Full text of "The Works of Robert Burns: With an Account of His Life, and Criticism on His Writings"

See other formats

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http: //books .google .com/I

i^^r

-5"

AraiaPatouriBtBiJtr

^^^^■_

•^

y^a

■4

ISxAXA"^

ys'

^.4*

* ■ l."

THE SEW YORK

►UBLIC UBRAR'

«MMNFeUNO*TWNS,

•jiD-jjiE'^'i' -3':rjws.

TOE NEW YORK

,OBUC UBRARtj

"jiD-iJiEia'T 3-caffirs.

■
I

4
I

T^urx)^

.•i *-f.-

, I

' '.

THE NEW YORK

>OBLIC UBRART

yl MM FOUW0»TWW

<^:

I J

•r J 'I J5

I THE KEW YORK

PUBUC UBRARY

687

AST9R, LENOX AhO
TILD&N FOUNDATIOM

• • •

• ••

•• ••

•"• •

• _•

t •

*• ••••

• * • »

• ••• *

• • •
• • • - - -

T .?

•••

. •
»• • •

• • • • •

• • •

. « • '

M<C)(&BA]PltII?AlL ^SSM^<UM

TIffi AUTHOR.

RoBBET BoENM W9M hoTti OR the 29th day of
Janu&ry, 1759, in a mnall houM about two
nules from the town of Ajr in Scotland. The
fiiimlj name, which the poet modernized into
Bumt^ was originally BumtM or Bumtss. His
lather, AVilliam, appears to have been early
mured to poverty and hardships, which he
bore with pioos rosignatioii, and endeaYoored
to aHeffiate by industry and econom?. AAor
varioos attempts to gam a livehhood, he took
a lease of seven acres of land, with a view of
oommeociDg nursonrman and pabKo nrdener ;
and having Doilt a house apon it wiui his own
hands (an instance of patient ingenuity by no
means uncommon among his countrymen in
humble life,) he married^ December 1757,
Agnes Brown.* The first fhiit of his marriage
was Robert, the subject of the present sketdi.

In hie sixth year.*> Robert was sent to a
echool, where he maae considerable proficiency
m reading and writimr, and where he die-
covered an indJaatioiirar books not very com-
mon at so early an age. About the age of
t hirt ee n or fourteen, he was sent to the parish
•ehool of Dalrymple, where he increased his
ae(|uaintance with English Grammar, and
gamed sonw knowledge of the French. Latin
was also recommended to him ; but he did not
make any great progress in it.

The flu* greater part of his time, however,
was employed on nis fatfaer^s fkrm, which, in
spte of^nrach industry, became so unproduc-
tive as to involve the fiunily in great distress.
His fkther havfaig taken another farm, the
speculation was yet more fatal, and involved
his afikirs in comnlete ruin. He died, Feb. 13,
1784, leaving b«iiid him the character of a
good and wise man, and an affectionate father,
who,* under oH me miafbrtnnes, struggled to
proeure hm children an excellent education;
and endeavoured, both by precept and example
to fom their minds to religion and virtue.

^ TMs ensflent womaa ft sdB Hving tat the faaiUy
ofhvMi OUbsrt. (1Isj,18I3l)

It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth
year of his aire, that Robert first ** committed
the sin of rhyme." Having formed a boyish
aflfrction for a fumale who wais his companion
in the toils of the field, ho composed a scmg,
which, however extraordinary fh>m one at his
age, and in his circumstances, is ftr inferior
to any of his subsequent perforraanoee. Ha
was at this time ^ an ungainly, awkwiid
boy," unacquainted with the world, but who
occasionally had picked up some notions of
history, literature, and criticism, from the few
books within his reach. These he informs na,
were Salmon^s and GuUirie^s Geomphical
Grammars, the Spectator, Fope*s Wonks, some
plajrs of Shakspeare, Tull and DicJuon on
Agriculture, the Pantheon, Lockers Essay on
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse^sHie*
tory of the Bible, Justice^ British Gardene^*s
Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's
Worke,- Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Ori-
ginal Sin, a select Collection of F-ngliaii
Songs, and Hervcy> Meditations. Of this
motley assemblage, it may readily be sup-
posed, that some would be studied, and some
read superficially. There is reason to thii^k ,
however, that he perused the worlB of the
poets with such attention as, assisted by his na-
turally vigorous capacity, soon directed his
taste, and enabled him to discriminate ten-
derness and subhmity from affectation and
bombast.

It appears that from the seventeenth to the
twenty-fourth year of Robertas age, he mado
no considerable literary improvement. His ac-
cesuons of knowledge, or opportunities of
reading, could not be frequent, but no exter-
nal circumstances could prevent the innate
pcculiarites of his cliaracter from displaying
themselves. He was distinguished by a vigor-
ous understanding, and an untaineable spirit.
His resentments were quick, and, although
not durable, expressed with a volubility of
indignation wliicii could not but silence and
overwlielm his humble and illiterate asso-
ciates; while the occasional efiusioiis of his
muse on temporary subjects, which were hand-

ed about in iiiainiRcript, raisrd him tn a local
Kiipcrinrity that i»eenicd the eaniwt of a m«»rc
ext#>iided fnnip. Hii* fiivt inotivf! to contjxvn:
YffniCK, as lias bcnn already noticed, wav Iuh
early and warm attachment to tliu fair sex.
H if favourites were in tlin huniMost walka of
life; hut durinir hifl pansion, ho elevated them
to Jiimras and SaculiariBsafl. His attacli-
mentp, Imwevcr, were of the purvr kind, and
hif conxtant thcnio tiic happinosfi of the mar-
ried state ; to obtain a Kuitablo pro\iinon for
wliich, ho cn^Ni;:cd in par(ncn<hip witli a ilax-
drcmcrjiopinjr, probably, to attam by dr^jrrceii
the rank of a manufacturer. ISut this 8}x;cu-
lation was attended witli very little succ4»a,
and was finally ended by an accidental fire.

On his farhcr*H death he tr>ok a farm in con-
junction with his brother, with the honourable
view of pr<ividintr for their largo and orphan
family. But here, too, he wan doomed to be
imforiunate, althoiijrh. in his brother Gill»ert,
he had a coadjutor uf excellent sense, a man
of uncoianion puwerK both of tlioufj^ht and gx-
preMuon.

During his residence on this fann ho formed
a connexion witJi a younir woman, the con-
spqiieures of whicli <:ould not bo loii'r con-
cealed. In Uiis dilemma, the imprud(>nt couple
B^rrccd to make a Ic^al acknowliMlj^ment
of :i private marrlap^e, and projected that she
Fhould remain witli her father, while he was
to ^ to Jamaica *^ to pusli his fortune."* Tiiis
procce<lin(^, Ituwuvor romantic it may appear,
would have rescued tho lndy''s cliaracttT, ac-
cording to the laws of {Scotland, but it did not
Kiliiify her fatiier, who insisted un havinc^ all
tlie written d^^cuments rosimciing tlic marriage
cancelled, and by tliis unfeelin^r measure, no
intonded that it should Im) rendered void. Ui-
vmred now irom all he held dear in tlie world,
ho had no resource but in his projected voyage
to JamaIcA, wldch was prevented by one of
thon cimumstances tliat in coimnon c^ses,
might pass without ob8cr>'ation, but which
eventually laid tlie foundation of his future
iVmn. For once, his norcr/y Ktood his friend.
Had ho been provided with money to pay for
his |ias»(a<re to JanKiicu, ho mi^i^ht have siit sail,
and been forgotten. But he was destitute of
•very necessury for tlie voyage, and was there-
fore advi>cd to raise a sum of money by jmb-
lishing his poems in tho way of sulwcription.
Tln^y were aocordin^ly printed at Kilmarnock,
in tfie year l7bG, in a small volume, wliicli
was encouraged by subucriptions for about 3o0
copies.

It is hardly posuble to express witli what
ea^jer admiration these poems were every
where mceived. Old and young, hiirh and
low, learned and igaorant, all were alike de-
lighted. iSuch trans|K>rt8 would naturally find
their way into the liosom <d* the author,
e^'|M>cialIy when he found that, instead of the
necessity of flying from his native land, he

BIOGRAPHICAL vSKETCH

wns now rnrourapcd to ro to Kdinburgh
anrl su|K!rintend the publication of a second
edition.

In tho metropolis, he was soon introduced
into the company and received tlie homage of
men of literature, rank, and taste ; and his ap-
pearance and l)ohaviour at tliis time, as tlicy
exceeded all ex{iectation, heightened and kept
un tlie curiosity wluch his works had excited,
lie liccame the object of universal admiration
and was feasted, and Hattered, as if it had bet;n
impossiblo to reward his merit too highly.
Rut what contributed principally to extend
his fame into the sister kingdom, was his
fortunate introduction to Mr. Mackenzie, who,
in tlie 97th pai>cr of the Ijounger, recommend-
ed his ]>oeins hy judii^ious specimens, and
trenerons and elegant criticism. Fn)m this
time, whether present or abs«;nt, Uunis and
his genius went tlie objects which engrossed
ail attention and all converbation.

It cannot be snr]>risiug if tliis new scene of
life, produced ctTects on Bums which were
tho source of much of tlie unha])pinoss of his
future life: for wliile ho was admitted into
tlie company of men of taste, and virtue, he
was also stMluced, by pressing invitations into
tlic society of those whose habits arot<»o soi-ial
and incy^insiderate. It is to be rcgrettiMl that ho
had little resolution to witlistand thrnic atten-
tions which ilattored his merit, and apj)carcd
to bo tlie just respect due to a degree of KUjie-
riority, of which ho could not avoid Iwinff con
scious. Among his suiH*riors in rank and
merit, his behaviour was in general dtycurous
and unassuming; but amonf; his more ei^ual
or inferior assmtiates, he Wiis iiimseir the source
of the mirth of the evening, and repaid Uie. at-
tention and submission of his hearers by sal-
lies of wit, which, from one of Iiis birtii and
education, had all tho fascination of wonder.
His introduction, about the same time, into
certain convivial clubs of higher rank, was an
injudicious marie of respect to one who was
destined to return to the plough, and to tho
simple and frugal enjoyments of a pcabajit*8
life.

During his residence at Edinburgh, his
finances were considerably improved hy the
new edition of his poems ; and this enabled
him to visit several other parts of his native
country. Ho left Kdinburgh, May G, 1787,
and in tho course of liis journey was hospitably
received at the houses of many genlleinon of
worth and learning. He afterwards travelled
into England as fax as Carlisle. In tlio be-
ginning of .Inne he arrived in Ayrshire, after
an absence of six months, during which ho had
experienced a dianj^e of fortune, to which the
hopes of few men m liLs situation could liave
:u<pired. His C(»ni]>aiuon in some of these
tours was a Mr. Nic^d, a man who was en-
deared to Burns not only by the wanntli of
his frieudslup, but by a certain cuugoiiiali^ of

OF THE iMrTHOR.

■ratiment and agreement in habits. This syoi-
pathy, in some otlier instances, made our po-
et capriciously fond of companions, who, in
the eyt* of men of more regular conduct, wcro
insu&rable.

During tlie greater part of the winter 1787-8,
Bums again resided m Edinburgh, and enter-
ed with peculiar rplish into its gaycties. iiut
ail the smgularitiofl of his manner displayed
thenuwives more o|ii*nly, and as tlic novelty of
his appearance wore oft*, tie became less an ob-
ject of general attention, lie lingered long
lu tiiis place, in hopus that somt; situation
would liave been ofiered whicli might place
him in indepondonce : but as it did iiut seeui
protable that any thing of that kind would
oci;ursoon, Iw* h«*gan seriously to rrlloct tliat
tours of pleasure and praiso would not pro-
vide fur tiie wants of a family. Intlueneed by
the8«' considerations ho quitted Edinburgh in
the month of l^ebniaiy, 1788. I'inding him-
self master of nearly 500/. from the sale of liis
poems, he took tiic fann of Eiiisland, near
Diunfries, and stocked it with {lart of this mo-
ney, besides generously advancing 200/. to
his brother GilU^rt, who was struggling witii
DitRculties. lie was now also legally united
tf > Mm. Bhms, wlio joined him witli their chil-
dren about the end of this year.

Quitting now speculations for more active
puntuits, M rebuilt tiie dwelling-house on his
farm ; and during his engagement in tliis ob-
ject, and while the regulations of tlie farm had
Uie charm of novelty, he paBs«^d his time in
more tranquiilitv Uian he had lately oxperi-
enctnl. Kut unfortunately, his old luiiiits were
rather niternipted than broken. He was again
invited into so<'ial parties, witJi the additional
nH'oiiirnrndation of a man who had seen the
W4.rld. and lived with tlie great; and again
partook of thoise irregulnritiec for which men of
vrarni inia<rinalionH. and conversation-talents,
5iid t<io many apologies. But a cimimstancc
now orrurri'fl whirh threw many obstacles ui
his way as a fanner.

Bums Teiy fondly cherished those nolinns
of independence, which are dear to the young
and ingenuous. But he had not mat ured thest*
by refaction ; and he was now to loam, that
a' little knowlorlge of the world will ovi»'tuni
many audi airy fabrics. If we may form any
iudgincnt, however, from his corriispondcn^'c,
nis ozpectationa were not very extravagant^
since he expected only tJiat some of his illus-
trious patrons woula have placed liim, on
wliom they bestowed tlie honours of genius, in
a situation where his exertions might have
been uninterrupted by the fatigues of labour,
and the calls of want. Disappointed in tliis,
he now formml a design (^/npplyiiig for the
office of exciseman, as a kind c»f rei(4>iirce in
case his ex|H«ctutions from the farm sliouhl lie
baffled. By tlie inl(!n*st of one nf his i rim ids
tliis uliject was actouiplislird ; uiid uOi r tlii>

usual forms were gone tlirough, he was ap-
pointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called,
gaugtr of the di»lrict in which he lived.

M Hifl farm was now abandoned tr» his ser-
Tants, while ho lietook liimsclf to tlie duties
of his new appointment. lie might stilJ, in-
deed, be seen in the spring, directing his
plough, a labour in which he excelled, or stri-
ding with measured steps, along his turned-up
furrows, and scattering tlic grain in tlie cartli.
But his farm no loii^-r occuiiied the jirint'i]>al
part of his care or his tlioughts. Mounted on
horseback, he was found pursuing the dotiiul-
ters of the revenue, among tlic hills and vales
of NiUisdale."

About this time f 1792,) ho was solicited, to
give liis aid to Mr. 'i'lionuon's Collection of
fc>cottish Songs. He wrote, with attention and
without delay, for this work, all the songs
which apfiear in this volume ; to which we
have added those he contributed to Joluison s
Musical Museum.

Bums also found leisure to form a society
for purchasing and circulating book.s aiiiung
the fanners of tlie neighbourhood ; but thcM.*,
however pniise worthy employments, ^tilI in-
terrupted the attenlioii he ought to have bi--
stowed on his fann, which became so unjtro-
ductivo tJiat he found it convenient to nxit^n
it, and, disposing of his stock and crop, n:-
moved to a sniair house which he had taken
in Dumfries, a short tunc previous to his lyr.c
engagement with Mr. 'i'lioniKoii. lie had now
received from the lk>ard of Excise, an ap)ioiui-
nient to a new district, the einolunieiits of
which amounted to aboutscvcnty poiunUfci'-r-
luig ptr annum.

While at Dunifrii's, his toit)}ilalioiiK to ir-

rcgnlarrry, rtH-'urred so rrc'iUfaillv as m-arly lo
overpowitr his rrKotntions, and whii.-}i hf n\f
jiears to have fonncd with a perfect knowledge
of what is right and prudent. During his
nuiet moments, however, he was enlarging his
fame by those adniiraiile compositions he sent
to Mr. 'riioinson : and his tcmjKirary sallies
and tlnslics of ima^iiiatioiu in llie nierrinient ot'
the social table, etdi liespoko a genius of won-
derful isLrength and cuptivaiions. it has been
saui, indeed, that, extraordinary as his pm hu
are, tiu-y afford but iiiudiMpiale iiroof of thu
IHiwcrs of tlioir author, or of that acutcness
of observation, and expression, ho displayed
on ronniKiii topics in runvi'Kation. In tJieNO-
cicty of ]M'r8ons of la^te, he could rcfriiin troin
those indulgences, which, among his nutre i%>n-
stant coinjHinions, probably formed his chief
rccommeiidution.

The emolumriits ol* his oHlce, which now
comjiosed his wlioli! foriinir, mmui a|'pi'uri-d
insuiricirnt for tiic iii.'iintciiaiire (•!' Ins iliinilv-
lli* did not, iiidi:(d. tioui tin- i\v..\, i'.xjm>«.! ihlit
(lii-y couUl : lint ht> ImJ ho)M«:> of' iiroiii.iiiuii

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

9nd would probably have atUuned it, if he
had not forfoitod the favour of the Board of
lIzciM, bv some conversations on the state of
public a&irs, which were deemed highly im-
nvper, and were probably reported to the
Board in a waj not calculated to lessen their
.effect That ne should have been deceived by
tha affidrs in France during the early periods
of the revolution, is not surprising ; ho only
caught a portion of an enthusiasm which was
then very general; but that ho should have
ndwd his imagination to a warmth beyond
hk ieUowB, wifl appear verv singular, when
we consider that he had hitnerto distinguish-
ed hfanself as a Jacobite, an adherent to the
house of Stewart Yet he had uttered opi-
nions which wora thought dangerous ; and m-
formation being given to the Board, an in-
quiry was instituted into his conduct, the re-
•nlt of which, although rather favourable, was
not so much as to re-instate him in the good
ojMnion of the commissionen. Interest was
necessary to enable him to retain his office ;
and he was informed that his promotion was
deferred, and must depend on his future be-
haiioor.

He is said to have defended himself on this
.pccasion, in a letter addressed to one of the
^oard, with much epirit and skill. He wrote
another letter to a gentleman, who, hearing
that he had been dismissed from his situation,
proposed a subscription for him. In this last,
tie gives an account of the whole transaction,
and endeavours to vindicate his loyalty ; he
also contends for an independence of spirit,
which he certainly possessed, but which yet
appears to have partaken of that extravagance
of sentiment which are fitter to point a stanza
than to conduct a life.

A passage in this letter is too characteristic
to be omitted. — ^ Often," says our poet, " in
blasting anticipation have I listened to some
(Uturehaokney scribbler, with hoavjr mahce
of savage stupidity, exultingly assorting that
Bums, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of in-
dependence to bo found in his works, and
alter having been held up to public view, and
Co public estimation, as a man of 8ome trcnius,
yet quite destitute of resources within himself
to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled in-
to a paltry exciseman ; and slunk out the rest
of his insignificant existence, in the meanest
of pursuits, and among the lowest of man-

This passage has no doubt of\en been read
with Bvmpathy. That Burns should have om-
IffaoBd the only opportunity in his power to
provide for his family, can lie no topic of
censure ot ridiculo, and however incompatible
with the cultivation of genius the business of
an exciseman may be, there is nothing of mo-
ral turpitude or dittgroco attached tn it. It
fvas not his choice, it was the only help witliin

his roach : and he laid hold of it But that 1m
should not have found a patron generous or
wise enough to place him in a situation at
least free nom allurements to *^ the sin that
so easily beset him ;^ is a circumstance on
which tne admirers of Bums have found It
painful to dwell.

Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the
Lounger, after mentioning the poet's design
of going to the West Indies, concludes that
paper in words to which sufficient attention
appears not to have been paid : ^ I trust
means may be found to prevent this resolu-
tion firom taking place ; and that I do my
country no more than justice, when I suppose
her ready to stretch out the hand to cherish
and retain this native poet, whose ^ wood
notes wild*' possess so much excellence. To
repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected
merit ; to call forth genius from the obecurity
in which it had pined indignant, and plate ii
where ii maypuffU or delight the %cinid : — theao
are exertiona which give to wealth an enviable
superiority, to greatness and to patronage a
laudable pride.''

Although Bums deprecated the reflections
which might be made on his occupation of
exciseman, it may be necessary to add, that
from this humble stop, he foresaw all the con-
tingencies and gradations of promotion up to
a rank on which it is not usual to look with
contempt In a letter dated 1794, he states
that he is on the list of supervisors ; that in
two or throe years he should be at the head
of that list, and be appointed, as a matter of
course ; but that then a friend might be of
service in getting him into a part of the king-
dom which he would like. A supervisor's in-
come varies from about 1202. to IaXU. a year :
but the business is ^ an incessant drudgery,
and would bo nearly a complete bar to every
species of literary pursuits" He proooede,
however, to observe, that the moment he is
appointed supervisor he might be nominated
on the Collector's list ^ and this is always a
business purely of political patronage. A col-
lectorship vanes from much better than two
hundred a year to near a thousand. Colle&-
tors also come forward by precedency on the
list, and have besides a handsome income, a
life of complete leisure. A life of literary lei-
sure witli a decent competence, is the summit
of my wishes."

He was doomed, however, to oontlnoA in
his present employment for the remainder of
his days, which were not many. His consti-
tution was now rapidly decaying; yet, his
resolutions of amendment were out fiwblo.
His temper became irritable and gloomy, and
he was even insensible to the kind forgiveness
and soothing attentions of his affectionate wife.
In the montli of June, 1796, he removed to
Brow, about ten miles fVom Dumfries, to tnr

OP THE AUTHOR.

tlw eflSKt of tM-bathing; a remedy that at
fint, he imagined, relieved the iheamaticpaiiui
in his Iiinbe, with which ho had been afliictod
for flome moothfl : bat this waa immediately
foQowed by a new attack of fever. When
brought back to hii hooae at Dumfries, on the
18th of July, he was no longer able to stand
opngiht. T^ fever increased, attended with
delinam and debility, and on the 2l8t he
expired, in the thirty-eighth year of his age.

He left a widow and four sons, for whom
the mhabitants of Dmnfries opened a sub-
ecriptioiii which bein£^ extended to England,
intMooed a considen3>le sum for their unme-
diate necessities.* This has since been aug-
mented by the profits of the edition of his
wocks, printed m four vohmiee, 8vo.; to

*]Cn. Bans eootfaiaes to Uvt In Um borne In which
thePoMdied: UMeld«tKm,Bob«rt,testpreMntintbe
BtumpOOcB: the other two are oOeen In the East In-
dia Oonpam^*! anny, Williain Is f n Benfal, and James
la Ifsdiai, (Mayi 1813.) Wallace, the leeood eon, a lad
of gRstpraoiBe died or a ooQsampcioo.

which Dr. Currie, of Liverpool, prefixed a life,
written with much elegance and taste.

As to the person of our poet, he is described
as being nearly five feet ten inches in height,
and of a form that indicated agility as w^ as
strength. Ilis well-raised forehead, diaded
with olack curling hair, expressed uncommon
capad^. His eyes wore laige, dark, fiall of
ardour and animation. His face was wdl
formed, and his countenance uncommonly in-
teresting. His conversation is universally
allowed to have been uncommonly fascinating,
and rich in wit, humour, whim, and ooca-
rionally in serious and apposite reflection.
This excellence, however, proved a lasting
misfortune to him : for wliile it procured him
the friendship of men of character and taste, in
whose company his humour was guarded and
diasle, it had also allurements for the lowest
of maxikind, who know no difference between
freedom and ticentiousness, and are never so
completely ^tified as when goiius conde-
scends to gvre a kind of sanction to their
crossness. He died poor, but not in debt, and
fell behind him a name, the fame of which
will not soon be eclipsed.

THE DEATH OF BURNS.

BT MR. ROSCOE.

Ream \uA thy bleak, majeftic hills.

Thy ■nelterd vaUoys proudly spread,
And, Scotia, poor thy thousand nils,

And waye thy hea^ witli blossoms red ;
But, ah ! what poet now shall tread

Thy aixY heights, thy woodland reign.
Since he the sweetest bard is dead

That eyer breath'd the soothing strain '

As green thy towering pines may grow.

As clear thy streams may speed along ;
As brieht thy summer suns may flow.

Ana wake again thy feathery Uirong ;
But now, unheeded is the song,

And dull and hieleas all around.
For his wild haip lies all unstrung.

And cold the hand that wakM its sound.

What tho* thy yigorous offspring rise

In arts and arms thy sons excel ;
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes.

And health in eyery raatnre dwell;
Tet who shall now their praises teU,

In strains impassioned, Amd, and fVee,
Since he no more the song shall swell

To loye, and liborty, and thee !

\Vitli step-dame eye and frown seyere

His hapless youth why didst thou yiew?
For all thy joys to him wore dear.

And all hu yows to thee were duo :
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew.

In opening youth's delightfbl prime.
Than when thy fayouiing ear he drew

To ILrten to nu chantcS rhyme.

T%y lonely wastes and frowning skies

To him were all with rapture fVaught;
He heard with joy the tempests rise

Tbat wakM nim to snUimer thought;
And oft thy winding dells he sought

Where wild flowers pour'd their rath perfUme,
And with sincere deyotion brought

To thee the summer's earliest bloom.

But, ah ! no fond maternal smile

His unprotected youtli enjoy *d;
His limbs inur'd to early toil.

His days with early hardsliips tried t
And mora to mark the gloomy void.

And bid him foel his misery,
Before his infkut eyes would glide

Day-dreams of immortality.

Tet, not by cold neglect depressed,

With sinewy arm he turned tlie soil,
Sunk with the eyenin|r gun to rest.

And met at mom his earliest smile.
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile

The powers of fancy came along.
And soothed his IcngtnenM hour of toil

With native wit and sprightly song.

— Ah ! dajTS of bliss, too swifUy fled.

When yigorous health from labour springs,
And bland contentment smooths the bed.

And sleep his ready opiate brings ;
And hovering round on airy wings

Float the light forms of young desire,
Tliat of unutterable things

The sofl and shadowy nope inspire.

Now spells of mightier power prepare,

Bid brighter phantoms round mm dance :
Let flatted spread her viewless snare.

And fame attract his vagrant glance :
Let sprightly pleasure too advisee, ^ '

UnveilM ner eyes, unclasp'd her zone.
Till lost in lovers delirious trance

He scorns the joys his youth has known.

Let friendship pour her brightest Uazc,

Expanding all the bloom of scnil ;
And mirth concentre all her rays.

And point them from the sparkling bowl ;
And let the careless moments roU

In social pleasures unconfin*d.
And confidence that spurns control.

Unlock tho inmost springs of mind.

A 'i

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.

And lead his tteps those bowers among,

Where elegranco with splendour vies,
Or scieDce bids her lavourM throng

To more refin'd sensations rise ;
Beyond the peasants humbler joys,

And freed from each laborious strife.
There let him learn the bliss to prize

That waits the sons of polish'd life.

Then whilst his throbbing Toins boat high

With every impulse ofdolijB[ht,
Dash ftom his lips the cup ofjoy,

And du^ud the scene in shades of night ;
And let despair, with wizard light,

Disclose the yawninff gulf below,
And pour incessant on nis sight,

Uer spectred ills and sht^ioe of wo :

And show beneath a cheerless shed,
With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes.

In silent grief where droops her head,
The pvtner of his early joys ;

And let his infantas tender cries
His fond parental succour claim,

And bid him hoar in agonies
A husband and a fauer^s name.

'TIS done — the powerful charm succeeds ;

His high reluctant spirit bends ;
In bitterness of soul he bleeds,

Nor longer with his fate contends.
An idiot laugh the welkin rends

As genius thus degraded lies ;
Tillpitying Heaven the veil extends

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes.

— Rear high thy bleak, majestid hills,

Thy shdter'd valleys proudly spread^
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ;
But never more shall poet tread

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign.
Since ho the sweetest bard is dead

That ever breathM the soothing itnin.

CONTENTS.

Page

BioomAnncAL Skvtch of the Aothor, • iii

On the Death of Buna, by Mr. Roeooo, yiii
Pre&ee to the Pint Edition of Burnt'

Poems, pobliflhed at Kilroamock, . 1
Dedication of the Second Edition of
the Poems fbrmeiij printed. To the
Noblemen and Gientlemon of the

Caledonian Hunt, . . • • S

it
POEMS, CHIEFLT SCOTTISH.

The Twa Doga, a Tale, ... 3
SootchDrink, • .5
The Author's earnest Ciy and Prayer to
tho Scotch RepresentatiTes in the

House of Commons, ... 7

Postscript, 8

The Holy Fur, 9

Death and Dr. Hornbook, ... 11
The Briffs of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to

J. B*«******, Esq. Ayr, . . 13

The Ordination, 16

The Calf. To the Rer. Mr.— * 18

Address to the Deil, ... ib.
The Death and Dying Words of Poor

Mailie, 19

Poor Biailie's Elegy, . • • • 90

To J. 8****, 21

A Dream, .S3

The Visum 24

Address toihe Utioo Guid, or the Rigid-
ly Righteous, . ... 27
Tarn Samson^s Elegy, .... 28
TheEpiUph, . . . . 29
Halloween, . • . . ib.
The Auld Farmer^s New-Year Morning

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie, 33
To a Mouse, on turning her up hi her
nest with the Ploi^h, Novemberi

1785 ^

A Winter Night, .... 35
Epistle to DaTie, a Brother Poet, . 36
Tne Lament, occasioned by the unfor-
tunate issue of a Friend's Amour, • 37
Despond«Dcy, an Ode, ... 3b
Wmter, a Dirge, .... 39
The Cotter"^ Saturday Night, . ib.
Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, 42
A Prayer in the prospect of DeaUi, . 43
Stanxas on the same occasion, ib;
Verses left by the Author, in the room
where he slept, harmg lain at the
House of a Reverend rnend, . • 44
The First Psahn, ih.

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent
Anmiiflh, 44

The find six verBes of the Ninetieth
Psalm, .45

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one
down with the Plough, in April, 1786, ib.

To Ruin, ib.

To Miss L , with BeaUie^s Poems as

a New Tear's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787, . 46

Epistle to a Toung Friend, . • • ib.

On a Scotcli Bard, gone to the West
Indies, 47

ToaHag^ 48

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. ib.

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady*s
Bonnet at Church, ... 49

Address to Edinburgh, ... 50

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish
Bard, — 51

To the Same, 52

To W. S*****n, Ochiltree, May, 1785, 53

Postscript, 54

Epistle to J. R******, enclosing some
rooms, 55

John Barieycom, a Ballad, ... 56

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on
Nith-Side, 62

Ode, sacred to the memory of Mri. ,

of 63

Elegy on Capt Mattliow Henderson, . ib.

The Epitaph, 64

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra, . 65

Lament for James, Earl of Glencaim, . 66'

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord of
Whitefoord, Bart with tho foregoing
Poem, 67

Tarn O' Shantcr, a Tale, . . . ib.

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me,
which a fellow had just shot at, . 69

Address to tlie Shade of Thomson, on
crownins^ his bust at Ednam, Rox-
burghshire, with Bays, . . • ib

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, 70

On a NoiRy Polemic, . . . • ib.

On Wco Johnie, ib.

For tlie Author's Father, . . . ib.

For R. A. Esq 70

For G. H. Esq ib.

A Bu*^'s Epitaph, . . . . ib.

On the i ate Captain Grose's Peregrina-
tions through Scotland, collecting the
Antiquities of that Kingdom, . . 71

To Miss Cniikshanks, a very young
Lady. Writtenon theblankleof of a
Book, presented to her by the Author, ib.

-«

^ ■

CONTENTS.

On reading in a ffpwfipapor the Death
of John M'Leo<], Enq. itrothor to a
yountr Lady, a particular Friend of
the Author'H,

The Hun)l>le i>ctition of Bruar Water to
the Nuble Duke of Athnle,

On ocurin^r 8onio Water-Fowl in Loch-
Turit,

Written witli a Pencil over tlieCJiimncy-
nietro, in the Parlour of tlie liui at
kmiinore, Taymoath,

Written witli a Pencil, stand in/r by the
Fall of VjetK, near Looh-Ncas,

On tiio Birth of a PontliuinouH Child,
Born in peculiar CircuiUKtancoB of
Family Durtrew, ....

Thrt Whi<«lIiN a liallad, . ,

Second EpiHlIc to Davie,

Lines on an Interview with Lord
Dnor, ..,.,,

On tiie Death of a Lap-Door, named
Echo

Inscription to the MeinoTT of Forgusson,

Kpiittlu to R. Graham, EKq.

Fn^rinnnt, inscribed to the Riglit Hon.
C.J. Fox, . . . .

To Dr. Blacklock, . . . .

Prolomie, spoken at the Theatre Ellis-
land, on New-YcarVDay Evcninj^,

Ele^ry on tlie late Miss Burnet, of Mon-
boddo,

Tlie RijGrhts of Woman,

Addnmi, spoken by Miss Fontenolle,
on her Benefit Nijrlit, Doc. 4,179.5, at
the Theatre, DuinfHes. .

Verses to a young Lady, with a present
ofSonps, .....

Lilies wntten on a bhmk leaf of a copy
of his poems presented to a young
Lady, ......

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr.
William Tytler, . . . .

Caledonia, ......

Poem written to a Gentleman who had
sent him a Newspaper, and otlercdto
continue it free of expense,

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, .

Nketch — New Year's Day, .

Extempore, on tJie late Mr. William
Smellie,

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to In-
dependence,

Sonnet, on the Death of Robert Riddel,
"■*sn» *■•«..

Monody on a Lady famed for her ca-
price,

The EpiUiiJi,

An<(wor to a mandate sent by the Sur-
veyor of tJie Windows, Carriages, &c.

Iti)]»n>mptu, on Mrs. ^*8 Birth-day,

To a young Lady, Miss Jcrrv ,

Dumfries ; witii Books which tlio Bard
prosoiitod her,

Sonnet, writlfMi on the 3.5th of January,
1793, tlie Birth-flay of tlie Author, nn .

Page

72
ib.
73

ib.
74

ib.
ib.
76

79
ib.
ib.

81
ib.

ib.
83

84
95

104

117
118

119

ib.

120

121

ib.

122

ib.
123

ib.

Pag9

hearing a Thrusli sing in a morning

walk, 123

Extempore, to Mr. S**e, on refusuig to

dine with him, .... ib.

To Mr. S**o, with a present of a dozen

of porter, 124

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell, col-
lector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796, . ib.

Sent to a Gentlemanjwhom ho had of-
fended, ib.

Poem on Life, addressed to Cul. De

Peyster, Dumfries, . . . 125

Address to the Tooth-ach, . . ib.

To Rolx^rt Graham, Esq. of Fintry,on

receivuig a favour, . . . 127

Epitaph on a Friend, ... ib.

A Grace lietbro Dinner, ... ib.

On Sensibility. Addressed to Mrs.

Dunlop, of Dunlop, ... ib.

A Verse. When Deatli^s dark streak I

ferry o'er ib.

Verses written at Selkirk, . . . 196

Liberty, a Fragment, . . . 199

Elegy on tlie dcatii of RobertRuisseaux, ib.

Tho loyal Natives' Verses, . . 130

Bums — Extempore, .... ib.

To J. Lapraik, ib.

To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing
a copy of Holy Willie's Prayer,

which.he had requested, ... ib.

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Mauchline,

recommending a Boy, . . . 133

To Mr. M^Adain, of Oraigen-Gillan, . ib.

To CapU Riddel, Glenriddel, . . ib.

To Terraughty, on his Birth-day, . 133

To a Lady, with a present of a pair of

drinking-glosses, .... ib.

The Vowels, a Tale, .... ib.

Sketch, . . . . . . 134

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutlicrland's

Benefit, ib.

Extemporaneous Effusion on being ap-
pointed to tlie Excise, ... ib

On seeing tlie beautiful seat of Lord G. 1 35

On the same, ib.

On the same, . . . . ^ ib.

To the same on the Author being

tlireatenod with his resentment, . ib.

The Dean of Faculty, . . . ih.

Extempore in the Court of Session, . ib.

Verses to J. Ranken, . . 136

On hearing that there was falsehood in

the Rev. Dr. B 'i veiy looks, . ib.

On a Schoolmaflter in Cleish Parish,

Fifoshire, ib.

Elegy on the Tear 1788, a Sketch, . ib.

Venofl written under the Portrait of

FonnxsMm, the Poet, . . 137

llie Ouidwiib of Waachopo-houso to

Robert Bumi>, .... 147

Tlio Answer, 148

The Kirk's Alarm, A Satire, . 154

ThetwailordK, .... 155

RmsUo from a Taylor to RoIntI Bums, 1^6

Tlie Answer, ... . ib.

CONTENTS

ZUi

Letter to John Goudie, KUmamock, on
the publication oi* his ilanys.

Letter to J— • T 1 G\ uo r,

On the Death of Sir James Hunter
Blair,

The Jolly Bsfg^ars, a CanUta.

Page

157
ib.

158
159

SONGS.

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu !
A down windinj^ Nith 1 did wander,
Ae fond kiss and then we sever,
A^in rejoicing nature sees,
A HijFfaland lad my lore was bom,
Altho^ mv bed were in yon muir,
Aniang tlie treen where humminff bees.
An O, for ane and twenty, Taml
Ancc mair 1 hail thee, thou gloomy De-
cember! ....
Araia, thy charms my bosom fire,
A rose-bud by my early walk, .
An 1 cam in by our gate-end.
As ] stood by yon roofless tower,
As I was a-wandering ao morning in

spnn^.

Awa wi* your witchcraft o' beaoty^s
alarms, .....

Behind yon hills where Lngar flowB,
Behold Uic hour, the boat arrnre ;
Beyond thue, dearie, beyond thee,

Aeario,

Blitlie, blitlie and merry was she,
Blithe hao I been on yon hill, .
Bonnie lassie will ye go, .
Bonnie woe thing, cannie wee thing,
Jtut latuly seen in gladsome groan,
By Allan stream I chanced to rove.
By yon Gustle wa', at the close of the

day,

Ca* the yowes to the knowes,
CsnKt thou leave me thus, mv Katy ?
Claxinda, mistress of my soul,
Come, let mo take thee to my breast,
Comin thio' the rve,poor body,
CoDtentad wi' IHtle, ud oantie wi^ mair,
CuuM aught of song deoUoe my pains.

Deladads

61
93
141
60
160
146
145
113

114

107

149

117

147
105

59
93

139

107

106

112

96
100
106

92
129
100
150

94
124

Duncan Gray came here to woo,

Fair the face of orient day,
FairoHt maid on I>evon banks.
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green

earth, and ye skies,
Farewell thou stream that winding

flows,

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong.
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped.
First when Maggie was my care.
Flow gently, sweet Aflon, among thy

green braes, ....
Foriom, my love, no comfort near.
From thee, Eliza, 1 must go,

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, .
Go fetch to nic a pint o' wine, • •
Green grows tlie rashes, O ! • •

Hod I a cave on some inld, distant shore.
Here awo, tliero awa, wanderbifr Willie,
Here's a bottle and an honest friend,
Hero's a health to ane 1 lo'o dear.
Here's a health to them that's awa.
Here is the glen, and hero the bower
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing.
How can my poor heart be jkd.
How cruel are the parents,'^
How long and dreaLiy is the niffht.
How pleasant the banks of me cloar<

winding Devon,
UuslKuid^ Uusbaud, ccaaeyour strife,

I am a bard of no regard,

1 am a fiddler to my trade,

I am ason of Mars, . •

I do confess thou art so fair,

I dream'd I lay where flowers were

springing,
I ffaed a waofu' gate yestreen,
I hae a wife o' my ain,
ni ay ca' in by yon town,
111 kiss thee vet, yet, .
In ammer when the hay was mawn, .
I onoo was a maid tho' I cannot tell

when, ......

U tbcie for honest poverty.

It was upon a Lammas niflnt, . •

It was tho cliarming montn of May, •

Page
86

151
106

99
142
116
142

115

104

111

137

143

la^

146
95

147
96

102
97

78
95

Jockey's ta'ea the partinff Um,
John AwipiBn my jo, John«

162
161
159
138

137
110
78
142
143
113

159

100

126
110

XiT

CONTENTS.

Ken ye ought o* Captain Grofe? .

Lanie wi* the lint-white locks, .
Last May a braw wooer cam down the

long glen.
Let me ryke up to dight that tear.
Let not woman e^cr complain
Long, long the night, .
Loud blaw the frosty breezei,
Louis, what rock I by theo, .

Mark yonder pomp of coetly fashion, .

Musing on tlie roaring ocean,

My bonny lass, I work in brass, .

My Chloris, mark how green the groYes,

My father was a farmer upon m Car-
rick border, O, ....

My heart is a-broaking, dear Tittie,

My heart 's in the Hi^ilands, my heart
IS not hero; . . . . ' •

My heart is sair, I daro na tell, .

My lady^s gown there's gain upon% .

My Peggy V face, my Peggy's form, .

Pag9

196

Nee Gkntle damo^ tho' e'er sae fair, .
No chuit^unan mk I for to rail and to

write, ▼ ....

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green
Now in her green mantle blithe nature

arrays,

Now nature hangs her mantle green
Now roey May comes in wi' flowers
Now spring hes cloth'd tlie groves in

green, •
Now weslin winds

guns,

and flaughtoring

O ay my wife she dang me, . •
O bonme was yon rosy brier,
O cam ye here the flj^ht to shun, .
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
O gin my lovo were yon red rose,
O gnid ale comes, and guid ale goes, •
O how can I bo blithe and glad, .
Oh, open the door, some mtv to show, .
Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, .
O ken yewhaMeg o* the Mill has got-
ten •

O lassie, art thou sleepin yet ? .
O leaye novels, ye Mauchline belles, .
O lease me on my spinning wheel, •
O Logaai sweeUy didst thou glide,
O lovely Polly ^wart, . .
O luve mil venture ui, where it 4Mr na
weelbeaeen.

104
161
97
109
106
116

103

107

161

140
110

138
116
150
196

199

69
141

100
64
93

103

151
104
190
109
90
150
141

133

89
101
151
119

90
149

113

O Mary, at thy window bo,
O Bfay, thy mom was ne'er sae sweet,
O meikle tninks my luve o* mv beaaty,
O mirk, mirk is the midnight nour,
O my luve's like a red, red rose, .
On a bank of flowers, one summer's

day,

On Cessnock banks there Uvea a lass, .

One night as I did wander, .

O, once I lovM a bonnie lass,

O Philly, happy be the day,

O poortith cauld, and restless love,

O raging fortune's withering blast,

O saw ye bonnie Lesley,

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?

O stay, sweet warbling wooo-lark, stay,

O tell na me o' wind and rain,

O, this is no my ain lassie, .

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,

Oat over the Forth I look to the north,

O, wat ye wha's in yon town,

O, wore I on Parnassus' hill !

O wha is she that lo'es mo, .

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ^

O whistle, and 111 come to you, my liyd :

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maul, .

O wilt thou go wi^ me, sweet Tibbie

Dunbar, . . . .

O why the deuce should I repine.

Powers celeatial, whose protection

PagB

87
116
ill

87
117

151

143

145

86
146

97
101

ib.
103
106
143
116
109
195
139

98
110

149
163

144

Raving winds around her blowing,
Robin shure in hairst, .

107
149

Sae flaxen were hor ringiots, 96

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, . 197

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace oled, 94

See the smoking bowl before us, . 169
She's fkir and fauae that causes my

smart, . • • 115

She is a winsome wee thinff, . • 85

Should auld acquaintance oe forgot, . 93

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, • 160
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest

creature, 97

Slow spreads the gloom my soul

desires, J^

Stay my cliarmer, can you leave me? . 106

Streams that glide in orient plains, . 78

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-bum, . 101

The bairns gat out «F «B unoo shout.
The Cairine wood» ^ffftjettow seen.
The day rel

150

109

CONTENTS.

Page

The deil cam fiddlmg tho' the town, . 144

The gloomy night is gathVing &at, . 60
The heather was bloomingfthe meadows

weremawn, 144

The lazy miat hangs from the brow of

thehiU, 109

The lovely lass o' InvemeM, . . 116
The small birds rejoice in the green

leaves returning, .... 79

The smihng spring comes in rejoicing, . 115

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, . 110
The winter it is past, and the simmer

comes at last, 147

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign

lan£ reckon, 103

Theresa auld Rob Monis that wons in

yon glen, 86

There^s a youth in this city, it were a

great pity, 138

Theresa biaw, braw^ lads on Yarrow

braes, 87

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie,

bonnie lass, 149

There was a lad was bom ut K^le, • 146

There was a lass and she was fair, . . 90

There were five carlins in the South, • 153

Thickest night oVhang my dwelling ! . 106

Thine am I, my faithful fair, . • 94

The* cruel fato should bid us part, • 141

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, . . 93

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 77
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome

plains, . ' • . • • • 147
True heatred was he, the sad swain of

Yarrow, 89

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, • • 113
Twas even, the dewy fields were

green, 76

Twas na bor bomiie Uoe e'e was my

rain; • • 103

XV
Pag€

Up in the morning^s no for me, • • 1S7

Wae is my heart and the tear*s in my e^e, 144

Woo WilUe Gray, and his leather wallet; 150

Wha is this at my bower door? . . 140
What can a young lassie, what ahall a

young lassie, Ill

When Snt I came to Stewart Kyle, . 146

When Guilford good our pilot stood, • 57

When o^er the hul the eastern star, • 84
When .^anuary winds wore blawing

cauld, 153

When wild war's deadly blast was

blawn,

Where are the joys I hae met in the

morning, 94

Where braving angry winter's storms, 108

'^iiere Cart rins rowm to the sea, • 115

While larks, witJi little wing, . . 91

Why, why tell thy lover, ... 105

Wm ye go to the Indies, my Mary, • 85

WiUie WasUe dwalt on Tweed, . . 114

Wilt thou be my dearie? . • • ib.

Ye banks and braes, and streams,

around, 85

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, • 113

Ye flowery banks o* bonnie Doon, . 114

Ye gallants bright I red you right, • 137

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, . . 144

Yon wandering riU, that marks the hill, 149

Yon wild mossy mountains, . • 139

Young Jockey was the blithest lad, • 143

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest Usi, 145

You'jx; weE»ine to Despots, Domouricr, 136

.'v*

. y

,"*■

• 1

PREFACE

IfOTHX

rzBST BDZTzoar

svmsis^ ]p<Dffiias»

PUBUSBED AT KILMARNOCK IN Vm.

Ths fonowing triflei are not the production
of the poet, wto, with all the advantagea of
leamed art, and, perhapa amid the eleganciea
and idleneawfl of upper 2fe, looka down for a
rural theme, with an eye to Theocritua or Vir-
giL To the author of this, theae and other
celebrated nainea, their countiymen, are, at
least in their original language, afiwUain shut
a9>, and a book tailed. iRiaoquainted with the
necessary requiflites for commencing poet by
Tole, he sings the sentiments and mannera he
feit and saw in himself and his ' nstic com-
peei* around him, in his and theii iiativ^ Ian-
guage. Though a ihymer fiom his euliest
years, at least from tlie earliest impulses of
the softer passions, it was not till very lately
that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of
fir ien dshi p , wakened his vanitj so far as to
make him think any thing of his wortli show-
ing ; and none of the fdlowing works were
eonqpoeed with a view to the press. To amuse
himsdf with the little creations of his own
Ancy^ amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious
life ; to transcribe the Tarious feelings, the
loves, the grie&, the hopes, the fears, in his
own breast : to find some kind of cotmterpoise
to the struggles of a world, always an alien
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind —
these were his motives for courting the Muses,
and in these he found poetry to be its own re-
ward.

Now that he ^>pear8 in the public character
of an author, he does it with fear and trem-
bling. So dear is fiune to the rhyming tribe,
that even he, an obscure, nameless &ud, shrinks
aghast at the thought of being branded as— An
hnpertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense
on the world ; and, because he can make a shift
to jingie a fbw doggerel Scotch rhymea to-

gother, looking upon himself as a poet of no
small consequence, forsooth !

It is an observation of that celebrated poet,
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to
our language, our nation, and our species, that
^ HtantiityntM depressed many a genius to a
hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any
critic catches at Uie word emiut^ the author
tells him once for all, that no certainly looks
upon himrolf as possessed of some poetic abili-
ties, otherwise his publiehing in the manner he
has done, would be a manoeuvi^ below the
worst character, which, he hopes, his worst
enemy will ever givo him. But to the genius
of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the
poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal un«
affected sincerity, declares, that, even in his
highest pulse of vanitv, he has not the most
distant pretensions. Those two justly admired
Scotch poets he has oflon had in his eye in the
following pieces ; but rather with a view to
kindle at their fiajne than for servile imitation.

To his Subscribers, the author-returns hie
most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow
over a counter, but the heart-throbbing grati-
tude of the barid, conscious how muchne owes
to benevolence and friendship, for grati^ing
him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish^
eveiy poetic bosom — to be distinffished. He
begs his readers, particularly the Teamed and
the polite, who may honour liim with auerusal,
that they ¥rill make every allowance for edu-
cation and circumstances of life ; but if, after
a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall
stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let
him be done by as he would in that case do
by others— let him be condemned, without
mercy, to contempt and oblivion.

I)3SB1©AT1©1I

or THE

SECOND EDITION OP THB

POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED.

TO THE

KOBZaBMBir AKD aaKTZaBMBir

OF THE

CALEDOmAJ^ HUJ^T.

Mt Lords awd Gentleuen,

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and
whoiie highest ambition is to tdng in his Coun-
tiy'i service — where shall he so properly look
for patronage as to the illustrious names of his
native Land ; those who bear the honours and
inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The
Poetic Genius of my Country found me, as the
prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the
jdoQgh ; and threw her inspiring mantle over
me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the
rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native
■oil, in my native tongue : I tuned my wild,
titlesB notes, as she inspired — She whispered
me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Cale-
donia, and lay my Songs imdcr your honoured
protection ; I now obey her dictates.

Though much indebted to your goodness, I
4o not approach you, my Lords and Gentle-
men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank
you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed
by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is
ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address
with the venal soul of a servile Author, look-
mg for a continuation of those favours ; I was
bred to the Plough, and am independent I
come to claim the common Scottish name with
yoQ, my illustrious Countr3rmen ; and to tell
the world that I gloiy in the title. I come to
oongratolate my Country, that the blood of Jier

ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and
that from your courage, knowledge, and public
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and
hberty. In the last place, I come to profier my
warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Ho-
nour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your
welfare and happiness.

•
When you go forth to waken the Echoes, ui
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 witli the jostlings
of bad men and bad measures, may the honest
consciousness of injured worth attend your re-
turn to your native Seats ; and may Domestic
Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meot^ou
at your gates ! May corruption shrink at your
kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny
in the Ruler, and Ucentiousness in the Peoplei
equally find you an inexorable foe !

I have the honour to be,

With the sincerest gratitudei

and highest respect,

My Lords and Grentlcmen,

Tour most devoted humble servant,

ROBERT BURNS

Edinbargh,
AprU4,17B7

9^(0X111 Sd

0BZBFZa7 800TTZ8S.

THE TWA DOGS,

A TALE.

'TwAS in that place o^ Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o* ^uld King CoU,
Upon a bonnie day in Jane,
Wlien wearing thro^ the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na tbrang at hame,
Foig«ther-d uiee upon a tvne.

The first 111 name, they ca'd him Ccuar,
Was koepit for his Honour^s pleasure :
His hair, his size, his mouth, nis lugi,
Show'd he was nane o* Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad.
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod.

His locked, lettered, 0raw brass collar,
BhowM him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o* high degree,
The fient a pride, na pride had he ;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
£T*n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e^er sae duddie.
Bat he wad stawn't, as glftd to see him.
And stroanH on stanes an* hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A riiymin^, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his fHend an' oomn^e ha«I him.
And in his freaks had BmuUh ca'd him,
Afler some dog in Highland sang,*
Was made lai^ syne — ^Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an* fiiithAi' tyke.
As ever lap a sheu^h or dyke.
His honest, sonaie, baws'nt face,
At gmt lum friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towxis hack
Weel dad wi' coat o' glossy black ;
His gawde tail, wi' upwurd curi,
Hnng o'er his hurdles wi' a swurL

If ae doubt but they were fiun o' ither,
An' onoo pock an' thick thegither ;

• CttcbalUa*s dog in (Maii*t FingsL

Wi' social nose whyles snufTd and snowkit,
AVhyles mice an' nioudioworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,
An* worry \1 ither in diversion;
Tntil wi'daifin weary irrown.
Upon a kiiowe ihey sat thciii down.
And tlicro began a lang digression
About tlio lords o' the ereation.

CJESAR.

I've aflen wonder'd, honest lAUUh^
What sort o' liie poor dogs like you have*
An' when the gentry's life I saw
What way poor bocucs liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in liis racked rents.
His coals, his kain, and a' liis stents*
He rises when he likos himscl ;
His flunkies answer at the hell ;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ;
Ho draws a bonnie silken purse
As lang*s my tail, wharc, tliro' the steeks.
The yellow lettor'd Gcordio keeks.

Frae mom to e'en it's noujrht but toiling.
At baking, roastinir, frying, boiling ;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechm.
Yet cv'n the ha' folk fill their pcchan
AVi' sauce, ra flouts, and sicliko trashtrie.
That's Uttle short o' downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner.
Poor wortlilcss elf, it cats a dinner.
Better tlian ony tenant man
His Honour has in a' the Ian' :
An' what poor cot-folk pit tlieir painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension..

LUATH.

Trowth,CaJsar, whyles they're fash't eneogfa ;
A cottar howkin in a shciigfi,
Wi' dirty stanes bigtrin a dyke.
Boxing a quarry, and sic like.
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans.
An' nought but his ban' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in th^ an' rape.

BURNS' POEMS.

An* when thov meet wi* sair disaitexs,
Liko I068 o' health, or leant o* maston,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An* they maun starve o* cauld an* hunger ;
But, how it com«h I never kenn-d yet,
The?*re maistly wondeifu* contented ;
An' Duirdly chiela, an' clever hixzieii
Are bred in no a way aa this ia.

CJESAR.

But then to aee how ye*re nogleckit.
How huffed, and cuff*d, and diaresDeckit!
Ij — d, man, our ffontiy caro as little
For del vers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ;
The]
As

ev ganfr as saucy by poor fo*k,
I wad by a stinking brock.

I've noticed on our Laird*8 court-day.
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies scant o* cash.
How they maun thole a fiu:tor*s snash :
Hell stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,
He*]l apprehend them, poind their gear ;
IVhOe they maun staun*, wi* aspect humble.
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble.

I see how folk live that h&e riches ;
But surely poor folk maun be wretohea?

LUATH.

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think ;
Tho' constantly on poortith's bri^ :
They Ve sae accustomed wi' the sight.
The view o't giea them little fright

llien chance an' fortune are sae guided.
They're ay in less or mair provided ;
An' tho' fatigued wi* close employment,
A Uink o* rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives.
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a* weir fire-side.

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares.
To mend the Kirk and State affkin :
Hieyll talk o* patronage and priests,
Wi' Idndling fuiy in tlwir breasts.
Or ten what new taxation's comin.
An' ferlie at the folk in Xon'on.

As bleak-fae'd HallowmaaB retomi,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
Wlien rural /t/e, o' ev'ry station.
Unite in coiumon recreation ;

Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth*
Forgets thcro^s Care upo' the earth.

That merry day the vear begins,
They bar the door on frosty wmds;
The nappy reeks wi' mantung ream.
An' aheds a heart-inspiring steam ;
The luntin pipe, an* sneesnin mill.
Are handed round wi* licht guid will;
The cantie auld folks craddn crouse.
The younf ancs rantin thro* the houses-*
My heart has been sae fain to see them.
That I for joy hae barkit wi* them.

Still it*8 owro true that ye hae said.
Sic game is now owre aflen play'd.
There's monio a creditable stoca,
O* decent, honest, fawsont fo*k.
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's ^ridcfii* greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himscl the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thran^ a-parliamentin.
For Britain's guid his saul indontin—

CiESAR.

Huth, lad, ye little ken about it ;
For Britain's guid! miid faith ! I doubt it
Say nther, gaun as Premitrt lead him.
An' saying out or no' 9 thoy bid him.
At operas an^ plays paradmg,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ;
Or may be, in a fr(dic dafl,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To maae a tour, an* tak a whirl.
To learn bon ton^ an* see the warl*.

There,at Vienna or Fersailles
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or bv Madrid he takes the rout.
To thrum guitars, and focht wi* nowt ;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting among groves o* myrtles
Then bouses <uumly German water.
To mak himsel look fair and fatter.
An* clear the codlequeptial sorrows,
Love-gifls of Carnival signoras.
For Brilain's guid ! for her destruction !
Wi' dissipation, feud, an* faction.

LUATH.

Hech man! dear Sin! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an' harasB*d
For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frao courta,
An' please themsels wi* kintra sports.

BURNS' POEMS.

It wad tbr 9f*Tj ane be bettart
The Laird, tlM Tenant, and the Cotter !
For thae fimnk, rantin, ramblin biUiea,
Fient haet o' them*a ill-hearted foUowa ;
Except for breakin o' their tnmner.
Or Bpeakin lightly o' their Hmmer,
Or ihootin o* a hare or moor-oock,
The ne'er a bit they're iU to poor folk.

Bot win ye tell me, Maater CSctor,
Sore great folk's life'i a life o* pleaaure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The Tera thought oH need na fear them.

CJS^AIL

L— -d, man, were je bat whyles whare I am.
The gentles ye wad ne'er emry 'em.

It's true they need na starve or sweat.
Thro' winter's panld, or simmer's heat ;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banea,
An' fiU auld ago wi* gripes an' granes :
Bat human bmiiea are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perjdez them.
They make oiow tlmnielves to vex them;
An' ay the leas ther hae to start them,
In like proportion less will hart them.
A CQontry fellow at the ploogh,
Hia acres tiU'd, he's right enough ;
A kintra lassie at her wheel.
Her diizens done, she^ unoo wed :
Bat Gentlemen, an' Ladies waist,
"Wi' ev'ndown want o* wark are curst
They loiter, loungingi lank, an' lazy ;
Tho' deil haet aifi tmrm, yet uneasy ;
Their days, insipid, doll, an' tasteless ;
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restlees ;
An' e'en their sports, their baUs an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places.
There V sic parade, sic pomp, an' art.
The joy can scaroely reiaoh the heart
The men east out in party matches.
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ;
Ae ni^t thejrVe mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
JiQest^y their lifb is past enduring.
Tlie Lames arm-inr-aim in dusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters ;
Bat liear their absont thoughts o' ither.
They're a' ran deib an' jacw thegither.
Whjies o'er the woe bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty ;
Or lee-laz^ nights, wr crabbit lemoi
Pore owre the devil's jnctur'd beuks ;
Stake on a dianoe a nrmer's stackyard.
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.

Tliere's some exoeption, man an' woman ;
Bat this is Q«ntiy^ me in common.

By tins, the son was oat o' sight.
An' darker jgloaming brought the night !
The bam-oock hunun'd wi' lazy drmio ;
TbA kye stood rowtin i'the loan ;

When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
^ioiced they were na mtn but dogt ;
An' each took affhis several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ithcr day.

SCOTCH DRINK

Gie Mill stroDg drink, unill he wtaik,
' Tbat*0 finking In despair ;
An* liquor guid to fir* hit Mold,

That*a prea'd wi* grief an* care ;
There let him bouec, an* deep canwise,

Wi* bumperi flowing o*er,
Tin he forgets bis loves or debu,

An* minds his griefs no more.

SoUwun's Pmcrhs zzxl. 6, 7.

Lrr other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Baeehna^

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us.

An' grate our lug,
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us.

In glaai or jug.

O thou, my Mute ! guid auld Scotch Drmk :
Whether thro' wimpling wormci thou jink.
Or, richly brown, ream o'er tlie brink,

In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name !

Let husky Wheat the laughs adorn,
An' Aits set up their awnie nom,
An' Pease ana Beans at e'en or mom,

Pcrfumo the plain,
Loeze me on thee, John Barleycorn^

Thou king o* grain I

•

On thee afl Scotland chows her cood,
In Bouple scones, the wale o^ food !
Or tumblln in the boiling flood

W kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood.

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keejpe us livin ;
Tho' life's a gifl no worth rcceivin.
When heavy draggM wi' pine an' grievin.

But, oilM by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,

Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o^ doited Lear ;
Thou cheers tho heart o' droopin Care ;

BURNS' POEMS.

Them ftrinp thA nenres o* Labour sair,

At*« weary toil,

Thou even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi* Gentles thou erects thy head ;
Tet hiunbly kind in time o need,

The poor man's wine ;
Ilis wee drapparritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o^ public haunts ;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ?
Ev'n godly meetings o* the saunts.

By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly firM.

Thai merry night we got the com in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in !
Or reekin on a New-year morning

In cog or bicker,
An' jiut a wee drap spMtual bum in,

An' gusty sucker !

When Vulcan gie« his bellows breath,
An' plonglmien gather wi^ their graith,
O rare ! to see thee fizz an froath

r th' luggit caup !
Then Bumewin!*' comes on like death

At every chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel.
Brings hard owrohip, wi' sturdy wheel,

Th0 strong forehammer,
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
Mow fumblin cuift their dearies sfight ;

Wae worth the name !
Nae howdie gets a social night.

Or piack firae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can oe.
How easy can the barlev bree

Cement the quarrel !
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee

To taste the barreL

* BunuwUtr'-him'tMt-vind-'tht BlackMnltlft--aii
aiqiropria&t UU«. E.

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wV treason !
But monie daily weet their wesson

Wi' hquors nice,
An' hardly, in a winter's season.
E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy., burning trash !
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash^

O^ half his days
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Te Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well !
Te chief, to you my tale I tell.
Poor placklesB dcevils like mysel !

It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dcarthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a fflunch

O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glacis o' vfhiskvptmch

Wi' nonest men.

O WkUky ! saul o' plays an' pranks !
Accept a Bardie^s humble thanks !
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses I
Thou comes — ^they rattle i' their ranks

At ither^s

Thee, Feriniosh ! O sadly lost !
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast \
Now colic grips, an' bariiin boast

May kill us a' ;
For royal Forbes' chartered beast

Is ta'eu awa !

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise,
Wha mak the WhUky SteUt their prize !
Hand up thy han', DeU ! ance, twice, thrice !

There, seize the blinkers !
And bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d — ^n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thoull but gio me still
Hale breeks, a scone, and IVkisk^ giU^
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a' the rest.
An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

BURNS' POEMS.

THE AUTHOR*8

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER*

TO THE

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES,

IN THB

HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Dearmor DlstiUatioii ! lait and b«it

flow art Uioa lost !

Pafiffon MilUnu

Te Irish Lords, je Knights an* Squires,
Wha represent our brnghs an* shires.
An* douoelj manage our affairs

In parliament,
To you a simple Poef s prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse !
Toot honors* hearts wi' grief *twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her a —

Low i' the dust,
An' scriecfain out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust I

Ten them wha hae the chief direction,
Seoiland an' me*M in great afillction,
£*er sin' they laid that curst restriction.

On Aquamta;
An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move, their pity.

Stand forth,-an' tell yon Premier Youth.,
The honest, open, naked truth :
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland*s drouth,

His servants humble !
The muckle deevil blaw ye south.

If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man clunch an' gloom?
Speak out, an' never foui your thumb !
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom

Wi' them wha grant 'em :
If honestly they canna come.

Far better want e'm.

In gath'ring votes you were na slack ;
Now stand as tightly by your tack ;
Ne*er daw your lug, an' fidge your back.

An' hum an* haw ;
But raise your arm, an' tell your cradk
^ Before them a'.

^ Tbif was written befoni tli« act anent the Scotch
INstiUerlcs, of aeaion 1786 ; for which Scotland and
dis Aailior letaro thdr most grateAiI thanks.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrisrie;
Her niutchkin stoup as toom^s a whiasle:
Au* d — nm*d ExciiM^mcn in a busslo.

Seizin a ^UlU
Triumphant crushin*t like a mussel

Or lompit sheU.

Tlicn on the tiilier hand present her,
A black^ard Smujr^lcr riirnt behint her,
An* clicek-for-chow, a chulfio Vintner,

CoUeagiiing join.
Picking her pouch as bare as winter

Of a' kind coin.

Ir there, that bears the name o' &o/.
But feels his heartV bluid rising hot.
To see his poor auld Mither's jtoi

Thus dung in staves,
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost gjoat

J^y gallows knaves?

Alas ! Fm hut a nameless wight,
Trode i' tlic mire clean out o* sight ;
But could I like Montgomrtet fight,

Or ffab like Boncell
There*s some sark-nccksl wad draw tight.

An' tie some hose welL

Crod bless your Honors, can ye see^t.
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet.
An' no get warmly to your feet,

An* gar them hear it.
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat.

Ye wiima bear it !

Some o' you nicely ken the laws.
To round the period, an' pause.
An' ¥ri' rhetonc clause on clauso

To mak baronies;
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen*s wa s

Auld Scotland's wran^ <

Dempster^ a true blue Scot, Pse warran ;
Thee, aitli-detesting, chaste JfCilkerran;*
An' that glib-gabbot Highland Baron,

The Laird o' Graham^
An* one, a chap that's d — mn'd auldfarran,

Dundas his name.

ErskinCy a spunkie Norland billie ;
True Campbells^ Frederick an' //ay ;
An' Livijigstojiey the bauld Sir JVUUe ;

An' monio ithers
Whom auld Demostlicncs or Tully

Might own for brithen.

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettk;

* Sir Adam Fergason. E.

t The present Dake of Montrose. (1800.) E.

BURNS' POEMS.

i! rn wad my new plengh-pettle,
Tell Boet, or lanff,
flhtll teach joa, wi' a reokin whittle,

Anither sang.

while she's been in crunkous mood,

Her ImI ^tWid fir'd her bluid ;
(Deil Ba they never mair do ffoid,

PUy'd ner that plidde !)
At? now die's like to lin red-wud

About her Whisky.

An' L-^ if ance they pit her tiUH,
Her tartan petticoat shell kilt.
An' dork an' pistol at her belt.

Shell tak the streeta,
An* rin her whittle to the hQt,

rth' first she meets!

For 6— d sake. Sirs ! then speakher ftir«
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,
An' to the mnckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,'
An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear,

Togetremead.

Ton ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charhe Foae^
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ;
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks !

E'en cowe the caddie;
An' send him to his dicing box

An' sportin lady.

TeD 3ron guid bluid o' auld BoconnockU
Pll be his dd)t twa mashlum bonnooks,
An' drink his health in auld Ifanse 7Vnnodk*<*

Nine times o^week,
[f he some scheme, like tea an' winnock's,

Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commulaiioa broach,
m pled^ my oith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition.
Ton mixtie-maztie queer hotch-potch.

The CoaUlUm,

Anld Scotland has a raude tongue;
She's just a devil wi' a rung;
An' if she promise &uld or young

To tak their part,
Tho' by the neck she should be strung.

Shell no desut.

An' nowi ye chosen FixMrnd^Farfy,
May still your Mither's heart support ye ;

* A worthy old Hoitesi of the Author's In Jir«icJUfo#,
where he sometiroes studied Politica over s gla« of
gnWl suld Seotdk Drink

Then, though a BAinSster mw dorly,

An' luck jTour place,

Tell anap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Befiire his &ce.

God bleai your Honoun a' your days,
Wi' sowps o^kail and brats o' claise.
In spite o' a' the thieyish kaes,

That haunt St. Jamb^i
Tour humble Poet aines an' prayi

While /too his name !«•

POSTSCRIPT.

Lit half-stary'd slayes, in warmer
See fbture wines, rich clusfring, rise ;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er enyies.

But blythe and firisky^
She eyes her freebom, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their PliccbuB kinder warms.
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ;
When wretches range, in famlshM swarms,

The scented groyes.
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms

In hungry droyes.

Their gun's a burden on fheur shottther
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither

To Stan' or rin.
Till skelp-^ shot— they're aff, a' throwther.

To save their akin.

But bring a Scotsman fiue his hill.
Clap in his cheek a Highland ^1,
Say, such is royal Oeorge*t wm,

An' there's the foe,
He haa nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, fkiulFhearted doubtings tei
fanr ;
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ;
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome eioa him :

An' when he fa's,
Wb latest draught o' breathin loa'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek.
An' raise a philoeophic reek.
And physically causes seek.

In dime and seAon;
But tdl me mUthft name in Greek,

ini teU the reason.

BURNS' POEMS.

SeeHani^ vaj sold, reipectod Mither !
Tho' whilei ye nioivtify your leather,
TQl whaze ye nt, an craps o' heather,

Te tine your dam ;
Freedom and Whuiy amng thither !

Tak aff your dram.

THE HOLY PAIR.*

A robe of leeDlnf truth and tmat

Hid cnftj Olaenratloo ;
And secret hvDf, with poJeonM emiti

The dirk of Deftmatloa :
A maak that lilce the gorget showed,

DTe-Tarying on tlie pigeon ;
And for a mantle large and broad,

Ha wrapt him in lUligUn,

Jron a nmmer Sunday mom.

When Nature's face is fair,
walked forth to view the com,

An' Buff the caller air,
rhe rising sun owre OdUton muirs,

Wi' glorious li^ht was glintin ;
rbe hares were huplin down the furs,

7^ layVocks they were chantin

Fa' sweet that day.

\m ligfatsomely I glowr'd abroad.

To see a scene sae gay,
Hiree Hizzies, early at the road.

Cam skelpin up the way ;
rwa had manteeles o' dolefti' black.

But ane wi' lyart lining ;
nie third, that gaed a wee a-back.

Was in the nuiion shininf

Fu' gay that day.

rhe Asa appear'd like nsters twin,

fia feature, form, an' daes !
liar Tisage, withered, lang, an' thin,

An' sour as ony slaes :

* Btig FdT Is a common phrase In the West of
MdandHora Baeraroental occairion

B 9,

The Ihird cam up, hap-«tep-«n'4owpi

As hght as ony lambie.
An' wi'a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

IV.

Wi'bannet aff, quoth If'^SweetlaM,

I think ye seem to ken me ;
I'm sure Ire seen that bonnie &oe,

But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' sue, an' langhin as uie spak.

An' taks me by the hands,
^ Te, for my sake, hae gi^en the feck

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

** My name is Fvn — your cronie dear,

llie nearest friend ye hae ;
An' this is Superttitum here,

An' that*s Hypocruy,
Pm gaun to **♦♦♦***• jjoly Fair,

To spend an hour in daflma .
Gin yell go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We win get famous laughin

At them this day.**

Quoth I, •'With a' my heart, FU dot:

111 get my Simday a sark on
An' meet you on the holy spot ;

Faith, we'se hoe fine rcmarkm !**
Then I gaed home at crowdie-timo

An' soon I made me ready ;
For roads were dad, frae side to side,

Wi' monie a weario body.

In droves that day

VIL

Here farmers j^ash, in ridin graith,

Gaed hoddm by their cotters ;
There, swankies young, in braw braid-
daith.

Are springin o'er the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barent, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter ;
Wi' nDeet-milk eheete^ in monie a whang,

An'farls bak'd wi' butter

Fu' crump that day.

vm.

When by the plate we set our nose,

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A firecdy glowr Black Bonnet throws.

An' we maim draw our tippence.
Then in we ^o to see the show.

On ev'ry side they're gathrin.
Some canying dales, some chairs an' stools,

An' some are busy blethrin

Right loud that day.

BURNS* POEMS.

IX.

Here stands a shed to fend the showers,

An' screen our kintra Crentry,
There, racer Jess^ an* twa-throe wh-res,

Are blinkin at the entry.
Here siti a raw of tittlm lades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck
An' there a batch Of wabstcr lads,

Blackguarding frao K -ck

For Jim this day. •

Here some are thinkin on their sins,

An' some upo' their clacs ;
Ane curses foot that fyVd his shins,

Anither si^hs an^ prays :
On this hanasits a chosen swatch,

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,

Thrang winkin on the lasses

To chairs that day.

O happy is that man an' blest !

Nae wonder that it pride him !
Whase ain dear lass, tnat ho likes best,

Comes clinkin down beside him !
Wi' arm reposM on the chair back.

He sweetly docs compose him !
Which, by degrees, slips round her nedc,

An's loof upon her bosom

Unkcn'd that day.

xn.

Now a' the congregation o'er.

Is silent exp^tation ;
For ****** spccls the holy door,

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n.
Should Homie^ as in ancient days,

'Mang sons o' G — present him.
The vera sight o' * * * * *'s face,

To's ain het hame had sent him

Wi' fright that day.

xin.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith,

Wi' ratlin an' wi' thumpin !
Now meekly cahn, now wild in wrath.

He's stampin an' he's jumpin !
His lengthen'd chin, his tum'd up snont,

His ^dritch squeel and gestures.
Oh how they fire the heart devout,'

Like cantnaridian plasters.

On sic a day !

XIV.

But, hark ! the ieni has chang'dits voioe ;

There^s peace an' rest nae lai:^or :
For a' the real judges rise.

They canna sit for anger.
***** opens out liis cauld harangues.

On practice and on morals ;
An' an tlio godly pour in thrangs.

To gie the jars an' barrels

A ha that day.

XV.

What signifies his barren shine

Of moral pow'rs and reason ?
His English style, an' gesture fine.

Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antoniiney

Or some auld pagan Heathen,
The moral man he docs define.

But ne*er a word o' faith in

That's right that day.

XVI.

In guid time comes an antidote

Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For ****** *, frae the water-fit,

Ascends the holy rostrum :
See, up he's got the word o' G — ,

An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road.

An' aff, an' up tlic Cowgate,*

Fast, fast, that day.

xvn.

Wee ****♦*, niest, the Guard relieTes,

An' Orthodoxy raibles,
Tho' in his heart he weel believes.

An' thinks it auld wives' fables :
But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse,

So, cannily he hums them ;
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense

Like haf&ins-ways o'ercomes him
At times that day.

xvm.

Now butt an^ben, the Change-house fills,

Wi' yill-caup Commentators ;
Here's crying out for bakes and gills.

An' there tho pint stowp clattere ;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,

Wi' Logic an' wi' Scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end.

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

* A itreet io called, wliicb fkcestbe tent la —

BURNS' POEMS.

Leeza me on Drink ! it gies vu mair

Than either School or College :
It kindles wit, it waukene lair.

It pann us fou o^ knowledge.
Be^ whtdcy gUl, or penny Wheep,

Or any stronger jwtion.
It nerer &i]s on drinking deep,

To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

The lads an' lasses blythely bent

To mind baith sauI an* body,
Sit round the table weel content,

An* steer about the toddy.
On this ane*8 dress, an* that ane*8 leuk,

They Ve making observations ;
While some are cozie i* the neuk.

An* formin assignations.

To meet some day.

XXL

Bot now the L— d*s ain trmnpet touts,

ihU a* the hills are rairin.
An* echoes back return the shouts :

Black ♦*•*** is na spairin :
His piercmg words, like Highland swords,

Divide the joints an' marrow ;
fiis talk o' H-U, where devils dwell.

Our vera sauls does harrow*

Wi* fright that day.

xxn.

A vast, mibottom^d, boundless pit,

Fi]l*d ibu o* lowin brunstane,
Wbaae ragin flame, an* scorchin heat.

Wad melt the haxdest whun-stane !
The half asleep start up wi* fear.

An' think they hear it roann.
When presently it does appear,

'Twma but some neebor snorin

Asleep that day.

xxm.

Twad be owre lang a tale, to teQ

How monie stories past.
An* how they crowdea to the yill

When they were a' dismist ;
How drink jgaed round, in coffs an' caups,

Amang the furms an* benches ;
An* cheese an' bread frae women's laps.

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

XXIV.

In oomes a gaucie gash Guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck an* her knit««

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 thcm't like a tether,

Fu' long that day.

XXV.

Woesucks ! for him that seta naes lass.

Or lasses that hae naeming !
Sma* need has he to sav a ^race.

Or melvie his braw claitlilng !
O wives, be mindfu\ once yoursel,

How bonnie lads yc wanted,
An^ dinna, for a kobbuck-heel.

Let lasses be afironted

On sic a day !

XXVI.

Now ClinJnanbell, wi* rattlin tow.

Begins to jow an* croon ;
Some swag^r hame, the best they dow*

Some wait the aflemoon.
At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till losses strip their shoon :
Wi' foilh an' hope an* love on* drink,

They're a* in famous tunc,

For crack that day.

xxvn.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o* lasses !
Their hearts o* stane, ^in night are gane.

As safl as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o* love divine ;

There's some arc fou o' brandy ;
An* monie jobs that day begin,

May end in Houghmogandie

Some ither day.

* 8lialcspeers*s Hamlet

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

Some books are lies frae end to end.
And some great lies were never penn*d,
£v*n Ministers, they hae been kenn*d

In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times to vend,

And nail*t wi* Scnpture.

BURNS' POEMS.

But thii that I am gaun to tell.
Which lately on a night bofel,
Ib jiut aa truc^f the Deirs in h-11

Or Dublin city :
Tiiat o*or he nearer comes oun>cl

'S a muckle pity

The Clachan vill had made me canty,

I was na fou^ out just had plenty ;

I stacherM whylos, but yet took tent ay

To free the ditches ;
An' hillocks, stanes, an* bushes, kennM ay

Frao ghaidta an' witches.

The rising moon beffan to glowV
The distant Cumnoac hills out-owre :
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,

I sot myscl ;
But whether she had tlirco or four,

1 cou'd na tell.

I was come round about t^ie liill,
And toddlin down on Willie^i milU
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep mo sicker :
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,

1 took a bicker.

1 there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie twiUier ;
An awfh' sithe, out-owre ae showther,

Clear-dangling, hang ;
A three-tae'd leister on the ithcr

Lay, largo an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest sliape that o'er I saw,
For fient a wame it liad ava !

And then, its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

As chedu o' branki.

** Guid-een," quo' I; ** Friend I hae ye been

mawin,
"When ither folk are busy savrin ?**♦
It seemM to mak a kind o' stan,'

But nactliing spak ;
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun.

Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe, — ^ My name is Dealfu,
But be na fley'd/'— Quoth I, "" Guid faith,
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ;

But tent me, billio :
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith.

See, there's a gully !"

*Tbl8 rencounter happened In seed-ttme, 1785.

** Guidman," quo' he, ** pat up your iidiittle^
Fm no designM to try its mettle ;
ButifIdid,IwadbekitUe

To be mislear*d, i
I wad na mind it, no, that spitUe

OutK>wre iny beiid

*^ Weel, wed !" says I, ^ abargam beH ;
Come,gie8 your hand, an' sae we're greeHi
Well ease our shanks an' tak a seat.

Come, gpes your newt ;
This while* ye hae been monie a gate

At monie a houao.''

^ At, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his heid«
^ It B e*en a lang, lan^ time indeed
Sin' I began to nick ue thread.

An' choke tho brealli :
Folk maun do something for their bread,

An* sae maun Death,

^ Sax thousand years are near hand fled

Sin' I was to the hutching bred.

An' monie a scheme in vain^s been laid.

To stap or scar me ;
Till ane Hombook^gf ta^en up the trade.

An' faith, hell wanr

^ Ye ken Jocik HombookV the Clacfaan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchaii I
Hell grown sae well acquaint wi' Buehmt^

An' ither chaps.
That weans baud out their finffers la^hni

And pouL my hipi.

^ See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart.
They hae piercM monjTa gallant heart;
But Doctor Homlfook^ wi' ids art,

And cursed skill.
Has made them baith not worth a f-— t,

Damn'd haet th^ll kilL

** 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,

I threw a noble throw at ane ;

Wi' less, I'm sure, We hundreds slain ;

But deil-ma-care,
It just play'd dirl on the bane.

But did nae malr.

^ Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
And had sae fortiQ^'d the part.

*An eiridemical ferer wai then raging In thit

country.

t Thli genUeman, Dr. Uombook, It profeBrtoBafly,
II brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferals; bo^
by intuition and Inspiration, la at once an Apotbecaiy,
Surgeon, and Physician.

I Buchan*s DomeBtic Msdlcine.

BURNS* POEMS.

imi looked to my dart,

It was ne bhint,

laet o*t wad hae pierc'd the heait
Of a kail-^runt.

w mj athe in ne a fhry,
And 0owirit wi* my hmry
itttebmAApotheeary

Withstood thA ihock ;
t at weel hae tiy'd a qoany

O' hard wbm rock.

them he canna get attended,
beir fica ha ne*er had kend it,
—-ma kail-blade, and tend it.

As soon he smeUsY,
heir disease, and what will mend it

At onoe he tells^

then a' doctois* saws and whittles,
imenaions, shapes, an^ mettles,
Is o* boxes, mufs, an' bottles,

He's sure to hae ;
Latin names as fast he rattles

As ABC.

ss o' fosnls, earth, and trees ;
lal-marinum o' the seas ;
izina of beans and pease.

He has^t in plenty ;
[bntis, what yon please.

He can content ye.

ro some now, micommon weapons,
Spiritus of capoDA ;
e-nom shavings, fuinee^ scrapings,

Distill xi per te ;
LsJi o' Midge-tail-clippin£^

And monio moo."

I me for Johnny Gedfs Hole* now,"

,^ if that tho HOWS bo true !

kW calf- ward wharo ^[owans grew,

Sae white ondbonnio,
ubt thcyll rive it wi' the plow ;

They'll ruin JbAmc."'

eatore jB^rain'd an eldritch laugh,
ys, ^ To need na yoke the plough,
rds will soon bo tillM cncugh,

Tak ye noo fear :
I a' be treoch'd wi' monie a sheugh

In twa-three year

6 1 kill'd ane a fair strae-deatb,
o' blood or want o' breath,

* Tiwgrare-diggOT

This night I'm fireo to tak niy aith,

^ That Horribo6e» skiU

Has clad a score i' their lost daith.

By drap an' pilL

*^ An honest Wabster to his trade,

Whase wife'k twa nieves were scarce wee

bred.
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, ^

Whenitwassair;
The wife slado cannie to her bed.

But ne'er spak mair.

"* A kintraLaird had U'en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,

An' pays him weU.
The lad, for twa guidgimmer 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 Homboak't care ;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame.

To hide it there.

»* That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ;
Thus goes he on fix>m day to day.
Thus does he poison, kiU, an' slay,

An's weel paid for't ;
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt :

"■ But, hark ! IH tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ;
111 nail the self-conceited Scot,

As dead's a herrin :
Niest time we meet. 111 wad a ^at,

He gets his fairin '.**

But just as he began to tell.

The auld kirk-hiunmer strak the bell

Some woo short hour avont tho Heal,

Which rais'd us baith :
I took the way thatpleasM myscl

And sae did Deaih.

THE BRIGS OF AYR,

4 POKIC

INSCRIBED TO J. B******«'*, Esa. AYR.

Ths simple Bard, rough at tho rustic plough.
Learning his tunefhl ^ade from evenr bough ;
The chanting linnet, or tho mellow tLrush,
Hailing tho setting sun, sweet, in the green
thorn bosn;

BURNS* POEMS.

The ■oaring lark, the perching red-bieait

ehnll.
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 steePd,
And train'd to arms in stem Misfortune's field.
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The'servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes ?
Or labour hard the pane^ric close,
With all the venal soul or dedicating Prose ?
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sin^s,
And throws his hand uncouthly o er uio

strings.
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his deax reward.
Still, if some Patron's genVous care he trace,
Skiird in tlic secret, to bcKtow witli grace ;
When B********* befriends his humble

name.
And hands tlie rustic stranger up to fame.
With heart-felt throes ins 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 ;
Potaloe-binirfl arc Huuarped up frae skailh
Of coming Winter's bitiuir, frosty brcatli ;
The bec«, rejoicing o'er tlicir summer toils,
UnnumbcrM buds an' flowers' 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

reck:
The thundering guns are heard on every side.
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ;
The feather'd fleld-inates, bound by Nature's

tie.
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage Ho :
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !)
Nae mair the flower in fleld or meadow

springs ;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,
Proua o tlie height o' some bit half-Iang tree :
The hoary morns precede the sunny days.
Mild, cahn, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide

blaze,
While tliick the gossamour waves wanton in

the rays.
rTwas in that season, when a simple bard.
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ;
Ae ni^ht, witlim the ancient brugh of Ayr
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care ;
He led liis bod, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpsoti's* wheel'd the left

about :

* A noied tavern at tlio Auld Brig end.

(Whether impellM 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 Dungetmrchek*' had number^ two.
And Waliaee Ihwer* had sworn the fact wu

true. •

The tido-swoln F^rth with fullea Mnmding

roar.
Through the still night daah'd hoarse along ths

shore :
All else was hush'd as Nature's dosed e'e ;
The silent m6bn shone high o'er tower tnd

tree :
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam.
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glitternig;

stream. —
When, lo ! on citlier hand the hsfning Bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings ie

heard ;
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
Switl a5 the Cosf drives on the wheeling

hare ;
Ane on t!f ,'luld Brig his airy shape upreuii
The it her flutters o'er the rising piers :
Our warlock Rhymer instantly aescry'd
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr prs-

bide.
(That Bards are second -sighted is nae joke,
And ken tlie lingo of the spiritual fo'k ;
Fays, Spunkics, Kelpies, a', they can expliun

thcin,)
And ev'n the very dells they brawlj ken

tliem.)
Avid Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The vera wrinkles Gotliic in his £3m» :
He seemM as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,
Yet tcughly doure, he bade an unco bang.
JVcir Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,
That he, at IjorCon^ frae ane Adorns^ got;
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a

bead,
Wi' virls and whirlyffigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking roimd with anxiom

search.
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ;
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his o^e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he !
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien.
He, down the water, gies him this guideen :—

AULD BRIG.

I doobt na, fiien', yell think ye're nae aheep

shank,
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank.
But gm ye be a brig as auld as me,
Tho*^faith that day, I doubt, yell n(

never

* The two steeples.

t The gos-liawk, or falcon.

BURNS' POEMS.

Therell be, if that date come, IH wad a bod-

dle.
Some fewer whigmeleerics in your noddle.

NEW BRIG.

AnldVandal, ye but diow yoor little mense,
Jest much about it wi' your icanty lense ;
WiU your poor, narrow footrpath of a street,
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they

' meet.
Tour roin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime.
Compare wi' bonnie Brig9 o* modem time ?
Theresa men o* taste would tak the Dueat-

Mireamy*
Tho* they should cast the vety sark an swim.
Ere tbe^ would grate their feelings wi* tlie

Tiew
Of sic an ugly Crothic hulk as you.

AULD BRIG.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy
pride !
This monie a year I Ve stood Uie flood an' tide ;
And tho' wi' crazy eild Fm sair forfaim,
111 be a Brie-t when yo're a shapeless cairn !
As yet ye litUe ken about the matter,
But twa-three winters will inform you better,
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-(my rains,
Wi' deepemn^ deluges overflow the plains ;
When from the hills where springs the brawl-
ing Coi/,
Or stately Lugar't mossy fountains boil.
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland

course.
Or haunted Garpalf draws his feeble source,
ArousM by blustering winds an' spotting

thowes.
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ;
While crashing ice, home on the roaring speat,
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the

gate;
And fit>m Glenbuekl down to the Rotlon'

Auld «fyr is just one IcngthenM, tumbling sea ;
Then aovm yell hurl, deil nor ye never rise !
And dash tlie gumlie jaups up to the pouring

skies:
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture's noole art is lost !

NEW BRIG.

Fine ArekUeeture^ trowth, I needs must sayH
oH!
The Ij — d be thankit that we've tint the gate

* A noted ford, Just above the Aold Brig.

t Tbe banks of Oarpal WaUr if one of the few
places la tlie West of Scotland, where tbrae fancy-
■eartBg beings, known by the name of Gkaiit$^ itill
C0BtlBeep«ntiBacfously to inhabit.

% The source of tbe river Ayr.

% A sbmU landing place above tiie large key.

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices.
Hanging with tln'caf ning juC, like precipices^
0*er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspinng coves
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves :
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture

drcst.
With order, symmetry, or taste unUest;
Forms like some bedlam statuary *s dream.
The crazM creations of misguided whim ;
Forms might be worahipp'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 BuUcn gloom was sterling true devotion ;
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with re-
surrection !

AITLD BRIG.

O yc, mv dear-remembcr*d, ancient yealmgs.
Were je but here to share my wounded foel-

inffs!
Ye worthy Prorescs^ an' mony a Bailie^
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ;
Ye dainty Deacons^ and ye douce Conveenrrit,
To whom our modems ore but causey-clean>

ers;
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ;
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gio your hurdies to the smiters ;
And (wliat would now be strange) ye godly

JVritr.rs :
A* ye douce folk IVo borne aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ?
How would your spirits groan in deep vex-
ation.
To see each melancholy alteration ;
And, agonizing, curse the time and place
When ye begat the base, degcn'rate race !
Nao langcr Rev'rend Men, their coimtxy^s

glory.
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid

story !
Nao longer thrifty Citizens, an' douce.
Meet owTe a pint, or in the Council-house ;
But staunircl, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,
The hcrrj'ineut and ruin of the country ;
Men, tlirec-ports made by Tailors and by Bar-
bers,
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d—- d net9
Brigs and Harbours!

NEW BRIG.

Now hand you there ! for faith yeVe said
enough,
And mucklo mair than ye can mak to through.

BURNS' POEBfa

As for jrour priesthood, I shall say hut little,
Corhies and Clergy are a shot right kittle :
But under fayour o* your longer 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 hae 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 gathered lib>al views in Bonds and Seisins.
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp.
Had snorM them with a glimmer of his lamp,
And would to Common-sense, for onoe be-

tniy*d them.
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid

them.

What farther dishmadayer might boon

said,
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to

shed.
No man can toll ; but all before their sight,
A fairy train appear*d in order bright :
Adown tlie glittering stream they featly

danc'd ;
Bright to the moon their yarious dresses

glanced :
They footed o^er the watry glass so neat.
The infant ice scarco bent l^neath their fbet :
While arts of Minstrelsy amon^ them rung.
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung.
O had J^fLauchlaru,* thairm-inspiring Sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band enga^.
When thro* his dear Stratfitpeys they bore with

Highland rage,
Or when they struck old Scotia*s melting airs,
The lover^s raptured joy9 or bleeding cares ;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir*d.
And ev*n his matoiless 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 advancM in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown*d.
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the lovehest pair in all' the ring.
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with

Spring;
Then, crown'd with flow'iy hay, came rural

Joy,
And Summer, with bis fervid-beammg eye :

• A well known performer of Bcottiih mniic on tlie
vioUn.

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing hom^
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodd

com;
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did ho

show.
By Hoapitality with dondless brow.
Next follow*d Courage with his martial stri
From where the Feal wild- woody coverts hi
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,
A female form, came fix>m the towVs otSU
Leaming and Worth in equal measures tro4
From simple Calrine^ their bQg-lov*d abodi
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown*d with a hi

wreath.
To mstio Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death;
At sight of whom our Sprites fiugat tl

kindling wrath*

THE ORDINATION.

For lense tbey little owe to Frogal Heaven—
To please the Mob they hide the litile given.

Kilmarnock Wahsters fidge an' daw
An* pour your creeshie nations ;

An* ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Ota' denominations,

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a'

^ An* there tak up your stations;

Then aJSTto f -^6-— ^ in a raw.
An* pour divme libations

For joy this day

Curst Common Sense that imp o' h-Il,

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;*
But O ***** * * aft made her yaH,

An' R * * * * * sair misca'd her;
This davM******** takes the flails

And he*s the boy will blaud her !
Hell dap a thangan on her tail.

An' set the bairns to daub her
Wi' dirt thk day.

Mak haste an' turn king David owre.
An* lilt wi* holy clangor ;

* Alluding to a acoffiug ballad which was made on t
admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L.
the Lalgh Kirk

BURNS* POEMS.

I TOM come gie ps fbur,

iriuptheBa^for:

the Kuk kicks up a lAxmn^

iir the knaTes shall wrang her,

mj^JB'm her powV,

mtoia^j shaU whang her

Wr inth this day.

IV.

t a proper text be road,
ich it afTwi' vigour,
celeas Html^ leugh at his Dad,
made Canaan a niger ;
Mist droye the mur£ring blade,
i-re-abhorring rigour ;
tfo^ X the scaul£n jade,
ke a bluidj tiger

rth' inn that daj.

y his mettle on the creed,
ind him down wi' caution,
pond is a carnal weed
Qi but for the fashion ;
lim o^er the flock, to feed,
nnish each transgression ;
, rami that cross the breed,
lem raffident threshin.

Spare them nae day.

d Kibtiamock cock thy tail,

MS thy horns fu' canty ;

r thoult rowtc out-owro the dale,

se thy pasture^s scanty ;

1^8 largo o^ ^ospd kail

Sn thy crib m |>lenty,

!f o* grace the pick an' wale,

en by way o' damty.

But ilka day.

vn.

r by BabeTt ttrearru well weep,

ink upon our Zion ;

; our fiddles up to sleep,

ittby-clouts a-diryin :

sew the pegs wi' tunefh' cheep,

*er the thairms be tryin ;

! to see our elbucks whoep,

like lamb-tails flyin

Fq* fast this day !

Is, chap Ix. 82. t.Numbers, cb. xzv. v«T. 8.
I Exodus, dL It. ver. 35.

vm.

Lang Patronm^ wi' rod o' aim,

lus shorM tne Kirk's ondoio,
As lately F-mo-db sair forftim,

Has proren to its nnn :
Our Patron, honest ouui ! Gleneakn%

He saw mischief was browin ;
And like a ffodly elect bairn.

He's wal^ us out a true ane,

And sound this day.

IX.

Now R******* harangue nae mair,

But stock your gab for ever :
Or tiy the wickod town of A**,

For there -they'll think you defer ;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,

Te may commence a Shaver *
Or to the J^-th-rt-n repair,

And turn a Carpet- wearer

Afl'-hand tUe daj.

HI ♦ ♦ * « * and you were just a match,

We never had sic twa orones :
AuldifonMe did the Laieh Kirk watch.

Just like a winkin baudrons ;
And ay' he catch'd the tithcr wretch.

To VTf them in his caudrons ;
But now his honour maun detach,

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrohs.
Fast, fast this day.

XI.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes,

She's swingoin thro' the city :
Haik, how tlie nine-tail'd cat she plays!

I vow it's unco pretty :
There, Learning, with his Orceldsh face,

Grunts out soiao Latin ditty ;
And Common Sense is gaun, she says.

To mak to Jamie Beatlie

Her 'plaint this day.

XU. .

But there's Mortality himsel,

Embracing all o'pmions ;
Hear, how he gies the tither ycU,

Between his twa companions ;
See, how she peels the skin an' fell.

As ane were poclin onions !
Now there — ^they're packed aiT to hell.

And banish'd our dominions.

Henceforth this day

BURNS' POEMS.

xm.

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoico !

Come house about the porter !
MoraUty*8 domure decoys

SboU hero nae mair mid quarter :
fm*******^ T^Hn**^^ aroiho boys.

That Heresy can torture ;
Theyll gio her on a rape and hoyse
And cow her measure shorter

By th* head some day.

XIV.

Come, bring tho tithor niutclikin in,

And heroes, for a concluKion,
To ovety AVto Lif^hi* mother's son.

From this time forth, Coofutuon :
Ifnutir thoy deave us with their din,

Or Patronage intrusion,
We'll light a Bpunk, and, evVy skin,

Well rin them aiTin fusion

Like oil, some day.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR.

Oa his Text. Halachi, ch. Iv. ver. 8. ** And tbsj
■hall gQ forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall *'

RiGirr, Sir ! your text Fll prove it true.

Though Heretics may laugh ;
For instance ; thoro^s yonrsel just bow,

God knows, an unco CcUf!

And should some Patron be so kind,

A« bless you wi' a kirk,
I doubt na, Sir, but then well find,

To're still as great a SHrk,

But, if the Lover's rantur'd hour

Shall over be vour lot,
Forbid it, ov'ry neavenly Power,

You o'er should be a Stot I

Tho\ when some kind connubial Delr,

Your but-and-ben adorns.
The like has been that you may wear

A noble head of homt.

And in your lug most reverend Jamet^

To hear you roar and rowte.
Few men o^ sense will doubt your claims

To rank amang tho nowU.

*Jfew Light if a cant phrase in the Westof Bcotland,
for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Nor-
wich has defended so strenuotisly.

And when ye*re nomberM wi' the d e a d,

Below a graasy hillock,
Wi' justice Uwy may mark your head—

"* Here liei a fkmous Bu^Iodk ."'

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Powers,
That led th* embattled Serapliim to war.

Milton.

O THOU ! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Homio, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an* sootie.

Closed under hatches^
Spairgei about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretche

Hear me, auld Hangte^ for a wee.
An' let poor damned bodies be ;
Ika sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

£*entoadet2,
To skelp an* scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us sqoeel !

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy faipe ;
Far kend and noted is thy name ;
An' tho' yon lowin bough's thy hame.

Thou travels far ;
An' iaith ! thou's neither lag nor lame.

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion.
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ;
Whyles on tho strong-wing'd tempest flyin,

Tirling the kirks ;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend GrannU say.
In lanely glens ye like to stray ;
Or where auld-ruin'd casUos, gray.

Nod to the moon.
Ye fright tho nightly wanderer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Grannie summcm
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman .
Afl yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,

Wi' eerie drone ;
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae drealT, windy, winter nt^ht.
The stars snot down wi' cklentm light.

BURNS' POEMS.

Wi' yoo, mjBel, I gat a fVigfat,

Ayontthekragh;'

Te, like a rash-bush, stood in vight,

Wi* waging sugh.

The cud^l in my nieve did'thake,
Each bristl d hair stood like a stake.
When wi* an eldritch, 8tour,qaaick — quaick —

Amang the springs,
Awa je sqoatterM, like a drake.

On whiitling wings.

Let warloeki grim, an* witherM hags,
TcU how wi* jrou on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs, an* dizzy crags,

Wi' wicked speed ;
And in kiik yards renew their lea^roeB,

Owre howkit dead.

Thence kintre wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunffo an* plonge the kim in vain ;
For, oh ! ue yellow treasure's ta'en

By witching skiH ;
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie*t saen

AsyeU's the Bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crease ;
Wlien the best wark-lame i' the house,

By cantrip wit,
Ib instant made no worse a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolye the snawy hoord,
An' float the tin^lin icy-boord.
Then Waiar-kelpieM haunt the foord.

By your direction,
An' ni^tod TravHers are allur'd

To their destruction.

An* aft your moss-travcraing Sprmkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is :
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys

Delude his eyes,
TiUin some miry slough he sunk is.

Ne'er mair to rise.

When Moforu* mystic icordan' gnp
In storms an* tempests raise you up.
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop.

Or, strange to toll*.
The youngest Brothir ye wad whip

Affstraughttohell!

Lang sync, in EdaCt bonnie yard.
When vouthfu'* lovers first were pair'd.
An* all the soul of love they Bhar*d,

The nptur*d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow*ry swaird

In shady bow*r :

Then you, ye auld, snio-drawing dog \
Te came to Paradise incog.
An* play*d on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa' !
An' gied the infant warld a ahog,

*Maist ruin*d a'

p*yo mind that day, when in a faBX,
Wi* reekit duds, an* reestit gizz.
Ye did presei4 your smoutio phiz,

*Mang better folL,
An' sklented on the man of Uts

Your spitefu* joke ?

An' how ye gat him i* your thrall.
An* brak him out o* house an* hafl.
While scabs an* Uotchcs did him gall,

Wi* bitter daw.
An' lows'd his iO-tongu'd, wicked Scawl,

Was warst ava?

But a* your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fochtin fierce.
Sin' that day Michaet^ did you pierce,

Down to tnis tiine»
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloottj I ken ye're thinkui
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin.
Some luckless hour will send him Unkin,

To your black pit;
But, faith ! he*Il turn a comer jinkin.

An* clicat you yet.

But, Sane you weel, auld Ntckie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' !
Ye aiblms might— I dinna ken —

Still hae a t/db^—
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

£v*n for your sakei

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

POOR MAILIE,
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURKPU' TALE

As Mailiej an* her Iambs thogither
Were ao day nibbling on the tether.
Upon her cloot riie coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl^d in the ditch .

* Vide Milton, Book VI

There, croaniiig, dyings, she did lie,
When Hughod'ho cam doytin by.

BURNS' POEMS.

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifled han's, '
Poor Sughoc like a statue standi ;
He Hiw her days were near-hand ended.
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it !
He ^ped wide, but naethiog spak !
At length Poor MtUie silence brnk.

** O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woofu* case !
My dying wordt attentive hoar,
An' TOfir them to my master dear.

**- Tell him, if e^or again he keep,
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair !
But ca' them out to park or liill,
An* lot them wander at their will ;
80 may his flock increaije, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs (? woo' !

^ Tell him, be was & master kin'.
An' ay was guid to me and mine ;
An' now my djring charge I gie liim,
My helpless lambs I trust thorn wi' him

^ O, bid him, save their hamtless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives !
But ffie them guid cow-milk their fill.
Till mey bo fit to fend themsol :
An** tent them duly, e'on an' mom,
W teats o' hay an' riiis o' com.

" An* may they never loam the gaets
Of ither vile wanroslfu' pfts i
To slink tliro* slaps, an' reave an' steal.
At stacks o* pease, or stocks o' kail.
80 may they, like tlieir great Forbears,
For monie a year come uiro' the sheers :
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An* bairns greet for them when thcy^ro dead.

** My poor toon-lamb^ my son an' heir,
O, bid hun breed him up wi' care !
An', if 'he hve to be a beast.
To pit some bavins in his breast !
An* wam him, what I winna name.
To May content wi' yowes at hame ;
An' no to rin an* wear his cloots.
Like itiior menseloss, graceless brates.

** An, niest mjyoicie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether stritagl
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi* ony blastit, moorland toop ;

* A neebor beid-callan

But ay keep mind to moop en' meU«
Wi' sheep o' credit like thy nl !

^ And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessin wi* yoa baith :
An' when you think upo' your BGther,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

■

** Now, honest Hughoc^ dinna fail.
To tell my master a' my tale ;
An' bid him bum this cursed tether.
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather.''

This said, poor Mailie tum*d her head.
An' dos'd her e'en amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

Lament in rhjrmo, lament in proee,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ;
Our bardie*8 fato is at a close.

Past a* remead ;
The last sad cape>stane of his woes ;

Poor MaUie'm dead !

It's no the loss o' wail's ffoor.
That could sae bitter draw the tear
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed :
He's lost a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

Thro a* the town she trotted by him ;
A lang half-mile she could descry him ;
Wi' kmdly bleat, when she did spy him.

She ran wi' Fpeed :
A friend mair foithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,

Tiian Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense.
An' could 'behave hersel wi' mense :
111 sayt, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps tlie spence

Sin' Jtfai/ie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe^
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,

Forbitso' bread;
An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Maihe dead.

•

She wa9 nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi* tawted ket, an hairy hips ;
For her forbears were brought in ships

FVae yont the Twetd
A bonnier JleffA ne'er cross d the cUps

Tlian MaUU gmuL

BURNS' POEMS.

Wae worth the mtn wha fiist did diape
Tlial Tile, wiacJiancie thinf-ra fvpie /
I maJka guid ftUows gim ai? m>e,

Wr chdun dread ;
An* RoHn^t bonnet wave wi' crape.

For .Moito dead.

O, a^ je bards on bonnie Doon!
An* wha on Ayr your ehanten tune !
Come, join the melandioUoiifl croon

O' /ZofrmV leed !
Hie heart will norer ffetaboon !

xlifl tMoi/ie dead.

TO J. S****.

Friendship ! myvterloiu cement of the ■ool !
Bweet*ner of life, and eolder of lodetj !
I owetlieenMicli.— ^—

Blaik.

DxAR S****, the tieest, paukie thief.
That e*er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre homan hearts ;
For ne*er a boeom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear br sun an* moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
YeVe cost me twenty pair o* shoon

Just gaun to see yon ;
And ev'iy ither pair that^s done,

Mair ta'en I*m wi' you.

That aold, capricious caiiin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
8he*s tumM you aff^ a human creature

On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

She^s wrote, the Man.

Just now Iv'e ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime
Bfy fimcy yerkit up sublime

Wi* hasty summon :
Ilae ye a leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin ^

' Some rhyme, a noebor's name to laah ;
Some ihyme (rain thoogfai!) fi»r needfh'cash :
Some rhyme to court the kmUa'clash,

' An' raise a din ;
For me, im oun I nenrer fksh ; -

Irl^ymeforAm

The star that rules my InckkM lot.
Has fated mo the russet coat,
An' damn*d my fortune to the groat ;

But in roquit.
Has Uess'd me wi' a random shot

O' kintra wit.

This while my notion*s ta'en a sklent.
To tr^r my fate m goid black prent ;
But sull the mair I^ that way bent,

Something cries, *^ Hoolie I
I red you, honest man, tok tent !

Yell shaw your folly.

^ There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greeks deep men o' lettcia,
Hae thought they hod cnfiur'd their debton^

A' future ages ;
Now moths deform in shapeless totters.

Their unknown pages."

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs.
To garland niy poetic brows !
Henceforth Yu. rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrangf
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang.

Ill wander on, with tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread

Then, all unknown,
111 lay me with the inglorious dead,

I orgot and gone !

But why o' death begin a tale ?
Just now we're living sound and hale.
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,

rieavft car« o'er side 3
And large, before enjoyment's gale.

Lot's tak th^ tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted, fairy laud, ^
Where pleasure is the magic wand,

That wielded right,
Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand.

Dance by iu' light.

The mamc-wand then let us wield ;

1" For ance that five-aa'-forty's speel'd.
See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,

Wi' creopin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the <^Ioamin,
Then farewell vacant corcletis ruainin ;

BURNS' POEMS.

An* fiureweel cheerf\i^ tankards foamin,

An^ social noise ;

An* farewecl, dear, deluding teoman,

The joy of joys !

O Life ! how pleasant in tliy morning.
Young Fancy 8 rays tlie hills adorning ?
Cold-pausing Caution^s lesson scorning,

We fhsk away,
Like school-boys, at tli^ expected warning.

To joy and play.

Wo wander there, we wander here,
We «ye the rose upon the brier,
Unmuidful tliat tlio thoni is near,

Aiuontr tlie leaves ;
And tlioiigh tlic puny wound upiH;ar,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flowVy spot,
For which they never toilVl nor Kwat ;
'I'lioy drink the swoel, and out tlie fat,

But cnr(> or pain ;
And, haply, C3'0 the barren hut

Willi hi^h disdain.

Witli steady aim, some fortune cha»e ;
Ktnm HoiMj diMis every sinew brace ;
Thro' fair, tliro' Ibul, they ur^o the race,

And seize the prey :
Then cannie, ui some cozie place,

Thoy close the day.

And others, like your humble scrvan".
Poor wights ! nae ruIeK nor roads observin ;
To right or left, eternal swervin.

They zig-zag on ;
Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin.

They aflen groan.

Alas ! what bitter toil an* straining —
But truce witli peevish, poor complaming !
Ih fortune's fickle Lvna 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 Powers t" and warm implore,
** 'Jlio' I should wander icrra o'er.

In all her <*.Iimc8,
Grant mo but thifi, T Hsk no more.

Ay rowth o' rhymes.

*^ Gie dreepi ng roasts to kintra lairds.
Till icicles hmjr frae tlieir beardu •

Gie fine braw ckee to fine life-«aardi,

And maids of honour

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds,

Until they iconner.

** A title, Demmter meritii it ;
A ^er gio to IViUie Piit ;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit.

In cent per cent.
But gio 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 vater-brose^ or tmislir^4cail^

Wi' checrfu' face.
As lang's tlic muses dinna fail

To say tlie grace.**

An anxious o'e I never tlirows
Beliint 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.

O ye douce folk, tliat live by rule.
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you— O fool ! fool ! €odi

How much unlike !
Your hearts are just a standing pool.

Your lives, a dyke

Ilae hsir-brain'd, sentimental traces
In your imletter'd, nameless faces !
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray.
But, graviuimoy solemn basses

Ye hum away

Ye are sae Fror-e, nae doubt ye're vfite ;
Nae ferly tho ye do despise
The hainun-scairum, ram-stam boys.

The rattlin squad :
I see you upward cast your eye»—

—Ye ken the road.-

Whilst I— 4>ut I shall hand me there —
Wi* yoa Tfl scarce gang any v^here —
Then, /omtr, I shall say nae mair,

Init quat my sang.
Content wi' ymi to mak a pav*,

WhareVr I gan^

BURNS' POEMB.

A DREAM.

TbcMgtoi words, and dMds, the ■utnic blum with

^vnwuntf

were ne*er ladkied creMcm.

(On reeAog, in. the public |wpen. the Litmreatt Odt,

with the other parMie of June 4, 1786, the author

wai no eooner dropped aeieep, than ho inufiiied bim-

Miao the birth-day letree : and In hia dremming fluey
made the foUowing Jidiress.]

Gni>-HORinNo to your Majesty !

May heav^a augment your hlinooo.
On every new birth-day ye see,

A Koinble poet wishes !
My baidship liere, at your levee,

Od aic a day as this is,
Ii sure an uncouth sif ht to see,

Amang the birth-<&y drenos

Soe fine this day.

' see ye^re complimented thrang,
^ By monie a lord and lady ;

God save the king !^' 's a cuckoo sang

That's unco easy said ay ;
^e iK>e^, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhjrmcs weel-tum'd and ready,
»Vad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang.

But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

^or me ! before a monarch'^s face,

£v*n thrrt I winna flatter ;
("or neither pension, post, nor place,

Am I your humble debtor :
So, nae reflection on your grace^

Your kinship to liespatter ;
There's monie v^ur been o' the race.

And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.

IV.

^is venr true my sov'reiffn king.

My sKill may weel be doubted :
But tacts are chiels that winna ding,

An' downa be disputed :
Tour royal nest, beneath your wing.

Is e^en rij^t reft an' clouted,
Ar.d now tno thitd pariof tlie string.

An' leas, will gan^^abemt it

Than did ae day

Far he\ fime me that I aepve

To blame your legislation.
Or say, ve wisdom want, or fire.

To nue thk mighty nation !
But, fldth ! I mudde doubt, my Sirt^

Ye've trusted ministration
To chaps, wha, in a bam or byre,

Wad better fiU'd their station

Than courts yon day

VI.

And now ye'vo gien auld Hritam peace.

Her broken sliins to plaster
Your sair taxation docs her fleece.

Till she has scarce a tester ;
For me, thank God, my life's a Mote,

Nae baivam wearing faster.
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the gee«e,

I shortly boost to pasture

V the craft some day.

VII.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt^

When taxes ho enlarges,
(An' WiWs a tnic guid fallow's get,

A namo not onvy spairges,)
That he intends to pay your debt.

An' lessen a' your charges ;
But, G-d-soke I let nae sanng-Jit

Abridge your bonnic barges

An' boats tliis day.

VUI.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geek

Beneath your high protection ;
An' may ye rax corruption's neck.

And gie her for dissection !
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,

In loyal, true aflection.
To pay your Queen, with due respect,

My fealty an' subjection

Ttus great birth-day.

IX.

Hail, Majeilif Mott ExcelierU !

While nobles strive to please ye,
WHl ye accept a oomplimenit-

A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonnio baimtime, Ileciv'n has lent.

Still higher may they hocze ye
In bliss, till fate somu any is sent.

For over to roloa^o yc

Frao care that day.

BURNS' POEMS.

For you, younff potentate o* W ,

I tell your Higfmeu fairly,
Down pleasare's itreamf wi' Bwelluig saOii

I'm tauld yoVe dofing rarely ;
Bat some day ye may gnaw your niili,

An' cuTM yonr folly sairly,
That e'er ye brak DumcCi pales,
' Or, rattrd dice wi' CAorte,

By night or day.

XI.

Tot aft a ragged cowtt'* been known

To make a noble otrer ;
So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

Fint a' their dish-ma-claycr :
There, him* at Jlgmcourt wha shone.

Few better wore or braver ;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John;f

He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

XIL

For 3rou, right rev'rond O-

Nane sets the laicn-skeve sweeter.
Although a libban at your lu^

Wad Dcen a dress completer :
Asye disown yon panghty dog

That bears the k^s of Peter,
Then, switli ! an' ffct a wife to hn^.

Or, trouth I ye*U stain the mitro

Some luckless day.

xni

Young, royal Thrry Breeks^ T learn,

YeVe lately come athwart her ;
A glorious galley^ stem an' stem.

Well rigg'd for Vema* barter ;
But finit hang out, that shell discern

Tour hymenial charter.
Then heave aboard your grapple aim,

An', kurge upo* her quarter,

Come full (hat day.

XIV.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'.

Ye royal lasses dainty
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,

An' gie you la£ a-plenty :
But sneer nae BritUh boys awa,'

For kings are unco scant ay ;
An' Grerman gentles are but ii?ia\

They Ye better just than waiU ay

On onie day.

•King Henry V.
fSir John FalstaiT: tide Sbakspeart.
I Alluding to the newspaper accniint of a certain
nqral isilofs amnii r.

XV.

God Men you a' ! consider now,

Te're mioo mnckle dautet;
But, ero the coifrse o' life be thro'.

It may be bitter sautet :
An' I hae seen their eaggie foo.

That yet hae tarrow t at it;
But or the day was done, I trow.

The laggen they hae dautet

Fa' clean that day.

THE VISION

DUAN FIRST.*

The sun had closM the winter day.
The curlers quat their roaring play.
An' hunger^ maukin ta'eu her way

To kail-yards green.
While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.

The thresher's vFcury Jlingm4ree
The lee-lanff day had tired me ;
And when tJie day had clos'd his e'c.

Far i' the west,
Ben i' the tpencCi right iiensivelie,

Igaod torest.

There, lanely, by the ingle>cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek.
That filld'd, wi' hoast-provoking smoek.

The auld clay biggin ;
An' heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus*d on wasted time.
How I had spent my youthfu' prime.

An' done nae-tiiing.
But stringin blethers up in rhyme.

For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, liao led a market,
Or strutted in a bank an** clarkit

My cash account .
Whilo hero, half-mad, half-fed, haU^sarkit,

Is a' til' amount.

I started, muttVing, blockhead! coof!
And heav'd on high my waukit loof.
To swear by a' yon starry roof.

Or some rash aith,
That I, hencefortli, would be rJtyme-proof

Till my last breath —

*l>uaH, a term oro»iian*s for the diflfercnt divbiov
of a dlKre(>ftire poem. See hit Catk-I.oda^ vol. il. of
M'PlirrAon*0 traielation.

BURNS' POEMS.

WbflBcfick! the •tring the fluck did draw;
Aadjee! the door gaed to the wa' ;
An' oj my iii^e4owe I eaw.

Now Uee&ii bright,
A ti^it, outlaiiduh Uuait, fafaw.

Come fall m

Ye need na doubt, I held my whiaht ;
The in&at aith, half-formed, was croaht ;
I glowr'd ae eerie's I'd been diuht

In some wild fflen ;
When fweet, like modest worth, she blusht.

And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-dad hoOu-botighM
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ;
I took her for some SeotHth Muse^

By that same token ;
An' come to stop those reckless vows,

Wou'd soon been broken.

A ** hair-bramVl, sentimental trace,"
Was strongly marked in hor face ;
A wildly-witty, rustic mce

Shone full upon her ;
Her eye, er^n tom'd on empty space,

Beam'd keen with honour.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen ;
Till half a leg was scrimply scon ;
And such a leg ! my bonme Jean

Could only peer it ;
Sae stran^t, sae taper, tight, and clean,

Nane else came near it.

Her maniU large, of greenish hue.
My gazing won£r chiefly drew ;
Deep iigfUt and sfbad», bold-mingling threw,

A lustre grand ;
And seem'd, to my astomshM view,

A tpeU known land.

Here, rhrers in the sea wore Idrt ;
There, mountains to the skies were tost :
Here, *™wM»«g billows markM the coast.

With surging foam ;
There, distant shone Art'siofly boast, .

The lordly dome.

Here, Doen potirM down his far-fetch'd
floods;
There, weU-fed ihrine stately thiids :
Anld hermit ^yr staw thro' his woods.

On to the shore ;
And many a lesser torrent scodsy

With seeming roar.

Low, m a sandy valley spread,
An ancient 6eAmg& rrard herlm

Still, as m Scottish stoiy read.

She boasts a race,
To ev'ry nobler Wrtue bred.

And polish'd grace.
■ •

By statdy tow'r or palaee &ir
Or ruins pcnident in the air.
Bold stems of heroes, here and there,

I could discern ;
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to doe,

with feature stem.

My heart did glowing transport feel.
To see a race* heroic wnecl.
And brandish round the deep-dy'd sted

In sturay blows;
While back-recoiling secmM to reel

Their stubborn foes.

His countir's 8avioiir,t mark him weD !
Bold Riehardton'st heroic swell ;
The chief on Sarl^ who glorious fell.

In nigh command ;
And he whom ruthless fates expel

His native land.

Tliorc, where a scepterM Pictish shadej
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid,
I marked a martial race, portrayed

In colours strong ;
Bold, soldier-fcatur'd, undismay'd

They strode along.

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,t
Near many a hormit-fancy'd cove,
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love)

In musbig mood,
An agedjtidgtt I saw him rove.

Dispensing good.

With deep-struck reVtoential awei*^
The Icamea tire and ton I saw, *

To Nature^s God and Nature's law

They gave their lore,
This, all its source and end to draw.

That, to adore.

• Tbe WaUacei. t William Wallaee

t Adam Wallace, of Richardton, eoosiii to 'be im-
mortal preserver of Scouish independence.

$ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com-
mand, under Doaglaa earl of Ormond, at the famous
battle on the banks of Sark, fought dttno 1448. Thai
glorious victory was principally owing to the Jadieioiis
conduct, and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of
Craigie, who died of bis wounds after the actios.

H Coilufs king of the Picta, fVom whom tbe district oi
Kyle is sold to take Its name, lies buried, as tradition
says, near the fadHly-ssat of the MontgonMrieiof Coil*s-
fldd, where liis burial-placo is still shown.

ITBarskimmlng the seat of the Lord Justice -Cleric

** Cat fine, tbe seat of the laie doctor and present
professor Stewart.

BURNS' POEMa

BrydmuU bnve ward* I well oould fpy.
Beneath old Scotia't saulmg cyo ;
Who called on fame, low standinj^ by,

To hand him on,
Where many a patriot name on high.

And hero alione.

DUAN SECOND.

With musing-deop, astonishM stare,
I view'd the hcavenly-Rccming/wir ;
A whispering throb did witneis bear.

Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder sister's air

Slic did me greet.

*^ All hail ! my own inspired bard !
In me thy native mnse regard !
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard.

Thus poorly low !
I oome to give thee such reward

As wo bestow.

" Know, the great genius of this land
Has many a li^t aerial band.
Who, all beneath Ids hurh command,

Harmoniously,
As arts or arms they understand.

Their labours ply.

'* They 800110*8 race among them share ;
Some fire the soldier on to dare ;
Some rouse the patriot up to bare

Corruption's heart :
Some teach the bard, a darling care.

The tuneful art

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,
They, ardent, kindling ipirits pour ;
Or, 'mid tiie venal senators roar.

They, lightlees, stand.
To mend the honest patriot-lore.

And grace the hand.

** And when the bard, or hoary isage.
Charm or instruct tlie fiiturc age,'
They bind tlie wild poetic rag*

In energy,
Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.

^ Hence FuUarlon^ the brave and young ;
Hence Demptter's zeal-insoired tongue ;
Hence sweet harmonious iBeaiHt sung

His *■ Minstrel lays ;'
Or tore, witli noble ardour stung,

The tceptie's bays.

" To lower orders are assign'd
The humbler ranks of human-kind,

^ Colonel FullartoiL

The rustic Bard, the labVinff Hind

TIm Artisan;

AH chuae, as various they're incUn'd,

Tlie various man.

" When veUow waves the heavy graia,
The threatiiing stonn some strongly rein.
Some teach to meliorate the pUdn

With tiUago-skill ;
And some instruct the shcpherd-tnun,

Blytho o'er the lulL

**• Some hint the lover's harmlesB wile ;
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ;
Some soothe the laborer's weary toil.

For humble gains.
And make his cottage-scenes beguile

His cares and pains.

^ Some, bounded to a districtnspace.
Explore at largo man's infant race.
To mark tlio embryotic trace

Of rustic Bard ;
And careful note each opening grace,

A guide and guard.

*' Of these am F—CoUa my name ;
And Uiis district as mine I claim,
Wliere once the Campbells^ chief^ of fame,

Held ruling pow'r :
I marked thy embryo tuneful flame.

Thy natal hour.

** With future hope, I oft would gaze
Fond, on tliy little earl^ ways.
Thy rudely caroll'd cliiming phrase.

In uncouth rhymes,
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays

Of other times.

^ I saw thee seek the sounding shore.
Delighted with the dasliing roar ;
Or when the north his fleecy store

Drove thro' the sky,
I saw grim nature's visage hoar

Struck thy young eye.

^* Or, when tlie deep green-mantl'd earth
Warm cherishM ev'ry floweret's birtb.
And joy and music pouring forth

In ev'ry grove,
I saw tliee eye the general rairUi

With boundless love.

^ When ripen'd fields, and azure skiea,
Caird fortli tlie reaptor's rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their evening joys,

Anrl lonely stalk.
To vent thy bosom's swcllin^r nse

111 pensive walk.

Vnm yoathfbl lofe^ wufllrblaahing.

fltraofff
irflfaifeiiii^ ibot thy nenres along,
m aooenta, grateful to thy tongue,
Th* adored Aam

ight thee how to pour in lonff.

To aoethe thy flame.

\ nw thy pulm^B maddening play,
d Mod thee pleasure's devious way,
led by fimcy s meteor ray.

By passion driven ;
7«t the Ughi that led astray

Was kght from heaven.

I tangfat thy manners-painting strains,
e lov«B, the wajrs of simple swains,
1 now, o^er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends :
d RHne, the pride of CoUa^t plains,

Become my friends.

TboQ canst not learn, nor can I show,
paint with ThonuorCs landscape-glow ;
wake the bosom-melting throe,

With 5A«M/on€'* art-
poor, with Gray, the moving flow

Warm on the heart

Yet all beneath th' unrivallM rose,

) lowly daisy sweetly blows ;

«* large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,
green the juicy hawtliom grows,

Adown the glade.

rhen never murmur nor repine ;
e in thy humble sphere to shine : >
trust me, not PototCt mine,

Nor kings' regard,
give a bliss o'ermatching thine,

A rustic Bard.

?o give my counsels all in one
tuneful flame still careful fan ;
ore 0ic Dignity ofMan^

With soul erect ;
trust, the Ufmertal Plan

Will all protect

ind ueartfum (hiT — she solemn said,
bound the HoUy round my head :
pdGah'd leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play ; '
fike a |»a»ing thou^rht, she fled

In lifi^lit awHV*

BURNS' POEMS; V

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUIB,

OR,TBB

RIGIDLT RIGHTEOUa

iamtt

My Moa, these mazfans make a mis,

And tump tbem ay tbegltber ;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

The Rigid Wise anither :
The cleanest eora that e*er was dl^

May hae some pylos o' caffin ;
00 ne'er a fdlow-creaturs slight

For random fits o* daffin.

Sotofflon^—Ectlfk cb. viL ver. Mb

O YE wha are sae guid yoursol,

Sao pious and sae holy,
YoVe nought to do but mark and toll

Your nccbor^s faults and folly !
Whase life is like a woel-gaun mill,

SupplyM wi' store o' water,
The nea[>et happcr^s ebbing still.

And still the clap plays clattor

Hear me, ye venerable core.

As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom*B door

For glaikit Folly's portals ;
I, for their tlioughtlessj careless sakes, -

Would here propone dofcnces,
Their donsie tncks, their black mistakes,

Their failings and mischances.

Te see jrour state wi^ theirs compared.

And shuddo* at the nifier.
But cast a moment's fair regard,

What maks the mighty auTer ;
Discount what scant occasion gave.

That purity vo pride bi.
And (what's aft mair tiian a' Uie lave)

Tour bettor art o' hiding.

IV. *•

Think, when your castigated pulse

dies now%nd then a wallop.
What ragings must his veins convulse, ,

That still ctema) ^aUop :
Wi* wind and tide tux V your^tail.

Right on ye scndyonr sea-way ;
But in tlie teetli o' baith to sail,

It nuiks an unco leeway.

BURNS' POEMS.

See ■oeial life and glee ait down,

AH joyous and unthinking,
'nil, quite tranamugri^M, tney^ grown

Debauchery and drinking :
O, would thov fltay to calculate

Th' eternal consequence! ;
Oryour more dreaded hell to tasttt,

D-mnation of expenses !

Ye high, exalted, virtuous damei,

Ty^ up in godly laces.
Before ye gio poor frailtif names,

Suppose a cnango o* cases ;
A dear lovM lad, convenience snug,

A treacherous inclination —
But, let me whispor i* your lug,

TeYe aiblins nao temptation.

VIL

Then gently scan your brother man«

Stiirgentler sister woman ;
Tho* they may ^ang a kennin wiang;

To step aside is human :
One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving tc^i^ they do it :
And just as lamely can ye mark«

How far perhaps they rue it

vm.

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 majr compote,

Bat know not what^ rttitted.

TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY.

An honest man*i the noUest work of Oral.

PoPR.

Has auld K* ******** seen the Dcil?
Or great M* ******* t tlunwn his heel !

*Whon this worthy old iportsman went ont IsBt muir-
fowlMSSon, be supiMNicd it waa to be, fn Owiiin's phnue,

" tlie lastof hid fields ;" and exprewed an anient wish
to die and be buried in the maUc On this hint the
■Btbor oompoeed hii elegy and opiinph.

t A certain preacher, a great fa\'(tfiriie wiili die mll-
llMU Fld$ the Ordinal Icrt. staioia If

OrR******* again grown wed,*

To preach an' read.

*^Na, waur Una a T cries ilka duel,

7bm Samton^t dead !

K********* lang mav gnmt an* gram
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet ner line.
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

In mourning weed ;
To death, she's dearly paid the kano,

Tarn Samson*8 dead '

The brethren of the mystic lad
May hing their head in woefh' bevel,
Wmle by their nose the tears will revel.

Like ony bead ;
Death's gien the lodge an unco dcvel :

Tarn Samson^ dead

When winter muffles up his doak,
And binds tlio mire like a rock ;
When to tiie louglis the curlers flock,

Wi' ffleesomc speed,
Wha will they station at the corfc ?

Tam Samson's dead !

He was the king o' a' the core.
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore.
Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time of need ;
But now he lags on dcath''s hog-Kort^

Tam Samson^s deiUi !

Now safe the stately sawmont sail.
And trouts bedroppM wi^ crimson hail,
And eels weel keim'd for souple tail,

And gcds for greed.
Since dark in death's fish^recl we wail

Tam Samson dead !

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ;
Ye maukins, cock your fiid fu' braw,

Withouton dread;
Your mortal fac is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead.

That woefu' mom bo ever moum'd,
Saw him in shootin groith ndom''d,
W|iilo pointers round impatient burned,

Frae couples freed;
BwU och ! ho gand and nc^cr rctum'd !

Tam Samson'p dead!

In vain anld njjc his body batters;
In vain Uie gout liis ancles fottcrs;

* toother preaclier, an ednal favoDrlls with the kn
who was at that time ailing;. For hioi, ice alsethtOc
dln:ition. slan/.a IX.

BURNS' POEMS.

nm the boms oame down like waten,

An acre b *mid !

i^erVx *oU wife, ffroetin, datten,

Tarn Samson^ dead !

>irre many a weary haf he limpit,
I* ay the tither shot he Uiiimpit,
11 coward death behind him jumpit,

Wi' deadly feide ;
m he proclaims, wi* toat o* trumpet,

Tarn Samson 8 dead I

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
e nel'd his wonted bottle-swaggor,
at yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi* weefaim*d heed;
L— dtfive!" he ay'd an' owre did stagger;

Tam Somson^s dead \

IQl hoary honter moum'd a brither ;
k sportsman youth bemoanM a father ;
on auld gray stane, amang the heather,

Marks out his head«
'ttie Bunu has wrote, in rhyming bletner.

Tan SaauonU dead !

IWe low he liae, in lasting rest ;
thapi upon his mouldering oreast
*aie spitefu' muirfowl bim her nest.

To hatch an' breed ;
B«! naemair hell them molest !

Tam Samson's dead \

^lien Augnst winds the heather wave,
i sportsmen wander by yon grave,
"se volleys let his mem'ry crave

O' pouther an' lead.
Echo answer frao her cave,

Tam Samson^s dead !

eav'n reel his saul, whare'or he be !
i' wish o* monie mae than mo ;
lad twa faults, or may be three,

Tot what remead ?
watlt honest man want wo :

Tam Samson's dead !

THE EPITAPH.

Samson's weel-wom clay here lies,
I canting zealots, spare him '.
mest worth in heaven rise,
ill mend or ye win near him.

PER CONTRA.

Go, fame, an' canter like a filly
Thro' a' the strccU an' neoks o' KWuf
Tell •v'ly social, honest bilUe

To cease hu grievin,
Fer yet, onskaith'd by death's gleg gulliei

Tmn SamtmCt Hwu

HALLO WEEN.t

The foUowiog Poem wiil, by maoj readetk., be wdl
enough anderatood ; but for the sake of those who
are unacquainted with the manncn and traditions
of the country where the acene to cast, notes are ad-
ded, to give some account of the principal charms and
spells of that night, io big with prophecy to tHe pea-
santry in the west of Scotlsnd. Tbepaaaioeof pty-
ing Into Aitorlty makes a striking part of the history
of human nature in its rude state, in all ages sad
nations ; and it may b« soom entertainment to a phi-
losophic miad. If asy such should honour the author
with a perusal, to see Hie remains of it, among the
more unenlightened in our own.

Tea ! let the rich dsride, the prood disdain,
The simple pleasorcs of tlie lowly trala ;
Tome more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art

Goldsmith.
I.

UroN that night, when fairies light.

On Cassilis DairtuauX dance.
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,

Oir sprightly coursers prance ;
0|^ for CoUan the route is ta'en,

Beneath the moon's pale beams ;
There, up the cove^ to stray an' rove

Amang the rocks and streams

To sport that night.

II.

Amaag the bonnie winding banks.
Whore Doon rins, wimpling clear.

Where Bnicel| ance ruPd the martial ranks.
An' shook nis Carrick spear,

*. JTtlUt is a phrase the eoentiy-fblks sometimes use
for KihDamock.

t Is thought to be night when witches, devils, and
other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their
iMneful, midnight errands; particularly those aerial
people the Fairies, are said on that night, to hold a
grand anniversary.

t Oertaia little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of
Camilis.

$ A noted cavern near Colean-house, colled The
Cove of Colean ; which, as Gaasilis Downans, is famed
in country story for being a favourite haunt of tkiries.

II The famous family of that name, the ancestonef^
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Bails
of Carrick.

BURNS' POEMS

Some merry, friendly, crnmlra folkii,

'J\><rctiicr (lid convene,
To burn their nits, lui pou tlioir stockfl,

An* haud their Hdhiceen

Fu^blytlio that night

01.

Tho loftf^w feat, an' cleanly noat,

Mair hraw than when thoyVo fine ;
Their faces blytlie^ f\i' sweetly kythc,

Il(>art.s leal, an* warm an* kin*:
Tho lads f:u' tri^, wi* woocr-balw,

Weel knotted on their jsfarten,
Some unco blato, an* sonio wi* j^abs,

Gar lameu* hearts gan^ otartm

VVhilcB fast at night

IV.

Then firat and foremost, thro* the kail,

Their slocks^ maun a' besought anco ;
They sleek their een*.an' fp^P an* wale,

For niuckle anes an* straiifjrht anca.
Poor hav n*l WUI fell alTtho drift,

All* wander'd thro* tho b$w-kail^
An* jmw't for want o* l»cttcr shift,

A runt was like a sow -tail,

Sae bow*t that night

Then, straughtor crooked, yird or nane.

They roar and cry a* throuHhcr ;
Tho vera woe thintrs, todlin, rin

Wi* stocks out-owre their shouthcr ;
An* gif tho cuslocs sweet or sour,

Wi' joctelegs tliey taste tlicin ;
Syne coziely, aboon the door,

Wi* camiie care tliey place them

To lio tliat night

VI.

Tho lassos slaw frac *mang them a^
To pou tlicir sUilks o* com ;t

*.Tiic tint ceremony of Halloween la, pulling each a
ftock^ or plant of kuil. They niiut go out, hand hi
hand, wftti cyc«i shut, and {lull the first tlicy meet with :
Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is propliclic
of the vizc and shape of the grand object of all their
spells— the husband or wife. If any yM, or earth, stick
to the root, that If CocAsr, or fortune ; and the tasto of
the cvstoe, that if, tbt bean of the stem, is indicative
of tho natural topper and dlfposition. Lastly, the
stems, or, to k>vo them t^eir ordinary appellation, the
ruHtSf are placed somewhM above the head of the
door: and the christmn names of tlic people whom
chance brings into the houfe, are, pccording to the
priority of placing the runts^ the names in quciition.

t Tiicy go to tliu barn-yard and pull each, at three
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants
the top-pickU, tliat is, the grain at the top of the stalk,
the party in question will come to the marriage-bed
any Uiing but a maid.

Bat Rab slips out an* jinkf about«
Bcliint tlio niucklo thorn :

Ho grippct NeUy hard an' last ;
' >iid

Loud skirPd a* tho
But hor tafHpiekie maist was lost.
When kiuttlin in the fauso-house*

Wi* him that nig

vn.

Tho auld gtiidwife*8 wed hoordot niU

Aro round an* round divided.

An* monio lads* and lasses* fates,

Aro thcro that night decided r

Some kindle, couthio, side by side

An* bum tliogitlier trimly ;
^omo start awa wi* saucie pride.
And jump out-owre tlie chimUe

Fu* high that nij

Joan slips in twa, wi^ tentie e*o;

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ;
But this is Jock^ an* this is me^

She says m to herscl :
Ho bleez*d owre her, an* she owre h

As they wad never mair part ;
Till fuif! he started up tlio lum.

And Jean had cVn a sair heart

To Boe't that ni{

IX.

Poor Willie, wi* his bmc-kail nmiy

Was bnml wi* primsio Mallie ;
An* Mallie, nac doubt, took tho dru

To be compar*d to Willie :
Mairs nit lap out wi* pridcfu* fling,

An* her ain fit it burnt it ;
Wliilo Willie lap, and swoor hyjini

'Twos just the way ho wanted

To be tliat nigh

Nell had the fausc-houso in her min
She pits hersol an' Rob in ;

In loving blecze they sweetly join,
Till white in aso thoy*ro sobbin :

* Whea Uic com is in a doubtnil state, by
grccn,'or wet, the stack-builder, by means of (
dec, makes a large apartment in Ids staci
opening io the vide which is fairest expos
wind : ttiis he calls a fause-ko use,

t Itiiming the nuts is a famous charm. T
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as the;
in the fire, and accordingly as thry burn
grther, or start from beside one another, the <
ibsue of the courtsliip will be

BURNS POEMS.

Vb heart was dancin at the view,
he whisper'd Kob to leak fort:
I, stowlins, prie^d her boimie mou,
u^ oozie in the neuk for't,

Unaeen that night

Merran lat behint their backs,
ler thoughts on Andrew Boll ;
) ka'os them goshin at their crackSf
Ind slips out by hcreel :
i thro^ the yara the nearest'taks,
U* to the kiln she goes then,
^ darklins grapit for the banks,
\nd in the blue-clae?' throws then.

Right fcar't that night

xn.

k' ay she win^ an^ ajr she swat,

[ wat she made nao jaukin ;

llBomctiuDg held within the pat,

Guid L— d ! but she was quakin !

it whether twas the Doil himscl, ^

^ whether twas a banken,

whether it was Andrew Bell,

She did na \rait on talkin

To spiir that night

xm.

)e Jenny to her Grannie sajrs.
Win ye go wi^ me, grannie ?
m the appltt at tfte^lattf
ni frae uncie Johnie :"
rafft her jpipe wi' sic a lunL,
I wrath she was sae vap^rin,
notict na, an azle bnmt
er braw new worset apron

Out thro' that night

XIV.

little skelpio-limmer^s face !
>w daur yon tr^ sic sportin,
»k the fool Thief ony place,
r him to fpae your f6rtune :

rhoever wmld, with sacccsst ^ this spell, must
f oliienre these directions : Steal out, all alone, to
bi, SDd, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of
am ; wiad it in a new clue off the old one ; and,
di the latter end, something will hold the thread ;
id wka h*mdt t I' e. who holds 1 an answer will
araed from the kiln-pot, by naming the Chrls-
nd aomame of your future spouse.
tke a candle, and go alone to a looking gloss ; cat
Ida before it, and some traditions say, you should
fMir bair, an the time ; the face of your coqjugal
inlon, to h€j will be seen in the glass, ai if peeping
eur sliouldac.

Kae donbt but ye may got a fi^ht !

