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 simjile melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc'd in years; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in aU 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 : All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn ; Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show. By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride. From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide; Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: Learning and Worth in equal measures trode From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel wreath, To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instnmients of death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- ling wrath LXXII. ON Z\)t Deall) of i^obcrt 33unlias, ^gq., OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. [At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in the hope rliat it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. 1 found it inserted in tlie hand-writing of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his I'ocms, which he presented to Dr. Gcddes, accompanied by the following surly note : — " 'l"hc foregoing I'oem has sonic tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to corrcctj or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, the tliemcofthc piice, by the liands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alex- ander Wood, surgeon : when, behold ! his solicitorship took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fel- low imagine that 1 looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Kobert Uun- das was the elder brother of that Lord Md\ille to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scot- land was confided, and who, when the name of Hums wa« men- tioned, pushed the wine to l*itt, and said nothing. Tlie poem wa' first printed by me, in liilU.] Lone on the bleaky hills the .straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; OF ROBERT BURNS. 71 Down from the rivulets, red with dashiiif^ ruins, Tlic gathering fiooils 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 and ye caves, Ye howling \\'inds, and wintry swelling waves ! L) nheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. Sad to your sympatlietic 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. Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. Now gay in hope explore tiie paths of men : See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; Keen on the helpless \nctim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : INIark rufiian Violence, distained with crimes, Eousing 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 gi-ief-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 Zfit I3cat& of %t)\)n itt'Scoli, Icgq., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOb's. [John M'Leodwas of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Hums, in his correspondence, ex- pressed great regard. The little 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. I oli- scrve that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. J think differently, and have retained it.} Sad thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful tliy alarms : Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow ; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's mom The sun proijitious smil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. Fate oft tears the bosom cords That nature finest strung : So Isabella's heart was foxm'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. tZTo 0iii$ Sogan, WITH BEATTIE's poems FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT. Jan. 1, 1787. [ Bums was fond of writing compliments in books, and giring them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park house, wai sister to Major Logan, of C'amlarg, and the " sentimental sister Su- sie," of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet's correspondence.] Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n. And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer HeaVn. No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail : I send you more than India boasts In Eidwin's simple tale. 72 THE POETICAL WORKS 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 ! liXXV. Z\)t American S23ar. A FRAGMEKT. fDr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they «ere unstatesman-like, and wor- thy of a country ale-house, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in wh;ch the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite reson, duringthe winter evenings, of rustic politicians ; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Bums was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Torj- : his admiration of " Chatham's Boy," called down on him the dusty indignation of the republican Kitson.] When 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. 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, Wi' sword in hand, before his band, Amaug his en'mies a', man. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. Was kept at Boston ha', man ; Till Willie Uowe 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. Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man; Then lost liis way, ae misty day. In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as king's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. He hung it to the wa', man. 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' CharUe Fox threw by the box, An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. Then .Rockingham took up the game, TUl death did on him ca', man ; When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, Conform to gospel law, man ; Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jan-ing noise. They did his measures thraw, man, For North an' Fox united stocks. An' bore liim to the wa', man. Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, He swept the stakes awa', man, Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race. Led him a sairfanx 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 !' Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class, Be-north the Roman wa', man : An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, (Inspired Bardies saw, man) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd ' Willie, rise ! ' Would I hae fcar'd them a', man ?' But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co., GowfTd 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. OF ROBERT BURNS. 73 LXXVI. Z\)t 33can of ifncuUg. A NEW BALLAD. [The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Ersleu suuit poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, lb02.J WnKN by a generous Public's kind acclaim. That dearest meed is granted — honest fame ; When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue's glow. But heaves impassion'd with the gi-ateful throe ? Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in war — Hail, Caleponia, name for ever dear ! Before whose sons I'm lionoured to appear ! Where every science — every nobler art — That can infonn tlie mind, or mend the heart, Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Rea- son's beam; Here History i)aints, with elegance and force, The tide of Empires' fluctuating course ; Here Douglas forms wild Sluikspeare into plan, And Ilarley^ rouses all the god in man. When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, wliere faultless sjTnmetry and grace, Can only charm as in the second place,) Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I've met these judges here ! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet : Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name ; Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame; O Thou dread Power! wliose Empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch' d to shield the honour'd land ! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire ; May every son be worthy of his sire ; Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ; Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. LXXXI. [This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Bums proposed to call " The Poet's Progress." He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. " The Fragment forms," said he, " the postulata, the axioms, thedcfinition (if a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular pai'l 1 send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait sketching." It is probable that the professor's re- sponse was not favourable, for wc hear no more of the Poem.] A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, trij)ping wight. And still his precious self liis dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in tlie streets Better than o'er the fairest she he meets : A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour; So travelld monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. Much sj)ecious lore, but little understood ; Vejieering oft outshines the solid wood : Ilis solid sense — by inches you must tell. But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 1 The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie. OF ROBERT BURNS. 76 LXXXII. OF WAUCHOPE. f The lady to whom this epistle is addressed was a painter and a po- etess: licr pencil sketches are said to liavc been beautiful ; and she had a ready sliiU in rhyme, as the verses addressed to IJurns fully testify. Taste and poetry belonged to her family : she was the niece of Mrs. Cockbum, authoress of a beautiful variation of The Flowers of the Korest. ] I MIND it weel ill early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An' first could thresh the barn ; Or baud a yokin at the pleugh ; An' tho' forfoughteu sair enough, Yet unco proud to learn : Wlien first aniang the yellow corn A man I 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. E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I tum'd the weeder-clips aside, An' spar'd the sjniibol 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 meiTy 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 o' joy, tlie balm of woe. The saul o' life, the heaven below. Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name Be mindfu' o' your mither : She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her, Ye'ro wae men, ye're nae men That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye. Ilk honest birkie swears. For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune tho 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 cui-ple Than ony ermine ever lap, Or proud imperial pui-ple. Fareweel then, lang heal then An' plenty be your fa' ; May losses and crosses Ne'er at your hallan ca'. LXXXIII CFpistlc to aSStUiam &ttetf). [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 bookseller. 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. Hut though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and par- simonius, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.] Selkirk, \3 May, 1787. Auld chulde 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 ; They durst nae mair than he allow' d. That was a law ; We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, Willie's awa ! 1 Edinburgh. 7'i THE POETICAL WORKS Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, Frao colleges and boarding-schools. May sprout like simmer puddock-stools In glen or shaw ; He wha could brush them down to mools, Willie's awa ! The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer' May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour ; He was a dictionar and grammar Amang them a' ; I fear they'll now mak niony 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 Gregoiy's Latin face, Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; Slackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace As Rome ne'er saw ; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa ! Poor Bums — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder' d chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw ; Griefs gien his heart an unco kickin', Willie's awa ! Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, And Calvin'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, AVliile tempests blaw ; But every joy and pleasure's fled, Willie's awa ! !May I be slander's common speech ; A text for infamy to preach ; And lastly, streekit out to bleach In winter snaw; Wlicn I forget thee ! Willie Creech, Tho' far awa ! Jlay 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! • The Chamber of Commerce In Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary. 2 Many littrary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast. LXXXIV ?l?umble petition of i3ruar Wiatet TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. ( The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and pic- turesque ; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much im. paired by the want of shrubs and trees. This was in 17tt7: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, ProfessorWalkcr, went, when "-'ose on twilight, to this romantic icene : " 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 ] ]My Lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain ; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain. How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams^ In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide. The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play. If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray ; If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, I'm scorching up so shallow. They're left the whitening stanes amang. In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As Poet Bums came by, That to a bard I should be seen Wi' hali" my channel dry : A i)anegyric rhyme, I ween. Even as I was he shor'd me ; But had I in my glory been, He kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks. In twisting strength I rin ; There, high my boiling torrent smokes. Wild-roaring o'er a linn : Enjojnng lai-ge each spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please 'J'o grant my highest wishes. He'll shade ray banks wi' tow'ring ti'ccs, And bonnie spreading bushes. OF ROBERT BURNS. 77 Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my l)anks, And listen niony a grateful bird Keturu you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir : The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow ; The robin pensive autumn cheer. In all her locks of yellow. This, too, a covert shall insure To shield them from the storm ; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low 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. 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. Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild-chequering tliro' the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. My lowly banks o'erspread. And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows' 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. So may old Scotia's darling hope. Your little angel band. Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour'd native land ! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken^ To social-flowing glasses. The grace be — " Athole's honest men And Athole's bonuie lasses ?" LXXXV. 5»cating gome MtaUx-jfoiol IN LOCH-TURIT. [When Bums «Tote these touching lines, he was staying vnth Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours. Loch Turit is a wild lalte among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.] Why, ye tenants of the lake. For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly ? Why disturb your social joys. Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimphng 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. Man, your proud usurping foe. Would be lord of aU below : Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the clifiy 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 liis pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains, Only known to wand'rmg swains. Where the mossy riv'let strays. Far from human haunts and ways ; All on Nature you depend. And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right, On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Other lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave, Scoru at least to be his slave. 78 THE POETICAL WORKS LXXXVI. Sarittcn tottf) a pencil, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PAHLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. (The casde of Ta>iiiouth is the residence of the Earl of Brcadal- bane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: hu some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.] Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weaiy feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey' d gi-ouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides. The woods, wUd scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; Th' outstretching lake, embosom' d 'mong the hiUs, The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side ; The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste ; 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 •«"and'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 lieav'n-taught lyre. And look through Nature with creative fire ; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcU'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter — rankling wounds : Ilere heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. LXXXVII. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, ^tantjtng bs t^e Jpall of ipgct^, NEAR LOCH-NESS. [This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian : but when Bums saw it the Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some lime to sweU and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another Fall further up the stream, ver5' wild and savage, on which the Fyers maltes three prndigious leaps into a deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and the agitated mist.] Among the heathy hiUs 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 deeo-recoihng surges foam below, Prone down the rock the wliitening sheet de- scends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim seen, thiough rising mists and ceaseless show'rs. The hoary cavern, wide surrounding low'rs. StUl thro' the gap the struggling river toils. And stiU below, the horrid cauldron boils — LXXXVTTI. POETICAL ADDRESS ^0 i*lr. m. ©gtlcr, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD S PICTURE; [When these verses were written there was much stately .lacobit- ism 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 de- scended in the Tytlers through three generations ; an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem lias been com- pleted from the original in the poet's handwriting.] 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. Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; OF ROBERT 15L11NS. 79 A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. lily 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. Still in prayers for liing 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 avow'd by my country. But wliy of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th' Electoral stem ? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I'm sui-e 'twas as lucky for them. But 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 bnng 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. LXXXTX. WRITTEN IN dFrtatg=©arSc |l?crmitage, ON THE BANKS OF NITH. June, 1788. [first copy.] [The interleaved \olume presented by fiurns to Dr. Gcddes, has enabled me to present the reader with the rouirh draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first-fruits perhaps of Jiis intercourse with the muses of Nithside.l Thou wliom cliance may hither lead. Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deckt in silken stole. Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from niglit, in darkness lost ; Day, how rapid in its flight — Day, how few must see tlio night ; Hope not sunshine every hour. Fear not clouds will always lower. Happiness is but a name. Make content and case tiiy aim. 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 devour. Crush the locusts — save the flower. For the futui-e be prepar'd, Guard wherever thou cans't guard ; But thy utmost duly done, "Welcome what thou can'st not shun. Follies past, give thou to air. Make their consequence thy care : Keep the name of man in mind. And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart. Him whose wondrous work thou art ; Keep his goodness still in view. Thy trust — and thy example, too. Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Beadsman on Nithside. xc. WRITTEN IN iFriarg=®ars!e P?ccmitagc, ON NITHSIDE. December, 1788. [Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies in his own hand-writing: 1 have seen three. Wlien corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and cor- rections, 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 hdonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of EUisIand ; a small door in the fence, of which tlie poet had the key, adniitte imfit 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. But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. Pitying the propless climber of mankind, She cast about a standard tree to find ; And, to support his helple-ss woodbine state, Attach'd him to the generous truly great, A title, and the only one I claim, To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- ham. Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, W^eak, 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 dejiend, Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend '" Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun. Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) Who make poor 7tn/l do wait upon / 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 giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afrai«', 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 pi-ido sublimely flows. Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. !Mark, how their lofty indei^endent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit I Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; Pity tlie best of words should be but wind ! 82 THE POETICAL WORKS 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 sucli deep damnation stain, My horny fist assume the plough again ; The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more; On eigiiteen-jjcnce 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 : Tiiat plac'd by tliee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. My nmse may imp her wing for some sublimer flijrht. XCIV. ON TUE DEATH OF <5ti- ^amt% ?i?«nlcr 23lnir. [I found these lines written witli a penoU in one of Burns's memo- randum-books : he said lie had just composed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. Tlicy oifter^d in nothing from the printed copy of the first Liveriwol edition. That they are by Uurns tlicre cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from several editions of the Post- humous Works of tlie poet. ] The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath tlie western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd tliro' the darkening air. And lioUow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;^ Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow' d well,* Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.' Til' 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, Ami sliooting 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 tliat frantic 1)eat her breast. And mix'd her waitings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophicd sliield I view'd : Her form majestic di-oop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Ilevers'd tliat spear, redoubtable in war, Keclined tliat banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That lilvc 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 tlie liand that oft was stretch'd to save. Low lies tlie heart that swell'd with honest pride. " A weeping country joins a widow's tear. The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh! " I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; I saw fair fi-eedom's blossoms richly blow : But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. " IMy patriot falls, but sliall he lie unsung. While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! No ; every muse shall join Iier 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; Tliat distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. ThcKin^sl'ark, 3 St Anthony's Wcli. Ko)yrood-tiouse. •* St. Anthony's Chapel. xcv. lEpt^tlc to ?i?u5l) garter. [This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to one of the ixiet's Kilmarnock compmiions. Iluyh I'arker, wasthe brother of William Parker, one of the subscribers to tile Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems: he has been dead many yeais: the Epistle was reco\'ered, luckily, from his papers, and printed for the fii-sttime in 18.14.] In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A laud unknown to prose or rliyme; Where words ne'er crost the muse's lieckles, Nor limpet in poetic shackles : A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it ; OF UOBEUT KUUNS. 83 Here, ambusliM l)y the chimla check, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the ueuk, I hear it — for in vain I leak. — The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal : Here, for my wonted rliyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters ; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae converse but 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 througli 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 Phcebus bids good-morroAv, 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,' snia' 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'U find me in a better tune ; But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle. Robert Burns. XCVI. INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER ^ ISToble "Earrg picture. [Bums placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and ttie Earl of Gleii- cairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at EUisland: beneath the head of the latter he KTote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and re- quested 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, howe\'er, is preserved, and is now in the safe keepingof the Earl's uame-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunning- ham, Earl of Glencairn, died 2(lth January, 1791, aged 42 years: he was succeeded by his only and childless brother, with wliom this ancient race was closed, ] Whose is that noble dauntless brow ? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E'en rooted foes admire ? ' His mare. Stranger! to justly sliow that brow, And mark that eye of fire. Would take Ilis 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 tiiou niay'st discern ; Mark Scotia's fond returning eye — It dwells upon Glencairn. XCVII. iElcgg ON THE YEAR 1788. A SKETCH. [This Poem was first printed by Stewart, n 1801. The poet lovw to indulge in such sarcastic sallies : it is full of character, and reHecu a distinct image of those yeasty times.] For Lords or Kings I diuna 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 an' 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 bounie 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' sheep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For embro' wells are grutten dry. 84 THE POETICAL WORKS 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-cutf'd, mizVd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like hiiusel" a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out tlie plan Nae waur than he did, honest man ! As muckle better as you can. JaiiKarij 1, XIWJ. XCVIII. ^litivc$5 to X\)t '2root!)ac5c. ["I had Intended," says Uiirns to Creech, 50th May, 1789, "to have troubled you with a lung letter, hut at present the deliRhtful sensations of an omnipotent tooth-ache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense." Tlie poetic Addrcssto the Toothache seems to belong to this period.] 5Iy curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; And thro' my lugs gies niony a twang, Wi' knawing vengeance : Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like rackiner engines ! ^Vhen fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Our neiglibours' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan ; But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. Ay mocks our groan ! Adown my beard the slavers tricldc ! 1 kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle. To see me loup; AVhile, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. 0' a' the nunrious human dools, 111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the niools, Sad sight to sec ! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' ibols, — 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 dreadfu' raw, Thou. Tooth-ache, 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 o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Tooth-ache. XCIX. t ! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awiiile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling liither bends ? No falkn angel, hurl'd from ujjper skies; Tistliy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell- ward plies. And are they of no more avail. Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year In other words, can .Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here ? OF IlO]}EUr 1!U UNS. 85 O, l)itt(T moclv'ry of tlic pomiious bier, Wliile down tho wretched vital part is driv'n ! Tlio cave-Iodg'd beijgar, with a conscience eh-ar, Ex})ires in vaga, unknown, and goes to lieav'n. c. FRAGMENT INSCRIliED f 1 1 was late in life before Burns began to think very hishl y of Fox : lie had hitherto spoken of him rather as a rattler of dice, and a fre- quenter of soft company, than as a statesman. As his hopes from the Tories vanished, he hcjian to think of the Whigs : the first did no- thing, and the latter held out hopes ; and as hoiie, he said, was the cordial of the human heart, he continued to hope on.] How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and nnite ; How virtue and vice blend their black and their wliite ; How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- tion — I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bus- tle, I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honour ray story. Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong. No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ;— A soriT, poor misbegot son of the muses. For using thy name offers fifty excuses. Good L^ — d, what is man ? for as simple he looks, Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil. All in all lie's a problem must puzzle the devil. On his one ruling passion sir Pope hugely la- bours, Tiiat, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neiglibours; Mankind are hisshow-ljox — a friend, would you know him ? Pull the .suing, ruling passion the picture will shew hiin. Wiiat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, One trilling partieuhir, truth, should have miss'd him ; For spite of his fine theoretic positions, Manlcind is a science defies definitions. Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe ; Have you found tliis, or t'other ? there's more in the wind, As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. In the malve of that wonderful creature, call'd man. No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, Nor even two different shades of the same. Though like as was ever twin brother to bro- ther. Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels. Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. Mymuch-honor'd Patron, believe your poor poet. Your courage much more than your prudence you show it, In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle ; Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would steal 'em. Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em ; It is not. outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him. CI. ON SEEING SI hjounticl) ?l?atc LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. (This Poem is founded on fact. A young man of the name of Thomson told me — quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem — that while Burns lived at EUisland— he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twilight was feeding on his fatlur'.^ wheat- breard. 'I'hc poet, on ohscning the hare come lileeding past him. " was in great wrath," said Thomson, " and cursed me, and said little hindcnd him from throwing me into the ^ith; and he was able enough to do it, thoufih I was both \ oimg and strong." The boor of Nithsidc did not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, used the Poem : when Hums read his remarks he said, " (ircgory is a good man, but he crucifies me 1"] Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; May never pity sootiie thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad tiiy cruel heart . 86 THE POETICAL WORKS Go live, poor wanderer of tlic wood and field ! The bitter little tliat of life remains: No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. No more of rest, but now thy djang bed ! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap- less fate. CII. IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. [This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man : lie was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Bums, promote their fame, and advise tliat the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh and publish a new rdilion. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life;— Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard were his three favourites.] ElHsland, 2\sl Oct. 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie. Wad bring ye to : Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye. And then ye'll do. The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! And never drink bo near his drouth ! He tald mysel by word o' mouth. He'd tak my letter : I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better. But aiblins honest master Heron, I lad at the time some dainty fair one. To Avare his theologic care on. And holy study ; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on. E'en tried the body. But wliat d'ye tiiink, my trusty fier, I'm tui-n d a gaugor— Peace be here ! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear. Yell now disdain me ! And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain mc. Ye glaikct, glecsomo, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics, Ye ken, ye ken, That Strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men. I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — I need na vaunt. But I'll sned besoms — tliraw saugh woodies, Before they want. Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! I'm weary sick o't late and air ! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers ; But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers ? Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan A lady fair : Wha does the utmost that he can. Will whyles do mair. But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life. My compliments to sister Beckie ; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie. As e'er tread clay ! And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, I'm yours for ay. Robert Burns. cm. AN ODE. [These verses were first printed in the Starncwspaper, In May, 17fl9 It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from tlie Star, composed on the pattern of I'ope's Song, by a Person of Quality . " These lines are beyond you," he added : '• the muse of Kyle caiuiot match the muse of London." Burns mused a moment, and then recited " Delia, an Ode."I Fair the face of orient day. Fair tlie tints of op'ning rose, 15ut fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows. OF ROBERT BURNS. 87 Sweet the lark's •vvild-warblod lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; IJiit, Delia, more delii^Mitful still iSteal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamoured busy bee Tiie rosy banquet loves to sip ; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; — But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! O, let me steal one liquid kiss ! For, oh ! my soul is parched with love. CIV. ^0 %o\)n iH'iiilurtio, lEsq. I John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberrj-, lived at Urumlanrig : he was a high-minded, warrn- liearteu man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompa- nied a present of books : others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig castle. " Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day ! Ili) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that bu- siness, is, 1 confess, 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." 'J"hc Kirk's Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, " A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of l^ie gospel, in Ayrsliire."] Orthodox, orthodox. Who believe in John Kno.\, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience- There's a heretic blast. Has been blawn i' the Avast, That what is not sense must be nonsense. Orthodox, That what is not sense must be nonsense. • Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. * Holy Willie, alias VVUliam Fisher, Klder in Mauchline. OF ROBERT BURNS. 91 Doctor JIac, 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. 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. D'rymplemild, 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, Drymple mild, For preaching that three's ane an' twa. Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. Seize your spiritual guns, Ammimition ye never can need ; Your hearts are the stuff. Will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, Cahdn's sons, And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. Rumble John, Rumble John, Mount the steps with a gi-oan, 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 danm'd. Simper James, Simper James, Leave the fair Killie dames. There's a holier chase in your view ; I'll lay on your head. That the pack ye'll soon lead. For puppies like you there's but few. Simper James, For puppies like you there's but few. 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. 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 o' sma' value, Andrew Gowk, And ye'll hae a calf 's-head o' sma' value. Poet Willie, Poet Willie, Gie the doctor a voUey, Wi' your " liberty's chain" and your wit; O'er Pegasus' side. Ye ne'er laid a stride Ye only stood by when he sh — , Poet Willie, Ye only stood by when he sh — , 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 bavins and sense man, Wi' people that ken you nae better, Barr Steenie, Wi' people that ken you nae better. 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'sholy 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. 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. 92 THE POETICAL WORKS Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge. To claw common sense for her sins ; If ill manners were Avit, There's no mortal so fit, To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance. Cessnockside, Cessnockside, AVi' your turkey-cock pride, O' manhood but sma' is your share; Ye've the figure, it"s true. Even our facs maun allow, And your friends daurna say ye liae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurna say yc hae mair. Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld A tod meiklewaur than the; clerk ;^ Tho' ye downa do skaitli, 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. Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelpiiig 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 arc, Poet Burns, She could ca' us nac waur than we are. Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, When your pen can be spar'd, A copy o' tliis I bequ Mih, On the same sicker score I mentioned before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty old worthy Clackleith. Gavin Hamilton. CXI. [Tliese hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol. «f the High School of Edinburgh by the poet, giring him an account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Pejc Nicholson, the successor of JennyOcddes. She had suffered bothintheemploy of the joyous priest and the thoughtless proops with a diamond at its head. At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukius whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. Jlourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; Ye whistling plover ; An' mourn ye whirring paitrick brood ! — He's gane for ever I IMourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels : Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels. Hair for liis sake. Jlourn, 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 thaefar 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 glowr. Sets up her horn. Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 'Till wuukrifc morn ! O, rivers, forests, hills, and j)lains ! Oft hav(' ye heard my canty strains: But now, what else for me remains But tales of woo ? And frae my een the drapjjing rains Jlaun ever flow. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head. Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead ! Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear : Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast. Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost ! IMourn 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 dreaj-y bound ? Like thee, where shall I find another. The world around ? Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye gi-eat, In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! But by thy honest turf I'll wait. Thou man of worth ! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. Stop, passenger! — my story's brief. And truth I shall relate, man ; I tell nae common tale o' grief — For Matthew was a great man. If thoii uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, A look of pity hither cast — • For Matthew was a poor man. If thou a noble sodger art. That passest by this grave, man. There moulders here a gallant heart — For jNIatthcw was a brave man. MB 9-1 THE POETICAL WORKS If tlion on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man. Here lies wha wcel had won thy praise — For Matthew was a bright man. If tliou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man, Thy sj-mpathetic tear maun fa' — For Matthew was a kind man ! If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the imchanging blue, man. This was a kinsman o' thy ain — For Matthew was a true man. If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man. This was thy billie, dam, and sire — For Matthew was a queer man. If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, !May dool and soitow be his lot ! For Matthew was a rare man. CXIII. A SCOTS BALLAD. Time — Chevy Chase. [This is a local and a political Poem, composed on the contest be- tween Miller, the younger, of Dalsivintoi), and Johnstone, of West- erhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy personates Dumfries ; Marjory, Lochmaben ; Bess of Solway- nide, Annan; Wliiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, San- quhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Quccnsbcrry wa3 exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone: the poet's heart was with the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections : after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whig interest prevailed.] There were five carlins in the south They fell upon a scheme. To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame. Not only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands tlicre ; And aiblins gowd and honour baith Might be that laddie's share. There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, A dame wi' pride eneugh ; And Marjory o' the mony lochs, A carlin auld and teugh. And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-sido ; And whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide. And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, O' gipsy kith an' kin ; — Five wightor carlins were na found The south countrie within. To send a lad to London town, They met upon a day ; And mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae. O mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae ; 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 baud ; And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand. And he wad do their errands weel, And meikle he wad say ; And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him gude-day. The neist cam in a s^dger youth, And spak wi' modest grace. And he wad gae to London town, If sae their pleasure was. He wad na liecht them courtly gifts. Nor meikle speech pretend ; But he wad hecht an honest heart. Wad ne'er desert his friend. Then wham to cliuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir carlins fell ; For some had gentlefolks to please. And some wad please themsel. Tlien out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, And she spak np wi' pride. And she wad send the sodger youth. Whatever might betide. For the auld gudcman o' London court She didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodger youth To trrcct his eldest son. OF ROBERT BURNS. 95 Then siow raise Marjory o' the Lochs And wrinkled was lier brow ; Her ancient weed was russet gray. Her auld Scot's heart was true. " The liOndon court set light by me — I set as liii;ht by them ; And I will send tlie 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, I'll try him yet again." Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, " Ye weel ken, kinimers a', The auld gudeman o' London court, His back's been at the wa'. " And mony a friend that kiss'd his 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. " For fools will prate o' right and wrang, While knaves laugh in their sleeve ; But wha blaws best the horn shall win, I'll speii- nae courtier's leave." feo how this mighty plea may end There's naebody can tell : God grant the king, and ilka man, May look weel to himseP ! CXIV^ Wi)t SatDlcg bji tl)c tJanfes o' Kitft. [This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It inti- mates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the IJuke of Queensberry's opinions, when he sup- ported the right of tlie Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent of Parliament, during tlie king's alarming illness, in 17811.1 The laddies by the banks o' Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the Kinj; Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie. Up and waur them a', Jamie, Up and waur tiiem 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. But wha is he. his country's boast ? Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; There's no acallant tents the kye. But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,* Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; And Maxwell true o' sterling blue : And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. cxv. EPISTLE ®o Mofiprt ©ra!)am, lEgq. OF F I N T R y : ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. [" I am toolitt'eaman,"said Burns, in thenotetoFintry, which ac- companied this Poem, "to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of botn parties : but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a coun- try, 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 Macmurdoand the Aftoo manuscripts for tnat purpose: to both families the poet waa much indebted for many actsof courtesy and kindness. Fin TRY, my stay in worldly strife. Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life. Are ye as idle's I am ? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. And ye shall see me try him. I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlings ; And, bent on winning borough towns. Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns. And kissing barefit carlins. 1 liixkwbistle : a Oalltm'ay laird, and elector. 96 THE roKTICAL WORKS Combustion thro' our boroughs rode "WTiistling liis roaring pack abroad Of mad uniimzzlcd liwis ; As Qiiecnsbcrry buiFand blue unfurled, And Westerha' and Ilopeton hurled To every Whig detiance. But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' immanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding : But left behind him heroes bright. Heroes in Csesarean 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 poUtics, To win immortal honour. 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 Uecla streaming thunder : Glenriddel,^ skill'd in rusty coins. Blew up each Tory's dark designs, And bar'd the treason under. In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig* who set at nought The wildest savage Tory : And Welsh,* who ne'er yet flinch' d his ground, High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round With 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 entrcnch'd his hold. And threaten'd worse damnation. To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. With these what Tory warriors clos'd. Surpasses my descriving: Squadrons extended long and large. With furious speed rush to the charge. Like raging devils driving. WHiat verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie ! Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at liis tlirapple shor'd. And hell mix'd in the brulzie. 1 John M'Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig. 2 Fcrgusson of Cr/Uk;darToch. '<> Riddel of Friars Carse. ■• Provost Stals of Dumfries. 4 Sheriff Welsh. * A wine-merchant in Dumfries. 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 th" approaching fellers : The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, W'hen all liis wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bxdlers. Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night. Departed Whigs enjoy the fight. And think on former daring : The muffled murtherer^ of Charles The Magna Charta flag unfurls, All deadly gules it's bearing. Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, Bold Scrimgeour^ follows gallant Graham,^ Auld Covenanters shiver. (Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! Now death and hell engulph thy foes. Thou liv'st on high for ever !) Still o'er the field the combat burns. The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But fate the word has spoken : For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas ! can do but what they can ! The Tory ranks are broken. O that my eon were flowing burns, My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs' undoing ! That I might gi'cet, that I might cry. While Tories fall, while Tories fly. And furious Whigs pursuing ! What AVhig but molts for good Sir James? Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor ' Not Pultcnoy's wealth can Pulteiiey save . And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! And Stewarf* bold as Hector. Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; And Melville melt in wailing ! How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! And Burke shall sing, 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 forest rends. The robin in the hedge descends. And sober chirps securely. 1 The executioner of Charles I. was masked. - Scrimgcour, Lord Dundee. 3 Graham, Marquisof Montrose. < Stewart ol Hillside. OF ROBERT BURNS. 97 CXVI. ON ©aptatn ffitose'g PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. [This " fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful anti- quary, and fond of wic and wine. He was wellacquaintcd with he- raldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armour of his own and other countries. He found his way to Kriai-'s Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social " board of Glenriddcl," for the first time saw Bums. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed witli wonder tlie remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the indeirendent sentiments and humorous turnsof conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the inter\iew, and it is said that Grose re- garded some iiassages 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, I rede you tent it : A chiel's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it ! If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright, That's he, mark weel — And wow ! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin. Or kirk deserted by its riggin. It's ten to one ye'U find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's, colleaguin' At some black art. Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor. And you deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlscks and witches ; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight b es ! It's tauld he was a sodger bred. And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; But now he's quat the spurtle-blade. And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets. Wad hand the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid ; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Afore the flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubalcain's fire-sliool and fender; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg : The knife that nicket Abel's craig He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gully. — But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee, and fun has he. Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him ; And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, And tlicn ye'll see him ! Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! Thou art a dainty chiel, Grose ! — Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca' thee ; I'd take the rascal by the nose, "Wad say. Shame fa' thee. CXVII. WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, ENCLOSING ^ 'S.ttUt to ©aptatn ffitogc. [Burns wrote out some antiquai ian and legendary memoranda, respecting certain ruins in K yle, and enclosed them in a sheet of paper to Cardonnel, a northern antiquary. As his mind teemed with po- etry, he could not, as he aftenvards said, let the opportunity pass of sending a rhyming enquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the condoling enquiry over the North— " Is he slain by Highlan' bodies { And eaten like a wether-haggis ?"] Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? Igo and ago. If he's amang his friends or foes ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he south or is he north ? Igo and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth ? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highlan' bodies ? Igo and ago. And eaten like a wether-haggis ? Iram, coram, dago. 98 THE POETICAL WORKS Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? Igo aud ago, Or liaudin Sarah by the wame ? Irani, coram, dago. Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! Igo and ago. As for the deil, he daur na steer him ! Irani, coram, dago. But please transmit the enclosed letter, Igo and ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor, Iram, coram, dago. So may ye hae auld stancs in store, Igo and ago. The very stanes that Adam bore, Irani, coram, dago. So may ye got in glad possession, Igo and ago. The coins o' Satan's coronation ! Iram, coram, dago. CXVIII. 'Cam o' 55) in the forty-second year of his age. James Cunningham was succeeded in his title by his brother, and mth him expired, in 17%, the last of a race, whose name is intimately connected with the History of Scotland, from the days of Malcolm Canmore.] The -wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on tlie fading yellow woods Tliat wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : Beneath a craggy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain. In loud lament bewail'd his lord, "Whom death had all untimely ta'cn. lie lean'd him to an ancient aik. Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time. His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To echo bore the notes alang. " Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing The reliques of tlie vernal quire ! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year ! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e ; But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. " I am a bending aged tree, Tiiat long has stood the wind and rain : But now has come a cruel blast. And my last hold of earth is gane: Nao leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nac simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm. And ithers plant them in my room. " I've seen sae mony changefu' years, On earth I am a stranger grown ; I wander in the ways of men. Alike unknowing and unknown : Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane ray lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrows share. " 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. " 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 fiUest an untimely tomb. Accept this tribute from the bard Thougli brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. " In poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me, like the morning sun. That melts the fogs in limpid air. The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care. " ! why has worth so short a date ? While villains ripen gray with time ; Must thou, tlie 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 ! — had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low ! " The bridegroom may forget the bride. Was made his wedded wife yestreen The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; The motlier may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me !" 1" ii>-;iili a ciTugy steep a liai-d, Laden wJlh Years and MeiHe paiii In loud Ifuiient. bewail 'd hig ]ord, Wlioiij doath liad all imumely- ta'en! OF ROBERT BURNS. 105 cxxv. sines SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART., OK WHITEFOORD, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. [Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in Ayrshire, in- herited the love of his family for literature, and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes of Burns.] Thou, 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 valuedst, 1, the patron, lov'd ; His worth, his honour, all the woi-ld approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone. And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. CXXVI. ADDRBSS TO '^fft ^ijuXx of IZr^omson, ON CBOWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAYS. [" Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Bums to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September : for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to tlie occasion. Suppose Mr. Bums should, learing the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thorn- son's pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the de\'ious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the C'ommendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledo- nian virtue." Such was the in\itation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down his sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and ti-averse one of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic corona- tion of the bad bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bai-d 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 Doet's manuscript affords the following interesting varia- tions .— " 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, SiuTcys, with sclf-approring mind. Each creature on his bounty fed." | While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes vEolian 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 hiUs 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. CXXVI r. l^oticit Graham, 1£sq. OF FINTRV. [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 parishes, and exposed him both to fatigue and expense. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due time attended to, for Fintry was a gentleman at once kind and consi- derate.] 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 v.ail ? (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 llio ground : Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell ; Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power ; Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug. The priest and hedgehog in their robes ai'e snug; Ev"n silly woman has her warlike arts. Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts ; — ■ 106 THE POETICAL WORKS 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 ev'ry 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 ! lie hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless wanton malice Moning, By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear : 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 gon'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. O dulness! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- serve, Tliey 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 gi'ope, 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 heav'n or vaulted hell. I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear 1 Already one strong hold of liope 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 ! liear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! — Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; And bright in cloudless skies his sun goes down ! May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear cii'cling the bed of death ! CXXVIII. TO OF FINTRY. ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. I Graham of Fintry not only obtained for the poet the tippoint- ment in the Excbe, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but lie also removed him, as he noshed, to a better district ; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence. Kintry did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to save the muse without fear of want.] I CALL 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 sparkhug stars of night ; If aught that giver from my mind efiace; If I that givers bounty e'er disgrace ; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres. Only to number out a villain's years ! CXXIX. [This Vision of Lilwrty descended on Bums among the ma^ifi- cent ruins of the College of Lincluden, which stand on the junction of the ( luden and the Nith, a short mile above Uumfries. He gave us the Vision ; perhaps, he dared not in tliose yeasty timts venture on the Song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The scene is chiefly copied from nature: the swellings of tlie Nith, the bowlings of the fox on the hill, andthecryof theowl, unite at times with the natural beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins were a favotiritc 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 ; OF ROBERT BURNS. 107 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. 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 chanoe I tum'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 grav'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, — I winna ventur't in my rhymes. cxxx. %o\)n iWaitoell of ITctiaugfjts, ON HIS BIRTH-DAT. [John J!axwell of Terraughty and Munhses, to whom these verses »re addressed, though descended from the Earls of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claimed merit only from a judgment sound and clear — a knowledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, which was considered unri\allcd. 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 refusal. He loved to meet Burns : not that he either eared for or comprehended poetry ; but he was pleased with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and pierc- ing remarks in which he indulged. He was seventy-one years old when these verses were written, and sxurived the poet twenty years.] Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: VARIATIONS. ' To join yon river on the Strath. 2 Now looking over tirtn and fauld, Her horn the palc-fac'd Cynthia rear'd ; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. Inspir'd, I tum'd Fate's sybil leaf This natal mom ; 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 buckles view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen' d days on this blest morrow, May desolation's lang teetli'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 theyca' me! Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792. CXXXI. ^i)t iaigl^ts of giaoman. AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, Nov. 26, 1792. [Miss Fontenelle, was one of the actresses whom Williamson, the inanager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumour added, perhaps maliciously, lenties of action. The Rights of .Man hadbeen advocated by Paine, the liights of Woman by Wary Wolstonecroft, and nought was talked of, hut the moral and political regene- ration of the world. The line " But truce with kings and truce with constitutions," got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audience. Th« words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on them.] While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 108 THE POETICAL WOUKS AVhile 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 licad, 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 inviolatc's the fashion. Each man of sense has it so full before him. He'd die before he'd wTong 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- bz-ed — Most justly think (aud we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, uor manners. For Right the third, our last, oiu- best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the near- est, "Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- tration IMost humljly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; There taste that life of life — immortal love. — Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — When awful Beauty joins with all her chamis, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? But truce with kings and truce with constitu- tions, AVith bloody armaments and revolutions. Let maj(!sty your first attention summon. Ah ! ca ira ! the majesty of woman ! CXXXII. ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAVRICE. [The heroine of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh- Paik : a lady, younp and gay, much of a wit, and something of a po- etess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some " epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes desig- nated 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 and feeling.] How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, IIow pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd ! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired. How duU is that ear which to flattery so lis- ten'd ! If sorrow and anguish their exit await. From friendship and dearest afl'ection re- mov'd; How doubly severer, Slaria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou hvedst unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, yo 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, W^e'll roam through the forest for each idle Avced ; 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 the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey. Which spurning Contempt shall redeem fiwm his ire. Hero lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, W^hat once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. OF ROIIEIIT I'.UUNS. 109 CXXXIII. KUUM E S P U S TO MARIA. [Willianisiin, the actor, Colonel Wacdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Kiddcl are the characters wliich pass over the stase in this strange composition : it is printed from the Poet's own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of WTath and contempt, on persons who, in hiscies, gave themselves airs beyond tlieir condition, or tlicir merits. The \erse of the lady is Held up to contempt and laughter : the sadrist celebrates her " Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed ;" and lias a passing liil at her " Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."] From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; Where turnlveys 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 peejiing 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 hues 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 AVill 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 Iligliland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me IVIaria's juying eye. Blest Highland bonnet ! Once my proudest dress. Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. I see her wave thy towering plumes afar. And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,' And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; The crafty colonel ^ leaves tho tartan ed lines. For other wars, where he a hero shines ; The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head; Captain Gillespie. - CoL MacdoualL Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display. That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; The shrinking bard adowu the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting Avorse than Woolwich hulks ; Tliough there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate? StUl she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal called Maria's janty stagger, The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, ^A'hose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom when He dips in gall unmix' d liis eager pen, — And pours his vengeance in the burning line, Who christened thus Maria's lyre divine ; The idiot strum of vanity bemused, And even th' abuse of poesy abused ! Who called her verse, a parish workhouse made For motley foundling fancies, stolen orstrayed?) 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 frowzy couch in sorrow steep ; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermined gipsies littered 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 caUs thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit. Who says, that fool alone is not thy due. And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, And dare the war with all of woman born: For who can write and speak as thou and I ? My periods that decyphering defy. And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. no THE POETICAL WORKS CXXXIV ON TASTORAL POETRY. [Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem being by his brother, and though Roliert Chambers declares that he " has scarcely a doubt that it is not by the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his fori have no doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers of tlie poet, in his own hand-writing : the second, the fourth, and the concluding verses bear the Bums' stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting : they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Cliambers has compared them as little as the cry of the eagle resembles the chirp of the vrten.] IIail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! In chase o' thcc, wliat crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers ; And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd Mid a' thy favom-s ! 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 tlie shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage ? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shalcspeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurUn, 'till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 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 ! Thou paints auld nature to the nines. In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. Where I'hilomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines. Her griefs will tell ! In 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 0' witchin' love ; That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move. cxxxv. Sonnet, WRITTEN OV THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. [Bums 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 birth-day, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side : he is willing to accept the unlooked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.] Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough. Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign. At thy blithe 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 bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. OF ROBERT BURNS. Ill CXXXVI. 5onnct, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ, OF GLENRIDDEL, April, 1794. pThe death of Glencaim, who was his patron, and the death of Glen- riddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at EUisland, been his neighbour, weighed hard on the mind of Hums, who, about this time, began to regard his ou-n futiu'e fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of li- terature, and ex; erienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained 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 : I have heard a com- petent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domes- tic 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 wild- est roar. How can ye charm, 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 Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet. Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. CXXXVII. Sm promptu, ON MRS. R 'S BIRTHDAY. [By compliments such as these lines contain. Bums soothed the smart which his verses " On a lady famed for her caprice'' inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Kiddel.] Olo Winter, with his frosty beai-d. Thus once to Jove his j)rayer preferr'd, — What luive I done of all the year. To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow ; My dismal months no joys are crowning, I3ut splocny 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. CXXXVTTI Eibertg. A FRAGMENT. CFragments of verse were numerous. Dr. Currie said, amons the loose papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode commemorating the achievement of liberty for America, under the directing genius of Washington and Franklin.] 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 hallow'd 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. 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 ! CXXXTX. TO A YOUNG LADY. (This young lady was the daughter of the poet's friend, Graham of Finti y ; and the gift alluded to was a copy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs : a work which owes many attractions to the lyric genius of Burns.] Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift ; — tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 112 THE POETICAL WORKS So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar tliy bosom-chords among ; But peace attune thy geutlo soul to rest, Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. Or pity's notes in luxury of teai-s, As modest want tlie tale of woe reveals ; While conscious virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. CXL. Z\)e 3r7 to c 1 0. [Bums admired genius acionied by learning ; but mere learning without Ktnius he always rcgarJed 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 hut a Gretna-green match-maker be- tween vowels and consonants !"] 'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; Wliere ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; Upon a time, Sir Abecc the great. In all his pedagogic powers elate, His awful chair of state resolves to mount. And call the trembling vowels to account. — First cnter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wiglit, 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! Ileluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest face I That name ! that well-worn name, and all his own. Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! The pedant stifles keen the lloman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; And next the title following close behind. He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. The cobwcb'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 desjjairing 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 loft hand clutcli'd him fast. In lu'lplcss infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. CXLI. TO JOHN RANK IN E. [With the " rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adam-hill, in Ayrshire, Bums kept up a « ill o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death : these communications, of whicli this is one, were sometimes graceless but always witty. It is sup- posed that these lines were suggested by FalstafTs account of his ragged recruits : — " I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat !"] Ae 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 liimsel' to see the wretches. He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, " By G — d I'll not be seen behint them. Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this d — d infernal clan." By Adamliill a glance he threw, " L — d God !" quoth he, " I have it now, Tliere's just the man I want, i' faith !" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. Lir. CDn Sensibility. MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOUUED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNl/OP. [These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments con- tained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he appears to allude ; but he deadened the effect of his .sympa- thy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to, " Dearest Nancy thou canst tell !" and so transferring the whole to another heroine.] Sensibility how charming. Thou, my friend, canst truly tell: But distress with horrors arming, Thou hast also known too well. OF ROBERT BURNS. 113 Fairest flower, boliold the lily, Blooniiiif; in tlie sunny ray : Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, Tellinj]; o er his little joys : Hapless bird! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bouglit, the hidden treasure. Finer feeling can bestow ; Clionls that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe. CXLIII. SENT TO A GEKTLF.IMAX WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. [The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repent- ant strains : they were accepted, as they were meant by the i)arty. The poet had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank witli disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled licence of speech, on the claim of political importtnce, and domestic equality, wliich Mary Woolstoncroft and her fuUouers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously offended.] The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray ;) WHio but deplores that hai)less friend ? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive. CXLTV. SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELI.E ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT. [This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at tlic Dumfries theatre, on the4th of December, 1795.] Stilt, an.xious to secure your partial favour, And not less, au.\ious, sure, this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vc Stutj^or'g iFat^cr. f William Bumess merited his son's eulogiums : hen-asan exam- ple of pietj', patience, and fortitude.] O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; The dauntless heart that feared no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; " For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." II. [Robert Aiken Esq., to whom " The Cotter's Saturday Night" ii addressed : a kind and generous man.] Know thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. III. [The name of this friend Is neither mentioned nor alluded to in any of the poet's productions.) An honest man here lies at rest As e'er God with his image blest ! The friend of man, the friend of truth ; The friend of age, and guide of youth ; Few hearts like his, with virtue warra'd, Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; If there is none, he made the best of this. IV. Jpot ffiabtn l^amilton. [These lines allude to the persecution which Hamilton endured for presuming to ride on Sunday, and say, " damn it," in the presence of the minister of Mauchline.] The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps. Whom canting wretches blam'd : But with such as he, where'er he be. May I be sav'd or damn'd I V. ©n Mce 3)o!)nng. HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. [Wee Jonny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmarnock edi- tion of Bums's I'oems: he doubted the successof the speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, which he printed unaware of their meaning.] Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know. That death has murder'd Johnny ! An' here his body lies fu' low — For saul he ne'er had ony. 120 THE POETICAL WORKS VI. ©n -3)01^11 Sofac, INNKEEPER, M A IT C II I. I N E. [John Dove kept the WTiitefoord Arms in Mavichlinc : his religion is made to consist of a comparative appreciation of the liquors he kept.) Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; A\'hat was liis religion ? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For Iiere Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! Strong ale was ablution — Small beer, persecution, A dram was memento mori ; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory. VII. ©tt a SSaag in iWaucMinc. [This laborious and useful wag was the " Dear Smith, thou sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest epistles : he died in the West I ndies.] Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye ; For had ye staid whole weeks awa. Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Maucliline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thcgither, O tread ye lightly on his grass, — Perhaps he was your father. VIIT. On a ©dctiratcD Itluling Iclticr. [Smiter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigram by his im- pertinent enquiries into what he called the moral delinquencies of buna.] ITeue sonter Hood in death does sleep; — To h — 11, if he's gane thither, Satan gie him thy gear to keep, IIo'U baud it woel tliegither. IX. €)n a Xot^s ^olcinlf. (This noisy polemic was a mason of tnenameof .Tames Hum- phroy: he astonished Cromck by an eloquent dissertation on fa* (,'racc, effectual-callini;, and predestination. ] Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : O Death, it's my o])inion. Thou ne'er took sut-li a blethiin' It — ch Into thy dark dominion ! X. On i^ltss g^can ^cott. [The heroine of these complimentan- lines lived in Ayr, and cheered the poet nnth her sweet voice, as well as her sweet looks.] Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times Been Jeany Scott, as tliou art. The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward ! XI. On a ?i?cnpcc6cli CTountiji Squire. [Though satisfied with the severe satire of these linos, the poet made a second attempt] As father Adam first was fool'd, A case that's still too common. Here lies a man a woman rul'd, Tlie devil rul'd the Avoman. XII. On if)e ;samc. I The second attempt did not in liurns's fancy exhaust thisfniitful subject : he tried his hand again.] O Death, had'st thou but spared his life. Whom we this day lament. We freely wad exchang'd tlie wife, And a' been weel content ! 01' llOBKRT UURNS. 121 Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, Tlie swap we yet will do't ; Take thou the carlin's carcase afF, Thou'se get the soul to boot. XIII. ly Jessy be tlie name ; Then thou mayest freely boast, Thou hast given a peerless toast. LXX. [The constancy of her attendance on the poet's s'ck-bed and anxiety of mind brought a slight illness upon Jessy Lewars. " You must not die yet," said the poet : " give me tliat goblet, and I shall prepare you for the worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, and said, " That ■will be a companion to ' The Toast.' "] Say, sages, what's the charm on earth Can turn Death's dart aside ? It is not purity and worth. Else Jessy had not died. R. B. LXXL ON THE RECOVERY OF 3)cgSS Sctoatg. [A little repose brought health to the young lady. " 1 knew you would not die," obscr\'ed the poet, with a smile : " there is a poetic reason for your recovery :" he wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.] But rarely seen since Nature's birth, The natives of the sky ; Yet still one seraph's left on earth. For Jessy did not die. R. B. LXXII. Zam, tjbe ®6apman. [Tam, the Chapman, is said by the late Wil'iam Cohbett, who knev» him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercantile house in the west of Scotlai.d. .Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several letters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet in 1!J34 : it is perhaps enough to say that the name of the one was Thoma*. and the nameof the other John. 1 As Tam the Chapman on a day, \Vi' Death forgather'd by the way, Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous, And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, And there blaws up a hearty crack ; His social, friendly, honest heart, Sae tickled Death they could na part : Sae after viewing knives and garters, Death takes him hame to gie him quarters. LXXIII. (These lines seem to owe their origin to the precept of Mickle, "The present moment is our ain. The next we never saw."] Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! What wad you wish for mair, man ? Wha kens before his life may end, Wliat his share may be o' care, man ? Then catch the moments as they fly. And use them as ye ought, man ! Believe me, happiness is shy. And comes not ay when sought, man. LXXIV. [The sentiment which these lines express, was one familiar 'o Bums in the early, as well as concluding days of his life.] Though fickle Fortune has deceived me. She promis'd fair and perform' d but ill ; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav d me, Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able. But if success I must never find. Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 130 THE POETICAL WORKS LXXV. [The John Kennedy to whom these vervsand the succeeding lines were addressea, lived, in I7HI), at Dumfries-house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the ixwi, that he submitted his " Cotters Satur- day Night" and the " Mountain Daisy" to his judgment : he seems to have been of a social disposition.] Now Kennedy, if foot or horse E'er bring you in by Jlauchline Cross, L — d man, there's lasses there wad force A hermit's fancy. And down the gate in faith they're worse And mair unchancy. But as I'm sajan' please step to Dow's, And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews. Till some bit callan bring me news That ye are there, And if we dinna hae a bouze Ise ne'er drink mair. It's no I like to sit an' swallow. Then like a swine to puke and wallow. But gie me just a true good fallow, Wi' right ingine, And spunkie ance to make us mellow, And then we'll shine. Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak An' sklent on poverty their joke Wi' bitter sneer, "\Vi" you nae friendship I will troke. Nor cheap nor dear. But if, as I'm informed weel, Ye hate as ill's the very deil The flinty heart that canna feel — Come, Sir, here's tae you! Ilae there's my haun, I wiss you weel And gude be wi' you. IloBEKT BlIRNESS. Mossgtel, 3 March, I78O. LXXVI. •^0 5)oj)n IBlcnnclig. Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit you. And 'mang her favorites admit you I If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him ! And ony deil that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him ! K. B. Kilmarnock, August, I78C. LXXVII. (Cromek found these cliaracteristic lines among the Doet's papers.] There's naethin like tlie honest nappy ! Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy. Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 'Tween morn an' morn, As them wha like to taste the drappie In glass or horn ? I've seen me daezt upon a time; I scarce could wink or see a stjTne ; Just ae luvuf muchkiu does me prime. Ought less is little. Then back I rattle on the rhyme, As elesi's a whittle. LXXVIJI. ON THE BLANK LEAF SSlorfe bg ?^annab iWorf. PKESENTED BY MRS. C- Thou flattering work of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor ; Though sweetly female every part, Yet such a head, and more the heart. Does both the sexes honour. She showed her taste refined and just When she selected thee, Yet deviating own I must, For so approving me ! But kind still, I'll mind still The giver in the gift ; I'll bless her, and wiss her A Friend above the Lift. Mossyiel, April, 1786. LXXIX. TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN ilKasonic 3Lotigc at ©arbolton. Within your dear mansion may way ward con- tention. Or withering envy ne'er enter : May secrecy round be the mystical bound. And brotherly love be the centre. Edinburgh, 23 August, 1787- OF nOBKIlT BURNS. 131 LXXX. Impronijptu. fThe tumbler on which these verses are inscribed by the diamond of Burns, found its way to the hands of Sir Walter Scott, and is now among the treasures of Abbotsford.J Yoit'rk welcome, "Willie Stewart, You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, That's half sae welcome's thou art. Come bumpers high, express your joy. The bowl we maun renew it ; The tappit-hen gae bring her ben. To welcome Willie Stewart. May foes be Strang, and friends be slack, ilk action may he rue it, May woman on Iiim turn her back, That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart. LXXXI. kaucr for ^tiam Armour. [The origin of this prayer is curious. In 17U5, the maid-sen'ant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call " the deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the poet's bonnie Jean, with one or two more of his comrades, executed a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading her perforce through tlie i illage, placed on a rough, unpruned piece of wood : an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly called " Riding the Stang." This was resented by Geordie and N'anse, the girl's master and mis- tress : law was resorted to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the Saturday nights. In one of these home-comings he met Burns, who laughed when he heard the story, and said, " You ha\e need of some one to pray for you." "No one can do that better than yourself," was the reply, and this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, as it is said, " clean offloof." From Adam Armour I obtained the verses, and when he wrote them out, he told the story in whicli the prayer originated.] Lord, pity me, for I am little. An elf of mischief and of mettle, That can like ony wabster's shutth- Jink there or here. Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-whittle, I'm unco queer. Lord, pity now our waefu' case. For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace, Because Ave stanged her through the place, 'Mang liundreds laughin, For which we daurna sliow our face Witliin the clachan. And now we're derncd in glens and hallows, And hunted as was William Wallace, By constables, those blackguard fellows, And bailies baith, O Lord, preserve us frao the gallows ! That cursed death. Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel, O shake him owre the mouth o' hell, And let him hing and roar and yell, Wi' hideous din. And if he offers to rebel Just heave him in. When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink, And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink Gaur Satan gie her a — e a clink Behint his yett, And fill her up wi' brimstone drink. Red reeking bet ! There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny, Some devil seize them in a hurry. And waft them in th' infernal wherry Straught through the lake. And gie their hides a noble curry, Wi' oil of aik. As for the lass, lascivious body, She's had mischief enough already, Weel stanged by market, mill, and smiddie, She's suffei-ed sair. But may she wintle in a widdie, If she wh-re mair SONGS AND BALLADS. Tune. — " / am a mail unmarried.^'' [" This composition," says burns in his " C'ommon-plac« Book," " was the first of my performances, and done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed with lionest, warm simplicity ; unacquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject of It was a yoimg girl who really deserved all the praises I have be- stowed on her."J O oxcE I lovd a bouiiie lass, Ay, and 1 love her still ; And whilst that honour warms my breast, I'll love my handsome Nell. II. As bonnie lasses I hae seen, And mony full as braw ; But for a modest gracefu' mien The like I never saw. III. A bonnie lass I will confess Is pleasant to the e'e. But without some better qualities She's no a lass for me. IV. But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet. And what is best of a', Her reputation is complete, And fair without a flaw. V. She dresses ay sac clean and neat, Both decent and genteel : And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel. 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. II. Itwcfeless iForttmc. [These lines, as Bums informs us, were written to a tune of his own composing, consisting of three parts, and the words were the echo of the air.] O RAGING fortune's withering bhist Has laid my leaf full low, ! O raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, O ! My stem was fair, my bud was green, My blossom sweet did blow, ; The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild. And made my branches grow, O. But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, ; But luckless fortune's northern storms Laid a' my blossoms low, 0. TIT. I Dteam'l) 5 lag. [These melancholy verses were written when the poet was son'e seventeen years old : his early days were typical of his latter.] A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart ; But it's innocence and modesty That polishes the dart. I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam ; List'ning to the wild birds singing, Hya falling crystal stream: OF ROBERT BURNS 133 Straij;;lit the sky grew black and daring; Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; Trees with aged arms were warring, Oer the swelling drumlie wave. Such was my life's deceitful morning, Such the pleasure I enjoy'd : IJut lung or noon, loud tempests storming, A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortime has deceiv'd me, She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, I bear a heart shall support me still. IV. Si&btc, J \)ae seen tj^e Da^. Tune. — " Invercald's Reel." (The I'Sbbie who " spak na, but gacd by like stouie," was, it is iaid, the daughter of a man who was laird of three acres of peat- moss, and thought it became her to put on airs in consequence.] O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Ye wad na been sae shy ; For lack o' gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by. Yestreen I met you on the moor. Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; Ye geek at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I. Idoubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink. Whene'er ye like to try. But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, "Wha follows ony saucy quean. That looks sae proud and high. Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry. But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 'J'ho' hardly lie, for sense or lear. Be bettor than the kye. But, Tibbie, lass, talc my advice. Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice ; The deil a ane wad spier your price. Were ye as poor as I. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would nae gie her in her sark. For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; Ye need na look sae hisfh. V. i^le ipatj^cr toas a iparmet. Tune. — " The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." \" The following song," says the poet, " is a wild rhapsody, mise- rably deficient in versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings ot my heart, for that reason I have a paiticular pleasure m connmg it over.") My father was a farmer Upon the Carrick border, 0, And carefully he bred me In decency and order, ; He bade me act a manly part. Though I had ne'er a farthing, 0; For without an honest manly heart. No man was worth regarding, O. Then out into the world My course I did determine, ; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, Yet to be great was charming, O : My talents they were not the worst, Nor yet my education, O ; Resolv'd was I, at least to try, To mend my situation, 0. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, To frustrate each endeavour, O : Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd Sometimes by friends forsaken, O, And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last. With fortune's vain delusion, 0, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, And came to this conclusion, O: 13i THE POETICAL WORKS The past was bad, and tlie future liid ; Its good or ill untried, O ; But the present hour, was in my pow'r, And so I would enjoy it, O. V. No help, nor hojie, nor view had I, Nor person to befriend me, ; So I must toil, and sweat and broil, And labour to sustain me, : To plough and sow, to reap and mow, My father bred me early, O ; For one, he said, to labour bred. Was a match for fortune fairly, O. VI. Thus "ill obscure, unknown, and poor. Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, 0, Till down my weary bones I lay. In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whatever Might breed me pain or sorrow, O : I live to-day as well's I may, Regardless of to-morrow, 0. VII. But cheerful still, I am as well, As a monarch in a palace, O, Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down. With all her wonted malice, O : I make indeed my daily bread. But ne'er can make it farther, O; But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regai-d her, 0. VIII. When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, 0, Some unforeseen misfortune Comes gen' rally upon me, : Mischance, mistalce, or by neglect. Or my goodnatur'd folly, ; But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O. IX. All you who follow wealth and power With unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, You leave your view tlie farthei", : Had you the wealth Potosi boasts. Or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, 0. VI. •3)of)n ISarlegcorn : A BALLAD. [Composed on the plan of an old song, of which Uavid Laing has given an authentic version in his very curious volume of Metrical Tales.] There were three kings into the east^ Three kings both great and high ; An' they ha'e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough andplough'd him down. Put clods upon his head ; And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath John I3arleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on. And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again. And sore surpris'd tiiera all. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong ; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wronj>f. The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he gi-ew wan and pale ; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to faU. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age ; And then his enemies began To shew their deadly rage. They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp. And cut him by the knee ; Then ty'd him fast upon a cart. Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgcU'd him full sore ; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim ; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim. They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe ; And still, as signs of life apjjeai-'d, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones ; But a miller us'd him worst of all. For he crush'd him between two stones. OF ROBERT BURNS. 135 And tliey lia'e ta'en his very licart's blood, And drank it round and round ; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold. Of noble enterprise ; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise. 'Twill make a man forget his woo ; 'Twill heighten all his joy ; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! VII. Tune. — " Corn Bias are bonnie.^'' (Two young women of the west, Anne Ronald and Anne Blair, hai'e each, by the district traditions, been claimed as thf heroine of this early song.) It was upon a Lammas night. When corn rigs are bonnie. Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie : The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 'Till 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, To see me thro' the barley. The sky was blue, the wind was still. The moon was shining clearly; I set her down wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley : I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; I lov'd her most sincerely; I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley. I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarely : My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly ! She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley ! I liae been blithe wi' comrades dear ; I hae been merry drinkin' ; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear ; I hae been happy thinkiu' : But a' the pleasures e'er I saAv, Tho' three times doubl'd fairly. That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs. An' corn rigs are bonnie : I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie. VIII. iiTontgomcrs'S ^^SSS- Tune.—" Galla-Waterr [" My Montgomerj's Pegg>-," says Bums, " was my deity for six or eight months : she had been bred in a style of life rather elegant : it cost me some heart-aches to get rid of the aifair." The young lady listened lo the eloquence of the poet, poured out in many an in- terview, and then quietly told him that she stood unalterably engaged to another,] Altho' my bed were in yon muir Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be. Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. When o'er the hill beat surly storms. And winter nights were dark and rainy ; I'd seek some dell, and in my arms I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. Were I a baron proud and high. And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy. IX. Z\)t iHaucf)Ime Satig. Tune. — " / had a Horse, I hadnae Mair." [The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart was Jean Armour: she loved to relate how the bard made her acquaintance: his dog ran acit>ss some linen wtbs which she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, and he apologized so handsomely that she took another look at him. To this intcrnew the world owes some of our most impa^ sioned strains.] A\ iiEN first I came to Stewart Kyle, My mind it was nae steady ; Wheie'er I gaed, where'er 1 rade, A mistress still I had ay : 136 THE POETICAI. WORKS But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, Not dreadin' any body. My heart was caught l)efore I thought, And by a Maucliline lady. X. Z\)t |^5tgI)IanD Sassic. Tune. — " 77(6 Dcuks dang o'er my Daddy /'' [" The Highland Lassie" was Mary Campbell, whose too early- death the poet sung in strains tliat will endure while the language •asts. " She was," says Bums, " a warm-hearted, charming young creat\ire as ever blessed a man »-ith generous love.") Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse's care : Their titles a' are empty show ; Gie me my Highland lassie, 0. Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plains sae rushy, 0, I set me down wi' right good will. To sing my Highland lassie, O. Oh, were yon hills and rallies mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine, The world then the love should know I bear my Highland lassie, 0. But fickle fortune frowns on me. And I maun cross the raging sea ; But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my Highland lassie, O. Altho' tliro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change. For her bosom bums with honour's glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O. For her I'll dare the billows' roar. For her I'll trace a distant shore. That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, 0. She has my heart, she has my hand. By sacred truth and honour's band ! 'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. Farewell the glen sae bushy, ! Farewell the plain sae rushy, O ! To other lands I now must go. To sing my Highland lassie, O. xr. [The heroine of this song is said to liave Iccu " Montgomery' Peggy.'J Tune. — " I had a Horse. I had nae Afair.' Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather : Now wa\nng grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer ; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer. The partridge loves the fiuitful fells ; The plover loves the mountains ; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; The soaring hern the fountains : Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it ; The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush. The spreading thorn the linnet. Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender ; Some social join, and leagues combine ; Some solitary wander : Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway Tyrannic man's dominion ; The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, The flutt'ring, gory pinion. But Peggy, dear, the evning's clear. Thick flies the skimnwng swallow ; The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow : Come, let us stray our gladsome way, And view the chaiTns of nature ; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. And every happy creature. We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly ; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly : Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, Not autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me. My fair, my lovely charmer ! OF ROBERT XIT. ^i)e lamm Bog t^c Dalitile o't. Tunc— "^rt^/ nook o' Z'i^." fTlicl.eroincof this Immnrous ditty was the mother of •■ Snnsi.- snurk.ng, dear-b„usht liess," a person whom tl>e poet «gardc"d a he says, both lor licr form and her graccj "Karuia. as 137 O WHA my babie-clouts will buy ? O wha will tent me when I cry ? Wlia will kiss me where I lie ? The rantin dog the daddie o't. O wha will own he did the fau't ? O wlia wiU buy the groanin' maut ? O wha will tell me how to ca't ?— The rantin dog the daddie o't. When I mount the creepie chair, Wha will sit beside me tliere ? Gie me Hob, I'll seek nae mair, The rantin dog the daddie o't. Wha will crack to me my lane ? Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? Wha will kiss me o'er again ? The rantin dog the daddie o't. XIII. iWs l^cart teas met. Tune.—" To the Weavers gin ye go. - C'J^''^H ^""""'^ thissonfr," says Bums, in his note to the Museum, IS old, the rest .s mme." The '• bonnie. westlin weaver lad'Ms sSd to^have been one ot U,e rivals of the poet in theaffeetions of a wLTa„ My heart was auce as blythe and free As simmer days were lang, But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 1 o the weavers gin ye go ; I rede you right gang ne'er at night, lo the weavers gin ye "o. HtlRNS. Afy niithf-r !^ei)t me to the town, To waij) a plaiden wab ; But tlie weaiy, weary warjiin o't Has gart me sigh and sab. A bonnie westlin weaver lad, Sat working at his loom ; ' He took iny heart as wi' a net, In every knot and thrum. I sat beside my warpin-wheel. And ay I ca'd it roun' ; But every shot and eveiy knock, My heart it gae a stoun. The moon was sinking in the west Wi' visage pale and wan. As my bonnie westlin weaver lad Convoy'd me thro' the glen. But what was said, or what was done, Shame fa' me gin I tell ; But, oh ! I fear the kintra soon Will ken as weel's mysel. To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, To the weavers gin ye go ; I rede you right gang ne'er at night, To the weavers gin ye go. XIV. Kanntc. Tune.—" My Nannie, O: [Agnes \ lemmg, servant at Caleothill, inspired this fine song : she died at an advanced age, and was more remarkable for the beauty of her fonn than faee. When questioned about the love of Bums she smiled and said, " Aye, atweel he made a great wark about m^"] Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awa to Nannie, 0. II. Tlie westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; The night's baith mirk and rainy, O • But 111 get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,' An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. J38 THE POETICAL WORKS My Nannie's channing, sweet, an' young ; Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : May ill bcfa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O. Her face is fair, her heart is true. As spotless as she's bonnie, O : The op'iiing gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O. A country lad is my degree. An' few there be that ken me, O : But wliat care I how few they be ? I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. My riches a's my penny-fee. An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, !My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. Our auld guidman delights to view His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, ; But I'm as blythe that haiids his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nannie, 0. Come weel, come woe, I care na by, I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O : Nae ither care in life have I, But live, an' love my Nannie, O. XV. ^ ipragment. Tune — " John Anderson my Jo." fThis verse, written early, and pronaWy iDtfndetl for the starting vers* of a song, was found among tlie papers of the poet.J One night as I did wander. When corn begins to shoot, I sat mc down to ponder, Upon an auld tree root : Auld Ayr ran by before me, And biclvcr'd to the seas ; A cushat crooded o'er me, That echoed thio" the braes. XVI. Bonnie ^Ucggg ^Itgon. Tune. — " Braes o" Balquhidder." [On those whom Burns loved he poured out songs without limit Peggy Alison is said, by a western tradition, to be Montgomery 'i Peggy, but this seems doubtful.] I'll kiss thee yet, yet. An' I'll kiss thee o'er again ; An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. My bonnie Peggy Alison ! Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, I ever mair defy them, O ; Young kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am, O ! Wlien in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, O, I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share Than sic a moment's pleasure, ! And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever, O ! — And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never, O ! I'll kiss thee yet, yet, An' I'll kiss thee oer again ; An' 111 kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison I XVII. Z\)txt'^ uougl^t tiut ©arc. Tune. — " Green grow the Rashes. ["Man was made when nature was but an apprentice; but woman is tlie last and most perfect work of nature," says an old writer, in a rare old book : a passage which expresses the sentin'.er.t of Burns ; yet it is all but certain that the Ploughman Bard wa:s un- acquainted with " Cupid's Whirlygig," where these words arc to 1-t found.] Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, ! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang tlie lasses, 0. OF ROBERT BURNS. 139 There's nought but cure on ev'ry liau', In every hour that passes, O : What signifies the life o' maji, An' "twei'e na for the lasses, 0. The warly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly thorn, O ; An' tho' at last they catch them fast. Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. But gie me a caimy hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O ; An' warly caies, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, 0. For you sae donee, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. Auld Nature swears the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, : Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, An' then she made the lasses, O. Green grow the rashes, O ! Green grow the rashes, O ! The sweetest hours that e'ej: I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O. XVIII. Tune. — " The Northern Lass. [The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour.] Though cruel fate should bid us part, Far as the pole and line. Her dear idea round my heart. Should tenderly entwine. Though mountains rise, and deserts howl. And oceans roar between ; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean. XIX. Itobin. Tune. — " Daintie Davie. ^StijtharJ painted a clever little picture from this characteristic ditty : the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm soine- thins; which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in tlie eyes of her gossips. J There was a lad was born in Kyle, But whatna day o' whatna style I doubt it's hardly worth the while To be sae nice wi' llobin. Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin,' rantin' rovin' ; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin ! Our monarch's hindmost year but ane Was five-and-twenty days begun, 'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' Blew hansel in on Robin. The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof^ This waly boy will be nae coof, I think we'll ca' him Robin. He'll hae misfortunes great and sma% But ay a heart aboon them a' ; He'll be a credit to us a'. We'll a' be proud o' Robin. But sure as three times three mak nine, I see by ilka score and line. This chap will dearly like our kin', So leeze me on thee, Robin. Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you gar. The bonnie lasses lie aspar, But twenty fauts ye may hae waur. So blessin's on thee, Robin ! Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin" rovin', rantin' rovin' ; Robin was a rovin' boy, Rantin' rovin' Robin ! 140 THE POETICAL WORKS XX. ?i)er iFIofeing ILocH. Tune. — (unknown.) One dny— it is tradition that speaks— Hums had his foot in the stirrap to return from Ayr to Mauchliiic, when a young lady of frreat heauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her ser- vants : he made these lines at the moment, to keep, hesiud, so much beauty in his memorj.] Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, Adown her neck and bosom hing; How sweet unto that breast to cling. And round that neck entwine her ! Her lips arc roses wat wi' dew, O, what a feast her bonnic niou' ! Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, A crimson still diviner. XXI. © Icabe Kobclg. Tune. — " ]\faiichlinc Bells." r Wlio these Mauchllne belles were the tard in other leise informs s:— " Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw ; There's beauty and fortune to xet with Miss Morton, But Annour's the jewel for me o' them a'."] O LEAVE novels, ye Maucliline belles, Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; Such witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, They make your youthful fancies reel ; They heat your brains, and fire your veins. And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, A heart that warmly seems to feel ; That feeling heart but acts a part — 'Tis rakisli art in Rob Mossgiel. Tilt! frank address, the soft cai-ess, Are worse than poisoned darts of steel ; Tiie frank address and politess Arc all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. XXIT. Young; ILUgg),!. Tune — " La.st time I cam o'er the Muir. [In these verses Burns, it is said, bade farewell to one on whom ba liad, according to his own account, wasted eight montlis of court- ship. We hear no more of Montgomery's Peggy.) Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, Her blush is like the morning, The rosy dawn, the springing grass, With early gems adorning Her eyes outshine the radiant beams That gild the passing shower. And glitter o'er the crystal streams, And cheer each fresh'ning flower. Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them ; They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them : H er smile is, as the evening, mild. When feather'd tribes are courting. And little lambkins wanton wild. In playful bands disporting. Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe. Such sweetness would relent her As blooming spring unbends the brow Of surly, savage winter. Detraction's eye no aim can gain. Her winning powers to lessen ; And fretful envy grins in vain The poison'd tooth to fasten. Ye powers of honour, love, and truth. From every ill defend her ; Inspii-e the highly-favour'd youth. The destinies intend her : Still fan the sweet connubial flame Responsive in each bosom. And bless the dear parental name With many a filial blossom. XXIIT. Z\)t cure foe nil Cl^atc. Tune. — "J'reparc, my dear Brethreit, to t/u: Tavern let" s fly." [Tarbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a member, was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics arc all of a dark and mystic order; and those of Burns arc scarcely an exception.] No churcliman am I for to rail and to write No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, OF IIOHKUT iJL'UNS. 141 No sly man of business contrivinjx to snare — I'^or a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my euro. The peer I don't enN-y, I give him his bow ; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; But a club of f^ood fellows, like those that arc here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. Here passes the squire on bis brother — his horse ; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air ! There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; I found that old Solomon proved it fair, That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter infonn'd me that all was to wreck ; — But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, "With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. " Life's cares they are comforts," ' — a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown ; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care VII. ADDED IN A MASON LODGK. Then fill up a bumjier and make it o'ei-flow. The honoui's masonic prepare for to throw ; May every true brother of the compass and square Have a big-bellied bottle when harass' d with care ! XXIV. Tune,—" Gilderoy." I My latr excellent friend,. John (ialt, informed me tliat the Kliza (if this song was his relative, and that her name was Elizabeth Ijar- boui J I. From thee, Eliza, I must go. And from my native shore ; The cruel Fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar : ' Young's Night Thought*. But boundless oceans roaring wide. Between my love and me. They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee ! Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The nuiid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more ! The latest throb that leaves my heart, While death stands victor by, That throb, I"21iza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh ! XXV. Z\)t SiQwi, of m^ iSinie. Tune. — " Shawnboy." [" This song, WTOte by Mr. Bums, was sung by him in the Kil- marnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in \yiili, and given by him to Mr Parker, who was Maitcr of the Lodge." These interesting words are on the original, in the poet's hand-writing, in the posfession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.] Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation ; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray. As praying's the ton of your fashion ; A prayer from the muse you well may ex- cuse, 'Tis seldom her favourite passion. Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide. Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Wliose sovereign statute is order ; W^ithin this dear mansion, may wayward con- tention Or withered envy ne'er enter ; ^lay secresy round be the mystical bound. And brotherly love be the centre. ]<12 THE rOKTlCAL WORKS XXVI. iWcnfc. Tunc. — " Johnny's grey Brecks.'^ fOf the lady who inspired this snnp: no one lias (fiven any account; I first appeared in the second edition of the poet's works, and as the chorus was written hv an Edinburgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was a matter of friendship rather tlian of the heart] Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, ller leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews. And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be. In vain to me the cowslips blaw. In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; In vain to me, in glen or shaw. The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers liis team, AVi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims. And every thing is blest but I. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap. And owre the moorland whistles shrill; Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-wora ghaist I hameward glide. Come, "Winter, with thine angry howl. And raging bend the naked tree : Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, \\ hen nature all is sad like me ! And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her c'e ? For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be. XXVII. TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON. Tune. — " Good-night, and Joy he wV you a'." [Burns, it is said, sunj? this song in the St. James's Lodge of Tar- bolton, when his chest was on the way to Greenock : n>en are yet living who had the lionour of hearing him— the concluding verse af- fected the whole lodge.] Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! Dear brother's of the mystic tye! Ye favourd, ye enlightened few, Companions of my social joy ! Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba'. With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, tho' far avy-a'. Oft have I met your social band. And spent the cheerful, festive night; Oft, honor' d with supreme command, Presided o'er the sous of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright, Wliich none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall wi'ite Those happy scenes when far awa'. May freedom, harmony, and love Unite you in the grand design, Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, The glorious Architect divine ! That you may keep th' unerring line. Still rising by the plummet's law. Till order bright completely shine. Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. And you farewell ! whose merits claim, Justly, that highest badge to wear ! Heav'n bless your honor'd, noble name, To masonry and Scotia dear ! A lii-st request permit me here. When yearly ye assemble a'. One round — I ask it with b tear. To him, the Bard that's far awa'. OF ROBERT BURNS. 143 XXVTTI. Tune. — " If he be a Butcher neat and trim." [There are many \'ariations of this sonR, which wasflnt printed by Cromekfrom the oral communicauon of a Glasgow lady, on whose charms the poet, in early life, composed iu J On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells ; Could I describe her shape and mien ; Our lasses a' she far excels, An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. She's sweeter than the morning dawn When rising Phoebus first is seen, And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. She's stately like yon youthful ash. That grows the cowslip braeS between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn, With flow'rs so white and leaves so green. When purest in the dewy morn ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her looks are like the vernal May, When evening Phoebus shines serene. While birds rejoice on every spray — An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her hair is like the curling mist That climbs the mountain -sides at e'en. When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow. When gleaming sunbeams intervene. And gild the distant mountain's brow ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the Howery scene. Just opcuiiig on its tliorny stem ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. IX. Her teeth are like the niglitly snow When pale the morning rises keen. While hid the murmuring streamlets flow; An' slie has twa sparkling roguish een. Her lips are Like yon cherries ripe. That sunny walls from Boreas screen — They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. xr. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. With fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep ; An' she has twa glancin' roguish een. XII. Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Her voice is like the ev'ning thrash That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled qneen, 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, An' chiefly in her roguish een. XXIX. Tune. — " Blue Bonnets.' [In the original manuscript Burns calls this song " A Prayer for Mary ;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be the inspirer.l Powers celestial ! whose protection Ever giiards the virtuous fair, Y\'lule in distant climes I wander, Let my Mary be your care : Let her form sae fair and faultless, Fair and faultless as your own, Let my Mary's kindred spirit Draw vour choicest influence down. 144 Tiir. roi'/nc.u. wdhus Make the gales you waft around hor Soft anil peaceful «s her breast ; IJreatliini^ in the broe/c that fans her iSootli lier bosom into rest : Guardian aui^jels ! O i)rotoet hor, ^^ luMi in distant lands I roam ; To realms unicnown wliile fate t'xilos mo, Make her bosom still my home. XXX. Z\)c Enssg of 3inUoci)in}iIe. Tune. — "Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff" [Miss Alcxaiiilcr, of Bnllocliiiiylc, as tlie poet tells licr in a letter, dated N'ovembcr, 17HI'. iiispirid this popular sont;. He clianeed to meet her in one of his favourite walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the finesccnc and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander, perhaps unaecustomed to this forwai-d wooing of the muse, allowed the offering to reiniun unnoticed for a time : it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her chamber— as it deserves to be.] 'TwAS even — the dewy fields were green, On every blade tlie pearls hang, Tlic zephyr wantou'd round the beau. And bore its fragrant sweets alang : In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, All nature listening seem'd the while. Except where greenwood echoes rang, Aniang the braes o' Ballochmyle. With careless step I onward stray'd, My heart rejoie'd in nature's joy. When musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; Ilorlook was like the morning's eye. Her air like nature's vernal smile. Perfection wliisper'd, passing by. Behold the la.ss o' Ballochmyle ! Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, And sweet is night in autumn mild ; When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in tlic lonely wild : But woman, nature's darling child ! There all her charms she does compile ; Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. O, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shclter'd in tlie lowest sheil That ever rose on Seot!and"s plain, Thro" weary winter's wind and rain, \\'ith joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, N\ liere fame and honours lofty sliiue: And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. Or downward seek the Indian mine ; Give me tiie cot below the pine. To tend tiie flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. XXXI. '!Zri)c Gloomy KIgDt. Tune. — " Roslia Castle." [" I had taken," says Burns, " the last farewell of my friendj, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and 1 had composed the last soiyt I should ever measure in Caledonia — ' The gloomy night is gatliering fast"'J The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant bliist ; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I sec it driving o'er the plain ; The hunter now has left the moor. The seatter'd coveys meet secure ; Wliilc here I wander, prest with care- Along the lonely bixnks of Ayr, The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, By early Winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure sky. She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appeal", The wretched have no more to fear ! But round my heart the ties are bound. That iieart transpierc'd with many a wound ; These bleed afrcsli, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 01' iiuiiiiiri' in; UN'S. 145 Farewell old Coila's liills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those — The bursting tears my heart declare ; Farewell, the bounie banks of Ayr ! XXXil. Tune. — " Bonnie Dundee." [This is one of the first songs which Hums eommuninated to John- son's Musical Museum: the starting verse is partly old and partly new : tlic second is wholly by liis hand.] O, wiiAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock ? silly blind body, O dinna ye see ? I gat it fraea young brisk sodger laddie, Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. O gin I saw the laddie that gae me 't ! Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee; May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie. And send him safe hame to his babie and ily blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, Aly blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie ! Thy smiles are sae like my blyth sodger laddie, Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me I But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. XXXIII. Tune. — " Maggy Lauder." [Most of this song is by Burns : his fancy was filled wth images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he had them c\cr ready at the call of the muse. It was first printed in the Musical Museum.] I MARKiED with a scolding wife The fourteenth of November; She made me weary of my life. By one unruly member. Long did I boar the heavy yoke. And muiiy griefs attended ; But to my comfort be it spoke. Now, now her life is ended. We liv'd full one-and-twenty years A man and wife together ; At length from me her course she steer'd, And gone I know not wiiither : Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak, and do not flatter. Of all the women in the world, I never could come at her. Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave does hide her; But sure her soul is not in hell. The deil would ne'er abide her. I rather think she is aloft, And imitating thunder; For why,^ — methinks I hear her voice Tearing the clouds asunder. XXXIV. ©omc tjofen tj^e 33ac6 .^talrg. Tune. — " Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad." [Theair of this song was composed by John Bruce, a Dumfria fiddler. Burns gave another and happier versior. ia the work oC Thomson : this was written for the Museum of Joniisou, ivhere it was first publislied.] whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad ; whistle, and I'll come To you, my lad : Tho' father and mither Should baitli gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come To you my lad. Come down the back stairs When ye come to court me : Come down the back stairs When ye come to court me ; Come down the back stairs, And let naebody see. And come as ye were na Coming to me. 146 THE POETICAL WORKS XXXV. 1 am mg itWamms'^ at ISairn. Tune. — "7'm o'er young to marry yet."" [The tide, And part of the chorus only of this song are M ; the rest is by Bums, and was written for Johnson.] I AJi luy mammy's ac bairn, Wi" imco folk I weary, Sir ; And lying in a man's bed, I'm tiey'd it make me eerie. Sir. I'm o'er young to marry yet ; I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young — 'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet. Hallowmas is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; And you an' I in ae bed, In trouth, I dare na venture, Sir. Fu' loud and shill the frosty wind, Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir ; But if ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young to marry yet ; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet. XXXVI. ISonnic Sa^sic, toill jic go. Tune. — " The birks of Aberfeldy.^' [An old strain, called " The Birks of Abcrgeldie," was the forerun- ner of this sweet song : it was written, the poet says, standing under the Falls of Aberfcldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, during oneof the t/jurs which he made to the north, in the year 1787. J Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go ; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy? Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; Come let us spend tlie liglitsome days In the bilks of Aberfeldy. The little birdies blithely sing, While o'er tlieir heads the hazels hing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend, like lofty wa's. The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, The birks of Aberfeldy. The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers. White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Let Fortune's gifts at random flee. They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Supremely blest wi' love and thee, In the Ijirks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go ; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy ? XXXVII. iHacpI)crson'0 iparctocU. Tune.—" M'Fhersons Rani." [This vehement and daring song had its origin in an older and in- ferior strain, recording tlie feelingsof a noted freebooter when brought to " justify his deeds on the gallows-tree" at Inverness.] Farewell, yc dungeons dark and strong. The wretcli's destinie ! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he ; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round. Below the gallows-tree. Oh, what is death but parting breath ? On many a bloody plain I've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again ! III. Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword; And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word. OF UOlUiUT BURNS. 147 I've liv'd a life of stiirt and strife ; I die by treaclierio : It burns my lieart I must depart, And not avenjred be. Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky ! Alay coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaod he; He play'd a si)ring, and danc'd it round. Below the sjallows-tree. XXXVIIT. aiJratD 2ali5 of ffialla abater. Tunc.—"Galla Water."" [Burns found this song in the collection of Herd; added the first Terse , inadc other but not material emendations, and published it in Johnson : in 1/93 he wrote another version for Thomson.] Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; braw lads of Galla Water : I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water. Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie ; Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae. O'er yon moss amang the heather ; I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, And follow my love thro' the water. Down amang the broom, the broom, Down amang the broom my dearie, The lassie lost a silken snood. That cost her mouy a blirt and bleary. Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; O braw lads of Galla Water : I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. And follow my love thro' the water. XXXIX. 5tag, mg ©fjarmcr. Tunc. — " An Gille dichh ciar dhubh." (The air of this song n-as picked up by the poet in one of his north- ern tours: his Highland excursions coloured many of hislyiic com- positions.] Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? Cruel, cruel, to deceive me ! Well you know how nmch you grieve me ; Cruel charmer, can you go ? Cruel charmer, can you go ? By my love so ill requited ; By the faith you fondly plighted By the pangs of lovers slighted ; Do not, do not leave me so ! Do not, do not leave me so ! XL. Tune. — " Strathallan's Lament.^' [The Viscount Strathallan, whom this song commemorates, wM William Drummond: he was slain at the carnage of C'uUoden. It was long believed that he escaped to France and died in exile.] Thickest night, surround my dwelling ! Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, Roaring by my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing Busy haunts of base mankind. Western breezes softly blowing. Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of Right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged. But the heavens denied success. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. Not a hope that dare attend, The wild world is all before us — But a world without a friend . 148 THE rOKTICAL WORKS XLI. i«i' ?i?t>g5«f- Tunc — " }Vhai jvill I do pin my Hoygie die ?" (Dums was struck with Uic pastoral wildnessof this Lidilrsdale air, and wrote these words to it for the Museum : the first line only is old.] What will I do j,nn my Hoggie die ? My joy, my pride, my Iloggie ! My only beast, I had nae mae. And vow but I was vogie ! The lee-Iang night we watch'd the fauld, Me and my faithfu' doggie; Wc heard nought but the roaring linn, Amang the braes sae scroggie; But the lioulet cry'd frae the castle wa', The blitter frae the boggie, The tod reply' d upon the hill, I trembled for my IToggie. When da}' did daw, and cocks did craw, The morning it was foggie ; An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, And maist has kill'd my Iloggie. XLIII. 25p in tfjc i^orning carlg. Tunc.— " Co W i/o?rA- the Wind:' XLTT. ?l?cr 33at)t)ic forbal). Tune. — " Jumpiti' John.:'' [This is one of the old songs which Ritson accuses nurnsof amcnd- injf f<'rthe Museum : little of it, however, is his, save a touch here and there — but they are Burns' touches.] Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad ; Forbidden she wadna be : She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd Wad taste sao bitterlie. The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie. The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie. A row and a cauf, a yowo and a hauf, And thrattygude shillin'sand three; A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochtcr, The lass with the bonnie black e'c. The lang lad they ca' .Jumpin' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie, The lang lad they ca' Jum])in' John Beguiled the bonnie lassie. [" The chorus of this song," says the poet, in his notes on the Scot- tish Lyrics, " is old, the two stanzas are mine." Tlie air is ancient, and was a favourite with Mary Stuart, tlie queen of William the Third.] Up in the morning's no for me. Up in tlie morning early ; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairlv. Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly ; Sae loud and shill I hear the blast, I'm sure it's winter fairly. The birds sit chittering in the thorn, A' day they fare but sparely ; And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — I'm sure it's winter fairly. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning eaily ; When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. xrjv. THE Young ?i)ig]^lanli Mobcr. Tune.-" Mora^." [The Voung Highland Rover of this strain is supposed by some lo he the ( 'hevalier, and with more probability, by othei-s, to be a Gordon, as the pong was composed in consetjuence of the poet's visit to " bon- nie Castle-Gordon," in September, 17fi7-] Loirn blaw the frosty breezes. The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me fi(;izes. Since my young Highland rover Far wanflcrs nations over. Where'er be go, where'er he stray, May Heaven be his warden: Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! OF llOHEUT BURNS. 14',) The trees now naked groaning, Sliall soon wi' leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning. Shall a' be blithely singing. And every flower be sjiringing. Sae I'll rejoice tlie lee-lang day, A\'hen by his mighty Warden }>]y youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon. XLV. Tunc.—" The Dusty Miller" [Tne Dusty Miller is an old strain, modified for the Museum by Burns : it is a tiappy specimen of his taste and skill in malting the new look like the old. ) IIey, the dusty miller, And his dusty coat ; He will win a shilling, Or he spend a groat. Dusty was the coat. Dusty was the colour. Dusty was the kiss That I got frac the miller. Hey, the dusty miller And his dusty sack ; Leeze me on the calling Fills the dusty peck. Fills the dusty peck, Brings the dusty siller ; I wad gie my coatie For the dusty miller. XliVI. Z])etc toa0 a Shss. Tune. — " Duncan Davison." f There are several other versions of Duncan Darison, which it is more delicate to allude to than to quote : this one is in the Museum.] There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, And she held o'er the moors to sjjin ; There was a lad that follow'd licr, They ca'd him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegli, and Meg was skiegh, Her favour Duncan could na win ; For wi' the roke she wad him knock, And ay she shook the temper-pin. As o'er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green. Upon tlie banks they eas'd their shanks. And ay she set the wheel between : But Duncan swore a haly aith, That ]Meg should be a bride the morn, Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, And Hans: them a' out o'er the burn. We'll big a house, — a wee, wee house, And we will live like king and queen, Sae blythe and merry we will be When ye set by the wheel at e'en. A man may drink and no be drunk ; A man may fight and no be slain ; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And ay be welcome back again. XLVII. ^Ijeniel iHcnjics' iSonnie 0Xatv. Tune.—" The Ruffian's Rant." (Burns, it is helieved, wrote this song during his first Highland tour, when he daiicwl among the northern dames, to the tune of " Bab at the IJowster," till the morning sun rose and reproved them from the top of Uen Lomond.] In coming by the brig o' Dye, At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; As day was dawin in the sky. We drank a health to bonnie Mary. Theniel Menzies bonnie Alary ; Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie !Mary. Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile, The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. We lap and danced the lee lang day, Till piper lads were wae and weary ; But Charlie gat the sj)ring to pay, For kissin' Theniel's bonnie ATary. Theniel Menzies' bonnie Marj', Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 150 THE POETICAL UOllKS XliVITI. Tf}t 33anfes ofti)e 33cbon. Tune. — " Bhannerach dhon ?ia chri." [These verses were composed on a channing young lady, Charlotte Hamilton, sister to the poet'sfriend, Garin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when tlie song was »rrittcn, ac Hari-ieston, on the banks of the Deron, in the county of Clackmannan. ] How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to re- new. O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, A\ ith chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn; And far be thou distant thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her proud Eose : A fairer than either adorns the green vallies, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. XLIX. SS^cars fa' jou, Suncan (Srajj. Time. — "Duncan Gray." [The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present strain was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called a lad of grace : an- other version, and in a happier mood, was written for Thomson.] Weary fa' you, Dimcan Gray — Ila, ha, the girdin o't ! Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — Ila, ha, the girdin o't ! When a' tlie lave fjac to their play, Then I maun sit the lee lang day. And jog the cradle wi' my tae, And a' for the giidin o't ! Bonnie was the Lammas moon — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Glowrin' a' tlie hills aboon — Ha, ha, the girdiu o't ! The girdiu brak, the beast cam down, I tint my curch, and baith my shoon; Ah I Duncan, ye're an unco loon — Wae on the bad girdin o't ! But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. The boast again can bear us baith, And auld iless John will mend the skaith. And clout the bad girdin o't. Z\)t ^lougljman. Tune. — " Up ic'i' the Ploughman. [The old words, of wliich these in the Museum, are an altered and amended version, are in the collection of Herd.] The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, His mind is ever true, jo , His garters knit below his knee. His bonnet it is blue, jo. Then up wi' him my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman ! Of a' the trades that I do ken. Commend me to the ploughman. My ploughman he comes liame at e'en. He's aften wat and weary; Cast ofl^" the wat, put on the dry. And gae to bed, my dearie ! I will wash my ploughman's hose. And I will dress his o'erlay; I will mak my ploughman's bed, And cheer him late and early. I liae been east, I hae been west, I hae been at Saint Johnston ; The bonniest sight that e'er I saw ^^'as the ploughman laddie danciu' OF UOBEUT BURNS. 151 Suaw-white stockins on his legs, And siller buckles glancin' ; A fjude blue bonnet on his head — And O, but he was handsome ! Commend me to the barn-yard, And the corn-mou, man ; I never gat my coggie fou, Till I met wi' the ploughman. Up wi' him my plougliman lad, And licy my merry ])loughman ! Of a' the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman. LT. 3lantilat)p, count tijc Satoin. Tune -"Hey Tutli, Taiti." [Of this song the first and second verses are by Burns : the clr,sing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles Sll. of Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs uid restore the line of the Stuarts.] Landlady, count the la win, The day is near the da win ; Ye're a' blind drunk, boys. And I'm but jolly fou. Hey tutti, taiti, How tutti, taiti — Wha's fou now ? LIT. liafamg ZHInlis arounli f)cr blofoing. Tune. — " Alacgregor ofRiira's Lament.''^ [" I composed these verses," says Bums, "on Miss fsabella M'lLerjd, of Kaza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1786.") Raving winds around her blowing. Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing. By a river hoarsely roaring, Isabella stray' d deploring — " Farewell hours that late did measure Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! " O'er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering ; Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, Fell despair my fancy seizes. Life, thou soul of every blessing. Load to miseiy most distressing. Gladly how would I resign thee, And to dark obli\ion join thee I" LIII. P)otD long anH lircarD i^ tj^e Kigjbt. Cog an' ye were ay fou. Cog an' ye were ay fou, I wad sit and sing to you If ye were ay fou. Weel may ye a' be ! lU may we never see ! God bless the king. And the companie ! Hey tutti, taiti. How tutti, taiti — Wha's fou now ? To a Gaelic air. [Composed for the Museum : the air of this afTecting strain is true Highland : Bums, though not a musician, had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melodies.] How long and dreary is the night \Vhen I am frae my dearie ! I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary, I sleepless be frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. II. AMien I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie. And now what lands between us lie. How can I be but eerie ! And now what lands between us lie. How can I be but eerie ! 152 THE rOETICAL WUKKS How slow ye move, ye Iieavy hours, As ye were wae aud weary ! It was ua sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie. LIV. /Husing on tl)e roaring ©ccan. Tunc. — " Druimion dubh." 1 The air of tliis song is from the Highlands : the verses were wri t- ten in compliment to the feelings of Mrs. M'Lauchlan, whose hus- band was an officer serving In the Kast Indies.] MusiKG on the roaring ocean, Which divides my love and me ; Wearying heaven in warm devotion. For his weal where'er he be. Hope and fear's alternate billow Yielding late to nature's law, Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Talk of him that's far awa. Ye whom sorrow never wounded. Ye who never shed a tear, Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. Gaudy day to you is dear. Gentle night, do thou befriend mc ; Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; Spirits kind, again attend me. Talk of him that's far awa I LV. Tune. — " Andro and his Cutty Gun.'''' [The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lintrosc, was justly callwl the " p'lowcr of Strath more:" she is now widow of Lord Mctlivcn, one of the Scottish judges, and mother of a line family. The wng was written at Oclitertyrc, in June 17«7.| CHoaus. Blithe, blithe and merry was she, J '.lithe was she but and ben : Blithe by tlie banks of Em, And blithe in Glenturit glen. By Auchtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birkon shaw : But Phomio was a bonnier lass Thau braes of Yarrow ever saw. Her looks were like a flow'r in May, Her smile was like a simmer morn : She tripped by tlie banks of Ern, As liglit 's a bird upon a thorn. Her bonnie face it was as meek As ouy lamb upon a lea ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet. As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blithest lass That ever trod the dewy green. Bilthe, blithe and merry was she. Blithe was she but and ben : Blithe by the banks of Ern, And blithe in Glenturit glen. LVI. ^f)c 33Iutie 3JlclJ JJlose at¥ulc mag tlafo. Tune. — " To dauntoti me." ['I'lie Jaeocobitc strain of " 'i'o daunttjn ine," must have been in the mind of the poet whun he wrotethisjiitliy lyric for tlie Museum.) The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; But an auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me so young, Wi' his fause heart and Hatt'ring tongue, Tliat is the thing you ne'er shall see; For an auld man shall never daunton me. For a' his meal and a' his maut, For a' his fresh beef aud his saut. For a' his gold and white monie. An auld man shall never daunton me. OF HOHKllT JJUllNS. 153 His gear may buy him kye and yowes, His gear may biiy him glens and knowes ; But me he sliall not buy nor fee, For an auld man shall never daunton me. He hirples twa fauld as he dow, \Vi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee- That auld man shall never daunton me. To daunton me, and me sae young, Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; For an auld man shall never daunton nie. LVTI. ©omc 35oat mc o'er to ©i)arlic. Tune. — " O'er the Water to Charlie." [The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the third, are by Buriis, Many songs, some of merit, on the same subject, and to the same air, were in other days current in Scotland.] Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; I'll gie John Ross another bawbee. To boat me o'er to Charlie. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, "We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Chai'lie. I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, Tbo' some there be abhor him : But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, And Charlie's faes before him ! I swear and vow by moon and stars, And sun that shines so early. If I had twenty thousand lives, I'd die as aft for Charlie. "We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, "We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie I Lvrii. %, ltosic=but) bg mg carlg Tune.—" Thr Rose-bud: [The "Hose-bud" of these sweet \'ei-ses was Miss Jean Cruick- shank, afterwards Mrs. Henderson, daughter of William Crulck- sliank, of St. James's Square, one of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh: she is also the subject of a poem equally sweetl xV ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the earlv morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest. The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood. The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedew' d. Awake the early morning. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the tender care That tends thy early morning. So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. And bless the parent's evening ray That watch'd thy early morning. LIX. Mattltn' loaiin' m.i\\it. Tune. — " Rattlin', roariri' Willie.'" (■" The hero of this chant," says Burns, " was one of the worthiest fellows In the world— William Dunbar, Esq., Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the C'rochallan corps— a club of wits, who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments."] O rattlin', roarin' Willie, O, he held to the fair, An' for to sell his fiddle, An' buy some other ware ; But parting wi' his fiddle, The saut tear blin't his ee ; And rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to mc 154 THE POKTICAL WORKS O Willie, come sell your fiddle, O sell your fiddle sae fine; O "Willie, come sell your fiddle, • And buy a pint o' wine ! If I should sell my fiddle, The warl' would think I was mad ; Formony a rantin" day My fiddle and I has had. As I cam by Crocliallan, I cannily keekit ben — Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sitting at yon board en' ; Sitting- at yon board en', And amang guid conipanie ; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me ! LX. 35rati(ng angrg 2;2!ltntfr'0 Storms. Tune. — "Neil Gow''s Lameiitutionfo?- Abercairny. r " Tills song," says tlie poet, " I composed on one of the most ac- complished of iroir.en. Miss Peggj' Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Korbes and C'o's. bank, Edinburgh." She now lives at I'au, in the south of France.] Where, braving angry winter's storms. The lofty Ochels rise. Far in their shade my Peggy's charms First blest my wondering eyes ; As one who by some savage stream, A lonely gem surveys, Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, AVith arts most ; olish'd blaze. Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. And b'est the day and hour, "vVhere Peggy's charms I first survey'd, When first I felt their power ! rhe tyrant Deatli, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. LXI. tribbic Sunbar. Tune.— " JbArewy M'Gili: [We owe the air of this song to one Johnnie M'Gill, a fiddlerof Gir\'an, who bestowed his own name on it: and the song itself partly to Burns and iianly to some unknown minstrel. They are both ill tlie Museum.J O, WILT thou go wi' me. Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? O, wilt thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? Wilt thou ride on a horse. Or be drawn in a car. Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? I care na thy daddie. His lands and his money, I care na thy kindred, Sae high and sae lordly : But say thou wilt liae me For better for waur — And come in thy coatie. Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ! LXII. Streams iDat gliUc in O^ricnt i^lains. Tune. — " Morag.^' [We owe these verses to the too brief visit which the poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle: he was Iiunicdaway, much against hit will, by his mouiiyand obstinate friend William Nicol.] Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by winter's chains ; Glowing here on golden sands, Tliere commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands ; These, their richly gleaming waves, 1 leave to tpants and their slaves ; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle Gordon. Spicy forests, ever gay, Sliading from the burning ray. Hapless wretches sold to toil. Or the ruthless native's way. Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: OF KOBERT BURNS. 155 Woods that over verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave, Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle Gordon. Wildly here without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole ; In tliat sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood : Life's poor day 111 musing rave. And find at night a sheltering cave. Where waters flow and wild woods wave. By bonnie Castle Gordon. LXIII. ilWg ?i?arrg foa$ a ffinllant gap. Tune. — " Highlander's Lament." [" The chorus," saj's Burns, " I picked up from an old woman in Dumblane : the rest of the song is mine." He composed it for John- ion : the tone is Jacobitical.] My Harry was a gaUant gay, Fu' stately strode he on the plain : But now he's banish'd far away, I'll never see him back again. for him back again ! O for him back again ! 1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again. When a' the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen ; Iset me down and greet my fill. And ay I wish him back again. O were some villains hangit high. And ilka body had their ain ! Then 1 might see the joyfu' sight. My Highland Harry back again. for him back again ! O for him back again ! 1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again. LXIV. tZT&c f ailor. Tuuii.—" The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' «'." [The second and fourth verses are by Bums, the rest is very old; tlie air is also very old, and is played at trade festivals and processioni by the Corporation of Tailors.J The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', Tlie Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a' ; The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma', The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae iU, The sleepy bit lassie she dreaded nae ill ; The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still. She thought that a tailor could do her nae ilU Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; The day it is short, and the night it is lang. The dearest siller that ever I wan ! There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; There's some that are dowie, I trow would be fain To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. LXV. .^immer'g a ^Icagant 'Eimt. Tune. — " Ai/ waukin o'." [Tytler and Kitson unite in considering the air of these words as one of our most ancient melodies. The first verse of the song is fi-oin the hand of Burns ; the rest had the benefit of his emendations : it ii to be found in the Museum.J Simmer's a pleasant time, Flow'rs of ev'ry colour ; The water rins o'er the heugh. And I long for my true lover. Ay waukin O, Waukin still and wearie : Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie. loG IHi; rOETK'AI, WORKS When I sloop I droam, Wlioii I wauk I'm eerie ; Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my dearie. Lanely night comes on, A' the lave are sleei)ing ; I think on my bonnie lad And I bleer my een with greetin'. Ay waukin O, Wankin still and wcarie t Sleep I can get nane For thinking on my deiuic. LXVI. 23ctoarc o' 23onnic ^nn. Tune. — " Ye Gallants bright.'" Rums wrote this snng in honour of Ann Masterton, daughter of Allan Masterton, author of the air of Strathallan's Lament : she is now Mrs. Derbishire, and resides in London.] Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, Beware o' bonnie Ann ; Iler comely face sae fu' o' grace, Your heart she will trepan. Her een sae bright, like stars by night. Her skin is like the swan ; Sae jimply lac'd her gcnty waist, That sweetly ye might span. II. Y^outh, grace, and love attendant move, And pleasure leads the van : In a' their charms, and conquering arms, They wait on bonnie Ann. The captive bands may chain the hands. But love enslaves the man ; Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. Beware o' bonnie Ann ! LXVII. S2lf)cn ISlosj! i^a)}. Tune. — " The Gardener wV his paidle." [The air of this Sfjng is played annually at the procession of the Gardeners : the title only is old ; the rest is the work of Hums. Every trade had, in other days, an air of its own, and songs to corres- pond ; but toil and sweat came in harder measure, and drove melo- dies out of worliinR-men's heads.] When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck hor gay green-spreading bowers, Then Vjusy, busy are his hours — The gard'ner wi' his paidle. The crystal waters gently fa' ; The merry birds are lovers a' ; The scented breezes round him blaw- The gard'ner wi' his paidle. When purple morning starts the hare To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews he maun repair — The gard'ner wi' his paidle. When day, expiring in the west. The curtain draws of nature's rest, He flies to her arms he loe's best — The gard'ner wi' his paidle. LXVIII. lUloomtng Xellji. Tune. — " On a Bank of Floivers. [One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay's coUectior. scetns lo have been in the mind of Bums when he wrote this: the words and air arc in the .Museum.] On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. For summer lightly drest, The youthful blooming Nelly lay. With love and sleep opprest ; When Willie Avand'ring thro' the wood, ^^'ho for her favour oft had sued. He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush 'd. And trembled where he stood. Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd. Were seal'd in soft repose ; Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd. It richer dy'd the rose. The springing lilies sweetly prest. Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blu.sh'd — His bosom ill at rest. Her robes light waving in the breeze, Her tender limbs embrace ; Her lovely form, her native ease. All harmony and grace : Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush And sigh'd his very soul. As flics the partridge from the brake. On fear-inspired wings. So Nelly starting, half awake, Away afl'righted springs : OF ROBERT BURNS. 157 But Willy follow'd, as he should, He overtook her in a, wood ; He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid Forgiving all and good. LXIX. HCj^c Bag rctutns. Tune. — " Seventh of November.''^ rThcsercntli of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars Carse, and these verses were composed in compliment to the day.] The day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet, Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. Than a' tlie pride that loads the tide. And crosses o'er the sultry line ; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes. Heaven save me more — it made thee mine ! AVhile day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give. While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone, I live. When that grim foe of life below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. LXX. iUtg Eofac gftc'^ but a Snssitc jjct. Tune. — " Lady BandinscotK' s Reel.'' [These verses liad their origin in an olden strain, equally lively and less delicate : some of the old lines keep their place : the title is old. Both words and air are in the Musical Museum.) My love she's but a lassie yet, My love she's but a lassie yet ; We'll let her staud a year or twa. She'll no be half sac saucy yet. I rue the day I sought her, O ; I rue the day I sought her, ; Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, But he may say he's bought her, O ! Come, draw a drap o' tlie best o't yet, Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. But here I never miss'd it yet. We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife. An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. liXXI. 3)amtf, come trg mc. Tune. — " Jamie, come try me.' [Burns in these verses caught up the starting note of an old song, o( %vhich little more than the starting words deserve to be remembered the words and air arc in the Musical Museum.] Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me ; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me. Ir thou should ask my love. Could I deny thee ? If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me. If thou should kiss me, love, Wha could espy thee ? If thou wad be my love, Jamie, come try me. Jamie, come try me, Jamie, come try me ; If thou would win my love, Jamie, come try me. LXXII. iWj) liJonnIc iWatg. Tune. — " Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine. [Concerning tliis fine song. Burns in his notes says, " This ail 15 Oswald's: the first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest is mine. It is believed, however, that the whole of the song is from his hand : in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, the starting llci's arc supplied from an olden strain: but some of the old strains lu that work are to be regarded with suspicion.] Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. An' fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie ; 158 THE POETICAL WORKS The boat rocks at tlic pier o' Lcith ; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; Tlie ship rides by the Bei-wick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody ; It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer -wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — It's lea\ang thee, my bonnie Mary. LXXIII. Tune.—" The Lazy Mist.'' AU that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy Mist, is " This song is mine." The air, which is by Oswald, together with the words, is in the Musical Museum.] The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. Concealing the course of the dark winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- pear ! As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year. The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown. And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pur- sues ! How long have I liv'd but how much liv'd in vain ! How little of life's scanty span may remain ! What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ! What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn ! How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! Life is not worth having with all it can give — For something beyond it poor man sure must live. LXXIV. ®i»c ©aptafn'g Saliji. Tune. — " O mount and go.'" [Parr of this song belongs to an old maritime strain, with tha same title: it was communicated, along with many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to the Musical Museum.] O mount and go, Mount and make you ready ; mount and go. And be the Captain's Lady. When the drums do beat. And the cannons rattle, Thou shall sit in state, And see thy love in battle. When the vanquish'd foe. Sues for peace and quiet, To the shades we'll go. And in love enjoy it. O mount and go, Mount and make you ready: O mount and go. And be the Captain's Lady. LXXV. ©f a' t^e ^iitg t&c minti can blafe. Tune. — " Miss Admiral Gordon'' s Slrathspey.^ [Bums wrote this charming song in honour of Jean Armour: ha archly says in his notes, " P. S. it was during the honey-moon." Other versions are abroad ; this one is from tlie mitnuscripts of the poet.] Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best : There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair : I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I liear her charm the air : OF KOHKRI' HURXS. 159 There's not abonnic Howor tliat springs By fountain, sliaw, or greon, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees, ArVi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa ! How fond to meet, how wae to part, That night she gaed awa ! The powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae deai* to me As my sweet lovely Jean ! LXXVI. ipit^t fclbftt iWaggg toas my ©arc. Tune. — " Whistle o'er the lave o'^." I The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, musician : the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter ones they are. The words and air are in the Museum.] First when Maggy was my care. Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; Now we're married — spier nae mair- Whistle o'er the lave o't. — Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; Wiser men than me's beguil'd — Whistle o'er the lave o't. How we live, my Meg and me, How we love, and how we 'gree, I care na by how few may see ; Whistle o'er the lave o't. — Wha I wish were maggots' meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write — but Meg maun see't — Wliistle o'er the lave o't. Lxxvir. ©, toecc $ on ^atnas^u^' f^ill. Tune. — " Ml/ Love is lost to me." [Tlie poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Niths- dale : the air is one of Oswald's .] 0, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! Or had of Helicon my fill ; That I might catch poetic skill. To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my Muse's well ; My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! For a' the lee-lang simmer's day I coudna sing, I coudna say. How much, how dear, I love thee. I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — By heaven and earth I love thee ! By night, by day, a-field, at hame. The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame : And aye I muse and sing thy name — I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. Till my last weary sand was run ; Till then — and then I love thee. LXXVIII. 'E^ett'^ a ¥out]& in tW ©itw. To a Gaelic Air. [" This air," says Hums, "is claimed by Xeil How, who calls it a Lament for his Brotlicr. The first half-stanza of the songls old : the rest mine." They are both in the Museum.] There's a youth in this city. It were a great pity That he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa : For he's bonnie an' braw, Weel favoured an' a. And his hair has a natural buckle an' a.' 160 THE POETICAL WORKS His coat is tlie hue Of his bonnet sae blue ; 1 lis fecket is white as the new driven snaw ; His hose they are blae, And his shoon like the slae, And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. For beauty and fortune The laddie's been courtin' ; "Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, wo.'l-mo.uitod and braw ; But cliiefly the siller, That gars him gang till her, The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a\ There's ]SIeg wi' the mailen That fain wad a haen liini ; And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' tlio ha" ; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy Maist fetters his fancy — But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. LXXTX. Tune. — " Faille na Miosg." [Thewordi and the air are in the Museum, to which tliey were contributed liy Burns. He says, in liis notes on that collection, " The first half-stanza of this song is old ; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has recorded any remembrance.] My heart's in the Higldands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer; A chasing the wild deer, and following tlie roe — My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. The hills of tlie Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; Farewell to the straths and green vallies be- low : Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer : Chasing the wild deer, and following the roc — My heart's in the Higlilauds wherever I go. LXXX. Tune. — " John Anderson m^ jo.'' rSoon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an im- proved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard ; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand. " John Anderson my jo, Jolin, When Nature first began To trj- her canniehand, John , Her master-piece was man ; And you amangthem a', Jolm, Sae trig frae tap to toe. She proved to be naejoumeywork, John Anderson my Joe." J John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent ; Your locks were like the raven Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, Jolm, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. LXXXI. Our Zljxi^^Ui fIoiu:i0i)cD ite^lj anli fair. Tune. — " Awa Whigs, awa.^' fHums trimmed up this old .Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth versa are wholly his.] Awa Whigs, awa ! Awa Whigs, awa ! Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns. Ye'll do nae good at a'. Jf - posed to be from the same hand: the lines are not to lie found in earlier collections.] Frae the friends and land I love Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, Frae my best belov'd I rove. Never inair to taste delight ; Never mair maun hope to And Ease frae toil, relief frae care : When remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair. Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore. Till the Fates, nae mail- severe, Friendsliip, love, and peace restore Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, Bring our banish'd hame again ; And ilka loyal bonnie lad Cross the seas and win his ain. 166 THE POETICAL WORKS xcv. ^iottt clo0c0 ti)e ?Eb(ning. Tune. — " Craiffie-burn-wood." [This is one of several fine songs in honour of Jean Lorimcr, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, wlio for some time lived on the banks of Ciaigie-burn, near Moffat. It was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. Gillespie, who was in love with lier: but it did not pre\ail, for she married an officer of the name of Whclpdale, li\ed witli him a month or so : reasons arose on both sides which rendered separation neccssarj' ; she tlicf tiwk up lur itsidencein Dumfries, where she had many opportunities of seeing tlie poet. She lived till lately.] Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O, to Le lying beyond thee ; sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, And blithely awaukens the morrow ; But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn- wood Can yield to me nothing but soitow. I see the si)reading leaves and flowers, I hear the wild birds singing ; But pleasure they hac nane for me. While care my heart is wringing. I canna tell, I maunna tell, I darena for your anger ; But secret love will break my heart, If I conceal it langei-. I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall, I see thee sweet and bonnie ; But oh I what will my torments be. If thou refuse thy Johnnie ! To see thee in anithcr's arms, In love to lie and languish, 'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, ily heart wad burst wi' anguish. But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, Say thou lo'es nane before me ; And a' my days o' life to come I'll gratefully adore thee. Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. And O, to be lying beyond thee ; sweetly, soundly, wool may he sleep That's laid in tlie bed beyond thee ! XCVI. ©ocfe up jour 33enbcr. Tune. — " Cock up your BeaverJ' [" Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in the Musical Musnun, but not with IJums's name," It is an old song, eked out and amended by the poet : all the last verse, save tlie last line, is his ; seve- ral of the lines too of the first verse liavefelt his amending hand: he communicated it to the Museum.] When first my brave Johnnie lad Came to this town. He had a blue bonnet That wanted the crown ; But now he has gotten A hat and a feather, — Hey, brave Johnnie lad, Cock up your beaver ! Cock up your beaver, And cock it fu' sprush, We'll over the border And gie them a brush ; There's somebody there We'll teach better behaviour Hey, brave Joliniiie lad. Cock up your beaver I XCVII. iWcifelc ti)iufes mj) 2.ufac. Tune. — " My Tocher s the Jewel. [These verses were written by Bums for the Muscmn, to an air by Oswald : but he wished them to be sung to a tunc called " Lord Elcho's fa\ourite," of which he was an admirer.] MEiKLE thinks my luveo' my beauty, And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie JNIy tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; ; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi" the sillor, He canna hae luve to spare for me. Your proiFer o' luve's an airl-penny. My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be ci;ifty, I am cuunin', Sae ye wi' anitJier your fortune maun trv. Ye're like to the timnicr o' yon rotten wood, Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree, Ye'Il sli]) frae me like a knotless thread And ve'U crack vour creilit wi' mae nor me. OF ROBERT BURNS. 167 XCVIIT. ffianc t$ tl)c 33nj). Tune. — " Gudetcife count the Laivin. fTlie air as well as words of tliis sonR were furnished to tlic M il- eum by Uuriis. " Thechorus,"' he says, " is part of an old song."] Gane is the day, and mirk's tho night, But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, For ale and brandy's stars and moon. And blude-red wine's tlie rising sun. The gudowife count the lawiii, The lawin, tho lawin ; Then giidewife count tho lawin, And bring a coggie mair ! There's Avealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun tight and fen ; But here we're a' in ae accord. For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. My coggie is a lialy pool. That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; And pleasure is a wanton trout, An' ye drink Init deep ye'U find him out. Then gudewife count the lawin; The lawin, the lawin. Then gudewife count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair ! XCIX. ^Ijcrc'll nebcr be i^eacc. Tune. — " Tliere are feiu (/tide fellows ivhen Willie'' s aiva." .The bard was in one of his Jacobitieal moods when he wrote this song. The air is a well-knowni one, called " There's few glide fellows when Willie's awa." But of the old words none, it is supposed, are prcseiTcd. j By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray ; And as he was singing the tears down came. There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; We darena well say't though we ken wha's to blame, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. And now I greet round their gi-een beds in the yerd. It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame — Tliere'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Now life is a burthen that bows me down, Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; But till my last moments my words are the same — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! ?i)oto can 3t be blgtlje ant) glaD ? Tune. — " The bonnie Lad that's far away [This lamentation was written, it is said, in allusion to the suffer- ings of Jean Armour, when her correspondence with Hums was discovered by her family.] HOW can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa ? When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa. It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw ; But ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa. But ay the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa. My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown' d me a', But I hae aiie will talc' my part. The bonnie lad that's far awa. But I hae ane will tak' my part. The bonnie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gae to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonnie lad that's fiir awa. And I will wear them for his sake. The bonnie lad that's far awa. O weary Winter soon will pass, And Spring will deed the birken shaw ; And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa. And my young babie will be born And he'll be hame that's far awa. 188 THE POKTICAL WORKS CI. 5 ijo confess ll)ou art sac ipait. Tune. — " / do confess Ihou art saefairJ" [" I do think," said Rums, in allusion to this song, " that I have Im- pro^-ed the simplicity of tlie sentiments by gi^nng them a Scottish dress." The original song Is of great elegance and beauty : it was written by Sir Robert Aytoun, secretary to Anne of Denmark, Queen of James I.] 1 DO confess thou art sae fair, I wad been o'er the lugs in love, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could move. I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. Thy favours are the silly wind, That kisses ilka thing it meets. Sec yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy ; How sune it tines its scent and hue Wlien pou'd and worn a common toy ! Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; Yet sune thou slialt be throAvn aside Like ony common weed and vile. CII. ¥on toilD mossg itlountafns. Tune. — " Yon wila mossy Mountains. [" This song alludes to a part of my pri\atc historj', which it is of no consequence to the world to know." 'I'hese are the words of Burns: he sent the song to the Musical Museum; the heroine is lupposed to be the " Nannie," who dwelt near the Lugar,] Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Wliere the grou.se lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. And tlie shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. "Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed. And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed. Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Fortli's sunny shores, To me liae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream. Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream. Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath ; For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, AVliile o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love, For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 0' nice education but sma' is her share ; Her parentage humble as humble can be; But 1 lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. Her parentage humble as humble can be : But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs '•' And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- ling e'e. Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms, O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! OF ROBERT BURNS. 169 cm. It (0 na, ^ean, tljj; bonnie jFarc. Tune. — " The Maid's complaint.'''' [burns found this song in English attire, bestowed a Scottish dress upon it, and published it in tlic Museum, together with the air by Oswald, which is one of his best.] It is ua, Jean, thy bonnie face, Nor shape that I admire, Altho' thy beauty and thy grace Miglit weel awake desire. Something, in ilka part 0' thee, To praise, to love, I find ; But dear as is thy form to me, Still dearer is thy mind. Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, Nor stronger in my breast. Than if I cauna mak thee sae, At least to see thee blest. Content am I, if heaven shall give But happiness to thee : And as wi' thee I'd wish to live. For thee I'd bear to die. CIV. lB,\}tx\ J t^tnfe on t\)t ftappjj Dajjs. [These verses were in latter years expanded by Bums into a sonfj, tor the collection of Thomson : the song vi\[i be found in its place : the variations are worthy of preser\-ation.] "When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie ; And now what lands between us lie. How can I be but eerie ! How slow ye move, ye heavy hours. As ye were wao and weary ! It was na sae ye glinted by. When I was wi' my dearie. cv SH^an 1 glecp ^ liwam. [This presents another version of song LXV. Variations arp to a poet what clianges are in the thoughts of ft saibter, and soealt of fertility of sentiment in both.] Whan I sleep I dream, Whan I wauk I'm eerie, Sleep I canna get, For thinkin' my dearie. Lauely night comes on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on the bonnie lad That has my heart a keeping. Ay waukin O, waulcin ay and wearie, Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' 0' my dearie. Lanely nights come on, A' the house are sleeping, I think on my lionnie lad. An' I blear my een wi' greetin' ! Ay waukin, &c. CVI J murljcc l^ate. 'These verses are to be found in a volume which may be alluded to without being named, in which many of Burns's strains, some looser than these, are to be found.] I MURDER hate by field or flood, Tho' glory's name may screen us : In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus. The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty, I'm better pleas'd to make one more. Than be the death of twenty. 35 5- 170 THE rOETICAL WOKKS cvir. © gut)c 21 Ic tomes. [Tliese verses are in the Museum : the first two are old, the con- cluding one is by Burns.] O GUDE ale comes, and gude ale goes, Glide ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, aud pawn my shoon, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. I had sax owseu in a pleugli, They drew a' weel enough, I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. Gude ale bauds me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, Stand i' the stool when I hae done, Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. O gude ale comes, &c. CVIII. i^obln sl)urc in f)m^t [Tliis is an old chaunt, out of which Burns brushed some loose ex- pressions, added the third and fourth verses, and sent it to the Mu- leiim.] Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi' him, Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaiden, At his daddie's yett, Wha met me but Robin. Was na Robin bauld, Tho' I was a cotter, Play'd me sic a trick, And me the oiler's dochter ? Robin shure in hairst, &c. Robin promis'd me A' my winter vittle ; Fient haet he had bui, three Goose feathers and a whittle. Robin shure in hairst, &c. CIX. 3Sonnie i^cg. [A fourth verse makes the moon a witness to the endearments ot these lovers : but that planet sees more indiscreet matters thaii i; if right to describe.] As I came in by our gate end. As day was waxin' weary, O wha came tripping down the street. But Bonnie Peg, my dearie ! Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, Wi' nae proportion wanting ; The Queen of Love did never move Wi' motion mair enchanting. Wi' linked hands, we took the sands A-down you winding river ; And, oh ! that hour and broomy bower, Can I forget it ever ? ex. ®ut)een to jiou, Himmer, [This song in other days was a controversial one, and contained some sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome and her brood of seven sa- craments, five of whom were illegitimate. Burns changed the mean- ing, and published his altered version in the Museum.] GuDEEN to you, Kimmer, And how do ye do ? Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, The better that I'm fou. We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin. We're a' noddin, at our house at ham Kate sits i' the neuk, Suppin h en broo ; Deil tak Kate An' she be na noddin too ! We're a' noddin, &c. How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye fare ? A pint o' the best o't, And twa pints mair. We're a' noddin, &c. OF KOBliUT BURNS. 171 How's a' wi' you, Kiminer, And how do yo tlirivo ; How many bairns liae yo ? Quo' Kimmer I liae five. We're a' noddin, &c. Are they a' Johnie's ? Eh ! atweel no : Twa o' tliem were gotten When Johnie was awa. We're a' noddm, Sec- Cats like milk, And dogs lilce broo ; Lads like lasses weel. And lasses lads too. Were a' noddin, &c. CXI. '^f), ©j^lortg, since it majj na he. Tune. — "Major Graham." [Sir Harris Nicolas found these lines on Cliloris among the papers of Burns, and printed them in his late edition of the poet's works.] iVH, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear ; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear. Altho' I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell ; My passion I will ne'er declare, I'll say, I wish thee well. Tho' a' my daily care thou art, And a' mv nightly dream, I'll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem. CXII. gafo gc mg SUcarte. Tune. — " Eppie Macnab." f" Published in the Museum,"says Sir Harris Nicolas, " without any name." Burns corrected some lines in the old song, which had more wit, he said, than .lecency, and added others, and sent hii amended version to Johnson.] O SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird. She winna come hame to her ain Jock llab. come thy ways to me, my Eppie I\I'Nab ! come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Kab. What says she, my dearie, my Tppie M'Nab . What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot. And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Ral. had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Kab. CXIII. a is tj^at at mg 33oiu£c=Dooi;. Tune. — " Loss an I come near thee." I The " Auld man and the widow" in Ramsay's collection is said, by Gilbert Burns, to have suggested this song to his brother, it first appeared in the Museum.] Wha is that at my bower-door ? O, wha is it but Findlay ? Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here !- Indeed, mauu I, quo' Findlay. What mak ye sae like a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay ; Before the mora ye'll work mischief; Indeed will i, quo' Findlay. Gif I rise and let you in ? — Let me in, quo' Findlay ; Yell keep me waukin wi' your din ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. In my Ijowcr if you should stay ? Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; indeed will I,, quo' Findlay. ]72 THE POETICAL WORKS Here this night if ye remain ; — I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. What may pass within this bower, — Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; Ye maun conceal till your last hour ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! CXIV. Mt\)st can a j^oung 2ag5tc. Tunc. — " yi^hat can a young lassie do wi' an auld man." [In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the heroine threatens only to adorn her husband's brows: Bums prooosesa sys- tem of domestic annoyance to break his heart.] What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie. What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! lie's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', lie hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He's doyl't an' he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, I never can please him, do a' that I can ; He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heait- brcak him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. I'U cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- break him. And tlien his auld brass will buy me a new pan. CXV. Z^t bonnie tocc 'STj^ing, Tune. — ^'Bonnie wee thing." [" Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, the charming, lovely Da vies."] Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' tliine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty In ae constellation shine ; To adore tliee is my duty. Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom. Lest my jewel I should tine ! CXVL Zh ttt!)cr #lorn. To a Highland Air. [" The tunc of tnis song," says Burns, " is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which was not by any means a lady's song." '• It occurs," says Sii- Harris Nicolas, " in the Museum, without the name of Hums." It was sent in the poet's own hand-writing to Johnson, und is believed to be his composition.] The tither morn, Wlien I forlorn, Aneath an oak sat moaning, I did na trow, I'd see my Jo, Beside me, gain the gloaming. But he sae trig. Lap o'er the rig, And dawtingly did cheer me. When I, what reck, Did least expcc', To see my lad so near me. OF IIOHEUT IJUUNS. 173 His bonnet he, A thought ajoe, Cock'd sprush wlion first he clasp'd me ; And I, I wat, AVi' faiuiiess grat, While in his grips he press'd me. Deil tak' the war ! I late and air, Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; But novv as glad I'm wi' my lad. As short syne broken-hearted. Fu' aft at e'en Wi' dancing keen. When a' were blythe and merry, I car'd na by, Sae sad was I In absence o' my dearie. But, praise be blest, My mind's at rest, I'm happy wi' my Johnny : At kirk and fair, I'se ay be there, And be as canty' s ony. CXVII. ^e font) Miin. Tune.—^Jiori/ Ball's Port.'" [BeUe\ed to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. "These exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, " contain the essence of a thousand love tales." They are in the Museum.] Ae fond kiss, and then we serer ; Ae fareweel, and *hen for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him Wliile the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae chcerfu' twinkle lights me ; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her, was to love her ; Love but her, and love for ever. — Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sac blindly, Never met — or never parted, M'o had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. Warring sighs and gi-oans I'll wage thee ! CXVIII. Sofaely IDabtcs. Tune. — " Miss Muir." [Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, the handsome, the lovely and unfortunate Miss Davies.] O HOW shall I, unskilfu', try The poet's occupation, The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, That whispers inspiration ? Even they maun dare an effort mair, Than aught they ever gave us, Or they rehearse, in equal verse, The charms o' lovely Davies. Each eye it cheers, when she appears, Like Phoebus in the morning. When past the shower, and ev'ry flower The garden is adorning. As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, When winter-bound the wave is ; Sae droops our heart when we maun part Frae charming lovely Davies. Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, That maks us mair than princes ; A scepter' d hand, a king's command, Is in her darting glances : The man in arms, 'gainst female charms. Even he her willing slave is ; He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Of conquering, lovely Davies. My muse to dream of such a theme, Her feeble pow'rs surrender ; The eagle's gaze alone surveys The sun's meridian splendour : I wad in vain essay the strain. The deed too daring brave is ! I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire The charms o' lovely Davies. 174 THK POETICAL WOHKS CXIX. Tune. — " The weary Fund o' Tow." ["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the Musical Mu- seum ; but it is not attributed to Bums. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might liavc, if he had pleased, stated similar objections CO many songs wliich he took \ritliout scruple from my edition, where they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good autho- rity. I however, as it happens, did no* claim the song wholly for the poet: 1 said " the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words." It was sent by Bums to the Museum, and in his own hand- writing.] Th e weary pimd, the weary pund, Tlie weary pund o' tow ; I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. I bought my wife a stane o' lint As gude as e'er did grow; And a' that she has made o' that, Is ae poor pund o' tow. There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low. And ay she took the tither souk. To drouk the stowrie tow. Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o' tow ! She took the rock, and wi' a knock She brak it o'er my pow. IV. At last her feet — I sang to see't — Gacd foremost o'er the knowo ; And or I wad anitlier jad, I'll wallop in a tow. Tlie weary pund, the weary pund. The weary pund o' tow ! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. cxx. Tune.— "iVaeJorfy." [Bums had built his house at EUisland, sowed his first crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope was high ; no wonder that he indulged in this independent strain.] I iiAE a wife o' my ain — I'll partake wi' naebody ; ['11 tak cuclcold frac nanc, 111 gie cuckold to naebody. I hae a penny to spend. There — thanks to naebody ; I hae naething to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody. I am naebody's lord — • I'll be slave to naebody ; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts fr.ae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody ; Naebody cares for me, I care for naebody. CXXI O, for ^ne=anli=tti)cnti», ^am Tune. — " The Moudiewort.''* [In his memoranda on tliis song in theMuseum, Burns says simply, " This song is mine." The air for a century before had to bear th« burthen of very ordinary words.] An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. They snool me sair, and baud me down, And gar me look lilce bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun' And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; At kith or kin I need iia spier, An 1 saw ane-.and-twcnty, Tam. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam ; But hear'st thou, laddie — there's myloof — I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, 1'am. An O, for ane-and-twenty, Tam ! An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, 'J'am. OF ROBERT BURNS. 175 CXXII. Henmurc's on anli atoa. Tune. — " O Kenmure\s on and awa, Willie." fThc second and third, and concludinf? verses of this Jacobite strain were written by Hums : the whole wassent in his own hand- writing to the Museum,] O Kenmurk's on and awa, Willie ! O Kenmure's on and awa! And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, That ever Galloway saw. Success to Kenmure's hand, Willie ! Success to Kenmure's band ; There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! Here's Kenmure's health in wine; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line. O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! O Kenmure's lads are men ; Their hearts and swords are metal true — And that their faes shall ken. Thejr'U live or die wi' fame, Willie ! They'll live or die wi' fame ; But soon wi' sounding \'ictorie, May Kenmure's lord comehame. Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! Here's him that's far awa ; And here's the flower that I love best- The rose that's like the snaw ! CXXIII. ilHp ©oUtcr EaUtitc. Tune. — " The Collier Laddie.'' [The Collier Laddie was communicated by Bums, and in his hand-writing, to the Museum: it is chiefly his own composition, though coloured by an older strain.] Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? An" tell me what they ca' ye ; My name, she says, i.s Mistress Joan, And I follow the Collier Laddio. My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the CoUier Laddie. See you not yon hills and dales, The sun shines on sae brawlie ! They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. They a' are mine, and they shaU be thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. Ye shall gang in gay attire Wcel buskit up sae gaudy; And ane to wait on every hand. Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on. And the earth conceals sae lowly ; I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier Laddie. I wad turn my back on you and it a', And embrace my Collier Laddie. I can win my five pennies in a day, And spen't at night fu' brawhe ; And make my bed in the Collier's neuk And lie down wi' my CoUier Laddie. And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. And lie down wi' my CoUier Laddie. Luve for luve is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should baud me ; And the world before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. And the world before me to win my bread, And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. CXXIV. [These verses were \rritten by Rums for the Museum : the Ma.Kwells of Terrcagles are the lineal descendants of the Earls of Nithsdale.j The noble Maxwells and their powers Are coming o'er the border, And they'll gae oigg Terreagle's towers, An' set them a' in order 176 THE POETICAL WORKS And they declare Terreagles fair. For their abode they chuse it ; There's no a heart in a' the land, Biit's lighter at the news o"t. The' stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather ; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather : The weary night o' care and grief ^lay hae a joyful morrow ; So dawning day has brought relief- Fareweei our night o' sorrow ! cxxv, as 5 toass a=6)anDcring. Tune. — "7?i/i« Meudial mo Mhealladh.' [The original song in the Gaelic language M-as translated for Burns by an luvemess-shire lady j he turned it into verse, and sent it to the Museum. ] As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', The pipers and youngsters were making their game; Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover. Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. Weel since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him ; I may be distress' d, but I winna complain ; I flatter my fancy I may get anither, Jkly heart it shall never be broken for ane. I couldna get sleeping till dawnin for greetin', The tears trickled down like the hail and tlie rain: Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken. For, oh I love forsaken's a tormenting pain. Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, I diuna envy him the gains he can win ; I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow Than ever hae acted sae faithless to liim. Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; I flatter my fancy I may get anither. My heart it shall never be broken for ane. CXXVI. 33c0S ant) Ijcr 5plnning=to|)cc(. Tune. — " Tlie sweet lass that 16" es me." [There are several variations of this song, but they neither affect the sentiment, nor afford matter for quotation.] O LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel, O leeze me on the rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! I'll set me down and sing and spin. While laigh descends the simmer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — O leeze me on my spinning-wheel 1 On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot ; The scented birk and hawthorn white. Across the pool their arms unite. Alike to screen the birdie's nest. And little fishes' caller rest : The sun blinks kindly in the biel', AVhero blithe I turn my spinning-wheeL On lofty aiks the cushats wail. And Echo cons the doolfu' tale ; The lintwhites in the hazel braes. Delighted, rival ither's lays : The craik amang the clover hay, The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, The swallow jinkin round my shiel. Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state. For a' the pride of a' the great ? Amid their flaring, idle toys. Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? CXXVII. c bjiU bcnturc in. Tune.—" The Posie." f" The Posieismy composition," says Bums, in a letter to Thom- son. "The air was taken down from Mrs. Burns' voice." It wai first printed in the Museum.] O LuvE will venture in Wlicre it daurna weel be seen; luve will venture in Where wisdom aince has been OF HOIJKUT HUUNS. 177 Hut I will down yon river rove, Amonij tlio wood sae green — And a' to pu' a posie To my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', The firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, The emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind. And blooms without a peer — And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, When Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss O' her sweet bonnie mou' ; The hyacinth's for constancy, Wi' its unchanging blue — ■ And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May The lily it is pure, And the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; The daisy's for simplicity. And unaffected air — And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu' Wi' its locks o' siller gray, Wliere, like an aged man. It stands at break of day. But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away — And a' to be a posie To my ain dear ilay. The woodbine I will pu' When the e'ening star is near. And the diamond draps o' dew, Shall be her e'en sae clear ; The violet's for modesty Which weel she fa's to wear. And a' to be a posie To my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round, Wi' the silk( n band o' hive. And I'll place it in her breast, And I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught of life The band shall ne'er remove, And this will be a posie To my ain dear May, CXXVIII. ©owntrg £ag$ic. Tune. — " The Country Lass/' [A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's hand-writing, pre- «Mts two or three immaterial variations of this dramatic song.) In simmer, when the hay was mawn, And corn wav'd green in ilka field. While claver blooms white o'er the lea. And roses blaw in ilka bield ; Blithe Bessie in the milking sliiel. Says — I'll be wed, come o't what will ; Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 0' guid advisement comes nae ill. It's ye hae wooers mony ane. And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken ; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, A routhie butt, a routine ben : There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. It's plenty beets the luver's fire. For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single file ; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye. He has nae luve to spare for me : But blithe' s the blink o' Robie's e'e, And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best, An hungry care's an unco care : But some will spend, and some will spare. An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy ; We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on ; Content and luve brings peace and joy — What mair liae queens upon a tlirone ? 178 THE POETICAL WORKS CXXIX dpair e?Uja. A Gaelic Air. [The name of the heroine of this song was at first Ralnna: but Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting something new mto verse, caused EUza to lie substituted; which was a positive fraud, for Rabina was a real lady, and a lovely one, and Eliza one of air.] Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rew on thy despairing lover ! Canst tliou break his faithfu' heart ? Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide tlie cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise! Thee, dear maid, liae I offended ? The offence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wlia for thine wad gladly die ? While the life beats in my bosom. Thou shaft mix in ilka throe ; Turn again, thou lovely maiden, Ae sweet smile on me bestow. Not the bee upon the blossom, In the pride o' sunny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy. All beneatli the simmer moon ; Not the poet, in the moment Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture. That thy presence gies to me cxxx. Tune. — " Ye Jacobites hy name." 1 " Ye Jacobites by Name" appeared for the first time in the Mu- Kum : it was sent in the hand-wi-iting of Burns.] Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear ; Ye Jacobites by name, give an car ; Ye Jacobites by name. Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines 1 maun blame — You shall hear. What is right and what is A\Tang, by the law, by the law? What is right and what is wrang by the law? What is right and what is ^n•ang ? A short sword and a lang, A weak arm, and a Strang For to draw. Wliat makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar ? What makes heroic strife fam'd afar ? What makes lieroic strife ? To whet th' assassin's knife. Or hunt a parent's life Wi' bluidie war. Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; Then let your schemes alone in the state ; Then let your schemes alone, Adore the rising sun. And leave a man undone To his fate. CXXXI. Z\)t 33anfes of 33oon. FIRST VERSION. [An Ayrshire legend says tlie heroine of this affecting song was Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young creature, beautiful and ac- complished, who fell a victim to lierlovefor her kinsman, McDouall of Logan.] Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care ! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird. That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause love was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat, and sae I sang. And wist na o' my fate. OF ROBERT BURNS. 179 Aft hae I lov'd by bonnio Doon, To see tbe woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aft' its thorny tree ; And my tauso luvor staw the rose. But left the thorn wi' me. CXXXII. SECOND VERSION. Tune. — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight." [Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by adapting it to a new air, accidently composed by an amateur, who was directed, if he desired to create a Scottish air, to keep his lingers to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve rhythm.] Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys. Departed — never to return ! Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And Uka bird saug o' its luve. And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. CXXXIII. Tune. — " The eight men of Moidart.^'' [The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevation of heroine of this song, was, it is said, a farmer's wife of the old school of domes- tic care and uncleanness, who lived nigh tlic poet, at ElUsland.] AV'iLLiE Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie, Willie was a Avabster guid, Cou'd stown a clue wi' oiiie bodie ; He had a wife was dour and din, Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; Sic a ■wife as Willie had, 1 wad nae gie a button for her. She has an e'e — she has but ane. The cat has twa the very colour ; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper-tongue wad doave a miller : A wliiskin' beard about her mou', Her nose and chin they threaten ithcr- Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her. She's bow hough'd, she's hem shinn'd, A limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter: She's twisted right, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter : She has a hump upon her breast. The twin o' that upon her shouther — Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her. Auld baudrans by the ingle sits. An' wi' her loof her /ace a-washin'; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her gninzie wi' a liushion Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water- Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her. CXXXIV. 3lat)5 i*larj) S(nn. Tune. — " Craigtown's growing." [The poet sent this song to the Museum in his own hand-writing: yet part of it is believed to be old ; how much cannot be well known, with such skill has he made his interpolations and changes.] O, Lady Mary Ann Looks o'er the castle wa', She saw three bonnie boys Playing at the ba' ; The youngest he was The flower amang them a', My bonnie laddie's young. But he's growin' yet. 180 THE POETICAL WORKS O father! O father! An' ye think it fit, We'll send him a year To the colIei,^e yet: We'll sew a green ribbon Round about his hat, And that will let tiiem ken lie's to marry yet. Lady ]\Iary Ann Was a flcwer i' the dew, Sweet was its smell, And bonnie M-as its hue ; And the langer it blossom'd The sweeter it grew ; For the lily in the bud Will be bonnier yet. Young Charlie Cochran Was the sprout of an aik ; Bonnie and bloomin' And straught was its make : The sun took delight To shine for its sake, And it will be the brag 0' the forest yet. The simmer is gane. When the leaves they were green, And th.e days are awa That we hae seen ; But far better days I trust will come again, For my bonnie laddit;'s young, But he's growin' yet. cxxxv. 5ucf) a ^^artel of Itogucs in a Katton. Tune. — " A parcel of rogues in a nation.^' f Phis song was written hy Burns in a moment of honest indiprna- tion at the northern scoundrels who sold to those of ihe south the in- dependence of Scotland, at the time of the Union.] Faueweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory, Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. Now Sark rins oer the Soiway sands, And Tweed rins to the ocean. To mark where England's province stands — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. What force or guile could not sahdue, Thro' many warlike ages. Is wrought now by a coward few. For hireling traitors' wages. The English steel we could disdain, Secure in valour's station ; But English gold has been our bane — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. O would, or I had seen the day That treason thus could fell us. My auld gray head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! But pith and power, till my last hour, I'll mak' this declaration ; We're bought and sold for English gold- Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. CXXXVI. Z\it ©adc of Itelljilmrn i^raf^. Tune. — " Kellyburn Braes." [Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running her fi nger over the long list of Ij-rics which hor huslvtnd had written or amended for the Museum, " Robert gae this one a terrible brush- ing." A considerable porrion of the old still remains.] There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; And the thyme it is wither' d, and rue is in prime. Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, (Iley, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He met wi' the devil ; says, " IIow do yow fen ?' And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. " I've got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint; (Hey, and the rue gr»ws bonnie wi' thyme). For, saving your presence, to lier ye're a saint ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in I)rime." " It's neither your stot nor your staig I sliall crave, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have. And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime." OF ROBERT BURNS. 181 " O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said, (Hey, and tlie rue grows bonnio wi' thyme), " But if ye can match her, ye' re waur nor ye're ca'd, And the thjTne it is wither'd, and rue is in prime." VI. The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; (Iley, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; And the thymeitis wither'd, and nieisin prime. He's carried her hame to his aiu ha'ilan-door ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnio wi' thyme). Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e, Andthethymeitiswither'd,andrue isin prime. Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Whate'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair ; And the thyme it is wither' d, and rue is in prime. A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), " O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a'. And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime." XI. The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n,but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). And to her auld husband he's carried her back: And the thyme itis wither' d, and rue is in prime. " I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is iu prime. " CXXXVIT. 3)ocfecg'3 ta'cix t\)e parting IXfgg. Tunc. — "Jockey's to! en the parting kiss." [ Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said nothing of its origin : and he is silent about it in his memoranda.' Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, O'er the mountains he is gane ; And with him is a' my bliss, Nought but griefs witli me remain. Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my hive, thou featliery snaw. Drifting o'er the frozen plain. Wlien the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep. Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! He will think on her he loves. Fondly he'll repeat her name ; For where'er he distant roves. Jockey's heart is still at hame. CXXXVIII. Satjj) C^nlic. Tune.—" The Ruffians Rant." [Communicated to the Museum in the hand-writing of Buma ; part, but not much, is believed to be old. J A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an' tak' a pint Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky I Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky ; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, I wat she is a dainty chucky ; And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky ; I wish her sale for her gude ale, The best on a' tlie shore o' Bucky. 3 A 182 THE POETICAL WORKS CXXXIX. ^I^c ©j&cbartcr'g Samcnt. Tune. — " Captain O'KeanJ' [" Compos'jd," says Bums toM'MuiTiin o't. CLIX. Wi^tXK %m\xs.x' Mini). Tune. — " The lass that made the bed for mie." [Burns found an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, record- ing an adventure which Charles the Second, while under I'resby- terian rule in Scotland, had ivith a young lady of the house of Port Letham, and exercising his taste and skill upon it, produced the present — still too free song, for the Museum.] When Januar' wind was blawing cauld. As to the nortli I took my way. The mirksome night did me enfauld, I knew na where to lodge till day. By my good luck a maid I met. Just in the middle o' my care ; And kindly she did me invite To walk into a chamber fair. 188 THE rOETICAL WORKS I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, And thank' d her for her courtcsic ; I bow'd fu' low unto this luaid, And bade her mak a bed to me. She made the bed baith large and M'idc, Wi' twa white li.nds slie spread it down ; She put the cup to her rosy lips. And di-ank, " Young man, now sleep ye sonn'." She snatch'd the candle in her hand, And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; I3ut Icall'd her quickly back again To lay some mair below my liead. A cod she laid below my head, And served me wi' due respect ; And to salute her wi' a kiss, I put my arms about her neck. " Haud aiFyour hands, young man," she says, " And dinna sae uncivil be : If ye hae onie love for me, O wi-ang na my virginitie !" Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Her teeth were like the ivorie ; Her clieeks 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 stanc, The lass that made the bed to me. I kiss'd her owre and owre again. And ay she wist na what to say ; I laid her between me and the wa' — Tlie lassie tliought na king till day. Upon tlie morrow wlicn we rose, I tliank'd her for lier courtesie; But aye she l)lush'd, and aye she sigli'd. And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd Jier syne, While tlie tear stood twinklin' iu her e'e ; I Kaid, " My lassie, dinna cry, For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." She took her mither's Holland sheets. And made them a' in sarks to me : Blythe and merry may she be, The lass that made the bed to me. The bonnie lass made the bed to me. The braw lass made the bed to me : I'll ne'er forget till the day I die, Tiie lass that made the bed to me ! CLX. 5ac far aJo.i. Tune. — "Dalkeith Maiden Bridget [This song was sent to the Museum by liurns, iu his own )i8nii- writing.] O, SAD and heavy should I part. But for her sake sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart My native land sae far awa. Thou that of a' things Maker art, That form'd this fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then '111 ne'er start At this my way sae far awa. How true is love to pure desert, So love to her, sae far awa : And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, AVliile, oh ! she is sae far awa. Nanc other love, nane other dart, I feel but her's, sac far awa ; But fairer never touch'd a heart Than her's, the fair sae far awa. CLXT. I'll ag ca' in lig gon ®oton. Tune. — " /'// gae nae mair to yon town. [Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromel^'s Keliques ; it was lirst printed in the M useum.] I'l.L ay ca' in by yon town. And by you garden green, again ; 111 ayca' in by yon town. And see my bonnie Jean again. There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, Wliat brings me back the gate again ; But she my fairest faithfu' lass, And stownlins we sail meet again. OF ROBERT BURNS. 189 Sho'll wander by the aiken tree, When trystin-time draws near again ; And when her lovely form I see, haith, she's doubly dear again ! I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green, again ; I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And see my bonnie Jean again. CLXII. ©, foat gc folia's in ^m ©oton. Tune. — *'/'// ay ca' in by yon town." [The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchen- cruive, was the heroine of this song : it was not, however, composed expressly in honourof liercharms. " As I was a good deal pleased," he says in a letter to Syme, " with my performance, I, in my first fenour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald." He sent it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.] CHORUS. 0, 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. Now haply down yon gay green sliaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree ; How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 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. 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 ! 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. O sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane do\vn upon ; A fairer than's in yon town His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe. And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; I careless quit aught else below. But spare me— spare me, Lucy dear ! For wliile life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she — as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart ! 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. © i*lag, tj^g i«om. Tune. — " May, thy Morn." [Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain to Che accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by Chambers in his " People's Edition" of Bums.] O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet As the mirk night o' December; For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : And dear was she I dare na name. But I will ay remember. And dear was she I dare na name. But I will ay remember. 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 Avatch 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 o' the quoinim ! CLXIV. Sobelg i^ollg ib- luhcd by Herd : the heroine is supposed to have been the accom- plished Mn. KiddeL Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it. Bums approved of their alterations ; but he approved, no doubt, in bittirnest of spirit.] IIeue awa, there awa, wandering Wiliio, Now tired with wandering, baud awa hame ; Coine to my bosom my ae only dearie, Aiid tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; 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 huiTicanes, rest in the cave o' j-our slumbers ! how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But if he's forgotten his faitlifullcst Nannie, O still flow between us, thou wide roaring main ; ]\ray I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! cxc. 212^anl)cring SSlillic. LAST VERSION. [This is the "Wandering Willie" as altered by Erskine and Thom- son, and approved by Burns, after rejecting several of thdr emenda- tions. 'J'he changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the words with the music— an Italian mode of mending theharmony of the human voice.] Heue awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; Welcome now simmer, and Avclcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. Rest, ye wild storms,in the cave of your slumbers, How your dread howling a lover alarms ! Waiikou ye breezes, row gently ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na hisNannie, 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. OF ROBERT ]$URNS. 199 cxcr. Open tl)c Boor lo mr, olj ! [Written for Thomson's collection : the first version which he wrote was nut happy in its haraiony : Hums altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then saith June, 1793, " felt your bosom ready to liiu-st with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate prorinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, oroften 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 an hours meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fii, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale jjoet.] O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride ! And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, While my dear lad maun face his faes. Far, far frae me and Logan braes ! Again the merry month o' 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 aa-e tears of joy: ]My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes. Within yon milk-white hawthorn busli, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; Her faitlifu' 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, Wliile Willie's far frae Logan braes. 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 >vidow's tears, the orphan's cry ?' But soon may peace bring happy days And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 1 Originally — " Ve mind na, 'mid your cruel joys. The widow's tears, the orphan's cries." CXCVII. Z'i)t reO, rcl) 3Xosc. Air. — " Hughie Graham." f There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like ft-ac- tured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the restorer has oeen. This seems the case \vitb the first verse of this song, which the poet found in Wothcrspoon, and comiiletcd by the addition of the second ■.•erse, which he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let the other follow, which would conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it was 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 I How I wad mourn, wlien it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude ! But I wad sing on wanton wing. When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. gin my love were yon red rose. That grows upon the castle wa' ; And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie bi-east to fa' ! Oh, there beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. CXCVIII. 5Bonnic 3Jtan. [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 otiier men's beauties. In the M'Murdo manuscript, in Biu-ns' hand-writing, there is a well-merited compliment which has slip* out of the printed copy in Thomson : — " Thy handsome foot thou riielt na set In bam or byre to trouble thee, j There was a lass, and she was fair. At kirk and market to be seen, When a' the fairest maids were met, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, And ay she sang sae merrilie : The blithest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 3f 20- THE POETICAL WORKS But hawks will rob the tender joys That bless the little liutwhite's nest ; Aud frost will blight the faii-cst tlowers, And love will break the soundest rest. Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen ; And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton nai^ies nine or ten. He gaed wi' Jeanie to the trj'sto, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. As in the bosom o' the stream. The moon -beam dwells at dewy e'en ; So trembling pure, was tender love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 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 aijain. But did na .Teanie's heart loup light, And did na joy blink in her e'e^ As Robie tauld a tale o' love Ac e'enin' on the lily lea ? The sun was sinking in the west. The birds sang sweet in Uka grove ; His cheek to hers he fondly prest, And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : O .leanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; O canst thou think to fancy me ! Or wilt thou leave tliy mammie's cot. And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? At barn or byre thou shalt na drudg, Or naething else to trouble thee ; But stray amang the heatiicr-bells. And tent the waving corn wi' me. Now wliat could artless Jeanie do ? She had nae will to say him na : At length she blush'd a sweet consent, Aud love was ay between them twa. CXCIX. iPHHis t\)t ifair. Tune.—" Itobin Adair." [The ladies of the M'Murdo family wcregrsccfu and beautiful, and lucky in finding a poet capalile of rec^rdinR their cliarnis in lasting strains. The heroine of this son^ was Pliillis M'Murdo; a favourite of the poet. The verses were composed at the request of Clarke, the musician, who believed himself inl ove with his "charm- ing pupil." She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.] While 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. 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 ; Sucii thy bloom ! did I say, Piiillis the fair. Down in a shady Avalk Doves cooing were, I markd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare : So kind may fortune be, Such make his destiny ! He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair. cc. |i?al) 3E a ®abc. Tune. — " Robin Adair." [Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love-adventure liurns composed this song for Thomson, was a jeweller in Edinburgh, well connected, and of agi-eeable and poIishc, when these words were written : the hero of the lay has been long dead ; the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.] Had la cave on some wild, distant shore, Wh'.-ro the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar ; OF ROBERT BURNS. 203 There woiiUl I wccj) my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne^er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, All thy fond plighted vows — Hecting as air ! To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'or thy perjury. Then in thy bosom try What peace is there ! CCI. 33g ^llan Stream. f" Bravo ! say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for Thomson. " 1 1 is a good song. Should you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as En;-'lish verses. Autunm is my propitious season ; I make more verses in it than all the year else." Tlie old song of " O my love Annie's very bonnic," helped the muse of Burns \Tith this lyric. ] By Allan stream I chanced to rove While Phosbus sank beyond Bouledi ; 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 niony : And aye the wild wood echoes rang — O dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie ! 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 I Her head ui^on my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" While mony a kiss the seal imprest. The sacred vow, — we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae. The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery, thro' her shortening day. Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? ecu. © b)\)iitU, anil I'll come to gou. [In one of the variations of this sonj? the name of the Iieroinc is Jeanie : the song iticlf owes some of the sentiments as well as words to an old favourite Nitlisdale chaunt of the same name. " Is Whis- tle, and I'll come to you, my lad," Bumsenquires of Thomson, " one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the followiri" verses to it." The poet, two years afterwards, altered the fourth line thus: — " Thy Jcany will venture wi' ye, my lad," and assigned this reason : " In fact, a fair dameat whose shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces have attiiid in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed witli lightning ; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, in- sists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare.") O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Tho' father and niither and a' should gae mad, whistle, and I'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 corain' to me. And come as ye were na comin' to me. At 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 bonuie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court na anitlier, tho' jockin' ye be. For fear that she wyle your fancy fiae me. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, O wliistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Tho" father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. CCllI. ^SDobtt tointimg Kill). [" Mr. Clarke," says Burns to Tliomson, " begs you to give Hiss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a particular flame of his. She is a Miss Phillis M'Murdo, sister to ' Bonnie .lean ;' they are both pupils of his." This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lock- hart, of Carnwath.] Adown winding Nitli I did wander. To mark the sweet flowers as they spring Adown winding Nith I did wander. Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 204 THE pof:tical works Awa •wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare : Whaever lias met wi' my Pliillis, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. Tlie daisy auuis'd my fond fancy, So artless, so simple, so wild ; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child. The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : How fair and how pure is the lily, But tairer and purer her breast. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er ^vi' my Phillis can vne : Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes thro' the green -spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love. But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a tine summer's day ! While wortli in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties. They never wi' her can compai-e : Whaever has met wi' my Phillis Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. CCIV. ©ome, let me talte tfjec. Air.—" Cauld Kail." [Bums composed this lyric in August 1793, anil tradition 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 1 once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the M uses ; when the Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspir- ing, dearest nymph, Coila, whisrcrcdmethe follon-ing."] Co.ME, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The waild's wealth and grandeur : And do I hear my Jeanie own Tliat equal trun.sports move her ? 1 ask for dearest life alone, Tliat I may live to love her. Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share. Than sic a moment's pleasure : And by thy een, sao bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever! And on thy lips I seal my vow. And break it shall 1 never. ccv. [From the old song of " Daintie Davie" Bums hashorrowed only the title and the measure. Tlie ancient strain records how the Rev. David Williamson, to escape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecution, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherry trees, in the same bed with her ailing daughter. The divine lived to have six wives beside the daughter of tlie Lady of Cherrytrecs, and other children besides the one which his hiding from the dragoons pro- duced. When Charles tlie Secor.d was luld of the adventure and its upshot, he is said to have exclaimed, " God's fish ! that beats me and the oak : the man ought to be made a bishop."] Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers And now comes in my happy hours, To wander wi' my Davie. Meet mc on the warlcck knowe. Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa'. The meiTy birds are lovers a'. The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie. III. When purple morning starts the liare. To steal upon her early fare, Then thro' the dews I will repair. To meet my faithfu' Davie. When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o' nature's rest, I flee to his arms I lo'e best. And that's my ain dear Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, There I'll spend the day wi' you, My ain dear dainty Davie. 3 f. t- OF ROBERT BURNS. CCVI. iSruce to |)ig JHen at 33annocfeburn. FIRST VERSION. Tune. — " Hey^ tuttie tatties 205 'Syme of Uyedale states that this fine ode was composed during a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway : the poet himself ijives 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 Urucc's march at the battle of Haimockbuni. This thought, in my solitary wan- derings, warmed me to apitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to tlie air, that one might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was written in Sep- tember, 1793.^ Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie ! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front 0' battle lour : See approach proud Edward's pow'r- Cliains and slaverie! III. Wha will be a traitor-knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Let him turn and flee ! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'. Let him follow me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By our sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! — Let us do or die ! CCVII. iSannocfeburn. ROBERT BRUCe's ADDRESS TO IIIS ARMY. SECOND VERSION. [Thomson acknowledged the charm wnich this martial and na- tional ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to sub- stitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. But Lewis Gordon re- quired a couple of syllables more in every fourth line, which loaded the verse with expletives, and weakened the simple energy of the original : Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight re- sistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded in this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of Bruce's day ever resisted more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. " The only line," says the musician, " which I dislike in the whole song is, ' Welcome to your gory bed : gory presents a disagreeableimageto the mind, and a prudent general would avoid saying anything to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than 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 in (Joriolanus, " Oh, God, no blood !" while Burns ex- claims, like that Roman's heroic mother, " Yes, blood ! it becomes a soldier more than gilt his trophy." The ode as originally written was restored afterwards in Thomson's collection.] Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed. Or to glorious victorie ! Now's the day, and now's the hour — See the front 0' battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power- Edward ! chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor-knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wlia sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian ! on wi' me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By our sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be — shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low I Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Forward 1 let us do, or die ! 3 o 206 THE POETICAL WOUKS CCVIII. 13cI)oH) tl)c ?i)our. Tune. — " Oran-gaoil." \" The following song I have composed for the Highland air that you tell me in your last you have resolved to give a place to in your bool;. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint." Tlicse arc the words of Hums to Thomson : he might have added that the song ivas \vrittcn on the meditated voyage of Claiinda to the West Indies, to Join her husband.] Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; TIiou goest, thou darling of my heart ! Severed from thee can I survive ? But fate has will'd, aud we must j art. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail : " E'en here I took tlie last farewell ; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail. Along the solitary shore While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the roUing, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. Where now my Nancy's path may be ! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me ? CCIX. 'SZTj^ou fiagt left mc cbcr. Tune.— "Fee him, Father.'" [" 1 do not give these verses," says Burns to Thomson, "for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which ' Patie Allan's miiher died, alwut the back o' midnight,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset cverj- mortal in company, ex- cept the hautbois and the muse." To the poet's intercourse mth musicians we owe some fine songs.] Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! Thou hast left me ever ; Tliou hast left me ever, Jamie ! Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vowed that death Only should us sever ; Now thou's left thy lass for ay — I maun see thee never, Jamie, I'll see thee never ! Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! Thou liast me forsaken ; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! Thou hast me forsaken. Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is breaking : Soon my weary een I'll close, Never mair to waken, Jamie, Ne'er mair to waken ! ccx. Quit) Inng <^yne. [" Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns^vrites to Mrs. Dunlop, " Auld lang sync, exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul : I shall give you the verses on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-in- spired poet who composed this glorious fragment." " The following song," says the poet, when he communicated it to Ceorge Thomson, " an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until 1 took it down from an old man's sing- ing, is enough to recommend any air." These are strong words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than " minstrel Bums."] Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to niin' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne ! We twa hae run about the braes. And pu't the gowans fine ; But we've wandered mony a weary foot. Sin' auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Fiae mornin' sun till dine : But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine ; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught^ For auld lang sync ? And surely yc'll be your pint-stowp. And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! OF llOBERT BURNS. 207 CCXI. ipatr 3)canj). Tune. — " Saw ye my Father ?" 'In Scptcmhcr, 170.1, this song, as ivell as several others, was com- municatai to Thomson by Hums. *' Of the poetry," lie says, " I speak with confidence : but tlie music is a business where 1 hint my ideas with the utmost ditfideuce."] "Where are tlie joys I have met in the morning, That dancd to the lark's early song ? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring. At evening the wild woods amonjj ' No more a-winding the course of yon river. And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, But sorrow and sad sighing care. Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys. And gi'im, surly winter is near ? No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses. Proclaim it the pride of the year. Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, Yet long, long too well have I known. All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone. Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. CCXII. iSduDct) 5foain, t\}e pleasure. [To the air of the "CoUiei-'s dochter," Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal : it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.] Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee. Is but a fairy treasure — Tliy hopes will soon deceive thee. The billows on the ocean. The breezes idly roaming, Tlie clouds' uncertain motion — They are but types of woman. I art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature ? If man thon wonldst be named, Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow ; Good claret set before thee : Hold on till thou art mellow. And then to bed in glory. CCXIII. Kancg. I Tills song was inspired by the cnarms of Clarinda. In one of the poet's manuscripts the song commences thus : Thine am I, my lovely Kate, Well thou mayest discover Every pulse along my veins Tell the ardent lover. This change was tried out of compliment, it Is believed, to Mra. Thomson ; but Nancy ran more smoothly on the even road of lyricsl verse than Kate] Thine am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy ; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart. There to throb and languish : The' despair had ^vrung its core. That would heal its anguish. Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure : Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure. What is life when wanting love ? Night without a morning : Love's the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning. •208 TIIK POETICAL WORKS CCXIV. ?i)U5banti, ?i?u5bnnt). Tune. — " Jo Janet." I"My Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, was in the poet's eye when he composed this song, as surely as the matrimonial bickerings reconled by the old minstrels were in his mind. He de- sires Thomson briefly to lell him how he likes these verses : the re- sponse of Che musician was, *' Inimitable."] Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir ; Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir. " One of two must still obey, Xancy, Nancy ; Is it man, or woman, say. My spouse Nancy ?" If 'tis still the lordly word, Ser\nce and obedience ; I'll desert my sov'reign lord. And so, good bye, allegiance ! " Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy ; Yet I'll try to make a shift. My spouse, Nancy." My poor heart then break it must, >Iy last hour I'm near it : When you lay me in the dust, Think, think, how you will bear it. "I will hope and trust in heaven, Nancy, Nancy ; Strength to bear it wiU be given. My spouse, Nancy." "Well, sir, from the silent dead, Still I'll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. " I'll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy ; "Then all hell will fly for fear. My spouse, Nancy." ccxv. WiiXx t^ou ht mg IDcaric. Air. — " The Sutor's Dochter." ICompOMd, it is said, in honour of Janet Miller, of Dalswinton, mother to the present Earl of Marr, and then, and long after, one of thelovelieit women in the south of Scotland.) Wilt thou be my dearie ? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt tliou lot me choor tliee ? By the treasui'e of my soul. That's the love I bear thee ! I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my dearie. Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; Or if thou wilt no be my ain. Say na thou'lt refuse me : If it winna, canna be. Thou, for thine may choose me. Let me, lassie, quickly die. Trusting that thou lo'es me. Lassie, let me quickly die, Trusting tliat thou lo'es me. CCXVT. ISut latclj) 5CCU. Tune. — " The winter of life.''' [This song was written for Johnson's Museum, in J/iM: the air is East Indian : it was brought from Hindostan by a particular friend of the poet. Tliomson sec the words to the air of (5il Morrice; they are elsewhere stt to the tune of the Death of the Linnet.] But lately seen in gladsome green. The woods rejoiced the day ; Thro' gentle showers and laughing flower.s, In double pride were gay : But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa ! Yet maiden May, in rich array. Again shall bring them a'. But my white pow, nae kindly tliowe Shall melt the snaws of age ; My trunk of eild, but buss or beild. Sinks in Time's wintry rage. Oh ! age ha.s weary days. And nights o' sleepless ])ain ! Thou goldoii time o' youthfu' prime, Why comes thou not again ? OF IU)IJi;UT BURNS. •209 CCXVIT. Tune. — " Could aught of song." [Tiesc verses, inspired partly by Hamilton's \'ery tender and ele- gant song, " Ah ! the poor shepherd's mournful fate," and some unrecorded " Mary" of the poet's heart, is in the latter vo- lumes of Johnson. " It is inserted in .(olmson's Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "with the name of Hums attached." He might have added that it was sent by Burns, ivritten with his own hand.J Could aught of song declare my pains, Could artful numbers move thee, The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, O Mary, how I love thee ? They who hut feign a wounded heart May teach the lyre to languish ; But what avails the pride of art. When wastes the soul with anguish ? Then let the sudden bursting sigh The heart-felt pang discover ; And in the keen, yet tender eye, O read th' imploring lover. For well I know thy gentle mind Disdains art's gay disguising ; Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, The voice of nature prizing. CCXVIII. ?l?cte's to tl)g ?i?ealt|b, tng bonnfc Sagg. Tune. — " Loggan Burn." [" This song is in the Musical Museum, with Bums' name to it," says Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of the poet's early days, which be trimmed up, and sent to Johnson. 1 Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; I'll come na mair to thy bower-door. To tell thee that I lo'e thee. dinna think, my pretty pink, But I can live without thee : 1 vow and swear I dinna care How lang ye look about ye. Thou'rt ay sae free infoi-ming me Thou hast na mind to marry ; I'll be as free informing thee Nae time hae I to tarry. I ken thy friends try ilka means, Frae wedlock to delay thee; Depending on somo higher chance- But fortune may betray thee. I ken they scorn my low estate. But that does never grieve me ; But I'm as free as any he, Sma' siller will relieve me. I count my health my gi'eatest wealth, Sae long as I'll enjoy it : I'll fearna scant, I'll bode nae want, As lang's I get employment. But far off fowls hae feathers fair, And ay until ye try them : Tho' they seem fair, still have a care. They may prove waur than I am. But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright, My dear, I'll come and see thee; For the man that lo'es his mistress weel Nae travel makes him weary. CCXIX. Z^t iParctoeU. Tune. — "It was a^ for our rightfu" king. [" It seems very doubtful," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " how much, even if any part of this song was written by Bums : it occurs in the Musical Museum, but not with his name." Burns, it is belieied, rather pruned and beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain entirely. Johnson received it from him in his omi hand- writing.] It was a' for our rightfii' king. We left fair Scotland's strand ; It was a' for our rightfu' king We e'er saw Irish land. My dear ; We e'er saw Irish land. Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain; My love and native land farewell, For I maun cross the main, 5Iy dear ; For I maun cross the main. 3 u 210 THE POETICAL WORKS He turned him right, and round about Upon the Irisli shore ; And gae his bridle-reins a shake. With adieu for evermore, My dear ; With adieu for evermore. The sodger from the wars returns. The sailor frae the main ; But I hae parted frae my love, Never to meet again. My dear ; Never to meet again. When day is gane, and night is come, And a' folk bound to sleep ; I think on him that's far awa', The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear ; The lee-lang night, and weep. ccxx. © steer l)cr up. Tune. — " steer her up, and hand her gavn." [ Bums, in composing these verses, took the introductory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his own way, and sent them to the Museum.] STEER her up and hand her gaun — Her mother's at the mill, jo ; And gin she winna take a man. E'en let her take her will, jo : First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, And ca another gill, jo. And gin she take the thing amiss. E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. O steer her up, and be na blate. An' gin she take it ill, jo, Then lea'e the lassie till her fate. And time nae longer spill, jo : Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, But think upon it still, jo That gin the lassie winna do't, Ye'U fin' anither will, jo. CCXXI. ersons 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 othei's who are much better skilled in the ai^'air of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually ai'e. It is natural for a young fellow to like the ac- quaintance of the females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves: some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greater part of us ; and I must own, dear E., it is a hard game, such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover. Yon cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as dis- tractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is jx^rhaps one of those transient flashes 1 have been de- scribing ; but I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me, when I as- sure you that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. JJelieve 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 sj)irits, may make them feel something like what they describe ; but sure I am the noblei- faculties of the mind, with kindred feelings of tlie heart, can only bo 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 ficethat even then, though bent down with wrink- led age; even then, wiien all other worldly cir- cumstances will be indift'erent to me, I will re- gard my E. with the tcnderest affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still pos- sessed of those noble qualities, inqiroved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my af- fection for her. " O ! happy swte wlicn souls each otlwr draw, When luvu is liberty, and nature law." ' I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridicu- lous ; but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtsjiip I shall ever use to you. When I look over what I have written, 1 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 vour good sense may see amiss. R. B. VI. ^0 i^t$$ IE. Lochka, 1783. I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, tiiat though in every other situation in life, telling tlie 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 liis inten- tions are honourable. Idonot think that itisvery 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 prin- ciples 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 a number of foreboding fears, and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that wliat to speak, or what to write I am altogether at a loss. There is one i-uh; wliich I have hitlierto jji-ac- tised, and wliich I shall invariably keep with you, and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and uiunanly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am suij)rised 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 yon will be so good and so generous as to ad- mit me for your partner, your companion, your • Pope. FJniga to Abrlnrd. 01" ROBERT BURNS. •233 liosoin friend through life, there is nothing on tiiis side of eternit}' shall give me greater trans- jiort ; but I sliali never tliink of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, whicli 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 convenient. I shall only add further that, if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness ; if these are quali- ties you would wish in a friend, in a liusband, 1 hope you shall ever find them in your real friend, and sincere lover. R. B. VII. ^0 ilTtSS IE. Loclilea, 1783. I OUGHT, 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 can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on re- ceiving 3'our letter. I read it 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 hajipy ; 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 offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet with, in such a degree, in this world. All these charming qualities, heightened by an education much beyond any thing I have ever met in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagination had fondly flattered my- self with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had fonned the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress; still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little further off", and you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this jilace, I wish to see or hear from you soon ; and if an expression sliould perhaps escajie 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. or GLENRIDDEI.. fThese memoranda throw much light on the early days of Burns, and on the history of his mind, and compositions. Robert Kiddcl, of the Friar's Carse, to whom these fragments were sent, was a good man as well as a distinguished antiquary.] INIy Dear Sir, On rummaging over some old papers I lighted on a IMS. of my early years, in which I had de- termined to write myself out ; as I Avas placed by fortune among a class of men to whom xay ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant tliat 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 oft" thus : — "Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c. by Robert 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- iety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I be- lieve, 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 obsen'ations, and allowing them the same im- portance which they do to those which appear in print."— Shen- STONE. " Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! Such was our youthful air, atul shape, and face. Such the soft image of our youtliful mind." — Ihid. 3o '2:34 GKNEKAL CORRESPONDRNCE April, 1783. Notwitlistanding all that has Leon said ajrainst love, ixvspettin;; the folly and weakuoss it leads a younj^ inoxporieuced iiiiud into; still I think it in a great measure deserves the highest en- comiums that liave been passed upon it. If any thing on earth deserves tlie 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 aftection. Angust. There is certainly some connexion between love, and music, and poetry ; and therefore, I have always thought it a tine touch of nature, that passage in a modern love-composition : " As towards her cot hcjogg'd along, Her name was frequent in his song." For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart. 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; unacquainti^d and uncorruptcd 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 liappydays when mylieart Mas yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her. I not only had this opinion of her then — but I actually think so still, now that the spell is long since broken, and the enchantment at an end. once I lov'd a bonnie lass.' Lest my works should be thought below criticism : or meet with a critic, who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and fa- vourable an eye, I am detennined to criticise them myself. The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy sti-ain of our ordinary street ballads: and, on the other hand, the second distich is too much in the other extreme. 'J'he 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 ])art of the sex — the agrecablcs; or what in our Scotch dialect we call a sweet sonsic lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn in it ; and the third line has rather too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very indiflTerent one; the first line, is, indeed, all in the strain of the second stanza, but the rest ' SeehiingTiand Uallads, (\'ti. i is most expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stanza come finely up to my favourite idea — a sweet sonsie lass : the last line, however, halts a little. The same sentiments are kept up with equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza, but the second and fourth lines ending with short syllables hurt the whole. The seventh stanza has several minute faults ; but I re- member I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remem- brance. September. I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of ]\loral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can (unbitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear u]) tolerably well under those calamities, in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand ; but when our own follies, or crimes, have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitent sense of our miscon- diu;t, is a glorious eiibrt of self-command. Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or Mring the mind with anguisli. Beyond comparison the worst are those That to our folly or our guilt we owe. In every ather circumstance, the mind Has this to say, ' It was no deed of mine ;' But when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added — 'Blame thy foolish self!' Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — Of guilt, jierliaps, where we've involved others; The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! burning hell ; in all thy store of torments, There's not a keener lash ! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; And, after i^roper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? O, happy ! happy! enviable man ! O glorious magnanimity of sonl! March, 1784. I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, oven the worst, has something good about him ; though very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what degree any other person, be- sides liimseir, can be, with strict justice, called OF KOI'.KllT mi'.NS. 235 wicked. Let any of the strictest character for re- gularity of conduct among ns, examine imi)avti- ally liow many vices lie has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, hut for want of opportunity, or some accidental circumstance in- tervening ; iiuw many of the weaknesses of man- kind he has escaped, because he was out of tlie line of such temptation; and, what often, if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world docs not know all : I say, any man who can tlnis think, will scan the failings, nay, tlie faults and crimes, of mankind around Jiim, with a brother's eye. I liave often courted the acquaintance of tiiat part of mankind, commonly known by the or- dinary plirase of blackguards, sometimes farther than was consistent with the safety of my dia- racter ; those who by thoughtless i)rodigality or lieadsti'ong passions, have been driven to ruin. Thongii disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes, stained witli guilt, I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. Jpril. As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out- of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast : but there is something even in the— " Afighty tempest, and the hoary waste Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts me, something which enraptui-es me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, "walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes I composed the following : — The wintry west extends his blast.' Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most ' See Winter. A Dirge. Poem I. nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often thought that no man can be a projjcr critic of love-composition, except he himself, in one or more instances, liave been a warm votary of thi? passion. As I have been all along a miserable dupe to love, 38 GENERA I. CORRESrONnENCE the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times : — When elouds in skies do eomc together To hide the hriglitness of the sun, There will surely be some pleasant weather When a' their storms are past and gone.' Though fiekle fortune has deceived me, She promis'd fair and perforui'd but ill ; Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereavM me, Yet 1 bear a heart shall support me still. I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able, But if success I must never find, Then come misfortune, 1 bid thee welcome, 111 meet thee with an undaunted mind. The above was an extempore, under the pres- sure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, in- deed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was just at the close of that dreadful period men- tioned already, and though the weather has brightened uj) a little with me, yet there has alwavs been since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, which I ])retty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness. — However, as I hope my poor country muse, who, all nistic, awkward, and uni)olished as she is, has more charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside — as I hope she will not then desert me, I may even then learn to bo, if not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to sooth my misery. 'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch style. — I am not musi- cal scholar enough to prick down my tune jiro- perly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no gi'eat matter ; but the following were the verses I composed to suit it : — raging fortune's withering blast Has laid my leaf full low, !^ The tune consisted of three jjarts, so that the above verses just went through the whole air. October, 1785. If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to thj-ow liis eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations, as I assure him tliey are the fruit of a poor devil's dear-bought experience. — I have literally, like that great poet and great gal- lant, and by consequence, that great iool, Solo- mon, " turned my eyes to behold madness and folly." Nay, I have, with all tlie ardour of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, ac- coiiipanied witii a warm, feeling, i)oetic heart, shaken hands with their iuto.xicatiug friendship. ' Alluding to the misfnrtunes he feelingly laments before this vcnc. (Thij is ihc author's note.) 2 Song II. In the first place, let my jnijiil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm inter- course with the 1 >eity. * * ' * This is all worth quoting in my jNlSS. and more than all. R. B. IX. MONTROSE. [The elder Bums, whose death this letter intimates, lies buried in the kirkyard of Alloway, with a tombstone recording his worth.] Loc filed, 11 Ih Feb. 1784. Dear Cousin, I WOULD have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, liad it not been tliat 1 waited to give you an ac- count of that melancholy event, wiiich, for some time past, we liave from day to day expected. On the 13th current 1 lost tlie best of fathers. Though, to be sure, wo have had long warning of the impending stroke ; still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without feeling what perhaps tlie calmer dic- tates of reason would partly condemn. I hojje my father's friends in your country will not let their connexion in this place die witli him. For my part 1 shall ever with plea- sure — with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I shall ever honour and revere. I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any o])portunity of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige. My dear Cousin, yours sincerely, R. B. X. ^0 3)amc0 IJurnrgs, MONTIIOSE. [Mrs. liiiclian, the forerunner in extravagance and absurdity of Joanna Southcote, after attempting to fix Iicrtent among the hills of the west and the vales of theNith, finallyset upherstaff atAuchen- gibbert-IIill, in Galloway, where she lectured her followers, and held out liopcs of tlieir reaching the stars, even in this life. She died early : one or two of her people, as she called them, survived till within ihese lialf-dozen years.] Mossgiel, Auynst, 1784. We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenomena in the moral world which, I dale say, has ha])pened in tliecourseof this half century. We have had a party of Pres- l)ytery relief, as they caU themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving society OF ROBERT BURNS- 239 of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till about two years a^o, a Mrs. Bu- ciianfrom tJlasi^ow came aniony tlieni, and began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and, in a short time, made many converts; and, among others, their preaclier, ]\Ir. Whyte, who, upon that account, has been suspended and formally deposed by his l^rethren. lie continued, however, to preach in private to his party, and was supi^orted, both he and tlieir spiritual mo- thei", as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest, several of whom were in good circumstances ; till, in spring last, the populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the town; on which all her fol- lowers voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and with such precipitation, that many of them never shut their doors behind tliem ; one left a washing on the green, another a cow bellowing at the crib without food, or any body to mind lier, and after several stages, they are fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jar- gon ; among others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breathing on them, which she does with postures and practices that are scandalously indecent ; they have likewise dis- posed of all their effects, and hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, Avhere they lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no moral sin. I am personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the above mentioned are facts. This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leaving the guidance of sound rea- son and common sense in matters of religion. Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdities, will meet with abet- tors and converts. Nay, I have often thought, that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to them. E. K XI. ^0 itltss — . I This has generally been printed among the early letters of Burns. Cromek thinks that the person addressed was the " Peggy" of the Common-place Book. This is questioned by Robert Chambers, who, however, leaves both name and date unsettled.] My dear Countrywoman, I AM so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait tlie un- certain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins' Poems, which I promised to Miss Ii-vin. If I can find them, I will forward them by you ; if not, you must apologize for me. I know you will laugh at it when I teU you that your jiiano and you together have played the deuce somehow about my iieart. JNIy breast has been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid you will " feelingly convince me what I am." I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom ; when you whisper, or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I would say, Ueaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no formed design in all this ; but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance on this, and that wiU completely cure me ; but I wish you would not : just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of friendship. I will not subscribe myself j^our 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 f 'iare of deceit. R. B. XII. EDINBURGH. [John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's Mauchline friends, to wliom we are indebted for much valuable information concerning Bums and his productions— Connel was the Mauchline carrier.] Mossgiel, Feb. 17, 178G. My dear Str, I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and neglect ; I shall only say I re- ceived yours with great pleasure. I have en- closed you a piece of rhyming ware for your pe- rusal. 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 DoA-il," &c. I have likewise completed my poem on the "Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. ^ly chief patron now is IMr. Aiken, in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel, and I AviU remit you the money. I have no news to 240 G KX F K A L COK U ::SPO N DENCE acquaint you witli about Mauclilim', they arc just going on in the old way. I have some very important news ■with respect to myself, not the most agreeable — news that I am sure you can- not gues-, 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. Zo 0it. 3)ol)n Ivcnuclig, OCrjIFRIES HOUSE. [Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addressed tliis note, enclosing " The Cotter's Saturday Niglit," it is now, perhaps, vain to enquire: the Kennedy to whom Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas— perhaps a relation.] Sin, Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786. I HAVE done myself the pleasure of complying with your request in sending you my Cottager. — If you have a leisure minute, I should be glad you would copy it, and return me either the ori- ginal 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," ' KOBT. BURNESS. XIV. Zo iHr. lHobcrt iWuir, KILMARNOCK. fThe Miiirs — there were two brotheis — were kind and generouspa- irons of the poet, they subscribed for half-a-hundrcd copies of the Kilmarnock edition of his works, and befriended him when friends were few.] Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786. Deah Sin, I AM lioartily sony I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you returned through Mauchlinc; but as I was engaged, I could not be in town be- fore the evening. • Poem LXXV, I here enclose you my •' Scotch Drink," and " may the follow with a blessing lor your edification." I hope, some time before we hear the gowkj to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin-stoup ; wliioli will be a great comfort and consolation to. Dear Sir, Your humble servant, ROBT. BuilNESS. XV. ^0 iHr. ^Ifecn. [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, 3rd April, 1786. Dear Sir, I received 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 man- ner of telling truth. I have inscribed the fol- lowing stanza on the blank leaf of !Miss Jlore's Work : — ^ My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect to hear from you by the fii'st opportunity. I am ever, dear Sir, Yours, RoBT. BURNESS. XVI. writer, AYR. [Mr. M'Whinnic obtained for Bums several subscriptions for the first edition of his Poems, of which this note enclosed the propo- sals.J Mossgiel, l^lh April, 1786. It ie 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 tliat I gratify my own feelings in requesting I Sec PoemLXXATII. OF ROBERT BURNS. 541 your friendly offices with respect to tlie 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 gi'eat deal more than I shall ever need. Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks forward witli 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, Robert Burns. XVII. ^0 #lr. %o\)n Ivcunclii). [" The small piece, " the very last of his productions, which the poet enclosed in tills letter, was "The Mountain Daisy," called in the manuscript more properly " The Gowan."J Sir, Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. 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 Sir. Hamilton's sub- scription list. Allow me only to say. Sir, I feel the weight of the debt. I have here likewise inclosed a small piece, the very latest of my productions. I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray says, " 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 flattered the expectation of. Sir, Your indebted humble Servant, R. B. XVIII. ^0 iiton. ^amfg ^mitl), MAUCHLINE. [James Smith, of whom Bums said he was small of stature, but large of soul, kept at that time a draper's 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, botli .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 sheltei-, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. I?erish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it : — " I'll laugh an' sing, an' shalce my leg. As lang's 1 dow.'' On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o' clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still happiness for me among them : — ' O woman, lovely woman Heaven designed you To temper man !— we had been brutes without you." ' R.B. XIX. ^0 iPr. 3)o|^n ItcnneDg. 1 Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present ; lie was seeking patrons in every quarter for his contemplated volume, and he was composing for it some of his most exquisite poetry.] Mossgiel, 16 Mai/, 178G. Dear Sir, I have sent you the above hasty copy as I promised. In about three or four weeks I shall 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. Otway. Venice Pieser\'ed. 3u 242 XX. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCK xxr. ^0 iWv. Lxobcit ^i&cn. [David Brice \vas a shocmal;er, and sliarcd with Smith the con- fidence ol the poet in his love affairs, lie uas woikinK in Glasgow when tliis letter was written. J Mos!:giel,Junc\'2, 17<'<>. Deau Brice, I iiECEi^'EDVour messaji^c by G. Patcrson, and as I am not very thronff at preseut, I just write to let you know that there is such a worthless, rh\nning reprobate, as your liumble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You liavo heard all the particulars of tliat affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know ; one thing I do know — she has made nic completely miserable. Never man loved, or ratlicr 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, wliich I don't want to do. My ])oor dear unfortunate Jean ! how happy have 1 been in thy arms ! It is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely : I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. * * * * May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and i)erjury to me, as I from my very soul for- give Jier: and may his gi-ace be with her and bless lier in all Iier future life ! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment than wliat I have felt in my own breast on her account. I have tried often to forget Iier; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking-matches, and otiicr mischief, to drive lier out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure ; the siiip is on her way home tliat is to take me out to Jamaica ; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and farewell dear ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more. You will liave heard tliat I am going to com- mence poet in print ; and to-morrow my works go to tlie 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. K. B. [This letter was written undir great distress of mind. Tliat se- paration which Hums records in" The Lament," had, unhappily, taken place between him and Jean Armour; and it would appear, that, for a time at least, a coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occasioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sor- row and disquiet. Tile letter I regret to say is not wholly here] Sir, [Ayrshire^ 1786.] I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him tlie 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 sixteen : lie offers to agree to this for the print- ing, if 1 will advance for the paper, but this, you know, is out of my power ; so fiirewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! an epocha wliieh I think will arrive at the payment of the Britisli national debt. There is scarcely any tiling hurts me so much in lieing disappointed of my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. BallantjTie, by publishing my poem of " The Brigs of Ayr." 1 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 wliieh lie enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gra- titude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- tion ; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly max- ims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; the consequences of my 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 wliieh you jiretty well know — tlie pang of dis- ajipointmeiit, tlie sting of pride, with some wan- dering stabs of remorse, wliich never fail to set- tle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by tlie calls of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of so- cial mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intox- icated criminal under the hands of tlie execu- tioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feehngs of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it. * * * * You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home OF R015ERT BURNS. 24:J to my very soul : though sceptical in some points of our current belief, yet, 1 think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond tiie stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then, how siiould I, in the presence of that tre- mendous Ijeini;, the Author of existence, liow shoukl I meet tiie reproaches of those wlio stand to mc in the dear relation of cliihlren, Avhoni I deserted in the smiling innocency of h('li)k!ss infancy ? O, thou great nnknown Power ! — thou almighty God ! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me witli immortality ! — I have fiequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- haken me i * * * * Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something cf 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 tVuit of your friendly etfoits. What I have written in the l)receding pages, is the settled tenor of my pre- sent resolution ; but should inimical circum- stances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only threaten to entail farther misery » * * « 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 eveiy rising cloud in the chance-directed atmo- sphere of fortune, while all defenceless I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, a crea- ture destined for a progressive straggle; 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 Gen too 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 flov.er to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. * * * * You se.e, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a pi-obability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; but according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it. * * * * R.B. XXII. ^0 %o\)\\ IMdjmonD, EDINBURGH. [The minister who took upon him to pronounce Burns a single niitn, as he intimau-s in this letter, was the Rev. Mr. Auld, of Mauchlinc : that the law of the Untl and the law of the chu ch were at vaiiancc on the subject no one can deny.] Mossyiel, Olh July, 178C. My dear Friend, With the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly a son of misfortune. I shall Ix; extremely anxious to hear from you how your health goes on ; if it is in anyway re-establishing, or if Leith promises well ; in short, how you feel in the inner man. No news worth any thing : 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 highly suspi- cious : almost de faclo, 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, I am informed, -vvill 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 jiut on sack-cloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater, miserere mei. My book Avill be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers return them by Connel. The Lord stand with the righteous : amen, amen. R.B. XXIII. ^0 3Jo]^tt 9l3aUanlgnc, I There is a plain account in this letter of the destruction of the lines of marriage which united, as far Jis acivil contract in a matter civil can, the poet and Jean Armour. Aiken was consulted, and in consequence of his advice the certificate of marriage was destroyed.] Honoured Sir, ]My proposals came to hand last night, and knowing tiiat you would wish to have it in your power to do me a service as early as any 241 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE liody, I enclose you half a sheet of them. I must cousult you, first opportunity, on the pro- priety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a copy. If he is now reconciled to my character as an honest man, I would do it with all my soul ; but I would not be beholden to the noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky paper yesterday. Would you believe it? though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct; yet, when he told nie the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news. Perdition seize her falsehood ! R.B. XXIV. SHOEMAKEil, GLASGOW. [The letters of Bunis at this sad period of his life are full of his pri- vate sorrows. Had Jean Armour been left to the guidance of her own heart the story of her early yeare would have been brighter.] Mossgiel, ITlh July, 1786. I HAVE been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as much time as to vrritc 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 her- self express much sorrow for Avhut she has done. I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a bache- lor, which Mr. Aidd has promised me. I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, for all tiiat, not to have had her company. I have no news to tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before I leave the countr}\ I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am, Dear Brice, Yours,— R. B, XXV. [When tliis letter was written the poet was skulking from place to place : the merciless pack of the law had been uncoupled at his heels. Mr. Armour did not wish to imprison, but to drive him from the country.] Old Rome Forest, 30/A Jult/, 1786. My dear Kichmond, 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 the 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 ? Ar- 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 mo- ment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situa- tion — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can write no more — let mo hear from jou by the return of coach. I will write you ere I go. I am, dear Sir, Yours, hei-e and hereafter, R. B. XXVI. KILMARNOCK. [Bums never tried to conceal either his joys or his sorrows : he sent copies of his favourite pieces, and intimarions of much that bcfel him to his chief friends and comrades — this brief note was made to carry double, j Mossgiel, Friday noon. My Friend, my Brother, ^V'AR]\I 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 1)1! a kind of distant language of friendship. You will have heard that poor Ainiour 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 cxtenijioraneous pro- duction, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, that I Oli" PvOliEKT r.lJRNS. 245 would not produce a poein on t!io siil)ject in a Sjivon time. If you think it worth while, read it toCliarlcs and Air. AV. Parlver, and if thoy choose a copy of it, it is at tlieirservice, as they are men whose friendsiiip I siiall be proud to claim, both in this world and that which is to conu\ I believe all hopes of stayiui; at homo will be abortive, but more of this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visit from, My dear Sir, Your most devoted, R. B. XXVII. ■ffo i^rs SJunlop, OF DUNLOP. [Mrs. Duiilop was a poetess, and had the blood of the Wallaces in her veins : though she disliked the irregvilarities of the poet, she scorned to get into a fine moral passion about follies which could not be helped, and continued her friendship to the last of his life.] Ayrshire, 1786. Madam, I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome 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 ap- probation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me. Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustri- ous 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 soli- tary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortunate stories. In those boy- ish days I remember, in particular, being struck Avith 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 of miles to pay my respects to the Leglea wood, witii as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim (lid to Loretto ; and, as I exploi-ed every deu and dell where I could suppose my heroic coun- tryman 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. C. XXVIII. [It is a curious chapter in the life of Burns to count the number of letters which he wrote, the number of tine poems he composed , and the number of places which he visited in the unhappy summtr and autumn of 1781>-J Kilmarnock, August, 1780". My dear Sir, Your truly facetious epistle of the 3rd inst. gave me much entertainment. I was Sony I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way, but we shall bring up all our lee waj^ 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 for Jamaica; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day. — I have at last made my public appearance, and am solemnly inaugurated 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 s^jeak for themselves. — Farewell, my dear friend ! may guid luck hit you. And 'mang her favorites 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. MONTROSE. [The good and generous James Burness, of Montrose, was ever ready to rejoice witli his cousin's success or sympathize with his sorrows, but he did not like the change which came over the old northern sur- name of Burness, when the bard modified it into Burns : the name, now a rising one in India, Ls spelt Bumes.J Mossgiel, Tuesday noo7i, Sept. 26, 1786. My dear Sir, I Tins moment receive yours — receive it with the honest hospitable warmth of a friend's wel- 246 r,I-;NERAL CORRESPONDENCE come. A^Hiatever 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, mau feels a consciousness of something; within Mm above the trodden clod ! The grateful re- verence 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 lie has given existence — these nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart ; and the man who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses by far- the most pleasurable part of Ids ex- istence. My departure is uncertain, but I do not thinlc it will be till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not com- ply with your friendly invitation. When it Avill be I don't know, but if I can make my wish good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some time before. My best compliments to Mrs. ; I should [be] equally moitified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that I suppose there is little chance. What I have wrote heaven knows ; I have not time to review it ; so accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase — perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity, I am, dear Sir, Ever yours, R. B. XXX. ^0 0ii^^ SllfianDcr. [This letter, Uobcrt Chambers says, concluded with 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 replyint; to this request is a very good poetic reason for his UTath. Many of Hums' letttrs have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough drafts found among the poet's papers at liis death. This is one.] Mossgiel, Wh Nov. 1786. Madam, Poets are such outrf^ beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious wliim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I men- tion this as as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the in- closed poem, whicli he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can produce ; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the vernal year. The even- ing sun was ilamiug over the distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I siiould 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 discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you — your dearest comforts, your helpless nest- lings. 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 withering eastern blast ? Such was the scene, — and such the hour, when, in a corner of my lirospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted, who hold com- merce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and A'illany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. What an hour of insj^iration for a poet ! It would have raised plain dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. The enclosed song was the work of my return home : and perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene. I have the honour to be. Madam, Your most obedient and very humble Servant, K. B. XXXT. OF S T A I II AND A F T O N. [Mrs. Stewart, of Siairand Afion, was the first person of note in the West who had tlie taste to sec and feel the genius of Burn?. He used til relate how his heart fluttered when he first wnlkcl into the par- lour of the towers of Stair, to hear that lady's opinion of some of his songs.] [1786.] ^Iadam, The hurry ofmy preparations for going abroad has hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I Irave here sent you a par- OF noMERT BURNS. 247 eel of songs, &c.j which never made their appear- ance, except to a friend or two at most. Per- haps some of thoni may be no great entertain- ment to you, hilt of that I am far from beino; an adequate judge. The song to the tune of "Et- trick Banks" [The bonnie lass of 13alloclimyle] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I tliink, myself, it has some merit : both as a tolerable description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a July even- ing, and one of tiie finest pieces of nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know any- thing of, an amiable, b(>autiful young woman ;' but I have no common friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to sjjread the copy. I am quite aware, ^ladam, what task the Avorld would assign me in tiiis letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the in- cense of flattei'y. Their high ancestry, their own gi-eat and god-like qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogetlier luifit. Besides a certain disquali- fying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and liave no access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion. One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remember; — the reception I got when I had the honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good deal of benevolence of tem- per and goodness of heart. Surely did those in exalted stations know how happy they coiild make some classes "of their inferiors by conde- scension and affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. XXXII. In t|)c name of t^c Kine. Slmcn. [The song or ballad which one of the " Dai's yeld Nowte, was commanded to bum, was " Holy Willies Prayer," it is believed. Currie interprets the Deil's yeld Nowte," to niean old buclielors, ivhich, if right, points to some other of his compositions, for purga- tion 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 Januarv, Anno Domini one thousand seven 1 Miss Alexander. 