I V ~^^^^^p^^^^^j:^i\! ■■ THB COMPLETE WORKS or ROBERT BURNS. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/completeworksofrOOburnrich nmi^ fimn/^ Bf/- ^ ;d) .\^i ^^^ ^ ■^«£^b:.rtk p:lace or bu^^^" )? c' *» •■ » I -. •>i •' J' THE COMPLETE WORKS. ROBERT BURNS: *» OONTAININQ HIS POEMS, SONGS, AND COEEESPONDENCE. WITH A NEW LIFE OF THE POET, AND NOTICES, CRITICAL AND BIOaRAPHICAL, BY ALLAN CUNNINaHAM. ELEGANTLY ILLUSTB^A-T.EI).'. ,, i '/ '.J'/'\ '/>i \:'\ BOSTON : PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 1858. ii3?e¥/ ARCHIBALD HASTIE, ESQ., MlSMBER OF PARLIAMENT FOR PAISLSY; THIS EDITION OF TF.E WORKS AND MEMOIRS OF A GREAT POET, IN WHOSE SENTIMENTS OF FREEDOM HE SHARES, AND WHOSE PICTURES OP SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC LIFE HE LOVES, 18 BBSPEGOTtn.LT AND QBATEFULLT XBSOBIBBD BT ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 43884.1 DEDICATION TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF HBX CALEDONIAN HUNT. [On the title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, -were these words : " Poems, chiefly is the Scottish Dialect, by Kobert Burns, printed for the Author, and sold by William Creech, 1787." The motto of the Kilmarnock edition was omitted ; a very numerous list of subscribers followed : (he volume was printed by the celebrated Smellie.] My Lords and Gentlemen: A Scottish Bard, proud of i;lie name, and whose highest ambition is to sing m his country's service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of hrs native land : those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors ? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 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 Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours : that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do T present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those favours : I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that T glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient heroe5 still runs uncontaminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and public (7) viii DEDICATION. spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proflfer my warmest wishes to the great fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, for your welfare and happiness. When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party : and may social joy await your return ! When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your native seats j and may domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates I May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equally find 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. Edinbuegh, April 4, 1787. TMIWi'i hriTiiifWii PREFACE, I CANNOT give to my country this edition of one of its favourite poets, Tvithout stating that I have deliberately omitted several pieces of verse ascribed to Burns by other editors, who too hastily, and I think on insufficient testimony, admitted them among his works. K I am unable to share in the hesitation expressed by one of them on the authorship of the stanzas On " Pastoral Poetry," I can as little share in the feel- ings with which they have intruded into the charmed circle of his poetry such composi- tions as " Lines on the Ruins of Lincluden College," " Verses on the Destruction of the Woods of Drumlanrig," " Verses written on a Marble Slab in the Woods of Aberfeldy," and those entitled " The Tree of Liberty." These productions, with the exception of the last, were never seen by any one even in the handwriting of Burns, and are one and all wanting in that original vigour of language and manliness of sentiment which dis- tinguish his poetry. With respect to "The Tree of Liberty^' in particular, a subject dear to the heart of the Bard, can any one conversant with his genius imagine that he welcomed its growth or celebrated its fruit with such " capon craws" as these ? "IJpo' this tree there grows sic fruit, Its virtues a' can tell, man; It raises man aboon the brute, It mak's him ken himsel', man. Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, He's greater than a lord, man, An' wi' a beggar shares a mite 0' 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 Bums, sounds like a cracked pipkin against the " heroic clang" of a Damascus blade. That it is extant in the handwriting of the poet cannot be taken as a proof that it is his own composition, against the internal testimony of utter want of all the marks Dy which we know him — the Burns-stamp, so to speak, which is visible on all that ever came from his pen. Misled by his handwriting, I inserted in my former edition of his works an epitaph, beginning " Here lies a rose, a budding rose," (9) PREFACE. the composition of Shenstone, and which is to he found in the churchyard of Hales- Owen ; as it is not included in every edition of that poet's acknowledged works, Burns, who was an admirer of his genius, had, it seems, copied it with his own hand, and hence my error. If I hesitated about the exclusion of "The Tree of Liberty," and its three false brethren, I could have no scruples regarding the fine song of " Evan Banks," claimed and justly for Miss Williams by Sir Walter Scott, or the humorous song called " Shelah O'Neal," composed by the late Sir Alexander Boswell. When I have stated that I have arranged the Poems, the Songs, and the Letters of 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 anywhere. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM TO DR. ARCHIBALD LAURIE. Mossgiel, IZth Nov. 1786 Dear Sir, 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 hurry about ; but I wish the Songs, with the volume of the Scotch Poets, returned as soon as they can conveniently be dispatched. If they are left at Mr. Wilson, the bookseller's shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. INIy most respectful compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Laurie ; and a Poet's warmest 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 charm 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 sweetesl 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. TABLE OF CONTENTS. The Lifb of Bobert Burns xxiii Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of 1786 lix Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition of 1787 1^ POEMS FA6B Winter. A Dirge 61 Che Death and dying Words of poor Mailie . Poor Mailie's Elegy .... First Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet . Second 'I llfAddress to the Dei! The"aald Fanner's New-year Morning Salutation to hia auld Mare Maggie ... 67 ToaHaggia 68 A Prayer under the pressure of violent Anguish 69 A Prayer in the prospect of Death . . 69 Stanzas on the same occasion . . .69 A Winter Night 70 Bemorse. A Fragment 71 « ^to^he Jolly Beggars. A Cantata ... 71 Death and Dr. Hornbook. A True Story The Twa Herds ; or, the Holy Tulzie . _Jjgoly WilUe's Prayer 79 Epitaph on fioly Willie .... The Inventory ; in answer to a mandate by the surveyor of taxes »|^ji^he Holy Fair PAQX To J. Lapraik.' Third Epistle . . 100 To William Simpson, Ochiltree . . . 101 Address to an illegitimate Child . . 103 Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed to a. H., Esq 103 To the Bev. John M'Math . . . .104 ^^0 a Mouse 105 ScotchDrink 106 The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Bepresentatives of the House of Commons 107 Address to the unco Guid, or the rigidly Bight- eous 110 Tam Samson's Elegy . . . . Ill Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of 95 "ffhe Ordination ..... The Calf Xjo^James Smith [Tho Vision ♦ ^PftU oyeen Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge To Buin 96 To John Goudie of Kilmarnock, on the publica- tioB of his Essays 97 \ To J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard. First ' ^Iistle (9J^: To J. Lapraik. Second Epistle ... 99 a Friend's Amour .... 112 76 I Despondency. An Ode .... 113 7e']^he^ Cotter's Saturday Night . . . Ill The first Psalm 117 The first six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm . 118 ^JtS^ Mountain Daisy ^118 81 Epistle to a young Friend . . . il9 ^To a, Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church 120 EpisUe to J. Bankine, enclosing some Poems 121 On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 122 The Farewell 123 Written on the blank leaf of my Pooms, pre- sented to an old Sweetheart then married 123 A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 123 Elegy on the Death of Bobert Buisseaux . 125 Letter to James Tennant of Glenconner . 125 On the Birth of a posthumous Child . 126 To Miss Cruikshank 126 WHlie Chalmers 127 (11) xu CONTENTS. PAGK Verses left in the room where he slept . . 128 To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recommending a boy 128 To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-gillan . . 129 Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the Author by a Tailor 129 To J. Rankine. " I am a keeper of the law." 130 Lines written on a Bank-note . . . 130 A Dream 130 A Bard's Epitaph . . . . . (^2 The Twa Dogs. A Tale .... l32 Lines on meeting with Lord Daer . . 135 I Address to Edinburgh . . . •136 \ Epistle to Major Logan .... 137 "V^ The Brigs of Ayr ..... 138 On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Amis- ton, late Lord President of the Court of Session 141 On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John M'Leod, Esq 141 To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . . 142 The American War. A Fragment . . 142 The Dean of Faculty. A new Ballad . . 143 To a Lady, wifil a Present of a Pair of Drinking- glasses ....... 144 To Clarinda 144 Verses written under the Portrait of the Poet Fergusson 144 Prologue spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit- night, Monday, April 16, 1787 . . 145 Sketch. A Character 145 To Mr. Scott, of Wauchope . . . 145i Epistle to William Creech .... 146 The humble Petition of Bruar- Water, to the noble Duke of Athole . . . .147 On scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit 148 Written with a pencil, over the chimney-piece, in the parlour of the Inn at Kenmure, Tay- mouth 149 Written with a pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch Ness .... 149 To Mr. William Tytler, with the present of the Bard's picture 150 Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on the banks of Nith, June, 1780. First Copy . 150 The same. December, 1788. Second Copy 151 To Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel. Extempore lines on returning a Newspaper . . 152 A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son . 152 First Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray 152 On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 153 Epistle to Hugh Parker .... 154 Lines, intended to be written under a Noble Earl's Picture 155 Elegy on the year 1788. A Sketch . . 155 Address to the Tootb*che .... 155 Ode. Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive 156 Fragment inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox 156 PAoa On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow had just shot .... 157 To Dr. Blacklock. In answer to a Letter . 158 Delia. An Ode 159 To John M'Murdo, Esq 159 Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, Ist January, 1790 159 Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit- night, Dumfries 160 Sketch. New-year's Day. To Mrs. Dunlop 160 To a Gentleman who had sent him a Newspaper, and ofi"ered to continue it free of expense 161 The Kirk's Alarm. A Satire. First Version 162 The Kirk's Alarm. A Ballad. Second Version 163 Peg Nicholson 165 On Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman who held the patent for his honours imme- diately from Almighty God . . . 165 The Five Carlins. A Scots Ballad . . 167 The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith . . 168 Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on the close of the disputed Election between Sir James Johnstone, and Captain Miller, for the Dumfries district of Boroughs . 169 On Captain Grose's Peregrination through Scot- land, collecting the Antiquities of that king- » dom 170 Written in a wrapper, enclosing a letter to Cap- tain Grose 171 ^am O'Shanter. A Tale .... 17J' Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland Society 174 To John Taylor 175 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach of Spring 175 The Whistle 176 Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . 178 Lament for James, Earl of Glencaim . . 178 Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem . 179 Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning his Bust at Ednam with bays . . 179 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray . . 180 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on receiving a favour 181 A Vision 181 To John Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his birthday 182 The Rights of Women, an occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit- night, Nov. 26, 1792 .... 182 Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice . 183 Epistle from Esopus to Maria . . . 184 Poem on Pastoral Poetry .... 185 Sonnet, written on the 25th January, 1793, the birthday of the Author, on hearing a thrush sing in a morning walk . . . 18S Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, April, 1794 . . 18« CONTENTS. xui PAOB Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's birthday . . 186 Liberty. A Fragment .... 186 Verses to a young Lady 186 The Vowels. A Tale 187 Verses to John Rankine .... 187 On Sensibility. To my dear and much-hon- oured friend, Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . 188 Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had of- fended . 188 Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Beneft-night 188 On seeing Miss fontenelle in a favouiite cha- racter . . .... 189 18& To Chloris Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ- ence 189 The Heron Ballads. Ballad First . . .190 The Heron Ballads. Ballad Second . . 190 The Heron Ballads. Ballad Third . . 192 Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796 . . . .193 To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with Johnson's Musical Museum 193 Poem on Life, addressed to Colonel de Peyster, Dumfries, 1796 193 EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, &c. PASS On the Author's Father .... 194 On R. A., Esq. . . . . . .194 On a Friend 194 For Gavin Hamilton 194 On wee Johnny 195 On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline . . 195 On a Wag in Mauchline .... 195 On a celebrated ruling Elder .... 195 On a noisy Polemic . . . ; . 195 On Miss Jean Scott 195 On a henpecked Country Squire . . . 195 On the same 196 On the same 196 The Highland Welcome 196 On William SmelUe 196 Written on a window of the Inn at Carron . 196 The Book-worms 196 Lines on Stirling 197 The Reproof 197 The Reply . 197 Lines written under the Picture of the> celebrated Miss Bums 197 Extempore in the Court of Session . . 197 The henpecked Husband .... 197 Written at Inverary 198 On Elphinston's Translation of Maj*tiarn Epi- grams 198 Inscription on the Head-stone of Feigusson . 198 On a Schoolmaster 198 A Grace before Dinner 198 A Grace before Meat .... 198 On Wat ...... 198 On Captain Francis Grose ... 199 Impromptu to Miss Ainslie . . . 199 The Kirk of Lamington .... 199 The League and Covenant . . . 199 ■:2 PAOK Written on a pane of glass in the Inn at MoflEat 199 Spoken on being appointed to the Excise . 199 Lines on Mrs. Eemble . . . . 199 To Mr. Syme 200 To Mr. Syme, with a present of a dozen of porter 200 A Grace 200 Inscription on a goblet 200 The Invitation 200 The Creed of Poverty . . " . . .200 Written in a Ladjr's pocket-book . . 200 The Parson's Looks 200 The Toad-eater 201 On Robert Riddel 201 The Toast 201 On a Person nicknamed the Marquis . . 201 Lines written on a window . . . 201 Lines written on a window of the Globe Tavern, Dumfries 201 The Selkirk Grace 202 To Dr. Maxwell, on Jessie Staig's Recovery 202 Epitaph 202 Epitaph on William Nicol ... 202 On the Death of a Lapdog, named Echo . 202 On a noted Coxcomb 202 On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord Galloway 202 On the same 203 On the same 203 To the same, on the Author being threatened with his resentment .... 203 On a Country Laird 203 On John Bushby ...... 203 The true loyal Natives .... 203 On a Suicide 203 Extempore, pinned on a Lady's coach . 203 Lines to John Rankine .... 204 XIV CONTENTS. Jessy Lewars , . . . The Toast .... On Miss Jessy Lewars On the recovery of Jessy Lewars PAGX 204 204 204 204 Tarn the Chapman 204 « Here's a bottle and an honest friend" , . 206 *' Tho' fiokle fortune has deceived me" . 205 To John Kennedy 205 PAOX To the same 20i " There's naethin' like the honest nappy" . 205 On the blank leaf of a work by Hannah More, presented by Mrs. C 206 To the Men and Brethren of the Masonic Lodge atTarbolton 206 Impromptu 206 Prayer for Adam Armour .... 206 SONGS AND BALLADS, PAOK Handsome Nell 207 Luckless Fortune 208 "I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing" 208 Tibbie, I hae seen the day . . . 208 "My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border" 209 ^ohn Barleycorn. A Ballad . . . .210 The Rigs o' Barley 210 Montgomery's Peggy 211 Tho Mauchline Lady •The Highland Lassie . . . , Peggy The rantin' Dog the Daddie o't " My heart was ance as blithe and free" "^ My Nannie A Fragment. " One night as I did wander" Bonnie Peggy Alison ... v.Green grow the Rashes, . 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 Killie And maun I still on Menie doat The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, Tarbolton .... On Cessnock Banks Mary The Lass of Ballochmyle .... " The gloomy night is gathering fast" . " whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock?" 211 211 212 213 213 213 214 214 214 215 215 216 216 216 217 217 217 218 218 219 220 220 221 221 The Joyful Widower 221 *' Whistle, and Pll come to you, my lad" . 222 " I am my mammy's ae bairn" . . . 222 TheBirksof Aberfeldy .... 222 Macpherson's Farewell 223 Braw, braw Lads of Galla Water . . 223 "Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ?" . 224 Strathallan's Lament .... My Hoggie Her Daddie forbad, her Minnie forbad Up in the Morning early The young Highland Rover Hey the dusty Miller Duncan Davison .... Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary The Banks of the Devon Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray . The Ploughman .... Landlady, count the Lawin " Raving winds around her blowing" . " How long and dreary is the night" Musing on tho roaring Ocean Blithe, blithe and merry was she . The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . O'er the Water to Charlie A Rosebud by my early walk Rattlin', roarin' Willie . Where braving angry Winter's Storms Tibbie Dunbar .... Bonnie Castle Gordon My Harry was a gallant gay The Tailor fell trough the bed, thimbles an' Ay Waukin ! Beware o' Bonnie Ann 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 ... mount and go ... •Of a' the airts the wind can blaw Whistle o'er the lave o't were I on Parnassus' Hill " There's a youth in this city" My heart's in the Highlands . John Anderson, my Jo . . PAGX 224 2241 224 225 225 225 226 226 226 227 227 228 228 228 229 229 229 230 230 230 231 231 231 232 i' 232 232 233 233 233 234 234 234 235 235 235 235 236 236 237 237 237 CONTENTS. PA6B Awa, Whigs, awa 238 Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes . . . 238 Merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . . 239 The Braes of Ballochmyle .... 239 /•To Mary in Heaven 239 Eppie Adair 240 The Battle of SherrifiF-muir ... 240 Young Jockey was the blithest lad . . 241 Willie brewed a peck o' maut . . 241 The braes o' Killiecrankie, ... 241 1 gaed a waefu' gate yestreen . . . 242 The Banks of Nith 242 Tarn Glen .242 Frae the friends and land I love . . . 243 Craigie-bum Wood 243 Cock up your Beaver 244 meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty . 244 Gudowife, count the Lawin .... 244 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ^^ The bonnie lad that's far awa . . . 245 1 do confess thou art sae fair . . . 245 Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 246 It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face . . . 246 When I think on the happy days . . . 247 Whan I sleep I dream .... 247 " I murder hate by field or flood" . . 247 O.gude ale comes and gude ale goes . . 247 Bobin shure in hairst 248 Bonnie Peg 248 Gudeen to you, Kimmer .... 248 Ah, Chloris, since itmay nabe . . 249 Eppie M'Nab 249 Wha is that at my bower- door . . . 249 What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man . 250 Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing . . 250 The tither morn when I forlorn . . , 250 ■fAe fond kiss, and then we sever . . . 251 Lovely Davies .*.... 251 The weary Fund o' Tow .... 252 Naebody 252 An for ane and twenty, Tarn . . . 252 Kenmure's on and awa, Willie . . . 253 The Collier Laddie 253 Nithsdale's Welcome Hame . . . 254^ As I was a-wand'ring ae Midsummer e'enin . 254' Bessy and her Spinning-wheel . . , 254 The Posie 255 The Country Lass 255 Turn again, thou fair Eliza .... 256 Ye Jacobites by name .... 256 Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Boon . • . . 257 ^Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon . . 257 Willie Wastle 257 Lady Mary Ann 258 Such a parcel of rogues in a nation . . 258 The Carle of Kellyburn braes ... 259 Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss . . . 260 Lady Onlie 260 The Chevalier's Lament Song of Death .... yiFlow gently, sweet Afton Bonnie Bell Hey ca' thro*, ca* thro' . The Gallant weaver The deuks dang o'er my Daddie She's fair and fause The Deil cam' fiddling thro' the town The lovely Lass of Lavemess *0 my luve's like a red, red rose Louis, what reck I by thee Had I the wyte she bade me . Coming through the rye Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain Out over the Forth I look to the north The Lass of Ecclefechan The Cooper o' Cuddie For the sake of somebody I coft a stane o' haslock woo The lass that made the bed for me Sae far awa .... I'll ay ca' in by yon town wat ye wha's in yon town May, thy morn . . . Lovely Polly Stewart Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie Anna, thy charms my bosom fire Cassilis' Banks .... To thee, lov'd Nith Bannocks o' Barley Hee Balou ! my sweet wee Donald Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my Here's his health in water My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form Gloomy December My lady's gown, there's gairs upon *t Amang the trees, where humming be( The gowden locks of Anna My ain kind dearie, Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary She is a winsome wee thing Bonny Leslie .... ^ iJTjjghjfinil Mniy — Auld Rob Morris .... 'Duncan Gray .... poortith cauld, and restless love Galla Water .... Lord Gregory .... Mary Morison .... Wandering Willie. First Version Wandering Willie. Last Version Oh, open the door to me, oh ! Jessie The poor and honest sodger . Meg o* the Mill Blithe hae I been on yon hill Logan Water . . • . XVI CONTENTS. PAOB 281 283 283 283 284 284 285 286 " were my love yon lilac fair'* , Bonnie Jear. . . . . . Phillis the fair Had I a cave on some wild distant shore By Allan stream .... Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad Adown winding Nith I did wander Oorae, let me take thee to my breast Daintie Davie Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. First Version 285 Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. Second Version 286 Behold the hour, the boat arrives . . 287 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . . . 287 Auld lang syne 287 " Where are the joys I have met in the morning" 288 " Deluded swain, the pleasure" . . . 288 Nancy Husband, husband, cease your strife Wilt thou be my dearie ? . . . But lately seen in gladsome green . " Could aught of song declare my pains" Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass t was a' for our rightfu' king steer her up and baud her gaun [, ay my wife she dang me wert thou in the cauld blast The Banks of Cree .... On the seas and far away Ca' the Yowes to the Knowea Sae flaxen were her ringlets . saw ye my dear, my Phely ? . How lang and dreary is the night , Let not woman e'er complain The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mistress My Chloris, mark how green the groves Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 289 289 290 290 290 291 291 291 292 292 293 294 294 294 295 295 PAOl Farewell, thou stream, that winding flows . 296 Philly, happy be the day ... 297 Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair . 297 Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy . . 298 My Nannie's awa 298 wha is she that lo'es me .... 299 Caledonia 299 lay thy loof in mine, lass .... 300 The Fete Champetre 300 Here's a health to them that's awa . . 301 For a' that, and a' that 301 Craigieburn Wood . A . . . 302 lassie, art thou sleeping yet . . . 302 tell na me o' wind and rain . . . 303 The Dumfries Volunteers . , .303 Address to the Wood-lark . . 304 On Chloris being ill 304 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon 'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin How cruel are the parents Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion this is no my ain lassie Now Spring has clad the grove in green bonnie was yon rosy brier Forlorn my love, no comfort near Last May a braw wooer cam down toe lang glen Chloris ...*... The Highland Widow's Lament To General Dumourier .... Peg-a- Ramsey There was a bonnie lass Mally's aeek, Mally's sweet Hey for a lass wi' a tocher Jessy. " Here's a health to ane I We dear" Fairest Maid on Devon banks ... 304 305 305 305 306 306 307 307 307 308 308 309 309 309 309 310 310 311 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE, 1781. No. I. To William Burness. His health a little better, but tired of life. The Revela- tions 311 1783. n. To Mr. John Murdoch. His present studies and temper of mind .... 312 IIL To Mr. James Burness. His father's ill- ness, and sad state of the country . . 313 rV. To Miss E. Love 314 V. To Miss E. Love 314 VL To Miss E. Love 315 VII. To Miss E. On her refusal of his hand 316 ^'"111. To Robert Riddel, Esq. Observations 9n poetry and human life .... 316 1784. IX. To Mr. James Burness. On the death of his father 322 X. To Mr. James Burness. Account ef the Buchanites 322 XI. To Miss . With a book . . 323 1786. Xn. To Mr. John Richmond. His progress in poetic composition S23 XIII. To Mr. John Kennedy. The Cotter's Saturday Night 324 XrV. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing Ins " Scotch Drink" 824 XV. To Mr. Aiken. Enclosing a stanza on the blank leaf of a book by Hannah More 324 CONTENTS. xvu PA6B XVI. To Mr. M'Whinnie, Subscriptions . 324 XVII. To Mr. John Kennedy. Enclosing "The Gowan" • 326 XVIII. To Mon. James Smith. His voyage to the West Indies 325 XIX. To Mr, John Kennedy. His poems in the press. Subscriptions .... 325 XX. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour's return, — printing his poems . . . 326 ^ XXI. To Mr. Robert Aiken. Distress of mind 326 /[ XXII. To Mr. John Richmond. Jean Armour 327 XXIII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Aiken's cold- ness. His marriage-lines destroyed . . 328 XXIV. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour. West Indies 328 XXV. To Mr. John Ricnmond. West Indies The Armours 328 XXVI. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing "The Calf" . . . . . . . .329 XXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. Sir William Wallace 320 Z XVIII. To Mr. John Kennedy. Jamaica . 330 XXIX. To Mr. James Burness. His departure uncertain 330 XXX. To Miss Alexander. « The Lass of Bal- ^^chmyle"' 330 ■*^XXI. To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton. Enclosing some songs. Miss Alexander . 331 XXXII. Proclamation in the name of the Muses 332 XXXIII. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing " Tarn Samson." His Edinburgh expedition . 332 XXXIV. To Dr. Mackenzie. Enclosing the verses on dining with Lord Daer . . 332 XXXV. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Rising fame. Patronage 333 XXXVI. To John Ballantyne, Esq. His patrons and patronesses. The Lounger . . 333 XXXVn. To Mr. Robert Muir. A note of thanks. Talks of sketching the history of his life 334 XXXVIII. To Mr. William Chalmers. A hu- morous sally 334 1787. XXXIX. To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for his patronage 835 XL. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Love . 335 XLI. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Mr. Miller's oflfer of a farm 335 XLII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Enclosing " The Banks o' Doon." First Copy . .336 XLIII. To Mrs. miop. Dr. Moore and Lord Eglinton. His Muation in Edinburgh . 336 XLIV. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledgments for his notice 33^ XLV. To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Reflections on his situation in life. Dr. Blacklock, Mackenzie 338 PASB XLVI. To Dr. Moore. Miss Williams . 338 XLVIL To John Ballantyne, Esq. His portrait engraving 339 XLVIII. To the Earl of Glencaim. Enclosing" "Lines intended to be written under a noble Earl's picture" 33S XLIX. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a letter of advice . . . . . . 339 L. To Mr. James Candlish. Still "the old man with his deeds" . ... 3 40 LI. To . On Fergussor s headstone . 341 LII. To Mrs. Dunlop. His prospects on leav- ing Edinburgh 341 LIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. A letter of acknow- ledgment for the payment of the subscription 342 LrV. To Mr. Sibbald. Thanks for his notice in the magazine 343 LV. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledging the present of his View of Society . . . .343 LVI. To Mr. Dunlop. Reply to criticisms . 343 LVII. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair. On leav- ing Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness . 344 LVIII. To the Earl of Glencaim. On leaving Edinburgh 344 LIX. To Mr. William Dunbar. Thanking him for the present of Spenser's poems . 344 LX. To Mr. James Johnson. Sending a song to the Scots Musical Museum . . . 345 LXI. To Mr. William Creech. His tour on the Border. Epistle in verse to Creech . . 345 LXII. To Mr. Patison. Business . . .345 LXIII. To Mr. W. Nicol. A ride described in broad Scotch 346 LXrV. To Mr. James Smith. Unsettled in life. Jamaica 346 LXV. To Mr. W. Nicol. Mr. Miller, Mr. Bumside. Bought a pocket Milton . 347 LXVI. To Mr. James Candlish. Seeking a copy of Lowe's poem of " Pompey's Ghost" . 347 LXVIL To Robert Ainslie, Esq. His tour 348 LXVIIL To Mr. W. Nicol. Auchtertyre . 348 LXIX. To Mr. Wm. Cruikshank. Auchtertyre 348 LXX. To Mr. James Smith. An adventure . 349 LXXI. To Mr. John Richmond. His rambles 350 LXXII. To Mr. Robert AinsUe. Sets high value on his friendship . . . 350 LXXIII. To the same. Nithsdale and Edin- burgh 3fifl LXXrV. To Dr. Moore. Account of his own life 351 LXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. A humorous letter 357 LXXVI. To Mr. Robert Muir. Stirling, Ban- nockbum 357 LXXVIL To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Of Mr. Hamilton's own family .... 859 LXXVIIL To Mr. Walker. Bruar Water. The Athole family ..... 8M XVlll CONTENTS. PAGB LXXIX. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. Account of his Highland tour ..... 359 LXXX. To Miss Margaret Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton. Skinner. Nithsdale . . 360 LXXXI. To the same. Charlotte Hamilton, and " The Banks of the Devon" . . 360 LXXXII. To James Hoy, Esq. Mr. Nlcol. Johnson's Musical Museum . . . 361 LXXXIII. To Rev. John Skinner. Thanking him for his poetic compliment . . . 361 LXXXrV. To James Hoy, Esq Song by the Duke of Gordon 362 LXXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His friend- ship for him 363 LXXXVL TotheEarlofGlencairn. Requesting his aid in obtaining an excise appointment , 363 LXXXVn. To James Dalrymple, Esq. Rhyme. Lord Glencairn 363 LXXXVIII. To Charles Hay, Esq. Enclosing his poem on the death of the Lord President Dundas 364 LXXXIX. To Miss M— n. Compliments . 364 XC. To Miss Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton . 365 XCI. To the same. His braised limb. The Bible. The Oehel Hills . . .365 XCII. To the same. His motto — "I dare." His own worst enemy 365 XCIII. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for his friendship. Of poets . . . 366 XCIV, To Miss Williams. Comments on her poem of the Slave Trade . , . 366 XCV. To Mr. Richard Brown. Recollections of early life. Clarinda . . .368 XCVI. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Prayer for his health 369 XCVII. To Miss Chalmers. Complimentary poems. Creech 369 1788. XCVIII, To Mrs. Dunlop. Lowness of spirits. Leaving Edinburgh 370 XCIX. To the same. Religion . .370 C. To the Rev. John Skinner. TuUochgorum. Skinner's Latin 370 CI. To Mr. Richard Brown. His arrival in Glasgow 371 CIL ToMrs. Rose, of Kilravock. Recollections of Kilravock 371 OIIL To Mr. Richard Brown. Friendship. The pleasures of the present .... 372 CIV. To Mr. William Cruikshank. EUisland. Plans in life 372 CV. To Mr, Robert Ainslie. EUisland. Edin- burgh. Clarinda 373 C VI. To Mr. Richard Brown. Idleness. Farming 374 CVIL To Mr. Robert Muir. His offer for Ellis- land. The close of life . . . . 374 pi.»a CVIII. To Miss Chalmers. Taken EUisland. Miss Kennedy 375 CIX. To Mrs. Dunlop.. Coila's robe . . 375 ex. To Mr. Richard Brown. Apologies. On his way to Dumfries from Glasgow . . r75 CXI. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn. Poet and fame. The air of Captain O'Kean . . . .37* CXII. To Mr. William Dunbar. Foregoing poetry and wit for farming and business . 37d CXIII. To Miss Chalmers. Miss Kennedy. Jean Armour 377 CXrV. To the same. Creech's ramonred bank- ruptcy 377 CXV. To the same. His entering the Excise 377 CXVI. ToMrs. Dunlop. Farming and the Excise. Thanks for the loan of Dryden and Tasso . 378 CXVII. To Mr. James Smith. Jocularity. Jean Armour 378 CXVIII. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclo- sing some poetic trifles .... 379 CXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Dry den's Virgil. His preference of Dryden to Pope . . . 379 CXX. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His marriage . 379 CXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the treatment of servants 380 CXXn. Totjiesame. The merits of Mrs. Burns 380 CXXin. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. The warfare of life. Books. Religion . . . .381 CXXrV. To the same. Miers' profiles , . 382 CXXV. To the same. Of the folly of talking of one's private affairs .... 382 CXXVL To Mr. George Lockhart. The Miss Baillies. Bruar Water . . . .383 CXXVII. To Mr. Peter Hill. With the present of a cheese 383 CXX VIII. To Robert Graham Esq., of Fintray. The Excise 384 CXXIX. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Creech. Lines written in Friar's Carse Hermitage . 385 CXXX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lines written at Friar's Carse. Graham of Fintray . . . 385 CXXXI. To the same. Mrs. Bums. Of accom- plished young ladies 386 CXXXII. To the same. Mrs. Miller, of Dals- winton. "The Life and Age of Man." . 387 CXXXin. To Mr. Beugo. Ross and "The Fortunate Shepherdess." .... 388 CXXXIV. To Miss Chalmers. Recollections. Mrs. Burns. Poetry 388 CXXXV. To Mr. Morison. Urging expedition with his clock and other furniture for EUisland 390 CXXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mr. Graham. Her criticisms 390 CXXXVII. To Mr. Peter HiU. Criticism on an "Address to Loch Lomond." . . . 391 CXXXVIII. To the Editor of the Star. Plead- ing for the line of the Stuarts . . .392 CONTENTIS. XIX PAGB CXXXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. The present of a heifer from the Dunlops . . . .393 CXL. To Mr. James Johnson. Scots Musical Museum 393 CXLI. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical progress. His marriage 394 CXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing "Auld Laijg Syne" 394 CXL III. To Miss Davies. Enclosing the song of " Charming, lovely Davies" . . . 396 CXLIV. To Mr. John Tennant Praise ©f his whiskey 395 1789. CXLV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggested by the day 396 CXLVI. To Dr. Moore. His situation and prospects 396 CXLVII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His favour- ite quotations. Musical Museum. . . 398 CXLVIII. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclo- sing some poems for his comments upon . 398 CXLIX. To Bishop Geddes. His situation and prospects 399 CL. To Mr. James Bumess. His wife and farm. Profit from his poems. Fanny Burns . . 399 CLI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections. His success in song encouraged a shoal of bardlings . 400 CLII. To the Rev. Peter Carfrae. Mr. Mylne's poem 401 CLIII. To Dr. Moore. Introduction. His ode to Mrs. Oswald 401 CLIV. To Mr. William Burns. Remembrance 402 CLV. To Mr. Peter Hill. Economy and fru- gality. Purchase of books .... 402 CLVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Sketch inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox . . . .403 CLVII. To Mr. William Burns. Asking him to make his house his home .... 404 CLVIII. To Mrs. M'Murdo. With the song of " Bonnie Jean" 404 CLIX. To Mr. Cunningham. With the poem of " The Wounded Hare" . . . .404 CLX, To Mr. Samuel Brown. His farm. Ailsa fowling 405 CLXI. To Mr. Richard Brown. Kind wishes 405 CLXII. To Mr. James Hamilton. Sympathy 406 CLXIII. To William Creech, Esq. Toothache. Good wishes 406 CLXIV. To Mr. M'Auley. His own welfare . 406 CLXV. To Mr. Robert AinsUe. Overwhelmed with incessant toil 407 CLXVI. To Mr. M'Murdo. Enclosing his new- est song 407 CLXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on re- ligion 408 CLXVIII. To Mr. . Fergusson the poet. 408 rAoi CLXIX. To Miss Williams. Enclosing criti- cisms on her poems 40< CLXX. To Mr. John Logan. With « The Kirk's Alarm" 410 CLXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Religion. Dr. Moore's "Zeluco" 410 CLXXIL To Captain Riddel. " The Whistle" 411 CLXXin. To the same. With some of his MS. poems 411 CLXXIV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His Excise employment 412 CLXXV. To Mr. Richard Brown. His Excise duties .412 CLXXVL To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray. The Excise. Captain Grose. Dr. M'Gill . 413 CLXXVIL To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on immortality 414 CLXXVin. To Lady M. W. Constable. Jaco- bitism 415 CLXXIX. To Provost MaxweU. At a loss for a subject 415 1790. CLXXX. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a book-society in Nithsdale .... 416 CLXXXI. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. A letter with a fictitious signature . • . .416 CLXXXII. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His farm a ruinous afiair. Players . . . . 41 7 CLXXXIII, To Mr. Sutherland. Enclosing a Prologue . . . . . . .418 CLXXXIV. To Mr. William Dunbar. Excise. His children. Another world . . . 418 CLXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Falconer the poet. Old Scottish songs 419 CLXXXVL To Mr. Peter Hill. MademoiseUe Burns. Hurdis. Smollett and Cowper . 420 CLXXXVII. To Mr. W. Nicol. The death of Nicol's mare Peg Nicholson . . . 420 CLXXXVin. To Mr. W. Cunningham. What strange beings we are 421 CLXXXIX. To Mr. Peter HiU. Orders for books. Mankind 423 CXC. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mackenzie and the Mirror and Lounger 423 CXCI. To Collector Mitchell. A county meeting 424 CXCn. To Dr. Moore. "Zeluco." Charlotte Smith 425 CXCIIL To Mr. Murdoch. William Burns . 426 CXCrV. To Mr. M'Murdo. With the Elegy on Matthew Henderson 426 CXCV. To Mrs. Dunlop. His pride wounded 426 CXCVI. To Mr. Cunningham. Independence 426 CXCVII. To Dr. Anderson. « The Bee." . 427 CXCVIII. To William Tytler, Esq. With some West-country ballads 427 CXCIX. To Crauford Tait, Esq. Introducing Mr. William Duncan . ...» 42? CONTENTS. PAGE CC. To Crauford Tait, Esq. "The Kirk's Alarm" 428 CCI. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the birth of her grandchild. Tarn O'Shanter . . 429 1791. ecu. To Lady M. W. Constable. Thanks for the present of a gold snuflf-box . . . 429 CCIII. To Mr. William Dunbar. Not gone to Elysium. Sending a poem .... 429 CCrV. To Mr. Peter Hill. Apostrophe to Poverty 430 CCV. To Mr. Cunningham. Tarn O'Shanter. Elegy on Miss Burnet 430 CCVI. To A. E. Tytler, Esq. Tarn O'Shanter 431 CCVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Miss Burnet. Elegy writing 431 CCVIII. To Rev. Arch. Alison." Thanking him for his " Essay on Taste" . . . .432 CCIX. To Dr. Moore. Tam O'Shanter. Elegy on Henderson. Zeluco. Lord Glencairn . 432 CCX. To Mr. Cunningham. Songs . . 433 CCXI. To Mr. Alex. Dalzel. The death of the Earl of Glencairn 434 CCXII. To Mrs. Graham, of Fintray. With " Queen Mary's Lament" .... 434 CCXIII. To the same. With his printed Poems 435 CCXIV. To the Rev. G. Baird. Michael Bruce 435 CCXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a son . 435 CCXVL To the same. Apology for delay . 436 CCXVII. To the same. Quaint invective on a pedantic critic 436 CCXVIII. To Mr. Cunningham. The case of Mr. Clarke of Moffat, Schoolmaster . . 437 CCXIX. To the Earl of Buchan. With the Address to the shade of Thomson . . 437 OCXX. To Mr. Thomas Sloan. Apologies. His crop sold well 438 CCXXL To Lady E. Cunningham. With the Lament for the Earl of Glencairn . , 438 CCXXIL To Mr. Robert Ainslie. State of mind. His income 439 CCXXIII. ToCoLFullarton. With some Poems. His anxiety for FuUarton's friendship . . 439 CCXXrV, To Miss Davis. Lethargy, Indolence, and Ramorse. Our wishes and our powers . 440 CCXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mrs. Henri. The Song of Death 440 1792. OCXX VI. To Mrs. Dunlop. The animadver- sions of the Board of Excise . . . 441 CCXXVII. To Mr. William Smellie. Introdu- cing Mrs. Riddel 441 3CXXVIIL To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical reply to a letter of counsel and reproof . . 442 CCXXIX. To Francis Grose, Esq. Dugald Stewart 443 OCXXX. To the same. Witch stories . . 443 CCXXXI. To Mr. S. Clarke. Humorous invi- tation to teach music to the M'Murdo family 444 CCXXXII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Love and Lesley Baillie 441 CCXXXIIL To Mr. Cunningham. Lesley Baillie 448 CCXXXIV. To Mr. Thomson. Promising his assistance to his collection of songs and airs 447 CCXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Situation of Mrs. Henri 448 CCXXXVI. To the same. On the death of Mrs. Henri 449 CCXXXVII. To Mr. Thomson. Thomson's fas- tidiousness. " My Nannie 0," Ac. . . 449 CCXXXVIII. To the same. With "My wife 's a winsome wee thing," and " Lesley Baillie" 45f CCXXXIX. To the same. With Highland Mary. The air of Katherine Ogie . . . .450 CCXL. To the same. Thomson's alterations and observations 451 CCXLL To the same. With "Auld Rob Mor- ris," and " Duncan Gray" .... 451 CCXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a daughter. The poet Thomson's dramas . . . 451 CCXLIII. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray. The Excise inquiry into his political conduct 452 CCXLLV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Hurry of business. Excise inquiry 453 1793. CCXLV. To Mr. Thomson. With " Poortith cauld" and "Galla Water" . . . .453 CCXL VI. To the same. William Tytler, Peter Pindar 463 CCXLVII. To Mr. Cunningham. The poet's seal. David Allan 454 CCXLVIIL To Thomson. With "Mary Mo- rison" 455 CCXLIX. To the same. With "Wandering Willie" 455 CCL. To Miss Benson. Pleasure he had in meeting her 455 CCLI. To Patrick Miller, Esq. With the pre- sent of his printed poems .... 458 CCLII. To Mr. Thomson. Review of Scottish song. Crawfurd and Ramsay . * . 456 CCLin. To the same. Criticism. Allan Ram- say . . 457 CCLIV. To the same. "The last time I came o'er the moor" ...... 458 CCLV. To John Francis Erskine, Esq. Self- justification. The Excise inquiry . . 459 CCLVI. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Answering letters. Scholar-craft 460 CCLVIL To Miss Kennedy. A letter of com- pliment 461 CCLVIIL To Mr. Thomson. Frazer. "Blithe hae I been on yon hill" . . . .461 CONTENTS. XXi PAGB CCLIX. To Mr. Thomson. « Logan Water." " gin my love were yon red rose" . . . 462 CCLX. To the same. With the song of " Bon- nie Jean" 463 CCLXI. To the same. Hurt at the idea of pecu- niary recompense. Remarks on song . . 463 CCLXII. To the same. Note written in the name of Stephen Clarke .... 464 CCLXIII. To the same. With « Phillis the fair" 464 CCLXIV. To the same. With "Had I a cave on some wild distant shore" . . . 464 CCLXV. Tothesame. With " Allan Water" 464 CCLXVI. To the same. With " whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," 7 / /•■ xxxiv LIFE OF EGBERT BUKNS. of the heaviest metal of the kirk by a similar folly. The fair transgressor, both for her father'i sake and her own youth, had a large share of public sympathy. Jean Armour, for it is of her 1 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 unioit 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 migM safely avow it: she admitted the poet, therefore, to her company In lonesome places, and walks beneath the moon, where they both forgot themselves, and wer« at last obliged to own a private marriage as a protection from kirk censure. The professors of the Old Light rejoiced, since it brought a scoffing rhymer within reach of their hand; but her father felt a twofold sorrow, because of the shame of a favourite daughter, and for having committed the folly with one both loose in conduct and profane of speech. He had cause to be angry, but his anger, through his zeal, became tyrannous : in the exercise of what he called a father's power, he compelled his child to renounce the poet as her husband and burn the marriage-lines ; for he regarded her marriage, without the kirk's permission, with a man so utterly cast away, as a worse crime than her folly.( So blind is anger ! She could renounce neither her husband uri* his off- spring in a lawful way, and in spite of the destruction of the marriage lines, and renouncinji' vi« name of wife, she was as much Mrs. Burns as marriage could make her. No one concerned seemed to think so. Burns, who loved her tenderly, went all but mad when she renounced him : he gave up his share of Mossgiel to his brother, and roamed, moody and idle, about the land, with 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 handwriting, had found their way into the hands of the Ballantynes, Hamiltons, Parkers, and Mackenzies, and were much admired. Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, a lady of distinction and taste, had made, accidentally, the acquaintance both of Burns and some of his songs, and was ready to befriend him ; and so favourable was the impression on all hands, Vthat a subscription^- sufficient to defray ^e outlay of paper and print, was soon filled up — one hundred copies being subscribed for by the iA*arkers alone. He soon arranged materials for a volume, and put them into the hands of a printer "in Kilmarnock, the Wee Johnnie of one of his biting epigrams. Johnnie was startled at the unceremonious freedom of most of the pieces, and asked the poet to compose one of modest lan- guage and moral aim, to stand at the beginning, and excuse some of those fi'ee ones which followed : Burns, 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 ^han 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 1 1 public. Before he printed the whole, he, with 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 submitted his book to his country with fear and with trembling, since it contained little of the art of poesie, and at the best was 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 HIS Firt8T VOLUxME OF POEMS. / the devout rejoiced that idle verse had at last mixed a tone of morality with its mirth. The \o'ume penetrated even into Nithsdale. " Keep it out of tlie 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 had been the marvel of many writers : the poems were mostly on topic? with which they were familiar: the language was that of the fireside, raised above the vulgarities of common life, by a purifying spirit of expression and the exalting fervour of inspiration : and there was such a brilliant and graceful mixture of the elegant and the homely, the lofty and the- low, the familiar and the elevated — such a rapid succession of scenes which moved to tenderness or tears ; or to subdued mirth or open laughter — unlooked for allusions to scripture, or touches of sarcasm and scandal — of superstitions to scare, and of humour to delight — while through the whole was diffused, as the scent of flowers through summer air, a moral meaning — a sentimental beauty, which sweetened and sanctified all. The poet's expectations from this little venture were humble : he hoped as much money from it as would pay for his passage to the West Indies, where ie proposed to enter into the service of some of the Scottish settlers, and help to manage the double mystery of sugar-making and slavery. The hearty applause which I have recorded came chiefly from the husbandman, the shepherd, and the mechanic : the approbation of the magnates of the west, though not less warm, was longer in coming. Mrs. Stewart of Stair, indeed, commended the poems and cheered their author : Dugald Stewart received his visits with pleasure, and wondered at his vigour of couver- Bation as much as at his muse : the door of the house of Hamilton was open to him, where the table was ever spread, and the hand ever ready to help : while the purses of the Ballantynes Mid the Parkers were always as open to him as were the doors of their houses. Those persons ^ust be regarded as the real patrons of the poet : the high names of the district are not to be found among those who helped him with purse and patronage in 1786, that year of deep distress ami high distinction. The Montgomery s 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 way to obtain the notice of those who had influence in the land : he copied out the best of his unpublished poems in a fair hand, and inserting them in his printed volume, presented it to those who seemed slow to buy : he rewarded the notice of this one with a song — the attentions 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 tht\ *' Holy Fair" to one whom he invited to drink a gill out of a mutchkin stoup, at Mauchline market ; and on accidentally meeting with Lord Daer, he immediately 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 / neglected 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 visicn made on him in a song of unequalled eleganc*^ 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 complimen- tary. 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 sympa- thies of the gentrj' of his native district : for on the very day following we find him busy in mak- ing arrangements for his departure to Jamaica. ^For this step Burns had more than sufficient reasons : the profits of his volume amounted in ittle more than enough to waft him across the Atlantic : Wee Johnnie, though the editica waa xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. all sold, refused to risk another on speculation : his friends, both Ballantynes and Parken, volunteered to relieve the printer's anxieties, but the poet declined their bounty, and gloomily indented himself in a sliip about to sail from Greenock, and called on his muse to take farewell of Caledonia, in the last song he ever expected to measure in his native land. That fine lyric, beo"inning "The gloomy night is gathering fast," was the offspring of these moments of regret and sorrow. His feelings were not expressed in song alone : he remembered his mother and his natural daughter, and made an assignment of all that pertained to him at Mossgiel — and that was but little — and of all the advantage which a cruel, unjust, and insulting law allowed in the V pioceeds of his poems, for their support and behoof. This document was publicly read in the I i^presence of the poet, at the market-cross of Ayr, by his friend William Chalmers, a notary public. Even this step was to Bui'ns one of danger : some ill-advised person had uncoupled the merciless 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 clergyman, who had taste enough to admire the deep sensibilities as well as the humour of the poet, and the generosity to make known both his works and his worth to the warm-hearted and amiable Black- lock, 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 f from Greenock ; he relinquished the situation he had accepted on the estate of one Douglas ; took a secret leave of his mother, and, without an introduction to any one, and unknown personally to ^ all, save to Dugald Stewart, away he walked, through Glenap, to Edinburgh, full of new hope / and confiding in his genius. When he arrived, he scarcely knew what to do : he hesitated to call on the professor ; he refrained from making himself known, as it has been supposed he did, to the enthusiastic Blacklock ; but, sitting down in an obscure lodging, he sought out an obscure printer, recommended by a humble comrade from Kyle, and began to negotiate for a new edition -Sof the Poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman, This was not the way to go about it: his barge hixd / 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 G>l-e»«airn, a nobleman whose classic education did no^ TTurt his taste for Scottish poetry, and who was not too proud to lend his help- ing hand to a rustic stranger of such merit as Burns. Cunningham carried him to Creech, then the Murray of Edinburgh, a shrewd man of business, who opened the poet's eyes to his true interests : the first proposals, then all but issued, were put in the fire, and new ones printed and diffused over the island. The subscription was headed by half the noblemen of the north : the I Caledonian Hunt, through the interest of Glencairn, took six hundred copies : duchesses and countesses swelled the list, and such a crowding to write down names had not been witnessed since the signing of the solemn league and covenant. While the subscription-papers were filling and the new volume printing on a paper and 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, historians, and scholars had shaken /the elegant coteries of the city with their wit, or enlightened them with their learning, but they wers 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 I weary. They therefore welcomed this rustic candidate for the honour of giving wings to their hours of lassitude and weariness, with a welcome more than common ; and when his approach was announced, the polished < ircle 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. I But they met with a barbarian who was not at all barbarous : as the poet met in Lord Daer feel- [ings and sentiments as natural as those of a ploughman, so they met in a ploughman manners rorthy 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 HIGHLAND MARY. xxxvn learned and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one born to it. In th« society of men alone he spoke out : he spared neither his wit, his humour, nor his sarcasm — he Beemed to say to all — * ' I am a man, and you are no more ; and why should I not act and speak vlike one ?" — it was remarked, however, that he had not learnt, or did not desire, to conceal his emotions — that he commended with more rapture than was courteous, and contradicted with mare tluntness 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 received them with deference, but with a consciousness that he couli win theii attention as he had won that of others, who diflfered, indeed, from them only in the tcxtuie 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, Vhen he was the object to whom ihe 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 as unexpected — that he told them the stories of some of his tenderest songs or liveliest poema a style quite magical — enriching his little narratives, which had one and all the merit of being hort, with personal incidents of humour or of pathos. In a party, when Dr. Blair and Professor Walker were present. Burns related the circumstances under which he had 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 was sincere ; she put full trust in his love, and used to wander with him among the green knowes and stream-banks till the Bun went down and the moon rose, talking, dreaming of love and the golden days which awaited them. He was poor, and she had only her half-year's fee, for she was in the condition of a ser- vant ; but thoughts of gear never dai-kened 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 them over an open Bible, to show that they thought of God in this mutual act — and when they had done they both took water in their hands, and scattered it in the air, to intimate that as the stream was pure so were their intentions. They parted when they did this, but they i parted never to meet more : she died in a burning fever, during a visit to her relations to prepare for her marriage ; and all that he had of her was a lock of her long bright hair, and her Bible, which she exchanged for his. Even with the tales which he related of rustic love and adventure his own story mingled ; and ladies of rank heard, for the first time, that in all that was romantic in the passion of love, »iid 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, -"ather than the tenants; and sometimes, the devotional tastes of both father and mother, 1/ xxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. approving of i)ersonal looks and connexions, were averse to see a daughter bestow her hand on one, whoso language in religion was indiscreet, and whose morals were suspected. Yet, neither the vigilance of fathers, nor the suspicious care of aunts and mothers, could succeed in keeping those asunder whose hearts were together ; but in these meetings circumspection and invention were necessary : all fears were to be lulled by the seeming carelessness of the lass, — all perils were to be met and braved by the spirit of the lad. His home, perhaps, was at a distance, and he had wild woods to come through, and deep streams to pass, before he could see the signal-light, now shown and now withdrawn, at her window ; he had to approach with a quick eye and a wary foot, lest a father or a brother should see, and deter him : he had sometimes to wish for a cloud upon the moon, whose light, welcome to him on his way in the distance, was likely to betray him when near ; and he not unfrequently reckoned a wild night of wind and rain as a blessing, since it helped to conceal his coming, and proved to his mistress that he was ready to brave all for her sake. Of rivals met and baffled ; of half-willing and half-unconsenting maidens, persuaded and won ; of the light-hearted and the careless becoming aflFectionate and tender ; and the coy, the proud, and the satiric being gained by "persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs," as dames had been gained of old, he had tales enow. The ladies listened, and smiled at the tender narra- tives of the poet. Of his appearan^ among the sons as well as the daughters of men, we have the account 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 persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance wh^flh had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country : his dress was suited to his station ; plain and unpretending, with sufficient attention to neatness : he always wore boots, and, when on more than usual ceremony, buckskin breeches. His manners were manly, simple, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any indication of forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him, and listened with apparent deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. "Jff there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in Ms temper, he would have been still more interesting ; but he had been accustomed to give law jin the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of anything approaching to meanness or JBervility, rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing perhaps was more remark- lable among his various attainments, than the fluency and precision and originality of language, I 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 cot- tages contained." Such was the impression which Burns made at first on the fair, the titled, and the learned of Edinburgh ; an impression which, though lessened by intimacy and closer examination on the \part of the men, remained unimpaired, on that of the softer sex, till his dying-day. His com- pany, during the season of balls and festivities, continued to be courted by all who desired to 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 Woodhouslee, or the elaborate 9upper-tables of the whimsical Monboddo, whose guests imagined they were entertained in the manner of Lucullus or of Cicero, were not complete without the presence of the ploughman of Kyle ; and the feelings of the rustic poet, facing such companies, though of surprise and delight ^t 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 order!/ 'i SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH. xxxiz Pad staid character than those I have named — where the glass circulated with greater rapidity ; here the wit flowed more freely ; and where there were neither highbred ladies to charm cou- "ersation within the bounds of modesty, nor serious philosophers, nor grave divines, to set a limit o the license of speech, or the hours of enjoyment. To these companions — and these were all the better classes, the levities of the rustic poet's wit and humour were as welcome as were he tenderest of his narratives to the accomplished Duchess of Gordon and the beautiful Miss JBurnet of Monboddo ; they raised a social roar not at all classic, and demanded and provoked Jhis sallies of wild humour, or indecorous mirth, with as much delight as he had witnessed among the lads of Kyle, when, at mill or forge, his humorous sallies abounded as the ale flowed. ]u these enjoyments the rough, but learned William Nicol, and the young and amiable Robert Ains- lie 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 law, 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 attracted by principles as well as by pleasure ; these were the relics of that once numerous body, the Jacobites, who still loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education rather than of judgment, and toasted 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. Burns, who was descended from a northern race, whose father was suspected of having drawn the claymore in 1745, and who loved the blood of the Keith-Marishalls, under whose banners his ancestors had marched, readily united himself to a band in whose sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer Ir He was received with acclamation : the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and hia 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 piiblished 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. It 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 district, 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 im stubborn and unpliable, in matters of criticism; yet he was geneiiUy of a complimental mood: he loaded the robe of Coila in the " Vision," with more scenes than it could well contain, ithat he might include in the landscape, all the country-seats of his friends, and he gave more than their share of commendation to the Wallaces, out of respect to his fi-iend Mrs. Dunlop. 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, whec the " Holy Fair" was the subject of conversation, the reverend critic said, " Why should M / v^ xl LIFE OF IIOBKIIT BUKNS. * Moody 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." Professor 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 received the highest gratification : he named tie H'gh-church, but gave the preference over all preachers to Robert Walker, the colleague and / rival in eloquence of Dr. Blair himself, and that in a tone so pointed and decisive as to make all J at the table stai-e and look embarrassed. The poet confessed afterwards that he never reflected / on Ms blunder without pain and mortification, Blair probably had this in his mind, when, on ryrding the poem beginning "When Guildford good our pilot stood," he exclaimed, "Ah! the vypolitics 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 indepen- dence of soul, which are sometimes the muse's only dower, break forth on every occasion, in his works." The praise of the author of the " Man of Feeling" was not more felt by Burns, than it was by the whole island : the harp of the north had not been swept for centuries by a hand so forcible, and at the same time so varied, that it awakened every tone, whether of joy or woe: the language was that of rustic life ; the scenes of the poems were the dusty barn, the clay-floored reeky cottage, and the furrowed field ; and the characters were cowherds, ploughmen, and mechanics. The volume was embellished by a head of the poet from the hand of the now vene- rable Alexander Nasmith ; and introduced by a dedication to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, in a style of vehement independence, unknown hitherto in the history of Sub- scriptions. The whole work, verse, prose, and portrait, won public attention, and kept it : and though some critics signified their displeasure at expressions which bordered on profanity, and fat a license of language which they pronounced impure, by far the greater number united their f praise to the all but general voice ; nay, some scrupled not to call him, from his perfect ease and I nature and vari*^ty, the Scottish Shakspeare. No one rejoiced more in his success and his fame, ' than the matron of Mossgiel. Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of Burns in Edinburgh. He had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of Allan Ramsay; he traced out his residences, and rejoiced to think that while he stood in the shop of his own bookseller, Creech, the same floor had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He visited, too, the lowly grave of the unfor- \ lunate 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 him to pull birks on the Yarrow, broom on the Cowden-knowes, and not to neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh Abbey, Burns 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 would be placed with the Ramsays and the Fergussons, and with the hopes of all, 4hat, in a second volume, on which his fate as a poet would very much depend, he might rise yet higher in n\erit and in fame. Burns, who received this communication when laying his leg ove* U . . >___ . . BORDER TOUR. xii the saddle to be gone, is said to have muttered, *' Ay, but a man's first book is sometimes like his first babe, healthier and stronger than those which follow." On the 6th of May, 1787, 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 aloud the two last verses of the "Cotter's Saturday Night:" on returning, he drank tea with Brydone, 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 let at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre; the farmers rich, and, com- pared 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 relic, and could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it: he was a warm admirer of Thomson, In Jedburgh, Burns found much to interest him : the ruins of a splendid cathedral, and of a strong castle — and, what was still more attractive, an amiable young lady, very handsome, with " beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture," and looks which betokened a high order of female mind. He gave her his portrait, and entered this remembrance of her attractions among his memoranda : — " My heart is thawed into melting pleasure, after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indiflference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. I am afraid my bosom has nearly as much tinder as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks : sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love!" With the freedom of Jedburgh, hand- somely bestowed by the magistrates, in his pocket. Burns made his way to Wauchope, the resi- dence of Mrs. Scott, who had welcomed him into the world as a poet in verses lively and graceful : he found her, he said, " a lady of sense and taste, and of a decision peculiar to female authors." 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 bis patron Glencairn, he spent an hour among the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey ; glanced on the splendid remains of Melrose ; 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, ■^ Rifcil economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatk per- $o}a', 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 'ortunc at the plough, should poetry and patronage fail him. ^On his way through the West, Burns spent a few days with his mother at Mossgiel : he had jft 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 oflfended alike with the patrician etatelincss of Edinburgh and the plebeian servility of the husbandmen of Ayrshire ; and dreading i Ihe influence of the unlucky star which had hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a pocket Milton, he Maid, for the purpose of studying the intrepid independence and daring magnanimity, and noble 'ixefiance of hardships, exhibited by Satan ! In this mood he reached Edinburgh — only to leave it xlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. again on three hurried excursions into the Highlands. The route which he took and the senti- ments which the scenes awakened, are but faintly intimated in the memoranda which he made. His first journey seems to have been performed in ill-humour ; at Stirling, his Jacobitism, provoked at seeing the ruined palace of the Stuarts, broke out in some unloyal lines which he had the indiscretion to write with a diamond on the window of a public inn. At Carron, where he was refused a sight of the magnificent foundry, he avenged himself in epigram. At Invtrary he resented some real or imaginary neglect on the part of his Grace of Argyll, by a stinging lampoon ; nor can he be said to have fairly regained his serenity of temper, till he danced his wrath away with some Highland ladies at Dumbarton. His second excursion was made in the company of Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate : the reluctant doors of Carron foundry were opened to him, and he expressed his wonder at the blazing furnaces and broiling labours of the place ; he removed the disloyal lines from the window of the inn at Stirling, and he paid a two days' visit to Ramsay of Ochtertyre, a distinguished scholar, and dis- cussed with him future topics for the muse. "I have been in the company of many men of ^genius," said llamsay afterwards to Currie, "some of them poets, but never witnessevl such :^ "flashes of intellectual brightness as from him — the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial llfire." From the Forth he went to the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan, whei*e, for the first * time, he saw the beautiful Charlotte Hamilton, the sister of his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauch- line. "She is not only beautiful," he thus writes to her brother, **but lovely: her form is elegant, her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness, and the settled compla- cency of good nature in the highest degree. Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness and a noble mind. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress: — " Her pure and eloquent blood Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought. That one would almost say her body thought." Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, who, in the belief that she had the blood of the royal Bruce in her veins, received the poet with some- thing of princely state, and, half in jest, conferred the honour of knighthood upon him, with her ancestor's sword, saying, in true Jacobitical mood, that she had a better right to do that than some folk had ! In the same pleasing company he visited the famous cataract on the Devon, called the Cauldron Linn, and the Rumbling bridge, a single arch thrown, it is said by the devil, over the Devon, at the height of a hundred feet in the air. It was the complaint of his compa- nions that Burns exhibited no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such magni- ficent scenes. But he did not like to be tutored or prompted: "Look, look!" exclaimed some one, as Carron foundry belched forth flames — "look, Burns, look! good heavens, what a grand sight! — look I" "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 Cree- hope, 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 Burns, " 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 company of Nicol of the High-School of Edin- burgh: on the fields of Bannockburn and Falkirk — places of triumph and of woe to Scotland, he gave way to patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded them: — "Stirling, August 26, 1787 : this morning I knelt at tlie tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace ; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia, over the hole in a whin? HIGHLAND TOUK. xliil »tone where Robert the Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockbum." He then proceeded northward by Ochtertyre, the water of Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the tradi tionary grave of Ossian. He looked in at princely Taymouth ; mused an hour or two among the Birks of Aberfeldy ; gazed from Birnam top ; paused amid the wild grandeur of the pass of Killiecrankie, 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 ^ ^\e 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 tJie 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 7alls of Fyers, and turned southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of Cullo- den. He admired the ladies of that classic region for their snooded ringlets, simple elegance of 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 Burns, 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 Endermay 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 swal- lowed up in the sink of politics, and though noblemen smiled, and ladies of rank nodded their jewelled heads in approbation of every new song he sung and every witty sally he uttered, they reckoned any further notice or care superfluous : the poet, an obsei'vant man, saw all this ; but hope was 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. Repulsed by the stately i 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 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 much affectation both of language and sentiment, and a desire to say ||ne and startling things, we can see the proud heart of the poet throbbing in the dread of being neglected or forgotten by his country. The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and beauty, Bceras 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'Lehosa i felt as much offence as pleasure at this boisterous display of regard. In aftertimes he loved to i remember her : — when wine circulated, Mrs. Mac was his favourite toast. ' During this season he began his lyric contributions to the ^lusical Museum of Johnson, a work which, amid many imperfections of taste and arrangement, contains more of the true old musio »nd genuine old songs of Scotland, than any other collection with which I am acquainted. Burns gathered oral airs, and fitted them with words of mirth or of woe, of tenderness or of humour, with unexampled readiness and felicity ; he eked o it old fragments and sobered down licentiooa s/ ^^ /, xliv LIFE OF EGBERT BURNS. Btrains so much in the olden spirit and feeling, that the new cannot be distinguished froi th« ancient ; nay, he inserted lines and half lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarian, are perplexed to settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he abated noi of the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse of Scotland : he did not like her the ega because she walked like some of the maidens of her strains, high-kilted at times, and spoke > ith the freedom of innocence. In these communications we observe how little his border-jaunt among the fountains of ancient song contributed either 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 yfduced him to dread failure rather than hope triumph. Moreover, the Highlands teemed with / jacobitical feelings, and scenes hallowed by the blood or the sufferings of men heroic, and perhaps misguided ; and the poet, willingly yielding to an impulse which was truly romantic, and believed by thousands to be loyal, penned his songs on Drumossie, and Killiecrankie, as the spirit of sorrow or of bitterness prevailed. Though 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 company which, though clever, f could not be called select, contributed to this ; nor must it be forgotten that his love for the sweeter part of creation was now and then carried beyond the limits of poetic respect, and the delicacies of courtesy ; tending to estrange the austere and to lessen the admiration at first common to all. Other causes may be 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 sarcastic 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 sub- scription, tlie learned to regard him as a fierce Theban, who resolved to carry all the out- works to the temple of Fame without the labour of making regular approaches ; while a third J/pSirty, and not the least numerous, looked on him witl\^distrust, as one who hovered between , I / Jacobite and Jacobin ; who disliked the loyal-minded, and loved to lampoon the reigning family. ^/l Besides, the marvel of- the inspired ploughman had begun to subside ; the bright gloss of novelty was worn off, and his fault lay in his unwillingness to see that he had made all iha eport 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 Bpontaneous, like those in Milton's heaven, were now unclosed for him with a tardy courtesy : he •?as received with measured stateliness, and seldom requested to repeat his visit. Of this charged 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 cornerj lest the rattling 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 he poet the choice of his farms, on a fair estate which he had purchased on the Nith : aided by HIS MARRIAGE. xiv "1 n jJwestland farmer, he selected Ellisland, a beautiful spot, fit alike for the steps of ploughman or /oet. 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 con- • fided, 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 atterjpted to he 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 patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, emboldens me to ask at interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered n 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 the 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 tho 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 which had witnessed both hi3 triumph 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 aflSuence : he desired to see those who had aided him in his early struggles into the upper air — perhaps those, too, who had looked coldly on, and smiled at his outward aspirations after fame or distinc- tion ; 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, hig thoughts wandered to her whom he had left bleaching her webs among the daisies on Mauchlind braes — she had still his heart, and in spite of her own and her father's disclamation, she was hiJ wife. It was one of the delusions of this great poet, as well as of those good people, the Armoursl that the marriage had been dissolved by the destruction of the marriage-lines, and that Rober| Burns and Jean Armour were as single as though they had neither vowed nor written themselves man and wife. Be that as it may, the 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 sacrei ceremony of marriage. Though Jean Armour was but a country lass of humble degree, she had sense and intelligence; tnd personal charms sufficient not only to win and fix the affections of the poet, but to sancti 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 SEPod wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures, nor have danced in a ;e,y 1 i\/ xlvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding." To the accomplished Margaret Chalmers, oi Edinburgh, he adds, to complete the picture, "I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest tem.per, the soundest constitution, and kindest heart in the country : a certain late publication of Scots' poems she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in the land, as she has the finest woodnote wild you ever heard," With his young wife, a punch bowl of Scottish marble, and an eight-day clock, both presents from Mr. Armour, mow 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 banki of the Nith, and set up his stafi^ at Ellisland. This farm, now a classic spot, is about six miles up the river from Dumfries ; it extends to upwards of a hundred acres : the soil is kindly ; the holmland portion of it loamy and rich, and it has at command fine walks on the river side, and views of the Friar's Carse, Cowehill, and Dalswinton. For a while the poet had to hide his head in a smoky hovel ; till a house to his fancy, and offices for his cattle and his crops were built, his accommodation was sufficiently humble ; and his mind taking its hue from his situation, infused a bitterness into the letters in which he first made known to his western friends that he had fixed his abode in Nithsdale. '^ am here," said he, " at the very elbow of existence : the only things to be found in perfection m 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.'V/"This is an undiscovered clime," he at another period exclaims, " it is unknown to poetry, and prose never looked on it *^ave 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 biit 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 lliddQi, who was his neighbour, was the favourite : a door was made in the march-fence which serrated Ellisland from Friar's Carse, that the poet might indulge in the retirement of the Carse hermitage, a Ijttle 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 let 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 inanimate, to lament the loss of one who held the patent of his honours from God alone, and who loved all that was pure and lovely and good. " The Whistle" is another of his Ellisland compositions: the contest which he has recorded with such spirit and humour took place almost at his door: the heroes were Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, and Riddel, of the Friar's Carse : the poet was present, and drank 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 victbr. Burns had become fully reconciled to Nithsdale, and was on the most ijitimate terms with the muse when he produced Tam 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 nc hinderance to his friendly intercourse with the poet : " Alloway's auld haunted kirk" was mentioned, and Grose eaid he would include it in his illustrations of the antiquities of Scotland, if the bard of the Doon would write a poem to accompany it. Burns consented, and before he left the table, the various traditions which belonged to the ruin were passing through his mind. One of these vr^t ELLISLAND— TAM O'SHANTER. xlvii of a farmer, -who, on a night wild with wind and rain, on passing the old kirk was startled ly a -light glimmering inside the walls : on drawing near he saw a caldron hung over a fire, in which the heads and limbs of children were simmering: there was neither witch nor fiend to guard it. BO he unhooked the caldron, turned out the contents, and carried it home as a ttophy. 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 win- dow of Alloway kirk, and on riding near, beheld a batch of the district witches dancing merrilv 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 thcii 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 light 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 wondering 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 Tam ! O, Tarn ! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, ' 1 wad hae gien them aff my hurdles, For ae blink o' the bonnie bardies !" i^e eml Te embellisljed this wild tradition from fact as well as from fancy : along the road which Tam came on that eventful night his memory supplied circumstances which prepared him for the strange 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 the 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 songs : the sweet voice of Mrs. Burns rnd the craving of Johnson's Museum will in some measure account for the number, but not for tneir variety, which is truly wonderful. In the history of that mournful strain, "Mary ir. Hsaven," we read the story of many of his lyrics, for they generally sprang from his personal feelings : no poet has put more of himself into his poetry tlian 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 got most of the corn into the stack-yard, was in good spirits ; but when twilight came he grew sad about something, and could not rest : he wandered first up the water- Bide, 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, 'Ay, ay,' but did not come: he threw himself down en 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 long after I had left him, he c»me home-' the song was already composed." To the memory of Mary Campbell he dedicated .iJ xlviii LIFE OF EGBERT BURNS that touching ode ; and he thus intimates the continuance 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 benevolent, 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 their 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 unboding and benignly. But much more is required than toil of hand to make a successful farmer, nor will the attention bestowed only by fits and starts, compensate for carelessness or oversight : frugality, not in one thing but in all, is demanded, in small matters as well 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, during the three years which Burns stayed in Ellislapd, he neither wrought with that constant diligence which farming demands, nor did he bestow upon it the unremitting attention of eye and mind which such a farm required : besides his skill in husbandry was but moderate — the rent, though of his own fixing, was too high for him and for the times ; the ground, though good, was not so excellent as he might have had on the same estate — he employed more servants than the number of acres demanded, and spread for them a richer board than common : when we have said this we need not add the expensive tastes induced by poetry, to keep readers from starting, when they are 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 had for a year or more been appointed on the excise, and had superintended a district extending to ten large parishes, with applause; indeed, it has been assigned as the chief reason for failure in his farm, that when the plough or the sickle summoned him to the field, he was to be found, either pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, among the vallej'^s of Dumfrieshire, or measuring out pastoral verse to the beauties of the land. He retired to a house in the Bank-veniiel otJDumfries, and commenced a^ town-life : he commenced it with an empty pocket, for Ellisland had swallowed up all the profits of his poems : he had now neither a barn to produce meal nor barley, a barn-yard to yield a fat hen, a field to which he 30uld go at Martinmas for a mart, nor a dairy to supply milk and cheese and butter to the table — he had, in snort, all to buy and little to buy with. 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 hi^fmuse at liberty to renew her unsolicited strains. ut from the day of his departure from "the barren" Ellisland, the downward course of Burns y be dated. The cold neglect of his country had driven him back indignantly to the plough, 'nd he hoped to gain from the furrowed field that independence which it was the duty of Scotland 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 expensive as well as pure : he had witnessed, and he hoped for the pleasures of literary retire- ment, while the hands which had led jewelled dames over scented carpets to supper tables loaded ith silver took hold of the hilts of the plough with more of reluctance than goodwill. Edinburgh, tith 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 JUS DUTIES AS EXCISEMAN. xlix eentury 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-rum and 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 .himself. 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 ail averse to a dram, he walked among suspicious brewers, captious ale-wives, and frowning shop- keepers as uprightly as courteously : he smoothed the ruggedest natures into acquiescence by his gayety and humour, and yet never gave cause for a malicious remark, by allowing his vigilance to slumber. He was brave, too, and in the capture of an armed smuggler, in which he led the attack, showed that he neither feared water nor fire : he loved, also, to counsel the more forward of the smugglers to abandon their dangerous calling ; his sympathy for the helpless poor induced tim to give them now and then notice of his approach ; he has been known to interpret the severe laws of the excise into tenderness and mercy in behalf of the widow and the fatherless. In all this h( iid 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 books of Burns," said Maxwell, of Terraughty, at the meeting of the district magistrates, "for they show that" an upright officer may be a merciful one." With a salary of some seventy pounds a year, the chance of a few guineas annually from the future editions of his poems, and the hope of rising at some distant day to the more lucrative situation of supervisor. Burns continued to live in Dumfries ; first in the Bahk-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 summer 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 uure^a,rded 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 required 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, lie 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 they 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 lejs pretending one, are at the same time less happy in their humour and less simple in their thos. "What pleases me as simple and naive," says Burns to Thomson, "disgusts you as dicrous and low. For this reason *Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs,' 'Fye, let us a' to the bridal,' with several others of that cast, are to me highly pleasing, while ' Saw ye my Father' delights me with its descriptive simple pathos :" we read in these words the reasons of the difference between the lyrics of the two collections. The land where the poet lived furnished ready materials for song : hills with fine woods, valea 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 purposes of mirth or of humour, 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 in very ordinary looks, and hanging th« 4 LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. garlands of the muse on unlovely altars ; he was liahle to no such censure in Nithsdale ; he poured out the incense of poetry only on the fair and captivating : his Jeans, his Lucys, his Phillises, and his Jessies were ladies of such mental or personal charms as the Reynolds's and the Lawrences of the time would have rejoiced to lay out their choicest colours on. But he did not limit himself to the charms of those whom he could step out to the walks and admire : his lyrics give evidence of the wandering of his thoughts to the distant or the dead — he loves to remember Charlotte Hamilton and Mary Campbell, and think of the sighs and vows on the Devon and the Doon, while his harpstrings were still quivering to the names of the Millers and the M'Murdos — to the charms of the lasses with golden or with flaxen locks, in the valley where lie dwelt. Of Jean M'Murdo and her sister Phillis he loved to sing; and their beauty merited hia strains : to one who died in her bloom, Lucy Johnston, he addressed a song of great sweet- ness; to Jessie Lewars, two or three songs of gratitude and praise: nor did he forget other beauties, for the accomplished Mrs. Riddel is remembered, and the absence of fair Clarinda is lamented in strains both impassioned and pathetic. !' But the main inspirer of the latter songs of Burns was a young woman of humble birth : of a rorm equal to the most exquisite proportions of sculpture, with bloom on her cheeks, and merri- fment 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 ofl&cer of the army, to use his southron name of Whelp dale, she loved best to be addressed by her maiden designation, while the poet chose to veil her in the numerous lyrics, to which she gave life, under the names of "Chloris," "The lass of Craigie-burnwood," and " The lassie wi' the lintwhite locks." Though of a temper not much inclined to conceal anything. Burns complied so tastefully with the growing demand of the age for the exterior decencies of life, that when the scrupling dames of Caledonia sung a new song in her praise, they were as unconscious whence its beauties came, as is the lover of art, that the shape and the gracefulness of the marble nymph which he admires, are derived from a creature who sells the use of her charms indifferently to sculpture or to love. Fine poetry, like other arts called tine, springs from "strange places," as the flower in the fable said, when it bloomed on the dunghill ; nor is Burns more to be blamed than was Raphael, who painted Madonnas, and Magdalens with dishevelled hair and lifted eyes, from a loose lady, whom the pope, "Holy at Rome — here Antichrist," charitably prescribed to the artist, while he laboured in the cause of the church. Of the poetic use which he made of Jean Lorimer's charms. Burns gives this account to Thomson. "The lady on whom the song of Craigie-burnwood was made is one of the finest women in Scotland, and in fact is to me in a manner what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of platonic love. I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of my best songs. Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with life and love and joy — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial 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 h« piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion are you delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile, the divinitj of Helicon." • Most of the songs which he composed under the influences to which I have alluded are of tht first order: "Bonnie Lesley," "Highland Mary," "Auld Rob Morris," "Duncan Gray," "Wan- ering Willie," "Meg o' the Mill," "The poor and honest sodger," "Bonnie Jean," "Phillis the air," "John Anderson my Jo,*' " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore," " Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad," "Bruce's Address to his men at Bannockburn," " Auld Lang Syne," " Thine am I, my faithful fair," " Wilt thou be my dearie," " Chloris, mark how green the groves," " Con- tented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair," "Their groves of sweet myrtle," "Last May abraw wooer came down the lang glen," "0 Mally's meek, Mally's sweet," "Hey for r lass wi' a tocher," THE HERON BALLADS. f " L'ere's a health to ane I loe dear," and the ** Fairest maid on Devon banks." Many of th« 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 liarsher 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. TJie poet's favourite walk in composing his songs was on a beautiful green sward on the northern side of the Nith, opposite Lincluden ; and his favourite posture for composition at home was balancing himself on the hind legs of his arm-chair. While indulging in these lyrical flights, politics penetrated into Nithsdale, and disturbed the tranquillity of that secluded region. First, there came a contest for the representation of the Dumfries district of boroughs, between Patrick Miller, younger, of Dalswinton, and Sir James Johnstone, of Westerhall, and some two years afterwards, a struggle for the representation of the county of Kirkcudbright, between the interest of the Stewarts, of Galloway, and Patrick Heron, of 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 affair of Ellisland, and his firm and considerate friend, M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, was chamberlain to his Grace of Queensbury, on whose interest Miller stood. Oh the other hand, his old Jacobitical affections made him the secret well-wisher to Westerhall, for up to this time, at least till acid disappoint- ment and the democratic doctrine of the natural equality of man influenced him. Burns, or as a western rhymer of his day and district Avorded the reproach — Rob was a Tory. His situation, it will therefore be observed, disposed him to moderation, and accounts for the milkiness of his Epistle to Fintray,' in which hemarshals the chiefs of the contending factions, and foretells the fierceness of the strife, without pretending to foresee the event. Neither is he more explicit, though infinitely more humorous, in his ballad of " The Five Carlins," in which he impersonates the five boroughs — Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, Lochmaben, Sanquhar, and Annan, and draws their characters as shrewd and calculating dames, met in much wrath and drink to choose 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 acknowledged 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 jealousy 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 I to this, a resentment of the injurious treatment of the dispensers of public patronage, who had neglected his claims, and showered pensions and places on men unworthy of being named with him, we have assigned causes for the change of side and the tone of asperity and bitterness infused into " The Heron Ballads." Formerly honey was mixed with his gall : a little praise sweetened his censure : i n these e l ftfitin^ ^ i'?'B Uag 8 B S h ^ IS i fierce and ^yen venompi^ ^ : — no man has a head but what is empty, nor a heart that is not black : men descended without reproach from \\no< of heroes are stigmatized as cowards, and the honest and conscientious are reproached as Ti,'- rly, mean, and dishonourable. Such is the spirit of party. *' I have privately," thus writes the poet to Heron, '^'printed a good many copies of the 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 opponents ; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia, to muster on your side all the votaries of honest laughter and fair, candij ridicule." The ridicule was uncandid, and the kughter dishonest. The poet was xmfortunate in his political attachments : Miller gained the / \ lii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. boroughs which Burns wished he might lose, and Heron lost the county which he foretold he would gain. It must also be recorded against the good taste of the poet, that he loved to recite " The Heron Ballads," and reckon them among his happiest compositions. From attacking others, the poet was — in the interval between penning these election lajipoons — called on to defend himself: for this he seems to have been quite unprepared, though in those yeasty times he might have expected it. *' I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted,*' he thus writes to Graham, of Fintray, "by Mr, Mitchell, the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a per- son disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father : you know what you would feel, to ser) 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, whatever villain has made it, is a lie! To the British constitution, on Revolution principles, next af^r my God, I am devotedly attached. To your patronage as a man of some genius, you have avowed me a claim ; and your esteem as an honest man I know is my due. To these, sir, permit ^^e to appeal : by these I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and which with my latest breath I will say I have not deserved." In this letter, another, intended for the eye of the Commissioners of the Board of Excise, was enclosed, in which be dis- . claimed entertaining the idea of a British republic — a wild dream of the day — but stood by the f principles of the constitution of 1688, with the wish to see such corruptions as had crept in, amended. This last remark, it appears, by a letter from the poet to Captain Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, gave great offence, for Corbet, one of the superiors, was desired to inform him, "that his business was to act, and not to think ; and that whatever might be men or measures, it was his duty to be silent and obedient." The intercession of Fintray, and the explanations of Burns, were so far effectual, that his political offence was foi'given, "only I understand," said he, "that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted." The records of the Excise Office exhibit no trace of this memorable matter, and two noblemen, who were then in the government, have assured me that this harsh proceeding received no countenance at head-quarters, and must have originated with some ungenerous or malicious person, on whom the poet had spilt a little of the nitric acid of his wrath. That Burns was numbered among the republicans of Dumfries I well remember : but then those who held different sentiments from the men in power, were all, in that loyal town, stigma- tized as democrats : that he either desired to see the constitution changed, or his country invaded by the liberal French, who proposed to set us free with the bayonet, and then admit us to the "fraternal embrace," no one ever believed. It is true that he spoke of premiers and peers with V Contempt; that he hesitated to take off his hat in the theatre, to the air of " God save the king;" that he refused to drink the health of Pitt, saying he preferred that of Washington— a far greater man ; that he wrote bitter words against that combination of princes, who desired to put down freedom in France ; that he said the titled spurred and the wealthy switched England and Scot- land like two hack-horses ; and that all the high places of the land, instead of being filled by genius and talent, were occupied, as were the high-places of Israel, with idols of wood or of stone. But all this and more had been done and said before by thousands in this land, whose love of their country was never questioned. That it was bad taste to refuse to remove his ha,t hen other heads were bared, and little better to refuse to pledge in company the name of Pitt, ecause he preferred Washington, cannot admit of a doubt ; but that he deserved to be written (fiown traitor, for mere matters of whim or caprice, or to be turned out of the unenvied situation %i "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 : — HIS ILLNESS— LETTER TO CLARKE. la "The kettle of the kirk and state Perhaps a clout may fail in't, But deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca' a nail in't. Be Britons still to Britons true, Ainang ourselves united ; For never but by British hands Shall British wrongs be righted. '» But while verses, deserving as tliese do to become the national motto, and sentiments ioyal xai ■generous, were overlooked and forgotten, all his rash words about freedom, and his sarcastio ■Bailies about thrones and kings, were treasured up to his injury, by the mean and the malicious %Iis steps were watched and his words weighed ; when he talked with a friend in the street, ho was supposed to utter sedition ; and when ladies retired from the table, and the wine circulated with closed doors, he was suspected of treason rather than of toasting, which he often did with much humour, the charms of woman ; even when he gave as a sentiment, " May our success be ^ equal to the justice of our cause," he was liable to be challenged by some gunpowder captain, who thought that we deserved success in war, whether right or wrong. It is true that he hated with a most cordial hatred all who presumed on their own consequence, whether arising from wealth, titles, or commissions in the army; oflBicers 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 unfriends 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 BO 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 place, because he was the associate »f democrat s and loosg,jfeQpj,fij and when a modest dame of Dumfries expressed, t£rou^"arfriehd,~ a wish to'lTave 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 for- tunes, were now to bring forth their fruits — the poet's health began to decline. His drooping / looks, his neglect of his person, his solitary saunterings, 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 flaehes 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 26th of June, 1795, he writes thus of his fortunes and condition to his friend Clarke. ** Still, still the victim of affliction ; were you 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 IIiM, 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 remembrana^ 0, dear, dear Clarke ! that I shall ever see you again is I am afraid highly mprobablc." ;^his remarkable letter proves both the declining health, and the poverty of thfl poet: his digestion was so bad that he could taste neither flesh nor fish: porridge and milk h« liv LIFE OF EGBERT BURNS. could alone swallo-w, and that but in small quantities. When it is recollected that he had no more than thirty shillings a week to keep house, and live like a gentleman, no one need wonder that his wife had to be obliged to a generous neighbour for some of the chief necessaries for her coming confinement, and that the poet had to beg, in extreme need, two guinea notes from a distant friend. His sinking state was not unobserved by his friends, and Syme and M'Murdo united with Dr. Maxwell in persuading him, at the beginning of the summer, to seek health at the Brow-well, a ffew miles east of Dumfries, where there were pleasant walks on the Solway-side, and salubrious breezes from the sea, which it was expected would bring the health to the poet they had brought to many. For a while, his looks brightened up, and health seemed inclined to return : his friend, the witty and accomplished Mrs. Riddel, who was herself ailing, paid him a visit. "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, wijjfhis 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 \Jconcern 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 bis writing would be revived against him, to the injury of his future reputation; that letters and verses, written with unguarded freedom, would be handed about by vanity or malevolence when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent malice or envy from pouring forth their venom on his name. I had seldom seen his mind greater, or more collected. There was 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 oflFer 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 Morning Chronicle, for poetic contributions to his paper, lest it might embroil him with the ruling powers, and he had resented the remittance of five pounds from Thomson, on account of his lyric 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 him 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 Commissioners of Excise, to depart from their usual practice, and grant him his full salary ; "for without that," he added, " if I die not of disease, T must perish with 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 performed the duties of the dying poet, and refused to touch the salary. The mind of Burns was haunted with the fears of want and the terrors of a jail; nor were those fears without foundation; one Wil- liamson, to whom he was indebted for the cloth to make his volunteer 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. Burns returned from the Brow-well, on the 18th of July: as he walked from the little carriage which brought him up the Mill hole-brae to his own door, he trembled much, and stooped with weakness and pain, and kept his feet with diflBculty : 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 cir- culated through Dumfries, that Burns had returned worSe from the Brow-well; that Maxwell thought ill of him, and that, in truth, he was dying. The anxiety of all classes was great; dif ( r^ n HIS DEATH. Iv ferences of opinion were forgotten, in sympathy for his early fate : wherever two or three were met together their talk was of Burns, of his rare wit, matchless humour, the vivacity of his con- versation, and the kindness of his heart. To the poet himself, death, which he now knew was at hand, brought with it no fear ; his good-humour, which small matters alone ruffled, did not forsake him, and his wit was ever ready. He was poor — he gave his pistols, which he had used against the smugglers on the Solway, to his physician, adding with a smile, that he had tried them and found them an honour to their maker, which was more than he could say of the bulk of mankind ! He was proud — he remembered the indiflFerent practice of the corps to which he belonged, and turning to Gibson, one of his fellow-soldiers, who stood at his bedside with wet l^'es, " John," said he, and a gleam of humour passed over his face, " pray don't let the awkward- fc^^uad fire over me." It was almost the last act of his life to copy into his Common-place Book, the i H letters which contained the charge against him of the Commissioners of Excise, and his own eloquent 1 1 refutation, leaving judgment to be pronounwn 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 swung to and fro in his arm-chair till the task was done : he then submitted the song to the ordeal of bis wife's roice, 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 Burns is of a high order: in brightness of expression and unsolicited ease and ^atural vehemence of language, he stands in the first rank of poets : ifi choice of subjects, in Bappiness of conception, and loftiness of imagination, he recedes into the second. He owes little If his fame to his subjects, for, saving the beauty of a few ladies, they were all of an ordinary mnd : 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 wliich to them were as a book shut and sealed : " The Daisy" grew on the lands which he ploughed ; " The Mouse" built her frail nest on his own stubble-field ; '♦ The Haggis*' reeked on his own table ; •* The Scotch Drink" of which he sang was the produce of a neighbouring still; " The Twa Dogs," which conversed so wisely and wittily, were, one of them at least, his own 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 Doou. jrt-^urns was one of the first to teach the world that high moral poetry resided in the humblest I subjects: whatever he touched became elevated; his spirit possessed and inspired the commonest ^4^topJcs, 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 msic as readily as if both air and words came into the world together. The sentiments are ytrom. 