Great cause ye hae to fear it ;
For monie a ane has gotten a flight.

An» Uv'd an' di'd dSeeret •

On lie a night

xy.

^ Ac hairst afore the Sherra-moor,

I mindt as weeP jrestreen,
I was a gilpoy tlien, I'm sure

I was na past fyftoon :
The simmer had been cauld an' wat.

An' stuff was unco green;
An' ay a rantin kirn we gat,

An^ just on Halloween

It feU that night

XVI.

Our fitibble-rig was Rab IVPGraen,
A clever, sturdy fallow ; «

He's sin pat Kppie Sim wi' wean,

That liv'd in Achmacalla :
He gat hemp-seed^* 1 mind it weel,

&* he made imco light ot ;
But monie a day was btf hinrnel^
He was sae sairly frighted

That vera night"

xvn.

Then up gat fcchtin Jamie Fleck,

An' he swoor by his conscience.
That he could saw hanp-teed a peck ;

For it was a' but nonsense ;
The auld guidman ran^t down the pock,

An' out a handful' giod him ;
Syne bad him slip fra^iang the folk

Sometimes when nae ane see'd him :

An'tiytthatnig^t

xvm.

Ho marches thro' amang the stacks,
T'ho' he wras something sturtm ;

The graip he for a harrow taks.
An' haurls at his curpin :

* Steal out nnpercelved, and sow a handful of hemp
seed ; harrowing it with any tiling you can conveni-
ently 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
tliee.*' Look over your left sliouldert and you will see
the appearance of tlie person invoked, in the attitude
of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, " come after mci
and shaw thee,*' that is, show thyself : in which case ft
simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and soy,
"come after me, and harrow thee.**

BURNS* POEMS.

An^ ov^ry now an* tlien, he iays,

^ lletiip«8ecd I law tbeo.
An' her tnat is to bo my hiM,

Come after mo, and draw thee.

As fast this night"

llo wliisU'd up Lord Lenox* march.
To keep his courage cheerie ;

Altlio* his hair bcffon to arcli, •<

He Was see Hey d an^ eerie :

"mi presently he hears a squeak.
An' tlicn a grone an' gruntlo ;

He by his shoathor gao a keek,

- An' timibrd wi' a wintle

Out-owre that night

XX.

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout,

In dreadfu' desperation !
An' young an' aiud came rinnin out.

To hear the sad narration :
He swoor 'twas iiilchin Jean M^Craw,

Or croucihio Merran Humphie,
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ;

An' wha was it but Grumpkie

Asteer that night!

•

XXI.

Meg faui wad to tlie bam gacn

To mn three iverhtt o' naething ^
But for to meet the doil her lane.

She pat but litUc faith in :
She gios the herd a pickle nits,

Air twa red cheekit apples.
To watch, while for the bam she sets.

In hopes to SCO Tarn Kii>ples

That vera night

XXIL

She tarns the key wi' cannio thraw.
An' owre tlio tJircshold ventures;

But first on Sawiiie gies a ca'
Syne ba^oldly in she enters ;

* This charm must likewise be performed anpcrceived,
and alone. You go to the ftam, and open both doors,
taking them off the hinges, if powible ; for there is
danger that the hnng, about to appear, may shut the
doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that in-
strument used in winnowing the com, which, in our
country dialect, we call a voecht ; and go through all the
attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Re-
peat it three times ; and tlie third time an apparition
will pass tliruugh the barn, in at the windy door, and
out at the other, having botli the figure in question, and
the appearance or retinue, marking the empioymcut or
station in life

A rattan ntUed up the wa',
An' she cnr'd L— d pnaerrt her

An' ran thro^midden-£ole an' n,\
An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fenronr*

Fa'fa«tthat-

xxnL

Ther hoy t oat WUl, m* sair advice :

Tnoy hecht him some fine braw um
It chanc'd the stodb h»faddonCd thriee,

Was tinuner propt K>r thrawin :
Ho taks a swirhe, auld moss^oak,

For some black, grousome cmrKn ;
An' loot a winze, an, drew a stroke,

Till skin in blypes came haurlin

Aff 'e nievee that i

XXIV.

A wanton widow Loezie was,

As canty as akittlen ;
ButOch! that night, amang the dial

She got a fearm' settlin !
She thro' the whins, an' by the caim.

An' owre the IiiU gaed scrievin,
Whare three UUrdt^ lamb met at a bun

To dip her left sark-sleevo in.

Was bent that nig!

XXV.

Whyles owre a linn the bumie playe,

As thro' the glen it wimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scar it ttrayi ;

"Whyles in awiol it dimpH;
Whyles glittered to the nightly rays,

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ;
Whyles oookit underneath the braes,

lielow the spreading hazel.

Unseen that night

XXVL

Amang the brachens, on the brae.
Between her an' the moon.

The dttl, or else an outler quey.
Gat up an' gae a croon :

* Take an opportunity of going, uonotleed, to
ttaekf and fathom it three times round. The
thorn of the last time, you will catch in your i
appearance of your future conjugal yoke-feUoi

t Tougo out, one or more, for this is asocial
a south running spring or rivulet, where " tlun
lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. G
in sight of a fire, and bang your wet sleeve be
dry. Lie awake ; and sumetime near midnlgh
pariUon, having the exact figure of the grand
question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if I
other side of it

BURNS' POEMS.

Poor LeeiiB^ heait mmlft b^ tht bool ;

Neer laverock height ihe jmnpit,
Bnt milt a fit, an* in the /mm2

Oat-owra the luijfi she plumpit,

Wi' a planfe that night

xxvn.

border, on the clean heartb-aUne,

The fc^Bpieff tfare^ are ranged,
And e? Vf time onat care if ta^en,

To ne them doly changed :
Aold node John, wha wedlock*8 joys

Sin Mar'iyear did deore,
Bectott he nX the toom-dkh thrice.

He beav^a them on the fire

In wrath that night.

xxvm.

Wi^ mernr san^ an* friendly cracki,

1 wtt tW duma weary ;
An' QDco taiee, an' funnie jokea,

Thair iports were cheap an' cheery,
"^hmttdm^^ wi' fira^rant lunt,

Set a* their £[1^ a-eteenn ;
Sjoe, wT a eocial glaa o'ltront,

Tbej ptrted aff careerm

Fa' blythe that night

THE AULD FA1UflR*B
NEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION

HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE,

^ihrfnglMrtbeaeeartOBMdRlppof Corn to haaiel
to the New-Tear.

A ODID Ifew-^ear I wiih thee, Maggie !
Hae, thflre*8 a npp to thy anld ba^ffie :
TW thoa*s howo-baddt, now, an^ knaggie,

IVe seen the day,
llioa ooold hae gaen like ony itag^e

Ont-owre the lay.

*Take ikree dWm ; pat cleaa water fa one, fool
' la aaoilMr, Imto tiM ihiid empty : blindfold a
and lead Mm to the beartb where tbe dlakee
|id ; IM (or At) dipe the left band : if Iqr chance
clean water, tbe fntnre hniband or wife wlD
tothebarefiMatrfanonyaniald; If In tbe foal, a
; If in the empty diih, It foreteUe, wltbtequal cer-
% BO mairlafi at alL It fe repeated three timet,
•ndcveqr timt tbAtrranfltment of tbe dlibet It altered.

with baiter taittead of milk to them, ft al-

ia tlM

Tlio* now thoa't dowie, atiff, an' crazy.
An' thy anld hide^e at whitens a daity,
IVo eeen thee dappl% deek, and glaizie,

A bonnie gray :
He dKNild been tight that dauri to nAu thaoi

Ance in a day.

Thou ance waa i' the foremost rank,
A fiOy buirdly, eteere, an' twank.
An* net weel down a diapcly thank.

At e'er tread yird ;
An* could hae flown out^>wre a stank.

Like ony bird.

It*s now some nine an* twenty year,
Sin' thou waa my ffood father't miotrt ;
He gied me thee, o* tocher clear.

An* fifly mark ;
Tho' it was tma*, Hwas weel-won gear,

An' thou was ttaric.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenmf^
Te then waa trottin wi' your minnie :
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' fimnie.

Ye ne'er was donme ;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie.

An' unco sonaie.

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride.
When ye bure name my bonnie hriJU ;
An' sweet, an' gracefU' she did ride,

yfV maiden air !
Kyk Stmoart I could bragged wide,

For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an* hobble
An' winUe like a eaomont^coble.
That day ye waa a jinker noble.

For heels an' win' !
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,

Far, far behin*.

When thou an' I were young an' akei^
An' stable-meals at fain were drei^
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an* skreigh.

An' tak tho road !
Town's bodiee ran, and stood abeigh.

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was comt, an' I was meHow,
We took the road ay like a swallow :
At Brootes thou had ne'er a fellow.

For pith an' speed :
But ev*iy tail thou payH tnem hollow,

Where*er thou gaed.

The ama', droop-nunplt, hunter calAle,
ACght aiblina waur*t thee for a brattle :

BURNS' POEMS.

Bat i&x Scotch miloe thou trjH their mettle.

An' garH them whaizle :

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O saugh or hazol

Thou was a nob1o^/te-/an\
As eW in tuf or tow was drawn !
Aft thee an'l, in aught hours ^aun,

On guid March weather,
Hae tumM sax rood beside our han\

For days thegither.

Thou never braindgY, an' fetch't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fiU'd brisket,

W pitli, an' powV,
TiU spritty knowes wad rair*t and risket,

An' Blyi)et owre.

When frosts lav Ivigi an' snaws wore deep,
An' threatcnM laoour back to keep,
I gied tliy cog a woe-bit heap

Aboon tlio timmer ;
I kerni'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car tJiou never ree»tit ;
The steyest brae thou wad hac fac't it :
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit.

Then stood to blaw ;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit.

Thou snoov't awa.

Mypleugh is now thy bairn-time a' :
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw :
Porbye sax mae, I've sell't awa.

That thou hast nurst :
They drew me thrctteen pund an' twa,

The vera worst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought.
An' wi' the weary warl' fought !
An' monie an anxious day, I thought

We wad bo beat !
Tet here to crazy age we're brought,

Wi* somethmg yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less clcservin.
An' thy auld days may end in starvin.

For my last/oti,
A heaptt ttimpart^ 111 reserve ane

Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither ;
Well toyte about wi' ane anither ;
Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig.
Where ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNmO RER UP IN HER NEST WITH
THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785.

Wee, aleekit, cowMn, tun'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy brcastie '.
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering bratUe !
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murdering patiU !

Vm truly sony man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union.
An' justifies that ill opinion.

Which maks thee itarUt
At me, thy poor earth-bom companion,

AxC feUow mortal !

I doubt na, whyles, but tliou may thieve ;
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live !
A daimen^ktr in a thra^'t

'S a sma' request :
m get a blessin wi' the lave.

And never missH !

Thy wee bit houm^ too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin !
An' naethin^, now, to big a new ane,

O' foffgage ^rreen !
An' bleak December's winds ensum,

Baith snell and keen !

Thou saw the fields laid bore an' waste,
An' weaiy winter comin fast.
An' cozie hero, beneath the blast.

Thou thought to dweDi
Till crash ! the cruel couUer past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble.
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble !
Now thou's tum'd out, for a'' thy trouble,

But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble.

An' cranreodi canldS

But, Moosie, thou art no thy lane,
Jn proving fortsigfU may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice an' meti,

Gan^ aft a-gley,
An' lea'e ue nought but gnef an pain.

For promiB*d joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me /
The present only toucheth thee :
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e.

On prospects drear
An' forward, the' I canna see^

1 guess 9iBL\ feat.

BURNS' POEMS.

A WINTER NIGHT.

Mrukad wretcbflib wbarwM'ar 700 an,
111 Mde the ptldng of tliii pitylaa ttorm !
low ■ball your bouaelaa beiidi, and onfed lidM ,
rovloop'd and wlndow*d rag|ediie«, defaod you
*Nm aaaaooa aadi ai Umm 1

Shakspxaks.

fwMM biting B&reoiy fell and doore,
rp afaifei* thro* the leaflen bowV ;
8uPAa6iiff giea a ahort-livM glow^

Far south the hit,
i-daik'ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirlmg drifl :

Le night the •torm the steeples rockM,

•r koour sweet in sleep was lock'd,

ok bonis, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock^d.

Wild-eddying swirl,
tbo' the mining outlet bock*d,

Down headlong huri.

fltVuDg, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
oQ^t ma on the onrie cattle,
dlj sheep, wha bide this brattle,

O' winter war,
Iflno' the drift, deep-lairing sprattlc,

Beneath a scar.

I happing Inrd, wee, helpless thing,
t, m the menr months o' spring,
{fated me to near thee sing,

What comes o' thee ?
XB wih thou cow'r thy cluttering wing,

An'close thy e^e?

i*a jnm on mnid^ring errands toil'd,
>from yoor sayage homes ezilM,
blood-etam'd rowt, and sheep-cote spoU'd,

My heart forgets,
lapitylaM the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

iw Phmbe^ in her midnight reign
c mnffl'd, view'd the dreary plain ,
erowdiiig thoughts, a pensive trabi.

Rose m my soul,
n on my ear this plaintiTo strain.

Blow, solemn, stole—

Bknr, Mow, yt wmds, witii heavier gas( •
ftme, thoa bitter-bitixig fit>st !
ssnd, ye chilly, amothermg snows !
all your rage* aa now miited, shows

More hard unkindness, unrelenting.
Vengeful malice, unrepentinc^.
Than heav^ illuminM man on Brother man be*
stows!
See stem oppression^ iron ^ip,
•Or mad ambition^s gory hand.
Sending, like blood-hoimds from the slip,

Wo^ want, and murder o'er a land !
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells tlio mournful tale,
How pompcr'd luxury, flalt'ry by her side.
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in tiie rear,
Looks o^er proud property, extended wide ;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,

AVhoso toil upholds tlie glittring show,
A creature of another kind.
Some coarser substance, unrefined.
PlacM for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, b^
low;
AVhere, where is loveV fond, tender throe.
With lordly honour^s lofty brow,
The powVs you proudly own ?
Ib there, beneath lovers noble name.
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,

To bless himself alone !
Mark maiden-innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares.
This boasted honour turns away
Shunning soft pity^s rising sway,
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'ra !
rcrhaps, this hour, in mis^r^'^s squalid nest.
She strains your infant to her joyless breast.
And with a mother^s fears shrinks at the rock-
ing blast !

Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down.
Feel not a want but what yourselves create.
Think* for a moment, on his wretched fate.
Whom friends and fortune quito disown !

lU-satisfyM keen nature^s clamVous call,
StretdiM on his straw ho lays himself to
sleep.

While thro' tne ragged roof and chinky wall.
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the driAy heap !
Think on the dungeon's grim confine.
Where guilt and poor mistbrtune pine \
Guilt, erring man, relenting view *
But shall thy lega rage pursue
The wretch, already cruslicd low
By cruel fortune's underserved blow ?

AfHiction's sons are brothers in distress,

A brother to reheve, how exquisite the bli«l

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw.

And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

Bat deep this truth imprefls'd my mind-
Thro' all his works abroad.

The heart, benevolent and kind,
Tlie most resembles God.

BURNS' POEMS.

EPISTLE TO DAVIE*

A BROTHEE POST.*

If.

Juai

While winds frae 9ft Ben Lemami blaw,
And bar the doom wi* driTing maw,

And hinjT xu owre the in^le,
I set me down to pas the time.
And spin a yene or twa o' rfajme,

In namely westiin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drifl,

Ben to the chimla log,
1 Qudfe a wee the great folks* gift,
^!)iat liye sae bien an* snug :
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side ;
But hanker and canker, ^
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in abody's pow'r.

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shared ;
How best o* chiels are whilee in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant.

And ken na how to wairH :
But, DaoiA, lad, ne'er fash your head

Tho' we hae little mr.
We're fit to win our daily bread.
As lang's we*re hale and fier :
"Mair spier na', nor fear na,"!

Auld afo ne'er mind a feg.
The last o^ the warst ot.
Is only for to b^.

To lie in kilns and bams at e'en.
When banes are craz'd and Uuid is thin.

Is, doubtless, great distress I
Tet then content could make us blest ;
Ev'n then, sometimes we*d snatch a taata

Of truest liappiness.
The honest heart thafs free frae a'

Intended fraud or fl^ile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile.
Ana mind still, joull find still,

A comfort this nae ama';
Nae mur then, well cue then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

^Danii Stttar, one of ths dub at TsfbcikHi, and
aatliorofaTolanisofPosmtintlMSeoalihdlalset E

What tho', like commonan of air.
We wander out, we know not where,

Bat either house or hall f
Tet nature's charms, the hilla and wo
The sweeping yales, and fitaming flo<

Axefireeal&etoaJL
In days when daisies deck the ground

And blackbirds whistle dear.
With honest joy our hearts will boon
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then.

Well sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne Hwme tillH, well time tilD*!
And smg H when we hae dom

It's no in titles nor in rank ;

It's no in wealth like London bank«

To purchase peace and rest ;
It's no in makin muckle mstr :
It's no in books ; it's no in leer.

To make us teuly blest:
If hamuness hae not her seat

Ana centre in the breast.
We may be wise, or rich, or great.
But never can be blest ;
Nae treasures, nor pleasuree.

Could make us h^py leng ;
The h&art ay's the part ay.
That makes us right or wrea^

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and

\^' never-eeaaing toil ;
Think ye, are we leu blest than thaj
Wha scarcely tent us in their way.

As hardly worth their while ?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress i
Or else, neglecting a' thatv guid,
They riot in excess I
Baith careless, and feaxlese
Of either heavVi or hell *
Esteeming, and deeming
If s a' an idle tale !

VIL

Then let us cheerfh' acquiesce ;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,

By pininff at our state ;
AniC even anould misfortunes pome,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' someb

An's thankfii' for them yet
They gie the wit of age to youth ;

Tney let us ken oiusel:
They make us see the naked truth,

Tne real guid and ill

BURNS' POEKS.

rho* loM M , mnd

Be iMKma right Mrere,
niflfB^s wit there, veil mt there,

Tell find nae otoor waen.

vm.

Bot mm Dmfie^ aice o' heaite !

■jucfatleM wmd wreqf the otrtaii

dfbttVyldeteft)

Bie his joya for yoa end I ;

jojre that nchei ne^erooold buy ;

d joTi the verj belt.

)*f a^ the ^^eatunt o* ihe hearty

e lorer an* the fiian' ;

16 your JUe^, jour deareal part,

dfiiijdarliiiff^/

It warms me, It charma me.

To mentioii bat her fUDiie.-
[theats me, it beets me.

And sets me a' oo flame !

I ye pow^ who mle above !
Ml, whose vecj self art hve I
mi hnowVi my words sincere !
life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
J more dear, immortal part,
Mt more fondly dear !
ahiart-ooiroduiff care and grief
Drive my soul of rest,
tear idea brings relief
d iolaca to my breast
rhoa Bemg^ All-seeing,

O hear my forvent pravV ;
Still take her, and make ner

TAy most peculiar care !

Ill, ye tender feelings dear !

mfle of love, the friendly tear,

) sympathetic fflow ;

since, this world's thorny ways

nmdierM out my weazy days,

1 it not been for you I

itSl has Uess'd me with a friend,

ivery care and ill ;

ift a mote endearing band,

16 more tender stilL

t hchtens, it brightens

llie ienebrific scene,
^o meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean,

XI.

w that name insfHres m v stj^ I
rards come skelfMn rank wad file^
aist before I ken !
Bady measure rins as fine,
obus and the fiunous Nine
re glowrin own my pen. •

Myspaviet Pepum wiD fimp.

Till anoe he Vi faiily het ;
And then hell hilch, and stUt, and junpi
An* rin an unoo fit :
But least then, the beast then,
Shoold me this hastjr ride,
ni light now, and dimt now
His sweaty wixen*a hide.

THE LAMENT,

OOCAHONED BY THE UNFORTUNATl
OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR.

Alas ! bow oft does Goodnen woand hseif,
Aod fweet AAsUoo provt tiM ■pdag of wo t

HOMS.

O THOU pale oib, that silent shines.

While care-untroubled mortals deep !
Tliou seest a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep !
With wo I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan unwarmmg beam ;
And mourn, in lamentation deep.

How life and Utne are all a dreaau

II.

I joylesi view thy rays adorn

The IkintlyHmarked distant hill :
I joyless view thy trembling hom^

Keflected in the gurgling rill :
Myfondly-fluttering heart, be stID !

Thou Dusy powV, Remembrance
Ah! must tne agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace I

No idly-fcignM poetic pains,

My sad, Tove-lom lamentings claim ,
No snepherd^ pipe— Arcadian strains ;

No fabled tortures, quaint and iame :
The plighted fkith ; the mutual flame ;

The oft attested powVs above :
Thepromu^d Father^t tender name :

These were the pledges of my love !

IV.

Encireled in her clasping arms.
How have the raptur^ moments flown

How have I wished for fortune^s charms,
For her dear sake, and hers alone *

BURNS' POEMS

And must I think it ! is she ffone,
My lecrot heart's exulting Doost f

And does she hocdloss hear my groan f
And if she ever, ever lost i

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart,
t So lost to Iionour, lost to truth.
As from the fondest lover part.

The plighted husband of her youth !
Alas 1 life s path may be unsmooth

Her way he tlut>' rough distress !
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe,

Her sorrows share and make them leas ?

Ye winged hours that o'er vm past,

EnrapturM more, the more enjoy'd,
Your dear remembrance in my brrast.

My fondly-trcasurM thoughts employ'd*
That breast how dreary now, and void,

For her too scanty once of room !
VWn ovVy ray of hope destroyed.

And not a wisfi to gild the gloom !

vn.

riie mom that warns th' approaching day,

Awakes me up to toil and wo :
1 SCO the hours in lonff array,

That I must suffer, lingermg, slow.
Full many a pan^^, and many a throeii

Keen recollection''s direfm train.
Must wiing my soul, ere Phcsbus, low.

Shall kiss tiie distant, western main.

vm.

And when my nightly couch I tiy,

Soro-harass'd out with care and grief^
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,

Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
Or if I alumbcr, fancy* chief,

Reigns hagrgrard-wild, in sore affiight :
Ev*n oay, all-bitter, brings relief.

From such a horror-breathing night.

IX.

O I thou bright queen who o^er tli' expanse.

Now highest rcign'st, with boundless sway !
Oft has tliy fdlcnt-marking glance

ObpcrvM us, fondly-wandering, stray !
Fho time, unheeded, sped away.

While lovers luxurious pulse beat high,
IjMioath thy fiilvcr-glcammsf ray.

To mark the mutual kiudling eye

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrai

Scenes, never, never, to retail
Scenes, if in stupor I forget.

Again I feel, again I bum !
From ev'ry joy and pleasure tor

Life's weary vale ill wander :
And hopeless, comfortless. 111 m

A faiUiless woman's broken vi

DESPONDENC

ANODE.

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'
A burden more Uian I can bea

I sit me down and sigh :
O life I tliou art a galling loac
Along a rough, a weary road.

To wretches such as 1 1
Dim backward as 1 cost my vi
What sick'nintr scenes appe
What sorrows yet may pierce i
Too justly I may fear !
Still caring, Jespairinff,

Must bo my bitter door

My woes hero Bhall close

DWt with tlie closing to

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
WTio equal to the bustling slrii

No otiicr view regard !

Ev'n when the wisiied end 's d

Yet while the busy mcatvt are j

They bring their own rewar*

Whilst I, a hopo-abandonM wij

Unfitted with an aim^

Meet ev'ry sad returning night

And joyless mom tlie same ;

You, bustling, and jiistlin^

Forget each grief and p

I, listless, yet restless.

Find every prospect vai

UI.

How blest the Solitary's lot,
WTio, all-forgetlini: all-forgot.

Within his humble cell.
The cavern wild with tangling
Sits o'er his newly-gather d fru

Beside his crystal well !
Or, haply, to his evening thoug

By unfrc(]ucnted stream.

BURNS' POEMS.

B wtyi of men are distant brought,
I faint collected dream :
While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heav^ on high*
As wand^rin^, meand'zing,
He yiewB uie solenm sk j.

IV.

bin I, no lonely hermit plac'd

'hen never homan footstep traced,

Lea fit to play the part ;

be lucky moment to improve,

nd^ to stop, and ju«/ to move.

With self-respecting art :

at ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys

Which I too keenly taste,

be Solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet bo blest !

He needs not, he heeds not.
Or human love or hate,

Whilst I here must cry here.
At perfidy ingrate '.

! enviable, early davs,
icn dancing thoughtless pleasnre^s maze,
i!*o care, to guilt unknown !
w in exchan^'d for riper times,
feel the folhes, or the crimes,
)f others, or my own !
tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Jke linnets in the bush,
little know the ills ye court,
Yhen manhood is your wish !

The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage!

The fears lUl, the tears ul.
Of dim-declining age

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercaat,'**

The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to mo more dear

Than all the pride of Mav :
The tempest's howl, it soothes my sool,

My gncfs it seems to join.
The leafless trees my fancy please,

Theu' fate resembles mme

in.

Thou Poic^r Supreme^ whose mighty

These woes of mine fulfil.
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best.

Because they are Thy Will !
Then all I want (O, do thou grant

Tliis one request of mine !)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny

Assist me to rtfi^n.

THB

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

INSCRIBED TO R. A****, ESO-

WINTER.

A DIRGE.

B wintry west extends his blast,

bid hail and rain does blaw ;

, the stormy north sends driving forth

rhe blindinij sleot and snaw :

lUe tumblmg brown, the bum comes

down,
ind roars frao bank to brae ;
d bird and beast in covert rest
ind pass the heartless day.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joya, and destiny obtcure ;

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The abort but simple annals of tlie poor.

Gray.

Mt lov'd, my honoured, much respected
friend I
No mercenary bard his homage nays ;
With honest pride 1 scorn each selnsh end ;
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and
praise:
Toyou I sinir, in simple Scottish lays,

The lowly train in life's scquester'd scene ;

The native feelings strong, tlie guileless

wavs :

Wliat A'**** in a cottage would have been;

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there,

I ween.

11.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The shortening winter-day is near a close ;
The miry beasts retreatiqg frae the pleugh ,

The black'ning trains o'^craws to their re-
pose:

Dr. Toang.

BURNS' POEMS.

The toil-worn CoUer free hii kboar goee.
This nifiht \nn weekly moil is at an end.
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his
hoes.
Hoping the mom in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does
hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

B^ioath the shelter of an aged tree ;
Th* expectant wee-^hingt^ toddlin, stacher
thro'
To moot their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an*
glee.
His weo bit inglo, blinkin bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriflie v\fie't
smile,
The lispin^r infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' liis weary, carkin^ cares beguile.
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his
toil.

IV.

Bely ve the older bairns come drepping in.

At service out, amang the famiers roun*;
Some ca' the pluugh, some herd, some tentie
rin
A cannie errend to a neobor town :
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman
grown.

In youthfu* bloom, lore sparkling in her
e*e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bnw new
gown.
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee.
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi* joy mifeignM brothera and ristera ineet.

An' each for other's woelfare kindly spiers :

The social hours, swifl-wingM unnotic'd

fleet;

Each telln the imcos that he sees or hears ;

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ;

Anticiiiation forward points the view.
The mother^ wi* her needle an' her sheers.
Gars auld clacs look amaist as weeKs the
new;
Vhefatfur mixes a' wi* admonition due.

VI.

Their master's an' their mistreat command,
Tlie younkers a' are warned to obey ;

^ An' mmd their labours wi' and eydent hand.
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play :

An' O ! be soM to Iknr Um Loid «lwij!

An' mind your du^ duly, mom ■nMugllt !
Lest in temptation's path ye g^piig astray*
Implore his counsel and assisting mignt :
They never sought in vain that aonght the
Lord ai^ht !"

VII

But hark ! a rep comes gentler to the door;

Jennjh wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er tho moor.

To do some errands, and convoy her hama.
Tho wily mother sees tlie conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ;
With heart-struck, anxious care, inqoirea hia
name.
While Jenny hafilins is affraid to speak ;
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it^ nae wild,
worthless rake.

vin.

Wi* kindly welcome Jenny lainws him ben ;
A streppan youth ; he take uie mother^
eye;
BIyU*e Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ;
Tlie father cracks of horses, ploughs, and
kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflowi wi*
joy.
But blate and laithfd', scarce can waal
behave ;
, The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an saa
greve;
Wee] pleas'd to think her Mm't re ap ac la d
like the lave.

DT.

O happy love ! where love like this ia feimd !
O neart-felt raptures 1 bliss beyond oom-
pare!
I've paced much this weaiy morfal muni^

And sage experienee bids me this deoUr*—
^ If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleaaoie
spare.
One cordial in tliis melancholy vale,
Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair.
In othera arms breathe out the tender tale.
Beneath the milk-white thorn that loants the
ev'ning gale."

Is there, in human form, that baana 1
A wretch! a yillaln! loat to lova and
truth!
Xhat can, with studied, sly, enmaring art,
^Betray awect JermyU unsuspecting yoath ?

BURNS* POEMS.

Cam on hk pojnr'd arti ! duMmUing
■mooth!
Are honour, Tirtue, oonacunee, all ezil'd ?
li there no pi^, no relenting rath.

Points to the parents fbodlinff o*er their
chUd?
Than paints the ruinM maid, and their dis-
traction wild?

Bat now the supper crowm their sample
hoard.
The halesome parrikh^ chief o* SeotiaU
fbod:
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford.
That yont the hallan snugly chows her
cood :
Hie dame brings forth in oomplunental
mood.
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck,
fell.
An' aft he^ nrest, an' aft he ca's it gnid;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, win tell.
How twas a towmond anld, sin' lint was i' the
belL

xn.

The dMofti' supl^ done, wi' seiious fa^,

Tl)P7TOund the inj^le, form a circle wide ;
T%e sire turxu o V, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big ha^-BibU, ance his fathers pride :
I£s bonnet reTVently is laid aside.

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ;
Those strains that once (ud sweet in Zion
glide.
He i^les a portion with judidous care ;
And ^Lei vm Vfonhip God r he says, with
solemn air.

xm.

Tbej chant their artless notes in simple
guise;
They tnno their hearts, by far the noblest
aim:
Peihaps DvnieeU wild warbling measures
rise.
Or pUinti ve JMorfm worthy of the name :
Or noUe Elgin beets the heav'kiward flame,

The sweetest far orSeoHa'i holy htys :
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ;
The tickled ears no heart-Alt raptures
raise;
l?aA unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

XIV.

The priest-like fiither reads the sacred page,
How Abram wis the JHtmj^ God on
high; /

Or, AfoMfbade eternal warfare wage ■
With AmtaMtU ungracious prijgeny ; .

Or how tne rojftd bard did sroaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven'to avenging
ire;
Or, Job^i pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ;
Or rapt lioia/Ct wild, seraphic fire ;
Or other lioly seers that tune the sacred lyre.

XV.

Perhaps the ChritHan vohune is the theme.
How guiltless blood for guilty man was
shed ;
How Hie, who bore in Heaven the second
name;
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head :
How his first followers and servithts sped ;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a
land:
How htj who lone in Patmot banished.
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ;
And heard great Bab^lorCt doom pronouncM
by ueav'n's command.

XVI.

Then kneeling down, to Heaven^s Eternal

King,
The 9ttmt^ the father^ and the kuiband

prays:
Hope **' springs exulting on triumphant

'^ngi"*
That thus they all shall meet in future
days:
There ever bask in uncreated nj»^

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear.
Together hymning their Crea/or'« praise,
m such society, yet still more dear ;
WhUe aiding time moves lound in an etomtl
sphere.

xvn.

Compar'd with this,, how poor lleligion*B
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 Poiff'r, inoens d^the pageant will desert.
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;
.But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas d, the langotge of
the 80u1 ;
And in lus book of life the inmates poor enroL

xvm.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ra]
way;
Tlie yougling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent-pair their seerei homage pay.
And profit up to H«tMii Iho Wftnn ra-
quest %^,.»/.

* rope*i Wlnd^ Forest.

BURNS' POEMS.

That He who ftUls the raven^s clamorous
nest.
And decks the lilv fair in flow'iy pride,
Would, in the way nia wisdom sees tiio best,
For them and for their little ones provide ;
But chiefly, in their hearts with i;raet divine
preside.

XIX.

From scenes like these old Scotia*t grandeur
spring
That makes her lov'd at home, rererM
ahrond :
Princes and lords arobut the breath of kings,
^ An honest mou^s the noblest work of
God :"
And eertes^ in fair virtue's heavenly road,

The cottat^e leaves the paiace far behind ;
What is a lordling*s pomp ! a cumbrous load,
Disffuising oil the wretch of humankind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refinM !

XX.

O Scotia ! my ocar, my native soil !
For whom my warmest wish to Heayen is
sent !
L<mg may thy hardy sons of rustic toil.
Be blessM with health, and peace, and
sweet content !
And, O I may Heaven their simple lives pre-
vent
From luxury^ contagion, weak and vile I
Then, however crownt and coroneU be rent,
A virhwut poptdaee may rise the while.
And stand a wall of firo around their much-
lov'd Isle.

XXI.

O Thou I who pour'd the patriotic tide
That streamed thro' WaUace^t imdaunted
heart;
Who darM to nobly stem tyrannic pride.
Or nobly die, the secona fflorious part,
(Tlie patriot's God, peculiarly thou lurt.
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re-
ward !)
O never, newQT^Seotia'B realm desert:
But still the pairioU and the patriot hard^
In bright succession raise, her ornament and
guard!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGi:.

Whrw chilUTovember^ surly blast
Made -fields aud forests bore, .

One evening, as I wander'd forth

Along the banks o^Ayr^
I spyM a man, whose aged step

tSecm'd weary, worn with care ;
His face was furrowM o'er with yeaza,

And hoary was his hair.

II.

^^ Young stranger, whither wand'rest th

Began the reverend sage ;
^ Does tliirst of wealth thy step constra

Or youthful pleasure's rage ;
Or haply, prcs8*d witli cares aud woes,

Too soon tliou hast began
To wander forth, witli me, to mourn

The miseries of man !

in.

^ Tlie sun tliat overhangs yon moo^^

Out-spreading far and wide,
Wliere hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordluig's pride ;
IVe seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return ;
And cv'ry time has added proofs.

That man was made to mourn.

IV.

M O man ! while in tiiy early years,

How prodigal of time !
MiroencUng aul tiiy precious hours,

Tliy glorious youtliful prime !
Alternate follies take tlie sway ;

Licentious passions bum ;
Which tenfola force gives nature's law,

That man was mode to mourn.

** Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active mi^ht ;
Man then is useful to his kmd,

Supported is his riffht :
But see him on tlie edge of life.

With cares and sorrows worn.
Then age and want, Oh ! ill match'd pai

Show man was made to mourn.

** A few seem fovountes of fate.

In pleasure's lap corest ;
Yet, think, not all the ridi and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land,

Are wretched aud forlorn ;
Tliro' weary life tluM lesson loam.

Thai man was inaUc to uioum

BURNS' POEMS.

vn.

Bilany and aharp the num^rom iOa

Inworen with oar frame \
Aon pointed still we make muwlTea,

Re^t, remone, and shame !
\nd man, whoee heaven-erected face

The sniilea of love adorn,
Utn^B inhomanity to man

Hakea countless thousands mourn !

^ See yonder poor, o Wabour'd wight*

So u)ject, moan, and vile.
Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil ;
And Bee his lordly fellow-icorm

The poor petition spimi.
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife

And helpless offiiphng mourn.

If Fm designM yon lordling*8 slave,-
"Bj natureVi law designed,
^^ was an independent wish
JETer planted in mjr mind ?
' not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn f
r why has man the will and pow*r
To make his fellow mourn ?

f et, let not this, too much, my 8on«
Disturb thy youthful breast :
his partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last !
be poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had neiver, sure, been bom,
ad there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn !

3 death ! the poor man's dearest friend*
The kindest and the best !
'eloome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest !
be great, the wealthy, fear thy tilow,
From pomp and pleasure torn ; ^
It, Oh I a Ueas'd relief to those
That weary-laden mourn !" ^

PRATER IN THE PROBPECT
OF

DEATH.

O THOU unknown, Almightv Cause

Of all my hope and fw I
In whose (Iroad presence, ere an hour,

Perhaps I must appear I

If I have wanderM in those paths

Of life I oucht to shun ;
As Jome^^tng, loudly, in my breast,

Remonstrates I Have done ;

in.

Thou know^st that thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong ;

And list ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

IV.

Where human wtahMU has come short,

Or fraUiy stept aside.
Do thou AU-Good I for such thou art,

In shades of darkness hide.

Where with vUenHon I have err'd,

No other plea I have.
Bat, 7%m art good : and goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ?
Have I BO found it full of pleasing channs f
Scnme drops of joy with diuughts of ill be-
tween:
Some gleams of sunshine Md renewing
storms:
Is it departing pangs my ■ool flanns ?

Or death's unk>v»ly,dr0«i7t^^k abode? '
For guilt, for guilt, mypmtn are in^ttns ;
-1 trdhible to approadi an angry God,
And justly smart beneath liis sin-a vending rod*

BURNS' POEMS.

Fain woald I ■ajt^'FoTgive my foul offence!*'

Fain promise never more to diiobey ;
But, dioold my Author health again dia-
penae,
A^n I might deeert fair virtueVi way ;
Agam in foU^a path might so astray :

Again exalt the brute ancTsink the man ;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly morcy^s
plan?
Who sin BO ofl have moumM, yet to tempta-
tion ran P

O thou, great Governor of all below I
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to
blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea :
With what controlling pow V assist ev'n me,
Those headl o ng furious passions to con
fine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,
To rule their torrent in th' albwed line ;
Of aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Diome !

LTINO AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE
ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT

THE FOLLOWING VERSES

Of THK EOOIC WHEEK BX tLBPT.

O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st abi»ve !

I know thou wilt me hear :
When for this scene of peace and love,

I make my pray'r sincere.

The hoary sire— the mortal stroke.
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare I

To bless hislittle filial flock.
And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offimring eyes

With tender hopes and fears,
O, bless her with a mother's joys.

But spare a mother^s tears !

Thekr|K»pfi;&r stayUlbl' darling youth.
In manhood^ dawmnvblush ; '

Bless bin, thou God of love an4.4|afai ^
l/p to a parent's wish l«i *l^^

The beauteous, seraph BiBter4>aiid

With earnest tears I pray.
Thou know'st the snares on ev^ hand.
Guide thou their steps alway I

VI.

When soon or late they reach that coast,
O'er life's rough ocean driv^.

May the^ rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family m Heav'n !

THE FIRST PSALM.

Ths man, in life wherever placed.

Hath happiness m store.
Who walks not in the wicked'b way.

Nor learns their guilty lore !

Nor fSrom the seat of soomfbl ^
Casts forth his eyes abroad,'

But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the
Which bv the streamlets grow ;

The fruitfw top is spread on high.
And firm tlie root below.

But ho 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.

A PRAYER.

UTOER THE rEESSUEB OF VIOLENT AITCnnnL

O THOU Great Being ! what thou ait

Surpasses me to uiow :
Tet sure I am, that known to thee

Are all thy works below.

Thv creature here before thee standii

All wretched and distrest ;
Tet sure those ills that wring my soul

Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou. Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath !
O, free my weary eyes from teari^

Or close them fast in death !

But if I nuA afliictod be.

To suit some wild des^ ;
Then man my soul with firm retohiS

To bear and not rsfnoa \

BURNS' POEMS.

FDurrsa

VWMBEB or THB
P8ALB1

O TBOO, ^ finrt, the gTMieit fHflod

Of an the human race I
'Whose iCroiig xiflfat hand has e?er been

Their atay anodweDing place !

Before the monntaina heaT'd thair head*

Beneath thy fbrminf hand,
B^ne this pradVooa globe itaelf«

Aroae at thy command :

Thai pow^ which raia'd and ftill opholda

Thia nnmraal frame^
From coontleaa, mibegmning time

Was ever atill the aame.

•nuMw mi^^i^ peiiode of yean

Which aeem to na ao vast,
Appear no more befi»e thy aight

%an yeeteiday that'a pel*.

Tboa pVit the word : Thy ereatme,

b to existence broa|dit :
Again thoo aay*st, **Te sons of men,

jUtnm ye into nought t**

Tbon layest tham, mth all their cares,

In eyadasting aleep ;
As with a flood thou tak'tt them off

With oven^ehnmg sweep.

They flooridi like the monung flowV,
In beauty's pride arrarM ;

But long ere night eat aown it lies
AU Mher'd and deca/d.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

OK TUBinNO ONE DOWN WITH THB PLOUOB
IN APRIL 1780.

Wek, modest, erimacm-tipped flow^
Thoa'a met me in an eril hour ;
For I maxm croah tr^ ^wg the stonre

l^y slender stem;
To spare thee now is paat mr powV,

nou Donnie gem.

Alas*, it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie XarJk, companion meet !
Bending thee ^oumg the dewy weet !

Wi* spreckled breast
\MMn npward-springing, biythe to greet

The purpling east*

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy eariy, humble birth ;
Tet cheerfully thou glinted Ibfth

Amidtestonn,
Scarce rear'd abore the pamt earth

Tl^ tender fiann.

The flaunting flowVi our gardena yield,
High ahelt'ring woods and wa*s maun diield.
But thou beneath the random bield

O' dod or stane,
Adorns the histie «t6Ue;/Seltf,

UnsesD, alane.

There, in thy acanty mantle dad.
Thy snawy boaom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy hit— ''*"^"g head

In humble ffuise; K*

But now the thare upte&rs thy hA,

And low thou lies I

Such is the fkte of artleas Maid,
Sweet/otff're< of the rural shadel
By lovers simplicity betray'd.

Ana guileleas trust,
Till aha, like thee, all soil'd IS faud

Low i' the dust

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life*s rough ocean luddeas starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

OCprvdenihre^
TW billows rage, and gales blow hard.

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate oftyffering worth isnv^
Who long with wants and woes has striven.
By human pride or cunning driv'n, t

To mis'ry's Ipink,
Till wrench'd of evVy stay but JBto'n,

He,roiA'd,Bmk!

E*m thou who moum'st the Daiiy'a &te
TTuUfaU iff tfktn^— no distant date ;
Stem Ram^Bplough-^uare drives, elat«;

Full on thy bloom.
Till crushM beneath the fuzrnr^ wei^t,

Shall bray doom!

•■y

TO RUIN.

All hail ! mezoiable lord !

At whose destruetkte-breathing word,

The mightiest empires fUl I
Thy cruel wo-delighted train.
The ministere of grief and pain,

A sullen welcome, all !

With ftem-rafoIvM, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart ;
For one has cut my dearest tie^
And quiven in my heart.
Then lowVing, and pouring,
The tiorm no more I dread ;
Tho' thick'ninf and blackening.
Round my cwroted head.

And, thoa grim powV, by life abhorred.
While life a pleasure can afford,
« Oh I hear a wretch's prayV !
No more I shrink appalled, afraid ;
I court, I beg thy ftiendly aid.
To close una scene of care !
WIm^ jhall my soul in silent peace,

4ungn life's jo|^2e» day ;
Hy weaxy heart its throbbing cease,
' *X)old mouldering in the clay f
* NofSsv more, no tear more.
To stain my lifeless face ;
Enclasped, and grasped
\^thin thy cold embrace I

BURNS' POEMS.

TO MISS

WITH BEATTIFS POEMS AS A NEW TBAB*8
GIPT, JANUAEY 1, 1787.

Aa4ur the silent wheels of time
Their annual round IiaTo driv^

And youHho' scarce in m^en prime,
Are Bcnhuch nearer HetrVi.

Nogifts have ftnm IniHan coasts

^le infant year to hail ;
I sendyou moro4han India boasta,

h^tdwuCs simple tale.

Our aez with gmle and faithless love

Is cfaaq^difMtiaps, too true ;
Butniay,aear maio, each lover prove

Anjtdmn still to you !

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

MAT*1788.

I LAN tt hae thought, my youthfu* fiiend,
A something to have sent you,

Tho' it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memcnio;

But how the subject-theme ma^ gang
Let time and chance detennme ;

PerhuM it may turn out a sang
Peznaps turn out a sermon.

Tell try the world soon, my lad.

And, .^nirfvdear, believe me.
Tell find mankind an unco squad.

And muckle they may grieve ye .
For care and trouble set your thougfatf

£v^ when your end's attained ;
And a' your views may come to nought

Where evVy nerve is strained.

ni no say, men are villains a';

The real, harden^ wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law.

Are to a few restncked :
But och ! mankind are unco weak.

An* little to be trusted ;
If fe^the wavering balance shake,

It's rarely right adjusted I

IV.

Tet they wha fa' in fortune's strife.

Their fate we should nae ccnsurSi
For still th' importani end of life.

They equally mav answer;
A man may hae an nonest heart,

Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,

Tet hae nae cash to spare him.

Ay firee, aff ban' your story tell.

When wi' a bosom crony ;
But stUl keep something to yoursel

Te scasoely tell to onv.
Conceal yoursel as weel s ye can

Frae critical dissection ;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi' aharpen'd, slee inspection.

The sacarad low* o' wed-plac'd love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illieit ttwe,

Tho' naething should divulge it
I wave ihe quantum o' the sin.

The hazard of concealing ;
But och*. it hardens a' within.

And petrifies the feeling !

BURNS' POEMS.

vn.

To cttch dame Fortuoe^s gt>Iden imile,

AaBkhioaa wait upon her ;
And gather gear by cv'ry wile

Tluit'i justified by honour ;
Not for to hide it in a hcd^.

Not for a train-attendant ;
Bat for the glorious privilege

Of being iruUpctideni.

VUl.

Hm fear o* belles a )ian^an*s whip,

To hand the wretch in order ;
But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let tiiat ay be your border ;.
Itiili^tcst touches, instant pause-—

Debar a^ side pretences ;
And resolutely keep its laws

l-ocahng consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ;
Bat rtill the preaching can^orbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature :
Yet ne'er with wits prol'one to range,

Be complaisance extended ;
An Atheist^s laud's a poor exchange

f'or Deity offended !

^fhen ranting round in pleasure's nng,

Religion may be blinded ;
Or if she fie a random ttingj

It may M little minded ;
^t whea on life we're tempest-driv'n,

A eoQscienoe but a canker—
A correspondence fiz'd wi' HeavVi,

Is sore a noble anchor !

XI.

Adien, dear, amiable youth !

Tour heart can ne'er be wanting :
Mar pradence, fortitude, and trut^

£rect your brow undaunting !
In ploufffaman phrase, ^^ God send yoa speed,"

Still daily to grow wiser :
And may you better reck the rede^

Than erer did th' adviser !

ON A SCOTCH BARD

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

A* Ti wha five by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-dink.

A' ye wlia live and never tliiiik,

Como mourn wi' me !
Our bilUe *s gion us a^ a jink,

An' owre the

Lament him a* ye rantin core,
Wha dciirly like a randoiii-splorc,
Nao niair he'll join llio ni^rry-ro//r,

In stK'ial key ;
For now he's ta'cn anither phoro.

An' owre the sea.

The bonnio I.t-scs woel may wiss liinii
And in their d(*ar pftitiota placo*him :
Tiic widows, wives, an' a' may bless 1*1^

Wi' teart'u' o'c •
For weel I wat they'll wirly miss hin

That's owre the

O Fortune, they liae room to frruifliler
lladst thou ta'en at}' some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do uouirht but fyke an* fumUe,

'Twad l>een noe plea ;
But ho was gleg as onv wuiuhle,

Thafs owre tlio sea.

Auld, cantio Kylr. may weepers w»'ar,
An* stain tliem wi' the naut, Kaut tear;
Twill mak her poor auld heart I tear.

In ilinders llee ;
He was ber laurcale monic a year,

That's owre the

He saw misfortune^s cauld nor-vnt
Lanj? mnstehng up a bitter blaiit ;
A jiUet brak liis heart at last,

111 may she bo !
So, took a birtli afore tlie mast.

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummoekf
On scarce a beUyfa' o^ drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomachy

Could ill agree ;
So, row^ his hurdles in a hammock^

An* owre the sea -

)Vr was ^en to ^cat misguiding,
1 liis pouches wad mi hide in ; ',

lie no'
Yet coin
Wi' him it neor was wider hiding ;

Ho dealt itwee:
The muse was a* that ho took pride in.
That's owre the sea. .

Jamaica bodies^ use him weel.
An' hap liim in a cozio biol :
Yell find him ay a dainty chicl,

. And fou' o^ glee ;
He wad na wi'ang'd'me vera deil.

That's owre the sea.

BURNS' POEMS.

Fuvw9d^mj rhjfm e -€onaating hiUie!
Tour natifeaoil wuiifffat ul-wiliie ;
Bot iDAy ye flooriih like a lily.

Now bonmlie !
rn toMlye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho* owre the

TO A HAGGIS.

Faie fa* yotir honett, sonsie face,
Gkeat chieftain o' the puddin-race !
Aboon them a* ye tak Voor place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm
Weel are ye wordy of a mte

As lang^i my arm.

■

The groanioff trencher there ye fill,
Tour hurdies like a distant hill.
Your jnn wad help to mdld a xnill

In time o' need,
"While thro' your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

Ifis knife see rustic labour di^ht.
An' cut you up with ready slight.
Trenching your ^Aahin^ entrails brifffat

Lake onie ditch ;
And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich !

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Dttl tak the hindmost, on they drire,
TUl a' their wcel-swall'd kyteebelyye

Are bent like drums ;
Than anld guidman, maist like to ryve,

BethankU hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragoui^
Or oHo that wad staw a tow,
Orfiioame wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect scomier,
Looks down m' sneering, scomfu' view

On sic a dinner ?

Poor devil ! see hinl owre his trasfa«^
As ftflUessas a wlBier'd rash.
His spindle shmk a goid whip lish,

s His nieve a nit ;
Thro' Uoody flood or field to dash, "
•X Ohow unfit!

Bol mark the rustic, haggit-fed^
The iiembling earth fesounds his tread.
Clap m his waHe nieve a blade,

Hell mak it whissla ;
An' legs, an* arms, an' heads will sned.

Like taps o' thrissle.

Te pow'rs, wha mak mancinn yonr oartii
And (ush them out their bill o' fare.

Anld Scotland wants nae skinkiny

That jaups m lnggi« s

Bat, if ye wish her gratefh' pray'r,

GieheraHoeeit/

A DEDICATION

TO OAVIN HAMILTON, ESa

ExPKOT na. Sir, in this narration,
A fleecliin, fleth'rin dedication.
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid.
Because ye're sumam'd like hi$ graee^
Perhaps related to the race ;
Then when I*m tir'd — and sae are ye^
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' he.
Set up a face, how I stop short.
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them whi
Maun please the great folk for a wamefbu;
Forme! sae laigh I needna bow.
For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ;
And when I downa yoke a nai^.
Then, Lord, be thankit, lean beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
It's just He poet^ an' tic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him.
He may do weol for a' he's done yet.
But only he's no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna he, come what will o' ;me)
On cr'ry hand it wiD allow'd be.
He's just — nae better than he diould be.

I readily and freely grant.
He downa see a poor man want ;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What anee he sajrs he winna break it ;
Ought he can lend hell no relnst,
Tillaft his guidness is abus'd :
And rascals whyles that do him wniif ,
Ev'n thai^ he does na mind it fanff :
Ai master, landlord, husband, faUier,
He does na fiul his part in either.

But then, na thanks to him for &'that{
Nae godiv syrmttom ye cai^ ca' that ;
It's naething but a milder feature.
Of our poor, sinfu,' corrupt nature *
Tell get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,

BURNS' POEMS.

OrboBlen wild on Ponoloxi,
Wha BtTcr beard of ortlMido^.
Hat htfitba poor man'iftMPdia need,
IWfoillaMOi in word and deedi
Vu no thro' terror of d-mnJtkm ;
B^ joit a dkmal inclinatkm.

Molality, thoa deadljL^Mne,

'Tij ton o' thounnda tRonhigt

Yunii his hope, whoee ita^ and tnut ia
b anm^ merqr, truth, and juatice !

No— ■tretch a pmnt to catch a plad^t
Alnie a brother to hi§ back ;
Stall thro' a wimoek firae a wh-re,
Botpomt the rake that taks the door:
Be to the poor like onie whunstane.
And band their notes to the gnuutane,
Fly ereiy art o' legal thiering ;
No matter, itick to aovnd beHaring,

Learn three-mile pray're, ^and half-mile

Wi* weel-ffpread Iootop, an' lang wrj &ces ;
Grant up a solemn, lengthened groan.
And damn a' parties but your own ;
^ warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
Aiteady, sturdy, staunch belieTer.

ye wha leave the springs of C'hHh
^ffganUieduht of your ain delvin !
I Teions of heresy and error,

TeH loiiie day squeel in quaking terror I
^Vhen vengeance draws the sword in wrath.
And in the fire throws the sheath ;
When Ruin, with his sweeinn^ beaom,
Jut fieta tin Heav^ commission gies him :
While o'er the harp pale misery moans.
And strikes the ever deep^iin|3f tones,
Still loader ahridu, and heavier groa[n8 !

Tour pardoo. Sir, for this digression,
Imaist rorgat my dedieoHon ;
But wlieo divinity comes cross me.
My readers still exe sore to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see twas nae daft vapour.
But I maturely thou^t it proper,
When a' my work I did review.
To de«ficate them, Sir, to You:
Because (ye need na tak it ill)
I thou^ them something like yoorsel.

Then patronise them wi' your &voar.
And vour petitioner duJl ever —
I haiTamaist said, ever pniy,
But that's a word I need na say :
Forprayin Ihae UtUe skmoH;
Ym baith doad-eweer, an' wretched Ul oH;
But FsB repeat each poor mansprajTr,
That kfloaor hears about you. Sir—

** Biav ne'er mIrfbrtuneVi gowling bark.
Howl thro' the dwelling o' Uie Clerk !
Bilay ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart.
For that same genVoos spirit smart !
Blay K******S far honoured name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
TillH*******'s, at least a dizen.
Are frae their nuptial labours risen :
Five bonnie lasees round their table.
And seven braw fellows, stout on' able
To serve their king and country weel,
Bv word, or pen, or pointed steel !
May health and peace, with mutual rays.
Shine on the evening o' his days ;
Till his woe curlie John't ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, saa, mournful rites bestow !"

I win not'wind a lan^ conclusion,
Wi' complimentajy effusion :
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favomv,
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent.
Tour much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Pow'tb above prevent !)
That iron-hearted carl, JVani^
Attended in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes, and black mischances.
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him.
Make you as poor a dog as I am.
Your humble tervant then no more ;
For who would humbly servo the poor !
But by a poor man's hopon in Heav'n !
While recollection's powV is given.
If, in the vale of humble life.
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear.
Should recognize my master dear^
If friendless, low, we meet together.
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend w[id brother I

TO A LOUSE.

ON SEEINO ONE ON A LADY'8 BONNET
AT CHUBCH.

Ha ! whare yegaun, ye crowlin fcrlie !
Your impudence protecU you sairly :
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace ;
Tho' fwth, I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner.
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner.

BURNS* POEMS,

How daro ye let jour fit upon her,

Sae nuo & lady !

6ao somewhere else and sock your dinner

On some poor body.

Switli, in some boggards haffet squattle ;
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations |
Wliare Aom or b<me ne^cr daro unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye^re out o* eighty
Below the fatfrils, snug an* ti^ht ;
Na, faith ye yet ! yell no be right

Till yoVe got on it,
The vera tapmost, towVin? height

O* Misses bonnet.

Mr sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and ffray as onie grozet ;
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,
Vd gie you sic a hearty doze o\

Wad dress your droddum !

I wad na been surprisM to spy
Ton on an auld wifo^s flainen toy ;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On's wyliecoat ;
But Misses fine Lunardi ! fie,

llow dare ye d^ot !

O Jenny^ dtnna toss your head.
An* set your beauties a abread !
Te Uttle ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin !
Th&e iDinki nuA. finger-ends^ 1 dread,

Are notice takin !

O wad some powV the gifiie gie us
To iee ourselt cu others tee tu !
It wad irae monie a blunder free us

And foolish notion :
What airs in dress an* ffait wad loa'e us.

And 0T*n Devotion !

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

EdinaI 5ro/ta*« darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers.
Where once beneatli a monarches feet

Sat legislation's sovereign powers !

From marking wildly-seatterM flowY
As on tlie banks otAyr I itraVd,

And singing, lone, the Ime^ring noan
I shelter m thy honour^ shade.

Here wealth still spellB the golden tid

As busy trade his labours ^es ;
There architectun^'s noble pmie

Bids elegance 4i^ splenoor rise ;
Here justice, fromfier native skies,

j^pgh wields her balance and her re
There learning, with his eagle eves,

Seeks science in her coy abode.

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind.

With o[An arms the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarg'd, their lioVal mio

Above the narrow, rural vale ;
Attentive still to sorrow^s wall.

Or modest merit's silent claim ;
And never may their sources fail !

And never envy blot their name !

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adon

Cay as the gild^ summer sky.
Sweet as the dewy milk-wliite tbom,

Dear as the raptured tlirill of joy I
Fair B strikes tli' adoring eye,

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shini
I see the sire of love on hif^h^

And own his work indeed divine !

There, watcliing high the least alamt

Thy rou£[h, rude fortress gleams af
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

And markM with many a seamy sc
The [lond'rous walls and massy bar.

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ;
Have oft withstood assailing war.

And oil roKird the invader's shod

VI.

With awe-struck thougnt, and pitying

I view that noble, stately dome,
Wierc Scotia^s kinss of other years,

Fam'd heroes ! had tlieir royal ho
Alas ! how chanrrM the times to com*

Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring ro

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas juet

BURNS* POCMS.

vn.

ild beats my heart to trace your itepti
V¥hoee aBcestors, in dayi oi yore,
iro* hostile ranks and roin'd gaps
Old ScoHa*t bloody lion bore :
'^ / who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed^
kd facM ffrim danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fitthers led !

vm.

Una ! Scotia's darling scat !
All hail thv palaces and towers,
hepj once beneath a monarches feet
Sal legislation's sovereign powers !
nm marking wildly-scatter d flowVs,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
nd singing, lone, the linff'nng liours,
1 shelter in tliy honourM shade.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

APRIL 1st, 1785.

^mLE briers and woodbines budding green,
paitricks scraicliin loud at e'en,
mining poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my muse,
ifieedom in an unknoum fricn\

I pray excuse.

a fasten-een we had a rockin,

iSk the crack and weave our stockin ;

there was muckle fun an' jokin.

To need na doubt ;
sigth we bad a hearty jokin

At sang about,

lere was ae «ang, amang the rest,
m them a' it pleased me best,
; some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife :
ilM the heart-strings thro' the breast,

A^to the life.

• scarce heard ouf ht describes sae weel,
t rai'roos, manly t)osoms feel ;
i|^t I, *^ Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark "*
r tald me Hwas an odd kind chiel

About MtUrkirk.

pat me fidffin-fain to hearH,
sae about Dim there I spiert

Then a' that kent hkn roond declared

Hehadtngme,

That nane ezoeU'd it, few cam near\

It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale.
An' either douce or merry tale.
Or rhymes an' sangs heM made himseU

Or witty catches,
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotd&le,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith,
Tho' I shouldpawn my plough and graitli,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

■

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaixt as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,
Tet crooning to a body's sel.

Does well cneugh.

I am nao ooe^ in a sense,
But tust a rnymerj like, by chanco.
An' Lae to learning nae pretence.

Yet, what the matter ?
Whene'er my muse does on mo glance,

I jingle at Lor.

Your critic-folk may cock their noso,
And say, ** How can you e'er propose.
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose.

To mak a sajig ?
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns on" stools ;
If honest nature made you foolsy

What soirs your grammars
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools.

Or knappin hanmiers.

A set o' duU conceited hashes.
Confuse their brains in college classes !
They gang in stirks, and come out aspcs.

Plain tnitli to speak i
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek *

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's firo.
That's a' the leaminc I desire ;
Then tho' I drudge uu*o' dub an' mim

At plcugii or cait,
My muse, tho' hamely in attire.

May touch the hca; r.

BURNS' FO£Mi;.

O for a spunk o* AUarCi glee,
Or FemutovCt^ the b&uld and dee.
Or bright Lapraik^t my friend to be,

frlcanhitit!
That would be lear eneiif h for me.

If! could ret it.

Now, Sir, if yo hao friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I blievc, are few,
Tet, if your catalogue be fou,

I*se no insist.
But gif ye want ae friend that*s true,

Vm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel ;
As ill I like my fauts to tell ;
But friends, and folk that wish me well.

They sometimes roose me,
Tho* I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

There^s ae tteeftnU they wliyles lay to me,
I like the lasses — Gude forgie mo !
For monie a plack they whcodlo frae me.

At dance or fair ;
May be some itfur thing tbey gie me

Tiicy wool can spare.

But Mauehiine race, or Mauchline fair,
( should be proud to meet you there ;
Wo*ao gie ae night^*s discharge to care.

If we torgathcr,
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-'icare

Wi* ane anither.

The four-^ill chap, we'se gar him clatter.
An' kirsen him wi' reckin water ;
Syne we*ll sit down an' tak our whitter.

To cheer our heart ;
An' faith we^se be acauaintod l>etter

Before we part

Awa, ye selfish warly race,
Wha think that havina, sense, an' grace,
£y*n loye an' friendship, should give place

To eaiehrlht-plaek !
I dinna like to see your face.

Nor hear you crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms.
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms.
Who hold your beir^ on the terms.

Each aid tlie othcr8\
Come to my bowl, come to my arms.

My friends, my brothers !

But to conclude my lang epistle,
Af my auld pen's worn to the griaile
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fisda,

Who am, most ferrei
While I can either ting or whisile,

X our friend and mm

TO THE SAME.

APRIL 31st, 1785

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake,
An' pownies reek in plough or braik.
This hour on e'enin's ed^ I take.

To own I'm debtor
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik^

For ins kind letter.

Forjesket sair, with weary legs,
Rattlin' the com out-owrc tne ngs.
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Thoir ten-hours' bite,
My awkart muse sair pleads and be^

I would na wnte.

The tapetless ramfeezl*d hizzie,
She^s saft at best, and something lazy.
Quo' she, **Te ken, weVe been sae busy.

This month an' mair,
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie

An somethmg sair."

Her dowfi* excuses pat mo mad ;
^ Consdenoe," says I, ^ ye thowlees jtd i
1*11 write, an' that a hearty blaud.

This yera night;
So dinna ye afiront your trade.

But rhyme it right.

** Shall bauld Lapraik^ the king o' bearti,
Tho' numkind were a pack o' cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts.

In terms so friendly
Tet yell neglect to shaw your parts.

An' thanK him kindlj

Sae 1 gat paper in a blink.
An' down gaed ttumpie in the ink :
Quoth I, **• Before I sleep a wink,

I yow 111 close it;
An' if ye winna mak it clink.

By Joye 111 prose Ur

BURNS* POEMS

Ve begun to leniwl, Mki whether

le or proee, or baith thMritber,

9 hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let Ume mak' proof;
laD acribble down some blether

Just dean aff-loof.

rorthy friend, ne V grodfe an' carp,
rtune lue you liard an* sharp ;
bttle up jour moorland Juarp

Wi* gleesome touch !
dnd how fortune vHifl an* %Darp :

She*s but a b-tch.

I gien me monie a jirt an* fleg,
ould stiiddle awn a rig ;
the L— d, tho^ I should beg

Wi' lyart pow,
rh, an* ong, an* shake my leg,

As Uuag*s I dowT

comes the sax an* twentieth simmer
n the bud npo* the timmer,
oecuted by the limmer

Frae jrear to year ;
;, despite the kittle kimmer,
/, 12o6, am here.

e enry the city Oeni^
a kist to lie and sklent,
le-proud, big wi* cent, per cent.

And muckle wame,
9 bit bmgh to represent

A JBailie't name f

i*t the panghty feudal Thane,

Sl'd sark an' glancin' cane,

links himsel nae sheep shank bane.

But lordly stalks,
cape and bonnets affare ta'en,

Ashy he walks?

rhou wha ffies us each guid gift \

9 o* wit an'sense a lift,

.mn me, if T%ni please, adrift,

Thro' Scotland wide ;
■ nor hurds I wadna shift.

In a* their pride !'*

•6 this the charter of onr state,
lain o' hell be rich an' grbat,"
ation then would be our fate.

Beyond remead ;
tmnku to Hcav'n ! that's no the fate

We learn onr creed.

I For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race b^gan,
^ The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be,
Tis he fulfils great MUure*i pUm^

An* none but Ae .'*'

O mandate dlorious and diyine !
The rafgec foTlowerB of the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless deyils ! }ret may shine

In fflorious li^bt,
While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.

Tlio* here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl.
Their worthless nieyefu* of a soul
Iflay in some future carcase howl.

The forest's fHght ;
Or in some day-dcicsting owl

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Bum* arise.
To r^ach their native, kindred skies.
And ting their pleasures, hopc»B, an' joys.

In some mild sphere,
Still doeer knit in friendship's tie

Each passing year.

TO W. S ***** N,

OCHILTREE.

May, 178SL

I GAT your letter, winsome JFilUe ;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ;
ThoU maun say't, I wad be silly,

An' unco vain,
Should I believe my coaxin' billie,

Your ilatterin strain.

But Tso believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hmted
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklontcd

On my poor Musie ;
Tho'in sic phrasin* terms ye've pcnn'd it

I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creei
Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi' AUan, or wi' GUbert/ield,

The Sraes o' fame ;
Or FerguuoTH the writer-diiel

A deathless name.

BURNS' POEMS.

(O Fereuison ! tliy glorious porta
111 suited law^s dry, musty arts !
My curse upon your whunstone hearts,

Ye I'lubrugh Gentry !
Tlie tythe o* what ye waste at cartes.

Wad stow'd his pantry !)

Tet when a tale comes i* my Head,
Or lames gie my heart a screed,
As whyles they re like to be my deed,

(O sad disease !)
I kittle up my nutie reed;

It ^es me ease.

Auld CojUa now may iid^ fu* fain,
Sho*s ;^ottcn Poets o^ her am,
Cliiels wha their chanters winna hain.

But tune tlieir lays.
Till echoes a* resound again

Her wcel^fomg praise

Nae poet thouj^ht her worth his while,
To sot ner name m measured style ;
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle

Beside J^eic Holland^
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan,

Ratruay an^ famous Fergutson
Gied Forth an* Tay a lift aboon ;
Yarrow an* Tweed to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings,
While Irwitij Lttgar, Ayr^ an* Doon,

Nae body sings.

Th' niisnts, Tiber, Thames, an* Seine^
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line !
But, WiUUi set your fit to mine.

An cock your crest,
We*ll gar our streams and bumics shine

Up wi* the best.

We*ll sing auld CoUaU plains an* fells.
Her moors red-brown wi' neather bells.
Her banks an* braes, her dens and dells,

Where glorious Wallace
Afl bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae southron billies.

At Wallace* name what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood !
Oft haye our fearless fathers stn>de

By Wallace' side.
Still presnng onward, red-wat-shod.

Or glorious dy*d.

O, Sweet axe OnlaU haugfas an' woodii
When lintwhites chant amang the bads.
And jinkiu hares, in amorous whids,

Their loyes enjoy.
While thro* the braes the cushat croods

With wailfii* cry !

£y*n winter bleak has charms for me
Wlien winds raye thro' the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray ;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Dark'ning the day I

O Nature ! a* thy shows an* forms
To feeling, pensiye hearts hae charms !
Whether the simmer kindly warms,

Wi* life an' light,
Or winter howls, in^usty storms.

The lang, dark night !

The Muse, nae poet eyer fknd her,
Till by himsel, he leam'd to wander,
Adown some trotting bum s meander,

&* no think lang;
O sweet ! to stray, an* pensiye ponder

A heart-felt sang t

The warly race may drudge an* driye,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an* striye.
Let me fair J>ralure''t face descriye,

And I, wi* pleasure,
Shall let the busy, grumbling niye

Sum owre their treuoTB.

Fareweel, ^ my rhyme-composing brither !
We*ye been owre lang unkenn'd to ither :
Now let us lay our heads thegither.

In loye fraternal :
May Enoy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal I

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes;
While moorian* herds like fguid fat brazies :
While terra firma, on her axis

Diurnal turns,
Count on a friend, in faith an* practioe,

In Robert ovBrru,

POSTSCRIPT.

Mr memoiT*s no wortlva preen ;
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Te bade me write you what they mean

BythisAetc-JDigA/,*
*Bout which ovaherdt sae aft hae been

Maist like tofigfat

* 8«e nolo, page 18.

BURNS* POEMS.

iji when mankind were but callanfl

•OTiur, hgicj an^ sic talents,

ook nae pains th^ speech to balance,

Or rules to fie,
ik their thoughts in plain, braid Tallans,

Like you or mo.

tae auld times, they thought the moon,
le a sark, or pair o* shoou,
}j degrees, till her last roon,

Gaed past their viewing,
3rtly after she was done,

They gat a new one.

past for certain, undisputed ;
* cam i* their heads to doubt it,
iels gat up an* wad confute it.

An* ca'd it wrong ;
ickle din there was about it,

Baith loud and lang.

e herds^ wee! leamM upo' the beuk,
ireap auld folk the thin^ misteuk ;
ras ue auld moon tum^aa neuk.

An' out o* sight,
cklimhoomin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

: was deny^d, it was affirmed ;

rdt an' histeU were alarm'd :

v^rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd.

That beardless laddies
I think they better were informed

Than their auld daddies.

t lees to mair it gaed to sticks ;
"ords an' aiths to clours an' nidu ;
mie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt ;
ne, to learn them for tlicir tricks.

Were hang'd an' burnt.

game was play*d in monie lands,
la-Hghi caddies bure sic hands,
aitJi the yoimgHters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,
irds forbade, by strict commands.
Sic bluidy pranks.

neuhlight herds gat mc a cowe,
iought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe,
>w amiust on ev>y knowe,

Te'll find ano plac'd ;
me, their neio-light fair avow.

Just quite barefac'd.

doubt the atdd-di^JU flocks are bleatin ;
lealous herds are vexM un' sweatin ;
, rVe even seen them grectin

Wi' gimin spite,
ar the moon sae sadly lie'd on

By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns !
Some auldrlight herds in neebor towns
Are mindt, in things they ca' balloons^

To tak a flight.
An' stay a month amang the moons

An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them ;
An' when the atdd moons eiLuii to lea^e them.
The hindmost shaird, they^l fetch it wi' them,

JuKt i" their pouch.
An' when the new-light billies see them,

I think they'll crouch !

Sae, ye observe tliat a' this clatter
Is noething but a ^ moonshine matter;"
But tlio' dull prose-folk Latin splatter

In logic tulzie,
I hope, we bardies ken some better

llian mind sic bruhde.

EPISTLE TO J. R******

ENCLOSING BOMB POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******,
The wale o' cocks for fun an' dnnkin I
There's mony godly folks are th'uikin,

Your drcaftui* an' tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a-shikin,

Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants.
And in your wicked drucken rants.
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts.

An' fill them fou;
And then their failings, flaws, ai\' wants.

Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it !
That holy robe, O dinna tear it I
Spare 't for their sokes wha af\en wear it.

The lads in 6/r£ffc /
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,

Rives 't sJS their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha yc'ro skoithing,
Its just the bltte-gown badge on' claithing
O' saunts ; tak Siat, ye lea'e them naefhing

To ken them by,
Frae ony unregenerate heatlien

Like you or I.

* A certain bumoitmi dream of bis was then maldng
a noise in the country-side.

BURNS' POEMS.

Pre lent 70a home some rhjrmmg wire,
A' that I barg&m'd for an* mair;
See, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I willex^t
Ton itmgi* yo'U Mn't wi' canme care,

And no neglect

Tbo' faith, sma^ heart hae I to lin^ !
My muse dow scarcely spread her ynng !
VvB play'd mysel a bonnie sprint.

An* dances my fill !
Pd better tnxie an* sairM the king.

At Bwik^tHUL

Twas ae ni^^t lately in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi* the gun,
Aa* brought t^paitrick to the grun,

A bonnie hen,
And, as the twilight was bc^un,

Thou At nane wad ken.

The poor woo thing was little hurt ; ^
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ;

But, deil-ma-care !
Somebody tells the poacher-cowi

The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note.
That sic a hen had got a shot ;
I was suspected for me plot ;

IscomM to lie;
So gat the whissle o'my groat,

An' pay t they^

But, by my gun, o' gaxa the wale.
An' by my pouther air my hail.
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear !
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale,

For this, niest year.

As soon's the dockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
L— d, Fse haie sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea :
Tho' I should herd the buektkin kjre

Fort in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame !
'Twas neither oroken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the w^me

Scarce thro' the feathers ;
An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An*^ thole their blethers !

It pits me ay as mad's a hare ;
80 1 can rhyme nor write nae mair ;

* A i0nf he had promised the Aatbor.

Bat jMm^yworl^ agam is fair,

When time's expo
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Tour most

JOHN BARLEYCORN,*

A BALLAD.

There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high.

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd hhn

Put clods upon nis head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly fl
And showr's began to fall ;

John Barleycorn ^t up again.
And sore surprised them alL

The sultry suns of summer came.
And he grew thick and strong.

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spea
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale ;

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

VI.

Hii colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age ;
And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

vn.

They Ve ta'en a weapon long and ahaii

Aiid cut him by the knee ;
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for fozgerie.

* This Ifl partly composed on the plan of an oli
known by the same nsmst

BURNS' POEMS.

VUL

0j hid him down apoo hu btek,
bid codlgellM him rail tore ;
c J hnng him up bef(»e the ibmit
Ind turned him o^er and oVr.

IX.

NT fiDed op a dariDMme pit
mth wmter to the brim,
BT heaved in John Barie^com,
Inere let him nnk or awmi.

m laid lum ont upon the floor,
to work him farther wo,
id ftiD, as tdgDM of life appearM,
They toMM him to and nt>.

Wf waited, o W a icorching flame,

The marrow of hie bones ;

tta miUer aa*d him wont of all,'

For he cnuhM him between two atonea.

xn.

d ther hae ta'en hie Tory heart*e Uood,
bid ibank it round and round ;
d atill the more and more they drank,
Vbmt yxj did more abound.

xm.

n Barleycorn waa a hero bold,
)f noble enterpiiee,
if yoa db but taste his blood,
rwiU make your courage rise.

XIV.

riU make a man 5>r^t his wo;
rwill heighten all his joy :
rill make the widow's heart to sing,
1m>' the tear were in her eye.

XV.

m let us toast John Barleycorn,
ladi man a glass in hand ;
i may his greatpoeteri^
[e'er fail in old Scotknd !

£2

A FRAGMENT.

Tun—*' Gi]]]crankia.*»

Whxn OuUford good our pOot stood.

And did our helm threw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea.

Within America^ man :
Then up they gat the maskin-pat.

And m the sea did jaw, man ;
An' did nae less, in full congress.

Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomtry takes,

I wat he was na slaw, man ;
Down Lowriet bum ho took a turn.

And Carltton did ca\ man :
But yet, what reck, he, at Quc6ee,

^Kintgomery-like did fa\ man,
Wi' sword in hand.) before his band,

Amang his en'niies a', man.

Poor Tammy Oag^ within a cage

Was kept at Button ha\ man ;
Till Willie Hmce took o'er the knowe

For PhUaddpkiOy man :
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin

Guid chiistian blood to (Saw, man ;
But at Ahr-FoHb, wi' knife an' fork.

Sir-loin he hacked ima', man.

IV.

Burgoyfu gaed up, like spur an' wlup^

Till Frater brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae nusty day.

In Saratoea shew, man.
CormpaUiM fought as long's he dought.

An' did the Buckskins claw, man ;
But Cliniori's glaive fiae rust to save.

He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montaene^ an' Quilford too.

Began to fear a fa', man ;
And Saekvillt doure, wha stood the sUnuc,

The German chief to thraw, man :
For Faddy Buries^ like ony Turk,

Nae mercy had at a', man ;
And Charlie Fox threw by the box,

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw man.

BURNS' POEMS

II.

The warbr race may riches chaae,
An* richee still may fly them, O ;

An* tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Chreen grow^ See,

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O ;
An* warlv cares, an* wariy men.

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O !

Oreen ^row. Sec,

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Te*er nought but senseless asses, O :

The wisest man the warP e*er saw.
He dearly loT*d the lasses, O.

Oreen gnw^ See.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dean
Her noblest work she classes, O :

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man.
An then she made the lasses, O.

Green grmo^ See

*****

SONG.

ToH»— " Jockey*s Grey Breeks.*
I.

AoAiN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues.
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze.

All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CH0RUB>

And maun 1 tiUl on Menief doai.
And hear the Kom ihatt in her e^ef

Fw iftjei^jet blacky an" ift like a hawk,
win' ii vnnna let a body be !

In vain to me the cowslips blaw.

In vain to me the vilets spring;
In vain to me, ih. glen or shaw,

Tlia mavis and the lintwhite idnf .

And maun 1 still, See,

* Tbtoebomsis iiartof a song comiKiMd by a gentleman
to Idh^rgh, a paitiinilat fHend of 0)6 autbor*!.
t Mndt \m th« comironn sbbrevisUun of MtritmM.

The merry ploughboy cheen his teaniy
Wi* joy the tentie seedsman stalks,

But life to me *s a weaxy dream,
A dream of ane-that never wauks.

And maun I itiXLi ScCm

IV.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amanff the reeds the ducklings cry.

The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

And maun JtiULt &c

The sheep-herd steeks his fauldinc slap.
And owre the moorlands whistfes ahilli

Wi* wild, unequal, wand'ring step
I met him on the dewy hill.

And maun I sHUt io^

VI.

^^d when the lark, Hween li^ht and daric,

Bly the waukens by the daisy's side^
And mounts and sings on flittering wmgB,
A wo-wom ghaist 1 hameward glide.

And maun J ttUlt Sec

• vn.

Come, \^^ter, with thine ansry howl.
And raging bend the naked tree ;

Thygloom will soothe my cheerless eoiil,
v\^en nature all is sad like me !

CHORXTS.

And maun Ittill on Menie doal^
And bear ^ scorn thats in her e*e f

For if s jet Jet blaek^ on^iTsUkea hawky
Afi it uinna let a body be,*

SONG

TuKB— ^*RoBlm Castle."

The gloomy night is gathMng fkst,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast.
Ton murky doud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain ;

* We cannot pretnme to alter any of the poems of
our bard, and BM>re eipecially those printed under his
own direction ; yet It ia to be regretted that this chorM,
which is not of his own eomporition, should be s^
tached to theie fine itanzas, as it perpetually interrupts
the train of sentiment which they excite. E.

BURNS' POEMS.

The hunter now hia left the mooTf
Tlie icatterM coveys meet lecure,
While here I wander, preit with care,
AloDg the lonely banks of Ajfr.

The Autamn mourns her rip'nmg corn
By early Winter^s ravage torn ;
Across ner placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowl'mg tempest fly ;
Chill rons my blood to hear it ray^
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far fh>m th* bonnie banks of Ayr.

^Tie not the mxrging billow^s roar,
Tis not that fatal deadly shore ;
Tho* death in every shape appear.
The wretched have no more to fear :
But round my heart the ties are bound,
TbMt heart transpierced with many a wound ;
Theae bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the boxmie banks of Ayr.

IV.

Farewell, old Coila*t hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales ;
Tlie scenes where wretched ft^cy roves,
Pursuixig past, unhappy loves !
Farewell, my fiiends ! Farewell, my fbes !
My peace with these, my love with thoee^
The bursting tears my heart declare.
Farewell the bonnie banks o£Ayr.

SONG.

TuicE— ^ Guilderoy."
I.

Fkom thee, U/tso, I must go.

And &om my native shore ;
The cruel fates between us throw

A boundless ocean^s roar :
Hut boundless oceans, roaring wide.

Between my love and um,
Tliey never, never can divide

Mj heart and soul from thee.

• n.

FareweD, farewell, ElisM dear.

The maid that I adore !
A boding voice is in mine ear.

We part to meet no more !

But the last throb that leaves my heart.
While death stands victor by,

That throb, ElixtL, is thjr part,
And thine the latest sigh !

THE FAREWELL

TO TBS

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,

TARBOLTON.

Tuns— ^ Good night and joy be wi* you a' T

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu I

Dear brothers of the nwtHe tye I
Ye favoured, ye enlighten d few.

Companions of my social joy !
Tho* I to foreign lands must hie.

Pursuing FOTtune's slidd^ry ba\
With meltmg heart, and brimful eve,

111 mind you still, tho' far awa.'

Oft have I met your social band.

And spent the cheerful, festive night ;
Oft, honourM with supreme command.

Presided o'er the tons of light :
And by that hieroglyphtt bright.

Which none but crafltmen ever saw !
Strong memory on my heart shall write

Those happy scenes when far awa.'

in.

May freedom, harmony, and love.

Unite us in the grand design^
Beneath th' omniscient eye above,

The glorious architect divine !
That you may keep th' unerring ImCt

Still rising by the pkanmetU Uno^
Till order bright completely shine,

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.

IV.

And you farewell ! whose merits claim.

Justly, that highest badge to wear !
Heav'n bless your honourd, noble name.

To Mcuonry and Scotia dear !
A last request permit me here.

When yearly ye assemble a'.
One round, I ask it with a tear^

To him, the Bard thai't fiar awa\

BURNS' POBMS.

SONG.

Tumc — ** Prepare, my dear brethren, to the
Tavern let's fly."

No churchman am I for to raO and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to figfat.
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big>bellyM bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I dont envy, I give him his bow ;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ;
But a club of good fellows, hLe those that are

here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the equire on his brother — his

horse;
There centum per centum, the cit, with his

purse;
But see you the Crotm how it waves in the abr,
There, a big-belly'd bottle still ceases my care.

IV.

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair.
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make ;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wrtMck ; —
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up

stairs.
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

VI.

* life's cares they are comforts,"* — a maxim

laid down
By the bard, what d'ye call him that wore the

black gown ;
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ;
For a big-belfy'd bottle's a heav'n of care.

A Stanga added in a Mason Lodge.

Then fill up a bumper and make it overflow.
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of the compass and

square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harassed with

care.

* Toong'b Night Thougbts.

wRirnBNnf

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,

OK NITH-81DB.

Thou whom chance may hither
Be thou clad in russet weed.
Be thou deckt in silken stole.
Grave these counsels on thy sooL

Life is but a day at most.
Sprung from ni^ht, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshme ev^ry hour.
Fear not clouds will always lower.

As youth and love with sprightly danoe.
Beneath thy morning star advance.
Pleasure with her siren air
May delude the thoughtless pair ;
Let prudence bless enjojrment's cup^
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy daj grows worm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh.
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ?
Life's proud summit wouldst thoa scale ?
Chedk thy climbing step, elate,
Evils lurk in felon wait :
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold.
Soar aroundeach difly hold.
While cheerful peace, with linnet i
Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of ev'ning close^
Beck'ning thee to long repose ;
As life itwlf becomes disease.
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease.
There ruminate with sober thought,
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ;
And teach the sportive younkers round,
Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, man's true, genuine estimate.
The grand criterion of his fate.
Is not, Art thou so high or low f
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ?
Did manv talents gild thy span?
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ?
Tell them, and press it on their mind.
As thou thyself must shortly find.
The smile or frown of awful Heav*
To virtue or to vice is giv'n.
Say, to be iust, and kind, and wise.
There soliu self-enjoyment lies ;
That foolish, selfish, faithless wavs.
Lead to the wretched, vil^, and case.

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep ;
Sleep, whence thou Bhalt ne'er awake.
Night, where dawn shall never break.

BURNS' POEMS.

TBI fbtnre life, fbture no mote,
To light and joy the good restafB,
To light and joy unknown bdbra.

Stnniger,go! Heaven be thj goida !
Quod tlw beadaman of Nith-nde.

ODE,

8ACRED TO THE MEMORY OF

MR&

DwxLLia in yon dungeon dark.
Hangman of creation ! mark
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoor'd years,
Noosing with care a bursting parse,
Baitod with many a deadly corse i

■raoFHSa

View the witherM beldam's face—
Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of humanity's sweet, meltmg grace !
Note that eye, tis rheum o'erflowa,
Pity's flood there never rose.
See those hands, ne^er stretchM to save,
Hands that took — but never gave.
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
Ix>, there she goes, unpitied and unblest
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest !

ANTISTROPHE.

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
(A while fbibear, ye torturing fiends,)
Seeet thou whose step unwilling hither bends !

No fallen angel, hurlM from upper skies ;
'TIS thy trusty quondam mate^
Doomd to sKare thy fiery fate.

She, tardy, hc^-ward plies.

EfOOE.

And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand fflitt^rin^ pounds a year?

In other worlds can Mammon fail.
Omnipotent as he is here f
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier^
While down the wretched vUal part is driv'n !

TJie cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience
clear,
Ezpirea in rags unknown, and goes to
Heav'n.

ELEGY

CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A OENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT rOE HIS
BONOI7R8 IMMEDIATELY FEOM ALMIGHTY GOD.

But DOW hli radiant courie ii run,
For Manhew'i course was bright ;

Hii aoul was like the glorioui lun,
A matchlen, Ucav'nly Light !

O DEATH ! thou tyrant fell and bloody !
The meiklo devil wi* a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie.

O'er hurcheon hides,
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie

Wi' thy auld sides !

He^s gane, he^s gane ! he^s frae us torn.
The ae best fellow e'er was bom !
Thee, Matthew, Nature's scl shall mourn

By wood and wild.
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exil'd.

Te hills, near neebors o' the stams,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns !
Te diflb, the haunts of sailin£^ yearns.

Whore e<3io slumbers !
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns.

My wailing numbers

Mourn, ilk a grove the cushat kens !
Te hazily shaws and briery dens !
Te bumies, whimplin down your glens,

Wi'toddlindin,
Or foaming Strang, wi, hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ;
Te stately foxgloves fair to see ;
Te woodbines hanging bonnilie.

In scented bow'lrs ;
Te roses on your thorny tree.

The first o' flow'rB.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head.
At evX when beans their fragrance shed,

I' th' rustling gale,
Te maukins whiddin thro' the glade,

Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ;
Te grouse that crap Oie heatlier bud ;
Te curlews calling thro' a clud ;

Te whistling plover ;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ;

He's gane for ever i

BURNS' POEMS.

Moani, sooty coots, and speckled teals,
Ye fisher herons, watchin^r eels ;
Te dock and drake, wi' airy wheels

Circling the lake ;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,

Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamoring craiks at close o' day,
'Mang fields o^ flowr^ing clover jg^y ;
And when ye wing your annuaTway

Frae our cauld shore,
TeU thae far warlds, wha lies in day,

Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r.
In some auld tree, or eldritch towV,
What time the moon, wi* silent glow'r.

Sets up her horn.
Wail thro* the dreary midnif ht hour

'tan waulrife mom!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains I
Oft have ye heard my canty strains :
But now, what else tor me remains

But tales of wo ;
And firaa my aen the drapping rains

Maun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year I
Dk cowslip cup shall kep a tear :
Thou, ainuner, while each corny spear

Shoots up its head.
Thy gay, green, flowVy tresses shear.

For him that^s dead !

Thou, autumn, wi* thy yellow hair.
In grief thy sallow mantle tear !
Thou, winter, hurling thro* the air

"nie roaring blast,
Wide o'er the naked world dedare

The worth we've lost !

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light !
Mourn, empress of the ^lent night !
And you, ye twinkling stamies, bright.

My Matthew mourn !
For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight.

Ne'er to return.

O Kendenon ; the man ! the brother !
And art thou gone, and gone for ever !
And hast thou crost that unknown river.

Life's dreary bound !
Like thee, where shall I find another.

The world around !

Go to jrour sculptur'd tombs, ye Great,
In a' the tinsel traish o' state \

But by the honest turf IH wait.

Thou man of WQfth !

And weep the ae best fellow's fiate

E'er lay in earth.

, THE EPITAPH.

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief;

Ana truth! shall relate, man ;
I tell nae common tale o' grief.

For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast.
Yet spum'd at fortune's door, man ;

A look of pity hither cast.
For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art.

That passest by this grave, man.

There moulders here a valiant heart;
For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon li^ht, man;

Here Ues wha weel had won thy praiai
For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship's sacred ca'
Wad lift Hself resign, man ;

Thy syiopathetic tear maun &,'
For Matthew was a kind man !

If thou art staunch without a stain.
Like the unchanging blue, man ;

This was a kinsman o^thy ain.
For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne*er guid wine did fear, man;

This was thy billle, dam, and sire.
For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whlggish whingin sot.
To blame poor Matthew dare, man j

May dool and sorrow be his lot.
For Matthew was a rare man.

LAMENT

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

Olf THE APPEOACH OF SPRINO.

Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree.

BURNS' POEMS.

«adf har iheeu u dakam white
»'er the pnasy lee :
uBbm cEeen the oyital itieeine,
^rlads the azure ikies ;

* it can glad the wearj wight

ast in durance hes.

rVocks wake the meny mom,
on dew^ wing ;
rle, in his noontide bow'r,
« woodland echoes ring ;
vis mild, wi' many a note,
drowsy day to rest :
BJid freedom thej rejoice,
are nor thrall opprest.

x>nis the lily by the bank,
irimrose down the brae ;
iirthom 's budding in the glen,
nilk-white is the elac :
ane^ hind in fair Scotland
rove their sweets aman^ ;
be Queen of a' Scotland,
1 lie in prison Strang.

Le Queen o* bonnie France,
e happy I hae been ;
tly raiFe I in the room,
^the lay down at e'en :
I the sovereign of Scotland,
nony a tridtor there ;
s I he in foreign bands,
lever ending care.

or thee, thou false woman,

ster and ray fae,

^ngeance, yet shall whet a sword

thro* thy soul shall gae :

9ping blood in woman^s breast

lever known to thee ;

balm that draps on wounds of wo

woman's pitymg e*e.

I my son ! ma^ kinder stars

thy fortune shme ; ..

y tnose pleasures gild thy reign,

neVr wad blink on mine !

•p thee frae tliy mother's faes,

m their hearts to thee :

ere thou meet*st thy mother's friend,

mber him for me !

I, to me, may summer-suns
laix light up the mom !
tr, to me, the autunm winds
o'er the yellow com I
Jie narrow house o' death
inter round me rave ;
next flow'rs that deck the spring,
1 on inr peaceful grave !
F

TO ROBERT GRAHAy, Esq..

OF FINTBA.

Latb crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg.
About to beg a pott for leave to beg ;
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a ciimle's rest :)
Will generous Oraham list to his Poet's wail ?
(It soothes poor misery, hevk'nin^ to her tale,)
And hear lum curse the licht he mvt survey'd«
And doubly curse the luddess rhyming traoe ?

Thou, Nature, partial Niture, I arraign ;
Of thy caprice maiemal I complain.
The hoB and the bull thy care hare found.
One shikes the forests, and one spurns the

grotmd:
Thou giv m the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
Th' envenom'd was^, victorious guards his

cell.—
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. —
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure.
Toads with their poison, doctors with their

drug.
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are

snug.
Ev'n nlly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and

darts.

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard.
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard !
A thing unteachable in worlds skill.
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to boar him fh>m the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ;
No horns, but wose by luckless Hviaen worn.
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn ;
No nerves ol&cfiy, Manunon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur.
In naked feeling, and in aching pride.
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side :
Vampyro booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion 4pitic8 careless venom dart

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name,
Tliose cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame :
Bloody dissectors, worse tlian ten Monroes ;
He hacks to teach, th^ mangle to expose.

By miscroants torn, who ne'er one sprig muMt

wear:
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life.

BURNS' POEMS.

T3I flad each hope that onoa hia boaom fir^d.
And fled each maae that glorious ODoe inapirM,
Low annk iniiiqnalid, unprotected affe.
Dead, even resentmeot, tor his injur d page.
He heeda or feela no more the ruthleaa critic*f
rage!

So, by some hedge, the gcneroua ateed de-
ceaa^d,
For hair-«tanr*d anarling cut* a dainty fbaat ;
B^ toil and famine wore to akin and Done,
Lies aonseleaa of each tugging bitch's son.

dulnel^ ! portion of the truly blest !
Cahn sIielterM haven of eternal rest !

Thy sons ne*er madden in tlie fierce extremes
Of fortune's i>olar frost, or torrid beama.
If mantling high she fills the ^Iden copi
With sober semsh ease they sip it up :
Conscious th^ bounteous meed they well de-
serve,
They only wonder ^ some folks'' do not starve.
The grave, sage hem thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous nifht they darkling grope,
WitlT deaf endurance sriiggishly they beur.
And just conclude that '^ foou are fortune's

care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid oz.

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train.
Not audi 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,
OUncaim^ tlie truly noble, lies in dust ;
(Fled, like thovun eclipe'd as noon appean,
And left us darkling in a world of tears :)
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray>!
FbfUrti, my other stay, long bless ana spare !
Thro* a lon^ life his hopes and wishes crown ;
And bright m cloudless skies his sun go down !
May blSt domestic smooth his private path t
Give energy to life ; and soothe his hitflat

breath.
With many a filial tear drding the bed of
death!

LAMISJ^T

F0»

JAMES, EARL OF OLEf^CAIRN.

Tbb wind blew hollow frae the hills,
Br fits the sun's departing beam

LooVd on the finding yellow woods
That wav'd o'er Lugor'a winding atnam ;

Beneath a craigy ataep, a bard.
Laden with years and meiUe paiot

In loud lament bcwail'd his lord.
Whom death had oil untimely ta'en.

Ho loon'd hini to an ancient aik,

Whoso trunk was mouldering dowr
years ;
His locks were l)loached white wi' time *

His hoary check was wot wi' tears !
And as he touched bin trembling harp.

And as he tun'd his doleful song.
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves.

To echo bore the notes along.

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sinff.

The reliques of the vernal quire T
Te woods that shed on a' the wind*

The honours of the ogcd year !
A few sliort inoutlis, and glad and gayt

Again yeUl charm the ear and €i*p ;
But notcht in all revolving time

Can gladness bring agam to mo.

" I am a bending aged tree.

That long has stood the wind and
But now has come a cruel blast.

And my last hald of earth is gono :
Nae leaf o' mine shall irrcct the spring.

Nac simmer aun exalt my bloom ;
But I maun lie before the storm.

And ithera plant thcin in my room.

" I've scon pae mony changofu* yean

On earth I am a straniTer grown ;
I wander in the ways of men,

Alike unknowinjr and unknown :
Unheard, unpiticd, unreliev'd,

I bear alone 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 b«jld»

His country's pride, his count / f all
In weary being now I pine,

For a^ tlie life of life is dead,
And hope has Icfl my aged ken*

On forward wing for ever f a4

" Awoke thy last sad voice, my harp !

The voice of wo and wild despair ;
Awake, resound thy latest lay, ^

Then sleep in silence ev«rmair ! n

And lliou, my last, best, orJy ftiend.

That fillest an onlimcly tomb.
Accept tlftis tribute f^m the bard

Thou brou'/ht from fortune's mirkcst gid

BURNS' POEMS.

6Pt

* In povert^B low, barren ymb,

Tnick mute, obacure, uitoItM me roand ;
rkoDgfa ofti tum'd iho wistful eje,

Nae raj of fame was to be found :
Thoa found^ot me, like the morning son

That melts the fogs in limpid air,
Hie friendless bard and nutic song,

fiecame alike thy fostwing care.

0! why has worth so short a date ?
While villains ripen gray with time !
lost thoa, the noble, gen reus, great,
FaD in bold manhocm^s hardy prime !
I17 did I live to see that davr
A day to me so full of wo I
! had I met the mortal shafl
IVhich laid my benefactor low !

Hie bridegroom may for^t the bride
^18 made his wedded wife yestreen ;
be monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been ;
he mothcff may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ;
ut in remember thee, Glencaim,

•And a^ that thou hast done for mo !'^

LINES

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEPOORD,

OF WHTTEFOORD, BART.,

wrre the foregoing poeic

Jjl^, who thy honour as thy God reyer'st,
'<>o, mye thy tmncTi reprocuh, nought earthly

fearsti
^tjiee this yotiye offering I impart,
^ tearfU tribute of a broken heart.
)^ friend thou yalued'st, I ihe patron loy'd;
!* worth, his honour, all the world approy^d.
«ll mourn till we too go as he has gone,

While we nt bousing at the nappy.
An* ffettin fou and unoo happy.
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, ilaiM, and Bti]ei^
That lie between ns ana our hame,
Wharo site our sulky sullen dame,
GaUiering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it worm.

Tliis truth fand honest Toon 6* Shan^^
As ho frae Ayr, ae night did cantor,
(Auld A3rr whom ne'er a town surpasses.
For honest men and bonny lasses.) »

O 7hm / had*st thou but been sae wise,
As ta*en thy ain wife Kate'i adyice !
She tauld thee we^ thou was a skelhim,
A blethering, blustering, dnmken bleUom ;
That frae Noyanber tiill October,
Ae market-day^on was nae sober.
That ilka mekler, wi* the miller.
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ;
That ev'ry naigwas ca'd a shoe on.
The smith and thee gat roaring fon on,
That at the L — d's house, ey^ on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy^d, that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doonj
Or catchM wi* warlocks in the mirk.
By AUowoyU auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me^jrreet.
To think how mony counsels sweet.
How mony lengthen'd sage odyices.
The husband nae the wife despises \

But to our tale : Ae market night.
Tarn had got planted unco right ;
Fast by an ingle, bleezin^ finely,
Wi' reaming swate, that drank diyinely ;
And it his elbow, souter Johnny^
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ;

^ tmd the dreary path to that dark world ^ f Tom lo'ed him like a yera brither ;

unknown*

TAM O' SHANTER.

A TALE.

or BrowBjis and of Bogilia full is tbii Buke.

Gawin Douglas.

Wbxii diapman billies loayo the street,
id drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
I market-days are wearing late,
A* folk begin to tak the gate ;

They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night draye on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And ay the ale wasgrowing better :
The Jandlady and 7am grew gracious;
Wi- ihyours, secret, sweet, and precious :
The souter tauld his queerest stories ;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus :
The storm without might roir and rustle,
7fam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E*en dit>wn*d himself amang the nappy ;
As bees flee hame wi^ lades o' treasure'.
The minutes wingM their way wi' pleasuie :
Kmgs may be blert, but 7bm was gluriouf
O'er a' the ills o' life yictoriou&

BURNS' POEMS.

But pleasuret are like poppies ipread,
Tou seize the flowV, its bloom is stied ;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white — ^then melts for over ;
Or like the boreal is race,
That flit ero jrou can point their place ;
Or like the rainbow^s lovely form
Evanishinjif amid the storm. —
Nae man can tetlior time or tide ;
The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ;
That hour, o night^s black arch the kej-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast m ;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne^er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blow as Hwad blawn its lost ;
The rattling sliow^rs rose on the blast ;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowM ;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowM :
That nitrht, a child might understand,
The dcil had business on his hi^d.

Weol mounted on his gray mare, Meg^
A better never lilted leg.
Tarn skolifii on thro^ dub and mire,
Despising wmd, and rain, and fire ;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet :
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cores,
Lest bogles catcSi him unawares ;
Kirk-AU9way was drawing nigh,
Whan^ghaists and houlets nightly ciy. —

^y tliis time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoorM ;
And past the birks and meikle staiio,
Whare drunken Charlie brak^ neck-bane ;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murderM bairn ;
And near the thorn, at>oon the well,
Where Mun^o't mither hang'd herael. —
Before him Do<m pours all his floods ;
The doubling storm roars thro' tlie woo,!s
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ;
Near and more near the thunders roll ;
W2ien, glimmering thro' the groaning trci?.
Kirk-Ailoxcay seem'd in a blecze ;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ;
And loud resounded 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 swats sae ream'd in Thntmie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddlc.
But Maggie stood right soir astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd.
She ventur'd forward on the li^ht ;
And, TOW ! Tarn saw an unoo sight !

Warlocks and witches in a dance ;
Nae cotillon brent new ftae France^
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeyi, and neb^
Put life ana mettle in tlieir oeels.
A winnock-bunker in the east.
There sat auld Nick, in sliape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge :
He scrow'd the pipes and gart them ikiri.
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. —
Coffins stood round hkc open presses,
That shaw'dthe dead in tncir last dreflseas
And by some dcvilinh cantraip slight.
Each m its cauid hand held a light,-^
B^ which heroic Tixm was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbot aims ;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristenM bairns ;
A thief, new cutted froe a rapes
Wi' his lost gasp his gab did gape ;
Five tomahawks, wi' blnid 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 hefl ;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawful

As Tammie glowT^d^ amaz'd, and curious.
The mirth anufun grew fast and furiona
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, tliey cross'd, they cleekii
Till ilka carlin swat and rcekit.
And coost her daddies to the wark.
And Vaakei at it in her sark !

Now Thm, O Thm ! had they been qoeana
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' guid blue hair,
I wad hae ffi'en them aff my hurdles, ,

' Tot ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Thm konn'd what was what fu' brawlio«
Thefe was ae winsome wench and walle.
That night inlistcd in the core,
(Lang aSlcr koHn'd on Carrick shore 1
For mony a beast to dead she shot.
And pensh'd mony a bonnie boat.
And shook baith meikle com andlH»ar,
And kept the country-side in fear.")

fiURNS' POEMS.

Hero enttie lark, o* Pakley ham.
That while a laaaie she had worn.
In longitude tho' sorely scanty.
It was bar beat, and she was vanntie. —
Ah ! little kenn'd th^ rereiend ffrannie,
That aazk ahe cofl for her wee Abimte,
"Wi' twa pnnd Scots (twas a' her richesO
Wad ever giac'd a dance of witches I

But here my mose her wing maun cour ;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow>;
To sing how Jfcmnie lap and fl&ng,
(A soople iade she was and Strang)
And how Jhm stood, like ane bewitchM,
And thought his very o>n enriched ;
Even Satan glowrM, and fid^'d fu^ fain,
And hotchM and blew wi' nugbt and main :
TQl first ae caper, syne anitiier,
7\an tint his reaaon a* thegithert
And roars out, ^ Wecl done, Cutty-aark V^
And in an instant all was dark :
And acarcely had he Metric rallied,
When out tne hellish legion sallied.

As beea biza out wi* angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their bykq
Aa open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop I 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 skreech and hollow.

Ah, Thm! ah. Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin !
In heU theyH roaat thee like a nerrin i
In vain thy Kaie awaits thy comin !
KaU soon will be a wofU* woman !
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Jtffg,
And win the key-atane* of the brig ;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But era the key-stano she could make,
The fiont a tail she had to shake !
For Aannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Ma^pe prest,
And flew at 7hm wi* mrious ettle ;
Bat little wist she Ma^p^ie't mettle —
Ae spring brought offlier master hole.
Bat left behind her ain trny tail :
The carlin clau^ht her by the mmp,
And lefl poor Maggie scarce a stump.

NoiT, wha this tale o^ truth shall read.
Ok An and motlier^s son, tak heed:

l^liene'er to drink you are uiclin*d,
Or cutty-sarks run m your mind,
Tliink, ve may buy the joys o'er dear,
Romem1)er Turn o^S lunlert mare.

'^It is a wen-known fact that witchns, or any evil
^rlts, have do power \o ibllow a poor wff ht any far-
ther than tbe middle of the next running stream.— It
Hiar be proper tlkewiwi to mention to the benighted
traveller, Ihat wlien he falli in witli hogUty whatever
daafer may be in hia going forward, there i« much
in laming back

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE
LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAA JUST SHOT AT.

Inhuman man ! eurse on thy barbarous art.
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye :
May never pity soothe thee with a siffh,

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and fidd*
The bitter little that of life remains ;
No more the thpekening brakes and verdant
plains.

To thee aall home, or food, or piprtime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted
rest.
No more of rest, but now ihj during bed !
The sheltering rushes whisthng o*er thj
head,
Tlie cold earth with thy bloody boaam preat,

Ofl as by Winding Nith, I, musing, ^ait
The sober eve, or haU the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o^cr the dewy lawn.

And curse the rufiiana ainv and mourn thy
hapless fate.

ADDRESS
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

9N caowNiNo ms bust at ednam, aoxBUftCB-
afiRE, with bats.

■

WinLE virgin Spring, by Eden^s flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green.

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood
Or tunra Eolian strains between :

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh^s cooling shade,

Yet oil, delighted, stops, to trace
The progress of tho spiky blade :

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
j$v Xwecd erects his aged head.

And sees, with self- approving mind,
Kaoh rrcattire on his bounty fed :

BURNS' POEMS.

While maniac Winter n^ta 6*er
The hills whence cIomic Yarrow flows,

RooBing the turbid torront^s roac,
Or mxreoping, wild, a waste of snows ;

So lon^, sweet Poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well Inuit won ;
While Scotia^ wiUi exulting tear.

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

EPITAPHS,

ON A CELEBRATED WJIfUSG ELDER.

Hkkk souteL* * * * in death does mcp ;

To h-ll, ifno^s gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

Hellliaud it weefthegither.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

BsLow uar stanes lie JamieV haneis :

O dtath, it^s my opmion,
Thou ne*er took such a bleth^rin b-tch

Into thy dark dominion !

ON WEE JOHNIE.

Hlc Jacot wee JobnlOi

Whoe'er tliou art, O reader, know.
That death has murder'd Johnie !

An' here his body lies fii' lo w
For'mul he ne er had ony

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O TE, whose check the tear of pity sUiins,

Draw near with pious reverence and attend !
Here lie the loving husband^s dear remains,

The tender fother, and the gen'rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human wo ;

The dauntless heart that fear'd no hnman
pride :
The friond of man, to vice alone a foe ;

•* For ov'n his failings leanM to « virtue's
side."*

• Gold«mith.

FOR R. A. Eiq.

Know thou, O stranger to the iiui
Of this much lov'd, much honoured i
(For none that knew him need be to
A warmer heart death ne'er made o

FOR G. H. Esq,

The poor man weeps — ^here

Whom canting wretches blam'd :

But with tudi as he^ where'er he boi
May I be ua)*d or damrCd !

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a wliim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for n;
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to sna

Let him draw near
And owre this gras^ heap sing dool.

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds amon
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by !
But with a fiutcr-feeling strong,

Here, heave a siglL

Is there a man, whose judgment clea
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself life's mad career.

Wild as the wave ;
Here pause — and, thro' the starting t»

Survey this grave.

This poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to kno^
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And Mofierjiame^
But thoughtless folhes laid him low.

And stain'd his nan

Reader, attend — ^whether thy sooP
Soars fancy's flights beyond the polo, j
Or darkling gn£s thn earthly hole,

In low pursuit;
Know, pnidcnl, cAutioua. sfJf-cmiJtrof^

Is wisdom's root.

BURNS' POEMS.

OMTBX LATI

CAPT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS
THROUGH SCOTLAND

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OP THAT
KINGDOM.

HiAi, Land o' Cakes, and blither Scots,
Trae Maideokirk to Johnie Groat's ;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede 70a tent it :
A cfaield's amang 70a taking notes,

And, ntth, he'll prent it

If in 7oar bounds 70 chance to light
^m a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
0^ itttore short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel—
^ TOW ! he has an unco slight

O' cauk and keeL

By fome anld, houlet*haunted biggin,*
Y^ urk deserted by its ri^^gin,
't« ten to ane 7e'li find him sno^ in
. Some eldntch part,

*m' doiia, the7 8a7, L— d savo's ! colleaguin

At some black art—

y Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha* or chamer,
JT® ^ps7-gang that deal in glamor,
"^Q you deep read in hell's black grammar,
•^ Warlocks and witclies ;

^^1} quake at his coniurin^ hammer,

Yo midnight b— es,

. It*s tauld he was a sodger bred,
"^^^ fuie wad rather fa'n than fled ;
^Ut now he's qoat the spurtle blade,

- And dog-skin wallet,

"^^d ta^en ib.o-^niiquarum trader

I think tho7 call it.

w lie has a fouth o* auld nick-nackets :
^^usty aim caps and jinglin jacket8,t
^Vad baud the Lothians throe in tackets,

A towmont ffuid ;
"^^id pazritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,

Pefbro the Flood.

Of Eve^s first fire he has a cinder ;
^uld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fonder t
X^l«i which distinguished the gender

O' Balaam's ass ;
•^ broom-stick o* the witch of Endor, .

Weel shod wi* brass.

* Vide hti AatiquitlM of ScoUsnd.
t VUs hU Trsatlio on Anctent Arawur sud

Forb7e, hell snape 700 aff^ fii* gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeff ;
The knife that nicket Abers craig

Hell prove 70a fully.
It was a faulding joctelc^.

Or lang-kail gullie.— •

But wad 70 see him in his glee.
For mcikle gleo and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three

Guid fellows wi* him ;
And porf, O ptn-tl shine thou a wee,

And then 70!! see him I

Now, b7 the pow'rs o' verse and prose !
Thou art a dauit7 chield, O Grose ! —
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

The7 sair misca' thee ;

I'd take the rascal b7 the nose,

Wad say, Shamefa' thee.

TO MISS CRUIKSIIANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

WRFTTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK,
BENTEO TO HEE BY THE AUTHO|l.

Beaitteous rose-bud, young and ga7.
Blooming on thy early May,
Never may'Ht thou, lovely llow'r,
Cliilly shrink in sleety shovv'r I
Never Boreas' hoary path,
Never Eurus' poi^'nouH brt'alh,
Never baleful stellar lights
I'aint tlice with untimely blights [^
Never, never reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf I «

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Tliy bosom, blusliiug btul with dew !

May'st thou long, sweet crimson geai
Richly deck thy naUvu stem ;
Till some cv'niiig, sober, cainu
Droi)pin^ dews, and breatliin**' halm,
While all around tlio woodland rings.
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ;
Thou, oniid the dirgctul sounJ,
Shed thy dying honours round.
And rcsimi to i)arcnt earth
The loy^est form she e'er gave birth.

SONG.

Anna, tliy charms my bosom iire.
And waste my soul witii care ;

BURNS' POEMa

Btft ab I how bootiew to admire,
When fated to despair I

Tet in thy preieiiee, lovely Fair,
To hope may be for|^yii ;

For ■are 'twere impiomi to deipair.
So much in sight of HeayVi.

oil aSADINO, IN A IfEWaPArKa,

THE DEATH OF JOHN M*LEOD, Eaa.

■aOTHER TO A TOUNO LADT, A PAaTICULAR

raiEND or the author^s.

Sad thy talo, thou idle page.

And rueful thy alarms :
Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew

The morning rose may blow ;
But cold successive noontide blasts

May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's mom

The sun propitious smiPd ;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds

Suqpceding hopes beguiled.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords

That nature finest strung :
So Isabella's heart was formM,

And so that heart was wfnng.

Dfead Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he nye ;
Can peint the brimful grie'wom eyes

To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue'sblossoms there shall blow .

And fear no withering blast ;
There Islbella's spotless worth

Shall happy be at last.

the

HUMBLE PETITION

BRUAR WATER*

TO
THE NOBLE DUKE OP ATHOLE.

Mt Lord, I know, your noble ear
Wo noW assails in vain ;

* Draar Falli In Athole are exceedingly pletnresque
and beautiful ; but their effrct it mueb Impaired by the
jram of trees and ihralM.

Embolden'd thus, I b^ youll hear
Tour himible Slave complain.

How sancy Phoebus' scorcmng beaiUi
In flammg summez^pride,

Dry-withering, waste my foamy ■trem
And diink my crystal tide.

The lightly-iumping glowrin trouts.

That thro my waters play.
If, in their random, wanton spouts,

They near the margin stray ;
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang,

Pm scorching up to shallow.
They're loft the wuitening stance anMua

In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I sfrat wi' spite and teen,

Ar Poet B**** came by.
That to a Bard I should bo seen

Wi' half my channel dry :
A panegyric rhyme, I ween.

Even as I wan ho shor'd me ;
But had I in my glory been,

Ho, kneeling, wad adorM me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,

In twisting strength I rin ;
There, high my boning torrent smokes,

Wild-roaring o'er a linn :
Enjoying largo each spring and well

As nature gave them me,
I am, altho' I say't mysel.

Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would tlien my noble master please

To grant my highest wishes.
Hell shade my banks wi' towering trees

And bonnie spreading bushes ;
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,

Youll vrander on my banks.
And listen mony a grateful bird

Return you tunenil thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild.

Shall to the skies asnire ;
The gowdspink, music s gayest child.

Shall sweetly join the choir :
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite cU

The mavis mild and mellow ;
The robin pensive autumn cheer.

In all her locks of yellow ;

This too, a covert shall ensure.

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 pheltering safe retreat.

From prone dosccndioi^sliowVs.

BURNS' POEMS.

And bflvSi, bj fwovt endeannf itathht

Shan meet the loving Mtir,
DMpnBg worids with all their wetith

As empty, idle care :
TheflowT* afamll Tie in all their chaniM

The hour of heaven to grace,
And hirks extend their fragrant arme.

To screflo the dear emhraoe.

Hen, haply too, at Temal dawn.

Some muBixl^ bard may atray.
Aid m tbTi^oking, de^ Um,

Ana nuity mountain, nay ;
Qr^ the reaper^a nightly beam,

MJUnsheqaerinf tlm>' the trees,
RiTQ to my darkly dashing stream,

Hotne-swellmg on the breeza

Ut lofty finu and ashes cool.

My lowly^anks overspread.
And liew, deep-pending in the pool,

Thai ihadows' watery bed !
Ut fragrant birka in woodbines drest

H7 craggy cliffii adorn ;
And, for Uw little songster^s nest.

The close embow^hiig thorn.

80 may, old Seotia^s darling hope,

Toar little an^ band,
8pnng, like their fathers, up to prop

Thdr honooT'd native land !
^may tluo' Albion's farthest ken,
^ ^6 lodal flowing glasses.
To grace be— ^ Atrole's honest men,
^od Athole's bonnie If—— "•

^% SCARING SOME wAtER FOWL
IN LOCH-TURIT.

A VnX4> SOClfC AMONO TH^ RILLS OF
OUOSTKETYRE.

Why, ye tenants of the lake,
For me yoqr wat'ry haunt forsake ^
Ten me, feUow-creatures, why
At mj jiresence thus jrou fly ?
Wl^ disturb ydur social joys,
Puent, filial, kindred ties ?— #
Common fKend to you and me, *
I'^iture's giltf to all are free :
Peaoefbl keep your dimpliiif vrave,
fiosy feed, or wanton lave ;
Or beneath the sheltering rock,
%de the swging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
^oon, too soon, your ftan I triee.

Man, yew proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below :
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stem to all bc»ide.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below.
In his breast no pity dwells.
Strong necessitY compels.
But, man, to wnom alone is giyVi
A ray direct fVom pitying Heavhi,
Glones in hli^ieart humano^-
And creatures for his pleasure daiii.

In these savage, liquid plains.
Only known to wand ring swains.
Where the mossy rivlet strays,
Far from human haunts and ways ;
All on Nature you depend, •*

And life s poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior mi^ht.
Dare invade your native nght.
On the lof\y ether borne,
Man with all his powers you seom ;
SwifUy seek, on clanging wings.
Other lakes and other springs ;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scom at least to be his slave.

WRITTKN WITH A PXNCII.

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE,

IN THE PAlLOUa OF THE TNN AT KlNMOaif '
TATMOUTH. *

Admirino Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I traee ;
0*er nikny a windin^f dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of coveyM grouse aud tfmid sheepii
My savofo journey, cunous, I pursue,
Till fam XI Breadalbaiie opens to my view.
The meeting cliffi each deep-sunk glen dividea,
The woods, wild scattered, cloUio their ample

sides;
Th* outstretching lake, emboeom'd 'mong the

hills.
The eye witli wonder and amazemeill fills ;
The Tay meand'riiig swoot in infant pride.
The palace riKing on his verdant side ;
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's natire

taste;
The hillocks dropt in Naturc^s carelesa haste 1,
The arches striding o*ecthe new-bom atreaittt^
The village, glittering in the moontide beam^

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell.

Lone wand'ring by the hermit *a mossy cell ;

DURNS* POEMS.

The iwoeping theatre ofhanfnnf woods ;
Th* incemant roar of headlong tiuubling
floods —

Here poofiy miglit wake her heaven-taught

lyre,
And look Uirou;;li nature with creative fire ;
Hero, to the wr<»njrK of fate half reconcird,
MitifortunuH lightcn'd btopu niighl wander

wild; .i

And Disappointment, in tho.so lonely bounds.
Find balm to uootJiu her blttiT rankling wounds;
Hero heaK-struck Grief might heavn-ward

stretcii her scan.
And injnrM Worth forget and pardon man.

May He who ^vee the rain to pooTt

And wings uio blast to blaw.
Protect thoo frae tlie driving show^,
The bitter fVost and snaw !

May Ho, the friend of wo and want.
Who heals litems various stounds,

Protect and fuard tlie mother plan!*
And heal nor cruel wounds !

But late she flourish'd, Toote4 fast.
Fair on the summer mom :

Now feebly 1mm ids she in the blast,
Unsheltered and forlorn.

Blest bo th V bloom, thou lovely gem.
Unscathed by ruffian hand i

And from thee many a parent item
Arise to dock our land 1

WRrPTEN WITH A PENCIL,

STANDING BT THE FALT. OF FYERS, NEAA

LOCH-NESS.

Amosq the heathy hills and rnnrgcd woods
Tlie roaring Kvers pours his mossy floods;
Till full liollaslios on the rocky mounds,
Where, tiirounrh a shapeless breach, Ins stream

resounds.
As hiph in air tlio burHtinjr torrents flow,
Aai dcpp recoiling surges foam below,
Prone down the rock the wJiitening sheet de-
scends.
And viewless echo's car, astonished, ronds,
Dim-Bcen, throui^h rising uiists and ceaseless

show'rx,
Tlic hoafV cavern, wide-Hurronndiuij low'rs.
Still tliro^ tlie gap the strujrglinff river toils,
And still below the horrid caldron boils^

ON THE BIRTH

OF A

POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BOItN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANOBI OF
FAMILT DISTRESS.

Sweet FlowVct, pledge o' melklo love.

And ward o' monv a prayV,
Wliat heart o' stane wad Uioo na move,

Sae hclplc&s sweet, and fair !

November hirples o*cr the lea.

Chill, on tliyiovoly form ;
And gane, alas ! the sheltering tree.

Should sliicld thee firao the storm.

THE WHISTLE,

A BilLLAD.

Ai the aathentie pro9§ history of the Whlstlv Is evl-
oos, I BhaU here give IL— In the train of Aue of Den-
mark, when Bbe came to Scotland, with our Jsbms th»
Siith, there came over alio a Daoith gentleman of gl —
gantic itatare and great proweM, and a matchic
plon of BacchiM. He had a little ebony Whittle, whi<
at the commencement of the orgies be laid oa the ta.— -
ble, and whoever was last able to blow it, every I
elae being dliabled by the potency of the bottle,
carry off the Whittle as a trophy of victory. The Dan <^
produced crcdcntiala of hb victories, without a slngl «
defeat, at the courti of Copenhagen, Stockholm, ]
cow, Warsaw, and leveral of the petty courts la
many ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to
alternative of trying his proweas, or elae of i
lug their inrcriorlty.— After many overthrows cm i
part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered bj 8ir !
bcrt Lawrie of Ma^welton, ancestor of tlie present ^
thy baronet of that name ; who, after three days*
three nights* hard coolest, leA the Bcandinaviaa under
the table, *"

And bUw on the fVkutU kit refuittm tkriU.

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, allir
wards lost the WhiaUe to Walter Riddel of Glesrli.
del, who had married a sister of .Sir WaIlei'Sw--Qi
Friday tlie IGtli of October, 1790, at Frian-Cane, te
Whistle was once more contended for, as related la tbs
ballad, by tlie present Sir Robert Lawrie of Mszwet*
ton ; Robert RUWc), Emi. of Glenriddel, Uneal deaceirf-
ant and re^csentatlvc of Walter Riddel, who woo Um
Whistle, and in whose family it had cootianed t sad
Alexander FerRiisaoo, Esq. of Craigdarroch, IlkiwiM
d H^endcd of the great Sir Robert ; which laa fsalls
inau carried off the hard-won hououmef ttM i

1 SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
1 sing of a Whisths, Uie prido of tlie Nortli,

BURMS' POEM&

Wtt bioiu^ to tba ootnt of oor good Soottiih

tang%

Aad kn^ivitiiUui Whistle an Scotludiluai

ring.

•

■ Old Loda,* still meinff the arm of Fingal,
' Tho god of the bottle sends down from his ball —
''Thui Whistlers your challenge to Scotland

eet o^er,
And diink them to hell,£Ur!

morel''

or ne^er see me

Old poets baye song, and old chronicles tell,
What oiunpions ventured, what champions fell;
The §QQ of great Loda was conqueror still.
And Uflw cm Uie whistle his requiumshiilL

Tin Robert, tfie lord of the Cairn and the
Scaur,
tJnmatchM at the bottle, unconquer'd in war.
He dnnk hu poor j^rod-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e^er drvnker tiian he.

Thus Robert, Tictorious, the trophy has

gainM ;
^'^hichnow in his house has for ages remainM ;
T9I three noble chieftains and all of his

blood,
^jovial contest again have renew*d.

Three joyous good fellows with hearts ciear

of flaw;
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and

law;
And trusty Gleniiddel, so skiird in old coins ;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.

Craigdarroch. began, with a tongue smooth

asoil^^
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ;
Or else ne would muster the heads of tho dan.
And once more, in daret, try which was the

man.

•* By the*ods of the andents !" Glenriddd
replies,
Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
ni conjure the ^host St the great Rone More,t
And bunmer his horn with him twenty times
^er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre-
tend,
But he ne^er tumM his back on hie foe — or his
« friend,

Said, toes down the Whistle, the prize of the

field.
And knee-deep in daret, he'd die or hoM yidd.

•SeeOMisn'sCanicUitirri^r t;
t flee leinsnn's Toor to the HcWUes.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repaii^
So noted for drowning of sorrow and eare ;
But for wine and for welcome not more known

to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet,

lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fhiy.
And tell future ages the feats of the day ;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen.
And wishM that Parnassus a vineyard had
been.

The dinner beinf over, the claret they ply.
And every new coi^ is a new spring of loy ;
In the bands of old firiendship and Icinared fo

set.
And the bands grew the tighter the more they

were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o*er ;
Bright rhoBbos ne'er witnessed so joyous a core,
And vowM that to leave them he was quite

forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next mom*

Six bottles a^-pieoe had well wore out the

night.
When gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight,
TumM o^er in one bumper a bottle of rcKl,
And swore twos the way that their anceeto w

did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautioiM and
sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage
A high ruling Elclsr to wallow in wine !
Helefl the foul biSdness to folks less divine*

Tho gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the
end;

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con-
tend?

Though fate said — a hero should perish in
light;

So uprose hrij^ht Phcsbus— and down fdl the
knight

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet 5n
drink:—
** Craigdarroch, thoult soar when creation

shall sink !
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme.
Come— one bottle more— and have at the sub-
lime!

^ Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom

with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce :
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ;
Tlio field thou hast won, by yon bright god of

dayr

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF POETRY,

EXTRACTED

FROM 1;HE correspondence of burns ;

3®IT(&3d

OOMPOKD FOR THC MUSICAL PUBUCATIONB Ot MBtSRl. THOMIOlf J^ JOmUOVf

WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

j9 brother poet*

AVLD NEIBOR

Fm three times dooUj o*er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien% letter ;
Tfao^ I maun saj^ I doubt ye flatter,

Ye^pyak sae fair;
For my puir,-eilly, rhymin'clatter,

Some lefl^ maun sair.

Halo be your heart, hale be your fiddle ;
Lang may ypur elbuck jink aa!j4iddle, it
To dieer you thro' the weary widdle

O' warly cares,
Tni baim' bairns kindly cuddle
J Your auld, gray hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I'm redyeVe glaikit ;
Fm tauld lie Muse ye hae negleckit ;
An* gif it*8 sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke ;
Sic hauus as you sud ne'er be foikit,

Bo hain't wlia like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin the words to gar them clink ;

Whyles daisH wi' love, whiles dais^ wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons ;
An' whyles, but ay owre late, 1 think

BraW sober lessons.

•>
* This \n pr«fixed to the poem* nfDKvIil Pillur, pub-

lUthed at Kilmarnock, 1789.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idleplan

The devil-haet, that I sud ban.

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae schttne o* Iiym't
Nae cares to gie us joy or grieyin' :
But just the pouchie put tha nieye in.

An' whiU oughts thersi
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we ffae a||^yin',

An^ fash nae main

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasora,
Mhr chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure.

The Muse, poor hinie!
Tho' rough an' rj^loch be her mwure.

She's seldom lazy.

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie ;
The warl' may play yott monie a akavie;
But for the Muse, shell never leave ye,

Tho' e%r sae pair,
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frao door to door

THE LASS Q'.BALLOCHMTLE.

Tywi^cn-^e dewy fields wpn
On ^'ry blade tlie pearls h^ng :

The Zephyr want#nea roun44lie Man,
And Dore its fragrant sweets alang:

BURNS' POEMS.

(ton the ma?is sang,
tre fiftening seemM the while,
lere g^reen-wood echoei ran^«
the braes o^ BaUochmyle.

km itep I onward itrajedf
rt rejoiced in nature^s joy,
nng in a lonely fflade,
an ndr I chanced to ipy ;
waa like the monang s ey*,
like nature's vernal smite,
i whisperedjmssing by,
the lass o* Ballocumyle !

9 mom in flowery May,
eet is ni^ht in Autumn mild ;
ing thro" the garden gay,
dering in the lonely wild :
in, nature^s darUnff child !
lU her charms she does compile ;
"9 her other works are foil n
boony lass o' Ballochmy]^

e been a country maid,
he happy country swain,
tered m the lowest shed
^er rose in Scotland's plain !
uy winter's wind and rain
»y, with rapture, I would toil ;
uy to my bosom strain
any lass o** BaUochmyle.

ie might climb the slippery steep,
fame and honours lofty shine ;
t of gold might tompt the deep,
niwud seek the Indian mine ;
the cot below the pine,
d the flocks or tiil the soil,
y day have joys divine,
oe bonny lass o* BaUochmyle.

3 MARY IN HEAVEN.

giering star, with lessening ray,
)v*st to greet the eariy mom,
ou ushcr'st in the day
iry from my soul was tom.

dear departed shade !

is thy olace of bliraiul reat ?
3U thy lover lowly laid ?
t thou tbe groans that rend his breast !
red hour can I forget,
fbnr^t the hallow^ grove,
f the winding Ayr we iQet,
) one day oTparting loV^ !

Eternity wiU not efiaee.

Those retords dear <^transpoiti put;
Thy image at our last ei&hraoe ;

Ah I Uttle thought we '^as our last I
Ayr ffurgling kisMd his pebbled ihortt,

O^rhung witV wila woods, tluck'niift
green;
The fia^ant birch and hawthom hoar,

Twind amorous round the rapturtd ttmB
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on eveiy spray,
TiU too, too soon, the glowinff west.

Proclaimed the speed ojpymged day.
StiU o'er these scenes my mem^ wakes,

And fondly broods with miser we !
Time but the impression deeper makes.

As streams their channels deeper wear
My Mary dear departed shade !

Where is thy blissful place of rest^
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend hiabraMt?

LINES ON

AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.

This wot ye all whom it conoems,
I Rhymer Robin, aUas Bums,

October twenty-third,
A ne V to be forgotten day,
Saefar I sprackled up the brae,

I dinner*d wi* a Lord.

Fve been at druken wri/ert* feasts, ^

Nay, beeo'^itch-fou 'mang godly priests,

Wi* rev^nce be it spoken ;
Fve even joinM the honoured jorum.
When mighty Sauireships of the ouorum,

Their hyora drouth did rioun.

But wi* a Lord — stand out my shin,
A Lord<»a. Peer — an Earl's son.

Up higher yet my bonnet ;
An* sic AXiord — ^lang Scotch c^ twa,
OurPeerageibe overlooks them a\

As 1 look o*er my sonnet.

But oh for rfogarth's magic powV .
To show Sir Biurdy^s wriUvart glowr.

And how he star*d and stammered,
\Yhen goavan, as if led wi* branks.
An* stumpan' on his ploughman shanks^

He in the parlour hammar'd.

«*««««««

I fictfiiiff die1Ur*d in a nook.
An' at nifl Lordship itealH a looic

Liko some portentous omen ;

BURNS'. POEMS.

I watcVd the symptoms o^ the Great,
The gentle pride, tlie lordly state,

The arrogant assuming ;
The fSnnt a pride, nae prido had ne.
Nor saooe, nor itate tluit I could sec,

Mair &an an honest ploughman.

Hien from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unooncom

One rank as welPs another ;
Nae Aonet/ vmihv man noed care.
To meet with noible, youthful Daer,

For he but meets a brother.

ON A YOUNG LADY,

Rssldtng on the baidu of .the aoMlI river Deron, in
Clackmannsn^re,* but whoes Infant yean were
spent in Ayrshire

How pleasant the banks of the dear-winding
Devon,
t With green-spreading bushes, and flowers

r?^ t>looming fair ;

' ' Bat ^e todniest ^wer on the banks of the

Devon,
* Wui once a sweet bod on^thA braes of the

Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower.
In the gay rosy mom as it bathes in uie dew !

And genUe the iall of the soft vej^ shower,
That steals on the evening eiuih kaf to re-
new.

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes.

With chill hoary wing as ye'lteher the dawn !
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that
seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and
lawn!

Let Bourbon ezult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud
rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green vallejrs
Whore Devon, sweet Devon, meandering
flows.

CASTLE GORDON.

SraiAMs that glide in orient plai
Never bound by winter^s chains ;
Glowing hero on golden sands.
There commixM witii foulest sta
From tyranny's empurpled band
These, tlicir richly-gleaming wai
I leave to tyrants and their slave
Give me the stieam that sweetly
The banks, by Ca«tle Gordon.

II.

Spicy forests, ever gay,
shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil.
Or the ruthless native^s way.
Bent on slaughter, blood, and Mp»
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leavQ^e tyrant and the slave.
Give me the groves that loAy br
The storms, by Castle Gordoi

Wildly hero without control,
Nature reigns and rules the who
In that sober pensive mood.
Dearest to the feeling soul.
She plants the forest, pours the i
Life s poor day HI musing rave.
And find at night a sheltering ca
Where waters flow and wild wo*
By bonnie Castle Gordon.*

NAE-BODY.

I HAS a wife o* my ain,
III partake wi' nae-body;

Fn tak cuckold frae nane,
111 gie cuckold to nae-body

I hae a penny to spend.
There— thanks to nae-body

I hae naething to lend,
111 borrow frae nae-body.

I am nae-body*s lord,
111 be slave to nae-body;

I hae a guid braid sword,
111 tak dunts frae nae-body

* Them verses our Poet compoeed to be i
ragf Highland air, of which he wasezSrei

BURNS' POEM&

m be merrjr and dree,
ni be lad for nae-body ;

Ulnae-body core for me,
Ill^cue for nae-body.

N THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG,
NAMED ECHO.

rood and wild, ye warbling throng,
four heavy loeg deplore ;
w half-extinct yoor powen of long,
Iwwt Echo is no more.

janing acreediing things around,
xmm your disoordant joyi ;
w half your Sn of tnnelew sound
rith Echo silent lies.

SONG.*

Tune— *^ I am a man unmarried.*'

nrci I IotM a bonnie lass,

17, and I love her stfll,

f whilst tBat virtue warms my breast

11 love my handsome Noll.

Ihl lai de ral. See,

x>nnie lasses I hae Bccn,
nd mony full as braw,
for a modest gracefu' mien
he like I never saw.

nu^e lass, I will confess, .
pleasant to the e*e,
without some bettor qualities ^
le^s no a lass fbr me.

Nelly*s looks are blithe and sweet,
ad what is best of a\
reputation is complete,
nd fair w^l^out a flaw.

dresses ay sae clean and neat,
>th decent and genteel ;
then there's something in her gait
an ony dress look wecL

tndy dress and gentle air
ar rii^tly touch the heart,
JAi innocence and modesty
bat polishes the dart.

• Tula was our Poet*a flnt attempt

*Tis this hi Nelly pleases me,
Tis this enchants my soul ;

For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.

Tal kU de rtime.

INSCRIPTION

TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.

HERE UES ROBERT FERGU8BON, POIT.
Bem SepUmber SO, VtSl—Died^ IM OdobeTf 1774.

No sculpture marble here, nor pompons lay

** No storied urn nor aninuited bast,*'
This 8imple*%tone directs pale Scotia's war . ^

To pour h«r so vows o'er her port's dniC 'f. \ £

THf CHEVALIER'S LAMENf .

The small birds fojoice in the green leaves re-
turning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro'
the vole ;
The hsNFthom trees blow m* the dews of the
mommg.
And wild scattered cowslips b«deck the green
dale:

But what can give pleasure, or what canr seem

fair.
While the lingering moments are numbered bf

care? [singing.

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless d«pair.

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne ?

His right are these hil^ and his right an

y* these valleys.

Where the wild beasts find sheifer, but I can
find none.

But 'ds not my sufibrin^ thus wretched, for-
lorn, 1^,
My bravo galUht friend<^ tis your ruin I
mourn : ftrialf
Your deeds provM so loyal in hot bloody
Alas ! can I make yq|i no sweeter return !

EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Eaq,

When Nature her great master-niece designed.
And fram'd her last best work the human
mind.

BURNS' POEMS.

HdT eye intent on all the mazy plan,

Sbe fonn*d of various parts tlio various man.

Then first slio calls thn ur>oru1 many fortli ;
Plain ploddizi^ industiy and sober worth :
Thence peasants, farmcrsy^atiTO sons of earth.
And meichand^* v?hoIe genus take their

birth:
Each prudent cit a warm existence Bnds,
And all mochanicd' many aprfl^*d kin<l9.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted vvt.
The kad and buoy are nce<Uul to tne not ;
The eapui morluum of gross desires
Makes a material for mere knights and

auires;
phoftpliorus istauglit to flow.
She kneads tJie lumpish philosophic dough.
Then marks th* unyivlunig mass with grave
desi^s,
^ Ib^t^i I^nicsii politics, and deep divines :
Knst, ibeiablhnes th" Aurora of tlie pules.
The flashing elements of female souls.

The ordered system fair before her stood,
Nati^, well-plcaaidi pronounced U very'^good ;
But e*er she gave creating labour oVr.
Half jest, she tzyM one curious labour more.
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fnluus matter ;
Such as the slightest ureatli of air niitrht scat-
ter;
With arch-alacrity and conscious ."Iro
(Nature may havn her whim a:* well a.s we.
Her Hogartn-art perhaps fIic meant to sliow it)
She ioins the thin^, and christenK it — a poet.
Creaturfe, tho* oil the prey of care and sorrow.
When blest to-dny unmindful of to-morrow.
A beinff formed t^ amuse his graver friends,
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage

ends:
A mortal quite unfit fbr Fortunc^H strife.
Yet ofltlie sport of all the ills of life ;
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riclies give.
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to hve :
Lonffing to wine each tear, to heal eadi groan.
Yet frequent ail unbred in his own.

But honest nature is not quite tt Turk,
She laughM at first, tlicn fel^ for her poor

work.
Pityid|g tlie proplcM cllm1>er of mankind.
She cast about a t6ndarri trte to find ;
And, to support liis helplnss woodbine state.
Attached him to the gmerotis tfuiy gnat,
A title, and the onlv one 1 claim.
To lay Btrontr hold for help on bounteous

Grauajn.