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 Chalmers and John M'Adam, students and practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right and wrong. Right Trusty: Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and venders of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, bal- lad-singers, &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — We have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a cojiy whereof We have here inclosed; Our Will therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of that most execrable species, known by the appellation, piirase, and nick-name of The Deil's Yeld Nowte : and after liaving caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of tlie day, put into tlie 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 com- positions and comi^osers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, befoi'e the twenty-fourth current, when in person We hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of No- vember, Anno Domini one thousand seven hun- dred and eighty-six. God save the Bard ! XXXIII. ^0 JWr. iJlobctt iWutr. [The expedition to Edinburgh, to whicli 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 tlie Kev. Mr. Lawrie, and communicated by Ga^nR Hamilton to the poet, when he was on the wing for the West Indies.] Mossgiel, \8lh Nov. 1786. Mv DEAR Sib, Inclosed you have " Tam Samson," as I in- tend to print him. I am 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. 1 His birth-day. 248 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE XXXIV. ^0 Dr. iiTatUcnjIf, MAUCHLINF,; EXCLOSING TUE VERSES ON DINING WITH I.OHD DAEU. f To the kind and vcneraWe Dr. Mackcniic, the poet was indebted for srtine valuable Iricndships, and his biographirs lor some valuable in- fonnation, res^iecting tlie early days of Bums.] Wednesday Morning. Dear Sir, I NEVER spent an afternoon among great folks witli half that pleasure as when, in com- pany with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the 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 character, 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 coiTCcted 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, E,B. XXXV. To ©abin ?i?amilton, C?sq. MAUCHLINE. [From Gavin Hamilton Bums and his brother took the farm of Moss«iel : the landlord was not slow in perceiving the genius of Uobert : he had him frequently at his tabic, and the ixwt repaid this notice by verse not likely soon to die] Edinburgh, Dec. ^th, 1786- Honoured Sir, I HAVE paid every attention to your com- mands, but can only say wliat perliaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirk- lands were bought bj' a .John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I know not ; IMauchlands, Haugh, Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup- posed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adain- ^ill and Sliawood were bouglit for Oswald's folks. — Tliis is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it reach yon, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not trouble you witli 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 a Kenipis 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 Al- manacks, along with the black ;Monday, and the battle of Bothwell bridge. — My Lord Glcucairn and tlie Dean of Faculty, ^Mr. IL Erskine, have taken me under their wing ; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. Through my lord's influence it is inserted in the records of tlie 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 sticketh closer than a brother." — The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days showed for the poor un- lucky devil of a poet. I always remember Mrs, Hamilton and ^liss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. ]\Lay cauld ne'er catch yon but a hap, Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! Amen ! R.B. XXXVI. Zo ^Joj^n JJallantgnc, lEsq., BANKER, AYR. [This is the second letter which Bums wrote, after his arrival in Fdinliurgli, and it is rcniarkatile because it distinctly imputes his introduction to the Earlof (ilencairn, to Palrjinple, oi)c's Eloiiii to AbcUrd. OF KOHKin" JJUUNS. 255 Zo 0it. 3Jamc5 ©anliU^fj. fJames C'andli.ili, a student of medicine, ivas wellacquaintnl witli the poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, " Mary's Uream," and at tlie reiiuest of Burns sent Loue's classic song of " I'onipey's liliost," to the Musical Museum.] Edinburgh, March 21, 17>i7. My ever dear old Acquaintance, I WAS equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say you will think by my delaying so long to write to you tliat I am so drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to beindiiierent to old, and once dear connexions. The truth is, I was dcitermined to write a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all tliat. I thouglitof it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I could not ; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give your- self credit, though, that the strength of your logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You have shown me one thing which was to be demon- strated : that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the pi-ide of despising old women's stories, ventured in " the daring path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength of human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, "The old man with his deeds," as when we were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall be four weeks here yet at least ; and so I shall expect to hear from you ; welcome sense, wel- come nonsense. I am, with the warmest sincerity, R. B. LI. ®0 [The name of the friend to whom this letter was addressed is still imknown, though known to Dr. Currie. Tlie Esculaplan Club of Edinburgh have, since the death of Bums, added some iron-work, with an inscription in honour of the Ayrshire poet, to the original head-stone. The cost to the poet was £6. lUs.J 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 j)revent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at the beginning of tlie business, his feeble efforts are to tlie 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 vortex of our horrors, up starts con- science, and harrows us with the feelings 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 wel- come to. The prose extract is literally as INlr. Sprott sent it me. The inscription on the stone is as follows : — "here lies ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. Bom, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, lu^. "No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, ' No storied urn nor animated bust;' This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." On the other side of the stone is as follows : " By special grant of the managers to Kobert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for e\a sacred to the me- mory of Robert Fergusson." Session-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, the twenty-second day of February, one thousand seven hundred eighty-seven years. Sederunt of the INIanagers of the Kirk and Kirk- Yard funds of Canongate. Wliich day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr. Itobert Burns, of date the Gth current, wliich 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 tliat 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 Fergusson's memory : a tribute I wish to have the honour of paying. " I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble servant (sic subscribilur ), Robert Burns." Thereafter the said managers, in consideration of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and '256 GENERAL CORRESrOXDENCE hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to Ivis memory in all time coming. Extracted forth of the re- cords of the managers, by William Spuott, Clerk. LI I. To iHvs. iHimlop. prhe poet alludes in this letter to the profits ot the Edinburgh edition of his Poems: the exact sum is nowhere stated, but it could not have been less than seven hundred pounds.f Edinburgh, March 22nd, 1787- Madam, I READ your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom : now I am distinguished, patronised, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them thecold name of criticisms, I receive with re- verence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice 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 Glcncairn, 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 iufant sun Was roU'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 scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- ness, for which heaven knows I , Gude forgie me ! I had almost broke the tenth commandment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her manner and heart: in sliort — but if I say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with her. 1 never, my friend, thought mankind very ca- pable of anything generous ; but the statelinesB of the patricians in Kdinburgh, and the servility of my plebian brethren (who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I retinned home, have nearly put mc out of conceit altogether with my species. 1 have bought a pocket Mil- ton, which 1 carry perpetually about with me, in order to study the sentiments — the daunt- less magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inde- GENEUAL CORRESPONDENCE 261 peudciice, the desperate daring, and noblo de- fiance of hardship, in tiiat great personage, Sa- tan. 'Tis true, I liavejust now a little casli ; but I am afraid the star that hitlicrto has shed its malignant, purpose-blivsting 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 thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, like so many ignes fatui, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant 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 ■whicli I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, and, damn them, they are al- most all of them of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the apostolic love that shall wait on me " througli good report and bad report" — the love wliich Solomon 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 latter end of July. B.B. LXVI. [Candlish was a classic scholar, but had a love for the songs of Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greece, and RomcJ Edinburgh, 1787. My dear FniEND, If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which has been so long broken. At present 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 musics of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, is an undfrUiking (Exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the 1 Johnsgn, t)i'. publisher and proprietor of tlic Mujica! Muicum. songs I could meet with. Pompey's Gliost, 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 me at Mr. W. Cruikshank'sj St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. R. B. LXVII. ^0 Mobcrt ainjilic, (S$q. [" Burns had a memory stored with the finest poetical passages, which he was in the habit of quoting most aptly in his correspon- dence with his friends: and he delighted also in repeating them in the company of those friends who enjoyed them." These are tlie words of Ainslie, of Berry\icU, to whom this letter is addressed.] Arracher, 2Qth June, 178?. 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 last 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. E.B. LXVUI. ®o aQiUiam Xitol, Icgq [This risit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, begijininfr " Blythp, blythe and merry was she;" and the lady who inspiren it was at his side, when he wrote this letter.] Auchtertj/re, Monday, June, 1787. My dear Sir, I FIND 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. Ramsay's of Auchtertyre as 1 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 witli him as I return. 1 leave this place on Wednesday or Thui-sday. Make my kind compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is returned. I am ever, dear Sir, Your deeply indebted, R.B. 3x 262 GENERAL CORRESPONDIiNCK LXIX. ST. J A MES'S SQUARE, ED T N liURG H. [At the house of WiUiara Cruikshank, one of the masttrs of the High School, in Edinburgh, Burns passed many agreeable hours.] Auchtertyre, Monday morning. I HAVE nothing, my dear Sir, to write to you, but that I feel myself exceedingly comfortably situated in this good family : just notice enough to make me easy but not to embarrass me. I was storm-staid two days at the foot of tlie Ocliill- hills, with IMr. Tait of Herveyston and Mr. Johnston of Alva, but was so well pleased that I shall certainly spend a day on the banks of the Devon as I return. I leave this place I suppose on Wednesday, and shall devote a day to Mr. Ramsay at Auchtertyre, near Stirling : a man to whose worth I cannot do justice. My respectful kind compliments to Mrs. Cruik- shank, and my dear little Jeanie, and if you see ^Ir. Masterton, please remember me to him. I am ever. My dear Sir, &c. R.B. LXX. LINLITHr.OW. [The young lady to whom the poet alludes in this letter, was very beautiful, and very proud: it is said she gave him a specimen of both her temper and her pride, when he touched on the subject of love.] June 30, 1787. My dear Friend, On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at inter\'als ; then we flew at Bab at the Bowster, TuUochgorum, Loch Erroch Side, &c., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in a hairst day.— When the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl till the good-fellow liour of six ; except a few minutes that we went out to pay our devo- tions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top of Benlomond. Weall kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl; each man a full gla«ss in his hand; and I, as priest, re- peated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a- Ithymor's prophecies I suppose.— After a small refreshment of the gifts of Soninus, we pro- ceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and reach Dumbarton in tlic evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, and conse- quently, pushed the bottle; when we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves " No vera fou but gaylie yet." My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by came a lliglilandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be out-galloped by anighlandman,so oif we started, whip and spur. My companions, though seem- ingly gaily mounted, fell sadly aste n ; but my old mare, Jenny Gcddes, one of the llosinaute family, she strained past the liiglandman in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter ; just as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to mar my progress, when down came his horse, and threw hisrider's breek- less a — e in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny Gcddes over all, and my hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad as might well have been expected; so I came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pat- tern of sobriety for the future. I have yet fixed on nothing vvith respect to the serious business of life. 1 am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewliere have a farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too ; but that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the house of Parnassus, and like other younger sons of great families, I may in- trigue, if I choose to lun all risks, but must not marry. I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one, indeed, of my former happi- ness ; that eternal propensity I always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with fe- verish rapture. I have no paradisaical evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have only * * * *. This last is one of your distant acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant manners ; and in the train of some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest quarters in Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what j)iqucs mo is her conduct at the commencement of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her when I was in , and after passing regu- larly the intermediate degrees between the dis- tant formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; and after her return to , 1 wiote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words farther I suppose than even I intended, flew otf in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning ; and wrote me an answer which measured me out very com- ])letat is in us."J Mauchline, 23rd July, 1787- My dear AiNSLiE, There is one thing for which I set great store by you as a friend, and it is this, that I have not a friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk nonsense without forfeiting some de- gree of his esteem. Now, to one like me, who never cares for speaking any thing else but non- sense, such a friend as you is an invaluable trea- sure. I was never a rogue, but have been a fool all ray life ; and, in spite of all my endeavours, I see now plainly that I shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my heart to have met with such a fellow as you, who, though you are not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never listen so much to the temptations of the devil as to grow so very wise that you will in the least disrespect an honest fellow because he is a fool. In short, 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' tliir days are done. Write me soon, were it but a few lines just to tell me how that good sagacious man your father is — that kind dainty body your mother — that strap- ping 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. LXXIII. ^0 Mobcrt SlmgHc, CFgq. •■The " savage liospitality" of which Bums complains in this letter was at that time an evil fashion in Scotland : tlie bottle was made to ciR-ulate rapidly, and every glass was drunk " clean caup out."J Mauchline, July, 1787. My dear Sir, My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued hurry ; that savage hospitality which knocks a man down with strong liquors, is the devU. I have a sore warfare in this world ; the devil, the world, and the flesh are three formid- able foes, The first I generally try to fly from ; the second, alas! generally flies from me ; but 2G4 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE the third is my plague, worse than the ton plagues of Egj'pt. 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 ; how long I stay there is uncertain, but you will know so soon as I can inform 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. I.XXIV. [Dr. Moore wasone 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 ex- quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such compositions which you ought to indulge : no kind of poetry de- mands more delicacy or higher polishing." On this letter to .\loorc all the biographies of Bums are founded.] Sir, Mauchline, 2nd August, 1787- For some months past I have been rambling over the country, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. Jly 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 man I am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative, though I know it will be often at my own expense ; for I assure you. Sir, 1 have, like Solomon, whose character, excepting 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 intoxi- cating friendship. — After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and imper- tinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a predicament he has more than once been in bo- fore. I have not the most distant pretensions to as- sume that cJiaracter which the jiye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got ac- quainted in the herald's ofhce ; 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 lliro' scoundrels ever since the flood. ' Pope. Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- fortunes on the world at large ; where, after many years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom — I have met with few who 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 1 must have marched off to be one of the little imderlings 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 favourite with any body. I was a good deal noted for a reten- tive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot ^ piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in the family, re- markable for her ignorance, credulity, and su- perstition. She had, I suppose, the largest col- lection in the country of tales and songs concern- ing devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, wililocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead- lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I some- times keep a shai-p look out in suspicious places; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. 'J'he earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's beginning, " How are thy servants blest, O Lord !" 1 particularly remem- ' Idiot for idiotic OF UOIU'UT liru.vs. •2f)0 bcr one lialf-stanza whicli was music to my boy- ish ear — " For thouRh in dreadful whirls we liung High cm the broken \vave— " I met with these pieces in Mason's l^iglish Col- lection, one of my school-l)ooks. '1 he hist two books 1 ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were The Life of llaniul)al, and The His- tory of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal j;ave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in 2-aptur(>s up and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal rest. Polemical divinity about this time was ^nitting the country half mad, and I, ambitious of shin- ing in conversation parties on Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years after- wards to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which has not ceased to this hour. My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social disposition, when not checked by some modifications of spirited pride, was like our catechism definition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed several connexions with other younkers, who possessed superior ad- vantages ; the youngling actors who were busy in the rehearsal of parts, in wliich they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at this green age, that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense distance between them and their ragged plaj'fellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to give the yOung great man that projier, decent, iinnoticing disregard for the poor, insig- nificant stupid devils, the mechanics and pea- santry around liim, who were, perhaps, born in the same village. My young superiors never insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough- boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes of books ; among them, even then, I could pick up some observations, and one, whose heart, I am sure, not even the " Munny Begum" scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went ofi" for the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My father's generous master died ! the farm proved a i-uinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of " The Twa Dogs." ]\Iy father was advanced in life when he married ; I was tiie eldest of seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for labour, ily father's sph'it was .soon irritated, but not easily brcjkcii. There was a freedom in his lease in two j-ears more, and to weather these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous i)lougliii!an for my age; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), wlio could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrasli the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears. This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first committed the sin of rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity 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 book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &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 heai't-strings thrill like an jEolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat sucli a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her fa- vourite reel to which I attempted giving an em- bodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumj)- 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 wliich 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 love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the mooi'lands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest en- joyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, aliout ten miles faitlu r in the coun- try. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commencement of his lease, other- wise the affair would have been impracticable. 3 Y GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE For four years we lived comfortably here, but a diflference commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horroi's of a jail, by a consumption, wliich, after two years' pi'omises, 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 tlie beginning of tliis period, perhaps, the most ungainh' 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 Gutlirie'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 Englisli Songs, and llervey'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 by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. 1 am 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- pation whicli marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively ^vith the strict- ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for tiiough the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my patli, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several j-ears afterwards within the line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they Avere the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on mo perpetual labour. The only two openings by wliich I could enter the temple of fortune were the gate of niggardly economy, or the i)ath of little chicaining bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture I never could squeeze myself into it — the last I always hated — there was contamination in tiie veiy entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride of observation and re- mark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochon- driasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudi- ments of good sense ; and it will not seem sur- prising that I was generally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great wonder that always, where two or three met together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was un penchant a I'adorable moitic du genre humain. My heart was completely tin- der, and was eternally lighted up by some god- dess or other; and, as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various ; sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the Avay after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that recommended me as a pro})er second on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half tlie loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as over did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. The very goose-fea- ther in my hand seems to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; and is with difHculty re- strained from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love-adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage; but the grave sons of science, anil)ition, or ava- rice baptize these things by the name of follies. I'o the sons and daughters of laboui- and poverty they arc matters of the most serious nature : to them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, aie the greatest and most deli- cious parts of their enjo^ineuts. Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smug- gling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn mensuiation, survey- ing, dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good progi-ess. But I made a greater pro- gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very suc- cessful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation Avere, till this time, new to me; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I Avent on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillctte, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonome- try, and set me off at a tangent from the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled on with OF UOBEU'I liLKNS. Q{)7 my sines and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into tiie f,r:irden one charming noon to take tiie sun's altitude, there I met ray angel, " Like Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower " ' It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was enlarged with the very import- ant addition of Tiiomson's and Shenstone's works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several of my schoolfel- lows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This improved me in composition, I had met with a collection of letteis 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 ev-ery 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 till my twenty-third year. Vive f amour, et vive la bagatelle, were ray sole princijiles of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie — Tristram Shandy and the Man of Feeling were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a dai-ling walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except "Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my printed pieces ; "The Death of poor Maillie," " John Barleycorn," and songs first, second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that passion which ended the forementioned school- business. My twenty-third year was to me an important aera. Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax-dressor in a neighbouring town (Irvine), to loarn his trade. This was an un- lucky affliir. My * ♦ * and to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, Paradise Lost, b iv. and I was left, like a true poet, not ivortli a six- pence. I was obliged to give up this scheme; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I adored, and who had pledged her sotd to meet me in tiie field of mati-imony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this in- fernal 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 ! From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the principal thing which gavi; my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed witii a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune, lie was the son of a simple mechanic; but a great man in the neigh- bourhood taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of better- ing his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea; where, after a variety of good and ill-fortune, a little before I was acquainted with Iiim he had been set on shore by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story without add- ing, that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. His mind was fraught -with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some mea- sure I succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His know- ledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw who was a gi-eater fool than myself wdiere woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- ror. Here his friendship did me a 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 by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my %vildly-sounding lyre with emu- lating vigour. Wlien my father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that growl in the kennel of justice; but we made a shift to collect a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted 1 " Roh the Hhvmer's VVelcoirv to his Uastard Child.' XXXIU- 208 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE my liair-biained imagination, as well as my so- cial and amorous madness ; but in good sense, and every sober quidification, he was far my su- perior. I entered on this farm with a full resolution, " come, go to, I will be wise !" I read farming books, I eak-ulated crops ; I attended markets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the iiesh, 1 1)elieve I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost lialf our crojjs. This overset all my wis- dom, and I returned, "like the dog to his vomit, and the sow tliat was washed, to her wallowing in tlie mire." I now began to be known in the neighbourhood a-s a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a bui'lescpie la- mentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personcB in iny " Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but, to prevent the worst, IgaveAcopyof it to a friend, who was very fond of such things, and told him tliat I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain de- scription of the clergy, as well as laity, it met witii a roar of applause. " Holy Willie's Prayer," next made its ap2)earance, and alarmed the Ivirk- session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story tltat gave rise to my printed poem, "The La- ment." This was a most meLineholy affair, wiiich I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the i)rincii)al qualifications for a place among those who have lost tlie chart, and mistaken tiie reckoning of ra- tionality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it Avas only nonunally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publisli my poems. I weighed my productions as impar- tially as was in my power ; I thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I siiould be called a clever fellow, even thougli it should never reach my ears — a poor uegro-di-iver — or perha^js a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu as I then Mas, I had pretty nearly a.s higli an idea of myself and of my works as I. have at this moment, when tlu; j)iiblic has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- rance of themselves. — To know myself had been all along my constant study. 1 weighed my- self alone; I balanced myself w itii others; I watched every means of information, to see how much ground 1 occupied as a man and as a poet; I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where the lights and shades in my cliaracter were intended. I was pretty confi- dent my poems would meet with some applause; but, at tlie worst, the roar of the Atlantic Mould deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I thrcM- off six Inmdred copies, of mIhcIi 1 had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. — I\Iy vanity Mas highly gratified by the recep- tion I met M'ith from the jjuldic ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, neaidy tMcnty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I M-as thinking of indenting myself, for M-ant of money to procure my passage. As soon as I M-as master of nine guineas, the price of M-afting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for " Hungry min had me in the wind." I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all tiie terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farcM-ell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I sliould ever measure in Caledonia — " The gloomy night is gatliering fast," Avhen a letter from Dr. Ijlacklock to a friend of mine, overtlii-ew all my schemes, by opening new lirospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor belonged to a set of critics for M'hose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion, that I Avould meet M'itli encouragement in Edinbui-gh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single ac- quaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star tluit luul so long shed its blast- ing influence in my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed me under tin; patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oublie moi, (/rand Dieu, si jamais je I' oublie ! I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I M'as all attention to " catch" the characters and " the manners living as they rise." Whether I have profited, time will show. « » * « My most respectful compliments to Miss Wil- liams, ller very elegant and friendly letter I cannot ansM'er at present, as my presence is re- quisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. KB. OF ROBEin BUIINS. 2GD LXXV. BEUUYWELL DUNSE. This cliarai'tcristic U'ttcr was first imlilislicil by Sir Harris Nico- as; others, still more characteristic, ailcircssed tn the same gentle- man, arc abrtMid : how they escaped from priiatc kcepinu is a son of riddle.] Edinburgh 23r(i August, \'li)T. " As I gaed up to Dnnse To warp a pickle yarn, Robin, silly body, He gat me wi' bairn." From henceforth, my dear Sir, I am deter- mined to set off with my letters like the period- ical writers, viz. prefix a kind of text, quoted from some classic of undoubted authority, such as the author of the immortal piece, of which my text is a part. What I liave to say on my text is exliausted in a letter which I wrote you the other day, before I had the pleasure of re- ceiving yours from Inverkeithiug ; 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 g.abbling 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 generatione. To morrow Heave Edinburgh in a chaise ; Nicol thinks it more comfortable than horse-back, to which I say. Amen ; so Jenny Geddes goes home to Ayrshire, to use a i)hrase of my mother's, wi' her finger in her moutli. Now for 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. If this does not please you, let me hear from you; if you write any time before tlie 1st of September, direct to Inverness, to be left at the post-office till called for ; the next Aveek at Aberdeen, the next at Edinburgh. Tlie sheet is done, and I shall just conclude witli assuring you that I am, and ever with pride shall be, My dear Sir, &c. 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- pliel, &c. look your Bible for these two heroes, if you do this, 1 will repay the compliment. LXXVI. Zo ^iXt. Ivobcrt iHutr. [No Scotsman will ever read, without emotion, the po.t's words in this letter, and in "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace blet on a shred of paper in the book : but though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just satisfied witli 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- rago, are just a Mauchline * * * * a sense- less rabble. I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable author of " Tullochgo- ruin," " John of Badenyon," &c. I suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you a copy of it. I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. — Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me credit for a little wisdom. " I Wisdom dwell with Prudence." Wliat a blessed fire-side ! How happy should I be to pass a winter evening irader 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- bered in the old way to you. I used all my elo- quence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to Harvieston, but all in vain. ^ly 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 mo- 1 Of the Scots Musical Museum. 272 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE tions, and — wish thcni good niglit. I moan this with respect to a certain passion dunt fat cu Viwn- neur dCtre un miserable esclave : as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, per- manent pleasure, " which the world canuot give, nor take away'' I hope; and which will outlast the heavens and the earth. R. B. LXXXI. Zo 0ib^ ittargarct CTftalmcr^. [That fine song, "The Hanks of the Devon," dedicated to the charais of Charlotte Hamilton, was enclosed in the following leltei.] Without date. I HAVE 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 exceed- ingly prudent, sober man (qualities which arc only a younger brother's fortune in our family), I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to return into partnership with him, and at onr leisure take another farm in the neighbour- hood. I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on this very sage instance of my imfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, to the best of my power, paid her a poetic com- pliment, now completed. The air is admirable: true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which an Inverness lady sung me when I 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 ain fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; so Charlotte and you need not spend your pre- cious time in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very well ; and, what is not always the case with compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but just. R. B. LXXXII. GORDON CASTLE. [James Hoy, librarian of Gordon Castle, was, it is said, the gen- tleman whom his grace of Gordon sent with a mcs^atrc inviting in vain that " obstinate son of Latin proic,' Nicol, to stop and enjoy liimself.] Sin, Edinburgh, 20lh October, 17fi7. I WILL defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of Christian juiuciples — " 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 — tore me away from Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be curst to Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league 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 mention, claim a parental pang from my bard- ship. I suppose 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 to me. You may be sure we won't pre- fix the author's name, except you like, though I look on it as no small merit to this work that the names of many of the authors of our old Scotch songs, names almost 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 nie 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, &c. The price to subscribers 5s. ; to non-subscribers 6s. He will have three numbers I conjecture. My direction for two or three weeks will beat ]\Ir. William Cruikshank's, St. James's-square, New-town, Edinburgli. I am, Sir, Your's to command, R. B. LXXXIIT. 'Co Ivcb. %oi)n ^feinncr. [The songs of " Tullochgonim," and "John of Badenyon," 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 Abcnieen.] Ediiiburyh, October 25, 1787. Reverend and Venerable Sir, Accept, in plain dull j)rose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever OF ROBERT RrRNS. 273 received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you have conjured up anairy douion of vanity in my fancy, wliidi tlio best abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to hiy. I rc^. 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 strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the exjn'ession 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 oceans 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 deci- dedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50tli is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, " That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expres- sive. Verse 4Cth, I am afraid, is rather un- worthy of the rest ; " to dare to feel" is an idea that I do not altogether like. Tlie contrast of valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 50th, is admirable. Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused in tlie apostrophe of Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the con- nexion seems ungrammatical : — 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 it in prose. Powers, — their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53rd, " For this," is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and 62nd : but let us tiy how the thread of connex- ion runs, — " For this . . The deeds of mercy, tliat embrace A distant spberc, an alien race, Shall \nrtue's lips record and clum The fairest honours of tliy nauie.' I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, but this appears to nie the only imperfect pas- sa"-e in the poem. The comparison of the sun- beam is fine. The compliment of the Duke of Richmond is 4 B 278 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. The thought, Sends from her unsullied source, The gems of thought tlieir purest force," is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that the " blest decree" is like the beams of morniug 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 quit her narrow maze." We are said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful : — " They, whom wasted blessings tire." Vei"se 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors ; "to load a span" is, I am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, " Cast the universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142nd is a striking description of the MTongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, " The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong expression. The address to the advo- cates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 143rd to verse 208tli is animated with the true life of genius. The picture of oppression, — " While she links her impious chain, A nd calculates the price of pain ; Weighs agony in sordid scales. And marks if death or life prevMls," — is nobly executed. What a tender idea is in verse 108th ! Indeed, that whole descrijjtion of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, somewhere in the beginning of his Autumn. I do not remem- ber to have seen a stronger expression of mis- ery than is contained in these verses : — " Condemned, severe extreme, to live When all is fled that life can give." The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is eqiially original and striking. The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal trafiic is a well done though a hor- rid picture. I am not sure how far introducing the sailor was right ; for though the sailor's common characteristic is generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned witness, but, in some degree, an efiScient agent in the business. Verse 224th is a nervous .... expressive — " The heart convulsive anguish breaks." The description of the captive Avrctch when he arrives in the West Indies, is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the op- pressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine, is lilce the butcher's regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly fine. I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid lest I have nothing ex- cept the cant of it ; and instead of elucidating my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not pretend to go through the wliole poem. Some few remaining beautiful linos, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest description of selfishness I ever saw. The comparison of verses 285th and 286th is new and fine ; and the line, " Your arms to penury you lend," is excellent. In verse 317tli, " like" should certainly be " as" or " so ;" for instance — " His sway the liardened bosom leads To cruelty's remorseless deeds ; As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs With fury on its livid mngs, Darts on the goal with rapid force. Nor liecds that ruin marks its course." If you insert the word " like" where I have placed " as," you must alter " darts" to dart- ing," and " heeds" to " heeding," in order to make it grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not remember anything even in Tliomson's Winter superior to your verses from the 347th to the 351st. In- deed, the last simile, beginning with " Fancy may dress," &c., and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- sage in the poem ; it Avould do honour to the greatest names that ever graced our profession. I Avill not beg your pardon. Madam, for these strictures, as my conscience tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the duties of a Chi-istian, in doing as I would be done by. KB. xcv. ^0 iHr. i\tcl)art) 313rofon, [ Richard BroMTi was the" liapless son of misfortune," iilluded to by Burns in his biographical letter to Dr. Moore: by fortitude and pru- dence he retrieved his fortunes, and lived mucli respected in Greenock, to a good old age. He said Hums had little to learn in matters of levity, when he became acquainted with him.] Edinburgh, 30th Dec. 1787. My dear Sin, I HAVE met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure than Fortune's kindness to you since those days in which we met in the vale of misery ; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who more ti-uly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiments for steel- ing my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty decent share. My will-o'wisp fate you know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent together in Eglinton woods ! You told me, on my repeating some verses to you, that you won- derod I could resist the temptation of sending or ROBERT BURNS. 279 verses of such merit to a maf^azino. It was from this rcmarlc I derived that idea of my own pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or three niontlis at homo. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; " and faith, I liope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet cast out !" I have much to tell you " of men, their man- ners, and their ways," perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to ]\Irs. Brown. There I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered but not a different man ; the wild, bold, generous young fellow composed into the steady affection- ate husband, and the fond careful parent. For me I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade-wind of wisdom ; hut about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty love still reigns and revels in my bosom ; and I am at this mo- ment ready to hang myself for a young Edin- burgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicihan banditti, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely re- moved into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command in case of spring- tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by the following verses, which she sent me the other day : — Talk not of love, it gives me pain, For love has been my foe ; He bound me with an iron chain. And plunged me deep in woe I But friendship's pure and lasting joys, My heart was formed to prove, — ■ There, welcome win and wear the prize. But never talk of love I Your friendship much can make me blest — O why that bliss destroy ? Why urge the odious one request. You know I must deny ?"l My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu ! R. B. » See song: 186, in Johnson's Musical Musenm. Burns altered the tVfo last lines, and added a stanza: Why urge the only one request You know I will deny ! Your thought if love must harbour rhcre. Conceal it in that thought; Nor cause me from my l)nsom tear The very friend I sought. XCVI, €o ffiabin ?l?amiUon. TThe Ilamiltons of the West continue to li>ve the memory of Rums : the old ann-cliair in whicli the bard sat, when he visited Nanse Tinnocks, was lately presented to the mason lodge of Mauch- linc, by Dr. Hamilton, the "wee curly Johnnie" of the Dedica- tion.] ^Edinburgh, Dec. 1787-] My dear. Sir, It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congi-atulate you on the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in whicli I saw you suffering existence when last in Ayrshire ; I seldom pray for any body, " I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill o't ;'' but most fei'vently do I beseech the Power that directs the world, that you may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of your health. I know you will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint of Avine, (I mean an English pint,) and that you will never be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold drams you will never more taste ; and, above all things, I am convinced, that after drinking perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of charity, humanity, gene- rosity and forgiveness of things, which you prac- tised so flagrantly that it was evident you de- lighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps pro- fanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith without works, the only anchor of sal- vation. A hymn of thanksgiAang would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for your well-being, J. earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunt-i ing over the two inclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours in the L — d, R. B. XCVII. ^0 1^100 &f)a\mtt^. [The blank which takes the place of the name of the " Gentleman in mind and manners," of this letter, cannot now be filled up, nor is it much matter, the acquaintance of such a man as tlie poet de- scribes few or none would desire.] Edinburgh, Dec. 1787- My- dear SlADAr-i, I JUST now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you out to the world at large ; and the 280 GKNERAL CORRESPONDENCE circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. Per- sonal attractions, madam, you have much ahovc par ; wit, understanding, and worth, you pos- sess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the ■world a little. I know what they will say of my poems ; by second sight I suppose ; for I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you may believe me, my dear madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged com- pliment. I wish to show to the world, the odds between a poet's friends and those of simple prosemen. !More for your information, both the pieces go in. One of them, " Where braving angry winter's storms," is already set — the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for vl6erca?-«y; the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music ; the name is "Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith." My treacherous memory has forgot every circum- stance about Les Incas, only I think you men- tioned them as being in Creech's possession. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of " Somebody" will come too late — as I shall, for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my direction in town, so any thing, wherever I am, will reach me. I saw your's to ; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, lilte a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christmas days. Mr. has given him the in-vitation, and he is determined to accept of it. O selfishness ! he owns, in his sober mo- ments, that from his own volatility of inclina- tion, the circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition ; — tiie whole affair is chimerical — yet he will gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps ruinmg the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in his mind and man- ners — tant pis ! He is a volatile school-boy — the heir of a man's fortune who well knows the value of two times two ! Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before tliey should make the amiable, the lovely— — , tlie derided object of their purse-proud contempt ! I am doubly happy to liear of Mrs. 's recovery, because I really tliought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet await- ing her : " As I came in by Glenap, I met with an aged woman : She bad me cheer up my heart. For the best o' my days was comin'." This day will decide my affaii-s with Creech. Things are, like myself, not what they ought to be ; yet better than what tliey appear to be. " Heaven's sovereign saves all bcinprs but himself— That hideous sight — a naked human heart." Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. E. B. XCVITI. Zo iWvs. Bunlop. [The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, toahurt which he got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh.] Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. Aeter six weeks' confinement, I am begin- ning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me tmfit to read, write, or think. I have a hundred times wished tliat one could resign life as an officer resigns a com- mission : for I would not take in any poor, ig- norant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the cam- paign, a starving cadet : a little more conspicu- ously ■WTctched. I am ashamed of all this; for tliough I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh : and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. R.B. XCIX. Zo JKrg. Bunlop. [Tlic lenty mth which Bums sometimes spoke of tilings sacred, had been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs. Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but notofirreligion.J Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. Some things in your late letters hurt me : not that you say them, but that you mistake me. Reli- gion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my cliief dependence, but my dearest en- joyment. I have, indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever been " more fool than knave." A mathe- matician without religion is a lu'obable charac- ter ; an irreligious poet is a monster. R.B. OF ROBERT BURNS. 281 C ^0 t^e iXeb. %o\)n ^Uinncr. [When Burns undertook to supply Johnson mth songs for the Musical Museum, he laid all the baJds of Scotland under contritiu- tion, and Skinner among the number, of whose talents, as well as those of Ross, author of Helenore, he was a great admirer. | Edinburgh, I4lh February, 1788. Reverend and dear Sir, I HAVE been a cripple now neai- three months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been very much hurried beside, or else I would have wrote you sooner. I must beg your par- don for the epistle you sent me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the publication of the Magazine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you will forgive it. The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is published to-day. I send you a copy which I beg you will accept as a mark of the veneration I Iiave long had, and shall ever have, for your character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index ; as, I assure you, Sir, I have heard your " Tullochgonim," particu- larly among our west-country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly to the immortal author of " The Minstrel," who, indeed, never wrote anything superior to"Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother has promised me your verses to the Marquis of Himtley's reel, which certainly deserve a place in the colleetion. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- shank, of the High-school here, and said to be one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to make you his grateful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours, that I borrowed for him from your ac- quaintance and much respected friend in this place, the Heverend Dr. Webster. Air. Cruik- shank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to the tune of "Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you say was done by a brother by trade of mine, a ploughman, 1 shall thank you much for a copy of each. I am ever, Ileverend Sir, with the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, R.B. CI. f The letters of Burns to Brown, and Smith, and Richmond, and others of his west-country friends, written when he was in the first flush of fame, show that he did not forget humble men, who antici- pated the public in perceiving his merit.] Edinburgh, February 15, 1788. My dear Friend, I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if possible, you will meet me on Tues- day. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at Davies', Black Bull inn. I am hur- ried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauchline ; and name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fort- night from this date, whore I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, yours, R. B. CII. ®o i^rg. i^ogc, of Ittlratjocfe. [Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, a lady distinguished by the clesance of her manners, as well as by her talents, was long remembered by Bums : she procured for him snatches of old songs, and copies of northern melodies; to her we owe the preservation of some fine airs, as well as the inspiration of some fine lyrics.] Edinburgh, February ITth, 1788. Madam, You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for your obliging favour as would have tired your pati- ence. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness : it may be said of hearts such as youi-s is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more justly than Addison appUes it,- " Some souls by instinct to each other turn. There was something in my reception at Kil- ravock so different from the cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost got into my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I coidd transcribe, or rather transfuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My ready &ncy, with colours more meUow than life itself, painted the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock — the venerable grandeur of the castle — the spreading woods — the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with ap- parent delight as he passes the faiiy walk at the 4 c 282 GENERAL CORUESPONDENCE bottom of the garden ;— your late distressful anxieties — your present eujoymcuts — your dear little angel, the pride of your hopes ; — my aged friend, venerable in worth and years, whose. loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and his peculiar favour in a happier state of ex- istence. You cannot imagine, iladam, how much such feelings delight me; they are my dearest proofs of my own immortality. Sliould I never revisit the north, as probably I never will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, to see your little fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scot- tish songs, set to their proper tunes ; every air worth presei'\'ing is to be included : among others I have given " jNIorag," and some few Highland airs wliich pleased me most, a dress which -will be more generally known, though far, far inferior in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed ; the !Man of Feeling, that first of men, has promised to trans- mit it by the first opportunity. I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend, and to your little Highland chieftain. When you see the " two fair spirits of the hill," at Kildrummie,^ tell them that I have done myself the honour of setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty yeai'S to come, consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the same period ; but, as the Apostle Paul says, " this I ask of grace, not of debt." I have the honour to be. Madam, &c., R, R cm. [While Bums was coofincd to his lodgings by his maimed limb, he beguiled the time and cased the pain by composing the Clarinda epistles, writing songs for Johnson, and letters to his companions.] Mossffiel, 24th February, 1788. My DEAR Sir, I CANNOT get the proper direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the following will do : — To Mr. Jo. Hutcliinson, at Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Hcnriquez, merchant. Orange-street, Kingston. I airived here, at my brother's, only yesterday, after fighting my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world, and the flesli — so terrible in the fields of dissipa- tion. I have met with few incidents in my life > Miss Sophia Brodie, of L , and Miss ilose, of Kilrarock. which gave me so much pleasiire as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship, " youth ! enchanting stage, pro- fusely blest." Life is a fairy scene : almost all that deserves the name of cnjopnent or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in comes re- pining age in all the gi-avity of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the course of economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and inde- pendence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy with a few of the companions of youth, that they may be the friends of age ; never to refuse my liquor- ish humour a handful of the sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear ; and, for fu- turity, — " The present moment is our aim, The ncist we never saw !" 1 How like you my philosophy ? Give my best compliments to Mrs. B., and believe me to be. My dear Sir, Yours most truly, R. B. CIV. ^0 i^lt. 2i£tiniam ©ruiltsJ)anfe. [The excise and farming alternately occupied the poet's thoughts in Kdinburgh : he studied books of husbandry and took lessons in gauging, and in the latter he became expert.] Mauchline, March 3rd, 1788. JIy dear Sir, Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies for not singing — the apology better than the song. I have I'ought my way severely through the savage hospitality of this country, to scud every guest drunk to bed if they can. I execut(!d your commission in Glasgow, and I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the same price and the very same kind as your former parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buying tliere perfectly well. I sliould return my thanks for your hos- pitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor, wayfaring bard, who Avas spent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickednesses in high places; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter wiienever you come to the passage, so 1 pass over it in silence. I am just returned from visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told you I would take with me was highly pleased witli the farm ; and as he is, without excei^tion, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has staggered me a good deal. I have the two OF ROBERT BURNS. 283 plans of life before me ; I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most elij^ible. I have ^vrittcn Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of next week : I would be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise insti-uc- tions. I only mention these ideas to you ; and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writ- ing to to-morrow, I will not write at all to Edin- burgh till I return to it. I would send my compliments to IMr. Nicol, but he would be hurt if he know I wrote to anybody and not to him : so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest compliments to my worthy hostess and the sweet little rose-bud. So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an Excise-oificcr, or as a farmer, I pro- pose myself gi-eat pleasure from a regular cor- respondence with the only man almost I ever saw who joined the most attentive prudence Vi'ith the warmest generosity. I am much interested for that best of men, Mr. Wood ; I hope he is in better health and spirits than when I saw him last. I am ever, My dearest friend. Your obliged, humble servant, R. B. cv. [The sensible and intelligent fanner on whose judgment Burns dejiended in the choice of his farm, was Mr. Tait, of Glenconner.] Mauchline, 3rd March, 1788. My dear Friend, I AM just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. My old friend whom I took with me was highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me to ac- cept of it. He is the most intelligent sensible farmer in the county, and his advice has stag- gered me a good deal. I have the two plans before me : I shall endeavour to balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in the same favourable disposition as when I saw liim last, I shall in all probability turn farmer. I have been through sore tribulation and imder much buffetting of the wicked one since I came to this country. Jean I found banished, for- lorn, destitute and friendless : I have reconciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother. I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. My farming ideas I shall keep private till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter of udue but one. Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. Indeed she is the only person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul and body putting up ? — a little like man and wife, I suppose. R.B. CVI. [Ricliard Brown, It Is said, fell off in his liking for Burns when he found that he had made free with his name in his epistle to Moore.] Mauchline, "Jth March, 1788. I HAVE been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not had an opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will be gone out of the country too. I have been look- ing at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the routine : but you will say a " great effort is worthy of you." I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compli- ments I can think of. Men of grave, geometri- cal minds, the sons of " which was to be demon- strated," may cry up reason as much as they jjlease ; but I have always found an honest pas- sion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost al- ways comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to add his reproaches to his other grievances. I am gi-atified with your kind enquiries after Jean ; as, after all, I may say with Othello : — ' Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!" I go for Edinbm-gh on Monday. Yours,— R. B. CVII. [The change which Burns says in tliis letter took ])lac'ein Lisidea& refers, it is siiid, to liis West India voyage, on which, it appears by one ijf his letters to Smith, he meditated for some time after his debut in Edinburgh.] Mossgiel, Tth March, 1788. Dear Sir, I HAVE partly changed my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with mc to Mr. ^tiller's farm, and he was s« 284 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can live by it. In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. I set out on Monday, and woidd have come by Kilmarnock, but there are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galstou and NewTnills, and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my business and reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort at home, there was not any friendship or friendly correspon- dence that promised me more pleasure than yours; I hope I will not be disappointed. I trust the spring will renew your shattered fnune, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning eye, is, ' Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roU'd together, or had try'd his beams Athwart the gloom profound." l But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the valley, be it so ; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes, and wants : if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent destruc- tion of the man — away with old-wife prejudices and tales ! Every age and every nation has had a different set of stories ; and as the many are always weak, of consequence, they have often, perhaps always, been deceived : a man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow- creatures — even granting that he may have been the sport at times of passions and instincts — he goes to a great unknown Being, who could have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy, who gave him those pas- sions and instincts, and well knows their force. These, my worthy friend, are my ideas ; and I know they are not far different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for lumself, particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and where,indeed, all men are equally in the dark. Adieu, my dear Sir ; God send us a cheerful meeting ! R. B. 1 Blair's Grave. CVIII. ^0 0lvi. i3unIop. [One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch of C'oila from Bums' ixjem of tlie Vision: it is still in existence, and is said to have merit.] Mossgiel, ITlh March, 1788. Madam, The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least as Jlilton describes him ; and though I may be ras- cally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but you are sure of being respectable — you can afford to pass by an occasion to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many, and the esteem of all ; but, God help us, who are wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported ! I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the by, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem of Beat tie's in the Scottish dialect, which perhaps you have never seen) : — " Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, Ye've set aulJ Scota on her legs : Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs, Bural)az'd and dizzie, Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs. Wae's me, poor hizzie." R. B. CIX. [The uncouth cares of which the poet complains in this letter were the construction of a conunon farm-house, with barn, byre, and stable to suit.] Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the news when I tell you, I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I conii>letcd a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dal- swiuton, for the farm of Ellislaud, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a houBC, diivc lime, &c. ; and heaven be my help ! OF U015i:UT Hl'llNS. •286 for it will take a strong effort to brinfif my mind into the routine of businoss. I liave dischar{,'e(l all tlio army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures ; a motley host ! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have incorporated into a life- {^uard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, " Where much is attempted, something is done." Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a character I would wish to be thought to pos- sess : and have always despised the whining yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble re- solve. Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this winter, and begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is often made in vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure ; formed indeed for, and highly susceptible of enjoyment and rapture ; but that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevo- lence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. R. B. ex. tHo iiicJiatD l^rotuu. [The excitement rcferi c which, though humble enough, was the only one thai offered.] Edinburgh) Sunday. 'J'o-MonKOw, my dear madam, I leave Edin- buigli. I have altered all my plans of future OF ROEKRT BURNS. •287 life. A fann tliat. I could live in, I could not ■find; ami, indeed, after tlie necessary support my brotlier and the rest of the family required, I could not venture on fanning in that style stat- able to my feelings. You will condcnm me for the next step I have taken. I have entered into the Excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh, for six weeks' instructions ; afterwards, for I get employ in- stantly, I go oil il plait a Dieii, — et mon Rot. I liave chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not at what door of fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what doors does she open to us? I was not likely to got anything to do. I wanted un but, which is a dangerous, an unhajipy situation. I got this without any hanging on, or mortifying solicita- tion ; it is in^mediate bread, and though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life: besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends. R.B. CXVI. Zg iltrs. Uunlop. FThe Tasso, witli the perusal of which Mrs. Dunlop indulged the poet, was not the fine version of Fairfax, but the translation of Hoole — a far inferior performance.] Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. ]\Iadam, Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you they made my heart aclie with penitential pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Wliit-Suuday, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the ofter of the Excise business without solicitation, and as it costs me only six months' attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a commission — which commission lies by mo, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be resumed — I thought five-and-thirty-pounds a-year was no bad dernier ressort for a poor poet, if fortune in her jade tricks should kick him down irom the little eminence to which she has lately helped him up. For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have them completed be- fore Whit-suuday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, wliere the force of the winds and rains was only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In conse- quence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesda}', unable to stir out of bed, with all tlio miserable effects of a violent cold. You see. Madam, the truth of the French maxim, le vrai ti'est pas toujours le vrai-semhlahle ; your last was so full of expostulation, and was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspon- dence, which I had with grateful pleasure set down as one of the gi'eatest enjoyments of my future life. Your books have delighted me : Virgil, Dry- den, and Tasso were all equally strangers to me ; but of this more at largo in my next. R. B. CXVII. AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. [James Smith, as this letter intimates, had moved from Mauch- line, to try to mend his fortunes at Avon Printficld, near Linlithgow.J Mauchline, April 28, 1788. Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir ! Look on this as the opening of a correspon- dence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun battery ! There is no understanding a man properly, without knowing something of his previous ideas (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I know many who, in the animal-muster, pass for men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the greatest part of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, 1'25 — V5 — 1"75 or some such fractional matter ;) so to let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a cer- tain clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. " Bode a robe and wear it, Bode a pock and bear it," says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually are to their partners of our sex, in similar circum- stances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding- day : these twenty-four will give me twenty- four gossipings, twenty-four christenings (I mean one equal to two,) and I hope, by the blessing of the God of my fathers, to make them twenty-four dutiful children to their pa- rents, twenty-four useful members of society, and twenty-four approven servants of their God ! * * * " Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she was stealing shoej). You see Avhat a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, when you are idle enough to explore the combinations and 288 GENERAL COKRESroNDENCK relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as jilain as a pike-staflF, wliy'a twenty-four K"n 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 I 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-valued 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 vn-itc you till your eyes ache read- ing nonsense. Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) beers her best compliments to you. ^ R. B. CXVIII. ^0 ^rofcs^or JDugalD <§tctoart. [Dugald Stewart loved the poet, admired his works, and enriched thebiograpliyof Currie with some genuine reminiscences of his ear- lier days.] Sir, Mauchline,MMay, 17J58. I EKCLOSE you one or two more of my baga- telles. If the fers-ent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great unknown being who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and happiness will attend your visits to the continent, and return you saJfe to your native shore. Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as my privilege to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could say it with truth, that next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your counte- nance, your patronage, your friendly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my late suc- cess in life. RB. CXIX. ®o 0^xi,. i3unIop. [A poem, wimethinB after the fashion of the Georffics, was long present ^J the mind of Hums: had fortune been more friendly he mif;bt have in due time produced iu] Mauchline, 4th May, 1788. Madam, Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to mo by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a species of Mriting 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 ])ony, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- appointed in the yEneid. Faultless correctness may please, and does highly please, the; lettered critic: but to that awful character I have not the most distimt pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be printer of the Evening Courant : William Dunbar, an advocate, and presi- dent of a club of Edinburgh uits; and Alexander Cunningham, a ■eweller, who loved mirth and wine.J My dear lliLi., 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. In the uiean time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it happened to be a cold day in wliich he made his will, or- dered his servants great coats for mourning, so, because I liave been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-uiilk cheese. Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and all. It besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose ray 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 by the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner : the proud man's wine so offends my palate that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilised, feathered, pert coxcomb is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach turns. If ever you have any of these disagreeable sen- sations, let me prescribi; for you patience and a bit of my cheese. I know tliat you are no nig- gard of your good tilings among your friends, and some of them arc in much need of a slice. There, in my eye is our friend Smellie ; a man positively of tlic first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I liave ever met with ; when you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at the pinch of distressful circum- stances, aggi-avated by the sneer of contumelious greatness— a bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and sujjeradd a magnum of riglit Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish hke tlic morning mist before tlie summer sun. Candlish, the earliest fiiend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of tiic 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 a certain great town. I grant you the periods are very well turned ; so, a fresh q\;^ 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 irrepar- able loss of the Ggg. ]\Iy facetious friend Dunbar I would wisli also to be a partaker : not to digest his sjdeen, for that he laughs ofi\, but to digest his last night's wine at the last field-day of the Crochal- lan corps. ^ Among our common friends I must not forg(>t one of the dearest of them — Cunningham. Tlie brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can lielp him to anytliing that will make him a little easier on tiiat score, it will be very obliging. As to honest J S e, he is such a contented, happy man, that I know not wiiat can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- dotes which a certain poet gave liini 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 notliing to do with them pro- fessedly — the faculty are beyond my prescrip- tion. As to their clients, tliat is another thing ; God knows they have nuudi to digest ! The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of eru- dition, and their liberality of sentiment; their total want of pride, and their detestation of hy- pocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. I was going to mention a man of worth whom I have tiie honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord of the King's- Arms inn here, to have at the next county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the tabl(!,for the benefit of tlie Dumfries-shire Whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queens- berry's late ])olitical conduct. 1 have just this monumt an opportunity of a j)rivate hand to I'.dinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double postage. R. B. I I'rlnter nf the Eri'mburgh Ernninf; Courant. '■^ A club of choice spirits OF ROBERT BURNS. 293 CXXVUI. OF FINTRY. I'l'lic filial and fraternal claims alluded to in this letter were satia- fii'd with about three hundred pounds, two hundred of which (vent to his hrolher Gilbert— a sum which made a sad' inroad on the money arising from the second edition of his Poems.] Sir, When I had the honour of beinp; iiitroduciHl to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Sliakspeare, asked Old Kent why ho 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 supcrvisoi-, and to-day I gave in his certificate, witli a re- quest for aa order for instructions. In tiiis affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall l)ut 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 any thing like business, except manual labour, I am totally 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. 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 affiiir, 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. 'Zo agailliam 0ruiksl)anfe. fThc verses which this letter conveyed to (.'ruikshank were the lines written in Ki iars'-Carse Hermitage: " the first-fruits," says the poet, elsewhere, "of my intercourse with the Nithsdale Muse."J Ellislaud, Auffu.sl, 17Bfi. I UAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer all the particulars of your last kind letter. I shall b(* in Edinburgh on some business very soon ; and as J shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall discuss matters viva 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 circumstance you allude to, respecting Creech's oiDinion of Mr, Nicol ; but, as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle in the affiiir. It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the consequence of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-commis- sioned scoundrel, A . If, notwithstand- ing 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 wisli for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu R.R CXXX. Fo irlig. iSunlop. [The lines on the Hermitage were presented liy the poet t» several of his friends, and Mrs. Dunlop was among the number.] Mauchline, August 2, 1788. .Honoured Madam, Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny; but, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a dwell- ing-house ; as at present I am almost an evan- gelical 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 oi sanctum sancto- rum : and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, 4 F 294 GKXKRAI, CORRESPONDENCE at particular, sacred times, who dares enter into them : — " Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords Tliat nature finest strung." You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe yon a few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only fiivours the muses have conferred on me in that country : — Tliou whom chance may hither lead.* Since I am in the way of transcribing, the fol- lowing were the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of Now Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or something like tliem, in an epistle I am going to wi'ite to tlie gentle- man on whose friendship my Excise hopes de- pend, Mr. Graham, of Fintry, one of the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only of this countr}', but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts "unhousel'd, unanointed, iman- 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; AY, 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 ; Wlio feel by reason and who give by rule ; Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! Who make poor ivill do wait upon / should ; We own they're pnident, but who owns tliey're good ? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! lint come *«*«*• Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Antliony's writing me. I never roceivt'd it. J'oor fellow ! you vex mc much by telling nie that lie is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell. 11. B. Sec Poems I.XXXIX. and XC. CXXXI. ^0 i*tvg. 23unlop. [This letter liaa been often cited, and very priporly, as a proof of the strong attachment of Hums to one who was, in many respects, worthy.] Manchllne, Avyvst 10, 1788. My much HONouuEn Fiiiknd, You us of the 24th .Tune is before me. I found it, as well as anotlier valued friend — my wife, waiting to Avelcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sincerest i)leasure. When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down to answer every jjaragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, answer- ing a speech from the best of kings ! I exp ess myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, per- haps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason, that I do not read your letters. All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sen- timent of veneration. When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found herself " as women wish to be who love their lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me lier company and tlieir house, but, on my rumoured West Indian voyage, got a Avarrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky j-everse of for- tune. On my iclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her ; and, as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- burgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I Avrote to a friend to shelter her till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery were in my hands, and who could ti'ifle with such a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life ; but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance. Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c., without probably entail- ing on mo at the same time expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- ments, which Cpardonnez moi, Madame,) are sometimes to be found among females of tlio 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, cither respecting health, place, or comiiany, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain be look(,'d for in fancied circumstances aiul studied paragraphs. For me, I Iiave often thought of ayea ay j.mjeers frpm an Ori^nal Pamttug". :ra.s jg,iu:E.2!js AMI® uism (S-miv.: OF ROBERT BURNS. 295 keeping a letter, in progression by nio, to semi 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 l)Ost is on such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; and donlilu letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. R. B. CXXXTT. 'Zo 0it$. Uunlop. [Mrs. Miller of Dalswinton was a lady of beauty and talent : she MTOte verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay.] Elltsland, \Qth 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 Shenstouian: — " Why droops my heart with fancied wees forlorn i Why sinks my soul, beneath each %vintrysky?" My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children ; — I could indulge tliese reflections, till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sove- reign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr Miller's to dinner for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind : from the lady of the house quite flatter- ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. 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. Pardon me, ye my adored household gods, inde- pendence of spirit, and integrity of soul ! In the course of conversation, " Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, " Raring winds around her Mowing."' The air was much admired : the lady of tlie house asked me whose were the words. " Mine, Madam — tliey are indeed my -^'cry best verses ;" 1 SceSopg, LU. she took not the smallest notice of them ! The okl Scottish proverb says well, " king's caff is better than itlier folks' corn." I was going to make a New Testament quotation about " cast- ing pearls," but that would be too virulent, for the lady is actual ;y a woman of sense and taste. Aft(>r all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few, favoured by partial heaven, whose soids are tuned to jrlailness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neg- lected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called, " The Life and Age of Man ;"' beginning thus : " 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God and fifty-three, Frae Christ was bom, 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." It is 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 pliantom, 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 correspondence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? No : to find them in their precious importance and di^^ne efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear !Madam, you are now more than pleased with the length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week : and it quickens my pace to think that there will be a letter from you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my harvest. K.B. 296 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CXXXIII. Zo iWr »eugo, ENGRAVER, K D 1 N B U R G H. (Mr. Ileugo u-ns a well-known en^'ravcr in Eilinbuij?h : he cn- pruved NHsmylli's portrait of Burns, for Creech's first edition of his I'oems : and as he could dnw a little, he improved, as he called it, the en(rra\ in); from sittin^fs of the poet, and nude it a little more like, aud a little less puetic.J ElMand, 9th Sept. 1788. Mt dear Sir, There is not in Edinburgh above the number of tlie graces whose letters would have given mc so mucii pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which only reached me yesternight. I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest ; 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 are to be found in this country, in any de- gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only know in graces, prayers, &c., and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhino- ceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but good-natured huzzy of a muse — " Bybanksof Nith I sat and wept When Coila 1 thought on. In midst tliercof I hung my harp The willow-trccs upon." I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel. I will send you the " Fortunate Shepherd- ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, as I would not for any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a self- ish gratification of my own feelings whenever I think of you. If your bettor functions would give you lei- sure to write me, I should be extremely ha])py ; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a regular correspondence. I hate the idea of being obliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a quarter. I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works: 'twas a glorious idea. C'ould you conveniently do me one thing ? — whenever you finish any head I should like to have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long story about your fine genius ; but as what every body knows cannot have escaped you, I .shall not say one syllable about it. R.B. CXXXIV. EDINBURGH. [To this fine letter all the biographers of Bums, are laigely In- debted.] Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. Where are you ? and how are you ? and is Lady Mackenzie recovering her health ? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not think you have forgot me, Madam ; and for my part — " When thee, Jerusalem, 1 forget. Skill part from my right hand !" " My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea." I do not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its fel- lows — rolling through the crowd without bear- ing away any mark of impression, except where they hit in hostile collision. I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather ; and as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting your- selves much a Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feel- ings of my soul — I will not say more, but so much as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you — hearts the best, minds the noblest of human kind — unfortunate even in the shades of life — when I think I have met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight days than I can do with almost any body I meet with in eight years — when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this world again — I could sit down and cry like a child ! If ever you honoured me with a place . in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. I am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls ; and a late important step in my life has kindly taken me out of the way of tiiose ungrateful iniquities, which, liowever overlooked in fashionable licence, or varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of villanv. Sliortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married " my .loan." This was not in conse- quence of the attachment of romance, perhaps; but I had a long and nuieli-loved fellow-crea- ture's happiness, or misery in my determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a de- jiosit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and dis- gusted with the multiform curse of boarding- school afl'ectation : and I have got the hand- somest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the county. 01' UOHEUT liUltNS. 297 Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honntte homme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in licr life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and tiie Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together either on prose or verse. I must except also from this hist a cer- tain late pubhcation of Scot's poems, which she has perused very devoutly ; and all tlie ballads in the country, as she lias (O tlie partial lover ! you will cry) the finest " wood note wild" I ever lieard. I am the more particidar in this lady's character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in your best wislics. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house; for this hovel that I shelter in, wliile 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 eclat, and bind every day after my reapers. To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down in a losing bargain of a tami, to misery, I have taken my Excise in- structions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you, in common with the world, have for 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 siUy, 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 de- testation at every thing dishonest, and the same scorn at every thing unworthy — if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And if the bias, the instinctive bias, of their souls run the same way, why may they not be FRIENDS ? 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 con- tinues 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 it, when once I have heard from you. I have likewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works : how the superstruc- ture will come on, I leave to that great maker and marrer of projects— time. Johnson's col- lection of Scots songs is going on in the third volume ; and, of consequence, finds me a con- sumpt for a great deal of idle metro. One of the most tolerable things I have done in that way is two stanzas I made to an air, a musical gentleman of my acquaintance composed for the anniversary of his weddijig-day, Avhich happens on the seventh of November. Take it as fol- lows : — " The day returns — my bosom burns. The blissful day we twa did meet,' ' &c. * I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall make it another letter ; and then you may allow your patience a week's resjjite between the two. I have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty farewell. To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdames, for dragging you on to this second sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstu- died and uncori-ectible prose, I shall tran- scribe you some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have these eight or ten months, done very little that way. One day in a hermitage on the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows; sup- posing myself the sequestered, venerable inha- bitant of the lonely mansion. LINES WRITTEN IN FRIAR's-CARSE HERMITAGE. " Thou whom chance may hitlier lead, Be thou clad in russet weed."^ K.B. cxxxv. MAUCHLINE. fMorison, of Mauchline, made most of the poet's furniture, fof EUisland: 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. ■ EUisland, September 22, 1788. My dear Sir, Necessity obliges me to go into my new house even before it be plastered. I will inha- bit the one end until the other is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at far- thest be my time, beyond wliich 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 rescued you from 1 Songr LXIX. a Poems LXXX.IX. and XC 4 e 298 GENERAL CORRESPONDKNCE many evils i if ever yon liopo to find rest in fu- ture states of untried homg — get those matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in tlie beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mi-s. ^lorison. I am, After all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours, R.B. CXXXVI. ^0 i$lt0. Sunlop, OF DUKLOP. fRarns had no great respect for critics who found blemishes with- out pcrceJring bi'autics: he expresses his contempt for such in this letter.] Mauchline, 2Vh Sept. 1788. I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more than once ; but scarcely ever with more plea- sure than when I received yoiirs of the 12th instant. To make myself understood; I had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post wliich fa- voured me with yours brought me an answer from him. It was dated tlie very day he had received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or kind. Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, arc truly the work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, catei-pillar critic; nor are they the fair state- ment of cold imi)artiality, balancing with un- feeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's merits; they arc the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the beauties of the piece. I have just an-ived from Nithsdule, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- back this morning by three o'clock ; for between my wife and my fann is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in tlic 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 of age. " Fate gave the word — the arrow sped, And pierced my darling's heart." * You will not send me your poetic rambles, biit, you see, I am no niggard of mine. I am sure your impromptus give me double jjleasure; what falls from your pen can neither be uneu- tertaiuing in itself, nor indifferent to me. The one fault you found, is just ; but I can- not please myself in an emendation. What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent I You interested me much in your young couple. 1 Poem XCII. I would not take my folio paper for this epis- tle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded witli my dirty long journey that I was afraid to draM'l into the essence of dulness with any thing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out another rhyme of this morning's manufac- ture. I will pay the sapientipoent George most cheerfully, to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- shire. R.B. CXXXVII. ®o 0iv. iiJcter ?l?iU. ["The 'Address to Lochlomond,' which this letter criticises," says Currie in IHOO, "was written liy a gentleman, now one of the masters of tlie Ilish-school of Edinburgh, and the same who trans- latc page 6, "Great lake," too much vulga- OF IIOIJKUT DUKNS. 299 rized by every-day language for so subliniu a poem? " Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," is perhajis no emendation. Ilis enumeration of a comparison with other lalces 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 Ijillows beating in vain — the wooded isles — the digi-ession on the yew-tree — "Ben-lomond's lofty, cloud-en velop'd head," &c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject wliich has been often tried, yet our poet in his grand picture has interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, entirely original : — ' the gloom Deep seam'd %vith frequent streaks of moving fire." In his preface to the Storm, " the glens how dark between," is noble higldand landscape ! The " rain ploughing the red mould," too, is beautifully fancied. " Ben-lomond's lofty, path- less top," is a good expression ; and the sur- rounding view from it is tnily gi-eat : the " silver mist. Beneath the beaming sun," is well described ; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern muses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the vision bright,'' to entertain her " partial 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, &c. ; and the glorious description of the sports- man. This last is equal to any thing in the " Seasons." The idea of " the floating tribe distant seen, far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," the "hideous roar" of the "white cas- 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 tiring you with nonsense. I must, however, mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of the most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must like- wise notice that beautiful paragi'aph beginning, " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the last two para- graphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I should like to know who the author is ; but, whoever he be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment he has af- forded me. A friend of nunc desired me to commission for him two books, " Letters on the Religion essential to Man," a book you sent )ne before ; and "Tlio World unmasked, or tlie Philosopher the greatest Cheat." Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant ; I only wisli it had been in two vo- lumes. R. B. cxxxviir. ^0 tl)e CFHitor of " Z\jc ^tar." [The clergyman who preached the sermon which this letter cor;- demns, was a man eiiuaUy worthy and stern— a divine of Scot- land's elder day : he received " a harmonious call" to a smaller stipend than that of Dunscore — and accepted it. J Sir, November 8th, 1788. Notwithstanding the opprobious epithets ^vith 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 detesta- tion in which inhumanity to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that they are not natives of the human heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind, who is undone, 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 Good, for the consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To that auspicious event we owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, the ruling featm-es of whose administration have ever been mildness to the subject, and tenderness of his rights. Bred and educated in revolution principles, the principles of reason and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which made my heart revolt at the harsh abusive man- ner in wliich the reverend gentleman mentioned the House of Stewart, and which, I am afi-aid was too much the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils, Avithout 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 God for all his goodness 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, 300 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE auJ the sentiments of our days; Imt is tlioro no allowance to be made for the manners of the times? Were the royal contemporarios of the Stewarts more attentive to tlieir suhjects' rights ? Jlight not the epithets of " bloody and tyrannical" be, witli at least e House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors ? The simjtle state of tlie case, Sir, seems to be this: — At tliat period, the science of govern- ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- tween king and subject, was like other sciences and otiier knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and bar- barity. Tlie Stewarts only contended for prerogatives which tliey knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- ing ; but these prerogatives were inimical to the hajipiness of a nation and the rights of sub- jects. In this contest between pj-ince and people, the consequence of that light of science which had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of France, for exampl(>, was victorious over the strugglhig liberties of his people: with us, luckily the monarch failed, and his imwarrantable pre- tensionsfella sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Wliether it was owing to the wisdom of leading indiWduals, or to the justling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine; but likewise happily for lis, the kingly power was shifted into anotlusr branch of the ftimily, who, as they owed the throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim nothing inconsistent with tlie covenanted tei-ms which placed them there. The Stewarts have been condemned and laughed at for the folly and impracticability of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed, I bless God; but cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who docs not know that the abilities or defects of leaders and com- manders are often hidden until put to the touch- stone of exigency ; and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular ac- cidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt ns as heroes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are for or against us ? ISIan, 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 sensil)le and jealous of our i-ights and liberties, and animated, with such indignation against the very memory of those who would have subverted them — that a certain people under our national protection should comjilain, not against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our whole LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar oppression, and almost in the very same tenns, 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 tlio American Congi'ess, in 177'!) ^vill be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as the English Convention was in Ififtfi; and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, iis duly and sincerely as we do ours from the opjiressive measures of the wrong-head(>d House of Stewart. To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a tear for the many miseries incident to humanity, feel for a fiimily illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic jirecedent; and let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- man,) whoever looked with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his forefathers. R. B. CXXXIX. ^0 .piv0. IDunlo}), AT 51 O H E H A M MAINS. I'lTic licifer prescnlecl to the poet liy the DunloiK wa-s bought, Rt the siilc of KUisland stock, by Miller of Dalswinton, and lonKgiHZe nolfcr. OF ROBERT BURNS. 301 CXL. ^0 i*lr. 3iamcs 3)o!)nson, ENGRAVER. [James Jnhnson, though not an ungenerous man, meanly refused to gh'e a copy of the Musical Museum tn Hums, who (iesircd to he- Btow 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 biTt'htened by so much of his lyric verse.] Mauchline, November lb!h, 17^8. My dear Sir, I HAVE sent you two more songs. If you have got any tunes, or any thing to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will very 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 M'ill look on themselves as highly indebted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your name shall be immortal. I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every day new musical publica- tions advertised ; but what are they ? Gaudy, hunted buttei-flies of a day, and then vanish 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 aii', and I shall task my muse to celebrate her. R. B. CXLI. ^0 ©r. iSlacfelocb. [Blacklock, thoufili blind, was a cheerful and good man. " There was perhaps never one among all mankind," says Heron, "whom you might more truly have called an angel upon eai th."J Mauchline, November I5lh, 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 at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of matrimony, in .lune ; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a state of health and spirits to take notice of an idle packet. I have done many little things for Johnson, since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I liave finished one piece, in the way of Pope's "Moral Epistles;" but, from your silence, I have every thing to fear, so I have only sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well suit the tone of your present feelings. In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale; till then, my direction is at this place; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige mo were it but half a line, to let me know how you are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent to the fate of a man to whom I owe so much ? A man whom I not only esteem, but venerate. My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and JNIiss 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, comj^arcd with her heart; and — "Virtue's (for wisdom 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 hangs from the brow of the hill."] CXLIT. Ifo iJlrg. SBunlop. [The "Auld lang syne,' which Burns here introduces to Mrs. Dunlop as a strain of the olden time, is as surely his own as Tam-o- Shanter.] Ellisland, l^th December, 1788. My dear honoured Friend, Yours, dated Edinbui-gh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. " Almost blind and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of human nature; but when told of a much-loved and honoured friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a tie which has gradually entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscal- culate matters widely, when you forbid my wait- ing on you, lest it should hurt my worldly con- cerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand considerations for which I live : if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions of my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I should not have been plagued 4 H 30-2 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and jiicking up grubs; not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. If you con- tinue 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 to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I will make my threatenings good. 1 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 offspring 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, " Aukl lang syne," exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You know 1 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 !" ' 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 modem English Bacchanalians ! Now I am on my hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting tMo other old stanzas, which please me mightily : — R. 13. • Go fetch to me a pint of wine." 2 CXLIII. [The Laird of Glcnriddcl informed " the charming, lovely Davies"that Bums was composing a song in her praise: the jioet close. Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, Your form shall be the ima«e of your mind ; Your manners shall so true your soul express. That all shall long to know the worth they guess: Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love. And even sick'ning envy must approve." R. B. tory CLTT. Zo tije iXeb. l^eUx ©avfiac. [Mylne wasa worthy and a modest man : he died of an inflamma- iry fever in the prime of life.] 1789. Rev. Sir, I DO not recollect that I have ever felt a se- verer pang of shame, than on looking at the date of your obliging letter which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poem. I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylno has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, of its being the last production of his muse, de- served a better return. I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the poem to some periodical publication ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid, that in the pre- sent case, it would be an improper step. My success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish poems, have so dunned, and daily do dun the public, that the very name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c. be at all prudent, in my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a man of genius, are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever; and IMr. JNIylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, which fate has denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour of ranking myself,) always keep in eye his respectability as a man and as a poet, and take no measure that, before the w^orld knows any thing about him, would risk his name and character being classed with the fools of the times. I have, Sir, some experience of publishing ; and the way in which I would proceed with Mr. Mylne's poem, is tliis : — I Avill publish in two or three English and Scottish pubHc papers, any one of his English poems which should, by pri- vate judges, be thought the most excellent, and mention it, at the same time, as one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, of respectablo character, lately deceased, whose poems hij 308 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by sub- scription, for the sake of his numerous family : — not in pity to tliat family, but in justice to wliat his friends think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most effectual manner, to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. CLIII. [Ed\rard Niclson, whom Hums here introduces to Dr. Moore, was minister of Kirkbean, on the Solway-side : he was a jovial man, and loved good cheer, and merrj' company.] Ellisland, 23rd March, l^iii). Sm, The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr. Nielsen, a worthy clergjTiian in my neigh- bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- compense him for it in a way in which he much needs your assistance, and wliere you can effec- tually serve him : — Mr. Nielsen is on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, on some little business of a good deal of imijortance to him, and he wishes for your instructions re- specting the most eligible mode of travelling, &c. for him, when he has crossed the channel. I should not have dared to take this liberty with j-ou, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a letter of recom- mendation to you, and that to have it in your power to serve such a character, gives you much pleasure. The inclosed ode is a compliment to the me- mory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchcncniive. You, probably, knew her personally, an lionour of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neighbourhood, and among her ser- vants and tenants. I know tliat she was de- tested with the most heartfelt coi-diality. How- ever, in the particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's in Sanquhar, tlie only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse and 1 were both much fa- tigued with the labours of the day, and just as my friend the Bailie and 1 were bidding defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced to biave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite liorse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles fixther on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powere of poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at new Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the in- closed ode, I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech; and I must own, that, at last, he has been amicable and fiiir with me. R.B. CLTV. ^0 iWr. SitilHam 33uins. [Williain Bums was the youngest brother of the poet: he was bred a sadlcr; went to Longtown, and finally to London, where he died early.] Isle, March 25, 1789. I HAVE stolen from my corn-sowing this minute to write a line to accomjiany your shirt and hat, for I can no more. Your sister IMaria arrived yesternight, and begs to be remembercnl to you. Write me every opportunity, never mind post- age. My head, too, is as addle as an egg, this morning, with dining aln-oad yesterday. I re- ceived yours by the mason. Forgive me this foolish-looking scrawl of an epistle. I am ever, My dear William, Y'^ours, R.B. P.S. If you are not then gone from Longtown, I'll -write you a long letter, by this day se' en- night. If you shoidd not succeed in your tramps, don't be dejected, or take any rash steji — return to us in that case, and we will court fortune's better humour. Remember this I charge you. R.B. CLV. (The Monkland Rook Club existed only wliile Kobert Riddel, of the Friar's C'arse, lived, or Hums had leisure to attend: suih in- stitutions, when well conducted, are very lienelicial, when not op- pressed by divinity and verse, as they sometimes are.) Ellisland, 2nd April, 178!). I WILL make no excuse, my dear liibliopolus, (God forgive me for murdering language !) that I have sat down to write you on this vile paper. It is «x;onomy, Sir; it is that cardinal \-irtuc, lirudence: so I beg you will sit down, and cither OF ROBERT BURNS. 309 compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are going to borrow, apply to * * * * to compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of my most esteemed friends on this wretched ])aper, which was originally intended for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-cel- lar. Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through those thickets, hith- erto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary feet : — not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging be- tween heaven and hell ; but those gUttering cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all pow- ful deity. Wealth, holds his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of paradise ! — Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored presence ! — The power, splen- did and potent as he now is, was once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to rejjulse me as a stran- ger, or an alien, but to favour me with his pe- culiar countenance and protection ? — He daily bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserv- ing and the worthless — assure him, that I bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious cause of Lucre, I will do any thing, be any thing — but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! But to descend from heroics. 1 want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions, tlie cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first time you see him, ten shillings worth of any thing you have to sell and place it to my account. The library scheme that I mentioned to you, is already begun, under the direction of Captain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave his infant society a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that subject ; but, one of these days, I shall trouble you with a commission for " The Monkland Friendly Society" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Guthrie^s Geographical Gram- mar, with some religious pieces, will likely be our first order. When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At present, every guinea has a five guinea errand with, ^ly dear Sir, Your faithful, poor, but honest, friend, R. o. CLVI. ^0 i*lr0. SJunlop. f Some lines which extend but fail to finish the sketch contained in this letter, will be found elsewhere in this publication.] Ellidand 4th April, 1789. I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing and reading these give half the pleasure to you, that commimicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied, I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather inscribe to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines, I have just rough-sketched as fol- lows : SKETCH. How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- tion — I sing : If these mortals, the critics should bus- tle, I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory. At once may illustrate and honour my story. Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong. No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; With passion so potent, and fancies so bright. No man with the half of 'em ere went quite right ; A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. For using thy name offers fifty excuses. On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- nour of assuring you in person, how sincerely! am — KB. 4k 310 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CLVII. SADLER, CAaE OF MR. WRIGHT, CARRIER, LONGTOWN. f" Never to despair" was a favourite sayiag with Bums: and " firm resolve," he held, with Young, to be •■ the column of true nujesif in inan."J Isle, \bth April, 1789. My dear William, I A5I extremely sorry at the misfortune of your legs ; I beg you will never let any worldly concern interfere with the more serious mattei-, the safety of your life and limbs. I have not time in these hurried days to write you any thing other than a mere how d'ye letter. I will only repeat my favourite quotation : — " What proves the hero truly great Is never, never to despair." My house shall be your welcome home ; and as I know your prudence (would to God you had resolution equal to your prudence !) if anywhere at a distance from friends, you should need money, you know my direction by post. The enclosed is from Gilbert, brought by your sister Nanny. It was unluckily forgot. Yours to Gilbert goes by post. — I heard from them yesterday, they are all welL Adieu, R.B. CLVIII. drumlanrig. (Of this accomplished lady, Mrs. M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, and her (laughters, something has been said in the noti-son thcsongi: the poem alluded to was the song of" lionnic Jean."] Ellisland, 2nd May, 1789. Madam, I HAVE finished the piece which had thcliappy fortune to be honoured with your approbation ; and never did little miss with more sparkling pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial mamma, than I now send my poem to you and Jlr. M'Murdo if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine wliat thin-skinned animals — what sensitive plants j)oor poets are. How do we shrink into the embittered corner of self-abasement, when neglected or condemned by those to wliom we look up ! and bow do we, in erect inqiortance, add anotlit^r <-ul)it to our stature on being noticed and ai>[)lauded l)y those whom we honour and respect ! My late visit to Drumlanrig, has I can tell you. Madam, given nio a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my fan- cied elevation I regard my poetic self with no small degree of complacency. Surely with ail their sins, the rhpning tril)e are not ungrateful creatures. — I recollect your goodness to your humble guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to politeness of the gentleman, the kindness of a friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, M'ith warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude — it may be a mixed sensation. That strange, shifting, doubling ani- mal MAN is so generally, at best, but a nega- tive, often a worthless creature, that we cannot see real goodness and native worth without feel- ing the bosom glow with sympathetic approba- tion. With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the honour to be, Madam, Your obliged and grateful humble servant, R.B. CLIX. [Honest Jamie Thomson, who shot the hare because she browzed with her companions on liis father's " wheat-braird," had no idea he was pulling down such a burst of indignation on his head as this letter with the poem which it enclosed expresses.] Ellisland, 4th May, 1789. My dear Sir, Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I re- ceived two days ago ; I will not say I perused it with jileasure; that is the cold compliment of ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with delicious sa- tisfaction ; — in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by ex- press proviso in their postage laws, should frank. A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they should order it free ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, as an encourage- ment and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. 1 have just put the last hand to a little poem which I think will be something to your taste. One morning lately, as I was out pretty early in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, 1 heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crij)pling by me. You will guess my in- dignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, wlien all of them have ycnnig ones. Indeed there is something in that business of (k'slroying for our sport individuals in llie animal creation that do not injure us ma- terially, wliiiii J could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. OF ROBERT BURNS. 311 Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And bhistcd bo thy niurder-aiming oyo ! May never pity sooth tlioe with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure ghid thy cruel heart ! &c. &c. Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would not be an improve- ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- gether. Cruikshank is a glorious production of the author of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the Crochallau Fencibles are to me " Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart." I have a good mind to make verses on you all, to the tune of '* Three guid fellows ayont the glen." KB. CLX. ^0 iHr. ^amucl lUrofon. [Samuc] Brown was brother to the poet's mother : he seems to have been a joyous sort of person, who loved a jokej and understood double meanings.] Mossgiel,4th May, 1789. Dear Uncle, This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal yoke-fellow in your good old way ; I am impa- tient to know if the Ailsa fowling be com- menced for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and I hope you will be- speak them for me. It would be a vain attempt for me to enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged in since I saw you last, but this know, — I am engaged in a smuggling trade, and God knows if ever any poor man experienced better returns, two for one, but as freight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out a licence and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the borders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old Patriarchs, get men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters. Your obedient Nephew, R,B. CLI. ^0 JKicJbartJ 33roton. rniirns was much attached to Brown ; and one regrets that an in- considerate word should have estranged the hanglity sailor.] Mauchline, 2lst Mag, 1789. My dear Friend, I WAS in the country by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival, I could not resist the temp- tation of wishing you joy on your return, Avish- ing you would write to me before you sail again, wishing you would always set mo down as your bosom friend, wishing you long life and pros- perity, and that every good thing may attend you, wishing ]Mrs. Brown and your little ones as free of the evils of this world, as is consistent with humanity, wishing you and she were to make two at the ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favour me, wish- ing I had longer time to write to you at present; and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B., our little ones, and both families, and you and J, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial party to all eternity ! My direction is at EUisland, near Dumfries. Yours, II.B. CLXII. f James Hamilton, grocer, in Glasgow, interested himself early in the fortunes of the poet.] EUisland, 2Gth Mag, 1789. Dear Sir, I SEND you by John Glover, carrier, the account for ]\Ir TurnbuU, as I suppose you know his address, I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of sympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a tender string, and I know not how to touch it. It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown senti- ments on the subjects that would give great satisfaction to — a breast quite at case ; but as ONE observes, who was very seldom mistaken in the theoiy of life, " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not there- with." Among some distressful emergencies that I have experienced in life, I ever laid this down as my foundation of comfort — That he who has lived the life of an honest man, has by no means lived in vain I With every wish for your welfare and future success, I am, my dear Sir, Sincerely yours, R.B. CLXIII. [The poetic address to the " venomed stang" of the toothache, cms to liavecome into existence about this time.] seems Sir, EUisland, Wth May, 1789. I HAD intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 312 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE tions of an omnipotent toothache so engross all my inner man, as to put it out of my power oven to write nonsense. However, as in duty Lound, I approach my bookseller with an ofter- int,' in my hand — a few poetic clinches, and a souj^ : — To expect any other kind of offering from the Rhpning Tribe would be to know them much less than yon do. I do not pretend that there is much merit in these morceauj; but I have two reasons for sending them ; prima, they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with my present feelings, while fifty troops of infernal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along my jaw bones; and secondly, they are so short, that you cannot leave oif in the middle, and so hui-t my pride in the idea that you found any work of mine too heavy to get through. I have a request to beg of you, and I not only beg of you, but conjure you, by all your wishes and by all your hopes, that the muse w^ill spare the satiric wink in the moment of your foibles ; that she will warble the song of rapture round your hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed on your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude ! Grant my request as speedily as possible — send me by the very first fly or coach for this place three copies of the last edition of my poems, which place to my account. Now may the good things of prose, and the good things of verse, come among thy hands, imtil they be filled with the good things of this life, prayeth R. B. CLXIV. ^0 iWr. itf^ules, [The poet made the acquaintance of Mr. M'AuIcy, of Dumbarton, in one of his northern toure, — he was introduced by his friend Ken- nedy.] Ellisland, 4th June, 1 789. Deak Sin, Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate, at that gi-and, universal inquest of right and wrong, commonly called The Last Dag, yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch-vaga- bond, Satan, who I imderstand is to be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth, I mean in- gratitude. Tiiere is a certain pretty large quan- tum of kindness for which I remain, and from inability, I fear, must still remain, your debtor ; but tliough unable to repay the debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly remember the ob- ligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's language, " H:il(;, and weel, and living;" and that your cliarniing family arc well, and promising to be an aniiabiu and respectable addition to the company of per- form(>rs, whom the Great Manager of the Drama of ilan is bringing into action for the succeeding age. With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and etfoctively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the heaUli of my dairy; and at times saunti-ring by the delightful windings of the Is'itli, on the mar- gin of which I have built my humble domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or holding an intrigue with the muses ; the only gypsies with whom I have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust my face is turned completely Zion-ward ; and as it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licences of former days will of course fall under the oblivious influence of some good-natured statute of ct.'lestial prescription. In my family devotion, which, like a good Presbyterian, I oc- casionally give to my household folks, I am ex- tremely fond of that psalm, " Let not the errors of my youth," &c., and that other, " Lo, children arc God's heritage," &c., in which last Mrs. Burns, who by the bye has a glorious " wood- note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Uaudel's Messiah. R. B. CLXV. ^0 i$lr. i^obert ^msUe. (The following high-minded letter may be regarded as a sermon on domestic morality preaclied by one of the experienced.] Ellisland, Sth June, 1789. oMy ukar Fuiend, I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your last. It is not that I forget the fi-iend of my heart and the companion of my peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond sutterance, though not, thank God, beyond redcmi)tion. I have had a collec- tion of poems by a lady put into my hands to prejjare them for the press ; wiiich liorrid task, with sowing corn with my own hand, ajmreel of masons, wrights, plasterers, inc., to attend to, roaming on business through Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very first dreadful ar- ticle was of itself too much for me. 13th. I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the 8th. J.,ifo, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know by experience that a man's individual self is a good deal, but believe me, a wife and family of children, when- ever yon have the honour to be a husband and a father^ will show you that your present and most anxious hours of solitude are spent on OF HuHKUr BURNS. 31:1 trifles. The wt-lfare of those who are very dear to us, whoso oiily sii[)port, hope, and stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is another sort of more important object of care than any concerns w hatever which centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, let no young, unmari'i(?d, jakehelly dog amon same degree of excel- I'.'iKe : but if tliere was a man who had abilities erpial to the task, that man's assistance the pro- prietors have lost. When I received your letter I was transcrib- ing for * * * *j my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgli, begging their per- mission to jilace a tomb-stone over poor Fergus- son, and tlieir edict in consequence of my peti- tion, but now I shall send them to * * * * * *. Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the grave, which 1 trust there is ; and if there be a good (Jod presiding over all nature, which I aon sure tliere is; thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, where wortli of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; Avhere i-iches, deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to tlieir native sordid matter ; where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream ; and where that heavy virtue, wliich is the negative consecpience of steady dul- iiess, and tliose tiioughtless, though often de- structive follies which are tlu; unavoidable aber- rations of frail human nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had never been ! Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your present views and schemes are concentered in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you ; as your welfare and happiness is by no means a subject indif- ferent to Yours, 11. I?. CLXIX. ^0 0l\^% 22HininiW3, [ Helen Maria W'illimas acknowledged this letter, with the critical pencillings on her poem on the Sla\e Trade, which it enclosed: slie agreed, she said, with all his objections, save one, but c\insidered his praise too high.] Ellisland, 17^0. BIadam, Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most <'xtraordinary, that he shall go on from day to day, from week to week, froni month to month, or p('rliaj)S from year to year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from tlu; impotent con- sciousness of negle(;ting what he ought to do, than the very doing of it would cost him. I am deeply indebted to you, first for a most elegant jioetic compliment ; then for a polite, obliging letter; and, lastly, for your excellent poem on the Slave 'J'rade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! thoiigli the dt;bts W(!re debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, I have j)ut off'aiid j)ut off" even the very ackiiowleilgmeiit of the obligation, until you must indeed be the very angel I take you for, if you can forgive nie. OF ROBERT HL'RNS. 315 Your poem I have read with the highest plea- sure. I have a way whenever I read a book, I moan a book in our own trade, Madam, a ])oetic one, and when it is my own property, that I take a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper, little criticisms of approbation or disappi'obation as I peruse along. I will make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected thouglits that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I take to be truths, even when they are not quite on the side of approbabation ; and I do it in the firm faith tliat you have equal greatness of mind to hear them with plea- sure. I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. Moore, where he tells me that he has sent me some books : they are not yet come to hand, but I hear they arc on the way. Wishing you all success in your progress in the path of fame ; and that you may equally escape the danger of stumbling through incau- tious speed, or losing ground through loitering neglect. R. B. CLXX. ^0 i^r. 3)ofjn Sogan, fThe Kirk's Alarm, to niiioh this Ictlcr aUudcs, has little of the spirit of malice and drol'.ery, so rife in his earliir controversial com- positions.] Ellislnnd, near Dumfries, "ilh Aug. 1783. Dear Sir, I iVTENDED to have written you long ere now, and as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a poetic epistle to j'ou ; but that old enemy of all good works, tlie devil, threw me into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a long letter, as I am going to intrude on your time with a long ballad. I have, as you will shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm ;" but now that it is done, and that I have laughed once or twice at the conceits in some of tiie stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into the public ; so I send you this copy, the first that I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and request that you will only read it to a few of us, and do not on any account give, or permit to be taken, any coj^y of the ballad. If I could be of any service to Dr. ISPGill, I would do it, tiiough it should be at a much greater expense than irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am afraid serving him in his present emharras is a task too hard for me. I have enemies enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the number. Still as I think there is some mei'it in two or three of the thoughts, I send it to you as a small, but sincere testimony how much, and with what respectful esteem, I am, dear Sir, Your obliged humble servant, KB. CLXXI. [The poetic epistle of worthy Janet Little was of small account: nor \v as the advice of Dr. M oore, to abandon tlie Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure and language of mi dern Knglish poetry, better inspired than the strains of the mills maid, for such was Jenny Little.] EUisland, 6th Sept. 1789. Dear Madam, I have mentioned in my last my appointment to the Excise, and the birth of little Frank ; who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as lie has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesalce blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious, but modest composition. I should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country ; and I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write to her : I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-wTiting ; and, except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when ne- cessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. Some i^arts of your letter of the 20th August, struck me with the most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. Would I could write you a letter of comfort, I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as I would to write an epic poem of my own com- position that should equal the Iliad. Ileligion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a pro- position so obviously probable, that, setting reve- lation aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand years, have, in some mode or othci, firmly believed it. In vain would we reason 31G GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring pitch; but, when 1 reHoetcd, tluit I was (ii>iii>.siuj^ tlu' most anU'iit wishes, and the most darliiiy; hopes of good men, imd ilyiug in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was shoeketl at my own eontluet. I know not whether 1 have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever seen tiiem ; but it is one of my favourite quotations, wliich I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, " AgMnst the day of battle and of uai-"— spoken of religion : " Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, Tis IhU-, that pilds the horror of our niglit. When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few. When friends arc faithless, or when foes pursue; 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disanns affliction, or repels his dart ; Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." I have been busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and I have been revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth be- yond my research. 1 sliall however digest my tlioughts on tlie subject as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling performance. Farewell ! A Dieu, le bon Dieu, jc vans com- mende R. B. CLXXTI. 'Zo ©aptain iilliticl, [The Whistle alluded to in thislcttcr was contended for on the Ifith of October, IJfKI — the successful competitor, Kergusson, of C'raigdar- roch, was killed by a fall from his horse, some time after the "jovial contest"] Sir, El lis land, I6th Oct. 1789. Dig with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse, 1 luive watched the elements and skies in tlie full persuasion that they woidd an- nounce it to the astonished world by some phe- nomena of terrific jiortent. — Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious honor, for the api)earance of some comet firing half tlie sky; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- vians, darting athwart tlie startled heavens, lapid as the ragged lightning, and iiorrid as those con- vulsions of nature that bury nations. The elements, however, seem to take the mat- ter very quietly : they did not even usiior in this morning witli triide suns and a shower of blood, syniboheal of the three potent heroes, and the niighfy claret-shcd of the day.— For me, as Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing " The whistle and the man ; I sing The man that won the whistle, &c. Here are we met, tiiree merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we ; And mony a night we've merry been. And mony mae we hope to be. Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold coward loun is he : Wha last beside his chair shall fa' He is the king amang us three. To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the humble vale of prose.- — I have some misgiv- ings that I take too much upon me, ■when I re- quest you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lowrie, to frank the two enclosed covers for me, the one of tiiem, to Sir William Cunningiiam, of liobertland, liart. at Kilmarnock, — the other to Mr. Allan Alasterton, Writing-Master, Edin- bui-gii. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, a-s being a brother Baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the other is one of the worthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius ; so, alk)w me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot get them to the })0st to-night. — I shall send a servant again for them in the evening. Wishing that your head may be crowned with laurels to- night, and free from aches to-morrow, I have the honour to be, Sir, Your deeply indebted humble Servant, R. 13. cLxxrii. [Kot)ert Kiddd kept one of those present pests of society — an album— into which Burns copied the Lines on tlie llermiiagc, and the Wounded Harc.J Sir, Ellisland, 1789. I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my power to give you a more substantial gi-atifica- tion and return for all the goodness to the poet, than transcribing a few of his idle rii^'ines. — However, "an old song," thcugli to a proverb an instance of insignificance, is geneially the only coin a poet has to jiay with. if my poems whicli 1 have transcribed, and mean still to transcribe into your book, were equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I bear for the gentleman to whom I present tliein, they would be the finest poems in the language. — As they are, they will at least be a testimony >\ itli \\ hat sincerity I jjave the honour to be. Sir, Your devoted humble Servant, R. 15. OF ROISKUT HUHNS. 317 CIiXXI\\ [The iffnominy of a iK»ct becoming a t?aup:cr seems ever to have been present to the mind of liurns— but those movinf? thiiif,'s iiiM wives and weans have a strong intluenee on the aetiuns of man. J ElUsland, Xsl Xov. 178!>. My dear Frienii, I HAD written you loiii^ ere now, could I have guessed where to find you, for I am sure you have more good sense tlian to waste tiie i)recious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but deliver you from evil ! I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents and purposes an officer of excise ; there to flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy of re- pentance. I know not how the word exciseman, or still more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your ears. 1 too have seen the day when my auditory nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject ; hut a Avife and children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting these kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encou- ragement which I once heard a recruiting ser- geant give to a numerous, if not a respectable audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. — " Gen- tlemen, for your further and better encourage- ment, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and consequently with us an honest fellow has the surest chance for preferment." You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my business ; but I am tired with and disgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in the most favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills ; capricious foolish man mistakes these inconveniencies and ills as if they were the peculiar property of his parti- cular situation ; and hence that eternal fickle- ness, that love of change, which has ruined, and daily docs ruin many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead, and is almost, without ex- ception, a constant source of disappointment and misery. I long to hear from you how you go on — not so much in business as in life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and tolerably at ease in your iiitei-nal reflections ? 'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great cha- racter as a man. That you may be both the one and the other is tlit; earnest wish, and that you will be both is the firm persuasion of, ily dear Sir, &c. R. B. CLXXV. fo i*lr. Mtc!)atti 2l3rotou. [With this letter cbises the correspondence of Robert Burns and Richard Urown. I ElUsland, 4th November, 1789. I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got both your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them as I wished ; and even now, you are to look on this as merely confessing debt, and craving days. Few things could have given mo so much plea- sure as the news that you were once more safe and sound on terra firma, and happy in that place where happiness is alone to be found, in the fireside circle. May the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly bless you in all those en- dearing connexions consequent on the tender and venerable names of husband and father ! I have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an additional income of £50 a year, while, at the same time, the appointment will not cost meabove £10 or £12 per annum of expenses more than I must have inevitably incurred. The worst cir- cumstance is, that the excise division which I have got is so extensive, no less than ten parishes to ride over ; and it abounds besides with so much business, that I can scarcely steal a spare moment. However, labour endears rest, and both together are absolutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of human existence. I cannot meet you any where. No less than an order from the Board of Excise, at Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come, and see me. We must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it out with half the night, before you go again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on earth, my brothers excepted ; and is not that an endearing circumstance ? When you and I first met, we were at the green period of human life. The twig would easily take a bent, but would as easily return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual bent, but, by the melan- choly, though strong influence of being both of the family of the imfortunate, we were entwined with one another in our growth towards ad- vanced age; and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall attempt to undo the imion I You and I must have one bumper to my favourite toast, " May the companions of our youth be the friends of our old age !" Come and see nie one year ; I shall see you at Tort Glasgow the next, 4 M 318 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE and if we can contrive to have a gossiping be- tv^ecn our two bed-fellows, it will be so inuch additional pleasure. ,Mi"s. Burns joins nio in kind compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. Adieu ! I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, R. B. CLXXVI. [The fKiet enclosed in this letter to his patron In the Excise the clever verses on Captain Grose, the Kirlt's Alarm, and the first bal- lad on Captain Miller's election.] Sir, 9th December, 1789. I HAVE a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and had certainly done it long ere now — but for a humiliating something that throws cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, " You have found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you ought by every thing in your power to keep alive and cherish." Now though since God has thought proper to make one powerful and an- other helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged is all fair; and though my being under your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet. Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself in my welfare, and principally as such, still you permit me to apj)roach you. I have found the excise business go on a gi-eat deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. ;Mit(;hel, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my liurried life greatly inimical to my correspon- dence with the muses. Their visits to me, in- deed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are short and far between : but I meet them now and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in my excise lides. If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have seen them before, as I sent tliem to a London newspaper. Though I dare say you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, whicii shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and tlie Kilmarnock weavers, yet 1 think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the ck-i- gjTiien of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor man ! Thouj^h he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of tlie whole priesthood 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 throwu out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The enclosed bal- lad on that business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too. The election ballad, as you Avill see, alludes to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard-run match in the whole general election. I am too little a man to have any political attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both parties ; but a man who has it in his power to be the father of his country, and who ** ***^ is a character that one cannot speak of with patience. Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. CLXXVII. ^0 itlr^. IDunlop. [Burns was often a prey to lon-ncss of spirits : at this some dull men have ma^^■elled ; hut the dull have no n)isKi\iiiBS : they go lilinilly and stupidly on, like a horse in a mill, and Ua\ e none of the sorrows or joys to wliich gcuius is heir to.J Ellisland, \^th December, 1789. !Mavy thanks, dear Madam, for your siieet- full of rhymes. Though at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you every thing pleases. I am gi'oaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state of which is most conducive to our happiness — or the most productive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with a nerv- ous head-ache, that I have been obliged for a time to give up my excise-books, being scarce able to lift my bead, much less to ride once a week over ten muir parishes. What is man ? — To-day in the luxuriance of health, exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days, per- haps in a few iiours, loaded with conscious pain- ful being, counting the tardy pace of the linger- ing moments by the repercussions of anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. Day fol- lows night, and night comes after day, only to curse him with life which gives him no plea- sure ; and yet tlie awful, tlark termination of tliat life is something at which ho recoils. " Tell u», ye dead ; will none of you in pi'y I lisclose the secret yvimt 'tis you are, and we must shortly bef 'tis no matter: A little lime will make us leirn'd as you bltc." • OF ROBERT BURNS- 3iy Can it be possible, tbat wl\en I resi<^ this frail, feverish beiug, 1 shall still find myself in couscious existence ? When the last ^^asp of agony has announced that I am no more to tliose that knew mo, and the few wlio loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be the prey of un- sightly reptiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye venerable sages and lioly flamens, is there probability in your conjec- tures, trutli in your stories, of another world be- yond deatli; or are they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? If tliere is anotiier life, it must be only for tiie just, tlie benevolent, the ami- able, and the liuniane ; wliat a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There I should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely struggled. Tiiere should 1 meet tlie friend, the disinterested friend of my early life; the man who rejoiced to see me, be- cause lie loved me and could serve mo. — Muir, thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with every thing generous, manly and noble ; and if ever emana- tion from the All-good Being animated a human form, it was thine ! There should I, with speech- less agony of rapture, again recognize my lost, my ever dear Mary ! Avhose bosom was fraught witli truth, honour, constancy, and love. " My Mary, dear departed shade J Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear' St thou the groans that rend his breast ?" Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy reve- lation of blissful scenes of existence beyond death and the grave, is not one of the many im- positions which time after time have been palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in thee " shall all the families of the earth be blessed," by being yet connected together in a better world, where every tie that bound heart to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far beyond our present conceptions, more en- dearing. I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what are called nervous af- fections are in fact diseases of the mind. I can- not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I would not venture to write any thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more than half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he would throw into the fire, were he able to write any thing better, or indeed any thing at all. Rumour told me something of a son of yours, who was returned from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news from .Tames or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; as I promise you on tlie sincerity of a man, who is weary of one world, and anxious about another, that scarce any thing could give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling my honoured friend. If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. R.B. CLXXVTIT. ^0 SaUg 22a[iniftfli]i*l[aih)fU] ©on-stable. [The Lady Winifred Maxwell, the last of the old line of Nitlis- dale, was granddaughter of that Earl who, in 1715, made an almost miraculous escape from death, tlirough the spirit and fortitude of his countcss> a lady of tlie noble family of Powis.] Ellislandy \Qth December ^ 1789. My Lady, In vain have I from day to day expected to hear from Mrs. Young, as she promised me at Dalswinton that she would do me the honour to introduce me at Tinwald; and it was impossible, not from your ladyship's accessibility, but from my own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately, indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, in his usual goodness, offered to accompany me, when an unlucky indisposition on my part hindered my embracing the opportunity. To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where I some- times have had a little matter to ask of them, or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what I never have done, and I trust never shall do. But with your lady- ship I have the honour to be connected by one of the strongest and most endearing ties in the whole moral world. Common sufferers, in a cause where even to be unfortimate is glorious, the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers had not illustrious honours and vast properties to hazard in the contest, though they left their humble cottages only to add so many units more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what they could they did, and what they had they lost ; with unshaken firmness and un- concealed political attachments, they shook hands with ruin for what they esteemed the cause of their king and their country. The lan- guage and the enclosed verses are for your lady- ship's eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence ; but as I can do nothing for a caiise which is now nearly no more, I do not wish to hurt myself. I have the honour to be, My lady, Your ladyship's obliged and obedient Humble Servant, R.B. 1-20 GENERAL COURESrONDENCE CLXXIX. OF LOCUMABEN. lOfLochmabcn, the" Marjory of themony Lochs" of the election ballads, Maxwell was at this time pnjvost, a post more of lioiiour thaii of labour.] EUisland, 20th December, 17«!>. Deah Provost, As my friend Mr. Graliam goes for your pood town to-morrow, I cannot resist tiio tomi)tation to send you a few linos, and as 1 have iiotliino;to say I iiave chosen this sheet of foolscap, and begun as' you see at the top of the first pajre, because I have ever observed, that when once; peojjU; liave fairly set out they know not where to stoj). Now that my first sentence is concluded, I have nothing to do but to pray heaven to lielp me on to another. Shall I write you on Politics or Reli- gion, two master subjects for your sayers of no- tliing. Of the first I dare say by this time you are nearly surfeited : and for the last, whatever they may talk of it, who make it a kind of com- pany concern, I never could enduie it beyond a soliloquy. I might write you on farming, on building, on marketing, but my jioor distracted mind is so torn, so jaded so racked and bediveled with the task of the superlative damned to make one guinea do the business of three, that I de- test, abhor, and swoon at the very word business, though no less than four letters of my very short sirname arc; in it. Well, to make the matter short, I shall be- take myself to a subject ever fruitful of themes ; a subject the turtU^-feast of tlie sons of Satan, and the delicious secret sugar-])lum of the l)al)('s of grace — a subject sjjarkling with all the jewels that wit can find in the mines of genius : and pregnant with all the stores of learning from Moses and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley ■ — in short may it please your Lordship, I intend to write * * * 9 [Here the Poet inserted a song which can only be sung at times when the punch-bowl has done its duty and loild wit is set free.'] If at any time you expect a field-day in your town, a day wiien Dukes, Earls, and Knights pay their court to weavers, tailors and cobblers, I should like to know of it two or three days be- forehand. It is not that I care three skips of a cur dog for tlie ])olitics, but I should like to see sucli an exhibition of human nature. If you meet with that worthy old veteran in reli- gion and good-fellowshi]), Mr. .Teftri-y, or any of his amiable family, 1 beg you will give them my best compliments. R.B. CLXXX. (Of the Monkland Book -Club allnded to in this Ictu-r, the clergy, man had omitted uU mention in his account of the Parish of Dun- score, published in Sir .John Sinclair's work : some of tlie bix)ks which the imet Introduced were stigmatized as vain and frivolous.] 17!»0. Sin, 'J'hk following circumstance has I believe, been omitted in the satistical account, trans- mitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in Nits- dale. I beg leave to send it to you because it is new, and may be useful. How far it is deserv- ing of a place in your patriotic publication, you arc the best judge. To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- portance, both to them as individuals, and to society at large. Giving them a tuin for read- ing and reflection, is giving them a source of in- nocent and laudable amusement ; and besides, raises them to a more dignified degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed witli this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of cir- culating library, on a jilan so simple as to be practicable in any conn^r of the country; and so useful, as to deserve the notice of every country gentlemen, Avho thinks the improvement of that part of his own sj)ecies, whom chance has thrown into the humble walks of the peasant and the artizan, a matter wortiiy of his atteii- tion. Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, and farming neighbours, to form themselves into a society for the purjiose of having a library among themselves. Thy entered into a legal engagement to abide ])y it for three years; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a distance, or death. Each member at his entry, paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, six- pence more. With their entry-money, and the credit which they took on tlu' faith of their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase, was always decided by the majority. At every meeting, all the books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be jiroduced ; and the mcm- liers had tluMr choice of the volnnies in rotation. He whose name stood for that night first on tlie list, had his rlioi(;e of what volume he pleased in the whole collection ; the second had his <-hoice after the first ; the third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who had been first on the list at the ])receding m(>eting, was last at this ; he who liad been second was first ; and so on through the whole three years. At the cxpii-ation of the en- gagement thebooksweresold byauction, but only among themcinber.'s themselves ; each man had his OK KoJiKHT BURNS. 321 share of the common stock, in iiioney or iu books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. At the breaking up of this httle society, whicli Avas formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what with their own purchases, they had collected toge- ther upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among the books, however, of this little library, were, Blair's Sermons, Ro- bertson's History of Scotland, Hume's History of the Stewarts, The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, Lounger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An- drews, ^c. A peasant who can read, and enjoy sucii books, is certainly a much superior being to his neiglibour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very little removed, except in shape, from the brutes he drives. Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, I am. Sir, Your humble servant, A Peasant. CLXXXl. OF HODDAM. [The family of Hoddam is of old standing in Nithsdale: it has mingled Wood with some of the noblest Scottish names; nor is it unknown either in history or literature— the tierce knight of Close- bum, who in the scuffle between Bruce and Comyne drew his sword and made " sicker," and my friend Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, are not the least distinguished of its members.] [1790.] It is true. Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a poor devil : you are a feather in the cap of society, and I am a very hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the honour to belong to the same family with you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpa- trick. No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed be properly said to belong to any house, or even any province or kingdom ; as my mother, who for many years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad world, aboard the packet-boat, some- where between Donaghadee and Portpatj-ick. By our common family, I mean. Sir, the family of the muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; and you, I am told, i)lay an exquisite violin, and have a standard taste in the Belles Letters. The other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition. If I was pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the title you have given it; and taking up the idea I have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. Will you allow me. Sir, to present you them, as the dearest offering that a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give ? 1 have a long- ing to take you by the hand and unburthen my heart by saying, " Sir, I honour you as a man who supports the dignity of human nature, amid an age when frivolity and avarice have, between them, debased us below thebnites that jjcrish !" But, alas. Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. It is true, the muses baptized me in Castalian streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, the Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades ! they have beggared me. Would they but spare me a little of their cast-linen '. Were it only in my power to say that I have a shirt on my back ! But the idle wenches, like Solomon's lilies, " tliey toil not, neither do they spin ;" so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the iiangman's rope, round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep together their many-coloured fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I have given tliat up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even the hide of Job's Behemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhand- some and ungrateful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly supplies and conceals the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite ; and though I got it literally for an old song, I would not exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I was, during several years, a kind of fac-totum servant to a country clergy- man, where I pickt up a good many scraps of learning, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. Whenever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and placing my hat be- tween my legs, I can, by means of its brim, or rather brims, go through the whole doctrine of the conic sections. However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so much forsaken me, that she has taught me to live without her ; and amid all my rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much more happy, than a monarch of the world. According to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors in the great drama of life, simply as they act their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, and can re- gard an honest scavenger with sincere respect. As you. Sir, go through your role with such dis- tinguished merit, permit me to make one in the chorus of universal applause, and assure you that with the highest respect, I have the honour to be, &c. Johnny Faa. 4 K 3'22 CLXXXII. Zo il-lr. Gilbert Uiinie GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CliXXXIV. ^0 aailliam Dunbat, M*3' [In the few fierce wonls of this letter the iioet bids ftdieu to all hopes of \vcalth from EllisUnd.] Ellisland, Wth Jamiary, 1790. Pear Broth eu, I MEAN to take advantage of the frank, though I have not, in my present frame of mind, much appetite for exertion in w-riting. ]My nerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hyiwchon- dria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This fiirm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands."^ But let it go to hell ! I'll fight it out and be oif with it. We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- land, who is a man of apparent worth. On New- year-day evening I gave Mm the following pro- logue, which he spouted to his audience with applause. No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? Good sense and taste are natives here at home. I can no more. — If once I was clear of this cursed farm, I should respire more at ease. R. B. CLXXXIII. Zq i*lt. 5«tbedanD, PLAYF.R, ENCLOSING A PROLOGUE. (When the farm failed, the poet sought pleasure in the playhouse: >it tried to retire from his own harassing reflections, into a world (Tcaled by other minds.] Monday ATorning. I WAS much disappointed, my dear Sir, in wanting your most agreeable company yesterday. However, I heartily pray for good weather next Sunday ; and wliatever aerial Being has the guidance of the elements, may take any other half-dozen of Sundays he pleases, and clothe them with " Vapours, and clouds, and storms, Until he terrify himself At combustion of his own raising." I shall see you on Wednesday forenoon, the greatest hurrj-, R. B. In [This letter was first published by the Kttriek Shepherd, In hit edition of Uurns: it is remarkable for this sentence, " I am resolved never to breed up a son of mine to any of the learned pnifessions: I know the value of independence, and since 1 cainiot give ray sons an independent fortune, I shall gi\'e them an independent line of life.* We may look round us and enquire which line of life the poet could possibly mean.] Ellisand, 14th January, 1790. Since we are here creatures of a day, since " a few summer days, and a few winter nights, and tlie life of man is at an end," why, my dear much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let negli- gent indolence, for I know it is nothing worse, step in between us and bar the enjoyment of a mutual con-cspondence ? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, methodical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing they may be in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the heart : in tlie name of random sensibility, then, let never the moon change on our silence any more. I have had a tract of bad health most part of this winter, else you had heard from me long ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so much better as to be able to partake a little in the enjoyments of life. Our friend Cunningham will, perhaps, have told you of my going into the Excise. The truth is, I found it a veiy convenient business to have £50 per annum, nor have I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it that I was led to fear. Feb. 2. I have not, for sliecr hun-y of business, been able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. Besides my farm business, I ride on my Excise matters at least two hundred miles every week. I have not by any means given up the muses. You will see in the 3d vol. of Johnson's Scots songs that I have contributed my mite there. But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for paternal protection are an important cliarge. I have already too fine, healthy, stout little fellows, and I wish to throw some light ui)on them. I have a thousand reveries and schemes about them, and their future destiny. Not that I am a Utopian projector in these tilings. I am resolved never to breed up a son of mine to any of the learned professions. I know the value of independence ; and since I cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall give them an independent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, cliance, and changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect on it ! To a father, who himself knows the world, the thought that he sliall have sons to usher into it must fill him with dread ; but if he OK UOlUMiT BURNS. 32:3 have daughtcrfl, the prospect in a thoughtful moment is apt to shock him. I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let me forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of my feelings and attaclnnents. I often take up a volume of my Spenser to realise you to my imagination, and think over the so- cial scenes we have had together. God grant that there may be another world more congenial to honest fellows beyond this. A world where these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, misfortunes, ill-health, &c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide friendsliip. This I know is your throng season, but half a page will much oblige, My dear Sir, Yours sincerely. K.B. CLXXXV. ®o JWrg. IBunlop. I Falconer, the poet, whom Burns mentions here, perished In the Aurora, in which he acted as purser : he wus a satirist of no mean power, and wrote that useful nork, the Marine Dictionary : but his fame depends upon " Tlie Shipwreck," one of the most original and mournful poems in the language.] Ellislandy 25th January, 1790. It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not written to you, IMadam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow-crea- tures. Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for your kind letters ; but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and merce- nary in my own eyes .' When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered with the honour you have done me, in making me your compeer in friendship and friendly cor- respondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded of the real inequality between our situations. Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little I had of his ac- quaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the "Ship- wreck," 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 tlie honour of giving him birth ; but he was the son of ob- scurity and misfortune. He was one of those daring adviniturous spirits, which Scotland, be- yond any other country, is remarkable for pro- ducing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs dehglited over the sweet little leech at her bosom, Avliere the poor fellow may here- after ^v•ander, and what may be his fate. I re- member a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwitlistanding its rude simplicity, speaks feel- ingly to the heart : " Little did my mothir think, That day slie cradled me. What land I was to travel in, Or what death I should die ! ' ' Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine, and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The 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 tliat 1 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 1 should sleep !" I do not remember in all my reading, to have met with any thing more truly the language of misery, than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson^ the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be tlie finest, hand- somest child he has ever seen. I am myself de- lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise the vmdaunted gallantry of an independent mind. I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c. R. B. I Thcbal'ad is In the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, ed. 1833. vol. iii. p. 304. ■i The bard's second son, Francis. 324 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CLXXXVI. ^0 iWr. i^ctci- ?i)tll, 11 O O K S E L L E R, E D I N H U K G H . [The MademoL'iellc Burns whom the poet cmniiri'S ahoiit, was one of the " Indies of the Cftiionpitc," who desired to introduce free trade in her profession into a cliBc borough : this was refused by tlie ma^tratcs of Edinburgh, though advocated with much eloquence and humour in a letter by her namesake— it is coloureil too strongly with her calling to be published. 1 Ellishnid, 2nd Feb. 17!)0. No ! I will not say one word about apolo^^'ies or excuses for not writinj:. — I am a poor, rascally gauger, condenmcd to galloji at least 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and whei'e can I find time to write to, or importance to interest any body ? the up- braidin;^s of my conscience, nay the upbraidings of my wife, have persecuted me on your account these two or thi'ee months j)ast. — I wish to God I was a great man, that my correspondence might throw light upon you, to let the world see what you really are : and then I would make your fortune Avithout putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other great men, I suppose 1 would avoid as much as possible. What are you doing, and how are you doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few friends ? What is become of the borough reform, or how is the fate of my poor namesake. Mademoi- selle 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 cons])icu- ous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the affec- tionate mother; and shall the unfortunate sa- crifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy humanity ! J saw Litely 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 Smollett's works, for the sake of his in- comparable humour. I liave already Roderick Random, and Humphrey Clinker. — Per(>grine Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand, Count Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forgot the price of Cowper's Poems, but, I be- li(!v«", I must have them. I saw the other day, proposals for a publication, entitled, "Banks's new and complete Christian's Family Bil>le," 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 ])erfonuance, as some uumliers of it arc pub- lished ; and if it is really what it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and send mo the published numbers. Let me hear from you, your first leisui'e minute, and trust me you shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The daz- zling ])erplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me to pursue my course in the quiet path of methodical routine. R.B. CLXXXVII. ^0 iWt. m. iiitoi. (The poet has recorded this unUxjkcd-for death of the Dominie's mave in some hasty verses, which arc not much superior to the sub- jcct.J Ellisland, Feb. 0, 1790. My dear Sir, That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I would freely have given her price to have saved her; she has vexed me beyond description. Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, I eagerly giasp(>d at your oflfer 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 i)lough, 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 i)ower in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebra; of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, and in eight-and-forty hours, in sjjite of the two best farriers in the country, she died and be d-nined to her ! The farriers said tliat she had been oet olttii alludes in his correspondence.] Ellisland, \mh April, 1700. I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high hixury, in reading a paper 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 even her very name ! I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith — - States of native liberty possest. Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest." Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, "English ambassador, English court," &c. And I am out of all patience to see that equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by "the Com- mons of England." Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice ? I believe in my conscience such ideas as " my country ; her independence ; her honour ; the illustrious names 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 govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications of wrongheadedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or lead the RABBLE ; but for their own private use, with almost all the able statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right and wrong, they only mean proper and improper ; and their measure of conduct is, not what they ought, but what they dare. For the truth of this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but ap- peal to one of the ablest judges of men that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they interfered with his inte- rests, and who could completely put on the ap- pearance of every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopean plan, the perfect man; a man to lead nations. But are great abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard of human ex- cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of th^ world ; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give the stygian doctrine a loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of an existence beyond the grave, then, the true laeasiire of human conduct is, proper and improper : virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the same import and value to the world at large, as harmony and discord in the modifications of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings, and iniiarmonic jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the individual would be as hapjty, and cer- tainly would be as much respected by the true judges of society as it would then stand, without either a good ear or a good heart. You must know I have just met with the I^Iirror and Lounger for the first time, and I am quite in raptures with them ; I should be glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. The one I. have just read, Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than any thing I have read of a long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and in my opinion, Addi- son would not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as cer- tainly outdoes him in the tender and the pa- 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 afi^ecting tale of poor Harley. Still, mtli all my admiration of Mackenzie's ■v\nitings, I do not know if they are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think. Madam, that among the few fa- voured of heaven in the structure of their minds, (for such there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly important business of making a man's way into life ? If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, A ******, is very much under these disquali- fications ; and for the young females of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common acquaintance, or as my vanity mil 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 lately ; but when I have got the most hurried season of excise business over, I hope to have more leisure to transcribe any thing that may show how much I have the honour to be, Madam, Yours, &c. R. B. 328 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CXCI. ^To Collector iiWitrlicU. [Collector Mitchell n-as a kind and considemte gentleman: to his grandson, Mr. John Campbell, surgeon, in Aberdeen, I owe this characteristic letter.] Sin, Ellisland, 1790. I SHALL not fixil to wait on Captain Riddel to- niglit— I wisli and pray that the goddess of jus- tice herself would appear to-morrow among our lion, gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their car that mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part I have galloped over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just alighted, or rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let nie down ; for the miserable devil has 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 luist ridden these many years !' In short, Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to a hard-hearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so many great men to espouse liis cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am not committed to the strong hold of the law to- morrow for insolence to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. I have the honour to be. Sir, Your obliged and obedient humble R. B. CXCIL [The sonnets alluded to by Hums were those of Charlotte Smith : the poet's copy is now before me, with a few marks of his pen on the margins.] Dumfries, Excise-Office, I4lh July, 1700. Sir, CoMivG 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 liis way to London ; so I take tlic opportunity of writing to you, as franking is at present under a tempo- rary death. I shall have some snatches of lei- sure through the day, amid our horrid business and bustle,-, and I shall improve them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as * * • * *****, as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a law-paper in tlie Douglas cause; a.s ill-spelt as country .John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty liyre-Muckers answer to it; I hope, considering circumstances, you will for- give it ; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most valuable present, Ze- liico. In fact, you are in some degree blaineable 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 Eliliu shows in the book of .Job — "And I said, I will also declare my opinion !" I have quite disfigured my copy of the book Avith my annotations. I never take it up with- out at the same time taking my pencil, 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 shouldhardly think of fairly writing out my "Comparative \"iew," I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the book of 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 I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other sex, I should certainly have written to the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinlving 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. R. B. CXCIII. TEACHER OF FREKCH, LONDON. [The account of himself, promised to Murdoch by Burns, was never written.] Ellisland, July 16, 1790. ]\1y DEAR Sir, I RECEIVED a letter from you a long time ago, but unfortunately, as it was in the time of my peregrinations and journeyings through Scot- land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence your direction along with it. Luckily ray good star brought mo acquainted with Mr Kennedy, OF ROBERT BURNS. 32i) who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours : and by his means and mediation I hope to re- place that link which my unfortunate ncgli{,'once 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 ISIr. Barber's, saddler, No. 181, Strand." I writ him by ^Ir. Kennedy, but neglected to ask him for your address ; so, if you find a spare half-minute, please let ray brother know by a card where and when he will find you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of tiie 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 yon 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, E. B. CXCIV. CXCV. 7Io iWvs. SDunlop. f Enquiries have been made in vain after the name of Bums' devant friend, who had so deeply wounded his feelings.] 