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, persuasive 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, emeralds, 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 boddice, 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, who deal in scented silks, spider-net laces, rare gems, set in rarer workmanship, and who shower diamonds 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, pas- Itoral pictures: he seldom finishes a portrait of female beauty without enclosing it in a natural/ i^ame-work of waving woods, running streams, the melody of birds, and the lights of heaven.! iviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 91 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 sympathizes with her own heart, and gives it full terance, till wood and vale is filled with the melody. It is remarkable that the most naturally legant and truly impassioned songs in our literature were written by a ploughman in honour of the rustic lasses around him. I His poetry is all life and energy, and bears the impress of a warm heart and a clear under- ■Btanding : it abounds with passions and opinions — vivid pictures of rural happiness and the rap- l^res of successful love, all fresh from nature and observation, and not as they are seen through I the spectacles of books. The wit of the clouted shoe is there without its 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 unallied to mirth, and a sublime morality which seeks to elevate and soothe. To a love of man he added an aflFection 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 are original and his style new and unborrowed : all that he has written is distinguished by a happy carelessness, a bounding elasticity of spirit, and a singular felicity of expression, simple yet inimitable ; he is familiar yet dignified, careless, yet correct, and con- cise, 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 eonstant anxiety to say fine and forcible things. He eeems 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 account 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 sensibili- ties of many of his letters: — "Simple," as John Wilson says, "we may well call it; rich in fancy, overflowing in feeling, and dashed off in every other paragraph with the easy boldness of a great master." PREFACE. [The first edition, printed at Kilmarnock, July, 1786, by John Wilson, bore on the title-page these simple words: — "Poems, chiefly in the Scottisli Dialect, by Kobert Burns;" the following mDtto, marked "Anonymous," but evidently the poet's own composition, was more ambitious: — ** The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art. He pours the wild effusions of the heart : And if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire — 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 3f 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 upj and a hooJc sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- self and 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 anything 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 Bcene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting th9 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 trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — an impertinent blockhead; (59) hi PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. cbtrufUng his nonsense on the world; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a fe^l doggerel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small conse- quence, forsooth ! It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honou;^ to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humiliti/ has depressed many a jxoiiius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word (/cuius, the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as pos- sessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in hia highest 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 following 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, particu- larly the learned and the polite, who maj- honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for education and circumstances of ll*^e; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulnesfc and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others — let him be condemned, without mercy, tc contempt and oblivion. THE POETICAL WORKS OP ROBEET BUENS. WINTER. [Vhis ia one of the earliest of the ^xjrt's rocorded com- positions : it was written befcie tke death of his father, and is called by Gilbert Burns, ' a juvenile production.' To walk by a river whila flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, »nd hear the storm howling among the le;ifless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. " In such a season," he said, < just after a train of misfortunes, 1 composed Winter, a Dirge.''] The wintrv west extends his blast, And bail and rain does blaw ; Or tbo stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw ; •ybile 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'er'^ftst,"' The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more df ar Than all the pride of May : T!ie tempest's howl, it soothes my soul. My griefs it seems to join ; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine ! Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil. Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because tbey are Thy will ! Then all I want (0, do thou grant This one request of mine !) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign ! 1 Dr. Young. n. DEATH AND DYING WORDS POOR MAILIE, THE author's only PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALK. [This tale is partly true ; the poet's pet ewe got entangled m her tether, and tumbled into a ditch ; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this w^as related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns pc^ much, who was on his way to the plough, that he imme- diately composed the poem, and repeated it to his hrotho; Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which pw.f Mailie fell, are still pointed out.] As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether. Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch : There, groaning, dying, she 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 wide but naething spak — At length poor Mailie silence brak. ** thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' easel My dying words attentive hear. An' bear them to my master dear. "Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! s A neibor herd-callan. cm ■ «l t » J ltl» ' ■ I ■ I I THE POETICAL WORKS Put ca' them out to park or hill, Au' let them wander at their will ; So may his flock increase, and grow To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo' ! *' Tell him he was a master kin' An* ay was gude to me an' mine ; An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him. *' 0, bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives . But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel ; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. " An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! To sink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears. For monie 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, 0, bid him breed him up wi' care ; An' if he live to be a beast. To pit some havins in his breast ! An' warn him what I winna name. To stay content wi' yowes 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! 0, may thou ne'er forgather up Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. But ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! " And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath T lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither. " Now, honest Hughoc, 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 turn'd her head, And clos'd her een amang the dead. ni. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. [Burns, when he calls on the hards of Ayr and Doo» to join in the lament for Muilie, intimntes that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegnnt morsel : but says th,U it resembles too closely " The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admired as original : the shepiierd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill'i " Life and death of tlie Piper 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, Li Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; A lang half-mile she could descry him ; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. She ran wi' speed : A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep o' sense. An' could behave hersel wi' mense : ril say't, she never brak a fence. Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead , Or, if he wonders up the howe. Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. 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 ; 1 VARIATION. ' She was nae get o' runted rams, Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams; She was the flower o' Faiilie lambs, A famous breed I Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams O' Mailie dead.' OF ROBERT BURNS. 63 For her forbears were brought in ships How best o' chiels are whiles in want. Frae yont the Tweed : "While coofs on countless thousands rant Abonnierfleesh ne'er cross'd the clips And ken na how to wair't ; Than Mailie dead. But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. Tho' we hae little gear, Wae worth the man wha first did shape "We're fit to win our daily bread, That vi^e, wOETlCAliVTOHfc:S But, och ! they catch'd him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast ; My curse upon them every one, They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. And now a widow, I must mourn, The pleasures that will ne'er return, : No comfort but a hearty can. When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, Her strappan limb and gausy middle, He reach'd na higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle. An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on hainch, an' upward e'e, He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three. Then in an Arioso key. The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. AIR. Tune — '* Whistle o^er the lave o't." Let me ryke up to dight that tear. And go wi' me and be my dear. And then your every care and fear May whistle owre the lave o't. CHORUS. I am a fiddler to my trade. An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, The sweetest still to wife or maid. Was whistle oWre the lave o't. At kirns and weddings we'se be there. And ! sae nicely's we will fare ; We'll house about till Daddie Care Sings whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. Sae merrily the banes we'll byke. And sun oursells about the dyke. And at our leisure, when ye like. We'll whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. But bless rae^wi' j^our heav'n o' charms, And while I kittle hair on thairms, , Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, May whistle owre the lave o't. I am, &c. EECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, As weel as poor gut-scraper ; He taks the fiddler by the beard. And draws a roosty rapier — He swoor by a' was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver, Unless he wad from that time forth Relinquish her for ever. Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-(ie^ \^^ ^u Upon his hunkers bended, ^ And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face. And sae the quarrel ended. But tho' his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve. When thus the caird address'd her : Tune — " Clout the CaudronJ* My bonny lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station : I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation : I've taen the gold, an' been enrolled In many a noble squadron : But vain they search'd, when off" I march'd To go and clout the caudron. I've taen the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise and caprin. And tak a share wi' those that bear The budget and the apron. And by that stoup, my faith and houp, An' by that dear Kilbaigie,' If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. May I ne'er weet my craigie. An' by that stoup, &o. KECITATITO. The caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk. Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair. An' partly she was drunk. 1 A peculiar sort of whiskey. OF BOBEKT BUKNS. 75 Sir Violino, -w^ith an air That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night. But ur;hi»\ Cupid shot a shaft, ^ v^^"'" That play'd a dame a shavie,^-*- *^ A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. c*^' \ Her lord, a wighi o' Homer's craft, Tho' limgping wi' tjie sp^vie, He hi^pi% up, and lap like daft, And shor'd them Dainty Davie boot that night. He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed, Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart she ever miss'd it. He had nae wish but — to be glad, Nor want but — when he thirsted ; He hated nought but — to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night. Tune — ^^ For a' that, arC o' that.^ I am a bard of no regard Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that : ^ ; But Homer-like, the glowran byke,' ^ Frae town to town I draw that. CHORUS. For a' that, an' a' that. An' twice as muckle's a' that ; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife eneugh for a' that. I never drank the Muses' stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; But there it streams, and richly reams. My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c. Gr^at love I bear to a' the fair. Their humble slave, an' a' that ; But lordly will, I hold it stilly ,ji^ A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love, an a* that: But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, &c. Their tricks and craft have put me daft, They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; But clear your decks, and here's the sex I like the jads for a' that. CHORUS. For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that ; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't for a' that. BECITATIVO. So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo'd from each mouth : They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds. They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. To quench their lowaiT^roUth. r^-UvA^ Then owre again, the jovial thrang, The poet did request. To loose his pack an' wale a sang, A ballad o' the best ; He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs Looks round him, an' found them Impatient for the chorus. Tune — " Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses." See ! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus. And in raptures let us sing. CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected I Liberty's a glorious feast ! Courts for cowards were erected. Churches built to please the priest. What is title ? what is treasure ? What is reputatioi [f we lead a life ot pxeaduit, 'Tis no matter how or where ! , A fig, &c. With the ready trick and fable. Round we wander all the day ; And at night, in barn or stable. Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. 76 THE POETICAL WORKS Does the train-attended carriage The Clachan yill had made me canty, Through the country lighter rove ? I was na fou, but just had plenty ; Does the sober bed of marriage I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay Witness brighter scenes of love ? To free the ditches ; A fig, &c. An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes ; The rising moon began to glow'r Let them cant about decorum The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : Who have characters to lose. To count her horns with a' my pow'r, A fig, &c. I set mysel ; But whethpr she had three or four, Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! I could na tell. Here's to all the wandering train ! Here's our ragged brats and callets ! I was come round about the hill, One and all cry out — Amen ! And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff with a' my skill, A fig for those by law protected ! To keep me sicker; Liberty's a glorious feast ! Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, Courts for cowards were erected. I took a bicker Churches built to please the priest. I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither ; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther. XV. Clear-dangling, hang ; A three-taed leister on the ither DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. Lay, large an' lang. A TRUE STORY. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. [John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of The queerest shape that e'er I saw, hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton : he was, it is said, a fair For fient a wame it had ava : scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his know- And then, its shanks. ledge in medicine— so vain, that he advertised his merits, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to As cheeks o' branks. encounter Burns at a mason meetings who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, *'Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye beei the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. mawin, Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome When ither folk are busy sawin ?" with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', til- the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson But naething spak ; went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile Iind matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still jrosporing.] At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back ?" Some books are lies frae end to end, It spak right howe, — " My name is Death, And some great lies were never penn'd: But be na fley'd."— Quoth I, " Guid faith, Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; ■n holy rapture, But tent me, billie ; A '«^usxng wnid, at times, to vend, I red ye weel, take care o' skaith. And nail't wi' Scripture. See, there's a gully !" But this that I am gaun to tell, "Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle Which lately on a night befel. I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 But if I did, I wad be kittle Or Dublin-city ; To be mislear'd. That e'er he nearer comes oursel I wad nae mind it, no that spittle 'S a muckle pity. Out-owre mv beard." OF BOBERT BUBNS. 77 •*Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; <'Ev'n them he canna get attended, Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; Although their face he ne'er had kend it, We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, Come, gies your news ! As soon's he smells't. This while ye hae been mony a gate Baith their disease, and what will mend it. At mony a house. At once he tells't. "Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, " And then a' doctor's saws and whittles. " It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, Sin' I began to nick the thread, A' kii>ds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, An' choke the breath : y He's sure to hae -, ^heir Latin names as fast he rattles Folk maun do something for their bread, ^ An' sae maun Death. As A B C. " Sax thousand years are near hand fled " Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees j Sin' I was to the hutching bred, True sal-marinum o' the seas ; An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, The farina of beans an'' --^ease. To stap or scar me ; ±ie has't in plenty ; Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, Aqua-fortis, what you please, An' faith, he'll waur me. He can content ye. •' Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, ** Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan ! Urinus spiritus of capons ; He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan' Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, An' ither chaps, Distill' d per se: The weans baud out their fingers laughin Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings. And pouk my hips. And mony mae." •• See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, " Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole^ now." They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; Quo' I, "If that thae news be true ! But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew. And cursed skill, Sae white and bonie, Has made them baith no worth a f — t. Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; Damn'd haet they'll kill. They'll ruin Johnie '" •* 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen. The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. I threw a noble throw at ane ; And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, But-deil-ma-care, Tak ye nae fear ; It just play'd dirl on the bane, They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh But did nae mair. In twa-three year. " Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, " Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death. And had sae fortified the part, By loss o' blood or want of breath. That when I looked to my dart, This night I'm free to tak my aith, It was sae blunt, That Hornbook's skill Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Has clad a score i' their last claith, Of a kail-runt. By drap an' pill. «* I drew my scythe in sic a fury, "An honest wabster to his trade. I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred^ |5ut yet the bauld Apothecary, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head. Withstood the shock ; When it was sair ; I might as weel hae tried a quarry The wife slade cannie to her bed, 0' hard whin rock. But ne'er spak mair 1 Buchan'a Domestic Medicine. « The grave-diggei 78 THE POETICAL WORKS " A countra laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmui'ring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel. ** A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; She trusts hersel, to hide the shame. In Hornbook's care ; Ilorn sent her afiF to her lang hame, To hide it there. " That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; Thus goes he on frorp day to day, Thus does he poison, Km, an' slay, An's weel paid for't ; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d-mn'd dirt: " But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; I'll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead's a herrin' : Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat. He gets his fairin' !" But just as he began to tell. Tile auld kirk-hammer strak' the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal. Which rais'd us baith : I took the way that pleas'd mysel'. And sae did Death. XVI. THE TWA HERDS: THE HOLY TULZIE. [The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock : though apostles of the " Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of con- troversy, and went, it is said, to blows. " This poem," lavs Burns, " with a certain description of the clergy as H^ell as laity, met with a roar of applause."] a' ye pious godly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes, Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, About the dykes ? The twa best herds in a' the wast. That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, ! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cas.t Atween themsel. 0, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, How could you raise so vile a bustle, Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle And think it fine : The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle Sin' I ha'e min'. 0, sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, To wear the plaid. But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide. What flock wi' Hoodie's flock could rank, Sae hale and hearty, every shank, Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, He let them taste, Frae ^Calvin's well, ay clear they drank, — sic a feast ! The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood. He smelt their ilka hole and road, Baith out and in, And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, And sell their skin. What herd like Russell tell'd his tale, His voice was heard thro' muir and dale. He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, O'er a' the height. And saw gin they were sick or hale. At the first sight. He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or nobly fling the gospel club. And New-Light herds could nicely drub, Or pay their skin ; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in. Sic twa — ! do I live to see't, Sic famous twa should disagreet. An' names, like villain, hypocrite, Hk ither gi'en, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite, Say neither's liein' ' or HOBERT BURNS. 79 An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. Till they agree. Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ; There's scarce a new herd that we get But comes frae mang that cursed set I winna name ; I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame. Dalryraple has been lang our fae, M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, Aud that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, And baith the Shaws, Tnat aft ha'e made us black and blae, Wi' vengefu' paws. A aid Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, ■\Ve thought ay death wad bring relief, but he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him, A chield wha'U soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him. And mony a ane that I could tell, "Wha fain would openly rebel, Forbye turn-coats amang oursel. There's Smith for ane, I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, An' that ye'll fin'. ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells. Come, join your counsel and your skills To cow the lairds. And get the brutes the powers themsels To choose their herds ; Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, And Learning in a woody dance, And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : Let him bark there. Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, M'Gill's close nervous excellence, M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense. And guid M'Math, Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff. XVII. HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. "And send the godly in a pet to pray." Pops. [Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copieB il manuscript were circulated wliile the poet lived, tit thougli not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it conl'nued unpublislied till printed by Stewart with the Jol.y Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farme" leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all loveri of Burns; austere in speech, scrupulous m all outward observances, and, what is known by the name of a " pro- fessing Cliristirin." He experienced, however, a "sore fall;" he permitted liimself to be " filled fou," and in a moment when "self got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.] THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, Ajid no for ony gude or ill They've done afore thee ' 1 bless and praise thy matchless might. Whan thousands thou hast left in nigh* That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts and grace, A burnin' and a shinin' light To a' this place. What was I, or my generation. That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws. Five thousand years 'fore my creation. Thro' Adam's cause. When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plunged me in hell. To gnash my gums, to weep and wall, In burnin' lake, Whar damned devils roar and yell, Cham'd to a stake. Yet I am here a chosen sample ; To show thy grace is great and ample j I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock. But yet, Lord ! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; so THE POETICAL WOftKS And sometimes, too, -wV warldly trust, Vile self gets in ; But tliou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin. Lord ! yestreen thou kens, vri' Meg — Thy par Jon I sincerely beg, ! niay't ne'er be a livin' plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her. Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — But Lord, that Friday I was fou. When I came near her. Or else, thou kens, thy servant true Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn. Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted ; If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne Until thou lift it. lord, bless thy chosen in this place. For here thou hast a chosen race : But God confound their stubborn face. And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame. Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts. Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' grit and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa. An' whan we chasten'd him therefore. Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar 0' laughin' at us ; — Curse thou his basket and his store. Kail and potatoes. Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr ; Thy strong right hand. Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads, juord weigh it down, and dinna spare. For their misdeeds. Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin', To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread. While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin' And hung his head. Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him. And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. Nor hear their pray'r ; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare. But, Lord, remember me an mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane. And a' the glory shall be thine. Amen, Amen I xvm. EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. [We are informed by Riclimond of Mauchline, tliat when he was clerk in Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns cam« in one morning and said, " I have just composed a poem, John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it." He repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph; H.-smilton came in at the moment, and having read them with deliglit, ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. The end of Holy Willie was other than godly : in one of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was need ful, fell into a ditch on his way home, and was found dead in the morning.] Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Takes up its last abode ; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear the left-hand road. Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun. Poor, silly body, see him ; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, Observe wha's standing wi' him. Your brunstane devilship I see, Has got him there before ye ; But baud your nine-tail cat a wee. Till ance you've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore. For pity ye hae nane ; Justice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, And mercy's day is gaen. OF EGBERT BURNS. 81 But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token. Look something to your credit ; Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken ; A coof like Mm wad stain your name, I made a poker o' the spin'le, K it were kent ye did it. An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. XIX. THE INVENTORY; iN AN-'WEB. TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES. [We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humor- ous inventory of his effects, so moved the commissioners of the incorae tax, that they remitted all claim on him then and for ever ; we know not that this very humorous inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the surveyor of the taxes. It is dated " Mossgiel, February 22d, 1786," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, and for the information which it gives us of the poet's habits, household, and agricultural implements.] Sir, as your mandate did request, I send you here a faithfu' list, 0' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith, To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle.. !My Ian' afore's^ a gude auld has been, An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been. My Ian ahin's^ a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,' An' your auld burro' mony a time. In days when riding was nae crime — But ance, whan in my wooing pride, I like a blockhead boost to ride. The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (L — d pardon a' my sins an' that too !) I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. My fur ahin's"* a wordy beast. As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, A d — u'd red wud Kilburnie blastiel Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale. As ever ran afore a tail. If he be spar'd to be a beast, He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. — Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ; > The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. > Tiie hindmost on the left-hand in the plough . 6 For men I've three mischievous boys. Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. Wee Davock bauds the nowt in fother. I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely ; An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly ; Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aflf Effectual calling. As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) I ha'e nae wife — and that my bliss is. An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils darena touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace ; But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already. An' gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L — d ! ye'se get them a'thegither. And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; Frae this time forth, I do declare I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. The kirk and you may tak' you that, It puts but little in your pat ; Sae dinna put me in your buke. Nor for my ten white shillings luke. This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, The day and date as under noted ; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subacripsi huic Robert Burns, 8 Kilmarnock. 4 The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough 82 THE POETICAL WORKS XX. THE HOLY FAIR. A robe of seeming truth and trust Hid crafty observation ; And secret hung, with poison'd crust, The dirk of Defamation : A. mask that like the gorget sliow'd, Dye- varying on the pigeon ; And for a mantle large and broad, He wrapt him in Religion. Hypocrisy a-la-mode. [The scene of this fine poem is the churchyard of Mau3hline, and the subject handled so cleverly and sharply is the laxity orf" manners visible in matters so eo emn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. "This was indeed," says Lockhart, " an extraordinary performance : no partisan of any sect could whisper that malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction lay in the boldness with which indi- viduals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held up to ridicule: it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands of a national poet." " It is no doubt," says Hogg, "a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever one, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I ac'mire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed frjra Fergusson."] Upon a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, An' snuff the caller air. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; The hares were hirplin down the furs. The lav'rocks they were chantin' Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, Three hizzies, early at the road, Cam skelpin up the way ; Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, But ane wi' lyart lining ; The third, that gaed a-wee a-back. Was in the fashion shining Fu' gay that day. The twa appear' d like sisters twin. In feature, form, an' claes ; Their yisage, wither' d, lang, an' thin, An' sour as ony slaes : The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, Aa 8oon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, But yet I canna name ye." Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, An' taks me by the hands, "Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck. Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. "My name is Fun — your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae; An' this is Superstition here. An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair. To spend an hour in daflfin : Gin ye'll 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 hawie at crowdie-time An' soon I made me ready ; For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a wearie body. In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith. Are springin' o'er the gutters. The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang. In silks an' scarlets glitter ; Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter, Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, An' we maun draw our tippence. Then in we go to see the show. On ev'ry side they're gath'rin', Some carrying dails, some chairs an' steals, An' some are busy blethrin' Right l«ud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs. An' screen our countra gentry. There, racer Jess, and twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin' at the entry. OF llOBEKT BURNS. 8d Here sits a raw of titlin' jades, Wi* heaving breast and bare neck, An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. Here some are thinkin' on their sins, An' Bome upo' their claes ; Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, Anither sighs an' prays : On this hand sits a chosen swatch, Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; On that a set o' chaps at watch, Thrang winkin' on the lasses To chairs that day. happy is that man an' blest ! Nae wonder that it pride him ! Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him ; Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. He sweetly does compose him ; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom, Unkenn'd that day. Now a' the congregation o'er Is silent expectation : For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi' tidings o' damnation. Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 'Mang sons o' God present him, The vera sight o' Hoodie's face, To's ain het hame had sent him Wi' fright that day. Hear how he clears the points o' faith Wi' ratlin' an' wi' thumpiu' ! Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, He's stampin an' he's jumpin' I His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, His eldritch squeel and gestures. Oh, how they fire the heart devout. Like cantharidian plasters. On sic a day. But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice : There's peace an' rest nae langer : For a' the real judges rise. They canna sit for anger. Smith opens out his cauld harangues, On practice and on morals ; An' aflf the godly pour in thrangs, Td gie the jars an' barrels A lift that day. What signifies his barren shine. Of moral pow'rs and reason ? His English style, an' gestures fine, Are a' clean out 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 Peebles, frae the water-fit. Ascends the holy rostrum : See, up he's got the word o' God, An' meek an' mim has view'd it. While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* Fast, fast, that day. Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles, Tho' in his heart he weel believes. An' thinks it auld wives' fables : But faith ! the birkie wants a manse, So, cannily he hums them ; Altho' his carnal wit an' sense Likehafliins-wayso'ercomes him At times that day. Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills Wi' yill-caup commentators : Here's crying out for bakes and gills. An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' scripture. They raise a din, that, in the end. Is like to breed a rupture 0' wrath that day. Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair Than either school or college : It kindles wit, it waukens lair. It pangs us fou' o' knowledge. Be't whisky gill, or penny whetp, Or ony stronger potion. It never fails, on drinking deep, To kittle up our notion By night or day. The lads an' lasses, blythely bent To mind baith saul an' body, Sit round the table, weel content. An' steer about the toddy. 1 A stioet so called, which faces the teat in MauchJnd. 84 THE POETICAL WORKS On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, They're making observations ; While some are cozie i' the neuk, An' formin' assignations To meet some day. But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin', An' echoes back return the shouts : Black Russell is na' sparin' : His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints and marrow ; His talk o' Hell, where devils dAvell, Our vera sauls does harrow' Wi' fright that day. A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat, Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! The half asleep start up wi' fear, An' think they hear it roarin', When presently it does appear, 'Twas but some neibor snorin' Asleep that day. 'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell How monie stories past. An' how they crowded to the yill, When they were a' dismist: How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, Amang the furms an' benches : An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, Was dealt about in lunches. An' dawds that day. In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife. An' sits down by the fire. Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife ; The lasses they are shyer. The auld guidmen, about the grace, Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays. An' gi'es them't like 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 ! * wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel How bonnie lads ye wanted, ' Shakspeare's Hamlet, « Alluding to a scoffing ballad vehich was made on the An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel. Let lasses be affronted On sic a day ! Now Clinkumbell, wi' ratlin tow. Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame, the best they dow. Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink. Till lasses strip their shoon : Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink. They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. How monie hearts this day converts 0' sinners and o' lasses ! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine ; There's some are fou o' brandy; An' monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandie Some ither day. XXI. THE ORDINATION. " For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n — To please the mob they hide the little giv'n." [This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, oi parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786 That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions liave long since past away: IVrackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.] Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations ; An' ye wha leather rax an' draw. Of a' denominations, Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', An' there tak up your stations ; Then aff to Begbie's in a raw, An' pour divine libations For joy this day. Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell, Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;^ admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk, OF ROBERT BURNS. 85 But Oliphant aft made her yell, Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep. An' Russell sair misca'd her ; And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; This day Mackinlay taks the flail, Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, Ani he's the boy will blaud her I An' a' like lamb-tails flyin' He'll clap a shangan on her tail, Fu' fast this day I An' set the bairns to daud her Wi' dirt this day. Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn. Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin'. Mak haste an' turn king David owre, As lately Fenwick, sair forfaim. An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; Has proven to its ruin : 0' double verse come gie us four, Our patron, honest man ! Glencaim, An' skirl up the Bangor : He saw mischief was brewin' ; This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, And like a godly elect bairn Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. He's wal'd us out a true ane. For Heresy is in her pow'r, And sound this day. And gloriously she'll whang her Wi' pith this day. Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair. But steek your gab for ever : Come, let a proper text be read, Or try the wicked town of Ayr, An' touch it aff wi' vigour. For there they'll think you clever ; How graceless Ham* leugh at his dad, Or, nae reflection on your lear, Which made Canaan a niger ; Ye may commence a shaver ; Or Phineas^ drove the murdering blade. Or to the Netherton repair. Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; And turn a carpet-weaver Or Zipporah,8 the scauldin' jad. Aflf-hand this day. Was like a bluidy tiger I' th' inn that day. Mutrie and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones : There, try his mettle on the creed, Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, And bind him down wi' caution, Just like a winkin' baudrons : That stipend is a carnal weed And ay' he catch' d the tither wretch. He taks but for the fashion ; To fry them in his caudrons ; And gie him o'er the flock, to feed, But now his honour maun detach. And punish each transgression ; Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, Especial, rams that cross the breed, Fast, fast this day. Gie them sufficient threshin'. Spare them nae day. See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein' through the city ; Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays! And toss thy horns fu' canty ; I vow it's unco pretty : Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, There, Learning, with his Greekish face^ Because thy pasture's scanty ; Grunts out some Latin ditty ; For lapfu's large o' gospel kail And Common Sense is gaun, she says. Shall fill thy crib in plenty, To mak to Jamie Beattie An' runts o' grace the pick and w&!e. Her plaint this day. No gi'en by way o' dainty. But ilka day. But there's Morality himsel'. Embracing all opinions ; Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, Hear, how he gies the tither yell. To think upon our Zion ; Between his twa companions ; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, See, how she peels the skin an' fell, Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : As ane were peelin' onions ! Now there — they're packed aff to hell, And banished our dominions, I Genesia, ix. 22. 2 Numbers, xxv. 8. SEalus, iv. 2j. Henceforth this day. 86 THE POETICAL WORKS 0, liappy day ! rejoice, rejoice I Come bouse about the porter 1 Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter : Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, That Heresy can torture : They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here's for a conclusion, To every New Light' mother's son, From this time forth Confusion : If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion. We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin, We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day. XXII. THE CALF. TO THE KEV. MB. JAMES STEVEN, On his text, Malachi, iv. 2.— "And ye shall go forth, and grow up as Calves of the stall." [The "augh wnich this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf— for the name it seems stuck — came to Lon- don, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1790.] Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, Though Heretics may laugh ; For instance ; there's yourseP just now, God knows, an unco Calf! And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk, I doubt na. Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. But, if the lover's raptur'd hour Shall ever be your lot. Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, You e'er should be a stot! 1 <« New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- and, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwirth has defended. Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns. The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock, Wi' justice they may mark your head — " Here lies a famous Bullock!" XXIII. TO JAMES SMITH. " Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! Sweet'ner of life and solder of society ! I owe thee much ! — " Blair. [The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shopkeeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather follower of the poet m all his merry expeditions with " Yill-caup commentators." Ha was present in Posie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggari & st dawned on the fancy of Burns : the comrades of ti.e poet's heart were not generally very successful in life : Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788 : bat tliii was not to last ; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready^ and his manners lively and unaffected.] Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely hae some warlock-breef Owre human hearts , For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon. And ev'ry star that blinks aboon. Ye 7e cost me twenty pair o' shoon Just gaun to see you ; And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan ; And in her freaks, on every feature She's wrote, the Man. OF ROBERT BURNS. 87 Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, This life, sae far's I understand. My barmie noddle's working prime, Is a' enchanted fairy land, My fancy yerkit it up sublime Where pleasure is the magic wand. Wi' hasty summon : That, wielded right, Ha« 7« a leisure-moment's tiine Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. To hear what's comin' ? Dance by fu' light. Somo rhyme a neighbour's name to lash ; The magic wand then let us wield ; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash: For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, Some rhyme to court the countra clash. See crazy, weary, joyless eild, An' raise a din ; Wi' wrinkl'd face. For me, an aim I never fash ; Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field. I rhyme for fun. Wi' creepin' pace. The star that rules my luckless lot, When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', Has fated me the russet coat. Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', But in requit, An' social noise ; Has blest me with a random shot An' fareweel dear, deluding woman ! 0' countra wit. The joy of joys I This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, To try my fate in guid black prent ; Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! But still the mair I'm that way bent, Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning^ Something cries " Hooliel We frisk away. I red you, honest man, tak tent ! Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, Ye'll shaw your folly. To joy and play. ** There's ither poets much your betters. We wander there, we wander here, \ We eye the rose upon the brier. Far seen in Greek, deep men o» letters. Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, Unmindful that the thorn is near. A' future ages : Among the leaves ; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. And tho' the puny wound appear. Their unknown pages." Short while it grieves. Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. To garland my poetic brows ! For which they never toil'd nor swat ; Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs They drink the sweet and eat the fat, Are whistling thrang, But care or pain ; An' teach the lanely heights an' howes And, haply, eye the barren hut My rustic sang. With high disdain. I'll wander on, with tentless heed With steady aim some Fortune chase; How never-halting moments speed. Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, Then, all unknown, And seize the prey ; I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, Then cannie, in some cozie place. Forgot and gone ! They close the day But why o' death begin a tale ? And others, like your humble servan'. Just now we're living sound and hale, Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin' : Then top and maintop crowd the sail. To right or left, eternal swervin'. Heave care o'er side 1 They zig-zag on; And large, before enjoyment's gale. 'Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin', Let's tak the tide. They aften £n^oan. 88 THE POETICAL WORKS Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — liut truce with peevish, poor complaining ! Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? E'en let her gang ! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door. And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, ♦' Tho' I should wander terra e'er, In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Ay rowth o' rhymes. * Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards ; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour ! And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. *' A title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit. In cent, per cent. But give me real, sterling wit. And I'm content. "While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerfu' face, As lang's the muses dinna fail To say the grace." An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or by my nose ; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows As weel's I may ; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away. ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you — fool ! fool ! fool ! How much unlike ! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke ' Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, In your unletter'd nameless faces ! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattling squad: I see you upward cast your eyes — Ye ken the road — Whilst I — but I shall baud me there — Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. XXIV. THE VISION. DUAN FIRST.' [The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be '' the only pieces by Burns which c-in be classed under the head of pure fiction:" but Tam o' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equa* right to be classed with works of fiction. The edit. /n of this poem published at Kilmaruock, differs in som* particulars from the edition which followed in Edin- burgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.] The sun had clos'd the winter day. The curlers quat their roaring play, An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green. While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The thresher's weary flingin'-tree The lee-lang day had tired me ; And when the day had clos'd his e'e Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld clay biggin' ; An' heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin'. 1 Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisioM of a digressive poem. See his " Cath-Loda," vol. ii.of Macpherson's translation. OF ROBERT BURNS. 89 All in this mottle, misty clime, And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean I backward mused on wastet time, Could only peer it ; . How I had spent my youthfu' prime, Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean. An' done nae thing, Nane else came near it. But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Her mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; Had I to guid advice but harkit, Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw I might, by this hae led a market, A lustre grand ; Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit And seem'd to my astonish'd view. My cash-account: A well-known land. While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount. Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; There, mountains to the skies were tost : I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof I Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, And heav'd on high my waukit loof, With surging foam ; To swear by a' yon starry roof. There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, Or some rash aith, The lordly dome. That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof TiU my last breath — Here, Doon pour'd down hisfar-fetch'd floods ; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : When, click ! the string the snick did draw : Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; On to the shore ; An' by my ingle-lowe I saw. And many a lesser torrent scuds. Now bleezin' bright, With seeming roar A tight outlandish hizzie, braw Come full in sight. Low, in a sandy valley spread. An ancient borough rear'd her head ; Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht ; Still, as in Scottish story read. The infant aith, half-form' d, was crusht ; She boasts a race, I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. In some wild glen ; And polish'd grace. When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben. By stately tow'r, or palace fair, Or ruins pendent in the air, Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Bold stems of heroes, here and there, Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, I could discern ; I took her for some Scottish Muse, Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, By that same token ; With feature stern. An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon be broken. My heart did glowing transport feel, To see a race' heroic wheel, A " hair-brainM, sentimental trace" And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel Was strongly marked in her face ; In sturdy blows ; A wildly-witty, rustic grace While back-recoiling seem'd to reel Shone full upon her : Their southron foes. Her eyy ev'n turn'd on empty space. Beam'd keen with honour. His Country's Saviour,* mark him "well ' Bold Richardton's8 heroic swell ; Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, The chief on Sark-* who glorious fell, 'Till half a leg was scrimply seen : In high command ; I The Wallaces. mand under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famou* » Sir William Wallace. battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. Thai SAdiim AVallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immor- glorious victory was principally owia^ to the judicious ki preserver of Scottish independence. conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, "Wallace. Laird of Craigie, who was second in com- who died of his wounds alter the action DO THE POETICAL WORKS And He whom ruthless fates expel Who, all beneath his high command, His native land. Harmoniously, As arts or arms they understand, There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade^ Their labours ply. Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, I mark'd a martial race portray'd " They Scotia's race among them share ; In colours strong ; Some fire the soldier on to dare ; Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd Some rouse the patriot up to bare They strode along. Corruption's heart. Some teach the bard, a darling care, Thro' many a wild romantic grove,^ The tuneful art. Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove. (Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) In musing mood, " 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; An aged judge, I saw him rove, Or 'mid the venal senate's roar. Dispensing good. They, sightless, stand, With deep-struck, reverential awe,3 To mend the honest patriot-lore, The learned sire and son I saw, And grace the hand To Nature's God and Nature's law They gave their lore, This, all its source and end to draw ; " And when the bard, or hoary sage. Charm or instruct the future age, That, to adore. They bind the wild, poetic rage In energy, Brydone's brave ward^ I well could spy. Or point the inconclusive page Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; Full on the eye. Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, To hand him on, " Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Where many a Patriot-name on high Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; And hero shone. Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung His ' Minstrel' lays ; Or tore, with noble ardour stung, The sceptic's bays. DUAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, " To lower orders are assign' d I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair ; The humbler ranks of human-kind, A whisp'ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind. The artisan ; When with an elder sister's air All choose, as various they're inclin'd She did me greet. The various man. " All hail ! My own inspired bard I "When yellow waves the heavy grain. m me thy native Muse regard ! The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein ; Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Some teach to meliorate the plain, Thus poorly low I With tillage-skill ; I come to give thee such reward And some instruct the shepherd-train. As we bestow. Blythe o'er the hill. ** Know, the great genius of this land, " Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Has many a light aerial band, Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 1 Coilus, king of tlie Picts, from whom the district of (Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President ol Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition the Court of Session.) Bays, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- 3 Catrine, the seat of Professor Dugald Stewart. field, wliere his burial-place is still shown. 4 Colonel Fullarton. 'Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk OF KOBERT BURNS. 91 Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile His cares and pains. " Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard : 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 fami^ Held ruling pow'r : I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame. Thy natal hour. " With future hope, I oft would gaze. Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely carroll'd, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes, Fir'd at the simple, artless lays Of other times. *• 1 saw thee seek the sounding shore. Delighted with the dashing roar ; Or when the north his fleecy store Drove through the sky, I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye. " Or when the deep green-mantled earth Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. And joy and music pouring forth In ev'ry grove, "^ saw thee eye the general mirth With boundless love. "When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their evening joys. And lonely stalk, 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 *hee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. ** I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray. By passion driven ; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. "I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends ; And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Become thy friends. " Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow j Or wake the bosom-melting throe. With Shenstone's art : Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow. Warm on the heart. "Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, Adown the glade " Then never murmur nor repine ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine • And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, Nor king's regard^ Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, A rustic bard. "To give my counsels all in one. Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; Preserve the dignity of man. With soul erect ; And trust, the universal plan WiU all protect. "And wear thou this," — she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head : The polish'd leaves and berries red Did rustling play ; And like a passing thought, she fled In light away. 92 THE POETICAL WORKS XXV. HALLOWEEN.! »' Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art." Goldsmith. [Tliis Poem contains a lively and striking picture of some of the superstitious observances of old Scotland : on Iliilloween the desire to look into futurity was once all but universal in the north; and the charms and spells which Burns describes, form but a portion of those employed to enable the peasantry to have a peep up the dark vista of the future. The scene is laid on the romantic shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fireside, and the actors in the rustic drama are the whole household, including super- numerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged from the engngements of harvest. " I never can help regarding this," says James Hogg, " as rather a trivial poem!"] Upon that night, when fairies light On Cassilis Downans^ dance, Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, On sprightly coursers prance ; Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, Beneath the moon's pale beams ; There, up the Cove,^ to stray an' rove Amang the rocks an' streams To sport that night. Amang the bonnie winding banks Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, Where Bruce* ance rul'd the martial ranks. An' shook his Carrick spear, Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks. An' haud their Halloween Fu' blythe that night. 1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands: particularly those atrial people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anni- versary. 2 Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. 3 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in countrj' story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 4 Thtj famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. 5 The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, with eyes shut, and pull tlie first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of ihe size and shape of the grand object of all their spells— the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they're fine ; Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' ; The lads sae trig, wi' wooer babs, Weel knotted on their garten. Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' Whiles fast at night. Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail. Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance ; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale. For muckle anes an' straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, An' wander'd through the bow-kail. An' pou't, for want o' better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow't that night. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; The vera wee-things, todlin', rin Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them; Syne coziely, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care, they've placed them To lie that night. The lasses staw frae mang them a' To pou their stalks o' corn ;^ But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn : He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; But her tap-pickle maist was lost. When kiuttlin' in the fause-house'^ Wi' him that night. root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to giva them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door ; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question. 6 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk Avants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at tlie top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any^ thing but a maid. 7 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being toe green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an open- ing in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind : thw he calls afause-house. OF ROBERT BURNS. 93 The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits' An' darklina graipit for the bauks. Are round an' round divided, And in the blue-clue^ throws then, An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates Right fear't that night Are there that night decided : Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat. An' burn thegither trimly ; I wat she made nae jaukin' ; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 'Till something held within the pat. And jump out-owre the chimlie Guid L — d ! but she was quaukin' ! Fu' high that night. But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; Or whether it was Andrew Bell, Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; She did na wait on talkin' But this is Jock, an' this is me, To spier that night. She says in to hersel' : He bleez'd ow're her, an' she owre him, Wee Jenny to her grannie says, As they wad never mair part ; "Will ye go wi' me, grannie! 'Till, fuflF! he started up the lum, I'll eat the apple3 at the glass, An' Jean had e'en a sair heart I gat frae uncle Johnnie :" To see't that night. She fuff 't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin', Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, She notic't na, an aizle brunt Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; Her braw new worset apron An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, Out thro' that nighi To be compar'd to Willie ; Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, "Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! An' her ain fit it brunt it ; I daur you try sic sportin', While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, As seek the foul Thief onie place. 'Twas just the way he wanted For him to spae your fortune : To be that night. Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! Great cause ye hae to fear it ; Nell had the fause-house in her min', For monie a ane has gotten a fright. She pits hersel an' Rob in ; An' liv'd an' died deleeret In loving bleeze they sweetly join. On sic a night 'Till white in ase they're sobbin' ; Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, " Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : I mind't as weel's yestreen. Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou'. I was a gilpey then, I'm sure Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, I was na past fifteen : Unseen that night. The simmer had been cauld an' wat. An' stuff was unco green ; But Merran sat behint their backs, An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; An' just on Halloween She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, It fell that night. And slips out by hersel' : She through the yard the nearest take. " Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graea, An' to the kiln she goes then, A clever, sturdy fellow : 1 Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the latter end, something will hold the th-«*i . ^emand " wh« lad and Inss to each particuliir nut, as they lay them iu bauds?" i.e. who holds? ananswei •i'-.i ^« returned from the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or the kiln-pot, naming the Christian and surnam* of your start from beside one another, the coarse and issue of the future spouse. courtship will be. 3 Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat 8 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must an apple before it, and some traditions say, you should strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to comb your hair all the time ; the face of your conjugal the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping ram ; wind it in a clue off the old one ; and towards the over your shoulder. 94 THE POETICAL WORKS He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That liy'd in Achmacalla : He gat hemp-seed,' I mind it weel. And he made unco light o't ; But monie a day was by himsel', He was sae sairly frighted That vera night." Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, An* he swoor by his conscience. That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; . For it was a' but nonsense ; The auld guidman raught down the pock, An' out a' handfu' gied him ; Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, Sometime when nae ane see'd him. An' try't that night. He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin ; The graip he for a harrow taks. An' haurls at his curpin ; An' ev'ry now an' then he says, "Hemp-seed, 1 saw thee, An' her that is to be my lass. Come after me, an' draw thee As fast that night." He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery ; Altho' his hair began to arch. He was feae fley'd an' eerie ; 'Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle ; He by his shouther gae a keek, An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle Out-owre that night. He roar*d a horrid murder-shout. In dreadfu' desperation ! An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, An' hear the sad narration ; 1 Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp- seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp-seed, I saw thee ; hemp-seed, I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appear- ance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, " Come after me, ard shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply ippears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, " Come after me, and harrow thee." 2 This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, takii;; them off the hinges, if possible j for there is danger He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 'Till, stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; An' wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night I Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen. To win three wechts o' naething ;* But for to meet the deil her lane. She pat but little faith in : She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red cheekit apples. To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tam Kipples That vefa night. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw. An' owre the threshold ventures ; But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. Syne bauldly in she enters : A ratton rattled up the wa'. An' she cried, L — d preserve her ! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a*. An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, Fu' fast that night. They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice , They hecht him some fine braw ane , It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,* Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin; An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' Aff 's nieves that night. A wanton widow Leezie was. As canty as a kittlin ; But, och ! that night, amang the shaws. She got a fearfu' settlin' ! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, that the being about to appear may shut the doers and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, wo call a wecht ; and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times ; and the third time, an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinal marking the employment or station in life. 3 Take an opportunity' of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathon of the last time, j-ou will catch in your arms the appear ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. OF ROBERT BURNS. 95 Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,' To dip her left sark-sleeve in, Was bent that night. Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't ; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glittered to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel. Unseen that night. Amang the brackens on the brae, Between her an' the moon. The deil, or else an outler quey. Gat up an' gae a croon : Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ! Near lav'rock-height she jumpit. But mist a fit, an' in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night. in order, on the clean hearth-stane, . The luggies three^ are ranged. And 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, and friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary ; An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes. Their sports were cheap an' cheery ; Till butter'd so'ns3 wi' fragrant lunt. Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin' Fu' blythe that night. 1 You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to 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 havmg the exact figure of the grand object in Ruestion, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the ther side of it. 2 Take three dishes : put clean water in one, foul water n another, and leave the third empty ; blindfold a person XXVI. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGIi. [The origin of this fine poem is alludc-i tc Ic Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop : " I had as. oki g-nri- uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish year*- the good old man was long blind ere he died, during wliich time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, wliile my mother would sing the simple old song of ' The Life and Ago of Man.' " From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in col- lecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with " M;m was made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart, that Burns 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, 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, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride: I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return. And ev'ry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. ** man ! while in thy early yearg, How prodigal of time ! and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged he (or she) dips the left hand : if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the ba of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow; if in tn* empt^'dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriaga at all. It is repeated three times, and ever)' time th« arrangement of the dishes is altered. 3 Sowens. with butter insteid of milk to them, is always the Halloween suppei. 9G THE POETICAL WORKS Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ; Licentious pausions burn ; Which tenfold force gives nature's law, That man was made to mourn. <- Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might ; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn ; 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, Regret, remorse, and shame ! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn ! "See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn. Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. " If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — By Nature's law design'd — Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn? •< Yet, let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast ; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the best ! The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn 1 " 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 I But, oh ! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn." XXVII. TO RUIN. ["I have been," says Burns, in his common-plap« book, " taking a peep through, as Young finely says, ' The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Tvi^as a rueful prospect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly ! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts . what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others I" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these. J I. All hail ! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word. The mightiest empires fall ! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all ! With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart ; For one has cut my dearest tie. And quivers in my heart. Then low'ring and pouring, The storm no more I dread ; Though thick'ning and black'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 I OF ROBEET BURNS. 97 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 grasped Within thy cold embrace 1 XXVIII. JOHNGOtJDIE OF KILMARNOCK. ON THE 'PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. [This burnip / commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudieic t'lri Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801 ; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer ; and may be cited »B a sap.ple of the wit and the force which the poet '-»ought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of -* V/est.] O GouDiE ! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev'renc^ 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, hoTr she fetches at the thrapple. An' gasps for breath. En'^.usiasm's past redemption, 0aen in a gallopin' consumption. Not a' the quacks, wi' a* their gumption, Will ever mend her. Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her. *Tis you and Taylor' are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief, 1 Dr. Taylor, of Norwich But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, A toom tar-barrel. An' twa red peats wad send relief, An' end the quarrel XXIX. J. LAPRAIK. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. April 1st, 1785. (first epistle.) [" The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, *' was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hoars in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social incli nation of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with tlie roke. As the connexion the phrase hud with the implement was for- gotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occa sions, and men talk of going with their rokes as tvell ai ■women."] While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen. Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse. On Fasten-een we had a rockin*, To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' , And there was muckle fun an' jokin'. Ye need na doubt ; At length we had a hearty yokin' At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best. That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife ; It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae wee]« What gen'rous manly bosoms feel, Thought I, " Can this be Pope or Steele, Or Beattie's wark ?" They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. 98 THE POETICAL WORKS It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! And sae about him there I spier't, That's a' the learning I desire ; Then a' that ken't him round declar'd Then though I drudge thro' dub an' miro He had injine, At pleugh or cart, That, nane excell'd it, few cam near't, My muse, though hamely in attire. It was sae fine. May touch the heart. That, set him to a pint of ale, for a spunk o' Allan's glee. An' either douce or merry tale, Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee. Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. Or witty catches, If I can hit it ! 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, That would be lear eneugh for me. He had few matches. If I could get it. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Tho' real friends, I believe, are few, Or die a cadger pownie's death Yet, if your catalogue be fou. At some dyke-back, I'se no insist. A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith But gif ye want ae friend that's true-^ To hear your crack. Eat, first an' foremost, I should tell, I'm on your list. I winna blaw about mysel ; Amaist as soon as I could spell, As ill I like my fauts to tell ; I to the crambo-jingle fell, But friends an' folk that wish me well, Tho' rude an' rough, They sometimes roose me ; Yet crooning to a body's sel', Tho' I maun own, as monie still Does weel eneugh. As far abuse me. I am nae poet in a sense, There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me. But just a rhymer, like, by chance, I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! An' hae to learning nae pretence, For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, Yet what the matter? At dance or fair ; Whene'er my Muse does on me glance. May be some ither thing they gie me I jingle at her. They weel can spare. Your critic-folk may cock their nose. But Mauchline race, or Manichline fair ; And say, " How can you e'er propose. I should be proud to meet you there ! You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, . We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. To mak a sang?" If we forgather, But, by youi leaves, my learned foes, An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware Ye're may-be wrang. Wi' ane anither. What's a' your jargon o' your schools. The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; If honest nature made you fools. Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. What sairs your grammars? To cheer our heart ; Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, An' faith, we'se be acquainted better. Or knappin-hammers. Before we part. A set o' dull, conceited hashes, Awa, ye selfish, warly race. Confuse their brains in college classes ! Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, They gang in stirks and come out asses. Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place Plain truth to speak ; To catch-the-plack ! An' syne they think to climb Parnassus I dinna like to see your face, By dint o' Greek t Nor hear your crack. OF ROBERT BURNS. 9S But ye whom social pleasure charms, Her dowff excuses pat me mad : Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, "Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jadi Who hold your being on the terms, I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud. "Each aid the others," This vera night; Come to my bowl, come to my arms. So dinna ye affront your trade. My friends, my brothers I But rhyme it right. Bat, to conclude my lang epistle, " Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes. Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. Roose you sae weel for your deserts, Who am, most fervent, In terms sae friendly, While I can either sing or whissle. Yet ye'U neglect to show your parts. Your friend and servant. 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 ; XXX. An' if ye winna mak it clink. TO By Jove I'll prose it r J. LAPRAIK. Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether (second epistle.) In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, [The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. lived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, Let time mak proof; and was a rustic worsliipper of the Muse : he unluckily, But I shall scribble down some blether however, involved himself in that Western bubble, the Just clean aff-loof. Ayr Bank, and consoled himself by composing in his distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, nAcrinniTKr My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp DdglUIUIlg Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; " When I npon thy bosom lean." Come, kittle up your moorland-harp Wi' gleesome touch ! He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality which proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic sorrow was no settled power of sou. .] Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp ; She's but a b-tch. April 21st, 1785. While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake, She's glen me monie a jirt an' fleg, An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, Sin' I could striddle owre a rig*; This hour on e'enin's edge I take But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg To own I'm debtor. Wi' lyart pow. To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, For his kind letter. As lang's I dow ! Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, Now comes the sax an' twentieth siiniiM»» Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs. I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, Or dealing thro' amang the naigs Still persecuted by the limmer Their ten hours' bite, Frae year to year j My awkart muse sair pleads and begs. But yet despite the kittle kimmer, I would na write. I, Rob, am here. The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie. Do ye envy the city gent. She's saft at best, and something lazy, Behint a kist to lie and sklent. Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. This month' an' mair. And muckle wame. That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie, In some bit brugh to represent An' something sair." A bailie's name ? d h/. da^/....z 100 THE POETICAL WORKS Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 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 ! ** Thou "wha gies us each guid gift I Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, Thro' Scotland wide ; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, In a' their pride I" Were this the charter of our state, "On pain' o' hell be rich an' great," Damnation then would be our fat(», Beyond remead ; But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate We learn our cr^ed. 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 !" mandate, glorious and divine ! The followers o' the ragged Nine, Poor thoughtless devils ! yet may shine In glorious light. While sordid sons o' Mammon's line Are dark as night. Tho' here they scrape, 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 their native kindred skies. And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys. In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship's ties Each passing year I XXXI. TO J. LAPRAIK. (thied epistlb.) [I have heard one of our most distinguished EngliBh poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of these epistles, and praise the ease of the language and the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however, that the poet, when pinched for a word, hesitated not to coin one, and instanced, " tapetless," " ramfeezled," and " forjeskei," as intrusions in our dialect. These word* seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth; but they are true words of the west.] Sept. ISth, 1785. 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' skelpin' at it, But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it. Like ony 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' ye're better, But mair profane. But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, Let's sing about our noble sel's ; We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills To help, or roose us, But browster wives an' whiskey stills. They are the muses. Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it. An' if ye mak' objections at it, Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it, An' witness take, An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it It winna break. OF ROBEKT BURNS. ' " W But if the beast and branks be spar'd Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, Till kye be gaun without the herd, The braes o' fame ; An' a' the vittel in the yard, Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, An' theekit right, A deathless name. I mean your ingle-side to guard Ae winter night (0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae My curse upon your whunstane hearts. Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, Ye Enbrugh gentry 1 Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes An' be as canty, Wad stow'd his pantry I As ye were nine year less than thretty, Sweet ane an' twenty! Yet when a tale comes i' my head. But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast, Or lasses gie my heart a screed. An' now the sin keeks in the west, As whiles they're like to be my dead Then I maun rin amang the rest (0 sad disease !) An' quat my chanter; I kittle up my rustic reed, "ae I subscribe myself in haste, It gies me ease. Yours, Rab the Ranter. Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain. She's gotten poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, XXXII. Till echoes a' resound again TO Her weel-sung praise, WILLIAM SIMPSON, Nae poet thought her worth his while, OCHILTREE. To set her name in measur'd stile ; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle [The person to whom this epistle is addressed, was Beside New-Holland, schoolmaster of Ochiltree, and afterwards of New La- nark : he was a writer of verses too, like many more of Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil the poet's comrades ;— of verses which rose not above Besouth Magellan. the barren level of mediocrity : "one of his poems," says Chambers, " was a laughable elegy on the death of the Emperor Paul." In his verses to Burns, under the name Ramsay an' famous Fergusson of a Tailor, there is notliing to laugh at, though they are Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; mtended to be laughable as well as monitory.] Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, May, 1785. Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Boon, I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; Nae body sings. The' I maun say't, I wad be silly, Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' unco vain. Should I believe, my coaxin' billie. Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line 1 Your flatterin' strain. But, Willie, set your fit to mine. An' cock your crest, But I'se believe ye kindly meant it. We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine I sud be laith to think ye hinted Up wi' the best Ironic satire, sidelins sklented On my poor Mu.sie ; We'll sing auld Coila's plains an* fells. Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells, I scarce excuse ye. Her banks an' braes, her dons an' dells. Where glorious Wallac« My senses wad be in a creel, Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Should I but dare a hope to speel. Frae southron billies. ■ * . *1 I ■ r .J ^,* i f *Tt * , I I i Lt f I T * * 102 THE POETICAL WORKS At Wallace* name, what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers strode By Wallace' side, sun pressing onward, red-wat shod, Or glorious dy'd. sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds. And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry ! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray : Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day. Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! Whether the summer kindly warms, Wi' life an' light. Or winter howls, in gusty storms. The lang, dark night ! The muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang ; sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang ! The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive. And I, wi' pleasure. Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, my ** rhyme-composing brither !" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal ; May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal i While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; VVhile f erra firma, on her axes Diurnal turns, Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, Tn Robert Burns. POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen : I had amaist forgotten clean. Ye bade me write you what they mean, By this New Light, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans, At grammar, logic, an' sic talents. They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie. But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallan^ Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing. An* shortly after she was done. They gat a new one. This past for certain — undisputed ; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. An' ca'd it wrang ; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud an' lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk. Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk. An' out o' sight. An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was deny'd, it was aflSrm'd ; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm'd That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddiei Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks. An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt ; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' brunt This game was play'd in monie lands. An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, That, faith, the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, 'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. OF ROBEllT BURNS. 105 But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, Polk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'U find ane plac'd ; An' some their New Light fair avow, Just quite barefac'd. Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin' ; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' : Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' Wi' girnin' spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the loons ; Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns Are mind't in things they ca' balloons, To tak a flight, An' stay ae month amang the moons And see them right. Guid observation they will gie them : An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, Just i' their pouch, An' when the New Light billies see them, I think they'll crouch ! Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter Is naething but a " moonshine matter ;" But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter In logic tulzie, [ hope we bardies ken some better Than mind sic brulzie. xxxni. ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CmLD. [This hasty and not very decorous eS'usion, was origi- nally entitled "The Poet's Welcome; or, Rab the Rhymer's Address to his Bastard Child." A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by Burns himself, in his biographical letter to Moore. "Bovxie Betty," the mother of the " sonsie-smirking, dear-bought Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Largie- ■ide : to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. She lived to be a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, wliere she died ji 1817. It is said she resembled Burns quite us much as my of the rest of his children.] Tuou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me, If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, Shall ever daunton me, or awe me. My sweet wee lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Tit-ta or dadiy. Wee image of my bonny Betty, I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee, As dear and near my heart I set thee Wi' as gude will As a' the priests had seen me get thee That's out o' hell. What tho' they ca' me fornicator, An' tease my name in kintry clatter : The mair they talk I'm kent the better, E'en let them clash ; An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter To gie ane fash. Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, My funny toil is now a' tint. Sin' thou came to the warl asklent. Which fools may scoff" at, In my last plack thy part's be in't The better ha'f o't. An' if thou be what I wad hae thee. An' tak the counsel I sail gie thee, A lovin' father I'll be to thee. If thou be spar'd ; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee. An' think't weel war'd. Gude grant that thou may ay inherit Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit. An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit. Without his failins ; 'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it Than stocket mailene • XXXIV. NATURE'S LAW. ▲ POKM HITMBLY INSCRIBED TO G. H. XSQ. "Great nature spoke, observant manobey'd." Pop« [This Poem was written by Bums at Mossgiei, and "humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq." It ;s sup- posed to allude to his intercourse with Jean Armour, with the circumstances of wh'ch he seems to have made many of his comrades acquainted. These verses were well known to many of the adm rers of the poet, but the> remained in manuscript till given to the worjd by Si- Harris Nicolas, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of tht British Poets.] Let other heroes boast their scars. The marks of sturt and strife ; 104 THE POETICAL WORKS And other poets sing of wars, The 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 increase. The liquid fire of strong desire I've pour'd it in each bosom ; Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, And there, is beauty's blossom." The hero of these artless strains, A lowly bard was he, Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains With meikle mirth an' glee ; Kind Nature's care had given his share, Large, of the flaming current ; And all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent. He .felt the powerful, high behest. Thrill vital through and through ; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due : Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowers^ From mildews of abortion ; And lo ! the bard, a great reward. Has got a double portion ! Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns, The third of Libra's equal sway. That gave another B[urns], With future rhymes, an' other times. To emulate his sire ; To sing auld Coil in nobler style, With more poetic fire. Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song. Look down with gracious eyes ; And bless auld Coil a, large and long. With multiplying joys : Lang may she stand to prop the land. The flow'r of ancient nations ; And B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing Thro' endless generations ! XXXV. TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. [Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle assist ant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton : he was a good preacher, a moderate man in matters of discipline, and an intimate of tlie Coilsfield Montgomerys. His depen- dent condition depressed his spirits: he grew dissipated j and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, tau died in a foreign land.] Sept. mk, 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', and douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it. Lest they should blame her^ An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her. I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, That I, a simple countra bardie, Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, Wha, if they ken me. Can easy, wi' a single wordie, Lowse hell upon me. But I gae mad at their grimaces, Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces. Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces^ Their raxin' conscience, Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, Waur nor their nonsenae. There's Gaun,' miska't waur than a beast, Wha has mair honour in his breast Than mony scores as guid's the priest Wha sae abus't him. An' may a bard no crack his jest What way they've use't him See him, the poor man's friend in need. The gentleman in word an' deed. An' shall his fame an' honour bleed By worthless skellums, An' not a muse erect her head To cowe the blellums ? 1 Gavin Hamilton, Esq. OF ROBERT BURNS. 