Pity the tuncflil mustv^'* hapless Iniiii,
Weak, timid landmen on life h stormy main I
Their hearts no selfish Ftoni absorbent stuff.
That never gives — tho' liunibly takes enough ;

The little fate allows, they i^hare as soon.
Unlike sage, proverb'd \visdom^B hard-wrungf

boon.
The world were blest did bless on them de-
pend.
Ah, that ^ tho friendly e'er should want a

fHend I"
Let prudence number o^er each sturdy mo,
Who life and wisdom at one race bepin.
Who feel by reason, and who giro by rule,
(Instinct *s a brute, and sentiment a fool I)
Who make poor tcill do wait upon / thould'^
We own they^re prudent, but who feels they*re

good ?
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt tho social eya !
God*s image rudely etchM on base alloy 1
But come ye who the godlike pleasure Juiow,
Heaven^s attribute distmguish d — to bestow!
Wliose arms of love would grasp tlie human

race:
Come ihoii who giv^st with all a courtier*!

grace;
FHend of my life, true patron of my rhymes !
Prop of my dearest hoytca for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half

afraid.
Backward, abasVd 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 tuneAl

nine —
Heavens ! should the branded character b«

mine!
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimclj"

Hows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
Mark, how tlicir lody independent spirit
Soars on tho spuming 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 aosi

ascends.
But rrrovelling on the earth tlie carol ends.
In all tho clam'rotis cry of Biarving want,
Tlicy dun benorolencc with shameless front »
Oblige them, patronitic tlicir tinsel lava,
They persecute you all vour future days!
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
Mv homy fist assumes the plough again ;
Tfic piebald jj^idcet let me patch once more ;
On eightcon-ponce a wek, IVe liv*4 befbre.
Though, tlianks to Heaven, I dare eren tint

last shifl,
I trust meantime my boon is in thy a£i :

'Mi d4br hei

That plac'd by thee uj^on the wj|)i
Where, man an^ nature taircr in her sighC
My muse may imp licr wing for some sdHim-
er flight.*

* This if our Pixit's firot I'pisile to Graham of Fls
try. Ii is uut equal to tiie second ; but It contains loo
much of the cii«raci«ri8tir rigour of its aatJior tabeisp*
preaed. A little uiore knuwiidge of BaturaTUNMy,
or of cbeniisi/y, was wanted to enable bim to eiceate
tile original conception correctly.

BURNS* POEMS.

FRAGMENT,

TO THS UOHT BON. O. 3. FOX.

How wiidoin and folly meet, mix, and unite ;
How Tirtue and vico blend their black andtlieir

white;
Bow feniiM, the illnetrioaa father of fiction,
ConfiNmda rale and law, reconcile! contra-

diction-^
lang: If theoe mortals, the critics, ahoold

bustle,
lent not, not I, let tho critics go whistle.

Bit now for a Patron, whose name and
niiose ^ory
At tooe may fUnstTate and honour my story.

Tbon first of our orators, first of our wits ;
Til vhose parts and acquirements seem mere

\uckv hits;
^ith knowleage so vast, and with judgment so

strong,
^ msn with the half of 'em e*er went far

wrong;
^itlipasrions so potent, and fancies so bright,
rfo nun with the half of 'em e'er went quite
. right ;

^■orrjr, poor misbegot son of the Muses,
"or Uflog thy name offisrs fifty excuses.

Good L — d, what is man! for as simple he

looks,
*^ but tiy to develop his hooks and his

crooks;
With hia dspths and his shallows, lus good and

his evil,
AO in an he*s a proUem must puzzle the devil.

Qa bif one ruling paasion Sir Pope hugely
labours.
That* like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats

op its neighbours :
lfci»Hw*i are his show-box — a fnend, would

you know him?
PoU the string, ruling passion the picture wiU
him.

What ^^, in rearing so beauteous a K^stora,
OfeM tziflm^ particular, truth, should have

miss'dhim;
For, i|ttte of his fine theoretic positions,
lf«ifcinil if a sdenoe defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,
And think human nature they truly describe ;
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more

in the wind.
As by one drunken ieUow his comrades youll
find.

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that wonderful creature, called

Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
Nor oven two different Hhaden of tJie Mune,
Though like as was over twin brother to bro-
ther,
Possessing the one shall imply you've the
other.

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

Enislsnd, Slst OeL 170.

Wow, but your letter made me yavitie !
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie

Wad brinfye to:
Lord send you ay as weors iwant j%

And then yell do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south !
And never drink be near his drouth !
He tald myself by word o' mouth.

He'd tak my letter;
I lippenM to the chiel in trouth.

And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one.
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study ;
And tir'd o' sauls to waste nis lear on.

E'en tried the body.*

But what d*ye think, my trusty fier,
Fm tum'd a ganger — Peace be here !
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear

Yell now disdain me,
And then my fifty pounds a year

Will Uttle gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies,
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbiMii

Ye ken, ye ken,
That Strang necessity supreme is

'Mang sons o' men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,

Theyj maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ;

• Mr. Henm, author of the Htalocy of Scotisad,
of various other works.

BURNS' POEMS.

Y% kMi yonnels my heart right proud is,

I need na vaunt,

Bat ni sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies,

Before they want.

Lord help me thro* this warld o* care !
Fm wear^ sick oH late and air !
Not but r hae a richer share

Than mony ithers;
But why should ao man better fare,

And a* men brithers ?

Com% Firm Resolve, take thou the van.
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man !
And lot us mind, faint heart ne'er wan

A lady fair;
Wha does the utmost that he can.

Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my rilly rhyme,

(Vm scant o^ verse, and scant o* time)

To make a happy fire-side clime *

To weans and wife,
That*8 the true pathos and sublime

Of human life.

My compUments to sister Beckie ;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat die is a dainty chuckie.

As e*er tread day !
And gratefully, my ruid auld cockie,

Fm yours for ay.

RoBiRT Burns.

PROLOGUE,

■FOKBlf AT THE THEATRI ELLISLAND, ON
NKW-TKAR-DAT EVININO.

No son^ nor dance I bring from yon great

city
That queens it o^er our taste^ — ^the more ^ the

pity:
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home :
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wi^ you all a good new year !
Old Fatlier Time deputes me here Mfore ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story :
The sage grave ancient coughed, and bade me

say,
* You're one vear older this important day,"
If irtffr /oo— oe hinted some suggestion.
Bat Hwould be rude, you know, to ask the

question;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink.
He bade me on you press this one word —

•^ think !'*

Te sprightly youths, quite flash wi

and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint c
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In ms sly, dry, sententious, proverb wa^
He bids you mind, amid your thov

rattle.
That the first blow is ever half the battl
That tho' some by the skirt may try to

him;
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catc
That whether doing, suffering, or fort
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youth
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar «
To you old Bald-pate smooths his w

brow.
And humbly begs you'll mind the impo:

now!
To crown your happiness be asks your
And offers, bliss to give and to receive.

•

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endei
With grateful pride we own your

favours ;
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill revi
Believe our glowing bMoms truly fisel i

ELEGY

ON THE LATE MISS BURNE

OP MONBODDO.

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize.
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies
Nor envious death so triumphed in a bio
As that which laid the accomplishM ]
low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I f
In richest ore the brightest jewel set !
In thee, high Heaven above was truest s
As by his noble work the Godhead I
known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye g
Thou crjTstal streamlet with thy flowery

Ye woodland choir that chant your idle
Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more !

Ye heathy wastes, immixM with reedy f(
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and
stor'd;

Ye rugged cliffs, overhanging dreary glei
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

BURNS' POEMS.

bo« emnbVooi pnde wai «n their

rorth,

nal lays their pompoue exit hail ?

■weet ezceUenoe ! fomke oar earth,

a miue in honeit grief bewail f

,ee shine in yoath and beaoty'a pride,

tne^s light, that beams beyond the

pheres;

e son eclipsM atmoniinf tide,

fl*st ns darkling in a world of teara.

Vn heart that nestled fond in thee,

lart how sunk, a prey to grief and

are!

tie woodbine sweet yon affed tree,

it raTiah'd, leaves it Ueak and bare.

IMITATION

' AN OLD JAC?0B1TE SONG.

itle wa*, at the close of the day,
nan sin^, tho' his head it was gray ;
I was singing, the tears fast down
ame —
sver be peace till Jamie comes hame.

h is in mins, the state is in jars,
oppressions, and murderous wars ;
a weel say \ but we ken wha's to
'hune—
ever be peace till Jamie comes hame.

braw sons for Jamie drew sword,

[ greet round their green beds in the

erd:

e sweet heart o* my faithfii* auld

lame—

ever be peace till Jamie comes hame.

I a burden that bows me down,

my bairns, and he tint his crown ;

y last moment my words are the

am&—

ever be peace till Jamie comes hame.

SONG OP DEATH.

d •f baUU ; time of the dof^evtning ; U*
m4 iifing of the metorioue armf are ei^
im in thefettewing S^ng.

% thou fair day, thou green earth,

nd ye skies,

w with the bright setting sun !

lores and friendships, ye dear ten-

er ties,

s of existence is run !

Thou grim king of tenon, thoa lifb^i glooniy
foe.
Go, firiffhten the coward and dave ;
Go, teach them to tremUe, fell tyrant ! bat
know.
No terrors haist thou to the braye !

Thou strik^st the duU peasant— he sinks in the
dark.

Nor saves e*en the wreck of a name ;
Tliou strik^st the young hero— a glorious mark !

He falls in thehlaze of his fame !

In the field of proud honour — our swords \sk
our hands.

Our King and our countrr to sav»^
While victory shines on life s last ebbing sand«,

O who would not rest with the brave !

THE RIGHTS OP WOMAN.

An Oceaeienai JUdreee spoken hf Miee FenUndU •»
her BeneJU-Jfight.

WiiiLK £urope*s eye is fix'd on miffhty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ;
While quacks of state must each pnMuce his

plan,
And oven children lisp the Righit of Man ;
Amid this miffhtv fuss, just let me mention,
T%e Rights offroman merit some attention.

First, in the sexes^ intermix^ connection.
One sacred Right of Woman is prottctiffti. —
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate.
Helpless, must fall before the blasta of fate.
Sunk on the earth, defacM its lovely form.
Unless your shelter ward th' impendmg storm.—

Our second Right — but needless here is
caution.
To keep that right inviolate^s the fashiv^n.
Each man of sense has it so fVill before him,
HeM die before heM 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 mAn — and you are all well-
bred —
Most justly think (and we are much the

cainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, oui
dearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the
nearest.

BURNS* POSMB*

IPniich even the RighiB of Kings in low pros-

tration
Moft humbly own — His dear, dear admiration I
In that blest sphere alone we live and more ;
There taste that life of life — immortal love. —
Smiles, glances, sighs, tbars, fits, flirtations,

airsi,
'Gainst such an host what flint? savage dares —
When awful Beauty joins witn all her charms,
Who JB so rash as nse in rebel arms i

But truce with kings, and truce with consti-
tutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions ;
Let majesty our first attention summon,
Ah ! ea ira ! the Majesty of Woman !

ADDRESS,

ifhtn hf Mitt FontensUSf on her hen^fit-iUgkt^ Dteem-
btr 4, 179S, at tkt Theatrtf Dumfritt.

Still anxious to secure your partial favour.
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than

ever,
A Prolomie, Epilogue, or some such matter,
TwoulcTvamp my bill, said I, if nothing bet

ter ;
Sq, 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 Prologne-business slily hmted.
** Ma^am, let me teU you,*' quoth my man of

rhymes,
^ I know your bent — these are no laughing

times :
Can you— rbut Miss, I own I have my fears.
Dissolve in pause^ — and sentimental tears —
With hiden sighs, and solemn-rounded sen-
tence.
Rouse firom his sluggish slumbers, fell Repen-
tance ;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand.
Calling the storms to bear lum o^er a iruilty
land?"

I could no more — askande the creature eye-
ing,

D^ye think, said I, this face was made for
crying?

m laugh, that*8 pot— nay more, the world
shall know it ;

And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet !

Finn 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 lift en

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless s:
Still under bleak Miefortuno^s blasting <
Doomed to tliat sorest task of man alive
To make three guineas do the work of :
Laugh in Misfortunc*8 face — the beldam
Say, you''ll be merry, thou^ you canH 1

Thou other man of care, the wretch i
Who long with jiitisli arts and airs hast i
Who, as the boughs all temptingly proji
Measur^'st in desperate tliought — a rop

neck —
Or, where the beetling clilT o'erhan,

deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap ;
Wouldst thou be curM, thou silly, mopii
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at tliyt
Learn to despise those frowns now so U
And love a kinder — tbat^s your grand s

To sum up all, bo merry, I advise ;
And as we're merry, may we still be wii

SONGS.

THE LEA-RIG.

When o'er the hill the eastern star.

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ;
And owsen frae the furrowed field.

Return sae dowf and weary, O ;
Down by the bum, whore scented birl

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
111 meet thee on the lea-rig.

My ain kind dearie, O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O,
If thro' that glen, I ^raed to thee.

My ain kind deane, O.
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig.

My ain kind dearie, O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo,

At noon the fisher seeks the glen.
Along the bum to steer, my jo ;

♦

fiURNS' POEMS.

Gm me the hmit o' gloamm grar.
It maksngr heut sae choeiy, 0|

. To meet thee on the lea^riif,
Mj urn kind deehe, 0«

TO MARY.
TcNE — "Ewe-bugbta, Marion."

V^iLL je go to the Indies, my Maiy,
And leave atild Scotia*s shore ?

Win ye go to the Indies my Mary,
Acroes th^ Atlantic's roar ?

Oiweet arrows the lime and the ormfOb

And the apple on the pine ;
Bat a* the charms o* the Indies,

Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true;

And sae may the Heavens fonget me,
When I forget my vow !

plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your Uly-white hand ;

plight me your faith, my Mary,
Beu>re I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,

In mutu^ affection to join.
And eont be the cause that shall jpart ns !

The hour, and the moment o' time I*

\IY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

She is a winsome wee thing.
She is a handsome wee thing.
She is a bonnie wee thing,
Tliis sweet wee wife o^ mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer.

And niest m^r heart I^ wear her,

For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing.
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing.
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld*8 wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o^ ;
Wi' her ra blithly bear it,
And think my lot divine.

*This SoBff Mr. Tbomson has not sdoptsd in hU
^^^^ketkm. II deserves, liowsvflr, to be prsMrved. E.

BONNIE LESLEY.

O SAW ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o'er the border?

She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests ftrther.

To see her is to love her.
And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is.
And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects wo, before thee ;

Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thea

The Deil ho could na scalth thee.
Or aught that wad belang thee ;

He'd look into thy bonnie face.
And say, ** I canna wrang thee.**

The Powers aboon will tent thee ;

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ;
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely

That ill theyll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie f
That we may brag, we hae a lass

There's nane again sae bonnie.

HIGHLAND MARY

Tune — ^^ Catharine Ogie."

Te banKs, and braes, and streams around.

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and mir your flowen^

Your waters never drumlie !
There simmer first unfiiuld her robes.

And there the lansregt tarry ;
For tlicre I took the last farawcel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the ffay groen bfrk.

How rich the hawthorn s blossom ;
As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings.

Flew o'er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me, as light and life,

Waa my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace.

Our parting was fa* tender ;
And pledging aft to meet again.

We tore otirsels asunder ;

BURNS' POEMS.

But Oh ! ftU death's untimely fro«t.
That nipt my flower sae early !

Now jpreen's ther sod, and cauld's the clay.
That wrapt my Highland Mary !

O pale, pale now, those rosy lipt,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly !
And cloeed for ay, the •parJdlnff glance,

That dwelt on me sae kmdly !
And mouldering now in ailent dust.

That heart that loled me dearly I
But still within my bosom^s core.

Shall liye my Highland Mary.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

Thxrb^b auld Rob Morris that wons in yon

fflen,
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld

men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and

Idne,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She*8 fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ;
She's sweet as the oy'ning amang the new hay ;
As blithe and as artless as the Iambs on the lea.
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house

and yard ;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
Tlie wounds I must hide that will soon b« my
dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me

nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane :
I wan£r my lane like a night-troubled ^laist.
And I sigh as my heart it would burst m my

oreast.

O, had she been but of lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she waid smil'd upon

met
O, how past descriying had then been my

As now my distraction no words can express !

DUNCAN GRAY.

•

Duncan Gray came here to woo.
Ho, Ao, the wooing oX

On blythe yule night when we were fou,
HtL, ha^ tilt wooing o'/.

Mnane coost her head fb' higfa^
LooFd asklei^t and unco 8ke^;hf
Gart poor Duncan stand abeiffh ;
Hoy ha, the wooir^ o7.

Duncan fleech'd, and Dmican prayd

Ho, hOy ke.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,

Ha, hay See.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and Uin',
Spak o' lowpin owre a linn ;

Ha, ha, See,

Time and chance are but a tide.

Ha, hay See.
Slighted loye is sair to bide,

Ha, hay See.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die ?
She may gae to— France for me !

HayhOySee,

How it comes let doctors tell«

Hoy hoy See.
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal,

Hoy hoy Sec.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And O, her een, they spuL slo things

HcLy hOy See.

Duncan was a lad o' grace.

Ha, ha, See.
Maggie's was a piteous case.

Ha, hoy See.
Duncan could na be her death.
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they re crouse and canty hMu

Hay ha. See.

SONG.

Tunc— ^ I had a horse."

O PooRTiTH cauld, and restless loye,

Te wreck my»peace between ye;
Tet poortith a' I could fbrgiye.

An' twere na for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure haye,

Life*8 dearest bands untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as loye

Depend on Fortune s phining f

BURNS' POEMS.

realth when I think on,
d a* the lare o\ ;
r coward man, ^

old be the ilave o*t. J^

ninie blue betray,
>ay8 my panion ;
U her o*erword ay,
' rank and fashion,
lyi Sec,

idence think upon,
ssie by him ?
idence think upon,
ove as 1 am ? ^

humble cotter^s fate 1
10 ample dearie ;
es, w«ilth and itate,
aake them eerie,
fate sic pleasure have,
st bands untwining ?
reet a flower as love,
Portune^s shining f

\LLA WATER.

, braw lads on Yarrow braes.
If thro* the blooming heather;
raes, nor Ettric shaws,
tiic lads o' Galla water.

le, a secret ane,
I a* I lo^e him better ;
I, and hell be mine,
lad o' Galla water.

die was nao laird,

lae nae raeikle tocher ;

idest, truest love,

ur flocks by Galla water.

ealth, it ne^er was wealth,
mtentmont, peace, or pleasure,
1 bhss o* mi\tual love,
chiefest warld's treasure I

mD GREGORY.

is this midnight hour,
le tempest^s roar ;
derer seeks tliy towV,
»ry, ope thy 'Joor.

An exile frae her fathar^a W,
And a* for loving thee ;

At least some jnty OQ me diaw,
If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind^st thoa not tho groTOi

By bonnie Irwine side.
Where first I own'd that Tirgin-loTe

I lang, lang had denied.

How aflen didst thou pledge and tow,

Thou wad for ay be mine !
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,

It ne*er mirtrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast :
Thou dart of heaven that flashert by,

O wilt thoo give me rest *

Ye mustering thunders from above,

Your willmg victim see !
But spare, and pardon my fause love,

His wrangs to heaven and me !

MARY MORISON.

TuwB— "Bide ye yet."

O Mary, at thy window be.

It is the wish d, the trysted hour !
Those smiles and glances let me see.

That make the miser^s treasure poor :
How blithly wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun ;
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string.

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'.
To thee my fiuicy 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.**

•

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Or eanst thou break that heart of hia,

Whase only fault is loving thee.'
If love for love thou wiltna gie.

At least be pity to me shown !
A thought ungentle caima be

The thouglit o* Mary Moriaon.

BURNS* POSM8.
WANDERING WILUE.

Hbrb awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
Now tired with wandering, hand awa hame ;

Come to my boeom my ae ^y dearie,
And tell me thou bnng^at me my Willie the
same.

Loud blew the cauld winter windi at our part-
ing;
It was na the blaat brought the tear to my
e^e :
Now welcome the aimmer, and welcome my
Willie,
The nmmer to nature, my WUlie to me.

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o^ your slum-
ben,
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms !
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows.
And waft my dear laddie anco mair to my
arms.

fiutif ho*8 forgotten his faithfuUest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring
main ;

Mav I never see it, may I never trow it,
But dying believe tliat my Willie's my ain !

THE SAME,

As altered by Mr. Ettkine and Mr. TIkmdsod.

there awa, wandering Willie,
\y there aica, baud awa hame.

Here awa, ».«.» ^^^ ^ ...«.«»«.( .....«^
Here awa^ there aica, baud awa hame.

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie,
Tell me thou bring'st me my WiOiA the
me.

same.

Wtnier-irindt blew loud and eaul at our part-
ing,
Feartfor my Wiilie brouglU tears in mjf €e%
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Wil-
lie,
At simmer to nature, lo Willie to me.

RtU^ ye wild ttomuy in the cave o* your slum-
bers.
How your dread howling a lover alarms !
Blow tofl yo breezes ! roll gently ye billows !
And watl-my dear laddie auce moir to my
arms.

But oh, ifhe^sfaUhleu, andmindt na his Nannie,
Flow still hetween us thou dark-heaving
main !

May I never see it, may I never trow it,
ITAOs d|ymg / (^inl; that my Willie's my ain.

Our P»€tt wUk kit uaumt jmigmmt, •itfit
tket9 alUrations, mnd rijteUd ttktrt. 71
iion iA0» foUotcM :

Here awa, there awa, wandering WiJ
Here awa, tliere awa, baud awa hai

Come to m V bosom my ain onlv dean
Tell me tuou bring'st me my Willia 1

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at <

ing,
Fears for my Willie brought tears L
Welcome now simmer, and wdcome ]

lie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to

Rest, ye wild storms in the cave of yo

bers.

How your dread howling a lover al

Wauken yo breezes, row gently ye bil

And waft my dear laddie ance ma

arms.

But oh ! if he's faithless, and mind
Nannie,
Flow still between us thou widi
main ;
Mav I never see it, may I never trow
But, dying, believe that my Wil
ain.

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, <

WITH ALTERATIONS.

Ob, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh !

Tho' thou hast been false. 111 ever pre
Oh, open the door to me. Oh !

•

Cauld is the blast npon my pale cheek
But caulder thy love for mo, Oh !

The frost that freezes the life at my he
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh

The wan moon is setting behhid th
wave.

And time is setting with me. Oh !
False friends, false love, farewell ! for

111 ne^er trouble tlicm, nor thee. Oh

She has openM the door, she has o
wide ;
She sees his pale corse on the plain,
My true love, she cried, and sank d
his side.
Never to rise again. Oh !—

BURNS* rOdlB.

JESSIE.

Tum— ^ Bonny Dundoe."

learted was he, the nd swain o* the

Yarrovr,
&ir are the maidi on the banks o* the

Ayr,
the sweet side o' the Nith*s winding

river,
)ven as faithfu], and maidens as fair :
J young Jessie seek Scotland all over ;
iial yoiuij^ Jessie you seek it in vain ;
>eauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
oaidenly modesty fixes tlie chain.

is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
sweet is the lily at evening close ;
M fair presence o^ lovely young Jessie,
n is the lily, unheeded the rose.
B in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ;
<m'd in her een he delivers his law ;
I to her charms she alone is a stranger !
lodest demeanour's the jewel of a'.

WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST
WAS BLAWN.

Air—" The MiU MiU O."

wild war^s deadly blast waablawn,
gentle peace returning,
my a sweet babe fartherless,
mony a widow mourning,
le lines and tented field,
3re lang I'd been a lodger,
mble imapsack a' my wealth,
lor and honest sodger.

light heart was in my breast,
hand nnstain'd wi' plunder;
r fair Scotia's hame again,
$ery on did wander.
iit npon the banks o' CoO,
'Ught upon my Nancy,
^ht upon the witching smile
t caught my youthfiU fancy.

rth I reach'd the bonnie glen,
re early life I sported ;
I the mill, and trysting thorn,
re Nancy afl I courted :
lied I but my am dear maid,
n bv her mother's dwelling !
mM me round to hide the flood
m my een was swelling.
O 9

Wi' alter'd Toiot, qooth I, lirMilafli^

Sweet as yon hawthorn's hlcwin.
O ! happy, hlappy may he be,

ThaVs dearest to thy bosom •
My purse is light, I've far to gang«

And fain wad be thy lodger ;
Fve sert'd my king and country laqg •

Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfbUy she gaz'd on me.

And lovelier was than ever :
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo*ed,

Forget him cuiall I never : .
Our humble cot, and hanicly fare.

Ye freely shall partake it.
That gallant badge, tlie dear ceckade,

Ye're welcome for the sake o*t.

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a

Syne pale like ony lily ;
She sank within my arms, and cried.

Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By him who made yon sun and skv—

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 lefl me gowd,

A mailen plenish'd fairly ;
And come, my faithfu' soagerlad,

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly !

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,

The farmer ploughs the manor;
Butglory is the sodger's prize ;

Tnesodger's wealth is nonour ,
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.

MEG O' THE MILL.

Am— ^ O bonny lass, will you lie in a Barrack?"

O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten,
An' ken ye what Meg o' the M31 has gotten f
She has gotten a coo? wi' a claut o' siUer,
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 gold ftUow and ta'cn ftlie ohuil.

VJRNS' POEMS.

Tiitf miUflr be becht her heart led uid hmng^:
The Lftird did addreee her wi' matter mair
moyingr,

A fine peeing horse wi* a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie lide laddlo.

O wae on the siller, it issae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is nxM on a mailen !
A tocbery nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl !

SONG.

Tuif K— " Liggeram Cosh."

BuTHB hae I been on yon hill, ,

As the lambs before me ;
Careless ilka thought and firee,

As the breeze flew o V me :
Now nae longer sport and play.

Mirth or san^ can please me;
Lesley is sae fiur and coy,

Care and anguish seize me.

Heavy, heavy, is the task.

Hopeless love declaring :
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowV,

Sighing, dumb, despairing !
If she winna ease the thraws.

In my bosom swelling;
Underneath the grass freen-sod,

Soon maun be my dwdling.

SONG.

TuK»—^ Logan Water.''

O LooAif, sweetly didst thou fi[lide,
That day I was my Willie's bnde ;
And yean sinsjme has o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks wpear
Like drumhe winter, dark and drear.
While my dear lad maun face his fi^s,
Far, far firae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month o' May,
IUm made our hills and valleys gay ;
The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs.
The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs
blithe, morning lifts his rosy eye.
And ev'ninff^s tears are tears of joy :
My soul, ddightless, a' surveys.
While Willie^ far firae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her neetlingt ntsthe thmsh ;

Her faithfii' mate will share her toil.
Or wi' his song her cares beguile, '
But I wi' my sweet nurslings hei«,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer

Pass widowed nights and joyless day
While Willie's far frae Logan braes !

O wae upon you, men o' state.
That brethren rouse to deadly hate !
As ye make mony a fond heart mooi
Sae may it on your heads return !
How can your flinty hearts enjoy.
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry
But soon roav peace bring hi^py daj
And Willie, name to Logan braes !

FRAGMENT,

wrrHERSPOojs'^s collec

SCOTS SONGS.
Air — ^'' Hufirhie Graham."

** O GIN my love were yon red rose.
That grows upon the castle wa'.

And I mysel a drop o' dew.
Into her bonnie oreast to fa' !

^ Oh, there bojond expression blest,
rd feast onocauty a' the night ;

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
TiU fiey'd awa' by Phoebus' Ught"

* O were mv love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blodsoms to the spring;

And I, a bird to shelter there,
Wlien wearied on my little wing :

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!

But 1 wad sinff on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom ran*

BONNIE JEAN.

Thrrp. was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen.

When a' the fairest maids were met.
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean

* These tftanssM were addeJ by Bui«

BURNS' POEMS.

•I

M wrought her mammie'i wirk.
' dbi nng MA mARifia:
est faiid upon the bmh
'er a tighter heart then ihe.

B win rob the

ees the little lintwhite'e nert ;
win btight the ftiiMt flowers,
re wiU break the loiindeet reet

>bie wai the brawest lad,
wer and pride o* a* the fi^en ;
id oweea, iheep and kye,
tnton nyg^** nine or ten.

ri' Jeanie to the tryite,

c'd wi' Jeanie on the down ;

ere witless Jeanie wist,

irt was tint, her peace was stown.

boBom 6* the stream,
on beam dwells at dewy e'en ;
ing, pore, was tender loye,
the ureast o' bonnie Jean.

she works her mammie''8 wark,
she righs wi* care and pain ;
& what her ail might be,
t wad mak her weel again.

L Jeanie's heart loup light,
1 na joy blink in her e'e,
tanld a tale o' love,
'enin on the lily lea?

wna sinking in the west,
ds sang sweot in ilka grove ;
. to hen he fondly prest,
lisper'd thus his tale o' love :

fair, I lo> tbee dear ;
thou think to fancy me !
lou leave thv momuiie'H cot,
.m to tont the farms \vi^ ino ?

r byre thou shalt na drudge,
hing else to trouble thee ;
amang the heather-belK
it the waving com wi* me.

t could artless Joanie do ?
i nae will to say him na :
she blush'd a sweet consent,
re was ay between them twa.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.
Tuna—" RoWn Adair."

While lai^ with little wing,

Fann'd the pure air.
Tasting the breathing spring,

Forth I did fkre :
Gay the sun*s golden eye,
Peeo'd o'er the mountams high;
Budi thy mom ; did I ciy,

Phillis the fair

In each bird's careleBs song,

Glad did I share;
While yon wild flowVs among,

Chance led me there :
Sweet to the opening day.
Rosebuds bent the oewy spray ;
Such thy bloom ! did I say,

PhiUis the fair.

Down in a shady walk.

Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk

Cauffht in a snare :
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny.
He who would injure thee,

Phillis the fair.

SONG.

To the same Tune.

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore.
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing
There would I weep my woes, [roar r

There seek my last repose.
Till grief my eyes should dose,
Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air !
To thy new lover hie,
Laugn o'er thy perjury.
Then in thy liosom tiy.

What peace is there !

SONG.

TuHi— •* AUan Water."

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phcebus sank beyond Benleddi ;*

* A mouotaln watt of Btratli Anan, 3,000 feat hifttk

BURNS' POEMa

The windf were whi^wring^ thro* the grove,
The yellow com was waving ready :

I listen d to a lover^s sanff.
And thought on youtmu' pleasures mony ;

And ay the wild-wood echoes ranf — «
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie f

O, happy be the woodbine bower,

Noe 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, " Viu lliino for ever !"
AVhile mony a kiss the seal imprest,

Tlio sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' spring s tlio primrose brae.

The simmer joys the ilocks to follow ;
How cheery thro' her shortening day.

Is autumn, in her weeds o^ yellow ;
But can they melt the glowin^r heart.

Or chain the soul in speech&as pleasurt,
Or thro' each nerve the n^yture dart.

Like meeting her, our boeom'e treamire?

WfflSTLE, AND TLL COME TO YOU,

MY LAD.

O wmsTLE, and 111 come to you, my lad :
O whistle, and Fll come to you, my lad :
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and HI come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me.
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Bjne up the back-stile, and let nae body see.
And come as ye were na comin to me,
And come, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me.
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flic :
But steal me a blink o' vour bonnie black e'e,
Tet look as ye were na looking at me.
Yet look. Sic,

O vfhialle^ See.

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me.
And whiles ye may lightly m^ beauty a wee ;
But court na anitber, the' jolun ye be.
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae mo.
For fear, kc

OwhuUe^ice.

SONG.

Tuns — ^^ The mucking o' Geordie^ b

Adown wuiding Nith I did wander.
To mark the sweet flowers as tlwjr ^

Adown winding Nith I did wander.
Of Phillis to muse and to sing.

CHORUS.

j^wa wi' your beUe* and your beauHi
Tkey merer %H^her can conuaare :

Whaei-er has met wV my Phillis^
Hcu met vC the queen o- tliefair.

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild ;

Thou emblem, said 1, o' my PhUlis,
For she is simplicity's cmld.
AuHi,ke.

The rose-bud ^ the blush o' my channe
Her sweet balmy lip when His prest :

How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast.
AwtLiSce.

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.
Atoa^ &c.

Her voice is the song of the moniii^
That wakes thro' tne green-spreamng

When Phoebus peeps over tho mountains
On music, and pleasure, and love.
Awa^ See,

But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer's day!

While worth in the mind o* my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
AujaySce

SONG.

Air— « Cauld Kafl."

Come, lot me take thee to my breast.
And pledge we ne*er shall sunder ;

And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The warm's wealth and grandeur

BUERB* POKMS.

1 1 Imv niy Jeanie own,
; eooml tnowpoila movv hir?
Mr aeaiesi liro alone
; I ma,j lire to love her.

B nqr armi, wi' «I1 tfaj chamt,
ip mj coontien trBasare ;
k naa mair o* heaTwi to duurs ;
n BO a moment*! pleaion :
r thy een, sae bonnie Uue,
nr I'tai thine for ever !
1 thy lips I seal my vow,
bfclakit shall I never.

DAINTY DAVIE.

My Bfay comet in wi* flowers,
k her gay, green spreading bowers ;
>w comes in my happy hours,
} wander wi' my Davie.

CHOKUS.

me on ffie varlodc knowt,
tunhf Davitt dainiy Daxne^
1 1 U ipend the dtiwfyou^
tkar damijf Davit,

ystal waters round us ik',
eny birds are lovers a\
ented breezes round us blaw,
wanderinff wi' mj Davie.
Meetme^ie,

purple morning starts the hare
il upon her early fare,
hro the dews I will repair,
9 meet ray faithfii' Davie.
Meet mtt ice.

day, expiring in the west,
irtain draws o* nature's rest,
his arms I lo'e best,
od that^s my ain dear Davie.

CHOKUS.

'me on the tearlock knowe^
vnnie Davit, dainty Davit,
^e PU tpend the deiwi' you,
'y am aatr damty Davie.

BONO

TuHB— ** Oran GaoiL"

D the hour, the boat arrive ;

a goest, thou darling of mv heart !

1 m>m thee can I survive .'

(kic has willed and wo must part

rn oltflB greet this SQinnf swell,
Ton distant isle wiUVrf&n haU :

** E'en here I took the last &reweU ;
There latest marii'd her vanished sail''

Along the solitary shore,

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry.
Across the rolhng, dashing roar

rU westward turn my wistfUl eye :
Happy, thou Indian gfrove, Fll say.

Where now my Nancy's path may be !
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,

O tell me, cbes she muse on me !

SONG.

Tum— ^Fee himFathir.''

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou haat lift

me ever.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou haat bft

me ever.
Aften hast thou yow'd that death. Only shmild

us sever.
Now thou'st left thy lass for av— I maun see

thee never, Jamie,
111 see thee never.

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me

forsaken.
Thoil^st mo forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me

forsaken.
Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is

breaking.
Soon my weary een 111 close— Never mair to

waken, Jamie, «
Ne'er mair to waken.

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be fbigot,

And never brought to min' f
Should auld acquamtance be forgot.

And days o' lang syne ?

CHORUS.

For auld lang tyne^ my dear^

For attld lang »yne^
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet.

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae ran about the braes.

And pu't the gowans fine ;
But we TO wancbred mony a waaiy fool«

Bin auld lang syne.
Formddfie*

A Bounr

W« tva haa pudn r te bam*

Ftm moffmn ann tin dint :
Bat mam be l wae u oi braid haa niar'd,

flm sold hnf fjiie.
JP«r otf^^Tlf.

And hero's a hand, bit trait j fier.

And ne*8 a hand o thina ;
And wall tak a rifht (uid-wiDia wangfaft.

For aold lang ijna.

And aoralf Tall ba jonr pint-atowp,

And anralT IH ba mina ;
And wall tak a cop o* kindnf jat.

For aold lanf gjnb.
For auiilt le.

BANNOCK-BURN

lOBSBT BmnCE*8 ADDRESS TO HIS ASMT.

Soon, wfaa haa wT Wafiaaa blad,
Soota, wham Bnioa haa ailao lad,
Wdeoma Xojoat ^rj bad,
Or to gionoua nctoiy.

llow^a tlM daj, and now*! tha hour ;
8aa tha ntmt o* battla lowar ;
8aa approach orood Edwaid^s powar
Edward ! cnaini and daTaiy !

Whawni baa traitor knaya? •

IVha can fill a coward^a gnva ?
Wha na baae as ba a dava ?
Traitor *. coward ! turn and flaa !

Wha for ScotfaAd's king and law
Freadom*a award will itrongly draw,
Fiae-man atand, or fi^ea-man &',
Caladonian ! on wi' ma !

Bj oppraMonVi woaa and paina !
Br joor aona in Mnrila ofaaina !
Wa will drain onr daareat vaina,
But they ihallba dullbafiraa!

Laj tha piood aaarpari low !
Trranta fall in ayarr foa !
Ldbartj'a in vterj uow !
Forward ! lat na do, or dia !

PAIR JENNY.
Ton ■-> Saw yt my fkther r*

Wmai ara tha joys I hava met in tha morning.
That dancM to tha lark^s early song ?

Where is the peace that awaited my wandMng,
At CTeoiiig the wild woods among ?

■■iMjIiwjr Aa

the hght
and aadsifhi^g caia.

Is il that

And gran,
lloi,nOi,tha'

Fhxiaim it the

F^ would I hide what I fear to
Tat long, long too well haTe I kno^

AH that haa cauaed thia wreck in my
la Jenny, ftir Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid ma, my grieft are in
Nor hope dare a comfort beatow :

Coma then, enamoorM and fond of nr
JEInjoyment HI seek in my wo.

SONG.
Toim— ■'The CoQiar^ Doditi

I>sLUDxn awain, tha pleaaora
The fickle Fair can gnra thaa

!■ hot a fairy tr eas ur e.

Thy hopes will soon deoeire 1

The billows on the ocean.
The breezes idly roaming.

The clouds* uncertain motion,
They are but types of woman

O art thou not ariuumed.
To dote upon a feature ?

If man thou jyouldst be named,
Dei^Maa the silly creature.

Go, find an honest fellow ;

Good daret set before thee :
Hold on till thou art mellow.

And then to bed in glory.

SONG.

Tinci— ^ The Quaker's wife

Think am I, my faithful fkir.
Thine, my lorely Nancy ;

Ev'iy pulaa alonjr my yaina,
EvTy roving rancy.

To thy bosom Xzy my heart.
There to throb and languish

Tho* despair had wrung its core
That would lical iu* angubh.

BURNS' POEMS.

ly tbeM rosy fip«t
nth balm J treasure :

rr thine eyes of loTe»

due with pleasure.

ife when wanting lore ?
without a morning :
le doudleas summer son,
) gay adorning.

SONG.

TuifB— ** Jo Janet"

S husband, cease your strife,
Dger idly rave, Sir ;
n your wedded wife,
mi not your slave. Sir.

two must stin obey,
fNancy ;
1 or woman, say,
ouse, Nancy ^^

1 the lordly word,
e and obedience ;
t my sovereign lord,
), good b*ye allegiance !

U I be, so bereft,
, Nancy ;
ry to make a shift,
ouse, Nancy.*'

heart then break it must.

It hour I'm near it :

»u lay me in the dust

, think how you will bear it.

lope and trust in Heaven,
', Nancy ;

to bear it will be given,
ouse, Nancy." *

r, from the silent dead
11 try to daunt you ;
nd your midnight bed
i sprites shall miunt you.

i another, like my dear
r, Nancy ;

. hell will fly for fear,
touse. Nancy."

Aia— *" The Sutor's Doefaler.'*

Wilt thou be m^ dearie ?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle
Wilt thou let me cheer thee ?
By the treasure of my soul,
lliat's the love I bear thee !
I swear and vow that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo*es me ;
Or if thou wilt na be my ain.
Say na thoult refuse me :
If it winna, canna be.
Thou, for thine may choose m«i|
Let me, lassie, quicby die.
Trusting that thou lo'es me.
Lassie, fot me auickly die.
Trusting that tnou lo'es me.

BANKS OF CREE.

Hekb is the glen, and here the bower.
All underneath the birchen shade »

The village-bell has toU'd the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid ?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ;

'Tis but the balmy-breaming sale ;
Mizt with some warbler's dyinglall

The dewy star of eve to hail.

It LB Marians voice I hear I

So calls the woodlark in the grovai
His little faithful mate to cheer.

At once His music — and 'tis love.

And art thou come ! and art thou true !

O welcome dear to love and me !
And let us all our vows renew.

Along the flowery banks of Cree.

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH

A PRESENT OF 0ON6S.

Heex, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined,

Accept the' gift ; tho' humble he who gnres.
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

BURNS' P08M8-

80 maj no niffian-foeUiy in thy breast,
Diticordant j&r tliy bosom-diords among ;

But peace attune tliy ecntle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

Or pityli notes, in lujniry of tears,
As inodost want the tale of wo reveals ;

While conscious viKuc all the strain endoan,
And heaveii-bom piety her sanction seals.

,0N THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

Tuif E— ^ O'er the Hills," kc

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent fVom mv sailor lad f
How can I the thought forego.
He's on the seas to meet the foe ?
Let me wander, lot mo rove ;
Still my heart is witli my love ;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are with him that's far away.

cnoaus.

On the seat and far airoy,
Ontionnff tea» and far away:
Jfighiijf dreamt ana ihoughit by day
Art ay with him IhaCtfar avay.

When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant.
Haply in this scorcliing sun
My sailor's thundering at his gun :
Bullets, spore my only joy !
Bullets, spare my darling boy !
Fate do with mo what you may
Spare but him that^ far away 1
On the teat^ &c.

At the starlen midnight hour.
When winter rules with boundless pow'^ ;
As the storms the forests tear.
And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar.
Surging on the rocky shore,
All 1 can — I weep and pray, ^

For his weal thars far away
Ontheteat^ iee.

Peace, thy olive wand extend.
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet.
And as a brother kindly greet :
Then may heaven with prosperous gales,
Jl^ my sailor's welcome sails.
To my arms their charge convey.
My dear lad thafb far away.
On Uu teat ke.

SONG

Tun E^** Ca' the Towes to the Know<

CHORUS.

Ca' the ytncet to the ibieirei,
Co* tliem trhare the heather growth
Co* them tchare the bumie roicst.
My bonnie dearie.

Hakk, the mavis' evening sang
Soundine Cloudcn's wo<n1s amang;
Then a-faulding let us gang.
My bonnie dearie.
Ca* the. See.

Well gae down by Clouden side.
Thro' the hazels spreading wide.
O'er the wavoe, that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
Co* the. See,

Tender Clouden's silent towers.
Where at moonshine midnight hoan»
O'er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Co" the, &c.

Ghaiflt nor bogle shalt thou fear ;
Thou'rt to love and hcav'n sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near.
My bonnie dearie.
Ca'the,i:e.

Fair and lovely as tlioa art.
Thou hast stown my very heart ;
I can die — ^but camia part,
My bonnie dearie.
CaUhe,Sce.

SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES MS BEl

OF A'.

TuHi— ".Onagh's Wator-fidL"

Sab flaxen were her ringlets,

Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bowitchmgly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' TOnnio blue.
Her smilinf sac wyling,

Wad muce a wretch forget his wo ;
AVhat pleasure, what treasure.

Unto these rosy lips to grow !
Such was my Cmoris' bonnie face.

When first her bonnie face I saw ;
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm.

She says she lo'es me best of a'.

BURNS' POEMS.

like haniioi^ her motion ;

Hor JvetUr ancle m a wfj
Betraying fair proportion.

Wad mak a aaint forget the wky,
Sae wanning, sap chaiming.

Her faulUeas form, and gracefu* air }
nk feature— aald nature

Declar'd that ibe ooold do nae mair :
Hen are the willing chaini o* love.

By conquering beauty ^e aovereign law ;
And ay my Chloris^ dearert charm,

She saya she lo^et me beet of a\

Let others love the city, ^

And gaudy ihow at sunny noon ;
Gie me the lonely valley.

The dewy eve, and rising moon ;
Fair beaming, and streaming.

Her silver ught the bouglu amang ;
While fUlmg, recallmfr,

The amorous thrush concludes her sang
Tliere, dearest Chloria, wilt thou rove

By wimpling bum and leafy shaw.
Ana hear my vows o^ truth and love.

And say tnoa lo^es me best of a^ !

SAW YE MY PHELY.

(Quasi dicat Phillis.)
Tvm — ^ WhMi she cam ben she bobbit"

O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ?
O saw ve my dear, my Fhely ?
She^s oown r the grove, she's wi* a new love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

•

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,'
And for ever disowns thee her Willy.

had I ne W seen thee, my Phely !
had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely !
As Ught as the air, and fause as tnou^s fair,
Thoa*s broken the heart o' tliy Willy.

SONG.

Tuifi — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.""

How long and dreary is the night,
When! am frae my dearie ;

I restless lie frae e*en to mom,
Tho* 1 were ne^tr sae wearj;
H

cHoaus.

For oh^ her Umdy nights art long
Jind oh^ her dreamt are eerie ;

Artd ok, her widowed heart u »air<t
Thai's absent frae her dearie.

When I think on the lightsome days
I spent wi' thee my dearie ;

And now what seas between us roar,
flow can I be but eerie f
For oht &c.

How sldW ye move, ye heavy hours ;

The joyless day bow dreary !
It was na sae ye glinted by,
I was wi' my deari

When
For oh^ ice.

my dearie.

SONG.

TcNE — ** Duncan Gray.**

Let not woman e'er complain,

Of inconstancy in love ;
Let not woman e'er complain.

Fickle man is apt to rove :

Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mi^ty law is change ;

Ladies, would it not be strange,
Man should then a monster prove ?

Mark Uie winds, and mark the skies ;

Ocean s ebb, and ocean's flow :
Sun and moon but set to rise.

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly man.
To oppose great Nature's plan ?

Well be constant while we can —
You can be no more, you know.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE
TO HIS MISTRESS.

Tune—" Dcil tak Uie Wars."

Slkep'st thou, or wak'pt thou, fairest crea-

Rosy morn now lifls liis eve, [turo

Numboring ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy :

Now thro' the leafy woods.

And by the reeking floods.
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ;

The lintwhitc in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower ;

The lav 'rock to the sky

ANceuds wi' sangs o' joy, [day.

While the sun and thou ^xim to blc&s the

BURNS' POEMS.

PhflBbuf gilding tho brow o^ morning,

Baniflhee ilk darksome shade.
Nature gladdening and adorning ;

Such to me my lovely maid.

When absent irae my fair,

The murky shades o care
With starless ^loom overcast my sullen sky ;

But when, m beauty *s li^ht.

She meets my rayisn'd sight.

When through my very heart

Her beaming glories dart ;
Tis then I wale to life, to light, and joy.

THE AULD MAN.

Birr lately seen in gladsome gnon

The woods rejoiced tho day,
Thro^ genUe showers the laughing flowon

In double pride were gay :
But now our ioys are fled.

On winter blasts awa !
Yet maiden May, in rich array.

Again shall bring them a\

But my wliito pow, nao kindly thowe

Shall melt the snaws of age ;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield.

Sinks in timers wintry rage.
Oh, age has weary days.

And nights o* sleepless pain !
Thou golden time o^ youtnfu' prime,

Why com^st tliou not again I

SONG.

TuHK — ^ My Lodging is on the cold ground."

Mt Chloris, mark how greon tho groves.
The primrose bonks Iiow fair :

The balmy gales awake the flowers.
And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lavVock shuns the palace gay.

And o^er the cottage sings :
For nature smiles as sweet I ween.

To shepherds as to kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string

In lordly lighted ha' :
The shepherd stops his simple reed.

Blithe, in the birkon shaw.

The princely reyel may aunrey

Our rustic danoe wr foom ;
But are their hearts as light as oiun

Beneath the milk-whniB thom?

The shepherd, in the flowery glen,
In 8hepherd*s phrase will woo :

The courtier tells a finer tale,
But is his heart as true ?

These wild-wood flowers IVe pa'd, to dec

That spotless breast o* thine :
The courtiers' gems may witness love-^

But tis na love like mine.

SONG,

AT.TBKED FROM AN OLD KNGLISa OHS.

It was the charming month of May,
When all the flowers were fre^ and gay.
One morning, by the break of day.
The youthful, charming Chloe ;

From peaceful slumber she aroee.
Girt on her mantle and her hose.
And o*er the flowery mead she goes.
The youthful, charming Chloe.

ciioaus.

Lovely leas the by the daum^

Ymtihjid Chloe^ charming Chloe^

TVwping o^tr Ihe pearly laten^
The ymttlifuli aiarming CKbc.

The featherM people, you might see
Perch'd all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody, ^

They hail the chsuming Chloe ;

Till, painting gay the eastern skies.
The fflorioufl sun began to rise,
Out-nvallM by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Cmoe
Lately uhu the^ See,

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCK
TuNK— " Rothemurchie's Rant*

CHORUS.

Latsie iri* the lint-while lorh^
Bonnie laiftu^ arlltu la^sie^

Will Ihoii wV mc taU tlie flocks^
Will tluni be my dearie^ O ?

If ow nature deeds the floweiy lea.
And a* is joong and iweet Ifte thee ;
O wih thoQ ihare its joji wi' me.
And saj thouHt be my dearie, O?
Louie v€^ ice.

And when the wdcoine wamer-ihower«
Haa cfaeer'd ilk drooping little flower.
Well to the breathing woodbine bower
At toltrjr noon, m j deurie, O.
Lassie m\ See,

When Cynthia lights, wi' nlrer ray.
The weajnr shearer's hameward way ;
Thro' yellow waving fields well stray^
And talk o' love, my dearie, O.
Lottie wT, ice.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie^ midnight rest;
Cndaaped to my faitlifu' breast,
111 comfort thee, my dearie, O. ^

Lassie teV the Uni-^kUe locks,

Bonme lastic, art lets lassie^
O wilt thou wC me tent thejheksy

Wilt thou be my dearie^ O?

BURNS' POEMS.

DUET.

SONG.

f _

TuNK — ^Nancy's to the Greenwood,^' &c.

Faexwxll thou stream that winding flows
Around Elixa's dwelling !

memVy ! ^are the cruu throes
Within my bosom swelling :

Coodenm'd to drag a hopeless chain,

And yet in secret lan^^uish.
To fed a fire in ev'ry vem,

Nor dare disdoee my angmsh.

Love's veriest wreidi, miseen, unknown,

I fiun my griefii would cover :
The burvtmg sigh, th' unweetmg groan.

Betray thehaplcsR lovor.

1 know thou doom'st me to despair,

Nor wilt« nor canst relieve me ;
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer,
For {Hty's sake forgive me.

Tlie music of thy voice I heard.

Nor wist while it enslaved me ;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd,

Tdl fears no more had savM me :
Th* unwary sailor thus a^ast.

The wheeling torrent viewing ;
'Mid circling horrors sinks at Uwt

la ovorwhelioing ruin.

Tui»— "The Sow^i Tail."

HK — O Phi LLY« happy be that day

When rovinff tnrough the gather'dha
My youthm^ heart was stown away, '
And by thy charms, my PhiUy.

SHI — O Willy, ay I bless the grove

Where first I own'd my maiden love,
Whilst thou did pledge the Powei
above
To be my ain dear Willy.

HS — As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear.
So Uka day to me mair dear
And charming is my PhiUy.

SHE — As on the brier the budding rose

Still richer breathes, and fairer blows.
So in my tender bosom grows
Tlie love I bear my Willy.

HE — The milder sun and bluer sky.

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy.
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye
As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE — ^The little swallow's wanton wing,
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring.
Did ne'er to me sic tidinss bring.
As meeting o' my W^y.

HE — ^Tlie bee that thro' the sunny honr
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compar'd wi' my delight lb poor,
Upon the lips o' Plmly.

SHE-— The woodbine in the dewy weet

When evening shades in mlence meet.
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
As is a kiss o Willy.

HE — ^Let fortime^s wheel at random rin.
And fools may tine, and knaves may

win;
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane,
And that's my ain dear Philly.

SHE — What's a* the joys that ffowd can giot
T rare nae wealth a single flie ;
Tlie lad I lovers the lad for me«
And that's my ain dear Willy.

>:>.■'•

-f^ \

100

BURNS* POEMS.

SONG.

TuHE — ^^ Lompi o' Padding.

Contented wi' little, and cantio wi' mair,
Whenever I forgather wi* torrow and care,
Iffie them a skolp, aa they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o* guid swats, and an auld Scottiah
sang.

[ whyles claw the elbow o* troablesome

Thought;
But man ia a soger, and life is a faught :
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my

pouch.
And my Freodom^s my lairdship nae monarch

dare touch.

A towmond o* trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o* guid fellowship sowthers it a' :
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has
past?

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her

way;
Be\ to me, beH frae me, e*en let the jade gae :
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure,

or poin,
My waist word is — ^ Welcome, and welcome

agam

i«

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY

KATY >

Tone—" Roy's wife."

CHORUS.

Canti tfufu leave m^. thtu, iny KcUy?
CanH thou leave me thus, my Kaiy ?
Well thou knnw^st my aching hearty
And canst thou leave me tfiusfor pity?

Is this thy plighted, fond re^rd.

Thus cruelly to port, my iCaly ?
Is this thy faithful swain^s reward —

An aching, broken heart, my Katy f
Canst thouy &e.

Farewell ! ai^d ne^er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy !

Thoa may'st find those will love thee dear-
Bat not a love like mine, my Katy.
Camt thm^ ke.

MY NANNI&S AWA.

Tune— ^ Therell never be peace.'' &c.

Now in her green mantle blithe nature airaysy
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the
braes, [shaw;

While birds warble welcome in ilka green
But to me it's delightless-Hny Nannie's awa.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands

adorn.
And violets bathe in the weot o' the mora ;
They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they

blaw.
They ihmd me o' Nannie— and Nannie's awa.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the

lawn,
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking

dawn, (k

And thoa meUow mavis that haili the night-&'
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa.

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and

And sooth me wi' tiding o' nature*s decay :
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving

snaw,
Alane can delight mc — now Nannie^ awa.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

Is there, for honest poverty.

That hangs his head, and a^ that ;
The coward-sIavc, we pass him by.

We dare be poor for a"* that !
For a' that, and a' that.

Our toil's obscure, and a' that.
The rank is but the guinea*8 stamp,

The man's Uio gowd for a' that.

What tho* on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wini

A man''s a man for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that ;
The honest man, though e^er sae poor,

Is king o** men for a° that

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ;

Tho' hundreds worship at his woidi
He^s but a coof for a' that :

BURNS' posiia

101

For a' that, md a that,
Hii liband, star, and a' that.

The man of independent nund.
He looks and laughs at a' that

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a^ that ;
Bat an honest man's aboon his might,

Giiid faith he mauna fa* that !
For a' that, and a* that,

Their dignities, and a' that.
The pith o^scnse, and pride o' worth,

Are higher ranks than a* that.

Then let us pray that come it may.

As oon|e it wiU for a* that.
That sense and worth, oW a* the earth,

BAaY bear the gree, and a' that.
For tfthnt, and a' that.

It's coming yet, for a* that.
That man to man, the warld o'er.

Shall brothers be for a' that

SONG.

TuNB— Craigie-bum-wood.

Sweet fa's the evo on Craigie-bum,
And blithe awakes the morrow.

Bat a* the pride o' springes return
Can yield mo nocht but sorrow.

1 see tlie flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing :

Bat what a weary wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing ^

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart.

Yet dare na for vour anger ;
^t secret love'wiU break my heart,

If I conceal it langor.

If thou refuse to pity me,

If thou shalt love anither.
When yon green leaves fade fVae tlie tree.

Around my grave they'll wither.

SONG.

TuifE— ^ Let mo in this ae night"

O LASSIE, art thou sleepinff yet ?
Or art thou wakin, I would wit ?
For love has bound mo hand and foot.
And I would fain be in, jo.

OBOEUI.

out me in thit ae nMi,

This at,aA,tte n^A/;
f\>rpit}/*t take this ae rifhi^

O rite and letmein^jo.

Thou hears't the winter wind and

Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ;
Tak pity on my wcazy feet.
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
O Ui me in, See,

The bitter blast that round me blaws
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.
Oletmtin, See

HER ANSWER.

O TELL na mo o' wind and rain.
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
I winna lot you in, jo.

CHoaus.

/ idl you now thit ae night.

Thit aeyoe^ae night ;
And ancefor a' thit ae nighty

I winna let you tn, jo.

The snellost blast, at mirkest hours.
That round the patlilcss wand'rer poun,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
/ tell you noio, ke.

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead.
Now trodden like Uie vilest weed ;
Let simple maid tlie lesson read,
The weird may bo her ain, jo,
I teU you notr, See,

The bird that charm'd his summer-day.
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ;
Let witless, trusting woman saj^
How aft her fate s the same, jo,
/ tell you now. See,

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.

TiTKE— ** Where'U bonnie Ann lie." Or, •• liocb.

Eroch Side."

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-laA stay.
Nor quit for me the trmiMing spray.

B0RNS' POEMS.

(ver courts thy U}r,
hing, fond complaining.

in that tender part,
y catch thy melting art ;
that wad touch her heart,
ills me wi' disdaining.

thy little mate unkind,
rd tnee as the careless wind?
it but love and sorrow join*d,
>te8 o* wo could wauken.

oils o* never-ending care ;

ichless grief, and dark despair ;
y *s sake, sweet bird, nae mair !
ny poor heart is broken !

N CHLORIS BEING ILL
TuWE— " Ay wakin O."

CUOKUS.

Lone^ long the night,
Hemy cornea the morrow^

While my touVt defight<,
Is on her bed ofn?rotc.

Cak I cease to care ?

Can I cease to lan^ruish.
While mv darling fair

Is on the couch of anguirii?
Long^Sce.

Eveiy hope is fled.

Every rear is terror ;
Slumber even I dread.

Every dream is horror.
Long<,&e.

Hear me, Powr^s divine !

Oh, in pity hear me !
Take aught else of mine,

But my Chloris spare me !
Long^ ice,

SONG.

TuHE— •* Humours of Glen."

iKiK groves o^ sweet myrtle let foreign lands
reckon, [j^rfume,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the
r dearer to me yon lone glen o'green breckan,
l¥i' the bum stealing under thB hung yellow
broom.

Far dearer to me are yon hmnUe faioom bon

Where the Uue-bell and govaa huk lo

unseen: [Bom

For there, lightly tripping amang the i
A-Gstening the linnet, aft wanders my J«

Tho* richi* th^ breeze in their gay somiy
leys,
And'cauTd Caledonia's bUtst on the wave

Their sweet-scented woodlands that

proud palace, [sli

What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant

The slave's q>icy forests, and gold-bubb
fountains.
The brave Caledonian views wi* di«dain
He wanders as free as the wijuds of his mc
tains.
Save lovers willing fetters^ the chains o'
Jean.

SONG.

TuHt — " Laddie, lie near me."

'TWAS na her bonnie blue e^e was my ruin
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing
Twas M dear smile when naebody did n

us,
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance

kindnesa.

Sair do I fear that to hope'is oenied me,
8air do I fear that despair maun abide me
But tho* fell fortune should fate us to aeve
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 d<
And thou'rt the an^l that never can alt
Sooner the sun in ms motion would fait

ALTERED FROM AN OLD EN<

SONG.

TuNi — ^^ John Anderson my j<

How cruel are the parents

Who riches only prize.
And to the wealthy booby.

Poor woman sacrifice.
Meanwhile the hapless dauf

Has but a choice of strife
To shun a tyrant father's h

Become a wretched wife.

The ravening hawk pursu'
The trembling dove thu

To shun impellmg ruin
A while her pinions trii

BURNS' POEMS.

103

No riMltor or retreat,
Sbe tniitB the mthleM fidooner,
And droiNi beneath his ftet

SONG.

Tuin— ««Deil tak the WarB."

kEK jonder pomp of costly fashion,
Ronnd the wealtny, titled bride :
It when compar'd with real paasion.
Poor is all that princel j pride.
What are the showy treasures ?
What are the noisy pleasures ?
ny, gaudy flare of vanity and art :
Toe polished Jewells Maze
May draw the wondVing gaze.
And courtly grandeur bn^t
The fancy jmay delight,
never, never can come near the heart.

at did you see my dearest Chloris,
h multeity's array ;
oraly as yonder sweet opening flower is,
ffluinking from the gaze of day.

then, 2e heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,

Love's deli^htfhl fetters she chains the

willing soul !
Ambition would disown
The world*s imperial crown
Cren Avarice would deny
His worshipped deity,

1 feel thro' evory vein I^ova's raptures roll.

SONG.

Tdmi — ^This is no my ain House.

CHORUS.

Otkiiitnomy am lastie^
IW Ihci* the lauie be ;

Otfeet ten / my ain lasne^
Kind love it in her eV.

'K tfbnn, I see a face,
' ^"ftel may wi' the fairest place :
^ts, to me, the witching grace,
'^ lond love that's in her e'e.
O this tt no^ I'c,

She's bonnie, blooming, straii^ht, and taU
And lan^ has had my iieart m thrall ;
And ay it charms my vexy saul.
The kind love that's in her e'e.
X) this u no^ See.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a luink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are levers' een,
when kind love is in the e'e,
O thii it no^ See,

I may escape the courtly sparks.
It may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that^ in her e'e.
O this it no. See.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

SCOTTISH BONO.

Now Spring has clad the groves in green,

And strew'd the lea wi flowers ;
The furrow'd, waving com is seen

Rejoice in fostering showers ;
While ilka thing in nature join

Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine

The weary steps of wo !

The trout within yon wimp] in 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.

Tlie little flow'ret's peaceful lot.

In yonder cliff that grows,
Which, save the linnpt'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 tlie withering blast

My youth and joys consume.

The waken'd lav'rodc waibling springs.

And climbs the early sky.
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings

In morning's rosy eye ;
As little reckt I sorrow's power.

Until the flowery snare
C witching love, in luckless hour

Made me the thrall o' care.

SCOTTISH 80NG.

That ciu gweeier " ^,

v« frr fro"* rt.^ *e »• jSr
^"f^ from ""*!► Vetto^l"''*'

,^ but"*"'"*'

Thatot>ly";ycttot»*«*''°
Cb» on u»J
O wwt, kt-

SCOTTISH BAI^^^^

The <«--' '^••" "'

BURNS' POEMS.

105

ik o' the darti in mj bonnie Uack e*eii,
vowM for my love lie wu djiag ;
le might die when he liked, rorJean,
Lora forgpe me for Ijing, for lying,
Lord forgie me for lying !•

1-etocked mailen, himiel for the laird,
marriage afT-hand, Were hia proffers :
r loot on that I kennM it, or car'd,
thought I might hae waur offers, waur

oners,
thaught I might hae wanr offers.

Iiatj|r&d ye think ? in a fortnight or less,
deu tak nia taste to goe near ner !
the lang loan to my olack cousin Bess,
ss ye 'how, the jad! I could bear her,

could bear her,
«8 ye how, the jad ! I could bear her.

the niest week as I fretted wi* care,
ed to the tryste o^ Dalgamock,
'ha but my fine fickle mer was there,
>wr'd as I d seen a warlock, a warlock,
>wr*d as Td seen a warlock.

vre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
: neebiors might say I was saucy ;
9oer he caperM as noM been in drink,
i vowM I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
^ vowM I was his dear lassio.

•

M for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
she had recoycrM her hearin,
low her now shoon fit her aidd shachl^t

feet,
, heavens ! how ho fell a swearin, a

swcarin,
heavens ! how he fell a swearin.

gged, for Gudcsakc ! I wad be his wife,
else I v^ad kill him wi' sorrow :
m. to preserve the poor body in life,
ink I maun wed Imn to-morrow, to-mor-
row,
ink I maun wed him to-morrow.

FRAGMENT.

E— ."The Caledonian Hunt's Delight"

T, why tell thy lover,
tliss he never must enjoy !
y, why undeceive him,
ind give all his hopes the he ?

7hy, wliilc fancy, rapturM, slumbers,
/hloris, Chloris all the theme ;
ly, why wouldst thou cniel,
Vakc ihy lover from his dream ?

HEY FOR A LASS WT A TOCHER.

TcNX — ^ BaUnamana onL**

AwA wi' your witchcraft o* beauty's alanna,
The slender bit beauty you graip in your

arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o* charma,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.

CHORUS.

Then hey^for a last wC a toctuTy then hey for

a lau wV a tocher^
Then hey^ for a hut wC a tocher ; the nice

ydiow guineat for me.

Tour beauty's a flower, in the morning that

blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ;
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green

knowes,
nk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white

yowes.
Then hey, Sec,

And e'en when this beauty your boaom haa
blest, [Mat;

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when ]>oe-

But the sweet yellow darlings wr Geordie im*
prest.

The langer ye hae them — the mair theyVe
carest.
Then hey. Sec,

SONG.

TuNi— "Here's a health to them that's awa,

hiney."

CHOKUS.

Uere't a health to one I lo'e dear.

Here's a health to one I lo*e dear

Thou art sweet as the smUe vfhenfbnd levers meet.

And soft as their parting tetKr^— Jessy !

Altho' tliou maun ncyer be mine,

Altho' even hope is denied ;
Tis sweeter for tneo despairing,

Than aught in the world beside— Je«y !
HereU a heaith, See,

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day.
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ;

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
For then I am lockt in thy armr — '•-^^ '
Here'^s a health. See.

106

BURNS' POEMS.

I goMi hj the dear angel anile,
1 ganm by the love-roUing e> ;

Bot why urge the tender cMifeMion
'Gainst fortune^s fell cruel '
Hare't a healthy kc.

SONG.
Tunc— **Rothermnrchiei'B Rant'

CHOEUB.

Fairest maid on Deton banks^
Crystal Drrott, vtndmg Deoon^

Wiit thou lay that frown aside^
And smile as tJiou were wont to do?

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear,
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear !
O, did not love exclaim, ^ Forbear,
Nor uae a faithful lover eo V*
Fairest nudcU See,

Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Thoee wonted smiles, O, let me share ;
And bv thy beauteous self I swear,
No love but thine my heart shall know.
Fairest maid, ice.

Let fortuned giAs at random flee,
They ne'er ahall draw a wiA fiaamiii
Supremely blest wi' love and tbee^
In the fiirks of AberieldT.
Bonnie loMtittix,

STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOl
LEAVE ME ?

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

Bonnie lassie, wUyego,wiUyego,wmyen.
Bonmelassie,yriUyegotothelnrksofAberfdd^f

Now nmmer blinks on flowery braes.
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.
Come let us spend the lightsome days.
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonnie lassie. Sec.

While o'er th«r heads the hazels hing.
The little birdies blythly sing.
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonnie lassie. See.

The braes aaoend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa*s,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws.
The Birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonnie lassie. See.

The hoary cliflb are crown'd wi' flowers.
White o'er the linns the bumie pours.
And rising, wects wi' misty showers
The Birks, of Aberfeldy.

Bonnie lassie. See.

Tmn—f* An Gille dubh

qar-dluAh.*

Stat, Yny charmer, can you leaTe me ?

Cruel, cruel to deceive me !

Well you know how much you grieve

Cruel charmer, can you go ?

Cruel charmer, can you go^

By my love so ill requited ;

By tbte faith you fondly plu^ted ;

By the panes of lovers sugfated ;
Do not, do not leave mo so i
Do not, do not leave me so !

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

Thicsbst mgki o'eriiang my dweUiiig !

Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, .

Still surround my lonely cave !

CiTstal streamlets, gently flowing
Busy haunts of b^ mankind.

Western breezes, softly blowing.
Suit not my distracted mind.

In tlie cause of right engaged.
Wrongs injurious to lecureas,

Honour^s war we strongly waged.
But the heavens deny 'a i

Ruin*8 wheel has driven o*cr us.
Not a hope that dare attend.

The wide world is all before
But a world without a friend !

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER-

Tune—** Morag."

liOUD blaw Uie frosty breezes.
The siiaws the mountains covcar ;

I Jke winter on me seizes.

Since my yoimg Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over.

BURNS* POEMS.

Vm thmkni, wi' tic a bnw fellow,
In pooftitlr I iniffht mak a ftn' ;

What tmn I in Eicnes to wallow,
If I mannTia many Tarn Gkski

the laird o' DnumiMDer,
* Goid daj to yoa,bnita,'* he oomea ben :
He hraga anid he olaws o^ hji nller.
But when will he dance like Tain Gkn?

My nunnie doee constantly deare me,
And bids me beware o* joang men ;

They flatter, the mti, to deceive me ;
Bat wha can think aae o' Tarn den?

Mydaddie aayi, g^ 1*11 fonako him.
Hell sie me ^d hmider marks ten :

But, if ivi ordam'd I maun tak him,
O wha win I get but Tarn Glen f

Teetreen at the Valentine's dealing.
My heart to my mou ^ed a sten ;

For thrice I drew ane without fidling.
And thrice it was written, TamCSen

•

The laat Halloween I was waukin
My dzoukit sark-sleeve, as je ken

Hb fikenees cam up the house staukin.
Ana tibe very gray hreeks o' Tam Gkn!

Come eonnsd, dear Tittie, don^t tany ;

m gieyoa^ny bonnie black hen,
Oifye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo*e dearly, Tam Glen

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

^ lEiKLB thinks my luve o' my beauty,
f. And meiklo thinks my luvo o' my km ;

4^1ittle thinks my luve I ken brawlie,
Ir^y Tocher's the jewel has charms for him.

^ a.' for the apple ne'll nourish the tree ;
w't^B a' for the niney hell cherish the bee ;
^lad<tie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,

*^^ canna hae luve to spare for me.

'^^r proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,
^ -^^y Tocher's the bargain ye wau buy ;

^J> an ye be crafly, I am cunnin,
\- ^ae ve wi' anither your fortune may try.

^^^^Jc like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood,
"y- V'e're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,

^^U slip frac mo like a knotless thread,
"^nd ycTi crack your credit wi' raao nor me

THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THB
LAWIN,

Gane is the day, and mirk's the nig^t.
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' h^t,
^ For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
' And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun.

Tlun gittdwife count the kncin^ the lawmt iht

Then gwdwife count the lawin, and
eoggUmavr.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen.
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ;
But here we're a' in ae accord, '
For Uka man that's drunk's a lord.

Then gudewift county ke*

My coggie is a haly pool.

That hMJs the wounds o' care and dool ;

And pleasure is a wanton trout.

An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out.

Thin guidmfc county See.,

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO
WI' AN AULD MAN?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young
lassie,
What can a young Itl|p0 do wi' an auld
man? ^' ^

Bad luck on the pennie ftat tempted my
mimue
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' !
Bad htck on the pennie^ Sec.

He's always compleenin frao momin to e'enln.
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ;

He's doylt and he's dozen, his bluid it is fro-
frozen,
O, deary's the night wi' a crazy auld man 1

Ho hums and he honkers, he fVots and he can-
kers,
I never can please him, do a' that I can ;
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fel-
lows :
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man \

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity,

rll do my endeavour to follow her plan ;
ril cross hmi, and wrack liim, until I heart-
breoik him.
And then his auld brass will buy me a new
pan.

lis

BURNS' POEMS.

THE BONNIE WEE THING.

Bomcis wee thinj^, cannie wee thing,
Lov«l7 wee thmg, wast thou mine,

I wad wear thee in my boeom,
Leat mj jewel I ahoidd tine.

Wiahfully I look and lanffuiah
Ib that bonnie face o* Uiine ;

And my heart it atomids wi* angaiafi,
Leit my wee thing be na mine.

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,

In ae constellation ahixie ;
To adore thee ia my doty,

Goddesa o' this aoul o^ mine !
' Bonnie tree, &c.

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM !

TuHE— "The Moudiewort,"

An O^for am and twaihf^ Tarn !

An ofy, twtU one and twenty^ Thm I
ru learn my km a ratUm <anf.

An I taw one and twenty., Thm.

Tbet snool me tair, and haud me down,
And gar me look like bluntie. Tarn !

But three short years will soon wheel roun\
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam !
An O.,for one., kc.

A ffleib o^ lan\ a elaut o* gear,
Was left me by my auntie, Tam ;

At kith or kin I ncedna spier,
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam !
An Ojfor ane. See,

Theyll hae mo wed a wealthy coof,
Tno' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam ;

But hear*st thou, laddie, there*s my loof,
Fm thine at ane and twenty, Tam !
An O^forane^ Sec.

BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL.

O LBEZE me on my spinning wheel,
O leeze me on my rock and red ;
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien.
And haps me fiel and warm at o^en !
ni set me down and sing snd spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi* content, and milk and meal —
O leeze me on my spinning wheel.

On ilka hand the bumies troL
And meet below my theekit cot ;
The scented birk and hawthorn whit
Across the pool their arms unite.
Alike to screen the birdie^s nest.
And little fishes' caller rest :
The son blinks kindly in the bieP,
VI^Mre blithe I turn nty qiinning wh<

Oclofly aiks the cushats wail,
And ecno cons tliee doolfu' tale ;
The hntwhites in the hazd braes.
Delighted, rival ither^s lays :
The craik aman^ the elaver hay.
The naitrick whurin o*er the ley.
The swallow jinkin round my shiel.
Amuse me at my spuming waeel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and leas to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy, .
O wha wad leave this himible st&to.
For a' the pride of a* the great ?
Amid their flaring, idle toys, .^
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys.
Can thay the peace and pleasure fee
Of Beasy at her spinning wheel f

COUNTRY LASSIE.

In simmer when the hay was mawn.

And com wav'd green in ilka fidd,
While elaver blooms white o^er the Ic

And roses blaw in ilka bield ;
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel.

Says, 1^11 be wed, come oH what w
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild,

^ O' guid advisement comes nae ill

" It's ye hae wooers mony ane,

And lassie, yoVe but young ye ken
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,

A routhie but, a routhio ben :
There's Johnie o' the Buskie^glcn,

Fu' is his bam, fu^ is his byre ;
Tak this frao me, niv bonme hou.

It's plenty beets the Iuver''s fire.*'

For Johnie o* tlie Buskic-^Ien,

I dinna care a single flio ;
He lo'es eao well his craps and kyc,

He has nae luve to spare for nic :
But blitho's the blink o* Robie's c>,

And wed I wat he lo'cs me dear :
Ac blink o* him I wad na gio

For Buskic-glen and a' nis gear.

HUANS' POEMS

DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM
BURNS.

>" Seventh of November."

y retuniB, mj bosom bame,
blifleful dajr wc twa did meet,
inter wild in tempest toilM,
r smnmer-son was half sae sweet.
' the pride that loads the tide,
crosses o*er the sultry line ;
ingly rob^ than crowns and globes,
rengave me more — ^it made thee mine.

lay and night can bring delight,
ature aught of pleasure give ;
joys above, my mind can move,
liee, and thee alone, I hve !
that grim foe of life below
ee in between to make us part ;
o hand that breaks our bud,
Mks my bliss, — ^it breaks my heart

THE LAZY MIST.

mist hangs from the brew of thehiU,

3g the course of the dark winding rill ;

^d the scenes, late so sprightly, ap-
pear

on to winter resigns the pale year !

ists are leafless, the meadowis are
brown,

be gay foppery of summer is flown ;

me wander, apart let me muse,

ck time is flying, how keen fate pur-
sues;

g I have liv^d — ^but how much Uv'd
in vain :

le of lifers scanty span may remain :

pectfl, old Time, in his progress, has
worn;

«, oruel fate in my bosom has torn.

)lish, or worse, till our summit is
gain'd !

mward, how weaken^, how darkened,
how painM '.

's not worth having with all it c&n
give,

ethmg beyond it ooor man sure must
hve.

^RE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL!

UNK — ^ My love is lost to me."

RE T on Parnassus' hill !
d of Helicon my All ;

That I might catch poetic skill.
To sing, how dear I love thee.

But Nith maun be my mnse*s well.

My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ;

Chi Corsincon I'll glowr and spell.
And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my li
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day,
I coudna sin^, I coudna say,

How much, how dear I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green.
Thy waist sae jimp, thy linibs sae cle
Thy tempting lips, thy roffuish oen —

By heaven and earth 1 love thee !

Bv night, by day, a-field, at hame,
llie thoughts o' thee my breast inflan
And ay I muse and sing thy name,

I only Hve to love thee.
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on.
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun.
Till my last weary almd was run ;

Till then — and then I love thee.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Tune— ^ Mist Admiral Gordon's Strai

Or a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west, ^
For there the bonnie lasiue Uvee,

The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild woods grow, and nvcrs r

And mony a lull between ;
But dajr 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 spri

By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird tliat sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHW

The Catrine woods were yellow seei
The flowers decay'd on Catrine le

Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sickcn'd on the e'e.

'«f

BURNS' POEMa

Thro* faded grove Maria nng,
Menel in beauty *« bloom the while,

And ay tJio wild-wood echoes mub
Foroweel the bracio^ Bollochm^e.

LfOW in your wintry beds, re flowen,

Again yell floonih freiii and fair;
Ye birdies damb, in withVing bowen,

Afain yell charm the tocoI air.
But here, alas ! for me nae maJr

Shall birdie charm, or floweret mile ;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweei,fareweel ! sweet Boilocfamyleb

WDLLIE BREiyT> A PECK O' MAUT.

O, WILLIE brew*d a peck o* maul,
And Rob and Allan came to see ;

Three blither hearts, that Ice-Ion^r nigfat,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are nafoiu, xcere na thaifou^
But just a drappie in our e'e;

The cock may crate^ the day may daw
And ay tee^U taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry Doys,
Threemerry boys I trow ore we ;

And mony a night woVe merry been, ^
And mony moe wo hope to be !
We are nafouy See,

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin in the lift see hie ;

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame
But, by my sooUi, shell wait a wee
We are ruxefnu, Sec.

Wha first shall rise to gon^ awa,

A cuckold, coward loon is he !
Wha lost beside his choir shiJl fa\

He is the king amang us three !
We are nafou. Sec.

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.

I GAED a wacfu* ffatc, ycftirren,

A gate, I fear, iMl dearly rue ;
I gat my death froe twa sweet cen,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
TTwas not hor golden ringlets bright ;

Her lipuB like roscH wat wi' dew,
Her heaying bosom, lily-white ; —

It was her cen sae bonnie blue.

She talked, M smiled, rnvtoOit she wyM

She cbaimM my soul 1 wist na how ;
And ay the 8louna,the deadly wound.

Com firne her een sae bonnie.blae.
Bot spore to speak, and qiore to speed ;

Shall oiblins listen to my yow :
8bo«ld iho lefose, IH lay my dead

To bar twa een ne bonnie blue.

THE BANKS OF NITH.
Timi— **Robie Dona Goracfa.''

Tbk Thames flow* proudly to the mMf

¥^ere royal dties statdy stand ; .
Bot sweeter flows the Nith tome.

Where Commins once hod high conunar
When shall I see that hononr^dlond.

That winding stream I loye so dear ! . '
Most wayward fortnne^sadyene hand

Tor ever, eyer keep me here?

How loyely, Nith, thy fruitful yoleiv

Where ^reading hawthomsgayh^ blooi
How sweeny wina thy sloping dueoi

Where lambkins wanton tmo^ the hnm
Tho' wandering, now, must be jny doo^i^

For from thy bonnie banks and fanMi
May there my latest hours 'cansamo,'

Amang the friends of early days \

JOHN ANDERSON MT JO.

John Andeeson my jo, John,

When we were nrst acquent ;
Your locks were like the rayen.

Your bonnie brow was brent ;
But now your brow is held, John,

Your locks are like the snaw ;
But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson nijr jo, John,

We clamb the hifl thegither;
And mony a canty day, john.

We Ve nad wi* sne anitl^r :
Now we maun totter down, John

But hand and hand well go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

TAM GLEN.

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some coimscl unto me come W\

To anger them a' is a pity ;

But what will I do wi* Tarn Gleu?

BURNS' POEMS.

107

mhrngOf whem^er he itmjr,
Heayvi be his wwdaa :
Um nfe to fair Stielh^tey,
Moiiie CaiUe-Gordoft !

ee now naked groanmg,
■Qon wi* leaves be hinging,
lies dowifi moaning,
a' be blithly singing,
every flower be spnnffing.
rejoice the lee-lang £iy,
Q bj his mighl^ warden
th's retumM to fiur Strathspey,
bonnie Castle-Gordon.

NG WINDS AROUND H£K
BLOWING.

> M^Grigor of Ruaro's Lament"

inds aromid her blowing,
Lves the woodlands strowing,
hoarsely roar^ig,
ray'd deploring.
I, boors that late did measure
days of joy and pleasure ;
I gloomy nifht of sorrow,
night tuat knows no morrow.

past too fondly wandering,
*poles8 future pondering ;
ef my life-blood freezes,
ir my fancy seizes,

soul of eveiy blcsdng,
liseiy most distressing,
&dly Td resi^ thee,
jk oblivion join thee !"

'r ON THE ROARING OCEAN.

Tune — ^^* Druimion dubh."

NO on the roaring ocean,
hich divides my love and me ;
rying Heaven in warm devotioh,
ir his weal wherever he be.

) and fear^s alternate billow
elding late to nature^s law ;
roaring spirits round my pillow
ok othim thaCs far awa.

horn sorrow never wounded,
> who never shed a tear,
•untroubled, joy-surrounded,
iudy day to you is dear.

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ;

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ;
Spirits kmd, again attend me,

Talk of him that's far awa *.

BUTHE WAS SHE.

BWht^ blithe and merry wu the^
Bliiht wot the but tmd ben :

BlUhe by the bank* ofEm^
And bathe in QUnturit glen.

Bt Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Y arrow banks, the birken shaw '

But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o* Yarrow ever saw.
Blithey Sec.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer mom :

She tripped by the banks of Em,
Aslignt's a bird upon a thorn.
Blithe^ Sec.

Her bonnie face it was as meek

As ony lamb upon a lee ;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
BUthe^Scc.

The Highland hiUs I've wander'd wide.
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ;

But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
BUthe^Scc.

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk
AU on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory roread.
And drooping rich the dewy head.
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest.
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.

106

BURNS* POEMS.

She soon nhall see her tender brood.
The pride, Uie pleasure o* the wood,
Amanur the frutin green loa?es bedew'd,
Awake Uio c&rly morning.

So tliou. dear bird, young Jcanj fidr,
On trembling string or yo^ air,
S}iaII Rwt^etly pay the tender care
That tents tiiy early morning.

So tliou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day.
And bloiM Uie parentis evening ray
That watch d thy early morning.

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S

STORMS.

Tone — ^N. Gow's Lamentation for
Abercaimy.**

Where braving angry winter^s stonns,

Tlio lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy *8 cfaarms

Fintt blest my wondering eyes.
As one by whom some savage stream,

A lonely gem siurveys,
AstniiiKh a, doubly marks its beam,

With art's most polish^ blaze.

Blest l>e the wild, sequestered shade.

And bloKt the day and hour.
Where Pcj^ra-y's charms I first surveyed.

When finjt I felt their pow'r !
The tyrant death with grim control

May seize my fleeting breath ;
But tearing Peggy Ooni my soul

Must bo a stronger death.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
Tune— ^ Invorcald's ReeL**

CHORUS.

O Tibbie^ I hoe teen the day.
Ye would nae been toe thy;

For laik o* gear ye lightly me.
But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor.
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure :
Ye geek at me because Pm poor.
But feint a hair care I.
O Tibbie, r hae, ice.

T doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o* clink,

That ye can play na at a win
Whene'er ye like to tir.
O Tibbie, I hae, iui.

But sorrow tak him that's
Altho' his pouch o' coin were d
vVha follows ony saocy quean
That looks sae proud and hi|
O Tibbie, I hae, ke.

Altho^ a lad were e'er sae mar
If that he want the 3reUow dirt,
Ye'U cast your head anither ain
And answer him fu' dry.
O Tibbie, I hae. See.

But if ho hae the name o' gear,
Yell fasten to him like a brier,
fho' hardly he for senM or leai
Be better than the kye.
O Tibbie, I hae, ice.

Bui, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice
Your daddie's gear maks yon m
The dcil a ano wad spier yoor ]
Wercye as poor as I.
O Tibbie, J hae, ice.

There lives a lass in yonder pax

I would na ffio her in her sane.

For thee wi a' thy thousand m

Ye need na look sae high.

O Tibbie, I hae. See.

CLARINDA.

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run !

The wretch beneath the dreary
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen ni
Shall poor Sylvander hie ;

Denriv'd of thee, his life and lij
The sun of all bis joy.

Wo part — but by tliesjc precioui
That fill thy lovely eyes I

No other licrht shall gmde my i
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
IIa«blo8t my glorious day :

And shall a glirnmeri:!!; planet
My worship to its ray ?

BURNS' POEMS.

J 13

'0 tboaghtkM Itnie, life's ft fknght ;
HMomnmt gate, the ttrift is Mir ;
3at aj (Vi' hant is feditin best,
A hitagry carets an tmco care :
Kt wine will spend, aad some will spare,
An* wilfu^ folk mami hae their will;
Ae as ye brew, my maiden ikir,
Ceep mind that ye mami drink the yiO.'

pear will bay me rigs o* land,
Snd gear will bay me sheep and kye ;
t the tender heart o* leeeome lave,
Whb gowd and siller canna boy :
9 may be poor— Robie and I,
light is the harden laye lays on;^
Btent and lave brings peace and joy,
BVhat mail hae qoeens upon a throne '

FAIR ELIZA.

A GAELIC Alft.

Toaif a^rain, thoa fur Eliza,

Ae kmd blink before we part,
Rew on^hy despairing lover !

Canst thou break his faithfu* heart?
Tom acain, thou fair Eliza ;

tfto love thy heart denies,
For pity hide tne cruel sentence

Under friendship's kind disguise

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ?

The offence is loving thee :
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,

Wha for thine wad gladly die?
V^e the life beats in my bosom,

Thoa shalt mix in ilka throe :
Tom again, thou lovely maiden,

Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

Kot the bee upon the blossom.

In the pride o' sinny noon ;
JKot the little sporting fairy,

An beneath the mmmer moon ;
Not the poet in the moment

Fancy lightens on his e'e,
Kens the {Measure, feels the raptore,

Thattl^ presence gies to me.

Bat I win down yon river rove, amang the
wood sae green.
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I win pa\ the firstling o* the

year.
And I win pu' the pink, the emUem o* my

pu' \
dear.

THE POSIE.

t'Uvi win venture in, where it daor na weel

beseen,
Iqts win venture in, where wiwlom anoe

has been;
I

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms
without a peer ;
And a* to be a posie to my ain dear May.

m pu' the budding rose when PhoBbus peeps
in view,

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie
mou;

The hyacinth 's for constancy wi' its unchang-
ing blue.
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom 111 place the lily

there ;
The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I wiU pu\ wi' its locks o' siller

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o*

day.
But the songster's nest within the bosh I win-

na tak away ;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I wiU pu' when the e'ening star

is near,
And the diamond-draps o' dew shaU be her

een sae clear :
The violet 's for modesty which weel she fa's

to wear.
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'n tie the

posie
tuve.

round wi' the silken band of

And I'n place it in her breast, and PU swear by

a' above.
That to my latest draught o' lift the band shall

neler remuve.
And this win be a posie to my ain dear May.

THE BANKS O* BOON.

Tb banks and braes o' bonnie Doob,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care !
Thoult break my heart, thou warbling bird,

'That wantons thro' the flowering thorn :
Thou minds me o' departed joys.

Departed never to return.

It4

BURNS* POEMS.

Oft Iwa I rovM by honnio Doon,

To Me the rose and woodbine twine ;
And ilka bird Hang o^ its luve.

And fondiy sae did i o' mine.
Wi* lightMme heart I pu'd a rose,

]>V tweet upon its thorny tree :
Bat my fkiue luver atole my rose.

But ah ! he left the thorn wi* me.

SONG.
TuNi— "" Catharine Ogie.**

Yb flowery bankn o* bonnie Doon,

How can ye blume sae &ir.
How can ye chant, ye little birdi,

And I lae fu' o care !

Thou*U break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sinfs upon the bough ;
Thou min£ me o* the happy days ,

When my fause luve was true.

Thoull break my heart, thou bomiie bird

That sings beside thy mate ;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o* my fate.

Aft hae I ror'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the wood-bine twine,
And ilka bird san£ o* its love,

And sae did I o mine,

Wi* lightrome heart I puM a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree.
And my fause luver staw the rose.

Bat left the thorn wi* me.

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

WnxiB Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they caM it Linkamdoddie,

Willie was a wabster guid,
Coa*d stown a due wi' ony bodie ;

He had a wifb wis dour and din,
O Tinkler Madgie was hei mither;

Sieawtfeat WUtUhady
I wad nagiea butUmfor her.

She has an e*e, she has bat ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stamp,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ;

A whisken beara about her mou.
Her nose and chin they threaten ither ;
Sicawife^tic.

8he*s bow-liough'd, she^s hein-shi
Ae limpin teg a hand-breed sha

She 's twisted ri^t, she V twiste«
To balance fair in ilka ouarter :

She has a hump upon her breast.
The twin o* that upon her shot
Sie a wife^ &c.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits.
An* wi* her loof her face a- was

But Willie*8 wife is nae sae trig.
She dights her grunzio wi* a hi

Her walie nieves like midden-cret
Her face wad fyle the Logan-A

Sie a teife at Willie had,
I toad nagiea button for her.

GLOOMY DECEMBE

Ahcb mair I hail thee, thou gloomy ]

Ance mair I hail thee wi* sorrow i
Sad was the parting thou makes me

Parting wi* Nancy, Oh ! ne*er to :
Fond lovers* partiji^ is swoet painft

Hope beaming mud on the soft pai
But the dire feeTing, O farewell for t

Is anguish unmingled and agony

Wild as the winter now tearing the
Till the last leafo* the summer is

Such is the tempest has shaken my
Since my last hope and last comfi

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy De<
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow a

For sad was the parting thou ma
member,

Parting wi* Nancy, Oh, ne*er to me<

WILT THOU BE MY DE

W11.T thou be my dearie ?

When sorrow wrings thr gei
O wilt thou let me cheer ^ee ^

By the treasure of my soul.
And that 's the love I bear thee

I swear and vow, that only i
Shall ever be my dearie.

Only thou, I swear and vow,

Shall ever be mv dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo*es me ;

Or if thou wilt na be my tin,
Say na thou*lt refuse me :

If it winna, canna be.

BURNS' POEMS.

Tboa for tliiiM may dMXMeme ;
Let me, hwie, qmckly ilie,

l^netmg that thou lo'es me.
LaflBe, let me anicUj die,
Trnetiiig that thou lo'ee me.

SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE.

ftir and fanae that eamwt mj tmuiy

I lo'ed her meikle andJanff ;
Saie'e broken her tow, abeVoroken mj heart.

And I ma^ e'en gae hang.
A ooof cam m wi' rowth o' sear,
And I hae tint mj deareet oear,
But woman is hot warld'e gear,

Sae let the bonnie laai gang.

WhaeV re be that woman love.

To thia oe nerer blind,
Nae feilie Hia tho' fickle the prove,

A woman hasH by kind :
woman lorely, woman fair 1
An uWB^'ft fivm '■ fiion to thy ihare, ^

IVadoeen o*er meikle to gien thee mair, *

I mean aa angel mind.

APTON WATER.

•^*Low gm^, fweet Afton, among thy green

braee,
^low gently, ill amg thee a song in thy praise ;
•^y BSaiy^ asleep by thy monnming stream,
^riow gently, sweet Afton, disturo not her

dream.

TThoa stock-dofe whose echo resounds thro'

the^fleii.
To wild idustling blackbirds in yon thorny

den.
Hum green-erested lap-wing, thy screaming

forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How loftr, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring

Far mazkM wi' the courses of clear, winding

rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys

below.
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses

blow;
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk soades my Mary and

me.

115

Thy aystal stream, Afton, how lofty it glides,
And wmds by the cot where my Mary resides ;
How wanton thy waters her snowy Met lave.
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy
rloar wave.

Flow gently, sweot Afton, among thy green

braes.
Flow £rcntly, sweet river, the theme of my lays ;
My IVfary 's asleep by thv murmuring stream.
Flow gently, sweet Anon, disturb not her

dream.

BONNIE BELL.

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing.

And surly winter grimly flies :
Now crystal clear are the falling waters.

And bonuie blue are the suimy skies ;
Fresh oVr the mountains breaks forth
morning.

The ev'nin^ gflds the ocean's swell ;
All creatures joy in the sun's returning

And 1 rejoice in my boimie Bell.

The flowery spring leads sunny summer

And yellow autumn presses near.
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter,

Till smiling spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, ufe advancing.

Old Time and nature their changes tell.
But never ranging, still unchanging

I adore my bonnie BeU.

the

THE GALLANT WEAVER

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea.
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree.
There lives a lad, the lad for me.
He is a gallant weaver.

Oh I had wooers aught or nine,
They giod me rings and ribbons fine ;
And 1 was fear'd my heart would tine.
And I giod it to the weaver.

My daddie sij^'d my tocher-band
To gio the lad that has the land ;
But to my heart 111 add my hand.
And sic it to tlio weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ;
While boos rejoice in opening flowen ;
Wliile corn grows green in simmer showers,
ru love my gallant weaver.

116

BURNS* POKli&

LOUIS WHAT RECK I BT THEE?

Loun, what rack I by thee.

Or Oeordie on his ocean f
Dyror, beggar louna to me,

I leign in Jeanie^ boaom.

Let her crown my loTe her law.
And in her breast enthrone me :

Kinga and nations, swith awa !
ffeif randies, I disown ye !

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.

Mt 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 somebo^ !
Oh-hey ! for somebody !
I could range the world around.
For the sake o* somebody.

Te powers that smile on yirtuous love,

O, sweetly smile on somebody !
Frae ilka danger keep him free.
And send me safe my somebody.
Oh4ion! for somebody!
Oh-hey ! for somebody !
I wad do — ^what wad I not ?
For the sake of somebody !

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

Thv lovely lass o* Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e*en and mom she cries, alas !

And ay the saut tear blins her e^e :
Drumoasie moor, Dramossie day,

A Waefu* day it was to me ;
For there I lost my father dear.

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bluidy day,

Their graves are growing green to see ;
And by them lies the dearest Tad

That ever blest a woman's e*e !
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow Uiou be ;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair.

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

A M0THER*8 LAMENT FOR THE
DEATH OF HSR SON.

TuMx— ^ Finlayaion Houe.'*

Fats gave the word, the arrow q>ed«

And piercM mv dailing's heart :
And with him all the joys an fled

Lift can to me impart.
By cruel hands the saplinff drops,

In dust dishonoured laid :
So fell the pride oTall 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 ttve-d&y long.
Death, ofl I've fear'd thv fatal blow,

Now fond I bare my breast,
O, do thou kindly lay me low

With him I loVo, at ~-> *

O MAY, THY MORN.

O 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 die I dxte na name.
But I will ay remember.

And here's to them, that, like onrael.
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish as weol.
May a' that's guid watch o'er them ;

And here's to them, we dare na tdl,
The dearest o' the quorum.
And hert'i to, &e.

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOW!

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town.
Ye see the e'enin sun upon f

The fairest dame 's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw.
She wanders by yon spreadmg tree :

How blest' ye flow'rs that roundner Uaf
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e \

BURNS' POEMS.

117

»w bla0t ye biidf that nmiid har dBf ,
Aad wiuoBM in the blooiBfai|f yeer 1
■d 4eiQbly welcome be the iprmg,
to my Lucy deer.

he sun blinks blithe on yon town^
And on yon bonnie breee of Ayr ;
at my deUght in yon town,
And deereit bUas, ie Lucy feir.

?ithoat my love, not a' the chanmi
O* ParacuBe could yield me joy ;

kit gie me Luey in my arms,
Am welcome Laplaad^i dreary iky.

Mhrcaye wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raginf winter rent the air;

&nd she a lovely little flower.
That I wad tent and shelter there.

), sweet is she in yon town,
ToA sjnkin son's gane down upon !

I &irer than*s in yon town,
His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

fiagry late is sworn my foe,
And snffiBnng I am doom'd to bear ;

eirdeas quit aught else below.
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

^or while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,

^ndihe — as fairest is her form !
She has the truest, kindest heart.

A RED, RED ROSE.

O, MT lure's like a red, red rose,
liiat's newly sprung in June :

O, my luve's like the melodie
lliat's sweetly play'd in tune.

Am &ir art thou, my bonnie lass.

So deep in luve am I :
And I will luve thee still, my dear.

Till a' the seas gang dry.

%]] a' the seas gan^ dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun :

I will luve thee still, my dear.
While the sands o' hfe shall run.

And fare thee weel, my onl^ luve !

And (are thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Wheve the wa'.^wer scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,

And t^ the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still.
The stars they shot alang the sky ;

The fox was howling on tl^ iull.
And the distant-echoing glens reply

The stream, adown its hazelly path.
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's.

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whate distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ;

Athort the hil they start and shift.
Like fortune's Aivours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I tumM mine eyes.
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see

A stem and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane.
His darin look had daunted me :

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain.
The sacred posy — Libertie !

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Mi^ht rous'd the slumbering dead to hear ;

But on, it was a tale of wo.
As ever met a Briton's ear !

He sang wi' joy his former day.
He weeping wail'd his latter times ;

But what he said it was nae play,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

COPY

OF A POETICAL ADDRESS

TO Ma. WILLIAM TTTLEa,

With the praent of the BanPi Picture,

RavaaiD defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true
heart.
But now 'tis deseised and negleeted.

U8 BURNS' POEMS.

Tho something like moiiUmcoDglobei in mjr
eye,
Let no one miBdeem me dialoyal ;
A poor fiiendlea wand'rer may well cUim a
si^i.
Still more, if that wandVef were royiL

My fathers that name have rever*d on a
throne;
My fathers have fallen to riffht it;
Those fathers would spurn their de|;enerate
son.
That name should he sooffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for K — G^ — I most heartily
join.
The Q— ^, 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 this epocha make such a ftiss,

« « « ♦ «

♦ « ♦ ♦
« « « ♦ «

But loyalty truce . wbVe on dangerous |rit>nnd,
Who knows how the fashions may after?

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound.
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

I send joa a trifle, a head of a bard,
A tnjQe scarce worthy your care ;

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard.
Sincere as a saints dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your
eye,
And ushers the long dreary mght ;
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the
sky,
Your oourse to the latest is bright.

CALEDONIA.

Tune—** Caledonian Hunt's Delight''

There was onc^a day, but old Time then was
young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line.
From some of your northern deities sprung,
(Who knows not that brave CaJedonia's
divine ?)
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain.
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she
would :
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign.
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant
it good.

A lambkin in peace, bat a lion in war,

The pride <» her kindred the heroine grav .
Her grandsire, old Odin, tiinmphantly swoi*!
*^ Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' eneoiiiiler
shaUrue!^
With tillage or pasture at times she would
sport.

To feed her fair flocks by her green rust-
ling com?
But chiefly the woods were her fav^ite resort.
Her daning amusement, the hoonde and the
hon.

Long i^uiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers

A flight of bold eagles from Adria^ strand :
Rmeated, successive, for many long years.

They darken'd the air, and they plonder'd
the land:
Their pounces were murder, and terror their
cry.

They'd conquered and ruin'd a world beaide ;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly.

The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing fiom the
north.
The Bcourgn of the seas, and the dread tif the
shore ;
The wild Scandinavian boar issuM fbrth

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore:
O'er countries and kingdoms the ftaxy pre-
vail'd.
No arts could appease them, no anna ooold
repel;
But brave Caledonia in vain they aasail'd.
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie
tell.

The Chameleon-eava^ distorb'd her repoae.

With tumult, disqmet, rebellion and strife,
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose.

And robbM him at once of his hopes and his
hfe:
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Ofl prowUng, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil-
ver flood;
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance.

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconqoer'd, and free.

Her bright course of glory for ever shall ran.
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ;

111 prove it from Euclid as dear as the son ;
Rectangle-triangle, the figure well chooee.

The upright is Chance, and old Time is tlM
base;
But brave Caledonia's the hjrpotemise ;

Then erfiro, shell match tbeni, and matcdi
tbem always.

BURNS* POEMS.

lit

THEfiO^wing foem wu wHim i» a OenlU-
Mfln, who had teni kim a Xewtpaper^ and
tfftnd to eotUmut Ufru ofExpaae*

Kind Sir, Pve read joar papertfiroogii,
And faith, to me, twas reallj new !
How go e wed ye. Sir, what maiat I wanted f
Una mony a day IVe giamM and ffaonted.
To ken mat French mischief waafurewin ;
Or what the dromlie Dutch were doin ;
That yile doup-akelper. Emperor Joaqth,
If Venus yet had cot his nose off ;
Or how the collieraangie works
Atween the Rnasians and the Turks ;
Or if the Swede, before he halt.
Would play anither Charles the twalt :
If Denmars, any body spak o\\
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o^ ;
How cat-throat Prussian bladea were bingin.
How hbbet Italy was singin ;
If £^ianiaTd, Portugese, ot Swiss,
Were sayin or takm aught amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame.
In firitain*s court kept up the fame :
How Royal George, the Lordleuk oW him !
Was mansging St. Stephen^s quorum ;
If deekit ChaSiam WUl was liyin.
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieye in i
How daddie Burke the plea was oookin.
If Warren Hastings* neck was yeukin ;
How oesees, stents, and fees were rax*d,
Or if bare ar— s^et were taxM ;
The news o' prmces, dukes, and earls.
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-giris ;
If that daa buckie, Geordie \V^**s,
Waa threahin still at hizzies* tails.
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser.
And no a penect kintra cooeer,
A* this ana mair I neyer heard of ;
And but for you I might despaired of.
So mtefti*, back your news I send you.
And pray, a' guid things may attend you.

EOialand, Monday Mommgy 1790.

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.

Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reservM !
fn chase o' thee, what crowds hae sweryM
Frae oommon sense, or sunk eneryM

'Mang heaps o* clayera ;
And och ! o*er aft thy joes hae stanrM,

Mid a* thy fayours !

Say, Lassia, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump^s heroic clang.

And sock or boakin tktip akng

' To death or marriaga ;
Scarce ana has tried the shepherd sang

But wr miscarriage ?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thriyes
Esch^us' pen Will Shakspeare driyes ;
Wee rope, the knurlin, tiU him riyes

Horatian fame ;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, surriyes

Eyen Sappho^s flam*.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches :
Squue Pope but busks his skinklin patchea

O' heathen tatters :
I pass by bunders, nameless wretches.

That ape their betten.

Ld this braw age o' wit and lear

WiH nane the Shepherd's whistle mair

Blaw sweetly, in its natiye air

And rural grace;
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share

A riyal place i

Tes ! there is ane~-a Scottish callan !
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan !
Thou needna jouk bebint the hallan,

A chiel sae cleyer ;
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan,

But thou 's for eyer.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ;

Nae gowden stream tliro' myrtles twines,

Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the yines.

Her grioft wiU teU I

In gowany glens thy bumie strays.
Where bonnie lasses bleach their daes ;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

Wi' hawthorns gray.
Where blackbirds join the shepherd*s lays

At close o' day.

Thy rural loyes are nature's sel ;

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ;

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet wpeU

O* witchin loye.
That charm that can the strongest quell ;

The sternest moye.

ISO

BURNS' P0BM8.

ON THE

BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,

B«twe6D ClM Dttkt of Argfto aikl Um Earl of Mar.

** O GAM ys hflre the fi^t to than.
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man f
Or were ye at the aiieiTa-muir,

And did the battle see, man ?"
I saw the battle, sair and toufh,
And jreekin-red ran mony a sEeugh,
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the duds,
O^ dans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha giaumM at kingdoms three, man.

The red-coat lads wi' blade cockades
To meet them wore na slaw, man ;

They rushM and pushM, and blude outgushM,
And monv a bouk did fa\ man :

The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat thev jzlanced twenty miles :

They hack^ and hash'd, while broad swords

clashed,
'And thro' they dashM, and hewM and smashed.
Till fey-men died awa, man.

But had you seen. the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man.
When in the leetfa they dar'd our whigs,

And covenant true blues, man ;
In Imes extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposM the targe.
And thousands hastenM to the charge,
Wi^ Highland wrath, they frae the weath
Drew blades o* death, till, out o* breath,
They fled like frighted does, man.

** O how deil, Tam, can that be true ?

The chase gaed frae the north, man :
I saw myself, they did pursue

The horsemen oack to Forth, man ;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight.
They took the brig wi^ a' their mifht.
And strau^ht to Stirling wing'd their flight ;
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut.
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat.

For fear amaist did swarf, man."

My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
She swore she saw some rebels run

Frae Perth unto Dimdee, man :
Their lefl-hand general had nae skill.
The AngTJs lads tiad nae good will
That day their neehora* blood to spill ;

For ftar, b j foes, that they sfaonld
TlMir oogs o' broee ; all dying woos«
And so it goes you f6e,fliiaii.

TheyVe lost some gallant gentlemeo,
Amang the Higmand duif, man ;

I ftar my lord Panmure is dalii,
Or faUen in whif^ish hands, man :

Now wad ye sing uSs double fijg^t,

Some feU for wrang, and some fbr ri|^;

But mony bade the world guid-nigfat ;

Then ye may tdl, how peO and omU,

By red daymores, and muskets' knioB,

Wi' dyinff jell, the tones fell.
And wnigs to hell did flee, man.

SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR'S DAY.

TO MKB. DUNLOP.

This day. Time winds th' ezhaosted ditin.
To run the twdvemonth's length again :
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent ejes, complexion sallow.
Adjust the ummpairM machine.
To wheel the equal, dull routiofV

The absent loyer, minor heir.

In vain assail him with their prajrer.

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,

Nor makes the hour one moment less.

WOl you (the Major's with the hounds

The happy tenants share his rounds ;

Coila 's mr Rachers care to-day.

And blooming Keith's engaged with Qny)

From housewife cares a minute borrow —

— That grandchild^s cap will do to-morrow —

And join with me a-moralizing.

This day^s propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliyer ?

" Another year is gone for ever."

And what is this day's strong suggestion ?

^ Tlie passing moment 's all we rest on \^

Rest on — ^for what ? what do we here f

Or why regard the passing year f

Will Time, amusM with proverb'd lore.

Add to our date one minute more ?

A few days may — a few years must —

Repose us in the silent dust.

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ?

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss !

The voice of nature loudly cries,

And many a message from the diies,

That something in us ncyer diee :

That on this frail, imcortain state.

Hang' unatters of eternal weight ;

That future life in worlds ui&nown

Must take its Ime from this alone ;

BURNS' POEMS.

If I

w lieayenly f^ory bright,

I mimy'e woAd night—

^ my honoured, fint of fiiendi,

or being all depends;

important tww employ,

8 thoee that nererdie.

with day and honoari crown*d,

lat filial circle round,

e*M lorrowB to repuke,

le envy to conToW,)

w claim your chief regard :

rou wait your bright reward.

>RE,ontheIate Mr. WiUiamSmd-
•of the PkUotophy o/JSTahiral Hit-
Member of the Antiquarian and
jetiu of Edinburgh.

To Crochallan come
:M hat, the gray surtout, the same ;
beard just risinf in its mi^ht,
long nights ana days to waring-
light,

)ed grizzly locks wild staring,
hatchU

thought profound and clear, un-
natchM ;

caustic wit was biting, rude,
IS warm, benevolent, and good.

How can ye chann, ye flowVi with all your
dyes?
Ye blow UDon the sod that wraps my fiiend ;
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 wo,
And soothe the Virtua weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worthy and has not leflhispeer,

Is in his ** narrow house** for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall othcn

greet;
Me, memTy of my loss will only

MONODY

I
«

L msCRIPTIOJ^for an Altar to
nee, at Kerroughirv, the Seat ofMr»
lUen in tummor^ 1795. '

ndependent mind,

•olv d, with soul resigned ;

ver's proudest frown to brave,

t be, nor have a slave ;

who dost revere,

»roach alone dost fear,

is shrine, and worship here.

SONNET,

oil THE

)P ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq.

LEIf RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794.

warblers of the wood, no more,
rour descant, grating on my soul ;
ag-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver-
it stole,

me were to me grim Winter's
dest roar.

ON A

LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir*d,
How pale is that cheek where the rouge
lately glisten'd! ^

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft
tir'd.
How dull is that ear which to flattery lo lis-
tened!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await.
From friendship and dearest affection re-
mov*d;

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate.
Thou diedst unwept as thou hvedst unloved.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ;

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a
tear:
But come, all ye offipring of folly so true,

And flowen let us cull for Eliza^s cold bier.

Well search thro* the garden for each silly
flower,
Well roam thro* the forest for each idle
weeo ;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower.
For none e>r approach a her but ru'd the
rash deed.

We'll sculpture the marble, well measure the
lay;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ;
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey.
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from
his ire.

Iff

BURNS* POEMS.

THE BPITAPB.

Hifti Um, now a prey to insoltiiig noflact,
What ooce was a butterfly, gay in lift^i
beam:

Want only of wisdom denied her reepect.
Want only of goodneoi denied her eeteem.

AJiSWER to a Mandate teni hy the Surveyor
of tiu Wmiowt^ Caniaget^ See. to each Far'
mer^ ordering him to tend a ngned lAit of kit
HoTset^ Servantt^ Wheel-Carriaget^ Sce.^ and
whether he wot a married Man or a Bachelor,
and tohat Children they had.

Snt, an your mandate did request,
I eend you here a faithfu^ list,
My horses, servants, carts, and (raith.
To which Pm free to tak my aiui.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I hae four brutes o* gallant mettle.
As ever drew before a pettle.
My hand afore^ a guid auld has-been.
And wight and wilfu* a' his days seen ;
My hand a hin, a guid brown fflly,
\Vna aft hae borne mc safe frae Killie,
And your old borough mony a time,
In days when ridinj^ was nae crime :
My fur a hin, a guid gray beast.
As e*er in tug or tow was traced :
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty,
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilbumie blastie.
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale,
As ever ran before a tail ;
An' he be sparM to be a beast.
Hell draw me fiileen pund at least

Wheel carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ;
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Aeleg and baith the trams are broken ;
I made a poker o' the spindle.
And my auld mither brunt the trundle.
For men, Tve three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for rantin and ibr noise ;
A ffadsman ane, a thrasher toother.
Wee Davoc bauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And often labour them completely,
And ay on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the questions tairge them tightly.
Till faith wee Davoc's frown sae gleg,
(Tho* scarcely langer than my leg,)
Hell screed you on effectual ealHng,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.

I*?e nane in female senraat ftatioii.
Lord keep meay iVae a' temptatioQ !
I hae nae wife, and that my uiss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ;
For weans Vm mair than wdl contentad.
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ;
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Be«,
She stares the dadme in her face,
Enough of ought je like but grace.
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady
IVe said enough for her already.
And if ye tax ner or her mither.
By the L— d ye*se get them a* thegither I

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I^m taking.
Thro' dirt and dob for life FIl paidks
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ;
Fve sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked
And a' my gates on foot 111 shank it.

This list wi' my ain hand IVe wrote it,
The day and date is under noted ;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subtcriptihuie

RoBiftT Buftid

MottgiO, SSi, Feb. 1786.

SONG.

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse's care ;
Their titles a' are empty show ;
Gie me my highland lassie, O.

Within the glen sae huthy, O,
Ahoon the plain toe ruthy, O,
Itetme down m' right good will:
To nng my highland lattie, O.

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Ton palace and yon gardens fine !
The world then the love should know
I bear my highland lassie, O.
Within the glen, See,

But fickle fortune firowns on me.
And I maun cross the raging sea ;
But while my crimson currents flow
I love my highland lassie, O.
Within tite glen, kc,

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom bums with honours flow
My faithful highland lassie, O.
Within the glen. See.

BURNS' POEMS.

1S3

For hv rndMB the biUow^ lotr.
For her rn trace a durtant oliora,
Thit IndiaA wealth may hwtie throw
Aromid my highland laane, O.
WUhiMihegkn^Sce.

89»hae mj heart, ihe haa my hand,
Bt ncred troth and honour*! band !
Till the mortal stroke ohall by me low,
Vm tinne, my highland laMie, O.

Fanwdl ihe gltn iae buafuf, O !
Ftrtwdi the pUrin »ae nimjf, 0/
Tt other ktnoM I now mutt go,
To ting mjf highland lattie^ O !

IMPROMPTU,

ON BfRS. '• BIRTH-DAY,

NOVEUBBR 4, 1793.

Old Winter with hia frosty beard,

TluM OBce to Jove his prayer preferrM ;

WktthaTe I done of all tne year.

To bear this hated doom severe ?

Hf cheerless sans no pleasure know ;
J^fight's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
Hat spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now, Jove, for once be mighty dyil.
To ooanterbahince all this evd ;
Oive me, and IVe no more to say,
Crtre me Marians natal day !
That brilliant gift will so enrich me.
Spring, summer, automn, cannot match me,
^Tii done \ says Jore ; so ends my story,
And Winter onoe rejoio*d m glory.

ADDRESS TO A LADY.

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast.

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ;
My plaidie to the angry aiit,

IM shelter thee, Pd shelter thee :
Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee Uaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom.

To share it a* to share it a*.

Or were I in the wildest waste.

See hUck and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise.

If thou weit then, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o* the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to rajgn ;

The brightest jewel in my crown.
Wad De my queen, wad be my queen.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

MISS JXSST

DVMraixs;

Wiih Bookt tchieh the Bard pretented her.

Think be the volumes, Jessy fair.
And with them take the poet's prayer ;
That fate may in her fairest page.
With evenr kmdliest, beet 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,

SOJfJfET, written on the 'USth of January^ 1793,
0u BirOi-day of tlu Author^ on hearing a
Tknuh ting in a morning Watk.

SiNo on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough :
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :
See aged Winter, 'mid his suriy reign.

At thy mythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear.
Sits meek Content with li^t mkanzions
heart, [part.

Welcomes the raoid momenta, bida them

Nor asks if they onng aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this openiz^g day .

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient
skies'.

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away *

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ;
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite
with thee 111 share.

EXTEMPORE^ to Mr, S^E, on rtfimng to
dine toiihhim^ after having Iteenpromued the
firtt of Company, and thefirtt of Cookery ,
nth December^ 119^

No more of your guests, be they titled or not.
And cook ry the first in the nation ;

Who is proof to thv personal converse and wit.
Is proof to all other temptation

)t4

BURNS' POEMS

7b Mr. S**E^ wiih a PremU €f a Damn of

Porter.

O, HAD the malt thy strenffth of mind.
Or hops the flavour of Uiy wit,

Twere drink for first of human kind,
A gift that e'en for S* * e were fit

Jenualem Tlnem, Dumfriet.

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

TuifK — ^ Push about the Jorum.'*

April, 1795.

Dots hau^rhty Gaul invasion threat ?

Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There*s wooden walls upon our seas.

And volunteers on shore. Sir.
The Nith shall run to Condncon,

And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe

On British ground to rally !

FaUde rail. See

O let us not like snarlinfir tykes

In wrangling be divided ;
Till slap come m an unco loon

And wi' a rung decide it.
£e Britain still to Britain true,

Amang oursels united ;
For never but by British hands

Maun British wrangs be righted.
Fall de raB, See.

The kettle o' the kirk and state.

Perhaps a claut may fail inH ;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun

Shan ever ca' a nail inH.
Our fathers* bluid the kettle bought.

And wha wad dare to spoil it ;
By heaven the sacrilegious dog

Shall fuel be to boil it.

FaU derail. See.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne.

May they be damn'd together !
Who will not sinff, " God save the King,"

Shan hang asnigh*s the steeple ;
But while we sing, " God save the King,"

Well ne'er forget the People.

POEM,

AOPEU8IO TO ME. MITOHXLL, OOLUCTOft
IXCI8X, DUMFftlBS, 1796.

FftiBifD of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ;
Alake, alake, the meikfe deil

Wi' a* his witches
Are at it, skelpin \ jig and reel.

In my poor pouchea.

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it.
That one pound one, I sairly want it :
If wi' the hizsde down ye sent it,

U would be kind ;
And while my heart wi* life-blood donted,

Fd bear \ in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaniqg
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wif double plenty o*er the loanin

To thee and thine ;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning

Thebaic ' '

POBTSCaiPT.

YeVe heard this while how Pve been licket,
And by fell death was nearly nicket :
Grim loun ! he gat mo by the fecket.

And sair me sheuk ;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,

And tumM a neok.

But by that health lire got a riiare o\
And by that lUb, Fm promisM mair oX
My hale and weel 111 take a care o\

A tentier way ;
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o\

For ance and aye.

Sent to a Gentleman tohom he had tfferM

The fiiend whom wild from wisdom^s wtj
The fumes of wine infuriate send ;

(IVot moony madness more astray)
Who but deplores that hapless friend ?

Mine was th* insensate frenzied part.
Ah why should I such scenes outlive !

Scenes no abhorrent to my heart !
Tis thine to pity and forgive.

BURNS' POEMS.

Its

POEM ON LIFE.

IID TO COLONEL DE FITtrKK,
DUMFftnS, 1796.

d colonel, deep I feel
It in the Poet'f weal ;
!&' heart hae I to neel

The steep ramaMiu,
thufl by bolus puU

And potion glasses.

ntj warld were it,

and care, and sickness spare it ;

favour worth and merit,

As thej deserve :
povrth, roast beef and claret;

Sync wba wad stanre f)

tho' fiction out may trick her,
gems and frippery deck hor ;
1^, feeble, and nnsicker

I've found her still,
I like the willow wicker,

Tween good and ilL

int carmagnole, auld Satan,
e baudrans by a rattan,
kul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire ;
his tail yell ne'er cast saut on,
I^'s off like fire.

Nick ! it is na fair,
^ us the tempting ware,
I and bonnio lasses rare,

To put ua daf\ ;
unseen, thy spider snare

C heU's danmM waft

te flie, aft bizzes by,
lance he comes thee nigh,
an'd elbow yeuks wi' joy.

And hellish pleasure ;
ly fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

*er gowdie ! in he gangs,
eep-head on a tangs,
laugh enjoys his pangs

And murdering wrestle,
in the wind, ho hangs
4 A gibbet's tassel.

think 1 am uncivil,

•u with this draunting drivel,

itentions evil,

I quat mv pen :
serve us frae the devil !

Amen! amen!

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACH.

Mt corse upon thy TenomM ftang.
That shoots my tortor'd gmnt aSng ;
And thio' my uigB ffies mony a twmg,

Wi'ffnawing yengeaaee ;
Tearing my nenres wi' bitter pang.

Like radong engines !

When ftyeiB bum, or ague freeiei,
Rheumatics gnaw, or c£oUo sqoeeies ;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,

VrV pitying moan;
But thee-thou hell o' a' ^UMyes,

Ay mocD onr groan !

Adown my beard the slayers trickle !
I throw the wee stoob o'er the mickle.
As round the fire the giglets keckle.

To see me loup ;
While raying mad, I wish a heckle « ^

Were in their doop.

O' a' the numV>U8 human dools,
111 har'sts, daft bargains, eu/Zy-Jtoo^,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,

Sad sight to see !
The tricks o' knayes, or fuh o' fools.

Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell.
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell.
And ranked plagues their numDers tell.

In dreadfh' raw.
Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the bell

Amang them a' !

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That eus the notes of dtKonTsqueeJ,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick ; —
Gie a* the fiMs o* Scot&nd's weal

A towmosd's Tooth-ach !

SONG.

Tuwi— "Morag."

O WHA is she that lo'es me.
And has my heart a-keeping ?

O.'sweet is die that lo'es me,
As dews o' simmer weeping.
In tears the rose-buds staeptfig.

110

BURNS* POEMS.

CBOEUf.

lhai*t (he Uu9U o* my heart,

Jtfy lassie ever dearer ;
O (hats the queen o* womankind^

And ne^er a one to peer her.

If thoa shalt meet a Itsne,
In gnoe and beaaty channing,

That e'«:i thy choeen lane,

Ere while thy breaat lae warming.
Had ne*er sic powen alaiming.
O thafs, ice.

If thoa hadst heard her talking,
And thp attentions plighted

That illukbody talking.
But her by thee is uighted
And thou art all delighted.
O thats, ice.

If thou hast met this fair one ;

^JUThen firae her thou hast parted,

jPereiT other fair one.
Bat ner thou hast deserted.
And thou art broken-hearted. —
O that's. See.

m 41

SONG.

JooxiT^s ta'en the parting kiss,
0*er the mountams ho is gane ;

And with him is a' my bliss,
Nought but griefs with me remam.

Spare my lave, ye winds that blaw.
Flashy sleets and beating *ain !

Spare my lave, thou feathery snaw.
Drifting o*er'the frozen plain.

When the diadee of evening creep
0*er the day's fair, gladsome e e,

Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blithe his waukening be !

He win tlunk on her he loves.
Fondly hell repeat her name ;

For where'er he distant roves.
Jockey's heart is still at hame.

SONG.

Mr Peggy's face, my Peg^s form,
Vth» frwt of hermit age might warm ;
ftfy Peny's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might 3arm the first of humap kind.

I love my Peggy's angel air.
Her face so truly, heavenly &ir,
Her native grace so void of art.
But I adoro my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dyv,
The W^TiHHng lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their msfic sway.
Who but knows they au decay !
The tender thrill, the pityinff tear,
lie generous purpose, nobW dear.
The gentle look, tnat race msarms,
These are all immortal cnarme.

WRTTTEH in a Wrapper enclosing a
to Copt. Chose, to be left with Mr. Can
AnUquarian.

Tuns— ** Sir John Malcolm."

KxN ye ought o' Captain Grose?

^0, ic ago,
Khe's amang his mends or fbus?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he South, or is he North?

Igo,icago,
led in

Or drowned in the river Fortli ?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies ?

Igo,kago,
And eaten like a weather-haggis

/ram, coftim, dago.

Is he to Abram's boeom gane ?

Igo,Sca^,
Or haudin Sarah by the wame?

Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the Lord be near li

Igo, ic ago.
As for the deil, he daur na steer hin

Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit th' enclosed let

Igo, ic ago.
Which will oblige your humble del

Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanee in store

Igo,icaro,
The very stanes that Adam bore.

Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad

Igo, ic ago.
The coins o' Satan's coronatioDi

Iram, coram, dago.

BURNS* POEMS.
3ERT GRAHAH,E8a.,

127

OF FINTRY,

ftBCBXTmO A FATOUft.

Idea to inspire mr ftniiiSf
e may sait a barathat feigns ;
life ! my ardent spirit bums,
ibute of my heart retoms,
x>rded, goodness ever new,
dearer, as the giver you.

if day ! thou other paler light \
my sparkling stars of night ;
mer from my mind efface ;
rs bounty e*er disgrace ;
ne, along your wandering si^beres,
>er out a villain's years !

7APH ON A FRIEND.

an here lies at rest,
wtth his image blest ;
'man, the friend of truth :
f age, and guide of youth :
ke nis, with virtue warmed,
rith knowledge so informM :
ither world, he lives in bliss ;
oe, he made the best of this.

ACE BEFORE DINNER

> kindly dost provide
creature's want !
e, God of Nature wide,
f goodness lent :
lase thee. Heavenly Guide,
r worse be sent ;
r granted, or denied,
s OS with content !
Amen I

Mr and nmeA honoured Driendf
fit, Dtmiop^ of Dunlop,

ON SENSIBILITY.

, how charming,
/ri«nc{, canst tml]^ tell;
with horrors arming,
t also known too well.'

Fairest flower, behold tlie lily.
Blooming in the sonny ray:

Let the blast sweep o'er tlie vifleyt
See it prostrate on the ei^.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forartf
TeUinff o'er his little joys;

Haplessbird! a pre^ tlie sorest.
To eaflh pirate of the skies.

Dearly boofht the hidden treasort,
Finer feehngs can bestow ;

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleanire,
Thrill the deepest notes of wo.

A VERSE eempoaed and repeated by Buna to
the MaUer of the Houte^ on taking teaoe ai a
Place in the Highlander uhert he had been
hotpitably entertained,

Wexif death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come;

In Heaven itself. 111 ask no more.
Than just a Highland welcome.

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.

ScsicEs of wo and scenes of pleasure.
Scenes that former thoughts renew,

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure.
Now a sad and last adieu !

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin,
Fare thee wed before I gang I

Bonny Doon, whare eariy roamfaig.
First I weav'd the rutHe tang !

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, deeoyiiy.
First inthrall'd this heart o' mine,

There the safest sweets enjoyingy—
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shul tyne !

Friends, so near my bosom ever,
Ye hae render'd moments dear ;

But, alas! when fbrc'd to sever,
Then the stroke, O, how severe !

Friends ! that nartmg tear reserve it«
Tho' tis doubly dMr to me !

Could I think I md deserve it.
How much happier would I be !

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleafore.
Scenes that former thoofpts renew
Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure,
I Now a sad and last adieu I

MISCELLANEOUS POETRY,

tBLSCTSD FBOM

vmx ifixoiscwxs

BOBfl&T BV&irjl

FIRST PUBLISHED BY R. H. CROMEK.

VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK.

Auu> ohuolde RukieU* nir diitrest,
Down droops her ance weel bumiBht ere it,
Nae joy her bonnie busket nest

Can jrield ava,
Her darling bird that she lo'es best,

Wiltie's awa !

O Willie was a witty wight,
And had o* things an tinco sligfat ;
Aold Reekie ay ne keepit tight,

And trig an' braw :
But now they'll bosk her like a fii^t,

Willie's awal

The sti^Test o' them a' he bow'd.
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,

That was a law :
WeVe lost a birkie weel worth gowd,

Wniie's awa !

IV.

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,
FiBe coll^fes and boardmg schools,

* Cdlnburith.

Ifay sproat like iimnMr poddock-stodii,

Inglenori^w;
He whs oonld brash tnem down to mook,

WilHe'b

The brethren' o' the Commerce-Chaomei*
May moom their loss wi' doolfU' damoor;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Amangthema';
I fear theyll now mak mony a stanuneiL

WillieS awa !

Nae mair we see his levee door
PhiloBophen and Poets poiir,t
And toothy critics by the

m bloody
The adjutant o' a' the core,

Willie's

vn.

Now worthy G*****y'» J**™ ftoe,

T*** Vs and G*********'s modest gnm

M' K****e, S****t, such a biaoe

As Rome hoWmiw ;
They a' maun meet some ither pkee,

Willie\i ^^

*Tbe Chamber of Oommerot or lOibarih, if wl*
Mr. C. wu BserMsry.

t MsnyUtsrarygoiflsiiMBWvre
at Mr. C— *s taouss at bnakfut

BURNS* POEMS.

129

vnL

' Bomt-— e^eii Scotch drink canna quicken,
Jieepa like eome bewildered chicken,
"d £rae its minnie and the cleckin

By boodie-eraw ;
f 'S gien hia heart an unco kickin,

Wime*8 awa \

r er'r]f eoor-moa'd ffimin* blellum,
Calvin^a fock are nt to fell him ;
■el^nxmceited critic ikellum

Hii quill may draw ;
wha ooold farawlie ward their beUum,

Willie's awa !

wimpling stately l^wced Pre sped,
i Eden ecenee on crystal Jed,
d Ettrick banks now roaring red,

While tempests blaw ;
t ereiy joy and pleasure's fled,

WiUie'sawa!

vfl\m dander^s common speech ;
text for infamy to preach ;
^ lutly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw ;
^Ifbrfetthee! WilUe Creech,

Tho*farawa!

xn.

'7 Berer wicked fortune toozle him !
*J nsyer wicked men bamboozle him !
■^ i pow as aiild*s Methusalem !
^^ He canty claw !

'^ to the MiMwd, New Jerusalem,

Fleet wing awa I

LIBERTY.

A FRAGMENT.

"^ Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
|**i famed for martial deed and sacred song,
lathee I torn with swimming eyes ;
^ is that soul of freedom £d r
^^ingled with the mighty dead !
BeoMth that hallowed turf where Wallaoe

Has*
|tr it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death !
J^ babbling winds in silence sweep ;
%Ktaib not ye the hero's sleep,
t£tye the coward secret breath —

Is this the power in freedom s war
That wont to bid the battle raga.'

Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the de8pot*s proudest bearing.

That arm which, nenred with thundering fate,

. Braved usurpation's boldest daring !

One qucnch'd in darkness like the sinking
star,

And one the palsied arm of tottering, power-
losii age.

ELEGY

ON THE LEATH OV aOBXaT KUISSBAUX.*

Now Robin Ues in his last lai%

Hell gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,

Caula poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him ;
Nor anxioos fear, nor cankert care

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ;
Except the moment that they crusbt him ;
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em

Tho' o'er sae short.
Then wi^ a rhyme or song he lasht 'em.

And thought it sport.—

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark.

And counted was baith wight and stark.

Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man ;
Bot tell him, he was leam'd and daik.

Ye roos'd him then !

COMIN THRO' THE RYE.

CoMiN thro' the rye, poor body,

Comin thro' the rye.
She draiglt a' her petticoatie
Comin thro' the rye.
Oh Jenny's a' weet, poor body,

Jenny s seldom dry :
She draiglt a' her petticoatie
Comin thro' the rjre.

Gin a body meet a body

Comin thro' the rye.
Gin a body kiss a body.

Need a body cry.

Oh Jenny *s a' weet, Sic

* Ruuseaux-^ti play oa Ms owa name

130

BURNS' POEMS.

Gin a body meet a body

Comin thro' the glen ;
Gin a body kin a body,

Need tlie warld ken,

Oh Jenny '■ a' weet, &c

THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES *

Yi sonf of ledition, nwe ear to my eong,
Let Syme, Bams, and Maxwell, pervade ereiy

throng,
With Craken, the attorney, and Mundell the

ouack,
$end Willie the monger to heU with a fmack.

BURNS — Extempore,

Yi trae ** Loyal Natives,'^ attend to my long,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;
But where is your shield from tiie dart of
contempt?

TO J. LAPRAIK.

Sept. nth, 1785.

GuiD speed an' furder to you Johnie,

Guid health, hale ban's, and weather bonnie ;

Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie

The staff o' bread.
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brandy

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 hac wat it,

* Attbii period of our Poet*i life when political sol-
moslty was made the ground of private quarrei, the
above foollih verses were tent as an attack on Bums
and his friends for their pnlittcal opinions. Ttiey were
written by some member of a club styling themselves
the Leiyal Jfative* of Dumfries, or rather by tlie united
geniui of that club, wlilch was more distinguished for
drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poeti-
cal talent. The verses wers handed over the table to
Bums at a convivial meeting, and be Instantly endorsed
tlM saljlolnsd reply. Rdifues^p- 166.

Sae my old rtompie pea I gmt it

^'moddewark.

An* took my jocteleg an* wfaatt it.

Like ony cleik.

It*8 now twa month that I'm yoor debtor,
For your braw, nameless, datele« letter,
Abuan me for harsh ill nature

On holy men.
While diel a hair yoursel ye're better.

But mair profane.

But let the kirk-fblk rinf then- beUn,
Let's eing about our noble sels ;
Well cry nae jads free heathen hills

To help, or rooee tis,
But browiter wives and whiskie stills,

Thei/ are the muaea.

Your fViendship, Sir, I winna quat it.

An' if ye mak objections at it.

Then nan' in nieve son te day well knot it*

An' witness take.
An' when wi' usquebae weVe wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast and branksbe sparM
Till kve be gaun without the herd,
An' a^ the vittel in the yard.

An' theckit right,
I mean your inglo-sido to ^ard

Ae wmter night.

Then muse-insniring aqua-vitas

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty.

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty
As ye were nine years less than thret^,

Sweet ane an' twen^.

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast.
An' now the stm keeks in the west.
Then 1 maun rin amang the reet

An' quat my chanter
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,

Totus, Rab the Ranter.

TO THE REV. JOHN MldATH.

INCLOSUfO A COPT OF BOLT WILLIb's FKA
WHICH HI HAD ftBQUSeTBD.

Sept. 17th, 1785.

While at the stock the shearen oowV
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r,
Or in gulravage rinnin scowV

To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

BURNS' POEMS.

131

Mj nnuie, tir'd wi* m<my & tonneC

Ota gown, aa' baa\ an* clooae black bonnet.

Is grown right eerie now she^a done it.

Lest they should blame her
An* rouse their holy tliunder on it

And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hard j.
That I, a simple, kintra bardie,
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Lowse h-11 upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces.
Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces,
Their three ooile pnyers, an hauf-mile graces.

Their razan conscience,
Whase greed, rerenffe, an' pride disgraces

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gotm,* miskaH waur than a beast,
iVba has mair honour in his breast,
Hian mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus't him ;
An' may a bard no crack his jest [him.

What way theyVe uset

himt th« poor man*8 friend in need,
^'he gentlemaii in word an' deed,
<^n' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellnmsv
•Ad' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the bldlums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
^0 ^ the rascak their deserts,
M^A np their rotten, hollow hearts.

An' tell aloud
^w jugglin hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

1^ knows, Fm no the thing I should be,
?|^ am I even the thing I could be,
^ twenty times, I rather would be,
M|. An' atheist clean,

^fliii under gospel colours hid be.

Just for a screen.

^ booest man may like a glass,
^ West man may like a lass,

^GkTfai Hmmittoo, Esq.

tths poet has Introdncsd Che two lint ttass of the
"^u into the dedication of bit works to Mr. Hamilton. I

But mean revenge, an' malice fause,

Hell stiU disdain.

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws.

Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth ;
They talk o' mercy, ^raco an' truth.
For what ? to gie their malice skouth

On some puir wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth.

To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion ! maid divine !
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine.
Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee ;
To stigmatize false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee.

Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain.

An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain

To join with those.
Who boldly dare thv cause maintain -

ia spite of foes :

In spite o* crowds, in spite o' mobs.
In spite of undermining jobs.
In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit*
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes.

But heOish spirit

O Avr, my dear, my native ground.
Within thy presbjrtereal bound
A candid UbTal band is found

Of public teachen.
As men, as christians too renown'd.

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ;

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd

(Which gies you honour^
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd.

An' winning manner.

Pardon this fireedom I have ta'en.

An' if impertinent I've been,

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane [ye,

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd
But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ve

lit

BURNS* POEMS

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, E§a.

MAUCHLTNR.
(rICOMM ENDING A BOT^

Matgaviile^ Mojfy 3, 1786.

( HOLD it. Sir, my boimden 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 hae don't affhan* :
But lest he Icaxn the callan tricks.

As (kith I miickle doubt him,
Like scrapin out auld crummie^s nicks.
An* tellin lies about them ;
As lieve then Pd have then,

Tour clerkship he sliould sair,
If sae be, ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho^ I say't, he^s g\eg enough,

An* bout a house tluit^s rude an* rough.

The boy might learn to noear ;
But then wi* youy hell bo sae taught.
An* get sic fair example straught,

I hae na ony fear.
Te*ll catechize him every quirk.

An* shore him well wi* heil;
An' gar him follow to the kir k

— Ay when ye gang yotartel.
If ye then, maun be then

Frae hame this comin Friday,
Then please. Sir, to ]ea*e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae ^on,

In Paisley John's, that night at e*en.

To meet the ff^rWs toorm ;
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.

When simple bodies let him ;
An' if a DevU be at a*.

In faith he's sure to get him.
Tophrase you an* praise you.
Ye ken your Laureat scorns :
The prayer still, you share still.
Of grateftil Minstrel Boms.

* MtUr ToctU then lived In Mauchlins ; a dealer
in Cows. It was bii common practice to cot the nicks
or marklngi ttam the borne of cattle, to disgolse their
age.— He was an artfUl trick-cootriving character ;
hence he if called a a*iek-draw9r. In the Poet's **jf J-
iItm* t0 tki !>«»{,** he styles that angntt personsfe an
amldt 9miek-4rtnti»g dog ! RaUfUMi P« ^^*

TO MR. M*ADAM

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN,

In aniwtr to an obliging Letter he tent in
commencement of my Poetic Career

Sim, o'er a gill I gat your card,

I trow it made me proud ;
See wha taks notice o* the l»rd I

I lap and c]7*d fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million ;

m cock my nose aboon them a*,
I*m roos d by Craigen-Gillan I

Twas nnb-e. Sir ; 'twas like yoursel,
To grant your high protection :

A great man's smile ye ken fu* weO,
u ay a blest infection.

Tbo*, by his banes wha in a tub
Match*d Macedonian bandy'.

On my ain Icu^ thro* dirt an* anb,
I independent stand ay. —

And when thoee legs to guid, warm kiil,
Wi* welcome canna b^u: me ;

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,
And hacley-scone shall cheer m&

Heaven spare you lang to kias the breath

O* mony flow*ry simmers I
And bless your bonnie lasses baith,

I'm tald the'se loosome kimmersl

And God bless young Dimaskin's laird,

The blossom of our gentry '.
And may he wear an auld man*8 beard

A credij^to his country.

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL.
GLENRIDDEL.
{Extempore Lines on returning a AWo^p«pfl

TouK news and review. Sir, I've read throa
and through. Sir,

With tittle adminng or blaming ;
The papers are barren of home-news or fbroj

No murders or rapes worth the naming*

Our friends the reviewers, those chippeis •
hewers.
Are judges of mortar and atone, Sir ;

BURNS' POEMS.

*OTee/; or tmmee^, in tL/abriek eomplde^
x>ldly pronoonoe they are none, Sir.

30fle-qmll too mde ii, to tell all jour
ffoodn(

13S

ow d on your serrant, the Poet ;

I to God I had one like a beam of the

ran,
then all the world. Sir, ahould know it !

TERRAUGHTY,*

ON HIS BIRTU-DAY.

B to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief .'
, ay unsour'd by care or grief:
i, 1 tumM F ate*8 sibyl leaf,

This natal mom,
ly hfe is stuff o' prief.

Scarce quite half worn.—

ly thou metes threescore eleyen,
:an tell that bounteous Heayen
)oond sight, ye ken, is giyen

To ilka Poet)
B a tack o* seyen times seyon

Will yet bestow it.