8th August, 1790. Dear Madam, After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed it so long ? It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty otlier things ; in short to any tiling — but forgetfiilness of la plus aimable 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 in- timate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! R. B. CXCVI. ®o 0ix. ©unntng&am. f" The strain of invective," says the judicious Currie, of this leifT, " goes on some time longer in the style in which our bard was tmi apt to indulge, and of which the reader has already seen so much.' j [This hasty note was accompanied by the splendid elegy on Mat- thew Henderson, and no one could better feel than M'Murdo, to whom it is addressed, the difference between the music of vltsc and the clangour of politics.] SlB, Ellislaiid, 2nd August, 1790. Now that you are over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of Conniption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities, that on all sides, and in all parties, preside over the villainous business of poHtics, permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you with a song. — You knew Henderson — I have not flattered his memory. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your obliged humble Servant, R.B. Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. I laid down my goose-feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christening ; a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; or a tavern-keeper at an election-dinner ; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who would not choose) to bind down with the crampets of attention the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the super- structure of Independence, and from its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of fate. And is not this a " consummation devoutly to be wished?" "Thy spirit. Independence, let me share; Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye ! Thy steps I follow witli 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: 4 r 330 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to you. — How wretched is the man that lianps on by the favours of the great ! To slirink from every difrnity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who amid all his tinsel plitter, and stately hauteur, is hut a creature formed as thou art — and perhaps not so well fonned 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. CXCVII. Zo Dr. Slntjerson. [The gentlenun to whom this imperfect note is addressed was Dr. James Anderson, a well-knomi agricultural and miscellaneous wnriier, 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 Pr. 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 ad- vocate's wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of the poor pubUcans 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- cration * * * * R. B. CXCVIII. ^0 2Hllliam ^jtlcr, CFgq., OF WOODHOUSELEE. (William Tytler was the "revered defender of the beauteous Stuart"— a man of genius and a gentleman. J SiH, Lawn Market, August, 1790. Enclosed I have sent you a sample of the old pieces that are still to be found among our peasantry in the west. I had once a great many of these fragments, and some of these here en- tire ; but as I had no idea then that any body cared for them, I have forgotten them. I inva- riably 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 I am truly happy to have an opportunity of assuring you how sincerely I am, revered Sir, Your gratefully indebted humble Servant, R. B. CXCIX. Zo ®rauforD ^ait, 1£Sii., EDIKBURGH. f Margaret Chalmers had now, it appears by this letter, become Mr*. Lewis Hay : her friend, Chdrlottc Hamilton, had been for some time Mrs. Adair, of Scarborough : Miss IS'immo was the lady who intro- duced Bums to the far-lamed Clarinda.1 Ellisland, \hth October, 1790. Dear Sir, Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. AVm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known and long loved. His father, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to the law, in which department he comes up an adventurer to your good tOAvn. I shall give you my friend's character in two words : as to his head, he has talents enough, and more than enough for common life ; as to his heart, when nature had kneaded the kindly clay that composes it, she said, " I can no more." You, my good Sir, were bom under kinder stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of the young man, who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to be something among his fellow-creatures; but whom the consciousness of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and wounds to the soul ! Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent spirit, and that ingenuous 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 I I am 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 wliich 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 circumvolution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not conceal this plain story. — " My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, is a young lad of your own profession, and a gentleman of much modesty, and great worth. Perhaps it may be in your power to assist him in the, to him, im- portant consideration of getting a place ; but at all events, your notice and acquaintance will OF ROin:UT BURNS, 331 1)0 a very great acquisition to him ; and I dare pledge myself that he will never disgrace your favour." You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way of calculating these matters, more than our ac- quaintance entitles me to; but my answer is short: — Of all the men at your time of life, whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces- sible on the side on which I have assailed you. You are very much altered indeed from what you were when I knew you, if generosity point the path you will not tread, or humanity call to you in vain. As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- lieve you are still a well-wisher ; I am here, breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and rhyming now and then. Every situation has its share of the cares and pains of life, and my situ- ation I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow- ance of its pleasures and enjoyments. My best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re- member me in the solemn league and covenant of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch for not writing her ; but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation in that way, that my conscience lies in my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is Lady M'Kenzie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with compliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton ; Mrs. Hamilton and family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that coun- try. Should you meet with Miss Nimnio, please remember me kindly to her. R. B. CC. STo [This letter contained the Kirk's Ala'm, a satire written to help the cause of Dr. M'Gill, who recanted his heresy rather than be re- moved from his liirk.] Ellisland, 1790. Dear Sir, Whether in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is I fear very doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which al- together set Hector's utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- tor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen 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 wisho s! O for a withering curse to blast the germins of their wicked machinations. O for a poisonous tor- nado, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop of their villanous contrivances to the lowest hell ! R. B. CCI. ^0 i^rg. JDunlop. [The poet wrote out several copies of Tam o' Shanter and sent them to his friends, requesting their criticisms : he wrote few poems so universally applauded.] Ellisland, Novanber, 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 apostle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice" — for me, to 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 lurapishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- pensably necessary in my left hand, in the mo- ment 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. Sirs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere comphment to the sweet little fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured out to him in the following verses : — Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love And ward o' mony a prayer. What heart o' stane wad thou na move Sae helpless, sweet, 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. I am much flattered by your approbation of my Tam o' Shanter, which you express in your former letter ; though, by the bye, you load me in that said letter with accusations heavy and many ; to all which I plead, not guilty ! Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly : as to the punctua- tion, the printers do that themselves. I have a copy of Tam o' Shanter ready to send charms of your dclij^'htful voice, you would ijive my honest effusion to " tlie memory of joys that are past," to the few friends Avhom you indulg-e in that pleasure. But I liavo scribbled on 'till I hear the clock has intimated the near approach of That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. — So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams ! Aprojjos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on the tapis ? I look to the west when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; Far far in the west is he I lo'e best, The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! Good night, once more, and God bless you ! R.B. CCXI. FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. (Cromck rays that Aleauinder Dalzel introduced the poetry of Burns to the notice of the Earl of Glcncaim, who carried the Kilmarnock edition with him to Edinburgh, and begged that the poet would let him know what his \iews in the world were, tliat he mife-ht further them.] Ellisland, \Qth March, 1791. My dfar Sill, I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to you, as it encloses an idle poem of mine, 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 cor- rected his work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimination. • I can easily guess from my own heart, what you have felt on a late most melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of my best friend, my first and dearest patron and benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I am and have ! I am gone into mourning for him, and with more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to feel on the occasion. I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, to let me know the news of the noble family, how the poor mother and the two sisters support their loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to Lady IJetty, when I saw the fatal tidingsin the newspaper. I see by the same channel that the honoured hemains of uiy noble patron, are designed to be brought to the family burial-place. iJaro 1 trouble you to let me know privately before the day of interment, that I maycross the country,and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me beyond expres- sion. R.B. CCXII. Za iHv0. Gtaljain, OF FINTRY. [Mrs. Graham, of Fintry, felt both as a lady and a Scottish one, the tender Lament of the fair and unfortunate princess, which this letter contained.] Ellisland, 1791. Madam, Whether it is that the story of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the in- closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success I kuow not ; but it has pleased me be- yond any effort of my muse for a good while past ; on that account I inclose 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 ttsual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- portance, ^Ir. G. can do me service of the ut- most importance in time to come. I was born a poor dog ; and however I may occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must live and die poor : 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 shall ever make me do any thing 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 ; but it 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 remember with undiminished gratitude. OF ROBERT BURNS. 337 ccxiir. OF I'INTKY. f The following letter was written on tlie blank leaf of a new cditon of his poems, presented by the poet, to one whom he regarded, and justly, as a patroness.] It is probable, !Madam, that this page may be read, wlion the haud tliat now writes it shall be inoiilderinp: in the dust : may it then bear wit- ness, that I present you these volumes as a tri- bute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sineere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodness to mo has been generous and noble ! IMay 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. ^0 tt)t i^cb. as, 35aitt>. [It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems of Michael liruce, by subscription, and give the profits to his mother, a woman eighty years old, auri pix r and helpless, and Bums was asked for a poem to iji.ca new impulse to the publication.] ElUsland, 1791. Reverekd Sir, Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on the business of poor Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills that jjoetic flesh is heir to ? You shall have j'our choice of all the unpublished poems I have ; and had your letter had my direction so as to have reached me sooner, (it only came to my hand this moment,) I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some pre- fatory advertisement in the book, as well as the .subscription bills, may bear, that the publication is solely for the Ijenefit of Bruce' s mother. I Vvoidd not jnit it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work fi-om 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 jjeccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidiugs, (any body 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 tlie selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retrospection. R.B. ccxv. tJTo iUdrg. Uunlop. fFranris Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlop, to whom this letter refers, died at the age of fourteen — he was a fine and a pro- mising youth.] EUisland, Wlh 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 cliequered — ^_ioy and sorrow — for on Saturday morning last, Mrs. liurns made me a present of a fine boy ; ratiier stouter, but not so handsome as your godson was at his time of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to be my chef d" (Buvre m that species ot manufac- tui'e, as I look on Tam o'Siianter to be my standard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other discover a spice of rougnish waggery, that might perhaps be as well spared ; but then they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish, that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn- ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and bless- ing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for 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 it 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 of every other earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally denied to such 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 ; unaft'ected 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 all the rest, a j'ielding sweetness of disj:)06ition, and a genei'- 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, wiiich your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life. 4 R 338 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE This is the {n'eatost effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me hear, by fiist post, how cher petit ^[onsieur comes on with liis small- pox. May almifrhty goodness preserve and re- store him ! B.B. CCXVI. ^0 [That his works found their way to tlie newspapers, need have oc- casioned no surprise: the poet gave copies of his favovi rite pieces freely to his friends, as soon as they were written : who, in tlieir turn, spread tlieir fame among their acquaintances. ] ElUsland, 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 j-ou 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 public papers, where you must have seen it. I am ever, dear Sir, Yours sincerely, R. B. CCXVII. Zq [This sinKulai letter was sent by Rum:, it is belics-ed, to a critic, vho had taken him to task about obscure language, and imperfect grammar.] Ellisland, 1791. Thou 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 : tiiou mar- riage-maker between vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice : thou cobler, botcli- ing the flimsy socks of bombast oratory : thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets of al>surdity : thou butclicr, cinbruiiig thy hands in tlie bowels of orthograpiiy : thou arch-heretic in ])ronunci- •ation : thou pitch-pipe of aftectod em])Iiasis: thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints of jarring sentences : thou squeaking dissonance of cadence : thou pimp of gender : thou Lyon Herald to silly etymology : tliou antipode of grammar : tboa executioner of construction : thou brood of the speech-distracting 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 : tliou murderous accoucheur of in- fant learning: thou ignis fatiius, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance : tliou pickle-her- ring in the puppet-show of nonsense: thou faith- ful recorder of barbarous idiom : thou persecutor of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus. R. B. CCXVIII. ^0 0it ©unningfjam. [To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, addressed several letters, which on his death were put into the fire by his widow, be- cause of their license of language.] WthJune, 1791. Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman who waits on you with this. He is a ]\Ir. Clarke, of Moffiit, prin- cipal schoolmaster there, and is at present suf- fering severely under the jjersecution 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 cudgel : 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 Edinbui-gli, 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 re- spect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and council, but particu- larly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this coun- try and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name tlie historian of Charles V. I tell him through the medium of his nephew's iiifliiciice, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who Mill not disgrace even his patronage. I know tlic^ merits of the cause thoroughlj', and say it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. God help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too often, OF ROBERT BURNS. 339 alas ! almost unexceptionably, received by thcii* friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold civility and hinniliating 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 on that privileged plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand without at the same time pointing out those failings, and apportioning them their share in procuring my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies : the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less from the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be incident to human nature, do thou. Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of myself, to bear the consequence of those errors ! I do not want to be independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning. To return in this rambling letter to the sub- ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the other. I long much to hear from you. Adieu ! R.B. CCXIX. ^0 t't)e CKarl of 93uc]ban. [Lord Buchan printed this letter in his Essay on the Life of Thomson, in 17!I2. His lordship invited Burns to leave his corn unreaped, walk from KUisIand to Dryburgh, and help him to crown Thomson's bust with bays, on Ednam Hill, on the 22nd of September.] Ellisland, August 29th, 1791. My Lord, Language sinks under the ardour of my feel- ings when I would thank your lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting me to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I overlooked eveiy obstacle, and deter- mined to go ; but I fear it will not be in my power. A week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already made a pilgrimage up the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take the same delightful journey down the windings of that delightful stream. Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but who would write after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and despaired. — I got indeed to the length of tliree or four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the taslf. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring how sincfirely and gratefully I have the honour to be, fi.c. R.B. CCXX. ^0 iWt. ®I)omas 5»loan. [Thomas Sloan was a west of Scotland man, and seems, thniich not much in correspondence, to have been on intimate terms with Bums.] Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. My dear Sloan, SusPEKSE is worse than disappointment, for that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantyne does not choose to interfere more in the business. I am truly son-y for it, but cannot help it. You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of information ; — your address. However, you know equally well, my hun-ied life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- ment It must be a longer period than the longest life " in the world's hale and undegene- rate days,'' that will make me forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times, but I will not part with such a treasure as that. I can easily enter into the emharras of youl* present situation. You know my favourite quo- tation from Young — ' On reason huild Resolve ! That column of true majesty in man ;* and that other favourite one from Thomson's Alfred— " What proves the hero truly GREAT, Is, never, never to despair." Or shall I quote you an autlior of your ac- quaintance ? " Whether doing, suffering, or FOBBEAni.No, You may do miracles by — persevering." I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going on in the old way. I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 340 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE above value. But such a scene of drunkenness •was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup was over, about thirty people engaged in a b.ittlo, every man for liis own hand, and fought it out for tliree hours. Nor was the scene much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on tlie floor, and de- canting, until botii my dogs got so drunk by at- tending them, that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; as I was no farther over tlian you used to see me. Mrs. B. and family liave been in Ayi'shire these many weeks. Farewell ; and God bless you, my dear Friend ! R. B. CCXXI. ^0 21aD» Ha, ®unningl)am. 'The poem enclosed was tlic Lamentfor James, Earl of Glcncaim : It is pmbable that tlie Earl's sister liked the verses, for they were printed soon afterwards.] My LaDY, I WOULD, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- ing you any thing I compose in my poetical way; but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to make that the first piece I should do myself tlie honour of sending you. Had the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed had been much more worthy your jjcru- sal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your lady- ship's feet. As all the world knows my obliga- tions to the late E.arl ofGlencairn, I would wish to show as openly that my heart glows, and will ever glow, with the most grateful sense and remembrance of his lordship's goodness. The sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lordship's memory, were not the " mockery of woe.'' Nor shall mj' gratitude perish with me ! — if, among my children, I shall have a son that has a heart, he shall liand it down to his child iis a family honour, and a fa- mily debt, that my dearest existence I owe to tlie noble house of (ilencairn ! I was about to say, my latly that if you think the poem may venture to see the light, I would, in some way or otiier, give it to the world. B.B. CCXXII. ( It has heen said that the pool lii\ eil to aggravate his follies to hu friends : hut that this tone of aggravation was often ironical, thi5 letter, as well as others, might be cited.", Ellinland, 1791. My dear Ainshe, Can you minister to a mind diseased ? can you, amid the horrors of penitence, remorse, head -ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d d hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a troubled soul ? Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick of the clock as it slowly, slowly, numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n them, are i-anked up before me, every one at his neighbour's backside, and every one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted head — and there is none to pity me. My wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. — When I tell you even * * * has lost its power to please, you will guess something of my hell within, and all around me — I began Elibanks and Eiibraes, but the stanzas fell unenjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue : at last I luckily thought of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me in my book-case, and I felt something for the first time since I opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well — 1 begin to breathe a little, since I began to write to you. How are you, and what are you doing ? IIow goes Law ? Apro- pos, for connexion's sake, do not address to me supervisor, for that is an honour I can- not pretend to — I am on the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by and bye to act as one; but at present, I am a simple ganger, tho' t'other day I got an ap- pointment to an excise division of 251. per annum better than the rest. My present income, down money, is 70/. per annum. I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to know. R.B. CCXXIII. ^0 ©ol. jPullatton. OF FULLAHTON. I'l'liis letter uas fust published in the Edinburgh Chronicle.; Ellis/and, 1791. Sin, I iiAVK just this minute got the frank, and next minute must send it to post, else I puiiioseU OF ROIIEKT BURNS. 311 to have sent you two or tliree other bagatelles, that might have uimised a vacant hour about as well as " Six exccllont now songs," or, tlic Aberdeon ' Prognostication for tlic yt-ar to come.' I shall probably trouble you soon with another pacliet. About the gloomy month of November, wiien ' the peojtle of England iiaiig and drown tiiemselves,' any thing generally is better than one's own thought. Fond as I may be of my own productions, it is not for their sake tiiat I am so anx- ious to send you them. I am ambitious, co- vetously ambitious of being known to a gen- tleman whom I am proud to call my coun- tryman ; a gentleman who was a foreign am- bassador as soon as he was a man, and a leader of armies as soon as he was a soldier, and that with an eclat unknown to the usual minions of a court, men who, w'ith all the adventitious ad- vantages of princely connexions and princely fortune, must yet, like the caterjjillar, labour a whole lifetime before they reach tlie wished height, there to roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the remaining glimmering existence of old age. If the gentleman who accompanied you when you did me the honour of calling on me, is with you, I beg to be respectfully remem- bered to him. I have the honour to be. Sir, Your highly obliged, and most devoted Humble servant R. B. CCXXIV. ^0 0Xm 3Balic0. This accomplished lariy was the youngest daughter of Dr. Danes, (if Tenby, in Pembrokeshire: she was related to the Riddels of Friar's Carse, and one of her sisters married Captain Adam Gordon, of the noble family of Kenmure. She had both taste and skill in verse.] It is impossible, Madam, that the generous warmth and angelic purity of your youthful mind, can have any idea of that moral disease luider which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean a tori)itude of the moral powers, that luay be called, a lethargy of con- science. — In vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes : beneath the deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence, their Avildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter, in the chink of a ruined wulL Xotliing less, ISIadam, could have made me so long neglect your obliging comnuinds. Indeed I had one apology — the liagatoJle was not worth presenting. Be- sides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies'a fatt! and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its chancL-s and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly ballad is downrigiit mock(>ry of these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. Gracious Heaven 1 why this disparity b(>tween our wisiies and our powers ? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest, impotent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert ! In my walks of life I have met with a few people to whom how gladly would I liave said — " Go, be haj)py ! I know that your hearts have been wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed above you — or worse still, in whose hands are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your life. But there ! ascend that rock. Indepen- dence, and look justly down on their littleness of soul. ^lake the worthless tremble under your iudignation, and the foolish sink before yoiu- contempt ; and largely impart that happi- ness to others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of add- ing one comfort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world, say I, that its affairs are admin- istered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good Heaven ! what a reform would I make among the sons and even the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately, should go fools from the high places, where misbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life should they skulk, ever haunted by their native insignifi- cance, as the body marches accompanied by its shadow. — As for a much more formidable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do with them : had I a world, there should not be a knave in it. But the hand that could give, I would libe- rally fill: and I would pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive, and generously love. Still the inequalities of life are, among men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a deli- cacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which we can place lovely Woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude, capricious distinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood- royal of life : let there be slight degrees of pre- cedency among them — but let them be all sacred. — Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not accountable; it is an original component feature of my mind. R.B. 4 s 342 GKNKUAL CORRESPONDENCE ccxxv. ^0 iWi$. Duulop. Iliiirns, sav^ Cmmek, acknowledged thdt a refiiiwl and accom- plished woman, was a ticing a'll but new tu him, till he went to iLdinbur};h,anil ivceived letters from Mrs. Uunlop.J Eliisland, \7lh December, 1791. ^[a.vy thanks to you, Madam, for your good news respectiiif,' the little floweret and the mo- ther-plant I hope my poetic prayers have been heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of their fullest extent; and then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the representative of his late parent, in every thing but his abridged existence. I have just finished the following song, which to a lady tlie descendant of Wallace — and many heroes of his truly illustrious line — and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology. " Scene— Afield of battle — time of the day, evening ; the wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following SONG OF DEATH. Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies Now gay with the bright setting sun ; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, ten- der ties — Our race of existence is nm ! The circumstance that gave rise to the forego- ing vei-ses was, looking over with a musical friend M'Donald's collection of Iligliland airs, I was stnick with one, an Isle of Skye time, entitled "Oran an Aoig, or, the "Song of Death," to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas. I have of late composed two or three other little pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu }e vous commende. R.B. CCXXVI. ^0 iWtg. Dunlop. [That Ihc poet spoke mildly concerning the rebuke which he re- ceived from the Kxclae. on what he calls his political delinquencies, his letter tn Krskinc of Mw sufficiently proves.] f)th January, 1 /I*-. You see my hurried life, Madam : I can only command starts of time; however, I am glad of one thing ; biuce I finished the other bheet, the political blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. I have corresponded with Commis- sioner Graham, for the board had made me the subject of their animadversions ; and now I have the pleasure of informing you, that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now as to these informers, may the devil be let loose to but, hold ! I was praying most fervently in my hist sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swear- ing in this. Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- ficious think wiiat mischief they do by their ma- licious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, gene- losity, kindness, — in all the charities and all the virtues, between one class of human beings and another ! For instance, the amia1)le circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts — their uncon- taminated dignified minds — their informed and polished understandings — what a contrast, when compared — if such comparing were not down- riglit sacrilege — witli the soul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the destruction of an honest man that never offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy fellows dining with me the other day, when I with great formality, pro- duced my wliigmeeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a family-piece among the de- scendants of William Walhu^e. This roused such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bum- pering the punch round in it ; and by and by, never did your great ancestor lay a Suthron more completely to rest, than for a time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the seiison of wishing. May (lod bless you, my dear friend, and bless me, the humblest, and sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many re- turns of the season ! May all good things at- tend you and yours wherever they are scattered over the earth ! R.B. CCXXVII. ro ittr. Milliam .Smcllie, [When Burns sends his warmest wishes to SmcUle, and prays that fiirtune may never place his subsistence at the mercy of a knave, or set his cliaractcr on the judgment of a fool, he had his political ene- mies probably Iti his mind.J Dumfries, 22nd January, 1792. I sir down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fjisli- ioii loo. What a task! to you — who care no OF K(H5KH1 HIJHNS. 343 more for the herd of animals called young ladicss, than you do for tlic herd of animals called younj! gentlemen. To you — who despise and detest the groupinfjs and coniliinations of fasiiion, as an idiot piiinter that sinsnis industrious to pUice staring fools and unprincipled knaves iu the fore- ground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often tlirown in tiie dimmest shades. Mrs. Kidded, who will take this letter to town with her, and send it to you, is a cha- racter that, even in your own way, as a naturalist and a piiilosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary to the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat of a judi^e in my own trade, 1 assure you that her verses, always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the common run of the lady- poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer of your book ; and, hearing me say that I was ac- quainted with you, she begged to be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was, to desire her near relation, and your inti- mate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his house while she was thei-e; and lest you might think of a lively West Indian girl, of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in ap- preciating 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 failing that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it, than where she esteems and respects. I will not present you with the unmeaning compl'mients of the season, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that FoRTUKE may never throw your subsist- ence to the mercy of a Knave, or set your CHARACTER on the judgment of a Fool ; but, that upright and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall say, here lies a man who did honour to science, and men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did honour to human nature. R.B. CCXXVIII. ^0 iWr. m. Nicol. [This ironical letter was in answer to one from Nicol, containing counsel and reproof.] 2Qth Februanj, 1792. O Tiiou, wisest among the wise, meridan blaze of prudence, full-moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy supor-emi- ni-nt goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest be- nignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calcu- lation, from the simple copulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of liuxions ! 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 inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less un- worthy 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 quo- tation 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 powers 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, thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted slave. il. B. CCXXIX. ^0 iFrantis ©rose, CFgtj. JfF.^.^. [Captain Grose was introduced to Burns, by liis brother Anti- quary, of Friar's Carse; he was collecting materials for Ins work on tile Antiquities of Scotland.) Sir, Dumfries, 1792. I BELIEVE among all our Scots Literati you have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, who 8 41 GENKRAL CORRFSPOX DF.NCE fills tlie moral i)liili)sopliy chair in the Univorsity of Kilinburj^h. 'I'o say that he is a man of tlie first parts, and what is more^ a man of the first worth, to a gentleman of your general acquaint- ance, and who so nmch enjoys tlie luxury of un- encumbered freedom and undisturbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation enough : — but when I inform you that Mr. Stewarts principal characteristic is your favourite feature; that star- ling independence of mind, which, though every man's right, so few men have the courage to claim, and fewer still, the magnanimity to sup- j>ort : — when 1 tell you that unseduced by splen- dour, and undisgusted by wretchedness, he ap- preciates the merits of the various actors in the great drama of life, merely as they perform their parts— in short, he is a man after your own lieait, and I comply with his earnest rccpiest in letting you know that he wishes above all things to meet with you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, which you pro- posed visiting; or if you could transmit him the enclosed, he would with the greatest pleasure meet you anywhere in the neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted myself of my promise. Should your time and spirits i)ermit your meeting with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will forgive this liberty, and I have at least an opportunity of assuring you witli what truth and respect, I am, Sir, Your gieat admirer. And very humble servant, R. R CCXXX. ^0 dPtancis 6 rose, Cfjiq. jf.^.^. (This letter, interesting m all who desire to see liowa poet works beauty anil regularity out of a \ulgRr tradition, was first printed by SirEgerton Brydgcs, in the ■• Ccnsura Literaria."] Dumfries, 17f'2. Amoxg the many witch stories I have heard, relating to AUoway kirk, I distinctly remember only two or three. Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and bitter bhists of hail ; in short, on such a night iis the devil would choose to take the air in; a farmer or farmer's .servant was plod- ding and plashing horntnvard with his plough- ii'ons on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being ra- ther on the anxious look-out in aj)proaching a place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, he was sti-uck aghast by discovering through the horrois of the storm and stormy night, a light, which on his neaicr approach jjlainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether he had boon fortified from above, on his devout supplication, as is customary with people when they suspect the immediate presence of Satan ; or whether, according to another custom, he had got courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; but so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay into the very kirk. As luck would have it his temerity came ofFunj)unished. The members of the infernal junto were all out on some midnight business or other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering someheads of unchristened children, limbs of exe- cuted malefactors, &.c. for the business of the night. — It was, in for a penny in for a pound, with the honest ploughman : so without ceremony he unhooked the caldron from oft" the fire, and pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted 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 equidly authentic, was as follows : On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which 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 was the wizard hour, between night and morn- ing. Though he wa? terrified with a blaze stream- ing from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. AVhen he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and entertained, through the ribs and arches of an old gothic window, which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bag-pipe. The farmer stopping his horse to ob- serve them a little, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of his acquaintance and neiglil)Ourhood. How the gentleman was dressed tradition does not say; but that the ladies were all in th(>ir smocks: and one of them hajipening unluckily to have a smock which Avas consider- ably too short to answer all the purpose of that jiiece 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 sijecd. I need not men- tion the univei'sally known fact, that no diaboli- cal power can pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor faiiner 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 OF HUBERT BURNS. .'345 hags, were so close at liis heels, that one of tlioni iictiiiilly spninjf to stuzo him ; but it was too late, notliing was on Iior side of the stream but the liorse's tail, wliieli immediately gave way at her infernal j^i'il), as if blasted by a stroke of light- ning ; but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, the misiglitly, tailless condition of the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warning to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr 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 AUoway, I shall relate it. On a summer's evening, about the time that nature puts on her sables to mourn the exjiiry 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 the adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men and women, who were busy pulling stems of the plant Ragwort. He observed that as each per- son pulled a Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out, "Uphorsie !" on which the Rag- wort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The foolish boy likewise puUed his Ragwort, 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, until the morning, foe to the imps and works of dark- ness, threatened to throw light on the matter, and frightened them from their carousals. 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 some of the people belonging to the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 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 iaie I am, &c. R.B. CCXXXI Zo i«v. 5. ©larfec, EDINBURGH. [This introduction of Clarke, the musician, to the M'Muro'sof Drumlanrig, brought to two of the ladies the choicest honours of the nuise.] Juhj 16, 1692. ilR. BuRxs begs leave to present his most re- spectful 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 hapj)y as indolence, the devil, and the gout will permit him. ]SIr. B. knows well how ]Mr. C. is engaged with another family; but cannot Mr. C. find two or three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B. is deeply impressed with, and awfully (con- scious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'s time, whether in the winged moments of symphonious exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while listen- ing seraphs cease their own less delightful strains; or in the drowsy arms of slumb'rous re- pose, in the arms of his dearly beloved elbow- chair, where the frow.sy, but potent power of indolence, circimifuses her vapours round, and sheds her dews on the head of her darling son. But half a line conveying half a meaning from ]Mr. C. would make Mr. B. the happiest of mor- tals. CCXXXII. Zo i^lrs. Sunlop. [To enthusiastic fits of admiration for the young and the beau- tiful, such as Bums 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, 1702. 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 punish me sufiiciently. ******* Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for many favours ; to esteem for much worth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- gressive, increasing friendship —as for a single 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 unfathomable 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 ecpiivocal term for ex- pressing one's sentiments and sensations, 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 4 T 340 GKNEKAL COiaiKSl'ONDENCE have in ^.iziuj^ upon and listoiiing to :i nicsson^it'r of heaven, appearing in all tlie unspotted purity of liis celestial home, among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations soar in transport — such, so delighting and so pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley Baillie, your neiglihour, at M . Mr. B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., passing througli 1 )umfries 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, 1 think, when 1 left tliem, and, riduig home, I comi)Osed 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 be- ginning with — " My bonnie Lizie Baillie I'll rowc thee in my plalddici Ike." So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the fii-st copy, "unannointed, unanneal'd;" as Hamlet says. — O saw ye bonny Lesley As she gaed o"er the border ? She's gane like Alexander, To spread her conquests fai'ther. 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. Tliis world of ours, notwithstauding it iuus many good things in it, yet it has ever had tlii.s curse, that two or three people who would be the hajjijier 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 iii his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former intimacies, with tliis endearing addition, tiiat, " we meet to part no more I" " Tell us, ye dead. Will none of yon in pity disulohe the secret, What 'tis you are, and wc must shortly be ?" Ul.AIU. A thousand times liavc I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of men, but not om; of them has ever thought fit to answer the ipicstion. " O that some courteous giiost would Idab it out!" but it cannot lie; you and I, my friend, must make tlie experiment by ourselves and for ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in tlie doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by making us bett(;r men, but also by making us happier men, that 1 should take every care that your little godson, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall bo tftu-ht them. So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of the world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua. II. B. CCXXXIII. ro iHr. CuuniuciSam. [There Is both bitterness and humour in this letter: the poet dis- courses on many matters, and woman is amons them— but he places the bnitle at his elbow as an antidote against the discourtesy of scaiidal.J Dumfries, lOlh September, 1792. No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all my hurry of business, grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on tlie merciless wheels of the Excise ; making ballads, and then drink- ing, and singing them ; and, over and above all, the correcting the press-work of two different publications ; still, still I might have stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my friends and fellow-creatun s. I might have done, as I do at present, snatched an hour near " witch- ing time of night," and scrawled a page or two. I might have congratulated my friend on liis marriage ; or I might have thauked the Cale- donifiu archere for the honour they have done me, (tliough to do myself justice, I intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had done botli long ere now). Well, then, here's to your good health ! for you must know, I have set a nip- perkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned deil, or any of his subaltern imps who rnay be on their nightly rounds. But wliat .shall I write to you ? — "The voice saiil cry," and I said, " what shall I cry?" — O, thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever tliou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker ill his gloamin route frae the faulde ! — Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by tlie blazing ingle, or in tJio solitary barn, where tiie repercussions of thy iron flail half affright thyself, jis thou pei'formest the work of twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing sum- mon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the howlhig of the storm and the roaring of tlie flood, as thou viewest tlie perils and mise- ries of man on the foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat!— Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in the shadow of tlu; time-worn church, while tlie moon looks, witliout a cloud, on the OF ROBERT BURNS. '617 silent, ghastly dwellinj^s of the dead around tlicc; or tukiiij^ thy stand by the bedside of the villain, or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreamin;^ fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- veiled hell, and terrible as the wratii of incensed Deity! — Come, thou si)irit, but not in these horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, tcisy insjjirations, whicli thou breathest round tlie wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a tea-si])ping gossip, while their tongues run at the light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and ever — come and assist a poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among half a hundred words ; to till up four quarto pages, while he has not got one single sentence of recollection, information, or renuirk worth putting pen to paper for. I feel, 1 feel the presence of sujx'rnatural iis- sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil on her three-footed stool, and like her, too, la- bours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-jiost in the mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of physic ; and particularly in the sightless soariugs of SCHOOL DIVINITY, wlio, leaving Common Sense confounded at his strength of pinion. Reason, delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; and Trutli creeping back into the bottom of her well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theo- logic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. " On earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, o^Dening her jealous gates to the nineteenth thou- sandth part of the tithe of mankind; and below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! !" — O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded soul of man ! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to whom day brings no jjleasure, and night yields no rest, be comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nine- teen hundred thousand that your situation will mend in tliis world;" so, alas, the experience of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas of * * * * * * * * that you will be danmed 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, wliy a secta- rian tui-n of mind has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They are orderly ; tliey may be just ; nay, I have known tlu'in merciful : but still your children of sanctity move among their fellow-creatures with a nos- tril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurning filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that your titled ******** Qj. jjny other of your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries standing, display when they accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remem- ber, in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it jjossible that a noble lord could be a fool. or a godly man could be a knave. — How igno- rant are plough-boys ! — Nay, I have since dis- covered that a (jodly woman may be a * * * * * ! — But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is gene- rous 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 sigiiing girls take it to lie ! But marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of his institutions. I am a husl)and of older standing than you, and siiall give you my ideas of the corijugal state, {en passant; you know I am no Latinist, is not con- jugal derived from juyum, a yoke ?) Well then, the scale of good wifeship I divide into tenpaits: ■ — goodnature, four; good sense, two; wit, one ; personal charms, viz. a sweet face, elo- quent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, (1 would add a fine waist too, but that is so soon spoilt you know) all these, one ; as for the other qual- ities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such as fortune, connexions, education, (I mean education extraordinary) family blood, &c. di- vide the two remaining degrees among them as you please ; only, remember that all these minor properties must be expressed by fractions, for tJiere is not any one of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to 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, elegcint 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 o' men adore thee. The very deil he could na scathe Whatever wad belang thee ! He'd look into thy bonnie fiice And say, ' I canna wrang thee.' — behold 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 conve- nient season. Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed io,so7n-companion, be given the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things brought forth by the inoon, and^ the benignest influences of the stars, and the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, and by the tree of life, for ever and ever Amen ! _ R. B. 348 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE ccxxxiv. (George Thomson, i>f EdinburKh, principal clerk to tlie trustees for thecncourawinx the manufactiins of Sootland, projected a work, entitled, " A select Collection of OriKiiial Sc-otiish A\n, for the Voice, t.> which are added inlrIy wife's a wanton wee thing," if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it ; and though, on further study I might give you something more profound, yet it miglit not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink: — ^ly \nfe's a winsome wee thing, &c.' I have just been looking over the "Collier's bonny dochter;" and if the following rhapsody, w hich I composed the other day, on a charming Ayrshire girl. Miss Lesley Bailiie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit your t:ifite better than the " Collier Lassie," fall on and welcome : — O, saw ye bonny Lesley ? &c.' I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, and desen'o, a greater effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c. 11. B. > SuiigCLWIX. 2 S)ngCl.XXX. -I MingCLXWl- CCXXXIX. ro iHr. 'JTIjomgon. [The storj' of Miirj' Campbell's Icjve is related in the notes on the songs which the poet wrote in her honour. Tlionison says, in his an- swer, " 1 have heard the sad story of your Mary ; you always seem inspired wlien you write of her." J 14/A November, 1792. My dear Sir, I AGREE with you that the song, " Katharine Ogie," is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- gether unworthy of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it ; but the awkward sound, Ogie, re- curring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The foregoing song' pleases myself ; I think it is in my happiest manner : you will see at first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days, and I own that 1 should be much 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. ^0 iHr. Tftomgon. I The poet approved of se\eral emendations pitiposed by Thomson, whose wish was to make liie words flow more readily with the music : he refused, hoHcver, to adopt others, where he thought too much of the sense »as sacrificed.] Dumfries, 1st Dec. 1792. Youn alterations of my "Nannie, O!" 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- ises our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter "Bonnie Lesley." You are right; the word "Alexander" makes the line a little un- couth, but 1 think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that " he went forth conquering and to conquer." > Yc hnnks and braes and streams around Tlic castle o' Montijomery, SongfLXXXll. OF ROBKKT BURNS. 351 For nature made her what she is, And never made unither. (Such a person as she is.) Tills is, in my opinion, more poetical than " Ne'er made sic anither." However, it is im- material : make it either way. " Caledonie," 1 agree with you, is not so good a word as could he mIsIuhI, though it is sanctioned in three or four instances hy Allan llamsay ; but I cannot help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. R. B. CCXLT. :0 iWr. 'Srijom^on. [Duncan Gray, which this letter contained, became a favourite as soon as it was published, and the same may be said of Auld Kob hlorris.] 4lh December, 1792. The foregoing ["Auld Ifob 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, wliicli precludes sentiment. The ludici'ous is its ruling feature. R. B. CCXLTI. [Burns often discourses with Mrs. Dunlop on poctiy and poets : the dramasof Thomson, to whicli he alludes, are stift', cold compositions.] Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. I SHALL 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 newspapei", that I do not see some names that I have known, and which I, and other acquaint- ances, little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into tlie dreadful al>yss of uncertainty, and shudder with apprehension for our own fate. But of how dif- ferent an importance are the lives of different individuals ? Nay, of what importance is one period of the same life, more than another ? A few years ago, I could have laid down in the dust, " careless of the voice of the morning ;" 1 Songs CLXXX III. and CLXXXIV. and now not a few, and these most helpless in- dividuals, 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 mo a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's " Edward and Eleonora :" " The valiant ira 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, peculiarly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Madam, to your present frame of mind : " Who so unworthy hut may proudly deck him With his fair-weather virtue, that exults Glad o'er the summer main ? the tempest comes, The roufjh winds rage aloud ; when from the helm This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial. How cheap a thing were virtue !" I do not remember to have heard you men- tion Thomsons dramas. I pick ujj 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, I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- pression, is much more bounded than that of the imagination ; so the notes of t'.ie former are ex- tremely apt to run into one another ; but in re- turn for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I must still give you an- other quotation, which I am almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot resist the tempt- ation. The subject is religion — speaking of its importance to mankind, the author says, " 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our moniing 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, I am a placeman, you know ; a very humble one indeed. Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter. ♦ « * » * I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page, called " The rights of woman :" While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things.'' I shall have the honour of receiving your criti- cisms in person at Dunlop. R. B. 352 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CCXLIII. ^0 l\. draljam, Icgq. FrNTRY. [Graham stood by the bard in thehotir of peril recorded in this let- ter : and the Board of Excise had the (fenerosity to permit him to eat iis " bitter bread " for the remainder of his life] Sir, December, 1792. I HAVE been surprised, confounded, and dis- tracted by Air. Mitchell, tlie collector, telling me that he has received an order from your Board to enquire into my political conduct, and blaming me iis a person disaifected to govern- ment. Sir, you are a husband — and a father. — You know what you would feel, to see the mucli- loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones, turned adrift into tiie world, degraded and disgraced from a situation in whicii they had been respectable and respected^ and left almost without the necessary support of a miserable existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think that sucii, soon, will be my lot ! and from tlie d-inned, dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ! I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in the siglit of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can bo, than those I have men- tioned, hung over my head ; and I say, that the allegation, whatever villain h;is made it, is a lie! To the British constitution on Revolution prin- ciples, next after my God, I am most devoutly attached ; you, Sir, have been much and gene- rously my friend. — Heaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have tiianked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- tronage, and me dependence. — I would not for my single self, call on your humanity ; were such my insular, unconnected situation, 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 resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due : to these, Sir, permit me to ajjpeal ; by these may I adjure you to save me from that misery wiiicli tiii-eatens to overwhelm me, and which, with my latest br<'4itb I will say it, I have not deserved. R. B. CCXLIV. Zo £hXxi. 33unIop. [ Bums was ordered , he says, to mind his duues in the Kxcisc, and to hold his tongue about politics — the latter part of the injunction was hard to obey, for at that time politics were in everj- mouth.] Dumfries, 3lj.i December, 1792. Dear Madam, A HURRy of business, tlirown in heaps by my absence, has until now prevented my returning my grateful acknowledgments to tiie good family of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospit- able kindness wliich rendered the four days I spent under that genial roof, four of the plca- santest I ever enjoyed. — Alas, my dearest friend ! liow few and fleeting are those things we call pleasures ! on my road to Ayrsliire, I spent a night with a friend whom I much valued ; a man wiiose days promised to be many ; and on Satur- day last we laid him in tlie dust ! Jan. 2, 1793. I HAVE just received yours of tlie 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 (piite free of my complaint. — You must not tiiink, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough; but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. Against this I have again and again bent my re- solution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 1 have totally abandoned : it is the private par- ties in the family way, among the hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, that do me the mis- chief — but even this I have more than half given over. Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present ; at least I should be shy of applying. I cannot possibly bo settled as a supervisor, ...i- several years. I must wait the rotation of the list, and there are twenty names before mine. — 1 migiit indeed get a job of officiating, where a settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but tiiat liaiils me from my family, as I could not remove them on sucii an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my {)olitical 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 ])olitics ; but to you, I must breatiie my senti- ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emotions of my soul. War I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive demon. R. B. OF KOI'.KUT BUltNS, ;j5:3 CCXLV. [ThesonKsto uliich :he poet alludts were " I'oortitli Cauld," and ' ' Galbi Water."J Jan. 17fK5. Many returns of tlie season to you, my dear Sir. How comes on your publication? — will these two forejroinjr [Songs clxxxv, and ci.xxxvi.] be of any service to you ? I should like to know what songs you print to each tune, besides tlie verses to which it is set. In short, I would wish to give you my opinion on all the poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade may suggest useful hints that escape men of much superior parts and endowments in other tilings. 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. ^0 i^Tr. ^I^omgon. (Thomson explained more fully than at first the plan of his publi- cation, and stated that Dr. Beattie had promised an essay on Scottish music, by uay of an introduction to the work.] 26 set. Tliere is a na'lveti, a j)astoral 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 sprightiiness of our native music, than any English versos Avhatever. 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 ])resumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, 1 think, more of the ballad simplicity in it. fHere follows "Lord Gregory." Sons CLXXXV II. J My most respectful compliments to the ho- nourable gentleman who farouri'd me with a postscript in your last. He shall hear from me and receive his MSS. soon. Yours, It. B. CCXLVII [The seal, with the coat-of-arms which th^ poet inveutid, is sf.li in the family, and regarded as a relique.] '6rd March, 1793. Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to write you further. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, meany, that the three demons, indolence, business, ami ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' fragment to take up a pen in. Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoj-ing up- wards with the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much 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 Robertson, of Lude, who was here with his corps. *«♦■*■** There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- sent from a departed fi-iend, which vexes me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which 1 fancy would make a very decent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; will you be so obliging as enquire what will bo 4 X 354 GENERAL COKRESrON DENCE the expense of such a business ? I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented arms for my- self, so you know I shall be chief of the name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a lierald, and shall give you, secundum ariem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly-busli. 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 a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottos ; round the top of tlie crest, Wood notes wild ; at the bot- tom of the shield, in the usual place. Better a wee hush than nae bietd. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd. By tlie by, 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 " Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of the nobl(>st pastoral in the world ; and dear as it was, I mean, dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it ; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for suli- scribers only. He is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cun- ningham, is there in riches, tliat tiiey nairow and harden the heart so? I think, that wore I as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as the day ; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that wealth 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 riclies as a nabob or govern- ment 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, CCXLVIIT. To iHt. '2r?)omson. f Bums in these car U-ss words makes us acquainted « itli one of liis jweclcst Sfjngs.] 20//J March, 17fl3. My DEAR Sir, The 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 ' Son,' CLX XXV III feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. What is become of the list, Song CXCIV. « Song CX.CV1IL 3 SongCCXXXIV. 4 Y 358 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 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 me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. Ac- cept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude; for words would but mock the emotions of my souk You have been misinformed as to ray final dismission from the Excise; I am still in the service. — Indeed but for the exertions of a gen- tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a gentleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much as a hearing, or the slightest pre\'ious in- timation, been turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want. Ilad I had any other resource, probably I might have 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 original principles, experience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory : — that, in consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately in the hands of i)eople in power, I had forborne taking any active part, either personally, or as an author, in the present busi- ness of Rkfohm. But, tliat, 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 legisla- ture, whicli boded no good to our glorious con- stitution; and which evei-y patiiotic 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; wliere, it seems, my last remark gave great offence; and one of our supervisors- general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire on tlie spot, and to document me — " that my business was to act, not to think ; and that what- ever might 1)0 men or measures, it was for me to be silent and obedient." Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been partly forgiven ; only I understand that all hopes of my getting officially forward, are blasted. Now, Sir, to the business in wliicli I would more immediately interest you. The partiality of my COUNTRYMEN has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the Poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and family, havcpointed out as the eligible, and situated as I was, the only eligible line of life for me, my present oc- cupation. Still my honest fame is my dearest concern ; and a thousand times have 1 trembled at the idea of those degrading e})ithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling paragraphs — " Burns, notwithstand- ing the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to public view and to public estimation as a man of some genius, yet quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind.'' In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan- derous falsehoods. 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, wlio, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves. — Can I look tamely on, and see any machination to wrest from them the biitliriglit of my boys,— the little independent Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood? — No ! I will not! should my heart's blood stream around my attempt to defend it! Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can be of no service ; and that it does not be- long to my humble station to meddle with the concern oi' a nation ? I can tell him, that it is on such individuals as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. The uninformed mob may swell a nation's bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, may be its feathered ornament ; but the number of those wlio are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect ; yet low enougli to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court! — these are a nation's strength. I know not how to apologize for the imperti- nent length of this epistle; but one small request I mui^t ask of you further — when you have lionourcd this letter with a perusal, please to commit it to the flanu>s. Burns, in whose be- lialf you have so genorous^ly interested youiself. OF ROREItT BURNS. S59 I have lioro in his native colours drawn as he is ; but shouhl any of the people in whose hands is the very bread he eats, get the least knowledjjje of the picture, it would ruin the poor baud for ever I My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to j>rcseut 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. ^0 iRobcrt afnsHe, CFgq. [" Up tails a'.bythelighto' the moon," was the name of a Scottish air, to which the devil aanceil with the witches of Fife, on Mag:us Moor, as rcponeii by a warlock, in that credible work, " Satan's In- \isiblc World ditcovered."] April,2G, 1793. I AM d-mnably out of humour, my dear Ains- lie, and that is the reason, why I take iip the pen to yoM : 'tis the nearest way (pjobatum est) to recover my spirits again. I received your last, and was much entertained with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at any other time, answer it. — Answer a letter ? I never could answer a letter in my life !- — I have ■written many a letter in return for letters I have received; but then — they were original matter — spurt-away ! zig here, zag there ; as if the devil that, my Grannie (an old woman indeed) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or in her more classic phrase, SpuNKiE,were look- ing over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea has engendered in my head ! Spunkie — 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 mours 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 light : and if any opaque-souled lubber of man- kind complain that my elfine, lambent, glim- merous wanderings have misled his stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs, let the thick- lieaded blunderbuss recollect, that he is not Sfunkie : — that " Spunk [e's wanderings could not copied bo: Amid these perils none durst walk but he.' — I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught, as a Scotchman catches the itch, — by friction. How else can you account for it, that born blockheads, by more dint of handling books, growsowise thateven 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. — Johnnie 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 foHo, with, and under which, wrapt up in his grey plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all the way home. lie car- ried this so far, that an old musty Hebrew con- cordance, 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, ac- quired as much rational theology as the said priest had done by forty years periisal of the pages. Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory. Yours, Spunkie. CCLVII. tZTo iJ^igg ItcnncDg. [Miss Kennedy was one of chat numerous band of ladies who pa- tronized the poet in Edinburgh ; she was related to the Hamiltons of Mussgiel.] ]\Iadam, 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 LOVEUS, whose exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still nearer perfection than you really are. Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feelmost forcibly the powers of beauty; as, if they are really POETS of nature's making, their feelings must be finer, and their taste more delicate than most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive mildness of autumn ; the gran- deur 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, in- 360 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE debted to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in intro- ducinj^ nie to you. Your lovers may view you with a wish, I look on you witli 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 heart — that the snares of villany may never beset you in the road of life— that i'nvocence may hand you by the jiath of HONOUR to the dwelling of i'eace, is the sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, GKNEKAL CORUIiSPONDENCE CCLXXII. [Thi^ letter contains funher pnof of tlie love of Iturns for the nirs of the Highlands.] Sept. 17!'3. I DARE say, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think niy'corrospondeuce is persecution. No matter, I cau't help it ; a ballad is ray hobby- liorse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical be;ist enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or post in the common race of men. The following song I have composed for "Oran- gaoil," the Highland air that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finislied 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 ari-ive.^ R. B. CCLXXIII. [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 liere 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 Marj', " Love, I like the burn. And aye shall follow you." ' " Thro' the wood laddie" — I am decidedly of opinion tliat both in this, and " There'll never sonKC'CVllI. Mr. ThoniNin't list of annitii for hi» puhlicattnn. This is an altiTati.in ut cint of Crawfurd's 'ongj. 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 omitted 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," is the production of Crawfurd. Robert was his Christian name.' "Laddie, lie near me," must lie by me for some time. 1 do not know the air; and until I am com- plete master of a tune, in my own singing (such as it is) I can never compose for it. ]My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment correspon- dent to my idea of the musical expression ; then chooose my theme; begin one stanza: when tliat is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit dtjwn 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 I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire-side of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging at intervals on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of call- ing forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- variably my way. What cursed egotism ! " Gill IMorice" I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length ; the air itself is never sung ; and its place can well be supplied by one or two songs for fine airs that are not in your list — for instance " Craigieburn-wood" and "Roy's wife." The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has no- velty, and the last has high merit as well as great celebrity. I have the orginal words of a song for the last air, in the handwriting of the lady who composed it ; and they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen. " Highland-laddie." The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian- 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 Muscnnn, " 1 liae 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 mean- time, waiting for this direction, bestow a liba- tion to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice. Prohalum est. " Auld Sir Simon" I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place " The Quaker's wife." ' Hi.>C'hristian name was William. OF KOHKRT BURNS. 307 " Bly tlie hae I been on yon hiil," ' is 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 tlie world. As I purpose giving you the names and designa- tious of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include " The bon- niest lass in a' the warld," in your collection. " Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, and always witli the chorus to the low part of the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much us your opinion on tliis subject. If it will not suit as I proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow, ex- actly 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 possi- ble, in singing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an ad- mirably pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time in which " Patie Allan's mither died — that was about the back o' mid- night;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every mortal in company ex- cept tliehautbois 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,'" 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 adante ■way would unite with a charming sentimental ballad. " Saw ye my father?'" is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before last, I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think is its native style. I must premise that the old way, and the way to give most effect, is to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Eveiy country girl sings " Saw ye my father?" &c. My song is but just begun ; and I should like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of it, I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct 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 I SongCXCV. sSongCClX. 3 By William Julius Micklc. * Thesong here alluded lo is one which the poet afteruards sent in an entire form: — " Where arc the joys I hac met in the morning." braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and I have done ; " Auld lang syne." The air is but mediocre; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it 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, have a num- ber of ballads, properly so called. " Gill Mo- rice," " Tranent Muir," " Macpherson's fare- well," " Battle of Sheriff-muir," or, " Wc 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 1 leally have the old tune to which "The cherry and the slae" was sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known air in " Scotland's Complaint," a book published before poor Mary's days ? ^ It was then called " The banks of Helicon ;" an old poem which Pinker- ton 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 origi- nal things of this kind. KB. CCLXXIV. ^0 iWr. ®5omgon. I Bums listened too readily to the suggestion of Thomson, to alter " Bruce's Address to his troops at Bannock burn :" whatever may be the merits of the air of " Louis Gordon," the sublime simplicity of the words was injured, by the alteration: it is now sung as origi- nally written, by all singers of taste. J September, 1793. I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea, "honour's bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you please, vve will let the line stand as it is. I have altered thesong as follows : — ' N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace — " A false usurper sinks in every foe, And liberty returns with every blow. A couplet worthy of Homer. Y^esterday 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. KB. ' SongCCX. ^ A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwards edited. 3 SongCCVII. 368 GENERAL COllUESPONDENCE CCLXXV. [The poet's good sense rose at last in arms against the criticisms of the musician, ai.d he refused to lessen the diKi'ity "f his war- ode by any more alterations.] September, \T-^:i. " 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. 1 am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on reconsidering it, as 1 think 1 have much improved it. Instead of "sod'--er ! 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 tliat I have no pretensions to cope in judgment witli Vou. Of the poetry 1 speak -with confidence ; but the music is a business where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. The old verses have merit, though unequal, and are popular : my advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine follow as English verses. Here they are : — Where are the joys I have met in the morn- Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so I sliall defer some other remarks until more leisure. 11. 15. CCLXXVI. ^0 iWt. 'Cl)om$on. (For " Fy ! let us a' to the bridal," and " Fy I pie me my co^gic, Sirs," and " There's nac luck about the house," Hums puts in a word of praise, from a feeling that Thomson's taste would induce him to exclude the first— one of our most original song*— from his collection.] September, 179-1. 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 English songs. > Sonc CCXI. For " Muirland Willie," you have, in Ram- say's Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, " Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As for " The colliers dochtei-,'' take the following old bacchanal : — " Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c." ' The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend thus : How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan s cry ? The song otherwise will pass. As to " M'Gre- goria llua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in the Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song be- Raving winds around her blowing.* Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank Irish. If they were like the " Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number ? We could easily find this quantity of charming airs, I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's sake, we shall "not insert it. " Deil tak the wars" is a charming song ; so is, " Saw ye my Peggy ?" " There's nae luck about the house" well deserves a place. I cannot say that " O'er the hills and far awa" strikes me as equal to your selection, " This is no my ain house" is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of " I hae laid a herrin' in saut ?" I like it much. Your Jaco- bite airs are pretty, ami there are many others of the same kind pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I tliink, insert " Fy ! let's a' to the bridal," to any other words than its own. What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, " 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 ye my father, or saw ye my mother !" delights me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, " Ken ye what meg o' the mill has gotten ?" pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all this; but "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." R.B. SongCCXII. s Song 1,11. OF ROBKKT BURNS. 369 CCLXXVII. ^0 0ix. 'STj^omson. [Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an aecount was communicated in a Utter to Bums by Thomson, which the WTiter has withhel(L He was a gentleman of talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celehrated work.] October, 1793. You a last letter, my dear Thomson, Avas indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine ! ' The recollection that he was a co- adjutator in your publication, has till now scared rae from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on composing for you. I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of tlie " Quaker's wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of " Leiger m' chess." The following verses, I hope, wiU please you, as an English song to the air. Thine am I, my faithful fair : ^ Your objection to the English song I pro- posed for " John Anderson my jo," is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit. SOKG. — By GAVIN TUENBULL. ^ Oh, condescend, dear charming maid. My wretched state to view ; A tender swain, to love betraj'd, And sad despair, by you. While here, all melancholy, My passion I deplore. Yet, urg'd by stern , resistless fate, I love thee more and more. I heard of love, and vnih disdain The urchin's power denied. I laugh'd at every lover's pain, And mock'd them when they sigh'J. But how my state is alter'd ! Those happy days are o'er; For all thy unrelenting hate, 1 love thee more and more. Oh, yield, Ulustriovis beauty, yield ! No longer let me mourn ; And though \'ictorious in the field. Thy captive do not scorn. Let generous pity warm thee. My wonted peace restore; And grateful I shall Idcss thee still. And love thee more and more. 1 •« The Honourable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communicate* in an excellent letter, which he has sup- pressed."— Curri e. 2 SoiigCCXIIl. 3 Gavin TumbuU was th« author of a now forgotten volume, published at (Jlasgow, in 1788, underthe title of " Poetical Essays." The following address of TumbuU's to the Nightingale will suit as an English song to the air " There was a lass, and she was fair." By the bye, TurnbuU has a great many songs in MS., which I can command, if you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour ; but I like some of his pieces very much. THE NIGHTINGALE. Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. That ever tried the plaintive strain. Awake thy tender tale of love. And soothe a poor forsaken swain. For though the muses deign to ud And teach him smoothly to complain. Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. Is deaf to her forsaken swain. All day, with fashion's gaudy sons. In sport she wanders o'er the plain: Their talcs approves, and still she shuns The notes of her forsaken swain. When evening shades obscure the sky. And bring the solemn hours again. Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. And soothe a poor forsaken swain. I shall just transcribe another of TumbuU's, which would go charmingly to " Lewie Gor- don." LAURA. Let me wander where I will, By shady wood, or winding rill ; Where the sweetest May-bom flowers Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; Where the linnet's early song Echoes sweet the woods among : Let me wander where I will, Laura haunts my fancy still. If at rosy dawn I choose To indulge the smiling muse ; If I court some cool retreat. To avoid the noontide heat ; If beneath the moon's pale ray. Thro' unfrequented wiids I stray; Let me wander where 1 will, Laura haunts my fancy still. When at night the drowsy god Waves his sleep-compelling rod. And to fancy's wakeful eyes Bids celestial vision rise, Wliile with boundless joy I rove Thro' the fairj' land of love; Let me wander where 1 will, Laura haunts my fancy ttill. The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity. R.B. £ B 370 GKNERAL CORRRSPONDEXCE CCLXXVIII. WITH A PARCEL. [The collection ofs(ing5 alluded to in this letter, are only known to the curiiius in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure book- teller, but not before doath had secured him from the indignation of Bums. J Sir, Dumfries, [December, 1793] 'Tis said that we take the frreatest liberties with our (greatest friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which I am going to ai>ply the remark. 1 have owed vou money longer than ever I owed it to any man. Ileie is Kerr's account, and here are the (?ix guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man — or woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages, ^ I had done myself tlie honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hos- pitality has laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentle- man, of itself was fully as much as I could ever make liead against ; but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots songs I have for some years been making : 1 send you a perusal of what I have got together. I could not conve- niently spare them above five or six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. "When you are tired of them, please leave them witli ^Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection in the world ; and I should be soiTy that any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of ■what has cost me a good deal of pains. I have the honour to be, &c. R. B. CCLXXIX. Zo 3)o5n i>t'i«urKo, IHgq. DRUMLANRIG. [Thes* words, thrown into the form of a note, arc copied from a blank leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small octavf.,ln 171*3.] Dumfries, l^9'^. Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to ac- cept of these volumes; a trifling but sincere mark of the very high res])oct I bear for his woith as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet ; one honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever claim as mine : — to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of truth. Thk Author. CCLXXX. 'o C^Aptatn [This excellent letter obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is coined from my kind friend Chambers's collection of Scottish songs.] Sir, Dumfries, 5th December, 1793. > Scottish Bank Notei Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your ac- quaintance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. " lie is the fa- ther of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour to tiie business, at the same time that the business does honour to him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was talking of your coming to this county with your coi'ps. " Then," I said, " I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, ' Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are sacred.'" In times like these, Sir, wlien our commoners are barely able by the glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and when lords are what gentlemen M'onld be ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking coun- try call for help ? To the independent country gentleman ? To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest for her wel- fare ; and who in the honest pride of man can view with equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corruption. I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. AVhen I fall in with you at the theatre, 1 shall be glad to have your opinion of it. Accept of it. Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind. I have the honour to be, R.K OF ROBERT BURNS. 371 CCLXXXI. Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at the Dumfries Theatre. f Tliis clever lady, to whom Burns so happily applies the words of Thomson, died in the year 1820, at Hampton Court. ] I AM thinking to send my "Address" to some periodical publication, but it has not yet got your sanction, so pray look over it. As to the Tuesday's play, let me besf of you, my dear madam, to give us, " The Wonder, a Woman keejjs a Secret !" to which please add, " The Spoilt Child" — you will highly oblige me by so doing. Ah, what an enviable creature you are. There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits — "To play the shapes Of frolic fancy, and incessant lorm Those rapid j ictures, assembled train Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; Or foUy-paintins humour, giave himself. Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." Thomson. But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. R. B. CCLXXXII. '3ro a Salig, IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYEr's BENEFIT. [The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, has not transpii-ed.J Dumfries, 1794. !Madam, You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your presence on his benefit uight. That night is fixed for Friday first : the play a most interesting one ! " The Way to Keep Him." I have the pleasure to know ISIr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage: he is a poor and modest man ; claims which from their very silence have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that from the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in their gift, too often doesbrazen-frontedimportunitysnatch that boon, the righful due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of nature, by far the most enviable is — to be able " to wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to the graves, to their mag- nificent mausoleums, with hardly the conscious- ness of having made one poor honest heart happy ! But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came to beg, not to preach. R. B. CCLXXXIII. ^0 tijc ^arl of ISucj^an, Vt'itha Copy of Bruce'' s Address to his Troops at Bannockburn. [This fantastic Earl of Ruchan died a few years apo: when he «as put into the family burial-ground, at Dryburgh, his head was laid the wrong way, which Sir Walter Scott said was little uiattcr, as it had nevtr been quite right in his lifetime, j Dumfries, \2th January, 1794. My Lord, Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honour me. Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman. I have rarely met with anything in history, which interests my feelings as a man, equal with the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of fi-eedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-in- jured people; on the other hand, the despe- rate relics of a gallant nation, devoting them- selves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her. Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed invaluable ! for never canst thou be too dearly bought I If my little ode has the honour of your lord- ship's approbation, it will gratify my highest am- bition. I have the honour to be, &c. li. B. CCLXXXIV. •STo ®aptain iHtllcr, DALSWINTON. [Captain Miller, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of Commons for the Dumfries district of boroughs. Dalsw inton has passed from the family to my friend James M'Alpine Leny, Esq.] Dear Sir, The following ode is on the sultject which I know, you by no means regard with indifiiereoce. Oh, Liberty, 87-2 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE " Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Gh''»t beauty to the sun, and plciisiu'c to the day." Adoisok. It does me much good to meet with a man whose honest bosom glows with the generous entUusiasm, the lioroic daring of liberty, that I could not forbear sending you a composition of my own on the subject, which I really think is in my best manner. I have the honour to be, Dear Sir, &c. R. B. CCLXXXV. ^0 0lt^. i^il>^d. ■ The dragon (funrding the Hesperian fruit, was simply a military officer, who, wiih the courtesy of those whose trade is arms, paid at- tention tothclady.J Dear ;Madam, I MEANT to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the con- ditions and capitulations you so obligingly oifer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday ; •when we may arrange the business of the visit. Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insiduous craft, or unmeaning folly, in- cessantly offer at yourshrine — a shrine, how far exalted above such adoration — permit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent mind ; and to assure you, that T am, thou most amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent re- gard, thine, 6lC R.B. CCLXXXVI. ®o iWrs JtlitDcI. [The patient sons of order and prudence seem often to liave stirred the poet to such invectives as this letter exhibits.] I wiLi- wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but wiiether 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 genxis that I call the gin-horse class: what enviable dogs they are ! Hound, and round, and round they go, — Mundell's ox that drives his cotton-mill is their e.xact prototype — without an idea or wish beyond their ciix-le ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novomberish, a d-mn"d melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of tiie one to rouse me to passion, nor of the oilier to repose me in torpor, my soul llounciiig and fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the He- brew 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 if — * « * » Pray that wisdom and bliss be more freqiient visitors of RB. CCLXXXVII. ^0 i»tg. UltDtcl. [The bard often offended and often appeased this wnimsical but very clever iady.j I HAVE this moment got the song from SjTne, and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him any thing again. I have sent you "Werter," truly happy to have any the smallest opportunity of obliging you. '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 of death on him, 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 appreci- ate her amiable worth more truly, than any man whom I have seen approach her. R.B. CCI.XXXVIII. ^0 i*lr0. ^'mz\. [Bums often complained in company, and sometimes in his letters, of the caprice of Mrs. RiddeLJ I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of capiice in your composition. OF ROBERT BCRNS. 373 and you have as often disavowecHt; even perhaps wliile your opinions were, at the moment, irrc- iVagiihly provinj;; it. Coukl any thim/ estran it rksf. in dknce Kerroughtrep, .ind let mo roniiiul you of you- kind promise to accompany me there. I will need all the friends I can muster, for I am in- deed ill at case whenever I apjuoach your ho- nourables and right honourahles. Youre sincerclv, R. B. CCXCVI. ^0 iHtg. Sunlop. fCastleDoviplasisa thriving Galloway village: it was in other days allied " The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from Ui 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 I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may.— Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. 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. I am 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 it an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After having mentioned the degene- racy 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 ? Inimingled 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 ye not the hero's sleep." with additions of That arm which nerved with thundering fate, Braved usuipation's boldest daring ! One quenched in darkness like the sinking star. And one the palsied arm of tottering, power- less age." You will probably liave another scrawl from me in a stage or two. R.B. CCXCVII. [The anxiety of Burns aliout the arcuraey of his poetry, while in thr press, w.vs irriat: he found full employnieiit for months in cor- recting a new edition of his poems.] Dumfries, 1794. ^1y nr.AR FiiiEVD, 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 blue devils, so that I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees. I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- ness, finds me in full employment. I send you by my friend ^[r. Wallace forty- 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 Glenrid- del's, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and re- marks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book famous to the end of time, and you re- nowned 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. I have some thoughts of send- ing it to youi' care, to get it mounted anew. Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indcedweW ! 'tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with any thing that has pleased me so much. You know I am no connoisseur : but that I am an amateur — will be allowed me. R.B. CCXCVIII. Zq 0it. Cj^omson. [The blank in this letter could be filled up without writing treason ; hut 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 savage thral- dom of democrat discords ? Alas the day ! And woe is me ! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions. • ♦ • OF ROBERT BURN'S. 377 I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graiuim of Fintry. I wrote on the hlank side of the title-page the following address to the young lady : Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, &c.' R. B. CCXCIX. fThomson 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.] 30th August, 1794. The 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 spin- ning 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 usual candid criti- cism. 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 thewailingsof his love-lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet exception — " Sweet Annie frae the sea-beach came." Now for the song : — How can my poor heart be glad.* I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christian meekness. R. B. ccc. [The stream on the banks of which this song: is supposed to be sung, is known by three names. Cairn, Oalsoiiar, and Cluden. It rises under the name of Cairn, runs through a wild country, under the name of Dalgonar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine scenes, and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of Lin- cluden College, and then unites with the Nith.J 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 eon : 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. I am flattered at your adopting " Ca' the yowes to the knowes," as it was owing to me that ever it saw the light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little ibllow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunio, who sang it charm- ingly ; and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When I gave it to John- son, 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 thociiorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities 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. cccr. ^0 0it. Zl)om%on. [Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises of the poet, had the honoiu- of being named by Burke in the House of Commons : he shared in the French revolution, and narrowly escaped the guillo- tine, like many other true friends of liberty.] 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 jDrinciple I have all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Museum ; and as that publication is at its last volume, I intend the following song, to the air above men- tioned, 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 smaU 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. I am sensible that my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, be- cause people of undisputed and cultivated taste » Poem CCXXIX. £ Song CCXXIV. SongCCXXV. « Song CCXXVI. 5 D 37 S GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that jileasurc ? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, fjivenie most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for " Rothemurche's lant," an air which puts me in raptures ; and, in foot, 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 tliat I will pit against any of you. "Rothemurche," he says, " is an air botli original and beautiful ;" aad, on his recommendation, I have taki'u the first part of the tune for a chorus, and the foui'tli or last part for the song. I ain but two stanzas deep in the work, and possibly you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as little worth your attention as the music [Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning " Lassie \vi' the lint-white locks." Song CCX.X.X.11 1.] I have begun anew, " Let me in this ae night." Do you tiiink 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 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 verses 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 epigi'am 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 tiie grave; and to him I address the following : TO DR. MAX'WELL, ON MISS JESSIE STAIg's RECOVERY. Maxwell, if merit here you crave, That merit I deny : You save fair .Jessy from the grave ? — An angel could not die ! God grant you patience ^vith this stupid epistle ! R. B. CCCIT. To i^r. 'iTftomson. n"he iHict relates the history of scveml of his best songs in this let- ter : the nue old strain of " Aiidro and his tucty gun" is the first of its kind.] nth October, 1794. My dear Friend, By this morning's post I have your list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-days fiy, 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 favoui'ite of his as of mine. The lady on M-hom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland ; and in fact (enlre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin-hoi-se routine of existence could in- spire 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 moie than ordi- nary in song — to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout au con- traire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very one that for his own use was invented by the di- vinity of liealing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiiing a fine woman ; and in pro- portion to the adoiahility of her charms, in pro- portion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, 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,' Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the Museum) is my composition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the west country, but the old words are traslu By the bye, take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it ia » Song ccxxvn. OF RUIUCKT BURNS. fi79 the oviji^inal from which "Roslin Castle" is com- posed. The second part in particular, for the lirst two or three bars, is exactly the old air. " Strath- allan's Lament" is mine; themusicisby ourri^Mit trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan Mas- terton. " Donocht-llead" is not mine ; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburyli Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it. " Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine : the music said to be by a .Tohn Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the beginnin;j^ of this century. This I know. Bruce, who was an ho- nest man, though a red-wud Ilighlandmau, con- stantly claimed it ; and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the author of it. " Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to which this is set in the ^Museum is mine, and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the Flower of Strathmoro. "How long and dreary is the night !" I met with some such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altei'ed and enlarged ; and to please 3'ou, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across my room and liave 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 can- not, 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.' Since the above, I have been out in the coun- try, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with the 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. 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. 1 SongCCXXVIII. 2 Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was publisheil this Tear. a Song'JCXXlX- * Song tX'XXX. I enclo.se you a musical curiosity, an East In- dian air, which you would swear was a Scottish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gen- tleman wlio brought it over is a i)articular 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.' I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's collection of English songs, which you mention in your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that as speedily as you please : whether this miserable drawling hotchpotch epistle has not completely tired you of my correspondence ? VARIATIOX. 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 o' 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, o'er- cast my sky. But 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 Avake to life and joy ! R. B. ccciir. ^0 0it, '2rt)om5on. [The presents made to the poet were far from numerous: the book for which he expresses hii thanks, was tlie work of the waspisli Kit- son. j November, 1794. ]\Iany thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your present ; it is a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, &c., for your work. I intend drawing them up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from iiie tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- sists of unconnected ramarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give 1 Song CCXVI. 380 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE the work a beginaing, a middle, aud an end, which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In my la^t, I told you my objisctions 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 Ciiloris, mark how green the groves.' How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pjistoral ? I think it pretty well. I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of " ma chere amie.^' I as- sure you I was never more in earnest in my life, than in the account of tliat affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which 1 deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, some- how, 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, I am a very 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 phsasures 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 jjowers to give you variety enougli in English songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of which the measure is something similar to what I want ; and, with a little 'alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A song, which, under the same first verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I have cut down for an English dress to your " Dainty Davie," as follows: — It was the charming month of May.* You may think meanly of this, but take a look at the bombast original, and you will be surprised that 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.' iScnsCCXXXI. 3 .sAnitCCXXXII. 3 !jf,ng rCXXXIII. 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 ^luseum. R. B. CCCIV. [Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Burns, " that at last the UTiting a series of songs for large musical collections degenerated into a slavish labour which no talenu 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 production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in the " Duenna," to this air, which is out of sight su- perior to D'Urfey's. It begins, " When sable night each drooping plant restoring." The air, if I understand the expression of it pro- perly, is the very native language of sinipiicity, tenderness, and love. I have again 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 in Johnson, " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon :" this air I think might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air ? It is curi- ous enough. A good many years ago, Jlr. James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music. Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the 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 question. Ritson, you know, has the same stoi-y of the black keys; Song CCXX XIV. OF ROBERT BURNS, 381 but this account which I have just given you, JVIr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly as- serted that this was an Irish air; nay, I met MTth an Irish gentlenum who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women ; while, on the otlier hand, a countess informed me, that the first person who introduced the air into this country, was a baronet's lady of her ac- quaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. IIow diffi- cult, 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 " Craigioburn- 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 " Craigie- burn-wood" altogether. My heart is much in the theme. I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this ; but an ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the necessary infor- mation out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give over. R. B. CCCV. ^0 0lx, ^Ijomson. [Willy and Phdy, in one of the lyncs which this letter contained, carry on the pleasant bandying of praise till compliments grow scarce, and the lovers are reduced to silence.] imh November, 1794. You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- respondent I am ; though, indeed, you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you 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 vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor. Mi". Ritson, ranks with me as my coevals, have always mis- taken vulgarity for simplicity; whereas, sim- plicity is as much eloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected point and puerile con- ceit on the other. I agree with you as to the air, " Craigieburn- wood," that a chorus would, in some degree, spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none in my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with " 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.'"' In fact, in the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar and irregu- lar, and on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all their wildness, and humour the verse accord- ingly. Leaving out the starting note in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no regularity could counterbalance the want of. rp . . rOh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. ^' \0 lassie wi' the lint-white locks. and •xi r Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. compare with •< t • •> ^i v * i •* i i ^ L Lassie wi the lint- white locks. Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you ? In the last case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild origi- nality of the air ; wherea.s, in the first insipid method, it is like the grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. " 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, " Tod- lin hame," is, for wit and humour, an unparal- leled 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 > SongCCXXXV. 5 E 382 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE genius, for such they certainly were, who com- posed our fine Scottish lyrics should he un- known ? It has given me mauy a licart-ache. Apropos to hacchanalian songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air I like much — "Lumps o' pudding." Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.' If you do not relish this air, I will send it to Johnson. R.B. CCCVI. ^0 iJWt. 'Sj^omson. [The instrument which the poet got from the braes of Athol, seems of an order as rude and Incapable of fine sounds as the whistles which School-boys 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." Yon will allow me, that in this instance my English corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish. Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy?* "Well ! I think this to he done in two or three turns across my room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from somebody. Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on earth) tliat I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude instrument. It is 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 liorn, cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up througli the horn until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched like tliat whicli you see every sliepherd boy have, when the corn-stems are green and full grown. Tlie reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, and plays loose in tlie smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn lianging on its larger end is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what tlie shepherds wont to use in that country. SongCCXXXVI. 2 SongCCXXXVII. However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother- bi-ush with him. "Pride, in poets is nae sin;" and I will say it, that 1 look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the Avorld. R. B. CCCVII. OF DALSWINTOJT. [In a conversation with .lames Perry, editor of the Morning Chro- riicle, Mr. Miller, who was then member for the Dumfries boroughs, kindly represented the poverty of the poet and the increasing number of his family : Perry at once offered fifty pounds a year for any contri- butions he might chixjse to malie to his newspaper: tlie reasons for his refusal are stated in this letter.] Dumfries, Nov. 1794. Dear Sir, You R offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- sent situation, I find that I dai'e not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services : I then could and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued. My prospect in the Excise is something ; at least it is, encumbered as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of help- less individuals, what I dare not sport with. In the mean time, they are most welcome to my Ode ; only, let them insert it as a thing they have met witli 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 witli which he may b(' certain that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded ; but against the days of jieace, which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I have long had it in my licad to try my hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into the world through the medium of some news- paper ; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which by the bye, to any body who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed. \VitIi the most grateful esteem I am ever, Dear Sir, R. B. OF ROBERT BURNS. 383 CCCVIII. ®o iHr. Samuel ©larfec, ^un. DUJIFniES. fl'olitical animosities troubled society during the daysof Burns, as much at least as they disturb it now— this letur is an mstancc of it. j Sundaif Morniny. 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 1 had no- body's welfare to care for but my own, we sliould certainly have come, according to the manners of the world, to tlie 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 f;xmily of children in a drunken squabble. Fartlier 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. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns' s welfare with the task of waiting as soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this to him, and, as you please, shew him this letter. AVhat, 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 j-ou will wait on the parties pre- sent at the foolish dispute. I shall only add, that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estimation as Mr. , should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has done. R. B. CCCIX. [Bums allowed for the songs which Wolcot wrote for Thomson a degree of lyric merit which the world ha« refused to sanction.] December, 1794. It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to do any thing to forward or add to the value of your book ; and as I agree with you that the Jacobite song in the Museum to " Tli ere' 11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame," would not so ■well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- song to that air, I have just framed for you the following : — Now in her green mantle, &c.* » SongCCXXXVm. How does this please you ? As to the point of time for the expression, in your proposed print from my " Sodger's Iteturn," 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 mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, yours. R.B. cccx. [In this brief and off-band way Bums bestows on Thomson one of the finest songs ever dedicated to the cause of human freedom.] January, 1795. I FEAR for my songs ; however, a few may please, yet originality is a coy feature in compo- sition, and in a multiplicity of efiFbrts in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years, we poetic folks have been de- scribing the spring, for instance; and as the spring continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery &c., of these said rhym- ing folks. A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love and wine are the exclusive tiiemes 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 " Craigie-buni wood ?" — Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bum.* B. B. Farewell ! God bless you ! CCCXI. [Of this letter Dr. Currie writes, " the poet must have been tipsy indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at this rate;" it is one of the pret- tiest of our Annandale villages, and the birth-place of that distin- guished biographer.] Ecclefechan, Ith February, 1795. My dear Thomson, You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my 1 SongCCLX.IV « SongCCXLV 384 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE duty as supervisor, (in which capacity I liave acted of late,) I came yesternight to tliis un- fortunate, wicked little village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep, have impeded my progress: I have tried to "gae back the gate I cam again," l)ut the same ob- stacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my- self to get rid of them : like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed) I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at 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 naemair 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. CCCXIT. Zo 0it. Zf)omion. [The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, was accompa- nied by two others in honour of the poet's mistress : the muse was high in song, and used few words in the letter which enclosed them.] May, 1795. STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay ! ' Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song. Long, long the night.' How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish air, " Humours of Glen," is a great favourite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in tiie " Poor Soldier," there are not any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows : — Their groves 0' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon.^ Let me hear from you. » SongCCXLIX. s SfmgCCL. R. B. Song CX'LI. CCCXIIT. Zo iltr. Cljomson. [The poet calls for praise in this letter, a species of coin which it 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 poetising, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can, in a post or two, adminis- ter a little of the intoxicating potion 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 have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. R. B. CCCXIV. Zo 0ix. ©Ijom^on. [Thomson at tliis time sent the draiving to Bums in which Dand Allan soufrht to embody the " Cotter's Saturday Night :" it displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artistj May, 1795. Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present — though I am ashamed of the value of it 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 abili- ties here, and they all agree with me in classing it as a first-rate production. My ])hiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very joiner's apprentice, wiiom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most gi-ateful compliments to Allan, who has honoured my rustic music so much with his masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one wlio is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is tiie most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d — n'd, Avee, rumble- gairie urchin of mine, whom from that propen- sity to witty wickedness, and manfu' mischief, which, even at twa days' auld, I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar- scliool in a city which shall be nameless. Give the enclosed epigram to my much- SorgCCLllI. 2 Song CCLIV. OF ROBERT BURNS. 385 valued friend Cunningham, and tell him, that on Wcdnosdav I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his friendly pai-tiality in speaking of nie in a manner introduced me — I mean a well- known military and literary character, Colonel Dironi. You do not tell me how you liked my two last songs. Are they condemned ? R. B. cccxv. [In allusion to the precedinf? letter, Thomson says to Bums, "You really make me blusli when you tell me you have not merited tlie drawing from me." The " For a' that and a" that," which went with this letter was, it is believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.] In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad," the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement : — Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; Oh wliistle, 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 in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning — a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare ! This is no my ain lassie,* &c. Do you know that you have roused the tor- pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me to write three or four songs for him, which he is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet contains two songs for him, which please to pre- sent to my valued friend Cunningham. I enclose tlie sheet open, both for your inspec- tion, and that you may copy tiie 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 thatClai'ke's newly-roused celestial spark will be soon smotliered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, it may go as Scottish versos to tlie air of " I wish my love was in a mire ;" and poor Erskinc's English lines may follow. I enclose you a "For a' that and a' that," whicii was never in print : it is a much superior song to mine. I have been told tliat it was composed by a lady, and some lines written on the blank kuif of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but witli the most 1 Song CCLV. ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have bo often sung under the name of Chloris : — To Chloris.' Une hayatelle de I'amitic. Coila. R. B. CCCXVI. [In the double service of poesie and music the poet had to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.] FoiiLORN my love, no comfort near, &c.^ 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. cccxvn. ^0 0Lt. IZrijomSon. [The unexampled brevity of Burns's letters, and the extraordinary flow and grace of his songs, towards the close of his life, have not now for the first time been remarked.] Last May a braw wooer.' 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. I am at present quite occupied with the charm- ing sensations of the toothache, so have not a woi'd to spare, R. B. CCCXVIII. Supposes himself to be writing from the dead to the living. fill 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 press ng on the mind of Burns, and inducing him to forget \vh*r was due to himself as well as to the courtesies of life.] ?.Tadam, I DARE say that this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned. The time and the manner of my 1 Poems, No. CXLVI. 3 Song CCLIX. aSongCCLVIII. « Song CCLX. 5 F 386 G KN E UA L COR HESl'ON DENCE lca\-ing your earth I do not exactly know, as I toolc my departure in the heat of a fever ot in- toxication contracted at your too hospitable mansion ; but, on uiy arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal couhne 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, witli my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- piercing tlioru, 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 me;isure be reinstated in tlie good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an allevi;ition to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with tliis letter. To the men of the company 1 will make no apology. — Your husband, who in- sisted 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 < f the gi-eatest acqnisitions I had made on earth, and I was ti'uly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and imassuming manners — do make on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch's best apology o 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 jiresent my humblest contri- tion for my conduct, and my jjetition for their gracious i^ardon. 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 rature 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, y nir humble slave. R. B. cecXTX. ^0 i^vg. iAiDDcl. [Mrs. Kiddel, it is said, possessed many more of tbc poet's letters than are pri nted— s)ie sometimes read them to friends who could feel their wit, a nd, like herself, make uUowanee for their freedom.] Dumfries, X'JQb. Me. Buuxs's compliments to Mrs. Riddel — is much obhged to her for her polite attention in sending liim the book. Owing to Mr. B.'s being at present acting as supervisor of excise, a de- partment that occupies his every hour of the day, he has nut 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 tlieu pay that attention to Mrs. K.'s beautiful song, " To thee, loved Nith" — which it so well deserves. When "Auacharsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public library, ilr. B. will tiiank 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 tlie regulations of the library allow. Friday Eve. P. S. IMr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have seen. R. B. CCCXX. Zq iHi^s aouisa iFontcncUc. [That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deser^-e the higli praise which Burns hestows may be giiessed : the lines to which he alludes were recited by the lady on her benefit-night, and ale printed among his Poems.] Dumfries, December, 1795. Madam, In such a bad world as ours, those who add to tlie scanty sum of our ple;isures, are positively our benefactors. To you, ISIadam, on our hum- ble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would en- sure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical talents would ensure admi- ration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious compliment of tiie frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime of nature exc;ites 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 siiall be prouder of my muse than ever. Tliey are nearly extempore : I know they have no great merit ; but though they shoulil add but little to the entertainment of tiie evening, they give me the. happiness of an opportunity to de- clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. R. B. OF llOBEHT IU15NS. 387 CCCXXI. To iHvs. IDunlop. (Of tile su'cct girl to whom Burns alludes in this letter he was de- prived during this year • her death pressed sorely on him. J \bth December, \^{ib. My dear Friend, As 1 iim in a complete Deceinberish liuinoiii-, gloomy, sullon, .stupid, as even tlio deity of Dul- ness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a uuniber of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only one i shall mention, because 1 know you will symijatiiizein 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 tliese tics 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 ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am — such things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of liis children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters indei)endency 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 I've gotten wife and bairns. They cry crowdie ! evermair. Crowdie I ance ; crowdie 1 twice ; Crowdie ! three times in a day ; An ye, crowdie ! ony mair, Ye'U crowdie ! a' my meal away." — December, 24th. We 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 theati'e merely to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of one of the actresses, and which is as follow : — ADDRESS, SI'OKEN BY MISS PONTKNELLK ON HER BENEFIT-NIGnT, UEK. 4, 17.''5, AT THE THEATRE, UUMFKlEs. Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &c. 2oth, 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 cliariniug words of my favourite author, "The Man of Feeling," " ]\lay the Great Spirit bear up the weight of tliy grey hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest !" Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Covvper ? Is 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 tiiat exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your " Zcluco," 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 pei-usal, 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 parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which yet at the same time I did not care to destroy ; I discovered many of these rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible con- veyance, I would send you a perusal of my book. R. B. CCCXXII. €o i«r. aiaanliev ipir.lilafei', SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. [The person to whom this letter is addressed, is tlie same who lately denied that Burns was harshly used by the Board of Excise : but those, and they are many, wlio believe what the poet wrote to Ers- kine, of Mar, cannot agree with Mr. Findlatcr.] Sir, Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not have troubled you with the collector's one, but for suspicion lest it be not right. ]Mr. Erskine promised me to make it right, if you wiU have tiie goodness to show him how. As I have no copy of the scheme for myself, aud the altera- tions being very considerable from what it was formerly, I hojje 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 beti-ay a friend, or mislead a stran- ger ; to seduce a young girl, or rob a hen- roost ; to subvert liberty, or bribe an ex- ciseman ; to disturb the general assembly, or annoy a gossivping ; to overtiirow 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, 388 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CCCXXIII. Zo t\)c lEtttor of tlje iWorntng ©I)tonicIc. [Cromek says, when a neitthbour complained that his copy of the Mnrnincr Chronicle was not regularly (iilivcred to hlin from the post-otfice, the poet wrote the following indignant letter to I'erry on a leaf of his excise-book, but before it went to the post he reflected and recalled iu] Dumfries, 1795. Sir, You will see by your subscribers' list, that I have beeu about uiiu* 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 ad- mirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, ■when he made the great though ineffectual attempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too true,) " to save a sinking state" — this was a loss tluit I neither can nor will forgive you. — That paper, Sir, never reached me ; but I de- mand it of you. I am a Briton ; and must be interested in the cause of liberty : — I am a MAN ; and the rights of human nature can- not be indifferent to me. However, do not let me mislead you : I am not a man in that situa- tion of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of any consequence to you, iu the eyes of those to whom situation of like alone is the criterion of MAN. — I am but a plain tradesman, in this distant, obscure country town : but that hum- ble domicile in which I shelter my wife and children is the Castellum of a Briton; and that scanty, hard-earned income which supports them is as truly my property, as the most mag- nificent fortune, of the most puissant member of your house of nobles. These, Sir, are my sentiments ; and to them I subscribe my name : and were I a man of ability and consequence enough to address the public, with that name should they appear. I am, &c. CCCXXIV. Zo ittr. ?i?non, of heron. fOf Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtrec, something has been said in the notes on the Ballads which bear bis name.] Sir, Dumfries, 1704, or 1795. I enclose you some copies of a couple of political 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 — " Who does the utmost that he can. Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more." In order to bring my humble efforts to bear witli 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 principle, in a profligate junto which has not only out- raged virtue, but violated common decency; which, spurning even liypocrisy as paltry ini- quity below their daring ; — to immask their tiagitiousness to the broadest 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 I swear by the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side aU the votaries of lionest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule ! I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. At present my situation in life must be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The statement is this— I am on the supervisors' list, and as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shaU be at the head of that list, and be appointed of course. Then, a friend might be of service to me in getting me into a place of the Idngdom which I would like. A supervisor's income varies from about a hun- dred and twenty to two hundred a year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's list ; and tliis is always a business purely of political pa- tronage. A collectorsliip varies much, from better than two hundred a year to near a thou- sand. They also come forward by precedency on the list ; and have, besides a handsome in- come, a life of complete leisure. A life of lite- rary leisure with a decent competency, is tlie summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say that 1 do not need, or would not be indebted to a political friend ; at the same time. Sir, I by no means lay my aflairs Ijefore you tiius, to hook my depen- dant situation on your benevolence. If, iu 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 siiall petition your goodness with the same frankness as I now do myself the ho- nour to subscribe myself, It.B. 01- ROBEUT BURNS. 389 CCCXXV. IN LONDON. fill the roncspondence of Ihe poet with Mrs. Dunlnp lie rarely nientiims Thomson's Collection of Sonffs, tho»f(h his heart was set nuu-h u|viii it: in the Dunlop library there are many letters from tho poet, it is said, which ha\'e not been published.] Dumfries, 20lh December, 1795. I HAVE been prodigiously clisiippointod in this London journey of yours. In the fir.st i)hico, when your last to mo reached Dumfries, I was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter ; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take this route ; and now I know not what is become of you, or whether this may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you and yours in prospering health and good spirits ! Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. As I hope to get a frank fi-om 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. December 29lh. Since I began this letter, I have been appointed 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 an epistle. This appoint- ment is only temporaiy, and during the illness of the present incmnbent ; but I look forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form : a consummation devoutly to be wished ! My political sins 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 positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your friends I What a transient business is life I Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day I was a young man ; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all my foliies 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 be- lieves • 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 ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks be- yond the grave. Jamiary \1lh. You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have just been reading over again, I dare say for tho hundred and fiftieth time, his View of Society and Manners ; and still I read it with deligiit. His humour is perfectly original — it is neitlier the humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr. !Moore. By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluco, remember that, when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. lie has paid me a pretty compliment, by quot- ing me in his last publication.^ ****** R. B. CCCXXVI. ADORESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS Zq tljc Migl)t ?i>on. Mltlltam ^itt, [This ironical letter to the prime minister was found among the papers of Burns.] Sir, While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweating under the weight of heavy addresses, permit us, the quondam distillers in that part of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, not with venal approbation, but with fra- ternal condolence ; not as what you are just now, or for some time have been; but as what, in all probability, you will shortly be.- — We shall have the merit of not deserting our friends in the day of their calamity, and you will have the satisfaction of perusing at least one honest address. You are well acquainted with the dissection of lumian nature; nor do you need the assistance of a feUow-creature's bosom to infoiTn you, that man is always a selfish, often a perfidious being. — This assertion, however the hasty conclusions of supei-ficial observation may doubt of it, or the raw inexperience of youth may deny it, those who make the fatal experi- ment we have done, Avill feel. — You are a states- man, and consequently are not ignorant of the traffic of these corporation compliments. — The little great men who drives the borough to market, and the very great man who buys the borough in that market, they two do the whole 5 a 390 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE business; and you well know they, likewise, have their price. With that sullen disdain which you can so well assume, rise, illustrious Sir, and spurn these hireliuji^ eftbrts of venal stupidity. At best they are the couipliuients oi"a man's friends on the morning of his exec\ition : they take a decent farewell, resign you to your fate, and hurry away from your approaching hour. If fame say true, and omens be not very much mistaken, you are about to make your exit from that world where the sun of gladness gilds the paths of prosperous man : permit us, great Sir, •with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your passage to the realms of ruin. Whether the sentiment proceed from the selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immate- rial; but to point out to a child of misfortune those who are still more unhappy, is to give him some degree of positive enjoyment. In this light, Sir, our downfall may be again useful to you : — though not exactly in the same way, it is not perhaps the first time it has gratified your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star is exceedingly despiteful. — At an age when others are the votaries of pleasure, or un- derlings in business, yon had attained the high- est wish of a Britisli statesman ; and with the ordinary date of human life, what a prospect was before you ! Deeply rooted in Royal favour, you overshadowed the land. The birds of passage, which follow ministerial sunshine through every clime of political faith and manners, flocked to 3'our branches ; and the beasts of the field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys) crowded under your shade. " But behold a watcher, a holy one, came down from lieaven, and cried aloud, and said thus : Uew down the tree, and cut ofif" his branches ; shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get away from under it, and the fowls from his branches !" A blow from an imthought-of quarter, one of those terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But turn your eyes, Sir, to the tragic scenes of our fate : — an ancient nation, that for many ages had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle for independence with her much more powerful neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should ever after make them one people In consi- deration of certain circumstances, it was cove- nanted that the former should enjoy a stipulated alleviation in her share of the public burdens, particularly in that branch of tiie revenue called the Excise. This just privilege has of late given great umbrage to some interested, power- ful individuals of the more potent part of tlie empire, and they have spared no wicked pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what they dared not openly to attack, from the dread wliieli they yet entertained of the spirit of their ancient enemies. In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alone Buffer, 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 tliat 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 ! Your foes. Sir, were avowed ; were too brave to take an ungenerous advantage; you fell in the face of day. — On the contrary, our enemies, to complete our overthrow, con- trived to make their guilt appear the villany of a nation. — Your downfall only drags with you your private friends and partizans : in our mi- scry are more or less involved tlie most nume- rous and most valuable part of the community — all those who immediately depend on the culti- vation 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 tlie dreary regions of adversity ; — the gratulations of an ap- proving 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, Avhen obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on the sense, let that, Sir, come like an healing angel, and speak the peace to your soul which the world can neither give nor take away. We have the honour to be. Sir, Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers. And grateful humble Servants, John Bakleycorn — Praeses. cccxxvn. ^0 t{)c ?0on. ^robo5t, iJnilics, anD 'SToton C;^oiuuil of 33umfitc!3. fThe Provost and Dailies complied at once with the modest re- quest (if tlicjK)ei; both Jackson and Stais, "ho uerc heads of the town by turns, were men of taste and fceling.J Gentlemen, The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably filled the various depart- ments of your schools, as to make it a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to mo, a stranger, with my lai'ge fainily, and very stinted income, to give my young ones that education I wish, at the high- OF HOUKHT BURNS. 391 school fees which a stranger pays, will bear liard upon me. Some years ago your good town did me the lionour of making me an honorary bingess. — 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 when; I can officially serve you ; and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have the honour to be. Gentlemen, Your devoted humble Servant, R.B. CCCXXVIII. ®0 iWrg, l^iDHel. [Mrs- kiddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the great cause of human liberty, and lamented with him the excesses of the French l{evolution.] Dumfries f 20th January, 1796. I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for al- lowing me a longer perusal of " Anacharsis." In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our society ; as " Anacharsis" is an indispensable desideratum to a son of the muses. The health you wished me in your morning's card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an hour ago. These wickedly un- lucky 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 TLo i^ts. iSunlop. [It seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of Bums, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld or delayed her usual kind and charming communications.] Dumfries 3\st January, 1796. These many months yon have been two packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I have committed against so lughly-valued a.iriend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! Madam, ill can I aft'ord, 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 begun to re- cover from thatshock, when I became myself the victim ofa 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 before my own door in the street " When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. Affliction purifies the visual ray. Religion hails thedrcar, the untried night, And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day.' R.B. cccxxx. [Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the " liandsome, elegant present" mentioned in this letter, was a common worsted shawl. ] February, 1796. INIant thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- some, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for 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 in my 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. J SongCCLXVl. 2 Our poet never explained what name he would haw subatituted for Chloris.— Mr. Thomson. 392 CCCXXXI. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE cccxxxm. ^0 iWr. Cj^omson. fit is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry : Hums perceive 1 some of the blemishes of Allan's illustrations : but at tliat time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments of books.] April, 1796. Alas ! 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. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson, " Say wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven Light to the comfortless and wretched given i" This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Ilyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Jfr. Allan's etchings. " Woo'd an' married an' a'," is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conform- able to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire " Turnim- spike." What I like least is " Jenny said to Jockey." Besides the female being in her ap- pearance * * * *j if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely sjTnpathise with him. Happy I am to tliink that lie yet has a well-gi"ounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me — but that is a sad subject i R.B. CCCXXXII. To 0iv. T'ifom^oTn. I The genius of the poet triumphed o\er pain and want,— his last songs arc as tender and as true as any of his early compositions.] My DEAR Sir, I ONCE mentioned to you an air whicli I have long admired — " Here's a health to them that's awa; liiney," but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it witli verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it. [Here follow the firit three stanzas of the song, beginning, Here's a health to ane I loe dear, the fourth was found among tlie poet's MSS. after his death.] R. B. 1 Song CCLXVll. [John Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, was a brother ganger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentleman ; Jessie Lcwai-s was his sister, and at this time but in her teens.] This wiU be delivered by a Mr, Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leism-e, if you choose, to write me by him: and if you liave a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review tliem all, and pos- sibly may mend some of them ; so when you liave complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies.' I had rather be the author of five well- written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer Avill set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of re- turning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout — a sad busi- ness ! Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- ber me to him. This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from yon. R. B. CCCXXXIV. ^0 iWrs. 33ltt)t)fl, Who had desired hi^n to go to the Birth-Day Assembly on that day to show his loyalty. [This ia the last letter which the poet wrote to this accomplished lady.] Dumfries, 4th June, 1796. I AM in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of shewing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting, like that of Balak to Balaam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel !" So say I — Come ciyse me that east wind ; and come defy me tho north ! Would you hav(! 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 de- lights not mc, nor woman either!" Can you supjily me with the song, " Let ns all be unhapjiy together ?" — do if you can, and oblige, lepauvre miserable R.B. I " It is needless to say that tliisrevital Ilnrnidid not live to P-T- form."— CUBRIK. OF ROBERT BURNS. 393 CCCXXXV. ®0 iWr. ©larfee, SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. tWho will say. after reading the follomng distressing letter, lately tome to light, that Burns did not die in great poverty.] Dumfries, 2Gth June, 1796. My dear Clarke, Still, still the victim of affliction ! Were yoii to see the emaciated fij^i'O who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. \\'hether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Ilim, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the worst. As to my individual self, I am 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 re- quest you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good as, by return of post, to enclose me another note. I trust you can do it without in- convenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness re- mains. I know I shall live in their remem- brance. Adieu, dear Clarke, that I shall ever see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improba- ble. R.B. CCCXXXVI. EDINBURGH. I" In this humble and delicate manner did poor Bums ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed ^rnf this lady's silence," says Curiie, " and an assurance of thecontinu- unce of her friendship to liis widow and cluldrtn."J Brow, Saturday, \2th July, 17I)G. Madam, 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 bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friend- ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship, dearest to my soul. 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. [Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet's request, and transmitted the exact sum which he requested, \h. five pounds, by return of post : he was afraid of offending the pride of Bums, other- wise he would, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, howc\'er, told us how much he sent to the all but desolate widow and children, when death had released him from all dread of the poet's indigna- tion.] Brow, on the Solway-firth, \2thJuly, 1796. After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretcii of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by re- turn of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you witli 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 linos; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! Fairest maid on Devon's banks.* R. B. CCCXLIII. WRITER, MONTROSE. [The good, the warm-hauted James Bumess sent his cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July — he sent five pounds aftcnvards 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, I2th July. My DEAR Cousin, When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced process against me, and will infalli- bly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and tliat by return of post, with ten pounds ? James ! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me ! Alas ! I am not used to beg ! The worst of n is, my health was coming about finely ; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my dis- ease; guess then my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use the 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, and I fear I must cut him up ; but on this I will con-espond 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. Song CCLXVni. 396 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CCCXLIV. ^0 3)anteg ©tacic, lEgq. [James Grade was, for some dme, a banker in Dumfries : his eld- est son, a fine, high-spirited youui, fell by a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to the attack on Washington.] Brow, Wednesday Morning, \Qth July, 1796. My dear Sir, It 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 yon. R.B. REMARKS SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS. ;Thk foUomng Strictures on Soottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, in the interleaved copy of Johnson's Riusical Museum, which th e poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friar's C'arse ; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these precious volumes passed into the hands of her neice, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques. ) THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was composed by Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Solebay man-of-war. — This I had from Dr. Blacklock. BESS THE GAWKIE. This song shows that the Scottish muses did not all leave ns 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. It is 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 be- long 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 collections, " The lass Lochroyan," which I take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway. THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. This 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- pellation of Anglo-Scottish productions. The music is pretty good, but the verses are just above contempt. THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. This song, as far as I know, for the first time appears here in print. — When I was a boy, it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- member to have heard those fanatics, the Bu- chanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, which they dignify with the name of hymns, to this air. ROSLIN CASTLE. These beautiful verses were the produc- tion of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anecdote, kept for some years as an amanu- ensis. I do not know who is the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history 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 hhnself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune. SAW ye JOHNNIE CUMMIN ? QUO* SHE. This 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, 5 I 39S H KM AUKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 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 this tune, " Hae ye onie pots or pans, Oronie broken chanlers.'' was composed on one of the Kenniure 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," wliich from the rhytlim, seems to have been a Ime of some old song to the tune. SAW YE MY PEGGY. This charming song is much older, and indeed superior to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," as lie calls them. There is another set of the words, much older still, and which I take to be the original one, but though it has a very great deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' read- ing. The original w'ords, 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 hai 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 Avhich 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 sui)i)Ose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection. THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. This song is one of the many eft'usions of Scots Jacobitism. — The title " Flowers ot Edinburgh," 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 tlian perhaps any body living has done, and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has the least panegyrical reference to the families of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are hundreds satirizing them. — This may be thought no pane- gyric on the Scot's Poets, but I mean it as such. For myself, I woidd always take it as a com- pliment to have it said, that my heart ran be- fore my head, — and surely the gallant though 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. It is self-evident that the first four hnes of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are an- nexed to them. As music is the language of nature ; and poetry, particularly songs, are al- ways less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name 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 ycmcet a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae; ]!ut gin ye meet adirty hizzie, Kye, gae rub her o'er \vi' strae. Kyc, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : An' gin ye meet a dirty hiz?,ie, Fye, gae rubber o'er wi' strae." THE LASS O LIVISTON. The old song, in three eight-Hne stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour*, but it is rather unfit for insertion. — It begins, " The Bonnie lass o' Liviston, Her name ye ken, her name ye ken. And she has written in het contiact, To lie her lane, to lie her lane." &c. &c. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SO\G. 399 THE LA6T TISrE I CAME O'eR THE JIOOR. Ramsay found tbe first lino of this song, which liad been preserved as the title of the charming' air, and then composed the rest of tiie verses to 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. A\ here 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. Though this has certainly every evidence of being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the North of Ircjland, called " The Weaver and his Shuttle O," which, though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. Another, but very pretty Anglo-Scottish 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 Kobei'tland, 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 stnick with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would be a fine theme for a song — Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical sonjr- THE TURNIMSPIKE. There is a stanza of this excellent song for local humour, omitted in this set • — Where I have placed the asterisms. " Tlicy tak the horse then by tc head. And teretey mak her Stan", man ; lie tell ttin, me hae seen te day, Tey no had sic comnian', man." HIGHLAND LADDIE. As this was a favourite theme with our later Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs of that name. That which I take to be the old- est, is to be found in tlie " 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 liaddie." It is also known by the name of "Jinglan Johnie," which is a well- known song of four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier song than Jacobite times. Asa proof of this, it is little known to the peasantry by the name of " Highland Laddie;" while every body knows " Jinglan Johnie." The song be- gins " Jinglan John, the meickle man. He met wi' a lass was bly the and bonie." Another " Highland Laddie" is also in the " Museum," vol. v., which I take to be Ramsay's original, as he has borrowed the chorus — " O my bonie Highland lad," &c. It consists of three stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has hu- mour in its composition — it is an excellent, but somewhat licentious song. — It begins " As T cam o'er Caimey 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 " IMuseum," 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 laddie. Highland laddie? Down the back o' Bell's brae, Courtm Maggie, courtin Maggie." Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, called the new " Highland Laddie." THE GENTLE SWAIN. To sing such a beautiful air to such execrable verses, is downright prostitution of common sense ! The Scots verses indeed are tolerable. HE STOLE MY TENDER HEART AWAY. This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by no moans a bad one. FAIREST OF THE FAIR. It is too barefiiced 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- ^•ented such an impudent absurdity. 400 RKMAHKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. THE BLAITHKIE O T. The following is a set of this song, wliit-h was the earliest song I remember to liave 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 wecl 1 mind, I lent you my hand To sing you a song which you did mc command ; But my memory's so bad 1 had almost forf-'ot That you called it the gear and the blaithric o't — ni not sing about confusion, delusion or pride, I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; For virtue is an ornament that time ivill never rot. And preferable to gear and the blaitlirie o'c — 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, Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o'U — Tho* we hae nae horses or mcnzics at command. We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand ; And when weaiied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot. And well value not the gear and the blaitlirie o't. — If 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 but a groat. Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. — ni not meddle wi' Ih' affairs of the kirk or the queen ; They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let them swim ; On your kirk Ml ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it still remote, Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't." MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. " Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, tho work of poor Cunningham the player ; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some strej,in near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cuuningliam very severely for .snch an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with tiiat inoffensive gentleness of man- ners which was his peculiar characteristic, re- plied, that lie lioped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of tiiat sacred day, " as he had no dinner to cat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool.'" Tliis, Mr. Woods, the player, who knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much, assured me was true. tweed side. Iv Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that aliout thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D.C.&c— Old Mr.Tytler, of Woodiiouse- lee,tiio worthy and able defender of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the composition of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of Aclinames, •who was afterwards unfortunately dr()\vned coming from France. — As Tytler was most intimately acquainted with Allan Kamsay, 1 think the an- ecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side is Mr. Craw- furd's, and indeed does great honour to his poet- ical talents. He was a Robert Crawfurd ; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards married to a I\Ir. John Ritchie. I have seen a song, calling itself the original Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanzas, of wliich I still recollect the first — " When Maggy and I was acquaint, I carried my noddle fu' hie; Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain. Nor gowdspink sae happy as me : But I saw her sae fair and I lo'ed : I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; So now I maun wander abioad. And lay my banes far frae the Tweed." — THE POSY. It appears evident to me that Oswald com- posed his Roslhi Castle on the modulation of this air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the three first bars, he has either hit on a wonderful similaiity 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. The old verses to which it was sung, when I took down the notes from a country girl's voice, had no great merit. — The following is a specimen : " There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went ; Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal black hair ; And she has meta young man a eomin o'er the bent, With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. O where arc ye goin/my ain pretty May, Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair ? 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 checks, and thy coal-black hair; Wad 1 he aught the warse o' that, kind sir, shesays. With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. MARY S DREAM. The Mary liere alluded to is generally sup- posed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet was a Mr. .Tohn Lowe, who likewise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost. — I have seen a poetic ei)istle from him in North Ame- rica, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.— By tho strain of tlie verses, it ap- peared that they allude to some love affair. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 401 THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. BY MK. DUDGBON. This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son in IJorwickshire. I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE. I NEVER heard more of the words of this old song tlian the title. ALLAN WATER. This Allan Water, which the composer of the music lias honoured with the name of the air, I have been told is Allan Water, in Strathallan. THERE S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. This is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots, or any other language. — The two lines, "And will 1 see his face again, And will I hear him speak ?" as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by any thing I ever heard or read : and the lines, " 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 fii-st on the streets as a ballad ; and I suppose the composition of the song Avas not much anterior 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. Tiiis anecdote I had from a gentleman who knew the lady, the "Molly," who is the subject of the song, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first ma- nuscript of liis most beautiful verses. I do not remember any single line that has more true pathos than •• How can she break that honest heart that wears her in its core !" But as tlie song is Irish, it had nothing to do in this collection. THE collier's BONNIE LASSIE. The first half stanza is much older than the days of Ramsay. — The old words began thus : ' The collier has a dmhtcr, and, O, she's wonder bonnie I A lainl lie was that sought her, rich baith in lands and money. S)ie wad na hat a laird, nor wad she be a lady, But she wad hae a collier, the colour o" her daddic." MY AIN KIND DEARIE — O. The old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these inserted; which wore mostly composed by poor Fergusson, in ono of his merry humours. The old words began thus : " ni rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, I'll rowe thee o'er tlie lea-rig. My ain kind dearie, O, Althii' the night were ne'er sae wat. And 1 were ne'er sae weary, O ; I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O."— MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW. Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry- hope, 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 of mai'riage 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 INIichaelnias moon ! DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. I HAVE been informed, that the tune of " Down the burn, Davie," was the composition of David IMaigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale. BLINK O ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTIE. The old words, all that I remember, are, — " Blink over the bum, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night: It rains, it hails, it thunaers. The moon she gies nae light: It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, That ever I tint my way; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee Until it be break o' day.— O, Betty will bake my bread, And Betty will brew my ale. And Betty will be my lo\e, W lien 1 come over the dale: Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me. And while I hae life, dear lassie, M y ain sweet Betty thou'a \>e." 6 K 40-2 REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. THE BLITIISO.ME BRIDAL. I FIND the "Blithsome Bridal" in James Watson's collection of Scots poems, printed at Edinburgh, in I7OC. This collection, the pub- lisher says, is the first of its nature which has been published in our own native Scots dialect — it is now extremely scarce. JOHN HAT S BONNIE LASSIE. John Hay's "Bonnie Lassie" was daughter of John Ilaj', Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, and late Countess Dowager of lloxburgh. — She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the years 1720 and 1740. THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE. The 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., ai-e 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-hghted hat, and knee- buckles as unlike as Gcorge-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 Encyclope- dia Britannica, which he composed at half a guinea a week ! SAE JIERUY A3 WE TWA Ha'e BEEN. This song is beautiful. — The chorus in parti- cular is truly pathetic. I never could learn any thing of its author. ' Sae merry as we t«a ha'e been. Sac merry as wc 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. This air is O.swald's. THE BUSH AHOON TRAOUAIR. This is anotlier beautiful song of Mr. Craw- furd's composition. In the neighI)ourliood of Traquair, tradition still shows the old " Bush ;" which, when I saw it, in the year 1787, was com- posed of eigJit or nine ragged birches. The Jilarl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls "The new Bush." CROMLET S LILT. The following interesting account of tliis 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 tlie 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 chai-ms. He artfully prepossessed her witli 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 proposed 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 ceremony ; but tliere 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 Crom- lus's voice, crying, ' Helen, Helen, mind me !' Cromlus .soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered, — her marriage disannulled, — and Helen became Lady Crom- lecks." 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 years. MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. Anotuee beautiful song of Crawfurd's. IIKMAIIKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 403 SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN. The 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 ciiaste and more dull. GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. I 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. -7-It begins thus : " The Lord o' Gordon had three docliters, Marj'i Marget, and Jean, They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, But awa to Aberfeen." LEWIS GORBOK. This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes comes to be composed out of anotlier. 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 Goi'don" was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie. O HONE A RIE. Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song was composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. I'll never leave thee. This is another of Crawfurd's songs, but I do not think in his happiest manner. — What an absurdity, to join such names as Adonis and Mary together ! CORN rigs are bonie. All 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 com rigs are bonie ; And where'er you meet a bonie lass, I'reen up her cockernony." THE MUCKING OF OEORDIE .S BYRE. The chorus of this song is old; tiie rest is the work of Balloon Tytler. BIDE VE YKT. There 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 EAULD. 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 vei-y worthy respectable farmer near Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in the ninth stanza, came to Haddington after the 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 ISIr. Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington ; but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look o' him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht liim, I'll fecht him ; and if no, I'll do as he did — I'll tin 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 tolerable, I was fain to let them pass. He must be an excellent poet indeed whose every performance is excel- lent. I'OLWARTH ON THE GREEN. The author of " Polwarth on the Green " is Capt. .Tolin Drunimond M'Gregor, of the family of Bochaldie. 404 URMAIIKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. STEEPHON AND I.YDIA. The 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 hy the name of Beau Gibson. The Luly was the "Gentle Jean," celebrated somewhere in Ham- ilton of Bangour's poems. — Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a recij)ro- cal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequ^ite to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such 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. 1 M O ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. The chorus of this song is old. The rest of it, such as it is, is mine. M'PIIERSON S FAREWELL. M'PirERSON, a daring robber, in the begin- ning of this century, was condemned to be hanged at the assizes of Inveraess. He is said, wlien under sentence of death, to have composed this lune, which he called his own lament or fare- well. Gow has published a vai-iation of this fine tune as his own composition, which he calls " The Princess Augusta." MY JO, JANET. Johnson, the publisher, Avith a foolish deli- cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this humourous ballad. THE SUErHERD's COMPLAINT. TirE words by a Air. 11. Scott, from the town or neighbourhood of Biggar. THE BIRKS OF ABERFKLDV. I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. This was a composition of mine in very early- life, before I was known at all in tiie world. My Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever blessed a man with gt'uerous love. After a pretty long tract of the uu)st ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a si"(piestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent the day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands, to airange 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 (ireenock, where she had scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, •which hurried my dear girl to the giave in a f(nv days, before I could even hear of her last illness. fife, AND A THE LANDS ABOUT IT. This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well as I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enougli perhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the music. WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE. Lord Ilailes, in the notes to his collection of ancient Scots poems, says that this song was tlie composition of a Lady Grissel IJaillie, daughter of the first Earl of Marciimont, and wife of George Baillie, of Jcrviswood. THE YOUNG MAN S DREAM. This song is the composition of Balloon Ty tier. STRATHALLAN S LAMENT. Tins air is the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living — Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of .L'lcobitism we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause. To tell the matter-of-fact, exccjjt when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my .Jacobitism was merely by way of vhc la bagatelle. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. The chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are mine. THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Dr. Blacklock told me that Smollett, who was at the bottom a gn^at Jacobite, composed these beautiful and ])athetic verses on tlie infamous depredations of the Duke of Cumberland after the battle of CuUoden. REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 405 WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY IIOOGIE DIE. Dii. Walker, who was niiiiistcr at Moft'at 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 Liddcsdale, stopped at a hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Moss Piatt, when they were struck witli this tune, Avhieh an old woman, spinning on a rock at her door, was singing. All she could tell concerning it was, that she was taught it when a child, and it ■was caUed "What will I do gin my Hoggie die ?" No person, except a few females at Moss Piatt, knew this fine old tune, which in all probability would have been lost had not one of the gentle- men, who happened to have a flute with him, taken it down. [ DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING. These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and arc 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 INIiss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., phy- sician. S!ie is sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of IMauchline, and Avas born on the banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I w^rote these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon. I first heard the air from a lady in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for this work. MILL, JIILL o. The original, or at least a song evidently prior to Ramsay's, is still extant. — It runs thus. 'The mill, miU O, and tliekill, kill O, And the eoggin o' J'cggy's wheel O, The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leave, .iVnd danc'd the miller's iix\ C— As I cam down jon waterside, And by yon shellin-hiU O, There I spied a boiiie bonic lass. And a lass that I lov'd right wccl O."— W/i RAN AND THEY RAN. The 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 : — " O wherefore need I busk my head. Or wherefore need I kame my hair, Sin my fause luve has me forsook. And says, he'll never luve me mair.' DUNCAN GRAY. Dr. Blacklock informed me that he had often heard the tradition, that this air was composed by a carman in Glasgow. DUMBARTON DRUMS. This 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 hardly 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- tensive county of Ayr. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. This song is by the Duke of Gordon. — The old verses are, " There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, Andcastocks in Strathbogie; When ilka lad maun hae his lass, Then fye, gie me my coggie. CHORUS. My cogsie. Sirs, my coggie. Sire, 1 cannot want my coypie; I wadna gie my three-girr'd cap For e'er a quenc on Uogie. — There's Johnie Smith has got a wife. That scrimps him o' his coggie. If she were mine, upon my lite I wad douk her in a bogie - 5 L 406 RKM.VKKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. FOR LAKK OF GOI.D. The country girls iu Ayrshire, instead of the line — say, " She me forsook for a gnat dukf," " For Athole's duke she me forsook ; ■w'liich I take to be tlie original reading. These were composed by the late Dr. Austin, physician at Edinlinrgh. — Ho had courted a lady, to whom he was shortly to have been married ; but the Duke of Athole having seen her, became so mucii in love -with her, that he made proposals of marriage, which were accepted of, and she jilted the doctor. here's a health to my true love, SiC. This 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 neiglibourhood of the scone, that this air was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannock- burn. RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod, of Ilaza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melan- choly 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." The title of this air shows that it alludes to tlie famous king Crispian, the j)atron of tlie ho- nourable corporation of siioemakers. — St. Cris- I)ian'b day falls on the fourteenth of October old Btyle, as the old proverb tells : " On the fourteenth of October Wai ne'er a sutor sober." SINCE HOBB U OF ALL THAT CHARM D MY VIEWS. The old name of this air is, "the Blossom o' the Kaspberry." The song is Dr Blacklock's. YOUNG DAMON. This 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 a scrape. 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, A'ery unlike the gloomy strictness of his sect ; and among other convivial exhibitions, sung (and some traditions say, composed on the spur of the oc- casion) "Kirk wad let me be," with such effect, tliat the soldiers swore he was a d d honest fellow, and that it was impossible he could be- long to those hellish conventicles ; and so gave hijn 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 beggar; a penike, commonly made of carded tow, represents hoary locks ; an old bon- net ; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with a straw rope for a girdle ; a pair of old slioes, with straw ropes twisted round his ancles, as is done by shepherds iu snowy weather : his face they disguise as like wretched old age as they can : in this plight he is brought into the wedding- house, frequently to the astonishment of stran- gers, who are not in the secret, and begins to sing— " O, I am a silly auld man, M y name it is auld Glenae," &c. He is asked to drink, and by and bye to dance, which after some uncouth excuses he is prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing tiie 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, witli some or REMAKKS ON SCOTTISH SONG, 407 otlier ilninken niotionof lii.s body, ho bouts time to the iiui.sic, till :it hist he is suiijiosed to be carried out dead druuk. MUSING ON THE llOAKING OCEAN. I COMPOSED these verses out of coinpliinent to a A[rs. ^I'Lachlan, Avhose husband is an oliicer in the East Indies. BLYTHE WAS SHE. I COMPOSED these veises while I stayed at Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. — The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the siime time, was the well-known toast, Miss Kuj^liemia Murray, of Lentrose, she was called, and very justly, " The Flower of Strathmore." JOHNNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE LADDIE. The people in Ayrshire begin this song — "The gypsies cam to my Lord CassUis' ye:t." — They have a great many more stanzas in this song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. — The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and kept her for life. TO DAUNTON ME. The two following old stanzas to this tune liave some merit : " To daunton me, to daunton me, ken ye what it is that'll daunton mef — There's eighty-eight and eighty-nine. And a' that I hae borne sinsyne. There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 1 think it will do meikle for to daunton me. Hut to wanton me, to wanton me, ken ye what it is that wad wanton me — To see gude corn upon the rigs, And banishment amang the Wliigs, And right restor'd where right sud be, 1 think it would do meikle for to wanton me." THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. "The 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. lie formed une petite affaire with a daughter of the house of Portle- tham, who was the " lass that made the bed to him :" — two verses of it are, " I kiss'd her lips sac rosy red. While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e I said my lassie dinua cry, ^■or ye ay shall make the bed to me. She took her mithci-'s holLind sheets, And made them u* in sarks to me ; Ijlytlic and merry may slie be, The lass that made the bed to me." ABSENCE. A SONG in the manner of Shenstone. This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock I HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR. This story is founded on fact. A John Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family, who live in a place in the parish, I think, of Galston, called Bar-mill, was the luckless hero that " had a horse and had nae inair." — 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 Laird," for that is the expression of all the oral 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. This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expres- sion " Up and warn a' Willie," alludes to the Crantara, or warning of a Highland clan to arms. Not understanding this, the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Up and toawr them a'," &c. a rose-bud by MY EARLY WALK. This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruikshank, only child of my worthy friend Mr. WiUiam Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edinburgh. This air is by a David Sillar, quondam merchant, and now schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to whom I address my printed poetical epistle in the measure of the Cherry and the Slae. AULD rob JIORRIS. It is remark- worthy that the song of " Hooly and Fairly," in all the old editions of it, is called " The Drunken Wife o' Galloway," which local- izes it to that coimtry. RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. The last stanza of this song is mine; it was composed out of compliment to one of the wor- thiest fellows in tlie world, William Dunbar, Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Ciochallan Corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments. 408 KEMAKKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. WHERE BRAVING AXGRY WINTER STORSIS. This song I composed on one of the most ac- complished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers, that was, now ^Mi-s. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s bank, Edinburgh. TIBBIE I UAE SEEN THE DAY. This song I composed about the age of seven- teen. nancy's ghost. This song is by Dr. Blacklock. TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, &C. This song was composed by the Rev. Jolin Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart, near Peterhead. He is likewise author of " TuUoch- gorum," "Ewie wi' the crooked Horn," "John o' Badenyond," vork. THIS IS NO MIKE AIN HOUSE. TuE first lialf-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 ; Tliis is no mine ain house, I ken by the biggin o't Bread and ehecse are my door-elieeks, My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks; Bread and cheese are my door-cliceks. And pancakes the riggin o't. This is no ray ain wean ; My ain wean, my ain wean ; This is no my ain wean, 1 ken by the gitetie o't. I'll tak tile curcliie aff my head, Affmy head, aff my head ; I'll tak the curchie aff uiy head. And row"! about the feetie o't." The tune is an old Highland air, called " Shuan tniisli williglian." LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. This song is by Blacklock. THE GARDENER Wl HIS PAIDLE. This air is the " Gardener's March." The title of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. THE DAY HETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. Tune. — " Seventh of November.' I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married cou- ples in the woi5d, 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 GABEIILUNZIE MAN. The " 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 tlie Fifth is said to have been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and that it was suspected by his cotemporaries, that in his frequent excursions to that part of tlie 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 nei"h- bourhood,) wcjre 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 en Sandylands, Spend not your strength in Weir, And ride not on an Eliphant, For pawing o' your gear." MY BONNIE MARY. This air is Oswald's; the first half stanza of the song is old, the rest mine. THE BLACK EAGLE. This song is by Dr. Fordyce, wiiose merits as a prose writer are well known. JAMIE, COME TRY ME. This air is Oswald's; the song mine. the lazy mist. This song is mine. JOHNIE COPE. This satirical song was composed to comme- rate 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, whicli was, "Will ye go the coals in the morning." I LOVE MY JEAN. This air is by Marshal ; 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 liis too. 5 M 410 rk:\iahks on Scottish song. AUI.n ROBIV GHAY. This air was formpily called, "The Bride- groom greets when the Sun ganj:^s down.'' The ■words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Balrarras family. DONALD AND FLORA. This 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 Buvgoyne in America, in 1777- O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. This air is Oswald's; the song T made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. THE CAPTIVE ROBIN. This air is called " Robie donna Gorach. THERE S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. Thi8 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 fii-st half-stanza of this song is old; the rest is mine. Ca' the ewes AND THE KNOWES. This beautiful song is in true old Scotch taste, yet I do not know that either air or words •were in print before. THE BRIDAL O'T. This song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee ; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called " The Fortu- nate ShepherdenK." " They »ay tnat Jockey '11 speed v/ccl o't, The\' «y that Jockey 'II speed weel o't, Foi '.t grows tiraivcr ilka Any, I hope we'll hae a hridal o't : For ye«tcmiKht nac farder ganc. The backhouse at the side wa' o't, He there ivi' Meg "ai mirdcn Mxn, i hope we'll like a hriikl n't. An' wc had hut a bridal o't, An' we had hut a bridal o't, We'd lea\'e the rest unto ({ude luck, Altho' thereshould betide ill o't: For bridal days ai^ merry tiines, And young folks like the coming o't. And scribblers they bang up tlieir rhyinet, And pipers they the bumming o't. The lasses like a hridal o't, The lasses like a bridal o't. Their brawsmaun be in rank and file, Altho' they should guide ill o't : The boddum o' the kist is then Turn'd up into the inmost o't, The end that held the kecks sae cleatij Is now become the teeniest o't. The bangst'T at the threshing o't. The bangster at the threshing o't. Afore it comes is fidgin fain. And ilka day's a clashing o't : Hell sell his jertin for a groat. His litider foranither o't. And e'er he ivant to clear his shot. His sark'U pay the tither o't. The pipers and the fiddlers o't, The pipers and the fiddlers o't. Can smell a bridal unco' far. And like to be the middlers o't ; Fan 1 thick and threefold they convene, I Ik ane envies the tither o't. And wiihes nane but him alane May ever see anither o't. Fan they hae done wi' eating o't. Fan they hae done wi' eating o't» For dancing they gae to the green. And aiblins to the beating o't : He dances best that dances fast. And loups at ilka reesing o't. And claps his hands frae hough to hough. And furls about the feezings o't." TODLEN HAME. This is perhaps the first bottle song tliat ever was composed. THE BRAES O BALL0CH3I YLE. This air is the composition of my friend Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed the verses, on the amiable and exceelint 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 COMPOSED this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaint- ance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud. THE shepherd's PREFERENCE. This song is J)r. Blacklock's. — I don't know how it came by the name, but the oldest appel- lation of the air was, " "Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad." It has little affinity to the tune commonly known by that name. ' Win, when— »h»''ia]ectof Angut. RF.MAKKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 411 THE BONIE BANKS OF AYR. I COMPOSED this song as I conveyed my cliest so far on tlie road to Greenock, where I was to embark in a few days for Jiiniaica. I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native land. JOHN O BADENYON. This excellent song is the composition of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. " When first I cftm to be a man Of twenty yeare nr so, I thought myself a Iiandsome youth. And fain the world \voulil know ; In best atiire I stept abroad, With spirits brisk and pay, And licre and there and every wliere, Was like a mom in May; No care had I nor fear of want, Butrambled 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 iirime A mistress I must find. For love, 1 heard, gave one an air. And ev'n improved the mind : On Phillis fair above the rest K ind 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 danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, As other lovers do ; But, when at last I breath'd my flame, I found her cold as stone ; I left the jilt, and tun'd my pipe To John o' Badenyon. When love had thus my heart beguil'd With foolish hopes and vain ! Tofriendshjp's port I steer'd my course, A nd laugh'd at lover's pain ; A friend I got by lucky chance, 'Twas something like divine. An honest friend's a precious gift. And such a gift was mine. And now whatever might betide, A happy man wa^ I, In any strait I knew to whom I freely might apply ; A strait soon came: my friend I tryd ; 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 pac 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 bonielass, Whareareyou gaun, my hinnie. She answer'd me right saucilie. An errand for my niinnie. 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 bonle lassie; And lang before the gray mom cam. She was na hauf sa sacie. O weary fa' the waukrife cock. And the foumart lay his cramn ! He waukcn'd the auld wife frae her si 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 1 Thou art a gay and a bonie lass. But thou hast a waukrife minnie." TULLOCHGORUM. This first of songs, is the master-piece of ray old friend Skinner. He was passing the day, at the town of Cullen, I think it was, in a friend's house whose name was Montgomery. Mrs. Mont- gomery observing, en passant, that the beauti- ful reel of Tullochgoi'um wanted words, she begged them of Mr. Skinnei', who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad. These particulars I had from the author's son, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. FOR a' THAT AND a' THAT. This song is mine, all except the chorus. AULD LANG SINE. Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken the idea of the song, and the fii-st line, from the old fragment which may be seen in the " Mu- seum," vol. V. WILLIE BREW D A PECK O JIAUT. This air is Masterton's; the song mine.- — Tiic occasion of it was this : — Mr. W. Nicol, of the Hijrh-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn 412 HKM.VllKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. vacation being at Mofliit, lionest Allan, who was at that time ou a visit to Dalswinton, and I ■went to pay Nicol a visit. — We had such a joyous meeting that Mr. ^lasterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the bu- siness. KILLIECRANKIE. The battle of Killiecrankic was the last stand made by the clans for James, after his abdication. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the mo- ment of victoiv. and with him fell the hopes of the party. General Mackay, when he found the Highlanders did not pursue his ilying army, said, " Dundee must be killed, or he never would have overlooked this advantage." A great stone marks the spot where Dundee fell. THE EWIE WI THE CRDOKED HORN. Another excellent song of old Skinner's. CRAIGIE-nURX WOOD. It is remarkable of this air that it is the con- fine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music (so far as from the title, words, &c., we can localize it) has been com- posed. From Craigie-burn, near INIoffiit, until 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 ]\Trs. Wlielp- dale. This young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood. — The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad. FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND 1 I.OVE. I ADDED the four last lines, by way of givinga turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is. lIltiniK GRAHAM. There are several editions of this ballad. — This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in Ayrshire, where, when 1 was a boy. it was a popular song. — It originally, had a simple old tune, whicli I have forgotten. " Our lords arc tr> the mounti.ins gaiic, A huntinf? o' thc-fHllniv deer, And they have (pnpct Hughie Graham, For stealing o' the bishop's mare. And they have tied him hand and foot, And led him uji, thro" Stirling town ; The lads and lanses met him there, Cried, Hiighic Graham thouartaloun. O lowse my right hand free, lie says. And put my braid swonl in the same ; He's no in Stirling town this da>'. Dare tell the talc to Hughie Graham. I'p then hespake the bra\'e Whitefonrd, Ashe sat by the bishop's knee. File hundred wiiite stuts I'Ugie you, If ye'U let Hughie Graham gae frc.-. O hand your tongue, the bishop says. And wi' your pleading let me be ; Fur tho" ten Grahams were in his coat, Mugliic Graham this day shall die. Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, As she sat by ilie bLshop's knee ; Five hundred white pence I'll gieyou. If ye'U gie Hughie Graham to me. O baud your tongue now, lady fair, And wi' your pleading let it be ; Altho' ten (irahams were in his coat. It's for my honour he maun die. Tliey'\e ta'en him to the galloivs kiifjwe. He looked to the gallows tree. Yet never coloiu left his cheek, Nor ever did he blink l-.is e'e. At length he looked round about. To see whatever he could spy : And there he saw his auld father. And he was weeping bitterly. O haud your tongue, my fmher dear. And wi' your weeping let it be ; Thy wei'ping's sairer on iiiy heart. Than a' that they can do to me. Andyemay gie my brother John, My sword that's bent in the middle clear ; And let him come at twelve o'clock, A nd see me pay the bisliop's marc. And yemay gie my brother .lames. My sword tliat'sbentin the middle brown ; And bid him come at four o' clock. And see his bnjther Hugh cut down. Ilemember me to Magg>' my wife. The neist time yegang o'eithcmoor. Tell her she staw the bishop's mare. Tell her she was the bishop's whore. And ye may tell my kith and kin, 1 never did disgrace their blood ; And when they meet the bishop's cloak To mak it shorter by the hood." A SOUTHLAND JENNY. This 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. MV tocher's the jewel. Thus tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow.— It is notoriously taken from " The nuukin o' Gordie's byre."— It is also to b(! found long prior to Nathaniel Gow's era, in Aird's Selection of Airs and Marches, the first edition under the name of " The Highway to Edinburgh." Kl'iMAKKS ON SCOITISII SONG. 413 TKF.X, GiriD WIIE, tOl NT THE I.AWIx'. The clioius of this is inivt of an old song, no stanza of which I recollect. there'll never be peace till JAMIE COMES HAME. This tune is sometimes called " There's few gude fellows when Willie's uwa." — But 1 never have been able to meet with anything else of the song than the title. I DO CONFESS thou ART SAE FAIR. This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private secretary to IMary and Ann, Queens of Scotland. — ^The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scot- land. I think that I have improved the simpli- city of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress. THE SODGEll LADDIE. The first verse of this is old ; the rest is by Ramsay. The tune seems to be the same with a slow air, called " .Tacky Humes Lament" — or, " The lioUin Buss" — or, " Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ?" where wad IJOXNIE ANNIE LIE. The old name of this tune is, — ■ " V/l)are'll our i;u(li:inan lie." A silly old stanza of it runs thus — " O wliare'll ourxudemaii lie, Gudeman lie, gudemaii lie, O whare'U our gudeman lie. Till he siiute o'er the simmer { Up amans the hen-hawks, The hen-bawks, the hen-bawks, Up aniang the hen-bawks, Amang the rotten timmcr." GALLOWAY TAM. I HAVE seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) to this tune, called " The Wooing of the Maiden." These entertainments are now much worn out in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained in Nithsdale, viz. " Silly Pure Auld Gleiiae," and this one, " The Wooing of the Maiden." AS I CA.-M DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA'. This is a very popular Ayrshire song. LORD ROXALD MY SON. This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this manner most of our finest more modern air.-, liave had their origin. Some early minstrel, or musical siiepherd, composed the simple, artless original air ; which being picked up by the more learned musician, took the improved form it bears. o'er THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, a girl 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. She was born I believe in Kilmarnock, — I took the song down from her singing, as she Avas strolling through the country, with a sUght-of-hand blackguard. TO THE ROSE BUD. This song is the composition of a John- son, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from " Jockie's Gray Breeks." YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to a part of my private history, which it is of no con- sequence to the world to know. IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. These were originally English verses: gave them the Scots dress. EPPIE M'NAB The old song with this title has more wit tlian deccncv. wiiA is that at .my bower door. This tune is also known by the name of" Lass an I come near thee." The words are mine. 6 K 414 HKMAUKS ON' SCOTTISH SONG. THOU AHT GANE AWA. This tune is the same with " Hand awa trae me, Donald." THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. This son"^ of genius was composed by a Miss Cranston. It wanted four Hnes, to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are tlie four first of the last stanza. " No cold approach, noalter'd mien, Just what would make suspicion start ; No pause tlie dire extremes between. He made me blest — and broke my heart !" THE EONIE WEE THING. Composed on my little idol " the charming, lovely Davies." THE TITIIER MORN. This tune is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, whicli I was told was very clever, but not by any means a lady's song. A MOTHER S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. This 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. This song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson's begetting the daughter of Lady Cherrjtrees 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 tiie soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed- 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 pureued by the dragoons. Within my bed he was laid down ; And weel I wat he was worth his room. For lie was my daintie Uawe." Ramsay's song, " Luckie Nansy," though he calls it an old song with additions, seems to be all his own, except the chorus : " I was a telling you, Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nansy, Auld springs wad ding the new. But ye wad never tiow mc." 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 I'll lend you my thripplin-kame ; My heckle is broken, itcanrja begotten. And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumblane. Twa gaed to the wood, to the wood, to the wood, Twa gaed to the wood — three came hanie ; 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 Aluir,)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 thei/ had gotten the victoiy. — " Weel, weel," returned his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, " if they think it be uae weel bobbit, we'll bob it again." THE BORDER TOUR. Left 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. Aiuslie an uncommon character; — his hobbies, agricul- ture, natural philosopliy, 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 embonboint, 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 young fellow. — The family-meeting with their brother; my corn- paanon 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 liis service — Douglas's old nurse came to Berrywell yesterday to remind tlicm of its being his birth- day. A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,' a worthy remarkable character — natural penetration, a gi-eat deal of information, some genius, and ex- treme modesty. Sunday. — Went to church at Dunse^ — Dr. 1 The aiithi)r of that fine song, " The Maid that tends the Goats." * " iJuriiiK the discourse Burns produced a neat impromptu, con- veying an elegant compliment to Miss Ainslie. Dr. IS. had selected a text of Scripture that contained a hcaxT denunciation against obsti- nate sinners. In the course of the sermon Bums obser^■ed the young )ady turning over the leaves of her Uihle, with much earnestness, in •««rch of the text. He took out a slip of paiicr, and with a pencil Bowmaker 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 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; but a good deal of the French indiscriminate complaisance — from his situation past and pre- sent, an admirer of every thing that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a large estate — Jlrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her j^er- 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; intro- duced to Mr. Scot of tiie Royal Bank — an excel- lent, modest fellow — fine situation of it — ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where James II. of Scotland was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed by an English hottentot, a maiire d'hotel of the duke's, a Mr. Cole — climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire — bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements — Mr. M'Dowal, at Caver- wrote the following lines on it, which he immediately presented to her. ' Fair maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue : — 'Twas f^uilty sinners that he meant, — N ot angels such as you. " CROUSh. 410 THK BORUHR TOUK. toil Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, witii whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb togetlier, at two guineas a piece — wash tiieir sheep before shearing — seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece — low markets, con- sequently low rents — line lands not above six- teen shillings a Scotch acre — magnificence of farmers and farm-houses— come up Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a good night. Wednesday. — Breakfast with Mr. in Jed- burgh — a squabble between ]Mrs. , a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of her's, au old maid, respecting a relief minister — Miss gives Aladaiu 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 Jedburgh to a roup of parks — meet a polite, soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many years through the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians — charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens, orchards, &.c. intermingled among the houses — fine old ruins — a once magnificent ca- thedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the appearance of old, rude gi-andeur, 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 bard- 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 mucii of a fine swelling bosom — her tace very fine. Return to Jedburgh — walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to ]\Ir. Potts, writer, a very clever fellow ; and Mr. Somer- ville, the clergj-man of the place, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning, — The walking party of ladies, Mrs. and Miss her sister, before mentioned.— N. B. These two appear still more comfortably ugly and stujjid, and bore me most shockingly. Two !Miss , tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. !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 — an engaging face un tout ensemble that speaks 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 uj) in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with my hardship's distinguishing her, and after some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep my hold ; and when l)arted by the ceremony of my introduction to iMr. Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situation. Nota Bene — The poet within a point and a half of being d-niuably in love — I am afraid my bosom is still lu^arly as much tinder as ever. The old, cross-grained, whiggisli, ugly, slan- derous Miss , with all the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by 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 ]\Ir, 's ; vexed that the ]\Iiss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss ■ 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 Ro- chester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee Hill. Wauchope — Tslr. 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. Somerville — the bruit of ISIiss Lindsay and my hardship, by means of the invention and malice of ]\Iiss . 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 wouldsoonplay the devil with me — I met with some little flat- tering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine family. — Mr. Ainslie and Mrs. S ,junrs. with Mr. , Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to see Esther, a very remarkable woman for recit- ing poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making Scotch doggerel herself— she can repeat by heart almost every thing she has ever read, particularly Pope's Homer from end to end — has studied Euclid by liersclf, and, in short, is a woman of very extraordinary abilities. — On conversing w ith her I find her fully equal to the character given of her,' — She is very much ' " This extraordinar)' woman then moved in a very himihlc wall, of life ;— the wife of a common work iiig gardener. She is still livinj;. TflE BORDER T(!UR. 417 flattered that I send for her, and tliat she sees a poet who lius put out a hook, as she says. — She is, ainoii;^- otlier thinnds the fox-huntings in the country — 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 Uobeit ^hiir, in Kilmarnock — every thing in Mr. Ker's most elegant — he offers to accompany me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alex- ander 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 for Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey — 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 remark- ably stony. Monday. — Come to Inverlei thing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Ti-a- quair, where having dined, and drank some Galloway-whey, I here remain till to-morrow — saw Elibanks and Elibi'aes, on the other side of the Tweed. Tuesday. — Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, Avith Mr. Ilorseburgh. — Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee — Proposal for a four- liorse team to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland: Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr : Ballan- tyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd : Ilorsburgh of llorsburgh. — Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller, in Earlston, the birth-place and residence »nd, if I am rightly informed, her time is principally occupied in her attentions to a little day-school, which not heing sufficient for her subsistence, she is oblij^ed to solicit the charity of her lienei'olent neighbours. ' Ah, who would love the lyre I'" Ckdmck. of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer — saw tlie ruins of his castle — come to Berry well. Wednesday. — Dine at Dunse with the farmers' dub-company — impossil)lo to do tlieni justice — llev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills. — Thursday, breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous knife made by a cutler there, and to be pre- sented to an Italian prince. — A pleasant rido with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his sister to Mr. Tliomson's, a man who has newly commenced farmer, aiid has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie's. — Company — Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Airs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the neighbourhood. Friday. — Ride to Berwick — An idle town, riulely picturesque. — Meet Lord lirrol in wallc- 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. Aldj's Lodge.^ — Mr. William Grieve, tlie oldest brother, a joy- ous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow — takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song. — Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fish- ing of all kinds pays tithes at Eyemouth. Sunday. — A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednani, sets out with us to Dunbar. The Miss Grieves very good girls. — IMy bard- ship's heai-t got a binish from ]\Iiss Betsey. Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the family-circle, so fond, that when he is out, which by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping well Pass the famous Abbey of Coldingham, and Pease-bridge. — Call at Mr. Sheriff's, where Mr. A. and I dine. — Air. S. talkative and con- ceited. I talk of love to Nancy the wliole even- ing, while her brother escorts home some com- panions like himself. — Sir James Hall of Dung- 1 The entry made on this occasion in the LodRc-bnoks of St. Abb's is honourable to " The brethren of the mystic level." " Eyemouth, VMh May, 1787- " At a Rcneral encampment held this day, the following brethren were made royal arch masons, vir,. Robert Burns, from the Lodge of St. James's, Tarbolton, Ayrshire, and Robert Ainslie, from tiie Lodge of St. Luke's, Edinburgh, by .James C'armichael, VVm. (iiicve, Daniel Dow, John Clay, Robert Griex'e, &c. Sic. Robert Ainslie paid one guinea admission dues ; but on account of R. Burns's re- markable poetical genius, the encampment unanimously agreed to admit him gratis, and considered themselves honoured by having a man of such shining abilities for one of their companions." Extracted from the Minute Book of the Lodge by TH0M.4S BowHrLL. O 418 THE UORDER TOUR. lass, having heard of my being in the neighbour- hood, comes to Mr. Sheriff's to breakfast — takes me to see his fine scenery on the stream of Dunglass — Dunglass the most romantic, sweet place I ever saw — Sir James and his lady a ploasant happy conple. — Ho points out a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he owes much. ^liss will accompany me to Dunbar, by way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart of liers, among her relations. Slie mounts an old cart-liorse, as huge and as loan as a house ; a rusty old side-saddle without girtli, or stirrup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth — licr- self as fine as liands could make her, in cream- coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, &c. — ■ I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the devil, and almost sliake her to pieces on old Jolly — get rid of lier by refusing to call at her uncle's with her. Past through the most glorious corn-country I ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little town. — Dine witli Provost Fall, an eminent merchant, and most respectable character, but nndescribable, as he exhibits no marked ti'aits. Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting; fully more clever in tlie fine arts and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, without her consum- mate assurance of her own abilities. — Call with Mr. Robinson (who, by the bye, I find to be a worthy, much respected man, very modest ; wann, social lieart, which with less good sense than his would be perliaps 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, '' Guid enough, 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 raree show an atithorwas ; 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, a farmer 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 lias 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 gentlenum from Dunbar, a fellow ■whose face and manners are open and engaging. — Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along with collector , a lad of slender abilities and bashfully diffident to an extreme. Found Aliss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ainslie, all alone at BerrywelL — Heavenly powers who know the weakness of human hearts, support mine! What happiness must I see only to re- mind me that I cannot enjoy it ! Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to Dunse very wild. — Dine with the farmers' club at Kelso. Sir .John Hume and Mr. Lumsden there, but nothing worth remembrance when the following circumstance is considered — I walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie — how well-bred, how frank, how good she is ! Charming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be wrung by the evils of this life of sorrows, or by the villainy 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 ISIr. 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 a scene of horror. Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take fare- well of my hardship. 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, 27 th 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 picturesque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the seat of an old monastciy, facing it a little in the sea; and the small but romantic river Coquet, run- ning through it. — Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little town, and on next day to New- castle. — Meet with a very agreeable, sensible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us a great many civilities, and who dines and sups with us. THE BORDER TOUR. 419 Wednesday. — Left Newcastle early in the morn- ing, and rode over a fine country to Ilexliam to breakfast — from Hexliam to Wardrue, the cek;- brated Spa, where wo slept. — 'nmrsduy — reach Lonp;town to dine, and part there with my good friends Messrs Hood and Ker — A liiring day in Longtown — I am uncommonly iiappy to see so many young folks enjoying life. —I come to Carlisle. — (Meet a strange enougli romantic ad- venture liy tlie way, in falling in with a girl and her married sister — tlie 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 a Gretna-green affair.^I not being such a gull as she imagines, make an appointment with lier, by way of vive la bagatelle, to hold a conference on it wlicn we reach town. — I meet her in town and give iier :i brusli of caressing, and a bottle of cyder; but finding herself nn pen (rompe in her man slio sliecrs off. ) Next day I meet my good friend, Mr. Mitciieil, and walk with him round the town and its environs, iind throii;,rh liispiint- ing-works, &c. — four or five hundred ])eoplu em- ployed, many of them women and children. — Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle. — Come by the coast to Annan. — Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish of a shoemaker, and miner, from Cumberland mines. [Here the Manuscript abruptly temdtiaies.'] THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 2bth August , 1787. I LEAVE Edinburgh for a northern tour, in com- pany Avith my good friend ]Mr. Nicol, whoso originahty of humour promises me much enter- tainment. — Linlithgow — 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 Lotliians, ]Merse, Roxburgh, &c. For this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, a " Alan of Feeling," M'ill be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent minds of the jjeasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry they are all below the justice of peace) than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, wlien at the same time, he considers the vandalism of tlieir plough-folks, &.C. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, half inij)roven country is to me actually more agreeable, and gives me more pleasure as a prospect, than a country cultivated like a garden. — Soil about Linlithgow light and thin. — The town carries the appearance of rude, decayed grandeur — charmingly 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 tiie beautiful, injured Mary Queen of Scots was born — a pretty good old Gothic church. The infamous stool of repent- ance standing, in the old llomish 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, Melrose ! Cei-emony and show, if judiciously thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil matters. — Dine, — Go to my friend Smith's at Avon print- field — find nobody but Mrs. Millei-, an agreeable, Bonsibh.', modest, good body ; as useful but not KG ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western — not rigidly polite « la Fr-iucais but easy, hospitablo, and housewifely. An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, whom I promise to call for in Paisley — like old lady W and still more like Mrs. C , her conversation is pregnant with strong sense and just remark, but like them, a certain air of self- importance and a f/uresse in the eye, seem to indi- cate, 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 dirty, ugly ])lace, Borrowstones — see a horse- race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol's, a Bailie Cowan, of whom I know too little to attempt his portrait — Come through the rich carse of Falkirk to pass the night. Falkirk nothing re- markable except the tomb of Sir John tlio Gra- ham, over which, in the succession of time, four stones have been placed.— Camelon, the ancient metropolis of the Picis, now a small village in the neighbourhood of Falkirk. — Cross the grand canal to Carron. — Come past Larbert and ad- mire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. Pass Dunii)ace, a place laid out with fine taste — a charming amphitheatre bounded by Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way to Du- nipace. — The Carron running down the bosom of the whole makes it one of the most charm- ing little prospects I iiave seen. Dine at Auchinbowie — Mr. Monro an excel- lent, worthy old man — Miss Monro an amiable, sensible, sweet yoimg woman, much resembling Mrs. Griorson. Come to Bannockburn —Shown the old house where James 111. finished so tra- gically his unfortunate life. The field of Ban- nockburn — the hole Avhcre glorious Bruce set his standard. Here no Scot can pass uninterested. — I fancy to myself that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen coming oer the hill and down ui)on the plunderers of their couu- TllK IIICULAM) lOUK. 431 try, the murderers of their fathers; noble re- veiifjc, and just hate, glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they ap- proach the oppressive, insulting, blood-thiisty foe ! I see them meet in gloriously-triunij)liant congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal header, and rescued liberty and independence ! Come to Stirling. — Monday go to Ilarvieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and Rumbling brig, and Dicl'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 uf a pedant — Bell a joyous fellow, who sings a good song. — Forrester a merry, swearing kind of man, Avith a dash of the sodger. Tuesday Alorning — Breakfast with Captain Forrester — Ochel Hills — Devon River — Forth and Tieth — Allan River — Strathallan, a fine country, but little improved — Cross Earn to CrielF — Dine and go to Arbruchil — cold recep- tion at Arbruchil — a most romantically pleasant ride np Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie to Arbruchil — Sup at Crieff. Wednesday Morning. — Leave Crieff — Glen Amend — Amond river — Ossian's grave — Loch Fruoch — Glenquaich — Landlord and landlady remarkable characters — Taymoutli 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 ISIrs. Stewart and Beard toBirnam top — fine prospect down Tay — Craigie- burn hills — TIermitage on the Branwater, with a picture of Ossian — Breakfast with Dr. Stew- art — Neil Gow ^ plays — a short, stout-built, ho- 1 Another northern bard has sketched this eminent musieian- " The blytheStrathspe; springs up, reminding some Of nights when Cow's old arm, (nor old the tale,) Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round, Made heart and heel leap liglit as bounding roe. Alas ! no more sliall we behold that look So venerable, yet so blent with mirth, And festive joy seilate; tliat ancient garb I'nvaricd, — tartan hose, and bonnet blue ! No more shall Brautys partial eye draw forth The full intoxication of )iis strain. Mellifluous, stiong, exuberantly rich ! No more, amid the pauses of the dance, Shall lie repeat tliose measures, tliat in days Of other years, could soothe a falling prince, And liglit his visage with a transient smile Of melancholy joy,— like autumn sun Gilding a sear tree with a passing beam I l)r play to sportive childrcti on the green Dancing at gloamin hour; on willing cheer \\ itii strains unbmight, the shepherds bridal day." Uriti/ih Gcviiikv, p. f!l nest Highland figure, with his grayish Jiair shed on his honest social brow — an interesting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margct Gow. Ride uj) Tunnnel River to Blair — Fascally a beautiful lomantic nest — wild grandeur of the pass of (jillicrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. Blair — Sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of the family — confinned in my good opinion of my friend Walker. Saturday.— Yiait 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 Jlr. Walker, to Loch Tummel — nieandrings of the 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 lionest, worthy man, but tormented with the hypochondria — Mrs. Graham, belle ct aimable — Miss Catchcart — Mrs. Murray, a painter — Mrs. King — Duchess and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, Edward, 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 Dalwhinnie — Cross the Spey, and come down the stream to Pitnin- Straths rich — les environs picturesque — Craigow hill — Ruthven of Ba denoch — Barracks — wild and magnificent — Rothemurche 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 darkness to Dulsie, to lie. Tuesday. — Findliorn river — rocky banks — come on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered King Duncan — saw the bed in which King Duncan was stabbed — dme at Kilravock — Mrs. Rose, sen. a true chieftain's wife — Fort George —Inverness. Wednesday. — Loch Ness — Braes of Ness — Ge- neral's hut — Falls of Fyers — Urquhart Castle and Strath. Thursday. — Come over CuUoden ^luir- -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 Mi: Scott at Inverleithing — .Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to 422 THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 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 aple;isant enough gentleman, Dr. Stewart, who had been long abroad with his father in the forty-five ; and Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted Norland, and a Nonjuror — Brodie-house to lie. Friday. — Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Brodie tells me that themuir where Shake- speare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still haunted — that the countryfolks won't pass it by night. * » * * 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 clergyman, a venerable, aged figure — the Duke makes me happier than ever great man did — noble, princely ; yet mild, condescending, and affable ; gay and kind — the Duchess witty and sensible — God bless them ! Come to CuUen 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 fel- low, like Professor Tytler, — Mr. Marshal one of the poetcB minories — Mr. Sheriffs, author of "Jamie and Bess," a little decripid body with some abilities — Bishoj) Skinner, a nonjuror, son of the author of " TuUochgorum," 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 — Aber- deen, a lazy town — near Stonhive, the coast a good deal romantic — meet my relations — 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 Mcams, a rich, cultivated, but still uninclosed country. Wednesday. — Cross North Esk river and a rich country to Craigow. » ♦ * * Go to Montrose, that finely-situated handsome town — breakfast at Muthie, and sail along that wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, particularly the Gairiepot — 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 — Droughty Castle, a finely situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. Friday. — Breakfast with the Miss Scots — Miss Bess Scott like Mrs. Greenfield — my hardship almost in love with her — come through the rich harvests and fine hedge-rows of the Carse of Gowrie, along the romantic margin of the Grampian hills, to Perth — fine, fruitful, hilly, woody country round Perth. Saturday Morning. — Leave Perth — come up Stratheai'n to Endermay — fine, fruitful, culti- vated Strath — the scene of " Bessy Bell, and Mary Gray," near Perth — fine scenery on the banks of the May — Mrs. Belcher, gawcie, frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, &c. — Lie at Kinross — reflections in a fit of the colic. S''unday.—Faiis thiougii a cold, barren country to Quecnsferry — dine — cross the ferry and on to Ediuburglu THE POET'S ASSIGNMENT OF HIS WORKS. Know all men by these presents that I Robert Burns of Mossgiel : whereas I intend to leave Scotland and go abroad, and having acknowledged myself the father of a child named Elizabeth, begot upon Elizabeth Paton in Largieside : and whereas Gilbert Burns in Mossgiel, my brother, has become bound, and hereby binds and obUges 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. Therefore, 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 favors of, the said Gilbert Burns, his heirs, executors, and assignees, who are always to be bound in like manner with himself, all and sundry goods, gear, corns, cattle, horses, nolt, sheep, household furniture, and all other moveable effects of whatever kind that I shall leave behind me on my departure 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 presently 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 so far as I can dispose of 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 foresaids in my full right, title, room and place of the whole pre- mises, with power to him to intromit witn, and dispose upon the same at pleasure, and in general to do every other thing in the premises that I could have done myself before granting hereof, but always with and under the conditions before expressed. And I oblige myself to warrand this dis- position and assignation from my own proper fact and deed allenarly. Consenting to the registra- tion 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 thousand seven hundred and eighty-six years, I, Wil- liam Chalmer, Notary Publick, past to the Mercat Cross of Ayr head Burgh of the Sheriffdome thereof, and thereat I made due and lawful 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 Wilham Crooks, writer, in Ayr, as attorney for the before designed Gilbert Burns, protested that the same was lawfully intimated, and asked and took instruments in my hands. These things were done betwixt the hours of ten and eleven forenoon, before and in presence of William M'Cubbin, and William Eaton, apprentices to the SheriflF Clerk of Ayr, witnesses to the premises. (Signed) WILLIAM CHALMER, N. P. William M'Cubbin, Witness. William Eaton, Witnes^s. GLOSSARY. •''The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo is ooTnmoiiir spelled OK. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked on or id, Theci.. in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a single consonar.t^ 'sounds generally like the broad English a in icull. The Scottish diphthong ae always, and ea very often, sound like the f rench e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin el." A. A\ all. Aback, away, aloof, backwards. Abeigh, at a shy distance. Aboon, above, up. Abread, abroad, in sight, to publish. Ahreed, in breadth. Ae, one. Af, off. Aff-lnof, off-hand, extempore, without premeditation. Afore, before. Aft, oft. Afteti, often. Agley, off the right line, wrong, awry. Aibliii!:, perhaps. Ain, own. Aim, iron, a tool of that metal, a mason's chisel. Airles, earnest money. Airl-peniiij, 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, .^i's/p, a hot cinder, an ember of wood. A lake, alas. Alane, alone. y]/cu«rt, awkward, athwart. j4 muisf, almost. Amang, among. Av'', and, if. Alice, once. Ane, one. Anent, overagainst, concerning, aibout. Anither, another. Ase, adhes of wood, remains of a hearth lire. A steer, abroad, stirring in -a lively >mftnn8r. 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. Aivfu'', awful. Auld-slwon, old shoes literally, a discarded lover metaphori- cally. Aumos, gift to a beggar. Aumos-dish, a beggar's dish in which the aumos is received. Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. Aicnie, 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. Buck-yett, private gate. Baide, endured, did stay. Baggie, the belly. Bairn, a child. Bairn-time, a family of children, a brood. Baith, both. Ballets, ballanis, ballads. Ban, to sweax. Bane, bone. Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel. Bannock; ilat, round, soft cake. Bardie, diminutive of bard. Barejit, barefooted. Bcrley-bree, barley-broo, bloodof barley, malt liquor. Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty. Batch, a crew, a gang. Satts., botts. Bauckie-bird, the bat. Baudrons, a cat. Bauld, bold. Bawshit, having a white etripc down the face. Be, to let be, to give over, to csese. Beets, boots. Bear, barley. Bearded-bear, barley with its bristly head. Beastie, diminutive of beast. Beet, beek, to add fuel to a. fire, to bask. Beld, bald. Belijve, by and by, presently, quickly. Ben., into the spence or parlour. Benmost-bore, the remotest hole, the innermost recess. Bethankit, graes after meat. Bcuk, a book. Bicker, a kind of wooden dish, a short rapid race. Bickering, careering, hurrying ■with quarrelsome intent. Birnie, bimie ground is where thick heath has been burnt, leaA'ing the birns, or uncon- sumed stalks, standing up sharp and stubley. Bie, or bietd, shelter, a sheltered ;place, the sunny nook of a wood. Bien, wealthy, plentiful. Big, to build. Bigf^in, building, a house. Bifigit, built. Bill, a bull. Bit lie, a brother, a young 'fellow, a companion. Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. Birdie-cocks, young cocks, still be- longing to the brood. Birk, birch. ■Birkie, a clever, a forward cofr^ "Ceited fellow. GLOSSARY, Birrtn^, the noise of partridges when they rise. Birses, bristles. Bit, crisis, nick of time, place. Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. Black's the i^nin\ as black as the ground. Btastie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term of contempt, full of mischief. Blastit, blasted. Elate, bashful, sheepish. Blather, bladder. BlauH, a flat piece of anything, to slap. Blandin-ihouer, a heavy driving rain ; a blauding signifies a beating. Blow, to blow, to boast ; " blaw i' my lug," to flatter. Bleerit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with weeping. Bleer my een, dim my eyes. Bleeziiig, bleeze, blazing, flame. Blellum, idle talking fellow. Blether, to talk idly. Bleth'rin, talking idly. Blink, a little while, a smiling look, to look kindly, to shine by fits. Blinker, a term of contempt : it means, too, a lively engaging girl. Bliiikin', smirking, smiling with the eyes, looking lovingly. Blirtand /j/t-urie, 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, Blupe, a shred, a large piece. Bobhit, the obeisance made by a lady. Bock, to vomit, to gush intermit- tently. Backed, gushed, vomited. Bndte, a copper coin of the value of two pennies Scots. Bogie, a small morass. Bonnie,or bonnv, 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. Boost, behoved, must needs, wil- fulness. Botch, hlotcli, an angry tumour. Bouiivg, drinking, making merry with liquor. Bowk, body. Bow-kail, cabbage. Bou-honght, out-kneed, crooked at the knee joint. Bowt, bowk, bended crooked. Brackens, fern. Brae, a declivity, a precipice, the slope of a hill. Braid, broad. Braik, an instrument for rough- dressing flax. Braiiige, to run rashly forward, to churn violentl}'. Braihg't, " the horse braing't," plunged and fretted in the harness. Brak, broke, became insolvent. Brunks, a kind of wooden curb for horses. Brankie, gaudy. Brash, a sudden illness. Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. Brattle, a short race, hurry, fury. Braw, fine, handsome. Brauti/s, or braulic, very well, finely, heartily, bravely. Braiies, diseased sheep. Breastie, 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 irresist- ible spell Breeki, breeches. Brent^ bright, clear; "a brent brow," a brow high and smooth. Brewin, brewing, gathering. Bree, juice, liquid. Brig, a bridge. Briiiistaiie, brimstone. Brisket, the breast, the bosom. Brilher, a brother. Brock, a badger. Brogue, a hum, a trick. Broo, broth, liquid, water. Broose, broth, a race at country weddings ; he who first reaches the bridegroom's house on re- turning from church wins the broose. Browst, ale, as much malt liquor as is brewed at a time. Brugh, a burgh. Bruilsie, a broil, combustion. Brunt, did burn, burnt. Brust, to burst, burst. Buchan-huUers, 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. Buirdlii, stout made, broad built. Bum-clock, the humming beetle that flies in the summer even- ings. Bummin, hummifig as bees, buz- zing. liummle, to blunder, a drone, an idle fellow. Bummler, a blunderer, one wnose noise is greater than his work. Bunker, a window-seat. Bure, did bear. Burn, bnrnie, water, a rivulet, a small stream which is heard as it runs. Burnieuin', burn the wind, the blacksmith. Burr-thistle, the thistle of Scot- land. Buskit, dres.sed. Buskit-nest, an ornamented resi- dence. Busic, a bustle. But, bot, without. But and ben. the country kitchen and parlour. By himself, lunatic, distracted, be- side himself. Biike, a bee-hive, a wild bee-nest. Byre, a cow-house, a sheep-pen. C. Ca'', to call, to name, to drive. Cu't, called, driven, calved. Cadger, a carrier. Cadie, or caddie, a person, a young fellow, a public messenger. Caff, chafl^ Cuird, a tinker, a maker of horn spoons and teller of fortunes. Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a rustic monument. Calf-uard, a small enclosure for calves. Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton cloth worn by ladies. Callan, a boy. Culler, fresh. Callet, a loose woman, a follower of a camp. Cannie, gentle, mild, dexterous. Cannalie, 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. Cureerin\ 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. Caudron, 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. Chanp, a stroke, a blow. Cheek for chow, close and united, brotherly, side by side. GLOSSARY. Cheekit, cheeked. Cheep, a chirp, to chirp. Cfiiel, or client, a young fellow. Chimta, or chimtie, a fire-grate, fire-place. Chimtu-liis:, the fire-side. Chirps, cries of a young bird. Chitteriiig, shivering, trembling. Chorkiii, choking. Chou; to chew ; a quid of tobacco. Chuckle, a brood-hen; Chuflie, fat-faced. Clachaii, a small village about a church, a hamlet. Claise, or claes, clothes. Claith, cloth. Chithiiig. clothing. Clavers and havers, agreeable non- sense, to talk foolishly. Clapper-claps, the clapper of a mill ; it is now silenced. Clap-ciack, clapper of a mill. Clartie, dirty, filthy. Clarkit, wrote. Clash, an idle tale. Clatter, to tell little idle stories, an idle story. Clauglit, snatched at, laid hold of. Claut, to clean, to scrape. Clan led, scraped. Claw, to scratch. Cleed, to clothe. Cleek, hook, snatch. Cleekin, a brood of chickens, or ducks. Clegs, the gad flies. Ciinhiii, " clinking down," sitting down hastily. CUnkum-bell, the church bell ; he who rin^s it ; a sort of beadle. Clips, wool-shears. Cli.'ii(, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. CUuHie, a familiar name for the devil. Clour, a bump, or swelling, after a blow. Ctouiin, repairing with cloth. Ciiids, clouds. Ctuitk, the sound in setting down an empty bottle. Couxiit, wheedling. Cfhle, a fishii.g-boat. Ci'd, a pillow. Cojl, bought. Cog, and C(\!igie, a wooden dish. Coilu, from Kyle, a district in Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- dition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Piciish monarch. Collie, a general, and sometimes a particular name for country curs. Collie-shangic, a quarrel among dogs, an Irish row. Commauii, command. Convoyed, accompanied lovingly. ConCd in her linens, cool'd in her death-shift. Good, the cud. Coof, a blockhead, a ninny. Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits. Cooser, a stallion. Coosl, did cast. Coot, the ancle, a species of water- fowl. Corbies, blood crows. Coolie, a wooden dish, rough-1^- ged. Core, corps, party, clan. Corn''t, fed with oats. Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot- house, or cottage. Couthie, kind, loving. Cove, a cave. Coive, to terrify, to keep under, to lop. Cowp, to barter, to tumble over, Cou-p the crun, to tumble a full bucket or basket. Coicpit, tumbled, Cowriii, cowering. Coicte, a colt. Cosie, snug. Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. Creuks, a disease of horses. Crack, conversation, to converse, to boast. Crackin\ cracked, conversing, 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. Crumho-cliitk, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, doggrel verses. Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel — metaphorically in- harmonious verse. Crankous, fretful, captious. Cranreuch, the hoar-frost, called in Nithsdale "frost-rhyme." Crap, a crop, to crop. Craiv, 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, greasy. Crood, or Croud, to coo as a dove. Croon, 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. Croiise, cheerful, courageous. Crousltj, cheerfully, courageously. Cruwdie, a composition of oatmeal, boiled water and butter ; sometUTies made from the broth of beef, mutton, &c. &.c. Crowdie time, breakfast time. Crowlin, crawling, a deformed creeping thing. Crummie's vicks, marks on the horns of a cow. Crummock, Criimmet, a cow with crooked horns. Crummock driddle, walk slowly, leaning on a staff with a crooked head. Crump-crumpin, hard and brittle, spoken of bread ; frozen snow yielding to the foot. Crunt, 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 kerchief. C archie, a curtsey, female obei- sance. Curler, a player at a game on the ice, 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. Cuttii, short, a spoon broken in the middle. Cutty Stool, or, Creepie Chair, the seat of shan:e, stool of re- pentance. D. Daddie, a father. Daffin, merriment, foolishness. Daft, merry, giddy, foolish; Daft- hnckie, mad fish. Daimen, rare, now and then ; dui- 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, as Davie is of David. Dawd, a large piece. Dawin, dawning of the day. Daivtit, dautet, fondled, caressed. Dearies, diminutive of dears, sweethearts. Dearthfu', dear, expensive. Deave, to deafen. Deil-nia-care, no matter for all that. Deleerit, delirious. Descrive, to describe, to perceive. Deuks, ducks. Dight, to wipe, to clean corn from chaff. Ding, to worst, to push, to sur- pass, to excel. Dink, neat, lady-like. Dinnu, do not. GLOSSARY. Mrl'r a slight tremulous stroke or Dai*:, a tremulous motion. JSHsT'i\n. stam. ^)s:e;i, a dozen. 3ocfiiei; daughter. J^oited, stupilied, silly from age. Dolt, stupitied, crazed: also a fool. JI>onsie, unlucky, aifectedly neat and uim, pettish. Doodle, to dandle. Z)()(i/, sorrow, to lament, to mourn. Doos, doves, pigeons. Dorty, sauay, nice. Douse, or douce, sober, wise, pru- dent 3oucely, soBerly, prudently. Doughi, was or were able. Doup, backside. Doup-skelpcr, one that strikes the tail. Dour ajid din, sullen and sallow. Douset; more prudent. Dow, am or are able, can. Dnicff, pithless, wanting force. Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half asleep. Downa, am or are not able, can- not. Doylt, wearied, exhausted. Dozen, stupified, the effects of age, to dozen, to benumb. Drab, a young female beggar ; to spot, to stain. Drop, a drop, to drop. Dropping, dropping. Drauntiiig, drawling, speaking with a sectarian tone. Dreep, to ooze, to drop. Dreigh, tedious, long about it, lin- gering. Dribble, driazling; trickling. Driddle, the motion of one who tries to dance but moves the middle only. Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, snov; moved by the wind. Droddum, the breech. Drone, part of a bagpipe, the chanter. Droop rumpl't, fihat droops at ths CTupper. Droukit, wet. Drouth, thirst, di-ought.. Drucken, drunken. Drumly, muddy. D-ummock, or Drammcck, meal and water mixed, raw. Drunt, pel, sour humour. Dub, a small pond', a hollow filled with rain water. Duds, rags, clothes* Duddie, ragged.. Dung-dung,, worstod, pushed, stricken. Dun ted J throbbed, beaten. Dush-duhih, to push, or butt as a ram. Dush t, overcome with superstitious fear, to drop down suddenly. Dyvnr, bankrupt, or about to be- come one-. Ee\ the eye. F.en, the eyes, the evening. Eebree, the eyebrow. Eenin\ the evening. Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading spirits. Eild, old age. Elbuck, the elbow. Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish. En\ end. Eiibrugh, Edinburgh. Eneiigh and aneuch, enough. F.speciul, especially. Ether-stone, stone formed by ad- ders, an adder bead. Ettle, to try, attempt, aim. El/dent, diligent. F. Fa', fall, lot, to fall, fate. Fa' that, to enjoy, to try, to inherit. Faddom''t, fathomed, measured with the extended arms. Faes, foes. Faem, foam of the sea. Faiket, forgiven orexcused, abated, a demand. Fainness, gladness, overcome with joy- Fairin', fairing, a present brought from a fair. Fallow, fellow. Fand, did find. Farl, a cake of bread ; third part of a cake. Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to care for. Fasheous, troublesome. Fasht, troubled. Fasten e'en, Fasten's even. Faugh t, fight. Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, fallow. Fauld, and Fald, a fold for sheep, to fold. Faut, fault. Fawsont, decent, seemly. Feat, loyal, sicdfast. Fearfu'', fearful, frightful. Fear''t, aiFrighted. Feat, neat, spruce, clever. Fecht, to fight. Fechtin\ fighting. Feck anijek, number, quantity. Fecket, an under-waistcoat. Feckju\ large, brawny, stout. Feckless, puny, v.4;ak, silly. Fecklii, mostly. Feg, a fig. Frgs, faith, an exclamation. Fade, feud, enmity. F'ell, keen, biting; the flesh im- mediately under ths skin ;. level moor. Fellu, relentless. Fend, Fen, to make a shift, con- trive to live. Ferlie or f'erleu, to wonder, a wonder, a term of contempt. Fetch, to pull by fits. Fetch''t, pulled intermittent!/. Fiu, strange; one marked for death, predestined. Fidge, to fidgit. fidgeting. Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure. Fient, fiend, a petty oath. Fien ma cure, the 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. Fitlie-lan, the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in the plough. Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss, disturbance. Flaffen, ths motion of rags in the wind ; of wings. Fhtinen, flannel. F/uHf/ie/.i/fSj. foreign generals, sol- diers of Flanders. Flang, thr^'y with violence. Flcech, to supplicate in a flatter- ing manner. Fleechin, supplicating. Fleesh, a fleece. Fleg, a kick, a random blow, a fight. Flether, to decoy by fair words. Flethrin, Jiethers, flattering — smooth wheedling words. Fley, to scare, to frighten. Flichter, Jiicliferinir, to flutter as young nestlings do when their dam approaches- 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,Jiiskii, to fret at the yoke. Flisket,. fretted. Flitter, to vibrats like the wings of small birds. Flittering, fluttering, vibrating,- moving' tremulously from place to 7)lace. Flunkie, a servant in livery. Flyte, Jiyting, scold ; flyting, scolding. Foor, hastened. Foord, a ford. Forbears, forefathers. F'orbye, bssides. Forjdirn, distressed, worn out, jaded, forlorn, destitute. Forgather,- ta- meat, to encounter with. Forgie, to forgive. Forinawed, worn out. Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. Fou'jftjH,. drunk. Foughien, Jorjoughten, troubled, fatigued. Foul-thief, the devil, the arch- fiend. Fouth, plenty, enough, or raosff- than enough. GLOSSARY. Foit; a measure, a bushel : also a pitchfork. F'-ae, from. Freath, froth, the frothing of ale in the tankard. Frien', friend. Frostii-ciilker, the heels and front of a horse-shoe, turned sharp- ly up for riding on an icy road. Fit\ full. Fud, the scut or tail of the hare, coney, &c. Fu(T, to blow intermittently. Fu-hant, full-handed ; said of one well to live in the world. Funnie, full of merriment. Fu>--(>hiii, the hindmost horse on the right hand when plough- ing. Furder, further, succeed. Furm, a form, a bench. Fiisioiiless, spiritless, without sap or soul. Fyke, trifling cares, to be in a fuss about trifles. Fine, to soil, to dirty. Fiflt, soiled, dirtied. G. Gab, the mouth, to speak boldly or pertl} . Gaherluiisie, wallet-man, or tinker. Gae, to go; gced, went; oane or gueii, gone; gciuii, going. Gael or gate, way, manner, road. Guirs, parts of a lady's gown. Gang, to go, to walk. Gaiigrel, a wandering person. Gar, to make, to force to; gar't, forced to. Garten, a garter. Gash, wise, sagacious, talkative, to converse. Gattii, failing in body. Gai/cv, 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, gylic, pretty well. Gear, riches, goods of any kind. Geek, to toss the head in wanton- ness or scorn. Ged, a pike. Gentles, great folks. Genty, elegant. Giordie, George, a gainea, called CJeonlie from the head of King George. Get sxAgeat, a child, a young oiie. Ghaist, ghaistis, a ghost. Gie, to give; gied, gave; gien, given. Giftie, diminutive of gift. Gimlets, laughing maidens. Gillie, gillvck, diminutive of gill. Gilpey, a half-grown, half-inform- ed boy or girl, a romping lad, a hoyden. Gimmev, 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, agoriy, Ike, ; grin- ning. Giz::, a periwig, the face. Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. Glaive, a sword. Glaizie, glittering, smooth, like glass. Glaumed, grasped, snatched at ea- gerly. Girran, a poutherie girran, a little vigorous animal ; a horse ra- ther 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. GUb-gahhii, that speaks smoothly and readily Glieb «' Icin, a portion of ground. The ground belonging to a manse is called " the glieb," or portion. Glint, glintiii\ to peep. Glinted by, went brightly past. Gloamin, the twilight. Gloamin-slmt, twilight-musing ; a shot in the twilight. Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. Glowran, amazed, looking suspi- ciously, gazing. Glum, displeased. Gor-cockfi, the red-game, red-cock, or moor-cock. Goii-an, the flower of the daisy, dandelion, hawkweed, i!!^c. Goicaiiy, covered with daisies. Goavun, walking as if blind, or without an aim. Goxvd, gold. Gnwl, to howl. Gowff, a fool ; the game of golf, to strike, as the bat does the ball at golf. Gowk, term of contempt, the cuckoo. Grane or grain, a groan, to groan ; graining, groaning. Graip, a pronged instrument for cleaning cowhouses. Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress. Grannie, grandmother. Grape, to grope ; grapet, groped. Great, grit, intimate, familiar. Gree, to agree ; to hear the gree, to be decidedly victor ; greeU, agreed. Green-gruff, green grave. Gruesome, loathsomely, grim. Greet, to shed tears, to weep ; greetin', weeping. Grey-neck-quill, a quill unfit for a pen. Griens, longs, desires. Grieves, stewards. Grippit, seized. Groanin-Maut, drink for the cum- 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. Grumphie, Gramphin, a 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. Grushie, thick, of thriving growth. Gude, giiid, guids, the Supreme Being, good, goods. Gitdc auhl-has-been, was once ex- cellent. Guid-mornin^, good-morrow. Guid-e'en, good evening. Guidfatlier and giiif/jHiit/ier, father- in-law, and mother-in-law. Guidman and guiduije, the master and mistress of the house; young guidman, a man newly married. Gully or Gullie, a large knife. Gulravage, joyous mischief. Gamlie, muddy. Gumption, discernment, know- ledge, talent. Gusty, guslj'u', tasteful. Gut-scraper, a fiddler. Gntcher, grandsire. H. Ha\ hall. Ha' Bible, the great Bible that lies in the hall. Haddia, house, home, dwelling- place, a possession. Hae, to have, to accept. Haen, had (the participle of hae) ; haven. Haet, Jient haet, a petty oath of negation ; nothing. Haffet, the temple, the side of the head. Haffliiis, nearly half, partly, not fully grown. Hag, a gulf in mosses and moors, moss-ground. Hagiiis, a kind of pudding, boiled in the stomach of a cow or sheep. Hain, to spare, to save, to lay out at interest. Hain'd, spared ; hain'd gear, hoarded money. GLOSSARY, Hairsf, harvest. Haith, a petty oath. Haivers, nonsense, speaking with- out thought. Hal', or hnld, an abiding place. Hale, or haill, whole, tight, heal- thy. Hallan, a particular partition-wall in a cottage, or more pro- perly a seat of turf at the outside. Halluiiiitass, Hallow-eve, 31st Oc- tober. Ilaly, holy; " haly-pool," holy well with healing qualities. Home, home. Hammered, the noise of feet like the din of liammers. Han's breed, hand's breadth. Hanks, thread as it comes from the measuring reel, quantities, &c. Hansel-thrmie, throne when first occupied by a king. Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, itc. ; to wrap, to cover, to hap. Harigals, heart, liver, and lights of an animal. Hap-shackled, when a fore and hind foot of a ram are fastened together to prevent leaping, he is said to be hap-shackled. A wife is called " the kirk"s hap-shackle." Happer, a hopper, the hopper of a mUl. Happing, hopping. Haj)-step-an'-toup, hop, step, and leap. Hark'n, hearkened. Ham, a very coarse linen. Hash, a fellow who knows not how to act with propriety. Hostit, hastened. Hand, to hold. Hau^hs, low-lying, rich land, valleys. Hour I, to drag, to pull violently. Huurlin, tearing off, pulling roughly. Haver-meat, oatmeal. Haveril, a half-witted person, half-witted, one who habitu- ally talks in a foolish or in- coherent manner. Haihis, good manners, decorum, good sen-e. Hau/iie. a cow, properly one with a white face. Heapil, heaped. J/eulsome, healthful, wholesome. Hearse, hoarse. Heather, heath. Hech, oh strange ! an exclamation during heavy work. Hechi, promised, to foretell some- thing that is to be got or given, foretold, the thing foretold, oflTered. Heckle, a board in which are fixed a number of sharp steel prongs upright for dressing hemp, flax, ^c. Hee balou, words used to soothe a child. Heels-ou-re-gowdie, topsy-turvy, turned the bottom upwards. Ileeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift. Ilellim, 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. Het, hot, heated. Hcugh, a crag, a ravine ; coai- heugh, a coal-pit; lowin heugh, a blazing pit. Hilch, hiichin\ to halt, halting. Hiney, honey. Hing, to hang. Hirple, to walk crazUy, to walk lamely, to creep. Histie, dry, chapt, barren. Hitcht, a loop, made a knot. Hizzie, huzzy, a young girl. Hoddin, the motion of a husband- man riding on a cart-horse, humble. Hoddin-gray, woollen cloth of a coarse quality, made by min- gling one black fleece with a dozen white ones. Haggle, a two-year-old sheep. Hog-scnre, a distance line in curl- ing drawn across the rink. "W'hen a stone fails to cross it, a cry is raised of " A hog, a hog !" and it is removed. Hog-shou titer, a kind of horse-play by justling with the shou- ther ; to justle. Hoodie-craw, a blood crow, corbie. Hool, outer skin or case, a nutshell, pea-husk. Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. Hoard, a hoard, to hoard. Hoordit, hoarded. Horn, a spoon made of horn. Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. Host, or lioast, to cough. Hostin, coughing. IJotch'd, turned topsy-turvy, blended, ruined, moved. Ilotighmugandie, loose behaviour, Howlet, an owl. Uonsie, diminutive of house. Hove, liovcd, to heave, to swell. Houdie, a midwife. Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell. Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a horse. Houjf, a house of resort. Howk, to dig. Houkit, digged. Houkin\ digging deep. Hay, hoy''t, to urge, urged. Hoi/se,& pull upwards. "Hoysea creel,"to raise a basket ; hence " hoisting creels." Hoyte, to amble crazily. Hughoc, diminutive of Hughie, as Hughie is of Hugh. Hums and hanhers, 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. Hiichyalled, to move with a hilch. Icker, an ear of com. leroe, a great grandchild. Uk, or ilka, each, every. Ul-deedie, mischievous. lU-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly. Iiigine, genius, ingenuity. Ingle, fire, fireplace. Ingle-low, light from the fire, flame from the hearth. I rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye. Vse, I shall or will. lihcr, other, one another. .7. 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, as 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 comer ; a sudden turning, a comer. Jink an'' 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. Ji7ikin\ dodging, the quick mo- tion of the bow on the tiddle. Jirt, a jerk, the emission of water, to squirt. Jocleleg, a kind of knife. Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head, to conceal. Jow, tojow, a verb, which includes both the swinging motion and pealing .sound of a large bell ; also the undulation of water. Jundie, to justle, a push with the elbow. GLOSSARY. K. Kae, a daw. Kail, colcwort, a kind of broth. Kaitnnil, the stem of colewort. Kaiii, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer. Kehars, rafters. hebbuck, a cheese. Kechte, joyous cry ; to cackle as a hen. Keek, a keek, to peep. Kelpies, a sort of mischievous wa- ter-spirit, said to haunt fords and ferries at night, especially in storms. Ken, toknow; keii'fl or ken^t, knew. Keimin, a small matter. Kel-Kettu, matted, a fleece of wool. Kiaught, carking, anxiety, to be in a flutter, KUt, to truss up the clothes. Kiinmer, a young girl, a gossip. Kin', kindred. Kill', kind. Kiiig'ii.huml, a certain part of the entrails of an ox. hintra, kintiie, country. K irn, the harvest supper, a churn. Kirsen, to christen, to baptize. Kht, chest, a shop-counter. Kitchen, anything that eats with 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 ee. Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. Knappiu-hammer, a hammer for breaking stones; knap, to strike or break. Knurlin, crooked but strong, knotty. Knoue, a small round hillock, a knoU. Kuittle, to cuddle ; knitlin, cud- dling, fondling. Kx/e, cows. Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. Kyte, the belly. Kythe, to discover, to show one's self. 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. Lailh, loath, impure. Laithfu', 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. 7.u?i', land, estate, Lan'-afore, foremost horse in the plough. Lun''-ahin, hindmost horse in the plough. Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c., myself alone. Lanely, lonely. L«»^, long; lu think lang, to long, to weary. Lap, did leap. Late and air, late and early. Lave, the resi, the remainder, the others. Laverock, the lark. Latvian , lowland. Lay my dead, attribute my death. Leal, loyal, true, faithful. Lear, learning, lore, Lee-lang, live-long. Leesome luve, happy, gladsome love. Lee::e me, a phrase of congratula- tory enilearment; I am happy in thee or proud of thee. Leister, a three-pronged and barb- ed dart for striking fish. Leugh, did laugh. Leak, a look, to look. Libhet, castrated. Lick, ticket, 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. Lint, flax; lint t' tlie bell, flax in flower. Lint-white, a linnet, flaxen. Loan, the place of milking. Loaning, lane. Lnof, the palm of the hand. Loot, did let. Looves, the plural of loof. Lash man ! rustic 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; lowin-dronth, burning desire for drink. Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. Lowse, to loose. Lowsed, unbound, loosed. L.ng, the ear. Lag of the law, at the judgment- seat. I^ugget, having a handle. Ln<:gie, a small wooden dish, with a handle. Lnm, the chimney; lum-head, chimney-top. Launch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c. Lunt, a column of smoke, to smoke, to walk quickly. Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray. M. Mae and mair, more. Maggot' s-meat, food for the worms. Mahoun, Satan. Mailen, a farm. Maisl, most, almost. Maistly, mostly, for the greater part. Ma/c', to make; makin'', making. Mally, JMolly, 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. Call- ed Mar's year from the rebel- lion of Erskine, Earl of War. Martial chuck, the soldier's camp- comrade, female companion. Mashliun, mixed corn. Mask, to mash, as malt, &c., to in- fuse. Maskin-pat, teapot. Maxikin, a hara Maun, mauna, must, must not. Maut, malt. Mavis, the thrush. Maw, to mow. JVJaiiiH, mowing ; maun, mowed maw^d, mowed. Mawn, a small basket, without a handle. Meere, a mare. Melanchulious, mournful. Melder, 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. Me?ise^es.'(,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. GLOSSARY. Milkiii'-shiel, a. place where cows or ewes are brought to be milked. flhm, prhii, affectedly meek. Mim-mott'd, gentle-mouthed. Mill', to remember. ]\}iiiauae, minuet. MincTt, mind it, resolved, intend- ing, remembered. Minnie, mother, dam. Mirk, dark. Misca^, to abuse, to call names ; misca'd, abused. Mischtiiiter, accident. JJis/earrf,mischievous,unmannerly. Misteiih; mistook. Mithei; mother. Mixtie-nia^tie, confusedly mixed, mish-mash. Moislijii, mnislijied, to moisten, to soak ; moistened, soaked. Mons-meg, a large piece of ord- nance, to be seen at the Castle of Kdinburgli, composed of iron bars welded together and then hooped. Moots, earth. Mony, or mnnie, many, Moop, to nibble as a sheep. Moorlati, of or belonging to moors. Mom, the next day, to-morrow. Mnii, the mouth. Moudiwort, a mole. Moitsie, diminutive of mouse. Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much. Muses-siaiik, muses-rill, a stank, slow-flowing water. Jlfujie, diminutive of muse. Muitin-kuit, broth, composed sim- ply of water, shelled barley, and greens ; thin poor broth. Mutch hi II, an English pint. Mysel, myself. N. Ka', no, not, nor. Kae, or na, no, not any. Kfwthing, or naitliing, nothing. 1^'aig, a horse, a nag. Nane, none. Kappu, ale, to be tipsy. Kegteckit, neglected. 'Keebiir, a neighbour. Neuk, nook. Niat, next. A'ieie, iiief, the fist. A'teie/u', handful. Kiffer, an exchange, to barter. Kiger, a negro. "Nine-tailed cat, ahangman's whip. Kit, 3 nut. Nor Land, of or belonging to the north. Notic't, noticed. Noictc, black cattle. O. 0\ of. O'ergang, overbearingness, to treat with indignity, literally to tread. O'erlaii, an upper cravat. Onv, or onie, any. Or, is often used for ere, before. Orra-duddies, superfluous rags, old clothes. OU, of it. Ourie, drooping, shivering. Oiirsel, oursels, ourselves. Onilers, outliers; cattle unhoused. Oucr, oitre, over. Owre-hip, striking with a fore- hammer by bringing it with a swing over the hip. Ousen, oxen. Oxtered, carried or supported un- der the arm. Pack, intimate, familiar: twelve stone of wool. Paidle, puidlen, to walk with dL*"- ficulty, as if in water. Painch, paunch. Paitrick, a partridge. Pang, to cram. Parte, courtship. Parishen, parish. Parritcli, oatmeal pudding, a ■well-known Scotch drink. Pat, did put, a pot. Pattte, or peltte, a small spade to clean the plough. Pattglily, proud, haughty. Paukv, cunning, sly. Pay''t, paid, beat. Peat-reek, the smoke of burning turf, a bitter exhalation, •whisky. Pech, to fetch the breath shortly, as in an asthma. Pechan, the crop, the stomach. Pectiin, respiring with difficulty. Pennie, riches. Pet, a domesticated sheep, kc, a favourite. Pettle, to cherish. Pliilabeg, the kilt. Phraise, fair speeches, flattery to flatter. Phraisin, flattering. Pibroch, a martial air. Pickle, a small quantity, one grain of com. Pigmy-scraper, little fiddler; a term of contempt for a bad player. Pint-stoup, a two-quart measure. Pine, pain, uneasiness. Piiigle, a small pan for warming children's sops. Plack, an old Scotch cein, the third part of an Kglish penny. Plackless, pennyleas, without mo- ney. Plaidie, ■dhninutive of plaid, P/c(ie, diminutive of plate. Plewy or pleugh, a plough. Pliskie, a trick. Plumrote, primrose. Pock, a meal-bag. Poind, to seize on cattle, or take the goods as the laws of Scot- land allow, for rent, &c. Poorteth, poverty. Posie, a nosegay, a garland. Pou, peud, to pull, pulled. Pouk, to pluck. Poussie, a, hare or cat. Pouse, to pluck with the hand- Pmtt, a polt, a chick. Pou^t, did pull. Poiitherei/, fiery, active. Poutherii, like powder. 7'i)u.i, the head, the skull. Pounie, & little horse, a pony. Poivther, or poiUher, gunpowder Prectt(7», a kind of high narrow jug or dish will) a handle for holding liquids. Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion ; stowrie, dusty. Slotinlins, by stealth. Stotvn, stolen. Stoiite, the walking of a drunken man. Straek, did strike. Strae, straw; to die a fair st rue death, to die in bed. Straik, to stroke; s'ith 80 Splendid Illustrations, (and Map of Constantinople and its environs,) 'from Original Drawings taken on the spot, expressly for this Mork, by W. II. Bartlett. In One Volume, 4to, cloth, gilt ed^cs, £1 Is. THE LANDSCAPE WREATH, Containing 36 exquisite Engravings, with a rich Fund of Literary iMattcr, comprising Original Poetry, by Thomas C.uiiruELL, Esq., autlior of " The Pleasures of Hope." In Two Volumes, 4to, handsomely done up in clotli gilt, £3 3s. FINDEN'S VIEWS OF THE PORTS, HARBOURS, COAST SCENERY, AND WATERING PLACES OF GREAT BRITAIN, comprising l^) liighly- tinishedPlates of all the places of interest round the entire Coast, from Paintings by J. D. Harding, Creswick, Bartlett, Cook, Balmer, and other Artists. The Letter-press Descriptions by Dr. Beattik, ]M.D., author of " Switzerland," ii;c. In Two Volumes, 4to, cloth gilt, £2 lOs. THE COMPLETE WORKS of ROBERT BURNS, Containing his Poonis, Songs, and Correspondence. Illustrated by W. II. Bartlett, T. Allom, J. M. AV right, and other Artists. With a New Life of the Poet, and Notices Critical and Biographical, by Allan CuNXiNtiHAM. In One Volume, 4to, cloth gilt, £1 .'5s. PICTURES AND PORTRAITS OF THE LIFE AND LAND OF BURNS, containing 48 lino Plates. In One Volume, roy.'il Kvo, c'.oth gilt, UJs. BARTLETT'S VIEWS IN HOLLAND AND BELGIUM, With Descriptions by Pkoi'es;-oii Van Kampen of Amsterdam. 63 Plates and Map. 1 Worlcs puhlislied hy George Virtue., Ivy La7ie, London. In One Volume, 4to, cloth g:ilt, £2. THE AVALDENSES; Or, THE PEOTESTANT VALLEYS OF PIEDMONT AND DAUPIIINV. By William Bkattie, M.D., Grad. of the I'niv. of Edin. ; Memb. of the Eoyal Coll. of Phys., Lond; of the Hist. Instit. of Vrance, &c., &c. ; author of " Switzerland." ILLUSTllATED from a Scries of Drawngs taken by "VY. H. Bartlett, and William lirockedon, E.R.S. This Work forms the only Illustrated History of these Valleys ever published, and contains 72 exquisite Engra\ings, by Messrs. K. SVallis, J. Couseu, J. T. Willmore, U. Eichardson, J. C. Eentley, &c. In Two Volumes, 4to, cloUi g^ilt, £3. SWITZEELAND, By William Beattie, M.D. ; ILLUSTEATED in a Series of Views, taken expressly for this W'ork, by ■\\ . n. Bartlett, Esq. With 108 Plates and Map. In Two Volumes, 4to, clotli gilt, £'i 3s. SCOTLAND, By William Beattie, M.D. ; ILLUSTEATED by 120 Views, (accompanied by a large Map,) taken expressly for this Work, by T. Allom, Esq. To be completed in 30 Parts, at 2s., each containing Four exquisite Engravings. THE SCENEEY AND ANTIQUITIES OF IRELAND. Tniform with "American Scenery," "Switzerland," "Scotland," &c., &c. From Drawings made ex- pressly for tliis Work, by W. H. Bartlett. Engraved by the following eminent Artists, E. Wallis, J. Cousen, Willmore, Brandard, Topham, Eichardson, Bentley, &c. The Literal^ Department by J. Stibling Coyne, Esq. To be completed in 30 Parts, at 2s., each containing Four exquisite Engravings. CANADIAN SCENERY. I'niform with "The Beauties of the Bosphorus," "Ireland," "Ports and Harbours," &c. From Drawings by W. H. Bartlett. Engraved in the first Style of the Art, by E. W'allis, J. Cousen, Willmore, Brandard, Bentley, Eichardson, &c. The Literary Department by N. P. Willis, Esq., author of "Peu- cilliiigs by the Way," "Letters from under a Bridge, and Poems," &c. EYALL'S PORTRAITS OF EMINENT CONSERVATIVE STATESMEN, Accompanied by Biographical Memoirs, which have been written expressly for this Work, by ^lembers of the Senate, the Bar, and authors of high reputation. The Portraits by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.U.A., G. Hayter, E.A., A. F. Chalon, E.A., T. Phihps, R.A., and other Artists of the highest celebrity. This magnificent Work is published in Parts, each containing Thi'ce exquisite Portraits, price 5s. Size of the Engravings, 9^ inches by 7^ inches. The following is a List of the distinguished Noblemen and Gentlemen already given. His Grace the Duke of Wellington His Grace the Duke of Newcastle His Grace the Duke of Northumberland His Grace the Duke of Eutland, K.G. The Most Hon. The Marquess of Londonderry The Most Hon. The Marq. of Thomond, K.P. The Eight Hon. The Earl of Harrowby The Eight Hon. The Karl of Lonsdale The Eight Hon. Tlie Earl Howe The Et. Hon. the Earl of Winchelsea The Eight Hon. the Earl of Limerick The Ei^'lit Hon, The Earl of I'embroke The Eight Hon. the Earl of Munstcr The Eight Hon. Karl O'Neill, K.P. The Eight Hon. The Earl de Grey The Itiyht Hon. Lord Viscount Sidmonth The Eight Hon. I^ord Viscount Canterbury ThoEi^ht Hon. Lord Viscount Maidstone The Eight Hon. The Lord Viscount Castle- reagh, M.P., D.C.L. Gen. tile Eight Hon. Viscount Beresford, G.C.B., G.C.H., P.C.,D.C.L.,&c. The Eight Hon. Lord Lyndhnrst The Itight Hon. Lord M harncliffe ' The Eiu'ht Hon. Lord Forbes. The Eight Hon. The Lord Wallace The Eight Hon. ],ord Ashburton The Eight Hon Lord Bexley Lord Malion The Eight Hon. Lord Eolle His Grace The -Vrchbishop of Canterbury, D.D., P.C., F.E.A.S. The Eight Eev. The Lord Bishop of Exeter The Eight Hon. Sir E. Peel, Bart. M.P. The Eight Hon. Sir H. Hardinge, M.P. The Eight Hon. F. Shaw, M.P. The Eight Hon. Sii- Y.. B. Sugden, Knt. M.P. The Eight Hon. Sir George Murray The Eight Hon. .Tohn Wilson Croker Sir William Webb FoUett, M.P. Sir Charles Wcthcrcll, Knt. Sir Eobi'rt I'it/.wygram, Bart. SirEobert Harry'lnglis, Bart. M.P Sir Frederick Pollock, Si. P. Sir Frederick Trench, M.P., K.C.II. I/ieut.-CoI. Alex. Perceval, D.C.L. Mr. Sergeant .lackson, M.P. James Emmerson Tenneut, Esq. M.P. A. E. Dottin, Esq. M.P. J. C. Herries, Esq. M.P. Fitzroy Kelly, FIsci. M.P. George A. Hamilton, Esq. ^LP. Benjamin D' Israeli, Esq. M.P. William Holmes, Esq. The first Volume contains Tliirty-six Portraits, witli Memoirs, handsomely bound in morocco, witli gilt leaves, price A'l — Large folio, proofs on India paper, it'O, (of which only a few copies remain.) Works published by George Virtue, Ivy Lane, London. In One Volume, 4to, roan, larilt leaves, £1. VIEWS IN THE TYROL. From Dra^vin^ by T. AUom, after Orifjinal Sketches liy Johanna V. Isscr Geb Grossrubatscher, and en graved by eminent Artists. "Witli Descriptions, Historical and Topographical, by a Companion of Hofer. In One Volume, 4to, roan embossed, £1 Is. BEAUTIES OF SURREY AND SUSSEX, In a Scries of 55 Views, from Original Drawings, by H. Gastineau, S:c. Edited by T. Allen. In One Volume, 4to, roan embossed, XI 13s. VIRTUE'S VIEWS IN KENT, Containing 120 Views, and a corrected Map of the County. With Historical and Topographical Delineations. In One Volume, 4to, roan embossed, £1 8s. VIRTUE'S VIEWS IN ESSEX, Embellished with 100 Engravings and a County Map. In Four Volumes, 8vo, £3 3s. ; or, on royal paper, £6 6s. (of which a few copies only remain. HISTORY & TOPOGRAPHY OF THE COUNTY OF KENT, From the Earliest Records to the Present Time. By "\V. 11. Ireland. AVith 120 fine Plates. Complete in Two Volumes, 4to, neatly bound in cloth, gilt edges, £4 '4s. HISTORY & TOPOGRAPHY OF THE COUNTY OF ESSEX, Comprising a General View of its Physical Character and Modern Improvements. By T. Wright, Esq. author of " Queen Elizabeth and her Times." With 102 Engravings and a Map. In One Volume, 4to, cloth, £2 2s. DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE, Containing a History of the Science, and the Principles of designing' Public Buildings, Private Dwelling- Houses, Country Mansions, and Suburban Villas ; from the Choice of the Spot to the Completion of the Appendages. Also, some Observations on Pairal Kesidences, their Situation and Scenery ; with Instruc- tions on the Art of laving out and embellishing Grounds ; exemplified in 62 Plates, containing Diagrams and Exemplars of the various Styles of Domestic Architecture, with a Description of the appropriate Furniture, Garden, and Landscape Scenery of each. By Richard Brown, Professor of Architecture. With a Portrait of the Author. In Two Volumes, 4to, cloth, £3; or, with the Maps coloured, £4 10s. MOULE'S ENGLISH COUNTIES; Or, a Descriptive View of the Present State of England. Illustrated by new Maps of London and England, and a Map of each County, with beautiful corner Vignettes, of Koblemen's and Gentlemen's Mansions, Picturesque Ruins : also Armorial Decorations, chiefly from the Seals of County Towns. By T. Moule. MOULE'S TRAVELLING MAPS OF ALL THE ENGLISH COUNTIES, Coloured, mounted on Canvass, and neatlv done up in -a Case for the Pocket, Is. 6d. each. "The most complete and useful set of County Maps which has yet appeared, we confidently recom- mend them to every traveller." — London Critical tteview. In Two Volumes, 8vo, cloth, £1 Is. THE NATIONAL PIISTORY AND VIEWS OF LONDON, And its Environs. Embracing the Antiquities, Modern Improvements, &c. By Mr. C. F, PARTINGTON, editor of the "British CyclopaHlia," Kc. The whole embellished with upwards of FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY ILLUSTRATIONS ON STEEL. In One Volume, neatlv bound in roan, gilt, 12s. NEW AND COMPLETE PICTURE OF THE CITY OF LONDON, And the Metropolitan Boroughs. Containing a correct Account of every Square, Place, Street, Church, Palace, Court of Justice, and Place of Amusement. Illustrated by upwards of 100 Engravings and a large M:ip. 3 JJ'urhs puUished hy George Virlue, ley Lane, London. In post 8vo, cloth clesr^int, irilt edjos, 10s. Cd. THE PARLOUK TABLE-BOOK. Bv R. A. WiLLMOTT, Esq., author of " Lives of the Ihiglish SacicU Poets." Illustrated hy a Frontispieeo from a design by Uilbert, and Vijnette by Ilaivey. In foolscai) Svo, cloth extra, o^ilt edcros, 4?. Gd. ALDA, THE BllITISH CAPTIVE. Ev Miss Agnes Stricki-.vnd. A Xcw Edition, in post 8vo, cloth lettered, lOs. Gd. FLOEESTON ; Or, TEE "Sv.vi Loj-.n or the >.lANoa. ^Yith -'G humorous Illustrations. In foolscap 8vo, cloth lettered, 3s. A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THOMAS CLARKSON, ESQ. l!y Thomas Taylob, author of "Memoirs of Cowper," "Ileber," ^c. In foolscap 8vo, cloth lettered, .')3. LADY MONTAGU'S LETTERS FROM THE LEVANT. AVith a Discourse and Notes, by J. A. St. John, Esq. In demv r3mo, cloth lettered, .'Js. THE GRAMMAR OF LAW: Containing the Tirst rrinciplcs of Xatural, Helicons, Political and Civil Law. In rova! ISmo, cloth silt, Cs. A MOTHER'S REMINISCENCES OF ACOUESE OF PvEAUING AND INSTPtUCTIOX. By Mrs. Bouiiox. Second Edition. In post 13nio, clolli lettered, U's. Gd. HOME, ITS JOYS AND ITS SORROWS. A Domestic Tale. In r2mo, cloth cleaant, Cs. THE DUKES OF N0R3IANDY, From tl:e time of Itollo to the expulsion of Kinj John, by Philip Augustus of France. AVitli an Appendix, containing a Description of the Tapestry of Bayeux; — a List of the Norman liarons wlio fought at Hastings ;— and the Prophecy of Merlin, liy Jonathan Duncan. Esq., B.A. JFlio u-ould he tvithont a Histortj of their own Country ? — Fkanklin. In Sixteen Volumes, royal 18mo, clotli lettered, £.'5 4s. A now and imique Edition of THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND, I'rom the Invasion of Julius Osar, to the PLCvolution in IG8S. Ey David IIumt, Esq. "With a Con- tinuation to the end of the Reign of George the Second, by ToniAS Smollett, LI^.D. And a further Continuation to the present Time. Illustrated witli beautifulPortraits of all the Sovereigns, and Vignettes of Historical Subjects of great interest. This Edition is uniform witli Scott, Byron, and other popular authors of the present day. In royal 18mo, cloth lettered, ".s. FELIX BODIN'S SUMMARY of the JIISTORY of ENGLAND. Translated from the French, by Jonathan I)i ncan, B.A. I'niform with tlic above, in 18mo, cloth lettered, :is. FELIX BODIN'S SUMMARY of the HISTORY of FRAIsCE. In a neat Wrapper, Gd. AN ESSAY ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY, By the Ilcv. Hknry Stebiiing, D.D. Third Edition. Boards, 3s. A SUMMARY OF FRENCH GRAMMAR, For the use of Gentlemen Cadets at tlie Itoyal Military College, Sandhurst. A LIST OF VALUABLE THEOLOGICAL WORKS. rUBLISIIED BY GEOEGE VIBTUE, LONDON. ilEV. I'UANCls CUSNINUHAM, Vicar of Lowestoft. In Four Volunips, imperial 8vo, £1 Is. Essay on In Four ^ olumos, impci iiu o\ u, •*-;!"• , „ -j^ X) A V T""!? Tf TTTE PRACTICAL AYORKS OF RICHARD BAXil.R, r. . the Genius an pn-!."S AOTS AND MONUMENTS OF THE CHtFRCH, -— >->"--"°srwoRKrsFi^^^^^^ on Steel, and Portrait of the Author. In Eight handsome Volumes, post 8vo, cl^t'^ '^^!^%fl^^-^ , ^j ^-r, TTTF PRACTICAL WORKS OF JEREMY TAyLOR. N cWt Selkct Seumons, and Thf. Lii^ektv of rKOPHES^iNc. ^\ ith a hne 1 our of the Life and Timers of the author, by the Eev. Geokge Croia. LL.U. THE TWENTY-FIFTH, BEiNC AN ENTIRELY NEW EDITION, Kevised by the Author. Neatly bound in cloth gilt, £1 Gs i^» ^^^f ";\™^]-v7ryrTnf A GUIDE TO FAMILY DEVOIIOiS, containing 730 ^yL^^ vti^r, and 730 j;-^-,:^ -'^-.-^I'^.^Jl^^^S'l^"^;-:^ Recommended by the following dUtinguished Mimsters : Homerton -v^. S„^.vK^ Burrey^hap. | Kev.^.c^^L^ J iiAK!u.,-j.i^., V. J. Davis, Bristol J. ; "j^;^? B^vmin.ham | S-VMUEE, E^som Hackney James I'auJons. York I J; ^'I^-^^^ T:K;;;i:i^i^.o.: Liverpool T-.^:^Tufmc"::^y .Vo^.^i^lnU" JosiAH I'RATT. Vicar of St. ^- ^h^y7^^^"chester ^* H. Caederwoop. Kendal Stephen's, Coleman Street Samuel Lu.vE, Chester 1 '^ Sec, CCC, OCC, ixC. of liie escclionce and great utility of the above A\ ork. By the same Author, in Two Volumes, 161110, cloth gilt, 18s. SCRIPTURE HISTORY, , ,. . Designed for the Improvement of Youth. Embellished with 341 Engravings and an elegant !• rontisp.ece. llev. J. P. Smith, D.D., Homcrton W. B. CoLLYEU, D.D., Peck- ham F \. Cox, LL.D., Hackney G. COLLISOS, D.D., Hackney TForks puNished hy George Virtue^ Ivy Lane, London. In Three Volumes, 18mo, doth, 13s, 6d. SERMONS ADAPTED TO THE CAPACITY OF CHILDREN, By the Eev. Alexander Fletchek. "Willi 31 Engraving-s and a Portrait of the Author. Also, by the same Author, in 12mo, cloth, 9s. 6d. THE COTTAGER'S FRIEND; Or, SABB.\Tn REMEMBKANCICB : being a Series of Expository, Devotional, and Tractical Obscrva- tions on various Passages of Scripture. With 10 Engravings, and a Portrait. Scripture Reading to accompany Family Prayer. nandsomcly printed in Six Volumes, royal 12mo, with large type, cloth lettered, £1 10s. ; or, Sis Volumes, demy 8vo, £2. DODDRIDGE'S FAMILY EXPOSITOR; Or, a Paraphrase and Version of the New Testament, with a Practical Improvement of each Section. The 'Work is also embellished by 28 fine Plates. In One thick Volume, cloth, 14s. Cd. The Standard Edition of BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS, Containing his Authenticated Third Part, " TUE TRAVELS OF THE UNGODLY." Collaled for the First Time, with the Early Editions, and the Phraseology of all his Works. With Illustrative Note^ from his ovrci Pen. Edited by Kohert Philip, author of "The Life and Times of Whitefleld." With a liighly-finished Portrait, and Ten line Plates. Second Edition. In One Volume, 8vo, bound in cloth, 12s., the LIFE, TIMES, & CHARACTERISTICS OF JOHN BUNYAN, Author of " The Pilgrim's Progress." By Robert Philip, author of "the Lady's Closet Library," Sec. Witli a splendid Portrait and Vignette, a Fac simile of Bunyan's \Yill, and an Engraving of his Cottage. Second Ediiion. In One Volume, 8vo, cloth, 12s. THE LIFE AND TIMES OF WHITEFIELD. Compiled clliefly from Original Documents, collected over Great Britain and America. By Robert Philip. The Portrait prefixed to this Volume will be almost as new to the public as his Memoir. In Two Volumes, post Svo, handsomely done up in cloth, 12s. THE METROPOLITAN PULPIT; Or, Sketches of the most Popular Preachers in London. By the author of " The Great Metropolis," &c. In 12mo, neat cloth, 'Is. Gil. SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY; Or, a Descriptive Account of the Geologj', Botany, and Zoology of the Bible. By William CARrENTER. Illustrated by 41 Engravings. Second Edition. In 12mo, cloth, 7s. 6d. THE BOOK OF THE DENOMINATIONS; Or, the Churches and Sects of Christendom in the Nineteenth Century. In Two Volumes, Svo, cloth lettered, £1 7s. BURKITT'S EXPOSITION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT, In which the Sacred Text is at large recited, the Sense explained, and the instructive Example of th« blessed Jesus and his holy Apostles recommended to our imitation. Illustrated by a Portrait of the .\uthor. NEW VOLUME OF THE LADY'S CLOSET LIBRARY. Dedicated to her Majesty, the Queen Dowager. In One neat Pocket Volume, witli a Portrait, price 3s. Cd., cloth gilt. THE H-\NNAHS ; or, Maternal Influence on Sons. By Koeeht Philip, author of "The Life and Times of Whiteticld," &c. Also, hy the same Author, I.— THE MARYS ; or, the Beauties of Female Holiness. 7th Thousand. II.— THE MARTH.VS; or, the Varieties of Female Piety. Fifth Thousand. 111.— THE LYDIAS; or, the Development of Female Character. Fourth Thousand. With a Portrait. Price 38. lid. cloth gilt, each Vol. 6 IVorTiS published hj George Virtue, Ity Lanc^ London. VICTORIA EDITION. In 3"3mo, roan embossed, 10s. ; inoiocco elcpant, 12s. THE ROYAL DIAMOND PRAYER, And Order of Administration of the Sacraments and other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church, according to the use of the United Church of England and Ireland ; the I'saltcr or Psalms of David, pointed as they are to be sung or said in Churches ; also, the New Version of the Psalms. With Notes, explanatory and Practical, by the Kcv. R. Hebeu. "With 15 splendid Engravings on Steel. •,• This IMition has the Litany and Prayers for the Queen, Prince Albert, the Prince of Wales, and the lloyal Family, according to the present usage. In One Volume, 8vo, cloth, IGs. Cd. DE LAMARTINE'S VISIT TO THE HOLY LAND; Or, A PILGRIM'S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE EAST, accompanied mth interesting Descriptions of the principal Scenes of our Saviour's Ministry. Translated from the French of Monsieur Alphonso de Lamartine, Member of the French Academy, by 'Thomas Piiipson, Esq. Illustrated by a correct Likeness of the .\uthor, Vignette Title-page, and other Engravings, neatly executed on Steel. In One Volume, 8vo, cloth, 9s. THE SAINTS' EVERLASTING REST; Or, a Treatise on the Blessed State of the Saints, in their Enjoyment of God in Heaven. By the Rev. Richard Baxter. With an Introductory Essay, by the Rev. J. Morrison, D.D. Embellished with a Portrait of the Author. In Two Volumes, 4to, cloth gilt, £2 l.'js. MATTHEW HENRY'S BIBLE, With Copious Notes and Reflections, by Blomfield. Embellished with Fifty-two Engiavings of the most Important Events and Views of the principal Places mentioned in the Sacred Volume, from splendid Paintings by Marillier, Monsian, Westall, Bartlett, &c. Engraved by Warren, Rogers, Piussell, &c. In foolscap 8vo, cloth, lettered, price 43. each Volume. THE SACRED CLASSICS; Or, Cabinet Library of Divinity. Containing a choice selection of the Sacred Poetry and Theological Literature of the Seventeenth Century. Edited by the Rev. R. Cattermole, B.D., and the Rev. H. Stebbing, D.D. To which are prefixed Original Essays, Memoirs, Notes, &c., by Robert Southey, Esq. — Jajnes Montgomery, Esq. — Dr. Croly — Rev. W. TroUope — Dr. Pye Smith, and others. The series comprises the following Svorks : — Jeremy Taylor's Liberty of Prophesying ; showing the Unreasonableness of prescribing to other Men's Faith and the Iniquity of persecuting different Opinions. Care's Lives of the Apostles and the Fathers. 2 Vols. Bates's Spiritual Perfection Unfolded and En- forced; with an Introductory Essay, by the Rev. John Pye Smith, D.D. Bisltop Hall's Treatises, Devotional and Practical. Baxter's Dying Thoughts; with a Preliminary Essay, Dy tlie Rev. H. Stebbing, D.D. Jeremy Taylor's Select Sermons; with an Intro- duction, by the Rev. R. Cattermole, B.D. Butler's Analogy of Pcligion, Natural and Re- vealed, to the Constitution and Course of Nature; to which are added Two Brief Dissertations. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. George Croly, LL.D. Dr. Watts' Lyric Poems. With a Biographical Essay, by R. Southey, Esq., LL.D. Beveridge's Prirate Thoughts. To which is added, the J^ecessity of Frequent Communion. Edited by the Rev. Henry Stebbing, D.D. 2 Vols. Cave's Primitive Christianity. With an Historical Account of Paganism under the First Christian Emperors; and the lives of Justin Martyr- and St. Cyprian. With Notes and an Introduction, by the Rev. Henry Stebbing, D.D. 2 Vols. The Hon. Robert Boyle, on the Veneration due to God : On things above Reason : and on the Style of the Holy Scriptures. With a Biographical and Critical Essay, by Henry Roger,-, Es