105 Pope, had I thy satire's darts Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; To gie the rascals their deserts, Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd. An' tell aloud (Which gies you honour,) Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. To cheat the crowd. An' winning manner. God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, Pardon this freedom I have ta'cn, Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, An' if impertinent I've been. But twenty times, I rather wou'd be Impute it not, good Sir, in ane An atheist clean, Whase heart ne'er wrang'dye^ Than under gospel colours hid be But to his utmost would befriend Just for a screen. Ought that belang'd ye. An honest man may like a glass, An honest man may like a lass. But mean revenge, an' malice fause He'll still disdain, * Vl' then cry zeal for gospel laws, XXXVI. Like some we ken. TO A MOUSE, They take religion in their mouth ; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. OI» TURNING HEK UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. For what? — to gie their malice skouth [This beautiful poera was imagined while the poet waa On some puir wight. An' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth, holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel : the field ia Btili pointed out : and a man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, an To ruin straight. chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the Who in her rough imperfect line. same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, " What think you of our mouse now ?"] Thus daurs to name thee ; JPo stigmatize false friends of thine Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Can ne'er defame thee. 0, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty. Tho' blotch' d an' foul wi' mony a stain, Wi' bickering brattle ! An' far unworthy of thy train. I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, With trembling voice I tune my strain Wi' murd'ring pattle ! To join with those, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain Pm truly sorry man's dominion In spite o' foes : Has broken nature's social union. An' justifies that ill opinion. In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs. Which makes thee startle In ppite of undermining jobs. At me, thy poor earth-born companion, Ii\ spite o' dark banditti stabs An' fellow-mortal! At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; But hellish spirit. What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live I A daimen icker in a thrave .0 Ayr! my dear, my native ground, 'S a sma' request : Within thy presbyterial bound I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, A candid lib'ral band is found And never miss'tl Of public teachers. As men, as Christians too, renown'd, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ; in* manly preachers. Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' I «»j 106 THE POETICAL WORKS An' naetHng, now, to big a new ane, 0' foggage green ! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baitli snell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld I 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 1 An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. XXXVII. SCOTCH DRINK. « Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guui to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er. Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more." Solomon's Proverb, xxxi.G, 7. («« I here enclose you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to ms friend Kennedy, "my Scotch Drink; I hope some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock : when I intend we shall have a gill bet^veen us, in a mutchkin stoup."] Let other poets raise a fracas *Bout vine", an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus, An' crabbit names and stories wrack us. An' grate our lug, I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us. In glass or jug. 0, thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink ; Whether thro* wimplin' worms thou jink. Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name I Let husky wheat the haughs adorn. An' aits set up their awnie horn, An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain ! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. In souple scones, the wale o' food I Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame an' keeps us livin' ; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' ; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,' Wi' rattlin' glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; Thou cheers the heart 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. OF ROBERT BURNS. 107 That merry night we get the corn in, May gravels round his blather wrench. sweetly then thou reams the horn in I An' gouts torment him inch by inch. Or reekin' on a new-year morning Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch In cog or dicker, 0' sour disdain, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch An' gusty sucker ! Wi' honest men ; When Vulcan gies his bellows breath. whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks! An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks! rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks r th' lugget caup 1 Are my poor verses ! Then Burnewin comes on like Death Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks At ev'ry chap. At ither's a— s ! Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; Thee, Ferintosh! sadly lost! The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. Scotland lament frae coast to coast 1 Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, The strong forehammer. May kill us a' ; Till block an' studdie ring an' reel For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, Wi' dinsome clamour. Is ta'en awa When skirlin' weanies see the light. Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize ! How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ; Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! Wae worth the name ! There, seize the blinkers I Nae howdie gets a social night, An' bake them up in brunstane pies Or plack frae them. For poor d— n'd drinkers When neibors anger at a plea. Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still An' just as wud as wud can be. Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill. How easy can the barley-bree An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Cement the quarrel ! Tak' a' the rest, It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. An' deal't about as thy blind skill To taste the barrel. Directs thee best. Alake ! that e'er my muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason I But monie daily weet their weason Wi' liquors nice, xxxvm. An' hardly, in a winter's season. E'er spier her price. THE author's Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! TO THK Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash. SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 0' half his days ; IN THB An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash HOUSE OP COMMONS. To her warst faes. 'Dearest of distillation! last and best! — Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, How art thou lost ! " Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. Parody on Miltos Poor plackless devils like mysel', ["This Poem was written," says Burns, "before th« It sets you ill, act anent the Scottish distilleries, of session 1786^ for which Scotland nnd the author return their most grate- Wi' bitter, dearthfa' wines to mell. ful thanks." Befoia tlie passing of this loniont act, so Or foreign gill. sharp was the law in the North, that some distillora 108 THE POETICAL WORKS 1 relinquished their trade ; the price of barley waB affected, Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, and Scotland, already exasperated at the refusal of a An' hum an' haw ; militia, for which she was a petitioner, began to handle her cli'yraore, and was perhaps only hindered from draw- But raise your arm, an' tell your crack ing ■;; by the act mentioned by the poet. In an early Before them a'. eO/y of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh Montgomery, afterwards Earl of Eglinton : — Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrizzle, *' Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle : If bardies e'er are represented, An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle. I ken if that yere sword were wanted Seizin' a stell. Ye'd lend yere hand; But when there's aught to say anent it Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Yere at a stand." Or lampit shell. The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think Then on the tither hand present her. the compliment to his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, stanza.] An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner. Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Colleaguing join. Picking her pouch as bare as winter Wlia represent our brughs an' shires, Of a' kind coin. An' doucely manage our affairs In Parliament, Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, To you a simple Bardie's prayers But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, Are humbly sent. To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves. Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, By gallows knaves ? To see her sittin' on her a — e Low i' the dust, Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! An' like to brust ! But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, Tell them wha hae the chief direction, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. Scotland an' me's in great affliction. An' tie some hose welL E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On aquavitse ; God bless your honours, can ye see't, An' rouse them up to strong conviction. The kind, auld, canty carlin greet. An' move their pity. An' no get warmly on your feet, An' gar them hear it 1 Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier youth, An' tell them with a patriot heat. The honest, open, naked truth : Ye winna bear it ? Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. His servants humble : Some o' you nicely ken the laws. The muckie devil blaw ye south, To round the period an' pause, If ye dissemble ! An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues : Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! Auld Scotland's wrangs. Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em : Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran' ; If honestly they canna come, Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;' Far better want 'em. An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron. The Laird o' Graham ;2 In gath'rin votes you were na slack ; An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarrren. Now stand as tightly by your tack ; Dundas his name. 1 Sir Adam Ferguson. 2 The Duke of Montrose. OF ROBERT BURNS. 109 Erskine, a spunkie Norland bilHe ; True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay ; An^ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie : An' monie ithers. Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle : Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her whiskey An' L — d, if ance they pit her till't, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, r th' first she meets I 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 I An' send him to his dicing box, An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's' Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 1 A worthy old hostess of the author's in Maachline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid «u.d Scotch drink. Ha need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition. Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch. The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your mither's heart support ye , Then, though a minister grow dorty. An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. Before his face. God bless your honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes. That haunt St. Jamie s i Your humble Poet signs an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. But blythe and frisky. She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, Tak aff their whiskey. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms. While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. The scented groves. Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; They downa bide the stink o' powther ; Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring swithei To Stan' or rin. Till skelp — a shot — they're aflF, a' thrcther To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George's will. An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. 110 iHE POETICAL WORKS JTae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; Peath comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas ! Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season ; But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! • Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather Ye tine your dam ; Freedom and whiskey gang thegither! — Tak aflf your dram I XXXIX. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR TUB RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. " My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them ay thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither : The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in ; So ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin." Solomon. — Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. ['^ Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, " has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him ; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm : but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet : yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs ! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to \vhom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the w irld, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.] TE wha are sae guid yourseV, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibor's fauts and folly ! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supply'd wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's ebbing still. And still the clap plays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable cere, As counsel for poor mortals, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door For glaikit Folly's portals ; I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences. Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances. Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, And shudder at the niflFer, But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty diflFer ? Discount what scant occasion gave, That purity ye pride in. And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hiding. IV. Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop : Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Eight on ye scud your sea-way ; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way. See social life and glee sit down. All joyous and unthinking, 'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grows Debauchery and drinking ; would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences ; Or your more dreaded hell to state, D-mnation of expenses ! Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in godly laces, Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases ; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination — OF EGBERT BURNS. Ill But, let me whisper, i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. TII. Then gently scan your brother man. Still gentler sister woman ; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it : And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. VIII. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord — its various tone, Each spring — its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. XL. TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.^ ' An honest man's the noblest work of God." POPK. [Tarn Samson was a west country seedsman and sports- man, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished K shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be Duried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy : when Tarn heard o' this he waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead : tlie author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. " This poem has alvays," says Hogg, " been a great country favour- ite : it abounds with happy expressions. ' In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid.' \^ hat a p* jtire of a flooded bum ! any other poet would have given ua a long description : Burns dashes it down at once m a style so graphic no one can mistake it. ' Perhaps upon his mouldering breast Some spitefu' raoorfowl bigs her nest.' Match that sentence who can."] iWhen this worthy old sportsman went out last mnir- Cuw. season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, ••the last of his fields." 2 A preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great M'Kinlay''^ thrawn his heel ' Or Robinson^ again grown weel. To preach an' read ? " Na, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel, Tam Samson's dead ! Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane, An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an wean, In mourning weed ; To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead I The brethren o' the mystic level May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel. Like ony bead ; Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, Tam Samson's dead ! When Winter muflles up his cloak. And binds the mire like a rock ; When to the lochS the curlers flock, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock ? Tam Samson's dead I He was the king o' a' the core. To guard or draw, or wick a bore. Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o' need ; But now he lags on death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead I Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel ken'd for souple tail, And geds for greed. Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead. Rejoice, ye birring patricks a' ; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, Withouten dread ; Your mortal fae is now awa' — Tam Samson's dead t That woefu* morn be ever moum'd. Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 3 Another preacher, an eqaal favourite with the few who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ord> nation, stanza IX. 112 THE POETICAL WORKS While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed ; But, Och ! lie gaed and ne'er return'd ! Tarn Samson's dead ! In vain auld age his body batters ; In vair. the gout his ancles fetters ; In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Tarn Samson's dead I Owre many a weary hag he limpit, An' ay the tither shot he thumpit. Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi' deadly feide ; Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson's dead ! When at his heart he felt the dagger, He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; "L — d, five !" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead ! Hk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether Tam Samson's dead! There low he lies, in lasting rest ; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. To hatch an' breed ; Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! Tam Samson's dead ! When August winds the heather wave, And sportsmen wander by yon grave, Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 0' pouther an' lead, 'Till echo answer frae her cave Tam Samson's dead ! Heav'n rest his soul, whare' er he be ! Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what remead ? Ae social, honest man want we : Tam Samson's dead ! EPITAPH. Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, Ye canting zealots spare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'll mend or ye win near him. PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, Tell ev'ry social honest billie To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin'. XLI. LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUB OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. " Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! And sweet affection prove the spring of woe." HOMA. [The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. "This was a most melancholy affair," says the poet in his letter to Moore, " which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifi- cations for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was '' written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham's darling sweetheart Blighting hira and marr>-ing another : — she acted a wis© part." With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.] I. THOU pale orb, that silent shines. While care-untroubled mortals sleep ' Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep ! With woe I nightly vigils keep. Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam. And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream. OF ROBERT BURNS. 118 II. Full many a pang, and many a throe, 1 joyless view thy rays adorn Keen recollection's direful train. Tne raintly marked distant hill : Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. I joyless view thy trembling horn, Shall kiss the distant, western main. Reflected in the gurgling rill : My fondly-fluttering heart, be still: VIII. Thoa busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease! And when my nightly couch I try. Ah ! must the agonizing thrill Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, For ever bar returning peace I My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. Keep watchings with the nightly thief: III. Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, No idly-feign'd poetic pains, Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, No shepherd's pipe— Arcadian strains ; From such a horror-breathing night No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; IX. The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse The promis'd father's tender name ; Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! These were the pledges of my love ! Oft has thy silent-marking glance Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! IV. The time, unheeded, sped away. Encircled in her clasping arms. While love's luxurious pulse beat high. How have the raptur'd moments flown I Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, How have I wish'd for fortune's charms. To mark the mutual kindling eye. For her dear sake, and hers alone ! And must I think it ! — is she gone, X. My secret heart's exulting boast ? Oh ! scenes in strong remembrarce set ' And does she heedless hear my groan ? Scenes never, never to return ! And is she ever, ever lost ? Scenes, if in stupor I forget, Again I feel, again I burn ! V. From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; So lost to honour, lost to truth. And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn As from the fondest lover part, A faithless woman's broken vow. The plighted husband of her youth 1 Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth! Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, XLIl. Her sorrows share, and make them less ? DESPONDENCY. VI. AN ODE. Ye winged hours that o'er us past, Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, [" I think," said Burns, " it is one of the greatest plea Your dear remembrance in my breast, Bures attending a poetic genius, that we can give oui woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied fore, in verse, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. which to me is ever immediate ease." He elsewhere That breast, how dreary now, and void, says, " My passions raged like so many devils till they For her too scanty once of room I got vent in rhyme." That emment painter, Fueeli, on Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, " Swear my love, swear heartily : you know not how much it wil' And not a wish to gild the gloom ! finse you !" This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moment! VII. experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alike The mom that warns th' approaching day, deceived him.] Awakes me up to toil and woe : I. I see the hours in long array. Oppbess'd with grief, oppress'd with care, That I must suffer, lingering slow. A burden more than I can bear. 114 THE POETICAL WORKS I set me down and sigh : life ! thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I ! Dim-backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear ! 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 means are ply'd, They bring their own reward : Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night And joyless morn the same ; You, bustling, and justling. Forget each grief and pain ; I, listless, yet restless. Find every prospect vain. How blest the solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. Beside his crystal well! Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. By unfrequented stream. The ways of men are distant brought, A faint collected dream ; While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high. As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky. Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part; The lucky moment to improve. And just to stop, and just to move. With self-respecting art : But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste. The solitary can despise. Can want, and yet be blest ! He needs not, he heeds not. Or human love or hate. Whilst I here, must cry here At perfidy ingrate ! V. Oh ! enviable, early days'. When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze^ To care, to guilt unknown ! How ill exchang'd for riper times. To fee! the follies, or *he crimes. Of others, or my own ! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. Like linnets in the bush. Ye little know the ills ye court. When manhood is your wish ! The losses, the crosses. That active man engage ! The fears all, the tears all. Of dim declining age ! XLIII. COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. "Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor." Gray. [The house of "\\ illiam Burns was the scene of this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William himself was the saint, the father, and the husband, who gives life and sentiment to the whole. " Robert had frequent- ly remarked to me," says Gilbert Burns, " that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Let us worship God !' used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing family worship." To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the *< Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some little, how- ever, of the inspiration to Fergusson's " Farmer's Irgle." a poem of great merit. The calm-tone and holy compo. sure of tlie Cottea"'s Saturday Night have been mistaken by Hogg for want of nerve and life. " It is a dull, heavy, lifeless poem," he says, " and the only beauty it pos- sesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of family picture of the poet's family. The worst thing of all, it is not original, but is a decided imitation of Fergussor'a beautiful pastoral, ' The Farmer's Ingle :' I have a per- fect contempt for all plagiarisms and imitations." Motherwell tries to qualify the censure of his brother editor, by quotintf V»clchart's opinion — at once lofty and just, of this fine picture of domestic happiness and devotion.] ^ '^;i Q l4 t-. o "- d "* w "^ OF HOBERT BURNS. 115 Mr lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween ! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugn ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh : The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- pose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, Ind weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- ward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; ^ Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher thro' To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie's smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, (lu' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun' : Some ca' the plough, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town : Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, Inyouthfu' bloom, love sparkling in here'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new- gown, Or deposite her sair woq penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be- With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meetj An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift- wing'd, unnotic'd, fleet; Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The Mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; — The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: " And ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! And mind your duty, duly, morn and night I Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. Implore His counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!" But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily Mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, With heart-struck anxious care, inquires hia name. While Jenny hafilins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the Mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; A strappan youth; he taks the Mother*! eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate, an laithfu', scarce can weel be- have; The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her baim*s resnected liko the lave. 116 THE POETICAL WORKS happy love ! where love like this is found! heart-felt raptures ! — bliss beyond com- pare ! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — " If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other's arms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- tion wild ? But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food: The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How^ 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride ; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care ; And 'Let us worship Gob!' he says, with so- lemn air. XIII. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like Father reads the sacred page. How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : How His first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he who lone in Patmos banished. Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven'st hVBmvPL King, The Saint, the Father, and thj Ha^baad prays : Hope * springs exulting on triumi/Liht wing,'' That thus they all shall meet In future days : There e^er bask in uncreated lays, No more to sigh, or shed tie bitter tear. Together hymning Iheir Creator's praise, In sucn society, yet still move dear: While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 1 Pope. OF ROBERT BURNS. 117 XVII. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; ^nd in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take ofif their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide ; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.* From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man's the noblest work of God;"J And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd I Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, ! may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much- lov'd Isle. i Pope. XXI. Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart : Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and rewar*] !) never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! XLTV. THE FIRST PSALM. [This version was first printed in the second edition of the poet's vsrorks. It cannol be regarded as one of his happiest compositions : it is inferior, not indeed in ease, but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to the common version used in the Kirk of Scothind. Burns had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech's edition, and probably desired to balance it with soms thing at which the devout could not cavil.] The man, in life wherever plac'd, Hath happiness in store. Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore ! Nor from the seat of scornful pride Casts forth his eyes abroad, But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow ; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt Shall to the ground be cast. And, like the rootless stubble, tost Before the sweeping blast. For why ? that God the good adore Hath giv'n them peace and rest. But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. 118 THE POETICAL WORKS XLV. THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THB NINETIETH PSALM. [The ninetieth Psalm is said to have been a favourite in the household of William Burns : the version used by the Kirk, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reason- ing as the poem of " Mm vraa made to Mourn." These rerses first appeared in the Edinburgh edition ; and they mig,ht have been spared ; for in the hands of a poet igno- rant of the original language of the Psalmist, how could they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred strain is not only desirable but necessary ?] Thou, the first, the greatest friend Of all the human race ! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place ! Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command ; That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame. From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast. Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought; Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!" Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep ; As with a flood Thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r. In beauty's pride array'd ; But long ere night, cut down, it lies All wither'd and decay'd. XLVI. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TUENINO ONE DOWN WITH THB PLOUGH lH APBIL, 1786. [This was not the original title of this sweet poem : I have a copy in the handwriting of Bums entitled " Th» Gowan." This more natural name he changed as he did his own, without reasonable cause ; and he changed it about the same time, for he ceased to call himself Burnes4 and his poem " The Gowan," in the first edition of hii works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months before he turned up the Mouse; but this seems likely only to those who are little acquainted with tillage — who think that in time and place reside the chief charms of verse ; and who feel not the beauty of " The Daisy," till they seek and find the spot on which it grew. Sublime morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for little with those who remember only what genius love« to forget.] Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou' s me t me in an evil hour ; ^i- For I ^"^n crush amang the stoure ^'•••^^ Thy slender stem : To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast. When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm. Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield But thou, beneath the random bield 0' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field. Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad. Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies I OF KOBERT BURNS. llh Such is the fate of artless maid, But how the subject-theme may gang, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! Let time and chance determine ; By love's simplicity betray'd, Perhaps it may turn out a sang. And guileless trust, Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. 11. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, Such is the fate of simple bard, And, Andrew dear, believe me, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd I Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. Unskilful he to note the card And muckle they may grieve ye : Of prudent lore, For care and trouble set your thought. 'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. Ev'n when your end's attain'd ; And whelm him o'er I And a' your views may come to nought. Where ev'ry nerve is strained, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, III. By human pride or cunning driv'n I'll no say men are villains a' ; ^ To mis'ry's brink, The real, harden'd wicked. 'TiU wrenched of every stay but Heav'n, Wha hae nae check but human law, He, ruin'd, sink ! Are to a few restricked ; But, och ! mankind are unco weak. Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate. An' little to be trusted ; That fate is thine — no distant date ; If self the wavering balance shake. Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, It's rarely right adjusted 1 Full on thy bloom. 'Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, IV. Shall be thy doom 1 Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife, Their fate we should na censure For still th' important end of life They equally may answer ; A man may hae an honest heart. xLvn. Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neebor's part. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. Yet hae nae cash to spare him. MAY, 1786. V. [Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel is Ay free, aff han' your story tell. addressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in When wi' a bosom crony ; Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. But still keep something to yoursel* He became a merchant m Liverpool, wi*b what success we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The Ye scarcely tell to ony. poet has bean charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can rather than truth to his "Andrew dear;" but surely to Frae critical dissection ; conceal one's own thoughts and discover those of others, But keek thro' ev'ry other man, cii«c 8?arcoly be called hypocritical : it is, in fact, a ver- ■i n of the celebrated precept of prudence, « Thoughts Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. ' close and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the counsel showered upon him by the muse we know not: VI. be was much respected— his name embalmed, like that The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, of his father, in the poetry of his friend, is nat likely soon to perish ] Luxuriantly indulge it ; But never tempt th' illicit rove. I. Tho' naething should divulge it ; I LANO hae thought, my youthfu' friend, I waive the quantum o' the sin. A something to have sent you, The hazard of concealing ; Though it should Aerve nae ither end But, och ! it hardens a' within, Than just a kind memento ; And petrifies the feeling ! 120 THE POETICAL WORKS To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her ; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant ; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. VIII. The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip, To hand the wretch in order ; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that ay be your border : Its slighest touches, instant pause — Debar a' side pretences ; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. Be complaisance extended ; An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended ! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded ; Or if she gie a random sting. It may be little minded ; But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, A conscience but a canker — A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n Is sure a noble anchor ! Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth Erect your brow undaunting ! In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed. Still daily to grow wiser : And may you better reck the rede Thau ever did th' "adviser ! XLVIII. TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADT's BONNET, AT CHPBC«. [A Mauchline incident of a Mauchljne lady is related in this poem, wliicli to many of the softer friends of the bard was anything but welcome : it appeared in the Kit marnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and per- suasion were alike tried in vain to keep it oat oi ttJ Edinl)urgh edition. Instead of regarding it us a seasOBr able rebuke to pride and vanity, some of liis learned commentators called it coarse and vulgar — those classic persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgar person, but an emperor and a scholar, wore a populoui beard, and was proud of it.J Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! Your impudence protects you sairly : I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace ; Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner. How dare you set your fit upon her, Sae fine a lady ! Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations ; Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight. Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight ; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right 'Till ye've got on it, The vera topmost, tow'ring height 0' Miss's bonnet. My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out. As plump an' gray as onie grozet : for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. Wad dross your drodduinl 1 wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat ; But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! How daur ye do't ? OF ROBERT BURNS. 121 0, /enny, dinna toss your head, Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, An' set your beauties a' abread ! The lads in black ! Ye little ken what cursed speed But your curst wit, when it comes near it, The blastie'8 makin' I Rives't aflf their back. Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. Are notice takin' ! Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge an' claitbing wad some Power the giftie gie ua 0' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething To see oursels as others see us ! To ken them by. It wad frae monie a blunder free us Frae ony unregenerate heathen. An' foolish notion ; Like you or I. What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, I've sent you here some rhyming ware, And ev'n devotion I A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair ; ^ Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, • I will expect Yon sang,2 yg'u gen't wi cannie care, And no neglect. XLIX. Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! Fve play'd mysel' a bonnie spring. ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. An' danc'd my fill I [The person to whom these verses are addressed lived I'd better gaen an' sair't the king. at Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough At Bunker's Hill and ready-witted, which the poem bestows. The hu- morous dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke 'Twas ae night lately, in my fun. to a west country earl, who was in the habit of callii^ I gaed a roving wi' the gun, all people of low degree " Brutes ! — damned brutes." •' I dreamed that 1 was dead," said the rustic satirist to An' brought a paitrick to the grun', A bonnie hen. his superior, " and condemned for the company I kept. When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's And, as the twilight was begun. friends gang, I chappit, and ' VVha are ye, and Where Thought nane wad ken. d'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. I just said, that my Bame was Rankine,and 1 came frae yere lordship's land. The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 'Awawi' you,' cried Satan; ' ye canna come here : hell's I straikit it a wee for sport. 'bu o' his lordship's damned brutes already.' "] Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me foi't ; BOUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, But, deil-ma-care 1 The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin' ! Somebody tells the poacher-court There's monie godly folks are thinkin', The hale affair. Your dreams' an' tricks Some auld ns'd hands had taen a ncte, Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin' That sic a hen had got a shot ; Straught to auld Nick's. I was suspected for the plot ; I scorn' J to lie ; Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, So gat the whissle o' my groat, And in your wicked, dru'ken rants, An' pay't the fee. Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, An' fill them fou ; But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, An' by my pouther an' my hail. Axe a' seen through. An' by my hen, an' by her tail. I vow an' swear ! Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, That holy robe, dinna tear it 1 For this niest year. 1 A certain humorons dream of his was then making a 2 A song he had promised the author voise in (he country-side. 122 THE POETICAL WOKKS As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by, For my gowd guinea ; Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye Por't, in Virginia. Trowth, they had muckle for to blame I 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers ! It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. [Burns iii tiiis Poem, as well as in others, speaks open- ly of his tastes and passions: his own fortunes are dwelt on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the con- fessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself to task. It was written when '' Hungry ruin had him.in the wind," and emigration to the West Indies was the only refuge which he could think of, or his friends Buggest, from the persecutions of fortune.] A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think, Come, mourn wi' me ! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Lament him a' ye rantin' core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar In social key ; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea ! The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him. And in their dear petitions place him ; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea I Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea, But he was gleg as onie wumble, That's owre the sea I Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear. An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee; He was her laureate monie a year. That's owre the sea I He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A jillet brak his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach. Could ill agree ; So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding : He dealt it free ; The muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea. Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel ; Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, And fou o' glee ; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie I Your native soil was right ill-willie ; But may ye flourish like a lily. Now bonnilie ! m toast ye in my hindmost gillie. The' owre the soa 1 OF ROBERT BURNS. 123 XJ. THE FAREWELL. " The vaj'ant, in himself, what can he suffer ? O- 'T'-.a, does he regard his single woes? But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender ^air, To tl'ose whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, To helpless children ! then, O then ! he feels The point of misery fest'ring in his heart. And weiikly weeps his fortune like a coward. Such, such am I ! undone." Thomson. [In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the Jines to the Scottish bard, are not permitted to mingle. Burns bids farewell to all on whom his heart had any claim. He seems to have looked on the sea as only a place of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.] I. Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains Where rich ananas blow ! Farewell, a mother's blessing dear 1 A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! My Jean's heart-rending throe ! Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft Of my parental care, A faithful brother I have left, My part in him thou'lt share ! Adieu too, to you too, My Smith, my bosom frien' ; When kindly you mind me, then befriend my Jean I II. What bursting anguish tears my heart I From *hee, my Jeany, must I part ! Thou weeping answ'rest — " No !" Alas ! misfortune stares my face. And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go I Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, A grateful, warm adieu; I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you I All-hail then, the gale then. Wafts me from thee, dear shore I It rustles, and whistles I'll never see thee more 1 UI. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPT OF MT POEMS, PRE- SENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. This is another of the poet's lamentslicns, at the prospect of " torrid climes" and the roars of tho Atl.mlic To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of Scotland his paradise ; and the land of dread, Jamaica ! I found these Imes copied by the poet mto a volumt which he presented to Dr. Geddes : they were addressed, it is thought, to the '< Dear E." of his earliest corre spondence.] Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear; Sweet early oljcct of my youthful vows! Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,- Friendship I 'tis all cold duty now allows. And when you read the simple artless rhymes. One friendly sigh for him — he asks no more,— Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. LHI. A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. [The gentleman to whom these manly lines are ad- dressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generous nature : he was one of the first of the gentry of the west to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch her wings at full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who charged him with the sin of absenting himself from church for three successive days; for having, without the fear of God's servant before him, profanely said damn it, in his presence, and for having gallopped on Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissed by the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother ot the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as well ai of a poet. The poem had a place in the Kilmarnock edi* tion, but not as an express dedication.] Expect na. Sir, in this narration, A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication, To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace ; Perhaps related to the race ; Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie 124 THE POETICAL WORKS Set up a face, how I stop short, For fear your modesty be hurt. This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; A.nd when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him. He may do weel for a' he's done yet. But only — he's no just begun yet. The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me,) On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, He's just — nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant. He downa see a poor man want ; AVhat's no his ain, he winna tak it ; What ance he says, he winna break it ; Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 'Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : As master, landlord, husband, father. He does na fail his part in either. But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; It's naething but a milder feature. Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need. The gentleman in word and deed. It's no thro' terror of damnation ; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane. Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth and justice ! No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; Abuse a brother to his back ; Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore. But point the rake that taks the door; Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And hand their noses to the grunstane, Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; No matter — stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile pray'rs an' half-mile graces^ Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. And damn a' parties but your own ; I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin' ! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath. And in the fire throws the sheath ; When Euin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ' Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 1 maist forgat my dedication ; But when divinity comes cross me My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapoui, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review. To dedicate them. Sir, to you : Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronize them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever — I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a word I need na say : For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o't j But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r. That kens or hears about you. Sir — " May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame. Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. Are frae their nuptial labours risen : OF ROBERT BURNS. I2t Five bonnie lasses round their table, To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. And seven braw fellows, stout an' able Except the moment that they crush't him ; To serve their king and country weel, For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em. By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! Tho' e'er sae short. May health and peace, with mutual rays, Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. Shine on the ev'ning o' his days ; And thought it sport. 'Till his wee curlie John's-ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." And counted was baith wight and stark. Yet that was never Robin's mark I will not wind a lang conclusion, To mak a man ; With complimentary efifusion : But tell him he was learned and dark. But whilst your wishes and endeavours Ye roos'd him than t Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which pow'rs above prevent) LV. That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, By sad mistakes and black mischances. OF GLENCONNEK. While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him. [The west country farmer to whom this letter wa^ Make you as poor a dog as I am. sent, was a social man. The poet depended on his judg- Your humble servant then no more ; ment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit For who would humbly serve the poor ! the harp for the plough : but as EUisland was his choice, But by a poor man's hope in Heav'n ! his skill mav be questioned.] While recollection's pow'r is given, Attld comrade dear, and brither sinner. If, in the vale of humble life. How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? The victim sad of fortune's strife. How do you this blae eastlin wind, I, thro' the tender gushing tear. That's like to blaw a bodj' blind ? Should recognise my Master dear. For me, my faculties are frozen. If friendless, low, we meet together. My dearest member nearly dozen'd. Then Sir, your hand — my friend and brother. I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson, Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. An' Reid, to common sense appealing. Philosophers have fought and wrangled. LTV. An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled. Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, ELEGY An' in the depth of science mir'd, To common sense they now appeal, Olf What wives and wabsters see and feel. THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictlj [Cromek ^xml these verses among the loose papers of Peruse them, an' return them quickly, Burrs, and printed them in the Reliques. They contain For now I'm grown sae cursed douce K portion of the character of the poet, record his habitual I pray and ponder butt the house. sarelessiiesB in worldly affairs, and hia desire to be dis- tinguished.] My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston ; Now Robin lies in his last lair, Till by an' by, if I hand on. He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, I'll grunt a real gospel groan : Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, Already I begin to try it. Nae mair shall fear Mm ; To cast my e'en up like a pyet. Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, When by the gun she tumbles o'er, E'er mair come near him. Flutt'ring an' gasping in her jfore : 126 THE POETICAL WORKS Sae shortly you shall see me bright, A burning and a shining lic:ht. My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men : When bending down wi' auld gray hairs. Beneath the load of years and cares, INIay He who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him, Ilis worthy fam'ly far and near, God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he's a parent, lass or boy. May he be dad, and Meg the mither. Just five-and-forty years thegither ! An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, I'm tauld he offers very fairly. An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, WI' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy ; An' her kind stars hae airted till her A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen' it. To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet ; Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious ; To grant a heart is fairly civil. But to grant the maidenhead's the devil. An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel'. May guardian angels tak a spell. An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : But first, before you see heaven's glory, May ye get monie a merry story, Monie a laugh, and monie a drink. And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink. Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, For my sake this I beg it o' you. Assist poor Simson a' ye can, Ye'll fin' him just an honest man ; Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, Vour's, saint or sinner, Rob the Ranter. LVT. ON THB BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. [From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this '• Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' ineik • love," was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. Tlie mother snoz. foc- lowed the father to the grave : she died in the south of France, v\rhither she had gone in search of health] Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. And ward o' mony a pray'r. What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form ; And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour. And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw ! May He, the friend of woe and want. Who heals life's various stounds. Protect and guard the mother-plant, And heal her cruel wounds ! But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. Fair on the summer-morn : Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn. Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruflfian hand ! And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land ! LVII. TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERT YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN OF THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK; PRESENTID TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. [The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in th« northern metropolis.] 1 OF ROBERT BURNS. 12T Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet Blooming in thy early May, His honest heart enamours. Never niay'st thou, lovely flow'r, And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. Never Boreas' hoary path, Never Earns' poisonous breath, Never baleful stellar lights, III. , Taint thee with untimely blights I Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, Never, never reptile thief And Honour safely back her. Riot on thy virgin leaf ! And Modesty assume your air, Nor even Sol too fiercely viev? And ne'er a ane mistak' her: Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy Palmers ; May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Nae wonder then they've fatal been Richly deck thy native stem: To honest Willie Chalmers. 'Till some evening, sober, calm. Dropping dews and breathing balm, While all around the woodland rings. IV. And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; I doubt na fortune may you shore Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie. Shed thy dying honours round. Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. And resign to parent earth And band upon his breastie : •^he loveliest form she e'er gave birth. But Oh ! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars ; The feeling heart's the royal blue, And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. LVIII. V. WILLIE CHALMERS. Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, [Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world : May warstle for your favour ; he copied it from a small manuscript volume of Poems May claw his lug, and straik his beard. given by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation And hoast up some palaver. in these words : *' W. Chalmers, a gentleman in A>Tshire, My bonnie maid, before ye wed a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, Sic clumsy-witted hammers. but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as fol- Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp lows." Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.] VI. I. Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard And eke a braw new brechan. For ane that shares my bosom, My Pegasus I'm got astride. Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues. And up Parnassus pechin ; For de'il a hair I roose him. Whiles owre a bush wi' downward cmsh May powers aboon unite you soon, The doitie beastie stammers ; And fructify your amours, — Then up he gets and oflF he sets And every year come in mair dear For sake o' Willie Chalmers. II. To you and Willie Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn d name May cost a pair o' blushes ; I am nae stranger to your fame, N«r Ms warm urged wishes. 128 THE POETICAL WORKS LIX. LTINO AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. [Of the origin of these verses Gilbert Burns gives the following account. "The first time Robert heard the epinnet played was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of Loudon, now in Glasgow. Dr Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and the mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brotiier, the poet and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to tiie world : his mind was roused to a poetic •nthusinsm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept."] THOU dread Power, who reign'st above ! I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love I make my prayer sincere. The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, Long, long, be pleased to spare ; To bless his filial little flock And show what good men are. She who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, 0, bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears ! Their hope — their stay — their darling youth, In manhood's dawning blush — Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish ! The beauteous, seraph sister-band. With earnest tears 1 pray, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand- Guide Thou their steps alway. When soon or late they reach that coast. O'er life's rough ocean driven. May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in Heaven ! LX. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE. (RECOMMENDING A BOY.) [Verse seems to have been the natural language of Burns. The Mister Tootie whose skill he records, lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows: he was an artful anc contriving person, great in bargaining and intimate with all the professional tricks by which old cows are mad( to look young, and six-pint hawkies pass for those of twelve.] Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. I. I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty. To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M'Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, An' wad ha'e done't aff han' ; But lest he learn the callan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him. Like scrapiu' out auld Crummie's nicks. An' tellin' lies about them ; As lieve then, I'd have then, Your clerkship he should sair. If sae be, ye may be Not fitted otherwhere. II. Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. An' bout a house that's rude an' rough The boy might learn to swear; But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught. An' get sic fair example straught, I havena ony fear. Ye'll catechize him every quirk, An' shore him weel wi' Hell ; An' gar him follow to the kirk — — Ay when ye gang yoursel'. If ye then, maun be then Frae hame this comin' Friday ; Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, The orders wi' your lady. III. My word of honour I hae gien. In Paisley John's, that night at e'n, To meet the Warld's worm ; To try to get the twa to gree, An' name the airles' an' the fee, In legal mode an' form : I ken he weel a snick can draw. 1 The airles — earnest money. OF ROBERT BURNS. 129 When simple bodies let him ; An' if a Devil be at a', In faith he's sure to get him. To phrase you, an' praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns : The pray'r still, you share still, Of grateful Min steel Buens. LXI. TO MR. M'ADAM, OP CRAIGEN-GILLAN. [It seems thnt Burns, delighted with the praise which Ihe Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses, — probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Wood- burn, liis steward, — poured out this little unpremeditated jatural acknowledgment.] SiE, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud ; See wha tak's notice o' the bard I lap and cry'd fu' loud. Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million : I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan I 'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel'. To grant your high protection : A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, Is ay a blest infection. Tho' by his' banes who in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub» I independent stand ay. — And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me ; A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail. And barley-scone shall cheer me. Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 0' many flow'ry simmers I And bless your bonnie lasses baith, I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers 1 And God bless young Dunaskin's laird. The blossom of our gentry I And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country. lDiog»ne«. Lxn. ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE SENT TO THE AUTHOR BT A TAILOK. [The person who in the name of a Tailor lock th« liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is gene* rally believed to have been William Simpson, the tcbool- master of Ochiltree : the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extin- guished half the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the amazed dominie " Strangely fidge and fyke." It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.] What ails ye now, ye lousie b — h, To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch. Your bodkin's bauld, I didna suffer ha'f sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho' at times when I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse. Is that enough for you to souse Your servant sae ? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, An' jag-the-flae. King David o' poetic brief. Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief, As fill'd his after life wi' grief, An' bluidy rants. An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 0' lang-syne saunts. And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, My wicked rhymes, an* druken rants, I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts An unco' slip yet. An' enugly sit among the saunts At Davie's hip get. But fegs, the Session says I matm Gae fa' upo' anither plan, ^han garrin lasses cowp the cran Clean heels owre body. And sairly thole their mither's ban Afore the howdy. This leads me on, to tell for sport. How I did wi' the Session sort, 130 THE POETICAL WORKS Auld Clinkum at the inner port Cried three times — "Robin! Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, Ye're blamed for jobbin'." Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, An' snoov'd away before the Session ; i made an open fair coni'ession — I scorn'd to lee ; An' syne Mess John, beyond expression. Fell foul o' me. LXIII. TO J. RANKIN E. [With the Laird of Adamhili's personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.] I AM a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; Some people tell me gin I fa' Ae way or ither. The breaking of ae point, though sma', Breaks a' thegither. I hae been in for't ance or twice. And winna say o'er far for thrice. Yet never met with that surprise That broke my rest, But now a rumour's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest. LXIV. LINES WEITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. [The bank-note on whidi these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of the late James Gracie, backer in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the compo- sition.] Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, Fell source o' a' my woe an' grief; For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy cursed restriction I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile Amid his hapless victim's spoil: And for thy potence vainly wished, To crush the villain in the dust. For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd 6hor») Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R E LXV, A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blame* with But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.* On reading, in the public papers, the " Laureate'ti Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy made the following "Address." [The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, w^hich tliey appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop tlie royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up : it is full of point as well as of the future. The allu- sions require no comment.] Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! May Heaven augment your blisses. On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, A humble poet wishes 1 My hardship here, at your levee. On sic a day as this is. Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang thae birth-day dresses Sae fine this day I see ye're complimented thrang, By many a lord an' lady ; " God save the king !" 's a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said ay ; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady. On sic a day OF IIOBEKT BUKNS. 13^ For me, before a monarch's face, But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. Ev'n there I wiiina flatter ; In loyal, true afi"ection, For neither pension, post, nor place, To pay your Queen, with due respect. Am I your humble debtor : My fealty an' subjection So, nae reflection on your grace, Tiiis great birth-day Your kingship to bespatter ; There's monie waur been o' the race, Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! And aiblins ane been better While nobles strive to please ye. Than you this day. Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gi'es ye ? 'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent. My skill may weel be doubted : Still higher may they heeze ye But facts are chiels that winna ding. In bliss, till fate some day is sent. An' downa be disputed : For ever to release ye Your royal nest beneath your wing, Frae care that day. Is e'en right reft an' clouted, And now the third part of the string, For you, young potentate o' Wales, An' less, will -gang about it I tell your Highness fairly. Than did ae day. Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; Far be't frae me that I aspire But some day ye may gnaw your nails. To blame your legislation. An' curse your folly sairly, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. That e'er ye brak Diana's pales. To rule this mighty nation. Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire. By night or day. Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known Wad better fill'd their station To mak a noble aiver; Than courts yon day. So, ye may doucely fill a throne, For a* their clish-ma-claver : And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, There, him at Agincourt wha shone Her broken phins to plaister ; Few better were or braver ; Your sair tayp.tion does her fleece. And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, Till she has scarce a tester; He was an unco shaver For me, thank God, my life's a lease, For monie a day. Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith I I fear, that, wi' the geese. For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, I shortly boost to pasture Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter. r the craft some day. Altho' a ribbon at your lug, Wad been a dress completer : I'll no mistrusting Willie Pitt, As ye disown yon paughty dog When taxes he enlarges. That bears the keys of Peter, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get. Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, A name not envy epftirges,) Or, trouth 1 ye'll stain the mitre That he intends to pay your debt. Some luckless day. An' lessen a' your charges ; But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Abridge your bonnie barges Ye've lately come athwart her ; An' boats this day. A glorious galley, ' stem an' stern. Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; Adieu, my Liego ! may freedom geek But first hang out, that she'll discern Beneath your high protection ; An' may ye rax corruption's neck. Your hymeneal charter. 1 Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain roja And gie her for dissection ! ■ailor'B amour 132 THE POETICAL WORKS Then heave aboard your grapple aim, Au', large upon her quarter, Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw. An' gie you lads a-plenty ; But sneer na British Boys awa', For kings are unco scant ay ; An' German gentles are but sma'. They're better just than want ay On onie day. God bless you a' ! consider now, Ye're unco muckle dautet ; But ere the course o' life be thro', It may be bitter sautet ; An' I hae seen their coggie fou. That yet hae tarrow't at it ; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day. LXVI. A BARD'S EPITAPH. [This beautiful and affecting poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition : Wordsworth writes with his usual taste and feeling about it : " Whom did the poet intend should be thought of, as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the ' poor inhabitant' it is supposed to be inscribed that ' Thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name !' Who but himself— himself anticipating the Dut too pro- bable termination of his own course ? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal — a confession at once devout, poeti- cal, and human — a history in the shape of a prophecy ! What more was required of the biographer, than to have pjt liis seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding «ad been realized and that the record was authentic?"] Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near ; And owre this grassy heap sing dool. And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, "Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, 0, J ass not by I But with a f rater-feeling strong. Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. Wild as the wave ; Here pause — and, through the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow. And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low. And stain'd his name I Reader, attend — whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. In low pursuit; Know, prudent, cautious self-control, Is wisdom's root. Lxvn. THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. [Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer, informed me, that the Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, when the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, said, "The Address to the Deil" and " The Holy Fair" were grand things, but it would be as well to have a calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on hia way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of •' Wee Johnnie-." On the 17th of February Burns says to John Richmond, of Mauchline, " I have completed ray Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have not shown it to the world." It is difficult to fix the dates with anything like accuracy, to compositions which are not struck off at one heat of the fancy. '< Luath was me of the poet^a dogs, which some person had wantonly killed," says Gilbert Burns; " but Ccesar was merely the creature of the imagination." The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of collies, says that Luath is true to the life, and that many a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark for ver;- joy when the cottage children were merry.] 'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, OF llOBERT BURNS. 13^ UpDn a bonnie day in June, "When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride — nae pride had he ; But wad hae spent an hour caressin*, Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. After some dog in Highland sang,^ Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Ay gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl. Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi* social nose whyles snuff" 'd and snowkit, Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lung excursion. An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down. And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation. C^SAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. An' when the gentry's life I saw. What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our laird gets in his racked rents. His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; He rises when he likes himsel' ; His flunkies answer at the bell ; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; He draws a bonnie silken purse As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeki^ The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling. At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner. Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. Better than ony tenant man His honour has in a' the Ian' ; An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension LUATH. Trowth, Ceesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke. Baring a quarry, and sic like ; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an' rape. An' when they meet wi' sair disasters. Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet. They're maistly wonderfu' contented : An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff"'d, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit « L — d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; They gang as saucy ^y poor folk. As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae. r34 THE POETICAL WORKS Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, Are riven out baith root and branch, IIow they maun thole a factor's snash : Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; In favour wi' some gentle master, While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin'. An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — I see how folk live that hae riches ; But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! CMSXR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it! LUATH. For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it! They're no sae wretched's ane wad think ; Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : An' saying, aye or no's they bid him , They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight. At operas an' plays parading, The view o't gies them little fright. Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. Or may be, in a frolic daft, They're ay in*less or mair provided ; To Hague or Calais takes a waft. An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment. To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl. A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'. The dearest comfort o' their lives. There, at Vienna or Versailles, Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives ; He rives his father's auld entails ; The prattling things are just their pride, Or by Madrid he takes the rout, That sweetens a' their fire-side ; To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt ; An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Or down Italian vista startles, Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles They lay aside their private cares, Then bouses drumly German water, To mind the Kirk and State afi'airs : To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter. They'll talk o' patronage and priests ; An' clear the consequential sorrows. Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; Love-gifts of carnival siguoras. Or tell what new taxation's comin', For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns. LUATH. They get the jovial, ranting kirns. When rural life, o' ev'ry station, Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate Unite in common recreation ; They waste sae mony a braw estate ! Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Are we sae foughten an' harass'd Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. For gear to gang that gate at last ! That merry day the year begins. 0, would they stay aback frae courts, They bar the door on frosty win's; An' please themsels wi' countra sports, The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill, For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, Are handed round wi' right guid will ; Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, Except for breakin' o' their timmer. The young anes rantin' thro' the house, — Or speakin* lightly o' their limmer, My heart has been sae fain to see them, Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. Still it's owre true that ye hae said. But will ye tell me. Master Ccesar, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? There's monie a creditable stock Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 0' decent, honest, fawsont folk. The vera thought o't need na fear tbeni. OF BOBERT BURNS. 135 L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. It's true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro* winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them. They mak enow themsels to vex them ; An' ay the less they hae to sturt them. In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the plough. His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; An' even their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping thro' public places, There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches. Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. As great and gracious a' as sisters ; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. "Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie. They sip the scandal potion pretty ; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks i. ore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, A.n' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. ThBre's some exception, man an' woman; Bat this is Gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out o' sight. An' darker gloaming brought the night: The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; The kj-e stood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; An' each took afF his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. LXVIII. LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER. ["The first time I saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, "was on the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our com- mon friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchlino, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaitit- ance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the Avriter before his name was known to the public." Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Sel kirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary's Isle : he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science ; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Buma met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, some- thing careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguisl.ed family. He died in li'« thirty-third year.] This wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner' d wi' a Lord. I've been at druken writers' feasts. Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests, Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. When mighty squireships of the quorum Their hydra drouth did sloken. But wi' a Lord — stand out, my shin ! A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son ! — Up higher yet, my bonnet! And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. As I look o'er my sonnet But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. And how he star'd and stammer u, When goavan, as if led wi' branks. An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks. He in the parlour hammer'd. 136 THE POETICAL WORKS 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. Twixtch'd the symptoms o' the great. The gentle pride, the lordly state, The arrogant assuming ; The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, Mair than an honest ploughman. Then from his lordship I shall learn. Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another ; Nae honest worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother. LXIX. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. [" I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend Chalmers, " which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One b.ank in the Address to Edinburgh, ' Fair B — ,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo made liimself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and sup- pers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns some- times made his appearance. The "Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's hopes were then liigh, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.] I. Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, ''one, the ling' ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 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 hei rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode. Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail ! And never envy blot their name ! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 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 I There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar j Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock. Have oft withstood assailing war. And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tearsi I view that noble, stately dome. Where Scotia's kings of other years, Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home; Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! Their royal name low in the dust ! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ' Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. Whose ancestors, in days of yore, OF ROBERT BURNS. I37 1 Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps May still your life from day to day Old Sc tia's bloody liou bore: Nae " lente largo" in the play, . Ev'u I who sing in rustic lore, But " allegretto forte" gay Ilaply, my sires have left their shed, Harmonious flow : And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, A sweeping, kindling, haul d stravhspey— Bold-following where your fathers led I Encore! Bravo! VIII. A blessing on the cheery gang Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! Wha dearly like a jig or sang, All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, An' never think o' right an' wrang Where once beneath a monarch's feet By square an' nile, Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! But as the clegs o' feeling stang Frommarkingwildly-scatter'd flow'rs, Are wise or fool. As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, , My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase I shelter in thy honoilr'd shade. The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race. Wha count on poortith as disgrace — Their tuneless hearts ! May fireside discords jar a base LXX. To a' their parts I EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. But come, your hand, my careless brither, r th' ither warl', if there's anither, [Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty An' that there is I've little swither Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Park- About the matter ; house, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was We cheek for chow shall jog thegither. printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, I'se ne'er bid better. »nd since then no other 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 tak' it like the unback'd filly, We've faults and failings — granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerlj For our grand fa' ; But still, but still, I like them dearly— God bless them a' I Proud o' her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter Ochon ! for poor Castalian drinkers. Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter When they fa' foul o' earthly j inkers, Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter. The witching curs'd delicious blinkers Some black bog-hole. Hae put me hyte, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, We're forced to thole. Wi' girnan spite. Hale be your heart ! Fale be your fiddle ! But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin'- Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, An' every star within my hearin' ! To cheer you through the weary widdle An' by her een wha was a dear ane I 0' this wild warl', I'll ne'er forget j Until you on a crummock driddle I hope to gie the jads a clearin' A gray-hair'd carl. In fair play yet. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, My loss I mourn, but not repent it, Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it. And screw your temper pins aboon Ance to the Indies I were wonted. A fifth or mair, Some cantraip hour. The melancholious, lazy croon By some sweet elf I'll yet bo dinted, 0' cankrie care. Then, vive f amour I 138 THE POEXICAL WORKS Faites mes baiscmains respectueuse. To sentimental sister Susie, An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some hulf-hour's leisure, Be't light, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. BOBEET BCKNS. Mossgiel, SOtk October, 1786. LXXI. THE BKIGS OF AYR, A POEM, INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTYXE, ESQ., AYR. [Burns took the liint of this Poem from the Planestanes and Causeway of Fergusson, l)ut all that lends it life and feeling belongs to his own heart and his native Ayr* he wrote it for the second edition of his Poems, and in com- pliment to the patrons of his genius in the west. Ballan- tyne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous when the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon him: others of his friends figure in the scene: Mont- gomery's courage, tiie learning of Dugald Stewart, and condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, of Stair, are gratefully recorded,] The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush ; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the hill ; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred. By early poverty to hardship steel'd. And train' d to arms in stern misfortune's field — Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? » A noted tavern at the auld Brig end. No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward ! Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds, an' flow'rs' delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek* The thundering guns are heard on 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 flow'r in field or meadow springs ; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee. Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : The hoary morns precede the sunny days. Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide blaze. While thick the gossamer 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 Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward rout. And down by Simpson's' wheel'd the left about: (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why) The drowsy Dungeon-clock,^ had number'd two, And Wallace Tow'r^ had sworn the fact was true : The tide-swol'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. 2 The two steeples. OF ROBERT BURNS. 139 All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. — When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of -whistling wings is heard ; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. Swift as the gos ' drives on the wheeling hare ; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside. (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.) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race. The very wrinkles gothic in his face : He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang. Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search. Spying the time-worn flaws in 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' thieveles3 sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en : — AULD BRIG. 1 doubt na', frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep- shank, Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank I But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see ; There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Bjme fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. NEW BRIO. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet — > The go8-hawk or falcon. 2 A note:l lord, just above tlie Auld Brig, 3 The !>:ink8 of Garpal Water is one of the tew places io the West of Scotlaad, where thi>8e fjincy-scariug be- Your ruin'd formless bulk o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? There's men o' taste wou'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 BEIG. Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride ! — This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course. Or haunted Garpal' draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes ; While crashing ice born on the roaring speat. Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate; And from Glenbuck,* down to the Ratton-key,* Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea — Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, [skies. That Architecture's noble art is lost ! NEW BEIO. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs mnst say't o't! The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gat* o't! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices ; O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture Irest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; ings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pet tiaaciously to inhabit. ■*The source of the river Ayr. 5 A small landing-place above the large key. 140 THE POETICAL WORKS Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. Mansions that -would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection ! And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- rection ! AULD BRIG. ye, my de ar-r em ember '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 gie your hurdles to the smiters ; And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers ; A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- tion, To see each melancholy alteration ; And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! Nae langer rev'rend men, their 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. The horryment and ruin of the country ; Men three parts made by tailors and by bar- bers, Wba waste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d new Brigs and Harbours I NEW BRIO. Now hand 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' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : To liken them 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 Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an' raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray'c them, Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them What farther clishmaclaver might been said. What bloody wars, if Spirites 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 featly danc'd; Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat. The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. — had M'Lauchlan,' thairm-inspiring Sage, Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with highland rage ; Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. But all the soul of Music's self was heard, Harmonious concert rung in every part. While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring, Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 1 A well known performer of Scottish mueic on th« violin. OF EGBERT BURNS. 141 A.ll-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 instruments of death ; At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- ling wrath. Lxxn. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNISTON, LATE LOBD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. [At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this Poem, in 'the hope that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompa. nied by the following surly note : — '• The foregoing Poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the son of the great man, tlie theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexan- der Wood, surgeon : when, behold ! his solicitorsbip took no more notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free with hislady'a name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas was the eider brother of that Lord Melville to whos* hands, soon after these lines were written, all the govern- ment patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and suid nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 18^4.] Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; The hollow caves return a sullen moan. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves I Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 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 the paths of men : See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; Keen on the helpless vi<;tim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail! Ye dark waste hills, and brown tinsightly plains, To you I sing my grief- inspired strains: Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll I 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. Lxxin. on readinq in a nswspapek THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESa BROTHER TO A. TOUNO LA.DT, A PARTICULAR TRISNA OF THE author's. [John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Bums, ia bis correspondence, expressed great regard. The littla 142 THE POETICAL WORKS Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses : I found Again the silent wheels of time a seventh in the M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in tiiis Their annual round have driv'n, edition, niong witli an intimation in prose, that the M'liCod fuuily liad endured many unmerited misfortunes. And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime. I obyeive Uiat Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected tiiis new Are so much nearer Heav'n. verse, l)ecause, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the (/ne which precedes it. 1 tliink diflerently, and have retained it.] No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail : Sad thy tale, thou idle page, I send you more than India boasts And rueful thy alarms : In Edwin's simple tale, Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Our sex with guile and faithless love Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; The morning rose may blow ; But may, dear maid, each lover prove But cold successive noontide blasts An Edwin still to you ! May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd ; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd. LXXV. Fate oft tears the bosom chords THE AMERICAN WAR. That nature finest strung : A FRAGMENT. So Isabella's heart was form'd, [Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of thi And so that heart was wrung. smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were uc^ statesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, anc. Were it in the poet's power. an audience of peasants. Tiie Poem gives us a striking Strong as he shares the grief picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmenof Scotland handle national topics; That pierces Isabella's heart, tlie smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter even- To give that heart relief ! ings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days^ Dread Omnipotence, alone, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration Can heal the wound He gave ; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes of " Chatham's Boy," called down on him the dusty in dignation of the republican Ritson.] To scenes beyond the grave. I- Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, When Guildford good our pilot stood, And fear no withering blast ; And did our hellim thraw, man, There Isabella's spotless worth Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Shall happy be at last. 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. LXXIV. «» TO MISS LOGAN, II. WITH BEATTIE's poems FOR A NEW YEAR's GIFT, Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, I wat he was na slaw, man ; Jan. 1, 1787. Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. [Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and And Carleton did ca', man; giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, Logan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of Camiarg, and the " sentimental sister Susie," of the Montgomery-like did fa', man, Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early Wi' sword in hand, before his band, dropped out of the poet's correspondence.! Amang his en'mies a', man. OF ROBERT BURNS. 143 III. While slee Dundas arous'd the class. Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, Be-north the Roman wa', man : Was kept at Boston ha', man ; An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith. Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe (Inspired Bardies saw, man) For Philadelphia, man ; Wi' kindling eyes cry'd "Willie, rise 1 Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin Would I hae fear'd them a', man V Guid Christian blood to draw, man: But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, IX. Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co., IV. Gowff 'd Willie like a ba', man. Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, Behind him in a raw, man ; Till Eraser brave did fa', man, An' C ale don threw by the drone. An' did her whittle draw, man ; Then lost his way, ae misty day, In Saratoga shaw, man. An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought. To make it guid in law, man. An' did the buckskins claw, man ; •X- * * * * But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man. V. Then Montague, an' Guilford, too. LXXVII. Began to fear a fa', man ; And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, THE DEAN OF FACULTY. The German Chief to thraw, man ; A NEW BALLAD. For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, Nae mercy had at a', man ; [The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Henry Erskine, and Robert Dnndas: and their contention wag, An' Chai'lie Fox threw by the box. as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of tlie Fa- An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. culty of Advocates : Erskine was successful. It is sup- posed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remem- VI. bered '< the incurable wound which his pride had got" in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the eldei Then Rockingham took up the game. Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Rehques of Till death did on him ca', man ; Burns.] When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, I. Conform to gospel law, man ; Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, They did his measures thraw, man. That Scot to Scot did carry ; For North an' Fox united stocks, And dire the discord Langside saw. An' bore him to the wa', man. For beauteous, hapless Mary : But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. VII. Or were more in fury seen, Sir, Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job— 11' swept the stakes awa', man, Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.— Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, Led him a sair /a«z pas, man ; 11. The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; Among the first was number'd ; An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, " Up, Willie, waur them a', man I" Commandment tenth remember'd. — Yet simple Bob the victory got, VIII. And won his heart's desire ; Behind the throne then Grenville's gone. Which shows fhat heaven can boil the pot, A secret word or twa, man ; Though the devil p— s in the fire. — 144 THE POETICAL WORKS Squire Hal besides had in this case Pretensions rather brassy, For talents to deserve a place Are qualifications saucy ; So, their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit's rudeness, Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness. — As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight Of & son of Circumcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob's purblind, mental vision : Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet Till for eloquence you hail him. And swear he has the angel met That met the Ass of Balaam. Lxxvn. TO A LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIB. OP DRIXK1NG-GIASSE3. [To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented the drinking-ghisses alluded to in the verses: tliey are, it seems, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high festivul, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a draught from them of "The blood of Shiraz' scorched vine."] Fair Empress of the Poet's soul. And Queen of Poetesses ; Clarinda, take this little boon. This humble pair of glasses. And fill them high with generous juice, As generous as your mind ; And pledge me in the generous toast — " The whole of human kind !" ** To those who love us !" — second fill ; But not to those whom we love ; Lest we love those who love not us ! — A third—" to thee and me, love I" LXXVIII. TO CLARINDA. [This is the lady of the drinking-glasses ; the Mrs. Mac of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in tliose days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimenUiJ and Platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well- known letters to Clarinda. The-letters, after the poet'i death, appeared in print without her permission : she ob- tained an !njuncti Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to mMl at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast. 148 THE POETICAL WORKS 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 Burns came by. That to a bard I should be seen Wi' half my channel dry : A panegyric rhyme, I ween. Even as I was he shor'd me ; But had I in my glory been. He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. IV. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin ; There, high my boiling torrent smokes. Wild-roaring o'er a linn : Enjoying large each spring and well. As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel', Worth gaun a mile to see. Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees. And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir : The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. The mavis mild and mellow ; The robin pensive autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. This, too, a 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 prpne-descending show'rs. VIII. 