>us buckles yiew wi' sorrow,
ngthen'd days on this blest morrow,
isolation's lang -teetli'd harrow,

^flne miles an hour,
bem, like Sodom and Gomorrah,

In brunstano stourc —

thy friends, and they are mony,
oneet men and lassos bonnie,
uthie fortune, kind and canuie.

In social glee,
rnings blithe and openings funny

BIctss them and thee !

el, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye,
m the Deil lie daur na steer ye :
lends ay love, your faes ay fear ye.

For nic, shame fa' me.
my heart 1 dinna wear ye,

While Bums they ca' mc.

TO A LADY,

Preteni of a Pair of Drvnktng^Glauet,

jnpress of the Poet's soul.
Queen of Poetesses ;

'. Maxwell, orTcrraughty, near Duiiifriw.

Clarinda, take this little boon.
This humble pair of gluns.

And fill them high with genaroiu juice.
As ffenerous as your mind ;

And pledge me in the genarona tmat
""TUwhoU of human kind r*

*^ To thote who /ope ttf /"-—second fill ;

But not to those whom we loye ;
Lest we love those who love not us !

A thud—" to thee and me^ lover*

THE VOWELS.

A TALE.

TwAS where the birch and sounding thong ar«

plied
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ;
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws^
And cruehy directs the thickening blows ;
Upon a time. Sir Abeoo the great,
In all his peda|[ogic powers elate
His awful chair of state resolves to mount.
And call the trembling vowels to accouiiL

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to tlic si/rht!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way.
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, at/

Reluctant, £ stalk'd in ; with piteous grace
The justling tears ran down his nonest face !
That name, that wcU-wom name, and all his

own.
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne !
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ;
And next the title following dose boiiuid.
He to the nameless, ghantly wrolch assigned.

The cobweb*d gothic dome resounded, T !
In sullen vengeance, I, disdaufd, reply :
The pedant nwung his felon cudgel round.
And knock'd liie groaning vowel to the
ground I

In niarul apprehension enter'd O,
The waihng minstrel of despairing wo ;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert.
Might there have learnt new mysteries of lus

art:
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew S

As trembling U stood staring all aghast.
The pedant in ms lefl hand elutch'd him fast.
In helpless infknt's tears he dipped bis right,
BaptizM him en, and kick'd him from his sight.

B0RN8* P0SM8.

SKETCH.*

apri^t, pert, tart, trippiiur wigfat,
is precious self his dear delight ;
• his own smart shadow in the streetc,
tn e^er tlie fairest she he meets,
' fashion too, he made his tour,
rioe la bagateUf.^ et vive Vamowr ;
ird monkeys their grimace improye«
leir grin, nay, siffh for ladies^ love.
>ecious lore, hut little understood ;
lig oil outshines the solid wood :
d sense — ^by inches you must tell,
ite his cunning by the old Scots ell ;
)ddling vanity, a ousy fiend,
taking work his selfisn crafl must mend.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

Mr, SutfierkttfuTt Bet^fil J^ight^ Dumfries,

RAT needs this din about the town o* London,
dw this new play an* that new sang is

comin?
/hy is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ?
toes nonsense mend like whisky, when im-
ported?
■ there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
^111 try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
^or comedy abroad he need na toil,
\, fool and knave are plants of every soil ;
^or need he hunt as far as Room and Greece
Po gather matter for a serious piece ;
rhere^s themes enough in Caledonian story,
iVould show the tragic muse in a^ her glory. —

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
flow glorious WiQlace stood, bow, hapleas,

fell ?
iVhere are the muses Bed that could produce
K drama worthy o* the name o' Bruce ;
ilow here, even here, he first unsheathM the

sword
Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ;

*Thii iketcb aeeins to be one of a Series, Intended for
i projected work, under the title of " 7%§ Potft Prt'
rrett.** Thii cberftcter was tent as a ■peclmen, ac-
ompanled by a letter to Professor JJugald Stewart^ In
vhicli h !• thua noticed. " The fragment beginning A
iUle^ Mprifhtj p«Tty tart, &c. I have not shown to
in J man living, till I now tend it to yon. It forms the
metulata, the axioms, the definition of a character,
vhich, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of
Ights. This particular part I send you merely as a
lample of my band at poruait sketchlog .**

And after mony a bloody, d»ttbl«i doing,
WrencfaM his dear cotrntfj from tha j&wi of

ruin f
O for a Shakspeare or an Otwaj scene.
To draw the lovely, hapless Soottiah- Queen!
Vain all th* omnipotence of female cliarma
'Gainst headlong, ruthleas, mad Rebellion'!

arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit tmly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman :
A woman, tho^ the phrase may seem imdvil.
As able and as cruel as the Devil !
One Douglas lives in Homers immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age :
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of lue,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife.
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Te yet may follow where a Doii|^ leads !

As ye hae eenerous done, if a' the land
Would take ue muses* servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them.
And where ye justly can commend, commend

them
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done thmr

best!
Would a' the land do this, then IH be eantion
Ye'll soon hae poets o* the Scottish nation.
Will gar fame blaw imtil her trumpet crack,
And warsle time an* lay him on his back I

For us and for our etaj^ should ony spier,
^ Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this busUs

here.""
My best leg foremost, Fll set up my brow.
We have tne honour to belong to you !
We*re your own bairns, e*en guide us as ye
But like good mithers, shore before ye striki
And gratefu' still I hope veil ever mid us.
For a* the patronage ana meikle kindness
We've got firae a' professions, sots and ranks =■
God help us ! weVe but poor — yo'se get bis-

thanks.

EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION

ON BKUfG

APPOL\TED TO THE EXCISE.

Searchino auld wives' barreb

Och,ho!theday!
That clarty barm should stain my laurelj

But—what '11 ^e say !
These muvin* thmgs ca'd wives and wesni
Wad muve tlie very hearts o* stanes *

BURNS' POEMS.

136

uemg the beauHfiil SeaiofLord G.

lost thou in that mmntion &ir \
G r i, and find
arrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
licture of thy mind !

Onthe Same

irart art thou O-

Stewarta all were braye ;
, the Stewart! wrre but/bo2t,
»ne of them a knave.

On ike Same.

• ran thy line, O G-

many a far-fam'd lire !
the far-fam*d Roman way,
ided in a mire.

Same, on the Author being threatened
with his Resentment.

>Aai me thy vengeance, G— — ,
In quiet let me Uve :
nk no kindness at thy hand.
For thou hast none to give.

HE DEAN OF FACULTY.

▲ NEW BALLAD.

•• The Dragon of Wantley."

na the hate at old Harlaw,

t Soot to Scot did carry ;

ire the discord Lan^idfe saw,

beauteous, haplewlviary :

»t with Scot ne>r met so hot,

rere more iu fury seen, Sir,

twijit Hal and Boh for the famous job—

) should be FaeuUys Dtati, Sir. —

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore.

Among the first waa numbered ;
But pious Bob^ ^id leaming*s store,

Conunandmont tenth remembered. —
Yet simple Bob the victory got.

And won his hearths desire ;
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot.

Though the devil p — s in the fire. —

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case,

Pretensions rather brassy.
For talents to deserve a ptace

Are qualifications saucy;
So their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit^s rudeness.
Chose one who should owe it all, d*ye

To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Piagan pur^M was the sight

Of a son of Circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,

Rolrs purblind, mental vision *
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'dyet,

TUl for eloquence you hail him.
And swear he has the Ansel met

That met the Ass of Balaam.—

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF
SESSION.

Tune—** GiUicrankie.'*

LOKD A-

-TE.

He clenched his pamphlets in his fist,

He quoted and he hinted.
Till in a declamation-mist.

His arffiiment he tint it :
He gaped for H, he graped for \

He fand it was awa, man ;
But what his common sense came short.

He eked out wi' law, man.

ME. BE — ^NE.

Collected Harry stood awee,

Then opened out his arm, man ;
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e*e.

And ey*a the gathering storm, man ;
Like wind-drivVi hail it did avail.

Or torrents owre a lin, man ;
The Bench sae wise lift up their e3res

Half-waukenM wi* the din, man.

136

BURNS' POEMS.

VERSES TO J. RANKEN.

[The Penan to whom hit Poem on thiootvng Vu
Partridge it addretted, toAi/e Ranken oed^pied
the Farm ofAdamhiU^ in AyrthireJ]

Ab day, u Death, that gniesome cari,
Was driving to the tither warl
A miztie-maztie motley squad.
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ;
Black ^owns of each denomination.
And thieves of every rank and station,
FVom him that wears the star and garter,
To him tliat wintles* in a halter :
AshamM himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, fiflow*rin at the bitches,
*^ By G-d riTnot bo seen behint them.
Nor 'mang the spVitual core present them.
Without, at least ae honest man,

To grace this d d infernal clan."

By Adamhill a glance he threw,
« tr-d G-d r quoth he, ** I have it now
There^s just the man I want, in faith,**
And quickly stoppit Ranken''t breath.

On ftearing that there teat Falsehood in the Rev.
Dr, B '* very Looks.

That there is falsehood in his looks

I must and will deny :
They say their master is a knave —

Aiid sure they do Yiot lie.

On a Sehoohnatter in Cleith Parish^ Fifethire.

Here lie Willie M — hie's banes,

O Satan, when ^e tak him,
Gie him the schulm of your weans ;

For clever Deils hell mak em !

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUIVIOURIER.

(a parody on robin ADAIR.)

You^RE welcome to Despots, Dumourier ;
You^re welcome to Despots, Dumourier. —
How does Dampiere do f
Ay, and Boumonville too ? [ourier?

Why did they not come along with you, Dum-

* The word fVintle, denotes sudden and Involuntary
motion. In the ludicrous sense in which it to here ap-
plied, it may be admirably truislated by the vulgar
London expressloo ot Damdng %pon wHUng.

I will fight Franca with yoo, Dumourier^ —

I will fight France with you, Domoorier :—

I will fight France with you,

I will t&ke my chance with you ;

By my soul rll dance a dance with you, Dum

ouner.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ;

Then let us fight about.

Till freedom^s spark is out.

Then we'U be d-mned no doubt — ^Dumourier.

ELEGT ON THE TEAR 1788.

A SKETCH.

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn.
E'en let them dio— tor that they^ bom :
But oh ! prodi^ous to reflec* !
A Tbt^mon/, Sirs, is gane to wreck !
O Eighty-eighty in thy sma' epace
What dire events hae taken place !
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us !
In what a pickle thou hast left ua !

The Spanish empire 's tint a head.
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ;
The tiuzie 's teugh tween Pitt an' Fox,
And tween our Maggie's twa woe cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidie devils
But to the hen-birds unco dvil ;
The tither's something dour o' tieadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midd<

Te ministers, come mount the ^apet«
An' cry till ye be haerse an* rouint,
For Eightyiigfit, he wish'd you wed,
An' gi^ you a' baith gear an' meal ;
E'en mony a plack, and mony a'peck,
Te ken yoursels, for little feck !

Te bonnie lasses, di^ht your een.
For some o' you hae tmt a frien' ;
In Eightu-eight^je ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowf and dowie now they creep;
Nay, even the jrirth itsel does cry.
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine^ thou's but a bairn.
An' no o er auld, I hope, to learn !
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care.
Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair.

BURNS* POEMS.

137

id-eoff 'd, mizkl'd, hap-«haoklM Riga/U^

B himseL, a full free agent.

ye follow out the plan

or than he did, honest man ;

Ue better as joa can.

Jamtary 1, 1789.

VERSES

under the Portrait of Ferputon^ the
in a amv of that authors worEs presented
fOWig hady in Edinburgh^ March 19,

K on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,

t can starve the author of the pleasure !

my elder brother in misfortune,

ny elder brother in the muses,

ars I pitv thy unhappy fate !

the bard impitied by the world,

so keen a relish of its pleasures ?

SONGS.

IN THE MORNING EARLY.*

< the morning's no for me,

tr» the morning early ;

%d* the hills are covered wV snmo^

isureii*s winter f(Urly,

aws the wind frae east to west,
Irifl is driving sairly ;
d and shrill's i hear the blast,
ire it's winter &irly.

ds sit chittering in the thorn,
y they fare but sparely ;
Lg's the night frae e'en to mom,
are it's winter fairly.

Ujpinthe mornings ice.

SONG.

AMD I LAY WHERE FLOWERS
WERE SPRINGING.t

I'o I lay where flowers were springing,
r m the sunny beam ;

* The cborus is old.

e two stansss I composed wbea T wss seven-
lira asKniff tbs oldost of my prinled pieces.
Burns' Reliquea, p. 34'2.

Listhunf to the wild birds singing,

B^ a falling, crystal stream ;
Straight the Skj grew black and daring ;

Tlm>' the woods the whirlwinds rave ;
Trees with aged arms were warring

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ^
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd,
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me.

She promised fair, and perform'd but ill ;
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me,

I bear a heart shall suppoi^t me stilL

SONG.*

BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.

Ye gallants bright I red you right,

Mware o' bonnie Ann ;
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace,

Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,

Her skin is like the swan ;
Sae iimply lac'd her ^nty waist.

That sweetly ye might span.

Youth, ^ace, and love, attendant move.

And pleasure leads the von :
In a' their charms, and conquering arms.

They wait on bonnie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands.

But love enslaves the man ;
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a',

&ware o' bonnie Ann.

SONG.

MY BONNIE MARY.t

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine.

An' fill it in a sUver 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 fVae the ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary.

*IcoinpoMd this song out of compliment to MlMAnn
Masteiton, the daughter of my friend Allan Maaterton,
the author of the air of Strathallan'a Lament, and two
or three otlien In this work. Bunu* Rdiques, p. 988.

t This air ts Oswald's ; the Aral half-stanza of tlit
Bonff is old.

140

BURNS' POEMS

To beauty what man but inaun yield him a

prize.
In hor amour of glances, and blushes, and

And when wit and refinement hae polished

hor darts.
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond

sparkling e*e.
Has lustre outshimng the diamond to me ;
And the heart-beatij^ love, as Fm clasp*d in

her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms !

SONG.

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER
DOOR?

Wha b that at my bower door ?

O wha is it but Findlay ;
Then gae your gate ye'so nae be here !

Indeed maun I, c|uo* Findlay.
What mak ye sae hke a thief?

O come and see, quo* Findlay ;
Before the mom yeMl work mischief;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Gif I rise and let you in ?

Let mo in, quo* Findlaj ;
Ye'll keep me waukin wi* vour din ;

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
In my bower if yo should stay ?

Let me stay, quo* Findlay ;
I fear yell bide till break o* day ;

Indeed will I, quo* Findlay.

Here this night if ye remain,

ril remain, quo* Findlay ;
I dread ye*ll leani the gate again ;

Indeed will I, quo* Findlay ;
What may piiss within tliis bower,

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ;
Ye maun conceal till your last hour ;

Indeed will I, quo* Findlay !

SONG.*

TuKi—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."

Mr Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick

border, O
And carefully he bred me in decency and

order, O

*Thls song is wild rliapaody, miserably deficient in
verrifleatlon, bat ss the sentiments are the gttnuiiio feel-
tnpof my heart, for that reason I have a particular
pleasure in conning it over. Ainu* Rtliqmt*, p- 339.

He bade me act a manly mut, though I had

ne*er a farthing, O
For without an honest manly heart, no

was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did detfl^

mine, O
Tho* to be rich was not my wish, yet to be

great was charming, O
My talents they were not the worst ; nor jst

my education ; O
ResolvM was I, at least to tiy , to mend my ato-

ation, O.

In many a wav, and vain essay, I courted fiff*
tune s favour ; O

Some cause unseen, still stept between, to im-
trate each endeavour ; O

Sometimes by foes I was o*erpower*d ; some-
times by friends forsaken ;

And when my hope was at the top, I still wu
wosrt mistaken, O.

Then sore harass*d, and tir*d at last, with (^

tune*s vain delusion ; O
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and

came to tliis conclusion ; O
The past was bad, and the future hid; '^

good or ill untried ; O
But the present hour was in my pow^, sod m

I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor penon
to befiriend me ; O

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and Ubour j
to sustain me O,

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, mj fa-
ther bred me early ; O

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a na^^
for fortimo fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, tmknown, and poor, thro
life Fm doom*d to wander, O

Till down my weary bones I lay in evcriastiDf
slumber: O

No view nor care, but shun whatever might
breed me pain or sorrow ; O

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-
morrow, O.

But cheerful »tiil, I am as well, as a nKmarcb

in a palace, O . .

Tho* fortune*8 frown still hunU me down, wito

all her wonted malice ; O
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne*ar csn

make it farther ; O .

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not moc^

regard her, O.

BURNS' POEMS.

141

Wb«i powiitiinf by my labour I Mm a fittla

moiMy, O
Bonie unforeseen miifortane eooiee gwienlly

upon me ; O
Mi^lfTtft^ miftake, or by neglect, or my good-

natur'd folly ;0
But OQino what will, IVe fwom it still. 111

ne^er be melancboly, O.

AA yon who follow wealth and power with

unremitting ardour, O
Th« more in thia you look for bliae, you leave

your view the farther; O
Hid you the wealth Potod boaata, or nations

to adore you, O
A dieeifal honest-hearted do^wn I will prefer

before you, O.

SONG.

^*Ho' cniel &te should bid us part,

Ai ht^ the pole and line ;
^mt dear idea round my heart

Shoiild tenderiy entwine.

^*lio* mountains fro¥m and deserts howl,
.^ And oceans roar between ;
^«t, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

SONG.

Ai fbnd kiss and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ^er i
X)eep in heart-wrung tears 111 pledge thee,
VTaning sighs and ffroans 111 wage thee.
\¥ho shsU say that fortune grieves him
"IVhile the star of hope she leaves him ?
lie, nae cheerf^i^ twinkle liffhts me;
I>ark despair around benights me.

m ne^er blame my |Mu1ial fancy,
If aethhig could resist my Nancy :
But to see her, was to love her ;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lovM sae kindly,
Had we never lovM sae blindly,
Never met — or never parted.
We had ne*er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest !
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure.
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasitre !

Ae food kiss, and then we sever ;

Ae fiureweel, alas, for ever !

Deep in heairt-wrung tears I pledge thati

x*r — : — Bghs and groans Hi wage thMi

SONG.

NOW BANK AN' BRAE ARE
CLAITHD IN GREEN.

Now bank an^ brae are daith'd in green
An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring.

By Girvan's fairy haunted stream
The birdies flit on wanton wing.

To Cassallis' banks when evening fa's,
There wi' my Mazy let me flee.

There catch her ilka glance of love,
blink o^ Mary's e*e I

The bonnie

The child wha boasts o' warld's wealto.

Is aften laird o' meikle care ;
But Mary she is a' my ain.

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair !
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks,

Wi' her the lassie dear to me.
And catch her ilka glance o' love.

The bonnie blink o' Maxy's e'e !

SONG.

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR

AWA.

O HOW can I be blithe and glad.
Or how can I gnne brisk and braw.

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best
Is o W the hills and far awa ?

It*8 no the fVosty winter wind.
It's no the driving drifl and snaw ;

But ay the tear comes in mv e'e.
To think on him that 's far awa.

My father pat me frae his door,
Mv friends thev hae disownM me a^

But I liae ane will tak my part,
Tho bonnie lad that 's fax awa.

A pair o' gloves he gave to me.
And silken snoods he gave me twa ;

And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that ^ far awa.

14f

BURNS' POBMS.

The wearj winter toon will paai,
And ■pring will deed the birken-ehaw ;

And mr aweet babie will be born.
And oell come hame th&f ■ far awa.

SONG.

Out over the Forth I look to the north,
But what is the north and its Highlands to
me?

The touth nor the east gie ease to mj breast.
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.

But I look to the west, when I £ae to rest.
That happy my dreams and my slumbers
may be ;

For far in tl:e west lives he I lo^e best.
The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

SONG.

PLL AY CA' IN BY TON TOWN.

I'LL ay ca* in by yon town.
And by jon garden green, again;

ni ay ca^ m by yon town,
And see my bonnie Jean again.

There^s nane sail kon,-there*8 nane sail guesi.
What brings me back the gate again.

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass.
And stowlins we sail meet again.

Shell wander by the aiken tree.
When trystin-time''' draws near again ;

And when ner lovely form I see,
O haith, ehe^s doubly dear again !

SONG.

WfflSTLE O'ER THE LAVE OT.

FiasT when Ma^gy was my care,
Heav^, I thought, was in her air;
Now weVe married— ^ier nae mair —

Whistle o'er the lave o't.—
Meg was meek, and Moe was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature s child —
—Wiser men than me's beguil'd :

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

* TVytCts-tiiiM— The tbns of appoHitrasnL

How we lire, my Meg and me.

How we love and how we 'greet
I care na by how few may see ;

Whistle o'er the lave o*t. —
What I wish were ma^fgofs meat,
Dish'd up in her windu^ sheet,
I could write-— but Meg maun

Whistle o'er the lave o't.—

SONG.

YOUNG JOCKEY.

Toimo Jockey was the blithest lad

In a' our town or here awa ;
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud,

Fu' lichtly dancM he in the ha' !
Ho rooe d my e'en sae bonnie blue.

He roos'd my waist sae gently sma;
An' ay my heart came to ray mou.

When ne'er a body heard or saw.

My JockejT toils upon the plain.

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and
And o'er the lee I leuk fu* fain

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca',
An' ay the nignt comes round again,

When in his arms he taks me a' :
And ay he vows hell be my ain

As lang's he has a breath to draw.

SONG.

MCPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
TuNi— "MPhereon's Lament."

Farewell ye dungeons dark and straqgi

The wretches destinie !
MPherson's time vnll not be long.

On yonder gaUows tree.

Sae raniingly^ ku wantonly^

Sae dauntingly gaed he ;
Hejplay'd a ipring and daiw*d it rounds

Below the. gaUSwt tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?—

On men? a bloody plain
Fve dar'd his face, ana in this place

I scorn him yet a^ain !
Sae rantinglyy ie.

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword ;

BURNS' POEM&

14a

^*f no a man in all Seotknd,
1 brayjD him at a word.
rarUingli/i' kr.

a life of sturt and strife ;
Y treachehe :
ny heart I must depart
3t avenged be.
rantinghfj Sec.

rweO light, thou sunshine bright,
1 beneath the sk^ !
"ard shame distam his name,
retch that dares not die !
rantingly^ kc.

SONG,

k bottle and an honest friend!
wad ye wish for mair, man i
IS, before his life may end,
bis shaxe may be of care, man?
ch the moments as they fly,
10 them as ye ouf ht, man >^
le, happiness is £y,
unes not ay when sought, man.

SONG.

Braes o' Balquhidder.**

Hit thee yei^vet^
n* ru Inst the o*er again^
rUkist thee yet, yet^
(y bonrUe Peggy AliMon !

and fear, when thou art near,
mair defy them, O ;
ings upon their hansel throne
\ sae blest as I am, O !
bitf(Aee, ice.

my arras, wi^ a thy charms,
my countless treasure, O ;
e mair o^ Heaven to share,
sic a moment^s pleasure, O :
l:i«t thee, See.

ny een, sae bonnie blue,
r I'm thine for ever, O ; —
hy lips I seal my vow,
reak it shall I never, O !
kiutkee^kt.

SONG.

Tune— "^ If he be a Butcher neat and txim.*'

On Cessnock banks there lives a laai,
Could I describe her shape and mien;

The graces of her weelfar*d face.
And the glandn of her sparklin

She^s fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phosbus first is seen.

When dew-drops twinkle o*er the lawn ;
An^ she^s twaglancin sparklin een.

She^s stately like yon youthful ash.
That grows the cowslip braes between,

And sheets its head above each bush ;
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een.

She^s spotless as the flow Ving thorn
With flowers so white and leaves so

When purest in the dewy mom ;
An^ she's twa glancin sparklin een.

Her looks are like the sportive lamb,
When flowVy May adorns the sceiM,

That wantons round its bleatin|^ dam ;
An' she*s twa glancin sparklm een.

Her hair is like the curling mist
That shades the mountain-side at e'en«

When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een.

Her forehead 'a like the show'ry bow.
When shining sunbeams intervene

And ffild the distant mountain's brow;
An" she's twa glancin sparklin een.

Her voice is like the ev'ning thmdi
That sings in Cessnock banks nnseen,

While his mate sits nestling in the bosh \
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een.

Her lips are like the cherries ripe.
That sunny viralls from Boreas screen.

They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een.

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep.
With fleeces newly washen dean.

That slowly mount the rising steep ;
An' she's twa glancin spandin een.

Her breath is like the fragrant breese
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean.

When Phabus sinks behind the seas ;
An' she's twa ^anda spaiUm een*

144

BURNS' POEMaii

Bat iff not htr air, h«r form, har face,
Tbo* matching iMauty^a fiiUed qnaan,

But the mind that abinaa in 9f*ry grace.
An* chiefly in her aparklin een.

WAB IS MY HEART.

Wab ia my heart, and the tear^a in my e'e ;
Lang, lang joy^a been a stranger to me :
Foraaken and friendlen my burden I bear,
Knd the sweet voice o* pity ne'er aoonda in my
ear.

Love, thou haat pleasure; and deep hae I

loved;
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved :
But this bruised heart that now bleeda in my

breast,
I can ftel by ita throbbings will aoon be at rest

O if I were, where happy I hae been ;

Down by yon stream and yon bonnie caatle

green:
For there ne ia w&ndVing and mudng oo me,
Wha wad aoon dry the tear firaa PhilSa'a e^e.

SONG,

Tmc»-> Banka of Banna."

YBStaBBH I had a pint o' wine.

A place where bod? aaw na*;
Teatreen lay on thia breast o* mine

The gowdaa locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wildemeaa

Rejoicm^ oW his manna.
Was naethmg to my hiney blisa

Upon the Gpa of Anna.

Ye monarcha, tak the east and weat,

Frae Indus to Savanna !
Gie me within my straining grasp

The melting form of Anna.
There I^ deapiae imperial charms.

An Empress or Sultana,
While dying rapturea in her anna

I give and take with Anna !

Awa thou flaunting god o' day !

Awa thou pale Diana 1
Bk atar gae hide thy twrnkhng ray

When Vm to meet my Anna.

CoaM, in thy raven phmiage, nigbl
Sun, moon, and atan withdraws

And bring an angel pen to write
My transports wi my Anna !

SONG.*

Th« Deil cam fiddling thro' tlio town.
And danc*d awa wr the exciseman ;

And ilka wifecir'd, "^ Auld ^laiioun.
We wish you luck o* the prize man.

" ff V// mak our mat//, aiid brew our dr
TVe'U dance atid sing and rejoice ma

Jind many thank* to the murkU: black 1
Thai danced atra iri' the Exeisemar

^ There's threesome reels^ and fuurspmc
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, ra

But the ae best dunce e'er cam to our h
Was — the DeU*s awa wi' the Exciseo
We*U mak our maut^ &c."

SONG.

Powers celestial, whose protectioi

Ever guards tlic 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 sj)irit.

Draw your choicest inliucnce do

Make the foles you waft around b

Sof I and peaceful as her breast ;
Breathing in the breeze that fans ]|

Sooth her bosom into rest :
Guardian an^ls, O protect her.

When in distant lands I roam ;
To realms unknown while fate ezil

Make her bosom still my bome.t

HUNTING SONG.

I aSD lOV BEWAKB AT THE BUIITI

The heather was blooming, the meadov

mawn.
Our lada gaed a-hunting, ae day at the

* At a meeting nf his broUier Excisemen In D
Boms, being called upon for a Song banded the
extempore to the President written on the b
letter.

t Probably written on Hlghltfad Blary, on tli
the Poet's departure to the West Indies.

BURNS' POEMS.

145

1 and o*er mones and mooy a glen,
they difcoyered a bonnie moor-hen.

u beware at the huntings young men ;
u htvart at the huntings young men ;
\e on Oie wing^andsomeat they tpring^
auly steal on the bonnie moor-hau

ishing the dew from the brown hea-
ther bells,

FB betrayed her on yon moory fella ;
ige outhutred the pride o' the apring.
J she wantoned gay on the wing.

Jredt&c.

Bbus hinuel, as he peepM o'er the

liU;

. her plumage he tried his skill ;

1 his rays where she bask'd on the

jrae—

irere outshone, and but marked where

ihelay.

/ red, ice.

ted the valley, they hunted the hill ;
)f our lads wi^ the best o' their skill ;
s the fairest she sat in their si^ht,
JT ! she was over, a mile at a mght —

JredySce,

YOUNG PEGGY.

tggy blooms our bonniest laas,
ish IS like the morning,
lawn, the sprin^ng grass,
uiy gems adommg :
outshine the radiant beams
Jd the passing shower,
3r o^er the crystal streams,
eer each freshening flower.

nore than the cherries bright,
r die has gracM them,
rm th^ admiring gazer's sighti
'eetly tempt to taste them :

is as the ev'ning mild,
t)atherM pairs are courting,

lambkins wanton wild,
ful bands disporting.

lune lovely Peggy's foe,
ireetness would relent her,
ing Sprinf unbends the brow
f, savage Winter.

Detraction's eyea no aim can gam
Her winning powera to lemen :

And fretful enyy»grina fai Tauif
The poiaon'a tooth to ftaten.

Yepow'TB of Honoor, Lore, and Tmtht

From ev'iy ill defend her ;
Iniroire the highly favoured youth

The destimes mtend her ;
Still fan the sweet connubial flame

Renpeoilve in each bosom ;
A^d blBBS the dear parental name

With many a filial bloisom.*

SONG.

TuN^--^ The King of Franoe,he rade a Raoe "

Am Aifo the trees where hnmmmgbeee

At buds and flowers were hanging, O
Auld Caledon drew out her drone.

And to her pipe was sinking ; O
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or rede,

She dirPd them aff, fu' dearly, O
When there cam a yell o' foreign aqueelii

Tlmt dang her tapaalteerie, O—

Their capon cn^wa and queer ha ha's,

They made our lugs grow eerie, O
The hungry bike did scrape an pike

Till we were wae and weary ; (X—
But a royal ghaist wha ance was caa'd

A prisoner aughteen year awa.
He fir'd a fiddler in the North

That dang them tapaalteerie, O

. SONG.

Tuns-— ^^ John Anderaon my Jo.**

On B night as I did wander.

When com begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder.

Upon an auld tree root :
Aula Aire ran by before me.

And bicker'd to the sees ;
A cushat crowded o'er me

That echoed thro' the braea.

* Tbif wBs one of the Poet*t eailtost coniposftkies.
It is copied from a MS. book, wUeh ha kad btToiaMs
first publication.

B1IBK9

too^*° X^S^ ^^^'

SOS

^ ^W mghtt^ ,„ „,y •«»•
\ «oud»ndh\fb.

I Then ^V't'-'^^tS fiittt«oin««. "J^W

soNO-

-'.withettnf^***

.dlW-***^-

^BB*I««»

«*WO»ATrt»«-

SONG-

BURNS' POEMS.

147

It^ gmd to be raerry and win,
It*8 gold to be honest and true,
It's ffoid to support Caledonians eaoMi
Anabide by the buff and the blue.

Heroes a health to them that^s awa.

Here 8 a health to them that^ awa ;

Here s a health to Charlie,* the chief o^ the dan,

Altho' that his hand be but sma\

Jt/itLj hberty meet wi' success !

>Iay prudence protect her frae evil !

J^lay tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist.

And wander their way to the devil !

Here^s a health to them that^s awa.

Hero's a health to them that's awa.

Here's a health to Tammie,t the Noriand lad-

Ttiat lives at the lu^ o' the law ! [die,

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.
Bat they wham the truth wad indict.

Here*B a health to them that's awa.
Here's a health to them that^s awa.
Here's Chieflain M'Leod, a Chiellain worth

gowd,
•Iqo' bred amang mountains o' snaw !

SONG.
THE PLOUGHMAN.

Aa I was a-wandVinff ae morning in spnng,
^ heard a young Ploughman sae sweetly to

sing,
•And as he was sinffin* thir words he did say,
"there's nae life like the Ploughman in the

month o' sweet May —

^lie lav'rock in the morning shell rise frae her
nest, [breast.

And mount to the air wi* the dew on her

And wi' the merry Ploughman shell whistle
and sing.

And at night £ell return to her nest back
again.

SONG.

Hke flowing locks, the raven^s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing ;

How sweet unto that breast to dixig,
And round that neck entwine her !

Her lips are roses wat wi* dew,
O, what a feast, her bonnie a

Her cheeks a mair celestial hoe,
A crimson still diviner.

•CPOs.

tLcMdEnkiBS.

BALLAD.

To thee, lov'd Nith,thy gladsome plaioa,
Where late wi' careless thought 1 rang'd«

Though prest wi' care and sunk in wo,
To thee I bring a heart unchanged.

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braee,
Tho^ mem'ry there my bosom tear ;

For there he rov'd that brake my heart,
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear!

SONG.

The winter it is past, and the limmeri
last,-

And the small birds sing en every tree ;
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sed,

Sindb my true love is parted &om me.

The rose upon the brier by the waters running
clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ;
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts
at rest.
But my true love ie parted fiom me.

GUmWlPE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE

ROBERT BURNS.

February^ ITBPl,

Mt canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,
1 hafflins doubt, it is na true man.
That ve between the stilts were bred,
Wi' ploughmen schooFd, wi' ploughmen fed.
I doubt it sair, ye Ve drawn your knowledgo
Either frae grammar-school, or college.
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
War' better fed, Pd gie my aitn.
Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch.
An' bummil thro' the single caiitch,
Wha ever heard the ploughman speak.
Could tell gif Homer wis a Greek ?

148

BURNS' POSMS.

He*d Am as soob upon a cudgel,

AmmI a single line of VirgiL

An then sae alee ye crack your jokea

O' WiUie P— t and Charlie F— x.

Our great men a* sae weel deecrive.

An* now to gar the nation thrive,

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amangthenii

An* as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,

Ye arc a funny blade, I swear ;

An* though the cauld I ill can bide.

Yet twenty miles, an* mair, Td ride,

O*or moss, an* muir, an' never grumble,

Tho* my auld yad 8hou*d ^ie a stumble.

To crack a winter-night wi* thee.

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.

A ffuid saut herring, an* a cake,

AVr sic a chiel, a least wad make,

Fd rather scour your reaming yill.

Or eat o* cheese and bread my fill,

Than wi* dull lairds on turtle dine,

An* fcrlie at their wit and wine.

O, gif I konn'd but wharo ye baide,

rd send to you a marled plaid ;

Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw,

An* douse at kirk, or market shaw.

For south, as weel as north, my lad,

A* honest Scotchmen lo*e the maud,

Right wae that weVc sae far frae ither :

Yet proud I am to ca* ye brither.

Your moit obedt.'

£.8.

THE ANSWER.

GUIDWIFK,

I MIND it weel, in early date.

When I was beardless young, and blate.

An* first could thrcsn thooam ;
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh.
An* tho* forfoughton sair oneugh.

Yet unco proud to learn ;
When first amang the yellow com

A man I reckoned was,
And wi* the lave ilk merry mom
Could rank my rig and lass.
Still shearing, and clearing
Tho tithor stookcd raw,
Wi* claivcrs, a;n* haivers.
Wearing the day awa,<«>

E*n then a wish, (I mind its power)
A wish, that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast ;

That I for poor anld Sootkndli lake.
Some usefu* plan, or book coold make.

Or sing a sanf at least.
Tho rough bur-uiistle, spreading wide

Among the bearded bear,
I tara*d my weeding-heuk aside,
An' spar*d the symbol dear;
No nation, no station.

My envy e*er could raiae,
A Scot stUl, but blot stilly
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o* Bang

In formless jumble, right an^rrang.

Wild floated in my l>rain :
Till on that har*st I said before.
My partner in the merry core,

She rous*d tho forming strain
I see her yet, the sonsie quean.

That lighted up her jingle.
Her witching smilc, her pauky e'en
That gart my heart-strings tingle •
I fired, inspired,

At cv*ry kindling^ keek.
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared ay to speak.

Hale to the set, each ^d chiel aayi,
Wi' merry dance in wmtet--days,
An* wo to share in conunon :
The gust o' ioyr, the balm of wo,
Tho saul o' life, the heav*n below.

Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name.

Be mindfu o* your mitfaer :
She, honest woman, may think ahaJM
That ye'ro connected with her.
Ye*re wae men, ye*re nae men*
That slight the lovdy dears «
To shame ye, disclaim ye.
Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, na bred to bam and byre.
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyie

Thanks to you for your line.
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully bo ware :

'Twad please mo to the Nine.
I*d be mair vauntio o* my hap.

Douse hingin o*er my curple^
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang halo ther.

An' plenty be your fa :
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at Jour haUan ca*.

RouET Burns.

JtTorcA, 1787.

BURNS' PO£MS.

149

SONG.

•** The tither mora, u I forlorn.^

and^ring rill, that marks Uw hill,
glances o*er the brae, Sir :
by a bower whore mony a flower,
les fragranco on the day, Sir.

Damon lav, with Sylvia gay :
Dve they thought nae crime, Sir ;
ild-birds sang, the echoes rang,
le Damon's heart beat time, Sir.

S O NG.

cam in by oar gate-end,

I day was waxen weary ;

ba cam tripping down the street,

it bonnie Peg, my dearie.

air sac sweet, and shape complete,
'i' nae proportion wanting;
queen of love, did never move,
^i' motion mair enchanting.

linked hands, we took the sands,
down yon windin* river,
, Oh ! that hour, an' broomy bower
in I forget it ever?

POLLY STEWART.

: — *^ Yo'ro welcome Charlie Stewart."

>VELT Polly Stewart,

charming Polly Stewart,

"e's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,

iat*s half so fair as thou art.

flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's,
id art can ne'er renew it ;
worth and truth eternal youth
ill gie to Polly Stewart.

he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms,
)sscs9 a leal and true heart ;
lim be given to ken the heaven
e grasps in Polly Stewart .'
O Uveljf^ ice

THERE WAS A BONNIE LASa

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, boiinia
lass,
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ;
Till war*s loud alarms tore her laddie firaa hw
arms,
Wi* mony a sigh and a tear.
Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudlj
roar,
He still was a stranger to fear ;
And nocht could him quell, or his bosom
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.

TIBBIE DUNBAR.

TuKi—*' Johnny M^Gin."

O WILT thou go wi' me, siRreet Tibbie Doa-
bar;

wilt thou go wi* me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar;
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a

car,
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his monejy
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly :
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweot Tibbie Duu-

bar.

ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST.

Robin shure in hairst

I shure wi' him,
Fient a heuk had I,

Tet I stack by him.

I gaed up to Dunse,
To warp a wab o' plaiden,

At his daadie's yctt,
Wha met me but Robin.

Was na Robin bauld,

Tho' I was a cotter,
Pligr'd me sic a trick

And me the eller's dochter?
Robin shurCy tee,

Robin promis'd mo

A' my winter vittle ;
Fient haet he had but three

Gooee feathers and a whittle.
Robin tkure% iee.

150

BURNS* POEMS.

MT LADrS GOWN THERE'S 0AIR8

UPONT.

Mt lady^i gown thereof gain apon%
And ffowden flowers sae rare upon\ ;
But Jenny's jioips and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon*L

My lord a-honting he is gane.
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nanei
B^ Colin 8 cottage lies his game«
If Colin's Jenny oe at hame.
Mjf lady" 9 gown^ Sec

My lady^s white, my ladjr^s red.
And kith and kin o Cassillis' blude.
But her ten-pund lands o^ tocher gmd
Were a* the charms his lordship lo'cd.
Mjf ladj/*t gowriy ice.

Oct o^er yon moor, out o*er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass,
A lily in a wilderness.
J^f ladji*t gown^ &e,

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o' lover's hymns :
The diamond dew in her een sae blue.
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady J goirn, See,

Vtj lady's dink, my lady's drest.
The flower and fancy o' the west;
But the lassie that a man lo'es best,
O that's the lass to make himbleiL
^ ladift gowiu kc

WEE WILLIE GRAY

Wu Willie Gray, and his leather waUeti
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and

jacket :
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and

doublet.
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and

doublet.

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ;
Twice a lily flower wiU be in him sark and

cravat:
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet,
^ MUhers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet.

THE NORTHERN LASS.

Tho' cruel fate should bid us paxt,

Far as the pole and line ;
Her dear idea round my heart

Should tenderly entwine.
Tho* mountains ri^e, and deserts hoiH,

And oceans roar between ;
Yet dearer than my death lobS soul,

I still would love my Jean.

COULD AUGHT OP SONG

Could aught of song declare my pams,

Could artful numCiera move thee.
The muse should tell, in laboured strains^

O Mary, how I love thee.
They who but fei£^ a wounded heart,

^lay teach the Tjrre to languish ;
But what avails the pride of art,

When wastee the soul with angoiah?

Then let the sadden bursting sigh

The heart-felt pang discover ;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,

O read th' impforing lover.
For well I know thy gentle mind

Disdains art's gay disguising ;
Beyond what fancy e'«r refin'a

The voice of nature prizing.

O GUID ALE COMES

GiTTD ale comes, and guid ale goes,
Guid ale gars me sell my hose.

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon,
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh.
They drew a' weel enough,

I sell'd them a' just one by ane ;
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.

Guid ale hands me bare and busy.
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie,
Stand i' the stool when I hae done,
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon.
O guid ale comes, and gude ale goes,
Guid ale gars me sell my hose.
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon;
Guid ale keeps my heart mboon.

BURNS* POEMS.

161

lVe novels.

s Maachline belles,
ur spinning-wheel ;
ks^ are baited hookji
, like Rob Mossgiel.
les and Grandisons,
• youthful fancies ree ,
tins, and firo your veins,
prey for Rob Mossgiel.

Iiat's smoothly hung :
•inly seems to feel;
but acts a part,

Rob Mossgiel.

the soft caress,
poisoned darts of iteeL

and politesse,

Rob Mossgiel.

IFE SHE DANG ME.

she dang mc,
fe she bang'd me ;
man a' her will,
3*11 soon o'ergang ye.

my mind was bent,
marry 'd ;
nan's intent
carry 'd.

rt still at last,
ys are done, man,
n earth is past,
aboon, man.

4NG OTR MY DADDIE.

it wi* an unco shout,

r o'er my dad die, O I

, quo^ the feirie auld wife,

lidlin body, O I

d he paidles in,

ate and earlie, O ;

ears I hae lien by his aide,

fusionless earlie, O.

le, my feirie auld wife,
igue now, Naiisie, O :
, and sae hae ye,
I tae donsie, O :

Vve seen the day ye buttered my broea,
And cuddl'd me late and earue, O ;

But downa do'e come o er me now,
And, Oh, I find it tairly, O I

DELIA.

ANODB.

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of opening rose ;
But fairer still my Delia dawni,
More lovely far her beauty blowa.

Sweet the lark^s wild-waiblod lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still.
Steal thine accents on mine car.

The fio^er-enamourM busy bee
The rosy banquet lores to sip ;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab a Up ;

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove !

O let me steal one liquid kiss.

For Oh ! my soul is parch'd with lore !

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS.

On a bank of flowers one snromer^s day.

For summer lightly dress'd.
The youthful, bloommg Nelly lay,

With love and sleep oppressed ;
When Willy, wandering thro' the wood,

Who for her favour ofl had su'd.
Ho gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blaah*d«

And trembled where he stood.

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed,

"Were seal d in soft repose,
Her lips still as they fragrant breathed.

It richer dyM the rose.
The springing lilies sweetly pressed.

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ;
He ^az'd, he wish'd, he feard, he blushed

His bosom ill at rest.

Her robes, light wavuig in the breeM,

Her tender limbs embrace,
Her lovely form, her native ease,

All harmony and grace.
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,

A flattering ardent kiss he stole :
He gaz'd, he wished, he feared, he bliuh*d.

And aigh'd his very souL

l5t

BURNS' POEMS.

Af fliM the psitiidge fVom the brake.

On letr inipired winffi ;
So Nelly ttartling, halTawake,

Away affiifffateid ■pringa.
But Willy foUowM as he should.

He overtook her in the wood.
He Tow'd, he prayed, he found the maid

Foigiring all and good.

EVAN BANKS.

Slow apreada the gloom my aoul deairea,
The Bun from India's shore retires ;
To Evan banks with temperate ray
Home of my youth, it leads the day.
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear !
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear !
AU, all my hopoa of bliss reside.

Where Evan mingle* with the Clyde.

•

And she, in simple beauty drest.
Whose image lives within my breast ;
Who trembung heard my parting sifh,
And long pursued me with her eye :
Does she with heart unchan^^M as mine,
Oft in thy vocal bowers reclme ?
Or where yon grot overhangs the tide.
Muse while the Evan aeeks the Clyde.

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound !
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw.
Which sweetlv winds so far below ;
What secret cnarm to mem*ry brings,
All that on Evan^s border springs P
Sweet banks ! ye bloom bv Mary*s side :
Blest stream ! she views thee haate to Clyde.

Can iH the wealth of India^ coast

Atone for years in absence loet ;

Return, ve momenta of delight.

With ricner treasure bless my sight !

Swift from this desert let me part,

And fly to meet a kindred heart !

Nor more may alight my steps divide

fVooi that dear stream which flows to Clyde.

THE FIVE CARLINS.

AN KLBCnON BALLAD.

Tun*— •Chevy Chace."*

Thbki were flve Carlins in the south.

They fell upoo a scheme.
To send a lad to Lon'on town

To bring us tidings hame.

Not onlv bring us tidmcs hame,

But GO Qur errands there.
And aiblins gowd and honour baith

Might be Uiat laddie's share.

There was Mag^e by the banks o* Nith.*

A dame wi' pride enough ;
And Marjorie o' the mome Loch,t

A Carlm auld an* teugh.

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale4
That dwells near Solway side.

And whisky Jean that took her gill{
In Galloway so wide.

And auld black Joan frae Creighton peel,

O* flfipsv kith an* kin,
FHve weigntier Carlins were na found

The south kintra within.

To send a lad to Lon*<5n town

They met upon a day,
And monie a Knight and monie a Laird

That errand fain would gae.

O ! monie a Knigfat and monie a Lairfl,

This errand fam would gae ;
But nae ane could their fancy please,

O ! ne*er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted Knight,

Bred o* a border band,
An* he wad gae to Lon'on town.

Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weely

And nftikle he wad say.
And ilka ane at Lon*on court

Wad bid to him guid day.

Then niest came in a sodger youths

And spak wi* modest grace.
An* he wad gae to Lon'on town.

If sae their pleasure was.

He wad na hecht them courtly gift.

Nor meikle speech pretend ;
But he wad hecht an honest heart

Wad ne*er desert his friend.

Now whom to choose and whom reflise;

To strife thae Carlins fell ;
For some had gentle folk to please.

And some wad please themsel.

Then out spak mim-mou*d Meg o* Nith,

An' she spak out wi* pride.
An* she wad send the sodger youth

Whatever might betide.

* Deinfrlei. t Lochmaben.

^Kirkcudbright.

lAnaaa
Baoqubar.

BURNS* PO£MS.

153

Ifoidman o' LonVa eoart

»tcareapiiif

•end the 0od|per youth

lis eldest son.

inff Ben o* Annandab :
utn she^s ta'en,
d vote the border Knigfaty
hould vote her lane.

wis hae feathen fair,
* change are fain :
Bd the border Knight,
I jet again.

kck Joan frae Creigfaton peel,
tout and grim,
dman or young guidman:
ij sink or iwim !

r prate o' right and wrang,
res laugh them to scorn ;
ler's friends hae blawn the bwt
U bear the hom.

Jean spak o*er her drink,
n kimmers a%
dman o* London court,
been at the wa*.

friend that kiss*d his canp,
immit wight ;
■ae wi' whiskj Jean,
the border Knight

ise Majorie o' the Lochs,
ed was her brow ;
reed was russet gray,
cots heart was true.

great folks set light by roe,

It by them ;

d to London town

l>est at hame.

f eighty plea will end,
wight can tell ;
) King and ilka man
reel to himsel.

3 THAT MADE THE BED
TO ME.

7 winds were blawmg canld,
orth I bent my way,
B night did me enfanld,
whare to lodge till day;

By my ^[iiidhiidE a lass I met,
Just m the middle of my ean,

And kindlv she did rae invite^
To wals into a chamber 0iir,

1 bow^d fb' low wito this maid.

And thanked her for her oourteaie ;
I bow*d lU' low unto this maid.

And bade her make a bed for me;
She made the bed both large and wide,

'WV twa whits hands she spread it down ;
She pnt the cup to her rosy Dps,

And drank, ''Young man, now sleep ft
sound."

She snatehM the candle in her hand,

And fime my chamber went wi* s p ee d :
But I call*d her quickly back again.

To lav some mair below mjliead :
A ood she laid below my head.

And served me with due reipeet;
And to salute her with a kiss,

1 put my arms about her neck.

**Hand aff yoor bands, young man,*^ says she,

^ And dinna sae undvil be ;
Oif ye hae ony love for me,

O wrang na my Tirsinity !"
Her hair was like the links o' gowd.

Her teeth were like the rvorjr.
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wme.

The lass that made the bed for me.

Her bosom was the «u.*«u ••••w,

Twa drifted heans sae fair to si. .
Her limbs the poliin'd maiUe stane.

The lass that made the bed to me.
I kissM her owre and owre again.

And ay she wistna what to sav ;
I laid her tween me and the wa^;

TTm IsMie thought na lang till day.

Upon the morrow, when we raise,

I fhankM her for her oourtesie ;
But ay she blush'd, and ay she sigfa'd.

And said, ''Alas ! yeVe ruin*d me."
I daspM her waist, and kissM her syne.

While the tear stood twinkling in her e^
I said, "my lassie, dinna cry,

For ye ay shall mak the Bed tome.*

She took her mither^ Holland sheets,

And made them a' in sarks to me ;
Blythe and merry may she be.

The lass that made the bed to me.
The bonnie lass made the bed to me.

The braw lass made the bed to me;
m ne'er forget, till the day that I die,

The lass uat made the bed to me.

1S4

BURNS' POEMS.

THE KIRK'S ALARM *

AlATIKX.

Oethodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John |
Knox^
Lot me Bound an alarm to your conscience ;
There'H a heretic blast, has been blawn in the
wast.
That what is no lense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac,t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a
rack,

To strike evil doers wi' terror ;
To join (aith and sense upon ony pretence,

Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I de-
clare.

To meddle wi* mischief a-brewing ;
Provost John is still deaf to the chiu^^s relief,

And orator Bob f is it's ruin.

DVymple mild,} D^rymplo mild, tho* your
heart's like a child,
And your life like the new driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have
ye.
For preaching that threo^s ane and twa.

Rumble John, |] Rumble John, mount the steps
wi' a groan,
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ;
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like
addle^
And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper Jame8,ir Simper James, leave the fair
Killic danxes.
There's a holier chase in your view ;
ni lay on your head, that the pack yell soon
lead.
For puppies like you there's but few.

Smget Sawney,'*'* Singet Sawney, are ye herd-
ing Ine penny.

Unconscious wnat evils await ?
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,

For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,tt Daddy Auld, there*d a tod m
the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ;
Tho* ye can do little skaith, ye'U be in at the
death.
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

• Thii Poem wsi written a ihort tlmfl sAer the pob»
lieation of Dr. H*GHI*i E«My.

t Dr. M'Glll. X R 1 A— k— n. } Mr. D— m— le.

q Mr. R-s^-ll. V Mr. M'K— 7. •* Mr. M y.

HMr. A -d.

Davie Bluster,*^ Davie Bloiter, if for a nint yo
do muster.
The corps is no nice of recmits :
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye miglil
boast.
If the ass was the kmg of the brutes.

Jamie Groose^t Jamie Goose, ye hae made but
toom roose.
In hunting Uie wicked Lieutenant ;
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d^
haly ark.
He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin inH.

Poet Willie,! Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a
voUey,

Wr your hberty^s chain and your wit ;
O'er Pegasus*s side ye neer laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he

Andro Gouk,{ Andro Gouk, ye may slander
the book.
And the book nane the waur let me tell ye !
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and

Andyeni

wig,
hae a

calf *s head o* sma' value.

Ban* SteenicH Barr Steenie, what mean ye'
what mean ye ?

If yo'll meddle nae mair wi* the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and seue,

Wi' the people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine Side,T Irvine Side, wi* your turkey-oodL

pride.

Of manhood but sma^ is yotur share ;

YeVe the figure, 'tis true, even your files win

allow, [mair.

And your friends they dare grant you nae

Muirland 'Jock,** Muirland JodL, when the
L — d makes a rock

To crush common sense for her sins, [fit
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal <0«

To confound the poor Doctor at anoe.

Holy WiU,tt Holy WiH, there was wit i*
skull.

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ;
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp*ritti»i
guns,

Ammunition you never can need ; [enouffa.
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powlEer

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead

• Mr. G 1 of O— 1— •• t Mr. Y— f of O—B— k-

t Mr. P— b— ■ of A— r. j Dr. A. M— IL

II Mr. 8 n Y g of B r IT Mr. 8 ^

of G o. •• Mr. 8 d ft An Elder In M — •

BURNS* POEMS.

155

Mt Barns, wi' your priast-akelp

urns,

ye your atild nalJTe shire >

I giptiie, 9'on tho' she were tipsie,

i* us nae waur Uuui we are.

E TWA HERDS.

us godly flocks,
i8ture8 orthodox,
keep you frao the fox.

Or worryui^ tykes,
!nt the waifs and crocks,

About the dykes ?

t herds in a* the wast,
l^ospcl horn a blast,
. twenty summers past,

O 1 dool to tell,
er black out-cast,

Atween UiomseL

man, and wordy R 11,

u raise so vile a bustle,
new-Ught herds will whistle.

And think it fme !
use ne*cr ^at sic a twistle,

Sin^ I hae min\

ae'cr wad hae expeckit,
wad sae nei^leckit,
ne'er by lairds respcckit,

T\) wear tlie plaid,
ites themselves eleckit.

To be tlicir guide.

wi' M ^y*8 flock could itnk,

liearty every shank,
foor Arminian stank,

He let them taste,
well, ay clear they drank,

O sic a feast !

lart, wil'-cat, brock and tod,
lis voice thro' a' the wood,
nr ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in,
ik'd to shed their bluid,

And sell their skin.

likeR lltoirdhistale?

I heard thro' muir and dale,
3 Lord's sheep ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,
they wore sick or hale,
Atthe first siirht

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub.
Or nobly fling the gospel dub,
And new-light heras could nicely drub.

Or pay their skin.
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ;

Or heave them in.

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see V-
Sic famous twa sJiould disagreet.
An* naiues, like villain, hypocrite.

Ilk ither gi en,
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite,

Say ncither's lieu' I

A^ ye wha tent the gospel fauld.

There's D ^n, deep, and P s, shaul.

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d.

We trust in thee.
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld.

Till tliey agree.

Consider, 8m, how we^re beset.
There's scarce a new herd Uiat we get,
But comes frae ^ang that cursed set,

I winna namt,
I hope frae heav^ to see tliem yet

In fiery fiame.

D e has been lang our fae,

M' 11 has wrought us meikle wae.

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M^

And baith the

That aft ha^ made ns black and blae,

Wi* vengefu' paws.

Auld W. w lang has hatch'd mischief^
We thought ay death wad bring relief.
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,
A chiel whall soundly bufl* our beef ;

1 meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang ourscl.

There S h for ane,

I doubt he*s but a gray nick quill.

And that ye*il fin*.

O ! a* ye flocks, o'er a' the hills.
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells,
Come join your counsel and your skills.

To cowe the lairds.
And get the brutes the power tliemselves,

To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody daikce.

*6o

BURNS' POEMS.

And that ftU oar oa*d Common Senas,

That bites sae Hur,
' Ue baniah'd o W the sea to France :

Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and DVymple^s eloquence,
M ^ ll^B close nenrous excellence,
M* Q 's pathetic manly sense,

And gruid M* h

Wt* 8 t h, wha thro* the heart can glance.

May a' pack aff.

EPISTLE PROM A TAYLOR

ROBERT BURNS.

What waefU' news is this I hear,
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear,
FoUcs tell me, yeVejPawn aff this year.

Out o*er the sea.
And lasses wham ye lo> sae dear

Will greet for thee.

Weel wadi like war ye to stay
But, Robin, since ye will away,
I hae a word yet mair to say,

And maybe twa ;
May he protect us night an^ day,

That made us a*.

Whaur thou art ^un, keep mind firae ma,
Seek him to bear thee companie.
And, Robin, whan ye come to die,

Ye^ won aboon.
An' live at peace an' unity

Ayont the moon.

Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear
To get a wean, an' curse an' swear,
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear

O' sic a trade,
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear,

I wad be glad.

Fu' weel je ken yell jrang to hellt
Gin ye persist in doing m-—
Waes me : ye're hurlin down the hill

Withouten dread.
An' yell get leare to swear your fill

After yoTO dead.

There waltn o* women yell get near,
But gettin weans ye will forbear.

Tell nerer say, my boonie dear

Come, ^'s a kii

Nae kissing there — yell gnn an' sneer.

An' iUier hiss.

O Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks.
An' steer nae mair tne female sex,
Or some day ye^ll come Uirough the pricks^

An' that yell see ;
Tell find hard Uving wi' Auld Nicks ;

rm wae for thee.

But what^s this comes wi' sic a knell,
Amaist as loud as ony bell?
While it does mak my conscience toll

Me what is true,
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel,

Owre sib to yon !

We're owre like thoee wha think it fit.
To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit.
An' yet content in darkness sit,

Wha shun the light.
To let them see down to the pit.

That lang, dark night

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa*.
May he that made us keep us &',
For that would be a dreadfu' fa'

And hurt us sair.
Lad, ye wad never mend ava,

Sae, Rab, tak care.

THE ANSWER.

What ails ye now, ye lousy b— h.
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ?
Losh man ! nae mercy wi' your natch.

Tour bodkin 8 bauld.
I did na suffer ha'f sae much

Fra Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow Grouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse.
Is that enough for you to souse

Tour servant sae?
Oae mind your seam, ye prick the louse,

An' jag tho flae.

" King David o' poetic brief^
Wroa£[ht 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As fill d his ailer life wi' grief

An' bloody rants.
An' yet he*s rank'd amang the chief

O' lang syne saunts.

BURNS' POEMS.

And maybe. Tarn, for a* mj 08iita»
My wicked rbymes, an* drucken ranti,
ril gie auld eioren Cloatj's haonti,

An unco ilip yet,
An* anogl J rit amang the saunta

At Dayie'a hip yet

But fegs, the Seerion saya I mann
Gae fa^ upo' anither plan.
Than garran hisaies cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mither's ban,

Afore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sporty
How I did with the Session sort —
Auld Clinkom at the Inner port

CryM three times, "^ Robin !
Come hither lad, an answer fort%

Ye'^blam'dforjoblnn.*'

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session—
I made an open, fair confession,

I scom'd to lie :
An* syne Mess John, beyond ezpressioii.

Fell fi>ul o' me.

A fornicator lown he call'd me,
All* sud my fauH frae bliss ezpell'd me ;
* own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,

»* But what the matter ?"

I said, «« Ooid mgfat," and cam Awa',

And left the Senon
I saw they were resolred a'

On my oppi

167

;

Quo' 1, ** I fear unless ye geld me,

rU ne'er be 1

better."

** Geld you," quo' he, ** and what for no !
^ that your right hand, le^ or toe,
^liould ever prove your spTitual foe,
,^ You shou'd remember

^0 cut it aff, an' what for no

Your dearest member ?"

"Na, na," quo' I, " Pm no for that,
gelding's nae better than 'tis cat,
C'd rather suffer for my fau't,

A hearty flewit.
As sair owre hip as ye can drawt !

Tho> I should me it.

Or gin ye like to end the bother,
*ro please us a\ IVe just ae ither,
^Vhen next wi' yon lass I forgather

Whatever betide it,
111 fhmkly gie her't a' thegither.

An' let her guide it"

But, Sir, thispleasM thom warst ava,
^' therefore, Tam, when that I saw.

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE,

KILMARNOCK,
ON THE PUBUCATION OF HIS JtSSATS.

O GouDiE ! terror o' the Whigs,
Dread o' black coats and rev'reuia wigi,
Soor Bigotiy, on her last legs,

Gimin looks back,
Wishin the ten Egyptian places

Wad seize yoa qokk*

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstion,
Waes me ! she^ in a sad condition ;
Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician,

To see her w— ter^
Alas ! there's ground o* great suspicion

Shell ne'er get bettor.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple
But now she's got an unco ripple.
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,

Ni£[h unto death ;
See how she fetches at Uie thrapple.

An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm 's past redemption,
Gaen in a gallopmg consumption.
Not a', the quacks wi' a' their gumption.

Will ever mend her.
Her feeble pulse gies strong; presumption.

Death soon win end her.

Tis you and Taylor* are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the L— d*s ain folks gat leave,

A toom tar barrel
And twa red peats wad send relief

An' end tho qouiel*

LETTER TO J — S T — T GL— NC— R.

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner,
How 's a' the folk about Gl — ^no— r ;
How do you this blae eastlin wind.
That 's like to blaw a body blind :
For me my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd :

* Dr. Taylor of Norwielk

BURKS' POEMS.

a. rf 4 troop oTteceoM wm my dad.

die,
ikier rm fond of a lodger Uddie.

Sing^ Lai dekU^&e,

int of my loren was a swaggering blade,
.ttle the uundering dnim was his trade ;
leg was so tight, and his cheek was so

ruddy,
isported 1 was with my sodger laddie.

Stng, ImI de lai^ ke.

I the goodly old chaplain lefl him in the

lurch,
I the sword I forsook for the sake of the

church,
e venturM the soul, I risked the body,
Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie.

Sing^ JLal dc lal^ See.

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot.
The regiment at large for a husband I got ;
Fnmi uie gilded spontoon to the fife I was

ready,
I aaked no more but a sodger laddie.

Smg^ Laij dc lal, See.

But the peace it reducM me to beg in den>air,
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair.
His rags regmiental they Jflutter^d sae ^audy,
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie.

Stng^JLal deUtltSce.

And now I have livM-— I know not how long,

And still I can join in a cup or a song ;

But whilst with both hands I can hold the

glass steady,
Here*s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

Sing^ Lali de kUy See.

RICITATITO.

Poor Meny Andrew, in the neuk,

Sat guzuing wi* a tinkler hizzie ;
They mindH na what the chorus took, ^

Between themselves thoy were sae bizzy ;
At length, wi* drink and courting dizzy,

He stoiterM up and made a face ;
Then tumM and laid a smack on Grizzy,

Syne tunM his pipes wi* grave grimace.

AIR.

Tun*— •* Auld Sir Symon."

SiK Wisdom's a fool when he*s fou.
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ;

He's there but a 'prentice I trow,
^•^« T am a fool by profenion.

My grannie she bouglrt me a iMdCt
And I held awa to the school ;

I fear I my talent misteok;
But what will ye hat of A fixil?

For drink I would venture my neck ;

A hizzie*s the half o' my oraft;
But what could ye other expect

Of ane that*s avowedh^ daft.

I anoe was ty'd up like a stiik.
For civilly swearing and quaffing ^

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk,
For towzling a la« i' my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for spoit.
Let naebody name wi' a jeer;

There's ovVi I in tauld i' the coortt
A tumbler ca'd the Premieir.

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad
Maks faces to tickle the mob ;

He rails at our mountebank sqiiad«
It ^s rivalship just i' the job.

And now my conclusion m teD,
For faith I'm confoundedly drf.

The chiel that 's a fool for hiinset%
Gude Ir— d, is far daflerthan L

RECITATIVO.

Then niest outspak a raude caiiiii,
Wha kent fu' weel to deck the
For monie a pursie she had hooked.
And had in monie a well been docket;
Her dovo had been a Highland laddie^
But weary fa' the waefu" woodie I
Wi' si^hs and sabs, she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandmaa.

Alft.

TnifB— ^Oan' ye were deftd gindmui

A HIGHLAND lad my love was bom.
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu' to his dan,
My gallant, braw John Wigi||findmf"-

-CHORUS.

5tng, hey^ my hraw John Highiandman »
Singi ho, my braw John HighlandmoM:
Thtre^t not a lad in all the Ian*
Was maUhfor miy John EKghiamimmL

With his philibeg and tartan plaid.
And guid claymore down by his ode,
The Eulies' hearts he did trepan.
My gallant, braw John Hignlandmaii.

Sing.hqh^

BURNS* I^EMS.

161

We nuifBd a' ftom Twwd to Spcy,
And ]brd like kMPdt and ladiei gmy ;
For a. LaUan ftoe he feared naae,
My gallant, braw John Uii^andhnaa

Sing^ hcjfj ice.

•

They baniahM him bejrond the tea.
But ere the bad was on the tiee,
AdQwn my cheeks the pearls raa>
yjnhrar.ing my John Uighlandman*

Bat oh ! ihej catchM him at the laaftt
And boand him in a dungeon fast ;
My curse upon them every one.
They Ve hangM my braw John Higfalaadmao.

Sing, he^ ice.

And now a widow, I nnist mooni .
The pleasores that will ne*or return ;
No comfort but a hearty can.
When I think on John Highlandman.

Smg.hiy^ie*

aBCITATITO.

A pigmy Scraper wi* his fiddle,
Wna os'd at trysts and fairs to.
Her fltrappin limb andjraucy

(He read
Had bolt his heartie like a riddle,

And blawnt on fira

lie,
tojnddle,

higherO

y^i^ band on hanneh, and upward e'e,
Se crooned his ^;amut ane, twa, thresi
^lian, in an Amuo key.

The

Sae merriiy*s the banes wall pyke.
And sun oursels about the dyke,
And at our leisure when we likoi
Well whistle o'er the lave ot.

Iam%iu.

But blen roe wi* your heayVi o* channiy
And while J kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, and a' sk harms.
May whistle o*er the lave oX.

lam^ium

RICITATIVO.

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caltd

As weel as poor Gut-ecraper ;
He taks the fiddler by the beard.

And draws a roosty rapier —
He swoor, by a* was swearing worth,

To spit him like a pliver,
Unless he wad firom that time forth

Relinquish her for ever.

Wi' ghastly e^e, poor tweedle-dee

Upon his hunkers bended.
And pray'd for grace, wi* ruefh* ftee»

And sae the quarrel ended.
But tho* Ills little heart did grieve

When round the tinkler prest her,
He feignM to snirtle in his sleeve,

When thus the Caird addzeas'd her;

ApoUo
Qet afi; wi' jiUegreUoflte,

Aim.

TuiiB—^ Whistle o'er the Uve oX

^ Lit me r^ke up to dight that tear,
And go wi' me and be my dear.
And then your every care and fear
liay whistle o'er the lave ot

OHoavi,

/ mm aJUdler Is ew trade,
Jind a' the limes thai e'er IpU^
The tveeieti tHU to wife ormaSi^
Wat vfhuOe e'er the Jaoe o%

A| Idms and wed<Ungs weW be thave,
Attd Oh ! sae nioely's we will fare ;
Well boose aboat, till Daddie Care
Sing! whistle o'er the lave ot»

J aM% ice.

Turn— ^Ckmt the Cauldron.*

Mr bonny lass, I work in brass,

A tinkler is my station ;
Pve travelled round all Christian ground

In this my occupation ;
Fte taen the gold, I've been enroU'd

In many a noble sauadron ;
But vain they searched, when off I maidi'd

To go and dout the cauldron, f

Deenpise that shrimp, that witberM imp,

wi' a' his noise and caprin.
And tak a share wi' those that bear

The budget and the apron ;
And by that stowp, my faith and hoop.

Ana by that dear Klbadgie,*
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,

May I ne'er wat my craine.

And bjf thai etump^ te

* A pseellar sort of Wbtakj, so
vonrlts with Poorio Wsesls's ehibs.

eaUsd; agrsttfe*

I6f

BURNS* POEMS.

KKCITATIVO.

The Caird proTaird — th* unblushing fair

In hi9 ombrares sunk,
Partly wi* love oVrcome sae fair,

Aad partly she was drunk.
Sir Vioiino, with an air

That showM a man o* spunk,
WishM unison between the pair,

And made the bottle clunk

To tlieir health th«t ni^rfat

But hnrchtn Cupid shot a shaf\, •

That playM a dame a shavie.
The fidfller rakM her fore and all,

Behint the chirkon cavie.
Her lord, a wig-ht o' Hoincr*s craft,

Tho' UmpinfT wi' the spavio,
He hirprd up, and lap like dafl.

And shor*d thoni Dainty ]>avie

O boot that night

He was a care-dcfyuig Made

As ever Bacchus listed,
Tho* Fortune sair upon him laid.

His heart she ever miss'd iU
He had nae wish, but — to be glad,

Nor want — but when he th£sted ;
He hated nought but — to be sad.

And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

* AIR.

TuNi— *• For a' thai, and a' that"

I AM a bard of no regard,
Wi* gentlefolks, and a* that :

But Homer-like, the glowran byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS.

Fhr a* (hat^ and a* that^

And ttcire at meiklt't a' that ;

Pve lost but ane^ Pre ttca l)ehin\
Pre wife eixfmgh^for a" th4xt

I never dnnk the Muses* stank,

Castaffa^s bum, and a* that ;
But there it streams, and richly roams.

My Hehcon 1 ca* tliat.

For a" thal^ See.

Great love I bear to a* tlie fair.
Their humble slave, and a* that ;

But lordly will, I hold it stiU
A mortal sin to thraw that

For a' thai. See.

In raptures sweet this hour we meet,
Wi* mutual love, and a' that ;

But for how lang tho flie may stang.
Let inclination law that

Fora'tfuU^ice.

Their tricks and craft bae mil me daft,
They Ve ta'on me in, and a* that ;

But clear yqur decks, aind ^ Hera*s the
1 like the jads for a* that

f\>r a" that, and a' ikai,'

And hnet as meikWs a* ihal,

My dearest Idwd, to do them fptdd,
They're weleom tilPt.for a thOL

RCCITATIVO.

So simg the bard — and Nansie's wa^
Shook with a thunder of applause,

Re-echoM from each mouth ;
They toom*d their pocks, and paivnM the

duds.
They scarcely left to co^er their fuda,

To quench their lowan drouth.

Then owre again, tho jovial thrang,

The poet aid request
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best ;
He, rising, rejoicing.

Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, and found them
Impatient for the chorus.

AIR.

TuMB— '^ JoUy Mortals, fill your fnliTi"

See the smoking bowl before ua,

Mark our jovial ragged ring ;
Round and round take up the dioniB,

And in raptures let us sing :

CHORUS.

Afy^for those by law protected t

Lioerty*s a glorious feast I
Courts for cotcards were erected,

Churches built to please the pritd.

What is title ? What is treasure ?

What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,

*Tis no matter, how or where !

^yfe, See,

With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;

And at night, in bam or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.

A Jig, See.

Does the train-attonded carriage
Thro* the country lighter rove?

Does the sober bod of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of loffef

'^ Jig, See.

BURNS' POEMS.

163

I aU a. Tanonmif
We rogmrd not how it gom ;
Let them cant about deconim
Who have characteie to loie.

Here^a to bodfeta, ba^ and walleta I
Heie^B to all the wandering train I

Hereof oor raged brata and oulets !
One and aUcry out, Amen !

EXTEMPORE.
Aprils lie^

WHY the dence ■hoold I repino,
And be an ill foreboder?

Fkn twenty three, and fire feet nbiA—
111 go and be a aodger.

1 gat lonie gear wi' meikle care,

1 held it weel thegither ;
Bat now it*i fane and Knnethi^g iMVf
111 go and be a aodger.

TIIC END

' -f

GLOSSARY.

Thk eh and gk have always the srattural sound. The sound of the English diphthong
oo, is commonly spelled ou. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the
Scottish language, is marked oo^ or uu The a in genuine Scottish words, except
when forminfir a diphthong, or followed hy an « mute afler a single consonant, sounds
generally like the Broad English a in walL The Scottish diphthong cb, always,
and ea, very often, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong
sy, sounds like the Latin st.

A\ All.

Aback^ away, aloof.
Aheigh^ at a shy distance.
Aboon, above, up.
Ahready abroad, in sight.
Abreedy in breadth.
Addle, putrid water, Sui,
•^e, one.

Af^ off; Aff loofy unpremeditated^
^ywre^ before
My oft.
'fylenj often.

Aght/f off the right line ; wrong.
Aibiins, perhaps.
Airiy own.

AirU'fennyy Airlety earnest-money,
•^/m, iron.
•4 2/4, an oath.
•4t£f, oats.
^ifoery an old horse.
•^izUy a hot cinder.
^lake, alas.
^lane, alone.
^kwarty awkward.
^maisty almost.
4.mangy among.
«4n', and ; if.
mAncey once.
«^fi«, one ; and.
^nenty over against.
Jiniihery another.
Jisey ashes.

Atklenty asquint ; aslant.
Atteevy abroad ; stirring.
Aiharly athwart.
Aughiy possession ; as, tn a* my aughly

in all my possession.
Auld long iyney oljen time, days of

other years.

Atddy old.

Auldfdrrany or auldJarrarUf sagacious^

cunning, prudent.
Avoy at ill.
Awa\ away.
Awfu\ awful.

Awfiy the beard of barley, oats, 9lc*
AumUy bearded.
Ayont^ beyond.

BA\ Ball.

BackeUy ash boards.

Backliniy coming; coming back, return-
ing.

Ba(£y returning.

Body did bid.

Baidey endured, did stay.

BaggUy the belly.

Bainiey bavins large bones, stout.

Bcdrriy a child.

BairrUime, a family of children, a brood

Baiihy both.

Both to swear.

Baney bone

Bangy to beat ; to strive.

BardUy diminutive of bard.

Barejity barefooted.

BarmUy of, or like barm.

Batchy a crew, a gang.

BatUy hots.

Baudronsy a cat.

Bauidy bold.

Bawky bank.

BawirUy having a white stripe down
the face.

Bey to let be ; to give over ; to cease.

Beavy barley.

Beattiey diminutive of beast.

Beety to add fuel to fire.

Beldy bald.

GLOSSARY.

Befy9$^ by and by. «

Bef^ into the epenoe or parlour; a

tpence.
Benhmondf a noted mountain in Dom-

bartonihire.
BethamkU^ grace after meat.
Beuky a book.
Bicker t a kind of wooden dish ; a short

race.
Bie, or BUldf shelter.
Bien, wealthy, plentifuL
Bigf to build.

Biggin^ building ; a house.
Biggil^ built.
BiU, a bull.

BUiUy a brother; a young fellow.
Bingy a heap of grain, potatoes, 4^
JBtr£, birch.
Birken-^haw^ Bircken'Wood'ihaWf a

small wood.
BirkUy a clever fellow.
Birringj the noise of partridges, &c

when they spring.
Biif crisis, nick of time-
Bixgf a bustle, to buzz.
BkutUy a shiiyelled dwarf; a term of

contempt.
BkuUi, blasted.
BlaUy bashful, sheepish.
Blather y bladder.

Blaudf a flat piece of any thing; to slap.
Blawy to blow, to boast.
Bleeriiy bleared, sore with rheum.
Bleert and biin\ bleared and blind.
BUexingf blazing.
BleUumy an idle talking fellow.
Blether^ to talk idly ; nonsense.
Bleih'riny talking idly.
Blinky a little \^e ; a smiling look ;

to look kindly ; to shine by fits.
Blinker y a term of contempt.
BUnkiny smirking.
Blue-gown^ one of those beg^rs who

get annually, on the kin^*s birth-day,

a blue cloak or gown, with a badge.
Bltnd^ blood.

BlurUief a sniveller, a stupid person.
Blype^ a shred, a large piece.
Boae, to vomit, to gush mtermittently.
Bockedy gushed, vomited.
BodUy a small ffold coin.
Bogleiy spirits, nobgoblins.
Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beautiful.
Bonnoek, a kind of thick cake of bread,

a small jannock* or loaf made of oat-
meal.
Boord, a board.
Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted

much of old in hedges of barn-yards,

dLC.

Booit. behoved, must needs.

• Bore, a hole in the waU.
Ba(4,Wn angry tmnour.
Bouiing, drinking.
BoW'luiil, cabbage.
Bowt, bended, crooked.
Brackenty fern.
Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; t

slope of a hill.
Braid, broad.
Braindg't, reeled forward
Braik, a kind of harrow.
Braindge, to run rashly forward.
Brak, broke, made insolvent.
Branks, a kind of wooden curb

horses.
Broih, a sudden illness.
BraU, coarse clothes, rags, Slc*
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury.
Braw, fine, handsome.
Brawly, or brawlie, very well ; fine)

heartily.
Braxie, a morbid sheep.
Breastie, diminutive of breast.
BretuHt, did spring up or forward.
Breckan, fern.
Breef, an invulnerable or irreaistil

spell.
Breeks, breeches.
Brent, smooth.
Breufin, brewing.
Brie, juice, liqmd.
Brig, a bridge.
BrunHane, brimstone.
Brieket, the breast, the oosom.
Brither, a brother.
Brock, a badger.
Brogue, a hum ; a trick.
Broo, broth ; liquid ; water.
Broose, broth ; a race at country w<

dings, who shall first reach the brit

groom's house on returning fr(

church.
Browtter-vnvee, ale-house wives.
Brugh, a burgh.
Brmlxie, a broil, a combustion.
Brunt, did bum, burnt.
Bnut, to burst ; burst.
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the f

among the rocks on ue coast

Buchan.
Buckildn, an inhabitant of Virginia.
Bught, a pen.
Bughtin-Hme, the time of collecting t

sheep in the pens to be milked.
Btnrdly, stout-made ; broad-made.
Bum-clock,ti. humming beetle that fli

in the summer evenings.
Bumming, humming as bees.
Bummh, to blunder.
Bummler, a blunderer.
Bunker, a window-seat*

GLOSSARY.

197

Burdiei^ dimiimtive of Inrdi.

Bure^ did bear.

Bwrriy water ; a rmlet.

Bumewkh^ i. e. bum tlu tvM, a black-

sniith.
Bumiey diminutiye of bam.
BtukiA, bushy.
BuMij dressed.
Butksy dresses.
BtusUj a bustle ; to bustle.
Buss, shelter.
But, bot, with ; without.
Btd an' beriy the country kitchea and

parlour.
By kitnsel, lun^c, distracted.
Byke, a bee-hiye.
Byrey a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen

CA\ To can, to name ; to drive.

Ca^i, or ca*df called, driven ; calved.

Ciuiger, a carrier.

CatUe, or caddie^ a person ; a young
fellow.

Caff, chaff.

Caird, a tinker.

Cairn, a loose heap of stones.

CalfAsard, a small enclosure for calves.

Callan, a boy.

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing.

Canie, or ccmnU, gentle, mild; dexterous.

Cannilie, dexterously ; gently.

Canlie, or canty, cheerful, merry.

Cantraip, a charm, a spell.

Cap-stone, cope-stone ; key-stone

Careerin, cheerfully.

Carly^Xi old man.

Carlin, a stout old woman.

Cartes, cards.

Caudron, a caldron.

Catdk and keel, chalk and red clay.

Cauld, cold.

Caup, a wooden drinking-vessel.

Cesses, taxes.

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipo.

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow.

Chaup, a stroke, a blow.

Cheeleit, cheeked.

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp.

Chiei, or cheel, a youn? fellow.

Chinda, or chimhe, a fire-grate, a fire-
place.

ChvnUa-lug, the fireside.

Chittering, shivering, trembling.

Chockin, chocking.

Chow, to chew ; meek for ehow, side by
side.

Chuffle, fat-faced.

Clathan, a small village about • chnrcb ;
a hamlet.

Claise, or elaes^ clothes.

ClaUh, cloth.

Claithing, clothing.

CkUvers, nonsense; not speaking sense.

Clap, clapper of a milL

Clarkit, wrote.

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story.

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of.

Cla/ut, to clean ; to scrape.

Clouted, scraped.

Clovers, idle stories.

Claw, to scratch.

Cleed, to clothe.

Cleeds, clothes.

Cleekit, having caught.

C/mArtn, jerking ; clinking

Clinkumoell, he who rings the church-
bell.

Clips, shears.

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation.

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle.

Clocking hatching.

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, die.

Clootie, an old name for the Devil.

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow

Cluds, clouds.

Coaxin, wheedling.

Coble, a fishing-boat.

Cockemony, a lock of hair tied upon a
girl's head; a cap.

C^, bought.

Cog, a wooden dish.

Coggie, diminutive of cog.

Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ;
so called, saith tradition, from Coil,
or Coilus, a Pictish monarch.

Collie, a general, and sometimes a par-
ticular name for country curs.

Collieshtmgie, quarrelling, an uproar.

Commaun, command.

Cood, the cud.

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny.

Cookit, appeared, and disappeared by
fits.

Coost, did cast. . *

Coot, the ancle or foot.

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish i-^so,
those fowls whose legs are clad with
feathers, are said to be cootie.

Corbies, a species of the crow.

Core, corps ; party ; clan.

Cornet, fed with oats.

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or
cottage.

Couthie, kmd, loving.

Cove, a cave.

Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop ;
a fright ; a branch of fiirze, broom, dtc.

Cottp, to barter; to tumble over; a
gang.

168

QL088ARY.

GoMptt, tumbled.

Coimri, cowering.

Coiof , a colt.

Co«M, mag.

CoxUy^ snugly.

Crabbity crabbed, fretful.

Crock, conversation ; to conTent.

Crocking conversing*

Craft, or crojl, a field near a house (mi

M kutbandryy
Craikt, cries or calls incessantly ; a bird.
Cramb<M:link, or crambtyjmgUy rhymes,

doggrel verses.
CrofMr, the noise of an ungreased wheel.
Crtmhnu, fretful, captious.
Cranreuch, the hoar frost.
Crap, a crop ; to crop.
Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook.
Creel, a basket ; to have <me*9 %nU in a

creel, to be crazed ; to be fascinated.
Creepie-etool, the same as cutty-stool.
CreeefUe, greasy.

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove.
Croon, a hollow and continued moan ;

to make a noise like the continued

roar of a bull ; to hum a tune.
Crooning, humming.
Crouchie, crook-backed.
Crouie, cheerful ; courageous.
Croiteely, cheerfully ; courageously.
Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and

boiled water, sometimes from the

broth of beef, mutton, &.e.
Crotodie-time, breakfast time.
Crmolin, crawling.

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns.
Crump, hard and brittle ; tpokenqfbread.
Crvnt, a blow on the head with a cudgel.
Cwf, a blockhead, a ninny.
Cunmock, a short staff with a crooked

head.
Curchie, a courtesy.
Cwrler, a player at a game on the ice,

practised in Scotland, cidled curling.
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls natu-
' r^ly in ringlets.

Curling, a well known game on the ice.
Curmurring, murmuring ; a slight rum-
bling noise.
Curpin, the crupper.
Cuekat, the dove, or wood-pigeon.
CuUtf, short ; a spoon broken in the

middle.
CuUy-elool, the stool of repentance.

Z>^i!>2>/£, a father.

Dqffin, merriment ; foolishness
Dafi, merry, giddy ; foolish.

Daimen, rare, now aad then ; dc

icker, an ear of com now and t]
Dainty, pleasant, good humc

agreeable.
Daiee, daez, to stupify.
Dalet, plains, valleys.
Darkline, darkling.
Damd, to thrash, to abuse.
Daur, to dare.
Dauri, dared.

Daurg, or daurk^ a day's labour.
Daieoc, David.
Dawd, a large piece.
DauftU, or £twtet, fondled, careei
Deariee, diminutive of dears.
Dearth^*, dear.
Deaioe, to deafen.
Deil-ma-^are ! no matter! for all
Deleerit, delirious.
Deecrive, to describe.
Dight, to wipe ; to clean com

chaff.
Dighi, cleaned from chaff.
Dtfi^, to worst, to push.
Dink, neat, tidy, trnn.
Dinna, do not.

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke oi
Dizen, or dizx'n, a dozen.
DoUed, Btupifiedi, hebetated.
Dolt, Btupified, crazed.
Dontie, unlucky.
Dool, sorrow ; to eing dool, to la

to mourn.
Dooa, doves.
Dorty, saucy, nice.
Douce, or doute, sober, wise, prut
Doucely, soberly, prudently.
Dought, was or were able.
Doup, backside.
Doup-ekelper, one that strikes th

Sour and din, sullen and sallow.
oure, stout, durable; suUen,8tu1
Do%D, am or are able, can.
Dowff, pithless, wanting force.
Doune, worn with grief, fatigui

half asleep.
Douma, am or are not able, cann
Doylt, stupid.

DoxerCt, stupified, impotent.
Drop, a drop ; to drop.
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to di

among wet, &.c.
Dropping, dropping.
Draunting, drawling; of a slow

elation.
Dreep^ to ooze, to drop.
Drtigh, tedious, lon^ about it.
Dribble, drizzling; uaver.
Drift, a drove.
Droddum, the breecli.

GLOSSARY

169

l>roM, part of a Imgpipe.

Droop^rvsmpVi^ that drops at tlie crup-
per.

Dnmkii^ wet.

DrmmUngy drawling.

Drouth^ thirst, droughti

DrucAren, drunken.

Drumiy, muddy.

Dntmmock, meal and water mixed in a
raw state. ^

DrwUj pet, soar humoar.

i>ii6, a small pond.

Dudsy rags, clothes.

Buddie, ragged.

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven.

DufUed, beaten, boxed.

Dtith, to push as a ram, &.c.

Duthij piuhed by a ram, ox, &c.

FE, the eye.

Een, the eyes.

E'enin, eveniuj^.

Eerie, fnghted, dreading spirits.

Eild, old age.

EJbuck, the elbow.

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful.

Elier, an elder, or church officer

En*, end.

Enbrugk, Edinburgh.

Eneu^, enough.

Especial, especially.

Ettle, to try, to attempt.

Eydenif diligent.

FA\ fan ; lot ; to fall.

JrVt't, does fall ; water-falls.

Faddam't, fathomed.

Foe, a foe.

Faem, foam.

Faikei, unknown*

Ftdrin, a fairing ; a present.

Fallow, fellow.

Ftmd, did find.

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c.

Fa»h, trouble, care ; to trouble to care

for.
Faaht, troubled.
Fagteren e'en, Fasten's Even.
Fauld, a fold ; to fold
Faulding, folding.
Faui, fault.
Fauie, want, lack.
Faweoni, decent, seemly.
Feal, a field ; smooth. "
Fearfu*, frightful.
Fear't, frighted.
Feat, neat, spruce.

M f

Fecht, to fiffht.

FechHn, fighting.

Feok, many, plenty.

Feckei, an under waistcoat with sleeyes.

Feckfu*, large, brawny, stout.

Feckless, puny, weak, silly.

Feckly, weakly.

Feg, a fig.

Feide, feud, enmity.

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy.

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately
under the skm ; a field pretty level,
on the side or top of a hul.

Fen, successful struggle ; fight.

Fend, to live comfortably.

Ferlie, or fer ley, to wonder; awondisr;
a term of contempt.

Fetch, to pull by fits.

FetchH, pulled intermittently.

Fidge, to fidget.

Fiel^ sofl, smooth.

Fient, fiend, a petty oath.

JFt€r, sound, healthy ; a brother; a friend.

Fistle, to make a rustling noise; to
fidget ; a bustle.

Fit, a foot.

Fiitie-lan', the nearer horse of the hind-
most pair in the plough.

Fizx, to make a hissing noise like fer-
mentation.

Flainen, flannel.

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering
manner.

Fleech'd, supplicated.

Fleechin, supplicating.

Fleesh, a fleece.

Fleg, a kick, a random.

Flether, to decoy by fair words.

Fletherin, flattering.

Fley, to scare, to frighten.

Flicliier, to flutter, as young nestlings
when their dam approaches.

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splin-
ters.

Flinging'tree, a piece of timber hung
by way of partition between two
horses in a stable ; a flail.

Fli^, to fret at the yoke. Fliskit,
fretted.

Flitier, to vibrate like the wings of
small birds.

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating.

Flunkie, a servant in livery.

Fodgel, squat and plump.

Foord, a ford.

Forbears, forefathers.

Forbye, besides.

Forfaim, distressed ; worn out, jaded

Forfoughten, fatigued.

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with

Forgie, to Cox^Mft.

GLOSSARY.

f, jaded with fatigue,
fodder.
1 ; drunk.

m, troubled, harassed,
plenty, enough, or more than
iffh.

I bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork,
from; off.

mity strange, estranged from, at
nity with.
th, froth.
%\ friend,
full.

, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony,
.c.

7", to blow intermittently.
grt, did blow.
nnUy full of merriment
<r, a furrow.
jrm, a form, bench.
l/ke^ trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in
a fuss about trifles.
yUi to soil, to dirty
.^n, soiled, dirtied.

OABy the mouth ; to speak boldly, or

pertly.
Oaber-iunzie, an old man.
Oadsmaiiy a ploughboy, the boy that

drives the horses in the plough.
Qaey to go ; gaed, went ; geieiiy or gane^

gone ; gaun, going.
Gciety or galCy way, manner ; road.
Qairiy triangular pieces of cloth sewed

on the bottom of a gown, &c
Oan^y to go, to walk.
Gar, to make, to force to.
Gar'ty forced to.
Garten^ a garter.
GoMhy wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to

converse.
Gafhiriy conversing.
Gaun/y jolly, large.
Gaudy a plough.
Geary riches; goods of any kind
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or

scorn.
Gedy a pike.

GerUleSy great folks, gentry.
Genty^ elegantly formed, neat.
Geordiey a guinea.
Oety a child, a young one.
Ghcdtiy a ghost.

CHey to give ; gied, gave ; gien^ given.
Gt/H«, mminutive of gid.
QtgletSy playful girls.
OiUiey diminutive of gill.
OUpey, a half grown, half informed boy
or girU a romping lad, a hoiden.

OtMmer, t ewe ftom one to two ymn

old.
Gioy if; againat.
GtpMy, a young girL
Chm, to grin, to twiii the featares in

rage, agony. Sue.
Oimingy grinning.
OiMXy a periwig.
Glaikiiy mattentive, foolish.
GUuve, a sword.

Gawkyy half-witted, foolish^ romj^ng.
Glaiziey glittering ; smooth like g laM
Glaumy to snatch greedily.
GlavnCdy aimed, snatched.
Gleckf sharp, ready.
Glegy sharp, ready.
Gleib, glebe.

Giefiy a dale, a deep valley.
Gleyy a squint ; to squint ; a-^lejft off

at a side, wrong.
Glih'gahhety smooth and ready in apoeeh.
Glinty to peep.
Glintedy peeped.
G/tnlin, peeping.
Gloaminy the twilight.
GtowTy to stare, to Took ; a atare, a look.
Glowredy looked, stared.
Glufuhy a frown, a sour look.
GocNKxn, looking round with a fltrangea

inquiring gaze ; staring stupid^.
Cr<yx<iny the flower of the wild oaiay*

hawk-weed, &c.
Chwanyy daisied, abounding with dai- .

sies.
Gotcdy gold.
Gwoffy the game of Golf; to strike a^

the bat does the ball at golf.
Gowffdy struck.

GowKy a cuckoo ; a term of contenp^^
Goir/, to howl.

GranCy or grainy a groan ; to groan.
Grain'd and grunted^ groaned azmc/

granted.
Grainingy groaning.
Graipy a pronged instrument fbrdetn-

ing stables.
Grmthy accoutrements, fumitare»dre«i

gear.
Granniey grandmother.
Grapey to grope.
Grapiiy groped.
Graiy wept, shed tears.
Greaiy intimate, familiar.
Greey to agree ; to bear tke grm^ to be

decidedly victor.
Gree'ty agreed.
Greety to shed tears, to weep.
GreeHny crying, weeping.
Grippety catched, seize£
Groaty to get tke whistle q^one*i great

to play a losing game.

— »

GLOSSARY.

171

Qrmuom^ loathflomely, grim

Qrwutf a gooseberry.

Ommp hj a grunt ; to gmiit.

Orumphiey a sow.

Qrun*, ground.

Orvnkane^ a grindstone.

Gnmlle, the pniz ; a grunting noise.

Grunxie^ mouth.

Ortuhie, thick ; of thriving growth.

Chidey the Supreme Being ; good.

Quid, good.

Qidd-mofTiing, good morrow.

Onf^ e^en, good evenings

Gmdnum and guidwife, the master and
mistress of the house ; young gtn4'
moMf a man newly married.

Chdd-^nUiey Mheral; cordial.

(hndfather^ guidmother, father-in-law,
and mother-in-law.

Oully^ or gtdlie, a large knife.

OumUe^ muddy.

Quity^ tastefuL

BA\ hall.

Ba*-BibU^ the great bible that lies in

the halL
Hoe, to have.
Baenj had, the participle
B[aei^fietU haety a petty oath of nega-
tion; nothing.
^t^ety the temple, the side of the head.
ilc^inMy nearly half, partly.
titigy a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors.
^aggie^ a kind of pudding boiled in the

stomach of a cow or sheep.
Hainy to spare, to save.
Mam*df spared.
Smrtty harvest.
Haiihy a petty oath.
Hai9tr»y nonsense, speaking without

thought.
ntU*y or haJdy an abiding place.
Uale^ whole, tight, healthy.
Ha/y, holy.
Homey home.

Hallany a particular partition-wall in a
cottage, or more properly a seat of
turf at the outside.
Hailcynnasy Hallow-eve, the 31st of

October.
Homely y homely, affable.
Hon\ or haun\ hand.
Htuty an outer garment, mantle, plaid,

&c. to wrap, to cover; to hop.
Happevy a hopper.
Hoppingy hopping.
Hap Hep an* loupy hop skip and leap.
HfirkUy hearkened.
Hiam, very coarse linen.

Hoihy a fellow that neither knows how
to dress nor act with propriety.

HastUy hastened.

Haudy to hold.

Haughty low lying, rich lands ; valleys.

Hourly to drajg^ ; to peel.

Haurliny peelmg.

Haverely a half-witted person; half-
witted.

Havinsy good manners, decorum, good
sense.

Hawkiey a cow, properly one with a
white face

Heapity heaped

HeaUomey healthful, wholesome.

Heartey hoarse.

Hear'ty hear it.

Heathery heath.

Hech! oh! strange.

Hechty promised ; to foreteU something
that )B to be got or given'; foretold;
the thing foretold ; offered.

HeckUy a hoard, in which* are fixed a
number of sharp pins, used in dress-
ing hemp, flax, dtc.

HeezCy to elevate, to raise.

Helniy the rudder or helm.

Herdy to tend flocks ; one who tends
flocks.

Herriny a herring.

Hern/y to plunder ; most properly to
plunder birds' nests.

Herrymenty phmdering, devastation

Hertely herself; also a herd of cattle,
of any sort.

Hety hot.

Heughy a craff, a coalpit.

Hilchy a hobble ; to halt.

HilMny halting.

Himtely himselT.

Hineyy honey.

Hingy to han^.

Ifirpley to w5k crazily, to creep.

Hisgely so many cattle as one person
can attend.

Hittiey dry ; chapped ; barren.

Hilchy a loop, a knot.

HiiziOy a hussy, a young girl.

Hoddiny the motion of a sage country-
man riding on a cart-horse ; humble.

Hog'tcorey a kind of distance line, in
curling, drawn across the rink.

Hog'thmdhery a kind of horse play, by
justling with the shoulder ; to justle.

Hooly outer skin or case, a nut-shell ;
a peas-cod.

Hooliey slowly, leisurely.

Hoolie ! take leisure, stop.

Hoordy a hoard ; to hoard.

HoordUy horded.

Horriy a spoon made of horn*

lit

OLOSSARV.

HomU^ <me of the miny names of the
devil.

HoHf or hooiiy to cough ; a couglk

HoHin^ coughing.

HoiU, coughs^

Hoick' dy turned topsyturvy; blended,
mixed.

Houghmagandie^ fornication

Haulety an owl.

Houtie^ diminutive of housa

Hove, to heave, to swell.

Hov*d, heaved, swelled.

Howdie^ a midwife.

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell.

HofiBtbadeily sunk in the back, spoken
of a horse, &.c.

Howff, a tippling house ; a house of re-
sort.

Hofwky to dig.

Hotokity digged.

Ha/wkin, digging.

Hotoleiy an owl.

Hoy, to iii|re.

Hoy% urged.

Hoyte, to pull upwards.

HoyUy to amble crazily.

HughoCy diminutive of Hugh.

Hurcheon, a hedgehog.

Hurdiei, the loins ; the crupper.

Huthion^ a cushion.

Icker, an ear of com.
ler-oe, a great-grandchild.
Ilk, or Ilka, each, every.
Ill'Vaillie, ill-natured, malicious, nig-
gardly.
Ingine, genius, ingenuity
IrigU, fire ; fire-place.
I»e, I shall or wUl.
ItheTy other ; one another.

JAD, jade ; also a familiar term among
country folks for a giddy young girl.

Jauk, to dally, to trifle.

Jaukin, trifling, dallying.

Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agi-
tated water.

Jaio, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to
shut, to jerk as <eater.

Terkinet, a jerkin, or short gown.

fillet, a jilt, a giddy girl.

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ;
handsome.

Jimpt, easy stays.

Jink, to ood^e, to turn a comer ; a
midden tuming ; a comer.

Jtnker, that tomt quickly ; a

sprightly girl ; a wag.
JinJcin, dodging.
Jirk, a jerk.
JocteUg, a kind of knife.
Joukf to stoop, to bow the head.
Jow, tojow, a verb which include!
'^ the swinging motion and p€

sound of a large belL
Jundie^ to justle.

KAE^ a daw. ^

Kail, colewort ; a kind of brotlu
Kail-runt, the stem of colewort.
Kain, fowls, &.C. paid as rent by i

mer. •
Kebbuck, a cheese.
Keckle, to giggle ; to titter.
Keek, a peep, to peep.
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous 8]

said to haunt fords and ferries at i

especially m storms.
Ken, to know ; kend or kenn*d ki
Kennin, a small matter.
Kentpeckle well known, easily ki
Ket, matted, hairy; a fleece of w
Kilt, to truss up the clothes.
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip.
Kin, kindred ; Arm', kind, adj.
King^t'hood, a certain part of tl

trails of an ox, &.c.
KMra, country.
Kinira Cooter, country stallion.
JTtm, the harvest supper ; a cho]
Kireen, to christen, or baptize.
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter.
Kitchen, any thing that eats with b

to serve for soup, gravy, &c.
Kith, kindred.

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively
Kiitlin, a young cat.
Kiuttle, to cuddle.
Kiuttlin, cuddling.
Knaggie, like ktMgt, or points of i
Knap, to strike smartly, a smart
Knappin-hammer, a hammer for b

ing stones.
Knovoe, a small rotmd hillock.
Knurl, a dwarf.
Kye, cows.

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire.
Kyte, the belly.
Kythe, to discover ; to show one'l

LADDIE, dimmutive of lad.
iMggen, the angle between the Bid
bottom of a wooden dish.

GLOSSARY.

173

Laigh^ low.

£««n^. wading, and nnUng m anow,

mad, &c.
Laithy loath.

LaiH^u\ bashful, sheepish.
Laliansj the Scottish dialect of the
li English language. *

Lambig^ diminutive of lamb.
LampUy a kind of shell-fish, a limpit.
Lan\ land ; estate.

Lane, lone ; my lane^ thy lane^ 4r£f my-
self alone, &c.
Lonely, lonely.
Lang, long ; to think tang, to long, to

weary.
Lap, did leap.

Looe, the rest, the remainder, the others.
Laverock, the lark.
Lttwin, shot, reckoning, bill.
LawkMy lowland.
Lea^e^ to leave.

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. •

Lta^rig, grassy ridge.
Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning.
Lee-'laiig, live-long.
Lee9ome, pleasant.
leera-me, a phrase of congratulatory

endearment ; I am happy in thee, or

proud of thee.
Leiiter, a three pronged dart for stzik-

ingfish.
Leugh, did laugh
Leuk, a look ; to look
L&bei, gelded.
U/t, the sky.

lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at
LUi, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing.
lAmmer, a kept mistress, a s^ompet.
Lknp*t, limped, hobbled
Link, to trip along
Lmkin, trippinjr.
Linn, a water-tall ; a precipice.
Lini, flax ; lint t' Vie bell, flax in flower.
Lintufhite, a linnet.
Loan, or lo<min, the place of milking.
Loof, the palm of the han(^
Loot, did let.
Loaves, plural of loof.
Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman

of easy virtue.
Loup, jump, leao

Lowe, a flame. '

Lowin, flaming. '

Lowrie, abbreviaHon of Lawrence
Lowee, to loose.
Lowt'd, loosed.
Lug, the ear ; a handle.
Lugget, having a handle.
Luggie, a small wooden dish with a

handle.
Lrnn^ the chimney.

Lunth, a large piece of cheese, Hath, dtc
Lunl, a column of smoke ; to smoke.
Luntm, smoking.
Lyart^ of a mixed colour, gray.

fMAE, more.

Jfair, more.

Mxiet, most, almost.

JSaittly, mostly.

Xak, to make.

^akin, making.

JilaiUn, a farm.

JiiUlie, Molly.

Mang, among.

Jianee, the parsonage house, where the

minister lives.
Manteele, a mantle.
J^ark, marks, (Thie and eeveral other

nouns which in English require an s,

to form the plural, are in Scotch, Hke

the words sheep, deer, the same in

both numbers,)
Jlarled, variegated ; spotted.
Mar's year, the year 1715.
J^ashlum, meslin, mixed com.
Mask, to mash, as malt, dtc.
Jfcukin-pat, a tea-pot.
Maud, maad, a plaid worn by ihep-

herds, &c.
J&aukin, a hare.
Maun,, must.
Mavis, the thrush
Maw, to mow.
Mawin, mowing.
Metre, a mare.
Meikle, meickle, much.
Melancholious, moumflil
Meldery com, or grain of any kind, sent

to the mill to be ground.
Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for

pounding barley in a stone trough.
Melvie, to soil with meal.
Men', to mend.

Mense, good manners, decorum.
Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent
Messin, a small dog.
Midden, a dunghill.
Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of

a dunghill.
Mim, pnm, afiectedly meek.
Min\ mind ; resemblance.
MuuTt, mind it ; resolved, intendii^.
Minnie, mother, dam.
Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest.
Misca*, to abuse, to call names
Misca'd, abused.

Mislear'd, mischievous, unidannerlji
JMSiCeiifc, mistook.
Mithhr, a mother.

174

GLOSSARY.

conflisedly ndzcd.
Jfoitti/yj to moiBtcn.
Jtfony, or monies many.
Jfooh^ dtist, earth, the earth of the

ffrave. To rake t* the mooU ; to lay

in the dust.
J^oopy to nibble as a sheep.
Jfoorlam\ of or belonging to moors.
Jtfbm, tho next day, to-morrow.
Jtfou, the mouth.
Jlfoudiwort^ a mole.
'Motuiey diminutive of mouse.
J^uckUy or mUJcle^ gre&t, big, much.
MutUy diminutive of muse.
MutUn-kaUt broth, composed amply of

water, shelled-barley, and greens.
Mvichkin^ an English pint
Myeelf myself.

JMf no, not, nor.

JVhe, no, not any.

j^adhmfCf or naiihmg^ nothing*

Mtigj a horse.

JVofie, none.

Jfappyy ale ; to be tipsy.

JW^iedbif, neglected.

Jfinikj a nook.

JfieHy next.

JVIeos, the fist.

JfUvtfu\ handful. •

^ffer^ an exchange ; to exchange, to

barter.
J^ftgeTf a negro.

Jfine-iaird-^y a hangnum's whip.
^fti^ a nut.

Jforlandy of or belonging to the north,
JVbfic*^, noticed.
JVbwto, black cattle.

CjOf.

Ocheliy name of mountams.

O ^iat<^ O faith! an oath.

Of^, or ome, anv.

Or, is often osed for er^, before

Oroy or orm, snpemumerary, that can

be spared.
0% of it.

Ourts, shivering ; drooping.
OuTMly or our»ei$i ourselves.
Oiil20rf, cattle not housed.
Ower, over ; too.
Ower-kipy a way of fetching a blow

with the luunmer over the arm.

PACKy intimate, fiuniliar ; , twelve
itoito of wool.

Painchy paunch.

Paitrick, a partridge.

Pangy to cram.

ParUy speech.

ParrUchy oatmeal pudding, a wel

known Scotch dish.
Paty did put ; a pot.
PaUUy or pHtUy a plough-staff.
Paughtyy proud, haughty.
PmSty^ Of pawkUy cunning, sly.
P^i^ paid; beat.
Pedi, to fetch the breath short, u i

an asthma.
Pechany the crop the stomach.
Peeltfi, peelinjf, the rind of firoit.
Peiy a dfomesticated sheep, du^
Pett/e, to cherish ; a plough-staff. '
PhiUbtgty short petticoats worn by th

Hi^mandmen.
P/krowe, fair speeches, flattery; toflai

ter.
Phraiiiny flattery.
Pibroch^ Highland war music adapU

to the bagpipe.
PkkUy a small quantity.
PtiM, pain, uneasiness.
Pt<, to put.

Placadf a public proclamation.
Placky an old Scotch' coin, the thii

part of a Scotch penny, twelve <

which make an Ehiglish penny.
PlackUity pennyless, vnthout money
PlaOe, diminutive of plate.
Plewy or pleuehy a plough.
PUekie, a trick.
Pomdy to seize cattle or goods Ibr real

as the laws of Scotland allow.
PocifiUhy poverty.
Poti, to pull.
Pofilr, to pluck.
Pouitiey a hare, or cat.
Pouty a poult, a chick.
P(m% did pull.
PowUieryyijke powder.
Pmcy the head, the skuU,
Powmey a little horse.
PowtheTy or pwdhcTy powder.
Preeny a pin.
Preniy to print ; print.
PrUy to taste.
Prt^dy tasted.
Prie/i proof.

Prigy to cheapen ; to dispute.
Prigginy cheapening.
Primtiey demure, precise.
Proponey to lay down, to propose.
ProvoteMy provosts.
Puddock'itooly a mushroom, fungus.
Pvndy pound ; pounds.
Pyley-<L pyU 0* cc^, a ring le gnm o

chaff.

* _

GLOSSARY.

175

OUAT^ to quit.
OmoI:, to quake.
Qcicy, a cow from one to two years old.

RAOWEED, the herb ragwort.

HdbUy to rattle nonsenee.

i2a»r, to roar.

Aiure, to madden, to inflame.

Ram^eexrdy fatiffued ; overspread.

/Zonwlam, thoughtless, forward.

Maplochy [properly) a coarse cloth ; but

U9€d a» an adnounfor coarse.
Jlartlyy excellently, very well.
Maahy a rush ; rtukiuUf a bush of rushes.
MaUonj a rat.

MaucUj rash ; stout ; fearless.
.' Jlaugkiy ret ched.
Rawy a row.
J|cbr, to stretch.

Meamy cream ; to cream. _^

lUamingy briznful, frothing. V^
J2eooe, rove.
Reeky to heed.
Reiey counsel ; to counseL
Bed'ioat'ehody walking in blood over

the shoe-tops.
Red-^tudy stark mad.
Aee, half-drunk, fuddled.
Reeky smoke.
Reekuiy smoking.
IZedbtl, smoked ; smoky.
Remeady remedy.
ReqmUy reunited.
Retiy to stand restive.
Rettit^ stood restive ; stunted ; withered.
Reitriekedy restricted.
Rewy to repent to compassionate.
Hief, ree/y plenty.
Riefrandieiy sturdy beggars.
Rigy a ridge.
Rigtoiddiey_rigv>oodiey the rope or chain

that crosses the saddle of a horse to
' support the spokes of a cart ; spare,

withered, sapless.
JRtf^ to run, to melt; rtimtn, running.
Rmky the course of the stones ; a term

in curlinff on ice.
Ripy a handful of unthreshed com.
Ruieiiy made a noise like the tearing of

roots.
Rockiny spinning on the rock or dit^ff.
Roody stands likewise for the plural

rood*.
Roorty a shred, a border or selvage.
JRoofs, to praise, to commend.
Roody f rusty

Roun*y round, in the circle of neigh-
bourhood.

Roupeiy hoarse, as with a cold.

Routhiey plentiful.

Rowy to roll, to wrap.

Row% rolled, wrapped.

RowUy to low, to bellow*

Rowthy or routh^ plenty. ^

Routiny lowing.

Roxeiy rosin.

Rungy a cudgel.

Runkledy wrmkled.

Runty the stem of cole wort or cabbage.

Ruthy a woman's name ; the book so
called; sorrow.

Rykey to reach.

SAEyBO.
Softy BO^

Sotr, to serve ; a sore.

Scdrlyy or eairUey sorely.

Sair^iy served.

Sarky a shirt ; a shift.

SarkUy provided in shirts.

Saughy the willow.

SatUy soul.

SaumorUy salmon.

Sauni, a saint.

Sauty salt, adj. salt.

SaWy to sow.

Saiuiny sowii^.

Saxy six

ScaUhy to dama^ to injure ; injury

Scary a cliff.

Scaudy to scald.

Scauldy to scold.

Scaury apt to be scared.

Scawly a scold ; a termigant

Scony a cake of bread.

Scanner y a loathing ; to loathe.

Scraichy to scream as a hen, partridge,

&c.
Screedy to tear ; a rent.
Scrievey to gUde swiftly along.
Scriemny gleesomely ; swiftly.
Scrimpy to scant.
Scrimpeiy did scant ; scanty.
See*dy did see.
Seixiny seizing.

Sely self; a Mly*» te/, one's self akoe.
Selfiy did sell.
Sen\ to send.

Sen'ty I, &c. sent, or did send it ; send it
Servan*y servant.
SeUliny settling; to gel a eeUUn^ to be

frighted into quietness.
Seliy sets off, goes away.
SAocAM, distorted; suipeless.
Shairdy a shred, a shard.

176

GLOSSARY.

Shangan^ a stick cleft at one end for
putting the tail of a dog, &c. into,
D^ way of mischief, or to frighten
him away.
Shaver^ a humorous wag ; a barber.
Shawj to show ; a small wood in a hol-
low.
Sheen, l^ght, shining.
Sheep-thank ; to think one't nXf nae

thcep'thank, to be conceited.
Sherra-moor, sheriflT-moor, the famous
battle fought in the rebellion, A. D.
1715.
Sheughy a ditch, a trench, a sluice.
Shiel, a shed.
ShUl, shrill.

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side
Shool, a shovel.
Shoon, shoes.

Sfiore, to offer, to threaten.
Shar'd, oflfered.
Shouther, the shoulder.
Shure, did shear, shore.
SiCy such.

Sicker, sure, steady.
Sideline, sidelong, slanting
Siller, silver ; money.
Simmer, summe**.
Sin, a son.
Sin\ since.
Skaith, see ecaith
Skellwn, a worthless fellow.
Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk with
a smart tripping step ; a smart stroke.
Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in

female scolding. *
Skelpin, stepping, walking.
Skiegh, or ekeigh^ proud, nice, high-
mettled.
Skinklin, a small portion.
Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly.
Skirling, shrieking, crying.
Skirrt, shrieked.
Sklent, slant ; to run aslant, to deviate

from truth.
Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique di-
rection.
Skouth, freedom to converse without

restraint ; range, scope.
Skriegh, a scream ; to scream.
Skyrin, shiniflg ; making a great show
Skyte, force, very forcilue motion.
Sloe, a sloe.
Slade, did slide.

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence.
Slaner, saliva ; to emit saliva.
Slow, slow.
She, sly ; tleeH, sliest.
Sledeii, sleek; sly.
SHddery^ slippery.

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow

from the plough.
Slypet, fell.
Sma\ small.

Smeddum, dust, powder ; mettle, sense.
Smiddy, a smithy.
Smoor, to smother.
Smoor'd, smothered.
Smoutie, smutty, obscene, uffly.
Smytrie, a numerous collection of small

individuals. •

Snapper, to stumble, a stumble.
Snaeh, abuse, Billingsgate.
Snaw, snow ; to snow.
Snaw-hroo, melted snow.
Snatoie, snowy.

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door.
Sned, to lop, to cut off.
Sneeshin, snuff.
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box.
Snell, bitter, biting.
Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, craf^
Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly.
Snood, a ribbon for binding the haix.
Snoolf one whose spirit is oroken with
oppressive slaveiy ; to submit tamely,
to sneak.
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly,

to sneak. ,

Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, itc.
Snowkii, scented, snuffed.
Sonsie, having sweet engaging looks ;

lucky, jolly.
Soom, to swim.
Sooth, truth, a petty oath.
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on

the ear.
Souple, flexible ; swift, i^
Souter, a shoemaker.
Sowensy a dish made of oatmeal; the
seeds of oatmeal soared, dte. flum-
mery.
Soujp, a spoonful, a small qoantity of

any thing liquid.
Soufth, to try over a tune with a low

whistle.
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement.
Spae, to prophesy, to divine.
Spatd, a limb.

Spcdrgty to dash, to sofl, as with mire.
Spamety having the spavin.
Spedn, epane, to wean.
Speai, or epaie^ a sweeping torrent, titer

rain or thaw.
Speel, to dimb.
SpencBy the country jwrloor.
filter, to ask, to inquire*
Spier% inquired.
flatter^ a splatter, to splutter.
nu^^imt a tobaoco-pouoii.

GLOSSARY.

I7t

Mbiit,afroBe; andie, riot.

&pradcU^ tprachU^ to daniber.

SprattU, to scr&mble.

SpreckUd^ spotted, speckled.

Springs a quick air in mane ; a Scot-
tish reel.

Spriiy a tough-rooted plant, lomething
like rushes.

SpriUie^ full of sprit.

Spunky fire, mettle ; wit.

iS^mnArte, mettlesome, fiery; im/l-o'-tvitp,
or igmtfatuut.

Spurtle^ a stick used in making oatmeal
pudding or porridge*

Squady a crew, a party.

Squaiter, to flutter in watar, as a wild
ducks dLc.

SquaUUj to sprawl.

Sgueely a scream, a screech ; to scream.

SiacheTy to stagger.

Siacky a rick or com, hay, dte.

£la;^^,*the diminutive of stag.

SicUwart^ strong stout.

Sietntf to stand ; «tafi7, did stand.

5lafie,4L stone. *

SUmgy an acute pain ; a twinge ; to
ating.

Skmk^ did atink ; a pool of standing
water.

Stapy stop.

Starky stout.

Siartiey to run as cattle ttung by the
gad-fly.

Siawnrtly a blockhead ; half-witted.

Siawy did steal ; to surfeit

SUchy to cram the belly.

Siechin cramming.

Siedty to shut ; a sfitch.

Sieer^ to molest ; to stir.

Sleeve, firm, compacted.

&eU, a still.

Sieny to rear as a horse.

Sien% reared.

SienUf tribute ; dues of any kind.

SIsy, steep ; tteyesty steepest.

StibbUy stubble ; etibble'rig, the reaper
in harvest who takes the lead.

Stick an* HoWy totally, altogether.

SHUt a crutch ; to halt, to limp.

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winches-
ter bushel.

SHrkj a cow or bullock a year old.

Siockj a plant or root of colewort, cab-
bage, &c.

SioMny a Bto<;king ; throwing the ttockiny
i/hen the bride and bridegroom are
put into bed, and the candle out, the
former throws a stocking at random
among the company, ana the person
whom it strikes is the next that will
be married.

Sfotter, to stagger, to stammer.
Stooked, made up in shocks as com.
StooTy sounding hollow, strong, and

hoarse.
Sioty an oz.
Stoupy or Howvy a kind of jug or dish

with a handle.
Siourey dust, more particularly dust in

motion.
Stowlkigy by stealth.
Stotmy stolen.
StoyiCy to stumble.
Strack^ did strike.
Stracy straw ', to die a fair Hrae deaih^

to die in bed.
Straiky did strike*
StrtUkit, stroked.
Strappan, tall and handsome.
Stratf^fUy straight, to straighten.
Streeky stretched, tight ; to stretch.
StriddUy to straddle.
Stroimy to spout, to piss.
SttiddiCt an anvil.
Stumpie^ diminutive of stump.
Struniy spirituous liquor of any kind ;

to walk sturdily ; hufiT, sullenness.
Stuffy com or pulse of any kind.
Sturty trouble ; to molest*
Sturtiny frighted.
Suckery sugar.
Sudy should.
Sughy the continued rushing noise of

wind or water.
Stdhrony southeni ; an old name for the

English nation.
Stoairdy sward.
StoalVdy swelled.
Swanky stately, jolly.
Swankicy or noankery a tight strapping

young fellow or girl.
Swapy an exchange ; to barter.
Swarf y to swoon ; a swoon.
Swaty did sweat.
Swatchy a sample.
SwatSy drink ; ^ood ale.
Swealeny sweatmg.
Sweer^ lazy, averse; dead'Sweer^ ex*

tremely averse.
Swoory swore, did swear.
Swingey to beat ; to whip.
Swirly a curve; an eddying blast, or

pool ; a knot in wood.
Swirlicy knaggie, full of knots.
Swithy get away.
SwUhery to hesitate in choice ; an ir-

resolute wavering in choice.
SynCy since, ago ; tnen.

TACKETSy a kind of nails for driving
into the heels of shoes.

178

GLOSSARY.

Dae^ a toe; ihrtB-tae^d^ hmng three
pron^*

TVttr^e, a target. ^

Taky to take ; taking taking.

Tamtalianj the name of a mountain.

TangUj a fiea-weed.

Tap, the top.

TapetlesSf heedless, foolish.

Tbrroir, to murmur at one's a iowance.

Tarrow% murmured.

Tarry-breeksy a sailor.

Tauld, or taldy told.

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young
person.

TauUdy or toti/ie, matted together ; spo-
ken of hair or wool.

•

Tonoie, that allows itself peaceably to be
handled ; spoken of a horse, cow, dtc.

Teaif a small quantity.

Tesfi, to povoke ; provocation.

Teddingt spreading afler the mower.

Ten-hourt bite, a slight feed for the
horses while in the yoke, in the fore-
noon.

Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution ; to
take heed ; to tend or herd cattle.

TerUie, heedful, caution

Tentlesi, heedl

TVug-A, tough.

TTiticky thatch; (hack an* rope, clothing,
necessaries.

Tliae, these.

77^1 rm#, small guts ; fiddle-strings.

Thankit, thanked.

Theekii, thatched.

TliegUherj together.

TViemsel, themselves.

Thick, intimate, familiar.

Thievelen, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of
a person's demeanour.

Thir, these.

Thirl, to thrill.

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated.

TViole, to suffer, to endure.

UunBe, a thaw; to thaw.

TViowlegi, slack, lazy.

TTirang, throng ; a crowd.

Thrapple, throat, windpipe.

Throne, twenty-four sheaves or two
shocks of com ; a considerable num-
ber.

T^ravj, to sprain, to tWist ; to contradict.

TVtratoin, twisting, Sic,

Thrown, sprained, twisted, contradict-
ed.

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion.

TTireshin, thrashing.

ThreUen, thirteen.

Thrutle, thistle.

Through, to go on with ; to make out.

Thrmiher, pell-mell, oonAisedly.

Thiid, to make a loud intenrntttnt noli
Thumpit, thumped^
ThyeA, thyself.

Tan, to it.

Trmmer, timber.

Tine, to lose ; Hni, lost.

Tinkler, a tinker.

Ti$U the gate, lost the way*

Tip, a ram.

Tippence, twopence.

TxA, to make a slight noise ; to uneon

Tirlin, uncovering.

TWier, the other.

Tittle, to whisper.

Tittlin, whispering.

Tocher, marriage portion.

Tod, a fox.

Toddle, to totter, like tho walk of a chil

Toddlin, tottering.

Toom, empty, to empty.

Toop, a ram.

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-hooae.

TotU, the blast of a horn or trumpet ,

blow a horn, &.c.
Tow, a rope. »

Towmond^ a twelvemonth.
Towzie, rough, shaggy.
Toy, a very old fasmon of female hea

dress.
Toyte, to totter like old age.
Transmugrify'd, transmigrated, met

morphosed.
TrastUrie, trash.
Trews, trowsers.
Trickle, full of tricks.
Trig, spruce, neat.
Trimly, excellently.
Trow, to believe..
Trowth, truth, a petty oath.
Trytte, an appointment ; a fair.
Trytted, appointed ; to tryeUy to maJ

an appointment.
Try% tried.
Tug, raw hide, of which in old timi

plough-traces were frequently mad
Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to figh
Twa, two.
Twa-three, a few.
'Twad, it would.
Twal, twelve ; twal-pennie worthy

small quantity, a penny-worth.
N. B. OnepennyEngUthie'iZdScotc
Twin, to part.
Tyke, a dog.

UJ^rcO, strange, uncouth ; very, vci

great, prodigious.
Uncoe, news.
Unkenn*d unknown.

GLOSSARY.

179

OMdfcfr, miiare, omtaidy.
riufaM'd, imdaioagvd, imhiirt
UmoeeUngj imwittuiglyy onkiiowiiigly.
Qpo^, upon.
Urekm^ a hedge-bog.

VAP^RIN'^ ▼aponiiiig.
Vmra^ very.

Vhri^ a ring round a eolomn, dtc
nuiej corn of all kindi, food.

IFA\ wan ; wa\ walk.

IFa&ffier, a weaver.

Wadf would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge.

fTadnOj would not.

fPoe, wo ; sorrowful.

Wa^'y woful, sorrowful, wailing.

Waeiuekgi or iea«t-m</ aluIO the

IFoft, the cron thread that ffoes from
the shuttle through the weo ; woo£

Wair^ to lay out, to expend.

JFole, choice ; to choose.

WaTdy chose, chosen.

WalUj ample, large, jolly ; alio an in-
terjection of dis&ess.

Wam€f the belly.

Watnefu\ a bellT-fblL

Wanehaneiey unlucky.

Wanregffv^y restless.

^arfc, work.

FForfc-limM, a tool to work with.

Warly or worlds world.

Warloeky a wizard.

Warfy, worldly, eager on *mM«fig
weuth.

Wdrrany a warrant ; to warrant.

WdrH, worst.

WdrtWdf or wanrdf wrestled.

Watiriej prodigally.

Waij wet ; / wai^ I wot, I know.

IFa<ar-5rofe, brose made of meal and
water simply, without the addition of
milk, butter, dtc

WattUf a twig, a wand.

WaubUf to swiuff, to reel.

Wanghiy a drau^t.

WaMi^ thickened as fullers do cloth.

Waukfyty not apt to sleep.

WauTi worse ; to worst.

fFaur'tj worsted.

Wean^ or weame^ a child.

WeariBj or weary; many a weary body ^
many a different person.

fFecuon, weasand.

Weaning Vie elodemg. See, Sioehmg^
p. 177.

Wee, Uttle; wee CMigrff, little ones; wee
bit, a small matter.

Weel, well ; weelfare, welfare.

Weet, rain, wetness.

Weird, fate.

We'ee, we shall.

Wha, who.

Whcdxle, to wheeze

WhalpU, whelped.

Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of
cheese, bread, &c. to give the strap-
pado.

"Wfiare, where ; where'er, wherever.

Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk ; petmy'
wheep, small beer.

Whate, whose.

Whaireck, nevertheless.

Whid, the motion of a hare, running but
not frighted ; a lie.

Whidden, running as a hare or cony.

Whigmeleeriee, whims, fancies, crotch
ets.

Whuigin, crying, complaining, fretting.

Whirligigume, useless ornaments, tn-
fling appendages.

Whistle, a whisSe ; to wnistle.

Whisht, silence ; io hold one*8 whiehl^ to
be silent.

Whisk, to sweep, to lash.

Whiskii, lashed.

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor.

Whun'Stane, a whin-stone.

Whyles, whiles, sometimes.

Wi\ with.

TFfcA/, to^/U, powerful, strong ; inven-
tive ; of a superior genius.

Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique
direction ; a term in curling.

Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.)

Wiel, a small whirlpool.

Wtfie, a diminutive or endearing term
lor wife.

Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoid-
ing society or appearinff awkward in
it ; wild, strange, timid.

Wimple, to meander.

WimpVt, meandered.

Wimplin, waving, meandering.

Win, to win, to winnow.

Win't, winded as a bottom of vam.

Win*, wind; win's, winds.

Winna, will not.

Winnock, a ]pdndow. ^

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay.

WintU, a stajg^gering motion ; to stag
ger, to reel.

Winze, an oath.

Wiss, to wish.

WUhoutten, without.

Wixen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk.

180

GLOSSARY.

ITonfMr, a wonder; a eontemptuoiu
appellation.

W(mM, dwclb.

Woo\ wool.

IFoOf to court, to make love to.

Woodity a rope, more properly one
made of withes or willowa.

Wooer-hab^ the garter Imotted below
the knee with a couple of loope.

Wordy^ worthy.

Wortet^ worsted.

Wovoy an -exclamation of pleamre or
wonder.

Wrack^ to teaze, to vex.

Wraith^ a spirit, or ghost ; an appari-
tion exactly like a living person, whose
appearance is said to forebode the
person's approaching death.

Trrang^ wronff ; to wrong.

JFrcethy a drilled heap orinow.

irud'tnad^ distracted.

Wumhle, a wimble.

JFyie^ to beguile.

lyylieeoai^ a flannel vest.

Jfyte^ blame ; to blame.

YADy an eld mare ; a worn out horse
Yti thii pronoun ii/requmUy uted fo

thou.
TeamMy longs much.
Yearlingi^ born in the same year, cc

cvals.
Tear is used boih/or singuiar and pl%

ralf years.
Team^ som, an eag:le, an ospray.
Fe//, barren, that gives no milk.
Yerkj to laeh, to jerk.
Yerkit^ jerked, lashed.
Yestreen, yesternight.
Yeit, a gate, such as is usually at tfa

entrance into a farm-yard or field.
YUi, ale.
Yirdy earth.
Yokin, yoking ; a bout.
KofU, beyond.
Foutm/, yourself.
Fotoe, a ewe.

Yoiois* diminutive of yowe
YWs, ChristmM.

THE

MIP2S <&9 immML'T mifws^

WITH

BIS GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE;

ALSO

CRITICISM O^r HIS JFRITUmS,

AMD

OBSiOtVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY
BY DR. CURRIE.

cumrnxsPB DBDZoATzosr.

<CAS^M1T (^mAHiifit at(Q)(Q)mSa

OP THE ROYAL NAVY

Wbkn yon were stationed on our coast
•boat twelve years affo, you first recom-
mended to my particular notice the poems
of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose works,
pablishe«l for the benefit of his widow and
children, I now present to you. In a
distant region of the world, whither the
•errice of your country has carried you,
yon will, I know, receive with kindness
this proof of my regard; not perhaps
without some surprise on finding that I
have been engaged in editing these vo-
lumes, nor without some curiosity to know
how I was qualified for such an undertak-
ing. These points I will briefly explain.

Having occasion to make an excursion
to the county of Dumfries, in the sum-
mer of 1792, I had there an opportunity
of seeing and conversing with Burns. It
has been my fortune to know some men
of hif h reputation in literature, as well as
in public life ; but never to meet any one
who, in the course of a siugle interview,
eommunicated to me so strong an impres-
■ion of the force and versatility of his ta-
lents. After this I read the poems then
published with greater interest and atten-
tion, and with a full conviction that, ex-
traordinary as they are, they afford but
tn inadequate proof of the powers of their
unfortunate author.

Four years afterwards, Bums termi-
nated his career. Among those whom
the charms of his genius had attached to
him, was one with whom I have been
bound in the ties of friendship from early
life— Mr. John Syme of Ryedale. This
gentleman, afler the death of Bums, pro-
moted with the utmost zeal a subscription
fbr the support of the widow and children,
to which their relief from immediate dis-
tress is to be ascribed ; and in conjunc-
tion with other friends of this virtuous
and destitute fiunily he projected the pub-
lication of these volumes for their benefit,
by which the return of want might be pre-
vented or prolonged.

To this last undertaking an editor and
biographer was wanting, and Mr. Sjrmo's
modesty opposed a barrier to his assum-
ing an office, for which he was in other
respects peculiarly qualified. On this
subject he consulted me ! and with the
hope of surmounting his objections, I of*
fered him my assistance, but in vain.
Endeavours were used to procure an edi-
tor in other quarters without effect. The
task was beset with considerable difficul-
ties, and men of established reputation
naturally declined an undertaking to the
performance of which, it was scarcely to
be hoped that general approbation could
be obtained by any exertion of judgment
or temper.

To such an office, my place of residence,
my accustomed studies, and my occupa-
tions, were certainly little suited ; but
the partiality of Mr. Syme thought me in
other respects not unqualified ; and his
solicitations, joined to those of our excel-
lent friend and relation, Mrs. DunIop,and
of other friends of the family of the poet,
I have not been able to resist. To re-
move difficulties which would otherwise
have been insurmountable, Mr. Syme and
Mr. Gilbert Burns made a journev to
Liverpool, where they explained ana ar-
ranged the manuscripts, and selected such
as seemed worthy of the press. From
this visit I derived a degree of pleasure
which has compensated much of my la-
bour. I had the satisfaction of renewing
my personal intercourse with a much
valued friend, and of forming an acquaint-
ance with a man, closely allied to Burns
in talents as well as in blood, in whose
future fortunes the friends of virtue will
not, I trust, be uninterested.

The publication of these volumes has
been delayed by obstacles which these
gentlemen could neither remove nor fore-
see, and which it would be tedious to
enumerate. At length the taak Va fiaDAshi-
ed. If the pan w^vicYi \ \ii.v% \.iSa«ii AjaSk.

DEDICATION.

Mrve the inUreit of the fimily, and re-
ceive the approbttion of ffood men, I shall
have my recompense. The errors into
which I have fallen are not, I hope, very
important, and they will be easily ac-
counted for by those who know the cir-
cumstances under which this undertakinff
hiM been performed. Generous min£
will receive the posthumous works of
Burns with candour, and even partiality,
as the remains of an unfortunate man of

gmius, published for the benefit of his
mily— as the stay of the widow and the
hope of the fatherie

To secure the sufiVages of such minds,
•U topics are omitted in the writings, and
avoided in the life of Burns, that nave a
tendency to awaken the animosity of party.
In perusinff the following volumes no of-
filnce will be received, except by those to
whom even the natural erect aspect of
fenius is offensive ; characters that wUl
aearcely be found among those who.are
educated to the profession of arms. Such
!Mn do not court situations of danger, or
tread in the paths of glory. They will
not be found in your service, which, in
our own days, emulates on another ele-
ment the laperior fame of the Macedoniaii

phalanx, or of the Roman legion, and
which has, lately made the shores of Eu-
rope and of Africa resound with the shouts
of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus,
and from the Tagus to the Nile !

The works of Bums will be received
favourably bv one who stands in the fore-
most rank of this noble service, and who
deserves his station. On the land or on
the sea, I know no man more capable of
judging of the character or of the writ-
ings ofthis original genius. Homer, and
Shakspcare, and Ossian, cannot always
occupy your leisure. These volumes
may sometimes engage your attention,
while the steady breezes of the tropic
swell your sails, and in another quarter
of the earth charm you with the strains
of nature, or awake in your memory the
scenes of your early days. Suffer me to
hope that they may sometimes recall to
your mind the friend who addresses voOf
and who bids you— -moat affectionately^
adieu!

J. CUB&IE.

LiMrpool, Iti JKoy, 1800

(COITVXSTVS

TO THE

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. &c.

PREFATORY REMARKS.

CBAEAOnft AlfD CONDITION OF THS
•COTTI8H PSA8ANTET.

of tha \eepX establishinent of parochial
■ebools, 1. — Cn the church establishment, 3.
—Of the abeence of poor laws, ib. — Of the
Beottish music and national songs, 4.— Of
tiw laws respecting marriage and inconti-
aenoe, 6. — Obsenrationson ue domestic and
iMitional attachments of the Scots, Page 6

LIFE OF BURNS.

Namthre of his infancy and youth, bj him-
self^ 10. — ^Narrative on the same subject, by
his brother, and by Mr. Murdoch of Lon-
don, his teacher, 16. — OUier particulars of
Burns while resident in Ayrshire, 27. — His-
tonr of Bums while resident in Edinburgh,
mdadfaig Letters to the Editor from Mr.
Stewart and Dr. Adair, 35.— History of
Boms while on the farm of Ellisland, in
Dmnfiries-flhire 51. — Histoiy of Bums while
resident at Dumfries 54. — His last Illness,
Death and Character, with general Reflec-
tioiis, .... 58

JMemoir respecting Bums, by a Lady, 67

Criticiflni on the Writings en Bums, includ-
ing obeervations on p^try in the Scottish
dialect, and some lemariu on Scottish lit-
erature, . . _. 70

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.

LBTTBEf.

M> Page,

L To Mb. John Muedoob, Bnms^s form-
er teacher; jifiving an account of his
present studies, and temper of mind, 91
extracts from MSS. Obsenrations on
▼arioua subieets, 99

No Paoi.

3. To Mr. Aiken. Written under distress

ofmind, . . .95

4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her no*

tice. Praise of her ancestor. Sir
WilUam Wallace,

5. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair. Enclosing

a poem on Miss A , . . ib.

6. Proclamation in the Name of the
Muses,

7. Dr. Blacklockto the Rev. G.Lowrie.

Encouraging ^e bard to visit Edin-
burgh and print a new edition of his
poems there, . . .

8. From the Rev. Mr. Lowrie. • Advice

to the Bard how to conduct himself
. in Edinburgh,

9. To Mr. CheOmers. Praise of Miss

Burnet of Monboddo,

0. To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for

his patronage,

1. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his sit-

uation in Edinburgh,

2. ToDr. tMoore. Grateful ai^owled^-

ments of Dr. M.'s notice of him m
his letters to Mrs. Dunlop,

3. From Dr. Moore. In answer to the

foregoing, and enclosing a sonnet on
the Bard by Miss Williams, (,

4. To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Thanks for

advice~-reflections on his situation-
compliments paid to Miss L— — « by
Mr. Mackenzie, .

5. To Dr. Moore,

6. From Dr. Moore. Sends the Bard a
present of his ^ View of Society and

Manners,^ &c.

ib.

96
ib.
99
ib.

100

ib.

101
lOS

ib.

103
ib.

To the Earl of Glencaim. GratefU
acknowledgments of kindness,

8. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a

letter of advice, .

9. Extract concerning the monument

erected for Fergusson bv our Poet, 104

20. To— —. Accompanying tne foregoing, 104

21. Extract from . G^>d advice, 105

23: To Mrs. Dunlop. Respecting his pro»-

pects on leavmg Edmbori^ • 106

CONTBNTa

No. Paob.

S3. To the fame. On the nme gabjeet, 106
5M. To Dr. Moore. On the same labjeet, 107
U5, Extract to Mn. Dunlop. Reply to

Criticisms, . . ib.

96. To the Rev. Dr. Blair. Written on

leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his
kindness, . . ib.

97. From Dr. Blair. In reply to the pre-

ceding, . . . .• 106

9B. From Dr. Moore. Criticism and good

advice, .... 109
99. To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athole.

Enclosing the Humble Petition of

Bruar water to the Duke of Athole, 110

30. To Mr. O. Bums. Account of his

Tour through the Highlands, . ib.

31. From Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre.

Enclosing Latin Inscriptions with
Translations, and the Tale of Ome-
ron Cameron, .111

39. Mi. Ramsay to the Rev. W. Toimg.

Introducing our Poet, . . 113

33L Mi, Ramsay to Dr. Blacklock. Anec-
dotes of Scottish Songs for our
Poet, . . . ib.

34. From Mr. John Murdoch in London.

In answer to No. I. . 114

85. From Mr. , Gordon Castle.

Acknowledging a song sent to Lady
Charlotte Gordon, . . ib.

36. From the Rev. J. Skinnor. Some Ac-

count of Scottish Poems, . .115

37. From Mrs. Rose. Enclosing Gaelic

Songs, with the music, . . 116

38. To the Earl of Glencaim. Requests

his assistance in getting into the Ex-
cise, .... 117

39. To , Dabymple, Esq. Congratula-

tion on his l>ecoming a poeL Praise

of Lord Glencaim, . . ib.

40. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for

friendship. Reflections on the po-
etical character, . .118

41. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written on recov-

ery from sickness, . . ib.

49. Extract to the Same. Defence of him-
self, . .119

43. To the Same — who had heard that he

had ridiculed her, . . ib.

44. To Mr. Clcghom. Mentioning his

having composed the first stanza of
the Chevalier's Lament, . . ib.

45. From Mr. Cleghora. In reply to the

above. The Chevalier^s Lament in
full, in a note, . . . ib.

46. To Mrs. Dunlop. Giving an account

of his prospects, . . . 130

47. From the Biev. J. Skinner. Enclos-

ing two songs, one by himself, the
omer by a Buchan ploughman : the
songs printed at large, . . ib.

48. To Professor D. Stuart. Thanks for

his friendship, . . . 122

49. Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks

on Dryden's Virgil, and Pope^s
Odyssey, b.

194
195

197

198

No.

SaTothtitBM. Ctemfil Ritetioiii,

5L To the Sam*, at* Bfr. DimlopV, Had-
dington. Anooonl of hit mmiTmgt, 193

59. ToMr. P. HilL With a pnMot of

Cuoeaaa • • • « Q^

53. To Mn. Dnnlop. WithliiiMooalMiw

mitafe, ...

54. To tha Sama. Fartharaoeoimtofhia

iiiarriaga« • • •

55. To tha Bama. Raflaetiooa oo bmnan

USby . • • •

56. ToR. Graham, Eaq. of Fintry. Apa-

tition in Tana iw a tttoatum in tha
ETciaai • • • .

57. To Idr. r . HiU. Critidam on a poem,

antitlad, *An addran to Loca-Lo-
mondf' ... *

5a To Mn. Dmilop, at Moiaham Blaina, 199

59. To ****. Dafonca of tha Family of

the Stuarts. Biianem of <t»«^i«g
ftllan graatnea^ • • ibb

60. To Mn. Dunlop. With tha loldiar^

song — ^Go wtch to ma a pint of
wine," .131

61. To Misi Daviaa, a young Lady, who

had haard he had bean making a bal>
lad on her, enclosing that baUad,
63. From Mr. G. Bums, lleflectiona BQ|p>
gettad by New Yearns Day,

63. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggaat-

ed by New Ya^^s Day, .

64. To Dr. Moore. Account of hia dto-

ation and prospects,

65. To Professor D. Stewart, Endoaing

poems for his criticism, •

66. To Bishop Gaddes. Aooount of hia si*

tuation and prospects, .

67. From tha Rev. P. Carfiraa. Raqnatt-

139

fb.

133

134

ib.

ing advice as to tha publishing Mr.

135
136

A'Jylne'a poems, . . ^

68. To Mn. Dunlop. Raflaetions aftar a

visit to Edinburgh,

69. To the Rar. P. Carfiraa. Ihanawirto

No. 67. . . . . ib.

70. ToDr. Moora. Endosing a poam, 137

71. To Mr. HiU. ApostiopEa to Fro-

gality, . 138

73. To Mn. Dunlop. With a sketch of
an apistla in versa to tha Right Hon.
C.J. Fox, .139

73. To Mr. Cunnmgham. With tha fint

draught of tha poam on a wounded
Hare, • tD.

74. From Dr. Gr^goiy. Critidam of tha

poem on a wounded Hara, 140

75. To Mr. M" Aoley of Dnmbarton. Ac-

count of his situation, . ib.

76. To Mrs. Dunlop. Raflacttom on Re-

ligion, .... 141

77. From Dr. Moora. Good advioa, ib.

78. From Miss J. Little. A poetasi in

humUe life, with a poam in praiaa

of our Bard, . 143

79. From Blr. ♦♦*♦♦*. Soma aooonnt of

Fergomon, 143

80. To Mr. ««**««. Inaaawar, . 144

CONTENTS.

Vll

lb.

ib.

147

148

____ Pao«.

8L n»lfi«WiDiams. Endonif aoiti-
elBnaQapoemof hen, . 144
3L Txom MiM W. Inreply to the fore-

BL T^ Mn. Donlop. Praise of Zeluco, ib.
BL Fram Dr. Blacklock. An epiitle in

Terse, . . . • 146

85. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical reply to

the above,
8& To R. Graham, Esq. Enclosing

some electioneering ballads, •

87. ToMrs.Dunlop. Serious and inter-

esting reflections,

88. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a

book society among the fanners in
Nithsdale,

88. To Charles Sharps, Esq. of Hoddam.
Under a fictitious signature, enclos-
ingaballad, ... 149

90l ToMr. 6. Burns. With a prologue,

spoken on the Dumfries Theatre, 150

91. To Mn. Dunlop. Some account of
Falconer, author of the Ship-
wreck, . ib.

98. From Mr. Cunningham. Inquiries

after our Bard, ' 152

93. To Bflr. Cunningham. In reply to the

above, . ib.

94. To Mr. Hill. Orders for books, 153

95. To Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on the

Ijounger, and on the writings of

MrTMackenzie, 154

96^ Txom Mr. Cunningham. Account of

the death of Miss Bbmet of Mon-

boddo, .... 155
97. To Dr. Moore. Thanks for a present

ofZeluco,
98l To Mrs. EKmlop. Written under

woanded pride,
99» To Blr. Cunningham. Aspirations

after independence,

100. From Dr. Blacklock. Poetical let-

ter of fiiendfihip,

lOL Extract from Mr. Cunninsham.
Suggesting subjects forourroet^s
muse, ....

109. To Mrs. Dunlop. Congratulations
on the birth or her grandson,

108i ^ Vb» CunninghiuiL With an
elegy I on Miss Burnet, of Mon-
boddo, . .159

101. To Mr. Hill. Indignant apostro-

1^ to Poverty, ib.

105^ From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism

on Tam o'Shanter, • 160

106u Te A. F. Tytler, Esq. In reply

to the above, . ib.

107. To Mrs. Donlop. Enclosing his

degy on Miss Hurnet, 161

188. To Lady W. M. Constable. Ac-
knowledging a present of a snuff
box, • . • • !b«

109. To Mrs. Graham of Fintiy. Enclos-

ing ^ Queen MaiVs Lament,' 162

110. From the Rev. G. Baird. Request-

ing aasistaDoe in publishing the
poams of lilichael Bruce, ib.

156
ib.

157
ib.

158
ib.

No. Paoi.

111. To the Rev. G. Baird. In reply to
the above, . 163

112. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing Tam o'
Shanter, &C. . • . ib.

113. From Dr. Moore. With Remarks
on Tam o^ Shanter, &c . 164

114. To the Rev. A. Alison. Acknow-
ledging his present of the * Essays
on the Principles of Taste,' with
remarks on the book, • 165

115. To Mr. Cunningliam. With a Ja-
cobite song, &c., . . 166

116. To. Mrs. Dunlop. Comparison be-
tween female attractions in high
and humble life, . . ib.

117. To Mr. . Reflections on his own

indolence, . . • 167

118. To Mr. Cunningham. Rcouesting
his interest for an oppressed frieno, ib.

119. From the Earl of Bucban. Inviting
over our bard to the Coronation <n
the Bust of Thomson on Ednam
HUl, .... 168

120. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply,

121. From the Earl of Buchan. Propos-
ing a subject for our poet's muse,

15S. To Lady E. Cunningliam. Enclos-
ing * The Lament for James, Earl
orGlencaim,'

123. To Mr. Ainslie. State of his mind
after inebriation,

124. From Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks
for *• The Lament for James, Earl
of Glencaim,'

125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism
on the Whistle and the Lament,

126. To Miss Davies. Apology for ne-

glecting her commands— moral re-
ections, . . .

127. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing * The
Song of Death,' . .172

128. To Afis. Dunlop. Acknowledging
the present of a cup, . 173

129. To Mr. William Sraellie. Introduc-

ib.
169

ib
ib

170
ib.

171

uig Mrs. Riddel,

130. To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical thanks

for advice,

131. To Mr. Cunningham. Commissions

his arms to be cut on a seal — moral
reflections,

132. To: Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his

meeting with Miss L B— —

and enclosing a song on her,

133. To Mr. Cunnmgham. Wild apos-

trophe to a Spirit!

134. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of. his
family,

ib.
174

ib.

175
176
178
179

135. To Mrs. Dunlop. Letter of "oudo-

lence imder affliction,

136. To Mrs. Dunlop. With a poem,

entitled * The Rights of Woman,' ib.

137. To Miss B

fViendsliip, . . . 180

13a To Miss C . Character and tem-
perament of a podt, • ib.

139. To John M'Mui-do, Esq. Repay-
ing monev, . . 1^1

••t

TUl

CONTENTS

No. Paoi.

140. To Mn. R . Adviging her what

play to bespeak at the Dumfriee
Theatre, . . .181

141. To a Lady, in favour of a Player^i

Benefit, . . .182

143. Extract to Mr. . On his prot-

pects in the Excise. . . ib.

143. To Mrs. R , . . ib.

144. To the Same. Describing his melan-

choly feelings, . . . 183

145. To the Same. Lending Werter, ib.

146. To the same. On a return of inter-

rupted friendship, . . ib.

147. To the Same. On a temporary
itrangoment, . . . ib.

148. To John Syme, Esq. Reflections on
the happmess of Mr. O— — ,

184

149. To Miss . Requesting the re-

turn of MSS. lent to a deceased
friend, . . . ib.

150. To Mr. Cunningham. Melancholy

reflections — cheering prospects of
a happier world, . . 185

151. To Mrs. R . Supposed to be

written from ^ The dead to the liv-
ing,' .... 186

152. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on

the situation of his family if he>
should die — -praise of the poem en-
tiUed ' The Task,' . . 187

153. To the Same, in London, . ib.

154. To Mrs. R Thanks for the

Travels of Anacharsis, . . 188

155. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of the

Death of hid Daughter, and of his
own ill health, . . .189

156. To Mrs. R -. Apology for not

going to the birth-night assembly, ib.

157. To Mr. Cuimingham. Account of

his illness and of his poverty — an-
ticipation of his death, . . ib.

158. To Mrs. Bums. Sea-bathing af-

fords littld relief; . 190

159. To Mrs. Dunlop. Last farewell, ib.

OOftEXfFONDSNCE BETWEEN Mft. THOMSON
AND ME. BtTENB.

1. Me. Thomson, to Me. Buens. De-
siring the bard to fiimish verses
for some of the Scottish airs, and to
revise former songs, . . 191

9. Mr. B. to. Mr. T. PromisiDg as-
sistance, .... 192

3. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sending some

tunes, . .193

4. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'The Lea

Rig,' and 'WiU ye go to the Indies
my Mary,' . . . ib.

& Mf.RToMr.T. With 'Mywife'sa
winsome wee thing,' and * O saw
v« boonie Leslie,' . 195

19S

1S6

197

ib.

No. Faom.

a Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Higfakod
Mary,' ....

7. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and critictl

observations,

8. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an addi-

tional stanza to * The Lea Rig,'

9. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Auld Rob

Morris,' and * Duncan Gray,

10. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Poortith

Cauld,' &c and ''Galla Water,'

11. Mr. T. toMr. B. Desiring anecdotes

on the origin of particular songs.
Tytler of Woodhouselee— Pleyle—
sends P. Pindar's ^Lord Gregory.'
— Postscript from the Honourable
A. Erskine,

12. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Has Mr. Tytler's

anecdotes, and means to give his
own— Sends his own ^LordGregoiy, 198

13. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Haiy

Morrison,'

14. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Wandering

WilUe' . .

15. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' With 'Open the

door to me, oh !'

16. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Jessy,'

17. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With a list ot'^songs,

and ' Wandering Willie' altered,
la Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' When wild war's
deadly blast was blawn,' and ' Meg
o' the Mill,' . . .

19. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Voice of Coilar-Cri-

ticism — Origin of *The Lass o*
Patie'sMilV^ .

20. Mr. T. to Mr. B. .

21. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Simplicity requisite

in a song — One poet should not
mangle the works of another,

22. Mr. B. to Mr. T. 'Farewell then

stream that winding flows.' — Wishes
that the national music- may preserve
its native features,

23. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser-

vations, ....

24. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' BUthe hae I

been on yon hill,'

25. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'O Logan

sweetly didst thou fflide,' ^O gin
my love were yon red rose,' iui.

26. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note-

Thanks, . .

27. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'There wasa

lass and she was fair,' .

28. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of

pecuniary recompense— Ronarks
on songs,

29. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Musical ezpresnon

30. Mr. B. to Mr. T. For Mr. Clwke,

31. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'PhiUis the

Fair '

32. Mr. T* to Mr. B. Mr. AOan— draw-

ing from ' John Anderson my Job'

33. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Had I a

cave,' &c. — Some airs commoii to
Scotland and Irdand,

199
ib.

900

ib.

201
908

90S
904

ib.

2(P

CONTENTS.

>. Paox.

. 3fr. B. To. Mr. T. With *Bj Allan

gtreara I chanced to rove,*
. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' WhifUe and

111 come to yoa my lad,* and ^ Awa

wi*your belies and your beauties,*
• Mr. EL to Mr. T. With ' Come let

roe take thee to my breast,'
. Mr. B. to Mr. T. * Dainty Davie,'
. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Delij^hted with the

productions of Bums s muse,
. Mj. B. to Mr. T. With* Bruce to his

troops at Bonnockbum,'
. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Behold the

hour, the boat arriye,*
. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Obsenrations on

^ Bruce to his troops/
. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Remarks on songs

in Mr. T*s. list — His own method of

forming a song — ^ Thou hast lefl me

209

ib.

ib.
210

ib.

211

ib.

ever, Jamie* — * Where are the joys I
hae met in the morning,' ^ Aula lang

Eyne

212

. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With a yariation of
^ Bannockbum,' . . . 214

. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser-
vations, . . . . ib.

. Mr. B. to Mr. T. On ' Bannockbum'
—eends * Fair Jenny,' . 215

. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With » Deluded
swain, the pleasure' — RemtLrks, 216

. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With » Thine am I,
my faithful fair,' — ^ O condescend
dear charming maid' — * The Night-
ingale' — *- Laura' — (the three last by
O.Tumbull) . . . ib.

L Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions—
Thanks, . . . .218

K Mr. B. to Mr. T. With » Husband,
husband, cease your strife I' and
' Wilt thou he my dearie .^' . ib.

0. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Melancholy com-

parison between Bums and Carlini
—Mr. Allan has begun a sketch
from the Cotter's Saturday Night, ib.

1. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Al-

lan — ^ Banks of Cree,' . . ib.

* Mr. B. to Mr. T. Plcyel in France
;-* Here, where the Scottish muse
inmiortal lives,' prraented to Miss
Graham of Fintiy, with a copy of
Mr. Thomson's Collection, . 219

•• Wr. T. to Mr. B. Does not expect
to hear from Pleycl soon, but desires
to be prepared with the poetry . ib.

■' Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' On the

«nd ftir away,'
Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism,
^Ir. B. to Mr. T. With

M^:

' Ca' the

r^owes to the knowes,'
r. B. to Mr. T. With ' She says she
lo'es me best of a',' — ^ O let me in,'

^ ilc. — Stanaa to Dr. Maxwell,

^r. T. to Mr. B. Advising him to write

^. U Musical Drama,

^r. T. to Mr. B. Has been ex-
^mining Scottish collections — Rit-
aon — Difficult to obtain ancient me-
lodiaf in their original state

ib.
220

ib.

ib.
221

No. Paoi.

60. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Eedpe fbr pro-

ducing a love-^ong-*' Saw ve my
Phely-— Remarks and anecoote^—
^ How long and dreary is the nu^t'
— * Let not woman e'er complain
— ^ The Lover's morning Salute to
his Mistress'— ' The Auld man'—
*■ Keen blows the wind o'er Donocht-
head,' in a note, . . .lb.

61. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes he knew

the inspiring fair one — Ritson's His-
torical Essay not interesting — Allan
—Maggie Lawder, SM

62. Mr. B. to. Mr. T. Has be^fun his

Anecdotes, &c. ^My Chlons mark
how green the groves' — Love—* It
was the charming month of May'^
^ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks'—
History of the air * Ye Banks and
braes o' bonnie Doon' — James Mil-
ler—Clarke — The black keys — In-
stances of the difficulty of tracing
the origin of ancient airs, . 235

63. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With three eopief

of the Scottish airs, . . SS7

64. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Phifly

happy be that day' — Starting note
— * Contented wi httle and cantio
wi' mair'— * Canst thou leave me
thus, my Katy ?'— (The Reply; * SUy
my WiUie, yet believe me,' in a not^
—iStock and horn, . . fliw

65. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise— Desiree

more songs of the humorous cast-^
Means to have a picture from * The
Soldier's retum,' . S99

66. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With » My Nan-

nie's awa,' . . . 230

67. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With » For a»

that an' a' that' and 'Sweet fa'e
the eve on Craigie-bum,' . flii.

68. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . ibu

69. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' O lassie, art then

sleeping yet ?' and the Answer, 331

70. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dispraise of

Ecclefechan, . . • ib.

71. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . ib.

72. Mr. B. to Mr. T. 'Address to the

Woodlark'— ' On Chloris' being ill'
— ^ Their groves o' sweet myrtle,'
&c.— ' 'TWAS na her bonnie blue e'e,'

73. Mr. T. to Mr. B. With Allan's de-

sign fit)m 'The Cotter's Saturday
Night,' .... 333

74. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' How cruel

^re the parents,' and ' Mark yonder
pomp or costly fashion,' . . ib.

75. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Al-

lan's designs, . . . ih.

76. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment, . 333

77. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an improve-

ment in ' Whistle and 111 come to
you my lad,' — *" O this is no my ain
lassie,' — ^ Now spring has clad the
grove in green' — *' O bonnie wm
yon rosy oner' — *' Tis Friendship^
pledge my young, fiur Friend,' . fk

CONTENTS.

No. Page.

7a Mr. T. to Mr. B. Introdaoiiig Dr.

Brianton, . . 834

79. Mr. B. to Mr. T. *Foriom mj

lore, no comfort near,' . • ib.

8a Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' Last May a braw
wooer cam down the lang glen*—
' Why, why toll thy lover,' a fng-
ment, . . . • ib.

81. Mr. T. to Mr. B., . . .235

62. Mr. T. to Mr. B. After an awfhl

pause, . . . . ib.

83. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for P. Pin-

dar, &c. — ' Hey for a law wi' a to-
cher,* . . . ib.

84. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Alhm has designed

some plates for an octavo edition, ib.

85. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Afflicted by sick-

ness, but pleased with Mr. Allan's
etchings, .... 236

86. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy, en-

couragement, . . . ib.

87. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Here's a

health to ane I lo'e dear,' . ib.

88. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Introducing Mr.

Lewars — Has taken a fancy to re-
fiew hif songs — Hopes to recover, 237

No. Pa€

89. Mr.B. to Mr. T. Dreading the hor-

rors of a jail, solicits the advance of
five pounds, and encloses 'Fairest
Maia on Devon banks,' •

90. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Sympathy— Ad

vises a volume of poetry to be pub
lished by subscription — ^Pope pub-
lished the Iliad so, . .1

Letter containing some particulars of the
History orthe foregoing Poems, bv
Gilbert Boms, . . 2

Letter to Captain Grose, . 2

APPENDIX.

No. I. • . • • • . 2<

No. n. Including an extract of a Poem
addressed to Bums by Mr. Telford, •&

No. III. Letter from Mr. Gilbert Bums to
the Editor, approving of his Life of his
Brother; with observations on the e&
fects of refinement of taste on the la-
bouring classes of men, . • 8

TBWKStA^T^WT WWff-^ W ^^

TO THE LIFE

ROBERT BURNS.

Tmovgh the dialect in which many of <
the happieit effhaioiiB of Robert Burns
are composed he peculiar to Scotland, yet
his repatation has extended itself heyond
the limits of that country, and his poetry
has heen admired as the ofbpring or origi-
nal genius, hy persons of taste in every
part of the sister islands. The interest
excited hy his early death, and the dis-
tress of his infant funily, have been felt in
a remarkable manner wherever his writ-
ings have been known : and these posthu-
mous volumes, which give to the world his
works complete, and which, it is hoped,
may raise his widow and children from
penary, are printed and published in Eng-
land. It seems proper, tnerefore, to write
the memoirs of his life, not with the view
of their being rcMid bv Scotchmen only,
bat also by natives of England, and of
other countries where the English lan-
gnage is spoken or understood.

Robert Bums was, in reality, what he
has been represented to be, a Scottish pea-
sant. To render the incidents of his hum-
ble story generally intcflligible, it seems,
therefore, advisable to prefix some obser-
vations on the character and situation of
the order to wMch he belonged — a dass
of men distinguished by many peculiari-
ties : by this means we shall ronn a more
correct notion of the advantages with
which he started, and of the obstacles
which he surmounted. A few observa^
tions on the Scotti^ peasantry will not,
perhaps, be found unworthy of attention
in other respects ; and the subjeet is, in a
great measure, new. Scotland has pro-
duced persons of hiffh distinction in every
branch of philosophy and literature ; and
her history, while s separate and inde-
pendent nadon, has been socessiftilly ex-

plored. But the present character of the
people was not then formed ; the nation
then presented features similar to those
which the feudal system and the catholic
religion had diffused over Europe, modi-
fied, indeed, by the peculiar nature of her
territory and climate. The Reformation,
by which such important changes were
produced on the national character, was
speedily followed by the accession of the
Scottish monarchs to the English throne ;
and the period which elapsed from that
accession to the Union, has been render-
ed jnemorable, chiefly, by those bloody
convulsions m which both divisions of the
island were involved, and which, in a con-
siderable degree, concealed from the eye
of the historian the domestic history of
the people, and the gradual variations in
their condition and manners. Since the
Union, Scotland, though the seat of two
unsuccessfiil attempts to restore the
House of Stuart to the throne, has en-
joyed a comparative tranquillity ; and it
IS since this period that the present cha-
racter of her peasantry has been in a
great measure formed, though the politi-
cal causes afiecting it are to be traced to
the previous acts of her separate legisla-
ture.

A slight acquaintance with the pea-
santry of Scotland will serve to convince
an unprejudiced observer, that they pos-
sess a degree of intelligence not general-
ly found among the same class ot men in
tne other countries of Europe. In the
very humblest condition of the Scottish
peasants, every one can read, and most
penons are more or less skilled in writ-
ing and arithmetic ; and, under the dis-
guise of their uncouth appearance, and of
their peculiax mann^ta v[i<^ ^\^«kX^ ^

PREFATORY REMARKS.

stranger will discover that they possess a
curiosity, and have obtained a degree of
information, corresponding to these ac-
quirements.

Thcfre advantages they owe to the le-

§al provision made by the parliament of
cotland in 1G46, for the establishment of
a school in every parish throughout the
kingdom, for the express purpose of edu-
cating the poor : a law which may chal-
lenge comparison with any act of legisla-
tion to be found in the records of history,
whether we consider the wisdom of the
ends in view, the simplicity of the means
employed, or the provisions made to ren-
der these means effectual to their pur-
pose. This excellent statute was repeal-
ed on the accession of Charles II. in
1660, together with all the other laws

gassed during the commonwealth, as not
eing sanctioned by the royal assent. It
slept during the reigns of Charles and
James, but was re-enacted, precisely in
the same terms, by the Scottish parlia-
ment after the revolution, in 1696; and
this is the last provision on the subject.
Its effects on the national character may
be considered to have commenced about
the period of the Union ; and doubtless it
co-operated with the peace and security
arising from that happy event, in produ-
cing the extraordinary change in favour
of industry and good morals, which the
character of the common people of Scot-
land has since undergone.*

The church-establishment of Scotland
happily coincides with the institution just
mentioned, which may be called its school
establishment. The clerg}nnan being ev-
ery where resident in his particular par-
ish, becomes the natural patron and super-
intendent of the parish school, and is en-
abled in various ways to promote the com-
fort of ths teacher, and the proficiency of
the scholars. The teacher himself is
often a candidate for holy orders, w^ho,
during the long course of study and pro-
bation required in the Scottish church,
renders the time which can be spared from
his professional studies, useful to others
as well as to himself, by assuming the re-
spectable character of a schoolmaster. It
is common for the established schools,
even in the country parishes of Scotlaftd,
to enjoy the means of classical instruc-
tion ; and many of the farmers, and some
. even of the cottagers, submit to much

* See Appendix, Xa I- NotA A.

privation, that they may obtain, for one
of their sons at least, the precarions ad-
vantage of a learned education. The dif-
ficulty to be surmounted arises, indeed,
not from the expense of instructing their
children, but from the charge of support-
ing them. In the country parish schools,
the English language, writing, and ac-
counts, are generally taught at the rate
of six shillii\gs, and Latin at the rate of
ten or twelve shillings per annum. In
the towns the prices are somewhat higher.

It would be improper in this place to
inquire minutely into the degree of in-
struction received at these seminaries, or
to attempt any precise estimate of its ef-
fects, either on the individuals who are
the subjects of this instruction, or on the
community to which they belong. That
it is on the whole favourable to industry
and morals, though doubtless with some
individual exceptions, seems to be proved
by the most striking and decisive appear-
ance ; and it is equally clear,* that it is
the cause of that spirit of emigration and
of adventure so prevalent among the
Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Veru-
1am, been denominated power ; by others
it has with less propriety been denomina-
ted virtue or happiness: we may with
confidence consider it as motion. A hn- ^
man being, in proportion as he is inform-
ed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as
the means of g^ratifying those wishes.
He may be considered as taking within
the sphere of his vision a lar?e portion of
the globe on which we tread, and disco-
vering advantage at a greater distance
on its surface. His desires or ambition,
once excited, are stimulated by his ima-
gination ; and distant and uncertain ob-
jects, giving freer scope to the operation
of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind
of the youthful adventurer, an attraction
from their very distance and uncertainty.
If, therefore, a greater degree of instruc-
tion be given to the peasantry of a conn-
try comparatively poor, in the neighbour-
hood of^ other countries rich in natural
and acquired advantages ; and if the bar-
riers be removed that kept them separate,
emigration from the former to the latter
will take place to a certain extent, by
laws nearly as uniform as those by which
heat diffuses itself among surroundinj^
bodies, or water finds its level when leit
to its natural course. By the articles of
the Union, the barrier was broken down
which divided the two British nations,
and knowledge and poverty poured the

PREFATORY REMARKa

■drentaroas natives of the north over the
fertile phuns of England ;%nd more eape-
dally, over the c(3onie8 which she had
fettled in the east and west. The stream
of population continues to flow from the
noith to the south ; for the causes that
orimnally impelled it continue to operate ;
and the richer country is constantly in-
vigorated by the accession of an informed
and hardy race of men, educated in po-
ferty, and prepared for hardship and dan-
T ; patient of labour, and prodigal of

c.^

The preachers of the Reformation in
Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and
brought with them the temper as well as
the tenets of that celebrated hcresiarch.
The presbyterian form of worship and of
church government was endeared to the
people, from its being established by
themselves. It was endeared to them,
also, by the struggle it had to maintain
with the Catholic and the Protestant epis-
copal churches ; over both of which, aflcr
a hundred years of fierce and sometimes
bloody contention, it finally triumphed,
receiving the countenance of government,
and the sanction of law. During tliis
long period of contention and of suffering,
the temper of the people became more
and mote obstinate and bigoted : and the
nation received that deep tinge of fanati-
cism which coloured their public transac-
tions, as well as their private virtues,
tod of which evident traces mav bo found
ia our own times. When the public
schools were established, the instruction
communicated in them partook of the re-
ligious character of the people. The
Catechism of the Westminster Dinnes
wu the universal school-book, and was
pat into the hands of the yonng peasant
u soon as he had acqnired a knowledge
of his alphabet ; and his first exercise in
the art of reading introduced him to the
inost mysterious doctrines of the Chris-
tian faith. This practice is continued in
our own times. After the Assembly's
Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and
he New and Old Testament, follow in
*egular succession ; and the scholar de-
parts, gifted with the knowledge of the
laered writings, and receiving their doc-
trmes according to the interpretation of
the Westminster Confession of Faith.
Thus, with the instruction of infancy in
the schools of Scotland are blended the
dogmas of the national church ; and hence

* See Appendli, fCo I. Salt B.

the first and most constant exercise of
ingenuity smong the peasantry of Scot-
land is displayed in religious disputation.
With a strong attachment to the na-
tional creed, is conjoined a bigoted pre-
ference of certain forms of worship ; the
source of which could be often altogether
obscure, if we did not recollect that the
ceremonies of the Scottish Church were
framed in direct opposition, in every
point, to those of the church of Rome.

The eccentricities of conduct, and sin-
gularities of opinion and manners, which
characterized the English sectaries in the
last century, afforded a subject for the
comic muse of Butler, whose pictures lose
their interest, since their archetypes are
lost. Some of the peculiarities common
among the more ri^id disciples of Cal-
vinism in Scotland, m the present times,
have given scope to the ridicule of Bums,
wlioso humour is equal to Butler's, and
whose drawings from living manners are
singularly expressive and exact. Unfor-
tunately the correctness of his taste did
not always correspond with the strength
of his genius ; and hence some of the
most exquisite of his comic productions
are rendered unfit for the light.*

The information and the religious edu-
cation of the peasantry of Scotland, pro-
mote sedateness of conduct, and habits
of thought and reflection. — These good
qualities are not counteracted, by the es-
tablishment of poor laws, which while
they reflect credit on the benevolence,
detract from the wisdom of the English
legislature. To make a legal provision
for the inevitable distresses of the poor,
who by age or disease are rendered mca-
pable of labour, may indeed seem an in-
dispensable duty of society ; and if, in
the execution of a plan for this purpose,
a distinction could be introduced, so as
to exclude from its benefits those whose
sufferings are^roduced by idleness or
profligacy, such an institution would per-
haps be as rational as humane. But to
lay a general tax on property for the sup-
port of poverty, from whatever cause pro-
ceeding, is a measure full of danger. It
must operate in a considerable degree ta* ^
an incitement to idleness, and a tliscour
agement to industry. It takes away from
vice and indolence the prospect of their

* Holy Wiliie'8 Prayer ; Rob Uie Rliymer*e Wrl-
cooM to hie Baetard Child ; Epistle to J. Gowdio ; ihe
i Holy Tulzie, *>c.

PREFATORY REMARKS.

mofit dreaded consequences, and from
Tirtue and industry their peculiar sanc-
tions. In many cases it must render the
rise in the price of labour, not a blessing,
but a curse to the labourer ; who, if there
be an excess in what he earns beyond his
immediate necessities, may be expected
to devote this excess to his present grati-
fication ; trusting to the provision made
by law fur his own and his family's sup-
port, should disease suspend, or death
terminate his labours. Happily, in Scot-
laud, the same legislature which estab-
lished a system of instruction for the
]ioor, resisted the introduction of a legal
provision for the support of poverty ; the
establishment of the first, and the rejec-
tion of the last, were equally favourable
to industry and good morals ; and hence
it will not appear surprising, if the Scot-
tish peasantry have a more than usual
share of prudence and reflection, if they
approach nearer than persons of their
order usually do, to the definition of a
man, ihkt of '^ a being that looks before
and after." These observations must in-
deed be taken with many exceptions :
the favourable operation of the causes
just mentioned is counteracted by others
of an opposite tendency; and the subject,
if fully examined, would lead to discus-
sions of great extent.

When the Reformation was establish-
ed in Scotland, instrumental music was
banished from the churches, as savouring
too much of " profane minstrelsy." In-
stead of being regulated by an instru-
ment, the voices of the congregation are
led and directed by a person under the
name of a precentor ; and the people are
all expected to join in the tune which he
chooses for the psalm which is to be sung.
Church-muBic is therefore a part of the
education of tlie peahantry of Scotland,
in which they are usually instructed in
the long winter nights by the parish
schoolmaster, who is gcnWally the pre-
centor, or by itinerant teachers more
celebrated for their powers of voice.
This branch of education had, in the last
reifirn fallen into some neglect, but was
revived about thirty or forty years ago,
when the music itself was reformed and
improved. The Scottish system of psal-
mody iii, however, radically bad. Desti-
tute of taste or harmony, it forms a strik-
ing contrast with the delicacy and pathos
of the profane airs. Our poet, it will be
fbimd, was taught church-music, in which,
however, he made little proficiency.

That dancing ahould alio be very gene-
rally a part of tito education of the Scot-
tish peasantry, will surprise those who
have only seen this description of men :
and still more those who reflect on the
rigid spirit of Calvinism with which the
nation is so deeply afiected, and to which
this recreation is so strongly abhorrent.
The winter is also the season when they
acquire dancing, and indeed almost all
their other instruction. They are taught
to dance by persons generally of their
own number, many of whom work at dai-
ly labour during the summer months.
The school is usually a bam, and the
arena for the performers is generally a
clay floor. The dome is lighted by can-
dles stuck in one end of a cloven stick,
the other end of which is thrust into the
wall. Reels, strathspeys, country-dan-
ces, and horn-pipes, are here practised.
The jig so much in favour among the
Enghsh peasantry, has no place among
them. The attachment of the people
of Scotland of every rank, and particu-
larly of the peasantry, to this amusement,
is very great. After the labours of the
day are over, young men and women
walk many miles, in the cold and dreary
nights of winter, to these country dan-
cing-schools ; and the instant that the
violin sounds a Scottish air, fatigne seems
to vanish, the toU-bent rustic becomes
erect, his features brighten with sympa-
thy ; every nerve seems to thrill with
sensation, and every artery to vibrate
with life. These rustic performers are
indeed less to be admired for grace, than
for agility and animation, and their accu-
rate observance of time. Their modes
of dancing, as well as their tunes, are
common to every rank in Scotland, and
are now generally known. In our own
day they nave penetrated into England,
and have established themselves even in
the circle of royalty. In another gene-
ration they will be naturalized in every
part of the island.

The prevalence of this taste, or rather

Sassion for dancing, among a people so
eeply tinctured with the spirit and doc-
trines of Calvin, is one of those contra-
dictions which the philosophic observer
so often finds in national character and
manners. It is probably to be ascribed
to the Scottish music, which throughout
all its varieties, is so full of sensibihty ;
and which, in its livelier strains, awakes
those vivid emotions that find in dancing
their natural solace and relief.

PREFATORY REMARKS.

This triumph of the magic of Scotland
ower the spirit of the establiBhed reU^on,
ham not, however, been obtained without
long continued and obstinate gtrugfflefl.
Themimeroui sectaries who dissent from
the establishment on account of the re-
laxation which they perceive, or think
thej perceive, in the church, from her
oriffiBal doctrines and discipline, univer-
sal condemn the practice of dancing,
and the schools where it is taught ; and
the more elderly and serious part of the
people, of every persuasion, tolerate
rather than approve these meetings of
the young of both sexes, 'where dancing
is practised to their spirit-stirring music,
where care is dispelled, toil is forgotten,
and prudence itself is sometimes liHled to
sleep.

The Reformation, which proved fatal
to the rise of the other fine arts in Scot-
land, probably impeded, but could not ob-
struct the progress of its music : a cir-
cumstance that win convince the impar-
tial inquirer, that this music not only
existed previously to that lera, but had
taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus af-
fording a proof of its antiquity, stronger
than any produced by the researches of
ovir antiquaries.

The impression which the Scottish
mnsic has made on the people, is deepen-
ed by its union with the national songs,
of which various collections of unequal
merit are before the public. These songs,
tike those of other nations, are many of
them hiunorous ; but they chiefly treat of
love, war, and drinking. Love is the
subject of the greater proportion. With-
out displaying the higher powers of the
imagination, they exhibit a perfect know-
ledge of the human heart, and breathe a
spirit of affection, and sometimes of deli-
cate and romantic tenderness, not to be
surpassed in modem poetry, and which
the more polished strains of antiquity
have seldom possessed.

The origin of this amatory character
in the rustic muse of Scotland, or of the
grreater number of these love-songs them-
selves, it would be difficult to trace;
they have accumulated in the silent lapse
of time, and it is now perhaps impossible
to give an arrangement of them in the
order of their date, valuable as such a
record of taste and manners would be.
Their present influence on the character
of the nation is, however, great and strik-

ing. To them we must attribute, in a
great measure, the romantic passion
which so oflen characterises the attach-
ments of the humblest of the people of
Scotland, to a degree, that if we mistake
not, is seldom found in the same rank of
society in other countries. The pictures
of love and happiness exhibited in their
rural songs, are early impressed on the
mind of the peasant, and are rendered
more attractive from the music with
which they are united. They associate
themselves with his own youthful emo-
tions ; they elevate the object as well as
the nature of his attachment ; and give
to the impressions of sense the beautifbl
colours of imagination. Hence in the
course of his passion, a Scottish peasant
often exerts a spirit of adventure, of
which a Spanish cavalier need not be
ashamed. After the labours of the day
arc over, he sets out for the habitation of
his mistress, perhaps at many miles dis-
tance, regardless of the len^fth or the
dreariness of the way. He approaches
her in secresy, under the disguise of night.
A signal at the door or window, perhaps
agreed on, and understood by none but
her, gives information of his arrival ; and
sometimes it is repeated again and again,
before the capricious fair one wiU obey
the summons. But if she favours his ad-
dresses, she escapes unobserved, and re-
ceives the vows of her lover under the
gloom of twilight, or the deeper shade of
night. Interviews of this kind are the sub-
jects of many of the Scottish songs, some
of the most beautiful of which Bums has
imitated or improved. In the art which
they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ;
he knew and had practised all rts myste-
ries. Intercourse of this sort is indeed
universal even in the humblest condition
of man in every region of the earth. But
it is not unnatural to suppose that it may
exist in a greater degree, and in a more
romantic rorm, among the peasantry of a
country who are supposed to be more
than commonly instructed ; who find in
their rural songs expressions for their
youthful emotions : and in whom the em-
bers of passion are continually fanned by
the breathings of a music full of tender-
ness and sensibility. The direct influ-
ence of physical causes on the attachment
between the sexes is comparatively small,
but it is modified by moral causes beyond'
any other aflection of the mind. Of these,
music and poetry are the chief. Among
the snows of Lapland, and under the
buming sun of Angola, the savage is setn

hastening to hi8 mistress, and every where
he beguues the weariness of his journey
with poetry and song.*

In appreciating the happiness and vir-
tue of a community, there is perhaps no
single criterion on which so much dejpen-
dt^nce may be placed, as the state or the
intercourse between the sexes* Where
this displays ardour of attachment, ac-
companied by purity of conduct, the cha-
racter and the influence of women rise
in society, our imperfect nature mounts
in the scale of moral excellence ; and,
from the source of this single affec-
tion, a stream of felicity descends, which
branches into a thousand rivulets that
enrich and adorn the field of life Where
th'? attachment between the sexes sinks
into an appetite, the heritage of'uur spc
cies is comparatively poor« and man ap-
proaches the condition of the brutes that
perish. " If we could with safely indti.go
the pleasing supposition that Fingal lived
and that Ossian sung,"f Scotland, judg-
ing from this criterion, might be consi-
dered as ranking high in happ'mcss and
virtue in very remote ages. To appre-
ciate her situation by the same criterion
in our own times, would be a delicate
and a difficult undertaking. Afler con-
sidering the probable inmicnce of her
popular songH and her national music, and
examining how far tlie ellV^rts to be ex-
pected from these are snpported by facts,
the inquirer would also have to examine
the influence of other causes, and parti-
cularly of her civil and ecclesiastical insti-
t'ctio ^,by which the character, and even
the manners of a people, though silently
and slowly, arc oflen powerfully controll-
ed. In the point of view in which we
are considering the subject, the ecclesi-
astical cstabliKhments of Scotland may
be supposed peculiarly favourable to pu-
rity of conduct. The dissoluteness of
manners among the catholic clergy, which
preceded. onJ in some measure produced
the Reformation, led to an extraordinarv
strictness on the part of the reformers,
and especially in thnt particular in which
the licentiousness of the clergy had been
earned to its greatest height — the inter-
course between the soxes. On this point,
as on all others connected with austerity

* The Nortti American Indlnnn, among whom the
attadiment betw^n the vexcN U naiil to be vreak, and
love, In t)i« purer fcnimofthc word, unknown, eeimi
nearly unetniiaimr*! with the chamie of poetry and

■11146. <M Iff Us ; oirr.

t Gibbon.

PREFATORY REMARKS.

of manners, the disciples of Calvin
sumed a greater severity than those of
the Protestant episcopal church. The
punishment of illicit connexion between
the sexes, was throughout all Europe, a
province which the clergy assumed to
themselves ; and the church of Scotland,
which at the Reformation renounced so
many powers and privileges, at that pe-
riod took this crime under her more es-
pecial iurisdiction.* Where pregnancy
takes place without marriage, the condi-
tion of the female causes the discovery,
and it is on her, therefore, in the first in-
stance, that the clergy and elders of the
church exercise their zeal. After exami-
natioT' ocfore the kirk-session, touching
the circumstances of her gmilt, she must
endure a public penance, and sustain a
public rebuke from the pulpit, for three
Sabbaths successively, in the face of the
congregation to which she belongs, and
thus have her weakness exposed, and her
shame blazoned. The sentence is the
same witfi respect to the male ; but how
much lighter the punishment ! It is well
known that this areadful law, worthy of
the iron minds of Calvin and of Knox, has
oflcn led to consequences, at the very
mention of which human nature recoik

While the punishment of incontinence
prescribed by the institutions of Scotland
IS severe, the culprits have an obvious
method of avoiding it afforded them by
the law respecting marriage, the validitj
of which requires neither the ceremonies
of the church, nor any other ceremonies,
but simply the deliberate acknowledg-
ment of each other as husband and wi&,
made by the parties before witnesses, or
in any other way that gives legal evidence
of such an acknowledgment having taken
place. And as the parties themselves
fix the date of their marriage, an oppor-
tunity is thus ^ven tp avoid the punish-
ment, and repair the consequences of il-
licit gratification. Such a degree of laxi-
ty respecting so serious a contract might
produce much confusion in the descent of
property, without a still farther indul-
gence ; but the law of Scotland legiti-
matmg all children bom before wedlock,
on the subsequent marriage of their pa-
rents, renders the actual date of the mar-
riage itself of little consequence.f Mar-
riages contracted in Scotland without the
cei-emoniea of the church, are considered

* See Appendix, No. I. NouC.
t iht Appendix. No. I. Note D

PREFATORY REMARKS.

as irregulary and tlic parties usually sub-
mit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the
face of their respective congrregations,
which is not however necessary to render
tiie marriage valid. Bums, whose mar-
riage, it wul appear, was irregular, docs
not seem to have undergone this part of
the discipline of the church.

Thus, though the institutions of Scot-
land are in many particulars favourable
to a conduct among the peasantry found-
ed on foresight and reflection, on the sub-
ject of marriage the reverse of this is
true. Irregular marriages, it may be
naturally supposed, are otlen improvident
ones, in whatever rank of society they
occur. The children of such marriages,
poorly endowed by their parents, find a
certam degree of instruction of easy ac-
quisition ; but the comforts of life, and
the gratifications of ambition, they find
of more difficult attainment in their na-
tive soil ; -and thus the marriage laws of
Scotland conspire with other circumstan-
ces, to produce that habit of emigration,
and spirit of adventure, for which the
people are so remarkable.

The manners and appearance of the
Scottish peasantry do not bespeak to a
stranger the degree of their cultivation.
In their own country, their industry is
inferior to that of the same description of
men in the southern division of the island.
. Industry and the useful arts reached Scot-
land later than England ; and though
their advance has been rapid there,
the effects produced are as yet far inferior
both in reality and in appearance. The
Scottish farmers have in general neither
the opulence nor the comiorts of those of
England, neither vest the same capital
in tne soil, nor receive from it the same
return. Their clothing, their food, and
their habitations, are almost every where
inferior.* Their appearance in these
respects corresponds with the appearance
of their country ; and imder the operation
of patient industry, both are improving.
Industry and the useful arts came later
into Scotland than into England, because
the security of property came later. With
causes of internal agitation and warfare,
similar to those lY^ich occured to the
more soothem nation, the people of Scot-

* Tbew remariuare confined to the elaaof (knnen ;
the MOM correfpomdlug inferiority will not be foand In
the eoodltloo of tlm eottaftn and laboosen, nt leaat
in the trtlele of food, m thoee who eztmhie this fub-
iiet Impartially will aoon dlecorer.

land were exposed to more imminent ha-
zards, and more extensive and destruc-
tive spoliation, from external war. Oc-
cupied in the maintenance of their inde-
pendence against their more powerful
neighbours, to this were necessarily sa-
crincod the arts of peace, and at certain
periods, the flower of their population.
And wiicn the union of the crowns pro-
duced a security from national wars with
England, for the century succeeding, the
civil wars common to both divisions of the
island, and the dependence, perhaps the
necessary dcpendcnc3 of the Scotti^h
councils on thosy of the more powerful
kingdom, counteracted this disadvantage.
Even the union cf the British nations was
not, from obvious causes, immediately
followed by all llie benefits which it was
ultimately destined to produce. At length,
however, these benefits are distinctly felt,
and generally acknowledged. Property
is secure; manufactures and commerce
increasing; and agriculture is rapidly
improving in Scotland. As yet, inaeed,
the farmers are not, in general, enabled
to make improvements out of their own
capitj^s, as in England ; but the landhold-
ers, who have seen and felt the advan-
tages resulting from them, contribute
towards them with a liberal hand. Hence
property, as well as population, is nccu-
mulatina rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and
the nation, enjoying a great part of the
blessings of Englishmen, and retaining
several of their own happy institutions,
might be considered, if confidence could
be placed in human foresight, to be as
yet only in an early stage of their pro-
gress. Yet there are obstructions in their
way. To the cultivation of the soil are
opposed the extent and the strictness of
the entails ; to the improvement of the
people, the rapidly increasing use of spi-
rituous liquors,* a detestable practice,
which includes in its consequences al-
most every evil, physical and moral. The
peculiarly social disposition of the Scot-
tish peasantry exposes them to this prac-
tice. This disposition, which is fostered
by their national songs and music, is per-
haps characteristic of the nation at large.
Though the source of many pleasures, it
counteracts by its consequences the ef-

* The amoant of the dnty on ipiriti distilled in Scot-
land if now upwanl<i of iESO,flO(K. annually. In 1777, It
did not reaeb 8,0001. The rate of the dnty has indeed
been railed, but making every allowanee, the Ihcreaei*
of coaffumptloM oiu»t be enomoaa. This la Indepen*
dent of the duty on mah. Ice. malt Uqnor, hnported
•plrlta, and wlue

PREFATORY REMARKS.

feeti of their pttience, induitry, and fru-
gality, both at home and abroad, of which
thoae especially who have witnetned the
progren of Scotchmen in other coun-
tries, must have known many striking in-
stances.

Since the Union, the manners and lan-
guage of the people of Scotland have no
u>nger a stanwd among themselves, but
are tried by the standard of the nation to
which they are united. Though their
habits are far from being flexibu^, yet it
is evident that their manners and dialect
•re undergoing a rapid change. Even
the farmers of the present day appear to
have less of the peculiarities of their coun-
try in their speech, than the men of let-
ters of the last generation. Bums, who
never left the island, nor penetrated far-
ther into England than Carlisle on the
one hand, or Newcastle on the other, had
less of the Scottish dialect than Hume,
who lived for many years in the best so-
ciety of England and France : or perhaps
than Robertson, who wrote the English
language in a style of such purity ; and if
he nad been in other respects fitt^ to
take a lead in the British House of Com-
mons, his pronunciation would neither
have fettered his eloquence, nor deprived
it of its due effect.

A striking particular in the charac-
ter of the Scottish peasantry, is one
which it is hoped will not be lost — the
strength of their domestic attachments.
The privation to which many parents
•ttbmit for the good of their children, and
particularly to obtain for them instruc-
tioo, which they consider as the chief
good, has already been noticed. If their
children live and prosper, they have their
certain reward, not merely as witnessing,
but as sharing of their prosperity. Even
dk the humblest ranks of the peasantry,
the earnings of the children may gene-
rally be considered as at the disposal of
their parents ; perhaps in no countrv is so
large a portion of tne wages of labour
applied to the support and comfort of
those whose davs of labour are past. A
similar strength of attachment extends
through all the domestic relations.

Our poet partook largely of this amia-
ble characteristic of his humble compeers ;
he was also strongly tinctured with ano-
ther striking feature which belongs to
them, a partiality for his native country,
of which many proofs may be found in his

writings. TMs, it must be coofeesed, is a
very strong and general sentiment among
the natives of Scotland, differing, how-
ever, in its character, according to the
character of the different minds in which
it is found ; in some appearing a selfish
prejudice, in others, a generous affection.

An attachment to the land of their birth
is, indeed, common to aU men. It is found
among the inhabitants of every region of
^the earth, from the arctic to the antarctic
circle, in all the vast variety of climate,
of surface, and of civilization. To analyze
this general sentiment, to trace it through
the mazes of association up to the prima
ry affection in which it has its source,
would neither be a difficult nor an un-
plcasing labour. On the first considera-
tion of the subject, we should perhaps
expect to find this attachment strong in
proportion to the physical advantages of
the soil ; but inquiry, fkr from confirming
this supposition, seems rather to lead to
an opposite conclusion. — ^In those fertile
regions where beneficent nature yields
almost spontaneously whatever is neces-
sary to human wants, patriotism, as well
as every other generous sentiment, seems
weak and languid. In countries less rich-
ly endowed, where the comforts, and even
necessaries of life must be purchased by
patient toil, the affections of the mind, as
well as the faculties of the understanding,
improve under exertion, and patriotism
flourishes amidst its kindrea virtues.
Where it is necessary to combine for mu-
tual defence, as well as for the supply of
common wants, mutual good-will springs
from mutual difficulties and labours, the
social affections unfold themselves, and
extend from the men with whom we live,
to the soil on which we tread. It will per-
haps be found indeed, that our affections
cannot be originally called forth, but by
objects capable, or supposed capable, of
feeling our sentiments, and of returning
them; but when once excited they are
strengthened by exercise, they are ex-
paiided by the powers of imagination, and
seize more especially on those inanimate
parts of creation, wliich form the theatre
on which we have first felt the alternations
of joy, and sorrow, and first tasted the
sweets of sympathv and regard. If this
reasoning be just, the love of our country,
although modified, and even extinguished
in individuals by the chances and changes
of life, may be presumed, in our general
reasonings, to be strong among a people
in proportion to their social, and more

PREFATORY REMARKS.

to their domestic afiectioxu. In
free f^venmients it is found more active
than in despotic ones, because as the in-
dividual becomes of more consequence in
the community, the community becomes
of more consequence to him. In small
states it is generally more active than in
large ones, for the same reason, and also
he^use the independence of a small com-
munity being maintained with difficulty,
and frequently endangered, sentiments of
patriotism are more frequently excited.
In mountainous countries it is generally
found more active than in plains, because
there the necessities of life often require
a closer union of the inhabitants ; and
more especially, because in such coun-
tries, though less populous than plains,
the inhabitants, instead of being scattered
eoually over the whole are usually divid-
ed into small communities on the sides of
their separate valleys, and on the banks
of their respective streams; situations
well calculated to call forth and to con-
centrate the social affections, amidst sce-
nery that acts most powerfully on the
light, and makes a lasting impression on
the memory. It may also be remarked,
that mountainous countries are often pe-
culiarly calculated to nourish sentiments
of national pride and independence, from
the influence of history on the affections
of the mind. In such countries from their
natural strength, inferior nations have
maintained their independence against
their more powerful neighbours, and va-
lour, in all ages, has made its most success-
ful efforts against oppression. Such coun-
tries present the fields of battle, where
the tide of invasion was rolled back, and
where the ashes of those rest, who have
died in defence of their nation.

The operatipn of the various causes we
iiive mentioned is doubtless more general
ind more permanent, where the scenery I

of a country, the peculiar manners of its
inhabitants, and the martial achieve-
ments of their ancestors are embodied in
national songs, and united to national
music. By this combination, the ties
that attach men to the land of their birth
are multiplied and strengthened : and the
images of infancy, strongly associating
with the generous affections, resist the
influence of time, and of new impressions;
they often survive in countries far distant,
and amidst far different scenes, to the
latest periods of life, to sooth the heart
with the pleasures of memory, when
those of hope die away.

If this reasoning be just, it will explain
to us why, amon^ the natives of Scot-
land, even of cultivated minds, we so
generally find a partial attachment to the
land of their birth, and why this is so
strongly discoverable in the writiags of
Bums, who joined to the higher powers of
the understanding the most ardent affec-
tions. Let not men of reflection think
it a superfluous labour to trace the rise
and progress of a character like his.
Bom in the condition of a peasant, he
rose by the force of his mind into distinc-
tion and influence, and in his works has
exhibited what are so rarely found, the
charms of original genius. With a deep
insight into the human heart, his poe^y
exhibits high powers of imagination — it
displays, and as it were embalms, the pe-
cuhar manners of his country ; and it may
be considered as a monument, not to his
own name only, but to the expiring geni-
us of an ancient and once independent
nation. In relating the incidents of his
life, candour will prevent us from dwell-
ing invidiously on those failings which
justice forbids us to conceal; we wiO
tread lightly over his yet warm ashes,
and respect the laurels that shelter hii
untimely grave*

THE I^IFE

m<oxxmT siFmiTs^

BT DB. OIF&&XB.

Robert Bn&ira was, as is well known,
the son of a fanner in Ayrshire, and af-
terwards himself a fanner tliere; but,
naving been onsuccessful, he was about
to emigrate to Jamaica. He had previ-
ously, however, attracted some notice by
his poetical talents in the vicinity where
he hved ; and having published a small
volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this
drew upon him more general attention.
In consequence of the encouragement he
received, he repaired to Edinburgh, and
there published by subscription, an im-
proved and enlarged edition of his poems,
which met with extraordinary success.
Bv the profits arising from the sale of this
edition, he was enabled to enter on a
farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having mar-
ried a person to whom he had been long
attached, he retired to devote the remain-
der of his life to agriculture. He was
again, however, unsuccessful; and, aban-
doning his farm, he removed into the
town of Dumfries, where he filled an in-
ferior office in the excise, and where he
terminated his life, in July 1796, in his
thirty-eighth year.

The strength and originality of his ge-
nius procured him the notice of many
{persons distinguished in the republic of
etters, and, among others, that of Dr.
Moore, well known for liis Views of Soci-
ety cuid Manners on the Continent of Eu-
rope, Zelttcoy and various other works.
To this gentleman our poet addressed a
letter, alter his first visit to Edinburgh,
giving a history of his life, up to the pe-
riod of his writing. In a composition
never intended to see the light, elegance,
or perfect correctness of composition will
not be expected. These, however, will
be compensated by the opportimity of
seeing our poet, as he gives the incidents

of his life, unfold the peculiarities of his
character with all the careless vigour and
open sincerity of his mind.

Mauckliney 2d Augwi^ 1787.

"Sib,

" For some months past I have been
rambling over the country ; but I am now
confined with some lingering complaints,
originating, as I take it, in the stomach
To divert my spirits a little in this miae
rable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim
to give you a history of myself. My
name has made some little noise in this
country ; you have done me the honour
to interest yourself very warmly in my
behalf; and I think a faithful account oi
what character of a man I am, and how
I came by that character, may perhaps
amuse you in an idle moment. I will
give }rou an honest narrative ; though I
know it will be often at my own expense ;
for I assure you, Sir, I have, like Solo-
mon, whose character, excepting in the
trifling affair of towdom, I sometimes think
I resemble — ^I have, I say, like him, fum-
ed my eyes to behold madness and foUy^
and, like him, too frequentlv shaJcen hanos
with their intoxicating iriendship.* * ♦
After you have perused these pages,
should you think them trifling and imper^
tinent, I only beg leave to tell 3rou, that
the poor author wrote them under some
twitching qualms of conscience, arising
from suspicion that he was doing what
he ought not to do : a predicament' he has
more than once been in before.

" I have not the most distant pretensions
to assume that character which the pye-
coated guardians of escutcheons call a
Gentleman. When at Edinburarh last
winter, I got acquainted in the Herald*a
Office ; and, looking through that granary

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

of honoan, I there found almost every
name in the kingdom ; but for me,

" My ancient but ignoble blooi)
Has crept thro* acoundrelf ever rinre the flood.**

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c. quite dis-
owned me.

" My father was of the north of Scot-
land, the son of a fanner, and was thrown
by early misfortunes on the world at large;
where, after many years' wanderings and
eojournings, he picked up a pretty large
quantity of observation and expf»rience,
to which I am indebted for most of my
little pretensions to wisdom. I have mot
with few who understood meriy their man-
nerij and their iray#, equal to him ; but
stubborn, ungainly integrity, and head-
long, ungovernable irascibility, arc dis-
quiuifying circumstances ; consequently 1
was bom a very poor man's son. For the
first six or seven years of my life, my fa-
ther was gardener to a worthy gentleman
of small estate in the neighbourhood of
Ayr. Had he continued in that station,
I most 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 iQ his power to keep his children under
bii own eye till they could discern be-
tween good and evil ; so with the assist-
Mce of his generous master, my father
▼entored on a small farm on his estate.
At those years I was by no means a fa-
▼ottrite with any body. I was a good
deal Doted for a retentive memory, a stub-
^m, sturdy something in my disposition,
ttd an enthusiastic iaeot* piety. I say
iihoC piety, because I was then but a
child. Though it cost the schoolmaster
■ome thrashings, I made an excellent
^lish scholar ; and by the time I was
|en or eleven years of age, I was a critic
is substantives, verbs, and particles. In
Diy in&nt and boyish days, too, I owed
o^uch to an old woman who resided in the
family, remarkable for her ignorance, cre-
dulity and superstition. She had, I sup-
pose, the largest collection in the country
of tales and songs, concerning devils,
Ifbosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war-
locks, spunkics, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-
lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, gi-
ants, enchanted towers, dragons, and
other trumpery. This cultivated the la-
tent seeds of poetry ; but liad so strong an
effect on my imagination, that to this hour,
in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep
a sharp look-oat in suspicious places: and

•Idiot/M>ld«oile

though nobody can be more sceptical than
I am in such matters, yet it often takes an
effort of philosophy to shake off these idle
terrors. The earliest composition that I
recollect taking pleasure in, was The Vi-
fion of J\Iirza, and a hymn of Addison's,
beginning, IIow are thy servanli bletty O
Lord I I particularly remember one half-
stanza, which was music to my boyish
ear —

" For tlinugh on dreadful whlrta we hung
Ili^h on the broken wato — "

I met with these pieces in Mason's Eng-
fuh CoUertion^ one of my school-books.
The two first books I ever read in private,
and which gave me more pleasure than
any two books I ever read since, were
The Life of iJnnnihal^ and The History of
Sir William Wallare. Hannibal gave
my young ideas such a turn, that I used
to strut in raptures up and down afler the
recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish
myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while
the story of Wallace poured a Scottish
prejudice into my veins, which will boil
along there till the flood-gates of life shut
in eternal rest.

" Polemical divinity about this time was
putting the country half-mad ; and I, am-
bitious of shining in conversation parties
on Sundays, between sermons, at fune-
rals, &c. used, a few years afterwards, to
puzzle Calvinism with sp much heat and
indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry
of heresy against me, which has not ceas*
ed to this hour.

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some ad-
vantage to me. ]\Ty social disposition,
when not checked by some modifications
of spirited pride, was, like our catechism-
definition of infinitude, withotit hounds or
limits. I formed several connexions with
other younkers who possessed superior
advantages, the youn^linff actors, who
were busy in the rehearsal of parts in
which thoy 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 im-
mense distance between them and tlieir
ragged play-follows. It takes a few
dashes into the world, to give the young
great man that propor, decent, unnoticing
disregard for the poor, insignificant, stu-
pid devils, the mechanics and peasantry
around him, who were picrhaps born in
the same village. My young supcriora
ne\cr insulted the rlonlrrly appearance of

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

my ploughboy carcass, the two extremes
or which were often exposed to all the in-
clemencies of all the seasons. They would
grive me stray volumes of books ; among
them, even then, I could pick up some ob-
servations ; and one, whose heart I am
sure not even the Munny Be scum 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 mis-
fortune, we fell into the hands of a factor,
who sat for the picture I have drawn of
one in my Tale of Tvoa Dof^t, 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 plough-
man, 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 com. A novel writer might
perhaps have viewed these scenes with
some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my
indignation yet boils at the recollection
of the 6 ^1 factor's insolent threat-
ening letters, which used to set us all in
tears.

" This kind of life — ^the cheerless gloom
of a hermit) with the unceasing moil of a
galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth
year ; a little before which period I first
committed the sin of Rhyme. You know
our country custom of coupling a man
and woman together as partners in the
labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au-
tumn my partner was a bewitching crea-
ture, 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^ tweel^ tonne kus. In short, she
altogether, unwittingly to herself, initia-
ted me in that delicious passion, which in
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse
pnidence, and book-worm philosophy, I
hold to be the first of human joys, our
dearest bleising here below ! How she
caught the contagion I cannot tell : you
memcal people talk much of infection from
breathing the same air, the touch, dtc. ;

but I never expressly said I lored 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 iEolian 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 favourite reel,
to which I attempted giving an embodied
vehicle in rhyme. 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 com-
posed by a small coimtry laird*s son, on
one of his father's maids, with whom he
was in love ! and I saw no reason why I
might not rhyme as well as he ; fi)r, ex-
cepting that he could smear sheep, and
cast peats, his father living in the moor-
lands, he had no more scholar-craft than
myself.*

" Thus with me began love and poetry :
which at times have been my only, and
till within the last twelve months, have
been my highest enj03rment. My fathei
struggled on till he reached the freedom
in his lease, w^hen 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 litUe ready mo-
ney into his hands at the commencement
of his lease, otherwise the afi%iir would
have been impracticable. For four yeaw
we lived comfortably here ; but a difier-
ence commencing between him and his
landlord as to terms, after three years
tossing and whirling in the vortex of liti-

fation, my father was just saved from the
errors of a jaU by a consumption, which,
after two years* promises, kindly stepped
in, and carried him away, to where the
wicked ceattfrom troublinff^ and the weary
are at rett.

'*< It is during the time that we lived od
this farm, that my little storj is most
eventful. I was, at the beginning of this
period, perhaps the most ungain^, awk-
ward boy in the parish — ^no eoHtaire was
less acquainted with the wap of the
world. What I knew of ancient story
was gathered from Saiman*9 and Gi#-
thrie'9 geographical grammars ; and the

* See AppendiXi No. It Noct A.

THE LIFE OF BURNS

i4et0 1 had formed of modern manners, of
titeratare, and criticism, I got from the
SfiOaior* These with Pope't Work*,
some plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dick-
mm on Agriculture, The Pantheoriy Locke's
Euay an the Human Understanding, Stack-
haute* 9 History of the Bible, Justice's Brit-
ish Oardener's Directory, Boyle's Lee-
tmres^ Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's
Seripiure Doctrine (^Original Sin, A Se-
lect ColUc^on of English Sons:s, and Her-
sey'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,
•oDff by song, verse by verse : carefully
notmg the true tender, or sublime, frvim
affectation and fustian. I aui ronrinced
I owe to this practice much of my critic
craft, 0uch as it is.

" In my seventeenth year, to give my
nanners a brush, I went to a country
dancing school. My father had an unac-
cooDtable antipathy against these meet-
ings; and my goin^ was, what to this
OHHnent I repent, m opposition to liis
wi^es. My father, as I said before, was
rabject to strong passions ; from that in-
•tance of disobedience in me he took a
sort of dislike to me, which I believe was
one canse of the dissipation which mark-
ed my succeeding years. I say dissipa-
tion, comparatively with the strictness
and sobriety, and regularity of presbyte-
rian coontry life ; for though the Will o*
Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were
almost the sole lights of my path, yet ear-
If ingrained piety and virtue kept me for
•eversl years afterwards within the line
of innocence. The great misfortune of
my life was to want an aim. I had felt
esrly some stirrings of ambition, but they
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cy-
clop roand the walls of his cave. I saw
my father's situation entailed on me per-
petnal labour. The only two openings by
which I could enter the temple of For-
tune, was the gate of niggardly economy,
or the path of little clucaning bargain-
making. The first is so contract^ an
aperture, I never could squeeze myself
into it ;---the last I always hated-— there
was contamination in the very entrance !
Thos abandoned of aim or view in life,
with a strong appetite for sociabDity, as
well from native hilarity as from a pride
ci observation and remark ; a constitu-
tioaal melancholy or hypochondriasm that
mde me fly from solitude ; add to these
incentives to social life, my reputation for

bookish knowledge, a certain wild logi-
cal talent, and a stren^h of thought,
something like the rudmients 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 to-
gether, there was I among them. But far
beyond all other impulses of my heart,
was un penchant a I'adorable moitie du
genre humain. My heart was completely
tinder, and was eternally lighted up by
some pfoddess or other ; and as in every
other warfare in this world, my fortune
was various, sometimes I was received
with favour, and sometimes I was morti-
fied with a repulse. At the plough, scythe,
or reaping hook, I feared no competitor,
and thus I set absolut** want at defiance ;
and as I never cared farther for my liv-
bours than while I was in actual exercise,
I spent the evenings in the way after my
own heart. A country lad seldom carries
on a love-adventure without an assisting
confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zea^
and intrepid dexterity, that recommended
me as a proper second on these occasions ;
and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in
being in the secret of half the loves of the
parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman
in knowing the intrigues of half the courts
of Europe. The very goose feather in my
hand seems to know instinctively the well
worn path of my imagination, the favour-
ite theme of my song : and is with diffi-
culty restrained from giving you a couple
of paragraphs on the love-adventures of
my compeers, the humble inmates of the
farm-house, and cottage ; but the grave
sons of science, ambition, or avarice, bap-
tize these things by the name of Follies.
To the sons and daughters of labour and
poverty, they are matters of the most se-
rious nature ; to them, the ardent hope,
the stolen interview, the tender farewell,
are the greatest and most delicious parts
of their enjoyments.

" Another circumstance in my life which
made some alterations in my mind and
manners, was that I spent my nineteenth
summer on a smuggling coast, a good
distance from home at a noted school, to
learn mensuration, surveying, dialling,
dtc. in which I made a pretty good pro-
gress. But I made a greater progress in
the knowledge of mankind. The con-
traband trade was at that time very suc-
cessful, and it sometimes happened to me
to fall in with those who carried it on.
Scenes of swaggering, riot and roaring

THE LIFE OP BURNa

diflsipation 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 sun entered Virgo, a
month w^hich is always a carnival in my
bosom, when acharniing./Uette who lived
next door to the school, overset hiy tri-
gonometry, and set me off at a tangent
from the sphere of my studies. I, how-
ever, struggled on with my »rine$ and eo-
tines for a few days more ; but stepping
into the garden one charming noon to
take the sun*s altitude, tnere I met my
angel,

*< LOw Proierplne gathering flowers,
Benelf a fairer flower *'

a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took
up one or other, as it suited the moment-
ary tone of the mind, and dismissed the
work as it bordered on fatigue. My pas-
sions, when once lighted up, raged Uke so
many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ;
and then the conning over my verses, like
a spell, soothed all mto quiet ! None of
the rhymes of those days are in print, ex-
cept JFintery a Dirge^ the eldest of my
printed pieces ; The Death of Poor Mai'
lie, John Barleycorn^ and songs first, se-
cond, and third. Song second was the
ebullition of that passion which ended the
forementioned scnool-business.

" It was in vain to think of doing any
more good at school. The remaining
week I staid, I did nothing but craze the
faculties of my soul about her, or steal
out to meet her ; and the two last nights
of my stay in the country, had sleep been
a mortal sin, the image of this modest and
innocent girl had kept me guiltless.

" I returned home very considerably
improved. My reading was enlarged with
the very important addition of Thomson's
and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen hu-
man nature in a new phasis ; and I en-
gaged several of my school-fellows to
keep up a literary correspondence with
me.' This improved me in composition.
I had met with a collection of letters by
the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I
pored over them most devoutly ; I kept
copies of any of my own letters that pleas-
ed me ; and a comparison between them
and the composition of most of my corres-
pondents, flattered my vanity. I carried
this whim so far, that though I had not
three farthings' worth of business in the
world, yet almost every post brought me
as many letters as if I had been -a broad
plodding son of day-book and ledger.

*^ My life flowed on much in the same
course till my twenty-third year. Vwe
V amoury et vwe la hagaJtelley were my
Folo principles of action. The addition
of two more authors to my library gave
me great pleasure ; Sterne and JPKenzie
— TrUtram Shandy and Tfie Man of Feel-
inff — were my bosom favourites. Poesy
was still a darling walk for my mind ; but
it was only indulged in accoriing to the
humour of the hour. I had D<iually half

" My twenty-third year was to me an
important era. 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 w^e were
giving a welcome carousal to the new
year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ash-
es ; and I was lefl 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 ; ana to crown my
distresses, a be'tle fille whom I adored,
and who had pledged her soul to meet
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me,
with peculiar circumstances of mortifica-
tion. The finishing evil that brought up
the rear of this infernal file, was my con-
stitutional melancholy, being increased to
such a degree, that for three months T
was in a state of mind scarcely to be en-
vied by the hopeless wretches who have
got their mittimus — Depart from me, ye
accursed !

" Prom this adventure I learned some-
thing of a town life ; but the principal
thing which gave my mind a turn, wo* a
friendship I formed with a young fellow,
a very noble character, but a hapless son
of misfortune. lie was the son of a sim-
ple mechanic; but a great man in the
neighbourhood taking him under his pa-
tronage, 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 fortune, a
little before I was acquainted with him,

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

he had been set on shore by an American
prirateery on the wild coast of Connaught,
stripped of every thin^. I cannot quit this
poor fellow's story without adding, that
he is at this time master of a lar^ West-
Indiaman belonging to the Thames.

" His mind was fraught with indepen-
dence, magnanimity, and every manly
virtae. I loved and admired him to a de-
gree of enthusiasm, and of course strove
to imitate him. In some measure I suc-
ceeded; 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,
winch hitherto I had regarded with hor-
ror. Here his friendship did me a mis-
chief; and the consequence was that soon
after I resumed the plough, I wrote the
Pii€i'9 Welcome.* My reading only in-
creased, while in this town, by two stray
Tolomes of Pamela^ and one of Ferdinand
Catmi Faihomy which gave me some idea
of novels. Rhyme, except some religious
fneces that are in print, I had given up ;
bat meeting with Ferguton't Scottish Po-
nw, I strung anew my wildly sounding
hfre with emulating vigour. When my
father died, his all went among the hell-
hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ;
but we made a shifl to collect a little mo-
ney in the family amongst us, with which,
to keep us together, my brother and I
took a neighbouring farm. My brother
nranted my hair-brained imagination, as
wen as my social and amorous madness ;
but, in good sense, and every sober quali-
fication, he was far my superior.

" I entered on this farm with a full re-
solution. Come, go to, 1 will be wise ! I
read farming books ; I calculated crops :
I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite
citke denil, and the world, and theJUsh, I
believe I should have been a wise man ;
but the first year, from unfortunately buy-
ing bad seed, the second, from a late har-
v^t, we lost half our crops. Tins over-
set all my wisdom, and I returned, like
ike dog to his vomii, and the sow that was
washed^ to her wallowing in the mire.f

I now began to be known in the neigh-

* Rob Um Hhf mcr*t Wekosw jo his Butard Child
1 See Appendii, No. 11. Note B

bourhood oS a maker of rhymes. The
first of my poetic oiTspring that saw the
light, was a burlesque lamentation on a
quarrel between two reverend Calvinists,
both of them dramatis persona in my
Holy fair. I had a notion mjrself, that
the piece had some merit ; but to prevent
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend
who was very fond of^ such things, and
told him that I could not guess who was
the author of it, but that I thought it
pretty clever. With a certain descrip-
tion of the clergy, as well as laity, it met
with a roar of applause. Holy IFillie^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 profane rhvmers.
Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me
on another side, within point-blank, shot
of their heaviest metal. This is the un-
fortunate story that gave rise to my print-^
cd poem, 77ie LamerU, This was a most
melancholy affair, 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 reckoning of
Rationality.* I gave up my part of the
farm to my brother ; in truth it was only
nominally mine; and made what little
preparation was in my power for Jamaica.
But before leaving my native country for
ever, I resolved to publish my poems. I
weighed my productions as impartially as
was in* my power ; I thought they had
merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I
should be called a clever fellow, even
though it should never reach my ears —
a poor negro driver ; — or perhaps a vic-
tim to that inhospitable clime, and gone
to the world of spirits ! I can truly say,
that paiwre inconnu as I then was, I had
pretty nearly as high an idea of myself
and of my works as I have at this mo-
ment, when the public has decided in
their favour. It ever was my opinion,
that the mistakes and blunders, both in
a rational and religious point of view, of
which we see thousands daily guilty, are
owing to their ignorance of themselves.
To luiow myself had been all along my
constant study. I weighed myself uone ;
I balanced myself with others ; I watch-
ed every means of information, to see how
much ground I occupied as a man and as
a poet ; I studied assiduously Nature's
design in my formation — where the lights

" An e>rlanAtion of tlilf will b« found heceaftci

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

and shades in my character were intend-
ed. I was pretty confident my poems
would meet with some applause ; hut, at
the worst the roar of the Atlantic would
deafen the voice of censure, and the no-
velty of West Indian scenes make me
forgot nefflect. I threw off six hundred
copies, or which I had crot suhscriptions
for about three hundred and fifty. — My
vanity was highly gratified by the recep-
ticm I met with from the public ; and be-
sides I pocketed, all expenses deducted,
nearly twenty pounds. This sum came
very seasonably, as I was thinking of in-
denting myself, for want of money to pro-
cure my passage. As soon as I was mas-
ter of nine gumcas,*the price of wafling
me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage-
passage in the first ship that was to sail
from the Clyde ; for,

" Ilungry niio had me in the whid.**

** I had been for some days skulking
from covert to covert, under all the ter-
rors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people
had uncoupled the merciless pack of the
law at my heels. I had taken the fare-
well of my few friends ; my chest was on
the road to Greenock ; I had composed
the Tast' song I should ever measure in
Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering
fatty 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
80 much, that away I posted for that city,
without a single acquaintance, or a sin-
gle letter of introduction. The baneful
star which had so long shed its blasting
influence in my zenith, for once made a
revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Pro-
vidence placed me under the patronage
of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of
Glencairn. Oublie moi. Grand Dieu, 9i
jamaii je Vmiblie !

" I need relate no farther. At Edin-
burgh 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. Whether I have pro-
fited, time will show.

4k Ifr « * >;« 1: »( *

"My most respectfbl compliments to

Miss W. Her very elegant and friendly
letter I cannot answer at present, at my
presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I
set out to-morrow."*

At the period of our poet's death, his
brother, Gilbert Bums, was ignorant that
he had himself written the foregoing nar-
rative of his life while in Ayrshire ; and
having been applied to by Mrs. Diulop
for some memoirs of his brother, he com-
plied with her request in a letter, from
which the following narrative is chiefly
extracted. When Gilbert Bams after-
wards saw the letter of our poet to Dr.
Moore, he made some annotations upon
it, which shall be noticed as we proceed.

Robert Bums was bom on the 35th day
of January, 1759, in a small house aboitt
two miles from the town of Ajrr, and with-
in a few hundred yards of AUoway church,
which his poem of Tbm o* Shanier has
rendered immortal.f The name which
the poet and his brother modernized into
Bums, was originally Bumes, or Bumea.
Their father, William Bumes, was the
son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and
had received the education common in
Scotland to persons in his condition of life ;
he could read and write, and had aome
knowledge of arithmetic. His family
having fallen into reduced circumstances,
he was compelled to leave his home in his
nineteenth year, and turned his steps to-
wards the south in quest of a livelihood.
The same necessity attended his elder
brother Robert. *' I have often heard
my father," says Gilbert Bums, in his
letter to Mrs. Dunlop, ** describe the an-
guish of mind he felt when they parted
on the top of a hill on the confines of their
native place, each going off his i^veral
way in search of new adventures, and
scarcely knowing whither he went. My
father undertook to act as a gardener,

* There Brn various copies of this letter in Ibe tn-
tlK)r*s baud- writing; and one of theee, evidently cor-
rected, ia in the book in which he had eo|iied wreral
of Ills lotten. Tlii« has been used for the press, with
some omissions, and one slight alteratiou sncfesied by
Gilbert Bams.

t Tills tioQse is oo the right-hand aide of the mad
from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part of the road
from Glasgow to Port-Patrick. When the poet*t fa-
ther afterwards removed to Tarbolton pariah, be soM
his leasehold right in this house, and a few acres ot
land adjoining, to the corporatioo of ibocaiBktn In Ayr
It is now a country alt-liouse.

THE LIFE OP BURNS

and shaped his course to Edinburgh,
where he wrought hard when he could get
vorky passing through a variety of difli-
cnlties. Still, however, he endeavoured
to spare something for the support of his
aged parents : and I recollect hearing
bun mention his having sent a bank-note
for this purpose, when money of that kind
wat 80 scarce in Kincardineshire, that
they scarcely knew how to employ it
when it arrived." From Edinburgh,
William Burnes passed westward into
the county of Ayr, where he engaged
himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly,
wiUi whom he lived two years; then
changing his service for that of Crawford
of Doonsidc. At length, being desirous
of settling in life, he took a perpetual
lease of seven acres of land from Dr.
Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the
view of commencing nurseryman and
public gardener ; and having built a house
upon it with his own handS, married, in
December 1757, Agnes Brown, the mo-
ther of our poet, who still survives. The
first fruit of this marriage was Robert,
the subject of tli^se memoirs, bom on the
15th of January, 1759, as has already
been mentioned. Before William Burnes
had made much proffress in preparing his
nnrserjTf he was withdrawn from that un-
dertakmg by Mr. Ferguson, who pur-
chased uie estate of Doonholm, in the
immediate neighbourhood, and engaged
him as his gaSdener and overseer ; and
this was his situation when oiu: poet
was bom. Though in the service of Mr.
Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his
wtfe managing her family and her little
dairy, which consisted sometimes of two,
sometimes of three milch cows ; and this
state of unambitious content continued
till the year 1766. His son Robert was
sent by him in his sixth year, to a school
at Alloway Miln, about a mile distant,
taught by a person of the name of Camp-
bell ; but this teacher bein? in a few
months appointed master of the work-
house at Ayr, William Burnes, in con-
junction with some other heads of fami-
lies, engaged John Murdoch in his stead.
The education of our poet, and of his
brother Gilbert, was in common ; and of
their proficiency under Mr. Murdoch, we
have the followiuff account : '* With him
we learnt to read English tolerably well,'*'
and to write a little. He taught us, too,
the English grammar. I was too young
to profit much from his lessons in gram-

* Lttier fkom Gilbert Bonis to Mn. Dunlop.

mar ; but Robert made some proficiency
in it — a circumstance of considerable
weight in the unfolding of his genius and
character ; as he soon became remarkable
for the fluency and correctness of his ex-
pression, and read the few books that
came in his way with much pleasure and
improvement; for even then he was a
reader when he could get a book. Mur-
doch, whose library at that time had no
great variety in it, lent him The Life of
Hannibaly which was the first book he
read (the schoolbook excepted,) and al-
most the only one he had an opportunity
of reading while he was at school : for
The Life of Wallace^ which he classes
with it in one of his letters to you, he did
not sec for some years afterwards, when
he borrowed it from the blacksmith who
shod our horses."

It appears that William Burnes ap-
proved himself greatly in the service of
Mr. Ferguson, by his intelligence, indus-
try, and integrity. In conseouence of
this with a view of promoting nis inter-
est, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, of
which we have the following account :

" The farm was upwards of seventy
acres* (between eighty and ninety English
statute measure,) the rent of which was to
be forty pounds annually for the first six
years, and afterwards forty-five pounds.
My father endeavoured to sell his lease-
hold property, for the purpose of stocking
this farm, but at that time was unable,
and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred
pounds for that purpose. He removed to
his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766.
It was, I think, not above two years after
this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend,
lefl this part of the country ; and there
being no school near us, and our little
services being useful on the farm, my
father imdertook to teach us arithmetic
in the winter evenings by candle-light ;
and in this way my two eldest sisters got
all the education they received. I remem-
ber a circumstance that happened at this
time, which, though trifling in itself, is
fresh in my memory, and may serve to
illustrate the early character of my bro-
ther. Murdoch came to spend a night
with us, and to take his leave when he
was about to go into Carrick. He
brought us, as a present and memorial of
him, a small compendium of English

* Letter cf GPl^rt Biinw to Mn. Duiilop. Th«
name of Uiis farm i Mouut Oiiptaant, in Ayr pvistk

THE LIFE OF BURNS

Grammar, and the tragedy of TUut An-
drtmU-us, and by way of pasfiiiig the
evening, he began to read the play aloud.
We were all attention for some time, till
presently the whole party was dissolved
in teaffl. A female m the play (I have
but a confused remembrance of it) had
her hands chopt olf, and her tongue cut
out, find then was insultingly desired to call
fur water to wash her hands. At this, in
an agony of distress, we with one voice de-
sired he would read no more. My father
observed, that if we would not hear it out,
it would be needless to leave the play with
us. Robert replied, that if it was lefl he
would bum it. My father was going to
chide him for this ungrateful return to
his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch inter-
fered, declaring that he liked to see so
much fion.sibility ; and he lefl The School
for I^nve^ a comedy (translated I think
from the French,) in its place."*

" Nothing," contmues Gilbert Bums,
" could be more retired than our general
manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we
rarely saw any body but the members of
our own family. There were no boys of
our own age, or near it, in the neigh-
bourhood. Indeed the greatest part of
the land in the vicinity was at that time
possessed by shopkeepers, and people of
that stamp, who had retired from busi-
ness, or who kept their farm in the coun-
try, at the same time that they followed
busincFs in town. My father was for
some time almost the only companion we
had. He conversed familiarly on all sub-
jects with us, as if we had been men; and
was at great pains, while we accompanied
him in the labours of the farm, to lead

* It it to be n^nieoibered that the poet was only nine
yean of age and the relator of this incident under eight,
at the time it happened. T\\v. cflV'Ct waa very natural
in children of lenaibility at their age. At a more ma-
ture period of the Judgment, such abeurd repretenta-
tiona are calculated rather to produce di^^uat or laugh-
ter, than tears. The icene to which Gilbert Buma al-
indea, opens thus :

Titus ^ndraiuenMt Act II. Scene 5.

EnUr Uerootrltts and Clilrou, with T.avinia rantMked,
her hands cut off^ and her tongue cut euL

Why is this silly play stiU piinted as Bhaketpeare's,
against ih« opinion of all tlM best critics ? The baiti of
An>n wa« guilty of man. extravagances, but Jm; al-
ways perfurmcd what he iuieudrd to perform. That
he ever excited in • British mind (for the French cri
iloi nu-t he set a»idi>) disgiut or ridicule, where be
D*aaiu t(j have awakened piiy or horror, Is what will
not he imputed to that ma^tei oi Uie ps««iuQS

the conversation to such subjects at migfat
tend to increase our knowledge, or con-
firm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed
Salmon^s Geographical Grammar for us,
and endeavoured to make us acquainted
with the situation and history of the dif-
ferent comitries in the world ; while from
a book-society in Ayr, he procured for us
the reading of Derham's Phynco and
AttrO'ThcoioiTi/, and Hay^s JFisdom (tfGod
in the Creation^ to give us some idea of
astronomy and natural histor}'. Robert
read all these books with an avidity and
industry, scarcely to be equalled. My
father had been a Fubscriber to Stack'
house^s History of the Bible then lately
published by James Meuross in Kilmar-
nock : from this Robert collected a com-
petent knowledge of history ; for no book
was so voluminous as to slacken hia in-
dustry, or so antiquated as to damp hii
researchep. A brother of my mother,
who had lived with us some time, and
had learnt some arithmetic by winter
evening's candle, went into a bookseller**
shop in Ayr, to purchase 7%e Ready Rtc
koner or Tradesman: i mre Gmde^ and a
book to teach him to write letters. Luck-
ily, in place of The Complete LeUer-JFri-
ter^ he got by mistake a small coUection
of letters by the most eminent writers,
with a few sensible directions for attain-
ing an easy epistolary style. This book
was to Robert of the greatest oonse-

Suence. It inspired him with a strong
esire to excel in letter- writing, whileU
furnished him with models by some of
the first writers in our language.

"My brother was about thirteen or
fourteen, when my father, regretting that
w^e wrote so ill, sent us, week about,
during a summer quarter, to the parish
school of Dalrymple, which, though be-
tween two and' three miles distant, was
the nearest to us, that we might have an
opportunity of remedying this defect.
About this time a bookish acquaintance
of my father's procured us a reading of
two volumes of Richardson's Paimda^
which was the first novel we read, and
the only part of Richardson's works my
brother was acqiiainted with till towards
the period of his commencing author.
Till that time too he remained unac-
quainted with Fielding, with SmoUet,
(two volumes of Ferdkiand Count fhiham,
and two volumes of Pere/iyine Pickle ex-
cepted,) with Hume, with Robertson, and
almost all our authors of eminence of
the latci times. I recollect indeed my

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

flither borrowed a volume of English his-
tofj from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtreehill's
nraener. It treated of the reign of
James the First, and his unfortunate son,
Charles, but I do not know who was the
author ; all that I remember of it is some-
thinff of Charles's conversation with his
ehildren. About this time Murdoch, our
former teacher, after having been in differ-
ent places in the country,ana having taught
a Fchool some time in Dumfries, came to be
the ett9.blished teacher of the English lan-
guage in Ayr, a circumstance of considera-
ble consequence to us. The remembrance
iii my fatner*s former friendship, and his
attacmaent to my brother, made him do
every tbinff in his power for our improve-
ment. He sent us Pope's works, and
some other poetry, the first that we had
an opportunity of reading, excepting
what is contained in Jlie English Collec-
liofi, and in the volume of The Edinburgh
Jiagaxine for 1T72 ; excepting also ihote
eretlleni new songs that are hawked about
the country in baskets, or exposed on
stalls in the streets.

** The sommer after we had been at
Dalryraple school, m^ father sent Robert
to Ayr, to revise his English mmmar,
with nis former teacher. He had been
there only one week, when he was obli^d
to return to assist at the harvest. When
the harvest was over, he went back to
school, where he remained two weeks ;
ind this completes the account of his
school education, excepting one summer
quarter, some time afterwards, that he
ittended the imrish school of Kirk-Os-
wald, (where he lived with a brother of
my mother's,) to learn surveying.

** During the two last weeks that he
wu with Murdoch, he himself was en-
gtged in learning French, and he com-
manicated the instructions he received to
my brother, who, when he returned,
brought home with him a French diction-
try and grammar, and the Adtfeniures of
Telemaehus in the original. In a little
while, by the assistance of these books,
be had acquired such a knowledge of the
language, as to read and understand any
French author in prose. This was con-
sidered aji a 0ort of prodigy, and through
the medium of Murdoch, procured hmi
the acquaintance of several lads in Ayr,
who were at that time gabbling French,
and the notice of some families, particu-
laily tlwt of Dr. Malcolm, where a know-
Mm of French wet a recommendation.
^ F

" Observing the fkcility with which he
had acquired the French language, Mr.
Robinson the established writing-master
in Ayr, and Mr. Murdoch's particular
friend, having himself acquired a consi-
derable knowledge of the Latin language
by his own industry, without ever having
learnt it at school, advised Robert to
make the same attempt, promising him
every assistance in his power. Agreea-
bly to this advice, he purchased The Ru'
dimerUs o/* the Lcdin Tongue^ but finding
this study dry and uninteresting, it was
quickly laid aside. He frequently re-
turned to his Rudiments on any little cha-
p^in or disappointment, particularly in
his love affairs ; but the Latin seldom
predominated more than a day or two
at a time, or a week at most. Observ-
ing himself the ridicule that would at-
tach to this sort of conduct if it were
known, he made two or three humorous
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot
now recollect, but they all ended,

" So r II to my Latin tgmia.*'

<< Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a
principal means of my brother's improve-
ment. Worthy man ; though forei^ to
mj present purpose, I cannot take leave
of'^him without tracing his future history.
He continued for some years a respected
and useful teacher at Ayr, till one even-
ing that he had been overtaken in li<juor,
he happened to speak somewhat disre-
spectfully of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish
minister, who had not paid him that at-
tention to which he thought himself en-
titled. In Ayr he might as well have
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper
to give up his appointment. He went to
London, where he^still lives, a private
teacher of French. He has been a con-
siderable time married, and keeps a shop
of stationary wares.

"The father of Dr. Patterson, now
physician at Ayr, was, I believe a native
of Aberdeenshire, and was one of the es-
tablished teachers in Ayr, when my fa-
ther settled in the neighbourhood. He ear-
ly recognized my father as a fellow native of
the north of Scotland, and a certain de-
gree of intimacy subsisted between them
during Mr. Patterson's life. After his
death, his widow, who is a very genteel
woman, and of great worth, delighted in
doing what she thought her husband
woum have wished to have done, and aa-
siduously kept up her attentions to all hia

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

acquaintance. She kept alive the inti-
macy with our family, by frequently in-
viting my father and mother to her house
on Sundays, when she met them at church.

" When she came to know my bro-
ther's passion for books, she kindly offer-
ed us the use of her husband's library,
and from her we cot the Spectator^ Pope's
TratulaUon of Horner^ and several other
books that were of use to us. Mount
Oliphant, the farm my father possessed
in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very
poorest soil I know of in a state of culti-
vation. A stronger proof of this I can-
not give, than that, notwithstanding the
extraordinary rise in the value of lauds in
Scotland, it was afler a considerable sum
laid out in improving it by the proprietor,
let a few years aeo five pounds per an-
num lower than the rent paid for it by
my father thirty years ago. My father,
in consequence of this, soon came into
difficulties, which were increased by the
loss of several of his cattle by accidents
and disease. — To the buffetings of mis-
fortune, we could only oppose hard la-
bour, and the most rigid economy. We
lived very sparing. For several years
butcher's meat was a stranger in the
house, while all the members of the fami-
ly exerted themselves to the utmost of
their strength, and rather beyond it, in
the labours of the farm. My brother, at
the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing
the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the
principal labourer on the farm, for \vc had
no hired servant, male or female The an-
guish of mind we felt at our tender years,
under these straits and diHicnlties, was
very great. To think of our father grow-
ing old (for he was now above fifty*) bro-
ken down with the long continued ratigues
of his life, with a wife and five other chil-
dren, and in a declining state of circum-
stances, these reflections produced in my
brother's mind and mine sensations of the
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard
labour and sorrow of this period of his
life, was in a great measure the cause of
that depression of spirits with which Ro-
bert was so oflen afflicted through his
whole life afterwards. At this time he
was almost constantly afflicted in the even-
ings with a dull head-ache, which at a fu-
ture period of his life, was exchanged for
a palpitation of the heart, and a threat-
ening of fainting and suffocation in his
bed m the night-time.

" By a stipulation in my father's lease.

he had a right to throw it up, if he thought
proper, at the end of every sixth year.
He attempted to fix himself in a better
farm at the end of the first six years, but
failing in that attempt, he continued
where he was for six years more. He
then took the farm of Lochlca, of 130
acres, at the rent of tw^enty shillings an
acre, in the parish of Tarbolton, of Mr.
, then a merchant in Ayr, and now
(1797,) a merchant in Liverpool. He re
moved to this farm on Whitsunday, 1777,
and possessed it only seven years. No
writing had ever been made out of the
conditions of the lease ; a misunderstand-
ing took place respecting them ; the sub
jccts in dispute were submitted to arbi-
tration, and the decision involved my fa-
ther's aflairs in ruin. He lived to Imow
of this decision, but not to see any exe-
cution in consequence of it. He died on
the 13th of February, 1784.

The seven years we lived in Tarbol-
ton parish (extending from the seven
teenth to the twenty-fourth of my bro-
ther's age,) were not marked by much
literary improvement ; but, during this
time, the foundation was laid of certain
habits in my brother's character, which
afterwards became but too prominent,
and which malice and envy have taken
delight to enlarge on. Though when
young he was bashful and awkward in hia
intercourse with women, yet when he
approached manhood, his attachment to
their society became very strong, and he
was constantly the victim of some fair
enslaver. The symptoms of his passion
were oflen such as nearly to equflJ thoee
of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed
knew that he fainted, sunk^ and died away;
but the agitations of his mind and body
exceeded any thing of the kind I ever
knew in real life. He had always a par-
ticular jealousy of people who were richer
than himself, or who had more conse-
quence in life. His love, therefore, rare-
ly settled on persons of this description.
When he selected any one out of the
sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom
he should pay his particular attention, she
was instantly invested with a sufficient
stock of charms, out of a plentiful store
ot his own imagination ; and there was
often a great dissimilitude between his
fair captivator, as she appeared to others,
and as she seemed when invested with
the attributes he gave her. One g^ne-
nilly reigned paramount in his affections
but as Yorick's affections flowed out to-

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

ward Mftdam de L — at the remise door,
while the eternal vows of Eliza were
upon him, so Robert was frequently en-
countering other attractions, which form-
ed BO many underplots in the drama of
his love. As these connexions were go-
verned by the strictest rules of virtue and
modesty (from which he never deviated
till he reached his 23d year,) he became
anjdous to be in a situation to marry.
This was not likely to be soon the case
while he remained a fanner, as the stock-
ing of a farm required a sum of money
he had no probability of being master of
for a great while. He began, therefore,
to think of trying some other line of life.
He and I had for several years taken land
of my father for the purpose of raising
flax on our own account. In the course
of Belling it, Robert began to think of
turning flax-dresser, both as being suita-
ble to his grand view of settling in life,
and as subservient to the flax raismg. He
accordingly wrought at the business of a
flax-dresser in Irvine for six months, but
abandoned it at that period, as neither
agreeing with his health nor inclination.
In Irvine he had contracted some acquaint-
ance of a freer manner of thinking and
living than he had been used to, whose
society prepared him for overleaping the
bounds of ri^id virtue which had hitherto
restrained him. Towards the end of the
period under review (in his 24th year,)
and soon afler his father's death, he was
furnished with the subject of his epistle
to John Ranklin. During this period
also he became a freemason, which was
his first introduction to the life of a boon
companion. Yet, notwithstanding these
circumstances, and the praise he has be-
stowed on Scotch drink (which seems to
have misled his historians,) I do not re-
collect, during these seven years, nor till
towards the end of his commencing au-
thor Twhen his growing celebrity occa-
sioneo his being oi^en in company,) to
have ever seen him intoxicated ; nor was
he at all given to drinking. A stronger
proof of the general sobriety of his con-
duct need not be required than what I am
about to give. During the whole of the
time we lived in the farm of Lochlea with
my father, he allowed my brother and
me such wages for our labour as he gave
to other labourers, as a part of wmch,
every article of our clothing manufactured
in the family was regularly accounted for.
When my father's afiairs drew near a
eriaia, Robert and I took the farm of
Moifgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the

rent of 90/. per annum (the farm on which
I live at present,) from Mr. Gavin Ham-
ilton, as an asylum for the family in case
of the worst. It was stocked by the pro-
pertv and individual savings of the wnole
family, and was a joint concern among
us. Every member of the family was
allowed ordinary wages for the labour he
performed on the farm. My brother's
allowance and mine was seven pounds
per annum each. And during the whole
time this family concern lasted, which
was for four years, as well as during the
preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses
never in any one year exceeded his slen-
der income. As I was entrusted with the
keeping of the family accounts, it is not
possible that there can be any fallacy in
this statement in^my brother's favour.
His temperance and frugality were every
thing that could be wished.

** The farm of Mossgiel lies very high,
and mostly on a cold wet bottom. The
first four years that we were on the farm
were very frosty, and the spring was very
late. Our crops in consequence were
very unprofitable; and, notwithstanding
our utmost diligence and economy, we
found ourselves obliged to give up our
bargain, with the loss of a considerable
part of our original stock. It was during
these four years that Robert formed his
connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards
Mrs. Bums. This connexion could no longer
be concealed^ about the time we can^e
to a final determination to (juit the farm.
Robert durst not engage with his family
in his poor unsettled state, but was anx-
ious to shield his partner, by every means
in his power, from the consequence of
their imprudence. It was agreed there-
fore between them, that they should make
a legal acknowledgment of an irregular
and private marriage ; that he should go
to Jamaica to pttsh hU fortune ! and that
she should remain with her father till it
might please Providence to put the means
of supporting a family in his power.

" Mrs. Bums was a great favourite of
her father's. The intimation of a mar-
riage was the first suggestion he received
of ner real situation. He was in the
greatest distress, and fainted away. The
marriage did not appear to him to make
the matter better. A husband in Jamai-
ca appeared to him and his wife little bet-
ter than none, and an effectual bar to aiw
other prospects of a settlement in life
that their oaughter might have. TTiey

THE UFE OF BURNS.

therefore exprewed a wish to her, that
the written papers which respected the
marriage should be cancelled, and thus
the marriage rendered void. In her me-
lancholy state phe felt the deepest re-
morse at havincr brought such heavy af-
fliction on parents that loved her so ten-
derly, and submitted to their entreaties.
Their wish was mentioned to Robert.
He felt the deepest anguish of mind. He
offered to stay at home and provide for
his wife and ftimily in the best manner
that his daily labours could provide for
them ; that bcin^ the only means in his
power. Even this otier thoy did not ap-
prove of; for humble as Miss Armour's
station was, and great though her impru-
dence had been, she still, in the eyes of
her partial parents, might look to a better
connexion than that with m^ friendless
and unhappy brother, at that time without
house or biding place. Robert at length
consented to their wishes; but his feelings
on this occasion were of the most dis-
tracting nature : and the impression of
sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular
marriage they were indissolubly united.
In the state of mind which this separa-
tion produced, he wished to leave the
country as soon as possible, and agreed
with Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica
as an assistant overseer ; or, as I believe
it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate.
As he had not sufficient money to pay his
passage, and the vessel in which Dr.
Douglas was to procure a passage for him
was not expected to sail for some time,
Mr. Hamilton advised him to publish his
poems in the mean time by subscription,
as a likely way of getting a little money,
to provide him more liberally in necessa-
ries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this ad-
vice, subscription biUs were printed im-
mediately, and the printing was com-
menced at KilmamocK, his preparations
going on at the same time ror his voy-
age. The reception, however, which ms
poems met with in the world, and the
friends they procured him, made him
change his resolution of going to Jamai-
ca, and he was advised to go to Edin-
burgh to publish a second edition. On
his return, in happier circumstances, he
renewed his connexion with Mrs. Bums,
and rendered it permanent by a onion for
life.

*^ Thus, Madam, have I endearoured
to give you a simple narrative of the lead-
ing circumstances in my brother's early
lilS. The remaining part he spent in

Edinburgh, or in DomfTiesshire, and its
incidents are as well known to you at to
me. His genius having procured him
your patronage and friendship, this gave
rise to the correspondence between you,
in which, I believe, his sentiments were
delivered with the most respectfiil, but
most unreser\'cd confidence, and which
only tehninated with the last days of his
life."

This narrative of Gilbert Bums may
serve as a commentary on the precedixif
sketch of our poet's life by himself. U
will be seen that the distraction of mind
which he mentions {p, 16.) arose from the
distress and sorrow in which he had in-
volved his future wife. — The whole cir-
cumstances attending this connexion are
certainly of a very singular nature.*

The reader will perceive, from the
foregoing narrative, how much the chil
dren of William Bumes were indebted to
their father, who was certainly a man of
uncommon talents; though it does not
appear that he possessed any portion of
that vivid imagination for which the sub-
ject of these memoirs was distinguished
In page 13, it is observed by our poet,
that his father had an unaccountable an-
tipathy to dancing-schools, and that his
attending one of these brought on him his
displeasure, and even dislike. On this
Qbservation GUbert has made the follow-
ing remark, which seems entitled to im-
plicit credit: — "I wonder how Robert
could attribute to our father that lasting
resentment of his going to a dancing-
school against his will, of which he was
LDcapable. I believe the truth was, that
he, about this time began to see the dan-
gerous impetuosity of^my brother's pas-
sions, as well as lus not being amenable
to counsel) which often irritated my fa-
ther ; and wliich he would naturally think
a dancing-school was not likely to correct.
But he was proud of Robert's genius,
which he bestowed more expense in cul-
tivating than on the rest of the family, in
the instances of sending him to Ayr and
Eirk-Oswald schools; and he was greatly
delighted with his warmth of heart, and

* In page 10, the poal roentioiui hi»— *' ■kulklag fhtn
eovert to covert, ander the terror of a Jill*** The
**psek ofthe taw** wee " ancoapTed at Me lieele,** lo
oMfe him to tiaA eeenrlqr for tlw anlateMoee of hie
twin chUdrra, whom be wae aol pe ririt ie d to taglH
mete bj a nuurleeB witb tlieir mother.

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

bia converMtioBt.1 powers. He had in>
deed that dislike of duiclug-«choo]s whicli
Kobert meDtiona ; but so ai orere&me it
during Robert's first month of Bttendanco.
that he allowed all the rest of the faniiiy
that were fit for it to accompany him dn'
nag the second month. Robert excellcJ
in dancinff, and was for some time di.i-
tractedlj fond of it."

In the originftl lettecto Dr. Moore, our

C't dcecribed his ancestors ss " rentinjr
dsof the noble Keiths ofMarischal, aiid
aa having had the honour of sharing their
&te." " I do not," coutinuea he, " use-
the word honour with any reference to
political principles ; loyal and ditloijal, |
take to be merely relative terms, in that
aneuint and formidable coort, known in
thti country by the name of Club-law.
where the right ia always with the stmnir-
nt. Bat those who dare welcome ruin.
and shake hands with infamv, for wbut
they aincerely believe to be the cause <>r
their God, or their hing, are. as Mark
Antony says in Shakeiipeare of Brutns aiiH
Caaaina, honovrablemr*. Imention this
arcomatance because it threw my fathiT
on the world at large."

This paragraph has been omitted in

K'mting the fetter, at the desire ofGil-
rt Burns; audit would have been un-
neeenary to have noticed it on the pri>'
•ent occapion,had not several manuflcripi.
eopiea of that letter been in circulation.
*' 1 do not know," observes Gilbert Bum-<,

hia ancestors. — -1 believe the earl Mnris-
ehal forfeited his title and ef^tatc in 1715,
before my father was bom ; and amoiicr
a collection of parish certiticatea in hi^
potsenion, I have read one, ntatii^ that
the hearer hsd no concern in the Uit.-
tBiekfd rAtllion." On the in formation of
one, who knew William Bumes soon af-
ter he arrived in the county of Ayr, it
may be mentioned, that a report did pio-
vul, that he had taken the field with thr?
young Chevalier ; a report which the ctr*
tificate mentioned by his wn was, perhap?,
intended to counteract. Strangers from
the north, settling in the low country ol'
Scotland.were inthosedays liable to sn.i-
picioni of having been, m the familiar
phrase of tha country, " Out in the forty-
five, " (1745) especially when they hnd
any itatelineas or reserve abont them, si
waa the caw with William Bumea. It
nuef «Mly be conceived, that oar poet

would cheriah the bcUef of hia fathsr'a
having been engaged in the daring enter*
prise of Prince Charlea Edward. Tha
generous attachment, the herote valour,
and the Jinal misfortunes of the adberenta
of the house of Stewart, touched with
sympathy hia youthful and ardent mind,
and influenced his original political opi-

Tbe father of our poet is described by
one who knew him toward* the latter end
of his life, aa above the common stature,
thin, and bent with labour. Hia counte-
nance wae scrioua am] expressive, and
the scanty locks on his head were gray.
He was of a religious turn of mind, and,
as is usual among the Scottish peasantry,
a good deal conversant in speculative
theology. ThecG is in Gilbert's bands a
little manual of religious belief, in the
form of a dialogue between a father and
his son, composed by him for the use of
his'children, in which the benevolence of
bis heart seems to have led him to sotten
the rigid Calvinism of the Scottuh
Church, into something approaching to
Armininnixm. He was a devout man, and
in the practice of calling his family toge-
ther to join in prayer. It is known that
the exquisite picture, drawn in stanias

• There lianotharohRmtlonoTCinwrt Rumi ni
hlibi«liei'iiHrnU>c, In whlclmine jienniiinmb*
IntercMcd. ll ntkn u> wb«e Uu pnM ipniii ottilt
roalbTuI rrlitndL " ttj bmlkcr," u>i an\>tn Kaiat,

■1 iDdi

then nr,K mo *ou of Dr. Mikoln, vhom t biva
mcnllDnnl In nr iMUr lo Mn. Duulop. Thg tMrM,
tnrj woithr )>oun( n»n, wenl lotbe Eui India,
when he hid ■ cannitHtan In Ibe tmf : he t> ID* '
penon wIhim hean bit brmtiet uyi lite Mmg Bttnn

or Lxlr Walloce, fM u hi^hiht In ■ nftswM niMj
if iheDukeorilaiullinn, durfm ihe Amerteaawu.
I bglkni neliher of ihem in now (17VT) alive. Wi

much younfter Ihu us- I hMd ilinoil turptt [o nentlda

broUiei, ud wlUi wbom we bid ■ loniKT ud etoent
IntliiuiCT ■'>■■' *^lk "T "f 'll* ^■■■■'■i vbleh dM no.

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

zii. ziii. zit. zv. zn. and zviii. of the C^f-
tor*« Saturday ^/tgfU^ represents William
Barnes and his family at their evening
devotions.

Of a family so interesting as that which
inhabited the cottage of William Bumes,
and particularly of the father of the fami-
ly, the reader will perhaps be willing to
listen to some farther account. What
follows is given by one already mentioned
with so much honour in the narrative of
Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the precep-
tor of our poet, who, in a letter to Joseph
Cooper Walker, ]Ssq. of Dublin, author
of the Hutorical Memoirs of the Irish
Bards, and the Historical Memoirs of ths
Italian Tragedy, thus expresses himself:

*'Siii,-r-I was lately favoured with a
letter from our worthy friend, the Rev.
Wm. Adair, in which he requested me to
communicate to you whatever particulars
I could recollect concerning Robert Bums,
the Ayrshire poet. My business being at
present multifarious and harassing, my
attention is consequently so much divided,
and I am so little in the habit of express-
ing my thoughts on paper, that at this
distance of time I can give but a very im-
perfect sketch of the early part of the life
of that extraordinary ffenius, with which
alone I am acquainted.

" William Burnes, the father of the po-
et, was born in the shire of Kincardine,
and bred a gardener. He had been set-
tled in Ayrshire ten or twelve years be-
fore I knew him, and had been in the ser-
vice of Mr. Crawford, of Doonside. He
was afterwards employed as a gardener
and overseer by Provost Ferguson of
Doonholm,in the parish of Alio way, which
is now united witli that of Ayr. In this
parish, on the road side, a Scotch mile
and a half from the town of Ayr, and half
a mile from the bridge of Doon, William
Bumes took a piece of land, consisting of
about seven acres ; part of which he laid
out in garden ground, and part of which
he kept to graze a cow, &.c. still continu-
ing in the employ of Provost Ferguson.
Upon this little farm was erected an hum-
ble dwelling, of which William Bumes
was the architect. It was, with the ex-
' ception of a little straw, literally a taber-
nacle of clay. In this mean cottage, of
which I myself was at times an inhabitant,
I realhr believe there dwelt a larger por-
tion of content than in any palace in Eu-
rope. The CoUer'9 Saturday JTtght will

give some idea of the temper and nwii-
ners that prevailed there.

** In 1765, about the middle of March,
Mr. W. Bumes came to Ayr, and sent to
the school where I was improving in wri-
ting, under my good friend Mr. Robinson,
desiring that I would come and speak to
him at a certain inn, and bring my writ-
ing-book with me. This was immediately
complied with. Having examined my
writing, he was pleased with it— (you will
readily allow he was not difficult,) and
told me that he had received very satis-
factory information of Mr. Tennant, the
master of the English school, concerning
my improvement in English, and his me-
thod of teaching. In the month of May
following, I was engaged by Mr. Bumes,
and four of his neighbours, to teach, and
accordingly began to teach the little
school at AUoway, which was situated a
few yards from the argillaceous fabric
above-mentioned. My five employers un-
dertook to board me by turns, and to make
up a certain salary, at the end of the year,
provided my quarterly payments from the
different pupils did not amount to that
sum.

" My pupU, Robert Bums, was then
between six and seven years of age ; his
preceptor about eighteen. Robert, and
his younger brother, Gilbert, had been
grounded a little in English before thev
wore put under my care. They both
made a rapid progress in reading, and a
tolerable progress in writing. In read-
ing, dividing words into syllables by rule,
spelling without book, parsing sentences
&.C. Robert and Gilbert were generally at
the upper end of the class, even when
ranged with boys by far their seniors
The books most commonly used in the
school were the Spelling Book, the JWio
Testament, the Bihle, Mason's Collection
of prose and verse, and Fisher's English
Orammar. They committed to memory
the hymns, and other poems of that c«»l-
lection, with uncommon facility. This
facility was partly owing to the method
pursued by their father and me in instmct-
ing them, which was, to make them tho
roughly acquainted with the meaning of
every word in each sentence that was to
be committed to memory. By the by,
this may be easier done, and at an earlier
period than is generally thought. As soon
as they were capable of it, I taught them
to turn verse into its natural prose order ;
sometimes to substitute synonymous e^

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

yre— lonn fbr poetical words, iuid to sup-
ply all the ellipses. These, you know,
are the means of knowing that the pupil
uadcTstands his author. These are ex-
cellent helps to the arrangement of words
in sentences, as well as to a variety of
expression.

" Gilbert always appeared to me to
possess a more lively ima^nation, and to
be more of the wit than Robert. I at-
tempted to teach them a little church-
mosic : Iffere they were left far behind by
all the rest of the school. Robert's car,
in particular, was remarkably dull, and
his voice untimablc. It was long before
1 could get them to distinguish one tune
fnm another. Robert's countenance was
geaerally grave, and expressive of a se-
lioas, contemplative, and thoughtful mind.
Gilbert's face said, Mirth^ wUh thee I mean
tolwe; and certainly, if any person who
knew the two boys, had been asked which
of them was most likely to court the
Dues, he would surely never have guess-
ed that Robert had a propensity of that
kind.

" In the year 1769, Mr. Burnes quitted
019 mud edifice, and took possession of a
fami (Mount Oliphant] of his own im-
proving, while in the ser\nce of Provost
Ferguson. This farm being at a consider-
able distance from the school,* the boys
could not attend regularly ; and some
changes taking place among the other
•npporters of tie school, I left it, having
continued to conduct it for nearly two
Jears and a half.

"In the year 1772, I was appointed

(being one of five candidates who were

^:uLmined) to teach the English school at

Ayr; and in 1773, Robert Burns came to

^oard and lodge with me, for the purpose

^f revising the English grammar, &c. that

Ae might be better qimlified to instruct

His brothers and sisters at home. He

^as now w^ith me day and night in school,

%.t all meals, and in all my walks. At the

^nd of one week, I told him, that as he

"Vras now pretty much master of the parts

^f speech, d&c. I should like to teach him

Something of French pronunciation ; that

Vhen he should meet with the name of a

French town, ship, officer, or the like, in

the newspapers, he might be able to pro-

tionnce it something like a French word.

Robert was glad to hear this proposal,

and immediately we attacked the French

with great courage.

*< Now there* was little else to be heard
but the declension of nouns, the conjuga-
tion of verbs, Sic. When walking toge*
ther, and even at meals, I was constantly
telling him the names of different objects,
as they presented themselves, in French;
so that he was hourly laying in a stock of
words, and sometimes little phrases. In
short, he took such pleasure in learning,
and I in teaching, that it was difficult to
say which of the two was most zealous
in the business ; and about the end of the
second week of our study of the French,
we began to read a little of the Adven-
tures ^ Telemachut, in Fenelon*B own
words.

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant
began to whiten, and Robert was sum-
moned to relinquish the pleasing scenes
that surrounded the grotto of Calypso ;
and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory
by signalizing himself in the fields of Ce-
res — and so he did ; for although but
about fifteen, I was told that he perform-
ed the work of a man.

" Thus was I deprived of my vei^ apt
pupil, and consequently agreeable com-
panion, at the end of three weeks, one of
which was spent entirely in the study of
English, and the other two chiefly in that
of French. I did not, however, lose sight
of him ; but was a frequent visitant at his
father's house, when I had my half-holi-
day ; and very often went, accompanied
with one or two persons more intelligent
than myself, that good William Bumes
might enjoy a mental feast. Then the
labouring oar was shifted to some other
hand. The father and the son sat down
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation,
wherein solid reasoning, sensible remark,
and a moderate seasoning of jocularity,
were so nicely blended as to render it pa-
latable to all parties. Robert had a hun-
dred questions to ask me about the French,
&c. ; and the father, who had always ra-
tional information in view, had still some
?[uestion to propose to my more learned
i'iends, upon moral or natural philosophy,
or some such interesting subject. Mrs.
Bumes too was of the party as much as
possible ;

' But still the houfe afTairB would draw her thence,
Which ever as she could with baste deepatch,
She*d come ncain, and with a greedy ear,
Devour up their discourse.* —

and particularly that of her husband. At
all times, and in all companies, she listen-

THE LIFE OF Bn&N&

ti to Urn with ft more tiurked Bttcatian
thul to uif body elae. When andet lh«
necessity of being abieut while he wb~-
■peaking, she seemed to regret, a* » rrnj
low, ihst she had miaied what the ^i)il
man had raid. Thia worthy woinu), A j-
nes Brown, had the moat thorough estei. n >
for her husband of any woman I e\ ' r
knew- I can by no meana wonder thai
■he hirhly esteemed hhn; for 1 mys^'ll
have aiwaya conaidered William Burn>'s
u by far the beat of the human race thnl
ever I hadthe pleaaure of being acquaiiit-
ed with— and many a worthy character 1
have known. I can cheerfully join WKh
Robert, in the laat line of his epitaph (b<jr-
10 wed ttom Goldamith,]

" Aad •*«■ Ua ttl

p Iwa'd U ttitH'i Ml."

" He wai an excellent husband, if I
may judge from his aasiduoua attention
to the ease and comfort of his wortLv-
partner, and from her afiectionate bo-
na viour to him, as well as her
attention to the duties of a mother.

" He waa a tender and aSectionfttc
father; he took pleasure in leading ]il>
children in the path of virtue ; not in
drivinfr them as some parents do, to tlic?
performance of duties to which tliey thetn-
•elves are averse. He took care to find
fault but very seldom; and thercfori\
when he did rebuke, he waa listened lo
with a kind of reverential awe. A loiik
ofilisapprohation was felt; a reproof wn<;
aeverely ao ; and a alripe with the taiei.
even on the akirt of the coat, gave heart-
felt pain, produced a loud lamentation,
and brought forth a flood of tears.

"He had the art of gaining the eateem
and good-will of those that were labour-
ers under him. I think 1 never aaw him
angry but twice ; the one lime it wn»
with the foreman of the band, for not
reaping the field as he was desired ; atui
the other time, it waa with an old man,
fur uaing smutty inuendoea and doul,le
tnlendret. Were every foul mouthed old
man to receive a seasonable check in
this way, it would be to the advantafic:
of the rising generation. As he was ut
no time overbearing to inferiors, he wns
equally incapable of that passive, pitifii],
naltry spirit, that induces some people lo
ieifp boo'ng and booing in the presence of]
a great man. He always treated supe-
rior! with a becoming respect i but he
■Mver g&TS the niiaUeat enatfimgement

to ariatocTAical ■TTofuiefl. Bntlmntk
not pretend to giTe you a deacription of
all the manly qualitiea, the rational and
Christian virtnes, of the venerable WU>
liam Burnea. Time would fail me. I
shall only add, that he carefiillr practiaed
every known duty, and avoided every
thing that waa criminal; or, in the apos-
tle's words, Hertin did he txerrUt him-
ulf in Imng a life toid of offence loteard*
God and toicardi men. O for a world at
men of such dispoaitiooa ! We should
then have no wars. I have ofleA wished,
for the good of mankind, that it were aa
customary to honour and perpetuate the
memory of those who excel in moral rec-
titude, as it is to extol what are called
heroic actions: then would the mauaoleum
of the friend of my youth overtop and sor-
pasa most of the monumenta I ae* in
Westminiter Abbey.

" Although I cannot do joatice to tlia
character of this worthy man, yet yon
will gerceive from these few particnlan,
what kind of person had the principal
hand in the education of our poet. He
spoke the Eneliah language with more
propriety (both with respect to diction
and pronunciation,] than any man I ever
knew with no greater advantage*. Thia
had a very good effect on the boys, who
began to talk, and reason like men, much
BOoner than their neighbours. I do not
recollect any of their contemporaries, at
my htile seminary, who aflerwarda made
any great figure, as literary cbaractera,
except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain
to Colonel Fiillartoa's regiment, and who
is ROW in the East indies. He is a man
of genius and learning ; yet affable, and
free from pedantry.

" Mr. Buniee, in a short time, found
that e had over-rated Mount Olij^ant
and that he could not rear hia ntime
family upon it. After being there a
years, he removed to Lochlea, in the
parish of Tarbolton, where, I believe, Ro-
bert wrote moat of hia poems.

" But here, Sir, you will permit me to
pause. I can tell you but little more rela-
tive to our poet. I shall, however, in my
neict, send you acopy of one of his letters
to me, about the year 1783. I received
one since, but it la mialaid. Pleaae re-
member me, in the best manner, to my
worthy friend Hr. Adair, when yon ■««
him, or write to him.

" Hart-ttrett, Bk/omtbtaySqitar*,
Londoii, fVi. n, 1TS9 -

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

As the narratiTe of Gilbert Bnrns was
Rmtten at a time when he was ignorant
if the existence of the preceding narra-
tive of his brother, so this letter of Mr.
Murdoch was written without his having
any knowledge that either of his pupi£
had been employed on the same subject.
The three relations serve, therefore, not
merely to illustrate, but to authenticate
each other. Though the information
thev convey might have been presented
within a shorter compass, by reducing the
whole into one unbroken narrative, it is
■cftTcely to be doubted, that the intelli-
gent reader will be far more gratified by
ft sight of these original documents them-
■elTes.

Under the humble roof of his parents,
it appears indeed that our poet had great
advantages ; but his opportunities of in-
formation at school were more limited as
to time than they usually are among his
countrymen in his condition of life ; and
the acquisitions which he made, and the
poetical talent which he exerted, under
the pressure of early and incessant toil,
and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutri-
ment, testify at once the extraordinary
force and activity of his mind. In his
frame of body he rose nearly to five feet
ten inches, and assumed the proportions
that indicate agility as well as strength.
In the various labours of the farm he ex-
celled all his competitors. Gilbert Bums
declares that in mowing, the exercise that
tries all the muscles most severely, Ro-
bert wn the only man, that at the end of
a summer's day he was ever obliged to
acknowledge as his master. But though
our poet gave the powers of his body to
the abours of the farm, he refused to be-
stow on them his thoughts or his cares.
While the ploughshare under his guidance
passed through the sward* or the grass
fell under the sweep of his scythe, he was
humming the songA of his country, musing
on the deeds of ancient valour, or wrapt
in t e allusions of Fancy, as her enchant-
ments rose on his view. Happily the
Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man
and beast rest from their labours. On
this day, therefore, Bums could indulge
in a free intercourse with t e charms of
nature. It was his deli|^t to wander
alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose
stream is now immortal, and to listen to
the song of the blackbird at the close of
the sunmier's day. But still greater was
his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in
walking on the sheltered side of a wood,

P 2

in a cloudy wmter day, and hearing the
storm rave among the trees ; and more
elevated still his delight, to ascend some
eminence during the agitations of nature ;
to stride along its summit, while the
lightning flashed around him ; and amidst
the howTings of the tempest, to apostro-
phize the spirit of the storm. Such situ-
ations he declares most favourable to de-
votion. — *^ Rapt in enthusiasm, I 6e3m
to ascend towards Him who vDalk$ on the
toinfft of ike trintlt!'' If other proofs were
wanting of the character of his genius,
this might determine it. The heart of
the poet is peculiarly awake to every im-
pression of beauty and sublimity ; but,
with the higher order of poct% the beau-
tiful is less attractive than the sublime.

Thegayety of many of Bums's writings,
and the lively, and even cheerful colour-
ing with which he has portrayed his own
character, may lead some persons to sup-
pose, that the melancholy which hung
over him towards the end of his days was
not an original part of his constitution.
It is not to be doubted, indeed, that this
melancholy acquired a darker hue in the
progress of his life ; but, independent of
nis own and of his brother's testimony,
evidence is to be found among his papers,
that he was subject very early to those
depressions of mind, which are perhaps
not wholly separate from the sensibility
of genius, but which in him rose to an
uncommon degree. The following letter,
addressed to his father, will serve as a
proof of this obe^ervation. It was written
at the time when he was learning the
business of a flax-dresser, and is dated.

Irvine^ December 27, 1781.
" HoNoi^RED 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
lis, that I do not choose to be absent on
that accoimt, as well as for some other
little reasons, which I shall tell you at
meeting. My health is nearly the same
as when you were here, only my sleep is
a little sounder ; and, on the whole, I am
rather better than otherwise, though I
mend by very slow degrees. The weak-
ness of my nerves has so debilitated my
mind, that I dare neither review past
wants, nor look forward into futurity ;
for the least anxiety or perturbation in
my breast, produces most unhappy effects
on my whole frame. Sometmies, in-
deed, when for an hour or two my spirits

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

lon^ remember it with pleasure, and de-
light." To this preamble are subjoined
the rules and regulations.*

The philosophical mind will dwell with
interest and pleasure, on an institution
that combined so skilfully the means of
' instruction and of happiness, and if ^an-
dcur look down with a smilo on these
simple annals, let us trust that it will be a
smile of benevolence and approbation. It
is with regret that the sequel of the his-
tory of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton
must be told. It survived several years
after our poet removed from Ayrshire,
but no longer sustained by his talents, or
cemented by his social affections, its meet-
ings lost much of their attraction ; and at
length, in an evil hour, disscntion arising
amongst its members, the institution was
ffiven up, and the records committed to
tne flames. Happily the preamble and
the regulations were spared ; and as mat-
ter of instruction and of example, they
are transmitted to posterity.

After the family of our bard removed
from Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of
Mauchline, he and his brother were re-
quested to assist in forming a similar in-
stitution there. The regulations of the
club at Mauchline were nearly the same
as those of the club at Tarbolton : but one
laudable alteration was made. The fines
for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been
spent in enlarging their scanty potations ;
at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money
80 arisinor, should be set apart for the pur-
chase or books, and the first work pro-
cured m this manner was the Jfirror, the
separate numbers of which were at that
time recently collected and published in
volumes. After it, followed a number of
other works, chiefly of the same nature
and among these the lAntnffer. The so-
ciety of Mauchline still subsists, and ap-
peared in the list of subscribers to the
first edition of the works of its celebrated
associate.

The members of these two societies
were originally all young men from the
country, and chiefly sons of farmers ; a
description of persons, in the opinion of
our poet, more agreeable in their man-
ners, more virtuous in their conduct, and
more susceptible of improvement, than
the self-sufficient mechanics of country-
towns. With deference to the conver-

•ForwhlebsM ^ppndiz, X0, II. JV«« C

sation society of Mauchline, it may be
doubted, whether the books which thej
purchased were of a kind best adapted to
promote the interest and happiness of
persons in this situation of life. The
Mirror and the Lounger^ though works
of great merit, may be said, on a general
view of their contents, to be less calcu-
lated to increase the knowledge, than to
refine the taste of those who read them ;
and to this last object, their morality it-
self, which is however always perfectly
pure, may be considered as subordinate*
As works of taste, they deserve great
praise. They are, indeed, refined to a
high degree of delicacy ; and to this cir-
cumstance it is perhaps owing, that they
exhibit little or nothing of tne peculiar
manners of the age or country in which
they were produced. But delicacy of
taste, though the source of many plea-
sures, is not without some disadvantages ;
and to render it desirable, the posseaeor
should perhaps in all cases be raised above
the necessity of bodily labour, unless in-
deed we should include under this term
the exercise of the imitative arts, over
which taste immediately presides. Deli-
cacy of taste may be a blessing to him
who has the disposal of his o^^-n time, and
who can choose what book he shall read^
of what diversion he shall partake, and
what company he shall keep. To men
so situated, the cultivation of taste aflbrds
a grateful occupation in itself, and opens
a path to many other gratifications. To
men of genius, in the possession of opu-
lence and leisure, the cultivation of the
taste may be said to be essential ; since
it afibrds employment to those faculties,
which without employment would destroy
the happiness of the possessor, and cor-
rects that morbid sensibility, or, to use
the expressions of Mr. Hume, that deli-
cacy or passion, which is the bane of the
temperament of genius. Happy had it
been for our bard, after he emerged from
the condition of a peasant, had the deli-
cacy of his taste equalled the sensibility
of his passions, regulating all the eflTusions
of his muse, and presiding over all his so-
cial enjoyments. But to the thousands
who share the original condition of Burns,
and who are doomed to pass their lives in
the station in which they were bom, de-
licacy of taste, were it even of easy attain-
ment, would, if not a positive evil, be at
least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of
taste may make many necessary labours
irksome or disgusting ; and should it ren-
der the cultivator of the soil unhappy in

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

lBintaation,it preflentinomeani by which
that situation may bo improTed. Taste
and literature, which diffuse so many
charms throughout society, which some-
times secure to their votaries distinction
while living, and which still more fre-
quently obtain for them posthumous fame,
seldom procure opulence, or even inde-
pendence, when cultivated with the ut-
most attention ; and can scarcely be pur-
sued with advantage by the peasant in the
short intervals of leisure which his occu-
pations allow. Those who raise them-
selves from the condition of daily labour,
are usually men who excel in the practice
of some useful art, or who join habits of
industry and sobriety to an acquaintance
with some of the more common branches
of knowledge. The penmanship of But-
terworth, and the arithmetic of Cocker,
may be studied by men in the humblest
walks of life; and they will assist the
peasant more in the pursuit of indepen-
dence, than the study of Homer or of
Shakspeare, though he could comprehend,
tnd even imitate the beauties of those im-
mortal bards.

These observations are not offered with-
OQt some portion of doubt and hesitation.
The subject has many relations, and would
jostify an ample discussion. It may be ob-
served, on the other hand, that the first
step to improvement is to awaken the de-
sire of improvement,' and that this will be
most effectually done by such reading as
interests the heart and excites the imagi-
nation. The greater part of the sacred
writings themselves, which in Scotland
are more especially the manual of the
poor, come under this description. It
may be farther observed, that every hu-
man being, is the proper judge of his own
happiness, and within the path of inno-
cence, ought to be permitted to pursue it.
Since it is the taste of the Scottish pea-
Btntry to give a preference to works of
taste and of fancy,'*' it may be presumed
they find a superior gratification in the
perusal of such works ; and it may be
added, that it is of more consequence they
ahonld be made happy in their original
condition, than furnished with the means,
or with the desire of rising above it. Such
considerations are douotless of much
weighty nevertheless, the previous reflec-

In WTeral lift! of brtok-toetotta among the poorer
CiMMs In BcotUnd which the editor hM Men, woriDi of
lUe deeeriptloa fbno • gTMU pvt Tbcie eoekeclee mre
by no ■eini geoeral, and Htonoc Mppoeod thu they
■re taoiMlng at praMttU

tions may deserve to be examined, and
here we shall leave the subject.

Though the records of the society at
Tarbolton are lost, and those of the soci-
ety at Mauchline have not been transmit-
ted, yet we may safely affiin), that our
poet was a distinguished member of both
these associations, which were well cal-
culated to excite and to develop the pow-
ers of his mind. From seven to twelve
persons constituted the society of Tarbol-
ton, and such a number is best suited to
the purposes of information. Where this
is the object of these societies, the num-
ber should be such, that each person may
have an opportunity of imparting his sen-
timents, as well as of receiving those of
others ; and the powers of private con-
versation are to be employed, not those of
public debate. A limited society of this
kind, where the subject of conversation is
fixed beforehand, so that each member
may revolve it previously in his mind, is
perhaps one of the happiest contrivances
hitherto discovered for shortening the ac-
quisition of knowledge, and hastening the
evolution of talents. Such an association
re<}uires indeed somewhat more of regu-
lation than the rules of politeness estab-
lish in common conversation ; or rather,
perhaps, it requires that the rules of po-
litenesG, which in animated conversation
are liable to perpetual violation, should
be vigorously enforced. The order of
speech established in the club at Tarbol-
ton, appears to have been more regular
than was required in so small a society;*
where all that is necessary seems to be
the fixing on a member to whom every
speaker shall address himself, and who
shall in return secure the speaker from in-
terruption. Conversation, which among
men whom intimacy and friendship have
relieved from reser^'e and restraint, is li-
able, when lefl to itself, to so many in-
equalities, and which, as it becomes ra
pid, so oflen diverges into separate and
collateral branches, in which it is dissi
pated and lost, being kept within its chan-
nel by a simple limitation of this kind,
which practice renders easy and familiar,
flows along in one full stream, and be-
comes smoother, and clearer, and deeper,
as it flows. It may also be observed, that
in this way the acquisition of knowledge
becomes more pleasant and more easy,
from the gradual improvement of the fa-
culty employed to convey it. Though

* Bee Appendix, No> O. Mole C

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

some attention has been paid to the elo-
quence of the senate and the bar, which
in this, as in all other free ffovemments,
is productive of so much influence to the
few who excel in it, yet little regard has
been paid to the humbler exercise of
speech in private oonversation ; an art
that is of consequence to every descrip-
tion of persons under every form of go-
vernment, and on which eloquence of eve-
ry kind ought perhaps to be founded.

The first requisite of every kind of elo-
cution, a distinct utterance, is the off-
spring of much time and of long prac-
tice. Children are always defective
in clear articulation, and so are young
people, though in a less degree. What
IS called slurring in speech, prevails with
some persons throu|^h life, especially in
those who are taciturn. Articulation
does not seem to reach its utmost degree
of distinctness in men before the age of
twenty, or upwards ; in women it reaches
this point somewhat earlier. Female oc-
cupations require much use of speech be-
cause they are duties in detail. Besides,
their occupations being generally seden-
tary, the respiration is left at liberty.
Their nerves being more delicate, their
sensibility as well as fancy is more live-
ly ; the natural consequence of which is,
a more frequent utterance of thought, a
greater fluency of speech, and a distinct
articulation at an earlier agfe. But in men
who have not mingled early and familiar-
ly with the world, though rich perhaps in
knowledge, and clear in apprehension, it
is often painful to observe the difficulty
with which their ideas are communicated
by speech, through the want of those ha-
bits that connect thoughts, words, and
sounds together ; which, when establish-
ed, seem as if they had arisen spontane-
ously, but which, in truth, are the result
of long and painful practice ; and when
analyzed, exhibit the phenomena of most
curious and complicated association.

Societies then, such as we have been
describing, while they may be said to put
each member in possession of the luiow-
ledge of all the rest, improve the powers
of utterance ; and by the collision of opi-
nion, excite the faculties of reason and
reflection. To those who wish to improve
their minds in such intervals of labour as
the condition of a peasant allows, this
method of abbreviating instruction, may,
under proper regulations, be highly use-
fuL To Um student, whose opinions,

springing out of solitary obsenration ax
meditation, are seldom in the first ii
stance correct, and which have, notwitl
standing, while confined to himself, a
increasing tendency to assume in his ojk
eye the character of demonstrations, a
association of this kind, where they ma
be examined as they arise, is of the a
most importance; since it may prevei
those illusions of imagination, by whic
genius being bewildered, science is ofte
debased, and error propagated throug
successive generations. And to men wl
have cultivated letters, or general scienc
in the course of their education, but wt
are engaged in the active occupations i
life, and no longer able to devote to stud
or to books the time requisite for improi
ing or preserving their acquisitions, asst
ciations of this kind, where the mind ma
unbend from its usual cares in discussioi
of literature or science, aflbrd the mot
pleasing, the most useful, and the moi
rational of gratifications.*

Whether in the humble societies <
which he was a member. Burns acquire
much direct information, may perhaps b
questioned. It cannot however be doubt
ed, that by collision, the faculties of hi
mind would be excited ; that by practic
his habitd of enunciation would be es
tablishcd ; and thus we have some expls
nation of that early command of word
and of expression which enabled him t
pour forth his thoughts in language nc
unworthy of his genius, and which, of a
his endowments, seemed, on his appeal
ance in Edinburgh, the most cxtraordi
nary.f For associations of a literary na

* When letten and phihwophj were cultivated i
ancient Greece, tlie press had not multiplied tlie table
of learning and science, and necessity produced Ui
habit of studying as it were in common. Poets wai
found reciting their own yerses in public aawmbUei
in public schools only philosophers delivered their pp*
culations. The taste of the hearerv, the ingcnolty t
the scholars, were employed In appreciating and ezj
mining the worlcs of fancy and of speculation subml
ted to their consideration, and the irr€V0cahU tton
were not given to the world before the composition, i
well as the sentiments, were again and again retouchc
and improved. Death alone put the last seal on tk
labours of genius. Hence, perhaps, may be In part ei
plained the extraordinary art and skill with which th
monuments of Grecian literature that remaina to m
appear to have been constructed.

t It appears that our Poet made more ptvparatlo
than might be supposed, for the discussion of the ao^
tj of Tarboiton. There were found aoma detaclie
memoranda, evidently prepared for these meetiiigi
and, amongst others, the haadii of a aoeecb on the qu«

TUB LIFE OF BURNS.

tan, oor poot acquired a eomiderable re-
Bib ; and happy ntA it been for him, af-
ter l|e emerged from the condition of a
peasant, if fortune had permitted him to
OiioT them in the degree of which he wu
capable, io as to have fortified his princi'
pie* of virtue by the puriiicatiaa of his
taate; and given to the energies of hia
mind habits of exertion that might have
ezdaded other associations, in which il
mnst be acknowledged they were too of-
ten waited, aa well as debased.

The whole course of the Ayr is fine;
hit the banks of that river, u it bends tc
the eastward above Mauchline, are sin.
pdariy beautiful, and they were frequent-
ed, as may be imagined, by our poet in
Uiaohtary walks. Here the muse oflen
nritedhim. Id one of these wanderings,
ha met among the woods a celebrated
beauty of the west of Scotland: a lady,
tf whom it is said, that the charnis of her
vatoa correspond with the character uf
Dcr mind. This incident gave rise, as
■^t be expected, to a poem, of which
in account will be found in the following
Mter, in which he inclosed it to the ob-
JBCt oir his iDBpiratiou :

7b Mis*

Mougiel, 18th Jfovemher, 17E6.

"Had'am, — PocEb are such outr6 be-
tngs, BO much the children of wayward
Eucyand capricious whim, that 1 believe
tka world generally allows them a larger
Itiitade in the laws of propriety, than the
sober SODS of judgment and prudence. I
■entioa this as an apology for the liber-
tiea that a nameless stranger has taken
*ith yon in the inclosed poem, which he
begs leave to present you with. Whe-
ther it has poetical merit any way wor^y
ofthe theme, I am not the proper judge;
bat it isthebest my abilities can produce;
ud, what to a good heart will perhaps

toB SMnUoDed In p. S9, In wblcti, u mlibl )wf ipeelEd,
WukaUMAnpnJcat ildaodlHqunlion. TMfol
■>■)■( Bar itm u ■ hnhar ipeclnita ol (Ito qun-
inH datelAl In th« madtlj ix Tartelun !~ mttJitr dt
H tfB^t (wrl kKffiiuMM from lact tr friniiiUf }
WinHlitr ttlmiim jiindl, »U km u rrun U dtuM

ntCkr il tkt wmft lu., ST tAi rrtml efrn elrlliinf

mr ■« r/Uj {«Hr roil 1/ U/i UcliMi K tt ii^

" The sccnciT was nearly taken from

real life, though I dare say, Madam, you do
not recollect it, as 1 bohcve you scarcely
noticed the poetic retmr as be wandered
by you. I had roved out as chance di>
rectcd, in the favourite haunts of my
muse on ihe banks of the Ayr, to view
nature in all the gayety of the vernal
year. The evening Eun was flaming over
the distant western hills; not a breath
stirred the crimson opening blossom, or
the verdant spreading leaT— It was ft

e olden moment for a poetic heart. I
stened to the feathered warblers, pour>
ing their harmony un every hand, with a
congenial kindred regard, and frequently
turned out of my path, lest I should dis-
turb their little songs, or frighten them
to another station. Surely, said I to my-
self, he must be a wretch indeed, who,
regardless of your harmonious endea-
vours to pleaao him, can eye your elusive
flights to discover your secret reccsEes,
and to rob you of all the property nature
gives you, your dearest comforts, your
helpless nestlings. Even the hoary haw-
thorn twig tliat shot across the way,
Mhat heart at such a time but must
have been interested in its welfare
and wished it preserved from the rudely
browsing cattle, or the withering eastern
blast.' 9uch was the scene — and such
the hour, when, in a comer of my pros-
pect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of
Nature's workmanship that ever crowned
a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye:
those visionary bards excepted who hold
commerce with aerial beings! Had Ca-
lumny and Villany taken my walk, they
had at that moment sworn eternal peace
ith such an object.

" What on hour of inspiration for a
poet ! It would have raised plain, dull,
historic prose into metaphor and mea-

Theenclosedsong* was the work ofmy
im home ; and perhaps it but poorly
wcrs what might have been expected
from such a scene.

" I have the honour to be, Madam,
Your most obedient,

and very humble servant,

" ROBEKT BuRKi."