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 gray ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. X. Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. My lowly hanks o'erspread. And view, d-.np-bending in the pool. Their sha'l:)ws' wat'ry bed ! Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggv cliffs adorn ; And, for the little songster's nest. The close f mbow'ring thorn. XI. So may old ^'^wtia's darling hope. Your little «--ngel band. Spring, like ^eir fathers, up to prop Their hono^rr'd native land ! So may thro' A"'bion's farthest ken. To social-flow' ng glasses. The grace be — "Athole's honest men, And Athole's bonnie lasses ?" LXXXV. ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOT^y IN LOCH-TUBIT. [When Burns wrote ~.hese touching lines, '.le was stay- ing with Sir William Murray, of Ochtert^-re, during oni of his Highland tours. Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hilh-,and was welcome from its one liness to the heart of the poet.] Why, ye tenant? of the lake, For me your wat'ry haunt forsake t Tell me, fellow-cr<«atures, why At my presence thus you fly ? OF ROBERT BURNS. 14& Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — Common friend to you and me. Nature's gifts to all are free : Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. Busy feed, or wanton lave ; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow's shock. Conscious, blushing for our race. Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below : Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the cliffy brow. Marking you his prey below. In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels : But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, Glories in his heart humane — And creatures for his pleasure slain. In these savage, liquid plains. Only known to wand'ring swains, Where the mossy riv'let strays. Far from human haunts and ways ; All on Nature you depend. And life's poor season peaceful spend. Or, if man's superior might Dare invade your native right. On the lofty ether borne, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. Other lakes and other springs ; And the foe you cannot brave, Scorn at least to be his slave. LXXXVI. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IM THE PARLOUR OF THB INN AT KSNMOEB, TAYMOHTH. [The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Broadan.cne : it is n magnificent structure, contains many fine piintiugs: has some splendid old trees and romantic scene r)*.] Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid she«p, My savage journey, curious I pursue, 'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ampl« sides ; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mcng tne hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side ; The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste ; The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste ; The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ; The village, glittering in the noontide beam — Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — ***** Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire ; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter — rankling wounds : Hore heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan. And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. ***** Lxxxvn. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-!VE«8 [This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian : but when Burns saw it, the High- land passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain f(»r some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. Tliere ia anc'^v fall further up the stream, very wild ani 150 THE POETICAL WOEKS lavage, on wliich the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into u deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirl- ing foam and agitated mist.] Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re- sounds, As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep-recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- scends. And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs. Still thro' the gap the struggling river* toils. And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — LXXXVIII. POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. W. TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD's PICTTJRB. [When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Ty tiers through three generations: an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poet's hand- writing.] Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh. Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne, My fathers have fallen to right it ; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join. The Queen and the rest of the gentry. Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; Their title's avow'd by my country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th' Electoral stem ? If bringing them over was lucky for us, I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 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 bring us a halter. I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care ; But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night ; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. Your course to the latest is bright. * * * * ♦ LXXXIX. WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON THE BANKS OF NITH. June, 1788. [first copy.] [The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Dr. Geddes, has enabled me to present the reader with th« rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first- fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nith- side.] Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed. Be thou deck'd in silken stole. Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Day, how rapid in its flight — Day, how few must see the night ; Hope not sunshine every hour. Fear not clouds will always lower. Happiness is but a name. Make content and ease thy aim. OF ROBERT BURNS. 151 Ambition is a meteor gleam ; Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, Fame, a restless idle dream : Fear not clouds will always lour. Pleasures, insects on the wing As Youth and Love with sprightly dance Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring ; Beneath thy morning star advance. Those that sip the dew alone, Pleasure with her siren air Make the butterflies thy own; May delude the thoughtless pair : Those that would the bloom devour, Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup. Crush the locusts — save the flower. Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. For the future be prepar'd, Guard wherever thou canst guard ; But, thy utmost duly done. Welcome what thou canst not shun. As thy day grows warm and high. Life's meridian flaming nigh. Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? Follies past, give thou to air. Make their consequence thy care : Life's proud summits would'st thou scale' Check thy climbing step, elate. Evils lurk in felon wait : Keep the name of man in mind, And dishonour not thy kind. Reverence with lowly heart Him whose wondrous work thou art ; Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. Soar around each clifi"y hold. While cheerful peace, with linnet song, Keep His goodness still in view, Chants the lowly dells among. Thy trust — and thy example, too. As the shades of ev'ning close. Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Beadsman on Nithside. Beck'ning thee to long repose ; As life itself becomes disease. Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate, with sober thought. On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; And teach the sportive younkers round, XO. Saws of experience, sage and sound. Say, man's true genuine estimate. WKITTEN IN The grand criterion of his fate. FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, Is not — Art thou high or low ? ON NITHSIDE. Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? Dkcembbe, 1788. Wast thou cottager or king ? Peer or peasant ? — no such thing ! [Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave Did many talents gild thy span ? away many copies in his own handwriting : I have seen Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? three. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts Tell them, and press it on their mind. showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second As thou thyself must shortly find. copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the To virtue or to vice is giv'n. estate of Friars-Curse, and close to the march-dyke of Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, Ellisland; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found There solid self-enjoyment lies; seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all That foolish, selfish, faithless ways around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were Lead to the wretched, vile, and base engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the jiamo-d pencil of the bard. On Riddel's death, the Thus, resign'd and quiet, creep [lermitnare was allowed to go quietly to decay : I remem- To the bed of lasting sleep ; Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, . bar in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.] Thou whom chance may hither lead. Night, where dawn shall never break. Be thou clad in russet weed, Till future life, future no more, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, To light and joy the good restore, Grave these counsels on thy soul. To light and joy unknown before. Life is but a day at most, Stranger, go ! Hea'vn be thy guide I Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Quod the beadsman of Nithside 152 THE POETICAL WORKS xci. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, OF GLENRIDDEL. EXTBJVIPORK LINES OX RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. [CnptEin Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was Burns's neighbour, at Ellisland : he was a kind, hospi- table man, and a good antiquary. Tlie " News and Review-' which he sent to the poet contained, I have heard, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with his usu il strong sense, set the proper value upon all contemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing to fear from the folly or the malice of all such nameless «• chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his pears, and where were such to be found ?] Ellisland, Monday Evening. Your news .and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, With little admiring or blaming; The papers are barren of home-news ov foreign, No murders or rapes worth the naming. Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir, But of meet or unmeet in a fabric complete, I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your good- ness Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, And then all the world, Sir, should know it ! XCII. A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. [" The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of the verses now before me, " was composed partly with B view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to tlie worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. %iwart, of Afton."] Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, And pierc'd mj' darling's heart ; And with him all the joys are fled Life can to me impart. By cruel hands the sapling drops, In dust dishonour'd laid : So fell the pride of all my hopes, My age's future shade. The mother-linnet in the brake Bewails her ravish'd young ; So I, for my lost darling's sake. Lament the live day long. Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, Now, fond I bare my breast, 0, do thou kindly lay me low With him I love, at rest ! XCIII. FIRST EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OK FIXTRAY. [In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says " accompanying a request." What the request was the letter which enclosed it relates. Graham was one of the leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised Burns a sitaati(m as exciseman: for this the poet had qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming would be unprofitable, he wrote to remind his patron of his promise, and requested to be appointed to a division in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in due time : his division was extensive, and included ten parishes.] When Nature her great master-piece designed, And fram'd her last best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, She form'd of various parts the various man. Then first she calls the useful many forth ; Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; The caput mortuum of gross desires Makes a material for mere knights and squires; The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de* signs. Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. The flashing elements of female souls. The order'd system fair before her stood. Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; But ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more OF ROBERT BURNS. 15B Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter. Such as the slightest breath of air might scat- ter; With arch alacrity and conscious glee (Natur:; may have her whim as well as we, Hei H./g&rth-art perhaps she meant to show it) She foii:.3 Jie thing, and christens it — a Poet. Creacure tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends: A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet 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 helpless 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 Graham. Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, Weak, timid landsmen on life's otormy main ! Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuflF, That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; The little fate allows, they share as soon. Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them depend, Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend!" Let pru lence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun, "Who feel by reason and who give by rule, (Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) Who make poor will do wait upon / should — ^^ e own they're prudent, but who feels they're good ? Ytj wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy I 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 I Prop of m'^ dearest hopes for future times. Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? I know my need, I know thy giving hand, I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; But there are such who court the tuneful nine — Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows. Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. Mark, how their lofty independent spirit Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; Pity the best of words should be but wind ! So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as- cends, But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. They dun benevolence with shameless front ; Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, They persecute you all your future days ! Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, My horny fist assume the plough again ; The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more ; On eighteen-pence a week Pve liv'd before. Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift! I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift: That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. My muse may imp her wing for some sublimei flight. XCIV. ON THB DEATH 07 SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. [I found these lines written with n pencil in one of Burns's memorandum-books: he said he had just com« posed them, and pencilled them down lest they should escape from his memory. They differed in nothing frona the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they were, I know not for what reason, excluded from severaj editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.] Tm? lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 154 THE POETICAL WORKS 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,2 Oi mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.s Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. — " My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried ; " Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, " Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride. **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 freedom's blossoms richly blow : But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. " My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, "While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! iN'o; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame. ** And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — She said, and vani^h'd with the sweeping blast. 1 Tiie King's Park, at Holyiood-house. 2 St. Anthony's Well. xcv. EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. [This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to OM of the poet's Kilmarnock companions, Hugh Parker was the brother of William Parker, one of the sub- scribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems : ha has been dead many years : the Epistle was recoveied, luckily, from his papers^ and printed fo- tJie first time-ia In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles. Nor limpet in poetic shackles: A land that prose did never view it, Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek. Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal : Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters ; For life and spunk like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Wi' nae 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 through many a shire ? At howes or hillocks never stumbled, And late or early never grumbled ? — had I power like inclination, I'd heeze thee up a constellation. To canter with the Sagitarre, Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; Or turn the pole like any arrow ; Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, Down the zodiac urge the race. And cast dirt on his godship's face ; For I could lay my bread and kail He'd ne'er cast saut upo* thy tail. — Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, And nought but peat reek i' my head, How can I write what ye can read ? — Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, Ye'U fie J me in a better tune ; 3 St. Anthony's Chapel. *His mare. OF ROBERT BURNS. 15 But till we meet and weet our whistle, Tak this excuse for nae epistle. EOBEBT BUBNS. XCVI. LINES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE. [Burns placed the portraits of Dr. Blacklock and the Earl of Glencairn, over his parlour chimney-piece at Ell island : beneath the head of the latter he wrote some verses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to make public. This seems to have been refused; and, as the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were destroyed : a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is now in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged 42 years: he was Bucceeded by his only and childless brother, with whom 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 ? . Stranger ! to justly show that brow. And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other w6ut the court Wad bid to him pudeday. [This is a local nnd political Toein composed on the contest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, nnd The neist cam in a sodger youtn. Johnstone, of Westerliall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each And spak wi' modest grace. town or borough speaks and acts in character : Maggy And he wad gae to London town. Mraonates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of If sae their pleastire was. 168 THE POETICAL WORKS He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, Nor meikle speech pretend ; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne'er desert his friend. Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir carlins fell ; For some had gentlefolks to please. And some wad please themsel'. Then out spak mira-mou'd Meg o' Nith, And she spak up wi' pride, And she wad send the sodger youth, Whatever might betide. For the auld gudeman o' London court She didna care a pin ; But she wad send the sodger youth To greet his eldest son. Ji Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs And wrinkled was her brow ; Her ancient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scotch heart was true. " The London court set light by me — I set as light by them ; And I will send the sodger lad To shaw that court the same." Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, And swore a deadly aith, Says, " I will send the border-knight Spite o' you carlins baith. * For far-off fowls hae feathers fair. And fools o' change are fain ; But I hae try'd this border-knight, I'll try him yet again." Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, " Ye weel ken, kimmersa', The auld gudeman o' London court. His back's been at the wa'. "And mony a friend that kiss'd Jiis caup. Is now a fremit wight ; '^■^•' » ' C^ But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean, — Wo'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 spier nae courtier's leave." So how this mighty plea may end There's naebody can tell : God grant the king, and ilka man, May look weel to himsel' I CXIV. THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH. [This short Poem was first published by Robert Cham- bers. It intimites pretty strongly, how r.iufh the p->et disapproved of the change which came ove: the Puke of Queensberry's opinions, vvlien he supported trie r.ght of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, with- out consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness, in 1788.] The laddies by the banks o* Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie. Up and waur them a', Jamie, Up and waur them a' ; The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't. Ye turncoat Whigs awa'. The day he stude his country's friend," Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie : Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie. But wha is he, his country's boast? Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; There's no a callant tents the kye. But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,' Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; And Maxwell true o' sterling blue : And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 1 Birkwhistle : a Galloway laird, and elector. OF ROBERT BURNS. 109 cxv. EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTEAY: ON TH^S rtOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN ft J .AMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. ["I am too little a man," said Burns, in the note to F;ntray, wliich accompanied this poem, "to have any political attacliment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the wannest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man wlio has it in iiis power to be tiie father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience." This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1S34 : I had the use of tiie Macmurdo and the Afton ma- nuscripts for that purpose : to botli families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.] FiNTRAT, 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. Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd. And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd To every Whig defiance. But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding : But left behind him heroes bright. Heroes in Caesarean fight. Or Ciceronian pleading. ! for ft throat like huge Mons-meg, To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banner ; Heroes and heroines commix, AH in the field of politics, To win immortal honour. 1 John M'Mnrdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig. « Ferirussonof Craigdarroch. SRi del of Fnars-Carse M'Murdo' and his lovely spouse, (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces: She won each gaping burgess' heart. While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and lasses. Craigdarroch^ led a light-arm'd corps, Tropes, metaphors and figures pour. Like Hecla streaming thunder: Glenriddel,^ skill'd in rusty coins. Blew up each Tory's dai-k 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 W^ith Cyclopeian fury. Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation! While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 'Mid Lawson's^ port intrench'd his hold. And threaten' d worse damnation. To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. With these what Tory warriors clos'd. Surpasses my descrivmg: Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge. Like raging devils driving. What verse can sing, what prose narrate. The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie I Grim Horror grinn'd — pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, And hell mix'd in the brulzie. As highland craigs by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift. Hurl down with crashing rattle: As flames among a hundred woods ; As headlong foam a hundred floods ; Such is the rage of battle 1 The stubborn Tories dare to die ; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before the approaching fellers . < Provost Staig of Dumfries. 6 SherifT Welsh. * A wine-merchant in Dumfries. 170 THE POETICAL WORKS The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan BuUers. 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 Charter 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 bums, The Tories, Wliigs, give way by turns ; But fate the wor ' has spoken ; For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas ! can do but what they can ! The Tory ranks are broken. that my een were flowing burns, My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs' undoing I That I might greet, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly. And furious Whigs pursuing I What Whig but melts for good Sir James ! Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor 1 Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! And Uopeton falls, the generous brave ! And Stewart,* bold as Hector. Thou, Pitt, Shalt me this overthrow ; And Thurlow grrwl a curse of woe ; And Melville melt in wailing ! How Fox and Sheridan rejoice I 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 ; Bo, when the storm the forests rends, The robin in the hedge descends. And sober chirps securely. • The executioner of Charles i. was masked. « Scrimgeour, L.oru Duuuee. XCI. CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTINO THB ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. [This " fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a cle\er :nan, « skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with lieraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armour of his own and other coun- tries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social " board of Gienriddel," for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman he.ird, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humour- ous turns of conversation in tlie joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said ■ that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal 1 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 I If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 0' stature short, but genius bright. That's he, mark weel — And wow ! he has an unco slight 0' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin" At some black art. Ek ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer. Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour. And you deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. Ye midnight b s ! It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 3 Graham, iMarquis of Montrose. * Stewart of Hillside. OF ROBERT BURNS. 171 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 haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid; And parritch-pats, and auid saut-backets, Afore the flood. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender ; That which distinguished the gender 0' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Forbye, he'll shape you afi^, 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, port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him I Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose I 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 ! cxvn. WEITTEN IN A WRAPPEK, KNCLOSINa A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE. [Burns wrote out some antiquurinn and legendary memoriiuht, respecting cert-iiu ruins tn Kyle, and en- tlosed tliein in a sheet of a paper to C.trdonnei, a north- ern antiquary. As his mind teemed with poetry he of sending a rhyming inquiry after hit fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the condoling inquiry over the Noith-4 "Is he slan by Highlan' bodies? And eaten like a wether-haggis ?"J EIen 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. Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? Igo and ago. Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? Iram, coram, dago. Where'er he be, the L — d be near him I Igo and ago. As for the deil, he daur na steer him I Iram, coram, dago. But please transmit the enclosed letter, Igo and ago. Which will oblige your humble debtor, Iram, coram, dago So may he hae auld stanes in store, Igo and ago, The very stanes that Adam bore, Iram, coram, dago. So may ye get in glad possession, Igo and ago. The coins o' Satan's coronation? Iram, coram, dago. cxvin. TAM 0' SHANTER A TALE. "Of brownys and of bogilis full is this Imke." Gawin Oodgiai. [This is a West-country legend, embellished by genius. No other Poem in our inn^jusige displnys such could not. as he afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass variety of power, in the same number of lines. It was 172 THE POETICAL WORKS virritten as an inducement to Grose to admit Alloway- Kirk into his work on the Antiquities of Scotland ; and written with such ecstasy, that the poet shed tears in the moments of composition. The walk in wliich it was conceived, on the bnies of Eliislnnd, is held in remem- brance in the vale, and pointed out to poetic inquirers: while flie scene where the poem is liid — the crumbling ruins the place where the chapman perished in the snow — the iree on which tiie poor motiier of Mun<^o ended her Borrows— the cairn where the murdered child was found by the lunUers— and the old bridge over whicii Maggie b( re her astonislied master when all hell was in pursuit, are first-rate objects of inspection and inquiry in the "Land of Murns." "In the inimitnl)le tale of Tam o' Shante ," says Scott "Burns has left us sufficient evidence of his al)i!ity to combine tiie ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions."] » -"^ ' When chapman oillies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak' the gate ; . While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou and unco happy, We think na on the l^ng Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm. Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! . , ' She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon. Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. To think how mony counsels sweet. How raony lengthen'd sage advices. The husband frae the wife despises I But to our tale : — Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right ; Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera britlier; They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious ; Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus :• The storm without might rair and rustle- Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white — then melts for evei ; Or like the borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane^ That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The de'il had business on his hand. Weel mounterl on his gray mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam sTielpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 1 VARIATION. The cricket raised its cheering cry. The kittien clias'd its tail in joy. I CO ■-■- ■-= 2^ CO _ - ea OF ROBERT BURN^, 173 Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bugles catch him unawares ; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — By this time he was cross the foord, '^ Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; And past the birks and meikle starie^, Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cdirn, Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Alungo's mither hang'd hersel'* Before him Doon pours all his floods ; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; And loud rcsovinded mirth and dancing. Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil! The ^a'£s sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And wow ! Tam saw an tihco' sight.' Warlocks' and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reelS; Put life and mettle in their heels : A winnock-bunker in the east, I There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; "A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge ; . ^ . . He screw'd the pipes and gart them s^irl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— Coffins stood round, like open presses ; That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light — By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, ' ^^ A murderer's ban'6s in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 1 VABIATIOIf . Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside oat, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout ; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; A garter, which a babe had strangled ; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft. The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:' Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit; 'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,. And coost her duddies to the wark. And linket at it in her sark ! ^ \,.-^ Now Tam, Tam ! had thae been queans A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' crieesti^ flarinen, . Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen, TChir breeks o' mine, my only pair. That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, -' -^^ ■" For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, , . Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was a winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kepi^ the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley ham. That, while a lassie, she had worn. In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie— Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches). Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! And priests' hearts rotten black as muck, Lay stinking vile, in every neuk. 174 THE POETICAL WORKS But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and Strang,) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd ; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: "fill first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither. And roaVs out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" And in an instant all was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, "When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, "When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; As eager runs the market-crowd. When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. Ah, Tam ! Ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'I In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane' of the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross ! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake ! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, ^^jij^^,^ And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare. 1 It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil Bpirts, have no power to follow a poor wight any fur- ther than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, CXIX. ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THB PRESIDENT OF THB HIGHLAND SOClErX. [This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Ma- gazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from th« original in tlie handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, " To the Riglit Honourable the Earl of Breadal- byne, President of the Right Honourable and Honour- able the Highland Society, which met on tlie23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert wayi and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Higlilanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M. , of A s, were so audacious as to attempt an es- cape from tlieirlawfu., lairds and magters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdo- nald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic tiling— Liberty." The Poem was com- municated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.] Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes — as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and A s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight ; I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water ; Then up amang the lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please , Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin' ; May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; Some W^ashington again may head them, Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed — Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire ! Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance, To cowe the rebel generation, An' save the honour o' the nation ? They an' be d d ! what right hae they To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. But what your lordship likes to gie them ? that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger ther« may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. OF ROBERT BURNS. 175 But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna' say but they do gaylies ; They lay aside a' tender mercies, An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; But smash them ! crash them a' to spalls I An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! The hizzies, if theyre aughtlins fawsont. Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd! An' if the wives an' dirty brats E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', Frightiu' awa your deuks an' geese. Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, The langest thong, the fiercest growler. An' gar the tattered gypsies pack Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you. An' in my house at hame to greet you ; Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, The benmost neuk beside the ingle, At my right han' assigned your seat 'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate, — Or if you on your station tarrow. Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; An' till ye come — Your humble rervant, Beelzebub, June Ist, Anno Mundi 5790. cxx. TO JOHN TAYLOR. [B-JT1S, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revo: te matters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead : the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with diflicM.ty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-angaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his interference : Taylor spoke to a smith ; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had " never been well paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him ia drink, and pail him in verse."] With Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying, Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker ; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker. Obliging Vulcan fell to work. Threw by his coat and bonnet. And did Sol's business in a crack- Sol paid him with a sonnet. Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster ; My Pegasus is poorly shod — I'll pay you like my master. Robert Burns. Ramages, 3 o* clock, {no date.) CXXI. LAMENT OF MART, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. [The poet communicated this " Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, in Februnry, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at tlie request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Max- well, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he un rewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff* box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth ; and a lettel from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the Maxwells to firm in his cause, is preserved ia the family archives.] Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea : Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the meny mom, Aloft on dewy wing ; 176 THE POETICAL WORKS The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodliind echoes ring ; The mavis wild wi' mony a note. Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now hlooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae ; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae ; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang ! I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in tlie morn, As biythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, And mony a traitor there ; Yet here I lie in foreign bands And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman ! My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae ! The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee ; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son ! my son ! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign. That ne'er wad blink on mine ! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee : Ar.i where thou meet'st thy mother's friend Remember him for me ! ! soon, to me, may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn ! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn ! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave ; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave I CXXII. THE WHISTLE. ["As the authentic prose history," says Burns, "of the 'Whistle' is curious, I shall here give it. In th« train of Anne of Denmark, when she cauie to Scotland virith our James the Sixth, there came overaiio a Danish gentleman of pigiintic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ehouy whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenh.igeii, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scotch Bacchtmali-ns to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknow- ledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encoujiYered by Sii Robert Lawrie, (-f Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, * And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' *' Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen- riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.— On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq , of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won tlie whis- tle, and in whose family it had continued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman carried off the hard-wonhonours of the field." The jovial contest took place in the dining-room of Friars-Carse, in the presence of the Bard, wlio drank bottle and bottle about with them, and seemed quite dis- posed to take up the conqueror when the day dawned .J I siNa of a whistle, a whistle of worth, I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, ' still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— 1 See Ossian's Carie-thura. OF ROBERT BURNS. 177 *• This whistle's your challenge— to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me more !*' Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; The son of great Loda was conqueror still. And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill. Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war. He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea. No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd ; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. And once more, in claret, try which was the man. •♦By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel re- plies, " Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,i And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend. Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field. And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair. So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 1 See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides 12 A bard was selected to witness the fray. And tell future ages the feats of the day ; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen. And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply. And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn. Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart-bumpers con- tend? Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light ; So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink ; — " Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink; But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. Come — one bottle more — and have at the eub' lime! " Thy line, that have struggled for freedom "with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day !" 178 THE POETICAL WORKS CXXIII. ELEGY OH MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. [This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly Burnet, as Burns loved to call her, vv^as daughter to the odd and tlie elegant, the clever and the whimsical Lord Monboddo. " In domestic circumstances," savs Robert Chambers, "Monboddo was particularly unfortunate. His wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His son, a promising boy, in whose education he took great delight, was likewise snatched from his affections by a premature death ; and his second daughter, in personal loveliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off by consumption, when only twenty-five years old." Her name was Elizabeth.] Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In richest ore the brightest jewel set! In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known. In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore. Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves. Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth, Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? We saw thee shine in youth and beauty s pride. And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ; But like the" sun eclips'd at morning tide. Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; fio leck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; So from it ravish' d, leaves it bleak and bare. CXXIV. LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [Bums lamented the death of this kind and accom* plished nobleman with melancholy sincerity: h« more- over named one of his sons for him: he went into mourn* ing when he heard of his death, and he sung of his merit! in a strain not destined soon to lose the place it has taken among verses which record the names of the noble and the generous. He died January 30, 1791, in the forty- second year of his age. James Cunningham was suc- ceeded in his title by his brother, and with him expired, in 1796, the last of a race, whose name is intimately connected with the History of Scotland, from the days of Malcolm Canmore.] I. The wind blew hollow frae the hills. By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods That 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'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, [years ; Whose trunk was mould'ring down with 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. III. "Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. The reliques of the 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. IV. " I am a bending aged tree. That long has stood the wind and rain ; But now has come a cruel blast. And my last hold of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm, And ither3 plant them in my room. OF ROBEET BUKNS. 17^ •' I've seen sae mony changcfu' years, On earth I am a stranger grown ; I wan3er in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown : Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, I bear alane my 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. VII. " Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! The voice of woe and wild despair ; Awake ! resound thy latest lay — Then sleep in silence evermair ! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb. Accept this tribute from the bard [gloom. Though brought from fortune's mirkest VIII. " 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, the noble, gen'rous, great. Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! Why did I live to see that day ? A day to me so full of woe ! — 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 mother 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 V* cxxv. LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART.. OF WHITEFOORD. WITH THE FOBEGOINO POEM. [Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literature, and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes o*" 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, I, the patron, loVd ; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone. And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. CXXVI. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CBOWNINO HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BATS. [" Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Bumi to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September : for which daf perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occa- sion. Suppose Mr. Bums should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Cale- donian virtue." Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down hia sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and trarerta 180 THE POETICAL WORKS one of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of the bad bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's absence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst not venture upon — but he sent this Poem. The poet's manuscript affords the following interesting variations : — " While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, A carpet for her youthful feet : «' While Summer, with a matron's grace, Walks stately in the cooling shade. And oft delighted loves to trace The progress of tlie spiky blade : " While Autumn, benefactor kind. With age's hoary honours clad. Surveys, with self-approving 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 -ffiolian strains between : While Summer, with a matron grace. Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade : While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed : While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : So long, sweet Poet of the year ! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. cxxvn. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAT. 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 panaiies, and exposed him both to fatigue and expense. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due tim« attended to, for Fintray was a gentleman at once kind and considerate.] Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg : Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd. And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade * Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain : The lion and the bull thy care have found. One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground : 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 are snug; Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts ; — But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard, To thy poor fenceless, naked child — the Bard I A thing unteachable in world's skill. And half an idiot too, more helpless still ; No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ; — In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast from every side . Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame . Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig musi wear: OF ROBERT BURNS 181 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 1 So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- serve. They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care." So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell 1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 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 :) ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! — Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare ! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; Qive energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death! CXXVIII. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OP FINTEAY. ON RKCBIVINO A FAVOTTE. [Graham of Fintray not only obtained for the poet tl.« appointment in the Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but he also removed him; as he wished, to a better district; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fear of want.] I 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 sparkling stars of night ; If aught that giver from my mind efface ; If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, Only to number out a villain's years ! CXXIX. A VISION. [Tfiis Vision of Liberty descended on Bums among ti» magnificent ruins of the College of Lincluden, which stand on the junction of the Cluden and the Nith, a short mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision : perhaps, he dared not in those yeasty times venture on the song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The scene is chiefly copied from nature : the swellings of the Nith, the bowlings of the fox on the hill, and the cry of the owl, unite at times with the naturul beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins weie a favourite haunt of the poet.] As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower And tells the midnight moon her care *. The winds were laid, the air was still. The stars they shot along the sky ; The fox was howling on the hill. And the distant echoing glens reply. 182 THE POETICAL WORKS The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith," Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.^ Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. The sacred posy — 'Libertiel' 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. JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIKTH-DAY. [John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom these verses are addressed, though descended from the Eails of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claim- ed merit only from a judgment sound and clear — a know- ledge of business which penetrated into all the concema of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a re- fusal. He loved to meet Burns : not that he either cared for or comprehended poetry ; but he was pleased with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and VARIATIONS. 1 To join yon river on the Strath. 2 Now looking over firth and fauld. Her horn the pule-fac'd Cynthia rear'd ; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seven- ty-one years old when these verses were written, an^ survived the poet twenty years.] Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: Lispir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf This natal morn ; I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half worn This day thou raetes 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 teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour. Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, In brunstane stoure — But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee ! Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, And then the Deil he daur na steer ye ; Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye ; For me, shame fa' me. If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While BuBNS they ca' mel Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792. CXXXI. THE RIGHTS OF, WOMAN. AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FOKTENELLB ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, Nov. 26, 1792. [Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses whom "Wil- liamson, the manager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged in littl* levities ofspeech, and rumouradded, perhaps maliciously levities of action. The Riglits ot Man had been advo cated by Paine, the Rights of Woman by Marj- Wul OF ROBEKT BURNS. 183 gloiiecroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regeneration of the world. The line " But truce with kings and truce with constitutions," got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audi- erce. The words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on them.] While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, Ihe fate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of state must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First on the sexes' intermix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. Our second Right — but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, Each man of sense has it so full before him. He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough, rude man had naughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- bred — Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest. That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- tration Mci* humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration I In tLat blest sphere alone we live and move ; There taste that life of life — immortal love. — Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions. Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah ! ga ira ! the majesty of woman ! CXXXII. MONODY, ON A LADY FAMED FOB HER CAPRICE. [The heroine of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park : a lady young and gay, much of 9 wit, and something of a poetess, and till the hour of hi< death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his dis- pleasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some "epauletted coxcombs," for so ha sometimes designated commissioned officers: the laJy 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. How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten' d ! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired. How dull is that ear which to flattery so lia- ten'd ! If sorrow and anguish their exit await. From friendship and dearest aff"ection re- mov'd ; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou livedst tinlov'd Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : But come, all ye off'spring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower. We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure tha lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem froni his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem 184 THE POETICAL WORKS CXXXIII. EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. [Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition : it is printed from the Poet's own munuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to con- tempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her « Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;" and has a passing hit at her " Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."] From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast ; Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more ; Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : From these dire scenes ray wretched lines I date. To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. ♦* Alas ! I feel I am no actor here !" 'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear ! Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy polled. By barber woven, and by barber sold. Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care. Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms. In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria's prying 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 the tartan'd lines, For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 1 Captain Gillespie. The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head ; Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse thxn Woolwich hulks ; Though there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate ; Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. And dares the public like a noontide sun. (What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger, Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom when He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — And pours his vengeance in the burning line. Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine ; The idiot strum of vanity bemused. And even th' abuse of poesy abused ! Who call'd her verse, a parish workhouse made For motley foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?) A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! In durance vile here must I wake and weep. And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell ? Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse. The vices also, must they club their curse ? Or must no tiny sin to others fall. Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls. Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls? Who calls thee, pert, aflfected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? Who says, that fool alone is not thy due. And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? Our force united on thy foes we'll turn. And dare the war with all of woman born : For who can write and speak as thou and I ? My periods that deciphering defy, And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 2 Col. Macdouall. OF ROBERT BURNS. 18i) cxxxiv. POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. [Though Gilbert Burns says there is some doubt of this Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Cham- bers declares that he " has scarcely a doubt that it is not bf the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his, for I have no doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers of the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the fourth, and the concluding verses bear the Burns' stamp, which no one has been successful in counterfeiting : they resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers has compared them, as little as the cry of the eagle re- lembles the chirp of the wren.] Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd! In chase o' thee, what 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 favours I Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang, To death or marriage ; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage ? In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 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 0' 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 ? les! there is ane; a Scottish callan — There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan 1 Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever ; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever I Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell I In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns giay, 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, WHITTBW ON THB TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANVART, 1793, THB BIKTHDAT OF THB ATTTHOR, ON HBAKINO A THKUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. [Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side : he is willing to accept the un- looked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.] 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 blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear. Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank Thee, Author of this opening day ! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys. What wealth could never give nor take away. Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite witli thee I'll share. 186 THE POETICAL WORKS cxxxvi. SONNET, OS THK DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF QLENBIDDEL, Apkil, 1794. [The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland, been his neighbour, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to regard his o\\'ti future fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices en- tertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what the rustics of the vale called "queer qualms and swine-troughs," is now scattered or neglected : I have heard a competent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland.] No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul ; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye 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, who has not left his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. CXXXVII. IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. R 'S BIRTHDAY. [By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart which his verses " On a lady famed for her caprice" mflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Riddel.] Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this 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. cxxxvni. LIBERTY. A FRAGMENT. [Fragments of verse were numerous, Dr. Currie said, among the loose papers of the poet. These lines formed the commencement of an ode commemorating the achieve- ment of liberty for America, under the directing geniui of Washington and Franklin.] Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Immingled with the mighty dead ! Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace 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 ! CXXXIX. VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. [This young lady was the daughter of the poet ■ friend, Graham of Fintray ; and the gift alluced to was a OF KOBEKT BURNS. 187 copy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs: a vrork which owes many attractions to the lyric genius of Burns.] Heee^ where the Scottish muse immortal lives, J 3. fcacred strains and tuneful numbers join' d, Accept the gift ; — tho' humble he who gives, Eich is the tribute of the grateful mind. So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; While conscious virtue all the strain endears. And heaven-bora piety her sanction seals. CXL. THE VOWELS. [Bums admired genius adorned by learning; but mere learning without genius he always regarded as pedantry. Those critics who scrupled too much about words he called eunuclis of literature, and to one, who taxed hira witli writing obscure language in questionable grammar, he said, " Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker be- tween vowels and consonants ! "] 'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, In all his pedagogic powers elate. His awful chair of state resolves to mount, And call the trembling vowels to account. — First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight 1 His twisted head look'd backward on the way, And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ail Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race The justling tears ran down his honest facel That name ! that well-worn name, and all his own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne 1 The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; And next the title following close behind, He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign' d. The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y ! In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art^ So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew I As trembling IT stood staring all aghast. The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast. In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight CXLI. VERSES TO JOHN RANKIN E. [With the " rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adam-hill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of hii death : these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed that these lines were suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged recruits : — "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 himsel' to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, " By Q — 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 Adamhill a glance he threw, *' L — d G — d I" quoth he, "I have it now, There's just the man I want, i' faith !" And quickly stoppit Rankiue's breath. 188 THE POETICAL WORKS CXLII. ON SENSIBILITY. IIT DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP; OF DUNLOP. [Tl 3S0 verses were occasioned, it is said, by some Mutii -.ents contained in a communication from Mrs. Dun- (Op, That excellent lady was sorely tried with domestic tin lotions for a time, and to these lie appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourtk .ine 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. Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray : Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys : Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feeling can bestow ; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, Thrill the deepest notes of woe. Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. Ah, why should I such scenes outlive Scenes so abhorrent to my heart I 'Tie thine to pity and forgive. CXLIII. LINES, SBNT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. [The too hospitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned these repentant strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet had. it seems, not only spoke of mere titles and rank with' disrespect, but had all')wed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on ihe clai n of political importance, and domestic equality, which Alary Wolstonecroft and her followers patron- ized, at which Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously of- fended.] The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send ; (Not moony madness more astray;) Who but deplores that hapless friend ? CXLIV. ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BliIiJSFIT NIGHT. [This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at th« Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.] Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; Said nothing like his works was ever printed ; And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted! "Ma'am, let me tell you,!' quoth my man of rhymes, "I know your bent — these are no laughing times : Can you — but. Miss, I own I have my fears, Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repent- ance; Paint "Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry- ing? I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall know it ; And so your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, That Misery's another word for Grief; I also think — so may I be a bride ! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — To make three guineas do the work of five : OF ROBERT BURNS. 185 Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam 'witch ! Bay, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jlltish arts and airs hast strove ; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck — Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap : Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf ? Laugh at their follies — laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific. And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 4nd as we're merry, may we still be wise. CXLV. ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. [The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fon- lenelle pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to what character in the range of her personations he alludes : she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.] Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf. Not to thee, but thanks to nature, Ttou art acting but thyself. Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. Spurning nature, torturing art ; Loves and graces all rejected. Then indeed thou'dst act a part. R. B. OXLVI. TOCHLORIS. [Chloris was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and aorrow w^ere strongly mingled in her early history : that she did not look so lovely in other eyes as she did m those of Burns is well known : but he had much of the taste of an artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the harmony of her motion, as much as he did her blooming face and sweet voice.] 'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, Nor thoa the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend The moralizing muse. Since thou in all thy youth and charms. Must bid the world adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) To join the friendly few. Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast. Chill came the tempest's lower ; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast Did nip a fairer flower.) Since life's gay scenes must charm no mora, Still much is left behind ; Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— The comforts of the mind ! Thine is the self-approving glow. On conscious honour's part ; And, dearest gift of heaven below. Thine friendship's truest heart. The joys refin'd of sense and taste. With every muse to rove : And doubly were the poet blest, These joys could he improve. cxLvn. POETICAL INSCRIPTION FOB AN ALTAE TO INDEPENDENCE. [It was the fashion of the feverish times of the French Revolution to plant trees of Liberty, and raise altars to Independence. Heron of Kerrouglitree, a gentleman widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage in an election contest, and these noble lines served the pur- pose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on free- dom.] Thou of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to braT», Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; Virtue alone who dost revere. Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here. 190 THE POETICAL WORKS CXLVIII. THE HERON BALLADS. [ballad fikst.] [Tliis is the first of several party ballads which Burns wrote to serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two elections for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which 'lo was opposed, first, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and tecnndly, by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a personal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not mingle with the strains in which the poet recorded the contest between Miller and Johnstone. They are printed here as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will je displeased, and some will smile.] Whom will you send to London town, To Parliament and a' that ? Or wha in a' the country round The best deserves to fa' that ? For a' that, and a' that, Thro Galloway and a' that ; Where is the laird or belted knight That best deserves to fa' that ? Wha sees Kerroughtree' s open yett. And wha is't never saw that ? Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets And has a doubt of a' that ? For a' that, and a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that, The independent patriot, The honest man, an' a' that. III. Tho' wit and worth in either sex, St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, And weel does Selkirk fa' that. For a' that, and a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that ! The independent commoner Shall be the man for a' that. But why should we to nobles jouk, And it's against the law that ; For why, a lord may be a gouk, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Here's Heron yet for a' that I A lord may be a lousy loun, Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. T. A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that ; But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, A man we ken, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that I For we're not to be bought an' sold Like naigs^ an' nowt, an' a' that. Then let us drink the Stewartry, Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that. Our representative to be. For weel he's worthy a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. Here's Heron yet for a' that. A House of Commons such as he. They would be blest that saw that CXLIX. THE HERON BALLADS. [ballad second.] [In this ballad the poet gathers together, after the manner of " Fy ! let us a' to the bridal," all the leading electors of the Stewartry, who befriended Heron, or opposed him; and draws their portraits in the colours of light or darkness, according to the complexion of their politics. He is too severe in most instances, and in some he is venomous. On the Earl of Galloway's family, and on the Murrays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on Bushby of Tinwaldowns, he pours his hottest satire. But words which are unjust, or undeserved, fall off their victims like rain-drops from a wild-duck's wing. The Murrays of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of Prince Charles Stewart : from such infamy the family is wholly free : the traitor, Murray, was of a race now extinct . and while he Avas betraying the cause in which so much noble and gallant blood was shed, Murray of Broughton and Caillie was performing the duties of an honourable and loyal man : he was, like his great-grandson now, representing his native district in parliament.] THE ELECTION. Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin' there ; For Murray's' light horse are to muster, And 0, how the heroes will swear ! I Murray, of Brooghton and Caillie. OF ROBERT BURNS. 191 An' there will be Murray commander, An' there will be Buittle's^ apostle, And Gordon' the battle to win ; Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; Like brothers they'll stand by each other, An' there will be folk from St. Mary's.^ Sae knit in alliance an' kin. A house o' great merit and note, The deil ane but honours them highly,— II. The deil ane will gie them his vote I An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,^ The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; - VII. And he get na hell for his haddin' An' there will be wealthy young Richard," The deil gets na justice ava' ; Dame Fortune should hing by the neck ; And there will Kempleton's birkie, For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, A boy no sae black at the bane. His merit had won him respect : But, as for his fine nabob fortune, An' there will be rich brother nabobs, We'll e'en let the subject alane. Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first. An' there will be Collieston's" whiskers, III. An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst. A.n' there will be Wigton's new sheriflf. Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped. She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, VIII. But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? An' there will be stamp-ofi&ce Johnnie," An' there will be Cardoness," Esquire, Ttik' tent how ye purchase a dram ; Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, A wight that will weather damnation. An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam; For the deyil the prey will despise An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree,i3 Whose honour was ever his law. lY If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel. An' there will be Douglasses'* doughty, His worth might be sample for a'. New christ'ning towns far and near ; Abjuring their democrat doings. IX. By kissing the — o' a peer ; An' can we forget the auld major. An' there will be Kenmure^ sae gen'rous, Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, Whose honour is proof to the storm. Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other. To save them from stark reprobation. Him only 'tis justice to praise. He lent them his name to the firm. An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, V. And also Barskimming's gude knight, An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, But we winna mention Redcastle,^ The body, e'en let him escape ! Wha luckily roars in the right. He'd venture the gallows for siller, An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. X. An' where is our king's lord lieutenant, An' there, frae the Niddisdale "borders, Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return' Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; The billie is gettin' his questions, Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, &.n' Walie, To say in St. Stephen's the morn. That griens for the fishes an' loaves ; An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,»< TI. Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there, An' there will be lads o' the gospel, An' also the wild Scot of Galloway, Muirhead,'' wha's as gude as he's true ; Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 1 Gordon of Balmaghie. 8 The Minister of Buittle. « Bushb/, of Tinwald-downs. 9 Earl of Selkirk's family. 8 M-axweil, of Cardoness. 10 Oswald, of Auchuncruive. 4 The Douglasses, of Orchardtown and Castle-Doaglaa. 11 Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood. «Jordon, afterwards Viscount Kenmore. 12 John Syme, of the Stamp-office. « Laurie, of Redcaste. 13 Heron, of Kerroughtree. T Morehead, Minister of Urr M Colonel Macdouall, of Logan. — ■ — •'•i 192 THE POETICAL WORKS XI. Here's an honest conscience Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, Might a prince adorn ; An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ? Frae the downs o' Tinwald — 3 It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, So was never worn. In Sodom 'twould make him a king ; Buy braw troggin, &c. An' hey for the sanctified M y, Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; Here's its stuflf and lining. He founder'd his horse among harlots, Cardoness'^ head ; But gied the auld naig to the Lord. Fine for a sodger A' the wale o' lead. Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's a little wadset Buittle's' scrap o' truth, Pawn'd in a gin-shop CL. Quenching holy drouth. THE HERON BALLADS. Buy braw troggin, &c. [ballad thikd.] Here's armorial bearings [This third and last ballad was written on the contest Frae the manse o' Urr ;* Detween Heron and Stewart, which followed close on The crest, an auld crab-apple that with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was Rotten at the core. unseated by the decision of a Committee of the House Buy braw troggin, &c. of Commons : a decision which it is said he took so much to heart that it affected his health, and shortened his Jfe.] Here is Satan's picture. Like a bizzard gled, AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. Pouncing poor Redcastle,'' Tune. — '■^ Buy broom besoms." Sprawlin' as a taed. Buy braw troggin, &o. Wha will buy my troggin, Fine election ware ; Here's the worth and wisdom Broken trade o' Broughton, ColliestonS can boast; A' in high repair. By a thievish midge Buy braw troggin, They had been nearly lost. Frae the banks o' Dee ; Buy braw troggin, &o. Wha wants troggin Let him come to me. Here is Murray's fragments 0' the ten commands ; There's a noble Earl's^ Gifted by black Jocks Fame and high renown To get them aff his hands. For an auld sang — Buy braw troggin, &o. It's thought the gudes were stown. Buy braw troggin, &c. Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? If to buy ye're slack. Hornie's turnin' chapman. Here's the worth o' Broughton^ He'll buy a' the pack. In a needle's ee ; Buy braw troggin. Here's a reputation Frae the banks o' Dee ; Tint by Balmaghie. Wha wants troggin Buy braw troggin, &c. Let him come to me. 1 The Earl of Galloway. 6Morehead,of Urr. 2 Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. 7 Laurie, of Redcastle. 3 Bushl.y, of Tinwald-downs. 8 Copland, of CoUieston and Blackwood. 4 Maxwell, of Cardoness. The Minister of Bui ttle. • John Bushby. of Tinwald-downa. OF ROBERT BURNS. 193 CLI. POEM, ▲DDRESSKD TO • MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE. DUMFRIES, 1796. [The gentleman to whom this very modest, and, nnder the circumstances, most adecting application for his salary was made, filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and generous nature : but few were aware that the poet was suffering both from ill-health and poverty.] Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alake, alake, the meikle deil Wi' a' his witches Aro at it, skelpin' jig and reel. In my poor pouches I I modestly fu* fain wad hint it, That one pound one, I sairly want it, If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. It would be kind ; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted I'd bear't in mind. So may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loaniu To thee and thine ; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hale design. POSTSCRIPT. Yb'vb heard this while how I've been licket, And by fell death was nearly nicket ; Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket. And sair me sheuk ; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, A tentier way : Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, For ance and aye 1 13 CUI. TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES. WITH JOHNSON'S 'MUSICAL MPSEPM.' [Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daugh- ter: for this she has the silent gratitude of all who ad- mire the genius of Burns ; she has received more, the thanks ot tne poet himself, expressed in verses not des- tined soon to die.] Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the Poet's prayer ; That fate may in her fairest page. With every kindliest, best presage Of future bliss, enrol thy name : With native worth and spotless fame. And wakeful caution still aware Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; All blameless joys on earth we find. And all the treasures of the mind — These be thy guardian and reward ; So prays thy faithful friend. The Bard. June 26, 1796. CLm. POEM ON LIFE, ADDBB8SBD TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER. DUMFRIES, 1796. [This is supposed to be the last Poem written hy the hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided him- self on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Americans. He was rough and aus- tere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sci- ences : he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verees. My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal ; Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus, pill. And potion glasses. what a canty warld were it, Would pain and care and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit. As they deserve I (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; wha w»d starve ?) 194 THE POETICAL WOKKS Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, Poor man, the flie, aft tizzes bye. And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. I've found her still, And hellish pleasure ; ky wavering like the willow-wicker, Already in thy fancy's eye, 'Tween good and ill. Thy sicker treasure ♦ Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Soon heels-o'er gowdie ! in he gangs. Watches, like baudrons by a rattan. And like a sheep head on a tangs, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs Wi' felon ire ; And murd'ring wrestle, Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on — As, dangling in the wind, he hangs He's aff like fire. A gibbet's tassel. Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. But lest you think I am uncivil, First shewing us the tempting ware. To plague you with this draunting drivel, Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. Abjuring a' intentions evil. To put us daft ; I quat my pen : Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare The Lord preserve us frae the devil. 0' hell's damn'd waft. Amen ! amen I EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, PEAGMENTS, ETC., ETC. ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. [William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he was an example of piety, patience, and foi'titude.] 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 The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; [pride ; *' For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." n. ON R. A., ESQ. [Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom " The Cotter's Saturday Night" is addressed: a kind and generous man.] Know thou, stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! (For none that knew him need be told) Awavmer heart death ne'er made cold. in. ON A FRIEND. [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 warm'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. FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. [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 ! OF ROBERT BURNS. 19o V. VIII. ON WEE JOHNNY. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. HIC JACET WEB JOHNNY. [Souter Hood obtained tlie distinction of this Epigrans by his impertinent inquiries into what he called the [AVee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of the Kilmar- moral .delinquencies of Burns.] •lock edition of Burns's Poems : he doubted the success of the speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, Here souter Hood in death does sleep ; — wJiicli he printed unaware of their meaning.] To h— 11, if he's gane thither, Whoe'er thou art, reader, know, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. That death has murder'd Johnny ! He'll hand it weel thegither. An' here his body lies fu' low — For sanl he ne'er had ony. IX. VI. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. ON JOHN DOVE, [This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of Jamei Humphrey : he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dis- INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. sertation on free grace, effectual-calling, and predestina- [John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline : tion.] his religion is made to consist of a comparative appre- Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : eration of the liquors he kept.] Death, it's my opinion. Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' h — ch What was his religion ? Into thy dark dominion ! Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had riane ! Strong ale was ablution^ — X. Small beer, persecution, A dram was memento mori; ON MISS JEAN SCOTT. But a full flowing bowl [The heroine of these complimentary lines lived 14 Was the saving his soul. Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as wel. And port was celestial glory. as her sweet looks.] Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, Been Jeany Scott, as thou art. The bravest heart on English ground Had yielded like a coward ! vn. ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. [This laborious and useful wag was the «« Dear Smith, Hiou sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest ipistles : he died in the West Indies.] ZI. Lament him, Mauchline husbands a'. He aften did assist ye ; ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. For had ye staid whole weeks awa, [Though satisfied with the severe satire of theie \ia»n Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. the poet made a second attempt.] Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press As father Adam first was fool'd. To school in bands thegither. i case that's still too common. tread ye lightly on his grass, — Here lies a man a woman rul'd, Perhaps he was your father. The devil rul'd the woman. 1 196 THE POETICAL WORKS xn. ON THE SAME. [The second attempt did not in Burns's fancy exhaust Jbis fruitful subject : he tried his hand again.] Death, hadst thou but spared his life, Whom we this day lament, We freely wad exchang'd the wife, And a' been weel content ! Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graflF", The swap we yet will do't ; Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, Thou'se get the soul to boot. xin. ON THE SAME. [In these lines he bade farewell to this sordid dame, who lived, it is said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.] OxE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. But Queen Netherplace, of a difPrent com- plexion. When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pre- tence, Not to show her respect, but to save the ex- pense. XIV. THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. [Bu. Young's NiRht Thoughts. by hitn to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Tiorige." 218 THE POETICAL WORKS These interesting words are on the original, m the poet's III. handwriting, in liie possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of Glasgow.] The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 1. But life to me's a weary dream, Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, A dream of ane that never wauks. To follow the noble vocation ; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another IV. To sit in that honoured station. The wanton coot the water skims. I've little to say, but only to pray, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, As praying's the ton of your fashion; The stately swan majestic swims, A prayer from the muse you well may excuse. And every thing is blest but I. 'Tis seldom her favourite passion. v. II. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap. Y"e powers who preside o'er the wind and the And owre the moorland whistles shrill ; tide. Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step. Who marked each element's border ; I meet him on the dewy hill. Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, VI. Whose sovereign statute is order ; And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Within this dear mansion, may wayward con- tention Or withered envy ne'er enter ; Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. May secrecy round be the mystical bound. And brotherly love be the centre. VII. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. And raging bend the naked tree: Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me ! And maun I still on Menie doat, XXVI. And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? M E N I E. For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be. Tune. — ^* Johnny's grey breeks." [Of the lady who inspired this song no one has given any account : It first appeared in the second edition of the poet's works, and as the chorus was written by an Edin- burgh gentleman, it has been surmised tiiat the song was K matter of friendship rather than of the heart.] XXVII. I. THE FAREWELL Again rejoicing nature sees TO THK Iler robe assume its vernal hues. BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. TARBOLTON. All freshly steep'd in morning dews. And maun I still on Menie doat. Tune — " Good-night, and Joy be wi' you a." And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? [Burns, it is said, sung this song in the St. James'i For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk. Lodge of Tarbolton, when his chest was on the way to An' it winna let a body be. Greenock : men are yet living who had the honour of hearing him— the concluding verse affected the whoI« lodge.] II. I. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; Dear brothers of the mystic tie! In vain to me, in glen or shaw, Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few. The mavis and the lintwhite sing. Companions of my social joy ! OF ROBERT BURNS. 219 Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, II. Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', She's sweeter than the morning dawn With melting heart, and brimful eye, When risxng Phoebus first is seen. I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; II. An' she has twa sparkling roguish een Oft have I met your social band, III. And spent the cheerful, festive night ; She's stately like yon youthful ash. Oft, honour 'd with supreme command, That grows the cowslip braes between, Presided o'er the sons of light : And drinks the stream with vigour fresh ; And by that hieroglyphic bright, An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Which none but craftsmen ever saw I Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write IV. Those happy scenes when far awa'. She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn. With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, III. When purest in the dewy morn ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een May freedom, harmony, and love Unite you in the grand design, V. Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, The glorious Architect divine ! Her looks are like the vernal May, When evening Phoebus shines serene, That you may keep th' unerring line, irm •! 1 • 1 • • Still rising by the plummet's law, Till order bright completely shine. While birds rejoice on every spray — An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. VI. Her hair is like the curling mist IV. That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en. And you farewell ! whose merits claim, When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; Justly, that highest badge to wear ! An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name. To masonry and Scotia dear ! VII. A last request permit me here. Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When yearly ye assemble a'. When gleaming sunbeams intervene, One round — I ask it with a tear, — And gild the distant mountain's brow ; To him, the Bard that's far awa'. An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. VIII. Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem. The pride of all the flow'ry scene. Just opening on its thorny stem ; XXVIII. An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. ON CESSNOCK BANKS. IX. Tune — '■^ Ifhe he a butcher neat and trim." Her teeth are like the nightly snow [There are many variations of this songr, which was When pale the morning rises keen, Irsl printed liy Croinek from ihe oral communication of While hid the murmuring streamlets flow A GlnHgow lady, oa whube charms the poet, in early life. An' she has twa sparkling roguish eon toniposed it.] I. X. On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells ; Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, Could T describe her shape and mien; That sunny walls from Boreas screen— Our lasses a' she far excels. They tempt the taste and charm the sight; .\n' she has twa sparkling roguish een. ! An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 220 THE POETICAL WORKS XI. Her teeth are like a flock of sheep; >Vith fleeces newly washen clean, That slowly mount the rising steep ; An' she has twa glancin' roguish een. Iler breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stii-s the blossom'd bean, When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. XIII. Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush That sings on Cessnock banks unseen. While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; Au' she has twa sparkling roguish een. XIV. But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, Au' chiefly in her roguish een. XXIX. MARY! Tune — "Blue Bonnets. [[n the original manuscript Burns calls this song "A Prayer for Mary;" his Highland Mary is supposed to be Liie iuspirer.] PowEBS celestial ! whose protection Ever guards the virtuous fair, While 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 your choicest influence down. Make tho gales you waft around her Soft and peaceful as her breast ; Breathing in the breeze that fans her, Soothe her bosom into rest : Guardian angels ! protect her, When in distant lands I roam ; To realms unknown while fate exiles me, Make her bosom still my home. XXX. THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. Tune — **3fis9 Forbes^ a Farewell to Banff." [Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells hei in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this populM Bong. He chanced to meet her in one of his favourit« walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene and the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of th« muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for a time : it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her cham- ber — as it deserves to be.] 'TwAS even — the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang, The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 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 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle ! With careless step I onward stray'd. My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy. When musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; Her look was like the morning's eye, Her air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper'd passing by, Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, And sweet is night in autumn mild When roving thro' the garden gay, Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; But woman, nature's darling child I There all her charms she does compile ; Even there her other works are foil'd By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle, 0, had she been a country maid, And I the happy country swain, Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain, Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. OF ROBEKT BURNS. 221 Then pride might climb the slippery steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine : And thirst of gold might tempt the deep Or downward seek the Indian mine ; Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks, or till the soil, And ev'ry day have joys divine With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. XXXI. THE GLOOMY NIGHT. Tune — '* Eoslin Castle." [" I had taken," says Burns, " the last farewell of my friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I liad composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledo- nia— * The gloomy night is gathering fast.' "] I. The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain ; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; While here I wander, prest with care. Along the lonely banks of Ayr. II. The Autumn mourns her rip'ning com. By early Winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid, azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly : Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — I think 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 appear, The wretched have no more to fear ! But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd jrifh many a wound ; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Hei heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves. Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those- The bursting tears my heart declare ; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr I XXXII. WHAR DID YE GET Tune — '* Bonnie Dundee." [This is one of the first songs which Burns commnnl cated to Johnson's Musical Museum : the starting vers* is partly old and partly new : the b»- and is wholly by hit hand.] I. 0, WHAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock ? silly blind body, dinna ye see ? I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie. Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. 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 me ! II. My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lipple. My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie ! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me ! 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 xxxm. THE JOYFUL WIDOWER Tune — " Maggy Lauder.^ [Most of this song is by Bums : his fancy was fi. 6e with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, and he ^ai them ever ready at the call of the muse. It wa* iri< printed iarthe Musical Museum ] I. I MARRIED with a scolding wife The fourteenth of November ; She made me weary of my life, By one unruly member. ' 222 THE POETICAL WORKS Long did I bear the heavy yoke, XXXV. And many griefs attended ; But to my comfort be it spoke, I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN. Now, now her life is ended. Ttine — " Fm o'er young to marry yet." II. [The title, and part of the chorus only of this song, art We liv'd full one-and-twenty years ^ old ; the rest is by Burns, and was written tor Johnson.] A man and wife together ; I. At length from me her course she s1;eer'd, I AM my mammy's ae bairn, And gone I know not whither : Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir ; Would I could guess, I do profess, And lying in a man's bed. I speak, and do not flatter. I'm fley'd it make me eerie. Sir. Of all the woman in the world, I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 1 never could come at her. I'm o'er young to marry yet ; III. I'm o'er young — 'twad be a sin Her body is bestowed well, To tak' me frae my mammy yet A handsome grave does hide her ; II. But sure her soul is not in hell, The deil would ne'er abide her. Hallowmas is come and gane. I rather think she is aloft. The nights are lang in winter. Sir ; And imitating thunder ; "n 1 1.1*1X1 1 • And you an' I in ae bed. In trouth, I dare na venture. Sir. For why, — methmks I hear her voiC3 Tearing the clouds asunder. III. Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind. Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir ; But, if ye come this gate again, ' I'll aulder be gin simmer. Sir. XXXIV. I'm o'er young to marry yet; COME DOWN THE BACK STAIRS. I'm o'er young to marry yet ; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin Tune — '* Whistle, and Til come to you, my lad." To tak me frae my mammy yet. [The air of this song was composed by John Brnce, a Dumfries fiddler. Burns gave another and happier ver- jion to the work of Tiiomson : this was written for the Huseuui of Johnson, where it was first published.] CHORUS. XXXVI. whistle, and I'll come BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO. To you, my lad ; whistle, and I'll come Tune—" The hirks of Aherfeldy. " To you, my lad : [An old strain, called " The Birks of Abergeldie," wai Tho' father and mither the forerunner of this sweet eong : it was written, the Should baith gae mad, whistle, and I'll come poet says, standing under the Falls of Aberfeldy, near Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the tours whicn h« made to the north, in the year 1787.] To you, my lad. CHORUS. Come down the back stairs Bonnie lassie, will ye go, When ye come to court me ; Will ye go, will ye go ; Come down the back stairs Bonnie lassie, will ye go When ye come to court me ; To the birks of Aberfeldy ? Come down the back stairs. And let naebody see, I. And come as ye were na Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, Coming to me. And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; OF ROBERT BURNS 223 Come let us spend the lightsome days II. In the birks of Aberfeldy. Oh, what is death but parting breath ? On many a bloody plain • II. I've dar'd his face, and in this place The little birdies blithely sing, I scorn him yet again ! While o'er their heads the hazels hing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing III. In the birks of Aberfeldy. Untie these bands from off my hands. And bring to me my sword ; III. And there's no a man in all Scotland, The braes ascend, like lofty wa's. But I'll brave him at a word. The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, IV. The birks of Aberfeldy. I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife j I die by treacherie : IV. It burns my heart I must depart. The hoary cliffs are crown' d wi' flowers, And not avenged be. White o'er the linns the burnie pours, Y. And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky ! v. May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! Let Fortune's gifts at random flee. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly. They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, Sae dauntingly gaed he ; Supremely blest wi' love and thee, He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, In the birks of Aberfeldy. Below the gallows-tree. Bonnie lassie, will ye go. Will ye go, will ye go ; Bonnie lassie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy? XXXVIII. BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER Tune—" Galla Water. [Burns found this song in the collection of Herd • XXXVII. added the first verse, made other but not material emen- dations, and published it in Johnson : in 1793 he ^v^ot€ MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. another version for Thomson.] CHORUS. Tune — M'Pherson's Rant." Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; [This vehement and daring song had its origin in an braw lads of Galla Water : older and inferior strain, recording the feelings of a noted freebooter when brought to " justify his deeds on the I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. fallows-tree" at Inverness.] And follow my love thro' the water. I. Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, I. Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow. The wretch's destinie ! Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie ; Uacpherson's time will not be long Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', On yonder gallows-tree. The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he ; II. He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae. Below the gallows-tree. O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 224 THE POETICAL WORKS I'll kilt my coats aooon my knee, 11. And follow my love thro' the water. Crystal streamlets gently flowing, • Busy haunts of base mankind, III. Western breezes softly blowing, Down amang the broom, the broom, Suit not my distracted mind. Down amang the broom, my dearie, The lassie lost a silken snood. III. That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. In the cause of Right engaged, Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; Wrongs injurious to redress, braw lads of Galla-Water : Honour's war we strongly waged, I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, But the heavens denied success. And follow my love thro' the water. IV. Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. Not a hope that dare attend. The wild world is all before us— XXXIX. But a world without a friend STAY, MY CHARMER. Tune ^' An Gille duhh ciar dhubh." [The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one of his northern tours : his Highland excursions coloured XLI. many of his lyric compositions.] I. MY HOGG IE. Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? Tune — "What will I do gin my Hoggie dief'' Cruel, cruel, to deceive me ! [Burns was struck with the pastoral wildness of this Well you know how much you grieve me; Liddesdale air, and wrote these words to it for the Mu- Cruel charmer, can you go ? seum : the first line only Is old.] Cruel charmer, can you go ? What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 1 1. My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! My only beast, I had nae mae, By my love so ill requited ; And vow but I was vogie ! By the faith you fondly plighted; The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauia, By the pangs of lovers slighted ; Me and my faithfu' doggie ; Do not, do not leave me so ! We heard nought but the roaring linn. Do not, do not leave me so ! Amang the braes sae scroggie ; But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa'. The blitter frae the boggie, The tod reply'd upon the hill, XL. I trembled for my Hoggie. THICKEST NIGHT, O'ERHANG MY When day did daw, and cocks did craw. DWELLING. The morning it was foggie ; An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke. TnnQ—''Strathallan's Lament." And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. [The Viscount Strathallan, whom this song comme- Tnnr'ifpa AHfia Wniimn DrnrnTTinnH * hfl "MTmq Rlnin at t1l6 tarnageof Culloden. It was long believed that he es- Japed to France and died in exile.] XLII. 1. Thickest night, surround my dwelling ! HER DADDIE FORBAD. Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! Tune — " Jumpin^ John." Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, [This is one of the old songs which Ritson accusen Roaring by my lonely cave ! Burns of amending for the Museum : little of it, how- OF ROBERT BURNS. 225 aver, is his, save a touch here and there— but they are Burus-s touches.] XLIV. I. THB Hbb daddie forbad, her minnie forbad ; YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. Forbidden she wadna be: ghe wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd Tune— "iforay." Wad taste sae bitterlie. [The Young Highland Rover of this strain is suppcsrd The lang lad they ca' jumpin' John by some to be the Chevalier, and with more probabiiity Beguiled the bonnie lassie, by others, to be a Gordon, as the song was composed ia The laag lad they ca' Jumpin' John consequence of the poet's visit to «' bonnie Castle-Gcr. don," in September, 1787.] Beguiled the bonnie lassie. j^ II. Loud blaw the frosty breezes, A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, The snaws the mountains cover ; And thretty gude shillin's and three ; Like winter on me seizes, A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochter, Since my young Highland rover The lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. Far wanders nations over. The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Where'er he go, where'er he stray, Beguiled the bonnie lassie, May Heaven be his warden : The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John Return him safe to fair Strathspey, Beguiled the bonnie lassie. And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! XLIII II. The trees now naked groaning, Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. UP IN THE MORNING EARLY The birdies dowie moaning, Tune—" Cold blows the wind.'' Shall a' be blithely singing, t" The chorus of this song," says the poet, in his notes And every flower be springing. on the Scottish Lyrics, "is old, the two stanzas are Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. mine." The air is ancient, and was a favourite » When by his mighty Warden Marv Stuart, the queen of William the Tb'rd.] My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon. CHOBTJS. Up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early ; When a' the hills are cover'd wr snaw, I'm sure it's winter fairly. XLV. I. HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. Ckv-lh blaws the wind frae east to west, Tune—*' The Dusty Miller." The drift is driving sairly ; Sae loud and shill I hear the blast, [The Dusty Miller is an old strain, modified for th» I'm sure it's winter fairly. Museum by Burns: it is a happy specimen of his tult and skill in making the new look like the old.] II. The birds sit chittering in the thorn, I. Hey, the dusty miller. A' day they fare but sparely ; And his dusty coat; And lang's the night frae e'en to mom — He will win a shilling, I'm sure it's winter fairly. Or he spend a groat. Up in the morning's no for me. Dusty was the coat, Up in the morning early ; Dusty was the colour, When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, Dusty was the kiss I'm sure it's winter fairly. 15 That I got frae the miller. 226 THE POETICAL WORKS Hey, the dusty miller, And his dusty sack ; Leeze me (rti the calling Fills the dusty peck. Fills the dusty peck, Brings the dusty siller ; I wad gie my coatie For the dusty miller. XL VI. THERE WAS A LASS. Tune — '* Duncan Davison." [There are several other versions of Duncan Davleon, which it is more delicate to allude to than to quote: this one is in the Museum.] I. There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, And she held o'er the moors to spin; There was a lad that foUow'd her, They ca'd him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, 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 the 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 flang 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. THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MARY. Tune.—" The Ruffian's Rant:' [Burns, it is lelieved, wrote this song during his first Highland tour, wlien he danced among the northern dames, to the tune of " Bab at the Bowsrer,'^ till tli« morning sun rose aad reproved them from the top of Ben 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 Mary ; 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 CharHe gat the spring to pay, For kissm' Theniel's bonnie Mary. Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. XLVIII. THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. Tune. — ^^ Bhannerach dhon na chri." [These verses were composed on a charming young lady, Charlotte Hamilton, sister to the poet's friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon in the county of Clackmannan.] i! How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowtra blooming fair ! OF ROJiEllT BUKNS. 227 But the bonniest flower on the banks of the III. Devon But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ha, ha, the girdin o't! Ayr. I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath — Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. dew; The beast again can bear us baith. And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, That steals on the evening each leaf to re- new. II. And clout the bad girdin o't. spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes L. The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! THE PLOUGHMAN. Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, Tune — " Up wi' the ploughman.'^ And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose: [The old words, of which these in the Museum are a« altered and amended version, are in the collection ot A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Herd.] Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. I. 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. XLIX. Then up wi' him my ploughman lad, WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. And hey my merry ploughman I Of a' the trades that I do ken. TvLne—*'Duncan Gray." Commend me to the ploughman. [The original Duncan Gray, out of which the present Btrain was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called II. a lad of grace : another version, and m a happier mood, My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, was written for Thomson.] He's aften wat and weary ; I. Cast oflF the wat, put on the dry, Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray— And gae to bed, my dearie ! Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! III. Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray— I will wash my ploughman's hose, Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! And I will dress his o'erlay ; When a' the lave gae to their play, I will mak my ploughman's bed, Then I maun sit the lee lang day, And cheer him late and early. And jog the cradle wi' my tae, And a' for the girdin o'tl IV. I hae been east, I hae been west, 11. I hae been at Saint Johnston ; Bonnie was the Lammas moon — The bonniest sight that e'er I saw- Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! Was the ploughman laddie dancin*. Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! V. The girdin brak, the beast cam down. Sn aw- white stockins on his legs, I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; And siller buckles glancin' , Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — A gude blue bonnet on his head — Wae on the bad girdin o't ! And 0, but he was handsome ' 228 THE POETICAL WORKS | VI. death of her sister, and the still more melancho. y death Commend me to the barn-yard, of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1796."] And the corn-mou, man; I. I never gat my coggie fou, Raving winds around her blowing, Till I met wi' the ploughman. Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing. Up wi' him my ploughman lad, By a river hoarsely roaring, And hey my merry ploughman ! Isabella stray'd deploring — Of a' the trades that I do ken, " Farewell hours that late did measure Commend me to the ploughman. Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, Cheerless night that knows no morrow I LI. LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN. II. " O'er the past too fondly wandering, On the hopeless future pondering ; Tune— "i% iutti, taiti." Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. [Of thia song, the first and second verses are by Burns : Fell despair my fancy seizes. the closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain Life, thou soul of every blessing, with an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of Load to misery most distressing. Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line Gladly how would I resign thee. of the Stuarts.] I. And to dark oblivion join thee !" Landlady, count the lawin. The day is near the dawin ; Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, And I'm but jolly fou, Hey tutti, taiti. LIII. How tutti, taiti— Wha's fou now ? HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT. To a Gaelic air. 11. [Composed for the Museum : the air of this affectinf Cog an' ye were ay fou. strain is true Highland : Burns, though not a musician. Cog an' ye were ay fou. had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melo I wad sit and sing to you dies.] If ye were ay fou. I. III. How long and dreary is the night Weel may ye a' be ! Ill may we never see 1 God bless the king. And the companie! Hey tutti, taiti, When I am frae my dearie ! I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. How tutti, taiti— II. , Wha's fou now ? When I think on the happy days I spent wi' you, my dearie. And now what lands between us lie. How can I but be eerie ! LII. And now what lands between us lie. EAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. How can I be but eerie ! Tune — " Macgregor of Euro's Lament." III. ["I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, Isabella M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to he • feelings on the As ye were wae and weary! UJ^' ROBERT BURNS. 22? It was na sae ye glinted by, I. When I was wi' my dearie. By Auchtertyre grows the aik. It was na sae ye glinted by, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; When I was wi' my dearie. But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes of Yarrow ever saw. II. LTV. Her looks were like a flow'r in ]May, MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. Her smile was like a simmer morn ; Tune — ^* Druimion dubh." She tripped by the banks of Ern, As light 's a bird upon a thorn. [The air of this song is from the Highlands : the verses were written in compliment to the feelings of Mrs. III. M'Lauchlan, whose husband was an officer serving in the East Indies.] Her bonnie face it was as meek I. As ony lamb upon a lea ; The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet. MusiNQ on the roaring ocean, As was the blink o' Phemie's ee Which divides my love and me ; Wearying heaven in warm devotion, IV. For his weal where'er he be. The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, II. And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; But Phemie was the blithest lass Hope and fear's alternate billow That ever trod the dewy green. Yielding late to nature's law, Blithe, blithe and merry was she. Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow Blithe was she but and ben: Talk of him that's far awa. Blithe by the banks of Ern, III. And blithe in Glenturit glen. Ye whom sorrow never wounded. Ye who never shed a tear. Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. Gaudy day to you is dear. LVI. THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE IV. MAY BLAW. Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; Downy sleep, the curtain draw; Tune — " To daunton me." Spirits kind, again attend me. [The Jacobite strain of "To daunton me," must havi Talk of him that's far awa I been in the mind of the poet when he wrote this pithy lyric for the Museum.] I. The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, LV. The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. BLITHE WAS SHE. The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; Tune— "^nrfro and hia cutty gun." But an auld man shall never daunton me. [The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lin- To daunton tne, and me so ycang. Irose was justly called the " Flower of Strathmore :" Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue Bhe is now widow of Lord Metliven, one of the Scottish That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; judges, and mother of a fine family. The song was For an auld man shall never daunton me. Irritten at Ochtertyre, in June 1787.] CHORUS. II. Blithe, blithe and merry was she, For a' his meal and a' his maut. Blithe was she but and ben: For a' his fresh beef and his saut, Blithe by the banks of Ern, For a' his gold and white monie. And blithe in Gleuturit glon. An auld man shall never daunton me. 230 THE POETICAL WORKS III. LVIII. His gear may buy him kye and yowes, A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; But me he shall not buy nor fee, Tune—" The Rose-bud." For an auld man shall never daunton me. [The " Rose-bud" of these sweet verses was Misi Jean Cruikshank, afterwards Mrs. Henderson, daughter IV. of William Cruikshank, of St. James's Square, one of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh : she il He hirples twa fauld as he doTV, also the subject of a poem equally sweet.] Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, T And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee — A ROSE-BUD by my early walk. That auld man shall never daunton me. Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, To daunton me, and me sae young, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. Wi' his fause heart and Jlatt'ring tongue, All on a dewy morning. That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. For an auld man shall never daunton me. In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head. It scents the early morning. II. Within the bush, her covert nest LVll. A little linnet fondly prest. COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. The dew sat chilly on her breast Tune — " O'er the water to Charlie." Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, [The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the The pride, the pleasure o' the wood. third, are by Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. same subject, and to the same air, were in other days current in Scotland.] Awake the early morning. I. Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, III. So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; On trembling string or vocal air. I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, Shall sweetly pay the tender care To boat me o'er to Charlie. That tends thy early morning. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay. We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, And bless the parent's evening ray And live or die wi' Charlie. That watch'd thy early morning. II. I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, LIX. Tho' some there be abhor him : But 0, to see auld Nick gaun hame, RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE. Ani Charlie's faes before him! Tune — '* Rattlin', roarin* Willie." III. [" The hero of this chant," says Burns "was one cf the worthiest fellows in the world — William Dunbar, I swear and vow by moon and stars, Esq., Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel o. And sun that shines so early, the Crochallan corps— a club of wits, who took that titl« If I had twenty thousand lives, at the time of raising the fencible regiments."] I'd die as aft for Charlie. I. We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea. rattlin', roarin* Willie, We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 0, he held to the fair, Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, An' for to sell his fiddle. 1 And live or die wi' Charlie ! An' buy some other ware ; OF ROBERT BURNS. 231 But parting wi' his fiddle, The saut tear blint his ee ; And rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me I Willie, come sell your fiddle, sell your fiddle sae fine ; Willie, come sell your fiddle, And buy a pint o' wine ! If I should sell my fiddle, The warl' would think I was mad ; For mony a rantin' day My fiddle and I hae had. III. As I cam by Crochallan, 1 cannily keekit ben — Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sittin' at yon board en' ; Sitting at yon board en'. And amang good companie ; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, Ye're welcome hame to me ! LX. BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. Tune — ** Neil Gow^s Lamentation for Abercairny." [" This song," says the poet, " I composed on one of the most accomplished of women. Miss Peggy Chalmers fiiat was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'b oank, Edinburgh." She now lives at Pau^ in the south »f France.] I. 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, With art's most polish'd blaze. II. Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. And blest the day and hour. Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd. When first I felt their power !. The tyrant Death, with grim control. May seize my fleeting breath ; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death. LXI. TIBBIE DUNBAR. Tune — " Johnny JW Gill." [We owe the air of this song tD one Johnny M'Gill, \ fiddler of Girvan, who bestowed his own name on it : and the song itself partly to Burns and partly to somo ja known minstrel. They are both in the Museum.] I. 0, WILT thou go wi' me, Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 0, 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,* 0, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? II. I care na thy daddie. His lands and his money, I care na thy kindred, Sae high and sae lordly ? But say thox\ wilt hae me For better for waur — And come in thy coatie. Sweet Tibbie Dunbar' LXII. STREAMS THAT GLIDE IN ORIENT PLAINS. Tune — " Morag." [We owe these verses to the too brief visit which the poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle : he was hurried away, much against his will, by his moody ana obslinat* friend William Nicol.] Streams that glide in orient plains, Never bound by winter's chains ; Glowing here on golden sands, There commix'd with foulest stains From tyranny's empurpled bands ; These, their richly gleaming waves, I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; Give me the stream that sweetly laves The banks by Castle-Gordon. Spicy forests, ever gay, Shading from the burning ray. Hapless wretches sold to toil, 232 THE POETICAL WORKS Or the ruthless native's way, Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: Woods that ever verdant wave, I leave the tyrant and the slave, Give me the groves that lofty brave The storms by Castle-Gordon. Wildly here without control, Natui'e reigns and rules the whole ; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul. She plants the forest, pours the flood ; Life's poor day I'll musing rave. And find at night a sheltering cave. Where waters flow and wild woods wave, By bonnie Castle-Gordon. Lxni. MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. Tune — ^^Highlander's Lament" [" The chorus," says Burns, " I picked up from an old Woman in Dumblane : the rest of the song is mine." He tomposed it for Johnson : the tone is Jacobitical.J I. ]My Harry was a gallant 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 ! 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; I set me down and greet my fill. And ay I wish him back again. were some villains hangit high, And ilka body had their ain ! Then I might see the joyfu' sight, My Highland Harry back again. for him back again ! for him back again ! 1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again. LXIV. THE TAILOR. Tune—" The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimble* [The second and fourth verses are by Burns, the reu* is very old, the air is also veiyold, and is played attrad« festivals and processions by the Corporation of Tailori J The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', The 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 ill. 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 ill. 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. SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. Tune — *'At/ waukin o'." [Tytlerand Ritson unite in considei .' the song is from his hand : in Hogg and Mother- tvell'i Silition of Burns, the starting lines are supplied from an olden strain : but some of tlie old strains in that work are to be regarded with suspicion.] I. 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 ; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody ; It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. LXXIII. THE LAZY MIST. Tune—" The lazy mist:' [All that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy Mist, is, " This song is mine." The air, which is by Os- wald, together with the words, is in the Musical Muse- um.] I. 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- 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. THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. Tune — " mount and go.'' [Part of tliis song belongs to an old maritime strain, with the same title: it was communicated, along with many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to the Musical Museum.] CHORUS. 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. mount and go, Mount and make you ready ; mount and go. And be the Captain's Lady. LXXV. OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW Tune — *^ Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." [Burns wrote this charming song in honourof Jean Ai mour : he archly says in his notes, " P. S. it was durini 230 THE POETICAL WORKS the honey-moon." Other versions are abroad ; this one is from the manuscripts 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 hear her charm the air : There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees, Wi' 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 dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean I LXXVI. FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE. Tune — " Whistle o'er the lave o't." [The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of Dumfries, n» asician • the words, though originating in an olden strain, are wholly by Burns, and right bitter onei 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 maggot's meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write — but Meg maun see't- Whistle o'er the lave o't. LXXVII. WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL. Tune — "My love is lost to mc." [The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale : 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 I 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 cen — By heaven and earth I lovs thee ! By night, by day, a-field, at hame. The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ► J M Wnjht. Bnl now your brow is bc]d John. Yotir locks are like Ihe snow; Bui blessings on your frosLy pow- John Anderson ray Jo- OF ROBERT BURNS. 237 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. THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. To a Gaelic Air. ["This air," says Burns,. <' is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half- stanza of the snng is old : the rest is mine." They are both in the Museum.] I. 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-favour'd an' a, And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. His coat is the hue Of his bonnet sae blue ; His feck it 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'. II. For beauty and fortune The laddie's been courtin' ; Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-monnted and braw; But chiefly the siller, That gars him gang till her, The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. There's Meg wi' the mailen That fain wad a haen him ; And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha' ; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy Maisl fetters his fancy — But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. LXXIX. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. Tune — '^Failte na Mioag." rThe words and the air are in the Museum, to which iiey were contributed by Burns. He says, in his notes on that collection, " The first half-stanza of this song ii old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has re- corded any remembrance.] I. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth : Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. II. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — ■ My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. LXXX. JOHN ANDERSON. Tune — " John Anderson, my jo" [Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard ; but, save the second stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand. *« Jolm Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-piece was man ; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe. She proved to be nae joumeywork, John Anderson, my jo.] John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven. Your bonnie brow was brent ; Bnt now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. 238 THE POETICAL WORKS 1 II. LXXXII. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; CA' THE EWES. And raony a canty day, John, Tune—" Ca* the ewes to the knowes." We've had wi' ane anither : Now "we maun totter down, John, [Most of thig sweet pastoral is of other days: Buma But hand in hand we'll go ; made several emendations, and added the concluding verse. He afterwards, it will be observed, wrote for And sleep thegither at the foot, Thomson a second version of the subject and the air,] John Anderson, my jo. CHORUS. fift' thp PTTPa to flip IrnoTiTPa Ca' them whare the heather grows, LXXXI. Ca' them whare the burnie rowes. OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED My bonnie dearie ! FRESH AND FAIR. I. Tune — " Awa Wliigs, awa." As I gaed down the water-side, [Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Mu- There I met my shepherd lad. leum, and added 6t it ever ? ex. GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. [This song in otlier days was a controversial one, and contained some sarcastic allusicms to Alotlier Rome and her brood of seven sacraments, five of whom were ille- gitimate. Burns ciianged the meaning, and published hia 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 hame II. Kate sits i' the neuk, Suppin hen broo ; Deil tak Kate An' she be na noddin too I 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. How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, And how do ye thrive ; How many bairns hae ye ? Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. We're a' noddin, &c. Are they a' Johnie's ? Eh ! atweel no : Twa o' them were gotten When Johnie was awa. We're a noddin, &c. OF ROBERT BURNS. 249 VI. Cats like milk, II. What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? And dogs like broo ; What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? Lads like lasses weel, She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot. And lasses lads too. And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. We're a' noddin, &c. had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab I As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair. Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. CXI. AH, OHLOmS, SINCE IT MAY NA BE. Tune — *■'■ Major Graham.'^ [Sir Harris Nicolas found these lines on Chloris amoi^ the papers of Burns, and printed them in his late edition CXIII. Df the poet's works.] WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER-DOOR. I. Tune — ** Lass an I come near thee" Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear ; [The « Auld man and the Widow," in Ramsay's col- lection is said, by Gilbert Bums, to have suggested thia If from the lover thou maun flee. song to his brother : it first appeared in the Museum.! Yet let the friend be dear. I. II. Wha is that at my bower-door ? Altho' I love my Chloris mair 0, wha is it but Findlay ? Than ever tongue could tell ; Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here I — My passion I will ne'er declare, Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. I'll say, I wish thee well. What mak ye sae like a thief ? come and see, quo' Findlay ; III. Before the morn ye'U work mischief; Tho' a' my daily care thou art. Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. And a' my nightly dream. I'll hide the struggle in my heart, II. And say it is esteem. 6if I rise and let you in ? Let me in, quo' Findlay ; Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. cxn. In my bower if you should stay? Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; SAW YE MY DEARIE. I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; Tune — " Eppie 3Iacnab." Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. [" Published in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, % " wifaout any name." Burns corrected some lines in the III. • old song, which iiad more wit, lie said, thnn decency, Here this night if ye remain ; — w.i added others, and sent his amended version to John- ■on.] I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; I. Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? What may pass within this bower, — saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, Ye maun conceal till your last hour ; She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. Indeed will I, quo' Findlay I come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'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 Rab. ^ ,,1,^ 250 THE POETICAL WORKS CXIV. WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. Tune — *^What can a young lassie do wV an auld man." [In the old strain, which partly suggested this song, the heroine threatens only to adorn lier husband's brows: Burns proposes a system of domestic annoyance to break nis heart.] I. 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' ! He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin'. He 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 and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! He htms 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 : 0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 0, 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 hinj, and wrack him, until I heart- break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. CXV. THE BONNIE WEE THING. Tune — " Bonnie wee thing." ["Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol, th« charming, lovely Davies."] I. Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine. Wishfully I look and languish In that bonnie face o' thine ; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine. Wit, and gi*ace, and love, and beauty In ae constellation shine ; To adore thee 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 I CXVI. THE TIT HER MORN. To a Highland Air. [" The tune of this 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 scmg." " It oc- curs," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in the Museum, without the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's own hand< writing to Johnson, and is believed to be his compoeition.] The tither mom. When 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 expec', To see my lad so near me. OF KOBEKT BUKNS. 25i ' 11. Had we never lov'd sae kindly. His bonnet he, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, A thought ajee, Never met — or never parted. Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'dme; We had ne'er been broken hearted. And I, I wat, Wi' fainness grat, III. While in his grips he press'd me. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest I Deil tak' the war ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! I late and air Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Uae wish'd since Jock departed ; Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! But now as glad Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; I'm wi' my lad, Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! As short syne broken-hearted. Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. T J Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee I Fu' aft at e'en Wi' dancing keen, When a' were blythe and merry, I car'd na by. CXVIII. Sae sad was I LOVELY DAVIES. In absence o' my dearie. Tune—" Miss Muir." But praise be blest. My mind's at rest. [Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, ta< I'm happy wi' my Johnny : handsome, the lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davies i At kirk and fair, I. I'se ay be there. HOW shall I, unskilfu', try And be as canty's ony. The poet's occupation. The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, That whispers inspiration ? Even they maun dare an effort mair, cxvn. Than aught they ever gave us. AE FOND KISS. Or they rehearse, in equal verse, The charms o' lovely Davies. Tune—" R9ry Ball's Port." Each eye it cheers, when she appears. (Believed to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. Like Phoebus in the morning. '< Tlieee exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, " con- When past the shower, and ev'ry flower lain the essence of u thousand love-tales." They are in Uie Museum.] The garden is adorning. As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, I. When winter-bound the wave is ; Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Sae droops our heart when we maun part Ae fareweel, and then for ever I Frae charming lovely Davies. Deep in he.irt-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. II. Who shall say that fortune grieves him Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift. While the star of hope she leaves him ? That maks us mair than princes ; Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; A scepter'd hand, a king's command. Dark despair around benights me. Is in her darting glances : The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, II. Even he her willing slave is; I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, He hugs his chain, and owns the reign Naething could resist my Nancy ; Of conquering, lovely Daviss. But to see her, was to love her ; My muse to dream of such a theme, Love but her, and love for ever. — Her feeble pow'rs surrender 252 THE POETICAL WORKS 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. CXIX. THE WEARY PUND 0' TOW. Tune—" The weary Fund o' Tow:' ["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the Musical Museum; l)ut it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan CunningliJim does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many Bongs wiiich he took without scruple from my edition, wnere they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did not claim the song wholly for the poet : I said " the idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the words." It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own hand- writing.] I. The weary pund, the weary pund, The 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. At last her feet — I sang to see't — Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; And or I wad anither jad, I'll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, the weary pund. The weary pund o' tow ! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. cxx. NAEBODY. Naebody. Tune [Burns had built his house at Ellisland, sowed his first crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope wa« high ; no wonder that he indulged in this independent strain.] I HAE a wife o' my ain — I'll partake wi' naebody ; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll 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 — 1^11 be slave to naebody ; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody ; Naebody cares for me, I'll care for naebody. CXXI. 0, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM! Tune — " The Moudiewort.' [In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Barm Bays simply, •« This song is mme." The air for a century before had to bear the burthen of very ordinary words. 1 CHORUS. An 0, 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. Tarn. I. They snool me sair, and haud me down. And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun* And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. II. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. Was left me by my auntie, Tam , At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. OF ROBERT BURNS. 253 III. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn ; But hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof — I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. An 0, for ane-and-twenty, Tam I An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam ! I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. CXXII. KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. Tune — " Kenmure^s on and awa, Willie." [The second and third, and concluding verses of this Jacobite strain, were written by Burns: the whole wag Heat in his own iiandwriting to the Museum.] I. Eenmure's on and awa, Willie I Kenmure's on and awa ! And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, That ever Galloway saw. II. Success to Kenmure's band, 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 blade, Nor yet o' Gordon's line. IV. Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! Kenmure's lads are men ; Their hearts and swords are metal true — And that their faes shall ken. T. They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! They'll live or die wi' fame ; But soon wi' sounding victorie. May Kenmure's lord come hame. Here's him that's far awa, Willie, Here's him that's far awa ; And here's the flower that I love best — The rose that's like tho snaw I cxxni. MY COLLIER LADDIE. Tune—" The Collier Laddie." [The Collier Laddie was communicated by Bums, and in his handwriting, to the Museum : it is chiefly h.s LWt composition, though coloured by an older strain.] I. Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? An' tell me what they ca' ye ; My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, And 1 follow the Collier Laddie. My name she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the Collier 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 tbey shall be thine, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. III. Ye shall gang in gay attire, Weel 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 a day, And spen't at night fu' brawlie ; And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. Lnve for luve is the bargain for me, Tho' the wee cot-house should baud me j 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. 252 THE POETICAL WORKS 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. CXIX. THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. Tune — " The weary Fund o' Tow.''^ ["This soiig," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the Musical Museum; l)ut it is not attributed to Burns. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might have, if lie had pleased, stated similar objections to many Bongs which he took without scruple from my edition, wnere they were claimed for Burns, for the first time, and on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did not 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 Burns to the Museum, and in his own hand- writing.] The weary pund, the weary pund, The 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. At last her feet — I sang to see't — Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; And or I wad anither jad, I'll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow ! I think my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow. cxx. NAEBODY. Tune—** Naebody:* [Burns had built his house at Ellisland, sowed his firgt crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope wag high; no wonder that he indulged in this independsnl ■train.] I. I HAE a wife o' my ain — I'll partake wi' naebody ; I'll tak cuckold frae nane, I'll gie cuckold to naebody. I hae a penny to spend, There — thanks to naebody ; I hae naething to lend, I'll borrow frae naebody. II. I am naebody's lord — I'll be slave to naebody ; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for naebody ; Naebody cares for me, I'll care for naebody. CXXI. 0, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAMI Tune — " The Moudiewori.' [In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Barm says simply, " This song is mme." The air for a centurj before had to bear the burthen of very ordinary worda.l CHORUS. An 0, 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. I. They snool me sair, and hand me down, And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! But three short years will soon wheel roun* And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, Was left me by my auntie, Tam , At kith or kin I need na spier, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. OF ROBERT BURNS. 253 III. cxxni. They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn ; MY COLLIER LADDIE. But hear'st thou, laddie— there's my loof— Tune—" The Collier Laddie^ I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam. An 0, for ane-and-twenty, Tam ! [The Collier Laddie was communicated by Bums, and in his handwriting, to the Museum : it is chiefly \\jiLwn An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam ! composition, though coloured by an older strain.] I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. I. Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? An' tell me what they ca' ye ; My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, CXXII. And 1 follow the Collier Laddie. KENMURE'S ON AND AW A. My name she says, is Mistress Jean, And I follow the ColUer Laddie. Tune — " Kenmure's on and awa, Willie." [The second and third, and concluding verses of this II. Jacobite strain, were written by Burns: the whole was See you not yon hills and dales. sent in his own handwriting to the Museum.] The sun shines on sae brawlie ! I. They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, Eenmure's on and awa, Willie t Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. Kenmure's on and awa ! They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. That ever Galloway saw. III. 11. Ye shall gang in gay attire. Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! Weel buskit up sae gaudy ; And ane to wait on every hand. Success to Kenmure's band ; Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. And ane to wait on every hand, Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand. III. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! IV. Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on. Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; And the earth conceals sae lowly ; There ne'er was a coward o* Kenmure's blude, I wad turn my back on you and it a', Nor yet o' Gordon's line. And embrace my Collier Laddie. I wad turn my back on you and it a*, IV. And embrace my Collier Laddie. Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! Kenmure's lads are men ; V. Their hearts and swords are metal true — I can win my five pennies a day. And that their faes shall ken. And spen't at night fu' brawlie ; And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. V. And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie I And make my bed in the Collier's neuk. They'll live or die wi' fame ; And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. But soon wi* sounding victorie. May Kenmure's lord come hame. VI. Luve for luve is the bargain for me, VI. Tho' the wee cot-house should baud me; Here's him that's far awa, Willie, And the world before me to win my bread. Here's him that's far awa ; And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. And here's the flower that I love best— And the world before me to win my bread. The rose that's like the snaw I And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 256 THE POETICAL WORKS 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. III. For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, I dinna care a single flie ; He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, He has nae luve to spare for 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. 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. 0, gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; But the tender heart o' leesome luve, The gowd and siller canna buy ; "We may be poor — Robie and I, Light is the burden luve lays on; Content and luve brings peace and joy — What mair hae queens upon a throne ? CXXIX, FAIR ELIZA. A Gaelic Air. [The name of the heroine of this song was at first Ra- bina: l)Ut Johnson, the pul)lisher, alarmed at admitting ■oraething new into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted ; which was a positive fraud; foi Rablna was a r^al lady, 4nd a lovely one, and Eliza one of air.] Turn again, thou fair Eliza, Ae kind blink before we part, Rue on thy despairing lover ! Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; If to love thy heart denies, For pity hide the cruel sentence Under friendship's kind disguise ! Thee, dear maid, hae I oflFended ? The oflFence is loving thee : Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, Wha for time wad gladly die ? While the life beats in my bosom, Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; Turn again, thou lovely maiden. Ae sweet smile on me bestow. III. Not the bee upon the blossom. In the pride o' sunny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy. All beneath 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. YE JACOBITES BY NAME. Tune — " Ye Jacobites by name.'* [" Ye Jacobites by name," appeared for the first time in the Museum : it was sent in the handwriting of Burns.] Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear ; Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim. Your doctrines I maui blame- • You shall hear. What is right, and what is wrarg, by the law, by the law ? What is right and what is wr^ng, by the law ? What is right and what is wrang ? A short sword, and a lanj', A weak arm, and a Strang For to draw. What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar? What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar ? What makes heroic strife ? To whet th' assassin's knife. Or hunt a parent's life Wi' bluidie war. OF ROBERT BURNS. 267 IV. 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. THE BANKS OF BOON. [fikst version.] [An Ay «hire legend says the heroine of this affecting rfong wai Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young crea- ture, beoitiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to ner love for her kinsman, McDoual, 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. IV. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love ; And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree ; And my fause luver staw the rose. But left the thorn wi' me. cxzxn. THE BANKS 0' DOOH. [•lOOJID TBBIIOV.] Tnne—'* Caledonian JIunft IhUfkL** [Bams injared soiMwhat th« timplielty oT tk« m^ ^ adapting it to a mw air, aeeidrntoUj . „ -, , , bjraa amateur who was directed, if b« dMtrvd to crcat* a S«o«. tiih air, to keep his fingars to th» black k»j9 of tha kmt^ ■ichord and preaanra rhythm.] I. Ti banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chant, ye little bird*. And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbliof bird. That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joyi. Departed — never to retom ! II. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its lave. And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pa'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose. But, ah I he left the thorn wi' bml oxxxn. WILLIE WASTLR. Tune— "J!U tigkt smm of MmimC* [The paraon who ia raiaad to tba i t iai g 1 1 ii M s lIst ll M of haroina of this auag, waa, it ia Mirf. a tefaM*>«1* flf thaold tchool of d ow a tti a eaia •aA a a il aa—— » nff Uvwl Bigh tha peat, at Elliatead.] I. WiLLiB WasUe dwaJt on Twm4. The spot they call'd it Willie was a wabsUr gnid. Cou'd stown a elne wt* mBm betft; He had a wife wae do«r aa4 din. Tinkler Madgle wni \m ■iiher: Bio n wife ae WilUt Im4, 1 wnd nM fie n tatiM *» ^m. II. She has an e*»— eke kne WH na% The cat hae twn Ike t«j ••kwi 17 258 THE POETICAL WORKS Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, We'll sew a green ribbon A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller : Round about his hat. A whiskin' beard about her mou', And that will let them ken Her nose and chin they threaten ither — He's to marry yet. Sic a -wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her. III. Lady Mary Ann III. Was a flower i' the dew, She's bow hough' d, she's hem shinn'd, Sweet was its smell, A limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter ; And bonnie was its hue ; She's twisted right, she's twisted left, And the langer it blossom'd To balance fair in ilka quarter : The sweeter it grew ; She has a hump upon her breast, For the lily in the bud The twin o' that upon her shouther — Will be bonnier yet. Sic a wife as Willie had, I wad nae gie a button for her. IV. Young Charlie Cochran IV. Was the sprout of an aik ; Auld baudrans by the ingle sits. Bonnie and bloomin' An' wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; And straught was its make : But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. The sun took delight She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion. To shine for its sake, ,Her walie nieves like midden-creels. And it will be the brag Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water — 0' the forest yet. Sic a wife as Willie had. I wad nae gie a button for her. V. The simmer is gane. When the leaves they were greei And the days are awa. That we hae seen ; CXXXIV. But far better days I trust will come again, LADY MARY ANN. For my bonnie laddie's young. Tune — " Craigtown's growing.''^ [The poet sent this eong to the Museum, in his own Handwriting : yet part of it is believed to be old ; how much cannot be well known, with such skill has he made kis interpolations and changes.] 0, 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. father ! father ! An' ye think it fit. We'll send him a year To the college yet : But he's growin' yet cxxxv. SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION. Tune. — "^ parcel of rogues in a nation.'* [This song was written by Bums in a moment of honest indignation at the northern scoundrels who sold to those of the south the independence of Scotland, at th« time of the Union.] Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, Fareweel our ancient glory, Fareweel even to the Scottish name, Sae fam'd in martial story. Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, And Tweed rins to the ocean, OF KOBERT BURNS. 259 To mark where England's province stands — Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. What force or guile could not subdue, Thro' many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few For hireling traitor's 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. would, or I had seen the day That treason thus could sell 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. THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. Tune — " Eellyhurn Braea.^' [Of this song Mrs. Burns said to Cromek, when running ler finger over the long list of Ij'rics which her husband lad written or amended for the Museum, "Robert gae this one a terrible brusliing." A considerable portion of the old still remains.] I. 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. II. A ! day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen ?" And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. III. •' I' A gloamin-shot it was I wot, But now wi' sighs and starting tears. 1 lighted on the Monday ; He strays amang the woods and briers; But I cam through the Tysday's dew, Or in the glens and rocky caves To wanton Willie's brandy. His sad complaining dowie raves. II. I wha sae late did range and rove. CLII. And chang'd with every moon my love, COMING THROUGH THE RYE. I little thought the time was near. Tune — " Coming through the ryeJ^ Repentance I should buy sae dear : The slighted maids my torment see. [The poet in this song removed some of the coarse And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; ihaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, (there it was first printed.] I. Forbids me e'er to see her mair 1 Coming through the rye, poor body. Coming through the rye, She draiglet a' her petticoatie. CLIV. Coming through the rye. Jenny's a' wat, poor body, OUT OVER THE FORTH. Jenny's seldom dry ; Tune — " Charlie Gordon's welcome hame." She draiglet a' her petticoatie. Lin one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11th March Coming through the rye. 1791, Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and II. gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.] Gin a body meet a body — I. Coming through the rye, Out over the Forth I look to the north, Gin a body kiss a body — But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? Need a body cry ? III. The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. Gin a body meet a body II. Coming through the glen, But I look to the west, when I gae to rest. Gin a body kiss a body- That happy my dreams and my slumbers may Need the world ken ? be; Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. Jenny's seldom dry ; The lad that is dear to my babie and me. She draiglet a' her petticoatie. Coming through the rye. CLV. CLIII. THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. Tune— "JacAy Latin." rOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. [Burns in one of his professional visits to Ecclefechan Tunc—" The earlin o' the glen." was amused with a rough old district song, which Bom« one sung : he rendered, nt a leisure moment, the language [Sent to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting : more delicate and the sentiments less warm, and sent it •art only is thought to be his.] to the Museum.] I. YouNQ Jamie, pride of a' the plain. I. Gat ye me, gat ye me. Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; gat ye me wi' naething ? Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel^ And reign'd resistless king of love : A mickle quarter basin. 266 THE POETICAL WORKS Bye attour, my gutcher has A hich house and a laigh ane, A' for bye, my bonnie sel', The toss of Ecclcfechan. II. haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, haud your tongue and jauner ; T held the gate till you I met, Syne I began to wander : 1 tint my whistle and my sang, T tint my peace and pleasure : But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, Wad airt me to my treasure. CLVI. THE COOPER 0' CUDDIE. Tune— "^a6 at the bolster." [The wit of this song is better than its delicacy : it is printed in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.] I. The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — And our gude-wife has gotten a ca' That anger'd the silly gude-man, 0. We'll hide the cooper behind the door ; Behind the door, behind the door; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, 0. He sought them out, he sought them in, Wi', deil hae her ! and, deil hae him ! But the body was sae doited and blin', He wist na where he was gaun, 0. They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; On ilka brow she's planted a horn. And swears that they shall stan', 0. We'll hide the cooper behind the door, Behind the door, behind the door ; We'll hide the cooper behind the door, And cover him under a mawn, 0. Tune- CLVII. SOMEBODY. • For the sake of somebody. [Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lines vH tins lyric from Ramsay : he sent it to the Museum.^ Mr heart is sair — I dare na tell — My heart is sair for somebody ; I could wake a winter night For the sake o* somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I could range the world around, For the sake o' somebody I II. Te powers that smile on virtuous love, 0, sweetly smile on somebody ! Frae ilka danger keep him free. And send me safe my somebody. Oh-hon ! for somebody ! Oh-hey ! for somebody ! I wad do — what wad I not ? For the sake o' somebody ! CLVIII. THE CARDIN' O'T. Tune — " Salt-fish and dumpling s.^^ [" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the Mu. sical Museum, but not with Burns's name to it." It wai given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.] X. I COFT a stane o' haslock woo', To make a wat to Johnny o't ; For Johnny is my only jo, I lo'e him best of ony yet. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; When ilka ell cost me a groat. The tailor staw the lynin o't. For though his locks be lyart gray, And tho' his brow be held aboon; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a' the parishen. The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't. The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; When ilka ell cost me a groat. The tailor staw the lynin o't UiV liOBEET BUKNS. 267 — ■ - VIII. CLIX. Her hair was like the links o' gowd. WHEN JANUAR' WIND. Her teeth were like the ivorie ; Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine. Tune—" The lass that made the bed for me.'" The lass that made the bed to me. [Burns found an old, clever, but not very decorous strain, recording an adventure which Charles the Second, IX. while under Presbyterian rule in Scotand, had with a Her bosom was the driven snaw, young lady of the house of Port Letham, and exercising Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; \i% taste and skill upon it, produced the present — still too Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, free sorsj for the Museum.] The lass that made the bed to me. I. Then Januar' wind was blawing cauld, X. I kiss'd her owre and owre again, As to the north I took my way, And ay she wist na what to say ; The mirksome night did me enfauld, I laid her between me and the wa'^ I knew na where to lodge till day. The lassie thought na lang till day. II. By my good luck a maid I met, XI. Upon the morrow when we rose. I thank'd her for her courtesie ; Just in the middle o' my care ; And kindly she did me invite But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh' J, To walk into a chamber fair. And said, *' Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." III. XII. I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 1 bow'd fu' low unto this maid, While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'o ; And thank'd her for her courtesie ; I said, " My lassie, dinna cry. I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." And bade her mak a bed to me. XIII. IV. She took her mither's Holland sheets, She made the bed baith large and wide, And made them a' in sarks to me : Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; Blythe and merry may she be. She put the cup to her rosy lips. The lass that made the bed to me. And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye soun'." XIV. The bonnie lass made the bed to me. V. The braw lass made the bed to me : She snatch'd the candle in her hand, I'll ne'er forget till the day I die. And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; The lass that made the bed to me I But I call'd her quickly back again To lay some mair below my head. VI. CLX. A cod she laid below my head. SAE FAR AWA. And served me wi' due respect ; And to salute her wi' a kiss. Tune—" Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." I put my arms about her neck. [This song was sent to the Museum by Bums, in ok own handwriting.] VII. I. «* Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, 0, SAD and heavy should I part, " And dinna sae uncivil be : But for her sake sae far awa ; If ye hae onie love for me. Unknowing what my way may thwart. wrang na my virginitie !" My native land sae far awa. 268 THE POETICAL WOEKS Thou that of a' things Maker art, That form'd this fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start At this my way sae far awa. How true is love to pure desert, So 1 jve to her, sae far awa : And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, While, oh ! she is sae far awa. Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but hers, sae far awa ; But fairer never touch'd a heart Than hers, the fair sae far awa. CLXI. I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. Tune — "i'^Z gae nae mair to yon town." [Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir Harris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromek'a Reliques : t was first printed in the Museum.] I'll ay ca' in by yon town. And by yon garden green, again ; I'll ay ca' in by yon town. And s«e my bonnie Jean again. There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, What brings me back the ga,te again ; But she my fairest faithfu' lass. And stownlins we sail meet again. She'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. 0, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. Tune — " Vll ay caH in hy yon town." [The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, of Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song : it was BOt, however, composed expressly in honour of her charms. " As I was a good deal pleased," he says in a letter to Syme, " with my performance, I, in my first fsK vour, 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 shaw, She wanders ^y yon spreading tree ; How blest ye flcw'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. Without my love, not a' the charms 0' Paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky t 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 therp. sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; A fairer than's in yon town His setting beam ne'er shone upon. VII. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 1 careless quit aught else below, But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear 1 VIII. For while life's dearest blood is warm, • Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. OF ROBEKT BURNS. 265 And she — as fairest is her form ! She has the truest, kindest heart ! 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. CLXIII. MAY, THY MORN. Tune — " May, thy morn." [Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain to the accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by Chambers in his " People's Edition" of Burns.] Mat, thy mom 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 watch o'er them. And here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum. And here's to them we dare na tell, The dearest o' the quorum ! CLXIV. LOVELY POLLY STEWART. Tune — ** YeWe welcome, Charlie Stewart." [The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind •eems to have been with Charlie Stewart, and the Jacob- ite ballads, when he penned these words ; — they are in the Museum.] I. LOVELY Polly Stewart ! charming Polly Stewart! There's not a flower that blooms in May That's half so fair as thou art. The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's. And art can ne'er renew it ; But worth and truth eternal youth Will give to Polly Stewart. May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms Possess a leal and true heart ; To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart. lovely Polly Stewart ! charming Polly Stewart! There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May That's half so sweet as thou art. CLXV. THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. Tune — " If thou'ltplay me fair play." [A long and wearisome ditty, called " The Highlan4 Lad and Lowland Lassie," which Burns compressed int< these stanzas, for Johnson's Museum.l I. The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie HighlanCf laddie. II. Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, Bonnie Lowland lassie. Glory, honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie, For freedom and my king to fight, Bonnie Lowland lassie. The sun a backward course shall xke, Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yourself procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; And for your lawful king, his crown* Bonnie Highland laddie. 270 THE POETICAL WORKS CLXVI. the Nith to the Dee : but to the Dee, if the poet Bpok3 U his own person, no such influences could belong.] ANNA, THY CHARMS. Tune — " Bonnie Mary." I. To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, [The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknown ; it Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd. was inserted in the third edition of his Poems.] Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe. Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. And waste my soul with care ; But ah ! how bootless to admire, II. When fated to despair ! I love thee, Nith, thy banks and traes, Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; To hope may be forgiv'n ; For there he rov'd that brake my heart. For sure 'twere impious to despair, Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I So much in sight of Heav'n. CLXIX. CLXVll. BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. CASSILLIS' BANKS. Tune—" The Killogie." Tune — [unknown. ] [" This song is in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, [It is supposed that " Highland Mary," who lived jometirae on Cassillis's banks, is the heroine of these " but without Burns's name." Burns took up an old song, and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobite verses.] spirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museum.] I. Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, I. Bannocks o' bear meal. An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; Bannocks o' barley ; By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream, Here's to the Highlandman's The birdies flit on wanton wing. Bannocks o' barley. To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, Wha in a brulzie There wi' my Mary let me flee. Will first cry a parley ? There catch her ilka glance of love. Never the lads wi' The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! The bannocks o' barley. II. The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth II. Bannocks o' bear meal. Is aften laird o' meikle care ; Bannocks o' barley ; But Mary she is a' my ain — Here's to the lads wi' Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. The bannocks o' barley. Then let me range by Cassillis' banks. Wha in his wae-days Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, Were loyal to Charlie ? And catch her ilka glance o' love, Wha but the lads wi' The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e I The bannocks o' barley ? CLXVIII. CLXX. TO THEE, LOVED NITH. HEE BALOU. Tune — [unknown. ] Tune—" The Highland Balou." [There are several variations extant of these verses, ["Published in the Musical Museum," says Sir Harris uid among others one which transfers the praise from Nicolas, " but without the name of the author." It is aa OF KOBEBT BUBNS. 271 ] •Id strain, eked out and amended by Burns, and sent to CLXxn. the Museum in liis own handwriting.] T HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, Tune — " The job of journey-work.'^ ■■ Picture o' the great Clanronald ; TBurns took the hint of this song from an older and lesa Hr Brawlie kens our wanton chief decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been said in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jeac Ar Wha got my young Highland thief. mour found herself before marriage ; as if Burns could be capable of anything so insulting. The words are ia II. the Museum.] Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, Altho' my back be at the wa', An' thou live, thou'll steal a naigie : An' tho' he be the fautor ; Travel the country thro' and thro', Altho' my back be at the wa'. And bring hame a Carlisle cow. Yet here's his health in water ! ! wae gae by his wanton sides. III. Sae brawlie he could flatter ; Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border. Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, Weel, my babie, may thou furder : And dree the kintra clatter. Herry the louus o' the laigh countree. But tho' my back be at the wa'. Syne to the Highlands hame to me. And tho' he be the fautor ; But tho' my back be at the wa*. Yet here's his health in water I CLXXI. WAE IS MY HEART. OLXxin. Tune — " Waeis my hearV^ MY PEGGY'S FACE. [Composed, it is said, at the request of Clarke, the musician, who felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of Tune— " My Peggy's Face^ heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, [Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, after Phillis M'Mnrdo.] wards Mrs. Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, the wittiest of all the poet's lady correspondents. Burns, I. in the note in which he communrcated it to Johnson, said Wae is mj heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; he had a strong private reason for wishing it to apj-«ai Lang, lani5, joy's been a stranger to me ; in the second volume of the Museum.] Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear. I. And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. ear. The frost of hermit age might warm ; 11. My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved ; Might charm the first of human kind. Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved ; I love my Peggy's angel air, But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my Her face so truly, heav'nly fair, breast. Her native grace so void of art. I can fe^l by its throbbings will soon be at rest But I adore my Peggy's heart III. 0, if I were happy, where happy I hae been, II. The lily's hue, the rose's dye. Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle The kindling lustre of an eye ; green; Who but owns their magic sway ? For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, Who but knows they all decay ! Wha w*c! soon dry the tear frae his PhilUs's e'e. The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear. The gentle look, that rage disarms — These are all immortal charms. ,, ,1 272 THE POETICAL WOKKS CLXXIV. GLOOMY DECEMBER. Tune—" Wandering Willie." [These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, and must be taken as a record of his feelings at parting witli one dear to him to the latest moments of existence — the Mrs. Mac of many a toast, both in serious and fes- tive hours.] I. Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care : Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; But the dire feeling, farewell for ever ! Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure. Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. Since my last hope and last comfort is gone! Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; For sad was the parting thou makes me remem- ber. Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. CLXXV. MY LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. Tune — " Gregg's Pipes." [Most of this song is from the pen of Burns: he cor- rected the improprieties, and infused some of his own lyric genius into the old strain? and printed the result in the Museum.] I. My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; Bnt Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. My lord a-hunting he is gane. But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane ; By Colin's cottage lies his game. If Colin's Jenny be at hame. My lady's white, my lady's red, And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude : But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gujd Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. III. Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness. IV. Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o' lovers' hymns: The diamond dew is her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims V. My lady's dink, my lady's drest. The flower and fancy o' the west; But the lassie that a man lo'es best, that's the lass to make him blest. My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. CLXXVI. AMANG THE TREES. Tune — " The King of France^ he rade a rac* [Burns wrote these verses in scorn of those, and •«xw are many, who prefer " The capon craws and queer ha ha's !" of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious ».-ti, Highland and Lowland, of old Caledonia: the song t^ % fragment— the more's the pity.] I. Amanq the trees, where humming bees At buds and flowers were hinging, 0, Auld Caledon drew out her drone. And to her pipe was singing, ; 'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels. She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, 0, When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels. That dang her tapsalteerie, 0. Their capon craws and queer ha ha's. They made our lugs grow eerie, ; The hungry bike did scrape and pike^ 'Till we were wae and weary, ; But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the north That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. OF ROBERT BURNS. 273 CLXXVII. CLXXVIII. THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. MY AIN KIND DEARIE 0. Tnne^" Banks of Banna." [This is the first song composed by Bums for the ["Anne with the golden locks," one of the attendant national collection of Thomson : it was written in Octo- maidens in Biirns's liowff, in Dumfries, was very fair and ber, 1792. <' On reading over the Lea-rig." he says, " I very tractable, and, as may be surmised from the song, immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the all, I could make nothing more of it than the followinjf." customers than the serving of wine. Burns recommended The first and second verses were only sent : Burns ac'de4 this song to Thomson; and one of his editors makes him the third and last verse in December.] ■ay, " I think this is one of the best love-songs I ever composed," but these are not the words of Burns ; this I. contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought When o'er the hill the eastern star that the bard had the bad taste to prefer this strain to Tells bugh tin-time is near, my jo ; dozens of others more simple, more impassioned, and aoore natural.] And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and weary, ! I. Down by the burn, where scented birks ' Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo ; A place where body saw na' ; I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine My aia kind dearie ! The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness II. Rejoicing o'er his manna, In mirkest glen, at midnight hour. Was naething to my hinny bliss I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, ; Upon the lips of Anna. If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. My ain kind dearie ! II. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, Ye monarchs tak the east and west, And I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, Frae Indus to Savannah I I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, Gie me within my straining grasp My ain kind dearie ! The melting form of Anna. There I'll despise imperial charms, III. An empress or sultana, The hunter lo'es the morning sun. While dying raptures in her arms To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; I give and take with Anna ! At noon the fisher seeks the glen. Alang the burn to steer, my jo ; III. Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! It maks my heart sae cheery, 0, Awa, thou pale Diana ! To meet thee on the lea-ring, Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, My ain kind dearie ! When I'm to meet my Anna. Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; And bring an angel pen to write My transports wi' my Anna ! CLXXIX. IV. TO MARY CAMPBELL. ' The kirk an' state may join and tell — To do sic things I maunna : The kirk and state may gang to hell, ['««Tne wild- wood Indian's Fate," in the original MS. 278 THE POETICAL WORKS 1 do not think it very remarkable either for its merits or Its demerits." " Of all the productions of Burns," says Hazlitt, '< the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are, perhaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison." The song is supposed to have been written on one of a family of Morisons at Mauchline.] Maby, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let my see That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun ; Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison I Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw : Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a', " Ye are na Mary Morison." Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee ? If love for love thou wilt na gie. At least be pity to me shown ; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. CLXXXIX. WANDERING WILLIE. [first version.] [The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same aarao published by Herd : the heroine is supposed to have been the accomplished Mrs. Riddel. Erskine and Thomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, squeezed much of the natural and original spirit out of it. Burns approved of their alterations ; but he approved, no doul t, in bitterness of spirit.] I. Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie. And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie th* Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part- ing; It was na the blast brought the tear in my e'e; Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. III. Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your 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 faithfulest Nannie, still flow between us, thou wide roaring main ; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. cxc. WANDERING WILLIE. [last version.] [This is the " Wandering Willie" as altered by Er- skine and Thomson, and approved by Burns, after reject- ing several of their emendations. The changes were made chiefly with the view of harmonizing the wordi with the music — an Italian mode of mending the harmony of the human voice.] Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part- ing, Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e , Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. OF ROBERT BURNS. ?7& Rest, ye -wild storms, in the cave of your slum- bers, How your dread howling a lover alarms ! Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main ; May I never see it, may I never trow it, But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. CXCI. OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! [Written for Thomson's collection : the first version which he wrote was not happy in its harmony : Burns altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then said, « I do not know if this song be really mended."] OH, open the door, some pity to show, Oh, open the door to me, Oh !^ Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, Oh ! Oauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me. Oh ! The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, And time is setting with me, Oh ! False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee. Oh I IT. She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh ! My true love ! she cried, and sank down by his side. Never to rise again. Oh ! I This second line was originally — *' If love it may na be. Oh •" CXCII. JESSIE. Tune — ^'Bonnie Dundee.'^ [Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provost o* Dumfries, was the heroine of tliis song. She bocnme a wife and a mother, but died early in life : she is still af- fectionately remembered in her native place.] I. Teub hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, And fair are the maids on the banks o' th« Ayr, But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, And maidenly modesty fixes the chain 0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily at evening close ; But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : And still to her charms she alone is a stranger— Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a' ! CXCIII. THE POOR AND HONEST SODGEK Air—" The Mill, Mill, 0." [Bums, it is said, composed this song, once very popu« lar, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adventurea, at Brownhill, in Nithsdale : it was published by Thom» son, after suggesting some alterations, which were pro* perly rejected.] I. When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. And mony a widow mourning ; I left the lines and tented field. Where lang I'd been a lodger. My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor and honest sodger. A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand tinstain'd wi' plunder ; 280 THE JPO>.TiCAL WORKS And for fair Scotia, hame again, I cheery on did wander. I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, I thought upon the witching smile Tlat caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach'd the bonny glen, Where early life I sported ; I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted : Wha spTed I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling ! And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, ! happy, happy, may he be That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang. And fain wad be thy lodger ; I've serv'd my king and country lang — Take pity on a sodger. 6ae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was then ever ; Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'd, Forget him shall I never : Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it. That gallant badge — the dear cockade- Ye're welcome for the sake o't. She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — Syne pale like onie lily ; She sank within my arms, and cried, Art thou my ain dear Willie ? By him who made yon sun and sky — By whom true love's regarded, I am the man ; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded ! The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted ; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted. Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly ; And come, my faithful sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor ; But glory is the sodger's prize. The sodger's wealth is honour ; The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger ; Remember he's his country's stay, In day and hour of danger. CXCIV. MEG 0' THE MILL. Air — " Hei/! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack f" ["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1793, " called ' Jackie Hume's Lament ?' I have a song of considerable merit to that air : I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the Museum." It is probable that Thomson hked these verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands : Burns touched up the old song with the same starling line, but a less delicate conclusion, aud published it in the Museum.] I. KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller. And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady : The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl. The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle. wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen' A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl I OF HUBERT BURNS. 281 cxcv. BLYTHE HAE I BEEN. Tnne—'** Lifffferam Cosh." [Bums, who seldom praised his own compositions, told Tliom*ia iir •^\:t3 work he wrote it, that " BIythe hae I been o". yon hul,'' Avas one of the finest songs he had ever made in his life, and composed on one of the most lovely women in the world. The heroine was Miss Les- .ey BaiUie.] I. Blythe hae I been on yon hill As the lambs before me ; Careless ilka thought and free As the breeze flew o'er me. Now nae langer sport and play, Mirth or sang can please me ; Lesley is sae fair and coy, Care and anguish seize me. II. Heavy, heavy is the task. Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, Sighing, dumb, despairing! If she winna ease the thraws In my bosom swelling, Underneath the grass-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling. CXCVI. LOGAN WATER. [" Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thorn- son, 25th June, 1793, " felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an h ,n;'8 meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic Bt, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale poet.] I. LooAN, sweetly didst thou glide, That day I was my Willie's bride ! And years synsyne hae o'er us run. Like Logan to the simmer sun. But now thy flow'ry banks appear Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, 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 are teais of joy : My soul, delightless, a' surveys, While Willie's far frae Logan braes. III. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile : But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes wae upon you, men o' state, That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, Sae may it on your heads return I How can your flinty hearts enjoy The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?* But soon may peace bring happy days And Willie hame to Logan braes ! cxcvn. THE RED, RED ROSE. Air — '^ Huffhie Graham.*' [There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fine that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended or eked out, without showing where the hand of the re- storer has been. This seems the case with the first verse of this song, which the poet found in Witherspoon, and completed by the addition of the second verse, which he felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to make his own the first verse, and let the other follow, whfch wo-i d conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it was original.] I. WEEK 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 > Originally — " Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys, Tlie widow's tears, the orphan's cries " ' 282 THE POETICAL WORKS j How I wad mourn, when it was torn V. By autumn wild, and winter rude 1 He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, But I wad sing on wanton wing, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist. II. Her heart was tint, her peace was stown gin my love were yon red rose, VI. That groAvs upon the castle wa' ; As in the bosom o' the stream, And I mysel' a drap o' dew, The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; Into her bonnie breast to fa'! Oh, there beyond expression blest, So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, VII. Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. And now she works her mammie's wark, And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; Yet wist na what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again. cxcvni. VIII. But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, BONNIE JEAN. And did na joy blink in her e'e, [Jean M'Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest As Robie tauld a tale of love, daughter of John M'Murdo of Drumianrig, was, both in Ae e'enin' on the lily lea ? merit and look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and justified the poet from the charge made against him in the West, that his beauties were not other men's beau- IX. ties. In the M'Murdo manuscript, in Burns's handwrit- The sun was sinking in the west. ing, there is a well-merited compliment; which has slipt The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; out of the printed copy in Thomson : — <' Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set His cheek to hers he fondly prest. In barn or byre to trouble thee."] And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 1. Theee was a lass, and she was fair, X. Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; At kirk and market to be seen. canst thou think to fancy me ! When a' the fairest maids were met, Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? II. And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, XI. At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge. And ay she sang so merrilie : Or naething else to trouble thee ; But stray amang the heather-bells. And tent the waving corn wi' me. The blithest bird upon the bush Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. III. But hawks will rob the tender joys XII. That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; Now what could artless Jeanie do ? And frost will blight the fairest flowers, She had nae will to say him na : And love will break the soundest rest. At length she blush'd a sweet consent, IV. Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen ; And love was ay between them twa' And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. And wanton naigies nine or ten. OF ROBERT BURNS. 283 CXCIX. PHILLIS THE FAIR. Tune — ^' Robin Adair." [Tb.3 ladies of the M'Murdo family were graceful and beautiful, and lucky in finding a poet capable of record- ing tlieir charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this flon^ was Phillis M'Murdo ; a favourite of the poet. The verses were composed at the request of Clarke, the mu- sician, who believed himself in love with his " charming 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 ; Such thy bloom ! did I say, Phillis the fair. Down in a shady walk Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk, Caught in a snare : So kind may fortune be. Such make his destiny ! He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair. CO. HAD I A CAVE. Tune — *' Robin Adair.' words were written : the hero of the lay has been lonf dead ; the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.] Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare. All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air I To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury, Then in thy bosom try What peace is there ! [Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love- adventure Burns composed this song for Thomson, vras a jeweller in Kdinhurgh, well connected, and of agreea- ble and polished manners. The story of his faithless viistress was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1703, when these CCI. BY ALLAN STREAM. [" Bravo ! say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote these verses for Thomson. " It is a good song. Should you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season ; I make more verses in it than all the year else." The old song of " U my love Annie's very bonnie," helped the muse of Burns with this lyric] By Allan stream I chanced to rove While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi ; The winds were whispering through the grove. The yellow corn was waving ready ; I listened to a lover's sang. And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony . And aye the wild wood echoes rang — dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie I happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast. She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever?* While mony a kiss the seal imprest. The sacred vow, — we ne'er should sever. :84 THE POETICAL WORKS 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 I 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 ? ocn. WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU. [In one of the variations of this song the name of the heroine is Jeanie : the song itself owes some of the senti- ments as well as words to an old favourite Nithsdale chant of the same name. "Is Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," Burns inquires of Thomson, "one of your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it." The poet, two years afterwards, altered the fourth line thus: — " Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad," and assigned this reason : " In fact, a fair dame at whose Bhrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces ha e attired in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with light- ning ; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you dare."] WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad, whistle, and 111 come to you, my lad: Tho' father and mither 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 comin' 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 bonnie black e'e, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. III. Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me. And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be. For feac that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad; whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. ccin. ADOWN WINDING NITH. [" Mr. Clarke," says Burns to Thomson, «* begs you U give Miss Phillis a corner in your book, as she is a par' ticular flame of his. She is a Miss Piiillis M'.Murdo sister to 'Bonnie Jean;' they are both pupils of his.' This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath.] I. Adown winding Nith I did wander, To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; Adown winding Nith I did wander. Of Phillis to muse and to sing. Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare : Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. So artless, so simple, so wild ; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, For she is simplicity's child. The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer. Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : How fair and how pure is the lily, But fairer and purer her breast. Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine. Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. Her voice is the song of the morning. That wakes thro' the green-spreading grov^ When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. On music, and pleasure, and love. But beauty how frail and how fleeting, The bloom of a fine summer's day f While worth in the mind o' my Phillis Will flourish without a decay. OF ROBERT BURNS. 285 Awa wi* your belles and your beauties, They never wi' her can compare : Whaever has met wi' my Phillis Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. CCIV. COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. Air—" Cauld Kail." f Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradi- tion says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. " That tune, Cauld Kail," he says to Thomson, " is such a favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yester- day for a gloamin-shot at the Muses; when the Muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the fol- lowing."] I. Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; And I shall spurn as vilest dust The warld's wealth and grandeur : And do I hear my Jeanie own That equal transports move her ? I ask for dearest life alone. That 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, sae bonnie blue, I swear I'm thine for ever ! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never. GOV. DAINTY DAVIE. [From the old song of " Daintie Davie" Burns has borrowed only the title and the measure. The ancient ■train records how the Rev. David Williamson, to escape the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecu- tion, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrees, in the same bed with her ailmg daughter. The divine lived to have six wives beside the daughter of the Lady of Cher- cytreea and other children besides the one which his hiding from the dragoons produced. When Charles th« Second was told of the adventure and its upshot, he il said to have exclaimed, " God's fish ! that beats me anc the oak : the man ought to be made a bishop. "J Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers j And now comes in my happy hours. To wander wi' my Davie. Meet me on the warlock knowe, Dai^jty Davie, dainty Davie, There I'll spend the day wi' yon, My ain dear dainty Davie. The crystal waters round us fa', The merry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round us blaw, A wandering wi' my Davie. When purple morning starts the haro. To steal upon her early fare. Then thro' the dews I will repair^ To meet my faithfu' Davio 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. CCVI. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN. [first version.] Tune— " JTey, tuttie taitie." [Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was soni* posed during a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway: the poet himself gives an accounl much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson, he says, '« There is a tradition which 1 have met with in many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce'a march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of entha siasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which! threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that 286 THE POETICAL WORKS one might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was written in September, 1793.] Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie ! Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lour : See approach proud Edward's pow'r — Chains and slaverie ! 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. BANNOCKBURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. [second version.] [Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial *nd national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and proposed to substitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. But Lewis Gordon required a couple of sjilables more fei every fourth line, which loaded the verse with exple- Ifves, and weakened the simple energy of the original : Burns consented to the proper alterations, after a slight resistance; but when Thomson, having succeeded io this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of Brace's day ever resisted more sternly the march of a Southron over the border. *' The only line," savs the mu^ sician, " which I dislike in the whole song is, ' Welcome to your gory bed :' gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and c prudent general would avoid saying anything to his boU diers 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 of Coriolanus, " Oh, God, no blood!" while Burns exclaims, like that Roman's heroic mother, "Yes, blood ! it becomes a soldier more than gilt hi« 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 I Now's the day, and now's the hour — See the front o' battle lour ; See approach proud Edward's power- Edward ! chains and slaverie ! III. Wha will be a traitor-knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 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 i Lay the proud usurpers low 1 Tyrants fall in every foe I Liberty's in every blow ! Forward ^ let us do, or die i OF ROBERT BUIiiNS. 287 CCVIII. BEHOLD THE HOUR. Tune — " Oran-gaoil." I" 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 book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing from the mint." These are tlie words of Burns to Thomson : he might have added ttat tlie song was written on the meditated voyage of Clarinda to the West Indies, to join her husband.] Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! Sever'd from thee can I survive ? But fate has will'd, and we must part. I'll often greet this surging swell, Yon distant isle will often hail : ** E'en here I took the last farewell ; There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail.'' Along the solitary shore While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I'll westward turn my wistful eye : Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, Where now my Nancy's path may be ! While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, tell me, does she muse on me ? CCIX. THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. Tune — " Fee him, father.'^ ["I do not give these verses," says Bums to Thom- lon, " for any merit they have. I composed them at the rime in which * Patie Allan's mither died, about the back o' midnight,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, ivhich had overset every mortal in company, except the aautbois and the muse.'* To the poet's intercourse with lusicians we owe some fine Bongs.] I. Thou hast left me ever, Jamie I Thou hast left me ever ; Thou hast left me ever, Jamie I Thou hast left me ever. Aften hast thou vow'd 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 hast 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. AULD LANG SYNE. [«•' Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "Auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often tlirilled through my soul : I shall give you the verses on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heliven-in- spired poet who composed this glorious fragment." " The following song," says the poet, when he commu- nicated it to George Thomsoh, "an old song of the olden times, and whicli has never been in print, nor even ia manuscript, until I 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 oi two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than " min* strel Burns."] I. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min' ? 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 ! II. We twa hae run about the braes. And pu't the gowans fine ; But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. III. We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, Frae mornin' sun till dine : But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin' auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine ; And we'll take a right gtiid willie-waught^ For auld lang syne. 288 THE POETICAL WORKS V. CCXII. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine ; DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, [To the air of the «' Collier's dochter," Burns bid« For auld lang syne. Thomson add the following old Bacchanal : it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.] For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, I. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, Delijdei) swain, the pleasure For auld lang syne ! The fickle fair can give thee. Is but a fairy treasure — Thy hopes will soon deceive thee II. The billows on the ocean, CCXI. The breezes idly roaming, The clouds uncertain motion — FAIR JEANT. They are but types of woman. Tune—" Saw ye my father?'' III. [In September, 1793, this song, as well as several ! art thou not ashamed others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. *' Of the poetry," he says, <' I speak with confidence : but the To doat upon a feature? music is a business where I hint my ideas with the ut- If man thou wouldst be named. most diffidence."] Despise the silly creature. I. Where are the joys I have met in the morning, IV. Go find an honest fellow ; That danc'd to the lark's early song ? Good claret set before thee : Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, Hold on till thou art mellow, At evening the wild woods among ? II. No more a-winding the course of yon river, And then to bed in glory. And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. ccxin. But sorrow and sad sighing care. NANCY. [This song was inspired by the charms » o rf a invited, and a splendid entertainment took place; but no He learned to fear in his own native wood. dissolution of parUaiiienl fnlliwed as was expected, and the Lord of Enterkin. who was desirous of a seatamoig VI. the " Commons," poured out his wine in vain.l Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : I. For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; WHA will to Saint Stephen's house, ' I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : To do our errands there, man ? Bectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose. wha will to Saint Stephen's house. The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 0' th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? base ; Or will we send a man-o'-law ? But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; Or will we send a sod;er? Then ergo, she'll match them, and match Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' them always. The meikle Ursa- Major ? II. Come, will ye court a noble lord, Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? CCXLI. For worth and lionour pawn their word. LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man? Tune — " Cordwainer's 3Iarch." Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, Anither gies them clatter; [The air to w^hich these verses were written, is com- Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste. monly played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on King Crispin's day. Burns sent it to the Museum.] He gies a Fete Champetre. I. LAY thy loof in mine, lass, III. When Love and Beauty heard the news, In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; The gay green-woods amang, man ; And swear on thy white hand, lass, Where gathering flowers and busking bowers That thou wilt be my ain. They heard the blackbird's sang, man ; A slave to love's xtnbounded sway, A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss. He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; Sir Politicks to fetter. But now he is my deadly fae, As theirs alone, the patent-bliss Unless thou be my ain. To hold a Fete Champetre. II. There's monie a lass has broke my rest, IV. Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing. That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; O'er hill and dale she flew, man ; But thou art queen within my breast, Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, For ever to remain. Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : OF ROBERT BURNS. 301 She summon'd every social sprite That sports by wood or water, On th' bonny banks of Ayr to meet, And keep this Fete Champetre. Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew. Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', Clamb up the starry sky, man : Reflected beams dwell in the streams, Or down the current shatter ; The western breeze steals thro' the trees, To view this Fete Champetre. How many a robe sae gaily floats ! What sparkling jewels glance, man! To Harmony's enchanting notes. As moves the mazy dance, man. •f he echoing wood, the winding flood, Like Paradise did glitter, W^hen angels met, at Adam's yett, To hold their Fete Champetre. When Politics came there, to mix And make his ether-stane, man ! He circled round the magic ground. But entrance found he nane, man : He blush'd for shame, he quat his name, Forswore it, every letter, Wi' humble prayer to join and share This festive Fete Champetre. CCXLIII. HERE'S A HEALTH. Tune — '■'■Her^s a health to them thaCs awa." [The Charlie of this song wns Charles Fox; Tammie was Lord Erskine ; nml ArLeod, tlie tnuiden nnme of the Countess of Li)udon, was then, as now, a name of influ- ence both in the Highlands and Lowlands. The buff and blue of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of Jacobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these lerses.] Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa' ! It's guid to be merry and wise. It's guid to be honest and true, It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, And bide by the buff and the blue. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to Charlie the chief of the claw, Altho' that his band be sma'. May liberty meet wi' success ! May prudence protect her frae evil ! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, And wander their way to the devil ! Here's a health to them that's awa, Here's a health to them that's awa ; Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, That lives at the lug o' the law ! Here's freedom to him that wad read. Here's freedom to him that wad write ! There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard. But they wham the truth wad indite. IT. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! Here's a health to them that's awa. Here's a health to them that's awa ; And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa' ! CCXLIV. IS THERE, FOR HONEST PO- VERTY. Tune — ''For a' that, and d' that" [In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the nntaral right of his species. 4Ie modestly says to Thomsc::, " I do not give you this song for your book, let •nero!y by way of vii-e la bagatelle; for the piece .8 really not poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." Thomsov took the song, but hazarded no praise.] Is there, for honest poverty. That hangs his head, and a' that? 502 THE POETICAL WOKKS I The coward-slave, we pass him by, looks and elegant forms of very indifferent charatteni We dare be pocr for a' that! lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry.] For a' that, and a' that, I. Our toils obscure, and a* that ; Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bum, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, And blithe awakes the morrow; The man's the gowd for a' that ! But a' the pride o' spring's return II. Can yield me nocht but sorrow. What tho' on hamely fare we dine. II. Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, I see the flowers and spreading trees A man's a man, for a' that ! I hear the wild birds singing ; For a' that, and a' that. But what a weary wight can please, Their tinsel show, and a' that ; And care his bosom wiinging ? The honest man, though e'er sae poor, III. Is king o' men for a' that ! Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. III. Yet dare na for your anger ; Ye see yon birkie, ca'd — a lord. But secret love will break my heart, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; If I conceal it langer. Though hundreds worship at his word, IV. He's but a coof for a' that : For a' that, and a' that. If thou refuse to pity me, If thou shalt love anither. His riband, star, and a' that. The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. IV. When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, Around my grave they'll wither. A. king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that. But an honest man's aboon his might, CCXLVI. Guid faith, he maunna fa* that ! For a' that, and a' that, LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET. Their dignities, and a' that. Tune — " Let me in this ae night.'* The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher ranks than a' that. [The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fair Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed thi« V. song for Thomson. Tlie idea is taken from an old .'yriCj of more spirit than decorum.] Then let us pray that come it may — As come it will for a' that — I. That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, Lassie, art thou sleeping yet. May bear the gree, and a' that ; Or art thou waking, I would wit ? For a' that, and a' that. For love has bound me hand and foot. It's comin' yet for a' that, And I would fain be in, jo. That man to man, the warld o'er. let me in this ae night, Shall brothers be for a' that ! This ae, ae, ae night ; For pity's sake this ae night, rise and let me in, jo ! CCXLY. II. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weell CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet: [Craigie-burn Wood was written for George Thomson : Tak pity on my weary feet, Jbe heroine was Jean Loriraer. How a'ten the blooming And shield me frae the rain, jo. OF llOBEET BURNS. 305 1 III. CCXLVIII. The bitter blast that round me blaws, Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause Tune — ♦' Pitsh about the jorum." Of a' my grief and pain, jo. [This national song was composed in April, 1795. ThI let me in this ae night. poet had been at a public meeting, where lie was Icsi This ae, ae, ae night ; joyous than usual : as something had been expected fioir For pity's sake this ae night, him, he made these verses, when lie went home, and sent them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor ot rise and let me in, jo ! the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the kind- ness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is now before me.] I. Does haughty Gaul invasion threat, Then let the loons beware. Sir, ccxLvn. There's wooden walls upon our seas. TELL NA ME 0' WIND AND RAIN. And volunteers on shore. Sir. The Nith shall run to Corsincon, [The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, And Criffel sink in Solway, are, at all events, not borrowed from tlie sentiments ex- pressed by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to in song CCXXXVIL; Ere we permit a foreign foe tliere she is tender and forgiving : here she is stern and sold.] On British ground to rally ! I. II. let us not, like snarling tykes, TELL na me o' wind and rain, In wrangling be divided ; Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! Till slap come in an unco loon Gae back the gate ye cam again. And wi' a rung decide it. I winna let you in, jo. Be Britain still to Britain true, I tell you now this ae night, Amang oursels united ; This ae, ae, ae night. For never but by British hands And ance for a' this ae night. Maun British wrangs be righted ! I winna let you in, jo ! III. II. The kettle o' the kirk and state, The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; That round the pathless wand'rer pours, But deil a foreign tinkler looa Is nocht to what poor she endures. Shall ever ca' a nail in't. That's trusted faithless man, jo. Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, Ill And wha wad dare to spoil it ; By heaven ! the sacrilegious dog The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Shall fuel be to boil it. Now trodden like the vilest weed : Let simple maid the lesson read, IV. The weird may be her ain, jo. The wretch that wad a tyrant own. IV. And the wretch his true-bom brother, Who would set the mob aboon the throne, The bird that charm'd his summer-day, May they be damned together ! ■ Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; Who will not sing, "God save the King," Let witless, trusting woman say Shall hang as high's the steeple ; How aft her fate's the same, jo. But while we sing, " God save the King,** I tell you now this ae night, We'll ne'er forget the people. This ae, ae, ae night ; And ance for a' this ae night, I winna let you in, jo ! 304 THE POETICAL WORKS Can I cease to care ? CCXLIX. Can I cease to languish ? ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. While my darling fair Is on the couch of anguish t Tune — " WhereHl bonnie Ann lie." [The old song to the same air is yet re mem be red : but II. ,lie liiimour is richer tlmn the delii-.-icy ; the same may Le Every hope is fled, said of many of the line liearty lyrics of the elder davs Every fear is terror ; of Caledonia. These verses were composed in May, 1795, for Thomson.] Slumber even I dread, I. Every dream is horror. STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay ! III. Nor quit for me the trembling spray ; Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! A hapless lover courts thy lay, Oh, in pity hear me ! Thy soothing fond complraining. Take aught else of mine, But my Chloris spare me I II. Long, long the night, Again, again that tender part, Heavy comes the morrow, That I may catch thy melting art ; While my soul's delight For surely that would touch her heart, Is on her bed of sorrow. Wha kills me wi' disdaining. III. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind? CCLI. Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, CALEDONIA. Sic notes o' woe could wauken. Tnne—'' Humours of Glen." IV. [Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of Thou tells o' never-ending care ; Burns with his personal attachments, and in few more beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson 0' speechless grief and dark despair : the heroine was Mrs. Burns.] For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! Or my poor heart is broken ! I. Theib groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon. Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockan, CCL. Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. broom : Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. Tune— ".4y waktn\ 0." Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly [Kn old and once popular lyric suggested this brief and unseen ; jappy song for Thomson : some of the verses deserve to For there, lightly tripping amang the wild be hel J in remembrance. flowers. Ay waking, oh, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Waking ay and weary; Sleep I canna get II. For thinking o' my dearie.] Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys. I. And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; Long, long the night, Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the Heavy comes the morrow, proud palace, While my soul's delight What are they?— The haunt of the tyrant Is on her bed of sorrow. and slave I OF KOliEKT BUiiNS. 305 The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- tains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. CCLH. 'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN. Tune — ** Laddie, lie near me." [Though the lady who inspired these verses is called Mary by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her name : yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers one vvliile that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that Jean I^orimer was the heroine.] I. 'TwAs na her bonnie blue een was my ruin ; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing: *Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' kindness. Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ! But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! And thou'rt the angel that never can alter — Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. CCLIII. HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. Tune — ^^ John Andertony my jo." ["I nm at this moment," says Bums to Thomson, wh(n he sent him this song, '« holding high converse with the Muses, and have not a word to tlirow a\vny on a pro- saic dog, such as you are." Yet there is less than the poet's usual inspiration iu this lyric, fur it ia altered from Kn English one.] I. How cruel are the parents Who riches only prize, And, to the wealthy booby, Poor woman sacrifice ! Meanwhile the hapless daughter Has but a choice of strife ; To shun a tyrant father's hate, Become a wretched wife. The ravening hawk pursuing. The trembling dove thus flies, To shun impelling ruin Awhile her pinions tries ; Till of escape despairing, No shelter or retreat. She trusts the ruthless falconer. And drops beneath his feet ! CCLIV. MARK YONDER POMP. Tune — ^^ Deil tak the wars." [Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is not cured by tlie strait-waistcoat of criticism. " You see," said lie, "how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more punctual." This strain in honourof Chloria is original in conception, but wants tlie fine lyrical flow of some of his other compositions.] Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion Round the wealthy, titled bride : But when compar'd with real passion. Poor is all that princely pride. What ar«^ the showy treasures ? What ar« the noisy pleasures ? The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art . The polish'd jewel's blaze May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But, did you see my dearest Chloris In simplicity's array ; Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is. Shrinking from the gaze of day ; then the heart alarming, And all resistless charming, 80b THE POETICAL WORKS In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- ling soul ! Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, Even Avarice would deny His worship'd deity. And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. CCLV. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. Tune — " This is no my ain house." [Though composed to the order of Thomson, and there- fore less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspira- tion, this is one of the happiest of modern songs. AVhen the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the " fair dame at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Parnassus."] I. THIS is no my ain lassie, Fair tho' the lassie be ; weel ken I my ain lassie. Kind love is in her e'e. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : It wants, to me, the witching grace. The kind love that's in her e'e. She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall ; And ay it charms my very saul, The kind love that's in her e'e. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; But gleg as light are lovers' een, When kind love is in the e'e. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks ; But weel the watching lover marks The kind love that's in her e'e. this is no my ain lassie, Eair tho' the. lassie be ; .0 weel ken I my ain lassie^ Blind love is in her e'e. CCLVI. NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN GREEN. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Compored in reference to a love disappointment of I hi poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which al»5 otca sioned the song beginning, " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore."] Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' jBowers : The furrow'd waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers ; 'While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego, why thus all alone are mine The weary steps of woe ? The trout within yon wimpling burn Glides swift, a silver dart, And safe beneath the shady thorn Defies the angler's art ; My life was ance that careless stream, That wanton trout was I ; But love, wi' unrelenting beam, Has scorch'd my fountains dry. The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, In yonder cliflF that grows, Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, Nae ruder visit knows. Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. And blighted a' my bloom. And now beneath the with'ring blast My youth and joy consume. The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs And climbs the early sky. Winnowing blythe her dewy wings In morning's rosy eye ; As little reckt I sorrow's power, Until the flow'ry snare 0' witching love, in luckless hour. Made me the thrall o' care. had my fate been Greenland snows. Or Afric's burning zone, Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, So Peggy ne'er I'd known! OF KOBEllT BUliNS. 307 The wretch whase doom is, ** hope nae mair." What tongue his woes can tell ! Within whase bosom, save despair, Nae kinder spirits dwell. CCLVII. C BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER. [To Jean Lorimer, the heroine of this song, Burns pre- Beritei a copy of the last edition of his poems, that of 1793, with a dedicatory inscription, in which he moral- izes upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, and signs himself Coila.] BONNIE was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! It shaded frae the e'enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew How pure, amang the leaves sae green But purer was the lover's vow They witness'd in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! But love is far a sweeter flower Amid life's thorny path o' care. The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn; Its joys and griefs alike resign. CCLVIII. FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COM- FORT NEAR. Tune — " Let me in this ae ["How do you like the foregoing?" Burns asks Thomson, after having copied this song for his collection. "I have written it within this hour: so much for the ipeed of my Pegasus : but what say you to his bottom ?"] Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, Far, far from thee, I wander here ; Far, far from thee, the fate severe At which I most repine, love. wert thou, love, but near me ; But near, near, near me ; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. And mingle sighs with mine, love Around me scowls a wintry sky, That blasts each bud of hope and joy And shelter, shade, nor home have I, Save in those arms of thine, lovo. Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, To poison Fortune's ruthless dart, Let me not break thy faithful heart, And say that fate is mine, love. But dreary tho' the moments fleet, let me think we yet shall meet I That only ray of solace sweet Can on thy Chloris shine, love. wert thou, love, but near me ; But near, near, near me ; How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, And mingle sighs with mine, love. CCLIX. LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. Tune — '* The Lothian Lassie." [" Gateslack," says Burns to Thomson, " is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Low- ther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrieshire : Dalgarnock, is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and buri.il-ground " To this, it may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scene where the author of Waverley finds Old Mcrtality repair* ing the Cameronian grave-stones.] I. Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen. And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; I said there was naething I hated like men. The deuce gae wi'm, to believe, believe me. The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me ! He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, And vow'd for my love he was dying ; I said he might die when he liked for Jean, The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, The Lord forgie me for lyin« ! 308 THE POETICAL WORKS III. charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word A weel-stocked mailen — himsel' for the laird — to spare— such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air And marriage aif-hand, were his proffers : that I find it impossible to mnkeanotlier stanza to suit it.' This is the last of his strains in honour of Ciiiuris. I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, But thought I may hae waur offers, waur I. offers. Why, why tell thy lover, But thought I might hae waur offers. Bliss he never must enjoy: Why, why undeceive him, IV. And give all his hopes the lie ? But what wad ye think ? In a fortnight or less — II. The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! why, while fancy raptured^ slumbers. He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, Chloris, Chloris all the theme, Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, could bear her, Wake thy lover from his dream ? Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. IV. But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, CCLXI. I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! [This song is said to be Burns's version of a GneSc I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, lament for the ruin which followed the rebellioz of tJi* I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. year 1745 : he sent it to the Museum.] n. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink. I. Oh ! I am come to the low countrie. Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, Without a penny in my purse, And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. To buy a meal to me. And vow'd I was his dear lassie. II. VII. It was na sae in the Highland hills, I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Och-on, och-on, och-rie! Gin she had recovered her hearin', Nae woman in the country wide And how my auld shoon suited her shauchled Sae happy was as me. feet. But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a III. swearin'. For then I had a score o' kye, But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin'. Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! Feeding on yon hills so high, VIII. And giving milk to me. He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife. Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; IV. Bo, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, And there I had three score o' yowes, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- Och-on, och-on, och-rie! row, Skipping on yon bonnie knowes. I think I maun wed him to morrow. And casting woo' to me. V. I was the happiest of a' the clan, Sair, sair, may I repine ; CCLX. For Donald was the brawest lad, C H L R I S. And Donald he was mine. Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight" VI. [" I am at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last. communicated these verses, " quite occupied with the Sae far to set us free ; OF ROBERT BURNS. 30^ 1 My Donald's arm was wanted then, And dawin' it is dreary For Scotland and for me. "When birks are bare at Yule. VII. II. Their waefu' fate what need I tell, bitter blaws the e'enin' blast Right to the wrang did yield : When bitter bites the frost. My Donald and liis country fell And in the mirk and dreary drift Upon Culloden's field. The hills and glens are lost VIII. Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, III. Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! Ne'er sae murky blew the night Nae woman in the world wide That drifted o'er the hill, Sae wretched now as me. But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey Gat grist to her mill. CCLXII. TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. CCLXIV. PARODY ON KOBIN ADAIR. THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. [Burns wrote this '« Welcome" on the unexpected de- 'ectiou of General Dumourier.j [A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for tk Museum.] I. Tou're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; You're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; I. There was a bonnie lass, How does Dampiere do? Aye, and Bournonville, too ? Why did they not come along with you, Du- And a bonnie, bonnie lass. And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear; Till war's loud alarms Tore her laddie frae her arms, mourier ? II. Wi' mony a sigh and tear. I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; II. I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; I will fight France with you, Over sea, over shore. I will take my chance with you ; Where the cannons loudly roar, By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumou- rier. He still was a stranger to fear ; And nocht could him quell, III. Or his bosom assail, Th<^n let us fight about, Dumourier ; But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. Then let us fight about, Dumour'er ; Then let us fight about, Till freedom's spark is out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt, Dumourier. CCLXV. MALLY"S MEEK, MALLY'S SW'=''"" [Burns, it is said, composed these verses, on n eetii.g ccLxni. a country girl, with her shoes and stockings in her .ap P E G-A-R A M S E Y. walking lioniewards from a Dumfries fair. lie wai struck with her he.iuty, and as beautifully has he rec rde< Tune—" Cauld m the e'enin blast." it. This was his last communication to the M u^^m.] [Most of til is song is old : Burns gave it a brushing for I. Kie Museum.] Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, I. Mally's modest and discreet, Cauld is the e'enin' blast Mally's rare, Mally's fair. 0' Boreas o'er the pool. Mally's every way complete. 310 THE POETICAL WORKS As I was walking up the street, But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; prest, But the road was very hard The langer ye hae them — the mair they're For that fair maiden's tender feet. carest. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, II. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; rt were mair meet that those fine feet Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, The nice yellow guineas for me. And 'twere more fit that she should sit, Within yon chariot gilt aboon. III. Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck ; CCLXVll. And her two eyes, like stars in skies, JESSY. Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. Tune — ^^ Here's a health to them that's awa** Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, [Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mra Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attentiong soothed the last hours of tlie dying poet, and if immortality Mally's every way complete. can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded.J I. Here's a health to ane i lo'e dear ; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; CCLXVI. Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet. HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. And soft as their parting tear— Jessy ! Tune — '' Balinamona Ora." 1 1. [Communicated to Thomson, 17th of February, 1796, to Altho' thou maun never.be mine. 06 printed as part of the poet's contribution to the Irish nelodies : he calls it "a kind of rhapsody."] Altho' even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, I. Then aught in the world beside— Jessy I AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : III. 0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms. I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy 1 Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, The nice yellow guineas for me. IV. I guess by the dear angel smile. II. I guess by the love rolling e'e ; Toir beauty's a flower, in the morning that But why urge the tender confession blows. 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ? — Jessy \ And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; But the rapturous charm o' the bonuie green Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; knowes. Thou art sweet as the smile when fond loven Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white meet, yowes. III. And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, And soft as their parting tear — Jessy I The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; OF ROBERT BURNS. 311 CCLXVIII. FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. Tune — " Eothemurche." [Or. the 12th of July, 1796, as B\xtu3 lay dj'lng at Brow, on tk* S". way, his thoughts wandered to early days, and tiili song, the .ast he was to measure in this world, was dedicated to Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.] I. Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside. And smile as thou were wont to do ? Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear ' Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ! 01 did not love exclaim " Forbear, Nor use a faithful lover so." Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Those wonted smiles, let me share ; And by thy beauteous self I swear, No love but thine my heart shall know. Fairest maid on Devon banks, Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do ? GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. TO WILLIAM BURNESS. (This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, when learning flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest of his letters which has reached us. It has much of the (scriptural deference to paternal authority, and more of the Conr.plete Letter Writer than we look for in an origi- nal mind.] Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. Honoured Sir, I HAVE purposely delayed writing in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New-Year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on the wh^le I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my niud, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most un- happy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment is looking backwards and forwards Va a moral and religious way ; I am quite trans- ported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life : for I assure you I am heartily tired of it ; and if I do not very much deceive my- self, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. "The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come."l It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that po- verty and obscvrrity probably await me, and 1 am in some measure prepared, and daily pre- paring to meet them. I have but just time And paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been re- membered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compli 1 Pope. Essay on Man 312 GENEIIAL CORRESPONDENCE ments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; aud with wishing you a merry New- Year's day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son, llOBEIlT BURNESS. P. S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more. II. TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, SCHOOLMASTER, STABLES-INN BUILDrNGS, LONDON. [John Murdoch, one of the poefs early teachers, re- moved from the west of Scntl md to London, where he lived to a good old age, and loved to talk of the pious William Durness and his eminent son.] Lochlea, 15th January/, 1783. Dear Sir, As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kind- ness and friendship. I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pietty clear of vicious habits ; and, in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; but, as a man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought that, bred as I have been, under a father, who has figured pretty well as wn ho-mme des affaires, I might have been, what the world calls, a pushing, active fellow ; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there is hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world to see and observe ; nni I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be anything original about him, which shows me human na- ture in a different light from anything I have Been before. In short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, their manners, and their ways ;" and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacri- fice every other consideration. I am quite in- dolent about those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortunate ard the wretched, does not much terrify me: I know that even then, my talent for what country folks call "a sensible crack," when once it is sanc- tified by a hoary head, would procure me S3 much esteem, that even then— I would leai n to be happy. ' However, I am under no appre- hensions about that ; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution per- mits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, expe. cially in tavern matters, I am a strict econo- mist ; not, indeed, for the sake of the money ; but one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any man living : above every- thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dun— possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the matter of books, in- deed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his " Elegies ;" Thomson ; " Man of Feeling"— a book I prize next to the Bible ; " Man of the World ;" Sterne, especially his "Sentimental Journey;" Macpherson's " Os- sian," &c. ; these are the glorious models after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame— the man whose heart dis- tends with benevolence to all the human race- he "who can soar above this little scene of things" — can he descend to mind the paltry con- cerns about which the terrsefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- kets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and " catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle en- cumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I have by this time tired your patience; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Mui-- doch — not my compliments, for that is a mere common-place story ; but my warmest, kindest 1 The last shift alluded to here mijst be the conditioi of an itinerant beggar. — Currie. OF ROBERT BURNS. 'Sin rishes for her welfare; and accept of the same for yourself, from Dear Sir, yours. — R. B. III. TO MR, JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.' [James Burness. son of the poet's unrle, lives at Mont- rose, and, ;is in:iy be surmised, is now very old : fame lias come to liis house tlirougli his eminent cousin Robert, and deirer still tiirougb iiis own grandson, Sir Alexander Bnrnes. with wliose talents and intrepidity the world is well acquainted.] Lochlea, 21st June, 1783. Dear Sir, My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a dying condition, he has only, with great diffi- culty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy rea- son, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father's correspon- dence iu the north die with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family. I shall only trouble you with a few particu- lars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; oati'ieal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be gotten even at that price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from England and elsewhere, but that re- Bource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort, Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, wan flourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving ; and we are Btill carrying on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving con- dition on account of it. Farming is also at a • This penflemnn (the son of an elder brother of my father's), witen he was very young, lost his ftther, nnd having discovered m his father's repositories some of my father's letters, he requested that the correspondence m !»ht be renewed. My father cnd befriended him when friends were iew.] Mossffiel, 20th 3farch, 1786. Dear Sir, I AM heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of 1 PoemLXXV. seeing you as you returned through Mauchline; but as I was engaged, I could not be in town before the evening. I here enclose you my " Scotch Drink," and "may the follow with a blessing for your edification." I hope, some time before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin-stoup; which will be a great comfort and consolation to, Dear Sir, Your humble servant, RoBT. Burn ESS. XV. TO MR. AIKEN. [Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the " Cotter's Saturday Night" is inscribed, is also introduced in the " Brigs of Ayr." This is the last letter to which Burns seems to have subscribed his name in the spelling of his ancestors.] Mossgiel, Sd 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 manner of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank leaf of Miss More's Work:— 2 My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect to hear from you by the first opportunity. I am ever, dear Sir, Yours, ROBT. BUBNESS. XVI. TO MR. M'WHINNIE, "WRITER, AYR. [Mr. M'Whinnie obtained for Burns several subscrip- tions for the first edition of his Poems,of which this not* enclosed the proposals.] a See Poem LXXVIII. OF ROBERT BURNS. 32? Mossgiel, 17th April, 1786. It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the impression of the good Cre- ator, to say to them you give them the trouble of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly oifices with respect to the en- closed, because I know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the utmost of your power, I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need. Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment which stamps the die with — with — with, per- haps, the eternal disgrace of, My dear Sir, Your humble, afflicted, tormented, Robert Burns. xvn. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. I" The small piece," the very last of his productions, which the poet enclosed in this letter, was " The Moun- tiiin Daisy," culled in the manuscript more properly " The Gowan."] Sir, Mossgiel, 2Qth April, 1786. By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request for a subscription paper 'till this day. 1 will not attempt any ac- knowledgment for this, nor the manner in which I see your name in Mr. Hamilton's subscription list. Allow me only to say. Sir, I feel the weight of the debt. I have here likewise enclosed 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 four last flattered the expectation of, Sir, Your indebted humble serrant, R. B. XVIII. TO MON. JAMES SMITH, MAUCHLINE. [James Smith, of whom Burns said he was sma'l of stature, but large of soul, kept at that time a draper' shop in Mauchline, and was comrade to the poet is many a wild adventure.] Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786. Mt dear Sir, I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully re- solved to take the opportunity of Captain Smith: but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever, in conse- quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sep- tember, right for the place of my destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it ; — "I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, As lang's I dow." On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you, as I ride through to Cum • nock. After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness for me among them : " O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven design'd you To temper man ! — we had been brutes without you."i R. B. XIX. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. [Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present : ia was seeking patrons in every quarter for his contem- plated volume, and he was composing fur it some of hii moat exquisite poetr}-.] Mossgiel, 16 May, 1796. Dear Sir, I HAVE sent you the above hasty copy as I promised. In about three or four weeks I shall 1 Otway. Venice Preserved. 326 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE probably set the press a-going. I am much hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so very friendly in my subscription, should have a more lengthened acknowledgment from, Dear Sir, Your obliged servant, R. B. XX. TO ME. DAVID BRICE. [David Brice was a shoemaker, and shored with Smith the confidence of the poet in his love aJairs. He was working in Glasgow when this letter was written.] Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. Dear Brice, I RECEIVED your message by G. Patterson, and as I am not very throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black aifair it is. What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know; one thing I do know — she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored a woman more than I did her ; and, to confess a truth between you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms ! It is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely : I fore- see she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. * * * * May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my very soul for- give her : and may his grace be with her and bless her in all her future life ! I can have no nearer idea of t'iie place of eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own bt piast on her account. I have tried often to fcrget her; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica ; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and farewell dear ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more. You will have heard that I am going to com- mence poet in print ; and to morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages — it is just the last foolish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. Believe me to be, dear Brice, Your friend and well-wisher, R. B. XXI. TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. [This letter was written under great distress of mind. That separation which Burns records in " The Lament," had, unhappily, taken place between him and Je-in Ar- mour, and it would appear, that for a time at leust a coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occa- sioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sor- row and disquxet. The letter, I regret to say, is not wholly hert/.] Sir, \_AyrsMre, 1786.] I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- teen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! an epocha which I think will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely anything hurts mo so much in being disappointed of my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of " The Brigs of Ayr." I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life of forgetting the honest, 'warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my greateful sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gra- titude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- tion ; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. OF llOBEKT BURNS. 327 I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, respecting the excise. J here are many things plead strongly against t ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business ; the consequences of my follies, which may per- haps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know — the pang of dis- appointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- dering stabs of remorse, which never fail to set- tle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of so- cial mirth, my gayety is the madness of an in- toxicated criminal under the hands of the exe- cutioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every- thing that can be laid in the scale against it. * * You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical in some points of our current belief, yet, I think, I have fc every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then, how should I, in the presence of that tre- mendous Being, the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy? 0, thou great unknown Power? — thou almighty God ! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! — I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- j saken me ! * * * * r Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me, perhaps it may not be in my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your frien lly efforts. What I have written in the pre- ceding pages, is the settled tenor of my present resolution ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoy- ing it only threaten to entail farther misery » ♦ * * To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- Dlaint ; as the world, in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for soma time past, fast getting into the pining, distrust- ful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphero of fortune, while all defenceless I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast) ; still, more than these passive qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school- fellow's and youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the " hallachores" of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was "standing idle in the market- place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. * * * * You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance: but according to the reverend West- minster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from always implying it. * * * * R. B XXII. TO JOHN RICHMOND, SDIMBURQH. [The minister who took upon him to pronounce Bui*, a single inun, as he intimates in this letter, was the Rev- Mr. Auld, of Mauchline: that the law of the land and the law of the church were at variance on the suhject no one can deny.] Mossgiel, 9M July, 1786. My dear Friend, With the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly a son of misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear from you how your health goes on ; if it is in any way re-etlivb- lishing, or if Leith promises well ; in short, how you feel in the inner man. No news worth anything: only godly Bryan was in the inquisition yesterday, and half the country-side as witnesses against him. He still stands out steady and denying : but proof waa led yesternight of circumstances Lighly suspi- 128 GENEKAL OOIlKESJb'UiN JL^EiN CE cious: almost de facto, one of the servant girls made faith that she upon a time rashly entered the house — to speak in your cant, "in the hour of cause." I have waited on Armour since her return home ; not from any the least view of reconcili- ation, but merely to ask for her health and — to you I will confess it — from a foolish hankering fondness — very ill placed indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the penitence that might have been expected. How- ever, the priest, I am informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the church, which for that very reason I intend to do. I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Peccavi, pater, miserere mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers, return them by Connel. The Lord stand with the righteous : amen, amen. K B. XXIII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, [There is a plain account in this letter of the destruction of the lines of marriage which united, as far as a civil contract in a manner civil can, the poet and Jean Ar- mour. Aiken was consulted, and in consequence of his advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed.] Honoured Sib, My proposals came to hand last night, and knowing that you would wish to have it in your power to do me a service as early as anybody, I enclose you half a sheet of them. I must consult you, first opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a copy. If he is now reconciled to my character us an honest man, I would do it with all my BOTil ; but I would not be beholden to the noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky paper yester- day. Would you believe it ? though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct ; yet, when he told me the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news. Per- dition seize her falsehood! R. B. XXIV. Te MR. DAVID BRICE. SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. [The letters of Burns at this sad period of liis life ar« full of his private sorrows. Had Jean Armour Keen ief to the guidance of her own heart, the story of her early years would have been brighter.] Mossgiel, 11 th July, 1786. I HAVE been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as much time as to write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the house, nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the liberty of stand- ing in my own seat. I do this to get a certi- ficate as a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has pro- mised me. I am now fixed to go for the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent; but I am very much pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. 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 country. I shall ex pect to hear from you soon, and am. Dear Brice, Yours, — R. B. XXV. TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. [When this letter was written the poet was sku >irf from place to place : the merciless pack of the la\i had been uncoup.ed at his heels. Mr. Armour did not wish (0 imprison, but to drive him from the country ] Old Rome Forest, SOth July, 1786. My DEAR Richmond, My hour is now come — you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have orders within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard 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 OF ROBERT BURNS. 32i) 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 eon of the gospel, *' have nowhere to lay my head." I know you will pour an execration on hej 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 motlier until her latest hour ! I write in a moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can write no more — let me hear from you by the return of coach. I will write you ere I go. I am dear Sir, Yours, here and hereafter, R. B. XXVI. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMAENOCK. ^^Buras never tried to conceal either his joys or his sor- rows: he sent copies of his favourite pieces, and intima- tions of much that befel him to his chief friends and com- rades — this brief note was made to carry double.] Mossffiel, Friday 7ioon. My Fbiend, my Brother, Warm recollection of an absent friend presses BO hard upon my heart, that I send him the prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a kind of distant language of friend- ship. You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, Bome with tender pressure and some with fore- boding anguish, through my soul. The poem was nearly an extemporaneous pro- duction, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton, that I wouli not produce a poem on the subject in a g-ven time. If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this world and that which is to come. I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abottive. but more of this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visit from, My dear Sir, Y^our most devoted, R. B. XXVII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. flVTrs. Dunlop was a poetess, and had the blood of the Wallaces in lier veins : though she disliked the irregu- larities of the poet, she scorned to get into a fine moral passion al)oul ffdiies which could not l)e lielped, and con tinned her friendship to the last of iiis 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 approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. " Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief !"» The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was, " The Life of Hannibal;" the next was, "The History of Sir William Wallace :" for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over tlieir glorious, but unfortunate stories. In the ;; » boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines occur — «< Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late. To niuke a silent and a safe retreat." I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 1 Thonuoo. 530 GENERAL COllRESPOxXDENCE of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- grim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic coTintryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even tht;n I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. R. B. XXVIII. TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. [Tt is a curious chapter in the life of Burns to count the number of letters wliich he wrote, the number of fine poems he composed, and tlie number of places which he visited in the unhappy summer and autumn of 1786.] Kilmarnock, August, 1786. My dear Sib, Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst. gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica ; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day. — I have at last made my public appearance, and am solemnly inaugu- rated into the numerous class. — Could I have got a carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers for my authorship ; but now you have them, let them speak for themselves. — Farewell, my dear friend ! may guid luck hit you, And 'mang her favourites admit you ! If e'er Detraction shore to smit you. May nane believe him ! And ony de'il that thinks to get you, Good Lord deceive him. R. B. XXIX. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, MONTROSE. [The { yod and generous James Burness, of Montrose, was ever rendy to rejoice with his cousin's success or sympathize with his sorrows, but he did not like the change which came over the old northern surname of Burness. when the bard modified it into Burns : the name, now a rising one in India, is spelt Burnes.] Mossgiel, Tuesday noon, Sept. 26, 178&. My dear Sir, I THIS moment receive yours — receive it with the honest hospitable wai-mth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens al- ways up the better blood about my hevrt, which your kind little recollections of my parental friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that man is blest ! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something within him above the trodden clod ! The grateful reve- rence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being — the burning glow when he clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom — the tender yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence — these nature has poured in milky streams about the human heart ; and the man who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not com- ply with your friendly invitation. When it will 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 mortified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that I sup- pose* there is little chance. What I have wrote heaven knows; I have not time to review it ; so accept of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase — perhaps rather more than the ordinary sin- cerity, I am, dear Sir, Ever yours, R. B. XXX. TO MISS ALEXANDER. [This letter, Robert Chambers says, concluded v.*ith requesting Miss Alexander to allow the poet to print the song which it enclosed, in a second edition of his Poems. Her neglect in not replying to this request is a very good poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns's lettera have been printed, it is right to say, from the rough drafts found among the poet's papers at his death. Thia is one.] OF IIOBEIIT BURNS. 331 Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. Madam, Poets are such outr6 beings, so much the ehildren of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I men- tion this as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the en- closed poem, which he begs leave to present you with Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can prod ice ; 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. 1 had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The even- ing sun was flaming over the distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their har- mony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to dis- cover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you — your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the wither- ing eastern blast? Such was the scene, — and Buch the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic land- scape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepte^ I who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with BUch an object. Wliat an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain dull historic prosi into kietaphor 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 sceue. I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most obedient and very humble Servant, R. B XXXL TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIK AND AFTON. [Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, was the first person of note in the West who had the taste to see and fee.' tl e genius of Burns. He used to relate how his liearl fiut- tered when he first walked into the parlour of tlie toweri of Stair, to hear that lady's opinion of some of his songs J [1786.] Madam, The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c., which never made their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertainment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The song to the tune of " Ettrick Banks" [The bonnie lass of Bal- lochmyle] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit : both as a tolerable description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young woman;' but I have no common friend to pro- cure me that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the in- cense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and god-like qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most exaggerated descrij tion. This, Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disquali- fying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no access to where 1 Miss Alexander 332 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE your real character is to be found — the company of your compeers : and more, I am afraid that evet. the most refined adulation is by no means tht 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 r know a good deal of benevolence of tem- fer and goodness of heart. Surely did those in exalted stations know how happy they could make sonie classes of their inferiors by conde- scension and affability, they would never stand BO 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 THE NAME OF THE NINE. AMEN. [The songr or ballad which one of the "Deil'syeld Nowte" was commanded to burn, was " Holy Willie's Prayer,-' it is believed. Currie interprets the '• Deil's yeld Nowie," to mean old bachelors, which, if right, points to some other of his compositions, for purgation by fire. Gilhert Burns says it is a scoffing appellation sometimes given to sheriffs' officers and other executors of the law.] We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine,' Poet Laureat, and Bard in Chief, in and over the districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty and well-beloved William Chal- mers and John M'Adam, students and practi- tioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding x'ight and wrong. Right Tkusty : Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and venders of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad- singers, &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — We have discovered a certain nefarious, abo- minable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof We have here enclosed ; Our Will therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of that most exe- crable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nick-name of The Deil's Yeld Nowte : and I HiB birth-day. after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked song, to be consumed by fire in the presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and composers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it exe- cuted in every point as this our mandate bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when in per- son We hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of No- vember, Anno Domini one thousand se^ jn hun- dred and eighty-six. God save the Bard ! XXXIIl. TO MR. ROBERT M U 1 R. [The expedition to Edinburgh, to which this short letter alludes, wap, undertnken, it is needless to say, in consequence of a warm and generous commendation of the genius of Burns written by Dr. Blacklock, to the Rev. Mr. Lawrie,and communicated by Gavin Hamilton to the poet, when he was on tlie wing for the West Indies.] Mossgiel, \%lh Nov., 1786. Mt dear Sir, Enclosed 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. XXXIV. TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE ; ENCLOSING THE VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAEK. [To the kind and venerable Dr. Mnekenzie, the po« was indebted for some valuiible friendships, and his bio- graphers for some valuable information respecting tlic early days of Burns.] Wednesday Morning. Dear Sir, I NEVER spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying my de- voirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, th« OF KOBEliT BUllNS. 333 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 thinlc his charac- ter, divided into ten parts, stands thus — four parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and two parts Shakspeare's Brutus. The foregoing verses were really extempore, but a little corrected since. They may enter- tain you a little with the help of that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of. Dear Sir, Your very humble servant, R. B. XXXV. TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.^ MAUCHLINK. [Prom Gavin Hamilton Burns and his brother took the farm of Mossgiel : the landlord was not slow in perceiv- ing the genius of Robert: he had him frequently at his table, and the poet repaid this notice by verse not likely Boon to die.] Edinburgh, Dec. 7(h, 1786. Honoured Sir, I HAVE paid every attention to your com- mands, but can only sny what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muir- kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh, Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fothering- ham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adamhill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks, — This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not trouble you with it ; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner nor better. For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- coming as eminent as Thomas k Kempis or John Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Alma- nacks, along with the Black Monday, and the battle of Bothwell bridge. — My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man in the world. Through my lord's influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt, that they vmiversally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition.—. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next post. — I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls *' a friend that stick- eth closer than a brother." — The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr Aiken, and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of a poet. I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Misa Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap, Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! Amen ! R. B XXXVI. TO JOHN EALLANTYNE, ESQ., BANKER, AYR. [This is the second letter which Burns wrote, after hiB arrival in Edinburgh, and it is remarkable because it dis- tinctly imputes his introduction to the Earl of Glencairn, to Dalrymi le, of Orangefield : though he elsewhere saya this was done by Mr. Dalzell ;— perhaps both those gen- tlemen had a hand in this good deed .] Edinburgh, IZth Dec. 1786. My honoured Friend, I WOULD not write you till I could have it in my power to give you some account of myself and my matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task. — I arrived here on Tuesday was se'ennight, and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable headache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better. — I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orange- field, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me, I shall remember when time shall be no more. — By his interest it is passed in the •' Cale- donian Hunt," and entered in their books, that they are to take each a copy of the seconJ edi- tion, for which they are to pay one guinea.— I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patrons and patronesses are the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty ' — the Dean of Faculty — Sir John Whitefoord — I 1 Lady Betty Cunoinfham. S34 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE have likewise warm friends among the literati; Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the Man of Feeling. — An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. — I since have discovered my gene- rous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass of claret with him, by invitation, at his own house, yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post ; when I intend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is very well. Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodical paper, called The Lounger," a copy of which I here enclose you. — I was. Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation. I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an account of my every step ; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle. I have the honour to be, Good Sir, Your ever grateful humble servant, R. B. If any of my friends write me, my direction is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. XXXVII. TO MR. ROBERT MUlR. ["Muir, thy weaknesses," says Burns, writing of this pentlemin to Mrs. Duniop, " thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature; but thy heart glowed with everything generous, manly, and noble: and if ever email ion from the All-good Being animated a human (ovnzj " was tliine. Edinburgh, Dec. 20th, 1786. My dear Fbiend, I HAVE just time for the carrier, to tell you that T received your letter ; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bastard wean ; she said she " did ' Th 1 pnper here alluded to, was written by Mr. Mac- kenag, the celebrated author of " The Man of Feeling." na ken wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o' the bonny blackguard smugglers, for it was like them." So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. I en- close you a parcel of subscription bills. Youf affair of sixty copies is also like you ; but it would not be like me to comply. Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles and Mr. Parker. R. B. XXXVIII. TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, WRITEB, AYR. [William Chalmers drew out the assignment of the copyright of Burns's Poems, in favour of his brother Gilbert, and for the mnintenance of his natural child, when engaged to go to the West Indies, in the autumn of 1786.] Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. My dear Friend, I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of all men living, I had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- jesty, preside over the dull routine of business — a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- vine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third persecution, I fcrget which, against the Christians, and after throw- ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by the name of James the Less — after throwing him into a cauldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- raculously preserved, he banished the poor 9on of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance not OF ROBERT BURNS. 33ft fery uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you will have suffered, I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since I past Glenbuck. One blank in the address to Edinburgh — '* Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed since Milton's Eve »n the first day of her existence. My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- chant, Bridge-street. R. B. XXXIX. TO THE EARL OF EGLINTOUN. [Arcliihald Montgomery, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, and Colonel Hugh Montgomery, of Coilsfiekl, who suc- ceeded his brother in his titles and estates, were patrons, and kind ones, of Burns.] Edinburgh, January 1787. My Lobd, As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- phy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citi- zen of the world, but have all those national prejudices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour and welfare of my country : and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades of life ; but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine to be distinguished ; though, till very lately, 1 looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how much I was gratified with the countenance and appro- bation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yester- day on the part of your lordship. Your muni- ficence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledgments ; but your patro- nage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feel- ings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know, whether there be not some im- propriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks, tut my heart whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of, and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall eve! have so much honest pride as to detest. R. B. XL. TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. [This letter was first published by Robert Chambers, who considered it as closing the inquiry, " was Burns a married man ?" No doubt Burns thouglit himself uiv married, and the Rev.Mr. Auld was of the same opinion, since he offered him a certificate that he was single : but no opinion of priest or lawyer, including the disclama- tion of Jean Armour, and thebelief of Burns, could have, in my opinion, barred the claim of the cliildren to full legitimacy, according to the law of Scotland.] Edinburgh, Jan. 7, 1787. To tell the truth among friends, I feel a mi serable blank in my heart, with the want of her, and I don't think I shall ever meet with so de- licious an armful again. She has her faults ; and so have you and I ; and so has everybody Their tricks and craft hae put me daft ; They've ta'en me in and a' that; But clear your decks, and here's the sex, I like the jads for a' that. For a' that and a' that, And twice as muckle's a' that. I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian farmer's daughter, whom I have almost per- suaded to accompany me to the west country, should I ever return to settle there. By the bye, a Lothian farmer is about an Ayrshire squire of the lower kind ; and I had a most de- licious ride from Leith to her house yesternight, in a hackney-coach with her brother and two sisters, and brother's wife. We had dined alto- gether at a common friend's house in Leith, and danced, drank, and sang till late enough. The night was dark, the claret had Ircen goo J, and I thirsty. ***** R. B. XLI. TO JOHN BALLANTf NE, ESa [This letter contains the first intimation that the poet desired to resume the labours of the farmer. The oli 536 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE saw of " Willie Giiw's Skate," he picked up from his motlier, who hud a vast collection of such sayings.] Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. My honoured Fkiknd, It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's Skate, " past redemption ;" for I have still this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I do it. I am still " dark as was Chaos'" in respect to futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called Dal- swinton, which he has lately bought, near Dum- fries. Some life-rented embittering recollec- tions whisper me that I will be happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land; and though I dare say he means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised to meet Mr, Miller on his lands some time in May. I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful Grand Master Charters, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the different lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentleman and mason, among other general toasts, gave "Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother Burns," which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, Bome of the grand officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, •* Very well indeed !" which set me something to rights again. I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. I am ever. Dear Sir, Your much indebted humble servant, R. B. 1 See Blair's Grave. This was a favourite quotation with Burns. XLII. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE. [T hnve not hesitated to insert all letters which show wlmt Burns was musing on as a poet, or planning as a man.] January — , 1787. While here I sit, sad and solitary by the side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens ! say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, conjured up, I will sent my last song to Mr. Ballantyne. Here it is — Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair ; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care !^ XLIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop purified, while it strengthened the national prejudices of Burns.] Edinburgh, 15fA January, 1787. Madam, Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib — I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you ; but though every day since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to him has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of "the sons of little men." To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a mer- chant's order, would be disgracing the little character I have ; and to write the author of " The View of Society and Manners" a letter of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to-morrow or next day. His kind inter- position in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglintoun, with ten guineas, by 2 SongCXXXI. OF EGBERT BURNS. 337 way of subscription for two copies of my next ftdition. The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious countryman and your im- mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- son ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot re- collect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed anything on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print; and the enclosed, which I will print in this edition. You will see I have mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my "Vision" long ago, I had attempted a description of Koyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of the "Saviour of his Country," which sooner or later I shall at least attempt. You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet ; alas ! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of aflFected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserve some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure you. Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, with- out any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height, where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridi- culous aflFectation of self-abasement and mo- desty. I have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy; and, however a friend or 'the world may diifer from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about it.— But, " When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxi- cated with the inebriating cup in my h;ind, looking forward with rueful resolve to the hastening time, when the blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eager- ness of vengeful triumph. Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and character as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace ? R. B. XLIV. TO DR. MOORE. [Dr. Moore, the accomplished author of Zeluco and father of Sir John Moore, interested himself in the fame and fortune of Burns, as soon as the publication of his Poems made his name known to the world.] SiK, Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticisms. Sir, I receive with reverence : only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a peccant passage or two that I would certainly have altered, were gone to the press. The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by far the greater part of those even who are autk ars of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strong- est wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing lan- guage and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are in- timately acquainted with the classes of mankind 338 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE amorg whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may assist originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite notice I have lately had ; and in a language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear ; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttel- ton and Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. R. B. XLV. TO THE REV. G. LAURIE, NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. [It nas Been said in the Life of Burns, that for some time after he went to Edinburgh, he did not visit Dr. Black- •ock, whose high opinion of his genius induced him to try his fortune in that city : it will be seen by this letter that he had neglected also, for a time, at least, to write to Dr. Ijaurie, who introduced him to the Doctor.] Edinburgh, Feb. 5th, 1787. Reverend and dear Sir, When I look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches me severely with ingrati- tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you with any account, by way of apology, of my hurried life and distracted at- tention : do me the justice to believe that my delay by no means proceeded from want of re- spect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a father. I thank you, Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant reports ; but, in reality, I have no great tempta- tion to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attrac* the attention of mankind awhile ; to it I owe my present 6clat ; but I see the time not far distant when the popular tide which has borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent ce- lerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the aifectation of modesty ; I see tlie consequence is unavoidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a good deal cf pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual powers before I came here ; I have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the account ; and I trust I shall take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed, early years. In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what I would have expected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be placed to the account of Miss Laurie and her piano-forte. I cannot help repeating to you and Mrs. Laurie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated " Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Laurie, the other night at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till I saw Miss Laurie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to Mr. Macken- zie he asked me who she was ; I told him 'twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. He returned, there was some- thing very striking, to his idea, in her appear- ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a country girl." My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret's. R. B. XLVI. TO DR. MOORE. [In the answer to this letter. Dr. Moore says that the poet was a great favourite in his family, and that his youngest son, at Winchester school, had translated part of " Halloween" into Latin verse, for the benefit of h.s coraraaes.J Sir, Edinburgh, 15th February, 1787. ,1 Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. Not many months ago I knew no other employ- ment than following the plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with a country clergyman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me ; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judg- ment : but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and OF liOBEKT BUllNS. 33! tremble at its approach. I scorn the aflFectation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I see with frequent wringings of heart, that the no- velty of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities. For the honour Miss Williams has done me, f ''case. Sir, return her in my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never before heard of her ; but the other day I got her poems, which for several reasons, some be- longing to the head, and others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, I think, two characteristic features in her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and the querulous sombre tenderness of " time- settled sorrow." I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why. R. B. XLvn. TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ. fTlie picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait Rlluded to in this letter, was painted by the now vene- rable Alexander Nasmyth — the eldest of living British artists : — it is, with the exception of a profile by Miers, the only portrait for wliich we are quite sure that the poet sat.] Edinburgh, Feb. 2ith, 1787. My honoured Friend, I WILL soon be with you now, in guid black prent ; — in a week or ten days at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- scribers' names; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, they must be sent in to Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, I will appear in my book, looking like all ither fools to my title-page. R. B. XLVin. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [The Earl of Glencaim seems to have refused, from aaoti'<9B of delicacy, the request of the poet : the verses, long lost, were at last found, and are now, through the kindness of my friend, Major James Glencairn Burns, printed with the rest of his eminent father's works.] Edinburgh, 1787 My Lord, I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lord- ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering painter has spoiled a "human face divine." The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could I have been so happy as to procure one with anything of a likeness. As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses, I conjure your lordship, by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this petition. I owe much to your lordship : and, what has not in some other instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart as independent as your lordship's, than which I can say nothing more ; and I would not be beholden to favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified cha- racter in life, and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jealous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I was under the patronage of one of the much favoured sons of fortune. Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they were names dear to fam« and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I have the honour to be, Your lordship's highly indebted, And ever grateful humble servant, R. B. XLIX. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. [The Earl of Buchan, a man of talent, but more than tolerably vain, advised Burns to visit the battle-fields and scenes celebrated in song on the Scottish border, with the hope, perhaps, that he would drop a few ot' his uo GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE happy verses in Dryburgh Abbey, the residence of his lordship.] My Lord, The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- stant, I shall ever gratefully remember : — " Praise from thy lips, 'tis mine with joy to boast, They best can give it who deserve It most."! Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart when you advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrim- age through my native country ; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, where Cale-* donia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words : — " I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you pain : I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have des- pised : I have given you line upon line and pre- cept upon precept ; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and cha- racter, with audacious effrontery you have zig- zagged across the path, contemning me to my face-: you know the consequences. It is not yet three months since home was so hot for you that you were on the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your misfortune. " Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin? I grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a Btep from the veriest poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineifec- tual, let her who seldom qalls to you in vain, let the call of pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless op- pression : you know how you bear the galling ineer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, in- 1 Imitated from Pope's Eloiaa to Abelard. dependence, and character, on the one hand ; I tender you civility, dependence, and wretched- ness, on the other. I will not insult your un- derstanding by bidding you make a choice." This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear. R. B. L. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. [James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well ac quainted with tlie poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, " Mary's Dream," and at the request of Burns seni Lowe's classic song of " Pompey's Ghost," to the Mu- sical Museum.] Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. My ever dear old Acquaintance, I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indiflFerent to old, and once dear con- nexions. The truth is, I was determined. to write a good letter, full of argument, amplifi- cation, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all that. I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I could not ; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit, though, that the strength of your logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated : that strong pride of rea- soning, with a little afi'ectation of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old woman's stories, ventured in " the daring path Spinosa trod ;" but experi- ence 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 w€ OF ROBERT BURNS. 34: were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall be four weeks here yet at least ; and so I shall expect to hear from you ; welcome sense, wel- come nonsense. I am, with the warmest sincerity, R. B. LI. TO . [The name of \he friend to whom this letter was ad- ressed is still unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an inscrip- tion m honour of the Ayrshire poet, to the original liead- ■tone. The cost to the poet was £5 10s.] Edinburgh, March, 1787. My deae Sie, You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unac- countable as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efi^orts are to the workings of passion as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native consequences of folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feel- ings of the damned. I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, Bome verse and prose, that, if they merit a place m your truly entertaining miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as yiv. Sprott sent it me. The inscription on the stoae is as follows : — "HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. «' No Bculptiir'd marble here, nor pompous lay, ' No storied urn or animated bust;' This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet-i lust." On the other side of the stone is as follows : ** By special grant of the managers to Robert Bums, who erected this stone, this burial place is to remain foi ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." Sessio?i-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, tht twenty-second day of February, one thomand seven hundred eighty-seven years. Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Rirk- Yard funds of Canongate. Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of date the 6th current, which was read and ap- pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor follows : — *' To the honourable baillies of Canongate, Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly celebrated poet, a. man whose talents for ages to come will do honour to our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. "Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed a tear over the * narrow house' of the bard who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergus- son's memory : a tribute I wish to have the honour of paying. "I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his death- less fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble servant {sic subscribitur), ROBEET BUENS." Thereafter the said managers, in considera- tion of the laudable and disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, did, and hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty to the said Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fer- gusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all time coming. Extracted forth of the records of the manageis, by William Speott Clerk, LII. TO MRS. DUNLOP- [The poet alludes in this letter to tM profits of in« Edinburxh edition of his Poems: the exa<>t sum is no S42 (GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE tvliere staled, but it could not have been less than seven Hundred pounds.] Edinburgh, March 22c/, 1787. Madam, I BEAD your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom: now I am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name at criticisms, I receive with reve- rence. 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 Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures : his hints, with re- spect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- plicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects ; there I can give you no light. It is all " Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams Athwart the gloom profound."! The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish 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 business, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse by the stately towers or vene- rable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for r and some other bosom ties perhaps equally cender. Where the individual only suff"ers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excusable ; nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character ; but where God and nature have intrusted the wel- fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to 1 Blair's Grave. reflection, whom these connexions will not rouse to exertion. I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to have any intention, to return to my old ac- quaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to give up poetry ; being bred to labour, secures me independence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life; but while following my plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace. Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. R. B. LIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [This seems to be a letter acknowledging the paymen t of Mrs. Dunlop's subscription for his poems.] Edinburgh, 16th April, 1787. Madam, There is an afi'ectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pause of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. For my part, Madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. I have this moment broken open your letter, but " Rude am I in speech. And therefore little can I grace my cause In speaking for myself—" 2 SO I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart and say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. I come abroad in print, for certain on Wed- nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and INIiss Wil- liams's copies, through the medium of Commis- sioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle when I have the honour of waiting on you. 2 From Othello. OF ROBERT BURNS 843 Dr. Smith ' was just gone to London the mor- ning before I received your letter to him. R. B. LIV. TO MR. SIBBALD, BOOKSELLER IN EDIKBURGH. [This letter first appeared in that very valuable work, t^'choll's Illustrations of Literature.] Lawn Market. Sir, So little am I acquainted with the words and manners of the more public and polished walks of life, that I often feel myself much embar- rassed how to express the feelings of my heart, particularly gratitude : — " Rude am I in my speech, And little therefore shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself—" The warmth with which you have befriended an obscure man and a young author in the last three magazines — I can only say, Sir, I feel the weight of the obligation, I wish I could express my sense of it. In the mean time accept of the conscious acknowledgment from, Sir, Your obliged servant, R. B. LV. TO DR. MOORE. iThe book to which the poet alludes, was the well- known View of Society by Dr. Moore, a work of spirit and observation.] Edinburgh, 2Zd April, 1787. I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in beating the c jyerts of imagination for metaphors of gratitude. I ti!2ank you. Sir, for the honour you have done me ; and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your book is what I have in common with the world ; but to regard these volumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- ' Adam Smith. den Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- hood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are* all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to oflfer ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and literature. My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, I may pro- bably endeavour to return her poetic compli- ment in kind. R. B. LVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [This letter was in answer to one of criticism and re- monstrance, from Mrs. Dunlop, respecting " The Dream," which she had begged the poet to omit, lest it should harm his fortunes with the world.] Edinburgh, ZOth April, 1787. Your criticisms. Madam, I under- stand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered those who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no created being, either in prose or verse. I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, &c., as all these respective gentry do by my bard- ship. I know what I may expect from the world, by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. I am happy. Madam, that some of my 3wn favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- ticular approbation. For my " Dream," which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, vx its defence in person. B B. £J44 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE LVII. TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. [The answer of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the fol owing passage: "Your situation, as you say, was in;leed very singular : and in being brought out all at onca from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a shara of public notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy you have stood it so well, and, as far as I have known, or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your character or fcDhaviour."] Lawn-market, Edinburgh, Zd May, 1787. Reverend and much-respected Sir, I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark; and honoured by the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- try whose works, while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the per- manent lights of genius and literature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- ture of man, I knew vei'y well that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over; I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my quar- ters. I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work^ for me, done on Indian paper, as a tri- fling but sincere testimony with what heartwarm gratitude I am, &c. R, B. LVIII. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. LThe poet addressed the following letter to the Earl of Glencairn, when he commenced his journey to tlie Border. It was first printed in the third edition of Lock- hart's Life of Burns; an eloquent and manly work.] My Lord, I GO away to-morrow morning early, and al- low me to vent the fulness of my heart, in thanking your lordship for all that patronage, The portrnil of the poet after Nasmyth. that benevolence and that friendship with which you have honoured me. With brimful eyes, I pray that you may find in that great Being, whose image you so nobly bear, that friend which I have found in you. My gratitude is not selfish design — that I disdain — it is not dodging after the heels of greatness — that is an ofl'ering you disdain. It is a feeling of the same Kind with my devotion. R. B. LIX. TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR. [WilliamDunbar, Colonel of the Crochajlan Fencibles. The name has a martial sound, but the corps which he commanded was a club of wits, whose courage was exer- cised on "paitricks, teals, moorpowts, and plovers."] Lawn-market, Monday morning. Dear Sir, In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in the language could have been a more agreeable present to me ; and in justice to you, allow me to say. Sir, that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to whom I would so willingly have been indebted for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, and the handsome volumes of Spenser for which I am so much indebted to your goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion to one another ; but be that as it may, my gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark of esteem as yours. The time is approaching when I shall return to my shades ; and I am afraid my numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a con- struction, that they will not bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the few that I could wish of a more robust constitution. It is indeed very probable that when I leave ihis city, we part never more to meet in this sublunary sphere ; but I have a strong fancy that in some future eccentric planet, the comet of happier systems than any with which astronomy is yet acquainted, you and I, among the harum scarum sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall recognise old acquaintance : «< Where wit may sparkle all its rays, Uncurs'd w^ith caution's fears; That pleasure, basking in the blaze Rejoice for endless years" • OF ROBERT BURNS. 84* I have the honour to be, with the warmest gincerity, dear Sir, &c. R. B. LX. TO JAMES JOHNSON. [James Johnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, and j)roprietor of the Musical Museum; a truly national work; for which Burns wrote or amended many songs.] Lawn-marketf Friday noon, 3 May, 1787. Dear Sir, I HAVE sent you a song never before known, for your collection; the air by M'Gibbon, but I know not the author of the words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock. Farewell, my dear Sir ! I wished to have seen you, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I march to-morrow. Had my acquaintance with you been a little older, I would have asked the favour of your correspondence, as I have met with few people whose company and conversa- tion gives me so much pleasure, because I have met with few whose sentiments are so congenial to my own. When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging somewhere about my heart. Keep the original of the song till we meet again, whenever that may be. R. B. LXI. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. EDINBURGH. [This characteristic letter was written during the poel's border tour : he narrowly escaped a soaking with w^.ifikey, as well as with water; for, according to the l.-ttrick Shepherd, "a couple of Yarrow lads, lovers of poesy and punch, awaited his coming to Selkirk, but wt'u'.d not believe that the parson-looking, black-avised man, '.rho rode up to the inn, more like a drouket craw than a p:et, could be Burns, and so went disappointed away."] Selkirk, \Zth May, 1787. Mt honoured Friend, The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly ex- tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding. I have been over most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and I James, Earl of Gleacuirn. Selkirk-shires ; and next week I begin a tour through the north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble patron,! Qricm Dens conservet! I would write till I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I dare say by this time you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to death; so, with a grateful farewell, I have the honour to be. Good Sir, yours sincerely, R. B. Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest, Down drops her ance weel burnish'd crest, Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest Can yield ava ; Her darling bird that she loves best, Willie's awa.2 LXII. TO MR. PATISON, BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY. [This letter has a business air about it: the name of Patison is nowhere else to be found in the poet's corres pondence.] Berry-well, near Dunse, May llth, 1787 Dear Sir, I AM sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to the classic scenes of this country, when I was favoured with yours of the llth instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley banking company on the royal bank, for twenty- two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies of my book I sent you. According to your motions, I see you will have left Scotland before this reaches you, otherwise I would send you "Holy Willie" with all my heart. I was so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things I ought to have minded, among the rest sending books to Mr. Cowan ; but any order of yours will be answered at Creech's shop. You will please remember that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is Creech's profit ; but those who have subscribed, though their names have been neglected in the printed list, which is very in- correct, are supplied at subscription price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for Lon- don ; and I think Mrs. Fame is very idle to teU a See Poem LXXXIII. Di6 GENEKAL COKRESPONDENCE so many lies on a poor poet. When you or Mr. Cowan write for copies, if you should want any direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. Creech's shop, and I write to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either of your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's first clerk, and Creech himself is presently in London. I suppose I shall have the pleasure, against your return to Paisley, of assuring you how much I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, KB. LXIII. TO W. NICOL, ESQ., MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. [Jenny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw the stool on which she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, when, in 1637, he attempted to introduce a Scottish Liturgy, and cried as she threw, " Villain, wilt thou say the mass at my lug!" The poet named his mare after this virago.] Carlisle, June 1., 1787. Kind, honest-hearted Willie, I'm sitten down here after seven and forty miles ridin', e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrow- fu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld Reekie. My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' me. It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and has a Btomack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip me aflf her five stimparts o' the best aits at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets tj, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty miles a day, the deil-stricket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' monie a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd huzzie. I met wi' twa dink quines in particular, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar'd winch, as blythe'sa lintwhiteona flowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's a new- blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o' them hadasmuckle smeddum and rurablegum- tion as the half o' some presbytries that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my harigals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouriously bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can hardly stoiter but and ben. My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruik- shank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale. Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen ! R. B. LXIV. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, AT MILLER AND SMITh's OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. [Burns, it seems by this letter, had still a belief thai he would be obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies: he soon saw how hollow all the hopes were, which had been formed by his friends of "pension, post or place," in his native land.] Mauchline, llth June, 1787. My EVER DEAR SiR, I DATE this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. I slept at John Dow's, and called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton and family ; your mother, sister, and brother ; my quondam Eliza, «&c., all well. If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Ar- mour's family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it. Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Mil- ton's Satan : Hail, horrors ! haiJ^ Infernal world ! "and thou profoundest hell. Receive thy new possessor ! he who brings A mind not to be chang'd by place or time ! I cannot settle to my mind. — Farming, the only thing of which 1 know anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms aa they are. K I do not fix I will go for Jamaica. OF KOBEllT BURNS. 34/ Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would only dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what 1 intend shall compensate my little ones, for tiie stigma I have brought on their names. I shall write you more at large soon ; as this letter costs you no postage, if it be worth read- ing you cannot complain of your penny-worth. I am ever, my dear Sir, Yours, R. B. P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but I have provided a fine buffalo-horn, on which I am going to afl&x the same cipher which you will remember was on the lid of the cloot. LXV. TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. ^The charm which Dumfries threw over the poet, seems to have dissolved like a spell, when he sat down in Ellisland : he spoke, for a time, with little respect of either place or people.] Mauchline, June 18, 1787. My dear Feiend, I AM now arrived safe in my native country, after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- cellent appearance and sterling good sense. I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him again in August. From my view of the lands, and his reception of my hardship, my hopes in that business are rather mended ; but still they are but slender. I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks — Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember; and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I had almost broke the tenth commandment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her manner and heart: in short — but if I say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with her. I never, my friend, thought mankind very ca- pable of anything generous ; but the stateliness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly tjed me askance) since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogethei with my species. I have bought a pocket Mil ton, which I carry perpetually about with me, in order to study the sentiments — the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inde- pendence, the desperate daring, and noble de- fiance of hardship, in that great personage, Sa» TAN. 'Tis true, I have just now a little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hitherto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. — Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; the poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit for the walks of business ; add to all, that thought- less follies and hare-brained whims, like so many iffnes fatui, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-be- witching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lu- cifer, never to hope again." God grant this may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! but should it not, I have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay you — the many ties of acquaintance and friendship which 1 have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, and, damn them, they are almost all of them of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least ad- verse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the aposto- lic love that shall wait on me "through good report and bad report" — the love which Solo- mon emphatically says " is strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our common friends. P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the lat- ter end of July. R. B. LXVI. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISIL [Cnndlish wns a clanic scholar, bat had a love for the Bt)ng8 of S<-otland, as well as for the poetry of Greece and Rome.] Edinburgh, 1787. Mr DEAK Fribmd, If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which 348 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 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 Bet to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the Bongs I could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his second number: the first is already 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's, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. R. B. LXVII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [" Burns had a memory stored with the finest poetical passages, which he was in the habit of quoting most aptly in his correspondence with his friends: and he de- lighted also in repeating them in the company of those friends who enjoyed them." These are the words of Ainslie, of Berrywell, to whom this letter is addressed.] Arracher, 2Sth June, 1787. My dear Sir, I WRITE on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which sparingly support as savage inhabitants. My 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. R. B. LXVIII. TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. [This visit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, Wginning " BJythe, blythe and merry was she:" and the lady who inspired it was at his side, when he wrote this .etter.] Auchtertyre, 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 I came up the country, and am so delighted with him that I shall certainly accept of his invita- tion to spend a day or two with him as I return. I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 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. » Johnson, the i ublisher and proprietor of the Musical Museum. LXIX. TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, ESQ. ST. James's square, Edinburgh. [At the house of William Cru kshanlc, one A tr.e mas- ters 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 confortably 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 the Ochill- hills, with Mr. Trait 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 Mr. Masterton, please remember me to him. I am ever, My dear Sir, &c. R. B. OF ROBERT BURNS. 849 LXX. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, LINLITHGOW. [The young ladv to whom the poet alludes in this let- ter, 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 intervals ; then we flew at Bab at the Bowster, Tullochgorum, 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 hour 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. We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; each man a full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas- a-Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. — After a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we pro- ceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and reach Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, and consequently, 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 Highlandman 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 a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and spur. My companions, though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, she strained past the Highlandman in Bpite 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 his rider's breekless a — e in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship be- tween her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious re- verence, 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 pattern of sobriety for the future. I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon. 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 inti-igue, if I choose to run 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 Ut fall in love. My heart no more glows with f^~ 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 piques me 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 , I wrote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words farther I suppose than even I intended, flew off 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- pletely what an immense way I had to travel before I could reach the climate of her favour. But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, ai brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pep, down at my foot, like Corporal Trim's hat. As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise sayings, and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded iq a few weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chro- nicles of your memory, by R. R B50 GENEllAL COliKESPONDENCE LXXI. TO MR JOHN RICHMOND. [Mr John Richmond, writer, was one of the poet's earliest and firmest friends ; he shared his roor| with him when they met in Edinburgh, and did him lAany little offices of kindness and regard.] Mossgiel, 7th July, 1787. My dear Richmond, I AM all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confounder of right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to an- swer his indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the practice of the court so different from the practice in which he has for so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connexions truly of that kind, which I rather doubt, may well tremble for his sake. His chicane, his left- handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, to such good purpose, here, like other accom- plices in robbery and plunder, will, now the piratical business is blown, in all probability turn the king's evidences, and then the devil's bagpiper will touch him off " Bundle and go !" If he has left you any legacy, I beg your par- don for all this ; if not, I know you will swear to every word I said about him. I have lately been rambling over by Dumbar- ton and Inverary, and running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- landman ; his horse, which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged across before my old spavin'd hunter, whose name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandraan, horse and all, and down came Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got such a skinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at least four weeks before I dare venture on my journey to Edinburgh. Not one new thing under the sun has hap- pened in Mauchline since you left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or, if heaven pleases, more so ; but, at all events, I trust you will let me know of course how matters stand with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor consolation to tell the world when (natters go wrong ; but you know very well your ronnexion and mine stands on a different Tooting. I am ever, my dear friend, yours, R. B. LXXII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [This letter, were proof wanting, shows the friendlj and familiar footing on which Burns stood with th« Ainslies, and more particularly with the author of that popular work, the " Reasons for the Hope that is in us."] Mauchline, 2Sd July, 1787. Mt 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 anything else but non- sense, such a friend as you is an invaluable treasure. I was never a rogue, but have been a fool all my life ; and, in spite of all my endea- vours, 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 follow be- cause 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' thir days are done. Write me soon, were it but a few lines just to tell me how that good sagacious man your father is — that kind dainty body your mother — that strapping chiel your brother Douglas — and my friend Rachel, who is as far before Rachel of old, as she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. R. B LXXIII. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [The " savage hospitality, "of which Burns complains in this letter, was at that time an evil fashion in Scotland : the bottle was made to circulate rapidly, and dvery glass was drunk " clean caup out."] Mauchline, July, 1787. My dear Slr, My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued hurry ; that savage hospitality which OF ROBEKT BURNS. 351 knocks a man down with strong liquors, is the devil. I 1: ave a sore warfare in this world ; the devil, the world, and the flesh are three formi- dable foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; the second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but the third is my plague, worse than the ten plagues of Egypt. I have been looking over several farms in this country ; one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my off'er 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; aow 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. LXXIV. TO DR. MOORE. [Dr. Moore was one of the first to point out thebeauty of the lyric compositions of Burns. "'Green grow the Rashes,' and of the two songs," says he, " which follow, beginning 'Again rejoicing nature sees,' and 'The gloomy night is gathering fast;' the latter is exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such compositions which you ought to indulge: no kind of poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing." On this letter to Moore all the biographies of Burns are founded.] Sir, Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. For some mouths past I have been rambling over the country, but I am now confined with some Havering complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country ; you have done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf ; and I think a faith- ful account of what character of a man I am, iind how I came by that character, may perhaps »muse 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, I have, like Solomon, whose character, except- ing in the trifling afi"air of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship, — After you have pe- rused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a predicament he has more than once been in before. I have not the most distant pretensions to as- sume that character which the pye-coated guar- dians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the herald's office ; and, looking through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom ; but for me, " My ancient but ignoble blood Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood." POPB. 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 observa- tion 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 I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye, till they could discern between good and evil ; so, with the assistance of his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years, I was by no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot' piety. I say idiot piety, because 1 was then • Idiot for idiotic. 352 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE but a child. Though it 30st 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, remarkable for her ignorance, cre- dulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brow- nies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf- candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, can- traips, 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 noc- turnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look out in suspicious places ; and though nobody can be moie sceptical than I am in such mat- ters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addi- son's beginning, " How are thy servants blest, Lord !" I particularly remember one half- stanza which was music to my boyish ear — " For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave — " 1 met with these pieces in Mason's English Col- lection, one of my school-books. The first two books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were The Life of Hannibal, and The Histo- ry of Sir William Wallace, liannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures 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 floodgates of life shut in eternal rest. Polemical divinity about this time was putting 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 »ur catechism definition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed several connexioni with other younkers, who possessed superior ad- vantages ; the youngling actors who were busy in the rehearsal of parts, in which 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 playfellows. It takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great man that projjcr, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insig- nificant stupid devils, the mechanics and pea- santry around him, 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 off 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 ruinous 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." My father was advanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more, and to weather these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed these scenes with some satisfac- tion, but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's in- solent 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 ecu- OF ROBERT BURNS. 353 pling a man and woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language, but you know the Scottish idiom: she was a " bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and bookworm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below! How she caught the contagion I cannot 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 heart-strings thrill like an uEolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her fa- vourite reel to which I attempted giving an em- bodied vehicle in ryhme. I was not so presump- tuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song which was said to be composed by a small coun- try laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw no rea- son why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. Thus with me began love and poetry; which at times have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest en- joyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the coun- try. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the commencement of his lease, other- wise the affair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here, but a difference commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail, by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest ! It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little story is most eventful, I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps, the most ungainly awkward boy in the parish — no solitair^ was less acquainted with the ways of the woi'ld. What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of mo- dern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some Plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of Songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I 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 hin 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 which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strict- ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presby- terian country life ; for though the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The proat. mis- fortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walla of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on me perpetual labou» The only two openings by which I could enter the temple of fortune were the gate of nig- gardly economy, or the path of little chican- 854 GENERAL GOERESPONDENCE ing bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture I never could squeeze myself into it — the last I always hated — there was con- tamination in the very entrance ! Thus aban- doned 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- di'iasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my reputation for book- ish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem surprising that I was generally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great wonder that always, where two or three met together, tjiere was I among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was un penchant d, V adora- ble moilie du genre humain. My heart was com- pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by Borne goddess or other ; and, as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various ; sometimes I was received with favour, and some- times I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, sc^he, or reap-hook, I feared no com- petitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; .and as I never cared farther for my labours ithan while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that re- . commended me as a proper second on these • occasions; and I dare say, I felt as much plea- sure in being in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand Beems to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; and is with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love-adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates of the fjirm-house and cottage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice baptize these things by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty they are mat- ters of the most serious nature : to them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their enjoyments. Another circumstance in my life which made ■ome 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 mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the Bun entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, " Like Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower "i It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I stayed 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 Thomson'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 letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me, and a comparison be- tween them and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three- farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of the day-book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course 1 Paradise Lost, b. iv OF KOBEKT BUKNS. 355 till, my twenty-third year. Vive V amour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie —Tristram Shandy and the Man of Feeling were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except " Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my printed pieces ; "The Death of poor 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 import- ant cera. Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair. My * * * and to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. 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 soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 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 gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed wich a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the Neighbourhood taking bim under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering 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-for- tune, a little before I was acqua'nted with him he had been set on shore by an American pri- vateer, on the wild coast of Connaught^ strip- ped of everything. I cannot quit this poor fel- low's story without adding, that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. His mind was fraught with 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 greater fool than myself where woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 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 wildly-sounding lyre with emu- lating vigour. When my father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that growl in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to col- lect a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother want- ed my hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, and every sober qualification, 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 calculated crops ; I attended markets ; and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second from a late bar- » " Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Chi'd * —See Poem XXXIII. 856 GENERAL COKEESPONDENCE vest, we lost half our crops my wisdom, and I returned This overset all like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire." I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic ofiFspring that saw the light, was a burlesque la- mentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce in "Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend, who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a cer- tain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. *' Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against pro- fane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wander- ings led me on another side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- tunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, "The Lament." This was a most melancholy atfair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reck- oning of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; and made what little prepara- tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publish, my poems. I weighed my produc- tions as impartially as was in my power ; I thought they had merit; and it was a deli- cious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver — or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, that jsawwre inconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this mDmeut, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion that the mis- takes and blunders, both in a rational and reli- gious point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. — To know myself had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I watched every means of information, to see how much grounl I occupied as a man and as a poet ; I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confident my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw ofi" six hundred copies, of which I had got sub- scriptions for about three hundred and fifty. — My vanity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of waft- ing me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage pas- sage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for " Hungry ruin had me m the wind." I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- posed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia — "The gloomy night is gathering fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of in- troduction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glen- cairn. Oublie-moi, grand Dieu, si jamais Je Voublie ! I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all attention to "catch" the characters and "the manners living as they rise." Whe- ther I have profited, time will show. **•?.♦ 1 OF ROBERT BURNS. 357 My most respectful compliments to Miss Wil- liams. Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is re- quisite la Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. R. B. LXXV. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ., BEERTWELL DUNSE. (This characteristic letter was first published by Sir Harris Nicolas; others, still more characteristic, ad- dressed to the same gentleman, are abroad : how they •scaped from private keeping is a sort of a riddle.] Edinburgh, 23rf August, 1787. *' As I gaed up to Dunse To warp a pickle yarn, Robin, silly body. He gat me wi' buirn." 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 have to say on my text is exhausted in a letter which I wrote you the other day, before I had the pleasure of re- ceiving yours from Inverkeithing ; and sure never was anything more lucky, as I have but the time to write this, that Mr. Nicol, on the opposite side of the table, takes to correct a proof-sheet of a thesis. They are gabbling Latin so loud that I cannot hear what my own soul is saying in my own skull, so I must just give you a matter-of-fact sentence or two, and end, if time permit, with a verse de rei genera- tione. To-morrow I leave Edinburgh in a chaise; Nicol thinks it more comfortable than horseback, to which I say, Ainen ; so Jenny Geddes goes home to Ayrshire, to use a phrase »f my mother's, wi' her finger in her mouth. 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, Mr e re a' noddin fou at e'en. If this does not please you, let me hear from you; if you write any time before the 1st of September, direct to Inverness, to be left at the post-office till called for; the next week at Aberdeen, the next at Edinburgh. The sheet is done, and I shall just conclule with 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- phel, &c., look your Bible for these two heroes, if you do this, I will repay the compliment LXXVI. TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. [No Scotsman will ever read, without emotion, tha poet's words in this letter, and in " Scots wha hae w< Wallace bled," about Bannockburn and its glories.] Stirling, 26th August, 1787. My DEAR Sir, I INTENDED to havc Written you from Edin- burgh, and now write you from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inver- ness, with a truly original, but very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the High-school, in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, and have passed, besides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- kirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morn- ing I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer, for Old Caledonia, over the hole in a blue whin- stone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn ; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops are very strong, but so very late, that there is no harvest, except a ridge or two per- haps in ten miles, all the way I have travelle:.e poet's works expired, he wrote, with much taste And lesllng, his life anew, and edited his works — v/hat prissed under his own observation he related with truth and ease.] " Inverness, 6th September, 1787. My dear Sir, I HAVE just time to write the foregoing,' and to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) the effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol's chat and the jogging of the chaise would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of Athol, of the firi^t kind, 1 shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I shall never forget. The " little angel-band !" I declare I prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble duchess, with her smiling little seraph in her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely "olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says» round the happy mother : the beautiful Mrs. G — ; the lovely sweet Miss C, &c. I wish I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintray's charms of conversation — Sir W. Murray's friendship. In short, the recollection of all that polite, agreeable company raises an honest glow in my bosom. LXXIX. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. [The letters of Robert to Gilbert are neither many nor important: the hitter was a culm, considerate, sensible man, with nothin-don and I'hil- lis affair, with here and there expressions too graphic, and passages over- warm. Who the lady was is not known — or known only to one.] Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- atious minutes, my head askew, bending over the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured around ; my pendu- lous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the future letter, all for the important pur- pose of writing a complimentary card to accom- pany your trinket. Compliment is such a miserable Greenland ex pression, lies at such a chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you. As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasm-e of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands. The hinge of your box I put into the handa of the proper connoisseur. The broken glass, likewise, went under review ; but deliberative wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric. I am, dear Madam, With all sincerity of enthusiasm. Your very obedient servant, R. B OF KOBERT BURNS. 36D xc. TO MISS CHALMERS. [Some dozen or so, it is said, of the most beautiful tetters that Burns overwrote, and dedicated to the beauty pf Charlotte Hamilton, were destroyed by that lady, in a moment when anger was too strong for reflection] Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 1 HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-wel- come, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness, — it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- possible that even you two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of ex- cellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they make a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any ; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly neces- sary appendage to female bliss — a lover. Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- ing-places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought a wise man — I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich." Mter all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." Afternoon — To close the melancholy reflec- tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrlck by the title of the " Wabster's grace :"— •' Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he ! Up and to your looms, lads." R. B. XCI. TO MISS CHALMERS. [The » Ochel-Hills," which the poet promises in this .•tier, is a song, beginning, " Where braving angry winter's storms The lofty Ochels rise," written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with the " Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Mu sical Museum. Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and tt 9 tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunk- en coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- dily constitution, hell, and myself have formed a " quadruple alliance" to guaranty the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town ; and bind it with all the elegance of his craft. I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of the Devon," which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The " Ochel-hills" you shall pro- bably have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches ! R. B. xcn. TO MISS CHALMERS. [The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding para- graph of this letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he criticised Cromek'a Reliques of Bums, in the Edinburgh Review.] Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. • I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For .the first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best leg with an air ! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed 366 GENERAL COEKESPONDENCE ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, after the long-expected shower! I can't say I am altogetHer at my ease when I see anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty; attended as he always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering contempt; but I have sturdily withstood his Luff( tings many a hard-laboured day already, And still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy IS moi-viime. I lie so miserably open to the in- roads and incursions of a mischievous, light- armed, well-mounted banditti, under the ban- ners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wis- dom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of per- petual warfare, and, alas ! frequent defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without en- joyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. R. B. XCIII. TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. [Tbe Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested them- selves in all matters connected with literature: the power of the family, unluckily for Burns, was not equal to then- taste.] Sih. Edinburgh, December, 1787. Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I have. Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by ***** friends to them, and ho- noured acquaintances to me ! but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevo- lence and goodness of heart has interested him- self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these mat- ters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whe- ther formal duty bade, or cold propriety disal- lowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the jus- tice tc believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper life, who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a pro- verb, as may, in some measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents, they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent attention to economy, is almost inseparable from it ; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain mo- dest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for theworld, and whose character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the poUtesse of life — yet is as poor as I am. For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideag above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- pendent fortune at the plough-tail. I was sxtrprised to hear that any one who pre- tended in the least to the manners of the gentle- man, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever pre- serve. I have no return. Sir, to make you for your goodness but one — a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- piness, and every one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever ca- lumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ! E. B. XCIV. TO MISS WILLIAMS, ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE. [The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely known ; nor is it a small honour to her muse that hex tender song of •' Evan Banks" was imputed to Jlurns bj OF ROBERT BURNS. 36'' Croinek : otlier editors since hi ve continued to include It in his works, though Sir Walter Scott named the true author.] Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty. The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th and 10th in particular, " Where ocean's nnseen bound Leaves a drear world of waters round," are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurri- cane is likewise fine ; and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, " That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expres- Bive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather un- worthy of the rest ; " to dare to feel" is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 50th, is admirable. Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion seems ungrammatical : — "Powers .... With no gradations mark'd their flight, But rose at once to glory's heiglit." 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 53d, ''For this," is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and 62d : but let us try how the thread of connex- K)n runs, — " For this The deeds of mercy, that embrace A distant sphere, an alien race, Shall virtue's lips record and claim The fairest honours of thy name." I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, but this appears to me the only imperfect pas- sage in the poem. The comparison of the sun- beam is fine. The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. Th» thought, "Virtue . ^ . Sends from her unsuhied source, The gems of thought their purest force," is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that the " blest decree" is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse 108th, is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery of the captive on the other. Verse 88tli 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." Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors j " to load a span" is, I ain afraid, an unwarrant-. able expression. In verse 114th, " Cast the universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142d is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, " The load of unremitted pain," is a re- markable, strofcg expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 14od to verse 208th, is animated with the true life of genius. The picture of oppres- sion, — " While she links her impious chain, And calculates the price of pain; Weighs agony in sordid scales, And marks if death or life prevails," — is nobly executed. What a tender idea is in verse 108th ! In- deed, that whole description of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, some- where in the beginning of his Autumn. I do not remember to have seen a stronger expres- sion of misery than is contnined 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 equally original and striking. The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a well done though a hor- rid picture. I am not sure how far introduc- ing the sailor was right ; for though the sailor's common characteristic is generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an uncon- cerned witness, but. in some degree, an efiScient 368 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE agent in the business. Verse 224th is a ner- vous .... expressive — "The heart convulsive anguish breaks." The description of the cap- tive wretch when he arrives in the West Indies, is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine, is like the butcher's regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceed- ingly fine. I am got so much into the cant of criticism, tliat 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 •whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful lines, 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 317th, "like" should certainly be "as" or " so ;" for instance — " His sway the hardened bosom leads To cruelty's remorseless deeds : As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs Witli fury on its livid wings, Darts on the goal with rapid force, Nor heeds 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 Thomson'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 would do honour to the greatest names that ever graced our profession. I will 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 Christian, in doing as I would be done by. R. B. XCV. TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, IRVINE. [Richard Brown was the " hapless son of misfortune," alluded to by Burns in his biographical letter to Dr. Moore: by fortitude and prudence he retrieved his for- tunes, and lived much respected in Greenock, to a gooi old age. He said Burns had little to learn in matters oi levity, when he became acquainted with him.] Edinburgh, ZOth Dec. 1787. My deae Sir, 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 truly 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- dered I could resist the temptation of sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark 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 months at home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet ; "and faith, I hope 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 Mrs. 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 aff'ection- ate husband, and the fond careful parent. For me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I usea to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of wisdom ; but 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 Sicilian 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 bj OF ROBERT BURNS. 361) *he following verses, which she sent me the gther day :— Talk not of love, it gives me pain, For love has been my foe ; He bound me with an iron chain, And plunged nie deep in woe ! But friendship's pure and lasting joys, My heart was formed to prove,— There, welcome, win, and wear the prize, But never talk of love ! Your friendship much can make me blest — O why that bliss destroy ? Why urge the odious one request, You know I must deny?"' Afy best compliments to our friend Allan. Idicu ! R. B. XCVI. TO GAVIN HAMILTON. [The Hamiltons of the West contmue to love the nemory erf Burns : the old arm-chair in which the bard lat, wlken he visited Nanse Tinnooks, was lately pre- iented to the mason lodge of Mauchline, by Dr. Hamil- ton, the " wee curly Johnnie" of the Dedication.] [Edinburffh, Dec. 1787.] My dear Sir, It is indeed with the highest pleasure that [ congratulate you on the return of days of ease ind nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in which 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 fervently 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 wine (I mean an English pint), and that you will never be wit- ness 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 Boaner- ges of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, • See song 186, in Johnsou's Musical Museum. Burni altered the two last lines, and added u stanza: Why urge the only erne request You know I will deny! that you may see the vanity of vanities in trust- ing to, or even practising the casual moral works of charity, humanity, genorosity, and forgiveness of things, which you practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps profanely despis- ing, the wholesome doctrine of faith without works, the only anchor of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours in the L — d, R. B. xcvn. TO MISS CHALMERS. [The blank which takes the place of the name of the " Gentleman in mind and manners," of this letter, can- not now be filled up, nor is it much matter : the acquaint ance of such a man as the poet describes few or non« would desire.] Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. My dear Madam, 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 circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly^ almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall 1 be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. Per- sonal attractions. Madam, you have much above 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 Your thought if love must harbour there. Conceal it in that thought ; Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought. 370 GENERAL COliRESPOxXDENCE angry winter's storms," is already set — the tune is Neil GoAv's Lamentation for Ahercarny ; the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Da- niel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music ; the name is " Ila a Chaillich air mo Dheilh." 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 anything, wherever I am, will reach me. 1 saw yours to ; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christmas days. Mr. has given him the invitation, and he is determined to accept of it. selfishness ! he owns, in his sober moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition; — the whole affair is chimerical — yet he will gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps ruining 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 tnows the value of two times two I Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- fore they should make the amiable, the lovely , the derided object of their purse-proud contempt I 1 am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's reco- very, because I really thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting her : " As I came in by Glenap, I mat with an aged woman : She bad me cheer up my heart, For the best o' my days was corrin'." This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself, not what they ought to be ; yet better than what' they appear to be. " Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself— That hideous sight — a naked human heart." Forewell ! remember me to Charlotte. R. B. XCVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to a hurt which he got in one of his excursions in the neigh* bourhood of Edinburgh.] Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think, I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission: fori would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet : a little more conspicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have 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. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The levity with which Bums sometimes spoke of things sacred, had been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs. Duulop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion.] Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. SoJiE things in your late letters hurt me : not that you say them, but that you mistake me. Re- ligion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever been " more fool than knave." A mathe- matician without religion is a probable charac- ter ; an irreligious poet is a monster. R. B C. TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. [When Burns undertook to supply Johnson with songi for the Musical Museum, he laid all the bards of Scotland OF K013E11T BUKNS. 371 ander contribution, and Skinner among the number, of whose talents, as well as those of Ross, author of Hele- nore, he was a great admirer.] Edinburgh, \ith February, 1788. Reverend and dear Sir, I HAVE been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been very much hurried 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 Maga- zine. 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 have 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 " TuUochgorum," 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 Huntley's reel, which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- Bhank, 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 publica- tion of yours, that I borrowed for him from your acquaintance and much respected friend in this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruikshank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to- morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your Bong you mentioned in your last, to the tune of "Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you Bay was done by a brother by trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank you much for a copy of each. I am ever, Reverend Sir, with the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, fours, R. B. CI. TO RICHARD BROWN. [The letters of Burns to Brown, and Smith, and Ricl* mond, and others of his west-country friencs, writte« when he was in the first flush of fame, show that he ditl not forget humble men, who anticipated the public di perceiving his merit.] Edinburgh, February \bth, 1788. My dear Friend, I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive ai 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, where I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, yours, R. B. CII. TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCK. [Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, a lady distinguished by the elegance of her mnnners. as well as by her talents, was long remembered by Burns : 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 iu- spiration of some fine lyrics.] Edinburgh, February 17th, 1788. Madam, You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have had on my Lands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for your obliging favour as would have tired your p!:.ti- ence. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness : it may be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more justly than Addison applies 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 372 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE litr ground without the intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or ratlier transfuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock — the venerable grandeur of the castle — the spreading woods — the winding river, glady leaving his unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with ap- parent delight as he passes the fairy walk at the bottom of the garden; — your late distressful anxieties — your present enjoyments — 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. Madam, how much such feelings delight me ; they are my dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should 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 preserving is to be included : among others I have given "Morag," and some few Highland airs which pleased me most, a dress which will be more generally known, though far, far infe- rior in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed ; the Man of Feeling, that first of men, has promised to transmit it by the first opportunity. I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend, and to your little Highland chieftain. "When you see the "two fair spirits of the hill," at Kildrummie,^ tell them that I have done myself the honour of setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty years to come, consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the same period ; but, as the apostle Paul says, "this I ask of grace, not of debt." I have the honour to be. Madam, &c., R. B. 1 Miss Sophia Brodie, of L- liilravock. and Miss Rose of cm. TO RICHARD BROWN. [While Burns was confined to his lodgings by hii maimed liinh, he beguiled the time and eased the piiin b) composing ttie Clarinda epistles, writing songs for Jolio- son, and letters to his companions.] Mossgiel, 2ith February, 178°. My dear Sir, I CANNOT get the proper direction for my friend in Jamaica, but the following will do : — To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Henriquez, mer- chant, Orange-street, Kingston. I arrived 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 flesh — so terrible in the fields of dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life which gave me so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship. " youth ! enchanting stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy scene : almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in comes repining age in all the gravity of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the be- witching phantom. When I think of life, I re- solve to keep a strict look-out in the course of economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and independence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy with a few of the companions of youth, that they may be the friends of age ; never to re- fuse my liquorish humour a handful of the sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear ; and, for futurity, — " The present- moment is our ain, The neist we never saw !"i 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. TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. [The excise and farming alternately occupied tne poet'i thoughts in Edinburgh : he studied books of husbandrv 2 Mickle. OF ROBERT BURNS. 37^ nd took lessons in gauging, and in the latter he became xpert.J Mauchline, March Sd, 1788. My dear Sir, Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies for not singing— the apology better than the song. I have fought my way severely through the savage hospitality of this country, to send every guest drunk to bed if they can. I executed 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 buy- ing there perfectly well. I should 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, wayfar- ing bard, who was spent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickednesses in high places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenever you come to the passage, BO I pass over it in silence. I am just re- turned from visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told you I would take with me was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, without exception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life before me ; I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of next week ; I would be in sooner, but my un- lucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Ex- cise instructions. I only mention these ideas to you ; and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writing to to-morrow, I will not write at all to Edinburgh till I return to it I would Bend my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be hurt if he knew 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-officer, or as a farmer, I pro- pose myself great pleasure from a regular cor- respondence with the only man almost I ever ?aw who joined the most attentive prudence with 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, B. B. cv. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [The sensible and intelligent farmer on whose judg' ment Burns depended in the choice of bis farm, was Mr Tail, of Glenconner.] Mauchline, Zd Mareh^ 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 judgement, and fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Mil- ler in the same favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall in all probability turn farmer. I have been through sore tribulation and under much buffeting of the wicked one since I came to this country. Jean I found banished, forlorn, destitute and friendless : I have recon- ciled 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 mine 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 eoal and body putting up ?— a little like man and wife, I suppose. ^' ^- 574 GENERAL CORIIESPONDENCE cvi. TO RICHARD BROWN. [Richard IJrown, it is said, fell off in his liking for Burns when he found that he had made free with his dime in his epistle to Moore.] Mauchline, 7th 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 looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the cha- racter of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the routine: but you will say a "great effort is worthy of you." I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I can think of. Men of grave, geometrical minds, the sons of <' which was to be demonstrated," may cry up reason as much as they please ; but 1 have al- ways found an honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, just in suflBcient time to add her reproaches to his other grievances. I am gratified with your kind inquiries after Jean ; as, after all, I may say with Othello : — " Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee !" I go for Edinburgh on Monday. Yours,— R. B. cvn. TO MR. MUIR. [The chanje which Burns says in this letter took place in hig ideas, refers, it is said, to his West India voyage, on wliich, it appears by one of his letters to Smith, he meditated for some time after his debut in Edinburgh.] Mossgiel, 7 th March, 1788. Deak Sie, I HAVE partly changed my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can live by it In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but there are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and Newmilis, 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 frame, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning eye, is, " Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun AVas roll'd together, or had try'd his beams Athwart the gloom profound. "^ But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the valley, be it so ; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes, and wants : if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent 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 himself, 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. OF ROBERT BURNS. 37b CVIII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch [»f r-^la from Burns's poem of the Vision: it is still in existence, and is said to have merit.] Mossgiel, llth March, 1788. Madam, TnR last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- Diaary aflFected me most, so I shall begin my answer whore 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 Milton describes him ; and though I may be rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- self, 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 aflFord 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. Seattle says to Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which per- haps you have never seen :) — " Ye shak your heads, but o' my fegs, Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : Lang had she lien wi' befTs and iiegs, Bumbaz'd and dizzie, Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs. Wae's me, poor hizzie." R. B. CIX. TO MISS CHALMERS. "[The uncouth cares of which the poet complains in this letter were the construction of a common 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 completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dal- swinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a house, drive lime, &c. ; and heaven be my help .' for it will take a strong efi"ort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures; a motley host! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have incorporated into a life guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, "Where much is attempted, something is dene." 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 en- joyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. R. B. ex. TO RICHARD BROWN. [The excitement referred to in this letter arose from the dilatory and reluctant movements of Creech, who was so slow in settling his accounts that tlie poet bus* pected his solvency.] Glasgow, 26 ing most. ^* "' CXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP. FA poem, something after the fashion of the Georgics, m^ long p-ewnt to the mind of Burns: had fortune cxx. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. [I have heard the genilemnn say, to whom this bnel letter is addressed, h..w much he was pleased with th« intimation, that the poet had reunited himself w.th Jear Armour, for he knew his heart was with h«r.] Mauchline, May 26, 1788. My deak Friend, I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I hav* been from home, and horribly busy, buying and preparing for my farming business, over and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will finish. As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' correspondence between us, 'Us 880 GENEliAL CORRESPONDENCE foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have the pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely furtnn.'ite in all my buyings, and bargainings hitherto ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased with this last aflFair: it has indeed added to my anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stabi- lity to my mind, and resolutions unknown be- fore ; and the poor girl lias the most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her deport- ment. I am interrupted. — Farewell ! my dear Sir. R. B. CXXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [This letter, on the hiring season, is well worth the consideration of all masters, and all servants. In Eng- land, servants are engaged by the month ; in Scotland by the half-year, and therefore less at the mercy of the changeable and capricious.] 27iA May, 1788. Madam, I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account for that kind partiality of yours, which has followed me, in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had no continuing city ;" and but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn companions of my road through life — insignificance and poverty. There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the good things of this life that give me more vexation (I mean in what I see around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling family afi'airs, compared with the very same things on the con- tract( d scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that com- posed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolution among those creatures, who though in appearance partakers, and equally noble partakers, of the same nature with Ma- dame, are from time to time — their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay a good part of their very thoughts — sold for months and years, not only to the necessities, the conveniencies, but, the caprices of the important few. We talked of the insignificant creatures; nay, not- withstanding their general stupidity and ras- cality, did some of the poor devils the honour to commend them. But light be the turf upon his breast who taught " Reverence thyself I" We looked down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wanton- ness of his pride. R. B. CXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTOK- [In this, the poet's first letter from Ellisland, he lays down his whole system of in-door and out-door economy : while his wife took care of the household, he was tc manage the farm, and " pen a stanza" during his hours of leisure.] Ellisland, ISth June, 1788. "Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain. And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." Goldsmith. This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- mate of an old smoky spense ; far from every object I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care ; consequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and dis- appointments, at that period of my existence when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. OF ROBERT BURNS 381 " The valiant, 'n himcelf, what can he sufler? Or wliat neea he regard his single woes?" &c. Your surmise, Madam, is just ; I am indeed % husband. * * * * To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stran- ger. My preservative from the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and her attachment to me: my antidote against the last is my long and deep-rooted aff'ec- tion for her. Ill housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute, she is eminently mistress; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is re- gularly and constantly apprentice to my mo- ther and sisters in their dairy and other rural business. The muses must not be ofi"ended when I tell them, the concerns of my wife and family will, in my mind, always take the pas; but I assure them their ladyships will ever come next in place. You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more friends ; but, from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoy- ment of my own mind, and unmistrusting con- fidence in approaching my God, would seldom have been of the number. I found a once much-loved and still much- loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements; but I enabled her to purchase a shelter; — there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition; a warm heart, gratefully de- voted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set oflF to the best advantage by a more than commonly hand- some figure; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny pay-wedding. R. B. cxxm. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [Had Bums written his fine song, beginning "Con- tented wi' little and cnntie wi' mnir. " when he penned this letter, the prose might have followed as a note to ^le verse : he r*ulls the Excise a luxury.] Ellisland, June Wlh, 1788. This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in these regions; and during these three days you have occupied more of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding: in Ayrshire I have several variations of friend- ship's compass, here it points invariably to the pole. My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well — " why should a living man com plain ?" I have lately been much mortified with con templating an unlucky imperfection in the very framing and construction of my soul ; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fel- low-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart, some modi- fication of dulness. In two or three small in- stances lately, I have been most shamefully out. I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — ■ the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- dies of your profession? You said something about religion in your last. I don't exactly re- member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- low if once you were married. I make no reser- vation of your being well-married : you have so much sense, and knowledge of human nature, that though you may not realize perhaps the ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- ried. Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situ- ation respecting provision for a family of chil- dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 382 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE I look to the Excise scheme as a certainty of maintenance ! — luxury to what either Mrs. Burns or I were born to. Adieu. R. B. CXXIV. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [The kindness of Field, the profilist, has not only in- dlui<,'ed me with a look at the original, from which the profile alluded to in the letter was taken, but has put me in possession of a capital copy.] MaucJiUne, 2Sd June, 1788. This letter, my dear Sir, is only a business scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in your town, has executed a profile of Dr. Blacklock for me : do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him yourself for me, which put in the same size as the doctor's. The account of both profiles will be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James Connell, our Mauchliue carrier, to pay you when you give him the parcel. You must not, my friend, refuse to sit. The time is short: when I Bat to Mr. Miers, I am sure he did not exceed two minutes. I propose hanging Lord Glencairn, the Doctor, and you in trio over my new chim- ney-piece that is to be. Adieu. R. B. CXXV. TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. [" There is a degree of folly," says Burns in this let- ter, " in talking unnecessarily of one's private affairs." The folly is scarcely less to write about them, and much did tlie poet and his friend write about their own private aff'ii'.s as well as those of others.] Ellisland, June ^^th, 1788. My dear Sir, I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and, to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last corner. I am vexed at that aflFair of the * * *, but liare not enlarge on the subject until you send ttie your direction, as I suppose that will be al- tered on your late master and friend's death. I am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any respect — for an old man's dying, except he has been a very benevolent character, or in soma particular situation of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment in the world. Man is naturally a kind, benevo- lent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy situation here in this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson hungry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready to devour him for want of other food ; that in fact he must lay aside his cares for others that he may look pro- perly to himself. You have been imposed upon in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. I did not mention it in my letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr, Miers any such order. I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have any such profile in my possession. I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I men- tioned only fifteen shillings to him, I would ra- ther enclose you a guinea note. I have it not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there I have the bank-notes through the house like salt per- mits. There is a great degree of folly in talking un- necessarily of one's private affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neigh- bours, who has made himself absolutely con- temptible in my eyes, by his silly garrulous pru- riency. I know it has been a fault of my own, too ; but from this moment I abjure it, as I would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend forsooth to crack their jokes on prudence ; but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than imprudence respect- ing character. I have no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; but I appeal to your observation, if you have not met, and often met, with the same disingenu- ousness,. the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the un- feeling children of parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes, and virtue deserves, may be all matter of fact. But in things belonging to, and ter* OF EOBEKT BURNS. 353 minating in this present scene of existence, man 1ms serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguished elevatio.i of respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of in- significance; whether he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty; whether he shall rise in th<^ manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- natives of the last moment. You see how I preach. You used occasion- ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would, in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift: — "Adieu dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee en- tirely : make an eflFort to loT,e me with all mine !" Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted business, that honest friendship, in her sincere way, must have re- course to her primitive, simple, — farewell ! R. B. CXXVI. TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, MERCHANT, GLASGOW. [Burns, more than any poet of the age, loved to write out copies of his favourite poems, and present them to his friends : he sent " The Falls of Bruar" to Mr. Lockhart.] Mauchline, ISth July, 1788. My dear Sir, I AM just going for Nithsdale, else I would certairi'.r have transcribed some of my rhyming things ft* you. The Miss Baillies I have seen in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works, Lord God Almighty! Who would not praise the? for these thy gifts in* thy goodness to the Bor? of men !" It needed not your fine taste to admire them. I declare, one day I had the honour of dining at Mr. Baillie's, I was almost in the predicament of the children of Israel, when they could not look on Moses' face for the plory that shone in it when he descended from Mount Sinai. I did once write a poetic address from the Falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, -when I was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland, let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. I return to Mauchline in about ten days. My compliments to Mr. Purdon. I am in truth, but at present in haste, Yours, — R B. cxxvn. TO MR. PETER HILL. [Peter Hill was a bookseller in Edinburgh : David Ran: say, printer of the Evening Courant: William Dunbar, an advocate, and president of a club of Edinburgh wits; and Alexander Cunningham, a jeweller, who loved mirth and wine.] My dear Hill, 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 mean time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it hap- pened to be a cold day in which he made his will, ordered his servants great coats for mourn- ing, so, because I have been t,his week plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. Indigestion is the devil: nay, 'tis the devil and all. It besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of 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 sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no niggard of your good things amcng your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. There, in my eye is our friend Smel- lie ; a man positively of the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with ; when you see him, as, alas' he too is smarting at the pinch of distressful cir- cumstances, aggravated by the gneer of contu- melious greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will 384 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown Btout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the morning mist before the summer sun. Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of some of his super- abundant modesty, you would do well to give it him. David, ^ with his Courant,. comes, too, across my recollection, and I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally larding the lean characters of certain great men in a certain great town. I grant you the periods are very well turned ; so, a fresh egg is a very good thing, but when thrown at a man in a pillory, it does not at all improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish also to be a partaker : not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps. =^ Among our common friends I must not forget one of the dearest of them — Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help him to anything that will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very obliging. As to honest J S e, he is such a contented, happy man, that I know not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- dotes which a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said poet was in town. Though 1 have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have nothing to do with them professedly — the faculty are beyond my prescription. As to their clients, that is another thing; God knows they have much to digest.! The clergy I pass by; their profundity of orulition, and their liberality of sentiment; their total want of pride, and their detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. 1 Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 2 A club of choice spirits. I was going to mention a man of worth whom I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord of the King' 8- Arms inn here, to have at the next county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfries-shire Whigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queens- berry's late political conduct. I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you avouUI not digest double postage. R. b. CXXVIII. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAT. [The filial and fraternal claims alluded to in this letter were satisfied with ahout three hundred pounds, two hun- dred of which went to his brother Gilbert — a sum wliich made a sad inroad on the money arising from the second edition of his Poems.] Sir, When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole-house, I did not think, so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shakspeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers, "Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master." For some such reason. Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an ofiicer of Excise. I have, ac- cording to form, been examined by a supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a re- quest for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with anything like business, except manual labour, I am to- tally unacquainted. I had intended to have closed my late appear- ance on the stage of life, in the character of a country farmer; but after discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable manner, which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws of a jail; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued him. OF ROBERT BURNS. 385 I know, Sir, that to need your goodness, is to have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be appointed to a division ; where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- pendence so dear to my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my situation. R. B. CXXIX. TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. [The verses which this letter conveyed to Cruikshank were tlie lines written in Friars-Carse Hermitage : " the first-fruits," says the poet, elsewhere, "of my inter- course with the Nithsdale muse."] Ellisland, August, 1788. I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer all the particulars of your last kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some business very soon ; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall discuss matters vivct voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely well ; and an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well remember the circum- stance you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion of Mr. Nicol ; but, as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle in the affair. It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the consequence of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-com- missioned scoundrel A . If, notwith- standing your unprecedented industry in public, and your irreproachable conduct in private life, he still has you so much in his power, what ruin may he not bring on some others I could name ? Many and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the lovely little pledge of your happy union. May the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life delightful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both, which you so ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve ! Glance over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu. R. B. cxxx. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The lines on the Hermitage were presented by ths poet to several of his friends, and Mrs. Dunlop w«a among the nambcr.] MauchUne, August 2, 1788. HoNOTiRED 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 laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apo- logy for the missed napkin. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- sides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house; as at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce "where to lay my head." There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. "The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith." The repository of these " sor- rows of the heart" is a kind of sanctum sancto~ rum: and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at particular sacred times, who dares enter into them : — ** Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords That nature finest strung." You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of entering on this sub ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentle- man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the muses have con- ferred on me in that country : — Thou whom chance may hither lead.' Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- nock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes depend, Mr. Grahams, of Fintray, one of 1 See Poems LXXXIX and XC 386 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen not only of this country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd^ unanointed, unan- neal'd :" — ***** Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main: The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; Mi, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend !" The little fate bestows they share as soon ; Unlike sage, proverb' d, wisdom's hard- wrung boon. Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son, Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool! Who make poor will do wait upon T should ; We own they're prudent, but who owns they're good ? Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ****** Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell. R. B. CXXXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. ' [This letter has been often cited, and ver>' proper y, ss A proof of the strong attachment of Burns to one who was, in many respects, worthy.] Mauchline, August 10, 1788. Mr MUCH HONOURED FrIEND, Fours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend — my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, an- swering a speech from the best of kings ! I ex- press myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your very old reason, that I do not read your letters. AH your epistles for several months have cost rae nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found her- self *' 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 her com- pany and their house, but, on my rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my about- to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my iclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to be- tray her ; and, as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery were in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- nion for my journey of life ; but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual in- stance. Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c., without probably entail- ing on me at the same time expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- ments, which [pardonnez moi, Madame,) are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry. I like your way in your church-yard lucubra- tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind is my pru- riency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, OF ROBEllT BURNS. 387 mat I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous revery manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. R. B. CXXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent : she wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay.] Ellisland, \Qth August, 1788. I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac epistle ; and -^^ant only genius to make it quite Shenstonian : — " Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? Why sinks ray soul, beneath each wintry sky?" 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 these reflections till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr. Miller'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 sufi'rage as a pro- fessional man, was expected : I for once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- don me, ye my adored household gods, inde- pendence of spirit, and integrity of soul ! In the course of conversation, "Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning, " Raving winds around her blowing." ' The air was much admired : the lady of the house asked me whose were the words. •* Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very best verses;" ehe took not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb says well, " king's caflF is See S^ng LII. better than ither 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 actually a woman of sense and taste. After 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 souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of fortune. 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 born, that bought us dear, As writings testifie." I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of "the Life and Age of Man." 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 phantom, existing only in the heated ima- gination of enthusiasm, " What truth on earth so precious as A lie." My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the correspond- ence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicis- situdes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life ? No : to find them in their pre- cious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. I am sure, dear Madam, you are now n^ore than pleased with the length of my letters. 1 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 R. B. 388 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CXXXIII. TO MR. BEUGO, ENORAVEK, EDINBURGH. [Mr. Beugo was a well-known ennrraver in Edinburgh : he engraved Nasmyth's portrait of Burns, for Creech's first edition of his Poems; and as he could draw a little, he inr,;jroved, as he called it, the engraving iVoni sittings Df the poet, and made it a little more like, and a little less poetic] Ellisland, %th Sept. 1788. jMy dear Sir, There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the graces whose letters would have given me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which only reached me yesternight. I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest ; but for all that most pleasurable part of life called SOCIAL commukication, I am here at the very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country, in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only know in graces, 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 rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but good- natured huzzy of a muse — '< By banks of Nith I sat and wept When Cnila I thought on. In midst thereof I hung my harp The willow-trees 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 becob- webbed 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 Shepherdess" 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 sel- fish gratification of my own feelings whenever I think of you. If your better functions would give you lei- sure to write me, I should be extremely happy; that is to say if you neither keep nor look for a 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 fan<^y is makiug the author you mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works 'twas a glorious idea. Could 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 everybody knows cannot have escaped you, I shall not say one syllable about it. R. B. CXXXIV. TO MISS CHALMERS, EDINBURGH. [To this fine letter all the biographers of Bums ar« largely indebted.] Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. \&th, 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. I 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 pro- gress among mankind as a bowl does among its fellows — 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-folk? by bad weather ; and as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting your- selves much cL 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 I 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 OF ROBERT BURNS. 389 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 those ungrateful iniquities, which, however over- looked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of villant. Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married "my Jean." This was not in conse- quence of the attachment of romance, perhaps ; but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- ture's happiness or misery in my determina- iion, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If i have not got polite tattle, modish manners, lind fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of board- fng-school affectation: and I have got thehand- gomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest jonstitution, and the kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete homme in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together either on prose or verse. I must except also from this last a cer- tain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly ; and all the ballads m the country, as she has (0 the partial lover I 70U will cry) the finest " wood-note wild" I ever heard. I am the more particular in this lady's character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in your best wishes. 8he is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house ; for this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bar- gain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle iclat, and bind every day after my reapers. To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise in- Btructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I tould set all before your view, whatever disre- Bpect 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 silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! Whec fel- low-partakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything unworthy — if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not 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 continues thus, I may scrawl you half a quire. I very lately — to wit, since harvest began — wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- ner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short essay, just to try the strength of my muse's pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of 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 metre. 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 wedding-day, which hap- pens on the seventh of November. Take it as follows: — ** The day returns — my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet," &c.^ I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall make it another letter; and then you may allow your patience a week's respite between the two. I have not room fo< more than tlie old, kind, hearty farewell. Song LXIX- 890 GExNEKAL CORRESPONDENCE To make some amends, mes cTihres Mesdames, for dragging you on to this second sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstu- died and uncorrectible prose, I sh ill transcribe 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 ; supposing myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion. LINES WRITTEN IN FRI A R S-C AR S E HERMITAGE. ** Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed."* R. B. CXXXV. TO MR. MORISON, MAUCHLINE. [Morison, of Mauchline, made most of the poet's fur- niture, for Ellisland : from Mauchline, too, came that eight-day clock, which was sold, at the death of the poet's widow, for thirty-eight pounds, to one who would have paid one hundred, sooner than wanted it.] Ellisland, September 22, 1788. My DEAR Sir, Necessity obliges me to go into my new house even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the one end until the other is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this presenthouse. If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if ever you were in a situation that a little kindness would have res- cued you from many evils; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being — get these matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in the beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. I am, After all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours, R. B. Poems LXXXIX. and XC. CXXXVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP, OP DUNLOP. [Burns had no great respect for critics who found ble mishes without perceiving beauties: he expresses hi contempt for such in this letter.] Mauchline, 21th Sept. 1788. I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more than once ; but scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th instant. To make myself understood ; I had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very day he had received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or kind. Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- feeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's merits ; they are the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the beauties of the piece. I have just arrived from Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- back this morning by three o'clock ; for between my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit as follows : " Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamenta- tion for the death of her son ; an uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age." " Fate gave the word — the arrow sped, And pierced my darling's heart. "^ You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, you see I am no niggard of mine. I am sure your impromptus give me double pleasure; what falls from your pen can neither be unentertain- ing in itself, nor indifferent to me. The one fault you found, is just; but I cannot please myself in an emendation. What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent ! You interested me much in your young couple. I would not take my folio paper for this epis- tle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded with my dirty long journey that I was afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness with any« 2 Poem XCII. OF ROBEET BURx\S. 39^ thing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out another rhyme of this morning's manufac- ture. I will pay the sapientipotent George, most cheerfully, to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- shire. R. B. CXXXVII. TO MR. PETER HILL. [" The ' Address to Lochlomond,' which this letter criticises," says Currie iu 1800, " was written Ity a gentle- man, now one of the masters of the High-school of Edin- Durgh, and the same who translated the beautiful story of ' The Paria,' published in the Bee of Dr. Anderson."] Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. I HAVE been here in this country about three days, and all that time my chief reading has been the " Address to Lochlomond" you were 80 obliging as to send to me. Were I impan- nelled one of the author's jury, to determine his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my verdict should be " guilty ! a poet of nature's making!" It is an excellent method for im- provement, and what I believe every poet does, to place some favourite classic author in his own •walks of study and composition, before him as a model. Though your author had not men- tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to hint that his im'ation of that immortal bard is in two or three places rather more servile than puch a genius as his required : — e. g. " To soothe the maddening passions all to peace." ADDBB9S. " To soothe the throbbing passions into peace." Thomson. I think the " Address" is in simplicity, har- mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal to the " Seasons." Like Thomson, too, he has looked into nature for himself: you meet with no copied description. One particular criticism I made at first reading ; in no one instance has he said too much. He never flags in his pro- gress, but, like a true poet of nature's making kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion ; only, I do not altogether like — " Truth, The soul of every song that's nobly great." Fiction is the soul of many a song that is uobly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, page G, "Great lake," too much vulgar- ized by every-day language for so sublime a poem ? " Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," is perhaps no emendation. Ilis enumeratio* of a comparison with other lakes is at once har- monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must sweep the *< Winding margin of an hundred miles." The perspective that follows mountains blu« — the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the wooded isles — the digression on the yew-tree — "Ben-lomond's lofty, cloud-envelop'dhead," &c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject which has been often tried, yet our poet in hia grand picture has interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, entirely original : — " the gloom Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire.'- In his preface to the Storm, " the glens how dark between," is noble highland 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 truly great : the • '< silver mist, Beneath the beaming sun," is well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with a little of that passion 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 anything in the "Seasons." The idea of "the floating tribe distant seen, far glistering to the moon," pro- voking 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 six- teenth page is one of the most elegant compli 392 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful paragraph beginning, "The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. I must beg your pardon for this lengthened Bcrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I should like to know who the author is ; but, whoever he be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me. A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, "Letters on the Religion essen- tial to Man," a book you sent me before ; and " The World unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat." Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. R. B. CXXXYIII. TO THE EDITOR OF "THE STAR." [The clergyman wrho preached the sermon which this letter condemns, was a man equally worthy and stern — a divine of Scotland's elder day: he received "a harmoni- ous call" to a smaller stipend than that of Dunscore — and accepted it.] November ^th, 1788. Sir, PfOTVviTHSTANDiNa the opprobrious epithets with which some of our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature — the prin- ciple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have given us ; still the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that they are not natives of the human heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind, ■who is undone, the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes, who but sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother ? We forget the injuries and feel for the man. I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- ment to the Author of all Good, for the con- sequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To that auspicious event we owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are like- wise indebted for the present Royal Family, the ruling features of whose administration have ever been mildness to the subject, and tender- ness 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 which the reverend gentleman mentioned the House of Stewart, and which, I am afraid, was too much the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perliaps as much as their crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and we may bless God for all his good- ness to us as a nation, without at the same time cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most of us would have done, had we been in their situation. " The bloody and tyrannical House of Stew- art" may be said with propriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family, and the sentiments of our days ; but is there no allowance to be made for the manners of the times ? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stewarts more attentive to their subjects' rights ? Might not the epithets of "bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors ? The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be this : — At that period, the science of govern- ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- tween king and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and bar- barity. The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- ing ; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation and the rights of sub- jects. In this contest between prince and people, the consequence of that light of science which had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of France, for example, was victorious over th^ struggling liberties of his people : with us, luckily the monarch failed, and his unwarrant- able pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- ling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but likewise happily for us, the kingly power was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they owed the throne solely to the caU OF ROBERT BURNS. 39d of a free people, could claim nothing incon- sistent with the convenanted terms which placed thein there. The Stewarts have been condemned and iaughed 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 does not know that the abilities or defects of leaders and corn- mat ders are often hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency; and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- men, just as they are for or against us ? Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- consistent being ; who would believe. Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- finement, while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated with such indignation against the very memory of those who would have subverted them — that a certain people under our national protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our whole LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our forefa- thers did of the house of Stewart ! I will not, I cannot enter into the merits of the cause ; but I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as the English Convention was in 1688; and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the wrong-headed House of Stewart. To conclude, Sir; let every man who has a tea: *^or the many miseries incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- man) who ever looked with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal !r.l8tak>! of the kings of his forefathers. R. B. OXXXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. iThe heifer presented to the poet by the Dunlops was oought, at the sale of Rllisland stock, by Milter of DaU ■wiDton, and long grazed th« pastures in his " policies" »y Uie name o'" '* Burns."] Mauchline, IZlh November, 1788. Madam, I HAD the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- men because they are weak ; if it is so, poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M'K., with their flattering attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned my head. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron, but they so intoxi- cated me with their sly insinuations and deli- cate inuendos of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection, how much addi- tional weight and lustre your good opinion and friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say one word how much I was charmed with the Major's friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute re- mark, lest I should be thought to overbalance my orientalisms of applause over-against the finest quey' in Ayrshire, which he made me a present pf to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am determined an- nually, as that day returns, to decorate her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. There will soon be threescore and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and now that your friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy- ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of " The feast of reason and the flow of soul." R. B. CXL. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, ENQRAVBK. [James Johnson, though not an ungenerona man, meanly refused to give a copy of the Musical Museum to Burns, who desired to bestow it on one to whom his family was deeply indebted. This was in the last year of the poet's life, and after the Museum had been bright* ened by so much uf his lyric verse.] Mauchline^ November 15/A, 1788. My dear Sib, I HAVE sent you two more songs. If you have 1 Heifer. S94 GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE got any tunes, or anything 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 will look on themselves as highly in- debted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry; let us go on correctly, and your name shall be immortal. I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every day new musical publications advertised; but what are they? Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then 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 air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate her. R. B. CXLI. TO DR. BLACKLOCK. [Blacklock, though blind, was a cheerful and good man. " There was, perhaps, never one among all man- kind," says Heron, "whom you might more truly have called an angel upon earth."} Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. ReVEBEKD ANT) DEAE 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 June ; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a stat3 of health and spirits U take notice of an iili. packet. I have done many little things for Johnson,, since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and 1 Lave finished one piece, in the way of Pope's " Moral Epistles ;" but, from your silence, I have everything to fear, so I have only sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well suit the tone of your pre- sent feelings. In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at this* place ; after that period, it will be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, were it but half a line, to let me know how you are, and where you are. Can I be indifl"erent 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 Miss John- ston, if she is with you. I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased with the step I took respecting '* my Jean." Two things, from my happy experience, I set down as apothegms in life. A wife's head is immaterial, com- pared with her heart ; and — *' Virtue's (for wis- dom what poet pretends to it?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." Adieu ! R. B. [Here follow " The Mother's Lament for the Loss of her Son," and the song beginning " The lazy mist hangt from the brow of the hill."] CXLII. TO MRS. D UNDO P. [The "Auld lang sjnie," wh-.cli Burns here introduces to Mrs. Dunlop as a strain of tha olden time, is as surely his own as Tam-o-Shanter.] Ellisland, 11 th December, 1788. My dear honoured Friend, Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. "Almost blind and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of human nature ; but w\en told of a much-loved and honoured fri^ad, ihey carry misery in the sound. Goodaesa on your part, and gratitude on mine, begjn a tie which has gradually en- twisted itself araoDg th'j dearest chords of my bosom, and J tretr/bie at che omens of your late and present ailirg haoii and shattered health. You miscaleula'^e uaatterd widely, when you for- bid my wa;tlrir, on you, lest it should hurt my worldly coucr^i^i. My small scale of farming is exceediflfjly more simple and easy than what you have IaliA'j seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that 9J it may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand considera- tions for which I live : if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions of my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I should OF ROBEllT iiL'KiXS 39& not have been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and picking up grubs ; not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, crea- tures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well again as tc be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I will make my threaten- ings good. I am to be at the New-year-day fair of Ayr ; and, by all that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you. Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfellow and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world! — They spoil "these social offsprings of the heart." Two veterans of the "men of the world" would have met with little more heart- workings than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, "Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive ? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage. " Should auld acquaintance be forgot !"l Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven- inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- ment. There is more of the fire of native genius in it than in half-a-dozen of modern English Bacchanalians! Now I am on my hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which please me mightily: — " Go fetch to me a pint of wine. "2 R. B. CXLIII. TO MISS DAVIES. [The Laird of Gienriddel informed <' the charming, V)vely Davies" that Burns was composing a song in her pra:s». The poet acted on this, and sent the song, en- closed in this characteristic letter.] December, 1788. Madam, I UNDERSTAND my Tcry worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed you that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is some- thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- then of a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and See Song CCX. 2 See Song LXXII. meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was : so my worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never intended ; and reduced me to the un fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished production of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman who had some genius, much eccen- tricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a character in a more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota bene, to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was to him, my muse is to me ; and the verses I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste ; but I am so often tired, disgusted and hurt with insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a person "after my own heart," I positively feel what an orthodox Pro- testant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an jEolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were gray-bearded-age ; but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment are equally striking and unaffected— by heavens! though I had lived three score years a married man, and three score years before I was a mar- ried man, my imagination would hallow the very idea : and I am truly sorry that the in- closed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject. , R. B. CXLIV. TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. [The mill of John Currie stood on a small stream which fed the loch of Friar's Curse — near the house of tlie dame of whom be sang, " Sic a wife us Willie had."] December 22, 1788. I TSSTBRDAT tried my cask of whiskey for th« first time, and I assure you it does you great 396 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE credit. It will bear five waters strong ; or six ordinary toddy. The whiskey of this country is a most rascally liquor ; and, by consequence, only drank by the most rascally part of the in- habitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a fo 3ting here, you might do a great deal of busi- ness, in the way of consumpt ; and should you commence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am ignorant if, in your pre- Eeut way of dealing, you would think it worth your while to extend your business so far as this pountry side. I write you this on the account of an. accident, which I must take the merit of having partly designed to. A neigh- bour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse- mill — a man who is, in a word, a "very" good man, even for a £500 bargain — he and his wife were in my house the time I broke open the cask. They keep a country public-house and sell a great deal of foreign spirits, but all along thought that whiskey would have degraded this house. They were perfectly astonished at my whiskey, both for its taste and strength ; and, by their desire, I write you to know if you could supply them with liquor of an equal quality, and what price. Please write me by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife and fork very much at your service. My compliments to Mrs. Ten- nant, and all the good folks in Glenconnel and Barquharrie. R. B. CXLV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The feeling mood of moral reflection exhibited in the following letter, was common to the house of William Burns : in a letter addressed by Gilbert to Robert of this date, the poet is reminded of the early vicissitudes of their name, and desired to look up, and be thankful.] Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came under the apostle James's description ! — the prayer of a righteous man availcth much. In that case, Madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings : everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquil- lity and self-enjoyment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and feeasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habitual routine of lifa and thought, which is so apt to reduce our exist- ence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little su- perior to mere machinery. This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end, of autumn; these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza," a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capa- ble of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : "On the 6th day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and ofiered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer." We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a difi"erent cast, makes no extraordinary impres- sion. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare- bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- ding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal morn- ing, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the pass- ing accident ? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs of those aw- ful and important realities — a God that made all things — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave. R. B. CXLVI. TO DR. MOORE. [The poet seems, in this letter^ to perceive fhat Fills- land was not the bargain he had reckoned it : iie intimated, OF HOBJ^RT BURNS. 897 ts the render will remember, something of the same kind to Margaret Chalmers.] Sir, Mlisland, 4:th Jan. 17! As often as I think of writing to you, -which has been three or four times every week these six months, it gives me something so like the idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a conversation with the Rhodian colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair always mis- carries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have at last got some business with you, and business letters are written by the stylebook. I Bay my business is with you, Sir, for you never had any with me, except the business that be- nevolence has in the mansion of poverty. The character and employment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of my late eclat was owing to the singularity of my situation, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do look upon myself as having some pretensions from Nature to the poetic character. I have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by him " who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" — but I as firmly believe, that excellence in the profes- sion is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least I am resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. Another appearance from the press I put off to a very distant day, a day that may never arrive — but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of the profession, the talents of shining in every species of composition. I shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) whether she has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has been so often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye, that one loses, in a good mea- sure, the powers of critical discrimination. Here the best criterion I know is a friend — not only of abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to praise perhaps a Kttle more than is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely indebted to your good- Dess, ask the additional obligation of your being that friend to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine in a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean the epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or R,obert Graham of Fintray, Esq., a gentleman of uncom- mon worth, to whom I lie under very great ob- ligations. The story of the poem, like most o* my poems, is connected with my own story, and to give you the one, I must give you something of the other. I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept me hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before he would condescend to give me a statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even then, but for an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. "I could" not a "tale" but a detail "unfold," but what am I that should speak against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edin- burgh ? I believe I shall in the whole, lOOZ. copy-right included, clear about 400Z. some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what the gentle man has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because you did me the honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. I give you this information, but I give it to yourself only, for I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes tempted to have of him — God forbid I should ! A little time will try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the busi- ness if possible. To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married *' my Jean," and taken a farm : with the first step I have every day more and more reason to be satisfied : with the last, it is rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, who supports my aged mother ; another still younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 180Z. to save them from ruin. Not that I have lost so much. — I only interposed between my brother and his impending fate by the loan of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part : I was con- scious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought *hat throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affec- tion into the scale in my favour, might nelp to smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There is still one thing would make my circumstances quite easy : I have an excise officer's commis- sion, and I live in the midst of a country divi- sion. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me that division. If I wer« B98 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE very sanguine, I might hope that some of my great patrons might procure me a Treasury warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. Thus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my future days. R. B. CXLVII. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. [The song which the poet says he brushed up a little is nowhere mentioned : he wrote one hundred, and brushed up more, for the Museum of Johnson.] Ellisland, Jan. 6, 1789. Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir ! May you be comparatively happy up to your comparative worth among the sons of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blest of the human race. I do not know if passing a "Writer to the signet," be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere business of friends and interest. However it be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, which, though I have repeated them ten thou- sand times, still they rouse my manhood and Bteel my resolution like inspiration. -'^ On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man." Young. Night Thoughts. "Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, Thy genius heaven's high will declare; The triumph of the truly great. Is never, never to despair I Is never to despair!" Thomson. Masque of Alfred. I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle for bfead, business, notice, and distinction, in common with hundreds. — But who are they? Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short of your advantages natural and accidental ; while two of those that remain, either neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or mis-spend their strength, like a bull goring a bramble-bush. But to change the theme : I am still catering for Johnson's publication; and among others, I have brushed up the following old favourite Bong a little, with a view to your worship. I have only altered a word here and there ; but if you like the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or two to add to it. R. B. CXLVIII. TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. [The iron justice to which the poet alludes, in th.'s let- ter, was exercised by Dr. Gregory, on the poem of the " Wounded Hare."] SiK, Ellisland, 20th Jan, 1789. The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edin- burgh, a few days after I had the happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for the Continent. I have now added a few more of my productions, those for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale muses. The piece inscribed to R. G. Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Gra- ham, of Fintray, accompanying a request for his assistance in a matter to me of very great mo- ment. To that gentleman I am already doubly indebted, for deeds of kindness of serious im- port to my dearest interests, done in a manner grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a species of composition new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essny of the kind, as you will see by the •' Poet's Pro- gress." These fragments, if my design succeed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it shall be the work of my utmost ex- ertions, ripened by years ; of course I do not wish it much known. The fragment beginning "A little, upright, pert, tart, &c.," I have not shown to man living, till I now send it you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particu- lar part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching, but, lest idle con- jecture should pretend to point out the origi- nal, please to let it be for your single, sole in- spection. Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who has treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness — who has entered into my interests with so much zeal, and on whose critical decisions I can so fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions are to me of the last consequence. My late transient acquaintance among some of the mere rank and file of greatness, I resign with ease ; but to the distinguished champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambi- tious of being known. The native genius and accurate discernment in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ; the justness (iron justice, for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sin- OF ROBERT BURNS. 399 ner) of l)r. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. I shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your highly obliged, and very Humble servant, R. B. CXLIX. TO BISHOF GEDDES. [A exander Gekles was a. controversialist and poet, *nd a bishop of the brok***! remn:int of the Catholic Church of Scotland : he is known as the author of a very humorous ballad ca'Ved " The Wee bit Wifickie," %n(i as tlie translator of one of the books of the Iliad, In opposition to Cowpe; > Ellisland, ^d Feb. 1789, Venerable Father, As I am conscious that wherever I am, you do me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you that I am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- ness of life, and have now not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to those great and important questions — what I am ? where I am ? and for what I am des- tined? In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one side on which I was ha- bitually blameable, and there I have secured myself in the way pointed out by Nature and Nature's God. I was sensible that to so help- less a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family were encumbrances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun ; but when the alternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on account of habitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no general example, no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to me ever justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have made another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" a long and much-loved fellow-creature's happi- ness or misery among my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit? In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure: I have good hopes of my farm, but should they fail, I have an excise com- mission, which on my simple petition, will, at s.'By time, procure me bread. There is a certain .*gma affix»i to the character of an Excise officer, but I do not pretend to borrow honour from my profession ; and though the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the first twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect. Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily guess, my reverend and much- honoured friend, that my characteristical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than over an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- mined to study man and nature, and in that view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and corrections of years can enable me to produce something worth preserving. You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining so long, that I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some large poetic plans that are floating in my ima gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- ing with you ; which, if you are then in Edin- burgh, I shall have about the beginning of March. That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to honour me, you must still allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- concern I give up my transient connexion with the merely great, those self-important beings whose intrinsic * * * * [con]cealed under the accidental advantages of their * * * * I cannot lose the patronizing notice of the learned and good, without the bitterest regret. R. B CL. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. [Fanny Burns married Adam Armour, brother to bon nie Jean, went with him to Mauchline, and bore hinr sons and daughters.] Ellisland, 9M Feb. 1789. Mt dear Sir, Why I did not write to you long ago, is what even on the rack, I could not answer. If yon can in your mind form an idea of indolence, dis- sipation, hurry, cares, change of country, enter ing on uT^ried scenes of life, all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. It could not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem before I knew him — an esteem which has much increased since I did know him ; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other indictment with which you shall please to charge me 400 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE After I had parted from you for many months my life was one continued scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have taken a farm and — a wife. The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway frith. I have gotten a lease of my farm as long as I pleased : but how it may turn out is just a guess, it is yet to improve and enclose, &c. ; however, I have ^ood hopes of my bargain on the whole. My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved fellow creature's happiness or misery among my hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed I have not any reason to re- pent the step I have taken, as I have attached myself to a very good wife, and have shaken myself loose of every bad failing. I have found my book a very profitable busi- ness, and with the profits of it I have begun life pretty decently. Should fortune not favour me in farming, as I have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in an- other resource, which however some folks may aflfect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman whose name at least I dare say you know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of the commissioners of Excise, ofi"ered me the commis- sion of an Excise ofl&cer. I thought it prudent to accept the ofi'er; and accordingly I took my instructions, and have my commission by me. Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is what I do not know ; but I have the comfortable assurance, that come whatever ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the Excise-board, get into employ. We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has long been very weak, and with very lit- tle alteration on him, he expired 3d Jan. His son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May to be an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, comes to me I expect in summer. They are both remarkably stout young fellows, and promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever since her father's death, and I purpose keeping her in my family till she be quite woman grown, and fit for service. She is one of the cleverest girls, and has one of the most amiable dispositions I have ever seen. All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to all friends in the north My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. and family. I am ever, my dear Cousin, Yours, sincerely, R. B. CLI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The beautiful lines with which this letter concludes, I have reason to believe were the production of the lady to whom the epistle is addressed.] Ellisland, 4th March, 1789. Hekb am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To a man, who has a home, however humble or remote — if that home is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust. ' Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you !''' When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rat tling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim — " What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of pride ?" I have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was), who was so out of humour with the Ptole- mean system of astronomy, that he said had he been of the Ckeator's council, he could have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- surdity. I will not defend this blasphemouu speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Princes' street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man in pro- portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or, as we draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many of his majesty's liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or OF ROBERT BURNS. 401 an inch of the particular point of respectful dis- tance, which the important creature itself re- quires ; AS a measuring-glance at its tower- ing altitude, would determine the affair like instinct. You are right. Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill- spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. "When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances ; and would have offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting what would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps a little oppresses my pre- sent spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In the mean time, allow me to close tkis epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine * * •* •x- *. I give you them, that as you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or two alterations I have ventured to make in them, be any real improvement. *' Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause, lie all a mother's fondest hope can dream. And all you are, my charming . . . ., seem. Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, Your form shall be the image 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 ev'n sick'niug envy must approye." R. B. CLII. TO THE REV. PETER CARFRAE. [Myine was a worthy and a modest man he died of tn intlarariiatory 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. Mylne 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 publica tion; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid, that in the present case, it would be an improper step. My success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of non- sense under the name of Scottish poetry. Sub- scription-bills for Scottish poems have so dun- ned, and daily do dun the public, that the very name is in danger of contempt. For these rea sons, 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 Mr. Mylne'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 world knows anything 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 this : — I would publish, in two or three English and Scottish public 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 pro- ductions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable character, lately deceased, whose poems his friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by sub- scription, for the sake of his numerous family : — not in pity to that family, but in justice to what 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. B. B. CLlll. TO DR. MOORE. [Edward Nielson, whom Bums here introduces to Dr. Moore, was minister of Kirkbean, on the Solwav-iid* ' «02 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE he was a jovial man, and loved good cheer, and merry company.] Sir, Fllisland, 23c? March, 17! The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr, Nielson, a worthy clergyman 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 recompense him for it in a way in which he much needs your assistance, and where you can effectually serve him : — Mr, Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of Queens- berry, on some little business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for your in- structions respecting 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 you, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotch- man is a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power to serve such a character, gives you much pleasure. The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- mory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive. You, probably, knew her personally, an honour of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neighbourhood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that she was de- tested with the most heart-felt cordiality. How- ever, in the particular part of her conduct which Toused 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, the 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 I were both much fa- tigued with the labours of the day, and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance \o the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor T am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had ju»t christened Pegasus, twelve miles fai-ther on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayr- shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers 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 enclosed ode. I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that, at last, he has been amicable and fair with me. R. L. CLIV. TO MR. WILLIAM BURNS. [William Burns was the youngest brother of the poet : he was bred a sadler; went to Longtown, and finally ta London, where he died early.] Isle, March 26th, 1789. I HAVE stolen from my corn-sowing this minute to write a line to accompany your shirt and hat, for I can no more. Your sister Maria arrived yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you. Write me every opportunity, never mind post- age. My head, too, is as addle as an egg, this morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I re- ceived yours by the mason. Forgive me this foolish-looking scrawl of an epistle. I am ever, My dear William, Yours, 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 should not succeed in your tramps, don't be dejected, or take any rash step — re- turn to us in that case, and we will court for- tune's better humour. Remember this, I charge you. R. B. CLV. TO MR. HILL. [The Monkland Book Club existed only while Robert Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, lived, or Burns had leisure to attend: such institutions, when well conducted, are very beneficial, when not oppressed by divinity and verse, as they sometimes are.] Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus (God forgive me for murdering language !) that 1 have sat down to write you on this vile paper. It is economy. Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence : so I beg you will sit down, and either 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 paper, which was originally intended for the OF ROBERT BURNS. 4Uti renal 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 house- wife, 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, hitherto in- accessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary feet : — not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame are breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven and hell ; but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all powerful 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 sibyl, 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 repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with his peculiar 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 anything, be anything — 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, the cheapest is always the best for me. There is a email debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert (^leghorn, 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 anything you have to sell, und 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 hit 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 Socie- ty" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the Wcrld, Guthrie^ s Geographical Grammar, with some re- ligious 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. My dear Sir, Your faithful, poor, but honest, friend, R. B CLVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Some lines which extend, but fail to finish the sketch contained in this letter, will be found elsewhere in this publication.] Ellisland, 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 communicating 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 tLe 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 contradio tion — I sing : If these mortals, the critics, shoull bu8« tie, I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. But now for a patron, whose name and whose giory. 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 ; 404 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 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 I am— R. B. CLVII. TO MR. WILLIAM BURNS, SADLER, CARE OF MR. WRIGHT, CARRIER, LONGTOWN. [" Never to despair" was a favourite saying with Burns: and "firm resolve," he held, with Young, to be "the column of true majesty in num."] Me, I5th April, 1789. My deab William, I AM extremely sorry at the misfortune of your legs ; I beg you will never let any worldly con- cern interfere with the more serious matter, 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 Bister Nanny. It was unluckily forgot. Yours to Gilbert goes by post. — I heard from them yesterday, they are all well. Adieu. R. B. CLVIII. TO MRS. M'MURDO, DRUMLANRIG. Of this \ccomplished lady, Mrs. M'Murdo, of Drum Borig, and her daughters, something has been said in the notes on the songs : the poem alluded to was the song o/ "Bonnie Jean."] Ellisland, 2d May, 1789. Mapam, I HAVE finished the piece which had the happj 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 Mr. M'Murdo if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned animals — what sensitive plants poor poets are. How do we shrink into the embittered corner of self-abasement, when neglected or condemned by those to whom we look up ! and how do we, in erect importance, add another cubit to our stature on being noticed and applauded by those whom we honour and respect! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, Madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my fancied elevation I regard my poetic self with no small degree of complacency. Surely with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures. — I recollect your goodness to your humble guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the politeness of the gentleman, the kindness of a friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, with warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude — it may be a mixed sen- sation. That strange, shifting, doubling ani- mal MAN is so generally, at best, but a negative, often a worthless creature, that we cannot see real goodness and native worth without feeling the bosom glow with sympathetic approbation. With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the honour to be, Madam, Your obliged and grateful humble servant, R. B. CLIX. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Honest Jamie Thomson, who shot the hare because she browsed with her companions on his father's "wheat-braird," had no idea he was pulling down such a burst of itiiignation on his head as this letter with the poem which it enclosed expresses.] Ellisland, Ath 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 W with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of OF ROBERT BURNS 4(J& ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with delicious sa- tisfactioa; — 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. I 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, I heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess my in- dignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have young ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our sport individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us ma- terially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad 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 Crochallan 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:' R. B. CLX. TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. [Sfimuel Brown was brother to the poet's mother : ha leems to have l)een a joyous sort of person, who loved a 'oke, and understood double meanings] Mossffiel, Ath May, 1789. Dear Unclb, This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal joke-fellow in your good old way ; I am impa- tient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and I hope you will bespeak 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 knew, — I am engaged in a smuggling trade, and God knows if ever uny poor man expe- rienced better returns, two for one, but as fi eight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out a license and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the bor- ders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old Patriarchs, get men-servants and maid-ser- vants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters. Your obedient nephew, R. B. CLXI. TO RICHARD BROWN. [Burns was much attached to Brovni ; and one regrets that an inconsiderate word should have estranged the haughty sailor.] Mauchline, 2.1st May, 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, wish- ing you would write to me before you sail again, wishing you would always set me 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 pre- sent ; and, finally, wishing that if thei-e is tc be another state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B., our little ones, and both families, and you and I, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial paitj to all eternity ! My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries Yours, E. B, 106 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CLXII. TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. [James Hamilton, grocer, in Glasgow, interested hid- lelf early in the fortunes of the poet.] miisland, 2Qth May, 1789. Dear Sir, I SKND you by John Glover, carrier, the ac- count for Mr. Turnbull, 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 ease ; but as ONE observes, who was very seldom mistaken in the theory 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 ! With every wish for your welfare and future success, I am, my dear Sir, Sincerely yours, R. B. CLXIII. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. [The poetic address to the " venomed stang" of the toothache seems to have come into existence about this time.] Sir, Ellisland, ZQth May, 1789. I HAD intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- tions of an omnipotent toothache so engross all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense. However, as in duty bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- ing in my hand — a few poetic clinches, and a song : — To expect any other kind of offering from the Rhyming Tribe would be to know them much less than you do. I do not pretend that there is much merit in these morceaux, but I have two reasons for sending them ; primo, 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 off in the middle, and so hurt 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 will 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 grati- tude ! 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, until they be filled with the good things of thii life, prayeth R. B. CLXIV. TO MR. M'AULEY. [The poet made the acquaintance of Mr. M'Auley, of Dumbarton, in one of his northern tours, — he was intro* duced by his friend Kennedy.] Ellisland, 4th June, 1789. Dear Sir, Though I am not without my fears respect- ing my fate, at that grand, universal inquest of right and wrong, commonly called The Last Bay, yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch- vagabond, Satan, who I understand is to be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth, I mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large quantum of kindness for which I remain, and from inability, I fear, must still remain, your debtor ; but though unable to repay the debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly remember the obligation. It gives me the sin- cerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's language, "Hale, and weel, and living;" and that your charming family are well, and pro mising to be an amiable and respectable addi- tion to the company of performers, whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bring- ing into action for the succeeding age. With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and effectively interested your- self, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, marking tlie growth of my corn, or th« OF ROBERT BURNS. 407 health of my dairy; and at times sauntering by the delightful windings of tile Nith, on the mar- gin of which I have built my humble domicile, prating for seasonable weather, or holding an .titrigue with the muses; the only gipsies 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 licenses of former days will of course fall under the oblivious influence of some good-natured statute of celestial prescription. In my family devo- tion, which, like a good Presbyterian, I occa- sionally 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 are 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 Handel's Messiah. R. B. CLXV. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. [The following high-minded letter may be regarded as a sermon on domestic morality preached by one of the experienced.] Ellisland, Sth June, 1789. My dear Friend, I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your last. It is not that I forget the friend of my heart and the companion of my peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond suflFerance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have had a collec- tion of poems by a lady, put into my hands to prepare them for the press ; which horrid task, with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plasterers, &c., 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. 1 3th. I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the Sth. Life, my dear Sir, is a perious matter. You know by experience ti*.«. a man's individual self is a good deal, but belie /e me, a wife and family of children, when- ever you 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 trifles. The welfare of those who are very dear *Q us, whose only support, hope, and stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is another sorl of more important object of care than any con- cerns whatever which centre merely in the indi- vidual. On the other hand, let no young, un- married, rakehelly dog among you, make a song of his pretended liberty and freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country, kindred, and friends, be anything l.u* the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysi- cians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, gene- rosity, humanity and justice, be aught but empty sounds ; then the man who may be said to live only for others, for the beloved, honourable female, whose tender faithful embrace endears life, and for the helpless little innocents who are to be the men and women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects of his king, and the sup- port, nay the very vital existence of his country in the ensuing age ; — com^iare such a man with anyfellow whatever, who, whether he bustle and push in business among labourers, clerks, states- men ; or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie of what is called good-fellow- ship — who has no view nor aim but what ter- minates in himself — if there be any grovelling earthborn wretch of our species, a renegado to common sense, who would fain believe that the noble creature man, is no better than a sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipated in nothing, nobody knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a crawl ing reptile, might balance the foregoing unex- aggerated comparison, but no one else would have the patience. Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. To make you amends, I shall send you soon, and more encouraging still, without any postage, one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. R. B. CLXVI. TO MR. M'MURDO. [John M'Murdo has been already mentioned as one of Burns's firmest friends: his table at Drumlanrig waji always spread at the poet's coming : nor was it uncheered by the presence of the lady of the house and her daugh ters.] EUisland, 19M June, 1789. Sir, A POET and a beggar are, in so many points of view, alike, that one might take tnem for the 408 GENEliAL COKKESPONDENCE name individual character under different de- signations ; were it not that though, with a trifling poetic license, most poets may be styled beggars, yet the converse of the proposition does not hold, that every beggar is a poet. In one particular, however, they remarkably agree; if you help either the one or the other to a mug of ale, or the picking of a bone, they will very willingly repay you with a song. This occurs to me at present, as I have just despatched a well-lined rib of John Kirkpatrick's Highlander ; a bargain for which I am indebted to you, in the style of our ballad printers, "Five excel- lent new songs." The enclosed is nearly my newest song, and one that has cost me some pains, though that is but an equivocal mark of its excellence. Two or three others, which I have by me. shall do themselves the honour to wait on your after leisure: petitioners for ad- mittance into favour must not harass the con- descension of their benefactor. You see. Sir, what it is to patronize a poet. 'Tis like being a magistrate in a petty borough ; you do them the favour to preside in their coun- cil for one year, and your name bears the pre- fatory stigma of Bailie for life. "With, not the compliments, but the best wishes, the sincerest prayers of the season for you, that you may see many and happy years with Mrs. M'Murdo, and your family ; two blessings by the bye, to which your rank does not, by any means, entitle you ; a loving wife and fine family being almost the only good things of this life to which the farm-house and cottage have an exclusive right, I have the honour to be, Sir, Yotir much indebted and very humble servant, R. B. CLXVII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The devil, the pope, and the Pretender darkened the fcermjns, for more than a century, of mriny sound divines in the north. As a Jacobite, Burns disliked to hear Prince Charles called the Pretender, and as a man of a tolerant nature, he disliked to hear the Pope treated un- Jike a gentleman: his notions regarding Satan are re- corded in his inimitable address.] Ellisland, 2\st June, 1789. Dear Madam, Will you take the effusions, the miserable effusions of low sjlrits, just as they flow from their bitter spring ? I know not of any parti- cular cause for this worst of all my foes beset- ting me ; but for some time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations and gloomy presages. Monday Evening. I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man famous for his benevo- lence, and I revere him ; but from such ideaa of my Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible Great Being, to whcm I owe my existence, and that he must be inti- mately acquainted with the operations and pro- gress of the internal machinery, and consequent outward deportment of this creature which he has made ; these are, I think, self-evident pro- positions. That there is a real and eternal dis- tinction between virtue and vice, and conse- quently, that I am an accountable creature ; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in the administration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave; must, I think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's reflection. I will go farther, and afi6rm that from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of hia doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many pre- ceding ages, though, to appearance, he himself was the obscurest and most illiterate of our species ; therefore Jesus Christ was from God. Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of others, this is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. What think you, madam, of my creed? I trust that I have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I value almost next to the approbation of my own mind. R. B. CLXVIII. TO MR. — [The name of the person to whom the following lettet is addressed is unknown: he seems, from his letter to Burns to have been intimate with the unfortunate poet, OF ROBERT BURNS. 409 Robert Fergusson, who, in richness of conversation and plenitude of fancy, reminded him, he said, of Robert Burns.] 1789. My dk^r Sir, The b rry of a farmer in this particular sea- son a/id ^e indolence of a poet at all times and seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for ne- glecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th of August. That you have done well in quitting your la- borious concern in * * * *, I do not doubt ; the weighty reasons you mention, were, I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and your health is a matter of the last importance ; but whether the remaining proprietors of the paper have also done well, is what I much doiibt. The * * * *, so far as I was a reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it possible to con- tinue a daily paper in the same degree of excel- lence : but if there was a man who had abilities equal to the task, that man's assistance the proprietors have lost. • When I received your letter T was transcrib- ./ig for * * * *, my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- mission to place a tombstone over poor Fergus- son, and their 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 I trust there is ; and if there be a good God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, where worth of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native sordid matter; where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of an id' ^ dream ; and where that heavy virtue, which s the negative consequence of steady Jrilnoss, and those thoughtless, though often destructive follies which are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, will be thi own 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 wel- fare and happiness is by no means a subject in- ttiffercnt to Tours, R.B. CLXIX. TO MISS WILLIAMS. [Helen Maria AVilliams acknowledged this letter, with the critical pencilling, on her poem on the Slave Trade, which it enclosed : she agreed, she said, with all his objections, save one, but considered his praise too high.] Ellisland, 1789. Madam, Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most extraordinary, that he shall go on from day to day, from week to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to year, sufiFering a hun- dred times more in an hour from the impotent consciousness of neglecting 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 poetic compliment ; then for a polite, obliging letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent poem on the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! though the debts were debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even the very acknowledgment of the obligation, un- til you must indeed be the very angel I take you for, if you can forgive me. Your poem I have read with the highest plea- sure. I have a way whenever I read a book, I mean a book in our own trade. Madam, a poetic 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 disapprob^iticn as I ^.eruse along. I will make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected thoughts 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 approbation ; and I do it in the firm faith that you have equal greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure. 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 are 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 410 GENERAL CORBESPONDEIS CE CLXX. TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. [The Kirk's Alarm, to which this letter alludes, has little of the spirit of malice and drollery, so rife in his earlier controversial compositions.] Ellisland, near Dumfries, 7th Aug. 1789. Dear Sir, I INTENDED to havc -Written you long ere now, and as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a poeti j epistle to you ; but that old enemy of all ^oocf works, the 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 the 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 copy of the ballad. If I could be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though it should be at a much greater expense than irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am afraid serving him in his present embarras 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 merit 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, R. B. CLXXI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The poetic epistle of worthy Janet Little was of small account : nor was the advice of Or. Moore, to abandon the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure and langunge of modern English poetry, better inspired than the strains of the milkmaidj for such \vas Jenny Little.] Ellisland, Qth 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 vill be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as be has a fine manly countenance, and a figure tha^ migh* do credit to a little fellow two months older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe, only net quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirliog bridge. I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious, but mo4est 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-writing; 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 necessitated to write, as I would sit down, to beat hemp. Some parts 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 composition that should equal the Iliad. Reli- gion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a proposition so obviously probable, that, set- ting revelation aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand years, have, in some mode or other, firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring pitch ; but, when I re- flected, that I was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my own conlict. I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; but it is one of my favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, " Against the day of battle and of war" — spoken of religion : « 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 'Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night. OF KOBERT BURNS. 411 When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; Tid this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disurnis affliction, or repels his dart ; Witliin the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." I have been busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is BO 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. I shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling performance. Farewell ! A Dieu, le hon Dim, je vous com- mende. R. B. CLXXII. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, CABSE. [The "Whistle alluded to in this letter was contended for tin the 16th of October, 1790 — the successful competitor, Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, was killed bj' a fall from his horse, some time after the *' jovial contest."] Sir, Ellisland, 16M Oct., 1789. BiQ with the idea of this important day at Friars-Carse, I have watched the elements and skies in the full persuasion that they would an- nounce it to the astonished world by some phe- nomena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- vians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of nature that bury nations. The elements, however, seem to take the mat- ter very quietly : they did not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, and the mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing" The whistle and the man ; I sing The man that won the whistle, &c. Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we ; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mac we hope to be. Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold coward louix is he : Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three. To leave the heights of Parnassus and come t« the humb}^ vale of prose. — 1 have some misgiv- ings that I take too much upon me, when 1 re- quest you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lowrie, to frank the two enclosed covers for me, the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, Bart, at Kilmarnock, — the other to Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing-Master, Edin- burgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as being a brother Baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the other is one of the worthiest men in the worl'^^ u-nd a man of real genius ; so, allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot get them to the post to-night. — 1 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. B CLXXIII. TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. [Robert Riddel kept one of those present pests of society — an album — into which Burns copied the Line* on the Hermitage, and the Wounded Hare.] EUisland, 1789. Sib, I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my power to give you a more substantial gratifica- tion and return for all the ^ jodness to the poet, than transcribing a few of his idle rhymes. — However, " an old song," though to a proverb an instance of insignificance, is generally the only coin a poet has to pay with. If my poems which 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 them, they would be the finest poems in the language. — As they are, they will at least be a testimony with what sincerity I have the honour to be, Sir, Your devoted humble Servant, R. B. 412 GEJSERAL CORRESPONDENCE OLXXIV. TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. [The ignominy of a poet beconming a gauger seems ever to linve been present to tiie mind of Burns— ';ut those moving things ca'd wives and weans have a strong in- fluence on the actions of man.] Ellisland, 1st Nov. 1789. My deae Feiend, I HAD written you long ere now, could I have gvjes< If you hare a minute's leisure, take up your pen iu pity to le pauvre miserable. R. B. OLXXVIII. TO LADY W[INIFRED] M[AXWELL] CONSTABLE. [The Lady Winifred Maxwell, the last of the old line of Nilhsdale, was granddaughter of that Eari who, in 1715, made an almost miraculous escape from death, through the spiritand fortitude of his countess, a lady of the noble family of Powis.] Ellisland, I6th 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 ladyship I have the honour to be connected by one of the strongest and most endearing ties in the whole moral world. Common suflferers, in a cause where even to be unfortunate 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 unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands with ruin for what they esteemed the cause of thoir king and their country. The language ond the enclosed verses are for your ladyship's eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence ; but as I can do nothing for a cause 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, B. B. CLXXIX. TO PROVOST MAXWELL, OF LOCHMABEN. [Of Lochmaben, the " Marjory of the mnny Lochs" of the election ballads, Maxwell was at this lime provosti a post more of honour than of labour.] Ellisland, 20ih December, 1789. Dear Provost, As my friend Mr. Graham goes for your good town to-morrow, I cannot resist the temptation to send you a few lines, and as I have nothing to say I have chosen this sheet of foolscap, and begun as you see at the top of the first page, because I have ever observed, that when once people have fairly set out they know not where to stop. Now that my first sentence is conclud- ed, I have nothing to do but to pray heaven to help me on to another. Shall I write you on Politics or Religion, two master subjects for your sayers of nothing. 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 company concern, I nevei could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might write you on farming, on building, or market- ing, but my poor 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 detest, abhor, and swoon at the very word business, though no less than four letters of my very short sirname are in it. Well, to make the matter short, I shall be- take myself to a subject ever fruitful of themes ; a subject the turtle-feast of the sons of Satan, and the delicious secret sugar-plum of the babes of grace — a subject sparkling 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, lintend to write * * * Iffere the Poet iruerted a song which can only bt sung at times tchen the punch-bowl has done its duty and wild wit is set free.'] If at any time you expect a field-day in your town, a day when Dukes, Earls, and Knighta 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 our dog for the politics, but I should like to see 416 GENERAL CORKESPONDENCE Buch an exhibition of human nature. If you meet with that worthy old veteran in religion and good-fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any of his amiable family, I beg you will give them my best compliments. K. B. CLXXX. TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. [Of the Monkland Book-Club alluded to in thie letter, the p|ergym;in had omitted al. mention in his account of the Parish of Diinseore, publish^^d in Sir John Sinclair's work : some of tiie books which the poet introduced were stigmatized us vain and frivolous.] 1790. Sib, The following circumstance has, T believe, been committed in the statistical account, trans- mitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you because it is new, and may be useful. How far it is de- serving of a place in your patriotic publication, you are 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 turn for rend- ing and reflection, is giving them a source of in- nocent and laudable amusement ; and besides, raises thom to a more dignified degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- ing library, on a plan so simple as to be practi- cable in any corner of the country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice of every country gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that part of his own species, whom chance has thrown into the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan, a matter worthy of his atten- tion. Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, and farming neighbours, to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library among themselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by 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 the 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 produced ; and the mem- bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation He whose name stood for that night first on the list, had his choice of what volume he pleased in the whole collection ; the second had his choice after the first; the third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who had been first on the list at the preced- ing meeting, was last at this ; he who had been I second was first; and so on through the whole three years. At the expiration of the engage- ment the books were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves ; each man had his share of the common stock, in money or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what with their own purchases, they had collected to- gether upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of trasli 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 such books, is certainly a much superior being to his neighbour, 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. CLXXXI. TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., OF HODDAM. [The family of Hoddara is of old standing in Nithsdale it has mingled blood with some of the noblest Scottish names; nor is it unknown either in history or iiterature —the fierce knight of Closeburn, who m the scuffle be- tween Bruce and Comyne drew his sword and maU« OF ROBEllT BUKNS. 417 '< sicue-," nnd my friend Charles KirkpatrickSharpe, 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 Portpatrick. By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family jf the muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have a standard taste in the Belles Lettres. 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 ? I 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 the brutes that perish !" 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, "they toil not, neither do they spin ;" so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the hangman'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 that 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 Behe- moth could bear. The coat on my back is no 27 more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhandsome 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 clergyman, where I pickt up a good many scraps of learning, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. When- ever 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 between 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. Accord- ing 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 worth- less fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, and can regard an honest scavenger with sin- cere respect. As you, Sir, go through your role with such distinguished merit, permit m« 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. CLXXXn. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. [In the few fierce words of this letter the poet tidg adieu to all hopes of wealth from Ellisland.] ElUsland, Wth January, 1790. Dear Brothtk, I MEAN to take advantage of the frank, though I have not, in my present frame of mind, much appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochon- dria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands >ut not a more sincere compliment to the sweet ittle fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured »ut 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 \n 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 presfe, you have only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly: as to the punctuation, the printers do that themselves. I have a copy of Tam o' Shanter ready to send you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy to send by post. I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in conse- quence of your recommendation, is most zealcca to serve me. Please favour me soon with an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is re- covering, and the young gentleman doing well. R. B. ecu. TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. [The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of Queen Mary on the lid.] Ellisland, Wth January, 1791 My Lady, Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your lady- ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- turning you my warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I shall set it apart — the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my ins})iring genius. When I would breathe the compre- hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship ; when I would interest my fancy in the distresses in- cident to humanity, 1 shall remember the unfor- tunate Mary. R. B. ccin. TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. [This letter was in answer to one from DnnbEr ia which the witty colonel of the Crochnllan FencibjCi supposed the poet had been translated to Elysium to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not been heard of lat« on earth.] Ellisland, 17th January, 1791. I AM not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in this sublunary world, serv- ing my God, by propagating his image, and 130 GENEllAL CORRESPONDENCE honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- jects. Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May the thorns of care never beset his path ! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul ! May the blood-hounds of misfortune never track his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the bard ! " Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee ! ! !" As a further proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for wishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it worthy a friend's persual ; but if, at your first leisure hour, you will favour me with your opinion of, and strictures on the performance, it will be an additional obligation on, dear Sir, your deeply indebted humble ser- vant, R. B. cciv. TO MR. PETER HILL. [The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little feeling in it : he beheld the money which his poems brought melt silently away, and he looked to the future with more fear than hope.] EUisland, 17th January, 1791. Take these two guineas, and place them over against that d-mned account of yours ! which has gagged my mouth these five or six months! I can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. the supreme curse of making three guineas do the business of five! Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an insuperable business, such an infernal task ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell : where shall I find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the vene- rable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretched- ness, implores a little — little aid to support his existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the mnn of sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensi- bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and politC; must see in suffering silence, his remark neglected, and his person despised, while shal- low greatness in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason tc complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, though in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring him to want; and when his unprincipled ne- cessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire ; his consequent wants are the embarrass- ments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commission to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. — Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the cor- ner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglected and in- sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she who without the same neces- sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. Well ! divines may say of it what they please ; but execration is to the mind what phlebotomy is to the body : the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their respective evacua- tions. R" B. CCV. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally comma nicated his favourite compositions.] EUisland, 2Zd January, 1791. Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear friend ! As many of the good things OF ROBERT BURNS. 431 Df this life, aa is consistent with the usual mix- ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! I have just finished a poem (Tam o' Shanter) which you will receive enclosed. It is my first essay in the way of tales. I have these several months been hammering at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no far- ther than the following fragment, on which please give me your strictures. In all kinds of poetic composition, I set great store by your opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poetry of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more value on the infallibility of the Holy Father than I do on yours. I mean the introductory couplets as text verses. ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OP MONBODDO. Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet lovely from her native skies ; Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! R. B. CCVI. TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. [" I have seldom in my life," says Lord Woodhouselee, " tasted a higher enjoyment from any work of genius than I received from Tum o' Shanter."] Sir, EllUsland, February, 1791. Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with, could have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own lavourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the muses entirely new to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were on the most anxious alarm for his success in the attempt ; to have that poem so much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious vibration that ever thrilled along the heart- strings of a poor poet. However, Providence, to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the good, which it seems is necessary in this sublunary state, thought proper to check my exultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or two after I received your letter, my horse came down with me and broke my right arm. As this is the first service my arm has done me since its disaster, I find myself unable to do more than just in general terms thank you for this additional instance of your patronage and friendship. As to the faults you detected in the piece, they are truly there: one of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out; as to the falling ofi" in the catastrophe, for the rea- son you justly adduce, it cannot easily be reme- died. Your approbation. Sir, has given me such additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic composition, that I am already revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it will give me addi- tional opportunity of assuring you how much I have the honour to be, &c. R. B CCVII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [The elegy on the beautiful Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. was laboured zealously by Burns, but it never reached the excellence of some of his other compositions.] Ellisland, 1th Feb. 1791. When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first day my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing; you will allow that it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I am now getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is able to compose on the rack. I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea of composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the honour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amiable and accomplished a piece of God's work was no more. I have, as yet, gone no farther than the following fragment, of which please let me have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, that any new idea on the business is not to be expected : 'tia well if we can place an old idea in a new light. How far I have succeeded as to this last, jou 432 GENERAL CORllESPONDENCE will judge from what follows. I have proceeded no further. Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance of your godson, came safe. This last, Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy 1 have for a long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and m'iasles over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his bowels. I am truly happy to hear that the "little floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that the " mother plant" is rather recovering her drooping head. Soon and well may her " cruel wounds" be healed. I have written thus far with a good deal of difl&culty. When I get a little abler you shall hear farther from, Madam, yours, R. B. CCVIII. TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. [Alisfin wrisrnuch gratified, it is said, with thisrecog-ni- tion of the principles laid down in liis ingenious and popu- lar work.] Ellidand, near Dumfries, lith Feb. 1791. S[R, You mnst by this time have set me down as one of the most ungrateful of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book, which does honour to science and the intel- lectual powers of man, and I have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- tered as I was by your telling me that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did not even know the first principles. I own, Sir, that at first glance, several of your propositions star- tled me as paradoxical. That the martial clan- gour of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twin- gle twangle of a jew's-harp: that the delicate lexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that from some- thing innate and independent of all associations of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my faith. — In short, Sir, except Euclid's Ele- ments of Geometry, which I made a shift to un- ravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter evening of the first season I held the plough, I never read a book which gave me such a quan- tum of information, and added so much to my stock of ideas, as your " Essays on the Prin- ciples of Taste." One thing. Sir, you must for- give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, I mean the language. To clothe ab- stract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds something like a contradiction in terms;, but you have convinced me that they are quite com- patible. I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one in print ' is my first essay in the way of telling a tale. I am, Sir, &c. R. B. CCIX. TO DR. MOORE. [Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on Queen Mary, and the Elegy on Captain Matthew Hen- derson : Tam o'Shanter he thought full of poetical beau- ties. — He again regrets that he writes in the language of Scotland.] Ellisland, 20th February, 1791. I DO not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- scriber to Grose^ s Antiquities of Scotland. If you are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, still this will answer the prin- cipal end I have in view : it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for all your good- ness to the rustic bard ; and also of showing you, that the abilities you have been pleased to commend and patronize are still employed in the way you wish. The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 1 Tam o' Shanter. OF ROBERT BURNS. 433 liave in this the same advantage as Roman Ca- tholics ; they can be of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- matical ; but I am sure they are highly grati- fying to the living ; and as a very orthodox text, I forget where in scripture, says, " what- soever is not of faith is sin ;" so say I, what- soever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good tilings, and ought to be received and en- joyed by his creaitures witli thankful delight. As almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's Eeliques of English Poetry. By the way, how much is every honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to 3'ou for your glorious story of Bu- chanan and Targe! 'Twas an unequivocal proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I should have been mortified to the ground if you had not. I have just read over, once more of many times, your Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me particularly above the rest ; and one or two, I think, which with humble deference, I am dis- posed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least so much of them bii to point where they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is your and Fielding's province beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted ; but unhappily, dramatis persona are beings of another world ; and however they may captivate the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper years. As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my exist- ence : so soon as the prince's friends had got in (and every dog you know has his day), my get- ting forward in the excise would have been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live ana rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high au elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix them on as broad and inde- pendent a basis as possible. Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best. Better be the head o' the commonalty, than the tail o' the gentry. But I am got on a subject, which however in teresting to me, is of no manner of consequence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on the other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the honour to be, Yours, &c. R. B. Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young lady, whom I had formerly characterized under the denomination of The Rose Bud. * * * CCX. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [Cunningham could tell a merry story, and shg a 1% morous song ; nor was he without a feeling for the de«f sensibilities of his friend's verse.] Ellisland, 12th March, 1791. If the foregoing piece be worth your stric- tures, let me have them. For my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears through a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever view his own works. I believe in general, novelty has something in it that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like other intoxica- tion, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, wi th 481 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced, in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish-priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you another song of my late composition, which will appear per- haps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. When political combustion ceases to be the ob- ject of princes and patriots, it then you know becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. By yon castle wa' at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey ; And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if by the charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are past," to the few friends whom you indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear the clock has intimated the near approach of That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. — So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on the tapis ? 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. TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL, FACTOR, FINDLATSTON. (^Cromek says that Alexander Dalzel introduced the joetry of Burns to the notice of the Earl of Glencai rn, who W-ried the Kilmarnock edition with him to Edinburgh, and beprged that the poet would let him know what his views in the world were, that he might further them.] Ellisland, l^th March, 1791. My dear Sir, I HAVE taken the liberty to franlc 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 corrected his work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimination. I can easily guess from my own heart, what you have felt on a late most melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered, at the loss 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 sup- port their loss. I had a packet of poetic baga- telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the same channel that the honoured remains of my noble patron, are designed to be brought to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let me know privately before the day of interment, that I may cross the country, and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me beyond expression. R- B. CCXII. TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRAY. [Mrs. Graham, of Fintray, felt both as a lady and a Scottish one, the tender Lament of the fair and unfortu- nate 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 en- closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not ; but it has pleased me be- yond any effort of my muse for a good whil« OF llOBEKT BUKNS. 4ai: past ; on that account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the purity of my motives may be suspected. I am already deeply in- debted to Mr. Graham's goodness ; and what, in the usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- portance, Mr. G. can do me service of the ut- most importance in time to come. I was born a poor dog ; and however 1 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 siall ever make me do anything injurious to the honest fame of the former. "Whatever may be my failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may they ever be those of a generous heart, and an independent mind ! It is no fault of mine that I was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. Graham's chiefest praise that he can command influence ; 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 re- member with undiminished gratitude. R. B. CCXIII. TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRAY. [The following letter was written on the blank leaf of K new edition 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, when the hand that now writes it shall be mouldering in the dust : may it then bear witness, that I present you these volumes as a tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodness to me has been generous and noble ! May every child of yours, in the hour of need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine, that their father found in you. R. B. CCXIV. TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. (It was proposed to publish n new edition of the poema «l Michael Bruce, by subscription, and give the rrofits to his mother, a woman eighty years old, and poor and helpless, and Burns was asked for a poem to give a new impulse to the publication.] Elluland, 1791. Reverend 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 poetic flest is heir to ? You shall have your 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 prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the sub- scription bills, may bear, that the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that 1 clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remark • able generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings (anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appellation), that by way of some balance, however trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power to a fellow- creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista of retrospection. R. B. ccxv. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Francis Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlop, to whom fnis letter refers, died at t.l« age of fourteen - he was a fine and a promising youth.] miisland, llth April, 1791. I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and particu- larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, that my evil genius had in store for me. How- ever, life is chequered— joy and sorrow — for on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, but not 80 handsome as your godson was at his time of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake tc be my chef cToeuvre in that species of manufao ture, as I look on Tam o' Shanter to be mj standard performance in the poetical bne. 'Tia lob GENEKAL COKRESPONDENCE true, both the one and the other discover a spice of roguish 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 ; unaffected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature's mother- wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a simplicity of soul, un- suspicious of, because unacquainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenu- ous world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a gener- ous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing with a more than equal return; these, with a healthy frame, a sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life. This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me hear, by first post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. May almighty goodness preserve and restore ^i^ I R. B. CCXVI. TO [That his works found their way to the newspa;ors. Bed have occasioned no surprise : the poet gave copies of hiB favourite pieces freely to his fnends, as soon u they were written : who, in their turn, spread their fani« among their acquaintances.] Ellisland, 1791. Dear Sib, , I AM exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the mosl indolent of all human beings ; and when I ma- triculate in the herald's office, I intend that my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a slow- worm, and the motto, " Deil tak the fore- most." So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for your kind execution of my commission. I would iave 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. TO . [This singular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed to a critic, who had taken him to task about obscure lan- guage, and imperfect grammar.] Ellisland, 1791. 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 : thou marriage-maker between vowels and con- sonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice : thou cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory : thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets of absurdity: thou butcher, imbruing thy hands in the bowels of orthography: thou arch- heretic in pronunciation: thou pitch-pipe of affected emphasis : thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints of jarring sentences: thou squeaking dissonance of cadence : thou pimp of gender : thou Lion Herald to silly etymology : thou antipode of grammar: thou executioner of construction : thou brood of the speech-distract- iug builders of the Tower of Babel ; thou lingual confusion worse confounded : thou scape-gallows from the land of syntax : thou scavenger of mood and tense : thou murderous accoucheur of infant learning; thou ignis fatuus, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance : thou pickle- herring in the puppet-show of nonsense : thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom : thou OF ROBERT BURNS. 43"? persecutor of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach »f Nox and Erebus. R. B. CCXVIII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. [To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, ad- Jressed several letters, which on liis death were put into the fire by his widow, because of their license of lan- guage.] 11th June, 1791. Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, prin- cipal schoolmaster there, and is at present suf- fering severely under the persecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is accused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of science, in a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a cud- gel : a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator. The patrons of Moffat-school are, the minis- ters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- burgh, and as the business comes now before them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every- thing in his power to serve the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and council, but particularly you have.much to say with a reverend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to pro- duce. I need not name the historian of Charles V. I tell him through the medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentle- man who will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and Bay it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. God help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and tco often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, received by their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating advice. 0! 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 I Every man has his virtues, and no man is with- out his failings; and curse ;n 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 inge- nuous 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 inde- pendent that I may sin, but I want to be inde pendent 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. TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. [Lord Buchan printed this letter in his Essay on the Life of Thomson, in 1792. His lordship invited Burns tc leave his corn unreaped, walk from Ellisland to Dryburgh, and help him to crown Thomson's bust with bayi, on Ed- nam Hill, on the 22d of September.] Ellisland, August 29tk, 1791. My Lord, Lanquagb 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 4a« GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE every obstacle, and determined 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 th« 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 three 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 liow unequal I am to the task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to be. &c., R. B. CCXX. TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. [Thomas Sloanwas a vilest of Scotland man, and seems, though not much in correspondence, to have been on inti- naate terms with Burns.] Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. My dear Sloan, Suspense 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 sorry for it, but cannot help it. You blanEie 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 hurried 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 your present situation. You know my favourite quo- tation from Young — On reason build Resolve ! Tha column of true majesty in man \ and that other favourite one from Thomson'! Alfred— " What proves the hero truly gbeat, Is never, never to despair." Or shall I quote you an author of your ac quaintance ? " Whether doing, suffering, tf FORBHAamo, 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 tkis day se'ennight, and sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 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 battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending them, that they could not stand, You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene; as I was no farther over than you used to see me. Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks. Farewell ; and God bless you, my dear friend ! R. B. CCXXI. TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. [The poem enclosed was the Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn : it id probable that the Earl's sister liked the verses, for ihey v.-ere printed soon afterwards.] My Lady, I WOULD; as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- ing you anything 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 w tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to make that the first piece I should do myself the 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 peru- sal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your lady- ship's feet. As all the world knows mv obliga- tions to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to shew as openly that my heart glows, and will ever glow, with the most grateful sense and re- membrance of his lordship's goodness. Th« OF ROBERT BURNS. 'V6^ sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lordship's memory, were not the " mockery of woe " Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! — if among my children I shall have a son that h:«3 a heart, he shall hand it down to his child as a family honour, and a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of Glencairn ! , I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to see the light, I would, in some way or other, give it to the world. R. B. CCXXII. TO MR. AINSLIE. [It has been said that the poet loved to aggravate his fol- lies to his friends: but that this tone of aggravation was often ironical, this letter, as well as others, might be cited.] Ellislana, 1791. My dear Ainslie, 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 ranked 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 begun Elibanks &Ad Elibraes, but the stanzas fell unenjoyed, and t/afinished 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 — I begin to breathe a little, since I began to write to you. How are you, and what are you doing ? How goes Law ? Apropos, for connexion's sake, do not address to me suporvisor, for that is an honour I cannot 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 pre- sent, I am a simple ganger, tho' t'other day I got an appointment to an excise division of 25i. per annum better than the rest. My present inccme, down money, is 70/. per annum. I have one or two good fellows here who a. you would be glad to know. R. B. CCXXIII. TO COL. FULL ART ON. OF FULLABTON. [This letter was first published in the Edinbargn Chrcnicle.] Ellisland, 1791. Sir, I HAVE just this minute got the frank, and next minute must send it to post, else I purposed to have sent you two or three other bagatelles, that might have amused a vacant hour about as well as " Six excellent new songs," or, the Aberdeen * Prognostication for the year to come.' I shall probably trouble you soon with another packet. About the gloomy month of November, when * the people of England hang and drown themselves,' anything generally is better than one's own thought. Fond as I may be of my own productions, it is not for their sake that I am so anxious to send you them. I am ambitious, covetously ambitious of being known to a gentleman whom I am proud to call my countryman; a gentle- man who was a foreign ambassador as soon as he was a man, and a leader of armies as soon as he was a soldier, and that with an eclat un- known to the usual minions of a court, men who, with all the adventitious advantages of princely connexions and princely fortune, raust yet, like the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime before they reach the wished height, there to roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the re* maining 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 remembered t« him. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your highly obliged, and most devoted Humble servant, R. B 440 GENEKAL COKKESPONDENCE ccxxiv. TO MISS DAVIES. [This accomplished lady was the youngast daughter jf Dr. Davies, of Tenby, in Pembrokeshire : she wi'sie- lated to tlie Riddels of Friar's Carse, and o ae of her sis- tsrs ni;irried Captain Adam Gordon, of the noble family of Ker,mure, 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 under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners; I mean a torpitude of the moral powers, that may 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 wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter, in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam, could have made me so long neglect your obliging commands. Indeed I had one apology — the bagatelle was not worth present- ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies's fate and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its chances and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly ballad is downright mockery of these ardent feel- ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between our wishes 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 have said — "Go, be happy! I know that your hearts have been wounded by the Bcorn 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 little- ness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your indignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt; and largely impart that happiness to others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful revery, 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 I — Out upon the world, say I, that its afi'airs are adminiS" tered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good Hea- ven! 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 insignificance, 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 delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which we can place lovely Woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude, capricious distinc- tions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of life : let there be slight degrees of precedency among them — but let them be all sacred. — Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an original compo- nent feature of my mind. R. B. CCXXV. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [Burns, says Cromek, acknowledged that a refined and accomplished woman w^as a being all but new to hifll till he went to Edinburgli, and received letters froniMra. Dunlop.] Ellisland, llth December, 1791 Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good news respecting 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 everything but his abridged existence. I have just finished the following song, which to a lady the descendant of Wallace — and manv heroes of his true illustrious line — and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neithei preface nor apology. OF ROBERT BURNS. 441 «' Scene — a field of battle — time of the day, evening ; the icounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed V /oin in the following BONO OF DEATH. Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and yc skies Now gay with the bright setting sun ; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties — Our race of existence is run ! The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- going verses was, looking over with a musical friend M'Donald's collection of Highland airs, I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled " Oran and 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 tran- scribe for you. A Dieuje vous commende. R. B. CCXXVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP. [That the poet spoke mildly concerning the rebuke which he received from the Excise, on what he calls his political delinquencies, his letter to Erskine of Mar suffi- ciently proves.] 5th January, 1792. You see my hurried life. Madam : I can only command starts of time ; however, I am glad of one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, 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 Inst sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swear- ing in this. Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- ficious think what mischief they do by their ma- licious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, ge- nerosity, kindness, — in all the charities and all the virtues, between one class of human beings and another ! For instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitalle hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts — their uncontaminated dignified minds — their infc rmed and polished understandings — what a contrast, when comparvjd — if such comparing were not downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- creant 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. 1 had two worthy fellows dining with me the other day, when I, with great formality, pro- duced my whigmeeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a family-piece among the de- scendants of William Wallace. 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 season of wishing. My God bless you, my dear friend, and bless me, the humblest and sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many re- turns of the season ! May all good things at- tend you and yours wherever they are scattered over the earth ! B.B ccxxvn. TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER. [When Burns sends his warmest wishes to Smellie, niL prays that fortune may never place his subsistence a1 th« mercy of a knave, or set his character on the judgment of a fool, he had his political enemies probably in hii mind.] Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce aycung lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care no more for the herd of animals called young la- dies, than you do for the herd of animals called [ young gentlemen. To you — who despise and j detest the groupings and combinations of fashion, 442 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE RS an idiot painter that seems industrious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the foreground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter to town with her, and send it to you, is a character that, even in your own way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary to the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the com- mon run of the lady-poetesses of the day. She is a great admirer of your book ; and, hearing me say that I was acquainted with you, she Jjegged to be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was, to desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, Craig- darroch, to have you at his house while she was there ; and lest you might think of a lively West Indian girl, of eighteen, as girls of eigh- teen too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. To be im- partial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing : a failing which you will easily discover, as she seems rather pleased with indulging in it; and a fail- ing that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it, than where she esteems and respects. I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of the season, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that Fortune may never throw your subsistence 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 Bhall say, here lies a man who did honour to human nature. R. B. CCXXVIII. TO MR. W. NICOL. [This ironical letter was in answer to one from Nicol, •;initxining counsel and reproof.] 20