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

own manners and appoarance ezeeedinif
every expectation that could have been
formed of them, he soon became an object
of general curiosity and admiration. The
following circumstance contributed to
this in a considerable degree.^At the
time when Bums arrived in Edinburgh,
the periodical paper, entitled 7^ Ixnm-
ger^ was publishmg, every Saturday pro-
ducing a successive number. His poems
had attracted the notice of the gentlemen
engaged in that undertaking, and the
ninety -seventh number of those unequal,
thoiiflfh frequently beautiful essays, is de-
voted to •^n Accotmi of Robert Bum$y the
Ayrthirt Ploughmany xcith extract* from
hit Poemty written by the elegant pen of
Mr. Mackenzie.* J%e Lounger had an
• extensive circulation among persons of
ta5to and literature, not in Gotland only,
but in various parts of England, to whose
acquaintance therefore our bard was im-
mediately introduced. The paper of Mr.
Mackenzie was calculated to introduce
him advantageously. The extracts are
well selected ; the criticisms and reflec-
tions are judicious as well as generous ;
and in the style and sentiments there is
that happy delicacy, by which the writings
of the author, are so eminently distin-
guished The extracts from Bums's
poems in the ninety-seventh number of
The Lounger were copied into the Lon-
don as wcU as into many of the provin-
cial papers, and the fame of our bard
spread throughout the island. Of the
manners, character, and conduct of Burns
at this period, the following account has
been given by Mr. Stewart, Professor of
Moral Philosophy in the university of
Edinburgh, in a letter to the editor,
which he is particularly happy to have
obtained permission to insert in these
memoirs.

" The first time I saw Robert Bums
was on the 23d of October, 178«, when
he dined at my house in Ayrshire, to-

S!ther with our common friend Mr. John
ackenzie, surgeon, in Mauchline, to
whom I am indebted for the pleasure of
his acquaintance. I am enabled to men-
tion the date particularly, by some verses
which Bums wrote after he returned
lioroe, and in which the day of our meet-
ing is recorded. — My ezcelfent and much

• Thto paper kubem atlribatad, bot Improp«l7, to
Lord Cralff, ooa of Um Scoltiih JndfM, Mttbor oTUm
vcrytntenMliig aeeouat of Michael Brace In Uie aSlh
mimbeff tf Tkt Jfkrwr.

lamented friend, the late Baril, Lord
Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the
same day, and by the kindness and frank-
ness of his manners, left an impresejipon
the mind of the poet, which never wu
effaced. The verses I allude to are
among the most imperfect of his pieces ;
but a few stanzas may perhaps be an ob-
ject of curiosity to you, both on account
of the character to which they relate, and
of the light which they throw on the situ-
ation and feelings of the writer,' befora
his name was known to the public.*

" I cannot positively say at this dis-
tance of time, whether at the period of
our first acquaintance, the Kilmaniock
edition of his poems had been just polH
lished, or was yet in the press. I suspect
that the latter was the case, as I dsts
still in my possession copies in his owi
hand writing, of some of his favooriU
performances ; particularly of his ler
ses '* on turning up a Mouse with bis
plough ;** — " on the Mountain Daisy •"
and '* the Lament." On my return to
Edinburgh, I showed the volume, ind
mentioned what I knew of the author^
history to several of my friends : and,
amonjF others, to Mr. Henry MackenuBt
who first recommended him to public no-
^ce in the 97th number of The Lmrngtr^

" At this time Bums*s prospects in life
were so extremely gloomy, tiiat he had
seriously formed a plan of goin^ cot to
Jamaica in a very humble situation, sol
however without lamenting that his went
of patronage should force him to think of
a project so repugnant to his feelingt,
when his ambition aimed at no hi||her an
object than the station of an ezcisemaB
or ganger in his own country.

*' His manners were then, ts they eon-
tinned ever afterwards, simple, manly,
and independent ; strongly expreesive of
conscious genius and worth ; but without
any thing Uiat indicated forwardness, ar
rogance, or vanity. He took his share in
conversation, but not more than belonged
to him ; and listened with apparent atten*
tion and deference on subjects where his
want of education deprived him of the
means of information. If there had been
a little more gentleness and accommoda-
tion in lus temper, he would, I think,
have been still more interesting; but he

• 8efiih«pcM>meotKM*'Uiiao«aBlsttrvlsWirllk
I«ord DiMr**— PoMM, p. 77.

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

had been accuBtomed to gire law in the
circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and
Ids dread of any thing approaching to
meanness or servility, rendered his man-
ner somewhat decided and hard. No-
thing, perhaps, was more remarkable
imong his various attainments, than the
fluency, and precision, and originality of
his language, when he spoke in company;
more particularly as he aimed at purity
b his turn of expression, and avoided
Biore successfully than most Scotchmen,
the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology.

** He came to Edinburgh early in the
irinter following, and remained there for
•ereral months. By whose advice he
look this step, I am unable to say. Per-
laps it was suggested only by his own
mriosity to see a little more of the world;
mt, 1 confess, I dreaded the consequen-
:es from the first, and always wished that
lis ponuits and habits should continue
'hb aune as in the former part of life ;
with the addition of, what 1 considered
la then completely within his reach, a
good ikrm on moderate terms, in a part
of the country agreeable to his taste.

^ The attentions he received during his
Hay in town, from all ranks and descrip-
UcNiB of persons, were such as would have
tamed any head but his own. T cannot
tty that I could perceive any unfavoura-
Ue eflect which they left on his mind.
He retained the same simplicity of man-
Ben and appearance which had struck
■e so forcibly when I first saw him in the
eoontry ; nor did he seem to feel any ad-
fitional self-importance from the number
nd rank of his new acquaintance. His
IreM was perfectly suited to his station,
[ilainy and unpretending, with a sufficient
itt«ition to neatness. If I recollect right
M always wore boots ; and, when on
Bore than usual ceremony, buck-skin
imcoes*

** The rariety of his engagements, while
■ Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing
nm 00 often as I could have wished. In
he eourse of the spring he called on me
nee or twice, at my request, early in the
Boming, and walked with me to Braid-
db, in the neighbourhood of the town,
vhen be charmed me still more by his
itifate conversation, than he had ever
looe in company. He was passionately
and of the beauties of nature ; and I re-
iolleet once he told me when I was ad-
■irinf 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, Uke himself, the hap-
piness and the worth which they con-
tained.

** In his political principles he was then
a Jacobite ; which was perhaps owinff
partly to this, that his father was originalh
ly from the estate of Lord Mareschall.
Indeed he did not appear to have thought
much on such subjects, nor very consis-
tently. He had a very strong sense of
religion, and expressed deep regret at the
levity with which he had heard it treated
occasionally in some convivial meetings
which he frequented. I speak of him as
he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; for after-
wards we met but seldom, and our con-
versations turned chiefly on his literary
projects, or his private affairs.

*' I do not recollect whether it appears
or not from any of your letters to me,
that you had ever seen Bums.* If you
have, it is superfluous for me to add, that
the idea which his conversation conveyed
of the powers ofhis niind,exceeded,if possi-
ble,that which is suggested by his writings.
Among the poets whom I have happened
to know, I have been struck in more than
bne instance, with the unaccountable dis-
parity between their general talents, and
the occasional inspirations of their more
fiivourablo moments. But all the faculties
of Bums's mind were, as far I could iudj^e.
equally vigorous ; and his predilection
for poetry was rather the result of his
own enthusiastic and impassioned temper,
than of a genius exclusively adapted to
that species of composition. From his
conversation I should have pronoimced
him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk
of ambition he had chosen to exert his
abilities.

** Amonff the*subjeets on which he was
accustomed to! dwell, the characters of
the individuals vrith whom he happened
to meet, was plainly a favourite one.
The remarks he made on them were al-
ways shrewd and pointed^ though fre-
Siently inclining too much to sarcasm,
is praise of those he loved was some-
times indiscriminate and extravagant ;
but this, I suspect, proceeded rather from
the caprice and humour of the moment,
than f^om the eflTects of attachment in

•TlM Editor bai Mm aiiAcflaviiatdwMi

THE UFE OF BURNS.

blinding hia judgment. His wit was
ready, and always impressed with the
marks of a Rigorous understanding; bat
to my taste, not oflen pleaainf or happy.
His attempts at epigram, in his printed
works, are the only performances, per-
haps, that he has produced, totally un-
worthy of his genius.

"In summer, 1787, I passed some
weeks in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occa-
sionally. I think that'he made a pretty
long excursion that season to the High-
liwds, and that he also visited what Beat-
tie calls the Arcadian ground of Scot-
land, upon the banks of the Tiviot and
the Tweed.

'' I should have mentioned before, that
notwithstanding various reports I heard
during the preceding winter, of Burns's
predilection for convivial, and not very
select society, I should have concluded
in favour of his habits of sobriety, from
all of him that ever fell under my own
obaCrvok'iion. He told me indeed himself,
that the weakness of his stomach was such
as to deprive him entirely of any merit in
his temperance. I was however somewhat
alarmed about the efifect of his now compa-
ratively sedentary and luxurious life, when
he conlcsscd to me, the first night he spent
in my house afler his winter's campaign
in town, that he had been much disturbed
when in bed, by a palpitation of his heart,
which, he said, was a complaint to which
he had of late become subject.

*^ In the course of the same season I
was led by curiosity to attend for an hour
or two a Mason-Lodge in Mauchline,
where Bums presided. He had occasion
to make some short unpremeditated com-
pliments to different individuals from
whom he had no reason to expect a visit,
and every thing he said was happUy con-
ceived, and forcibly as well as fluently
expressed. If I am not mistaken, he told
me that in that village, before going to Ed-
inburghi he had belonged to a small club
of such of the inhabitants as had a taste
for books, when they used to converse
and debate oq any interesting questions
that occurred to them in the course of
their reading. His manner of speaking
in public had evidently the marks of some
practice in extempore elocution.

'' I must not omit to mention, what I
have always considered as characteristical
in a high degree of true genius, the ex-

treine facility and good-nature of iug
taste in judging of the compositions ct
others, where there was any real ground
for praise. I repeated to him many pas«.
sages of English poetry with which be
was unacquainted, and have more than
once witnessed the tears of admiration
and rapture with which he heard them.
The collection of songs by Dr. Aikin,
which I first put into his hands, he reaJ
with unmixed deli^ght, notwithstandiog
his former eflforts in that very diffim
species of writing ; and I have little doubt
that it had some effect in polishing Jus
subsequent compositions.

<* In judging of prose, I do not thbk
his taste was equally ^ound. I once reai
to him a passage or two in Frankhn'i
Works, which I thought very happily ex-
ctnitod, upon ilm model of Addison ; but
he did not appear to relish, or to perceive |
the beauty which they derived from their
exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them
with indifference, when compared with
the point, and antithesis, and quaintne0S
of Junius. The influence of this taste i^
very perceptible in his own prose com-
positions, fdthough their gpreat and vari'
ous excellences render some of thein
scarcely less objects of wonder than hi^
poetical performances. The late Dr*
Robertson used to say, that considering
his education, the former seemed to him
the more extraordinary of the two.

*' His memoi^ was uncommonly reten-
tive, at least for poetry, of which he re-
cited to me frequently long compositions
with the most minute accuracy. They
were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in
our Scottish dialect ; great part of them
(he told me) he had learned in his child-
hood from his mother, who delighted in
such recitations, and whose poetical taste,
rude, as it probably was, gave, it is pre-
sumable, the first direction to her son^i
genius.

** Of the more polished verses whidi
accidentally fell into his hands in his eariy
years, he mentioned particularly the re-
commendatory poems, by different au-
thors, prefixed to Hervey^t JHeditationi ;
a book which has always had a very wide
circulation among such of the coimtry
people of Scotland, as affect to unite
some degree of taste with their religious
studies. And these poems (although they
are certainly below mediocrity) he con-
tinued to read with a degree of rapture

THE LIFE OP BURNS

Inrcmd expression. He took notice of
^ fkct himself, as a proof how much
tke taste is liable to be influenced by acci-
deatal circumstances.

" His father appeared to me, from the
iccoont he gave of him, to have been a
mpectable and worthy character, pos-
Kned of a mind superior to what might
itave been expected from his station in
life. He ascribed much of his own prin-
6fi» and feelings to the early impros-
fioBi he had received from his instruction
•nd example. I recollect that he once
tppiied to him (and he added, that the
pimge was a literal statement of fact)
. the two last lines of the following passage
iBtlie Jdifutrel: the whole of which he
Trailed with great enthusiasm :

ItaB I beleft forfotten in the dost,

Wtan fkte, relenting, letn the flovrer revive 1
8hil Batiife*! voice, to uinn elone unjuit,

BU him, tbough doom'd to peiwh, hope to Hvcl
bk for tiiie feir virtue oft must ktrive,

With dlMppointment, pcnurjr, and paini
Ho ! Beftven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ;

And man*s majestio-bcauty bluom again,
Iright thro* the eternal year of Iove*8 triami^ant
teign.

nUtnUAsMblimef ki* simple sire had taught :
h ss9tk, Uwas ^most all the shephtrJ kn^w.

** With respect to Burns's early educa-
Hon, I cannot say any thing with certain-
ty. He always spoke with respect and
gratitude of the echoolmaptcr who had
tanffht him to read English: and who,
ilnunff in his scholar a more than ordina-
ly wdour for knowledge, had been at
pains to instnict him in the grammatical
principles of the language. lie began the
itndy of Latin, and dropt it before he had
finiwcd the verbs. I have sometimes
heard him quote a few Latin word?, such
IS mnnia vincit amnr^ &c. but thpy seem-
ed to be such as ho had caught from con-
versation, and which he repeated by roie,
I think he had a project, after he came to
Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study un-
der his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol,
one of the masters of tlie grammar-school
here ; but I do not know that he ever pro-
ceeded so far as to make the attempt.

** He certainly possessed a smattering
of French ; and, if ho had an affectation
in any thing, it was in introducing occa-
sionally a word or phrase from that lan-
ffoage. It is possible that his knowledge
inthia respect might bo more extensive
than I fluppose it to be ; but this you can

learn from his more intimate acquaint-
ance. It would be worth while to inquire,
whether he was able to read the French
authors with such facility as to receive
from them any improvement to his taste.
For my own part, I doubt it much; nor
would I believe it, but on very strong and
pointed evidence.

" If my memory does not fail me, he
was well instructed in arithmetic, and
knew something of practical geometry,
particularly of surveying — All his other
attainments were entirely his own.

" The last time I saw him was during
the winter, 1788-89,* when he passed an
evening with me at Drumseugh, in the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, where I was
then living. My friend, Mr. Alison, was
the only other person in company. I never
saw him more agreeable or interesting.
A present which Mr. Alison sent him af-
terwards of his Essays on Taste^ drew
from Burns a letter of acknowledgment
which I remember to have read with some
degree of surprise at the distinct concep-
tion he appeared from it to have formed
of the general principles of the doctrine
of association. When I saw Mr. Alison
in Shropshire last autumn, 1 forgot to in-
quire if the letter be still in existence. If
it is, you may easily procure it, by means
of our friend Mr. Houlbrooke."t

The scene that opened on our bard in
Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a
variety of other respects highly interest-
ing, OFpccially to one of his disposition of
mind. To use an expression of his own,
he found himself, " suddenly translated
from the veriest shades of life," into the
presence, and, indeed, into the society of
a number of persons, previously known to
him by report as of the highest distinc-
tion in his country, and whose characters
it was natural for liim to examine with no
common curiosity.

From the men of letters, in general, his
reception was particularly flattering. The

* Or rather 179^90. I cannot speak with confi-
dence with respect to the particular year. Some of
my other dates may possibly require correction, as I
keep no loomal of such occurrences.

« This leaer is No. CX19

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

Itte Dr. Robertson, Dr. Bkir, Dr. Gre-

Eiry, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenxie, and
r. Frazer Tjtler, may be mentioned in
tbe list of those who perceived his on-
common talents, who acknowledged more
especially his powers in conversation, and
who interested themselves in the cultiva-
tion of his ^nius. In Edinburgh, litera-
ry and fashionable society are a good deal
mixed. Our bard was an acceptable guest
in tlie gayest and most elevated circles,
and frequently received from female beau-
ty and elegance, those attentions above
all others most mtcful to him. At
the table of Lord Monboddo he was a
frequent guest ; and while he enjoyed the
society, and partook of the hospitalities of
the venerable judge, he experienced the
kindness and condescension of his lovely
and accomplished daughter. The singu-
lar beauty of this young lady was illumi-
nated by that happy expression of coun-
tenance which results trom the union of
cultivated taste and superior understand-
ing, with the finest affections of the mind.
The influence of such attractions was not
unfelt by our poet. ** There has not been
any thing like Miss Burnet, (said he in a
letter to a friend,) in all the combina-
tion of beauty, grace, and goodness the
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve,
on the first day of her existence." In his
Addresi to Edinburghy she is celebrated
in a strain of still greater elevation :

" Fahr Rornet vtrika Ui* odorinc ejre,
Heaven's beantiee on my tkncy Bhine !

[ nee tbe Sire of Love on high,
And own hia work indeed divine !**

This lovely woman died a few vears af-
terwards in the flower of youtn. Our
bard expressed his sensibility on that oc-
casion, in verses addressed to her memory.

Among the men of rank and fashion,
Burns was particularly distinguished by
James, Earl of Glencaim. On the mo-
tion of this nobleman, the Caledonian
IFuntf an association of the principal of
the nobility and gentry of Scotland, ex-
tended their patronage to our bard, and
admitted him to tlieir gay orgies. He re-
paid their notice by a dedication of the
enlarged and improved edition of his po-
ems, in which he has celebrated their pa-
triotism and independence in very ani-
mated terras.

** I congratulate my country that the
blood of her ancient neroes runs uncon-
taminated : and that, from voor courage.

knowledge, and paUie tplrit, she may ei
nect protection, wealth, and liberty. **^
May corruption shrink at your kindling
indignant fflance ; and may tyranny in thg
Ruler, and licentiousness in the People,
equally &id in you an inexorable fi)e i*^

It is to be presumed that theas gene-
rous sentiments, uttered at an era suwu*
larly propitious to independence of ena-
ractcr and conduct, were favourably n»
ceived by the persons to whom they were
addressed, and that they were echoed
from every bosom, as well as from that
of the Earl of Glencaim. This accom*
plished nobleman, a scholar, a man of taste
and sensibility, died soon aflerwards. Hid
he lived, and had his power equalled his
wishes, Scotland might still have exalted
in the genius, instead of lamenting thi
early fate of her favourite bard.

A taste for letters is not always con- |
joined with habits of temperance and re-
gularity ; and Edinburgh, at the period of
which we speak, contained perhaps an un-
common proportion of men of consider^
able talents, devoted to social excesses, in
which their talents were wasted and de-*
based.

Burns entered into several parties of t]ii#
description, with the usual vehemence of
his character. His generous affections,
his ardent eloquence, his brilliant and.
daring imagination, fitted him to be the*
idol of such associations ; and accustom-
ing himself to conversation of unlimited
range, and to festive indulgences that
scorned restraint, he gradualTy lost some

{>ortion of his relish for the more pure, but
ess poignant pleasures, to be found in the
circles of taste, elegance, and literature.
The sudden alteration in his habits of life
operated on him phvsically as well as
morally. The humble fare of an Ayr-
shire peasant he had exchanged for the
luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and
the effects of this change on his ardent
constitution could not be inconsiderable.
But whatever influence might be pro-
duced on his conduct, his excellent under-
standing suffered no corresponding de-
basement. He estimated his friencu and
associates of every description at their
proper value, and appreciated his own
conduct with a precision that mi^t ^ta

Bet ^>Hlf ithff [fff#*HI to the

THE UFE OF BURNS. 41

icope to much curious and melancholy I hit on any thing clever, my own ap-

wliection. He saw his dangrer, and at plauM will, in some measure, feast my

times formed resolutions to ffuard against vanity ; and, hedging Patrodus' and ^

it ; but he had embarked on me tide of dis- Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key

■pation, and was borne along its stream, a security, at least equal to the bosom of

any friend whatever.
Of the state of his mind at this time, an
authentic, though imperfect document re- *' My own private story likewise, my
mains, in a book which he procured in the love adventures, my rambles; the frowns
springof 1787, for the purpose, as he him- and smiles of fortune on my hardship;
sslf informs us, of recording in it what- my poems and fragments, that must never
ever seemed worthy of observation. The see the light, shaU be occasionally insert-
fUlowing extracts may serve as a speci- ed. — ^In short, never did four shillinffs
■en : purchase so much friendship, since Confi-
dence went first to market, or honesty
Edinburgh^ April 9, 1 787. was set up to sale.
** As I have seen a good deal of human
fife ID Edinburgh, a great many charac- *' To these seemingly invidious, but too
ters which are new to one bred up in the just ideas of human friendship, I would
riiades of life as I have been, I am deter- cheerfully make one exception — the con-
fined to take down my remarks on the nexion between two persons of difierent
ipot. Gray observes, m a letter to Mr. sexes, when their interests are united and
Palgrave, that * half a word fixed upon, absorbed by the tie of love —
>r near the spot, is worth a cart load of
■ecollection'. 1 don't know how it is Wbenthoorht iMetoUiouflit,«wfmmtbeUpiltp«rt,

irith the world in general, but with me, ^^ •"'> ^•^ ^^ ■P'*^ "'"^■* ^«>°» ^ "^^^

Io£| JlJJ^T^ wa5f some^'oSTto There confidence, confidence that exalU

angh With me, some one to be grave with J^T ^a^ ""^if "".S"® "'''*^' "if^i^^

D^some one to please me anS help my that endears them the more to each other's

lisirimination, with his or her owi re- hearts, unreservedly « reigns and revels. '

nark, and at times, no doubt, to admire ,^"^ ^^}? ^^ °^^ °?y ^^.^ ' J^t' k° T 'i %"

nyacutenessand penetration. The world 1^^*^' if I am wise, (which, by the by, I

ii4 BO busied with selfish pursuits, ambi- ^^^^/l^'^'ti*' Tti, P^T^'l?*^

ion, vanity, interest, or plea«ur;, that sbould be cast with the Psalmist's spar-

reiy few think it worth their while to row, « to watch alone on the house-tops. '

onake any observation on what passes "■"^** ' ^"® P^^^ *

uound them, except where that olraerva- * * * * «
tion is a sucker, or branch of the darling

^ant thev are rearing in their fancy. "There are few of the sore evils under

Nor am i sure, notwithstanding dl the the sun give me more uneasiness and cha-

i^itimental flights of novel-wnters, and grin than the comparison how a man of

the sage philosophy of moralists, whether genius, nay, of avowed worth, is received

we are capable of so intimate and cor- every where, with the reception which a

dial a coalition of friendship, as that one mere ordinary character, decorated with

man may pour out his bosom, his every the trappings and futile distinctions of

thought and floating fancy, his very in- fortune meets. I imagine a manof abili-

most souK with unreserved confidence to ties, his breast glowing with honest pride,

another, without hazard of losing part of conscious that men are bom equal, still

that respect which man deserves from giving honour to whom honour is due ; he

man ; or, from the unavoidable imperfec- meets at a great man's table, a Squire

tions attending human nature, of one day something, or a Sir somebody ; he knows

repenting his confidence. the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard,

or whatever he is, a share of his good

*' For these reasons I am determined to wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at table ;

make these pages my confidant, I will yet how will it mortify him to see a fel-

sketch every character that any way strikes low, whose abilities would scarcely have

me, to the best of my power, with un- made an eight-penny tailor, and whose .

shrinking justice. I will msert anecdotes, heart is not worth three farthings, meet

and take down remarks in the old law with attention and notice, that are with-

phrase, utHhoui feud or /awmr.— Where held from the son of genius and poverty i

THE UFS OF BURNS.

**TIm DoUe GleBcmirn hti wounded
me to the soul here, hecuM I dearly es-
teem, retpect, and lore him. He showed
■o much attention, enflrroeBiiii^ attention
one day, to the only hlockhcM at table
(the whole company consisted of hie lord-
ship, dunderpatc, and myself,) that I was
within half a point of throwing down my
gage of contomptuos defiance ; but he
shook my hand, and looked so benevolent-
ly good at parting.* God bless him!
though I should never see him more, I
shall love him unUl my dying day ! I am
pleased to think I am so capable of the
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably
deficient in some other virtues.

** With Dr. Blair I am more at my
ease. I never respect him with humble
veneration ; but wnen he kindly interests
himself in my welfare, or still more, when
he descends from his pinnacle, and meets
me on equal ground in conversation, my
heart overflows with what is called liking.
When he neglects me for the mere car-
cass of greatness, or when his eye mea-
sures the difference of our points of ele-
vation, I say to myself, with scarcely any
emotion, what do I care for him or his
pomp either ?*'

e « « « «

The intentions of the poet in procuring
this book, so fVilly descnbed bv himself,
were very imperfectly executed. He has
inserted in it few or no incidents, but
several observations and reflections, of
which the greater part that are proper
for the public eye, will be found inter-
woven in his letters. The most curious
particulars in the book are the delinea-
tions of the characters he met with.
These are not numerous ; but they are
chiefly of persons of distinction in the re-

{mblic of letters, and nothing but the de-
icacy and respect due to living charac-
ters prevents us from conmiittingthem to
the press. Though it appears that in
his conversation he was sometimes dis-
posed to sarcastic remarks on the men
with whom he lived, nothing of this kind
is discoverable in these more deliberate
efforts of his understanding, which, while
they exhibit jrreat clearness of discrimi-
nation, manitcst also the wish, as well as
the power, to bestow high and generous
praise.

As a specimen of these delineations,
we give m this edition, the character of

Dr. Blair, who has mam paid the debt of
nature, in the full confidence that this
freedom will not be fbnnd inconsistent
with the respect and veneration due to
that excellent man, the last star in the
literary constellation, by which the me-
tropolis of Scotland was, in the earlier
part of the present reign, so beantifnlly
illuminated.

'* It is not easy forming an exact judg-
ment of any one ; but, in my ofHiiion, I^.
Blair is merely an astonishingproof of what
industry and application can do. Ntto-
ral parts like his are frequently to be met
with; his vanity is proverbially known
among his acouaintance ; but he is itstly
at the head or what may be called fine
writing ; and a critic of the first, the very
first rimk in prose ; even in poetry, a bsrd
of Nature's making can only take the pst
of him. He has a heart, not of the veiy
finest water, but far from being an ordi-
nai^ one. In short, he is truly a worthy,
and most respectable character."

By the new edition of his poems. Burns
acquired a sum of money that enabled
him not only to partake of the pleasures
of Edinburgh, but to gratify a desire ho
had long entertained, of visiting those
parts of his native country, most attrac-
tive by their beauty or their grandeur ; a
desire which the return of summer nata-
rally revived. The scenery on the banks
of the Tweed, and of its tributary streams,
strongly interested his fancy; and ac-
cordingly he left Edinburgh on the 6th
of May, 1787, on a tour through a coun-
try so much celebrated in the rural songs
of Scotland. He travelled on horseback,
and was accompanied, during some part
of his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, now wri-
ter to the signet, a gentleman who en-
joyed much of his friendship and of his
confidence. Of this tour a journal re-
mains, which, however, contains only oc-
casional remarks on the scenery, and
which is chiefly occupied with an account
of the author's different stages, and with
his observations on the various characters
to whom he was introduced. In the
course of this tour he visited Mr. Ainslie
of Berry well, the father of his companion ;
Mr. Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to
whom he carried a letter of introduction
from Mr. Mackenzie ; the Rev. Dr. Som-
merville of Jedburgh, the historian ; Mr.
and Mrs. Scott of Wauchope; Dr. Elliot.

""•■^^niovempn"- „ i»na»—n>»tf"'' I L had become nctv- HcM«

it, Rora'

i noo. A
1 floe oU I

THE LIFE OF BURNa

■pent two days, ind then proceeded to the
■oiith-weflit hy Hexham and Wardrue, to
Carliile. — After spending a day at Car-
lisle with his friend Mr. Mitchell, he re-
turned into Scotland, and at Annan hie
journal terminates ahruptly.

Of the various persons with whom he
became acquainted in the course of this
journey, he has, in general, given some
account ; anfd almost always a favourable
one. That on the banks of the Tweed,
and of the Tiviot, our bard should find
nymphs that were beautiful, is what might
be confidently presumed. Two of these
are particularly described in his journal.
But it does not appear that the scenery,
or its inhabitants, produced any efibrt of
his muse, as was to have been wished and
expected. From Annan, Burns proceed-
ed to Dumfries, and thence througl^an-
quhar, to Mossgiel, near Mauchlim, in
Ayrshire, where he arrived about the nth
of June, 1787, after a long absence of six
busy and eventful months. It will easily
be conceived with what pleasure and
pride he was received by his mother, his
brothers, and sisters. He had left them
poor, and comparatively friendless : he
returned to them high in public estima-
tion, and easy in his circumstances. He
returned to them unchanged in his ardent
affections, and ready to share with them
to the uttermost farthing, the pittance
that fortune had bestowed.

Having remuned with them a few days,
he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and
immediately set out on a journey to the
Highlands. Of this tour no particulars
have been found among his manuscripts.
A letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated
Arrachat^ near Croehairbatj by LocMeary^
June 28, 1787, commences as follows :

" I write you this on my toiir through
a country where savage streams tumble
over savage mountains, thinly overspread
with savage flocks, which starvingly sup-
port as savage inhabitants. My last stage
was Interary — ^to-morrow nignt's stage,
Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an-
swered your kind Tetter, but you know I
am a man of many sins.

Part of a letter from our Bard to a
friend, giving some account of his journey,
has been communicated to the Editor
since the publication of the last edition.
The reader will be amused with the fol-
lowing extract

<* On our return, at a Highland |feiit]9>
man*8 hospitable mansion, we fell in tritb
a merry party, and danced till the ladiea
left us, at three in the morning. Our
dancing was none of the French or Eng*
lish insipid formal movements ; the ladiet
sung Scotch songs like angels, at inter-
vals ; then we flow at Bah at ike Brote-
Mtery TuUochgoram^ Loch Erroch tide,*
&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 tlie
good-fellow hour of six : except a few
minutes that we went out to pay our de-
votions to the glorious lamp of day pee^
ing over the towering top of Benlomond.
We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord'i
son held the bowl ; each man a full glasi
in his hand ; and I, as priest, rep^ed
some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a-
Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. — After •
small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus,
we proceeded to spend the day on Loch- *
lomond, and reached Dumbarton in the
evening. We dined at another goodfel-
low's house, and consequently pushed
the bottle ; when we went out to mount
our horses we found ourselves " No vert
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 High-
landman, so off we started, whip and
spur. My companions, though seemingly
gayly mounted, fell sadly astern ; but my
old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosi-
nante family, she strained past the High-
landman in spite of all his efibrts, 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 between her and the
Highlandman's horse. Jenny Geddes
trode over me with such cautious reve-
rence, 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 re-
spect to the serious business of life. 1
am, just as usual, a rhyming, maflsn-ma-

*8eotebtii

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

dagf rmkiiiff, aimleM, ime feDow. How-
If ar I shall somewhere haye a fann soon.
[ W88 going to say, a wife too : but that
Boat never be my blessed lot. I am but
I younger son of the house of Parnassus,
ud like other younger sons of great fami-
lies, I may intrigue, if I choose to run all
riakfl, but must not nuury.

** I am afraid I have almost rained one
Kmrce, the principal one indeed, of my
brmer happiness ; that eternal propen-
Hy I always had to fall in love. My
leait no more glows with feverish rap-
ore. I have no paradisical evening in-
eiriews stolen from the restless cares
md prying inhabitants of this weary
vorld. I have only * * * *, This last
B one of your distant acquaintances, has
k fine figure, and elegant manners ; and
n the train of some great folks whom you
mow, has seen the politest quarters in
Burope. I do like her a good deal ; but
vhat piques me is her conduct at the
Mimmencement of our acquaintance. I

frequently visited her when I was in ,

ind after passing regularly the interme-
fimte decrees between the distant 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,
CQBstniing my words farther I suppose
than even I intended, flew off in a tan-
gent of female dignity and reserve, like
aMonntain-lark in an April morning : and
wrote me an answer which measured me
out very completely 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
ioch a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as
brought my bird from ner aerial tower-
iBgs, pop down at my foot like corporal
Tnm'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
ilttll be recorded in a few weeks hence,
at Lmiithgow, in the chronicles of your
memory, by

** Robert Burits."

From this journey Bums returned to
hit friends in Ayrshire, with whom he
nent the month of July, renewing his
mendshiM and eztendinflr his acruaint-

ance thronghont the coiuitiy, where be
was now very generally known and ad-
mired. In August he again visited Edin-
burgh, whence he undertook another jour-
ney towards the middle of this month, in
company with Mr. M. Adair, now Dr.
Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this gen-
tleman has favoured us with the fi>lE>w-
ing account.

** Bums and I left Edinburgh to^tner
in August, 1787. We rode by Lmiith-
gow and Carron, to Stirling. We visited
the iron- works at Carron, with which the
poet was forcibly struck. The resem-
blance between that place, and its inha-
bitants, to the cave of Cyclops, which
must have occurred to every classical
reader, presented itself to Bums. At
Stirling the prospects from the castle
strongly interested him ; in a former visit
to which, his national feelings had been
powerfully excited by the ruinous and
roofless state of the hall in which the
Scottish parliaments had been held. His
indignation had vented itself in some im-
pradent, but not unpoetical lines, which
had given much offence, and which he
took this opportunity of erasing, by break-
ing the pane of the window at the inn on
which they were written.

" At Stirling we met with a company of
traveUers from Edinburgh, among whom
was a character in many respects conge-
nial with that of Bums. This was Nicol,
one of the teachers of the High Grammar-
School at Edinburgh— the same wit and
power of conversation ; the same fondness
for convivial society, and thoughtlessness
of to-morrow, characterized both. Jaco-
bitical principles in politics were common
to both of them ; and these have been sus-
pected, since the revolution of France, to
have given place in each, to opinions ap-
parently opposite. I regret that I have
preserved no memorabilia of their conver-
sation, either on this or on other occa-
sions, when I happened to meet them to-
gether. Many songs were sung, which I
mention for the sake of observing, that
when Bums was called on in his tum, he
was accustomed, instead of singing, to re-
cite one or other of his own shorter po-
ems, with a tone and emphasis, which,
though not correct or harmonious, were
impressive and pathetic. This he did on
the present occasion

** From Stirling we went next mommg
through the romantic and fertile vale of

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

Devon to Harvicston in Clackmannan-
uhire, then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton,
with the younger part of wht)se family
Bums had been previonnly acquainte({.
He introduced me to the family, and there
was formed my first acqdaintance with
Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom
I have been married for nine vears. Thus
was I ind^btetl to Burns tor a connexion
from which I have derived, and expect
further to derive much liappinoss.

" During a residence of about ten days
at Harvieston, we made excurs^ions to vi-
sit various parts of the surrounding sce-
nery, inferior to none in Scotland, in beau-
ty, sublimity, and romantic intc^rest ; par-
ticularly Castle Campbell, the ancient
seat of the family of Argyle ; and the fa-
mous Cataract of the Devon, called the
Caidron Linn ; and the Rumltlinsc Bridt^e^
a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil,
if tradition is to be believed, across the
river, at about the height of a hundred
feet above its be4* I am surprised that
none of these scenes should have called
forth an exertion of Bums's muse. But
I doubt if he had much taste for the pic-
turesque. I well remember, that the la-
dies at Harvieston, who accompanied us
on this jaunt, expressed their disappoint-
ment at his not expressing in more glow-
ing and fervid language, his impressions
ofthe Caldron Linn scene, certainly high-
ly sublime, and somewhat horrible.

" A visit to Mrs. Bnicc, of Clackman-
nan, a lady above ninety, the lineal de-
scendant of that race which gave the
Scottish throne its brightest ornament,
interested his feelings more powerfully.
This venerable dame, with charactcristic-
al dignity, informed me on my observing
that T believed she was descended from the
family of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce
was sprung from her family. Though al-
most deprived of speech by a paralytic af-
fection, she preserved her hospitality and
urbanity. Slie was in possession of the
hero's helmet and two-handed sword, with
which she conferred on Burns and myself
the honour of knighthood, remarking,
that she had a better right to confer that
\\i\e \\\Kn some people, * * You will of
course conclude that the old lady's politi-
cal tenets were as Jacobitiral as the po-
et's, a conformity which contril)uted not
a little to tho cordiality of our reception
and entertainment. — She gave us as her
first toast after dinner, Jiwa^ Uncos^ or
Away with the Strangers. — Who these

strangers were, you will readily imder-
stand. Mrs. A. corrects mc by say'mg it
should be Ifooiy or Hooi tmow, a sound
used by shepherds to direct their dogs to
drive away the sheep.

" Wc returned to Edinburgh -by Kin-
ross (on the shore of Loehleven) and
Queen's-ferry. I am inclined to think
Bums knew nothing of poor Michael
Bruce, who was then alive at Kinross, or
had died there a short while before. A
meeting between the bards, or a visit to
the deserted cottage and early grave of
poor Bruce, would have been highly in-
teresting.*

'* At Dunfermline wc visited the min-
ed abbey and the abbey church, now con-
secrated to Presbyterian worship. Here
I mounted the cutty ttool^ or stool of re*
pentancc, assuming the character of a
penitent for fornication; while Bums from
the pulpit addressed to me a ludicrous re-
proof and exhortation, parodied from that
which had been delivered to himself in
Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured
me, once been one of seven who mounted
the teat ofthame together.

" In the chnrch-yard two broad flag-
stones marked the grave of Robert Bruce,
for whose memory Burns had more than
common veneration. He knelt and kiss-
ed the stone with sacred fervour, and
heartily {tmm Mt mos eraU) execrated the
worse than Gothic neglect of the firat o**
Scottish heroes, "t

The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair,
in his excellent letter, that the romantic
scenery of the Devon should have failed
to call forth any exertion of the poet's
muse, is not in its nature singular ; and
the disappointment felt at his not express-
ing in more glowing language his emo-
tions on the sight of the famous cataract
of that river, is similar to what was felt
,by the friends of Bums on other occa-
sions ofthe same nature. Yet the infer-
ence that Dr. Adair seems inclined to
draw from it, that he had little taste for
the j)icturcsque, might be questioned,
even if it st(K)d uncont reverted by otJier
evidence. The muse of Bums was in a
high degree capricious ; she came uncall-

* Bruce died some yean before. B.
t Rxtraeted frtm « letter nf Dr. AiUtr to tlM Gdiinr

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

ed, and often refused to attend at his bid-
ing. Of all the num^^ous subjects Rig-
gefltcd to him by his friends and corres-
pondents, there is scarcely one that he
adopted. The very expectation that a
ptrticidar occasion would excite the en-
er^es of fancy, if communicated to Burns,
wemed in him as in other poets, destruc-
tive of the effect expected. Hen^e per-
iiaps may be explained, why tlie banks of
Che Devon and of the Tweed form no part
of the subjects of his song.

A iimilar train of reasoning may per-
haps explain the want of emotion with
which he viewed the Caldron Linn. Cer-
tainly there are no affections of the mind
more deadened by the influence of pre-
vious expectation, than those arising from
the sight of natural objects, and more
especially of objects of grandeur. Minute
descriptions of scenes, of a sublime na-
ture, should never be given to those who
are about to view them, particularly if
they are persons of great strength and
sensibility of imagination. Language sel-
dom or never conveys an adequate idea of
fuch objects, but in the mind of a great
poet t may excite a picture that far tran-
scends them. The imacrination of Burns
night form a cataract, in comparison with
which the Caldron Linn should seem the
pnrling of a rill, and even the mighty falls
01 Niagara, an humble cascade.'"

Whether these suggestions may assist
in explaining our Bard*s deficiency of im-
pression on the occasion referred to, or
whether it ought rather to be imputed to
Bome pre-occupation, or indisposition ot*
mind, we presume not to decide; but that
be was in general feelingly alive to the
beautiful or sublime in scenery, mav be
•opported by irresistible evidence* It is

* Tblfl reasoning might be extended, with mine mo-
41 fieations, to object! or night of every kind. To bave
fbrmed before-hand a distinct picture in the mind, of
aay interesting parson or thing, generally lessens the
plearare of the first meeting with them. Though this
liktnre be not superior, or even equal to the realty, still
it can never be expected to be an exact resemblance ;
and the disappointment felt at finding the object some-
lliing diflTercnt from what was expected, interrupts and
ilmlDisbea the emotions that would otherwise be pro"
dneed. In such cases the second or third interview
gives more pleasure than the first — See fht ElemenU
•f tk» Philosopkif of CAs BwMttn Mind^ by Mr. SUw
mrt^ p, an. Such pttbllcations as The Guide to the
Zaibs, where every scene is described in tbe most mi
note manner, and someUnies with considerable exag-
geration of language, are in this point of view ofajec-
tioMbla.

true this pleasure was greatly heighte
ed in his mind, as might be expects
when combined with moral emotions 01
kind with which it happily unites. Tl:
under this asi>ociation Bums conteniplat
the scenery of the Devon with the eye
a genuine poet, some lines which he wrc
at this very period, may bear witness.^

The different journeys already m<
tioned did not satisfy the curiosity
Bums. About the bcgimiing of Septe
her, he again set out trom Edinburgh
a more extended tour to the Highlan
in company with Mr. Nicol, with wb
he had now contracted a particular w
macy, which lasted during the remaini
of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfrii
shire, of a descent equally humble w
our poet. Like him he rose by t
strength of his talents, and fell by t
strength of his passions. lie died m 1
summer of 1 797. Having received 1
elements of a classical instruction at
parish-school, Mr. Nicol made a very ;
pid and singular proficiency ; and by ea
undertaking the oflicc of an iiistruc
himself, he acquired the means of ent
ing himself at the University of Ed
burgh. There he was first a student
theology, then a student of medicine, 8
was afterwards employed in the assi
ance and instruction of graduates in n
dicine, in those parts of their exercisei
which the Latin language is employi
In this situation he was the contempo
ry and rival of the celebrated Dr. Bro\
whom he resembled in the particulars
his history, as well as in the leading f
tures of his character. The office of
sistant-teacher in the JjTigh-school bei
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by cc
petition ; and in the face of some pre
dices, and, perhaps,* of some well-fount
objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior lea
ing, carried it from all the other can
dates. This office he filled at the per
of which we speak.

It is to be lamented that an acquai
ance with the writers of Greece and Ro
does not always supply an original wi
of taste and correctness in manners 1
conduct; and where it fails of thiseflfc
it sometimes inflames the native pride
temper, which treats with disdain thi
delicacies in which it has not learned

* Sec the song beginning,
" How pleasant the baaluof Um daar winding IK>v(
Poems, page 78.

THE LIFE OF BUSN8.

•xc«L It ma thiu with the fellow>tra-
Tsllor of Bunu. Formed hj ndure in a
modal of great atiength, neither hii per-
■on nor his muinetB had any tincture nt'
tute oi elegance : and hu coaraeneM W!i.-i
not compcDsated by that romantic seni-j-
bility, and those towering flight) of inur-
Ifina'ion which diatinguished the conver-
sation of Bums, in the blaie of whose ge-
niiia all the deficiencies of his mannerii
were absorbed and disappeared.

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a
poBtchaiie, which they engaged for thi-
journey, and passing througn the heart
of the Highlands, stretched northwards,
about ten miles beyond Invemeee. Tbert<
they bent their course eastward, acros!-
the island, and returned by the diore of
the German sea to Edinburgh. In the
course of this tour, some partteulan of
which will be found in a letter of onr bard,
No. XXX. they visited a number of re
markable scenes, and the imagination cif
Burns was constantly excited by the wild
and sublime scenery through which hi^
paseed. Of this several proofs may bi-
ibund in the poems formerly printed.'
Of the history of one of these poems, Tlr
Humble Pelilion i^ Bruar Water, and 'A'
the bard's visit to Atbole House, somi'
paiticulars will be found in No. XXIX ;
andbythefavourof Mr. Walkerof Perth,
then residing in the family of the Duk»
of Atbole, weareenabled togive tbefbl-
lowing additional account :

" On reaching Blair, he tent me notice
of his arrival (as I had been previously
acquainted with him,]and 1 hastened lo
meet him at the inn. The Duke to whom
be brought a letter of introduction, wa^
from home ; but the Dutchess, being in-
formed of his arrival,*gave him an invita-
tion to sup and sleep at Atbole Bouso.
He accepted the invit&tioni but as the
hour of supper was at some distance,
begged I would in the interval be his
guide through the grounds. It was al-
ready growmg dark ; yet the soflened
though faint and uncertain view of their
beauties, which the moonlight affiirdediL-i,
•eemed exactly suited to the etate of hit^i
feelmga at the time. I had often, likr
others, experienced the pleaaores which

ariM from the nbliiiM or dogu
scape, but I never saw those nc
intense as in Bums. When we
a rustic hut on the river Tilt, wh
overbung by a woody precipic
which there is a noble water-
threw himself on the heathy •
gave himself up to a tender, abs
and voluptuous enthusiasm of ii
tiom. I cannot help thinking it mi(
been here that he conceived the
the following lines, which he afti
introduced into bit poem on Bn
ter, when only fancying such a o
tion of object! as were now pre
his eye.

Or, bf tbs mper*! nlghUj Wua,
HIM, ciMqiwrInc ihniaf h Uw ina^

EaT> to my dirUj'J«*lklD| imamt
Hi>*ne-*iHlliD( od the tnaa.

" It was with mnch difficolty I
ed on him to quit this spot, and t
traduced in proper time to enppei

" Hy curiosity was ereat to s
he would conduct himaelf in com
difierent from what he had been
tomedto.* Hia manner was ui
lasaed, plain, and firm. He app«
have complete relinnce on hisowi
good sense foi directing his hcl
He eeemed at once to perceive ani
predate what was due to the c
and to himiielf, and never to forge
per respect for the separate spi
dignity belonging to each. He
arrogate conversation, but, when
it, he spoke with ease, proprie'
manlioeaa. He tried to exert his a
because he knew it was ability alo
bun a title to be there. The Du)
young fiuoily attracted much of hi
ration; he drank their healths as
and bonny lattei, an idea wbi
much applauded by the compai
with which he very felicitously di

Next day I took & ride vri
through some of the most romant
of that neighbourhood, and was
gratified by nie conversation, Ai
cimen of bis happiness of concept
strength of expression, I will me

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

wwrk which he made on his fellow-tra-
tiOer, who was walking at the time a few
ftcea before us. He was a man of a ro-
Wt bat clumsy person ; and while Bums
w^ expressing to me the value he enter-
Uined for him on account of his vigorous
tiloitB, although they were clouded at
tiskes by coarseness of manners ; ' in
*bort,' he added, ' his mind is like his
^y, he has a confounded strong, in-
^Beed sort of a soul.*

*'Mach attention was paid to Bums
^h before and after the Duke's return,
®f which he was perfectly sensible, with-
out being vain ; and at his departure I
^^ommended to him, as the most appro-
P^ate return he could make, to write
•ome descriptive verses on any of the
^Oenes with which he had been so much
^^lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by
^He Duke's advice, visited the FalU of
^^ntar, and in a few days I received a
« fitter from Inverness, with the verses en-
closed."*

It appears that the impression made by
Our ijoet on the noble family of Athole,
'^as in a high degree favourable ; it is
certain he was charmed with the recep-
uon he received from them, and he often
tnentioned the two days he spent at Athole
House as amongst the happiest of his life.
He was warm^ invited to prolong his
stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his
engagement with Mr. Nicol ; which is
the more to be regretted, as he would
otherwise have been introduced to Mr.
Dundas (then daily expected on a visit to
the Duke,) a circumstance which might
have had a favourable influence on Bums's
future fortunes. At Athole House he
met, for the first time, Mr. Graham of
Fintry, to whom he was afterwards in-
debted for his office in the Excise.

The letters and poems which he ad-
dressed to Mr. Graham, bear testimony
of his sensibility, and justify the supposi-
tion, that he would not have been defi-
cient in gratitude had he been elevated
to a situation better suited to his disposi-
tion and to his talents, f

A f^ w da3rs after leaving Blair of Athole,
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived

* Extnet of a letter from Mr. Walker to Mr. Cun-
■iOfbwn. See Letter, No. XXDL

t See tbe ant EfittU te Mr. Ormkam, Krtkhinf aa
ewp hiyi a e m la the Szdae, Letter No. LVI. and Ida

at Fochabers. In the course of the pre
ceding winter Bums had been introduced
to the Ducthess of Gordon at Edinburgh,
and presuming on this acquaintance, he
proceeded to Gordon-Castle, leaving Mr.
Nicol at the inn in the viUage. At the
castle our poet was received with the ut-
most hospitality and kindness, and the
family being about to sit down to dinner,
he was invited to take his place at table
as a matter of course. This invitation
he accepted, and after drinking a few
glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed
to withdraw. On being pressed to stay,
he mentioned for the first time, his en-
gagement with his fellow-traveUer : and
his noble host ofiering to send a servant
to conduct Mr. Nicol to the castle. Bums
insisted on undertaking that office him-
self. He was, however, accompanied by
a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of
the Duke, by whom the invitation was
delivered in all the forms of politeness.
The invitation came too late ; the pride
of Nicol was inflamed into a hiffh degree
of passion, by the neglect which he had
already suffered. He had ordered the
horses to be put to the carriage, being
determined to proceed on his journey
alone ; and they found him parading the
streets of Fochabers, before the door of
the inn, venting his an^er on the postil-
lion, for the slowness with which he obey-
ed his commands. As no explanation nor
entreaty could change the purpose of his
fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced to
the necessity of separating from him en-
tirely, or of instantly proceeding with
him on their journey. He chose the last
of these alternatives ; and seating him-
self beside Nicol in the post-chaise with
mortification and regret, he turned his
back on Gordon Castle where he had
promised himself some happy days. Sen-
sible, however, of the great kindness of
the noble family, he miule the best return
in his power, by the poem beginning,

*' Streama that glide in orient plalna.*'*

Bums remained at Edinburgh during
the greater part of the winter, 1787-8,
and again entered into the society and
dissipation of that metropolis. It appears
that on the 3l8t<day of December, he at-
tended a meeting to celebrate the birth-
dav of the lineal descendant of the Scot-
tish race of kings, the late unfortunate
Prince Charlos Edward. Whatever

* Tbia infonnatloii ia eztneted from a letttrof Or
Cooper of Fochaben, lo the Edftor.

fiO

THE UFE OF BURNS.

might have been the wish or purpoee of
the original institutors of this annual
meeting, there is no reason to suppose
that tliu gpntlonien of whom it was at
this time coinjjoscd, were not perfectly
IovilI to tho King on tlie throne. It is
not to be conceived that they entertained
any hopv ot*, any wit^h tor, the restoration
of thi' House ot* Stuart ; but, over their
sparkling wine, thnv indulged the gene-
Ti>ns feelings which the recollection of
fallen great nc'ss is calculated to inspire ;
and commemorated the heroic valour
which strove to sustain it in vain — valour
worthy of a nobler cause, and a happier
fortune. On this occasion our bard took
upon Iiimself the office of poet -laureate,
and produced an ode, which though de-
ficient in the complicated rhythm and
polished versification that such composi-
tions require, might on a fair competition,
where energy of feelings and of expression
were alone in question, have won the
butt of Malmsey from the real laureate
of that day.

The following extracts may serve as a
specimen :

Falw flatterer, Hope, Awty !
Nor think to lure ui u in dayi of yore :

Wc mlemnize th» «nrrowing natal day,
To prove our loyal trutli— wc can no more:

And, owning Heaven*a in)'aterioiu away,
BubmiMlve, low, adore.

Ye lionoiired, mfgtity dead !
Who nobly perished in tlK> glorioua caaac,
Your King, your country, and her lawa!

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led.
And fell a martyr in her armi,
(What breaat of northern ice bat wanna ?)

To bold Balmerino'a undying name,

Whoaeaoulof fire, lighted at Heaven*! high flame,
Daaervea the proudeat wreath departed berow claim.*

Nor unr0venged your fate ahall be,

It only lass the fatal hour ;
Your blood shall with incessant cry

Awake at last the unsparing power.
Ai from tho difl*, with thunderinf courae,

The tanowy ruin smokes along.
With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it crashing whclma ttte cottage in lb« rale I
80 Vengeance • • •

* In the first part of this ode there Is some beautifbl
imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in a
happier manner in Uie Ckevnlier'tLamenL (See Letter,
No. LXV.) But if there were no other reasons for
omitting to print the entire poem, the want of originali-
ty would lie sufficient. A cooaiderabie part of it is a

In relatingr the inciikmtit of our poet*^
life in Edinburgh, we ought to have
tioned the sentiments of respect and
pathy with which he traced out the gn\
of his predecessor Ferguson, over wl
ashes in the Canongate church-yard, lao
obtained leave to erect an humble moau-
mcnt, which will be viewed by Teflectins
minds with no common interest, aii3
which will awake in the bosom of kindred
genius, many a high emotion.* Neither
should we pass over the continued friend-
ship he experienced from a poet then liv-
ing, the amiable and accomplished BlaclL-
lock. — To his encouraging advice it wnM
owing (as has alrea^ appeared) that
Burns instead of emigrating to the We^t
Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He r^
ceived him there with all the ardoor o<
affectionate admiration ; he eageriy i^^
troduced him to the respectable cirde ^^
his friends ; he consulted his interei^ *
he blazoned his fame ; ne lavished npc^
him all the kindness of a generous ai» ^
feeling heart, into which nothing eelfi^ "^
or envious ever found admittance. Amom
the friends to whom he introduced
was Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to w.
our poet paid a visit in the Aatomn
1787, at his delightful retirement in th
neighbourhood or Stirhn|r, and on th^
banks of the Teith. Of this visit we hav^
the following particulars :

" I have been in the company of man;
men of genius," says Mr. Ramsay, **
of them poets ; but never witnessed sac
flashes of intellectual brightne
him, the impulse of tho moment, iper:
of celestial fire ! I never was more '
lij^hted, therefore, than with his com;

for two days, tete-a-tete. In a n

company I should have made little of him ;^
for, in the gamester's phrase, he did noi
always know when to play off and wr
to play on. * * * I not only proposed t
him the writing of a play similar to th
Gentle ShepJie^, gtialem decet
rem^ but ScoiiiMh Oeorgict a subject
Thomson has byno means exhausted in
his Seasons. What beautiful landscape!^
of rural life and manners might not have^
been expected from a pencU so faithfnl
and forcible as his, which could have ex-
hibited scenes as familiar and interesting
as those in the Qenile Shepherd, wfaicn

-e

-Ay

kind of rant, for whieb Indeed praeadeat aiaj ba diei
In various otimr UrUi-4iy, odes, km wita whieh U If
impoasible to go along.

* See Letten No. XIX« and JUL. wInis Um Sfteali
wUlbefoaiid,lbc

THE LIFE OF BURNa SI

le who knows our swdns in their Before Boms was known in Edinburgh,

rated state, instantly recognises a specimen of his ooetrv had recommend-

nature. But to have executed ed him to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Un-
' these plans, steadiness and ab- derstanding that he intended to resume

from company were wanting, the life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had in-

ts. When I asked him whether vited him, in the spring of 1787, to view

burgh Literati had mended his his estate in Nithsdale, offering him at

y their criticisms, * Sir,' said he, the same time the choice of any of his

mtlemen remind me of some spin- farms out of lease, at such a rent as Bums

ly country, who spin their thread and his friends might judge proper. It

hat it is neither fit for weft nor was not in the nature of Bums to take an

He said he had not changed a undue advantage of the liberdity of Mr.

^ept one to please Dr. Blair."* Miller. He proceeded in this business,

however, witn more than usual delibera^

r settled with his publisher, Mr. g??', ^^t'^S ma.de choice of the farm of

b Febmary, 1788; Bums found ^Jff^A,*^® employed two of his friends,

master of nearly five hundred "kUled m the value of land, to examme it,

ifler discharging ill his expenses. f^^J^^ JJlf ^ approbation offered a rent

idredpoundlheimmediatdyad. ^^ Mr. Miller, which was immediately

3 his brother Gilbert, who had jpcepted. It was not convenient for Mrs.

on himself the support of their ^^^ to remove immediately from Ayr-

ther, and was stl^gling with «Hf' and our poet therefore took up hi.

ficulUes in the farm of Mossgiel. jesMlence alone at EUislwid, to prenare

e remainder of this sum, and for the reception of his wrfe and chil^^^^

ther eventful profits from his ^^^ J^"^®^ *^ t^^*'^ *^« «°^ ^^ ^«

le determined on settling him- 7^''

UoScfrL'^Mr.^^^^^^^ ^ The- situation m which Bums now

the farm of Ellisland, on the found hunsetf was calculated ^^rJ^^r

the river Nith, six miles above f eAection. The different steps he had of

., on which he entered at Whit- Ittetaken were m their nature highly im-

1788. Having been previously portant,andnuflhtbeB«dtohav^

nded to the Board of Excise, hi ™«"»^^t' ^Ia ^*^r1L. K w T

1 been put on the list of ciiidi- <^^°^«/. ^""^^^ and a father ; be ha^ en-

the huLle office of a ganger or f|?£^,;^d=f:^d 1^^^^^^^^

ifit^drifr^^^ ter»oT«s:?ihl^^^^^^^^

[Z'^:AVln^l^^^^ "Potion of which he had^en;^^^^^^^

le district in which his farm was o^"»oured ; to ponder seriously on the

-«^ «„;«!« u^^^A ♦« ,!«;♦*» «;*ii past, and to form virtuous resolutions re-

^^llw/nn^^^^^ ipecting the future. That such was ac

^i^c^J^^ ^«*lly ^be stato of his mind, the following

ciseman. extract from his common-place book may

bear witness :
Bums had in this manner ar-

is plans for futurity, his generous EllUland, Sunday^ lAih June^ 1788.

ned to the object of his most ar- « This is now the tlurd day that I have

chment, and listening to no con- been in this country. • Lord, what is

18 but those of honour and affec- man !' What a busting little bundle of

dined with her in a public decla- passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies !

marriage, thus legalizing their and what a capricious kind of existence

id rendering it permanent for he has here t * * * There is indeed an

elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, iwr-

of a IttUr JT«m Mr, Ranuajf u> (m XoUoT'

ftMlity of Banis extended, however, onty * Ten m ye dead

IS printed before be wrlred In Edinburgh ; Win none of yoa In pity dieeloee the Moel

I to bit unpublbthed poems, be wm unena- What *tW you are, and we must shortly be 1

■n, of which many proofs might be given. A little ciine

marks on tJiis subject, in the J9pftMii%. Will malM as wise as you art, and at dose.*

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

'* I tin 0uch a coward in life, lo tired of
the service, that I would almost at any
time, with Milton^s Adam, * fi^ladly lay mo
in my mother's lap, and he at peace.'

** Bat a wife and children hind me to
struggle with the stream, till some sud-
den squall shall overset the silly vessel ;
or in the listless return of years, its own
craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell
now to those ffiddy follies, those varnish-
ed vices, which, though half-sanctified hy
the bewitching levity of wit and humour,
are at best but thriftless idling with the
precious current of existence ; nay, often
poisoning the whole, that, like the plains
of Jericho, the vnUer is noughty and the
ground harreny and nothing short of a
supematurally gifted Elisha can ever af-
ter heal the evils*

•* Wedlock, the circumstance that buc-
kles me hardest to care, if virtue and re-
ligion were to be any thing with me but
names, was what in a few seasons I must
have resolved on ; in my present situation
it was absolutely necessary. Humanity,
generosity, honest pride of character, jus-
tice to my own happmcss for after-life, so
far as it could depend (which it surely will
a great deal) on internal peace ; all these
joined their warmest suffrages, their most
powerful solicitations, with a rooted at-
tachment, to urge the step I have taken.
Nor have I any reason on her part to re-
pent it. I can fancy how, but have never
seen where, I could have made a better
choice. Come, then, let me act up to my
favourite motto, that glorious passage in
Young —

*' On reaMm balM raaolve,
TlMteolainD of tni* na^ftttf in man !**

Under the impulse of these reflections.
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding
the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in
the state he found it, was inadequate to
the accommodation of his family. On this
occasion, he himself resumed at times the
occupation of a labourer, and found nei-
ther his strength nor his skill impaired.
Pleased with surveying the grounds he
was about to cultivate, and with the rear-
ing of a building that should give shelter
to his wife and children, and, as he fond-
ly hoped, to his own gray hairs, senti-
ments of independence buoyed up his
mind, pictures of domestic content and
peace rose on his imagination ; and a few
daja passed away, as he himself informs

us, the most tranquil, if not the hi^;»pM!st,
which he had ever experienced.*

It is to be lamented that at this critical
period of his life, our poet was without
the society of his wife and children. A
great change had taken place in his filia-
tion; his old habits were broken; wni
the new circumstances in which he wis
placed were calculated to give a. new di-
rection to his thoughts and conduct.f But
his application to the cares and laboon
of his farm was interrupted by seveni
visits to his family in Ayrshire; and as
the distance was too great for a siofle
day's journey, he generally spent a night
at an inn on the road. On such occasioDS
he sometimes fell into company, and for-

got the resolutions he had formed. In t
ttle while temptation assailed him nearer
home.

His fame naturally drew upon him the
attention of his neighbours, and he soon
formed a general acquaintance in the ^
trict in which he lived. The public voice
had now pronounced on the subject of hia
talents ; the reception he had met with in
Edinburgh had given him the currency
which fashion bestows, he had surmount-
ed the prejudices arising from his humble
birth, and he was received at the table of
the gentlemen of Nithsdale with welcome,
with kindness, and even with respect.
Their social parties too oflen scducea him
from his rustic labour and his rustic fare,
overthrew the unsteady fabric of his reso-
lutions, and inflamed those propensities
which temperance might have weakened,
and prudence ultimately suppressed. { It
was not long, therefore, before Burm be-
gan to view his farm with dislike and des-
pondence, if not with disgust.

Unfortunately he had for several jreaie
looked to an office in the Excise as a cer-
tain means of livelihood, should his other

* Animated tentimenta of any kind, nloMMl alwaya
cave rise in our poet to some producikm of Ua muas.
His aemimenti on tliia occaaion were in part expraaed
by the vi^oroui and charaeleriatic, ilKMich not yvj
delicate aonf, beginning,

*' I bae a wife o* my aia,
ra partalie wi' naebody ;*

t Mra. Bama was about to be confined io child-bed*
and ttae houM at EUialand waa rabaildinc.

t The poem of 71b ff^Uatf* (Poem, p. 74 ) cetobrain
a Bacchanalian conteat among three gantlemen of
Nithadale, where Buma appears aa omplra. Mr. Bid-
dell died before our Bard, and aoma alegtac iraiatj to
hia memory will be found aaaUed, 4^«m( an ttt 4tnik

THE LIFE OF BURN'S.

■zpectotiotu fai1> Ab bu already been
mentioned, he bad been recammended to
the Board of Excise, and had received the
inetructions ncccssaryfoi «uch a aituBtion.
He now applied to be emploTed ; and by
the interest of Mr. Graham ofFintry, waa
^ipoinled exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly
caUed, nuget, of the district in which he
lived. Sis fsnn was after this, in a great
nieamiTe abandoned to servants, whUe be
betook himself to the duties of his new
appointment.

He might, iikdeed, still be seen in the
■pring, (Creeling his plough, a labour in
fritich he excelled ; or with a white sheet,
containing his seed-corn, slung across his
■boulders, striding with measured steps
■lonff his turned up furroWB, and scatter-
ing U>e grain in the earth. But his farm
BO longer occupied the principal part of
his care or his thoughts. It was not at
Ellishuid that he was now in general to be
fimnd. Hoimted on horaehack, this high-
minded poet was pursuing lite defaulters
of the revenue, among the liills and vales
of Nitbsdale, his roving eye wandering
over the charms of nature, and mullering
feu laayuiardjanciet as he moved along.

" I had an adventure with him in the
year 1790," says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochter-
tyre, in a letter to the editor, " when pass-
ing through Dumfriesshire, on a tour to
the South, with Dr. Stewart of Luss. See-
ing bini pass quickly, near Closebum, I
•aid to my companion, ' that is Burns.'
On cominr to the inn, the hostler told us
he would be back in a few hours to grant
permits; that where he met with any
thing sellable, he was no belter than any
other gauger; in every thing else, that
he was perfectly a gentleman. After
leaving a note to be delivered to him
on his return, I proceeded to his house,
being curious to see his Jean, Slc. I was
mucD plateed with his uxor Sabina guaiu,
and the poet's modest mansion, so unUke
the habitation of ordinary rustics. In the
wening he suddenly bounced in upon us,
and aud, as he entered, I come, to use the
words of Shakspeare, ilctetd in hatte. In
ftct he had ridden incredibly fast after

marnutn of poetry. He told me that he
had now gotten a story for aDrama, which
he was to call Rob Macquechan'i Elihon,
from a popular story of Robert Brace be-
ing defeated on the water of Caem, when
the heel of his boot having loosened in his
flight, he applied to Robert Macquechan
to fit it ; who, to make sure, ran his awl
nine inches up the king's heel. We were
now going on at a great rate, when Mr.

S popped in his head, which put a

stop to our discourse, which had become
very interesting. Yet in a little while it
was resumed ; and such was the force and
versatility of the bard's genius, that be

made the tears run down Mr. 8 'a

cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain.
• Prom that time we met no more,
and I was grieved st the reports of him
afterwarde. Poor Barns! we thall hardly
see bis like Bgain. He was, in tnitl^
tofcometin literature, irregular in its
motions, which did not do good propor-
tioned to the blaze of light it display-ed.*

Id the summer of 1791, two English
gentlemen, who had before met with him
in Edinburgh, paid a visit to him st Ellis-
land. On csllmg at the house they were
informed that he had walked out on the
banks of the river ; and dismounting from
their horses, they proceeded in search of
him. On a rock that projected into the
stream, they saw a man employed in aiv-
ling, of a singular appearance. He hada
cap made of a fox's skin on his bead, a
loose great coat fijted round him by a belt,
from which depended an enormous High-
land broad-sword. It was Bums. He re-
ceived them with great cordiality, and
asked them to share his humble dinner —
an invitation which they accepted. On
the table they found boiled beef, with ve-
getables, and barlej-broth, after the man-
ner of Scotland, of which they partook
heartily. After dinner, the bard told them
ingenuously that he had no wine to offer
them, nothmgbetter than Highland whis-
key, a bottle of which Mrs. Bums set on
the board. He produced at the ssme time
his punch-bowl made of Tnverary marble ;
and, mixing the spirit with water and su-
gar, filled Uieir glasses, and invited them
to drink.* The travellers were in haste,
and besides, the flavour of the whiskey t«
their touArm palates was scarcely tolera-

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

ble ; but the gencroui poet offered them
his best, and his ardent hospitality they
found it impossible to resist. Bums was
in his happiest mood, and the charms of
his conversation were altogether fascina-
ting. He ranged over a great variety of
topics, illuminating whatever he touched,
lie related the tales of his infancy and of
his youth ; he recited some of the gayest
and some of the tenderest of his poems ;
in the wildest of his strains of mirth, he
threw in some touches of melancholy, and
spread around him the electric emotions
of his powerful mind. The Highland
whiskey improved in its flavour ; the mar-
ble bowl was again and again emptied and
replenished ; the guests of our poet for-
got t}ie flight of time, and the dictates of
1>rudcnce : at the hour of midnight they
ost their way in returning to Dumfries,
and could scarcely distinguish it when as-
sistod by the morning's dawn.'"

Besides his duties in the excise and his
social pleasures, other circumstances in-
terfered with the attention of Bums to
his farm. He engaged in the formation
of a society for purchasing and circulat-
ing books among the farmers of his neigh-
bourhood, of which he undertook the
management ;f and he occupied himself
occasionally in composing songs for the
musical work of Mr. Johnson, then in the
course of publication. These engage-
ments, useful and honourable in /hem-
selves, contributed, no doubt, to the ab-
straction of his thoughts from the busi-
ness of agriculture.

The consequences may be easily ima-
gined. Notwithstanding the uniform
Smdence and good management of Mrs.
iurns, and though his rent was moder-
ate and reasonable, our poet found it con-
venient, if not necessary, to resign his
farm to Mr. Miller ; after having occu-
pied it three years and a half. His oflice
m the excise had originally produced
about fifty pounds per annum. Having
acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the
board, he had been appointed to a new dis-
trict, the emoluments of which rose to
about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping
to support himself and his family on this
humble income till promotion should reach
him, he disposed of his stock and of his
crop on Elliflland by public auction, and
removed to a small house which he had

• Given frora the information of on« of Uw party.
fSccNo LXXXVfll.

taken in DnmflriMt aboiit (to end of tbe
year 1791.

Hitherto Bums, thongh addicted to
excess in social parties, had abstained
from the habitual use of strong hquon,
and his constitution had not lunered any
permanent injury from the irreguJaritier
of his conduct. In Dmnfries, temptatioof
to the Hn that to eatUy be»ei him^ contino-
ally presented themselveB; and his irregu-
larities grew by degrees into habiti.-
These temptations imhappily occurred
during his engagements m the businetf
of his oflice, as well as during his houn
of relaxation ; and though he clearly fore-
saw the consequences of yielding to then,
his appetites and sensations', which could
not prevent the dictates of his judgment,
finally triumphed over the powen of bis
will. Yet this victory was not obtained
without many obstinate struggles, and at
times temperance and virtue seemed to
have obtained the mastery. Besides his
engagements in the excise, and the so*
ciety into which they led, many circtun-
stances contributed to the melanchoij
fate of Bums. His great celebrity made
him an object of interest and curiosity to
stiangers, and few persons of cultivtted
minds passed through Dumfries without
attempting to see our poet, and to eojoy
the pleasure of his conversation. Ashe
could not receive them under his own
humble roof, these interviews passed it
the inns of the town, and often terminated
in those excesses which Bums aometiiaes
provoked, and was seldom able to leaiit.
And amon^ the inhabitants of Dvnin»
and its vicinity, there were nerer wail-
ing persons to share his social pleaiarsa;
to lead or accompany him to the tavera ;
to partake in the wildest salliee of his wit ;
to witness the strength and the degiida-
tio ' of his genius.

Still, however, he cultivated the society
of persons of taste and of respectability,
and in their company could impose on bin-
self the restraints of temperance and deco*
mm. Nor was his muse dormant. lo
the four years which he lived in Dumfrie?,
he produced many of his beautiful lyrif*-
though it does not appear that be at-
tempted any poem of considerable Icn^h.
During this time he made several excur-
sions into tho neighbouring countryi o'
one of which, through Galloway, an ac-
coimt is preserved in a letter of ifr. Syme?
written soon after ; which, as it gives an
animated picture of him by a correct ivd

TRB LIFE OP BURNa

urns a gray Highland ehelty

We dined the first day, 27tli
.t GiendenwjrneBOfParton ! a
lationonthebankaoflhcDec.
ig we walked out, and osccnd-
^mincnce, from which we had
' of Alpine scenery aa can well
. A delightfiil soil evening
s wilder ax well as its (grander
mediately opposite, ftiid wilh-
IB, we saw Airds, a tliariuing
ice, where dwelt Low, the
lary weep no more for me.'
Mical ground for Burns. Ho

hig'hest hill which rises o'er

Dee;" and would haveetaid
wing spirit," bad appeared,
ree^ved to reach Kctimore

We arrived as Mr. and Mr«,
: sitting down to supper.

I Buildi

In front, the river Ken

eral miles through the most
^autiful holm,\ till it expands
welve miles lon^r, the banks
the south, present a fine and
le of green knolls, natural
ere and there a gray rock.
, the aspect is great, wild,
ly, tremendous. In short, 1

c than the castle of Ken-
s thinks so highly of it, that
n description of it in poetry.
.eve he has begun the work.
r«e days with Mr. Gordon,
>d hospitality is of an origi-
aring kind. Mrs. Gordon's
o, was dead. She would
aph for him. Several had
Bums was asked For one.
ting Hercules to his distaff,
lesubject; but to please the

Inhed ihe hl|hat hill,

" In WKid ud will, 7< wuMI^ timi«,
Your beavT loadgptan 1

T« ]uilii| KnMhlv iMflfi uood,

" We lefl Kenmore, and went to Gate-
house, I took him the uioor-road, wliere
savage and desolate regions extended
wide around. The sky was sympathetic
with the wretchedness of the soil ; '" '

lowering and dark. The hollow
sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the
thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the
awful scene — he spoke not a word, but
seemed wrapt in meditation. In a little

floods upon ui .

wild elements rairiblt (Aeir belly full upon
— defenceless heads. Ok! Oh! 'iwai

IT getting utterly drunk.

" From Gatehouse, we went next daj
Kirkcudbright, through a fine coi^ntry.
But here I must tell you that Bums had

I pair of jemmy boots for tlie joumej,
whichhadbcenthoroughiy wet, and which
bad been dried in such maancr tliat it

not possible to get them on again
The brawny poet tried force, and tore
to shreds. A whiffling vexation of

lort is more trying to the temper than
.. iouscaJamity. We weregoingto St.
Mary's Isle, the seat oftheBarl of ^Ikirk,
and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at
the thought of his ruined boots. A !>ick
gtnmach, and a head-ache, lent their aid,
iind the man of verse was quite accable.
[ attempted to reason with him. Mercy

I ! now he did fume with rage 1 No-
thine could reinstate him in temper- T
'-^-iU various expedients, and at last hit
one that succeeded. I showed him
the bouse of * * *, across the bay ol
Wigton. Against '*•'*, with whom
he was offended, he expectorated his
spleen, and regained a most agreeable
temper. He was in a most epigrammatic
humour indeed '. He afterwards fall on
humbler game There is one • ■* •
whom he does not 1ot». H« had a puf-
iiig blow at him

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

•Tfru Dothlof
crown:

, leibt 4eTll went tewB,
him knt Suu'i

I gimat ttaoa'n u wkkci, tat not qwicffo dewr.**

** Well, I am to bring yon to Kirkcnd-
bright along with our poet, without boota.
I carried the torn ruina acroaa my aaddle
in apite of hia fulminationa, and in con-
tempt of appearancea ; and what ia more.
Lord Selkirk carried them in hia coach
to Dumfriea. He inaiatftd they were
worth mending.

^' We reached Kirkcndbright about one
o'clock. I had promiaed that we ahould
dine with one of the firat men in our
country, J. Daizell. But Buma was in a
wild obetreperoua humour, and awore he
would not dine where he ahould be under
the amallcat restraint. We prevailed,
therefore, on Mr. Daizell to dine with ua
in the inn, and had a very agreeable party.
In the evening we aet out for St. Mary'a
Isle. Robert nad not absolutely regained
the milkineaa of good temper, and it oc-
curred once or twice to him, as he rode
along, that St. Mary's Isle was the aeat
of a Lord ; yet that Lord waa not an aris-
tocrat, at least in the sense of the word.
We arrived about eight o'clock, as the
family were at tea aim coffee. St. Ma-
ry's Isle is one of the most delightful
places that can, in my opinion, be formed
by the assemblage of every soft, but not
tame object which constitutes natural and
cultivated beauty. But not to dwell on
its external graces, let me tell you that
we found all the ladies of the fi^nily (all
beautiful) at home, and some strangers ;
and among others who but Urbani ! The
Italian sung us many Scottish songs, ac-
companied with instrumental music. The
two young ladies of Selkirk sung also.
We had the song of Lord Gregory, which
I asked for, to have an opportunity of
calling on Bums to recite hU ballad to
that tune. He did recite it ; and auch
waa the effect that a dead ailence ensued.
It was such a silence as a mind of feel-
ing naturally preserves when it is touched
with that enthusiasm which banishes
every other thought but the contempla-
tion and indulgence of the sympathy pro-
duced. Bums's Lord Oregory ia, in my
opinion, a most beautiful and affecting
ballad. The fastidious critic may per-
hapa say some of the aentimenta and im-
agery are of toe elevated a kind for auch
a style of composition ; for instance,

" Thon bolt of hMTcn tkit pawnf by ;"
and ^* Ye, nniatering thunder/' &c.; Mt
this ia a cold-blooded objection, whidk
will be 9aid rather than/etf.

** We enjoyed a moat happy ereniBgaft
Lord Selkirk'a. We had, in every aeiMt
of the word, a feast, in which cor mmk
and our senses were equally gratified^
The poet was delighted with his compaay,
and acquitted himself to admiration. The
lion that had raged so violently in the
morning* was now as mild and gentle as
a lamb. Next day we returned to Dam-
fries, and so ends our peregrinatioB* I
told you, that in the midst of the atom,
on the wilds of Kenmof-e, Burns waa rapt
in meditation. What do yon think ha
was about ? He was charging the Enc-
liah army along with Bruce, at Bannock-
bum. He was engaged in the same man-
ner on our ride nome from St. Maiy'i
Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next
day he produced me the following address
of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a
copy for Daizell."

i«

Scoii wha bae wi* Wallaea Ued,*' te.

Boms had entertained hopes of pro-
motion in the excise ; but circumatancea
occurred which retarded their fulfilment,
and which in his ow^ mind, destroyed all
expectation of their being ever fulfilled.
The extraordinary events which ushered
in the revolution of France, intereated
the feelings, and excited the hopes of
men in every comer of Europe. Preju-
dice and tyranny seemed about to disap-
pear from among men, and the day-atar
of reason to rise upon a benighted world.
In the dawn of this beautiful morning,
the geniua of French freedom appears
on our southern horizon with the coun-
tenance of an angel, but speedily assum-
ed the features of a demon, and vaniahed
in a shower of blood.

Though previously a iacobite and a
cavalier. Bums had shared in the original
hopes entertained of this astonishing re-
volution, by ardent and benevolent nunds.
The novelty and the hazard of the at-
tempt meditated by the First, or Con-
stituent Assembly, served rather, it is
probable, to recommend it to his daring
temper ; and the unfettered scope pro-
posed to be given to every kind of talents,
waa doubtless gratif3^g to the feelings of
conaciouR but indignant geniua. Buma
foresaw not the mighty ruin that w«« to

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

be the immediate comequence of an enter-
prifle, which on its commencement, pro-
mised so much happiness to the human
race. And even ailer the career ofgruilt
and of blood commenced, he could not
immediately, it may be presumed, with-
draw his partial ^ze from a people who
had so lately breathed the sentiments of
aniversal peace and heni^ity ; or oblite-
rate in his bosom the pictures of hope and
of happiness to which those sentiments
had given birth. Under these impres-
sions, he did not always conduct himself
with the circumspection and prudence
which his dependant situation seemed to
demand. He engaged indeed in no popu-
lar associations, so common at the time
of which we speak : but in company he
did not conceal his opinions of public
measures, or of the reforms required in
the practice of our government ; and
sometimes in his social and unguarded
moments, he uttered them with a wild
and unjustifiable vehemence. Informa-
tion of this was given to the Board of
Excise, with the exaggerations so gene-
ral in such cases. A superior officer in
that department was authorised to inquire
into his conduct. Burns defended him-
self in a letter addressed to one of the
Board, written with great independence
of spirit, and with more than his accus-
tomed eloquence. The officer appointed to
inquire into his conduct gave a favourable
report. His steady friend, Mr. Graham of
Fintry, interposed his good offices in his be-
half ; and the imprudent gauger was suf-
fered to retain his situation, but given to un-
derstand that his promotion was deferred,
and must depend on his future behaviour.

•* This circumstance made a deep im-
pression on the mind of Bums. Fame
exaggerated his misconduct, and repre-
sented him as actually dismissed from his
office ; and this report induced a gentle-
man of much respectability to propose a
subscription in his favour. The offer
was refused by our poet in a letter of
great elevation of sentiment, in which he
gives an account of the whole of this
transaction, and defends himself from the
imputation of disloyal sentiments on the
one hand, and on the other, from the
charge of having made submissioiis for
the sake of his office, unwortliy of his
character.

" The partiality of my coimtrymen," he
ODserves, " has brought me forward as a
man of genius, and lias given me a cha-

racter to support. In t^e poet 1 have
avowed manly and independent senti-
ments, which I hope have been found in
the man. Reasons of no less weight than
the support of a wife and children, have
pointed out m^ present occupation as the
only eligible hne of life within my reach.
StiU my honest fame is my dearest con-
cern, and a thousand times have I trem-
bled at the idea of the degrading epithets
that malice or misrepresentation may affix
to my name. Oflen in blasting anticipa-
tion have I listened to some future hack-
ney scribbler, with the heavy malice of
savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that
Bums, notwithstanding the F*anfanmnad€
of independence to be tound in his works,
and afler having been held up to public
view, and to public estimation, as a man
of some genius, yet, quite destitute of re-
sources within himself to support his bor-
rowed dignity, dwindled into a paltrjr ex-
ciseman, and slunk out the rest of his in-
significant existence in the meanest of
pursuits, and among the lowest of mankind.

" In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit
me to lodge my strong disavowal and de-
fiance or such slanderous falsehoods.
Bums was a poor man from his birth, and
an exciseman by necessity ; but — I wHl
say it ! the sterling of his honest worth
poverty could not debase, and his inde-
pendent British spirit, oppression might
bend, but could not subdue."

It was one of the last acts of his life to
copy this letter into his book of manu-
scripts accompanied by some additional
remarks on the same subject. It is not
surprising, that at a season of universal
alarm for the safety of the consti^tion,the
indiscreet expressions of a man so power-
ful as Burns, should have attracted notice.
The times certainly required extraordina-
ry vigilance in those intrusted with the ad-
minist ration of the government, and to
ensure the safety of the constitution was
doubtless their first duty. Yet generous
minds will lament that their measures of
precaution should have robbed the ima-
gination of our poet of the last prop on
which his hopes of independence rested ;
and by embittering his peace, have aggra-
vated those excesses which were soon to
conduct him to an untimely grave.

Though the vehemence of Bums's tem-
per, increased as it ofYen was by stimu-
latinfif liquors, might lead him into many
improper and unguardod expressions.

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

tliere ■etmi no rtuon to doubt of his at-
tachment to our mixed fonn of govem-
ment. In his common-place book, where
he could have no temptation to diiffuine,
are the following sentiments. — ^^ What-
ever might be my sentiments of republics,
ancient or modem, as to Britain, I ever
abjured the idea. A constitution, which
in its original principles, experience has
proved to be every way fittea for our hap-
piness, it would be insanity to abandon
ror an untried visionary theory. " In con-
formity to these sentiments, when the
pressing nature of pubhc affairs called, in
1795, for a general aiming of the people,
Bums appeared in the ranks of the Dum-
fries volunteers, and employed his poetical
talents in stimulating their patriotism ;*
and at this season of alarm, he brought
forward a hymn,f worthy of the Grecian
muse, when Greece was most conspicuous
for genius and valour.

Though by nature of an athletic form,
Bums had in his constitution the peculi-
arities and delicacies that belong to the
temperament of genius. He was liable,
from a very early period of life, to that in-
teniiption m the process of dige8tion,which
arises from deep and anxious thought, and
which is sometimes the effect and some-
times the cause of depression of spirits.
Connected with this disorder of the sto-
mach, there was a disposition to head-
ache, affecting more especially the tem-
ples and eye-balls, and frequently accom-
panied by violent andirregular movements
of the heart. Endowed by nature with
fl^eat sensibility of nerves, Bums was, in
his corporeal, as well as in his mental sys-
tem, liable to inordinate impressions ; to
fever of body as weU as of mind. This
predisposition to disease, which strict
temperance in diet, regular exercise, and
sound sleep, might have subdued, habits
of a very different nature strengthened
and inflflmed. Perpetually stimuwted by
alcohol in one or other of its various forms,
the inordinate actions of the circulating

* 0«e Poem entitled Tkt Dwmftiet VoUmUtn,

fTbeFlongofDeath, PoeoMf p. 83. Thte poem was
written in 1791. It wn printed in JokMaiCt Musical
Museum. The poet bad an Intention, In the latter part
of his life, of pdotlug It separately, aeC to mmic, bat
waa advised agalnit It, or at least discouraged fhun it
The martial ardour which rose so high afterwards, on
the threatened invaidon, had not then acquired the
tone necessary to give popularity to this noUe poem;
whkh to the Editor, seems more calculated to invigo-
rate the spirit ofdefence, In a season of rral and prmt-
ing danger, than any production of modem llmea.

system became at length habitual; tbe
process of nutrition was unable to sup-
ply the waste, and the powers of life be-
firan to fail. Upwards of a year before his
death, there was an evident decline in dar
poet*s personal appearance, and though
his appetite continued unimpaired, he was
himself sensible that his constitution wu
sinking. In his moments of thon^t lie
reflected with the deepest regret on hb
fatal progress, clearly foreseeing the goal
towards which he was hastening, without
the strength of mind necessary to stop, or
even to Macken his course. His temper
now became more irritable and gloomy;
he fled from himself into society, often of
the lowest kind. And in such company,
that part of the convivial scene, in which
wine increases sensibility and excites be-
nevolence, was hurried over, to reach the
succeeding part, over which unoontroDed
passion generally presided. He who suf-
fers the pollution of inebriation, how shaO
he escape other pollution ? But let us re-
frain from the mention of errors over
which delicacy and humanity draw the
veiL

In the midst of all hb wandering Bums
met nothing in his domestic circle but
gentleness and forgiveness, except in the
gnawings of his own remorse. He ac-
knowledged his transgressions to the wife
of his bosom, promised amendment, and
again and again received pardon for hia
offences. But as the strength of his body
decayed, his resolution became feebler ,and
habit acquired predominating strength.

From October, 1795, to the January-
following, an accidental complaint con-
fined him to the house. A few days af-
ter he began to go abroad, he dined at a
tavern, and returned home about three
o'clock in a very cold morning, benombed
jand int6xicated. Tliis was followed by
an attack of rheumatism, which confined
him about a week. His appetite now
be^an to fail; his hand shook, and hia
voice faltered on any exertion or emo-
tion. His pulse became weaker and more
rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in
the hands and feet, deprived him of the
eiij oyment of refreshing sleep. Too much
dejected in his spirits, and too weU aware
of his real situation to entertain hopes of
recovery, he was ever musing on the ap-
proaching desolation of his family, and
nis spirits sunk into a uniform gloom.

It was hoped by some of his friends.

THE LIFE OF BURNS-

6!)

tint if he conld live through the months
of spring, the succeeding season might
restore him. But they were disappointed.
The genial beams of the sun infused no
vigour ipto his hinguid frame : the sum-
mer wind blew upon him, but produced
DO refreshment. About the latter end of
June he was advised to go into the coun-
tiy, and impatient of medical advice, as
well as of every species of control, he de-
termined for hunself to try the effects of
bathing in the sea. For this purpose he
took up his residence at Brow, in Annan-
dale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, on
the shore of the Solway-Firth.

It happened that at that time a lady
with whom he had been connected in
friendship by the sympathies of kindred
genius, was residing in the immediate
neighbourhood.'^ Being informed of his
amval, she invited him to dinner, and
sent her carriage for him to the cottage
where he lodged, as he was unable to
walk.-»" I was struck," says this lady (in
a confidential letter to a friend wntten
soon afler,) ** with his appearance on en-
tering the room. The stamp of death was
imprinted on his features. He seemed
already touching the brink of eternity.
His firat salutation was, * Well, Madam,
have you any commands for the other
world ?* I replied, that it seemed a doubt-
ful case which of us should be there soon-
est, and that I hoped he would yet live to
write my epitaph. (I was then in a bad
state of hMlth.) He looked in my face
with aa air of great kindness, and express-
ed his concern at seeing me look so ill,
with his accustomed sensibility. At table
he ate little or nothing, and he complain-
ed of having entirely lost the tone of his
stomach. We had a long and serious
conversation about his present situation,
and the approaching termination of 4l11
his earthly prospects. He spoke of his
death without any of the ostentation of
philosophy, but with firmness as well as
feeling, as an event likely to happen very
soon ; and which gave him concern chiefly
from leaving his four children so young
and unprotected, and his wife in so inter-
eating a situation — ^in hourly expectation
of lying in of a fiflh. He mentioned, with
seeming pride and satisfaction, the promis-
ing genius of his eldest son, and the flat-
tering marks of approbation he had re-
ceived from his teachers, and dwelt par-
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future

• For ■ charaeiar of tUi lady, nt Itttar, No. CXZIX.

conduct and merit. His anxiety fbr his
family seemed to hang heavy upon him,
and the more perhaps from the reflection
that he had not done them all the Justice
he was so well qualified to do. Passing
from this subject, he showed great con-
cern about the care of his literary fame,
and particularly the publication of his
posthumous works. He said he was well
aware that his death would occasion some
noise, and that every scrap of his writing
would bo revived against him to the in-
ju]^ of his future reputation; that letters
and verses written with unguarded and
improper freedom, and which he earnestly
wished to have buried in oblivion, would
be handed about by idlo vanity or malevo-
lence, when no dread of liis resentment
would restrain them, or prevent the cen-
sures of shrill-tongued malice, or the in-
sidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring
forth all their venom to blast his fame.

" He lamented that he had written many
epigrams on persons against whom he en-
tertained no enmity, and whose characters
he should be sorry to wound ; and many
indifferent poetical pieces, which he fear-
ed would now, with all tlicir imperfections
on tlicir head, be thrust upon the world.
On this account he deeply regretted hav-
ing deferred to put his papers in a state
of arrangement as he was now quite in-
capable of the exertion.*' — The lady goes
on to mention many other topics of a pri-
vate nature on which he spoke. — '* The
conversation," she adds, " was kept up
with great evenness and animation on his
side. I had seldom seen his mind greater
or more collected. There was frequently
a considerable degree of vivacity in his
sallies, and they would probably have had
a ^eater share, had not the concern and
defection I could not disguise, damped the
spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwil-
ling to indulge.

" We parted about sunset on the even-
ing of that day fthc 5th July, 1796;) the
next day I saw nim again, and we parted
to meet no more !"

At first Bums imagined bathing in the
sea had been of benefit to him : the pains
in his limbs were relieved ; but this was
immediately followed by a new attack of
fever. When brought back to his own
house in Difknfries, on the 18th of July,
he was no longer able to stand upright.
At this time a tremor pervaded his frame :
his tongue was parched, and his mind

. 60

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

sank into dclihuin, when not roused by
conversation. On the second and third
day the fever increased, and his strength
diminished. On the fourth, the sufferings
of this great but ill-fated genius, were
terminated ; and a life was closed in which
virtue and passion had been at perpetual
variance.*

The death of Bums made a strong and
general impression on all who had mter-
ested themselves in his character, and es-
pecially on the inhabitants of the town
and county in which he had spent the
latter years of his life. Flagrant as his
follies and errors had been, they had not
deprived him of the respect and regard
entertained for the extraordinary powers
of his genius, and the generous qualities
of his heart. The Gentlemen- Volunteers
of Dumfries determined to bury their il-
lustrious associate with military honours,
and every preparation was made to ren-
der this last service solemn and impres-
sive. The Fencible Infantry of Angus-
shire, and the regiment of cavalry of the
Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in
Dumfries, offered their assistance on this
occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the
town and nnighbourhood determined to
walk in the funeral procession ; and a vast
concourse of persons assembled, some of
them from a considerable distance, to wit-
ness the obsequies of the Scottish Bard.
On the evening of the 25th of July, the
remains of Burns were removed from his
house to the Town-Hall, and the funeral
took place on the succeeding day. A
party of the volunteers, selected to per-
form the military duty in the church-yard,
stationed themselves in the front of the pro-
cession, with their arms reversed ; the main
body of the corps surrounded and support-
ed the coffin, on which were placed the
hat and sword of their friend and fellow-
soldier ; the numerous body of attendants
ranged themselves in the rear ; while the
Fencible regiments of infantry and caval-
ry lined the streets from the Town-Hall
to the burial ground in the Southern
rhurch-yard, a distance of more than half
a mile. The whole procession moved for-
ward to that sublime and affecting strain
of music, the Dead March in Saul ; and
three voUeys fired over his grave, marked
the return of Bums to his parent earth !
The spectacle was in a high degree gnnd

* The partiealiin raipecthig the UiieK and deitil of
Bums were obllglnfly furntsbed by Dr. MurweHr tbe
phyelcUn vrho attended bim.

and solemn, and accorded with the gm^
ral sentiments of sympathy and forrow
which the occasion had called forth.

It was an affecting circumataiwe, that,
on the morning of the day of her haf-
band's funeral, Mrs. Bums was undergo-
ing the pains of labour ; and that dormf
the solemn service we have just been d^
scribing, the posthumous son of onr poet
was bom. This infant boy, who received
the name of Maxwell, was not destined
to a long life. He has already become an
inhabitant of the same grave with his
celebrated father. The lour other chil-
dren of our poet, all sons, (the eldest tt
that time about ten years of age) yet sur-
vive, and give every promise of prudence
and virtue that can be expected from their
tender years. They remain under tbe
care of their affectionate mother in Dum-
fries, and are enjoying the means of edu-
cation which the exceUent schools of that
town afford ; the teachers of which, in
their conduct to the children of Bums, do
themselves great honour. On this occa-
sion the name of Mr. Whyte deserves to
be particularly mentioned, himself a poet,
as well as a man of science.*

Bums died in great poverty ; but the
independence of his spirit and the exem-
plary prudence of his wife, had preserved
him from debt. He had received from
his poems a clear profit of about nine hun-
dred pounds. Or this sum, the part ex-
pended on his library (which was far from
extensive) and in the himible furniture of
his house, remained ; and obligations
were found for two hundred pounds ad-
vanced by him to the assistance of those
to whom he was united by the tics of
blood, and still more by those of esteem and
affection. When it is considered, that hie
expenses in Edinburgh, and on hie varioua
ioumeys, could not be inconsiderable; that
his agricultural undertaking wae unsuc-
cessful; that his income from the excise was
for some time as low as fifly, and never
rose to above seventy pounds a-year ,
that his family was large, and his spirit
liberal — no one will be surprised that
his circumstances were so poor, or that,
as his health decayed his proud and feel-
ing heart sunk under the secret con-
sciousness of indigence, and the apprehen-
sions of absolute want. Yet poverty
never bent the spirit of Bums to any pe-

• Author of "Bt Oueidon*i Well," a poen; and of
" A Tribute to the Memory of BarM.**

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

muAiy meannett. Neither chicanery
or aordidnesB ever appeared in his con-
luct. He carried his disregard of mo-
ley to a blameable excess. Even in the
oidat of distress he bore himself loflily
o the world, and received with ft ; .?aloiis
Bluctance every offer of friendly assis-
ance. His printed poems had procured
lim great celebrity, and a just and fair
'ecompense for the latter offsprings of his
ten might have produced him considera-
ile emolument. In the year 1795, the
Sditor of a London newspaper, high in its
sharactcr for literature, and independence
if sentiment, made a proposal to him that
le should furnish them, once a week,
irith an article for their poetical depart-
nent, and receive from them a lecom-
lense of fifty-two {ruineas per annum ;
in offer which the pride of genius disdain-
id to accept. Yet he had for several
^ears furnished, and was at that time fur-
liahinff, the Muteum of Johnson with his
leautiful lyrics, without fee or reward,
Ad was obst'mately refusing all recom-
lense for his assistance to the greater
?ork of Mr. Thomson, which the jus-
ice and generosity of that gentleman was
iressing upon him.

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap-
iroaching distress of his infant family,
iressed heavily on Bums as he lay on the
»ed of death. Yet he alluded to his in-
ligence, at times with something ap-
proaching to his wonted gayety.— *' What
tnsiness," said he to Dr. Maxwell, who
Atended him with the utmost zeal, '^ has
. physician to waste his time on me ? I
jn a poor pigeon, not worth plucking,
klas ! I have not feathers enough upon
ae to carry me to my grave." And when
lia reason was lost in delirium his ideas
an in the same melancholy train ; the
lorrors of a jail were continually present
o his troubled imagination, and produced
he most affectijig exclamations.

As for some months previous to his
leath he had been incapable oTthe duties
)f his office. Bums dreaded that his salary
hoold be reduced one half as is usual in
ach cases. His full emoluments were,
lowever, continued to him by the kind-
iem of Mr. Stobbie, a young expectant
D the Excise, who performed the duties
•f his office without fee or reward ; and
if r. Graham of Pintry, hearing of his ill-
less, though unacquainted witn its dan-
gerous nature, made an ofier of his assis-
anee towards procuring him the means

of preserving his healtA. Whatever
mignt be the faults of Bums, ingratitude
was not of the number.— Amongst his
manuscripts, various proofs, are found of
the sense he entertained df Mr. Graham's
friendship, which delicacy towards that
gentleman has induced us to suppress ;
and on this last occasion there is no doubt
that his heart overflowed towards him,
though he had no longer the power of
expressing his feelings.*

On the death of Bums the inhabitanta
of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened
a subscription for the support of his wife
and family ; and Mr. Miller, Mr. M'Mur-
do. Dr. Maxwell, Mr. 8yme, and Mr.
Cunningham, gentlemen of the first re-
spectability, became trustees for the ap-
phcation of the money to its proper ob-
jects. The subscription was extended to
other parts of Scotland, and .of England
also, particularly London and Liverpool.
By this means a sum was raised amount-
ing to seven hundred pounds ; and thus
the widow and children were rescued from
immediate distress, and the most melan-
choly of the forebodings of Burns happily
disappointed. It is true, this sum, though
equal to their present support, is insuffi-
cient to secure them from future penury
Their hope in regard to futurity depends
on the favourable reception of these vo-
lumes from the public at large, in the
promoting of which the candour and hu-
manity of the reader may induce him to
lend lus assistance.

Bums, as has already been mentioned,
was nearly five feet ten inches in height,
and of a form that indicated agility as well
as strength. His well-raised forehead,
shaded with black curling hair, indicated
extensive capacity. His eyes were large,
dark, full of ardour and intelligence. His
face was well formed ; and his counte-
nance uncommonly interesting and ex-
pressive. His mode of dressing, which
was oflen slovenly, and a certain fulness
and bend in his shoulders, characteristic
of his original profession, disguised in
some degree the natural symmetry and
elegance of his form. The extemal ap-
pearance of Burns was most strikingly in-
dicative of the character of his mind. On
a first view, his physiognomy had a cer-
tain air of coarseness, mingled, however,

* The letter of Mr. Graham, alluded to above, Is
dat^ on tlie 13th of Jul/, and probably arrived on tha
15th. Biirm berame dellrloM on tbe 17th or Iftth,
and died on Uie Slat

TUB LIFK OF BUHNS

with an cxpremlon of deep penetration,
and of calm tliou^lit fulness, approaching
to melanclioly. There appeared in his
firBt manncT and address, perfect ease
and 8clf-posP4'>ssion, but a stern and almost
supercilious elevation, not, indeed, incom-
patible with openness and affability,which,
however, bespoke a mind conscious of su-
perior talents. Stranf^crs that supposed
themselves approaching an Ayrshire pea-
sant who could make rhymes, and to whom
tlieir notice was an honour, found them-
selves speedily overawed bv the presence
of a man who bore himself with dignity,
and who possessed a singular power of
correcting forwardness, and of repelling
intrusion. But though jealous of the re-
spect due to himself, Burns never enforced
it where h>; saw it was willingly paid;
and. though inaccessible to the approach-
es of pride, he was open to every advance
of kindness and of benevolence. His dark
and haughty countenance easily relajced
into a look of good- will, of pity, or of ten-
derness; and, as the various emotions
succeeded each other in his mind, assumed
with equal ease the expression of the
broadest humour, of the most extravagant
mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or of
the most snblime emotion. The tones of
his voice happily corresponded with the
expression of his features, and with the
feelings of his mind. When to these en-
dowments are added a rapid and distinct
apprehension, a most powerful under-
standing, and a happy command of lan-
guage--of strength as well as brilliancy
of expression — ^we shall be able to ac-
count for the extraordinary attractions of
his conversation — for the sorcery which
in his social parties he seemed to exert
on all arouna him. In the company of
women this sorcery was more especially
apparent. Their presence chumed the
fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and
awoke his happiest feelings; it excited
the powers of his fancy, as well as the
tenderness of his heart ; and, by restrain-
ing the vehemence and the exuberance
of his language, at times gave to his man-
ners the impression of taste, and even of
elegance, which in the company of men
they seldom possessed. This influence
was doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish
Lady, accustomed to the best society, de-
clared with characteristic naivete^ that no
man's conversation ever carried her to
completely q/jf her feet as that of Bums ;
and an English Lady, familiarly acquaint-
ed with several of the most distinguished
eharacters of the present times, assured j

the Editor, that in the happiest of his so-
cial hours, there was a chann about Bums
which she had never seen equalled. This
charm arose not more from the power than
the versatility of his genius, sio languor
could be felt in the society of a man who
passed at ploasure from ^7^6 to gay^ from
the ludicrous to the j)athetic, from tne sim-
ple to the sublime ; who wielded all hii
faculties with equal strength and ease,
and never failed £0 impress the offspriaf
of his fancy with the stamp of his under
standing.

This indeed, is to represent Bums in his
happiest phasis. In large and mixed par-
ties he was oflen silent and dark, some-
times fierce and overbearing; he wu
jealous of the proud man's scorn, jealoos
to an extreme of the insolence of weahk,
and prone to avenge, even on its innocent
possessor, the partiality of fortune. By
nature kind, brave, sincere, add in a sin-
gular degree compassionate, he was on
the other hand proud, irascible, and vin-
dictive. His virtues and his failings had
their origin in the extraordinary sensi-
bility of his mind, and equally partook of
the chills and glows of sentiment. His
friendships were liable to interruption
from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities
died away under the influence of pity or
self-accusation. His understanding was
equal to the other powers of his mind,
and his deliberate opinions were singular-
ly candid and just ; but, like other men of
great and irregular genius, the opinions
which he delivered in conversation were
oflen the offspring of temporary feelings,
and widely different from the calm deci-
sions of nis judgment. This was not
merely true respecting the characters of
others, but in regard to some of the most
important points of human speculation.

On no subject did he give a more strik-
ing proof of the strong^ of his under-
standing, tlian in the correct estimate he
formed of himself. He knew his own
failings ; h^ predicted their consequence ;
the melancholy foreboding was never long
absent from his mind ; yet his passions
carried him down the stream of error,
and swept him over the precipice he saw
directly in his course. The fatal defect
in his character lay in the comparative
weakness of liis volition, that superior
faculty of the mind, which |roveming the
conduct according to the dictates of the
understanding, alone entitles it to he de-
nommated rational ; which is the parent

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

ade, patience, and self-denial ;
y regulating and combining hu-
rtions, may be said to have ef-
1 that is great in the works of
literature, in science, or on the
nature. The occupations of a
not calculated to strengthen the
g powers of the mind, or to weak-
sensibility which requires per-
mtrol, since it gives birth to the
Lce of passion as well as to the
owers of imagination. Unfortu-
e favourite occupations of genius
dated to increase all its peculi-
to nourish that lofly pride which
the littleness of prudence, and
'ictions of order : and by indul-
) increase that sensibility which,
'escnt form of our existence, is
compatible with peace or happi-
;n when accompanied with the
gifls of fortune !

iwerved by one who was a friend
tciate of Bums,"' and who has
lated and explained the system of
1 nature, that no sentient being
ital powers greatly superior to

men, could possibly live and be
1 this world — " If such a being
isted," continues he, " his misery
e extreme. With senses more
and refined ; with perceptions
ite and penetrating ; with a taste
iite that the objects around him
J no means gratify it ; obliged to

nourishment too gross for his
be must be bom«on^ to be mis-
and the continuation of his exis-
•uld be utterly impossible. Even
iresent condition, the sameness
nsipidity of objects and pursnitq,
ty of pleasure, and the infinite
if excruciating pain, are support-
^at difficulty by cultivated and
linds. Increase our sensibilities,

the same objects and situation,
lan could bear to live."

it appears, that our powers of
1 as well as all our other powers,
:ed to the scene of our existence ;
r are limited in mercy, as well as
tn.

}eculations of Mr. Smellie are
I considered as the dreams of a
; they were probably founded on
rience. The being be supposes,

bli 'ThllQiOpiqrorNatiiral Hirtory.**

** with senses more delicate tsA refined,
with perceptions more acute and pene-
trating," is to be found in real life. He
is of the temperament of genius, and per-
haps a poet. Is there, then, no remedy
for this inordinate sensibility ? Are there
no means by which the happiness of one
so constituted by nature may be consult-
ed ? Perhaps it will be found, that regular
and constant occupation, irksome though
it may at first be, is the true remedy
Occupation in which the powers of the
understanding are exercised, will dimin-
ish the force of external impressions, an
keep the imagination under restraint.

That the bent of every man's mind
should be followed in his education and
in his destination in life, is a maxim which
has been oflen repeated, but which can-
not be admitted, without many restric-
tions. It may be generally true when
applied to weak minds, which being capa-
ble of little, must be encouraged and
strengthened in the feeble impulses by
which that little is produced. But where
indulgent nature has bestowed her ffifls
with a liberal hand, the very reverse ofthis
maxim ought frequently to be the rule of
conduct. In minds of a higher order, the
object of instruction and of discipline is
very oflen to restrain, rather than to im-
pel ; to curb the impulses of imagina-
tion, so that the passions also may be
kept under control.*

Hence the advanta^s^ even in a morai
point of yiew, of stumes of a severer na^
ture, which while they infbrm the under-
standing, employ the volition, that regu-
lating power of the mind, which, like all
our other faculties, is strengthened by ex-
ercise, and on the superiority of which,
virtue, happiness, and honourable fame,
are wholly dependant. Hence also the
advantage of regular and constant appli-

* QuInetlUaii diieinMfl the important qncftion, whe-
ther the bent of the Inillvidaa]*! fenliu Bhould be fair
lowed in hie edoeatlon («• McvnAtw »%% qmufus i»r
genn deeendug Ht iMtarom,) ehiefly, indeed, with a
reference to the orator, but In a waf that admits of
very general apptieation. Hii concluaiona coincide
very much with thoee of the tezL ** A n vero Iiocratea
cum de £plK>ro atque Tbeopompo ilc Judicaret, ut air
teri frtnitt alUri ealearibus «jnM mm dicerf^t ; aut in
illo lentiore *tardltatem, aut in Ulo pene prsclpiti con*
citatlonem adjovandum docendoexiatimavit t earn alte-
rum alterlua natuiamiaeendam arlittraretnr. ImlwciUia
tamen infenila aane sic obaequeDdum, lit, ut tantum in
id quo Tocat natora, daeantMr. Ita tnioi, quod aol«a

poiiant, melhia efltdeat.**

Inat Orator. Bk if. ft

64 THE LIFE OF BURNS.

cation, whick aids the voluntary power by tory, or kingdoms to provperity ; nigfat

the production of habits so necessary to have wielded the thunder of eloqnence, or

the support of order and virtue, and so discovered and enlarged the sciences that

difficult to be formed in the temperament constitute the power and improve the coo-

of genius. dition of our species.^ Such talents are,

The man who is so endowed and so re- * The rewier mufc not MppoM it b coaioded tM

gulated, may pursue his course with con- ^ "^ individual could have •xceiled In all tbtrnji-

fidence in ahnost any of tlie various walks «««»on^ A certain d<^of ln«nietk» »< pnctlw

c^^c ..I- u ..u^:^^ 1. .^..;.i^»* ..k.11 ^^^» i« necee»ry to •xceUeoce in every one, and Hft b l»

of life which choice or accident shall open ^^ ^ ^^^^ ^^ ^ iio^7pe« Id. ukui.
to hmi; and, provided he employs the ta- «^ulring Uita in aU of UKsm. It i. only a^rted, tte
lents he has cultivated, may hope for such the nme talents, differenUy applied, mlgbt Inve no-
imperfect happiness, and such limited sue- ceeded in any one, though perbapa, not equally wdl In
cess, as are reasonably to be expected from each. And, after all, thie position requires certala K-
human exertions. mitatlous, which the reader's candour and JndpnsiC

will supply. In supposing that a great poet might tevt

The pre-eminence among men, which "***• ■ ««•* o"*^'' »he pbyricai quaiues ncceswy la

procures personal respect, and which ter- ^^'^J^^^ "IJ'l^'^^^ ^ «ipporing that a nitt

'^ . . • 1 X- i.\- .. • ij orator might have made a great poet, it is a uvuwmij

mmates in lasting reputation, is seldom eondiUon, that he should have dev^^i himsdnTpi

or never obtained by the excellence of a try, and that he sliould have acquired a praAdcncy in

single faculty of mind. Experience teach- metrical numbers, which by patience andattentkm

es us, that it has been acquired by those may be acquired, though the want of ithasembarraa*

only who have possessed the comprehen- •d and chilled many of the first eflbits of true poetical

sion and the energy of general talents, ««"*«■• in supposing Uiat Homer might have lei a»«i«

and who have regulated their appUcation, ^'^ "^^^y^ "»«"» *«*«;» ^ •»»°«* «*»•" ^ i*J«"

in the line which choice, or peJhaps ac- Tc^^I^.T^h"!*!:;.'"'^.";'^'*^

.j^ , J ^ •11. Ai. J- dihood of mind, that coolness in the midst of dlikahy

Cldent, may have detormmed, by the die- ^^ danger, which great poets and orator, are Ib«i4

tales of their judgment. Imagmationis «>meUmes, but not always to poasoss. Theaatareor

supposed, and with justice, to be the lead- the Instuutiona of Greece and Rome produced man

ing faculty of the poet. But what poet instances of single individuals who excelled In varloai

has stood the test of time by the force of departments of active and speculative life, than occur

this single faculty ? Who does not see *" "oodern Europe, where the employmems ofroea aii

that Homer and Shakspeare excelled the ^V" »uhdivided. Many of the greatest wmrionrf

^^ i. ^c *i.^: • J A J*-. -- antiquity excelled in literature and in oralory. Tkat

rest Of their species m understandmg as th^had the s,«d. of great poets ai«>,wiiiib^^

well as m imagination ; that they were ^h.„ ^^^ q^^j^e, are jusUy aprreciat«d whieli an

pre-eminent m the highest species of necessary to excite, combine, and command the actlva

knowledge — the knowledge of the nature energies of a great body of men, to rouao that enthial-

and character of man ? On the other asm which sustains fftlguc, hunger, and the Inclemen-

hand, the talent of ratiocination is more ^^ ^^^^ elements, and which triumph, over tim flnr

especially requisite to the orator ; but no of d«*»l>i •*>• "m* powerful inMlnct of our natnre.
man ever obtained the palm of oratory, „,,. ^ _. ,«.

even by the highest excellence in this J^^^^^t^^Z*Z^Z^!!!^J!'.^'^T

^ i ^ ^ VzTi. ji ^ of the close connexion between the poet and the (wator.

Single talent. Who does not perceive Est ouim finitimus ar^tari poeU, num^H. ^rictior

that Demosthenes and Cicero were not p«^, verbomm auUm Ueentia Uherior, ^ De Or»-

more happy in their addresses to the rea- tore, Lib. i. c. 16. See also Lib. ui. c 7.— Ic b traa
son, than m their appeals to the passions.^ the cxsmple af Cicero may be quoted agalMt bia opi-
They knew, that to excite, to agitate, "*<>»• niaaltempls in verse, which are piatoed by Phi-
and to delight, are among the most po- **"^*^' ^^ ""' •^™ '° ^^^^ °»«* ^ approbation of in-
tent arts of persuasion ; and they enforced ^i*'; ""' *»f ~™ ."^•": ^'"^^ ^^^^ 1*^ "^ «^

4.1 • :_^ '^ ' xv 1 t.'^ %• 1 suflkient Ume to learn the art of the poet : but that ha

thep mipression on the understanding, by ,^ ^, .^^ „^^ ^ poeticaiexceiienc^ ms,

their command of all the sympathies of be abundantly proved from his compositions in proaa.

the heart. These observations might be on the oU>cr hand, noUiing is more clear, than that, la

extended to other walks of life. He who the character of a great poet, all the mental quallticaof

has the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, an orator are included. It is said by QuinetiliAn, of

has the faculties which, duly governed, Homer, Ommibti* Ooqunaim pitihu* nnmphm 0t air-

and differently directed, might lead to pre- ««'" ^'^ ^*'»- *• *''' '^^^ ""^^ of Homar b Uieieibft

eminence in other, and, as far as respects ^ir'r"*™''^^.? **''' °"T " **^ **^ "^ importaw*

L:~.^ir « u • 1. • J *.• *• Of the two sublime poets in our own language, who aia

himself, perhaps m happier destmations. ^^^^,^ ^^^^^^^ ^ ^^^ ShakapaarTV^MUtoii, .

TJe talents necessary to the construction ^milar recommendation may ba givm. Ic la aeart«^

of an luad, under different discipline and necessary to menUon bow mneh an noquatnlancc wlili

application, might have led armies to vie- UMm baa availed tba gnatontdr whola wm Um piMs

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

indeed, rare amon^f the prodactions of na-
tare, and occasions of bringinfi^ them into
full exertion are rarer still. But safe and
■alutary occupations maybe found for men
of genius in every direction, while the
useful and ornamental arts remain to be
cultivated, while the sciences remain to
he studied and to be extended, and prin-
ciples of science to be applied to the cor-
rection and improvement of art. In the
temperament of sensibility, which is in
tmth the temperament of general talents,
the principal object of discipline and in-
struction is, as has already been mention-
ed, to strengthen the sel^■command ; and
this mav be promoted by the direction of
the studies, more effectually perhaps than
hu been generally understood.

If these observations be founded in truth,
they may lead to practical consequences of
lome importance. It has been too much
the custom to consider the possession of
poetical talents as excluding the possibili-
ty of application to the severer branches
of study, and as in some degree incapaci-
tating the possessor from attaining those
habits, and from bestowing that attention,
which are necessary to success in the de-
taila of business, and in the engagements
of active life. It has been common for
persons conscious of such talents, to look
with a sort of disdain on other kinds of
inteUectual excellence, and to consider
themselves as in some degree absolved
ftom those rules of prudence by which
humbler minds are restricted. They are

■ad oraament of the EDgH>ta bar, a ebaraeter that may
ba appealed to with tingular propriety, when we are
•nalffiiMHng for the oniTenaUty of genlni.

na Identity, or at Jeast the great rimnarity, oftbe
te le Bt i necevary to txceUnu* in poetry, oratory, paint-
la^ WA war, will be admitted by tome, who will be in-
cltaed to diepote tlie eztenaion of the poeitlon to acience
or aamral knowledfe. On thia occaalon I may quote
tiM fbOowlng obaenrationa of Sir William Jone^, whoae
OWB «ctmple will however far ezceed in weight the
•atlwrlty of hia precepta. ** Abul Ola had ao flouriah-
lag a reputation, that aaveral peraona of uncommon
fenlna were ambitioua of learning the art «/ fottry
fronaoableaninatructor. ntomoatilluatrioiiaKholara
wera FeleU and Khakani, who were no lets eminent
fiir their Peralao cempoaltiona, than for their akill in
•very braacta of pure and mixed mathematlca, and par-
tfcotariy in aatronomy ; aatriking proof that a aublime
poet may become maater of any kind of learning which
be cbooaea to profeai ; ainee a flue imagination, a lively
wh, an eaay and copioua atyle, cannot poaaiMy ob-
tbe acquiaitkHi of any acience whatever ; but
riiy Miisi blmia bla atudlei, and aborten
Sir WUUtmMmt'M WcrkSfVl \i.pJSir

too much disposed to abandon themselvee
to their ovm sensations, and to suffer life
to pass away without regular exertion or
settled purpose.

But though men of genius are generally '
prone to indolence, with them indolence
and unhappibess are in a more especial
manner allied. The unbidden splendours
of imagination may indeed at tmies irra-
diate the gloom wliich inactivity produces ;
but such visions, though bright, are tran-
sient, and serve to cast the realities of
life into deeper shade. In bestowing great
talents, Nature seems very generally to
have imposed on the possessor the neces-
sity of exertion, if he would escape wretch-
edness. Better for him than sloth, toils
the most painful, or adventures the most
hazardous. Happier to him than idleness,
were the condition of the peasant, earn-
ing with incessant labour his scanty food ;
or that of the sailor, though hanging on
the yard-arm, and wrestling with the hur-
ricane.

These observations might be amply il-
lustrated by the biography of men of ge-
nius of every denomination, and more es-
pecially by the biography of the poets.
Of this last description of men, few seem
to have enjoyed the usual portion of hap-
piness that falls to the lot of humanity,
those excepted who have cultivated poe-
try as an elegant amusement in the hours
of relaxation from other occupations, or
the small number who have engaged w^ith
success in the greater or more arduous
attempts of the muse, in which all the
faculties of the mind have been fully and
permanently employed. Even taste, vir-
tue, and comparative independence, do
not seem capable of bestowing on men of
genius, peace and tranquillity, without
such occupation as may give regular and
healthful exercise to the faculties of body
and mind. The amiable Shenstone has
left us the records of his imprudence, of
his indolence, and of his unhappiness,
amidst the shades of the Leasowes ;* and
the virtues, the learning, and the genius
of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of
the epic muse, failed to procure him in
the academic bowers of Cambridge, that
tranquillity and that respect which less
fastidiousness of taste, and greater con-
stancy and vigour of exertion, would have
doubtless obtained.

^ee hia Leuera, which, aa a diaplay of the aflteta of
poetical idltneaa, are highly Inainietnre.

M THE UFB OF BURNS.

It is more neceoary that men of gemoe it is so often a prey, bow atroaf k the
ahould be awtre of the importance of self- temptation to have reoouree to an anti-
command, and of exertion, because their dote by which the pain of these wounds
indolence is peculiarly exposed, not mere- is suspended, by which the heart is exhi-
ly to unhappinestf, but to diseases of mind, laratcd, visions of happiness are excited in
and to errors of conduct, which are gene- the mind, and the forms of external na-
rally fatal. This interesting subject de- ture clothed with new beauty !
serves a particular investig^aHon ; but we

must content ourselves with one or two "Bsrvinmopcoaromi^

cursory remarks. Relief is sometimes ApiMstafff^nxyimoTi Uieiigiiini*dfo«i,

souffht from the melancholy of indolence ^nd mifuine bopM:dbpei yoat flMdoc ewt;

in practices, which for a time sooth and t^,,^^^ ^'^ **'""• ««i wh^ wMim,

gnTtify the sensations, but which in the ^^Z'J^Z!!!! ^T^^'^^^i

^ ^ • \ ^i_ A*-ji_ 1 Toe nappieu yoa Of sn uu e er were mag,

end involve the sufferer m darker gloom. or a«, or ihni i», eouid thit ibuy Iml

To command the external circumstances But koo yoor beawn to goM ; « btsvlar ibasi

by which happiness is affected, is not in Biwto o'ar yov bwd —

human power ; but there are various sub- ^ ^

stances in naturo which operate on the

system of the nerves, so as to give a fie- Morning eomea; yonrearwretam

titioua gayety to the ideas of imagination, wwuea fold rage. An anxkxM itomack wil

and to alter the effect of the external im- >*«y ba endured ; eo may Uie throMiing bsad :

pressions which we receive. Opium is Bui euch a dim deHrlum ; such a dream

chieflv cmnlovcd for this pur^Jby the ?r::j::;r,!itr?LT„X.L.«,

disciples of Ma homet and the inhabitants ^hen, baited round Chhcron^a erad aMca,

of Asia ; but alcohol, the prmciple of m- He aaw two luna and double Thebea aMMd.**

toxication in vinous and spirituous liquors, Armtramg'M Art tf Pnswimg Btdi^ '
is preferred in Europe, and is universally

used in the Christian world.* Under the Such are the pleaanres and the paini

various wounds to which indolent sensi- of intoxication, as they occur in the tc»-

bility is exposed, and under the gloomy perament of sensibility, described byi

apprehensions respecting futurity to which genuine poet, with a degree of truth

and energy which nothing out experience

. ,^ could have dictated. There are, indeed,

.hiT*^ ^Z" '^^'"^'^.^^fT^' ^^^ individuals of this temperament oa

which may be ooiMidered under thia point of view. „,!,«,« «,:«« ^.^^.,«^ «-. ^u^ : ■ ^ ,

Tobacco,tea..ndcoffee.areofthenumb«.The«»aub- whom wme produces no cheenng mflll.

aianoea encnUally differ from each oUier In their quail- ®"^' . P^ ^^^^ ®ven m very modeiate

dea ; and an Inquiry into the particular efl^ta of eaeli quantities, its effects are painfully ifri-

on the health, morata, and happincM of thoee who use tating ; in larcre draughts it excites dark

ihem, would be curiooa and uaeAii. The eflbcta of and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts

wine and of optnm on Uie temperament of aeaalUlity, gtiU larger, the fierceness of insanity it^

the Editor intended to have diaciiiaed In thiapiaee at gelf. Such men are happUy exempted

r^^f!SL^/.^*.l7^^ fron* » temptation, to wtfeh experience

too profewkmal to be introdooed with proprieiy. The . . '^^u i- *. j* -a* *^ a

dimcultyof abandoning any of U>eaenareotl^ teaches US the finest dlspOSlUOM often

may BO term them,) when inclination la itreogUiened by yioW, and the influence Of wniCD, When

habit, is wcu known. JohiMon, in hie diatrcMea, had Strengthened by habit, it is a humiliating

eiperlenced the obeerlng but treacheroni inthienee of truth, that the most powerful mindfl have

wine, and by a powerftil effort, abandoned it. He waa not been able to resist.

obliged, however, to um tea as a eubetltnte, and this

was the solace to which ho constantly had recoorae Jt ig the morc necessaTY for men of

under hi. habitual "*»f»><;^- ,T^P~«f-of '^w ^^j^g ^0 be on their guard against the

form many of the most beautiful lyrics of the poeta of £ v* i ^ • c ^rv^ /^"

r.««ce and Rome, and of modem Europe. Aether 7^\tual use of Winc, because it IS apt tO

opium, which produces TisionsstiH more ecauUc. has ^J®*1 ^^ ^'^e™ insensibly; and because

been the theme of the eastern poems, I do not know. the temptation to excess usually presents

wi I. J 1. 1 It .... .. . itself to them in their social hours, when

wine Is drunk in small quantities at a time, in eom- ^u^„ .,^ .i:„^ ^„i« *^ ,„. « j ^L

pany,where,/T. t.'**, it promotes harm^ and so- they are ahve only to Warm and ffonerous
ciai aflbction. Opium b swallowed by the Asiaties in ©n^ptions, and when prudence and mode-
full doses at once and the Inebriate retiree to the soli- ration are often contemned as selfishness

tary indulgence of hto delirious ImaginatloM. Hence and timidity.

the wine drinker appeals in a superior light to the Im-

Uber of opium, a dlstinetkm which Im owaa mon to It is the more necessary for them to

che/erM than to the f»aUt|r of UaHqnor guard against excess in the use of wine,

THE LIFE OF BURNSL

'on tliem its eflfbcto are, physically

and morally, in an especial manner inju-

liDus. In proportion to its stimulating

inflnence on the system (on which the

pVeawirable sensations depend,) is the de-

Dility that ensues ; a debility that destroys

digestion, and terminates m habitual &-

▼er, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insani-

tr. As the strength of the body decays,

the Tolition failb ; in proportion as tho

aensations are soothed and gratified, the

■eosibility increases ; and morbid scnsi-

hllity is the jMirent of indolence, because,

while it impairs the regulating power of

the niind» it exaggerates all the obstacles

to exertion. Activity, perseverance, and

self-command, become more and more

difficult, and the great purposes of utility,

pttriotism, or of honourable ambition,

which had occupied the imagination, die

away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble

efibrts.

To apply these observations to the sub-
ject of our memoirs, would be a useless as
well as a painful task. It is, indeed, a
doty we owe to the living, not to allow
oar admiration of great genius, or even
our pity for its unhappy destiny, to con-
ceal or disguise its errors. But there are
•entiments of respect, and even of tender-
ness, with which this duty should be per-
fbnned ; there is an awful sanctity which
iovMts the mansions of the dead ; and let
thoae who moralise over the graves of
their contemporaries, reflect with humili-
ty on their own errors, nor forget how
soon, they may themselves require the
eandoor and the sympathy they are called
jtpoa to bestow.

Soon after the death of Bums, the fol-
lowing article appeared in the Dumfries
Journal, from which it was copied into
the Edinburgh newspapers, and into vari-
ous other periodical publications. It is
from the elegant pen of a lady already
alluded to in the course of these memoirs,'^
whose exertions for the family of our bard,
in .the circles of literature and fashion in
which she moves, have done her so much
honour.

*^ The attention of the public seems to
be mnch occupied at present with the loss
it has recently sustained in the death of
the Caledonian poet, Robert Boms ; a

•Am 11.9a

loss calculated to be severely felt through-
out the literary world, as well as lamented
in the narrower sphere of private friend-
ship. It was not, therefore, probable, that
such an event should be long unattended
with tho accustomed profusion of posthu-
mous anecdotes and memoirs which are
usually circulated immediately afler the
death of every rare and celebrated person-
Sjge : I had, however, conceived no inten-
tion of appropriating to myself the privi-
lege of criticising Bums's writings and
character, or of anticipating on the pro-
vince of a biographer.

" Conscious, indeed, of my own ina-
bility to do justice to such a subject, I
should have continued wholly silent,
had misrepresentation and calumny boen
less industrious ; but a regard to truth,
no less than affection for the memory of
a friend, must now justify my offering to
the public a few at least of those obser-
vations which an intimate acquaintance
with Bums, and the frequent opportuni-
ties I have had of observing equally his
happy qualities and his failings for seve-
ral years past, have enabled me to com-
municate.

** It will actually be an injustice done
to Burns*8 character, not only by future
generations and foreign countries, but
even by his native Scotland, and perhaps
a number of his contemporaries, that he
is generally talked of, and considered,
with reference to his poetical talents only:
for the fact is, even allowing his great
and original genius its due tribute of ad-
miration, that poetry (I appeal to all who
have had the advantage of^ being person-
ally acquainted with him) was actually
not his/orto. Many others, perhaps, may
have ascended to prouder heights in the
region of Parnassus, but none certainly
ever outshone Bums in the charms — ^the
sorcery, I would almost call it, of fasci-
nating conversation, the spontaneous elo-
quence of social argument, or the unstu-
died poignancy of brilliant repartee; nor
was any man, I believe, ever gifted with
a larger portion of the *• tdvida vis animu'
His personal endowments were perfectly
correspondent to the qualifications of his
mind ; his form was manly ; his action,
energy itself; devoid in a great measure
perhaps of those graces, of that polish,
acquired only in tne refinement of soci-
eties where in early life he could have no
opportunities of mixing ; but where such
was the irresistible iH>wer of attraction

THB UFE OF BURNtf.

" I will not, however, undertake to be
the tpologist of the irregfularities eren of
a man of genius, though I beliere it Lb aa
certain that genius never was free from
irrrgularities, as that their absolution
may, in a great measure, be justly claim-
ed, since it is perfectly evident that the
world had continued very stationary in its
intellectual acquirements, had it never
ffiven birth to any but men of plain sense.
Kvenness of conduct, and a due regard to
the decorums of the world, have been so
rarely seen to move hand in hand with
genius, that some have gone as far as to
say, though there I cannot wholly acqui-
esce, that they are even incompatihle, be-
sides the frailties that cast tneir shade
over the splendour of superior merit, are
more conspicuously glaring than where
they are the attendants of mere mediocri-
ty. It is only on the gem we are disturb-
ed to see the dust : the pebble may be
■oiled, and we never re^d it. The ec-
centric intuitions of genius too often yield
the soul to the wild effervescence of de-
sires, always unbounded, and sometimes
equally dangerous to the repose of others
as fat al to its own. No wonder, then, if vir-
tue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze
of kindling animation, or that the calm mo-
nitions of reason are not invariably found
sufficient to fetter an imagination, which
scorns the narrow limits and restrictions
that would chain it to the level of ordina-
ry minds. The chDd of nature, the child
of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre-
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to
control the passions which proved a source
of frequent errors and misfortunes to him.
Bums made his own artless apoloery in
language more impressive than all the
argumentatory vindications in the world
could do, in one of his own poems, where
he delineates the gradual expansion of his
mind to the lessons of the ' tutelary muse,'
who concludes an address to her pupil, al-
most unique for simplicity and beautiful
poetry, with these lines :

** I nw tby pulM*! inadd*nlsg play
Wild lend the« pleaiure*! deYloiu wqr ;
Misled by fancy*! oieteor rmy

By puston driven;
Bat ytt tlM light that led aacray

Waa Ufkt fnm Amom.**^

** I have already transgressed beyond
the bounds I had proposed to myBeli, on
first committing this sketch to paper,
which comprehends what at least I have

• vide tbeViaion— DnanSJ.

been led to deem the leading fiMtpree ai
Bums's mind and character : a Hteruy
critique I do not aim at ; mine is whel^
fulfilled, if in these pages I have beea
able to delineate any or those strong tniti^
that distinguished him, of those tilenti
which rMscd him from the plough, where
he passed the bleak mominff of his life,
weaving his rude wreaths or poesy with
the wild field-flowers that sprang annmd
his cottsj^e, to that enviable eminence of
literary nime, where Scotland will loB^
cherish his memory with delight andgrt-
titude ; and proudly remember, that be-
neath her cold sky a genius was ripened,
without care or culture, that would haie
done honour to climes more favourable to
those luxuriances — ^that warmth of co-
louring and fancy in which he so emi-
nently excelled.

" Prom several paragraphs I have no-
ticed in the public prints, ever since the
idea of sending this sketch to some oM
of them was formed I find private ud-
mosities have not yet subsisded, and thtt
envy has not exhausted all her shafts. I
still trust, however, that honest fame will
be permanently affixed to Bums'schanc-
ter, which I think it will be found he hat
merited by the candid and impartial among
his countr]rmen. And where a recoQeC'
tion of the imprudence that sullied hif
brighter qualifications interpose, let the
imperfections of all human excellence bo
remembered at the same time, lea^nog
those inconsistencies, which alternately
exalted his nature into the seraph, and
sunk it again into the man, to the tribu-
nal which alone can investigate the laby-
rinths of the human heart—

* Where they alike in tremlriing hope rtp § §9 ,
—The boaom of bia father and liia Oedt'

Gra7*s Sleot.

^iqt

" .fMMMtala, Aujr* 7, 1096.

AfTEn this account of the lifb and pe^
sonal character of Bums, it may be ex«
pected that some inquiry should be made
mto his literary merits. It will not, how-
ever, be necessary to enter very minutely

o this investigation. If fiction be, te
some suppose, the soul of poetry, no one
had ever less pretensions to the name
of poet than Bums. Though he has dis-
played ip-eat powers of imagination, yet
the subjects on which he has written, are
seldom, if ever, imaginary ; lus poems, as
well as his letters, may be considered as
the effusions of his senaibility, and the

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

tnnseript of his own monngs on the real
tneidentfl of his humble life. If we add,
that they also contain most happy deline-
atioDfl of the characters, manners, and
scenery that presented tnemselves to his
observation, we shall include almost all
the subjects of his muse. His writings
mayt therefore, be regarded as affording
a great part of the data on which our ac-
count of his personal character has been
founded ; and most of the observations we
have applied to the man, are applicable,
with little variation, to the poet.

The impression of his birth, and of his
original station in life, was not more evi-
ient on his form and manners, than on
iiis poetical productions. The incidents
Krhich form the subjects of his poems,
ihough some of them highly interesting,
uid susceptible of poetical imagery, are
incidents in the life of a peasaat wlio takes
no pains to disguise the lowliness of his
condition, or to throw into shade the cir-
eiimstances attending it, which more fee-
Ue or more artificial minds would have
•ndeavourcd to conceal. The same rude-
neM and inattention appears in the for-
mation of his rhymes, which are frequent-
ly incorrect, while the measure in which
many of the poems arc written, has little
of the pomp or harmony of modern versi-
fication, and is 'indeed to an English ear,
ftrange and uncouthf-^The greater part
of his earlier poems are written in the di-
alect of his country, which is obscure, if
Bot onintelligible to Englishmen ; and
which, though it still adheres more or less
to the speech of almost every Scotchman,
til the polite and the ambitious are now
endeavouringto banif«h from their tongues
as well as their writings. The use of it
in composition naturally therefore calls
up ideas of vulgarity in the mind^These
■ingularities are increased by the charac-
ter of the poet, who delights to express
himself with a simplicity that approaches
to nakedness, and with an unmeasured
energy that oflcn alarms delicacy, and
sometimes offends taste. Hence, in ap-
proaching him, the first impression is pcr-
napa repulsive : there is an air of coarse-
ness about him which is difficultly recon-
ciled with our established notions of po-
etical excellence.

As the reader however becomes better
acquainted with the poet, the effects of
hu peculiarities lessen. He perceives in
his poems, even on the lowest subjects,
ezpfesnont olwitiment, and delineations

of manners, which are highly interesting*
The scenery he describes is evidently ta-
ken from real life ; the characters he in-
troduces, and the incidents he relates,
have the impression of nature and truth.
His humour, though wild and unbridled,
is irresistibly amusing, and is sometimes
heightened m its effects by the introduc-
tion of emotions of tenderness, with which
genuine humour so happily unites. Nor
is this the extent of his power. The rea-
der, as he examines farther, discovers
that the poet is not confined to the de-
scriptive, the humorous, or the pathetic ;
he is found, as occasion offers, to rise with
ease into the terrible and the sublime.
Every where he appears devoid of arti-
fice performing what he attempts with
little apparent effort ; and impressing on
the offspring of hi* fancy the stamp m hi»
under Mtandinf^. The reader, cspable of
forming a just estimate of poetical talents,
discovers in these circumstances marks
of uncommon genius, and is willing to in-
vestigate more minutelyits nature and it4
claims to originality. This last point we
shall examine first.

That Bums had not the advantages of
a closssical education, or of any degree of
acquaintance with the Greek or Roman
writers in their original dress, has appear-
ed in the history of his life. He acquired
indeed some knowledge of the French lan-
guage, but it does not appear that he was
ever much conversant in French litera-
ture, nor is there any evidence of his
having derived any of his poetical stores
from tnat source. With the English clas-
sics he became well acquainted in the
course of his life, and the effects of this
acquaintance are observable in his latter
productions ; but the character and style
of his poetry were formed very early,
and the model which he followed, in as
far as he can be said to have had one, is
to be sought for in the works of the po-
ets who have written in the Scottish dia-
lect — in the works of such of them more
especially, as are familiar to the peasantry
of Scotland. Some observations on these
may form a proper introduction to a more
particular examination of the poetry of
Burns. The studies of the Editor in this
direction are indeed very recent and very
imperfect. It would have been impru-
dent for him to have entered on this sub-
ject at all, but for the kindness of Mr.
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, whose assistance
he is proud to acknowledge, and to whom
the reader must ascribe whatever is of

THE LIFE OF BUUN&

anj Tilae In the followini^ imperfect
■ketch of literary coxnpositiozii in the
Scottish idiom.

It is a circumstance not a Uttle carious,
and which docs not seem to be satisfac-
torily explained, that in the thirteenth
century, the language of the two British
nations, if at all different, differed only in
the dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like
the Welsh and Armoric in the other, be-
jnff confined to the mountainous districts.*
The English under the Edwards, and the
Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke
the same language. We may observe
also, that in Scotland the history of poetry
ascends to a period nearly as remote as
in England. Barbour, and Blind Harry,
James the First, Dunbar, Douglas and
Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, fif-
teenth, and sixteenth centuries, were co-
eval with the fathers of poetry in Eng-
land ; and in the opinion of Mr. Whar-
ton, not inferior to them in eenius or in
composition. Though the language of
the two countries gradually deviated
from each other during this period, yet
the difference on the whole was not con-
siderable ; not perhaps greater than be-
tween the different dialects of the differ-
ent parts of England in our own time.

At the death of James the FifUi, in
1543, the language of Scotland was in a
flourishing condition, wanting only wri-
ters in prose equal to those in verse.
Two circumstances, propitious on the
whole, operated to prevent this. The
first was the passion of the Scots for com-
position in Latin ; and the second, the
accession of James the Sixth to the Eng-
lish throne. It may easily be imagined,
that if Buchanan had devoted hid admi-
rable talents, even in part, to the culti-
vations of his native tongue, as was done
by tlie revivers of letters in Italy, he
would have lefl compositions in that lan-
guage which might have incited other
men of genius to have followed his exam-
ple,! ^^ given duration to the language
Itself. The union of the two crowns in the
person of James, overthrew all reasonable
expectation of this kind. That monarch,
seated on the Englith throne, would no
longer suffer himself to be addressed in
the rude dialect in which the Scottish

*Hlitorieftl EMy on Bcottiih SoDg, p, 90, by M.

BitMUl.

t « #. Tbs AtUbofB orfhd D$U«im

$e0U

clergy had eo often Insulted taa dignity
He encouraged Latin or English only»
both of whicn he prided himself on wri-
ting with purity, though he himself never
could acquire the English pronunciation^
but spoke with a Scottish idiom and into-
nation to the last. — Scotsmen of talenti
declined writing in their native language^
which they knew was not acceptable to
their learned and pedantic monarch ; and
at a time when national prejudice and
enmity prevailed to a great degree, they
disdained to study the niceties of the Eng-
lish tongue, though of so much easier ac-
quisition than a dead language. Lord
Stirling and Drummond of Hai^omden,
the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry in
those times, were exceptions. They
studied the language of England and com-
posed in it with precision and elegance.
They were however the last of their
countrymen who deserved to be conside^
ed as poets in that century. The mosei
of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not
a^in raise their voices for a period of
eighty years.

To what causes are we to attribute this
extreme depression among a people com-
paratively learned, enterprisinig, and in-
genious ? Shall we impute it to the fa-
naticism of the covenanters, or to the ty-
ranny of the house of Stuart, after their
restoration to the throne ? Donbtlesi
these causes operated, but they seem un-
equal to account for the efifect. In Eng-
land, similar distractions and oppression
took place, yet poetry flourished there in
a remarkable degree. During this period,
Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden sung,
and Milton raised his strain of unpavallel-
ed grandeur. To the causes already men-
tioned, another must be added, m ac-
counting for the torpor of Scottish litera*
ture — the want of a proper vehicle for
men of genius to employ. The civil wars
had frightened away the Latin Muses, and
no standard had been established of the
Scottish tongue, which was deviating still
farther from the pure English idiom.

The revival of literature in Scotland
may be dated from the establishment of
the union, or rather from the extinction
of the rebellion in 1715. The nations be-
ing finally incorporated, it was clearly
seen that their tongues must in the end
incorporate also; or rather indeed that
the Scottish language must degenerate
into a provincial idioms to be avoided by
those who would aim at diftinction in

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

ktton, or rise to eminence in the united
Ufifllature.

Soon after this, a band of men of genius
l]ipeared, who studied the English clas-
sicsy and imitated their beauties, in the
nme manner as they studied the classics
of Greece and Rome. .They had admi-
fable models of composition lately pre-
•ented to them by the writers of the reign
of (^ueen Anne ; particularly in the peri-
odical papers published by Steele, Addi-
•on, and their associated friends, which
circuUted widely through Scotland, and
diffiiaed eyery where a taste for purity of
style and sentiment, and for critical dis-
quiaitton. At length the Scottish writers
succeeded in English composition, and a
union was formed of the litenuy talents,
aa well as of the legislatures of the two
nations. On this occasion the poets took
the lead. While Henry Home,* Dr. Wal-
lace, and their learned associates, were
onlr laying in their intellectual stores,
and atadying to clear themselves of their
Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and
Hamilton of Bangour had made their ap-
pearance before the public, and been en-
rolled on the list of English poets. The
writers in prose followed a numerous and
powerful band, and poured their ample
■tores into the general stream of British
literature. Scotland possessed her four
miversities before the accession of James
to the English throne. Immediately be-
fore the union, she acquired her parochial
schools. These establishments combining
happily together, made the elements of
knowledge of easy acquisition, and pre-
sented a direct path, by which the ardent
student might be carried along into the
recesses of science or learning. As civil
broils ceased, and faction and prejudice
gradually died away, a wider field was
opened to literary ambition, and the in-
fluence of the Scottish institutions for in-
struction, on the productions of the press,
became more and more apparent.

It seems indeed probable, that the es-
tablishment of the parochial schools pro-
duced effects on the rural muse of Scot-
land also, which have not hitherto been
suspected, and which, though less splen-
did in their nature, are not however to be
regarded as trivial, whether we consider
the happiness or the morals of the people.

There is some reason to believe, that

•Lert

the original inhabitants of the British isles
possessed a peculiar and interesting spe-
cies of music, which being banished from
the plains by the successive invasions of
the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was
preserved with the native race, in the
wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of
Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scot-
tbh, and the Welsh music differ, indeed,
from each other, but the difference may
be considered as in dialect only, and pro-
bably produced by the influence of time,
and lilce the different dialects of their
common language. If this conjecture be
true, the Scottu^h music must be more
immediately of a Highland origin, and
the Lowland tunes, though now ofa cha-
racter somewhat distinct, must have de-
scended from the mountains in remote
ages. Whatever credit may be given to
conjectures, evidently involved in groat
uncertainty, there can be no doubt that
the Scottish peasantry have been long in
possession of^a number of songs and bal-
lads composed in their native dialect, and
sung to their native music. The subjects
of these compositions were such as most
interested the simple inhabitants, and in
the succession of time varied probably as
the condition of society varied. During
the separation and the hostility of the two
nations, these songs and ballads, as far as
our imperfect documents enable us to
judge, were chiefly warlike ; such as the
HtmtU of Cheviot J and the Bailie ofHar"
low, Afler the union of the two crowns,
when a certain degree of peace and of
tranquillity took place, the rural muse of
Scotland breathed in sofler accents. " In
the want of real evidence respecting the
history of our songs,'* says Mr. Ramsay of
Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had to
conjecture. One would be disposed to
think that the most beautiful of the Scot-
tish tunes were clothed with new words
aflcr the union of the crowns. The in-
habitants of the borders, who had former-
ly been warriors from choice, and hus-
bandmen from necessity, either quitted '
the country, or were transformed nto
real shepherds, easy in their circumstan-
ces, and satisfied with their lot. Some
sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which
they are celebrated by Froissart, remain-
ed, sufficient to inspire elevation of senti-
ment and gallantry towards the fair sex.
The familiarity and kindness which had
long subsisted between the gentry and
the peasantry, could not all at once be
obliterated, and this connexion tended to
sweeten rural life. In this state of inno-

THE UFB OF BURNS.

eenee, mm and trtoqaUlity of mind, the
lore of poetry and music would still main-
tain its g^round, though it would natural-
ly assume a form congenial to the more
peaceful state of society. The minstrels,
whose metrical tales used once to rouse
the horderers like the trumpet's sound,
had been by an order of the legislature

iin 1579,) classed with roffues and vaga-
bonds, and attempted to be suppressed.
Knox and his disciples influenced the
Scottish parliament, but contended in
Tain with her rural muse. Amidst our
Arcadian vales, probably on the banks of
the Tweed, or some of its tributary
streams, one or more original geniuses
may have arisen, who were destined to
give a new turn to the taste of their coun-
trymen. They would see that the events
and pursuits which chequer private life
were the proper subjects for popu-
lar poetry. Love, which had formerly
held a divided sway with glory and am-
bition, became now the master passion of
the soul. To portray in lively and deli-
cate colours, though with a hasty hand,
the hopes aiid fears that agitate the breast
of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden,
affords ample scope to the rural poet.
Love-songs of which TibuUus himself
would not have been ashamed, might be
epmposed by an uneducated rustic with a
slight tincture of letters ; or if in these
songs, the character of the rustic be some-
times assumed, the truth of character, and
the language of nature, are preserved.
With unaffected simplicity and tender-
n jss, topics arc urged, most likely to sof-
ten the heart of a cruel and coy mistress,
or to regain a fickle lover. Even in such
as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope
breaks through, and dispels the deep and
Mttled gloom which characterizes the
sweetest of the Highland luinaga^ or vo-
cal airs. Nor are these songs all plain-
tive ; many of them are lively and humor-
ous, and some appear to us coarse and in-
delicate. They seem, however, genuine
descriptions of the manners of an ener-
getic and sequestered people in their hours
of mirth and festivity, though in their por-
traits some objects are brought into open
view, which more fastidious painters would
have thrown into shade.

" As those rural poets sung for amuse-
ment, not for gain, their eflfusions seldom
exceeded a love-song, or a ballad of sa-
tire or humour, which, like the works of
the elder minstrels, were seldom commit-
ted to writing, but treasured up in the

memory of their fHends and aeifliboiiiii

Neither known to the learned, nor patio-
nised by the great, these rustic bards Uv-
ed and died in obscurity ; and by a strange
fatality, their story, and even their veiy
names have been forgotten.* When pro-
per models fbr pastoral songs were pro-
duced, there would be no want of imita-
tors. To succeed in this species of com-
position, soundness of understanding, and
sensibilitv of heart were more requisite
than flights of imagination or pomp of
numbers. Great chancres have certainly
taken place in Scottish song-writing,
though we cannot trace the steps of this
change ; and few of the pieces admired
in Queen Mary's time are now to be dis-
covered in modem collections. It is pos-
sible, though not probable, that the music
may have remained nearly the same,
though the words to the tunes were en- *
tirely new-modelled, "f

These conjectures are highly ingeniooi*
It cannot however, be presumed, that tkt
state of ease and tranquillity described by
Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scot-
tish peasantry immediately on the wuoD
of the crowns, or indeed during the great-
er part of the seventeenth century*
The Scottish nation, through all its rankf,
was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and
the religious persecutions which succeed-
ed each other m that disastrous period ;
it was not till after the revolution in
1688, and the subsequent establishment
of their beloved form of church govern-
ment, that the peasantry of the Lowlands
enjoyed comparative repose ; and it it
since that period, that a great number of
the most admired Scottish songs have
been produced, thougrh the tunes to which
they are sung, are m general of much
greater antiquity. It is not unreasona-
ble to suppose that the peace and securi-
ty derived from the Revolution and the
Union, produced a favourable chan^ on
the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can
scarcely be doubted, that the institution
of parish-schools in 1696, by which a cer-
tain degree of instruction was diffused

* In the Pepyi OoIlectkMn, tbere are a few SScottMi
■ongB of Uie laiit century, but the namee of the autboii
are not preeerred.

t Eztrmct of a letter tnm Mr. Ramaay of Ochtertjrre
to the Editor, Sept. 11, 1799.— In the Dee, toI. il. ia a
communication to Mr. Ramsay, under the signature of
J. Buncole, which enters into this subject somewhat
more at large. la that paper be glTes bis reasons for
questioning the antiqaltjr of many of tba moat ealabraisd
Scottish

THE LIPE OP BURNa

nnreTaallT tmong the peastntry, contri-
Mited to tnifl happy effect.

Soon after this appeared AUan Ram-
Ay, the Scottish Theocritus. He was
lom on the hiffh mountains that divide
i^lydesdale and Annandale, in a small
lamlet by the hanks of Glangouar, a
tream which descends into the Clyde.
Phe ruins of this hamlet are still shown

the inquiring traveller.* He was the
on of a peasant, and probahly received
Bch instruction as his parish-school be-
towed, ami the poverty of bis parents
dmitted.t Ramsay made his appearance

1 Edinburgh in the beginning of the pro-
mt century, in the humble character of
a apprentice to a barber, or pcruke-ma-
er ; he was then fourteen or fifteen
ears of age. By degrees he acquired
otice for his social disposition, and Jiis
ilent for the composition of verses in the
cottish idiom ; and, changing his pro-
wsion for that of a bookseller, he be-
ame intimate with many of the literary,

■ well as of the gay and fashionable cha-
MStera of his time.^ Having published

▼olume of poems of his own in 1721,
rliich was favourably received, he un-
dertook to make a collection of ancient
(cottish poems, under the title of the JCver-
jhreen^ and was afterwards encouraged to
(resent to the world a collection of Scot-
ish songs. *' From what sources he pro-
Tired them," says Mr. Ramsay of Och-
ertyre, " whether from tradition or ma-
HBcript, is uncertain. As in the Ever-
Irten he made some rash attempts to
mprove on the originals of his ancient
K>em8, he probably used still greater free-
tom with the songs and ballads. The
roth cannot, however, be known on this
mint, till manuscripts of the songs printed
ly him, more ancient than the present
century, shall be produced ; or access be

^fleeCampbelTtHiftorj of Poetry In Bcotimnd, p. 185.

f Tbe fotber of Ramiay wu, It ii uUd, a workman

■ tbe lead-mines of tbe Earl of Hopeton, at Lead-hilla.
Pbe workmen in tboee mines at pre«ent are of a very
nperlor character to miners In general. Tliey have
idy six bonn of labour In the day, and have time for
•■diof . Tliey have a common library, supported by
oatribotioa, eontainlof several thousand volumes.
Vben this was instituted I have not learned. These
Blaeii are said to be of a very sober and moral eha-
acter: AUan Rimsay, wlien very young, is supposed
have been a waiiher of ore in these mines.

X ** He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his club
t twioU wits, who about 1719, published a very poor
alaeellany, to which Dr. Toung, the author of the
VTf)U Tkonghta prefixed a copy of verses.*' Ez-
rttct of a latfar Irom Mr. Rannj of OehUrtfrs to
htldilor

S 2

obtained to his own^papere, if they are
still in existence. To several tones which
either wanted words, or had words that
were improper or imperfect, he, or his
friends, adapted verses worthy of the me-
lodies they accompanied, worthy indeed
of the golden age. These verses were
perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet
justly admired by persons of taste, who
regarded them as the genuine offspring
of the pastoral muse. In some respecta
Ramsay had advantages not possessed
by poets writing in the Scottish dialed
in our days. Songs in the dialect of
Cumberland or Lancashire could never
be popular, because these dialects haye
never been spoken by persons ^ fashion.
But till the middle of the present century,
every Scotsman from the peer to the pea-
sant, spoke a truly Doric language. It
is true the English moralists and poets
were by this time read by every person
.of condition, and considered as the stan-
dards for polite composition. But, as na-
tional prejudices were still strong, the
busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair,
continued to speak their native dialect,
and that with an elegance and poignancy,
of which Scotsmen of the present day can
have no just notion. I am old enough to
have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leu-
chat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who
survived all the members of the Union
Parliament, in which he had a seat. His
pronunciation and phraseology differed
as much from the common dialect, as the
language of St. James's from that of
Thames-street. Had we retained a court
and parliament of our own, the tongues
of the two sister-kingdoms would indeed
have differed like the Castilian and Por-
tuguese ; but each would have had its
own classics, not in a single branch, but
in the whole circle of literature.

** Ramsay associated with the men of
wit and fashion of his day, and several of
them attempted to write poetry in his
manner. Persons too idle or too dissipa-
ted to think of compositions that required
much exertion, succeeded very happily in
making tender sonnets to favourite tunes
in compliment to their mistresses, and,
transforming themselves into impassion-
ed shepherds, caught the language of the
characters they assumed. Thus, about
the year 1 731 , Robert Crawford of Auchi-
namcs, wrote the modem song of Tweed
Side* which has been so much admired.

* B«gfanUig, " What beauUet does Flora dlsclon I**

THE LIFE OF BURNa

In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of
oar lawyers who both spoke and wrote
Bnglish elegantly, composed, in the cha-
racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful
song, beginning, My sheep I neglectmly I
lott my ekeep-hookj on the marriage of his
mistress. Miss Forbes, with Ronald Craw-
ford. And about twelve years afler-
wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the
ancient words to the tune of the Flowert
of the Forett^* and supposed to allude to
the battle of Flowden. In spite of the
double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though
in some parts allegorical, a natural ex-
pression of nationu sorrow. The more
modem words to the same tune, beginning,
1 have eeenths snulinf( of fortune he.guilingy
were written long be&re by Mrs. Cock-
bum, a womsn otgrcat wit, who outlived
all the first group of literati of the pre-
sent century, all of whom were very fond
of her. I was delighted with her com-
pany, though, when I saw her, she was
very old. Much did she know that is
now lost."

•

In addition to these instances of Scot-
tish songs produced in the earlier part of
the present century, may be mentioned
the ballad of Hardiknute^ by Lady Ward-
law ; the ballad of William and Marga-
ret ; and the song entitled The Birki of
Endermay^ by Mallet ; the love-song, be-
ginning. For ever, Fortune, ibilt thoii prove,
produced by the youthful muse of Thom-
son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad.
The Braet of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Ban-
grour. On the revival of letters in Scot-
land, subsequent to the Union, a very
general taste seems to have prevailed for
the national songs and music. ** For
many years,'* says Mr. Ramsay, " the
singing of songs was the great delight of
the hififhcr and middle order of the people,
as well as of the peasantry ; and though
a taste for Italian music has interfered
with this amusement, it is still very pre-
valent. Between forty and fifty years
ago, the common people were not only
exceedingly fond of songs and ballads,
but of metrical history. Often have I, in
my cheerful mom of youth, listened to
them with delight, when reading or re-
citing the exploits of Wallace and Brace
against the Sovthrom, Lord Hailes was
wont to call Blind Harry their Bihle, he
being their great favourite next the Scrip-
tures. When, therefore, one in the vale

• B«giBBiiig, " I Ouivi beard a llltiiif at oar
mUklnc*

of life, felt the first emotions of geniu%
he wanted not models avi generis. But
though the seeds of poetry were scatter-
ed with a plentiful hand among the Scot*
tish peasantry, the product was probably
like that of pears and apples— of a thou-
sand that spring up, nine hundred and
fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on
edge ; forty- five or more are passable and
useful ; and the rest of an exquisite fla-
vour. Allan Ramsay and Bums are
wildings of this last description. They
had the example of the elder Scottish po-
ets ; they were not without the aid of tbe
best English writers ; and what waa of
still more importance, thoy were no stran-
gers to the book of nature, and the book
of God."

From this general view, it is apparent
that Allan Ramsay may be considered u
in a great measure the reviver of the rur
ral poetry of his country. His collection
of ancient Scottish poems, under tho
name of The Ever-Green, his collection
of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the
principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd,
have been universally read among the
peasantry of his country, and have in
some degree superseded the adventures
of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by
Barbour and Blind Harry. Bums wai
well acquainted with all these. He had
also before him the poems of Fergusson
in the Scottish dialect, which have been
produced in our own times, and of which
it will be necessary to give a short ac-
count.

Fergusson was bom of parents who hid
it in their power to procure him a liberal
education, a circumstance, howcver,which
in Scotland implies no very high rank in
society. From a well written and appa-
rently authentic account of his life,* we
learn that he spent six years at the schools
of Edinburgh and Dundee, and several
years at the universities of Edinburgh and
St. Andrews. It appears that he was at
one time destined for the Scottish church;
but as he advanced towards manhood, he
renounced that intention, and at Edin-
burgh entered the office of a writer to the
signet, a title which designates a separate
and higher order of Scottish attomeys.
Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a warm
and generous heart, and talents for socie-

* In tht rapplement to the " Enejdopsdla BritiiH
nica.** 8ce also, " CampbelPi Intrndootioa lo tbt Hii^
tonr of " Poetry In Scoitand,** p. tS8.

THE UPE OP BURNS.

' of the most attractive kind. To 8uch
man no situation could be more danger-
19 than that in which he was placed.
he excesses into which he was led, im-
dred his feeble constitution, and he sunk
ider them in the month of October, 1774,

his 23d or 24th year. Bums was not
quainted with the poems of this youth-
I genius when he himself began to write
•etry ; and when he first saw them he
A renounced the muses. But while he
sided in the town of Irvine, meeting
th Ferguaion'i Scottish Poena, he in-
rms us that he " stnmg his lyre anew
th emulating vigour."* Touched by
e sympathy originating in kindred ge-
iis, and in the forebodings of similar tor-
ne. Bums regarded Fergusson with a
rtiaX and an affectionate adniiration.
ver his grave he erected a monument,

has already been mentioned ; and his
ietOB he has, in several instances, made
e subjects of his imitation.

From this account of the Scottish po-
ns known to Bums, those who are ac-
i&inted with them will see that they are
liefly humorous or pathetic ; and under
le or other of these descriptions most of
is own poems will class. Let us com-
ire him with his predecessors under each
r these points of view, and close our ex-
nination with a few general observa-
ons.

It has frequently been observed, that
cotland has produced, comparatively
)eaking, few writers who have excelled
I humour. But this observation is true
nly when applied to those who have con-
nued to reside in their own country, and
&ve confined themselves to composition
I pure English; and in these circum-
Ances it admits of an easy explanation,
'he Scottish poets, who have written in
le dialect of Scotland, have been at all
mes remarkable for dwelling on subjects
r humour, in which indeed many of them
ftve excelled. It would be easy to show,
lat the dialect of Scotland having be-
>me provincial, is now scarcely suited to
le more elevated kinds of poetry. If we
lay believe that the poem of Chrittis
^rk of the Orene was written by James
16 First of Scotland,! this accomplished

•Bee p. 15*

t Notwldiftendlng the evldfiiee pradneed on tbie lab-
el ^ Mr. Tytler, tbe EdUor aelraoirledgee bie beliy
•Mwbu of a fcepiSe ob tbto point. 0ir DavM Dal-
IsdtaM 10 ibt opinlM tbat it wtswriiltDbj

monarch, who had received an English
education under the direction of Henry
the Fourth, and who bore arms under his
gallant successor, gave the model on which
the greater part of the humorous produc-
tions of the rustic muse of Scotland has
been formed. Chrittit Kirk of the Grene
was reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat mo-
demized in the orthoffraphy, and two can-
toes were added by him, in which he at-
tempts to carry on the design. Hence the
toem of King James is usually printed in
ty's works. The royal bard de-
ibes, in the first canto, a nistic dance,
and afterwards a contention in archery,
ending in an affray. Ramsay relates the
restoration of concord, and the renewal
of the rural sports, with the humours of a
country wedding. Though each of the
poets describes the manners of his respec-
tive age, yet in the whole piece there is
a very sufficient uniformity; a striking
proof of the identity of character in the
Scottish peasantry at the two periods, dis-
tant from each other three hundred years
It is an honourable distinction to this bo-
dy of men, that their character and man-
ners, very little embellished, have been
found to be susceptible of an amusing and
interesting species of poetry ; and it must
appear not a little curious, that the single
nation of modem Europe, which possess-
es an oripfinal rural poetry, should have
received the model, followed by their ms-
tic bards, from the monarch on the throne.

The two additional cantoes to Chrittis
Kirk of the Grene, written by Ramsay,
though objectionable in point of delicacy,
are among the happiest of his productions.
His chief excellence, indeed, lay in the
description of rural characters, incidentSi
and scenery ; for he did not possess any
very high powers either of imagination or
of understanding. He was well acquaint-
ed with the peasantry of Scotland, their
lives and opinions. The subject was in a
great measure new ; his talents were equal
to the subject ; and he has shown that it
may be happily adapted to pastoral poe-
try. In his Gentle Shepherd the charao
ters are delineations from nature, the de-
scriptive parts are in the genuine style of
beauti^l simplicity, the passions and af-
fections of rural life are finely portrayed,
and the heart is pleasingly interested in

bit ioeeepior, Jamei Uie Ftflh. There are difllenlUee
attending tiiie mppoeitlon alao. But on tbe mbject of
Seotttab Antiqiiitlee, tbe Editor Is an Ineompeient
Judgi

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

the happinen that is hestowed on inno-
cence and virtae. Throughout the whole
there is an air of reality which the most
careless reader cannot hut perceive ; and
in fact no poem eVcr perhaps acquired so
high a reputation, in which truth receiv^
so little emhellishment from the imagina-
tion. In his pastoral songs, and in his
rural tales, Ramsay appears to less ad-
vantage indeed, but still ivith considera-
ble attraction. The story of the Jtonk
and the Miller' i Wife^ though somewhat
licentious, may rank with the happie|L
productions of Prior or La Fontaine. Bar
when he attempts subjects from higher
life, and aims at pure English composition,
he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom
ever reaches mediocrity.'" Neither are
his familiar epistles and elegies in the
Scottish dialect entitled to much approba-
tion. Though Fergusson had higher pow-
ers of imagination than Ramsay, hi& ge-
nius was not of the highest order ; nor did
his learning, which was considerable, im-
prove his genius. His poems written in
pure English, in which he oflen follows
classical models, though superior to the
English poems of Ramsav, seldom rise
above mediocrity ; but in those composed
in the Scottish dialect he is oflen very
successful. He was in general, however,
less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of
his muse. As \\6 spent the greater part
of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his
amusement in the intervals of business or
dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly
founded on the incidents of a town life,
which, though they are susceptible of hu-
mour, do not admit of those delineations
of scenery ana manners, which vivify the
rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so
agreeably amuse the fancy and interest
the heart. The town-eclogues of Fer-
gusson, if we may so deAominate them,
arc however faithful to nature, and oflen
distinguished by a very happy vein of hu-
mour. His poems entitled. The Daft
DapMy The King*i Birth-day in Edin-
hure^hj Leith Races^ and The Hallow Fair,
will justify this character. In these, par-
ticularly in the last, he imitated ChriHii
Kirk of the Orene^ as Ramsay had done
before him. His Addresa to the TVonkirk
Bell is an exquisite piece of humour,
which Bums has scarcely excelled. In
appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it
ought to be recollected, that his po^ms
are the careless effusions of an irregular,
though amiable young man, who wrote

* See " The Bfoninc Intenriew,** fce.

for the periodical ptpem of tlMTday, and
who died in early youth. Had his life
been prolonged under happier circnm-
stances of fortune, he would probably have
risen to much higher reputation. He might
have excelled in rural poetry ; for though
his professed pastorals on the esttablished
Sicilian model, are stale and uninterest-
ing, The Farmer' t In^Uy* which may be
considered as a Scottish pastoral, is the
happiest of all his productions, and cer-
tainly was the archetype of the Cotter'a
Saturday ^ghi, Fergusson, and more
especially Burns, have shown that tlie
character and manners of the peasantry of
Scotland of the present times, are as well
adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ram-
say, or of tre author of Chrietii Kirk (f
the Orene.

The humour of Bums is of a richer vein
than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both
of whom, as he himself informs us, he had
"frequently in liis eye, but rather with a
view to kindle at their flame, than to ser-
vile imitation.**! His descriptive powen,
whether the objects on which they are
employed be comic or serious, animate or
inanimate, are of the highest order. A
superiority of this kind is essential to
every species of poetical excellence. la
one of his earlier poems, his plan seeme
to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment
in the lower classes of society, by showing
that their superiors are neither much bet-
ter nor happier than themselves ; and
this he chooses to execute in a form of a
dialogue between two dogs. He intro-
duces this dialogue by an account of the
persons and characters of tjie speakerf>
The first, whom he has named Ccaeor, >■
a dog of condition :

" Hit locked, letter*d, bnw hnm collar,
8bow*d him the ffenUeman and echolar."

High-bred though he is, he is howerer
full of condescension :

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, the, e'er nee duddi«,
But he wad euwn*!. as glad to eee him,
Jhtd «Cr»efi*< e» ttauu en* AiZImJU «•* AAr.**

The otheTy Lttathy is a " ploughman's col-
lie, but a cur of a good heart and a lound
imderstanding.

*' Hie booeet, eonale, bawe'nt flue,
Ay gat him friande inilka place;

* The raniier*i tre-eide.

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

wldt«, bki
"WmI elad wi* coat o' gkmf Mack.
Mi» gaweU UtZ, tn^ upward orrl,
Mwmg #*«r Aif hmrdia tn* a awmrl,**

Nerer were twa dogi so exquisitely de-
lineated. Their gambols before they sit
down to moralize, are described with an
equal degree of happiness ; and through
the whole dialogue, the character, as well
as the different condition of the two speak-
ers, is kept in view. The speech ofLuatK,
in which he enumerates tho comforts of
the poor, ^ves the following account of
their merriment on the first day of the

*Ttet Meny day the year begiin,
Tbagr bar the door on fraaty winda;
Tlie nappy raeki wi* mantUnf ream.
And ahcda a beart-intpirinc ttcam ;
The lontiD |rfpe, and ineethin mill,
Ar« banded round wi* riebt gold- will
Tbe caatia anld folki crackin erouae,
Tha young anea ranUn tbro' tbfi booM,
My boait baa been aae fain to aee tbeOf

n«f If^rin ^^ hvtlat w€ Om.*'

Of all the animals who have moralized
on han^ afiairs since the days of iBsop,
the dog seems best entitled to this privi-
lege, as well from his superior sagacity, as
from his being more than any other, the
firiend and associate of man. The doffs
of Bams, excepting in their tslent ror
moralizing, are downright dogs ; and not
like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and
Ptmiher of Dryden, men in the shape of
bmtes. It is this circumstance that
keigfatena the humour of the dialogue.
The " twa dogs" are constantly kept be-
fore our eyes, and the contrast between
their form and character as dogs, and the
ngacity of their conversation, heightens
the humour and deepens the impression
of the poets, satire. Though in this poem
the chief excellence may be considered as
humour, yet ^eat talents are displayed
in its composition ; the happiest powers
of description and the deepest insight in-
to the human heart.* It is seldom, how-

• When tbia poem first appeared, It waa tbongbt by
■ome Tery sorprialnff that a peasant, wbo bad not an
opportunity of aaMciaUnf even witb a rimple gentle-
man, abonld bave been able to portray tbe cbaraeter of
bigh-life witb aneb accuracy. And when it was recoI>
lected tbat ha bad probably been at tbe racea of Ayr,
where noWllty aa well as gentiy are to be seen, it was
concluded tbat tbe race-ground bad been tbe field of Us
etaenratlon. Tbia waa sagadoos anoogh; botitdid
vot require such instruetioa to inform Buma, tbat bn-
nwn nature ia easantially tbe same In tbe high and tbe
low ; and a genfau which oomprehenda tha human
artnd, easily comprahenda the acddantal farlallaa in-
«odaoad byaltaadoB.

ever, thai the humour of Bums appears
in so simple a form. The liveliness of
his sensibility frequently impels him to
introduce into subjects of humour, emo-
tions of tenderness or of pity ; and where
occasion admits, he is sometimes carried
on to exert the higher powers of imagi-
nation. In such instances he leaves the
society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, and
associates himself with the masters of
English poetry, whose language he fre-
quently assumes.

Of the union of tenderness and humour,
examples may be found in The Death and
Dying Words qfooor MaUie^ in J%e Auld
Farmer' 8 JWtr- Year's Morning Salutation
to his JUare JUaggie^ and in many of his
other poems. The praise of wmskey is
a favourite subject with Bums. To this
he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink,
After mentioning its cheering influence
in a varictv of situations, he describes,
with singular liveliness and power of fan-
cy, its stimulating effects on the black-
smith working at his forge : ^

** Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ;
Tbe brawnie, bainie, ploughman cbiel«
Brings bard owrcblp, wi* sturdy whed,

Tbe strong fore hammer,
TiU block an* studdie ring an* reel

Wi' dinaome clamour.*'

On another occasion,* choosing to exalt
whiskey above wine, he introduces a com-
parison between the natives of more ge-
nial climes, to whom the vine furnishes
their beverage, and his own countrymen
who drink the spirit of malt. The de-
scription of the Scotsmen is humorous :

** But bring a Scotsman flrae bis bin,
Clap in bis cbeek a* Highland giU,
Bay such is Royal George*s wlU,

An* there's tbe foe.
He baa nae thought but bow to kill

Twa at a Mow."

Here the notion of danger rouses the
imagination of the poet. lie goes on thus:

•* Nae cauld, falnl-bearted doubtings teaae htan ;
Death comes, wi* fearless eye be sees him ;
Wi* bluidy hand a welcome glea him

An* when be fti*s.
His latest draught o'breatbing lea*ca binT

In faint boszaa.*'

Agam, nowever, he sinks into humour,
and condudes the poem vrith the foUow-

• "The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer to 3ht
Bcoiah Reprasentadvea in Parliamaot**

tojr moat Uagh&blQ) bnt moat irrsreKDt
apottiophe :

Orthia union of homour with the high-
er powers of imapnation, instaiiCM may
be found in the poem entitled DtaA and
Dr. Momboakf and in almost eter; stan-
za of the Addreit Co th* Deil, one of tlif
happicRt of his productions. After r>?-
proaching thia terrible beinr with aH hin
" doings" and misdeeds, in the course nf
which iie passes through a scries of Scot-
tish superstitions, and rises at timea intri^
a high stritin of poetiy; he concludes this
address, delivered in a tone of great fa-
miliarity, not altogether uomiied with
apprehension, in the following wordi :

"Bul,fvarewe«l, aaUHktldbnl

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

was interrupted onlj b^ tha nuliiiig mmd
of the influx of the tide. It wu after
Diidnight. The Dungeon-clock* bad
struck two, and the aomid had been n-
peated by Wallace-Tower.* All eba
waa huabed. The moon abono biij^itlf,

"TTii rlinij riim.liiiintrMhrnlliri >■■■.
Cnpt, itWO'enwiliic, o'u Uh ■■UHriniaiMSL''—

In this situation the listening bard bean
the " clanging sugh" of wmga morinf
through the air, and speediJj he perceirei
two beings, reared the one on the 01d,ttaa
other on the New Bridge, whose fbrm
and attire he deccribea, and whose cod-
vers&tion with each other be rebeano-
These genii enter into a compariaon of
the respective edifices over which tliej
preside, and afterwards, as is nsnal b^
tween the old and young, compare tno-
dem characters and manners with tlwM

Humour and tenderness are here so
happily intermixed, that it is impossible
to say which preponderates.

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between
the Cautneav and the Plaiiulonet* oTEA-

inburgh. This probably suggested to
Burns his dialogue between the Old ani)
the New bridge over the river Ayr.f
The nature of such subjects requires thnt
they shall be treated humorously, and
FergiiMon has attempted nothing beyonil
this. Though the Caiueaay and thu
Plainrlma talk together, no attempt ia
made to personify the Epeakers. A "cn-
die"t heard the conversation and report-
ed it to the poet.

In the dialogue between the Brigt of
.dyr. Bums himself is the auditor, and the
time and occasion on which it occurred is
related with great circumstantiality. The
poet, "pressed by care," or "inspired by
whim," had left his bed in the town of
Ayr, and wandered out alone in the dark-
ness and solitude of a winter night, to the
mouth of the river, where tbe itiUneaB

fpaattimes. They di9*er, as maybe ai
pected, and taunt and ecold each otlw
m Broad Scotch. Thia conversalion,
which la certainly humorous, may be nb-
eidered as the proper business of ths po-
As the debate runs high, and thrct^
ens serious consequences, all at once it ii
interrupted by a new scene of wonden:

A htrj I.1I

"~~;jj,™

m (h»lr did

un ihcy fn

Bilfhl 10 III

ThtrloMti

rrri— »»

TIM lnr.ni

benHIhlli

VfbUtvu

rMlnnreliT

unoBiIlMm

AndnuJ-cii

opbUDlfiudtlMnlcdUU

"TUB 0«iiliu of ilM Stmm in fhjol

elil«r, idnn

M1ny«™

Hit mtnlr lef wJth (tnu-unfla boiiBd."

Next follow a nnrober of other aSue-
rieal beinjra, among whom are the four
seasons. Rural Joy, Plenty, HotpitalitJ,
and Courage

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

?biB poem, irre^ar and imperfect as
8, displays vanous and powerful ta-
ts, and may serve to illustrate the ge-
s of Burns. In particular, it affords a
long instance of his being carried he-
ld his original purpose by the powers
magination.

n Fergus8on*8 poems, the PlaituUmes
I Cau^way contrast the characters of
different persons who walked upon
m. Burns probably conceived, that,
a. dialogue between the Old and New
dge, he might form a humorous
trast between ancient and modem
oners in the town of Ayr. Such a
logue could only be supposed to pass
lie stUlness of night ; and this led our
it into a description of a midnight
ne, which excited in a high degree the
vers of his imagination. During the
ole dialogue the scenery is present to
&ncv, and at length it suggests to him
aiiy aance of aerial beings, under the
iniB of the moon, by which the wrath
the Genii of the Brigi of Ayr is ap-
ised.

Incongruous as the different parts of
Is poem are, it is not an incongruity
fct displeases ; and we have only to re-
et that the poet did not bestow a little
ins in making the figures more correct,
d in smoothing the versification.

The epistles of Bums, in which may be
eluded his Dedication to O. H. Esq,
icover, like his other writings, the pow-

niral life. In the Halloween^ a female in
performing one of the spells, has occasion
to go out by moonlight to dip her shift-
sleeve into a stream running towards thB
JSouik.* It was not necessary for Bums to
give a description of this stream. But it
was the character of his ardent mind to
pour forth not merely what the occasion
required, but what it admitted ; and the
temptation to describe so beautiful a natu-
ral object by moonlight, was not to be
resisted.

** Whytei own a linn tht barnie playi

A* thro* the glen It wimpl't ;
Wbyles round a rocky tear it Urayi ;

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ;
Wbylea glltter'd to the nigbtly rayi,

Wi* bickerinf , dancing dazzle ;
Wbyles cookit underneath the braea,

Balow the epreading hazel,

Uneeen that night*'

Those who understand the Scottish di-
alect will allow this to be one of the finest
instances of description which the records
of poetry afford. Though of a very dif-
ferent nature, it maybe compared in point
of excellence with Thomson's description
of a river swollen by the rains of winter,
bursting through the straights that con-
fine its torrent, '* boiling, wheeling, foam-
ing, and thundering along."f

In pastoral, or, to speak more correct-
ly, in rural poetry of a serious nature,
Bums excelled equally as in that of a hu-
morous kind ; and, usmg less of the Scot-
tish dialect in his serious poems, he be-

8 of a superior understanding. They I comes more generally intelligible. It la

iplay deep insight into human nature,
oay and happy strain of reficction, great
dependence of sentiment, and generosi-
of heart. It is to be regretted, that,
his HoiyFair, and in some of his other
>ems, his humour degenerates into per-
nal satire, and that it is not sufficiently
larded in other respects. The HalUno'
n of Bums is free from every objection
' this sort. It is interesting, not merely
om its humorous description of manners,
it as it records the spells and charms
led on the celebration of a festival, now.
Ten in Scotland, falling into neglect, but
hich was once observed over the great-
!• part of Britain and Ireland.* These
larms are supposed to afford an insight
ito futurity, especially on the subject of
larriage, the most interesting event of

• la Ireland It Is atUl calabratfld. It la not quits ia |
■oaa In Wales.

difficult to decide whether the Address to a
Mousey whose nest weu turned up vnih the
plough^ should be considered as serious or
comic. Be this as it may, the poem is
one of the happiest and most finished of
his productions. If we smile at the " bick-
ering battle" of this little flyinp animal,
it is a smile of tendemcss and pity. The
descriptive part is admirable ; the moral
reffections beautiful, and arising directly
out of the occasion ; and in the conclu-
sion there is a deep melancholy, a senti-
ment of doubt and dread, that rises to the
sublime. The Address to a Mountain
Daisy y turned down with the ploughy is a
poem of the same nature, though some-
what inferior in point of originality, as
well as in the interest produced. To ex-
tract out of incidents so common, and

•Sm " Hallowaea,** Stanzas ndr. aod sv.
t Saa Thonsoa's WlnUm*

m THK LIFE

HemioffV "> trivisl u thcM, eo.fine
train of MDtuncnt and imageir, id the
■urect prouf, as well bb Ihc most bni''
triumph, of oiig-inal^nim. 7^ I'i
in two cantocu, from which ft beautifui
extract ia taken by Mr. Mackeniie, in tlie
B7lh numbiir of Tlit Loan/^er, ia a poem
of frrca-t and various c.^cellencu.
opening, in whicii tlie poet dcscnlit.'f
own state of mind, rclirinjt in tLi.i c
ing, wearied fiom the labours of tlu^
to ntnraJiin on hiii.conduct anJ pTr.-.]Ai
is truly interesting. The chairibi r, i
may 00 term it, in wliicb be sits ilu»ii I'j
uuac, is an cxquUite painting :

"TbFrT, linelr, bf Ihe infle-clMck

To reconcile to our imagination llic cn-
tranee of an aciial being into a mnnEinn
of this kind, required the powers 111' Burns
^-he however succeeds. CoilaenitTs, ami
her countenance, attitude, and dri!:^^, un-
like thoiie of other spiritual beijius, nrt
distinctly portrayed. To the paini mr?, on
her mantle, on which is depicted tin' mvi
■trikin? scenery, as well as the VlMi^i Am-
tirguianed characters, of his native- coku-
try, some exceptionj may be mailo. Tlie
mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrt-is,*
and tha shield of Achillea, is too much
crowded with figures, and some of the
objects represented upon it are scarce!/
kdmissible, according to the piinci;>les of
design. The generous tempcntmenl of
Bums led him into these exuberancca. In
his second edition he enlarged the niim-
bor of figures originally introducril. thut
he might include objects to whieli ho \vn!<
attached by sentiments of affoctii.ni, gra-
titude, or patriotism. The soconrl Dtmn,
or canto of this poem, in which Coila d<'-
ecribes her own nature and occupations,
particularly her superintendence! of V^s
wfant gemus, and in which she reconciles
him to the character of a bard, iu an ele-
vated and solemn strain of poetry, ranking
in al) respects, excepting the haMnony of
iiumhers, with the higher productinne of
the Knglish muse. The concluding stan-
za, compared with that already quoLeil.
will show to what a height Burns rises in
this poem, fi:om the point at which be set

* Sw tba Ont /^iu dTTIkh

And, bouKl Um ir*UV mnd mrfaiM 1
TIM palUfa'd Inns, ud beirlMfcd,

Dtd tuBllBf pla> :
And, Ilka ■ purii^ iboutfH, ite UA

tn various poems. Bums has exhibited
the picture of a mind under the deep im-
pressions of real sorrow. 7Ti« Lmad,
the OJt to Ruin, Dapondtmy, and Wim-
ttr, a Dirge, are of this character. Is
the first of these poems, the 8tb staut,
which describes a sleepless ni^rt fim
anguish of mind, is particularly stHkiv.
Burns otlcn indulged in those melan^oqr
views of the nature and condition ofmn,
which are so congenial to the ten^efs-
ment of sensibility. The poem eatilM
JUon Wat made to Mourn, aSbidi an b-
stance of this kind, and The WaOtr JtSfl^
is of the Bams description. 7^ ImI ■
highly characteristic, both of the tmfK
of mind, andofthc condition of Boni> fi
begins with a description of a dnaJN-
storm on a night in wmter. The pod n-
presents himself as lying in Bed, andii*-
tening to its howling- In this sitoativ t*
naturally turns his thoughts to the ewrtt
CaUte and the mUIi/ Sheep, exposed to til
the violence of the temf^t. Haviiif k
mented their fate, he proceeds in the M
lowing manner :

"Ift hi

WbanwillUuau

bclplcntUiI

Other reflections of the b

dreary light on his window, thoughts rf *
darker and more melancholy natnre crowd
upon him. Tn this state of mind, he hear*
a voice pouring through the rlooin s so-
lemn and plaintive strain of reflection.
The mourner compares the fiiry of ths
elements with that of man to bis brotbei
man, and finds the former light in the bs-
lance.

'* Sea hbth oppr^flklnn

He pursues this tnun of reflection
through a variety of particulars, in the
course of which he introduces the fallow-
ing animated apostrophe :

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

'*Ohy«I who.iunklabedtoi'dowii,
FmI boC a want but what yoonelTaa ereata,

Think, for a moment, on bit wretcbed fkta,
Wbom friends and f<Mrtana qaiie diaown !

I]i-flatiafy*d keen Natare*i clam* row call,
' Stretch'd on bla itraw b« laji bimeelf to aleep,
Wblle thro* the rafse4 roof and chinkjr wall,
ChiU o'er hia ■Inmberi pUea the drlfty heap !*'

The strain of sentiment which runs
rough the poem is noblo, though the
oeution is unequal, and the versification
defective.

Kmang the serious poems of Bums, 77^^
fUr*i Saturday J^ht'vA perhaps entitled
the first rank. Tht Farmer' m Inffle of
rgusson evidently suggested the plan of
8 poem, as has been ^ready mentioned;
t after the plan was formed, Burns trust-
entirely to his own powers for the cx-
ition. FerousBon^s poem is certainly
rr beautiful. It has all the charms
ich depeiid on rural characters and
nners happily portrayed, and exhibited
3er circumstances highly grateful to the
igination. The farmer' m Inf^le begins
th describing the return of evemng.
.e toils of the day are over, and the far-
r retires to his comfortable fire-idde.
le reception which he and his men-ser-
ita receive from the careful housewife,
>leasingly described. Af^er their sup-
' is over, they begin to talk on the ru-
events of the day.

** Boot kirk and market eke their talaa gae on,
How J(m4( wooed Jnay hare \t> be hto brlda;

yind there how Marion for a bHUfd aoa,
Upo* the entty-itool was forecd to ride,

Tba itaefti* seauhl o' our Mut Jdbi» to bidf.'T

rhe '* Gruidame" is next introduced as
ming a circle round the fire, in the
ist of her grand-children, and while
I spins from the rock, and the spindle
ys on her *' russet lap," she is relating
the young ones tales of witches and
Mts. The poet exclaims :

" O mock na this, mj friends ! bat rather moam,
Te In life*s brawrat spring wi* reaaooelaar,

Wr eild our idle fancies a* return.
And dlra our dolefu* dajrs wi* baimljr fear ;

The mind's aye cradUd when the ^om is near.*'

[n the mean time the farmer, wearied
;h the fatigues of the day, stretches
dself at length on the SettUy a sort of
itic couch, which extends on one side
the fire, and the cat and hoose-dog
p apon it to receive his caresses. Here

resting at his esse, he gives his directions
to his men-servants for the succeeding
day. The housewife follows his exam-
ple, and gives her orders to the maidens.
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to
fail ; the fire runs low ; sleep steals on this
rustic group ; and they move off to enjoy
their peaceful slumbers. The poet con-
cludes by bestowing his blessings on the
** husbandman and all his tribe."

This is an original and truly interesting
pastoral. It possesses every thing re-
quired in this species of composition. We
might have perhaps said every thin^ that
it admits, had not Burns written his Coi'
ter'M Saturday Jftght.

The cottager returning from his la-
bours, has no servants to accompany him,
to partake of his fare, or to receive his
instructions. The circle which he joins,
is composed of his wife and children only ;
and if it admits of less variety, it affords
an opportunity for representing scenes that
more stronglv interest the affections. The
younger children running* to meet him,
and clambering round his knee ; the elder,
returning from their weekly labours with
the nei^bouring farmers, dutifully de-
positing their little gains with their pa-
rents, and receiving their father's blessing
and instructions; the incidents of the
courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughter,
'* woman grown ;'* are circumstances of
the most interesting kind, which are most
happily delineated ; and afler their frugal
supper, the representaticm of these hum-
ble cotta^rs forming a wider circle
round their hearth, and uniting in the
worship of God, is a picture the most
deeply affecting of any which the rural
muse has ever presented to the view.
Bums was admirubly adapted to this de-
lineation. Like all men of genius, he
was of the temperament of devotion, and
the powers or memory co-operated in
this instance with the sensibility of his
heart, and the fervour of his imagina
tion.* The Cotter'i Saturday JVt^ is
tender and moral, it is solemn and devo-
tional, and rises at length into a strain of
grandeur and sublimity, which modem
poetry has not surpassed. The noble
sentiments of patriotism with which it
concludes, correspond with the rest of
the poem. In no age or country have
the pastoral mutes nreathed such ele-
vated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be

* Tha laadcr win recoDact that tht Cottar
fiuber. 8aap. 94.

Bana's

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

excepted, which ia indped a pustoral in
form only. It ia to be wgrctted that
Burns did not employ hid geuiiia on other
subjectd of the same naturiN which the
niannprn and customs of the Scottish pea-
santry would have amply supplied. Such
jwolry is not to be estimated by the dc-
^rvii «)f pltiisure which it bestows ; it
>iMks do< ply iult) till! hfurt, and is calcu-
i:itrii tur bi'youd any other human means,
fur unvnijr pormaui'iicu to the scenes and
ciiaructurs it so exquisitely describes.*

Btforc we conclude, it will be proper to
olU'r a few observations on the lyric pro-
ductions of Burns. His com]H>8itions of
this kind are chiefly sonpa, generally in
the Scottish dialect, and always after the
model of the Scottish sonjfs, on the gonc-
ral cliaructer and moral influence of \vhicii,
some observations have already been of-
fered.! We may hazard a few more par-
ticular remarks.

Of the historic or heroic ballads of
Scotland, it is unnecessary to speak.
Burns has nowhere imitated them, a cir-
cuiiiHtancc to be regretted, since in this
species of composition, from its admitting
the more terrible as well as the Bofter
graces of poetry, ho was eminently quali-
fm\ to have excelled. The Scottish songs
which served as a model to Buras, arc al-
most without exception pastoral, or rather
rural. Such of them as aro comic, fre-
quently treat of a rustic courtship or a
country wedding ; or they describe the
dilTerences of opinion which arise in mar-
ried life. Burns has imitated this species,
and surpassed his models. The song, be-
ginning, '* Husband, husband, cease your
8trife,"t may br> cited in support of this
observation. fr His other comic songs are
of equal merit. In the rural songs of
Scotland, whether humorous or tender,
the sentiments are given to particular
characters, and very generally, the inci-
dents are referred to particular scenery.
This last circumstance may be consider-

* See Appendix, No. 11. Noce D.
fSeep. 8.

X Bee Poemi, p. 95.

$ The dialofrues between biubamli uoA thtUr wivea,
which form the wbject* of th« Bcottliih eon^ are
iilmnat all ludicrous and Mtirical, and In theee conteeri
the lady la Kencralijr Tictorioui. From th<* coDectiona
of Mr. Piiikertnn we fliid that the comic muse of Scot-
Iniid delif!lii«Ml ill such reiireaentaiioos from very early
mm^M, in liar rude drajnatic oflfarte, as well aa in lier
rurtic songs.

cd as tho distiDguialiod featnra of the
Scottish songs, and on it & connderable
part of their attraction depende. On aU
occasions the sentiments, of whatever na-
ture, are delivered in the character of the
person principally interested. If love be
described, it is not as it is observed, bnt
as it is felt ; and the passion is delineated
under a particular aspect. Neither is it
the tierccr impulses of desire that are ex-
pressed, as in the celebrated ode ofSappho,
the model of so many modern songs, but
those gentler emotions of tenderness aad
affection, which do not entirely absorii
the lover; but permit him to associate hii
emotions with the charms of external lmf
turc, and breathe, the accents of purity
and innocence, as well aa of love. Id
these respects the love-sonn of Scotland
are honourably distinguished from the
most admired classical compositions of
the same kind : and by such associations,
a variety, as well as liveliness, is given to
the representation of this passion, which
are not to be found in the poetry of Grecct
or Rome, or perhaps of any other nation.
Many of the love-songs of Scotland de-
scribe scenes of rural courtship ; many
may be considered as invocations from
lovers to their mistresses. On such oc-
casions a degree of interest and reality is
given to the sentiments, by the spot des-
tined to these happy interviews being
particularized. The lovers perhaps meet
at the Bu$h aboon Traqwiir^ or ob the
Bankt ofEUrick; the nymphs are invoked
to wander among the wilds of TZoslifi, or
the fDoodt of Invermay. Nor ie the spo
merely pointed out ; the scenery is often
described as well as the characters, so u
to present a complete picture to the fan-
cy.'" Thus the maxim of Horace %it ptc-

* One or two exaaiplea nay illustrate tbts
tlon. A Beottidi aong, written about a knndred
■go, begins tbus:

" On Ettrick baaka, on a summer's nlfhl.

At gloaminf , when the sheep drove bane,
I met my lassie, braw and lixht,

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ;
My heart grew light, I ran. I flang

My arms about her lily neck,
And klss*d and clasped there fu' lanf,

My words they were na moiiy feck.'**

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relsif the
language he employed with his Iiowlaitd maid to yv\n
her heart, and to persuade her to fhr with him tii the
Highland bills, there to share his fortune. The B«*nti-
ments are in themselves beautiful. Rut we feel them
witb double force, while we conceive that tbcy weis

* .¥0iMy /set, not very maajr.

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

poentf 18 faithfully observed by these
mitic bsrds, who are ^ded bv the same
iflumlfle of nature and senBibuity which
mfluenced the father of epic poetry, on
whose example thfe precept of the Roman
poet was perhaps founded. By this
means the imagination is employed to in-
terest the feelings. When we do not
conceive distinctly we do not simpathyze
deeply in any human affection ; and we
oijlideive nothing in the abstract. Ab-
straction, so useful in morals, and so es-
sential in science, must be abandoned
when the heart is to be subdued by the
powers of poetry or of eloquence. The
oards of a ruder condition of society paint
indiviiual objects ; and hence, among
other causes, the easy access they obtain
to the'heart. Generalization is the vice
of poets whose learning ovcrpowera their
graius ; of poets of a refined and scien-
tific age.

The dramatic style which prevails so
much in the Scottish songs, while it con-
tributes greatly to the interest they ex-
cite, also shows that they have originated
among a people in the earlier stages of
society. Where this form of composition
appears in songs of a'modern date, it in-
dicates that they have been written after
the ancient model.*

ly a lover to hlc mlttnw, wbom he met an
trUn a emnmer's evening, by tbe banke of a beaa-
fttU Btnam, which eoQie of uc have actually eeen, and
wkleli^all of oa can paint to our imaginadon. Let ui
teksaaotber example. Itianowanymphtbal^ealM*
Bear bow abe ezpreesce benelT—

* Bow biytbe each mom waa I to
My awali come o'er tbe hill !

He Bidpt the bum, and flew to me,
I met him with guid will."

Here le another picture drawn by tbe pencil of Na-
ln«. We eee a ehepherdeM standing by the tide of a
hrook, watching her lover as he deecenda the oppocite
Un. He bounds lightly along ; he approaches nearer
ind nearer; he kaps the brook, and files into her
urns. In tbe recollection of these circumstances, the
NUToanding scenery becomes endeared to the fkhr
Douraer, and 'she bursts into tbe following excla-
■atlon :

** O tbe broom, tbe bonnie, bonnie broom.
The broom of tbe Cowden-Knoweft!

I wish I were with my dear swain.
With his (rfpe and my ewes."

rboa tbe Individual spot of this happy latervlew is
pointed out, and tbe picture is completed.

* That the draButic form of writing characterizes
jw prodoctiuos of an eariy. or, what amounts to tbe

The Scottish songs are of a very une-
qual poetical merit, and this inequality
often extends to the different parts of the
same song. Those that are humorous,
or characteristic of manners, have in ge-
neral the merit of copying nature ; those
that are serious, are tender, and oflen
sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit
high powers of imagination, which indeed
do not easily find a place in this species
of composition. The alliance of the
words of the Scottish songs with the mu*
sic, has in some instances given to the
former a popularity, which otherwise they
would not have obtained.

The association of the words and the
music of these songs, with the more beau-
tiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, con-
tributes to the same effect. It has given
them not merely popularity, but perma-
nence ; it has imparted to the works of
man some portion of the durability of the
works of nature. If, from our imperfect ex-
perience of the past, we may judge with
any confidence respecting the future,
songs of this description are of all others
least likely to die. In the changes of Ian-
same thing, of a rude stage of society, may be lUm-
tratod by a reference to tbe moat ancieoc compoeitiona
that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and tbe wri*
tings of Homer. The form of diakigue is adopted in tbe
old Scottish ballads even in narration, whenever iba
situations deecribed became teteresting. This soma,
timeif produces a very striking effect, of which an in-
stance may be given flrom the ballad of fdlsm •* Otrdm
a composition apparently of the slzteentb centoiy.
The story of the ballad is shortly this.— Tbe castle of
Rhodes, in the abeenee of lis k>rd, is attacked by iba
vobber Edom o* Gordon. The lady stands on her da-
fence, beats off the assailants, and wounda Gordon,
who, in his rage, orders the castie to be set on lire.
That bis orders are carried into effect, we leam froae
the expostulation of the lady, who is represented %
standing on tbe battlements, and remoostnUiiif en ttais
barbari^. She is interruptect—

" O tlien bespake her little son.

Sate on hto nourice knee ;
Says, * mither dear, gi' owre thia boose,

For the reek it smiibers me.*
* I wad gie a* my gowd, my cbllde,

See wad I a* my fee,
For ae blast o' the wesUn wind.

To blew the reek fVae thee.*' '

The clreomst^tiality of the Seottisb lore-songi, and
tbe dramatic form which prevails so generally in them,
probably arises from their being tbe deseendants aad
successors of the ancient ballads. In tbe beantiftil
modem song of Mary of Cs«(l«-Csry, tbe dramatleftnrm
has a very happy effect. The sane may be saM of
D0naU and Mero, and Cssis wMbr aqr jrMdts, by tbt
■ana author, Mr. MacoleL

THE LIFE OF BURXR

fpmpe they may no doubt sufier chan(^ :
but the aMOciatcd itrain of sentiment and
of music will perhaps survive, while the
clear stream sweeps down the vale of
Yarrow, or the yellow broom wavea on
Cowdcn-Knowes.

The first attempts of Bums in son^-
writinp were not very successful. His
habitual inattention to the exactness of
rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers,
arising probably from the models on which
his verification was formed, were faults
likely to appear to more disadvantage in
this species of composition, than in any
other ; and we may also remark, that the
strength of his imagination, and the ex-
uberance of his sensibility, were with dif-
ficulty restrained within the limits of gen-
tleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which
seemed to be assigned to the love-songs
of his nation. Burns was better adapted

prolongs the mt«ful leason of twiliffht
to the midnight hours: and the shades
of the evening seem to mingle with the
morning*8 dawn. The rural poets of
Scotland, as may be expected, associate
in their songs the expressions of passion,
with the most beautiful of their scenery,
in the fairest season of the year, and ge-
nerally in those hours of the evening when
the beauties of nature are most intoestr
ing.*

To all these adventitious drcnmstan-
ces, on which so much of the effect of po-
etry depends, great attention is paid by
Bums. There is scarcely a s6igle song
of his, in which particular scenery is not
described, or allusions made to natural
objects, remarkable for beauty or intcr-
and though his descriptions are not

so full as are sometimes met with in the

v< is.o ..-—"- r--- older Scottish songs, they are in the high-

by nature for following, in such composi- I est degree appropriate and interesting.
tionSfthe model of the Grecian, than that I Instances in proof of this might be quoted

of the Scottish muse. By study and prac-
tice ho however surmounted all these ob-
stacles. In his earlier songs, there is
some rupgcdness ; but this gradually dis-
appeart) m liis successive eflTort s ; and some
of his later compositions of this kind may
be compared, in polished delicacy, with
the finest songs in our language, while in
the elo(]ucnce of sensibility they surpass
them all.

from the Lea Ri^, Highland J^ary^ The
Soldier'9 Return, Loscan WaUr ; from
that beautiful pastoral Bonny Jean^ and a
great number of others- Occasionally
the force of Iiis genius carries him beyond
the usual boundaries of Scottish song,
and the natural objects introduced have
more of the character of sublimity. An
instance of this kind is noticed by Mr.

The pongs of Bums, like the moacls he
followed and excelled, are oflen dramatib,
and for the greater part amatory ; and the
beauties of rural nature are every where
associated with the passions and emotions
of the mind. Disdaining to copy the works
of others, he has not, like some poet*s of
great name, admitted into his descriptions
exotic imagery. The landscapes he has
painted, and the objects with which they
are embellished, are, in every single in-
stance, such as are to be found in his own
country. In a mountainous region, es-
pecially when it is comparatively rude
and naked, and the most beautiful scene-
ry will always be found in the valleys,
and on the banks of the wooded streams.
Such scenery is peculiarly interesting at
the close of a summer-day. As we ad-
vance northwards, the number of the days
of summer, indeed, diminishes ; but from
this cause, as well as from the mildness of
the temperature, the attraction of the sea-
son increases, and the summer-night be-
comes still more beautiful. The greater
obliquity cf the sun's path on the ecliptic J

♦ A Itdf , of whose Rrnliis the edUor entertnlriB Iii;ll
admtration (Mri. Barbauld.) hai fallrn Into ap error
In thia respect. In tier prefatory aildroi lo the worita
of CoIUnn, fip«'akinf; of the natural objects that nsf be
emplojcd to give interest to the descriptiona of pawtoo,
she obaervea, ** they prevent an inevhausuUc varitiy,
from the Bong of Solomon, breatliing o|[.caii«ia, mjirt^
and cinnamon^ lo the Gentle Shepheffl of Samaty,
whose daniaels carry their milking- paiU Uiroufh the
ftpsta and anowa of their lesa genial, but not Im pMto;>
ral country.'* The damsels of Ranuiay do not walk la"
the midst of froat and snow. Almost all the scenes of
the Oende Bhephcrri are laid In the open nir. amidrt
beaatiful natural objects, and at the moat fenial araana
of the year. Ramsay introduces all hia acts whh a
prefatory description to aaaure os of thia. The fault of
the climate of Britain ia not, that it doea not aflbrd us
the beauties of aummer, but that the season f>f sudi
beautiea ia comparatively abort, and even uncertain
There are days and nights, even in the northern divl
siim of the Island, which equal, or pcrhapm surpaia,
what ar« to be found in the latitude of Hiclly, or of
Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote hla eiqufaaie CKle
to May, felt the charm as well aa the tramtentneaa of
these happy days :

ffalve fugacte gloria secuH,
Salve aecunda di^ns dies nota
Salve vctustn vlic imago,
Et spocimen vententis Avi.

e of which ii

THE UFK OF BURH8. 87

Thsre i* no ipeciM of poetry, the pra-
JuctioDB of the dnou not excepted, M
much calculated to inflnenco tlie morali,
hb well as the happinesB of a peopla^aa ■
ihose popular venea which are asaociated
vlth national airs; aad which being learn'
latamtmjtTalmiaelim *"! ^ ^''^ J^*^' "*" infancy, make a deep

■ — resBion on the heart before tha evblu-
of tha powvB of the undeiataudinfr.
The compositiona of Bums of this kiad,
now presented in a, collected form to the
world, mako a moat important addition
the popular eange of his nation. Lika
his other wrilinj^, they exhibit inde-
pendence of sentiment; thpy arc peciili-
irly calculated to increase those tic* wliich
aind gcnerouB hearts to their native doil,
U)d to tho dumwitic circle of their infan-
cy ; ftnd to cherish those sensibilitiea
A'hicb, under due restriction, form tha
purest happincM of our nature. If in hi«
jnfruardcd momenta he composed some
eonga on which this praise cannot bo be-
stowed, let us hope that they will speedi-
ly be for^tten. In several inatancce,
where Scottish aira were allied to words
objectionable in point of delicacy. Bums
has substituted others of a purer charae-
ter. On such occasions, without chang
ing the subject, he has changed the sen-
timents. A proof of this may bo seen in
the air of John ^ndtrton my Joe, which
is now united to words that breathe a
strain of conjugal tenderness, that ia u
highly moral as it is exquisitely atTectiug.

jn a wioter-nigbt, the " wan moon" is de-
acribe^ as " setting behind the white
waves;" in another, the "storms" arc
apoatiephized, and commanded to " rest
in the csve of their slumbers," on several
occasions the genius of Bums loxes sij^bt
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into
a atrain of uniform Bublimity. _ Invtanccs
of this kind appear in Liberlie, a fition;
■nd in his two war-songs, Bniee to JUi
Traopr, and the Song of Dialh. These
last are of a description of which we have
no other in our language. The martial
flongs of our nation are not military, but
lULvaL If we were to seek a comparison
of these songs of Burns with others of a
similar nature, we must have

dern Gam,

Bums bss made an important addition
to the longs of Scotland. In his compo-
ntions, the poetry equals nnd aometimea
Biirpaases the music. He has enlarged
the poetical scenery of hi» country. Sla-
ny of her rivers and mountains, formerly
anknown to the muse, are now conse-
crated by his immortal verse. The Doon^
the Lngar, the Ayr, thn Nith, and the
Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow,
the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered
ss classic streams, and tlieir borders '"
be trodden with new and superior c

The greater part of the lon^ ofBurns
were written after he removed into Ihe
county of DumfrioH. Influenced, perhajis,
by habits farmed in early life, he usually
composed while walking in the open
When engaged in writing these songs,
favourite w^ks were on the banks of tlio
Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near
the rains of Lincluden Abbey ; and thia
beautiful scenery he baa very happily de-
scribed under various aspects, ae *'
pean during the softness and sere
evening, and during the stillness
Ismnity of the moon-light nipht.f

Few circumstances could afford a mors
striking proof of the strength of Bums'*
genluB, than the general circulation of his
poems in Kngland, notwithstanding the
dialect in which the greater part are writ
ten, and which might be supposed to ren-
der them here uncouth or obscure. In
some instances he hns used thia dialect
on subiccts of a sublime nature ; but in
general he confines it to sentiments or
descriptions of a tender or humorous kind ;
and where he rises into elevation of
thought, he assumes apurer English st^lp.
The sing[dar faculty he possessed of ming-
ling in the same poem, humoroua senti-
mrnts and descriptions, with imagery of
a sublime and terrific nature, enabled Iiim
to Uio thii variety of dialect on some oc-
casions with striking eflect. His poem of
Tnm o'Shanttr affords an instance of this.
There he passes from a scene of the low-
est humour, to situations of tho most aw-
fnl and terrible kind. He is a musician
that runs from the lowest to the higheat
of hii keja ; and the use of tlie Scottish

THE LIFE OF BURNS.

dialect enablet him to add two additional
notti to the bottom of hia scale.

^eat efibrtB hare been made by the
inhabitants of Scotland, of the superior
ranks, to approximate in their speech to
the pure English standard ; and this has
made it difficult to write in the Scottish
dialect, without excitiiifr in them some
feelings of disgust, which in England are
scarcely felt. An Englishman who un-
derstands the mcaningr of the Scottiah
words, is not offended, nay, on certain
subjects, he is perhaps, pleased with the
rustic dialect, as he may be with the Do-
ric Greek of Theocritus.

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own
country, if a man of education, and more
especially if a literary cliaracter, lias ba-
nished such words from his ^\'ritings, and
has attempted to banish them from his
speech : and being accastomcd to hear
them from the vulgar, daily, does not
easily admit of their use in poetry, which
requires a style elevated and ornamental.
A dislike of this kind is, however, acci-
dental, not natural. It is one of the spe-
cies of disgust which we feel at seeing a
female of high birth in the dress of a rus-
tic ; which, if she be really young and
beautiful, a little habit will enable us to
overcome. A lady who assumes such a
dress, puts her beauty, indeed, to a se-
verer trial. She rejects — she, indeed, op-
poses the influence of fashion ; she possi-
bly abandons the grace of elegant and
flowing drapery ; but her native charms
remain the more striking, perhaps, be-
cause the less adorned ; and to these she
trusts for fixing her empire on those af-
fections over which fashion has no sway.
If she succeeds, a new artsociation arises.
The dress of the beautiful rustic becomes
itself beautiful, and establishes a new
fashion for the young and the gay. And
when in afler ages, the contemplative ob-
server shall view her picture in the gal-
lery that contains the portraits of the
beauties of successive centuries, each in
the dress of her respective day, her dra-

Eery will not deviate, more than that of
er rivals, from the standard of his taste,
and he will give the palm to her who ex-
cels in the lineaments of nature.

Bums wrote professedly for the pea-
lantry of his country, and by them their
native dialect is universally relished. To
a numerous class of the natives of Scot-
Jnnd of another description, it mav also be

considered as attntcUve in a «1i<%ff4
point of view. Estranged from their Mr
tive soil, and spread over foreign kndi^
the idiom of their country uiites with the
sentiments and the deschptioiui on which
it is employed, to recal to their minds the
interesting scenes of infancy and youth—
to awaken many pleasing, .^many tender
recollections. Literary men, residing it
Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on V
this point for one hundred and fifty thos'
sand of their expatriated countrymen.*

To the use of the Scottiah dialect 'm
one species of poetry, the composition of
songs, the taste of the public has been for
some time reconciled. The dialect ia
question excels, as has already been ob-
served, in the copiousness and exactne«
of its terms for natural objects ; and in
pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric
simplicity, which is very generally ap-
proved. Neither does the regret seem
well founded which some persons of taste
have expressed, that Burns used this
dialect in fo many other of his compo-
sitions. Ilis declared purpose was to
paint the manners of rustic life among hii
" humble compeers," and it is not easy
to conceive, that this could have been
done with equal humour and effect, if he
had not adopted their idiom. There are
some, indeed, who will think the subject
too low for poetry. Persons of this sick-
ly taste will find their delicacies consulted
in many a polite and learned author : let
them not seek for gratification in the
rough and vigorous lines, in the imbridled
humour, or in the overpowering sensi-
bility of this bard of nature.

To determine the comparative merit
of Burns would be no easy task. Many
persons, afterwards distinguished in lite-
rature, have been bom in as humble a
situation of life ; but it would be difficult
to find any other who, while earning his
subsistence by daily labour, has ^Titten

* These nbaenratioitf are excited bf tome reroarln of
revpectable correspondents orthedettcription alluded to.
This calculation ofthe number of ScotrbmcnlivinR out
of Scotland is not allojsrther arbitrary, and it is proba-
bly below the truth. It is, in some dcpr^, founds on
the proimrtion between the number of the sexes t ■ S<et-
land, as it appears from the invaluable Btatistios of Sir
John Sinclair. For Scotchmen of tlUs deaeripcinn, wore
particularly, Bums seems to have written bis aoiiit, be-
(rinninie, TlkrirfrovtM o'sveet myrtle^ a beauUfui strain,
wliich, it may be enofidently predirlad, will \m> snnf
with equal or superior interest on Um> banks nf tha
Games or ofthe Mississippi, as ou tta«Ma of the Tay or
tha Twesd

THE LIFE OP BURNS.

1:9

rnicn on^ve attracted, and retained
al attention, and which are likely
the author a permanent and dia-
led place amoo^ the followers of
pes. If he is deficient in grace,
istinffuished for ease as well as
; and these are indications of the
order of genius. The father of
3try exhibits one of his heroes as
ig in strength, another in swifl-
form his perfect warrior, these
«8 are combined. Every species
loctual superiority admits perhaps
Bular arrangement. One writer
in force-— another in ease ; be is
r to them both, in whom both
[ualities are united. Of Homer
it may be said, that, like his own
s, he surpasses his competitors in
as well as strength.

force of Burns lay in the powers
nderstanding, and in tl^ sensibili-
18 heart ; and these will be found
le the living principle into all the

works of genius which seem destined to
immortality. His sensibility had an an-
common range. He was alive to every
species of emotion. He is one of the few
poets that can be mentioned, who have
at once excelled in humour, in tenderness,
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to
the ancients, and which in modem tiroes
is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and
perhaps to Voltaire. To compare the
writings of the Scottish peasant with the
works of these giants in literature, might
appear presumptuous ; yet it may be as-
serted that he has displayed the foot of
Hercules* How near he might have ap-
proached them by proper culture, with
lengthened years, and under happier au-
dioes, it is not for us to calculate. But
while we run over the melancholy story
of his life, it is impossible not to heave a
sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; and
as we survey the records of his mind, it
is easy to see, that out of such materials
have been reared the fairest and the most
durable of the monuments of genius.

ABTmmvasuKminr

DB. OURRXS'S

EDITION OP THB CORRESPONDENCE.

It is impossible to dismiss this volume*
of the Correspondence of our Bard, with-
out some anxiety as to the reception it
may meet with. The experiment we are
making has not often been tried ; perhaps
on no occasion has so large a portion of
the recent and unpremeditated effusions
of a man of genius been committed to the
press.

Of the following letters of Bums, a con-
siderable number were transmitted for
publication, by the individuals to whom
they were adchressed ; but very few have
been printed entire. It will easily be be-
lievea, that in a series of letters written
without the least view to publication, va-
rious passages were found unfit for the
press, from different considerations. It
will also be readily supposed, that our po-
et, writing nearly at the same time, and
under the same feeling to different indi-
viduals, would Bometmies fall into the
same train of sentiment and forms of ex-
pression. To avoid, therefore, the tedi-
ousness of such repetitions, it has been
found necessary to mutilate many of the
individual letters, and sometimes to ex-
scind parts of great delicacy — the unbri-
dled effusions of panegyric and regard.
But though many of the letters are print-
ed from originals furnished by the persons
to whom they were addressed, others are .
printed from first draughts, or sketches,
found among the papers of our Bard.
Though in general no man committed his
thoughts to his correspondents with less
consideration or effort than Bums, yet it
appears that in some instances he was
dissatisfied with his first essays, and wrote
out his communications in a fairer charac-
ter, or perhaps in more studied language.
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of
the oriffinal sketches were found ; and as
these sketches, though less perfect, are
fairly to be considered as the offspring of
his mind, where they have seemed in them-

* Dri Currie'i edition of Burnt*! Worki was origl-
ludlX puU'ished in four volumw^ of which tb« (bDow-
Ing CorreipondedM fonnod Uio ncond.

selves worthy of a place in this vohimi)
we have not hesitated to insert theOt
though they may not always correspoDd
exactly with the letters t^ansmitted,whieli
have been lost or withheld.

Our author appears at one time to htn
formed an intention of making a collee-
tion of his letters for the amusement of ft
friend. Accordingly he copied an incon-
siderable number of them into abookf
which he presented to Robert Riddel, of
Glenriddel, Esq. * Among these was tbe
account of his life, addressed to Doctor
Moore, and printed in the first volume.*
In cop3ring from his imperfect sketcbefl*. .
(it does not appear that he had theJetters
actually sent to his correspondents before
him,) he seems to have occasionally en-
larged his observations, and altered ioB
expressions. In such instances his emen-
dations have been adopted ; but in tmtk
there are but five of the letters thus se-
lected by the poet, to be found in Um
present volume, the r^t being thongfat of
inferior merit, or otherwise unfit. f& the
public eye.

In printing this volume, the editor has
found some corrections of grammar neces-
sary ;' bat these have been very few, and
sucn as may be supposed to occur in the
careless effusions, even of literary chaiaC*
ters, who have not been in the habit of
carrying their compositions to the press.
These corrections have never been ex-
tended to any habitual modes of expres-
sion of the poet, even where his phrase-
ology may seem to violate the delicacies
of taste ; or the idiom of our language,
which he wrote in general with great ac*
curacy. Some difference will indeed be
found in this respect in his earlier and in
his later compositions ; and this volume
will exhibit the progress of his style, as
well as the history of his mind. In the
fourth edition, several new letters were
introduced, and some of inferior impor-
tance were omitted.

* OMopyinf flnom p«c* 9 ^ P*6« ^^ of Ibis Sdbisa.

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE

lEossm^r iBinBns«

X.aTTBKS, IlO.

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH,

eCBOOLHABTEB,
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON.
LoAUe, IhtkJamiary, 17G3.

Aa I hare utopportanity of lending
fan L letter, without putting you to that
l^nwe which uiy production of mine
Woold but ill repay, I embrace it with
pltiaara, to tell you U»t I have not for-
Mtten nor ever will forget, the many ob-
n^ionsl lie under to your IdndnesB and

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wiah
to know what has been the result of all
tha pftina of an indulgent father, and a
muterly teacher ; and 1 wixli I could
gratify your curiosity with such a recital
as you would be plettaed with ; but that
is what I am afraid will not be the cose.
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious
habits ; and in this respect, I hope my
eondact will not disgrace the education 1
\Mn gotten ; but m» a man of the world,
I am most miserably deScient. — One
woold haTfl thoDKht that bred as I have
been, under a father who has figured
pretty well as in hamma da affatra, 1
might have been what the world calls a
pushing, active fellow ; but, to toll you
the truth. Sir, there is hardly any thing
more my reverse. I seem to be one srnt
into the world to see, and observe ; and
1 very tiwily eompounil wi>Ji the knave

who tricks me of my money, if there bfl
any thing original about him which shows
me human nature in a different light from
any thing I have seen before. In short,
the joy of my heart is to "study men,
their manners, and their wajs i" and for
this darling object, I cheerfully sacrifico
every other consideration. I am quite
indolent 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 any
thing further. Even the last worthy shift,
of the unfortunate and the wretched does

then my talent lor what coimtry-fi
" a senuible crack," when once it

I call

learn to be happy.* However, I am un-
der no apprehensions about that ; for,
thoueJi indolent, yet, so far as an extreme-
ly delicate constitution permits, I am not
lazy ; and in many things, especially ia
tavern -matters, I am a strict economist;
not indeed for the sake of the money, but
one of the principal parts in my composi-
tion is a kind of pride of stomach, and I
scorn to fear the face of any man living ;
above every thing, I abhor, ha hell, tnci
idea of sneaking in a comer to avoid •
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch,
whom in my heart I despise and detest.
'Tis this, and this alone, that endears
economy to me. In the matter of books,
indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite
authors arc of the sentimental kind, such

•ThriiiiininiiiucIcdtDlwra,BUttUlbicnBillSoa

LETTERS.

■8 ShenHoniy particularly his EUgUt ;
TKomaon ; Man of Feelings a book I prize
next to the Bible ; Man of the JForld ;
Stemfy especially his SentimentulJoumf^ ;
MPherton't Ottian^ &.c. Tliese are the
glorious models afler which I endeavour
to form my conduct ; and 'tis incongru-
ous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man
whose mind glows with the sentiments
lighted up at their sacred flame — the man
whose heart distends with benevolence to
all the human race — he *' who can soar
above this little scene of things," can he
descend to mind the paltry concerns about
which the terra?filial race fret, and fume,
and vex themselves ? O how the glorious
triumph swells mj heart ! I forget that I
am a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed
and unknown, stalking up and down fairs
and markets, when I happen to be in them,
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 incumbrance
in their way. But I dare say I have bv
this time tired your patience; so I shall
conclude with begging you to give Mrs.
Murdoch — not my compliments, for that
is a mere common-place story, but my
warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare ;
and accept of the same for yourself from,
Dear Sir, Your's, dtc.

ces must be strongly tinctared with hit
unpolished rustic way of Ufe ; but as I
believe they are really his own^ it may be
some entertainment to a curious observer
of human nature, to see how a ploughman
thinks and feels, under the prenure of
love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the
like cares and passions, which, howerer
diversified by the modet and mannen of
life, operate pretty much alike, I believe^
on all the species.

" There are numbers in the worid wbo
do not want sense to make a figure, so
much as an opinion of their own abilitjes,
to put them upon recording their oble^
vations, and allowing them the same im-
portance, which they do to those whieh
appear in print." — Shenttone*

No. II.

Hm fbllowliif ii taken from tbe MS. Prott pre-
■ented by oar Bard to Mr. Riddel.

On rummaging over some old papers, I
lighted on a MS. of my early years, in
which I had determined to write myself out,
as I was placed by fortune among a class
of men to whom my ideas would have
been nonsense. I had meant that the
book should have lain by me, in the fond
hope that, some time or other, even after
I was no more, my thoughts would fall
into the hands of somebody capable of ap-
preciating their value. It sets off thus :

OhierwUvmiy HinU, Song*, Scraps of
Poetry y SfC, by R, B, — a man who had
little art in making money, and still less
in keeping it ; but was, however, a man of
some sense, a great deal of honesty, and
unbounded good will to every creature
rational and irrational. As he was but
little indebted to scholastic education,
and bred at a plough-tail, his performan-

" Plearinf, when youth it loafczpir'd, to <
Tbe fbnm our pencil or our pen detigned !

Such was our youUiful air, and shape, and Ikn,
Such tbe eufk image of our youthful inijML*'—iUK

^9ri/, 1783.
Notwithstanding all that nas been Hid
against love, respecting the foUy lod
weakness it leads a young inexpenenced
mind into ; still I thmk it in a great mea-
sure deserves the highest encominms
that have been passed upon it. If any
thing on earth deserves the name of rap-
ture or transport, it is the feelings of green
eighteen, in the company of the mistresi
of liis heart, when she repays him aith
an equal return of affection.

There is certainly some connexion be-
tween love, and music, and poetry ; ted
therefore I have always thought a ^
touch of nature, that passage in a modem
love composition :

" At tow*rd her cot be jofg'd along,
Her name wai frequent in tail tong .**

For my own part, I never had the least
thought or inclination of turning poet, till
I got once heartily in love ; and then
rhyme and song were, in a manner, the
spontaneous language of my heart.

Septewlher*
1 entirely agree with that judicioni
philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent
Theonj of Moral SeniimenUy that remorse
is the most painful pontimont that can im-
bittpr lUe human bosom. Any ordinary

LETTERS.

r fortitude may bear up tolerably
Aet those calamities, in the pro-
nt of which we ourselves have had
1 ; but when our own follies, or
have made us miserable and
ed, to bear up with manly firm-
id at the same time have a proper
itial sense of our misconduct, is a
9 effort of self command.

the numeroof ills that hurt oar pmee,
"vm the toul, or wring the mind with anfulih,
; coiap&ri«on the worst are those
) oar folly or our guilt we owe.
y oilier circumstance the mind
s to saf— ' It was no deed of mine ;*
«n to all the evils of misfortune
ing isVdded— ' Blame thy foolish self!*
aer far, the pangs of Iceen remorse ;
taring, gnawfcg consciousness of guilt—
L, perhaps, where we've involved others ;
nngr, the innocent, who fonilly lov*d us,
lore, that very love their cause of ruin!
ing hell ! in all thy store of torments,
I not a keener lash!

tiere a man so hrm, who, while his heart
U the bitter tiorrors of his crime,
ison down its agonizing throbs ;
fter proper purpose of amendment,
mly force his jarring thoughts to poacel
y ! happy ! enviable man !
MU magnanimity of soul !**

March, 1784.
re often observed, in the course of
»erience of human life, that every
^en the worst, has something good
dm; though very often nothing else
bappy temperament of constitution
ig him to this or that virtue. For
ason, no man can say in what de-
ny other person, besides himself,
, with strict justice, called wicked,
y of the strictest character for re-
V of conduct among us, examine
tally how many vices he has never
uilty of, not from any care or vigi-
but for want of opportunity, or
:»;idental circumstance intervening;
any of the weaknesses of mankind
escaped, because he was out of the
such temptation ; and, what often,
always, weighs more than all the
10W much he is indebted to the
i good opinion, because the world
ot know all. I say any man who
us think, will scan the failings, nay,
ilts and crimes, of mankind around
dth a brother's eye.

ve often courted the acquaintance

of that part of mankind commonly known
by the ordinary phrase of blackguards^
sometimes farther than was consistent
with the safety of my character ; those
who, by thoughtless prodigality or head-
strong passions have been driven to ruin.
Though disgraced by follies, nay, some-
times *' stained with guilt, * * * *
* *," I have yet found among them, in
not a few instances, some of the noblest
virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disin-
terested friendship, and even modesty

^priL
As I am what the men of the world, if
they knew such a man, would call a whim-
sical mortal, I have various sources of
pleasure and enjoyment, which are, in a
manner, peculiar to myself, or some here
and there such other out-of-the-way per-
son. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take
in the season of winter, more than the
rest of the year. This, I believe, maybe
partly owing to my misfortunes giving
my mind a melancholy cast ; but there is
something even in the

** Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth.**-^

which raises the mind to a serious subli-
mity, favourable to every thing great and
noble. There is scarcely any earthly ob-
ject gives me more — I do not know if I
should call it pleasure — but something
which exalts me, something which en-
raptures me — than to walk m the shel-
tered side of a wood, or high plantation,
in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the
stormy wind howling among the trees and
raving over the plain. It is my best sea-
son for devotion ; my mind is rapt up in a
kind of enthusiasm to Him^ who in the
pompous language of the Hebrew bard,
** walks on the. wings of the wind." In
one of these seasons, just after a train of
misfortunes, I composed the following :

The wintry west extends bis blast, fcc.— Poems, p. 39.

Shenstone finely observes, that love-
verses writ without any real passion, are
the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I
have often thought that no man can be a
proper critic of love composition, except
he himself, in one or more instances, have
been a warm votary of this passion. As
I have been all along a miserable dupe to
lovp, and havp been led into a thousand
wcakncsFcs and follies by It^ fciT VVi^ x^x.-

■on I pot the more confidence in my cri-
tical Bldll, in distioguiihing fopper; ud
conceit from real puaion tnd nature.
Whether the rollowing Bonjf will stand
thetest.I will not pretend to saj^, becauie
it ii my own; only I can say it was, at
the time genuine from the heart.

I think the whole Bpecies of young men
may be naturally enough divided into two
grand classes, which I shall call the yftviee
and the merry; though, by the by, these
terms do not with propriety enough ei-
presB my ideas. The gravi! I shall cast
mto the usual division of thnpo who are
goaded on by thclovcof money, nndthonc
whose darlingwiah Ip to make a figure in
the world. The merry are, the men of

Eleaeurc of all denominations ; the jovial
ida, who have too much fire and spirit to
have any settled rule of action; but, with-
out much deliberation follow the atronp
impalaes of nature : the thoughtless, the
cirelei"', the indolent — in particular hf,
who, with a happy sweetofsa of natural
temper.andachecrfiilvacancyof thought,
Bteale through life — generally, indeed, in
poverty and obscurity ; but poverty and
obscurity arc only evils to him who can
ait gravely down and make a repining
comparison between bis own situation nnc]
that of others ; and laally. to grace the
quorum, such an are, generally, those
whose heads are capable of all the tower-
ings or genius, and whofe hearts are
wanned with all the delicacy of feeLng.

As th« grand end of human lite is to
cultivate an intercourse with that Being
to whom we owe our life, with every cn-
joynicnt that can render life delighlful;
and to maintain an integritivo conduct
towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by
forming piety and virtue into habit, wc
may be fit members for that society of
the pious and the good, which reason and
revelation teach us to expect beyond the
grave ; t do not see that the turn of miiid
and pursuits of any win of poverty and
obscurity, are in the least more inimical
to the sacred interests of piety and vir-
tue, than the, even lawful, bustling and
■training adnr the world's riches and ho-
nour* ' and I do not see but that he may

[ among the wreck d

through the rale of life, amuaing himielf
with every little flower, that fortUM
throws in his way; aa he who, atrainini
itmight forward, and perhaps bespatter-
ing all about him, gains some of life'slilllt
eminences ; where, after all, he can onlj
see, and be seen, a little more conspra-
ously tlian what, in the piide ofhiahear^
he is apt to term tlie poci indolent dnS
be has Icfl behind him.

There is a noble sublimity, a Wtt
melting tendemcKs, in some' (rf oar U^
cient ballad*, which show them to bath*
worlief a masterly hand; and ithascftai
riven me many a heart-ache toreSect,tbt
luch glotioud old bardH — barda whorei;
probably owed all their talents to Datif*
genius, yet have described the expUlt
of iicroes, the panga of
and tlic meltings of love, with
strokes of nature — that their very
(U how mortifying to a bard's nnitj'
are now "buried
things which

O ye illuBtriooB names unknown! wlw .
could feel so strongly aud describe so well;
the ksi, the meanest of the muses' tiaio
— one who, though far inferior to year
flights, yet eyes your path, and with treio-
bling wing would sometimes soar after
you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pap
tliis sytnpnthetic pang to yonr memory!
Some of ybn tell us with all the charoi of
verde, that you have been unfortunate ia
the world — unfortunate in love i he too
has felt the loss of bis little fortune, tbt
loss of friends, and, worse than all, tha
loss of the woman he adored. Lite yon,
all his consolation was hia muse; she
taught himin rustic measures to complain.
Happy could he have done it with your
strength of imaginstion and flow of verse!
May the turf lie lightly on your bone* I
and may you now enjoy that solaee and
rest which this world rarely given to tba
heart tuned to all tba feelinga of poe^
and love I

is an woith quoting in mj USS
e than all.

R. B

TO MR. AIKIN.

LETTERS. 95

of tha executioner. All theat Teuoiia
ur^ me to go abroad ; *nd to all tbeM
reasoiu I have onlj one anawer — the
feelings of a father. This, in the present
mood I am in, overbalances every thing
that can be laid in the icale egainat it.

AyrMre, 1T8S.

IS with Wilson, my printer, t'other
settled all our bj-gonc matters
OB. Af\er I had paid him all
, I made him the offer ofthe ac-
tion, on the hazard of being paid
efirit and readieil, whirh he de-
By his account, the paper of a
I copies would cost about twent^-
unds, and the printini; about iif-
ixteenj he offers to agree to this
rintin^, if I will advance for the
tut this you know, is out of my

farewell hopes of a second edi-
grow richer t an epochs, which,

viU arrive at the payment of the
ational debt.

ia scarcely any thine hurts me
in being disappointed of my se-
;ioD, as not having it in my power
my gratitude to Mr. Ballautyne,
ihing my poem of The Bhg$ of
would detest myself as a wretch,
^ht I were capable, in a very long
orfettinjT the honest, warm, and
slicacy with which he enters into
ests. I am Bometimes pleased
■elf in mv grateful Bensations ;
lieve, on the whole, I have very
rit in it, as my gratitude is not a
le consequence of reflection, but
he instinctive emotion of a heart
entive to allow worldly maxims
■ to settle into selfish habits.

been feeling all the various ro-
id movements within, respecting
a. There are many things plead

ajrainst It, the uncertainty of get-

1 into business, the consequences
lies, which may perhaps make it
sable for me to stay at home ;
des, I have for some time been
nder secret wretchedness, from
hich you pretty well know — the
isRppointment, the sting of pride,
le wandeii?" stabs of remorse,
iver fail to settle on my vitals
ires, when attention is not called

You may perhaps think it an extravt-
gant 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 every evidear4
for the reality of a life beyond the stint<
ed bourn of our present existence ; if so,
then bow should I, in the presence of
that tremendous Being, the Author of
existence, how should I meet the ra-

§ roaches of those who stand to me in the
ear relation of children, wiiom I desert-
ed in the smiling innocency of helpless
infancy.' O thou great, unknown Fowerl
thou Almighty God ! who has lighted np
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 thott
hast never lefl mo nor forsaken me

Since T wrote the foregoing sheet, I
have seen something of the stonn of mi*-
chief thickening over m^ folly-davoled
head. Should you, my fnends, my bene-
factors, be successful in your applications
for me, perhaps it may not be in my pow-
er in that way to reap the fruit of your
friendly efforts. What 1 have written in
the preceding pages is the settled tenor
of my present resolution ; but should in-
imical circumstances forbid me closing

To tell the truth, I have little reawin
for complaint, as the world, in general,
has been kind to me, fully up to my de-
serts. I was, for some time past, fast
getting into the pining, distrustful snarl
ofthe misanthrope. I saw myself alone,
unfit for the struggle of life, shrinlcing at
every lising cloud in the chance-directed
atmosphere of fortune, while, all defence-
less, I looked about in vain for a cover.
Tt never occurred to me, at least never
with the force it deserved, that this world
is a busy scene, and man a creature de*>

LETTERS.

lined for a progrressive struggle; and that
however I might poBsess a warm heart,
and inoffensive manners, (which last, by
the by, was rather more than I coold
well boast) still, more than these passive
qualities, there was something to be done.
Sv'tien all my stchool-lullows and youthful
compoors (thoMO misguided few excepted
who joined, to use a (jeuloo phrase^ the
/. Hlavhares of the human race,) were atri-
kiiiir olfwith eager hope and earnest in-
tention 8omt' one or other of the many
paths of busy life, I was standing * idle in
the market-place,' or only loll the chase
of the butterliy from flower to flower, to
hunt I'ancy from wliim to wliim.

You Fee, Sir, that if to Armno one's er-
rors were a probability of mending them,
I stand a fair chance, but, According to
the reverend Westminster divines, though
conviction must precede conversion, it is
very far from always implying it.*

NO. IV
TO MRS. DUNLOP OP DUNLOP.

Ayrthire^ 17b6.

MADAM,

I AM truly sorry I was not at home
yesterday when I was so nmch honoured
with your order for my copies, and incom-
parably more by the handsome compli-
ments 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 con-
ceive how the heart of the poor bard dan-
ces with rapture, when those whose cha-
racter in life gives them a right to be po-
lite judges, honour him with their appro-
bation. Had you been thoroughly ac-
quainted with me, Madam, you could not
have touched my darling heait-chord more
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to
celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the
Saviour of his Country.

" Great patriot-bero ! tUreqaited ehlaf !**

*Thi« letter WM evidentir written under the di*.
tim of mind (Kcaaloned br our r<Mt*f wpvatkm front
Mn. Buriii. E

The first book I met with in my etih
years, which I perused with pleasure, wm
The Life ofHaniMbal: the next was 21t
History of Sir Wiiliam JFaikug-, for SB
veral of my earlier years I had few otiier
authors ; and many a solitary hour havi I
stole out, afler the laborious vocatiins of
the day, to shed a tear over their gkri-
ous but unfortunate stories. In Ukmi
boyish days I remember in particular be-
ing stnick with that part of Wsllaei^
story where these lines occur—

** Syne to the Leglen wood, whan It wh taM^
To make a silent and a aafe retreat.*'

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the onir
day my line of life allowed, and wiliflt
half a dozen of miles to pay my respedi
to the Leglen wood, with as much deroit
enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to LonU
to ; and, as 1 explored, every den and dd
where I could suppose my heroic countiy-
man to have lodged, I recollect (for efci.
then I was a rhymer) that my heart j^ov*
ed with a wish to be able to make a My
on him in some measure equal to hi
merits

NO. V.
TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR

1786.

MADAM,

The hurry of my preparations for go-
ing abroad has hindered me from perfemi*
ing my promise so soon as I intended, I bavt
here sent vou a parcel of songs, d^. wUch
never made their appearance, except to i
friend or two at most. Perhaps soma if
them may be no great entertainment to
you ; but of that 1 am far from heiag n
adequate judge. The song to the too
of Ettrick Banksy you will easily see ths
impropriety of exposing much, even !■
manuscript. I think, myself, it has boim
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 any thing of, an amiable, beau-
tiful yoimg woman ;* but I have no com*
men friend to procure me that permis-
sion, without which I would not dare to
spread the copy.

* The rnng tnckieed ia tbe one
*Tiraft even— tbe demr Oaldf

LETTERS.

Suite aware, Madam, what task
would assign me in this letter,
rcure bard, when any of the ffreat
end to take notice of him, should
e altar with the incense of flatte-
eir high ancestry, their own great
Hike qualities and actions, should
unted with the most exaggerated
ion. This, Madam, is a task for
am altogether unfit. Besides a
disqualifying pride of heart, I know
of your connexions in life, and have
iSB to where your real character
found — the company of your com-
and more, I am afraid that even
it refined adulation is by no means
d to your good opinion.

feature of your character I shall
th grateful pleasure remember —
eption I got when I had the ho-
' waiting on you at Stair. I am
cquainted with politeness; but I
good deal of benevolence of tem-
l goodness of heart. Surely, did
1 exalted stations know how hap-
' could make some classes of their
8 by condescension and affability,
Duld never stand so high, measur-
; with every look the height of
evation, but condescend as sweet-
d Mrs. Stewart of Stair.

No. VI.

' THE NAME OF THE NINE. AmEN.

>BERT Burns, by virtue of a War-
'om Nature, bearing date the
f-fiflh day of January, Anno Do-
e thousand seven hundred and fif-
8,* Poet-Laureat and Bard in
in and over the Districts and
ies of Ktle, Cunningham, and
:e, of old extent. To our trusty
iU-be1oved William Chalmers
IN M'Adam, Students and Prac-
« in the ancient and mysterious
) of CoNFouNDiNO RiGBT and

IT Trusty,

( it known unto you, That whereas,
course of our care and watchings
e Order and Police of all and sun-
3 Manufacturers, Retainers,
-.nders of Poesy ; Bards, Poets,
ters, Rhymers, Jinglers, Songsters,
singers, o^c, &c., dtc, dltc, A&c,

* His UrUhdaj.

male and female — ^We have diseorered a
certain * * *, nefarious, abominable, and
Wicked Sono, or Ballad, a copy where-
of We have here enclosed ; Our Will
THEREFORE 18, that Ye pltch upou and
appoint the most execrable Individual of
that most execrable Species, known by
the appellation, phrase, and nickname of
The Deil's Yell Nowte ;* and, 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 mer-
ciless hands the said copy of the said ne-
farious and wicked Song, to be consumed
by fire in the presence of all Beholders*
in abhorrence of, and terrorum to all such
Compositions and Composers. And this
in no wise leave ye undone, but have it
executed in every point as this Our Man
DATE bean before the twenty-fourth cut '
rent, when in person We hope to ap
plaud your faithfulness and zeaL

Given at Mauchline, this twentieth
day of November, Anno Domini one thou-
sand seven hundred and eighty-six.f
God save the babx» I

No. VII.

DR. BLACKLOCK

TO THE REVEREND MR. G.

LOWRIE.

REVEREND AND DEAR SIBy

I OUGHT to have acknowledged your
favour long ago, not only as a testimony
of your kind remembrance, but as it fnYe
me an opportunity of sharing one of the
finest, and, perhaps, one of tM most genu-
ine entertainments, of which the human
mind is susceptible. A number of avoca-
tions retardea my progress in reading the
poems ; at last, however, I have fiaished
that pleasing perusal. Many instances
have 1 seen of Nature's force and benefi-
cence exerted under numerous and formi-
dable disadvantages ; but none equal to
that with which you have been kind enouffh
.to present me. There id a pathos and deli-
cacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and
humour in those of a more festive turn,
which cannot be too much admired, nor too
warmly approved ; and I think I shall never

• Old Bacbekm.

fEnoloMd WM the bsllad, protaMf JMf fnOkt
Frmtvr E

LETTERS

open the book withoat feeling my aston-
ishment renewed and increased. It was
my wish to have expressed my approba-
tion in verse ; but whether from declining
life, or a temporary depression of spirits,
it is at present out of my power to accom-
plish that agreeable intention.

Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in
this University, had formerly read me
three of the poems, and I had desired him
to get my name inserted among the sub-
scribers ; but whether this was done, or
not, I never could learn. I have, little
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take
care to have the poems communicated to
him by the intervention of some mutual
friend. It has been told me by a Gentle-
man, to whom I showed the performances,
and who sought a copy with diligence and
ardour, that the whole impression is al-
ready exhausted. It were, therefore,
much to be wished, for the sake of the
young man, that a second edition, more
numerous than the former, could imme-
diately be printed : as it appears certain
that its intrinsic merit and the exertion of
the author's friends, might give it a more
universal circulation than any thing of
the kind which has been published within
my memory.* •

No. VIII.

FROM THE REVEREND MR.
LOWRIE.

22d December^ 1786.

DEAR SIR,

I LAST week received a letter from
Dr. Blacklock, in which he expresses a
desire of seeing you, I write this to you,
that you may lose no time in waiting
upon nim, should you not yet have seen
him.

I rejoice to hear, from all comers, of your

* The reader will perceive that thia ii tbe letter which
produced tbe determination of our Bard to give up his
■cbenie or going to tb^ Weat Indlei, and to try the fate
of a new Edition of hie Poenu In Edinburgh. A copy
of this letter wasnent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. 6. Bamll-
tnn, and by hloi communicated to Bums, amoof whoae
paper* it wafl found.

For an account of Mr. Lowrie and hia (telly, ■•• the
letter of Gilbert Burns to the Editor.

rising fame, and I with and expect It may
tower still higher by the new pubUcalion.
But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to
meet with your share of detraction ud
envy — a train that always accompaiiy
great men. For your comfort I am ia
great hopes that the number of your
friends and adinirera will increase, and
that you have some chance of ministerii],
or even ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ patronage. Now, ay
friend, such rapid success ia very aneon-
mon : and do you think yoorself in no
danger of suffering by appfaase and afuB
purse ? Remember Solomon's adrice,
which he spoke from experience, " stroa-
ger is he that conquers,'* Slc^ Keep hd
hold of your rural simplicity and pontic
like Telemachus, by Mentor'ta aid, m
Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cypna •
I hope you have also Minerva with yoa
I need not toll jou how much a mo^
diffidence and invmcible temperance adon
the most shining talents, and elevate tlio
mind, and exalt and refine the imtgiia-
tion, even of a poet«

I hope you will not imagine I speik
from suspicion pr evil report. I^anara
you I speak from love and good ieport,
and good opinion, and a atrong desire to
see you shine as much in the snnslune m
you have done in the shade ; and in tht
practice, as you do in the theory of rir
tue. This is my prater, in return ftr
your elegant composition in verse. All
here join in compliments and good wiihei
for your further prosperity.

No. IX.

TO MR. CHALMERa
Edmbwrgh, ftlth Dee. 1786.

MT DBAK FRIEND,

I CONFESS I have sinned the tin for
which there is hardly any forgivenen—
ingratitude to friendship— in not wxi|iBf
you sooner ; but of all men living, Ihu
intended to send you an entertaimng let-
ter ; and by all the plodding stupid pow-
ers that in nodding conceited majesty pre-
side over the dull routine of business— t
heavily solemn oath this !— I am, and
have been ever since I came to Edinburgli
as imfit to write a letter of humour as to
write a commentary on the Rtvelatumt.

ke jon some amend* for what,
in reach this paragraph jou will
eredf I enclose you two poema I
led and spun since I passed Gleu-
>ne blank in the addresi to Bdin-

Fair B ," is the heavenly

net, daughter to Lord Honbod-
loae house 1 had the honour to be
in once. There has not been
[ nearly like her, in all the com-

of beautj, ^race, and goodneM,
. Creator hac formed, since Mil-
I on the firstdsy of her existence-
sent you aparecl or Bubscription-
1 have written to Mr. Ballantyne
liken, to call on you for some of
the; want them. My direction
of Andrew Bruce, Merchant,

IE EARL OF ECLINTON.

Edmbur^, Jaimary, I7S7.
iD,

have but slender pretensions to
y, I cannot rise to the exalted
, citizen of the world ; but have
national prejudices which, 1 be-
iw peculiarly strong in the breoat
chfflan. Thcie is scarcely any
which I am bo feelingly alive ;
aourend welfare of my country;

poet, I have no higher eojoy-
Q singing her sons and daugn-
.te had cast my station in the
lades of life ; but never did a
it more ardently than mine, to
fished ; though till ver^ lately,
in vain on every side for a ray

It is easy, then, to guess how
vaa gratified with the counte-
l approbation of one of my coun-
it illiislrious sons, when Hr.
le called on me yesterday on the
u Lordship. Your munificence,
, certainly deserves my very
cknowledgments ; but your pat-

a bounty peculiarly snited to
(TS. I am not master enough of
•ito of life, to know whether
lot some impropriety in troub-
Lordship with my tnanks ; but
whispered me to do it. From
ons of my inmost soul I do it.
gratitude, I hope, I un incapa-
nd mercenary Krvility, I tnift I

have SO ranch boowt prids u i

TO MRS. DUNLOP.
EdmbvT^ ISIA JoMnry, 17ST.

VovB* of the 9th current, which I am
this moment hononredwith, is a deep re-
proach to me for ungratefiil neglect. I
will tell you the real truth, for T am mise-
rably awkward at a fib ; I wished to hav*
written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to
you; but though, every day since I re-
ceived yours ofDiecember SOtb, the idea,
the wish to write to him, has constantly
pressed on my thoughts, yet T could not
for my sou] set about it. I know his fama
and character, and I am one of " the sons
oflittle men." To write him a mere mat-
ter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order,
would be disgracing the Uttle character I
have; and to write the author of 111*
Vitie of Society and JVonneri a letter of
sentiment — I declare every artery run*
cold at the thourbt. I shall try, how<
ever, to write to him to-morrow or next
day. His kind interposition in my behalf
I have already experienced, as a gentle-
man waited on me the other day on Ihs
part of Lord Eglington, with ten guineas,
by way of subscription for two copiea of
my nest edition.

The word you object to in the mention
I have made of my glorious countryman
and your immortal ancestor, is indeea bor-
rowed from Thomson ; but it does not
strike me as an improper epithet. I dis-
trusted my own j udgment on your Sndin|>
fault with it, and applied for the opinion
of some of the literati here, who honour
me with their critical strictures, and thef
all allow it to be proper. The song yon
ask I cannot recollect, and I have not »
copy- of it. I have not composed any
thins on the great Wallace, except what
youaave seen in print, and the inclosed,
which I will print in this edition.* Yon
will see I have mentioned some others of
the name. When I composed my Fuion
long ago, I attempted a deecription of
Koyle, of which tha additiMial stanzaa
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 0^ Ms
Country, which, sooner or latw, I shall at
least attempt.

Nralr"urinSlB(«1tblkatf«D«>ib ■■

100

LETTERS.

You are afndd I eh^ll 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 deserved some notice ; but in a
most enlightened, informed age and na-
tion, when poetry is and has been the
study of men of the first natural genius,
aided with all the powers of polite learn-
ing, 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 conse-
quences. The novelty of a poet in my
obscure situation, without any of those
advantages wliich are reckoned necessary
for that character, at least at this time of
day, has raised a partial tide of public no-
tice, which has borne me to a height where
I am absolutely, feelingly certain my abi-
lities are inadequate to support me ; and
too surely do I see that time when the
same tide will leave me, and recede, per-
haps, as far below the mark of truth. I
do not sav this in the ridiculous affecta-
tion of self-abasement and modesty. I
have studied myself, and know what
groimd I occupy ; and, however a friend
or the world may differ 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 disburden my mind, and I do
not wish to hear or say more about it. —
But

** When proud fortane*i ebbing tid« recedes,*'

vou will bear me witness, that, when my
bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood,
unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup
in my hand, looking forward with rueful
resolve to the hastening time when the
blow of Calumny shovild dash it to the
ground, with all the eagerness of venge-
ful triumph.

No. xn.

TO DR. MOORE.

178T.

SIR,

Yoar patronising 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 pat-
ronage of the descendant of the immortal
Walhce?

Mrs. DuiTLop has been eo kind u to
send me extracts of letters she has kt4
from you, where you do the rustic hut
the honour of noticing him and his wvAm.
llbose who have felt the anxieties aid
solicitude of authorship, can only know
what pleasure it grivee to be noticed ii
such a manner by judges of the first chi*
racter. Your criticisms. Sir, I reeeire
with reverence ; only I am sorry tktj
mostly came too late ; a peccant passigt
or two, that I would certainly haveahcr*
ed, were gono to the preea.

The hope to be admired for ages is, ia
by far the greater part of those even who
were authors of repute, an unsabstantiil
dream. For my part, my first amlntioo
was, and still my strongest wish ii, to
please my compeers, the rustic inmates of
the hamlet, while ever-changing langusgo
and manners shall allow me to be reuifaM
and understood. I am ver^ willing to
admit that I have some poetical abilitiei;
and as few, if any writers, either monJ
or political, are intimately acqnainted
with the classes of mankind among whoa
I have chiefly mingled, I may have tern
men and manners in a different phssii
from what is common, which may assist
originality of thought. Still I know very
w^eU the novelty of my character has by
far the greatest share in the leuned m
polite notice I have lately had ; and in a
language where Pope and Churchill htn
raised Uie laugh, and Shenstone and Giif
drawn the tear — where Thomson ui
Beattie have painted the landscape, mi
Lyttleton and Collins described theheiit,
1 am not vain enough to hope for £itifi-
guished poetic fame.

No. xm.

FROM DR. MOORE.

SIR,

Cl^fford-drui^ January tH 1T87.

I RATK Just leceiTed your letter, hj
which I find I have leaAon tocomjdainw
my friend Mrs. Dmilop, for trammittiiif
to you extracts from my letters to her,
by much too freely and too carelesilT

LETTERS.

101

written fbr your perusal. I mii«t forgive
her, howerer, in consideration of her good
intention, as you will forgive me, I hope,
fbr the freedom I use with certain expres-
sions, in consideration of mv admiration
of the poems in general. If I may judge
of the author's disposition from his works,
with all the good qualities of a poet, he
has not the irritable temper ascribed to
that race of men by one of their own
number, whom you have the happiness to
resemble in ease and curidus felicify of
expression. Indeed the poetical beauties,
however original and brilliant, and lavish-
ly scattered, are not all I admire in your
works ; the love of your native country,
that feeling sensibility to all the objects
of humanity, and the independent spirit
which breathes through the whole, give
me a most favourable impression of the

r>et, and have made me oAen regret that
did not see the poems, the certain effect
of which would have been my seeing the
author last summer, when I was longer
hi Scotland than I have been for many
years.

I rejoice very sincerely at the encou-
ragement you receive at Edinburgh, and
I think you peculiarly fortunate in the
patronage of Dr. Blair, who I am inform-
ed interests himself very much for you.
I heg to be remembered to him : nobody
can nave a wahner regard for that gen-
tleman than I have, which, independent
of the worth of his character, would be
kept alive by the memory of our common
(Hend^ the Me Mr. George B e.

Befbre I received your letter, I sent in-
closed in a letter to , a sonnet by

Miss Williams a youn? poetical lady,
which she wrote on reading your Moun-
tain-Daisy ; perhaps it may not displease
you.*

I have been trying to add to the num-

* TlM floBMt if as foUowi :

WUto loon ** tb« cardea*! flaootinK flow*n** daeay

And teatterM on tb« earth negleeted Ue,
Tba ** Monntain-Dalar,'* cheriah'd by Um ray

A poac drew (Vom beaYoi, shall never die.
Ah ! like the lonely flower the poet rose!

* Mid penary*s bare soil and bitter gale:
Be lielt ea«h storm that on the mountain blowf.

Nor erer knew the shelter of the vale.
By fSBte* In her native TifOttr nursed,

On natwe with lmpasrion*d look he faaed.
Then through the doud of adverse fortune buiaC

Indignant, and in light anborrow*d biased.
Booda ! ftoia nide afllellons shleM Ay hard,

I FaMt bensir will gnard.

ber of your snbseiibefSt but fisd many of
mv acquaintance are already amonf Uiem.
I have only to add, that with erery sen-
timent of esteem and the BKMt cordial
good wishes,
I am.
Your obedient, humble servant.

J. MOORE.

No. XIV.

TO THE REV. G. LOWRIB, OF
NEW-MILLS, NEAR KILBIAR-
NOCK.

Edir^rghy Sth FA. 1787.

KEVKRXND AND DEAR SIB,

When I look at the date of your
kind letter, my heart reproaches me se-
verely with ingratitude in neglecting so
long to answer it. I will not troable yoa
with any account, by way of apology, of
my hurried life and distracted attention :
do me the justice to believe that my delay
by no means proceeded from want of re-
spect. I feel, and ever shall feel, fbr von,
the mingled sentiments of esteem K>r a
friend, and reverence for a father.

I thank vou. Sir, with all my sonl, ibr
your friendly hints ; though I do not need
them so much as my fnends are apt to
imagine. Yon are dazzled with newspa^
per accounts and distant reports ; but in
reality, I have no great temptation to ba
intoxicated with the cup of prosperity.
Novelty may attract the attention of man-
kind awhile ; to it I owe my present edat ;
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 celerity, and leavo
me a barren waste of sand, to descend at
my leisure to my former station. I do
not say this in the affectation of modesty ;
I see the consequence is unavoidable, and
am prepared for it. I had been at a good
deal of pains to form a just, impartiu es-
timate of my intellectual powers, before
I came here ; I have not added, since I
came to Edinburgh, anv thing to the
account ; and I trust I shall take erery
atom of it back to my shades, the eoverts
of my unnoticed, early years.

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very of-
ten, I have found, what I would have ex-
pected in onr friend| a clear head and aa
ezcellBnt bAixt

lot

LETTERS.

By ikr Um mo«t agreeable houn I ipend
hi Edinburgh must be placed to the ac-
count of Miss Lowrie and her piano-forte.
I cannot help repeating to you and Mrs.
Lowrie a compliment that Mr. Macken-
zie, the celebrated *' Man of Feeling,"
paid to Miss Lowrie, the other night, at
the concert. I had come in at the inter-
lude, and sat down by him, till I saw Miss
Lowrie in a scat not very far distant, and
went up to pay my respects to her. On
my return to Mr. Mackenzie, 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 something very striking, to his idea,
in her appearance. 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
■weet limplicity of a country-girl.'*

My compliments to all the happy in-
mates of Saint Margarets.

I am, dear Sir,

Yours most gratefully,

ROBT. BURNS.

No. XV.
TO DR. MOORE.
EdMurgK, 15th Fdfruary, 1787.

SIB,

Pardon my •eeming neglect in de-
laying 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 employment than follow-
ing the plough, nor could boast any thing
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
judgment ; but genius, polished by learn-
ing, and at its proper point of elevation in
the eye of the world, this of late I fire-
quendy meet with, and tremble at its
approach. I scorn the affectation of seem-
inff modesty to cover self-conceit. That
I nave some merit, I do not deny ; but I
see, with frequent wringings of heart,
that the novelty of my character, and the
honest national prejudice of my country-
men, have borne me to a height altoge-
ther untsoable to mv abilities.

For the honour Miss W. has done ne,
please. Sir, return her, in my name, my
most grateful thanks. I have more than
once thought of paying her in kind, hot
have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless
despondency. I had never before heard
of her ; but the other day I got her po-
ems, which, for several reasons, some be-
longing to the head, and others the off-
sprmg of the heart, gave me a great dea.
of pleasure. I have little pretensions to
critic lore : there are, I thmk, two cha-
racteristic features in her poetry — the un-
fettered wild flight of native genius, and
the querulous, sombre tenderness of time-
settled sorrow.

I only know what pleases me» ofto
without being able to tell why.

No. XVI.
FROM DR. MOORE.
Clifford-Street^ 28<A Fe&rtiary, 1787.
PKAR sm,

YouK letter of the 15th gave me a
grreat deal of pleasure. It is not surpri*
sing that you improve in correctness and
taste, considering where you have bees
for some time past. And I dare swear
there is no danjrer of your admitting any
polish which might weaken the vigour of
your native powers.

I am glad to perceive that you disdain
the nauseous affectation of decrjring year
own merit as a poet, an affectation whieli
is displayed with most ostentation by thou
who have the greatest ahare of sdf-con-
ceit, and which only adds undeceivinf
falsehood to dis^sting vanity. For yes
to deny the ment of your poems, would
be arraigning the fixed opinion of the
public. '

As the new edition of my View of" So-
defy is not yet ready, I have sent you the
former edition, which I beg you will ac-
cept as a small mark of my esteem. It is
sent by sea to the care of Mr. Creech;
and along with these four volumes for
yourself, I have also sent my MedicfU
Sketchee^ in one volume, for my friend
Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop : this you will
be so obligmg as to transmit, or, if ^roo
chance to pass soon by Dan!op» to giv«
to her.

LETTERS. 103

t happy to hear that jom aubicrip- has not in tome, othtr inftanett alwaja

80 ample, and shall rejoice at eve- been the case with me, the weight of toe

;e of good fortune that befalls you, obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I

1 are a very great favourite in my have a heart as independent as your Lord*

; and this is a higher compliment ship's, than which I can say nothing more:

»erhaps, you are aware of. It in- And I would not be beholden to Tavoun

almost all the professions, and, of that would crucify my feelings. Your

, is a proof that your writings are dignified character in life, and manner of

d to various tastes and situations, supporting that character, are flattering

nngest son, who is at Winchester to my pride ; and I would be jealous of

, writes to me that he is translating the purity of my grateful attachment

itanzas of your Hallovt ETen into where I was under the patronage of an%

verse, for the benefit of his com- of the much-favoured sons of fortune.

This union of taste partly pro-
no doubt, from the cement of Scot- Almost every poet has celebrated his pa-
irtiality, with which they are all trons, particularly when they were names
hat tinctured. Even your tramla- dear to fame, and illustrions in their coun-
10 left Scotland too early in life for try ; allow me, then, my Lord, if yon think
ction, is not without it. the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell th«

world how much I have the hononr lo b«»

Your Lordship's highly indebted,

remain, with great sincerity, •^ «v«' grateful humble semnft.
Yonr obedient servant.

« « « «

J. MOORE.

No. xvin.

TO THE EARL OP BUCHAN.

NO. XVII.

MT LORD,

HE EARL OP GLENC AIRN. t„ ho„o„, y^^ Lordship hM done

me, by your notice and advice m yours of

Edinburgh, 1787. ^^^ jg^ instant, I shall ever gratefully re-

•°'^^» member: *

WANTED to purchase a profile of

ordship, which I was told was to «• Pratae ftom Ay Hpi •«■ min« with joy to boMi,

in town: but I am truly sorry to Theyb«rtcan|iT«Uwhod«erT«ltmort."

X a blundering painter has spoiled .. r j i.- a t. ^i. j i*

man face divine." The endoted JTc^^^'R ^T**** *"j ^'^"^

1 1 intended to have written below ^^''I^ "^ "y '»«»'*« ^''l?" J.*»" ■?"* ™|

re or profile ofyourLordBhip, could *" «"* "^ """^ f* •®r'iJf"'L?°'^^

been bo happy u to procure one Scottish scenw. I wish for nothing more

ly thing of a Ukenes.. th- ^ ""^e a leuinrely, pilgrm-ge

^ * through my native country : to sit and

wai Boon return to my shades, I """"^ °° *»»«« •?«« ""^"T"*"*^!" w

I to have somethiDif like a material '•'«;•» t^'^'^^xT'^'^VT v!! -nS

for ray gratitude ; f wanted to have ^oody hon borne through broken ranto

y power to say to a friend, There to victory and fame ; »?««♦=•»"«? tj^"-

foble patron, my generous benefac- «P'«t«on, to pour the deathless names m

aiow me, my Lord, to publish these «»"?• But, my Lord, in the midst of

T «..»:!..»^»... T^.Sohin Ktrtho these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visa-

th!oro7Prd;,Vyt?J;JeC„: ^el, dry.-mord-looking ph-tom ftnde.

f benevolence, by all the powers f"o«s my imagination, and pronounce.

tlings which compose the magnani- *•»««« cmphaUc words :

linJ, do not deny me this petition,* .. - . . j«. n «.««.u ..... j«.^«

--^^''^-^''^'•^^•'-"^.-^^PriinJruSooT^nNhrm^x

•moiappMithMtiMiEArifnmudtbtsraqiMM, ed wounds of yourfollies and misfortune^

>tiMv«ffMiaiMdidtokttaftraadsmoi«UM merely to give yon pam ; I wish throagh

I these wounds to imprint a lasting U

104

UCTTERS.

nongaie^ ike fwenfy^feeoiMl dof ^
FAruary^ one thtmmmd •cm*
drwd and eig^iy^M^en ymtn.

mk your hMit. I will not mentioii how
BMiijr of my Mlutaiy &dvicot you have de-
•pised ; I have g^ ven yea line upon line, and
precept upon precept ; and while I was

chalking out to you the straight way to

wealth and duuracter, with andamui 8EDMtuifT0FTHEMANAGEifl(VTHEniK

•ffrontery, you have xig.zagged acroM ANDKiEK-yARUFUNDeoFCAMONOAM.

the path, contemning me to my face ; you ,«. j xu ^ a ^v • j

knorthe con«5quence«. It is not yet . ^""^^^ ^^^y ^2!^ IS ^fHi

three monthsVinie home was so hot for ^ produced a letter from Mr. Robert

you, that you were on the wing for the ^"^ ^ ^^i® ^*^ .«^, cuneot , which

western shore of the AtlanticT not to T'^.^lf^^ appointed to be epfi;|»ad

make a fortune, hut to hide your misfor- jn their sedenrnt-boot and of whiiil^

iQjj^ •' the tenor follows : " To the HonouraUe

Bailies of Canongate, Edinburgh. G«&-

• «« Now that your dearlloved Scotia puts ^«?»«^J^^"2f^^^^«^ld^^^

it in your power to return to the situ^ion °»^ f J^^^f^ Ferguason, the so juig

of your forefathers, will you follow these celebrated poet, a man whose talenU, ftr

Wai^'-Wisp meteorsof fancy and whim, ???« !^ ^^°»«' ^|!^ ^° honour to our C*.

till they bring you once more to the brink l^doman name, lie m your church-yard,

of ruin ? I gVnt that the utmost ground "\^"& ^^® ^«^^W« ^^^ unnoUced and

you can occupy is but half a step from the ^^^^o^^^*

veriest poverty ; but still it is hdf a step ,, „ • w j- * *t- .^ ^

from itT If ill that I can urge be inel^ ' ?^°>« "^^"^"^,.*^ ^* ^H*^"^

fectual, let her who seldom calls to you *^^u^7®" ^^, ^^"^^ Song, when they

in vain, let the call of pride, prevail with ^^^ y^j}^^ * ^^"''u "'^.^ ^^® """^

you. You know how you feel at the iron ^«"«® ""{ ^^^ ^*'^ T^Z, " °^ T"' **

grip of ruthless oppression: you know "urely a tribute due to Ferpsson's me-

how you bear the filing sneer of con. "*^^y ' / ^">"^« I wish to have the bo-

tumelious greatness. I hold you out the nourofpaymg.

conveniences, the comforts of life, inde- ,, ^ x-..- .i. .%

rndence and character, on the one hand ; I petition you, then, gentlemen, to

tender you servflity, dependence, and Penmt me to lay a simple stone over to

wretchedness, on the otherj will not in- ^^^^'!? ^}'^?: ^ '«,'?J^ ^ unalienable

suit your understanding by bidding you PJ^'^'^y ^°,^^ decthl^ fame. I have

make a choice."* ^"e honour to be. Gentlemen, your very

humble servant, (fie mbtcribUwrj)

This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I " Robert Busiff.*'
must return to my humble station, and

woo my rustic muse in my wonted way Thereafter the said managers, in ccm*

at the plough-tail. Still, my Lord, while sideration of the laudable and disinterest-

the drops of life warm my heart, grati- ed motion of Mr. Bums, and the proprist/

tude to that dear loved country in which of his request, did and hereby do, umni*

I boast my birth, and gratitude to those mously, grant power and liberty to the

her distinguished sons, who have honour- ^^ Robert Burns to erect a headstone

ed me so much with their patronage and *^ ^e grave of the said Robert Fergw-

mpprobation, shall while stealing through ^on, and to keep up and preserve the

my humble shades, ever distend my bo- same to his memory in all time coming*

com, and at times, as now, draw fortli the Extracted forth of the records of the mr

fwelling tear. nagers, by

William Sprot, CMt

No. XIX.

Pnpevtj In Ikvoorof Mr. RdbwtBttnn, to ereet
ktep ap ft UMdflUme in iiMiMrj of Poet Fmv
,1787.

•OopM from the Boo, vol. H puSM oad
tteAotkor'tllB.

No. XX.
7b

MT DBAK SIR,

You majr think, and too jnatly, thst
I am a s«lfish, ungrateful fbllow, having

LETTERS. 105 '

many rpneated imtances of shall know, in thia world. Bat I mnat
"om you, &nd yet never putting Dot speak all I think of him, left 1 ahould
Tto say — thank you; hut if you be thought partiaL

. a devil of a life my conscience

i on that account, your good So you have obtained liberty from the

lid think yourself too much magistrates to erect a stone over Fer-

By the by, there is nothing in gusson's grave ? I do not doubt it ; such

frame of man which seems to things have been, as Shakspeare says,

: countable as that thing called '' in the olden time :"
. Had the troublesome, yelp-

wers efficient to prevent a mis- " '^^ P**'» ''«*• *■ '"•w '« emblem iiiowii,

lieht be of use ; but at the be- ^* ■*'«' '<»' ^^* "* ^ '«**^'** • ■*«>^-

the business, his feeble eflTorts t* • t i. v -n ^i # ^ i.

workings of passion as the in- ,, ^f f'^ !»®^«Tf ' «Pon poor Butler's tomb

of an aStumnal morning to the J J^^ ^^^ i! ^"^^°- ^"^ S^^ ">*"y ^^^

fervour of the rising sun : and [^^" ^/ Parnwsus, as well as poor But-

are the tumultuous doings of }^^ f^ ^?^ Fergusson, have asked for

1 deed over, than, amidst the ^'•®''^' *^^ ^®«° ""^^^^ ^® «^^ "^"^ •
'e consequences of folly in the

c of our horrors, up starts con- The magistrates gave you liberty, did

♦♦. * * ♦ celebrated over the three king-
doms for his publfc spirit, gives a poor

Qclosed you, by way of expia- P^^^ liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poct't

verse and prose, that if they memory ! most generous ! ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ once

ice in your truly entertaining ^^P^^ * 'mie gave that same poet the

, you are welcome to. The mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy

BMjt is literally as Mr. Sprot oftua works. But then it must be con-
sidered that the poet was at this time ab«
solutely starving, and besought his aid

Ttion of the Hone it a9 follows : ^i^h all the earnestness of hunger ; and

over and above, he received a • ♦ ♦ ♦

HERE LIES worth, at least one third of the value, in

exchange, but which, I believe, the poet

T FERGUSSON, POET, aflerwardfi very ungratefully expunged.

bei 5U,, nsi-Dicd, im Ociob«. 1774. ^^^ ^^^y^ I>ope to have the pleasure

d MarMe here, nor pompoui lay, of seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my

Bd urn nor animated buit ;•• .. ^^y ^^ ^^ for eight or ten days, I wish

.tone dir«:t. pale B«,Ua i way you or * • * ♦ would take a WlUg weU-
er eorrows o'er ber Poera dnsl. 'jvj r u t®v

aired bed-room for me, where I may have

r side of the Stone is as follows: the pleasure of seeing you over a morning

"^ cup of tea. But, by all accounts, it will be a

jcial grant of the Managers to ^a"®' ^^ «^« difficulty to see you at all,

ims, who erected this stone, «^e«s your company is bespoke a week

place is to remain for evet sa- hefore-hand. There is a great rumour

memoryofRobertFergusson." here concermn| your great intimacy with

•' " the Dutchess of , and other ladles

_ of distinction. I am really told that

* " cards to invite fly by thousands each

^ YYT night ;" and, if you had one, I suppose

^^' ^^^' there would also be " bribes to your old

. /> r u r secretary." It seems you are resolved to

:tofa I^etter/rom . ^^^ , ^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^.^

Sth March, 1787. jf pow^ble the ftte of poor Fergiuwon,

uwir •/«i*, i,», *fw ♦♦♦♦♦ Qucerenda pecunia pnmum est,

truly iiappy to know that yon vtrftif post nummos, is a gooa maxim to

a friend in ***** ; thrive by ; you seemed to despise it while

ige of you does him great ho- in this country ; but probably some phi-
is truly a good man ; by far losopher in Edinburgh hai taoght ]rou

ever knew, or, perhaps, ever better senae.

toe

LETTERS.

Pray, are you yet engnvinff m well aa
priBting?— Are you yet seized

•« With tteta of pletnra la the ftoat,
With b«yi aod wicked rhyme upoQ*tt**

But I must give up this trifling, and at-
tend to matters that more concern myself;
•o, as the Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly y
we «ai drink phan we meet.*

NO. XXI.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Edinburghy March 22, 1787.

MADAM,

I MAD your letter with watery eyes.
A little, very little while ago, / hadfcarce
a friend hut the ttubbom pride of my own
boeam ; now I am distinguished, patronis-
ed, befriended by you. Your friendly ad-
Tices, I will not give them the cold name
of criticisms, I receive with reverence.
I have made some small alterations in
what I before had printed. I have the
advice of some very judicious friends,
amon^ the literati here, but with them I
sometimes find it necessary to claim the
privilege of thinking for myself. The
noble £arl of Glencaim, to whom I owe
more than to any man, does me the ho-
nour of giving me his strictures ; his
hints, with respect to impropriety or in-
delicacy, I follow implicitly.

You kindly interest yourself in my fu-
ture views and prospects : there I can
give you no light :— it is all

•*DArk M WH cbMM, ere theinflnt mb
Was foird together, or had try'd hie beuM
Athwmrt the gloom profound.*'

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by
f%x my highest pride ; to continue to de-
serve 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,
onplagued with the routine of business^

* The ehore extract la fVom a letter of one of the
ableatof oarPoet*icorretpondenta, which contatneaome
latereatinganecdoteeof Fergunon, that we should hare
been happy to hare fnaerted, If they could have been
•athentlcated. The writer ia mtetaken in auppoaing
the maglatratea of Edinburgh had an^ ahare In the
transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer-
gosson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed between
BnmsandtlieKlrlK-SessionoftheCanongate. Neither
ai Edinburgh nor any where elM, do maglatratea usu-
ally trouble themselves to Inquire how the house of a
jwor^MClifitniifbadjOrhowbligravt fa adorned. B.

for whlen, heaven knowa ! I am oiit
enough, to make leiavrely fnlffrimaM
through Caledonia ; to ait on the Mdg
of her battles ; to wander on the roman-
tic banks of her rivers ; and to nrase by
the stately towers or venerable mini,
once the honoured abodes of her heroea

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I
have dallied long enough with life ; *tis
time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an
aged mother to care for ; and some othsr
boeom ties perhaps equally tender.

Where the individual only snffen bf
the consequences of his own thongfatleM-
ness, indolence, or folly, he may be ex-
cusable ; nay, shining abilities, and aooM
of the nobler virtues may half-aanctiiy a
heedless character : but where God and
nature have intrusted the welfare of oth-
ers to his care, where the trust is sacred^
and the ties are dear, that man most be
far gone in selfishness, or straneely lost
to reflection, whom these connexions will
not rouse to exertion.

I guess that I shall clear between two
and three hundred pounds by my author*
ship : with that sum I intend, so far u I
may be said to have any intention, to re>
turn to my old acquaintance, the plough;
and if I can meet with a lease by which
I can live, to commence farmer. 1 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 employment. If my practice
second my resolution, I shall have princi-
pally at heart the serious business of life;
but, while following my plough, or baild-
ing up my shocks, I shall cast a leisme
glance to that dear, that only feature of
my character, which gave me the nodes
of my country, and the patronage of a
Wallace.

Thus, honoured Madam, I have fivm
yoo the bard, his situation, and his newib
native as they arc in his own bosom.

No. xxni.

TO THE SAME.
Edinburgh, 15(A AprU^ 1787.

MADAM,

Thcrs is an affectation of jrratHnde
which I dislike. The periods of Johnson

LETTERS.

107

\ paiiMs of SUrno, may hide a lelf-
Tt. For my put, M«d«m« I trust
too much pride for servility, and
le prudence for selfishness. I have
iment broken open your letter, but

" Rude am I in ipeech,
d therefore little can I graca my cauas
gpealiing for mytclf —

ill not trouble you with any fine
3S and hunted figures. I shail just
hand on my heart, and say, I hope
ever have the truest, the warmest,
»f your goodness.

ae abroad in print for certain on
tsday. Your orders I shall punc-
attend to ; only, by the way, I
til you that I was paid before for
ore's and Miss W.'s copies, through
idium of Commissioner Cochrane
^lace ; but that we can settle when
the honour of waiting on you.

Smith* was just gone to London
ming before I received your letter

No. xxrv.

TO DR. MOORE.

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787.

:vrvED the books, and sent the one
ntioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-
in beating the coverts of imagina-
* metaphors of gratitude. I thank
ir, for the honour you have done
ad to my latest hour will warmly
ber it. To be highly pleased with
ook, is what I have in common
le world ; but to regard these vo-
ls a mark of the author's friendly
, is a still more supreme gratifi-

ve Edinburgh in the course of ten
• a fortnight ; and, after a few pil-
'08 over some of the classic ground
;donia, Cotoden Knowes, Banks of
r, Tweed, S^c. I shall return to
al shades, in all likelihood never
quit them. I have formed many
nes and friendships here, but I am
they are all of too tender a con-
on to bear carriage a hundred and
ilea. To the rich, the great, the

* Adam flmfllL
U 2

fashionable, the polite, I have no equiva-
lent to offer ; 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 ge-
nius and literature.

My most respectful compliments to
Miss W. If once this tangent flight of
mine were over, and I were returned to my
wonted leisurely motion in my old circle,
I may probably endeavour to return heK
poetic compliment in kind.

No. XXV.

EXTRACT OP A LETTER TO
MRS. DUNLOP.

Edinburgh, 30ih April, 1787.

•2 ^YouR criticisms. Madam, I un-
derstand very well, and could have wish-
ed 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
posMMsed 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 hardship. 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
own favourite pieces are distinguished
by your particular approbation. For my
Dream, which has unfortunately incurred
your loyal displeasure, I hope in four
weeks, or less, to have the honour of
appearing at Dunlop, in its defence) in
person.

No. XXVL
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH, BLAIR.
Lawn-Jiarkit, Edinburgh, 3d Jif ay, 1787.

REVE&BND AND MUCH-mSSPXCTKD Sim,

I LEAvx Edinburgh to-morrow morn-
ing, but could not ^o without troubling
you with half a Ime sincerely to thank

109

LETTERS.

you for the kindnen, patronage, and
friendship you have shown me. I oflen
felt the embarrasRincnt of my sin^lar
tituation; drawn forth from the veriest
shades of life to the ^larc of remark; and
honoured by the notice of those ilhistri-
ous names of my country, whose works,
while they are applauded to the end of
time, will ever instruct and mend the
heart. However the meteor-like novelty
of my appearance in the world mi^ht at-
tract notice, and honour me with the ac-
quaintance of the permanent lights of
fjrcnius and literature, those who aro tru-
ly benefactors of the immortal nature of
man ; I knew very well that my utmost
merit was far unequal to the tos^k of pre-
servinjif 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 quarters.

I have sent vou a proof impression of
Beugo's work fur me, done on Indian pa-
per, as a trifling but sincere testimony
with what heart-warm gratitude I am,&c.

No. XXVII.
FROM DR. BLAIR.
ArgyU-Square^ Edinburgh^ 4th J^ay,

DEAR SIR,

I WAS favoured this forenoon with
your very obliging letter, together with
an impression of your portrait, for which
I return you my best thanks. The suc-
cess you have met with I do not think
was beyond your merits ; and if I have
had any smaU hand in contributing to it,
it gives me great pleasure. I know no
way in which literary persons, who are
advanced in years, can do more service
to the world, than in forwarding the ef-
forts of rising genius, or bringing forth
unknown merit from obscurity. I was
the first person who brought out to the
notice of the world, the poems of Ossian :
first, by the FrofpnenU of Ancient Poetry
which I published, and afterwards by my
setting on foot the undertaking for col-
lecting and publishing the Tforkt of Os-
sian ; and I have always considered this
as a meritorious action of my life.

Yonr situation, as you say, was indeed
very singular ; and, in being brought out

all at once firom the ahadea of deepMt
privacy, to so great a ahare of paUic no
tice and observation, you had to stand aii>
vere trial. I am happy that you have stool
it so well ; and, as far as I have knowi
or heard, though in the midst of miaf
temptations, without reproach to faff
character and behaviour.

You are now, I presume, to retire to t
more private walk of life ; and, I tract,
will conduct yourself there, with indui-
try, prudence, and honour. You h&ve
laid the foundation for just fniblic esteem.
In the midst of those employments, whick
your situation will render proper, you wiB
not, I hope, neglect to promote that et-
teem, by cultivating your genins, and ^
tendinjir to such productions of it as maj
raise your character still higher. At tk
same time, bo not in too great a haste to
come forward. Take time and leisure to
improve and mature your talents; Area
any second production you give the wori^
your fate, as a poet, will very much d^
pcnd. There is, no doubt, a gloss of BO-
vclty which time wears off. As you Tay
properly hint yourself, you are not to ho
surprised, if, iu your rural retreat, mdi
not find yourself surrounded witn Ikrt
glare of notice and applause which ben
shone upon you. No man can be a goo'
poet, without being somewhat of a poilo-
sophcr. lie must lay his account, ttat
any one, who exposes himself to pakBe
obi^ervation, will occasionally meet witk
the attacks of illiberal censure, which it
is alwavs best to overlook and despi*
He will be inclined sometimes to cotft
retreat, and to disappear from pokfe
view. He will not affect to shine alwa;^
that he may at proper seasons come ftra
with more advantage and enersy. Bt
will not think himself neglected, i? beta
not always praised. I nave taken tki
liberty, you see, of an old man, to girt
advice and make reflections which joar
own good sense will, I dare say, KMff
unnecessary.

As you mention your being jost abort
to leave town, you are going, I fhooU
suppose, to Dumfries-shire, to look rt
some of Mr. Miller's farma. I heaitily
wish the offers to be made von there BNiy
answer, as I am persuaded you will vA
easily find a more generous and bette^
hearted proprietor to hve under, than Mr.
Miller. When you return, if you co«o
this way, I will be happy to see you, aad
to know concerning your future plant of

fift. Toa win find me hj the £U of thii
BKmth, not in mj Kouae in ATgyle-iqnsre,
bat tt m conntiy-house aX Rertalrig, ^bout
K milB eut from Erlinbuigh, near the
HoaMlbuTgh road. Wishing ^ou all auc-
eeos and proaperity, I'am, with real re-
paid and esteem.

Dear Sir,
Yours aincerely,
HUGH BLAIR.

FKOM DR. MOORE.
CUJforiSrea, May, 33, 1787.

I HAD the pleasure of four letter b j
Kr. Creech, and soon afler he sent me
tbanew edition of your poema. You seem
to think It JDCumbent on you to send to
««ch nibacribeT a number of copies pro-
poftinnaite to his subscription -money ; but
you may depend upon it, few subscribers
expect more than one copy, whatever they
KMcribed. I must inform you, however,
that I took twelve copies for those sub-
■criben for whose money you were so
mccnntte aa to send me a receipt; and
Iiord Eglinton told mo he had sent for
mx copies for himself, as he wished to
give five of them aa presents.

flome of the poems you have added in
tUa last edition are very beautiful, par-
ticularly the Winter JVij-U, the Addreu
fa E^nbvrgh, Green jrt™ the Rathe;
end the two songs immediately following;
the latter of which is exquisite. By the
way, I imagine you have & peculiar talent
tot each compositions, which you ought
to indulge.* No kind of poetry demands
more delicacy or higher pohshing, Ho-
race is more admired on account of his
Odu than all his other writings. But no-
thing now added is equal to your Vttion,
■nd CoUsr't Saturday JTighl. In these
HS nnited One imagery, natural and pa-
thetie description, with sublimity of lon-
gnaC* and thought. It is evident that
you already possess a gjeat variety of ex-
pvosrion tuia command of the English
langnage, you ought, therefore to deal
more sparingly for the future in the pro-
vincial dialect : why should yon, fay usin^

irefDr. Hoof^iMfmml. E.

that, limit the number of yonr admirers to
those who understand the Scottish, when
you can extend it to all persons of taste
wbo understand the Knglisfa language?
In my opinion you should plan some larger
work than any you have as yet attempt-
ed. I mean, reflect upon some proper
subject, and arrange the plan in jout
mind, without beginning to execute any
part of it till you liave studied most of the
best English poets, and read a little more
of history. The Greek and Roman sto-
ries you can read in some abridgment,
and soon become master of the moat bril
liant facts, which must highly dclivht a
poetical mind. You ikoiUd also, and very
soon may, become master of the heathen
mythology, to which there are everlasting
al'iiaiona in all the poets, and which in it-
self is charmingly fanciful. What will
require to be studied with more attention,
is modern history; that is, the history of
France and Great Britain, from the be<
ginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I
know very well you have a mind capable
of attaining knowledge by a shorter pro-
cess than is commonly used, and I am cer-
tain you are capable of making a better
use of it, when attained, than is general-
ly done.

I beg you will not give yourself the
trouble of writing to me when it is incon-
veniaU, and make no apology when yon
do write, for having postponed it ; bo as-
sured of this, however, that I shall always
be hoppy to hear from you. I think my

friend, Mr. told me that you had

some [loems in manuscript by yon, of a
satirical and humorous nature (m which,
by the way, I think you very strong,)
which your prudent friends prevailed on
you to omit; particularly one called Som^
body' I Confetnoa ; if you will intrust me
with a siffht of any of these, I wilt pawn
my word to give no copies, and wUl be
obliged to you for a perusal of them.

I understand you intend to take a &nn,
and make the useful and respectsble busi-
ness of husbandry your chief occupation ;
this, I hope, will not prevent your making
occasional addresses to the nine ladies
who have shown you such favour, one of
whom visited you in the aidi clay biggiiu
Virgil, before yon, proved to the world,
that there is nothing in the business of
husbandry inimical to poetry; and I sin-
cerely hope that you may afibrd an ex-
ample of a good poet being a snccessfut
fnrmer. I fear it win not be im my power

110

LETTERS.

to ▼isit Scotlud this season ; when I do,
1*11 endeavour to find you out, for I hear-
tily wish to see and converse with you*
If ever your occasions call you to this
l^ace, I make no doubt of your paying me
a visit, and you may depend on a very
cordial welcome from this family.

I am, dear Sir,

Your friend and obedient servant,

J. MOORE.

No. XXX.

No. XXIX.
TO MR. WALKER,

BL^IR or ATHOLE.

Inveme$if Sth September^ 1787.

MT DKA& IIB,

I HAVE just time to write the forego-
ing,^ and to tell you that it was (at least
most part of it,) the effusion of a 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. N *s chat,

and the jogging of the chaise, would al-
low. 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 Athole, of
the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ;
what I owe of the last, so help me God in
my hour of need ! I shall never forget.

The " little angel band !" I declare I
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 Dutchess, 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 Guide to do
them justice. My Lord Duke's kind hos-
pitality — markedly kind indeed ! Mr. G.
of F — 's charms of conversation — Sir W.
M— — 's friendship. In short the recol-
lection of all that polite, agreeable com-
pany, raises an honest glow in my bosom.

* Tb« hambls PvUtlon of Braar- Water to tbt Diikt

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS.
Edinburgh^ nth SipL 1787.

VT DEAR BROTHER,

I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evei-
ing, after a tour of twenty-two days, and
travelling near six hundred miles, wind-
ings included. My farthest stretch wu
about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went
through the heart of the Highlands, bj
Crieff, Tajrmouth, the famous seat of the
Lord Breadalbane, down the Tav, among
cascades and Druidical circles of stones,
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole;
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tii-
butary streams to Blair of Athde, ano-
ther of the Duke's seats, where I had ths
honour of spending nearly two days with
his Grace and family ; thence many miki
through a wild country, araon|r cliffs gray
with eternal snows, and gloomy savags
glens, till I crossed Spey and went dowB
the stream through Str&thspey, so famooi
in Scottish music, Badenoch, dtc tifl I
reached Grant Castle, where I spent half
a day with Sir James Grant and hmtf;
and then crossed the country for Post
George, but called by the way at Caw-
dor, the ancient seat of Macbeth ; there
I saw the identical bed in which, tradi-
tion says. King Duncan was murdered;
lastly, from Fort George to Inverness.

I Returned by the coast, through Nairn,
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thenot
to Stonehive, where James Bumess, from
Montrose, met me, by appointment. I
spent two days among onr relations, end
found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still
alive, and hale old women. John Caird,
though bom the same year with our fa-
ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they
have had several Tetters from his son in
New- York. William Brand is likewise
a stout old fellow ; but Rirther particulars
I delay till I see you, which will be m
two or three weeks. The rest of my
stages are not worth rehearsing; warm
as I was from Ossian's country, where
I had seen his very grave, what cared 1
for fishing towns or fertile carses? I
slept at uie famous Brodie of Brodie's
one night, and dined at Gordon Castle
next day with the Duke, Dutchess, and
family. I am thinking to cause my old
mare to meet me, by means of John Ro-
nald, at Glasgow : but you shall hear far-
ther from me before I leave Edinburgh
My duty, and many comphsMntSi from

LETTERS.

Ill

rth, to 1117 mother, and xny brotherly
imentfl to the rest. I have been
for a birth for William, but am not
to be successful.— Farewell !

No. XXXI.
FROM MR. R***^.

Ochttrtyre^ 22d October^ 1787.

Pwas only yesterday I got Colonel
odstoune's answer, that neither the
of Doutn the Bum Davie, nor DtUn-
Me, (I forgot which you mentioned,)
written by Colonel G. Crawford,
time I meet him, I will inquire
his cousin's poetical talents.

loeed are the inscriptions you re-
d, and a letter to Mr. Youn^, whose
ny and musical talents wul, I am
kded, be a feast to you.* Nobody

IS iBMriplloni, M mach admired by Bnmi, are
ra:

WRITTEN IN 1768.

t» TIE lAUCTUM* AT OOmBTf IS. ^

Salnbritatie Toluputisque cauaa,

HocSalk^m, . 9

Paludem olim tnfidam,
Iflhl meiique deaicco et exomo.
Bk, procul Befotiiii itrepltuque,

Innocuis dellclii

Wwnha Inter naeeentee reptandl,

ApiamqiM laborci auapldeDdi,

Fru».

Hie, ii faxit Deus opt max.

Prope banc fontein peUueldom,

m quodam JuventuUa amieo rapeiitits,

8cp« conquieicam, eenex,

CoBlenttta modicia, meoque Jatua!

Sin aliter —

JErtqne paululum saperrit,

Voe ailvote, et amid,

Cstenqae anuaaa,

Valale, dioqae tetamini!

UfOLlSHES.

To hniffOTe both air and aoil,
IB and decnrate ttala plantation of willowi,
Meb waa lately an unprofitable moraai.

Hera, tu from nolee and itrife,
I love to wander,
r fondly marking the progreee of my treei,
r atudying the bee, Itt arte and mannen>

Here, if it pteaiea Almighty God,
Hay I ollen reet in thtf evening of lift,

Near that tranapareat ftmnula,
hh aone anrvlvlBg hkpA of my yovth ;

cttMi-GroveorWUIowi, WUIow-giwiiid.

can giye yon better hints, as to vonr pre«
sent plan than he. Receive also Ome-
ron Cameron, which seemed to make
such a deep impression on your imagina*
tion, that 1 am not without hopes it will
beget something to delight the public in
due timo : and, no doubt, the circumstan-
ces of this little tale might be varied or
extended, so as to make part of a pasto-
ral comedy. Age or wounds mifi^ht have
kept Omeron at home, whilst his coun-
trymen were in the field. His station
may be somewhat varied, without losing
his simplicity and kindness. * * * A
group of characters, male and female, con-
nected with the plot, mi^ht be formed
from his family or some neighbouring one
of rank. It is not indispensable that the
guest should be a man of high station ;
nor is the political quarrel in which he
is engaged, of much importance, unless
to call forth the exercise of generosity
and faithfulness, ^railed on patriarchu
hospitality. To mtroduce state-affairs,
would raise the style above comedy;
though a small spice of them would 8«%a-
son the converse of swains. Upon this
head I cannot say more than to recom-
mend the study of the character of Eu-
mieus in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's
translation, is an exquisite and invaluable
drawing from nature, that would suit
some of our country Elders of the pre-
sent day.

There must be love in the plot, and a
happy discovery ; and peace and pardon
may be the reward of hospitality, and ho-

Cootented with a eompetenqr,

And happy with my loC
If vain tbeie humble wlibee.
And life draws near a cloee.

Ye trees and frteodti

And whatever elM if dear,

FartweU ! and long may ya iloaikli

ABOVI TBS DOOR OF TBI ■0011.

WRriTEN IN 1771.

MDil meiaqne utinam contiag
Prope Taiehl marginem,
AvHolaAgello,
Bona vivere fkosteqiM iBorll

nVOLSBBD.

On the banks of the Telth,

In the Hnall but awaec tnhaiiiaaM

Ofmytethtifl,

May landmloaUvalnpaaet,

Anddltliiloyiidliopal

Than loMrfpclooi, isd tbt tnariatlosi^ •!• billM
band wrIttBKof Mr. KiBMiy.

lit

nest attachment to misffuided piiiicipli
When you have once thought of a plot,
and brought the story into form, Doctor
Blacklock, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, may be
useful in dividint^' it into acts and scenes ;
for in these matters one must pay some
attention to certain rules of the drama.
Th(>se you could aAorwards fill up at your
leisure. But, whilst I presume to give a
few woll-mcaut hints, let me advise you
to study the spirit of my namesake's dia-
logue,* which is natural without being
low ; and, under the trammels of verse, is
such as country-people, in these sit na-
tion!*, Fpeak every day. You have only
to bring dmpn your strain a very little. A
great plan, such as this, would concentre
all your ideas, which facilitates the execu-
tion, and makes it a part of one's pleasure.

I approve of your plan of retiring from
din and dissipation to a farm of very mo-
derate size, sufficient to hnd exercise for
mind and body, but not so great as to ab-
sorb better things. And if some intellec-
tual pursuit be well chosen and steadily
pursued, it will be more lucrative than
most farms, in this age of rapid improve-
ment.

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher
and admirer, permit me to go a step fur-
ther. I ei those bright talents which the
Almighty has bestowed on you, be hence-
forth employed to the noble purpose of
supporting the cause of truth and virtue.
An imagination so varied and forcible as
yours, may do this in many different
modes : nor is it necessary to be always
serious, which you have to good purpose ;
good morals may be recommended in a
comedy, or even in a song. Great allow-
ances are due to the heat and inexperi-
ence of youth ; — and few poets can boast,
like Thomson, of never having written a
line, which, dying, they woiud wish to
blot. In particular I wish you to keep
clear of the thorny walks of satire, which
makes a man a hundred enemies for one
friend, and is doubly dangerous when one
is supposed to extend the slips and weak-
nesses of individuals to their sect or par-
ty. About modes of faith, serious and
excellent men have always differed ; and
there are certain curious questions, which
may afford scope to men of metaphysical
heads, but seldom mend the heart or tem-
per. Whilst these points are beyond hn-
man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects

•AUtsBaaMJiifl tbs Gtntlt atephtrd. E.

LETTERS.

concur in their viAws of monk. Ton
will forgive me for these hints.

Well ! what think yoa of good lafy
Clackmannan f* It is a pity she is lo
deaf, and speaks so indistinctly. Her
house is a specimen of the maASMm (^
our gentry of the last a|^, when hospi-
tahty and elevation of mind were conspi
cuous amidst plain fare and plain furni-
ture. I shall be glad to hear from you at
times, if it were no more than to shov
that you take the effusions of an obscut
man like me in good part. I beg my bat
respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock-t

And am. Sir,

Your most obedient, humble semsti

J. RAMSAT.

^ Mrs. Brace of ClaeknMumi. E.
t TALE OF OMERON CAMEKON.

In one of Um wan betwixt the crowa of
and the Lords of Uie Isles, AiezaBder Stewart, EKlrf
Mar (a distincuistaed cbaxacter in tbe flf^iiialfc s—
ry,) and Donald Stewart, Eari at CaSllaMH, tal tti
command of the royal army. Tlicy mafrtei hSi
Lochaber, with a view of attacklBg a bo4y if tti
M'Donalds, commanded by Donald Ballocb,
upon an arm of tbe sea whieta IntevKcts tlua
H avini timely intellifenee of their approach, tte !■»
genti got off preclpiutely to the oppoaita short ta A*
eurrufktt or boats covered with akias. The Ms^
troops encamped lii full secorlty ; but the!
v^lumlng about midnight, sorprlsed
Earl of Caithnes, and deattoyed or I
army.

The Earl of Mar escaped In the dark, wlthoitair
attendants, and made for the mora hlUy pan of tti
country. In the coarse of his flight be casae la the F
of a poor man, whose name was O
Tbe landlord welcomed his guest with the i
ness ; but, as there was no meat la tha hoaae^ is MM
his wife he would direetiy kUl JVaW JUkmr,* la fMi *i
stranger. "KiU oar only cowl** said aha, **«ve(«Bari
our litUe children*s principal anpport!** Mamumitn,
however, to the preeent caU for hnopitality fhaa is *i
remonstrances of his wife, or tbe ftitore «il|Bad«if
his family, be killed the cow. Tba heal aad tm^mm
parts were immediately roaatad ha lb ra the tn, mi
plenty of iaetridk, or Highlaiid aoop, prspandiaeai'
dndt their meal. The whole fkAUj, and ihilr gMS
ate heartily, and the evening was apeat, as asialik
telling tales and singing songs bssi de a ih as fW in
Bed-time came ; OmeroB bnisbad the
cow-hide upon it, aad dealred the
The earl wrapped hia plaid about him, i
ly on the hide, whilst the fbmUy balook
rest in a comer of the

Next momiag they had a plaatffU biuaktac,
hia departure his guest aaked
whom he bad enteitataMdf '* Toa
aaswend he, *• be oas of Iho klBg*s
•for you ara, jou cama hara la

•MaolOdhar,t.s.tha

■Hlhmt

tf HR. J. RAMSAY,

END W. YOUNG, AT

BRSEINE.
Uerfyre, 22d October, 1787.

1 relli [whom I lookad on u t)w Honwr of
music) ii out of date, it ii no|iroof of tlwir
lastc 1 — this, however,isgaui(f ont of my
firovince. You can show Mr. Bunii th«

not despair of leeing one of them ■nnf
jpon the stage, in the ongiatl stjle,
round a oapkin.

le to introduce Mr. Barns,
9, I dare Bay, have given you
ure. Upon a pciBonal ac-

I doubt not, you will relish
much US hie works, in which
rich vein of intellectual ore.
rd some of our Highland Lu-
igB played, which delighted
1 tliat he has made words to

of them, which will render
popular. Aa ho has thought
your quarter, I sni persaadeS
. think it labour lost to indulge
nature with a sample of those
SB melodies, which only want
td [in Milton's phrase] to con-
ds. I wish we could con-
' ghost of Joseph M'D. to in-
it hard a portion of his enthu-
Lose nwlected airs, which do
3 fastimouB musicians of the
IT. But if it bo true that Co-

I pniKi ima- To wlwl mr i
ir,"biMEu1orHir|i

i likoly to me
a seldom in this neighbourhood. It is oi

n Tery sorry w

of the greatest drawbacks that •
obscurity, that one has so few opportu-
nities of cultivating acquaintances at a
dislance. I hope, hawever, some tima
or other to have the pleasure of beating
up your quarters at Erskine.and of hanl-
ing you away to Paisley, &.C. ; meanwhila
I bog to be remembered to Messrs. Boog
and Mylne.

If Mr. B. goes by " , give him a bil-
let on our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I pn-
suftie, does not dread the frowns of hia
diocttaa.
I tm,Dear Sir,
Your moat obedient, hoinblasamiit.
J. RAMSAY.

FROM MR. RAMSAY

ID DK. BLAOKLOCC

OcKUriyr*, Oetobtr tT, 1787.

DEAR B^^

I McEiTKD yours by Mr. Bams, and
give you many thanks for giving me an
opportunity of conversing with a man of
his calibre. He will, I donht not, let jou
know what passed between us on the sub-
ject of my bints, to which I have made
addit4ona in a letter I aent him t'other
day to your care.

Yon miT tell Hr. Bums, vrbeo 7011 •««
him, that Colonel Edmofldstoone told me
t'other day, -that his cousin. Colonel
George Crawford, was no poet, bat ft
great nnger of songs; bat that his eldest
brother Robert (by a former marriage)
had a great turn tluit way, having writ-
ten the words of TKt BwA dboon TVb-
9uBtr and TwseAMt, That the Haiy te

114

LETTERS.

whom it was addressed was Marjr Stew-
art, of the Castlemilk family, afUrwaxda
wife of Mr. John Rclches. The Colonel
never saw Robert Crawford, though he
was at his burial fifly-flvo years ago.
He was a pretty young man, and had
lived long in France. Lady Ankerville
is his niece, and may know more of his
poetical vein. An epitaph-monger like
me might moralize upon the vanity of
life, and the vanity of those sweet effu-
sions. But I have hardly room to offer
my best compliments to Mrs. Blacklock,
and am,

Dear Doctor,
Your most obedient, humble servant,

J. RAMSAY.

No. XXXIV.
FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH.
London^ 2Sth October^ 1787.

mr DEAR SIR,

As my friend, Mr Brown is going
from this place to your neighbourhood, I
embrace the opportunity of telling you
that I am yet alive, tolerably well, and al-
ways in expectation of bein^ better. By
the much-valued letters belore me, I see
that it was my duty to have given you
thb intelligence about three years and
nine months ago : and have nothing to al-
lege as an excuse, but that we poor, busy,
bustling bodies in London, are so much
taken up with the various pursuits in
which we are here engaged, that we sel-
dom think of any person, creature, place,
or thinff that is absent. But this is not
altogether the case with me ; for I oflen
think of you, and Homie and Ruuel^ and
an unfetthomed depiky and lowan brwutaney
all in the same minute, although you and
they are (as I suppose) at a considerable
distance. I flatter myself, however, with
the pleasing thought, that you and I shall
meet some time or other either in Scot-
land or England. If ever you come hither,
you will have the satisfaction of seeing
jouT poems relished by the Caledonians
in London, full as much as they can be
by those of Edinburgh. We frequently
repeat some of your verses in our Cale-
donian society; and }rou may believe,
that I am not a little vain that I have had
■ome share in cultivating such a genius.
I was sot abaolately ceitain that you were

the author, till a ftw dayi ago, when I
made a visit to Mrs. HiU, Dr. M' Comb's
eldest daughter, who lives in town, and
who told me that she was inform^ of it
by a letter from her sister in Edinburgh^
with whom you had been in company
when in that capitaL

Pray let me know if you have any ifr
tention of visiting this huge, overgrowi
metropolis? It would afford matter for a
large poem. Here you would have an oik
portunity of indulging your vein in tbt
study of mankind, perhaps to a mater
degree than in any city upon the me d
the globe ; for the inhabitants of London
as you know, are a collection of aD mp
tions, kindreds, and tongues, who niki
it, as it were, the centre of tlunr c<n-
merce.

Present my respectful compliments to
Mrs. Bums, to my dear friend Gilbert,
and all the rest of her amiable childKB.
May the Father of the universe bless ?n
all with those principles and diapositioaf
that the best of parents took such nneooH
mon pains to instil into your minds froa
your earliest infancy ! May you live tf
he did ! if you do, you can never be on
happy. I feel myself grown serious all
at once, and affected in a manner I can-
not describe. I shall only add, that it if
one of the greatest pleasures I promise
myself before I die, that of seeing the
family of a man whose memory I revere
more than that of any person that ever I
was acquainted with.

I am, my dear Friend,
Yours sincerely,

JOHN MURDOCH

No. XXXV.

FROM MR.

Chrdm CatiUy 31i< Oe*. 1787.

SIB,

Ip you were not sensible of your fiuilt
as well as of your loss in leaving this jdace
so suddenly, I should condemn yon to
starve upon eauld kail /or ae towmoid
at least ! and as for Dick LaOne^* your
travelling companion, without banniBg
him «oi' a* the curses containad in year

•Ml. NIeoL

LETTERS.

(which he*ll no value a hauibeey) I
give him nought but Stra'hoglt

t to chew for mox oiilrf , or ay until
aB sensible of his error as you seem

•f yours.

r song I showed without producing
thor; and it was judged by the
»s to be the prodactiou of Dr.
5. I sent a copy of it, by her Oraci/s
to a Mrs. M'Pherson in Badenoch,
ngs JUbrogr and all other Gaelic
n great perfection. I have rccord-
ikcwise, bv Lady Cliarlottc's de-
L a book belonging to her ladyship,
it is in company with a great ma-
>r poems and vcrscH, some of tbc
3 of wliich are no loss eminent for
oliticol than for their poetical abili-
When the Dutchess was informed
>u were the author, she wished you
itten the verses in iScotch.

letter directed to me here will
to hand safely, and, if sent under
ike's cover, it will likewise come
haX is, as long as the Duke is in
azitry.

I am, Sir, yours sinccrely-

No. XXXVI.

FKOBC TBS

iTEREND JOHN SKINNER.
LimMheart^ lAth JVboon&er, 1787.

OUR kind return without date, but
t mark October 2$th, came to my
3nly tl|is day; and, to testify my
lality to my poetic engagement, I
/n immediately to answer it in kind.
Lcknowledgment of my poor but just
iums on your surprising genius, and
>pinion of my rhyming excursions,
th, I think, by far too high. The
n^e between our two tracks of edn-
and ways of life is entirely in your
, and gives you the pteferenoe eve-
nner of way. I know a clavical
:iQn will not create a versifying
but it mightily improves and assists
d though, where both these meet,
mny sometimes be ground for ap-
ion, yot whero taste oppcars single
W

as it were, and neither cramped Dor sup-
ported by acquisition, I will always sus-
tain the justice of its prior claim of ap-
plause. A small portion of taste, thw
way, I have had almost from childhood,
especially in the old Scottish dialect ; and it
is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness
for ChrUt-kirk o* the Gfreen, which I had by
heart, cro I was twelve years of age, and
which, some years ago, I attempted to
turn into Latin verse. W bile I was young,
I dabbled a good deal in these things ; biS,
on getting the black gown, I gave it pret-
ty much over, till my daughters greW up,
who, being all good singers, plagued n»
for words to some of their favourite tunes,
and so extorted these effusions, which
have made a public appearance beyond my
expectations, and contrary to my inten-
tions, at the same time that I hope there
is nothing to be found in them unoharae-
teristic, or unbecoming the cloth which 1
would always wish to see respected.

As to the assistance you purpose from
me in the undertaking you are engaged
in,^ I am sorry I cannot give it so far as
I could wish, and you perhaps expect.
My daughters, who were my only intelli-
gonccrs, are all /oris-familiaUj and the
old woman their mother has lost that
taste. There are two from my own pen,
which I might give vou, if worth the
while. One to the old Scotch tune of
Dumbarton's Drums,

The other perhaps von have met with,
as your noble friend the Dutchess has, I
am told, heard of it. It was squeezed out
of me by a brother parson in her neigh-
bourhood, to accommodate a new High-
land reel for the Marquis's birth-day, to
the stanza of

" Tuna yoor ikkDv, tone U>em nrMtij,'* iat.

If this last answer your purpose, you
may have it from a brother of mine, Mr.
James Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who,
I believe, can give the music too.

There is another humorous thine I have
heard, said to be done by the Catholie
priest Geddes, and which hit my taste
much:

" Then WM a w«6 wIMUa, wu eomloK fIrM Um Mr,
Had gntten a litti* dmpikle wbldi br«d bcr neikla tmn,
It lookupo* Um wiOe*! baait, and tbe btgaa to iptir,
And CO* Um was wiidkla, I wUb I Mnna Am,

• A plao of pnbMiioi a complau tolktUoo of Bcoir
tlih 0OI1CI, ht.

LETTERS.

i have heard of another now compoii-
tion, hy a youn^ ploughman of my ac-
quaintance, that lam vatitly pleased with,
to the tune of Tke Ilumaurs of Glen,
which I fear wont do, as the music, I am
told, is of Irish original. 1 have mention-
ed these, such as they are, to show my
readiness to oblige you, and to contributo
my inite, if I could, to the patriotic work
you have in hand* &nd wliich I wish all
success to. You have only to notily your
mind, and what you want of the above
•hall be sent you.

Mean time, while you are thus publicly,
J may say, employed, do not sheath your
own proper and piercing weapon. From
what I have seen of yours already, I am
inclined to hope for much good. One
lesson of virtue and morality delivered in
your amusing style, and from such as you,
win operate more than dozens would do
frem such as me, who shall be told it is
our employment, and be never more mind-
ed : whereas, from a pen like yours, as
beinff one of the many, what comes will
be admired. Admiration will produce re-
gard, and regard will leave an impression,
especially uken •xample goea along,

Haw blnna nylng Fm III bred,
Ebe, by my trotb, I'll not be glad.
For cadfen, ye have heard it aald.

And lie like fVy.
Naun ay be barland in Uielr trade.

And sae maun I.

Wishing you, from my poet-pen, all
success, and, in my other character, all
happiness and heavenly direction,

I rtmain, with esteem,

Your sincere friend,

JOHN SKINNER.

No. XXXVII.
FROM MRS. ROSE.
Kar<»ooekCaitle,^OIh.Jfav. 1787.

SIR,

I HOFB you win do me the justice to
believe, that it was no defect in gratitude
for your punctual performance of your

3rou wished to have, accurately noted:
they are at last endosed ; but how aludl I

convey along with them those gracet they
acquired from the melodious voice of one
of the fair spirits of the Hill of Kildrum-
mie \ These I must leave to your imagi-
nation to supply. It has powers sufficient
to transport you to her side, to recall her
accents, and to make tliemstiU vibrate in
the cars of memory. To her I am in-
debted for gettinff the enclosed notes.
They are clothed with ^^ thoughts thit
breathe, and vfordt that burn." 77mm^
however, being in an unknown tongue to
you, you must again have recourse to uit
sauie fertile imagination of yours to inte^
pret them, and suppose a lover's descriptiab
of the beauties of an adored mistress-
Why did I say unknown ? the langnige
of love is a universal one, that seem to
have escaped the confusion of BabelfU^
to be understood by all nations.

I rejoice to fmd that you were pletsed
with 80 many things, persons, and pUees, '
in your northern tour, because it leidf
me to hope you may be induced to reviflt
them again. That the old castle <^Kil-
ravock, and its inhabitants were amoogit
these, adds to my satisfaction. I am eves
vain enough to admit your very flatteiiB|
application of the line of Addison's ; it
any rate, allow me to believe, that '* friend-
ship will maintain the ground she hu
occupied in both our hearts," in spite of
absence, and that when we do meet, it
will be as acquaintance of a score yetn'
standing; and on this footing consider
me as mterested in the future courM of
your fame so splendidly commeno^d. Any
communications of the progress of your
muse will be received with great gnti- ■
tude, and the fire of your jgenioe wm haio
power to warm even us, frozen sisters of
the north.

The fire-sides of Kilravock and Kil-
drummie unite in , cordial regards to
you. When you incline to%gure either-
in your idea, suopose some of us reading
your poems, ana some of ns singing yonr
songs, and my little Hugh looking at yov
picture, and you'll seldom be-wrong. We
remember Mr. Nicol with w much good
will as we can do any body who hnniid
Mr. Bums from us.

Farewell, Sir: I can only contribute
the vfidcw's mtie, to the esteem and admi-
ration excited by your merits and genius;
but this I give, as she did, with all my

heart — ^being aincerely yonrt.

EL. JIOSE.

LETTSRS.

117

No. XXXVIIL

HE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

cif ow jouT Lordship will disapproTe
ideas in a request I am going to

you, but I have weighed, long
iously weiflfhed, my situation, my
and turn of mind, and am fully fix-
\f scheme, if I can possibly effec-
:. I wish to get into the Excise ;
old that your Lordship's interest
nljr procure mc the grant from the
ssioners ; and your Lordship's pa-
i and goodness, which have already
[ me from obscurity, wretchedness,
le, embolden me to ask that inter-
fou have likewise put it in my
to save the little tie of home that
id an aged mother, two brothers,
30 sisters, from destruction. There,
"d, you have bound me over to the

gratitude.

brother's farm is but a wretched
but I think he will probably wea-
t the remaining seven years of it ;
er the assistance which I have
ind will give him, to keep the fa-
gether, I think, by my guess, I
ive rather better than two hun-
unds, and instead of seeking what
it impossible at present to find, a
at I can certainly live by, with so
stock, I shall lodge this sum in a
•-house, a sacred deposit, except-
' the calls of uncommon distress
ssitons old age ; ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

?9 My Lord, are my views ; I haye

1 from the maturest deliberation ;
r I am fixed, I shall leave no stone
i to^carry my resolve into execu-
foar Lordship's patronage is the
I of my hopes ; nor have I yet ap-
any body else. Indee4 my heart
[thin rae atr the idea of applying to
crof the Great who have hononr-
Rridi their countenance. I am ill
I to dog tho heels of greatness
i impertinence of solicitation, and
nearly as much at the thought of
promise, as the cold denial : but
Lordship I have not only the
the comfort, but the pleasure of

Lordship*! much obliged,

d deejAv indebted humble senrant.

No. XXXIX.

DALRYMPLE, Es%.

OF OBJilfOXFXKLD.

Edmbmrgh, 1787.

I suppose the devil is so elated with
his success with you, that he is determin-
ed, by a coup lU f?uitn, to complete hia
purposes on you all at once, in -making
you a poet. I broke open the letter you
sent me : hummed over the rhymes ; and
as I saw they were extempore, said to
myself, they were very well ; but whenl
saw at the bottom a name I shall ever
value with grateful respect, ** I gapit wide
but naething spak." I w^ nearly as
much struck as the friends of Job, of af>
fliction-bearin|f memory, when they sat
down with him seven days and seTdD
nights, and spake not a word.

I am natnrally of a snpentitioiii eait,
and as soon as m^ wonder-scared i&ngl-
nation regained its consciousness, and
resumed its functions, I cast about what
this mania of yours miffht portend. My
foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of
possibility ; and several events, great in
their magnitude, and important m their
conseouences, occurred to my fancy.
The downfall of the conclave, or the
crushing of the cork rumps ; a 4ucal co-
ronet to Lord George G , and the
protestant interest, or St. Peter's keys,
to * ♦ * ♦

'You want to know how I come on. I
am just in itaiu quoy or, not to insult m
gentleman with my Latin, in ** auld use
and wont.** The noble Earl of Glencaim
took me by the hand to-day, and interest-
ed himself in my concemsi with a good-
ness like that benevolent Being whose
image he so richljr bears. He is a stron-
ger proof of the immortality of the soul
than any that philosophy ever produced.
A mind like his can never die. Let the
worshipfld squire H. L. or the reverend
Mass J. M. go into their primitive no-
thing. At best, they are but ill-digested
lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly
tinged with bituminous partides and soi-
phureous efiiuvia. Bat my noble patron*
eternal as the heroic swen of magnani-
mitT> end the generous throb of benevo-

11B

LETTERS.

lenco, shall lo«)k on with princely cyo at
*» the war of elemenU, the wreck of mat-
tor, and tho crush of worlds."

No. XL.
TO SIR JOHN WIIITEFOORD.

DtccnAer^ 1787.

Mr. lI'EKifzis, in Mauchline, my
very warm and worthy friend, has inform-
ed me how much you are pleased to in-
terest yourself in my fate as a man, and
iwhat to me is incomparably dearer) my
ame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or
two instances, been patronised by those
of your character in life, when I was in-
troduced to their notice by ***** *
friends to them, and honoured acquain-
tance to me ; but you are the first gentle-
man in the country whose benevolence
and froodness of heart have interested
him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I
am not master enough of the etiquette
of these matters to know, nor did I stay
to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or
cold propriety disallowed, my thanlung
yon in this manner, as I am convinced,
from tho light in which vou kindly view
me, that you will do me the justice to be-
lieve this letter is not tho nmnceuvre of j
the needy, sharping author, fastemng 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 proverb, as may, in some measure, palli-
ate that prostitution of art 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 beheve a careless, indolent inatten-
tion to economy, is almost inseparable
from it ; then there must be, in the heart
of every bard of Nature^s making, a cer-
tain modest 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 impu-
dence and footlickin^^ servility. It is not
easy to imagine a more helpless state than
his, whose poetie fancy unfits him for the
world, and whose character as a scholar
gives him some pretensions to the/w/i-
Uue of life — ^yet is as poor as I am.

For my pnrt, I thank Heaven my star

I havo an Independent ibrtune at the

pluugh-tail.

I was surprised to hear that any one
who pretended in the least to the manntrt
of the gentleman, ahoulA be so foolish, or
worse, as to stoop to traduce the monliof
such a one as I am ; and so inhuntnly
cruel, too, as to meddle with that late
most unfortunate, unhappy part of luv
story. With a tear oCffratitude, I thank
vou, Sir, for the warmUi with which fm
mtcrposed in behalf of my coiiduct* I
am, 1 acknowledge, too frequently tU
sport of whim, caprice, and paasioo— Vit
reverence to Gon, and interoty to my §dr
low creatures,! hope I shalfevcrpresenei
I have no return. Sir, to make you ftr
your goodness, but ono— a return w]atk,
I am persuaded will not be unacceptalile
—the honest, warm wishes of a grateful
heart for your happiness, and every one
of that lovely flock who stand to yon in t
filial relation. If ever Calumny aim the
poisoned shafl at them^ may friendshq) be
by to ward the blow !

No. XLI

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Edinburgh^ ilH Jamuary^ 17&8.

Ar r£)i six weeks* confinement,] ui
begiuing to walk across the room. Tber
have been six horrible weeks, anguiu
and low spirits made me unfit to read,
write, or think.

I have a hundred times wished thii
one could resign life as an ofihrer resigv
a commission ; for I would not takt m aiy

?oor, iflnorant wretch, by seiimg atf
lately I was a sixpenny privatei aai,
God knows, a miserable soloier enough:
now I march to the campaign, a stall-
ing cadet ; a little more conspimoudy
wretched.

I am ashamed of all this ; for thoufffa 1
do want bravery for the warftre of lifti
I could wish, like some other soldicni to
have as much fortitude or cunning as to
dissemble or conceal my cowardice*

As soon as I can bear the jouniey«
which will be, I suppose, about the mid*
die of next week, I leave Edinburgh, and

has been kinder ; learning never elevated poon afVer I shaU pay my grateful duty at

ray ideas above tho peasant's shade, and Dunlop-IIonse.

LETTERS.

IIQ

fJo. XLII.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER

TO THE 8AMX.

Edinburgh, \m, Febritary, 1788.

Sons thin^ in your late letters hart
: not that you tay them, but that- you
take me. ■* Religion, my honoured Ma-
li, has not only been all my life my
ef dependence, but my dearest enjoy-
ot. I haY6 indeed been the lucldess
tim of wayward follies : but, alas ; I
e ever b^en ^' more fool than knave.**
mathematician without religion is a
bable character; and an irreligious
t IB a monster.

No. XLIII.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Jdossgiely Ith Marchy 1788.

rADAM,

T^E last paragraph in yours of the
h February affected mc most, bo I shall
ill my answer where you ended your
er. That I am often a sinner with

little wit I have, I do confess : but I
e taxed my repollectiou to no purpose
Ind out when it was employed against
• I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a
at deal worse than I dtf the devil ; at
It, as Milton describes him ; and though
ay be rascally enough to be sometimes
Ity of it myself, I cannot endure it in
era. Ypu, my honoured friend, who
not appear in any light but you are
B of being respectable — you can afford
mofkff an occasion to display your wit^
anae you may depend for fame on your
■e ; or, if yon choose to be silent, you
m yon can rely on the gratitude of
17 and 'the esteem of all; but, God
p xm who are wits or witlings by pro-
don, if we stand not for fame tli6re,
flink unsupported ! t

.1'

am highly flattered by the news you

me of Uoila.* I may eav to th? fair
Qter who does me so much honour, as

Baattie Says to Rots the poet of his
se Scota, from which, by the by, I took

ideaof Coila : ('Tis a poemof Boattie's
the Scots dialect, which perhaps yo^^
'e never seen.)

K Udj (dauftiter of Mrs. nunlop) ivim maklnf a
iM fron Uic UMerfpUon of Coila in tlie VMon. B.

" Y«alwk]roarhe«d|butA nyAfi,
Ye* ve wt aald Scola on her lega :
Lai^ had she lien wl* bnflb and ilegi,
, Bombaz'd and dizxie,
Her fiddla wanted etrinp and pegi,

Waea me, poor hiziles**

No. XLIV,

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN.

Jifauchline^ 31 1< JlforcA, 1788.
Ykbtirday, my dear Sir, as I was
riding through a track of mekacholy, joy-
less muirs, between Galloway and Ayr-
ifhire, it being Sunday, I turned^ mr
thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiri-
tual songs : and your favourite air Captain
Okean, coming at length in my head, I
tried these words to it. You will see
that the first part of the tune must be re-
peated.*

I am tolerably pleased with these vanes';
but, as I have only a sketch of the tune,
I leave it with you to try if tiiey suit the
measure of the music*

I am so harassed with care and anxiety
about this farming project of mine, that
my muse has degenerated into the verlM
prose-wench that ever picked cmders or
follawed a tinker. When I am Srly got
into the routine of business I shril trou-
ble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps
with some queries respecting farming; at
present the world sits suq^ a load on jny
mind, that it has effaced almost every
trace of the in me.

My very bfst compliments and good
wishes to Mrs. Clegfaiom. . '

No. XLV.
FROM MR. ROBERT CDEGHORN
Saughlon jmiU, 21lh AprUy nhs.

. M1*DEA1L BHOTRER FARAER,

. I WAS favoured with your very kind
]ette];of the 31st ult., and consider myself
greatly obliged to you %tr your attention
m sending me .the songf to my favourite
air. Captain Okean, The words delight

* Here Uie Bard glVei tbe firat iCansa Of die " Cbeva
llor'8 Lament/*
t The ChevaHer'i Lament. ^

in« mncli, thej fit the time to ■ hair. I
wiah ;ou wouM tend me a vent or two
more : uid if you have do obiectioD, t
would have it in the Jacobite Btyle. Sup-
poM it shoold be sunff after the fstal field
of Culloden by the unrortunKte Charlea.
Toudiicci pcwonatce the lovely Marv
Stuart in the Bong, Qucnt Xary't La-
miadalion. Why m>j not I aing in the
penon of hei great-great'gtaat-grand-

Any akill I have -in country
you may truly cominand. Situation, soil.
cuitoma of couatriei, may vary from each
other, but Farmer AttttJien is a good far*
IDer in every place. I beg to hear Ajoil

Jou soon. Mrs. Cleghorn joina me i&
Mt GMnplimentfc

I am, in the moat cempreheiuive eenae
af tho word, 700T very eincere friend,

BOBERT CLEGHORN.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.
Jfamhmt, UU April, 1788.

UkBiM,

Youa powen of reprcheneion muat
b« great indeed, as I anure jtod they
made my heart ache with penitential panga,
even though I was reaUy not guilty. As
I commence fanner at Whitsunday, you
will easily gness I must be pretty busy \
but that u not all. As I got the offir of
the ezciie-buBineBS without aolieitation ;
aa it cestame only aixmoDths' attendance
for inatructiona to entitle me to a com-
niaaion, which commifision lioi by me,
and at any fiiture period, on my simple
petition, can be resumed ; I thought live-
and'thirty pounds a-yearwaa no bad der-
nier resort for a poor poet, if fortune, in
ker jade tricks, should kick him down
from the little eminence to which aho has
lately helped him up.

For this reason, I un at present attend-
ing these inetTuctiona, to havethemcom-
?1etedbefore Whitsunday. Still, Ihladam,
prepared, with the sincereBt plaaanre,
to meet you at the Mount, and came to
my brother's on Saturday night, to set

■ Oar Pom isnk thLi idtlc*. Tba wholi of ihb bacn-

out on Sunday ; but far aomc nlghta pre-
ceding,! had slept in an apartment when
the force of the winds and rains was only
mitigated by being sifted through nan-
bcrless apertures in the windows, walk,
&e. In consequence, I was on Sunday
Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to
stir out of bed, with all thJa miserablt ^
fects of a violent cold.

You see, Madam, the truth of the Fnnch
maxim Lt vrai n'nl pat loufmirt U wr^
tembliAU. Your last was so full of ai-
nostulation, and was somethiag so like tba,
language of anoSbndcd rrienJ, thatlb^

fan to tremble for a correspondence wiatk
had with grateful pieasiire aet downu
one of the greatest enjoymentaof myf*-
tur« life.

Yonr books have delightedine: Fkfil,
Dry<fen, and ^dkto, were all e<]naIlyilt*B-
gers to me : but of this more at laifa ia

HO. XLVU.
PROUTHE REV. JOHK«EII?NER.
Lbitkeart, 28U JprU, ITBt.

I RFCETvr.n your last with the enrioM
prcBcnt you ha^'e favoured me with, aid
wouldhavcmade proper ac kn o wledgmnls
befiirc now, but that I have been necn-
Dorily engaged in matters of 'a difltmt
<;omplexion. And tow, that I have |il
ti little respite, I make use of it to thank
ynu forlhis valuable instance of yonrgood-
wlll, and to aiiBurc you that, with thp do-
cere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly
ristccm both the gift and the giver; as a
Rmall tmtimony of which I havc'beicwHk
?ent you for your amusement (and in a
form which t hope you will excuse for ■-
ring postage) the two songs I wrote abcnt
to you already. Charming JVancy ii the
real production of genius in a ploughiain
nf twenty yean of age at the time of iu
appesring, with no morft cduration than
A-hat he picked tip at an old farmer- grami-
father'a fire-eide, though now by thp
itrength of natumi parte, he is clerk to«
thriving bloach-field in the neighhoin'.
hood. And I doubt not but yon will find
in it a simplicity and delieacy, with fhirp
lums of humour, that will pkase one of

LETTERS-

121

; at least it pleased me when I
, if that can be any recommen-
it. The other is entirely de-
f-my own sentiments : and you
use of one or both as you shall

► CBARBfING NANCY,

BT A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN.

■'* HuAoon «rOien."

weet Maify, trane tine of fair N^,

Jl awMt Buii« th« caaM of tbelr pain ;

m Jolly, aoiiM love melancholy,

▼e to ling of the Humoun of Glen.

lacy li my pretty Nancy,

ly piMlon ru atrive to be plain;

e treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure,

r dear Nancy, gin thou wert my aln.

iglits me, her klndneaa Invites me,
behaviour Is free from all stain,
sweet Jnwel, O do not prove cruel ;
dear Nancy, and come, bo my ain.
comely, her lanpuaffe Is homely,
quite decent when ta*cn in the main ; •
; in feature, she's handsome In stature,
; dear Nancy, O wert thou my alu !

doming the fair ruddy morning,
res are sparkling, her brows are serene,
lES shining, in beamy combining,
{ sweet Nancy, wilt tliou be my ain 1
ler face is wiih maidenly graces
the gowans that grow in yon glen ;
rd and slender, true- hearted and tender,
; sweat Nancy, O wert thou my aln !

he nation for some habitation,
f jewel from cold, snow, and rabi,
my deary, m keep her ay cheery,
; sweet Nancy, gin thou wart my aln.

calling to furnish tby dwelling,
Mng needful thy life to sustain ;

sit single, but by a dear higlc,
bee, Nancy, when thou art my aiu.

LfTectlon the coniUnt direadon
Nancy, while llfo doth remain ;
1 be wasting, true love shall btflaating,
sweet Nancy, gin thou wtrt mjralu.
Nancy should alter her (kney,
other be forward and fUUt
el her, but plainly Til tell her,
false Nancy, tlKRi'se ne'er be my all.

IE OLD MAN*8 BONG.

B REVC&SND J. SKINNER.

•e— ^ Dumbarton Piuma.*'

lid old age so much wound us 7 O,

ing ln*t all to confound us, O,

w happy now am I,

oy old wife sitting by,

M and our ovi all uoinid us. O.

You will oblige me hj pretentinff my
respects to your host, Mr. Cniicksnank,
who has given such high approbation to
my poor Latiniiy ; you may let him know,
that as I have likewise been a dabbler in
Latin poetry, I have two things that I
would, if )ie desires it, submit, not to his
judgment, but to his amusement ; the
one, a translation of ChruVt Kirk o' thti
Qreen^ printed at Aberdeen some years
ago ; the other, Batrachomyonuichia Ho-
tneri IcMniM vettitd cvm additamentity mvcn
in lately to Chalmers, ta print if he pleas-
es. Mr. €• will know Seria nan semper

We began In the .world wi' naetUng, O,
And we* ve Jo^'d on and tolPd for the ae flitoft O.
We made use of whet we had.
And our thankful hemru were glad.
When fPt fot the bit meat wd the ClaetlUaf, O.

We h^e Ihr'd all oar Ufb^thaaeoatentei, O,
Bioee the day we became first aoqualated, O,

It*8 true we've been but poor,

And we are 10 to this hour.
Yet we never yet repined nor lamented, O

We ne*er thought of eehefflee to be wealtby, O,
By ways that were ennning or slealtl^, 0,
But we always had the Uias,
And what Ibrtbor could we wtai,
To be pleaa'd wl* ounelvca, and be heaMVt O.

What tbo* we eanna boast of our gnlneas, O,
We have plenty of Jockles and Jeanlea, O,

And these Tm certain, are

More desirable by far,
Than a pocket fun of poor yellow rieenipB, O.

We have Been many wonder and ferlte, O,
Of chaagea that ahnoat are jrearly, O,

Among rich folks up and down,

Both In country and In town,
Who now live but aerlm|rty nd barely, O.

Then why should people hrn of pHMpwHaTt O,
A straitened ll(k we see le no rarity, G^

Indeed we^ve byen in want.

And our Uving been but scant.
Yet we niever were ledueed to need charity, O

In this hoase we lint came together, O,

WWe we've ieng bera a ffatlier and a mttair, O*,

And, tbo* not of stone apd lime,

It win laet OB a' otar time.
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, (X

And when we leave this habhatlon, 0»
We*n depart with a good coaAneadaflM, O.

We'll fo band In hand I wim.

To a better bouv than thie,
To make room for the next genemdoB, O.

Then why should OM age to much wound im1 O,
There's nothing ln*t ail to eonfbund us, O,

For how happy now am I,

With my old wIfW sitting by,
And oar balms and oar oys ell around oe. O

LETTERS.

ddMkmi^nomJoeaiemper. Semper deUc-
itmi nria wUxtajocU*

I hmve jiut room to repeat compliments
and food wishoe from,

Sir, your humble s^ant,

JOHN SKINNER.

No. XLVni.
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.

M(mehKne;2d Mca/y 1788.

•im.

I VNCLotK you one or two more of my
bagatelles. If the fervent wishca of ho-
nest gratitude have any influence with
that g'^at unknown Being, who frames
tAe chaixw of causes and events, prospcri-
tv and happiness 'will attend your visit to
the Contment, and return you safe to
your native shore*

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim
it as my privilege to acquaint you with
my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I
am sure I could say it with truth, that
next to my little (kme, and the having it
in my power to moke life more comforta-
ble to those whom nature has made dear
to me, I shall ever regard your rounte-
Bance, your .patronage, your friendly good
offices, as the most valued consequence of
my late success in life.

No. XLIX.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER

TOWRS.DUNLOP.

Mauchlmey Aih May^ 178G.

MADAM,

Drtdem*8 Virgil has delighted me.
I do not know whether tho critics will
agree with mo, but the Chorgics are to
me by far the best of Virgil. It is, in-
deed, a species of writiag entirely new to
me, and nas filled my head with a thou-
sand fancies of emulation: but, alas!
when I read the Oeorgia and then sur-
vey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a
Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of n
thorough-bred hunter, to start for the

plate. I own 1 a^ diBa)>pointed III the
^neid. Faultless correctnona mafptoase,
and does highly please the lottered critie:
but to that awful character I have not the
most distant pretensions. I do not knmr
whether I do not hazard my pretenaoa|
to be a critic of any kind, when I say, tint
I think Virgil, in many instances, a ttt-
vUe copier of Homer. If I had the OdSys-
Mty by me, I could parallel many pasaifei
where Vir^ has evidently ^pied, bnt by
no means unproved Homer. NarcanI
think there is any thing of this owing ta
the translators; for, from «veij thi^ I
have seen of Dryden, I think- hun, in ^
nius and fluency of languajre, Pope*s SM^
ter. I have not perused 'nuno enougji to
form an opinion; in some fntnie letter
you shall have my ideas of him; tfaoofhl
am conscious my criticisms must be very
inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have
ever felt and lamented my want of lean-
ing most.

No. L.

TO THE SAME.

MADAM,

27th J^ay^ 1788.

I HATE been torturing my philosophy
to no purpose to account for that kind
partiality of yours, which, unlike * ♦
* has followed mc in my return to the
shade of life, wit.i assiduous benevolence.
Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of
my Will-o'-Wisp-appcarance, that •• here
I had no continuing city ;" and, hot for
the consolation of a few solid guineas,
could almost lament the time that a mo-
mentary 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 diatribution of,,tho good
things of this life, that give me more vex*
ation *• I mean in what I see around me,)
than the importance the opulent bestow
on their trilling family aflfairs, compared
with the very same things on the con-
tracted scale of a cottage. Last after-
noon I had the honour to spend an hour
or two at a good woman's firo-sidc, where
the planks thnt composed the floor wore
•^'"coralcd wilb a gulcndid carpet, and tho

« now about torm-day, and there has
bMn % levoIotioD among those crcuprea,
who, though in appearance pBTtaken, and
aqoallT aoblo partiJtera, of the 'OBme na-
tim with Mndame, are from time to time,
their serrea, their Binewa, their health,
■trai^tb, wisdom, expeiienco, ^enioB,
time, nay, a good part of their very
tluraffhta, mid (or months and years, *

, * • • 'not only to tho ne-
eeaaitiaa, the conveniencet, but the ca-
pricmpftfaeimpoTtant few.* We talked
of the 'iui^ficant creature* ; nttf,
wHhataadinff their general stopidity
rueality, did aome of the poor devUB the
htlBODf to GOQunend theni. But light be
the turf npcm his breast who taught—
*♦ Reverence thyself." Wu looked down
m the nnpoliahed wretches, their imper-
tinrat wiTflS and clontcrly brats, as the
lordly bull doea on the liulo dirty atit-
biB, whose puny inhabitants ho crushes in
the earelesBoesa of his rambles, or to^sen
in the air in the wantonncaa of hia pride.

TO THE SAME.

EUUbmd, I2lhjme, 1788.

" Wfenafw I jDUD, wbstcfermftM I KC,

Mj baan, Bainrati-*, fmiljr unat lo the«,
soy lo Bf fttnd tarn wlih ecuelHt patn,
Aid dn^ It och raiDovs alcni^eii'd cIibIb."
GtUtmilk.

This is tho second day, my honoured
ftieWl, thU I have been on mv farm. A
■oUtary inmate of an old emoky Spen<-t ;
far from every object I love, or by whom
I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance old-
er than yesterday, except Jenny Ofddci,
the oU marc I ride on; while uncouth
csrea and novel pUls houtly insult my
K^kward ignorance .--nd baahfiil inexperi-
ence. There is a fojrgy atratw^hcre na-
tive to my ion] in the hour of care, conae-
Snently the dreary objccta aecin larger
lan the life. Extreme scnaibility, irri-
tated and prejudiced on tho gloomy side
bj ■ aeries ofmis fortunes and disappoint -

K ftmi WhlMutdiy ta MMlamM, kc

ERS. 153

ments, at that period of my existence
wlicn the soul is laying in her cargo of
ideas for the voyage ot life, is, I bcUeve,
the principal cause of this unhappy frame
of mind.

I found a once mitch-Iovcd and still
rauch-lovj;d female, literally and truly
cast o'Jt to Ilio mercy of tlic naked ele-
ments ; but 1 enabled her to purc/uut a
shelter; and there is no sportmg with a
fellow-creature's happiness or misery.

The most placid good -nature and aweet-
nesB of disposition ; a warm heart, grate-
fully devoted with all its powers to love
me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheer-
fulness, set off to the beet advantage by a
more than commonly handsome figure ;
these, I tliink io a woman, may make a
good wife, though she should never have
read a page but t!ie Scripturu of the Old
OTtd JVeiD Tettamenl, nor have danced in a
brighter aasembly than a penny-pay wed-

No. Lir.

TO MR. P. mLL.

I SHALL say nothing at all to your
mad present — you have long and often
been of important service to me, and I
suppose you mean to go on conferring oh-
liirations until I shall not be able to lift up
my face before you. In the mean time,
as Sir Roger do Covcrlv, because it hap-
pened to be a cold day m which he made
'lis will, ordered Ids servants great coats
br mourning, bo, becaiiae I have been this
week plagued with an indigestion, t have
sent you by tho carrier a fine old ewe*
ilk cheese.

Indigestion is tho devil : nay, 'tia the
dctil and all. It besets a man in every
one of his senses. I lose my appetite at
" 'ight ofsuccesaful knavery, and sicken

1C4

LETTERS.

to loathing at the noise and nonaeme of
■elf-important folly. When the hollow-
heartea wretch takes me hy 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 puhilited^ fea-
thered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in
my nostril, that my stomach turns.

If ever you have any of these disagree-
able sensations, let me prescribe for you
patience and a bit of my cheese. I know
that you are no niggard of your good
things among your friends, and some of
them are in much need of a slice. There
in m^ eye is our friend, Smellie ; a man
positively of the first abilities and great-
est strength of mind, as well as oneof.the
best hearts and keenest wits that I have
ever met with; when you sec him, as
alas ! he too b smarting at the pinch of
distressful circumstances, aggravated by
the sneer of contumelious greatness — a
bit of my cheese alone will not cure him;
out if you add a tankard of brown stout,
and superadd a magnum of right Oporto,
you will see his sorrows^ vanish like the
morning mist before the summer sun.

C h, the earliest friend, except my

only brother, that I have on earth, and
one of the worthiest fellows that ever any
man called by the name of friend, if a
luncheon of my cheese would help to rid
him of some of his superabundant modes-
ty, you would do well to give it him.

David,* with his Cowranty 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 pil-
lory it does not at all improve his figure,
not to mention the irreparable loss of the

ere-

My facetioofl friend, D r , 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 CrochaUan corps.!

Among our common friends, I must not

* PriatOT of the Edbbuvgh Evening Connnt
MelH^ofebotosiplfflta.

forget one of toe deareft of them, Cun-
nin|fham. The brutality, insolence, and
sehuhness of a world unworthy of haviog
such a fellow as he is in it, I uiow sticJn
in hb stomach ; and if you can help him
to any thing that will make him a little
easier on that score, it will be yeiy oUi-

Siog-

As to honest J S— — «, he is sock

a contented happy man, that I know »>t
what can annoy him, except perhaps w
may not have got the better of a jMurcel
of modest anecdotes, which a ceitam^oet
gave him one night at supper, the uit
time the said poet was in town.

Though I have mentioned so many men
of law, I shall have nothing to-do witk
them professedly. — The faoolty are be-
yond my prescription. As to their chaky
that is another thing : God knowi -tbey»
have much to digest !

The clergy I pass hy ; their profundi^
of erudition, and their liberality of senti-
ment ; their total wan| of pride, and tbeir-
detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbi-
ally notorious as to place them far, &r
above either my praise or censure.

• ■

I was going to mention a man of worth,
whom I have the honour to call firiend,
the Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have
spoken to the landlord of the King*s-ams
inn hefe, to have, at the next county-
meeting, a large ewe-milk cheese on the
table, for the benefit of the Dumfiries-
shire whigs, to enable them to digest the
Duke of Queensberry'6 late political con-
duct.

■

I have just this moment an opportnm-
ty of a private hand to Edinburgn, as per-
haps you would not digest douJble fMMt-
age.

No. LHI.
TO MRS. iJUNLOP.
J^auchMMy 2d AuguHy 1788.

H0K0X7RKD HAnAV,

Your kind letter welcomed me, yes-
ternight, to Ajrrshire. I am indeed seri*
ously angry with you at the quantum of
'^oui luck-penny: but, vexed and hurt oi

LBTTERa

125

wu, I could not help laughing very
eartily at the noble Lord's apology for
le missed napkin.

I would write you from Nithsdale, and
Lve you my direction there, but I have
;arce an opportunity of calling at a post-
9ice'once in a fortnight. I am six miles
om Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it my-
ilf^ and, as yet, have little acquaintance
I the neighbourhood. Besides, I am now
jTj bilsy on my farm, building a dwell-
ig4iouse ; as*at^resent I am almost an
^angelical man in Nithsdale, for I have
;|Brce *' where to lay my head." ■

There are some passages in your last

lat brought tears in my eyes. ** The

sart knoweth its own sorrows, and a

ranger intermeddleth not, therewith."

he repository of these ** sorrows of the

!«rt," is a land of tanctum sanctorum ;

id *tis only a chosen friend, and that too

. jMiTticular sacred times, who dares en-

T into them

•
** Hemvef oft lean the bomn ehordi

That BBlnre fineit ftrang /'

Ton will excuse this quotation for the
ke of the author. Instead of entering
I tills subject farther, I shall transcribe
>a a few lines I wrote in a hermitage
^longing to a gentleman in my Niths-
lie neighbourhood. They are almost
e only favours the muses have confer-
d on me in that country.*

Since I am in the way of transcmbing,
ef^ibllowhig were the production of ves-
rday, as I jogged through the wild hills
New-Cumnock. I intend inserting
on, or something like them, in an epistle
iqi going to write to the gentleman on
bose friendship my excise-hopes depend,
r. Graham of Fintry, one of the wor-
iest and most accomplished gentlemen,
it only of this country, but I will dare
say it, of this age. The following are
at the first crude thoughts ** unhouseled,
Anointed, unannealed."

Let pnidMM ■VBilMr o*«r Meta Mirdy i
Who life and wfaidoa at one race bepin ;
Wbo (eel hj reaeon, and who give bj rale ;
(loetincrs a brute, and sentiinent a fool !)
Wbo make poor will do wait^upon lakouid;
We own they're iKudent, bat who owue tliey'r
goodi

Ye wiee ones, hence ! ye hurt the focial eye !
God'e image rudely etch'd on babe alloy !
But come

Here the muse lefl me. I am astonish-
ed at what you tell me of Anthony's wri-
ting me. I never received it. Poor fellow?
jrou vex me much* by telling me that he
IS unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshira
ten days from this date. I have j ust room
for. an old Roman farewell !

Plly the tnneAiI moaee* belpleit train :
Weak, timid landsmen on Ure*e stormy mafaa :
Tlie world were blees*d, did Uiv on them depend;
Ab ! that '* the friendly e*er sliould want a friend V\
The litde (kte beetowe they share as soon ;
CnlliraBate, pioverb'd wisdam's bard- wrung boon.

^ThaHnei
fwHeriBllafe.

were those written in Friaia-
8«e Poems |».SS.

No. LIV.
TO THE SAME.
JUauchline^ 10th AuguMt, 1788.

MT MUCH HONOURED FRIXND,

You&s of the 24th June is ^fore 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, answering a speech
from the best of kings ! I express myself
in the fulness of my heart, and may per-
haps bo guilty of neglecting some of your
kind inquiries ; but not, from your very
odd reason, that I do not read your letters.
All your epistles for several months have
cost me nothing, except a swelling throb
of gratitude, or a deep felt sentiment of
veneration*

Mrs. Bums, Madam, is the identical
woman

When she first found herself" as women
wish to be who love their lords,** as I
loved her nearly to distraction, we took
steps for a private marriage. Her pa-
rents got the hint : and not only forbade
me her company and the hQU8e^\\^t^^'CL

tS6

LETTERS.

wamiit to put me in Jail till I should find
■ecnrity in my about-to-bo patornal rela-
tion. You know my lucky reverse of for-
tune. On my eclatant return to Mauch-
line, I was made very welcome to visit
my guL The usual consequences bef^an
to betray her; and as I was at that time
laid up a cripple in Edinburc^h, she was
turned, literally turned out of doors : and
I wrote to a friend to shelter her t'dl my
return, when our marria^fe was declared.
Iler happiness or miHcr^ were in my
hands ; and who could tnile with such a
deposite ?

I can easily fancy a more a^eeable
companion for my journey of life, but,
upon my honour, I have never teen the
individual instance

Circumstanced as I am, I could never
have ffot a female partner for life, who
could have entered mto my favourite stu-
dies, relished my favourite authors, &c.
without probably entailing on me, at the
same time, expensive living, fantastic ca-
price, perhaps apish affectation, with all
the other blessed boarding-school acquire-
ments, which {pardonnex mot, Madame,)
are sometimes, to be found among females
of the upper ranks, but almost univer-
sally pervade the misses of the would-be-
gentry.

I like your way in your church-yard
lucubrations. Thoughts that are the
spontaneous result of accidental situations,
either respecting health, place, or compa-
ny, have often a strength and always an
ongpality, that would in vain be looked,
for m fancied circumstances and studied
paragraphs. For me, I have oflen thought
of keeping a letter , in progretnon, 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 pa-
lmer of this kind, is my pruriency of wri-
ting to you at large. A page of post is on
such a dissocial narrow-minded scale that
I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner,
are a monstrous tax in a close correspon-
dence.

No*LV.
TO THE SAME.

EUiMland, 1 6fik, Augud, 1788. .

I AM in a fine dispoaitioD, my honpir-
ed fnend, to send you an elegiac^epirtle;
and want only genius to imdie it qmta
Shenstonian. ' ^

■* Why draopi my heart with fkncM '
Whjiiiikimf MralhcaeaUieach wtaoTiy^f

My increasing cares in thii, u y^t,
strange country — gloomy conjeetnrei ia
the dark vista of futurity— ^onsciouawiB
of my own inability for the Btrnggle of
the world — ^my broadened mark to mis-
fortune in a wife and childreo*; — ^I coold
indulge these reflections, till my homonr;
should ferment into the most acid chAgnn,
that would corrode the very thread of lift

To countcr^'ork these baneful feehngs,
I ha\'e sat down'to write to ydu ; as I de-
clare upon my soul, I always find-fAst
the most sovereign balm for my wounded
spirit.

I was yesterday at Mr. — 'g to din-
ner for the first time. My reception wu
quite to my mind : from the lady of the
house, quite flattering. She sometimes
hits on a couplet or two, impromptu, Ske
repeated one or two to the admiration oC
all present. My sufirage bs a profesnooal
man, was expected : I for once went agp-
nizing over the belly of my conscience*
Pardon me, ye, my adored household god|
— Independence of Spirit, and integrity
of Soiu ! In the course of conversation,
Johnion*9 J^uncal Jifuseum^ a^coDeciion
of Scottish songs with the music, wmm
talked of. We got a song on the harp-
Yicherd, beginning,

** Raring wiodi around her blowii^;.***

■

The air was much admired ; the lady of
the house asked me whose were the wordii;
" Mine, Madam — ^they are indeed my Very
best verses :" she took not the smallert
notice of them ! The old Scottidi pro-
verb savs well, "kinff'scaflT is better uan
ither folk's com." Twas going to make
a New Testament quotation about " cast-
ing pearls ;" but that would be too vini-

* See Poemi, p. 107.

LETTERS.

127

r tho ladj is actually a woman of
ind taste.

r an that has been said on the other
the question, man h by no means
f creature. I do not speak of the
d few favoured by partial heaven ;
souls are turned to gladness, amid
md honours, and prudence and wia-
I speak of the .. neglected many,
nerves, whose sinews, whose days,
d to the minions ef fortune.

thought you had never seen it, I
transcribe for you a stanza of an
ottiflh ballad, called The Life and
Jdan; beginning thus :

rwM in the ■ixteenth bunder year
3f God and fifty-three,
M ChriA was bom, Aat bouiiht ua dear,
M writingi tesUfie.'*

d an old grand-uncle, with whom
ther lived a while in her girlish
the good old man, for such he was,
ig blind ere he died, during which
lis highest enjoyment was to sit
and cry, while my mother would
e simple old song of The Life caul
JUan*

this way of thinking, it is these
holy truths, that make religion so
IS to the poor, miserable children
— if it is a mere phantom, existing

the heated imagination of enthu-

t traib «B earth to preciona as tbt Ue t**

idle reasonings sometimes make
ttle sceptical, but the necessities
leart always give the cold phibso-
:s the lie. Who looks for the heart
I from earth ; the soul affianced to
d ; the correspondence fixed with
; the pious supplication and de-
lanksgiving, constant as the vicis-
of even and morn ; who thinks to
ith these in the court, the palace,
^lare of public life ? No : to find
I their precious importance and di-
Scacy, we must search among the
I recesses of disappointment, afflic-
iverty^ and distress.

letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of
next week ; and it quickens my pace to
think that there will be a letter from you
waiting me there. I must be here again
v^ry soon for my harvest

No. LVI.
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY.

SIB,

Wmif I had the honour of beiiv in-
troduced to you at Athole-house, I did not
think so soon of asking a favour of you
When Lear, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent
why he wishes to be in his service, he an
swers, ** Because you have that in yout
face which I could like to call master.**
For some such reason, Sir, do I now so-
licit your patronage. You know, I dare
say, of an application I lately made to
your Board to be admitted an officer of
excise. I have, according to form, been
examined by a supervisor, and to-day I
gave in his certificate, with a request for
an order for instructions. In thb affair^
if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too
much need a patronising friend. Pijo^
priety of conduct as a man, and fidelity
and attention as an officer, I dare engage
for : but with any thing like business,
except manual labour, I am totally imae-
quainted.

I had intended -to have closed my late
appearance on the stage of life in the
character of a countrv farmer ; but, after
discharging some filial and fraternal claims,
I find I could only fight for existence hi
that miserable manner, which I have lived
to see throw a venerable parent into the
jaws of a jail : whence death, the poor
man's last and often best friend, rescued
him.

I know, Sir, that to ne^ your goodneM
is to have a claim on it ; may I Uierefore
beg your patronage to forward me in this
afiair, till I be appointed to a division,
where, by the help of rigid economy, I
will try to support that independence so
dear to my soul, but which has been too
oflen so distant fVom my situaUon.**

sure, dear Madam, you are now I •UerefoUowedtliepoiikslpaitortbaBplfdaiflviB
lan pleased with the Untith of my I in the Pocma, p. 79.

Itt

No. LVIL
TO MR. PETER HILL.

LETTERS.

is at once hsrmonioni and poetic Evtiy
readei'8 ideas must sweep the

JIfauchline, ^H October, 1788.

I HAVE been here in this country
about three days, and all that time my
chief rcadinj^ has been the *'*' Address to
Loch -Lomond," you were so obli^-ing as
to send to me. Were I empannelled one
of the author's jury to determine his cri-
minality respecting the sin of poesy, my
verdict should be '^ gr^ilty ! A poet of
Nature's making.*' It is an excellent
method for improvement, and what I be-
lieve every poet does, to place some fa-
vourite classic author, in his own walk of
study and composition, before him as a
model Though yonr author had not
mentioned the name I could have, at half
a glance, guessed his model to be Thom-
son. Will my brother-poet forgive me,
if I venture to hint, that his imitation of
that immortal bard is, in two or three pla-
ces, rather more servile than such a ge-
nius as his required — e, g,

Toaoocb the iMddiiig ptHiooi all to peus.

ADDRESS.

Tb ■oocb Um throbbUif paalona into peace.

TOOMSOIf.

I think the Address is, in simplicity,
harmony, and elegance of versification,
fully equal to the Seasornt. Like Thom-
son, too, he has looked into nature for
himself; you meet with no copied de-
scription. One particular criticism I
made at first reading ; in no one instance
has he said too much. He never flags in
his progress, but, like a true poet of Na-
ture's making, kindles in his course. His
beginning is simple and modest, as if dis-
trustful of the strength of his pinion;
only, I do not altogether liki

" Truth,
Tbe md of every soDf tliat'e oobly great.*'

Fiction is the sonl of many a song that
is nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong :
this may l>e but a prose-criticism. Is
not the phrase, in line 7, page 6. ** Great
Lake,'* too mnch vul^^arized by eveiy-day
language, for so subhme a poem ?

•<Qiaat BUM of wmieia, theoM tan sobler aouf,

is perhaps no emendation. His enume-
ntion of a comparison with other lakes

*^ winding margin of aa boadred mlka**

The perspective that follows moanftaisf
blue — ^the imprisoned billows beating ii
vain — the wooded isles-— the di g re wi oa
on the yew-tree — *^ Ben-Londod'k M^
cloud envclop'd head,** d^c. are beaatifbL
A thunder-storm is a subject which bat
been oflen tried ; yet our poet in hisgnod
picture, has intersected a circuinstaDOC,
so far as I know, entirely ori|

"ThegleM
Deep-seamM with fiaquent atrvalft of movisg dn.*

In his preface to the stono, <' Thogkn^
how dark between !'* is noble hyplmj
landscape ! The '* rain ploughing tlie
red mould, too, is beautifully fancied.
Ben-Lomond's ''lofty pathless top," is a
good expression; and the surroimdiDg
view from it is truly great : the

««8Uver
Beneath tbe beadUng aaa,*'

is well described : snd here he has con*
trived 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 w»^ to
carry '' some faint idea of the visioa.hngfat,"
to entertain her *' partial listening ^y**
is a pretty thought. But, in'my opinioA,
the most beautiful passages in the wboli
poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry
frosts, to Loch-Lomond*s *' hospitablt
flood ;** their wheeling round, their fifll*
ing, mixing, diving, &c. ;. and the rio>
rioiis description of the sportsman, ftii
last is equal to any thing in the StammL
Tbe idea of " the floating tribea diiCaiit %
seen, far glistering to the moon," proToi^
ing. his eye as he is obliged to l^ve tbiBii
is a noble ray of poetic genius. ** nt
howling winds,** the *' hideooa roar^ df
*' the wnite cascades,*' are all in thanftt
style. .

I forget that, while I am thos hol^Bf
forth, with the heedless warmth of aaia-
thusiast„I am perhaps tiring yon witk
nonsense. I must, however,* mention,
that the last verse of the sixteenth psfo
is one of the most elegant complimenti I
have ever seen. I must likewise noties
that beautiful paragraph, heginaiiig,
**The gleaming lake,** &C. I dareaoC

LETTERS.

129

ffo into the particular beauties of the two
r&0t paragraphs, but they are admirably
fine, and truly OBsianic.

1 must beg your pardon fbr this length-
ened scrawl. I had no idoa of it when I
began— I should like to know who the au-
thor i«; but« whoever he be, please pre-
sent him with my grateful thanks for the
entertainment he has afforded me.*

A friend of n^ine desired me to commis-
sion for him two books, Leilers on the lit'
Hgiom essential to J^lan^ a book you sent
me before; and, The IVorld Unmasked^
or tkm Bhiloiopktr the greatest Cheat. Send
me them by the first opportunity. The
JK6i» you sent me is truly elegant. I
on^ wish it had been in two volumes.

No. Lvm.

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM

MAINS.

Mauchlinef I3th ^Toffember^ 1788.

MADAM,

I HAD the very great pleasure of di-
mg at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said
to' flatter women because they are weak ;
if k la so, poets must be weaker still ; for
Misses R. and K., and Miss G. M*K., with
their flattering attentions and artful com-
pliments, absolutely turned my head. I
own they did not lard me over as many a
poet does his patron ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
ant they so intoxicated me with their sly
insinuations and delicate innuendoes of
compliment, that if it had not been fop a
l^jriEy recollection, how much additional
weight and lustre your good opinion and
^miuship must give me in that circle, I
had certainly looked upon myself as a per-
son of no small consequence. I dare not
say one word how much I was charmed
with the Major's friendly welcome, ele-
gant manner, and acute remark, lest I
lihanld be thought to balance my oriental-
isms of applause over against the finest

* Th« poem, •ntltled. .On ^iirtta to Lo€k-Z,0wt§ni,
Is fmld to be writtra hy a gentfMnui, now one of the
Mum* of the Hlgh-iebool At Edinbargh ; and the
nme who tvtiiatalMl dMbeuliftilMoiy of the P«ri«, as
paWWMAlBtheAMorDr.AiidenoB. E>

quey* in Ayrshire, which he made mo a
present of to help and adorn mv farm-
stock. As it was on Hallowday, f am de-
termined annually, as that day returns, to
decorate her horns with an ode of grati-
tude 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 liospitality. There wiU be soon
threescore and ten miles of permanent
distance between us ; and now that your
friendship and Iriendly correspondence is
entwisted with the heart-strmgs of mr
enjoyment of life, I must indulge myseu
in a happy day of '* The feast of reason
and the flow of soul."

NO. LIX.
To ♦ ♦ ♦ *

M)9ember 8, 1788.

SIR,

NoTwiTRSTANDiivo the opprobrious
epithets with which some of our philoso-
phers and gloomy sectaries have brand-
ed our nature — the principle of universal
selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they
have given us ; still the detestation in
which inhumanity to the distressed, or in-
solence to the fallen, are held by aU man-
kind, shows that they are not natives of
the human heart. Even the unhappy
partner of our kind, who is undone, tne
bitter consequence of his follies or his
crimeft ; — 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
acknowledgments to the Author or all
Good, for tnetconseqnent blessings of the
glorious Revolution. To that auspicious
event we owe no less than our liberties,
civil and religious, to it we are likewise
indebted for the present RoyaJ Family,
the ruling features of whose administra-
tion have ever been mildness to the snb-
ject, and tenderness of his rights.

under the apoBtle Jamei'e dMcription !—
Vie prai/er of a righUmu man (mmbtt
murn. In that case, M^am, you iboaM
welcome inn year fiill of blessingB: eyeij
thinp that obHtructa or djitnrbs tntnquilli-

mv taste, but T am so often lircd, Xiegon-
ed, and hurt, with tho iimipiditf, aflecta-
tion, and pride of mankind, that when I
meet with a person " after my own heart,''

I positively feel what an orthodox pro- „

t«atant would call a species of idolatry, j ty and self-enjoyment, should beremoTsd
which acts on my fanc^ like inspiration ; ' ' .......

and I ean no more desist rhyming on thi;
impulse, than an Eolian harp can refusij
its tones to the streaming air. A disticli
or two would be the consequence, tbougli
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, arc
equally striking and unaffected, by hea-
vens ! though I had lived threescore years
a married man, and threescore years be-
fore I was amarried man, my imagii
would hallow the very idea; and

truly sorrv that the enclosed stanzas have
'— g Bucn poor justice to such a subject.

PROM MK. G. BURNS.

I havi just finished my new-year's-
day breakfast in the usual form, which
naturally makes me call to mind tlie days
of formar years, and the society in which
wo used to begin them : and when I look
at our fcmily vicissitudes, " thro' the dark
poeteru of time long elapsed," I cannot
help remarking to you, my dear brother,
how good tho God or Seaboks is to us,
and that, however some clouds may seem
to lower over the portion of time before
ns, we nave great reason to hope that all
will turn out welL

Your mother and sisters, with Robert
the second, join me in the compliments of

the season to you and Mrs. Bums, and
beg you will remember us in tlie same
■Banner to WiUiam, the first time you
Me him.

I am, dear brother, yours,

GILBERT BURNS.

No. Lxni_,

TO MRS. DUNLOP.
EU'utand, Jftw-Tear-Daj/ Mormitg.
Tnis, dear Madam, is a morning of
■hn i and would to God that I came

and every pleasure that frail hmnsnily
can taste should be yours. I own mjecif
so little a prcsbyterian, that I approve of
set limes and seasons of more than ordi-
nary acta of devotion, for breaking in un
that habituated routine of life and thouglit
which is BO apt to reduce our eiistence
to a kind of iiutinct, or even sometimef,
and with some minds, to a state very litti
superior to mere machinery.

This day, the first Sunday of Hay, a
breezy bluc-skyed noon, some timeabout
the beginning, and a hoary motning and
calm sunny day about theeudofautumo:
—these, time out Dfmind, have been A-itb
me a kind of holiday.

I believe I owe this to that glorious pa-
ir in the Spectator, " The Vision of
irza;" a piece that struck my voiu^

fancy before I was capable of filing as
idea to a word of tliree syllables, " On
the fiflh day of the moon, which, nccord-
ing to the custom of my forefather!, I
ilways keep holy, after having washed
myself, and offered up my mornir^ dela-
tions, I ascended tho high hill of Bigdil,
in order to pass the rest of the day in me-
ilitattoD ana prayer."

We know nothing, or next to nothis;.
of the substance or structure of onr souU,
HO cannot account for those seeming ea-
[irices in them, that one should be pM-
licuUrly pleased with this thing, or stinck
with that, which, on minds of a different
cast, makes no extraordinary impression.
1 have some favourite Sowers in eprinf,
among which are the mountain-dai(T,tl»
'lare-bell, the foz-fflove, the wild-b^^e^
i-ose, the buddinfj-liirch, and the hoary-
liawthom, that I view and hang over wilh
fiarticular delight. I never heard the
liiud solitary whistle of the curlew is »
"■■"mer noon, or the wild mixing cadence
•:i o troop of gray plover in an auiumnai
morning, without feeling an elevation of
Houl like the enthusiasm of devotion or
Ijoetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to wlitl
can this be owing. Are wo a piece of
machinery, which, like the Eolian harp.
passive, takes the impruaiaiiorUie pa*

. LETTERS.

133

tng aeciaent ? Or do these workiDgs
argue something within us ahove the trod-
den clod ? I own myself partial to such
proofs of those awful and important re-
alities — a God that made all things —
man's immaterial and immortal nature —
and a world of weal or wo heyond death
and the grave.

No. LXIV.
TO DR. MOORE.

- EUuiandy near Dumfries^ 4th Jan, 1789.

BIB,

As oflen as I think of writing to
jou, which has hecn three or four tmies
every week these six months, it gives me
something so like the look of an ordinary
sized statue oiferinff at a conversation
with the Ehodian colossus, that my mind
misgives me, and the affair always mis-
carries somewhere between purpose and
resolve. I have, at last, got some busi-
ness with you, and business-letters are
written by the style-book. I say my busi-
ness is with you. Sir, for you never had
any with me, except the business that be-
nevolence has ill the mansion of poverty.

The character and emplojrment 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 singu-
larity of my situation, and the honest pre-
judice of Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in
the preface to my first edition, I do look
upon myself as Itaving some pretensions
from Nature to the poetic character. I
have not a doubt but the knack, the apti-
tude to learn the Muses' trade, is a gifl
bestowed by Him, " who fonns the secret
bias of the soul ;" — but I as firmly believe,
that excellence in the profession is the
fruit of industry, labour, attention, and
pains. At least I am resolved to try my
doctrine by the test of experience. A no-
ther 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 profes-
sion, the talents of shining in every spe-
cies of composition. I shall try (for until
cnal 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 view
cd and reviewed before the mental eye,
that one loses, in a good measure, 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 teachei
with a young learner, to praise, perhaps,
a little more than is exactly just, lest the
thin-skinned animal fall into that most
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-
breaking despondency of himself. Dare
I, Sir, a&eady immensely indebted to ynwf
goodness, ask the additional obGgation 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 Robert Gra-
ham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of un-
common worth, to whom I lie under very
great obligations. The story of the po-
em, like most of my poems, is connected
with my own story ; and to give you the
one I must give you something of the
other. I cannot boast of—

I believe I shall, in whole, 100/. copy-
right included, clear about 400/. some
little odds; and even part of this de
pends upon what the gentleman has yet
to settle with me. I give you this in-
formation, because you did me the ho-
nour to interest yourself much in my we)
fare.

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 brp
ther, and three sisters, in a farm. On my
last return from Edinburj^h, it cost me
about 180/. to save them ^om ruin. Not
that I have lost so much — I only interpo-
sed between my brother and his impend-
ing fate by the loan of so much. I give
myself no airs on this, for it was mere
selfishness on my part : I was conscious
that the vnrong scale of the balance was
pretty heavily charged ; and I thouffht
that throwing a little fihal piety, and m-
tcmal affection, into the scale in my fa-
vour, might help to smooth matters at the
grand reckoning. There iaalVSl^Xki^NS&is^

134

LETTERS.

would mtke ray circnmitances (joita easy x
I have an exclsc^fficer's coimnuBion, and
I live in the midst of a country division.
My request to Mr. Graham, who is '^ne
of the commissioners of excise, was, if in
his power, to procure me that division.
If I were very sanguine, I mi^ht hope
that some of my grcai patrons might pro-
cure me a treasury warrant for aupervi*
■or, purveyor-general, dtc.

Thufl secure of a livelihood, *' to thee,
sweet poetry, delightful maid !" I would
consecrate my future days.

No. XLV.

TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART.

Elliiland^ near Dumfruit ftiHhJan. 1789.

SIR,

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to
Edinburgh a few days after I had the
happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but
you were gone for uie Continent. I have
added a few more of my productions, those
for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale
Muses. The piece inscribed to R. 6. Esq.
is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of
Fintry, accompanying a request for his
assistance in a matter, to me, of very great
moment. To that gentleman I am already
doubly indebted, for deeds of kindness of
serious import 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 ray last essay of
the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's
Progress." These fragments, if my de-
sign succeeds, are but a small part of the
intended whole. I propose it shall be the
work of my utmost exertions 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 now I 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 particular part I send you
merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-
sketching ; but lest idle conjecture should
pretend to point out the original, please
Jet it be for your single, solo ins^ction.

Need I make any apology for this trou-
ble to a gentleman who has treated me
with such marked benevolence and peca-
liar 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
to me are 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 distin^ish-
ed champions of ^nius and leammg, I
shall be ever ambitious of being known.
The native genius and accurate discern-
ment in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ;
the justness (iron Justice, for he has no
bowels of compassion for a poor poetic
sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the
delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, 1
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,
ROBERT BURNS

No. LXVI.
TO BISHOP GEDDES.
EUuland^ near Dwnfrie9y 2d Feb. 1789

TSmCRABLK FATHXB,

As I am conscious, that wherever *
am, you do me the honour to interefc
yourself in my welfare, it gives me plet*
sure to inform you that I am here at lait
stationary in the serious business of life^
and have now not only the retired leumre
but the hearty inclination to attend te
those great and important questions—
what I am? where I am ? and for what I
am destined ?

In that first concern, the conduct of the
man, there was ever but one side on which
I was habitually blameable, and there 1
have secured myself in the way pointed
out by Nature and Nature's God. I was
sensible that, to so helpless a creature at
a poor poet, a wife and family were en-
cumbrances, which a species of prudence
would bid him shun ; but when the alter-
native was, being at eternal warfare with
myself, on account of habitual follies to
give them no wore name, which no gene-
ral example, no licentious wit, no sophis-
tical infidelity, would to me, ever justi^

LETTERa

135

I must hftTO been a fooA •^ hare hesita-
ted, and a madman to have made another
choice.

In the affair of a livelihood, I think my
self tolerably secure : I have good hopes
of my farm; but should they fail, I have
an excise commission, which on my sim-
ple petition, will at any time procure me
bread. There is a certain stigma affixed
to the character of an excise officer, but
I do not intend to borrow honour from any
profession ; and though the salary be com-
paratively small, it is great to any thine
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 ^uess, my reverend
and much-honoured friend, that my cha-
racteristical trade is not forgotten. I am,
if possible, more than over an enthusiast
to the Muses. I am determined to study
man, and nature, and in that view inces-
santly ; and to try if the ripening and cor-
rections of years can enable mo to pro-
duce 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 imagination, or partly put
in execution, I shul impart to you when
I have the pleasure of meeting with you :
which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall
have about the beginning of March*

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with
which yon were pleased to honour me,
yon must still allow me to challenge ; for
with whatever unconcern I give up my
transient connexion with the merely great,
I cannot lose the^atronizing notice of the
learned and good, without the bitterest
regret.

No. LXVII.
FROM THE REV. P. CARPRAE.

2d Jan. 1789.

SIR,

Iw you have lately seen Mrs. Dimlop,
of Dunlop, you have certainly heard of

the author of the verses which accompa-
ny this letter. He was a man highly re-
spectable for every accomplishment and
virtue which adorns the character of a
man or a christian. To a great degree
of literature, of taste, and poetic genius,
was added an invincible modesty of tem-

Ser, which prevented in a great degree,
is figuring in life, and confined the per-
fect knowledge of his character and ta
lonts to the small circle of his chosen
friends. He was untimely taken from us^
a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory fe-
ver, in the prime of life — ^beloved by aU
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lament
ed by all who have any regard for virtue
and genius. There is a wo pronounced
in Scripture against the person whom all
men speak well of; if ever that wo feL
upon the head of mortal man, it fell upon
him. He has left behind him a consider-
able number of compositions, chiefly ^
etical, sufficient, I imagine, to make a
large octavo volume, m particular, two
complete and regular tragedies, a farce
of three acts, and some smaller poems on
different subjects. It falls to my share,
who have lived in the most intimate and
uninterrupted friendship with him from
my youth upwards, to transmit to you the
verses he wroteon the publication of your
incomparable poems. It is probable ihef
were his last, as they were foimd in his
scrutoire, folded up with the form of a let-
ter addressed to you,iind, I imd^ne were
only prevented from being sent by him-
selr, by that melancholy dispensation
which we still bemoan. The verses them-
selves I will not pretend to criticise when
writing to a gentleman whom I consider
as entirely qualified to judge of their me
rit. They are the only verses he seems
to have attempted in the Scottish style ;
and I hesitate not to say, in general, that
they will bring no dishonour on the Scot
tish muse ;— and allow me to add, that,
if it is your opinion they are not unwor-
thy of the author, and will be no discre-
dit to you, it is the inclination of Mr
Mylne's friends that they should be im
mediately published in some pcriodicai
work, to give the world a specimen of
what may be expected from his perform-
ances in the poetic line, which, perhaps,
will be afterwards published for the ad-
vantage of his family.

I must beg> the favour of a letter from
you, acknowledging the receipt of this :

19t

and to be altowed to
with gremt rogmrd,

BuTi your mort obedient tenrant,

P. CABFRAE.

LETTER&

No. LXVni
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

EllUlandy 4ih J^archy 1789.

Here am I, my honoured friend, re-
tained safe from the capital. To a man
who hai a home, however humble or re-
mote—if that home is like mine, the scene
of domestic comfort — the bustle of Edin-
burgh will soon be a business of sicken-
mf disfust.

«■ Vtfa poap ud glwyor tUi irorid, I bate yoa.*'

When I must skulk into a comer, lest
the rattling equipage of some gaping
blockhead should mangle mc in the mire,
I am tempted to exclaim — " Wliat merits
has he had, or what demerit have I had,
in some state of pre-cxistrnce, 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 mo-
narch (in Spain I think it was,) who was
so out of humour with the Ptolemean sys-
tem of astronomy, that he said, had he
been of the Creatqk's council, ho could
have savttd him a great deal of labour and
absurdity. I will not defend this blas-
phemous speech; but often, as I have
glided with humble stealth through the
pomp of Prince's street, it has suggested
Itself to me, as an improvement on the
present human figure, that a man, in pro-
portion to bis own conceit of his conse-
quence in the world, could have pushed
out the longitude of his common sizp, as
a snail pushes out his horns, or as we
draw out a perspective. This trifling al-
teration, 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
tossingthe head and tiptoe-strutting,would
evidently turn out a vast advantage, in
enabling us at once to adjust the ceremo-
nials in lOaking a bow, or making way to
d great man, and that too within a second
4Df the precise spherical angle of reverence,
c^ an inch of the particular point of re-
Mpccifal di5tance, wbicb ihe \m^t\Aikl

creature itself requires ; u a meunniif
glance at its towering altitade would de
termine the afiair like iroitinct^

Your are right. Madam, in year idea
of poor Mylne*s poem, wbdch he has ad-
dressed to me. The piece has a good
deal of merit, but it has one great fault
^t is, by far, too long. Bmdes, my
success has encouraged such a shoal of
ill-8paw*ned monsters to crawl into public
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets,
that the very term Scottish Poetry bor-
ders 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 vrith
my own matters, else I would have re-
quested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic
performances ; and would have offered
his friends my assistance in either select-
ing or correcting what would be proper
for the press. What it is that occupies
me so much, and perhaps a little oppress-
es my present spirits, shall fill up a pa-
ragraph in some future letter. In the
mean time, allow me to close this epistle
with a few lines done by a friend of mina
* * * *. I give you them, that, as yoo
have seen the original, you may gnem
whether one or two alterations I have
ventured to make in them, be any real
improvement.

Like the fatr plant that from oar toacbwitlidiivi,
Shrink, mildJv fearful, even from applanae.
Be all a mother's funde«t hope can dream,
And all you are, mj charming * * * *, weai,
Straight as the foxglove, ere herbelb disdose,
Mild as the maiden -btttshing hawtbmn btowi,
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind,
Your form shall be the image of your mind ;
Your manners shall so true your soul ezprem.
That all shall long to know the worth they turn-
Congenial hearts shall greet with klnired Iftf,
And 9n» ilck'niog tnvy must approve.*

No. LXIX.
TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE

1789

REVEREND SIR,

I DO not recollect that I have ever
felt a severer pancf of shame, than on
looking at the datcof your obligingf letter
which acoompanied Mr. Mylne's poem.

* Tbeae bnatiful Unca, we have reason m bcli^T«,
are the production of the lady to whom this WUcr b ad
E.

LETTERS. 137

No. LXX.

« 1^ ♦ «

TO DR. MOOR£

I tm much to blame: the honour Mr. Ellitland, 23d JtfiircA, 17W.
Mylne has done me, greatly enhanced m

its value by the endearing though me- ®"^

lancholy circumstance of its bcmg the Ths gentleman who will deliver you
last production of his muse, deserved a this is a Mr. Nielsen, a worthy clergy-
better return. man in my neighbourhood, and a very

particular acquaintance of mine. Ab I
I have, as you hint, thought of sending have troubled him with this packet, I
a copy of the poem to some pftriodici3 ™ust turn him over to your goodness, to
publication ; but, on second thoughts, I recompense him for it in a way in which
am afiraid that, in the present case, it ^e much needs your assistance, aiid where
would be an improper step. My success, Y^t can effectually serve hun :— Mr. Niel-
perhapaasmuchaccidentalasmerited, has son is on his way for France, to wait on
brought an inundation of nonsense under ^^ Grace of Quccnsberry, on some little
the name of Scottish poetry. Subscrip- business of a good deal of unportance to
tion bills for Scottish poems have so him, and he wishes for your mstructions
dunned, and daily do dun, the public, that respecting the most eligible mode of tra-
the very name is in danger of coniempt. velUng, &c. for him, when he has crossed
For these reasons, if publishing any of the channel. I should not have dared to
Mr. Mybe's poems in a magazine, &c. ^akp this liberty with you, but that I am
be at all prudent, in my opinion, it cer- told, by those who have the honour ot
Uinly should not be a Scottish poem, yo"^ personal acquaintance, that to be i!
The profits of the labours of a man of po^r honest Scotchman, w a letter of re-,
ircnius are, I hoi)e, as honournblo as any commendation to you, and that to have it
profits whatever; and Mr. Mylnn's rela- in your power to serve such a character
tions are most justly entitled to tliat ho- gives you much pleasure,
nest harvest wliich fate has denied him-
self to reap. But let the friends of Mr. * *
Mylne*s fame (among whom I crave the u i j j .
honour of ranking myself) always keep The enclosed ode is a compliment to the
in eye his respectability as a man and mcmw^ of the late Mrs. **♦*►, of *•**••
at a poet, and take no measure that, be- **• , You, probably, knew her personally,
ibre the world knows any thing about an honour of which I cannot boast ; but
him, would risk his name and charac- ^ spent my early years in her neighbour-
tcr being classed with the fools of the hood, and among her servants and tenants,
^im^g. I know that she was detested with the

most heartfelt cordiality. However, in

• ' r V the particular part of her conduct which

,. l ***^®' 7*^: '^"*® cxpenence of pub- roused my poetic wrath, she was much

lishmg, and the way m which I would ^^^^ blameable. In January last, on my

proceed with Mr. Mylne's poems is this: ^oad to Ayrshire, I had put up at BaiUe

I would publish in two or three English whigham's in Sanquhar, the only tole^

and Scottish public papers, any one of his ^^j^ j^^ j^ tl^c pi^ce. The frost was

English poems which should, by private ^^^0^ ^nd the grim evening ami howling

judges, be thought the most excellent, wind were ushcrincr in anight of enow and

and mention it, at the same tune, as one jrift. My horse and I were both much fa-

of the productions of a Lothian farmer, Hgy^^^ with the labours of the day ; and

of respectable character, lately deceased, j^g^ ^, j^y friend the Bailie and I were

whose poems his friends had it m idea to bidding defiance to the storm, over a

publish soon, bysubscription, for the sake smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pa-

^[ ^^ n"me!;o^»8 family :— not m pity to gcantry of the late great Mrs. *♦***♦, and

that fannly, but in justice to what his p^^r I am forced to brave all the horrors

• friends thmk the poetic ments of the de- of the tempestuous night, and jade my

ceased; and to secure, i^ the most cffec- j,orse, my young favourite horse, whom I

tual manner, to those tender connexions, h^^ just christened Pegasus, twelve miles

whose right it is, the pecuniary reward farther on, through the wiidofit moors and

•f tboso menta hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the

13t

next inn. Thepoweraof poeayindproM
■ink under me, when I would deMribe
what I felt. Suffice it to hbt, that when
a good fire at New Cumnock, bad lo fv
recovered my f'roien eiaewa, I aat duwu
■nd wrote the enclosed ode.*

T wu at Rilinburgh lateljr, and settled
finally with Mr. Creech ; and I must own,
that, at last, he h*a be«n amicable and
Ail with me.

EUitbuid, id April, 1789.
I WILL make no excosea, my dear
KbIiopoluB (God foroiTo me for murder-
ing language,) that 1 have eat down to
write you on thii vile paper.

It ia economy, Sir; it is that cardinal vir-
tue,prudeiice; so I beg you will sit down,
and either compoee or borrow a panegy-
ric. If you are going to borrow, apply to

i pIea«arMi i

joyi and pIea«arA| where the Mmny
exposure of plenty, and the hot walla of

firofuaioo, produce those blissful fruits of
uxury, exotica in this world, and nsiivei
of Paradiae I— Thou withered sjbii, my
aage conductress, usher me into the re-
fulgent, adored presence 1 — The power,
Slendid and potent as he now is, was once
elpuling aursliDg of thy &itliful cue
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, tby
cousin, thy kinsman or favourite, and ab-
jure the god, by the scenes of his infant
years, no longer to repulse me as a tb^ji-
ger, or an ahen, but to favour me with
hie pecuhar countenance and protection!
He daily bestows his greatest kindnesKS
on the undeserving and the worthlen —
BSBure him that I bring ample doeuuenti
of meritorlotis demerits! Pledge younelT
for me, that for theclorious cause ofLn-
CRB I will do any thing — be any thin?—
but the horse-leech of private oppreasioii,
or the vulture of publio robbery !

fint to descend from heroic^

to compose, or rather to compound some-
thing very clever on my remarkable fru-
gality ; that I write to one of my most
esteemed friends on this wretched paper.
which was originally intended for tne ve-
nal fiat uf some drunken exciseman, to
take dirty notes ia a miserable vault of
ao ale-ceQar.

OFnigahtyl thou mother of ten thou-
nnd blessings — thou cook of fat beef and
^nty greens — thou manufacturer of
warm Shetland hose, and comfortable
■urtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning
thy decayed stockings with thy ancient
spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me,
hand me, in thy clutching, paUiad fist, up
those heights, and through those thickets,
hitherto inacccBsible, and impervious to I
my anxious, weary feet ; — not those Par- I
naMiaa crags, bleak and barren, where I
the hungry worshippers offarnearebfBath- |
Ies8,clambering, hanging between henven I
and hell; but those glittering cliffs of Po-
tosi, where the all-sufficient, all-powerful
deity, Wealth, holds his immediate conrt I

■Tii«0iiaaiciandiiiiiwp(iiu«4iBFiNBi,p.g|.B. I When I grow richer I will write to yoo

I want a Shakspeire ; I want likewiseu

English Dictionary — Johnson's I suppote
" ' ' In these and all my prose con-
the cheapest is always the bat
There is a small debt of honour
that I owe Mr. Robert Cleffhoni, in
Saughton Mills, my worthy fnend, and
your well-wisher. Please give him, tad
urge him to take it, the first time youiee
liira, ten shillings worth of any thing yoa
iiave to sell, and place it to my account.

The library scheme that I mentioned
to you is already begun, under thft direc-
tion of Captain Riddel. Tfaer« is ano-
ther in emulationof it going on at Close-
burn, under the auspices of Mr. Uonteith
tf Closebam, which will be on a greater
.<icale than oura. Capt. R. gave his in-
fant society a {p^at many of his old books,
wise I had wntten yon ou that subject:
' ""' "" s of these days, I shall trouble you
iL communication for "The Monk-
Friendly Society ;"— a copy of 7X*
^ptcltUor, Mirror, and iMvnger ; JSan tf
Fetling, Man of tkt World, GWAi-i'c'*
Oeograpkiral Onunmar, with some reti-
;.'bus pieces, will likewise he our first
ordar.

LETTERS.

130

ft, to make amenda fbr this sheet.
It erery guinea has a five guinea
ith,

My dear Sir,
aithful, poor, but honest friend.

R. B*

No. LXXII.
ro MRS. DUNLOP.

EUUland, 4ih ApHl, 1789.

sooner hit on any poetic plan or
t I wish to send it to you : and
ig and reading these give half
ire to you, that communicating
ou gives to me, I am satislied.

a poetic whim in my head, which
nt dedicate, or rather inscribe,
jht Hon. C. J. Fox : but how
fancy may hold, I cannot say.
the first lines I have just rough-
as follows.*

SOth current I hope to have the
' assuring you, in person, how
1 am —

No. Lxxm.

MR. CUNNINGHAM.
EllUlcmd, 4tk J^ay, 1789.

i duty-free favour of the 26th
eceived two days ago ; I will

perused it with pleasure ; that
Id compliment of ceremony ; I
;, Sir, with delicious satisfaction
:, it is such a letter, that not you

friend, but the legislature, by
proviso in their postage-laws,
nk. A letter informed with the
iendship is such an honour to
ture, that they should order it
and egress to and from their

Dags and maOs, as an enosuragement 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 Wlu
out pretty earlv in the fields sowing some
grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot
from a neighbouring plantation, and pre
sently 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 thev all
of them have young ones. Indeed there
is something in that business of destroy
ing, for our sport, individuals in the ani
mal creation that do not injure us mate
rially, which 1 could never reconcile to
my ideas of virtue.

s eopied tbe Fragmtiii loieribed to C J.
p. 81.
X2

On seeing a Fellow vtound a Hare ioiih a
SM, ApHly 1789.

Inhumui mui ! cune on thy barb*rooi art.
And blAflied be thj marder-iiiming eye :
May never pity aoolb tbee with a ligta,

Nor ever pleasure thtd tby cmel heart !

Go live, poor wanderei of the wood and field
The bitter little that of Hfe remains :
No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains^

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted (brm,
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed,
Tbe sheltering rushes whistling o*er thy head,

Tbe cold earth with thy blood-stainad bosom warm

Perhaps a mother*s anguish adds Its wo ;

Tbe playful pair crowd fondly by thy vide ;

Ah ! helpless nurslings, wlio will now provlda
That life a mother only can bestow.

Oft as by winding Nlth, I, musfaig, wait
Tbe sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
ni miss thee sporting o*er the dewy lawn.

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy iMp
lessftte. .

Let me know how you like my poem
I am doubtful whether it would not be an
improvement to keep out the last stanza
but one altogether.

d— ^ is a glorious production of the
Author of man. You, he, and the noble
Colonel of the C P are to me

*' Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my faeast"

I have a good mind to make verses on j6%k
all, to the tune of " Three gwd fellov
ayont the glen*"

FROM DR. GREGORY,
fdin&ur^, 3(1 Jvat, ITS 9.

I TAKE the first Iciaans hour I could
comtDBnd, to thank you for your letter,
and the copy of vcrsca enclosed in it. As
there ig red poetic merit, I mean both
fancy and tenderness, and some happy ex-
pression)) in theiu, I think they well de-
eer»e that you should revise l\vm care-
fully and poliah them to the utmost. ThiK
1 am sure you can do if you please, for
you have great command both of expres-
tion and of rhymes : and you may judjjr
from the two lost pieces of Mrs, Ilunter's
poetry, that I gave you, how much cor-
rectneKft and hijfh poliith eubtijicc Ihc va~
luc of such compositions. As you de^iirc:
it, I aliall, with great freedom, give you
my mnit r^ruu*criticisinB on your verses, ,
I wish you would give me another edition
of them, much amended, and I will send
it to Mrs. Hunter, who I om sure will have
much pleasure in reading it. Pray give
me likewise for myself, and her too, a copy
(as much amended as you please) of the
Water Foul on LocK Turil

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good
subject; but the measure or atnnza you
have chosen for it, is not a good one; it
does notjfcio well; and the rhyme of the
fourth line is almost lost by its distance
from the first, and the two interposed,
close rhymes. If I were you, 1 would put
it into a diSereut stanza yet.

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first
two lines are loo strong or coarse; but
they may pass. " Murder-aiming" is a
bad compound epithet, and not very in-
telligible. " Blood-stained," in stanza iii.
line 4, has fne same fault ; lileeding ha-
Bom is infinitely better. You have ae-
cuslomcd yourself to such epithets and
have no notion how sliiFand quaint they
appear to others, and how incongruous
with poetic fancy and tender aentiments.
Suppose Pope had written, " Why that
blood-stained bosom gored," how would
you have liked it ? Furm is neither a po-
etic, nor a dignified, nor a plain common
word : it is a mere sportsman's word i un-
suitable to nathetic or serious poetry.

" Mangled" is a coane Tord. " Inno-
cent," in this tense, ia a nuPKry word,
hut both may pass.

Stanza 4. "Who will now provide that
life a mother only can bestow.'" will not
do at ail : it is not grammar — it is not Ie-
telligible. Do you mean, " provide for
that life which the mother bad bestowed
and used to provide for?"

There was a ridiculona dip of the poi,
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in
the title of your copy of verses ; but even
fellow would be wrong ; it is but a collo-
quial and vulgar word, unsuitable to your
sentiments. " Shot" is improper too.— On
seeing a perton (or a sportsman) wound *
hare; it is needless to add with whii.
weapon; but ifyou think otherwise, yoa
shoulr say, aitk ajbating piece.

Let me see you when you come to town,
and I will show you some more of Mn
Hunter's poems,*

TO MB M'AULEY,.OP DDMBABTON.
Ath June, 1789.

Tiionr.n I am not without my fean

rejecting my fate, at that grand, univer-
sal inquest ol' right and wrong, commonly
called The Lntt Day, yet I trust there ii
one sin, Which that arch vagabond, S<tan,
who 1 understand is to be kuig's evidence,
cannot throw in my teeth, I mean ingra-
titude. 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
[be debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever
warmly remeiilber Che obUgntion. It give*
oie the sincerest pleasure to hear, by my
old acquaintance, Mr. Komcdy, that yon

man be idmltuJ, tbnt ihli c/jiiclim I* dM aon
JlHtniutibcd bf >>• |wd ""—• ■''■" '•y "* f ": •* •"
im ccnmoajr. II Ii Impuoible ml to ■mile ml Ibl
■nner In which the po«l mar b« Bapposod to havi i*-

" l>t. G

itorDr O

iln, " I be
bdl, illuiIlHdSTlli, " I biHm* tM
i» he proflied b^ UH«a eritklmu, ■
rl br conipirlni Uw flm ediilna ot
ibki piece wlUi Ebil pabliabtd ia p K> oTtbernHna.

inmuntil Allan's I&ngutf^, " Hile
eel, and livings" uid that ^onr
ag fuiiily are well, and promising-
n amiable and respectable addition
company of performerB, whom the
Manager of the drama of Man ie
\g into action foi the succeeding

li respect to my welfare, a subject
:h you once wariuly and etTectivelf
ted yourself, -I am here in my old
lolding my plough, marking the
1 of my com, or the health of ray
and at times sauntering by the de-
[ windirigaof theNiCh, on the mar-
which 1 have built my humble do-
praying for leasonable weather,
ins an intrigue with the muses, the
psies with whom I have now nny
•ursc. As I am entered into the
ate of matrimony, 1 trust my face
ed completely Zion-ward ; and as
rule with all honest fellows to re-
1 grievances, I hope that the little
licenses of former days will of
fall under the oblivious influence
e pood-nalurcd statute of celestial
ption. In my family devotion,
like a good presbyterian, 1 occa-
f give to my household folks, I am
lely (bndof the psalm, "Let not the
of my youth," &.C. and that other,
children are God's heritage," Sic. ;
:h la.1t, Mrs. Bums, wlio, hy the
■ a glorious " wood-note wild" at
old song or psalmody, joins me with
JioB of Mandct's Messiah.

No. LXXVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

EllUlmd, SIff /UM, 1789.

^iLi. you take the eOVisions, the
ble eAisions, of low spirits, inet aa
jwfrcm theirbitterspring? tknow
any particular cause for this worst
ny foes besetting me. but for some
DT Mul has been beclouded with a
ung atmosphere of evil imagina-
ind gloomy presages.

BRS. HI

Xonday Ettmng. .

1 have just heard • • • • ^y« g

aermon. He is a man famous for his be
nevolence, and I revere him i but frolk
9Uch ideas of my Creator, goo4 Lord, de ^
liver me? Religion, my honoured friend

the ignorant and the learned
the poor and the rich. That there is an
incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom
I owe my existence, and that be must be
intimately acquainted with the operatioos
and progress of the internal machinery,
and consequent outward deportment of
this creature which he has made : these
are, I think, self-evident propoeitions.
That there is a real and etemal distinc-
tion between virtue and vice, and conse-
quently, that I am an accountable crea-
ture ; 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, J think, be allowed hy
every one who will give himself a mo-
ment's reflection. I will go farther, and
BtUrm, that from the sublimity, exceUence .
and purity, of his doctrine and precepts .
unparalleled by all the aggregated wis -
dom and learning of many preceding ages,
though, to apptarancr, he himself was the
obscurest, and most illiterate of our spe-
ciesi theiefoTO Jesua Christ waa fiom
God.

Whatever mitigates the woes, or ir.
creases the happiness of others, this is my
criterion of goodness; and whatever '»•
jures society at large, or nay individttfc
m it, this is my measure of iniquity.

What think you. Madam, of my creed i
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 appro
bation of my own mind.

No. LXXVII.

FROM DR. MOORE.

Clifford Street, 10(A Jme, 178S.
sSAKita,
1 THAXK you for the dilTbrent coin
miuiic&tions you hava mads me o' yom

14S

LETTERS.

x>ccmtion&! p?oductionfl in manuscript, all
of which have merit, and some of them
merit of a different kind from what ap-
jMars in the poems you have published,
^^ou oujrht carefully to preserve all vour
occasional productions, to correct and im-
prove them at your leisure ; and when
you can select as many of these as will
make a volume, publish it either at Edin-
burgh or London, by subscription : on
such an occasion, it may be in my power,
as it is very muoh in my inclination, to be
of service to you.

If I were to offer an opinion, it would
be, that, in. your future productions, you
should abandon the Scottish stanza and
dialect, and adopt the measure and lan-
guage of modern English poetry.

The stanza which yon nse in imitation
of Christ kirk an the Gfreen, with the tire-
some repetition of ** that day," is fatiguing
to English cars, and I should thmk not
very agreeable to Scottish.

All the fine satire and humour of your
Hofy Fair is lost on the English ; yet,
without more trouble to yourself, you
could have conveyed the whole to them.
The same is true of some of your other
poems. In your Epistle to J. S. ',

the stanzas, from that beginning with this
line, " This life, so far's I understand,'
to that which ends with — " Short while
it grieves," are easy, flowing, gayly phi-
losophical, and of Horatian elegance—
* the language is English, with a/eto Scot-
tish words, and some of those so harmo-
nious as to add to the beauty ; for what
poet would not prefer gloaming to hoi"
light?

I imagine, that by carefully keeping,
and occasionally polishing and correcting
those verses, which the Muse dictates,
you will, within a year or two, have ano-
ther volume as lar^e as the first, ready
lor the press : and this without diverting
you from every proper attention to the
study and practice of husbandry, in which
I understand you are very learned, and
which I fancy you will choose to adhere
to as a wife, while poetry amuses you
from time to time as a mistress. The
former, like a prudent wife, must not show
ill-humour, although you retain a sneak-
ing kindness to this agreeable ^psy, and
pay her occasional visits, which in no
manner alienates your heart from your
lawful spouse, but tends on the contrary,
to promote her interest.

I desired Mr. CadeU to write to Mr
Creech to send you a copy of Zelueo
This perfi)rmance has had great sncce»
here ; but I shall be glad to have your
opinion of it, because I value your opinion,
and because I know you are above sty-
ing what you do not think.

I beg you will offer my best wishes to
my very good friend, Mrs. Hamilton, who
I understand is your neighbour. If she
is as happy as I wish her, she is happy
enough. Make my compliments also to
Mrs. Burns : and believe me to be, with
sincere esteem,

Dear Sir> yoniB, &c

No. Lxxvm.

PROM MISS J. LITTLE.
Loudon House^ 12th Juiy^ 1789

SIR,

Though I have not the happineii of
being personally acquainted with yon, yet,
amongst the number of those who have
read and admired your publications, miy
I be permitted to trouble you with this.
You must know. Sir, I am somewhat ii
love with the Muses, though I ctnoot
boast of any favours they have deigned to
confer upon me as yet ; my situation in
life has been very much against me as to
that. I have spent some years in and
about Eccelefechan (where my parents re-
side,) in the station of a servant, and am
now come to Loudon House, at present
possessed by Mrs. H : she b daugh-
ter to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, whom I un
derstand you are particularly acquainte<l
with. As I had the pleasure of perusing
your poems, I felt a partiality for the au-
thor, which I should not have experienced
had you been in a more dignified station.
I wrote a few verses of address to yon
which I did not then think of ever pre-
senting ; but as fortune seems to have fa-
voured me in this, by bringing me into a
family, by whom you are well known and
much esteemed, and where perhaps I naf
have an opportunity of seeing you, I shalt
in hopes of your future friendship, take
the liberty to transcribe them.

Fair ft' the luiMit ntHk iwain
TiM pridt o* •* Mr Beottliii plaia.

LETTERS.

143

fWfl «f Jny to bear tlij Mraia,
' AndnoCMiMfWMt:
uomj** ■hade reriv^d ■gain
In thee we greet.

TiMHa, that delightfal noat,
d lang shut up ai a recltiae i
■he did her aid refuse,

Binee Allan'aday;
■mi aroee, tlien did she ehuaa

To graee his laj.

ir thy aaiif all ranks desire,
eel you strike the donnant \jn ;

I with poetic lire

Thy hreastdoci warm ;
ritks sileotly admire

Thy art to ebann.

and Luath weel can speak,
ty e*er their gabs should steek,
to homan nature keek,

And knots unravel :
ir their lectures once a week.

Nine miles I'd travel.

sdiention to 6. H.

CO hoonie haroespon qieech,

Inaome glee the heart can teach

A better lesson,
lerrile bards, who fawn and fleech

Like beggar's messon.

slighted lore becomes your theme,
omen's fkithtess vows you Mame ;
10 much pathos you exdaim.

In your Lament ;
lac'd by the most frigid dame,

She would relent.

lisy too, ye sing wl* skin ;
eel yt praise the whisky gin ;

I I bfauit my feckless quill,

Your fame to raise ;
echo sounds from ilka hill.
To Buma*s praise.

Idison or Pope but hear,
n, that critic most severe,
gbboy sing with throat sae clear

They, in a rage,
woika would a* in pieces tear.

And curse your page.

Dlton*s eloqvienee were (Unt,
MUrties of your verse to paint;
le onpolish'd strokes but taint

Their brilliancy:
tempt would doubtless vei • saim^

And weel may thee.

isk rn drop— with heartshieere
aven present my humble pray*r,
Jl the blessings mortals share,

May be by turns
ii*d by an Indulgent cars,

ToSobtrtBomal

Sir, I hope yoQ wifi pardon my boIdoMi
in thifl, my hand trembles whfle I write
to you, conscious of my unworthiness of
what I would most earnestly solicit, viz.
your favour and friendship ; yet hoping
you will show yourself possessed of as
much generosity and good nature as will
prevent your exposing what may justly
be found liable to censure in thm menr
sure, I shall take the liberty to subscribe
myself,

Sir,
Your most obedient, humble servant,

JANET LITTLE.

P. 8. If voif would condescend to4i^
noor me with a few lines from your hand.
I would take it as a partioukr favour ;
and direct to me at Loudon House, near
Oaliton*

No. LXXIX.

FROM MR.'

London^ Bth AtiguH^ 1789
mr BEAR SIR,

•

Ezcuss me when I say, that the un-
common abilities which you possess must
render your correspondence very accept-
able to anv one. I can assure yoii I am
particulazly proud of your partiality, and
shall endeavour, by every method m my

Eower to merit a continuance of your po-
teness.

When yon can spare a few moments, I
should be proud of a letter from you, di-
rected for me, Gerard-street, Soho.

I cannot express my happiness soffi-
dently at the instance of vour attachment
to my late inestimable mend. Bob Fer-
gnsson,'*' who was particularly intimate
with m3r8elf and relations. While 1 re-
collect with pleasure his extraordinary
talents, and many amiable qualities, it a
fords me the greatest consolation that •
am honoured with the correspondence o.
his successor in national simplicity and

genius. That Mr. Bums has refined it
leartofpoetry, must readily be admit

O Tbf^ tlSCtlOII of a BMBBIDSlU lOhlBk

lU LETTERS.

lei ; dat notwitheUndiiiK nanr fkvonn- ahall m

There wtu such e. richncra of conver-
■ation, Buch & plenitude nf fine; and iX-
tHction in him, that when 1 roll the hap-
py period of our intercounie to my memo-
ry, 1 feel myself in t. stiito of delirium. I
wu then youDTcr than him by eight ~
ten years, but hia •"-"-"- — - -" '"'■':

IB so fclici-

around him, and intuacd i

of the young and the old the spirit an

animation which operated on nis ow

I am. Dear Sir, yonn, &c.

TO MR. •*"*.
Jn onBuer to tht/oregomg.

Th« hurry of a fanner in this parti
cular season, and the indolence of a poet
at all times and BcaaonB, will, I hope,
plead my excuse for neglectin(r ho long to
answer your obliging letter of the 5tb of
August.

That you ha»o done well in quitting
your laborious concern in **** I do not
doubt : the we'ghty reasons you mention
were, I hcpe, very, deservedly, indeed,
weighty ones, and your health is a mat-
ter of the last importance : but whether
the remaining proprietors of the paper
have also done well, is what I much doubt.
The ■•♦*, 80 far BB I was a reader, ojihi-
bited such a brilliancy of point, such an
elegance of paraftraph, and such a variety
of inteliigenco, that I can hardly conceive
it poBsibte to continue a daily paper in the
same degree of excellence ; but, if there
was a nan who had abilities equal to the
task,' that man's oEsistanco the proprie-
tors have lost.

When I received yonr letter, I was
transcrihine for **•*, my letter to tha ma-
gistrates of the Canongatc, Edinburgh,
begging their permission to place a tomb-
stone over poor Fergusson, tind their edict,
in consequence of my petition, but now I

grave, which I trust there is .
be a good God presiding over all nature,
which I am sure there is, thou ait now
enjoying existence in a glorious woiii,
where worth of the heart alone is ditfine-
tian in the man ; where riches, depiiied
of all their pleasure-purchasine poven,
return to their native sordid matter:
where titles and honour are the disre-
garded reveries of on idle dream ; inJ
where that heavy virtue, which is the aa-
gativeconscquencc of steady dulneM, and
those thoughtless, though oAen deEtroe-
tivc follies, which ore tha nnavoidaUs
aberationa of frail human nature, will bt \
thrown into equal oblivion u if they had .
never been. I

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as ynr I

present views and Beh«nes are concto- I
tred in an aim, I shall be glad to heir
from you ; as your welfare and happinev

is bv no means a subject indifferent to i

YcHin,&c. I

No. LXXXI.
TO UISS WILLLUI3

17W.

HADIH,

Of the many problems in the nature

of that wonderful creature, Man, this ii
one of the most cxtrnordinary, that be
shall go on from day to day, from week to
week, from month to month, or perhifa
from year to year, suffering a aundnd
times more in an hour from the impotot
consciousness of neglecting what ve
'Uf^ht to do, than the very doinff of it
ould cost him. I am deeply indebted
to you, first for a most ele^nt poetic
ipliment ;* then for a polite obligiDg
letter ; and lastly, for your excellent po-
n the Slave-trade ; and yet, wretch
that I am ! though the debts were debU
of honour, and the creditor a lady, I hare
put off, and put off, even the very acknow-
ledgment of the obligation, until yoomot
indeed be the very angel I tako you Ibr,
f you con forgive me.

Your poem I have read with the higb-
«at pleasure. I have a way, whenever I

LETTERS.

145

book, I mean a book in our own |
tfadam, a poetic one, and when it
wn property, that I take a pencil
rk at the ends of verses, or note
^ins and odd paper, little criticisms
obation or disapprobation as I pe-
DBg. I will make no apology for
mg you with a few unconnected
ta that occurred to me in my re-
perusals of your peem. I want to
ou that I have honesty enough to
a what I take to be truths, even
bey are not quite on the side of
ition ; and I do it in the firm faith,
u have equal greatness of mind to
em with pleasure.

I lately the honour of a letter from
ore, where he tells me that he has
i some books. They are not yet
) hand, but I hear they are on the

ling you all success in your pro-
1 tue path of fame ; and that you
ually escape the danger of stum-
irough incautious speed, or losing
through loitering neglect.

I have the honour to be, &c.

No. LXXXII.
BOM MISS WILLIAMS.

1th August, \1Q9.

I SIR,

not lose a moment in returning
sincere acknowledgments for your
and your criticism on my poem,
is a very flattering proof that you
$ad it with attention. I think your
yna are perfectly just, except in
tance.

have indeed been very profuse of
ric on my little performance. A
ess portion of applause from you
bave been gratifying to me ; since
its value depends entirely upon
rce from whence it proceeds — the
\ of praise, like other incense, is
rrateful from the quality than the
y of the odour.

>e you still cultivate the pleasures

of poetry, which are precions, even inde-
pendent of the rewards of fame. Perha^
the most valuable propertv of poetry is
its power of disengaging the mind n'om
worldly cares, and leadmg the imagina-
tion to the richest springs of intellectual
enjojrment; since, however frequently lifo
may be chequered with gloomy scenes,
those who truly love the Muse can always
find one little path adorned with flowexs
and cheered by sunshine.

>» >» * *

No. LXXXin.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

ElUtland, eth SepU 1789.

DEAR If ADABff,

I HAvx mentioned, in my last, my
appointment to the Excise, and the birth
of little Frank, who, by the by, I trust
will be no discredit to the honourable
name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly
countenance, and a figure that might do
credit to a little fellow two months older ;
and likewise an excellent good] temper,
though, when he pleases, he has a pipe,
only not quite so loud as the horn that nis
immortal namesake blew as a signal to
take out the pin of Stirling bridge.

I had some time ago an epistle, part
poetic, and part prosaic, from your poet-
ess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious but
modest composition. I should have writ-
ten her, as she requested, but for the hur-
ry of this new business. I have heard of
her and her compositions in this country ;
and I am happy to add, always to the ho-
nour 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-writinff ; and except
when prompted by friendship or gratitude,
or, which happens extremely rarely, in-
spired 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 meet melan-
choly concern for the state of your mind
at present.

Would I could write you a letter of
comfort ! 1 would sit down to it with Mt
mucb pleuure u I would to write ui
Epic poem of my own composition th«t
■houtd equal the Jliad. Roligion, mj
denr friend, ifl the true comfort. A Uron^
perauaeion in a future state of existence ;
a prapositioD so obviously probable, that,
eclling revelation aside, eveiy nation and
ncuplc.so far as investigation has reached,
for at least near fourthousandye&rs, have
n some mode or other firmly believed it.
In vain would we reason and pretend to
doubt. I have myself done so to a very
dirinf^ pitch : but when I reflected that I

I opposing the Inost ardent wishes.

■nii flying ir
II ages, 1

all human belief,
la shocked at my own con-

I know not whether I have ever sent
you the foUowinf lines, or if you have
ever seen them ; out it is one of my fa-
vourite quotations, which I keep cod-
slaDtEy by me in mj progreaa through
life, in the Unguafo of the book of Job,

" A(alu< ibg dir of biuli and dt ww"-

■poken of religion.

■"Til fU(, DT Mend, Ihtttmskii oor mornlBfbricfat,
'TliUfilhil|llilatlHilMrn»M'ouTn1|tht.

When friend! irg filUiUH. or wImb Rh punua ;

I have been very busy with Zeluco.
The Doctor is so obliging' a« to request
ray opinion of it i and I nave been revolv-
ing in ray mind eome kind of criticiama
on novel-writinr, but it is a depth bejrond
my reeeSTch. 1 shall, however, digest
my thoughts on the subject as well as I
can. Z^tuco is a most sterling perform-

Farewell: i>ieu, U bon Duu,j* tout

No. Lxxxrv.

FROU DR. BLACELOCE.

Edinburgh, 24U Augvtty 1190.
De^k Burns, thou brother of my beart,
Both for thy virtues and Ibj ail;

If art it may be caB'd in tBee,
Which nature's bounty, large and frM>
With pleasure on thy breast diflvaes.
And warms thy soul with all the MoMi.
Whether to laugh with easy gnee.
Thy numbers move the sa^'a &ce,
Or bid the softer passion rise.
And ruthleaa souls with grief anrprue,
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt,
Through thee her o^an, thus to Belt.

Host anxiously I wish to know,
With thee of late how matters go ;
How keeps thy much-loved Jeas ba

health?
What promises thy &rm of wealth?
Whether the muse persists to smile, ,
And all thy anxious cares beguilef
Whether bright fancy keeps alive?
And how thy darling infants thrive?

For me, with grief and sicknees spot,
Since 1 my journey homeward bait,
Spirits dcpreaa'd no more I monni,
Bat vigour, life, and health retoni,
No more to gloomy thoughts a pny,
I steep all night, and live alt day:
By tuma my book and friend enjoy.
And thus my circling hours employ!
Happy while yet these hours remain
If Bums could join the cheerful train,
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent,
Salute once more his humble servant,
TUO. BLACKLOCK.

TO DR. BLACKU>CK>-Sm Turn,
p. 81.

No. LXXXVI.
TO R. GRAHAM. ESQ. OF FIKTBT-
OADtetwAtr.im.

I RAVE a ffood while had a wUI*
trouble you witn a letter, and had cv-
tunly done it era now — hut fbr a hi»-
Uating something that throws cold wiUc
on the resolution, as if one sbonid mj, '
" Vou have found Mr. Graham a verr
powerful and kind friend indeed ; asa '
that interest he is so kindly taking in yotf |
concerns, you ought, by every thing is '•
your power to keep alivs and chaiiik*

LETTERS.

147

ongh since Grod hw thought pro-
lake one powerful and another
, the connexion of obliger and
is all fair ; and though my being
our patronage is to me highly ho-
e, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter
that as a poet and an honest man,
it interested yourself in my wel-
1 principally as such still, you per-
to approach you.

3 found the excise-business go on
deal smoother with me than I ex-
owing a good deal to the gene-
endship of Mr. Mitchell, my col-
and the kind assistance or Mr.
5r, my supervisor. 1 dare to be
and 1 fear no labour. Nor do I
hurried life greatly inimicaf to
respondence with the Muses,
isits to me, indeed, and I believe
of their acquaintance, like the
good angels, are short and far j
I ; but I meet them now and then
r through the hills of Nithsdale,
[ used to do on the banks of A3nr.
;he liberty to enclose you a few
es, all of them the productions
leisure thoughts in my excise

i know or have ever seen Captain
le antiquarian, you will enter into
lour that is in the verses on liim.

you havo seen them before, as
them to a London newspaper.

I dare say you have none of the
eague-and-covenant fire, which

conspicuous in Lord George
and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet
ou must have heard of Dr. M*Gill,
le clergymen of Ayr, and his he-
ook. God help him, poor man !
he is one of the worthiest, as well
>f the ablest of the whole priest-
tha Kirk of Scotland, in every
' that ambiguous term, yet the
ctor and his numerous family are
lent danger of being thrown out
ercy of the winter-winds. The

1 bauad on that business is, I con-
local, but I laughed myself at

»nceits in it, though I am convin-
my conscience that there are a
ny heavy stanzas in it too. '

election ballad, us you will see,
othe present canvass in our string
fifhs. I do not believe there wiD

^ y

be such a hard-ran match in the whole
general election.*

I am too little a man to have any po-
litical attachments ; I am deeply indebted
to, and have the warmest veneration for,
individuals of both parties ; but a man
who has it in his power to be the &ther
of a country, and who ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
is a character that one cannot speak of
with patience.

Sir J. J. does ** what man can do ^' but
yet I doubt his fate.

No. Lxxxvn.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

EUuland, 13th Deetmher^ 11Q9.

Mant thanks, dear Madam, for year
sheetful of rhymes. Though at present
I am below tne veriest prose, yet from
you every thing pleases. I am groaning
under the miseries of a diseased nervous
system ; a system, the state of which is most
conducive to our happiness— or the most
productive of our misery. For now near
three weeks I have been so ill with the
nervous head-ache, that I have been oblig-
ed to give up for a time my excise-booui,
being scarcely able to lift my head, much
less to ride once a week over ten muir

{>arishes. What is man ? To-day in the
uxuriance of health, exulting in the en-
io3rment of existence ; in a few days, per-
naps in a few hours, loaded with conscious
pamful being, counting the taidy pace of
the linfi^erin^ moments by the repercus-
sions ofanguish, and refusing or denied a
comforter, day follows night, and ni^t
comes after day, only to curse him with
life which gives him no pleasure ; and yet
the awfidf dailc termination of that life is
a somethmg at which he recoils.

** Tell iM, ye dead ; win none of you in pity
IHscIote Uie lecret

19^kat^titi,f0uar«t and we miut thartiif ht I

*Ufl no matter :

A little time wiU make ua learn*d ao yoa are.

*^ This alladea totba contest (br tlie borougb of Dum-
frlee, between the Duke of auaeoabiny'a Intanat and
that of Sir Jamei Johmlone. E.

^48

LETTERS.

Can it bo possible, that when I resign
this fraiU feveritfh being, 1 shall still find
niyseli* in conscious existence ! When the
last gasp of agony has announced that I
am no more to those that knew me, and
the few who loved roe ; when the cold,
Btifiened, unconscious, ghastly corse is re-
signed into the earth, to be the prey of
unsightly reptiles, and to become in time
a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in
life, seeing and seen, enjoying and en-
joyed? Ye venerable sages, and holy
flaniens, is there probabiUty in your con-
jectures, truth in your stones, of another
world beyond death ; or, are they all alike,
baseless visions, and fabricated fables ? 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 como ! Would to God I as
firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it !
There I should meet an aged parent, now
at rest from the many bufletinffs of an evil
world, against which he so long and so
bravely struggled. There should I meet
the friend, the disinterested friend of my
early life ; the man who rejoiced to see
me, because ho loved me and could serve
me. Muir ; thy weaknesses, were

the aberrations of human nature, but thy
heart glowed with every thing generous,
manly and noble ; and if ever emanation
fVom the All-good Being animated a hu-
man form, it is thine ! — There should I,
with speechless agony of rapture, again
recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary !
whose bosom was fraught with truth, ho-
nour, constancy,and love.

My Mary, dear departed ihade !

Where !■ tby place of heavenly real T
Seeet thou thy lover lowly laid ;

Uear*at tbou the groaas that read hia breaat?

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of charac-
ters ! I trust thou art no impostor, and
that thy revelation of blissful scenes of
existence beyond death and the grave, is
not one of the many impositions which,
time afler time, have been palmed on
credulous mankind. I trust that in thee
"shall all the families of the earth be
blessed," by being yet connected together
in a better world, where every tie that
bound heart to heart in this state of ex-
istence, shall be, far beyond our present
conceptions, more endearing.

•

I am a good deal inclined to think with

nervous affections are in fact diseases of
the mind. I cannot reason, I canont
think ; and but to you 1 would not ven-
ture to write any thing above an order to
a cobbler. You have Mi too much of the
ills of life not to sympathize with a dis-
eased wretch, who is impaired more than
half of any faculties he possessed. Your
goodness will excuse this distracted
scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely
read, and which he would \hTow into the
fire were he able to write any thing bet-
ter, or indeed any thing at all.

Rumour told me something of a son of
yours who was returned from the East w
West-Indies. If you have gotten news
of James or Anthony, it waa cruel m yoa
not to let me know ; as I promise yoa on
the sincerity of a man who is weary of
one world and anxious about another,
that scarce any thing could ^ive me so
much pleasure as to hear or any good
thing befalling my honoured friend.

If you have a minute's leisure, take bp
your pen in pity to le pauwre mi»erM$'

No. LXXXVin.

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR.

SIR,

TiiK following circumstance has, 1
believe, been omitted in the statistical ac-
count transmitted to you, of the parish of
Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to
send it to you, because it is new, and nny
be useful. How far it is desennng of a
place in yoiir patriotic publication, yoo
are the best judge.

To store the minds of the lower classes
Mrith useful knowledge is certainhf of teiv
great importance,, both to them as indi-
viduals, and to society at large. Giving
them a turn for reacting and reflection, is
giving them a source ofinnocent ani laud-
able amusement ; and, besides, raises then
to a more dignified degree in the scale of
rationality. Impressed with this idea, a
gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddd,
Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot a species
of circulating library, on a plan so simple
as to be practicable in any comer of the
country ; and so useful as to deserve the

those who maintain, that what are called I notice of every country gentleman, who

LETTERS.

149

le improvement of tbat put of his
sies, whom chance has thrown in-
umble walks of the peasant and
an, a matter worthy of his atten-

Liddel got a number of his own
and farming neighbonrs, to form
^es into a society for the purpose
g a library among themselves,
tercd into a legal engagement to
it for three years ; with a saving
r two, in .case of a removal to a
, or of death. Each member, at
', paid five shiUings ; and at each
neetings, which were held every
atnrday, sixpence more. With
ry-money, and the credit which
>k on the &ith of their future
ley laid in a tolerable stock of
t the commencement. What au-
5y were to purchase, was always
by the majority. At every meet-
he books, under certain fines and
38, by way of penalty, yrere to be
I: and the members had their
f the volumes in rotation. He
ime stood for that night first on
had his choice of what volume he
n the whole collection ; the second
choice after the first ; the third af-
econd ; and so on to the last. At
eting, he who had been first on
it the preceding meeting was last
le who had been second was first ;
n through the whole three years,
xpiration of the engagement, the
rerc sold by auction, but only
ic members themselves ; and each
i share of the common stock, in
r in books, as be chose to be q
jr or not.

I hreaking up of this little soeie-
1 was formea under Mr. Riddel's
e» what with benefactions of
m him, and what with their own
s, they had collected together
of one hundred and fifty volumes,
sily be guessed, that a good deal
would be bought. Among the
►wever, of this httle library, were,
^ermoMy RobtrUon'* History of
Hume'i HUtory of the Stuarts^
latoTy Idler y Adventurer y Mirror y
, OhurveTy Man of Feeling, Man
orldy Chrysaly Don QmxoUey Jo'
Irewsy &c. A peasant who can
enjoy such books, is certainly a
lerior being to his neighbour, who
italks b^de his team, very little

removed, except in shape, from the brutos
he drives.*

Wishing your patriotic exertioiit tlirir
so much-merited success,

I am» Sir, yoor hnmble servaat,

A PEASAJrr.

No. LXXXIX.

TO CHARLES SHARPJ5, ESft.
OF HODDAM.

Under ajiditioui Signaiurey encloting a
haUady 1790, or 1791.

It is true. Sir, you are a geatleman
of rank and fortune, a^ I am a poor de«
vil ; you are a feather m the cap of sod
ety, and I am a very hobnail in lus shoes;
yet I have the honour to belong to the
same family with you, and oA that score I
now address yon. You will perhaps sns-
pect that I am going to claim aflSnity with
the ancient and honourable house of fiUl-
patrick : No,^no, Sir : I cannot indeed 6e
properly said to belong to any house, or
even any province or kmgdom, as my mo-
ther, who for many years was spouse t» a
marching regiment, gave me into this bad
world, aboard the packet boat, some^ere
between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. By
our common family, I mean. Sir, the fa-
mily of the Muses. I am a fiddler and a
poet ; and you, I am told, play an exqui-

* Thif lettar ii extracted from tira Ihlrd voloiiie of
Sir John Sinclair*! Statiitiea, p. 506.— It waa enckweit
to Sir John bj Mr. Riddel Umself, In the following fet-
ter, alao printed there.

" Sir John, I endoae yoo a letter, wrUtea by Mr
BamSf aa an addition to the account of Dunaeare parieli.
It containa an account 4kf a email library which he waa
■o good (at my dedre) aa to aet on Iboc, la the baronj,
ofMonkland, or Friar's Cttae, In thia pariah. Aa ila
utility Jbaa been felt, particularly among the fovager
claas of people I think, that if a similar plan were ea-
UbNihed in the diflhrant parishes ofScotlaod, It would
tend greaUy to the speedy Improvement of the tenant-
ry, tradea-paople, and w<Nrk-pp(iile. HrfBamawasao
good as to take the whole charge of this small coacera.
Tie was trtasorer, librarian, and cenaor, to this ttttia
society, who will kmg have a grateAil seaae of hia pab> '
lie spirit and exertJona for their Improrement and !»•
formatton.

1 liavt the boDonr to be, Sir John,
Youia, meat aincerely,

ROBEET KIDDBL.**

To Sir Jttkm StNc/an* •/ Ultttr, BtarU

ISO LET1

■ite violin, and hftT« ■ itudarj tute In
the Belles Lettres. The other d&y, a
brother cat jut gave Die a charming Scots
airof vourcoDipoaition. If I was pleased
with the tune, I waa in raptures with the
title you have given it ; and, taking up
the idea, t have spun it into Ihree alaozas
enclosed. Will yon allow me. Sir, to
present you them, as (he dearest otTering
that a misbegottBn son of poverty and
rhyme has to pive i I have a longing to
take you by the band and unburden my
heart by saying — " Sir, 1 honour you as a
man who aunporta the dignity of humfiii
nature, amia an age when frit^olity and
avatice hav<e, between them, debased ub
below the brntca that perish I" But,
alas. Sir !' to me you are unapproachable.
It it true, the Muses baptized ine in Cas-
talian atreams, but tho thoughtless gip-
ijea forgot to ^ve aip a Name. As the
•ex have aerved many a good fellow, the
Nine have given we a grcnt deal of plea-
sure, but bewitching jarles! they have
beggared me. Womd they but spare me
a little of their cut hnsn! were it only
to put it in my power to say that 1 have
a snirton my back! But the idle wenches,
like Solomon's lilies, " ihey toil not
ther do they spini" So I must e'en
tinue to tie my renmant of a cravat, like
the hangman's rope, round my nakeil
throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep
together their many-coloured fragments.
As to the affair of shoest I have given
that up. — My pilgrimages in my ball ad -
trade from town to town, and on your
^ony-hcarted turnpikes too, are what not
even the hide of Job's Behemoth could
bear. The coat on mv hack is no more :
I shall DOt speak evil of the dead. U
would be equally onhandsome and un-
grateful to find fault with my old aurtout,
which BO kindly supplies and conceals the
want of that coat. My hat indeed is a
great favourite; and thouf;h I got it lite-
rally foranoldaong,! would not exchange
it for the beat bcavei in Britain. I was,
during several years, a kind of factotum
servant to a country clergymiui, where I
picked up a good many scraps oflcarning,
particuiariy in some brauf lie* of the ma-
thematics. Whenever 1 feel inclined to
rest myself on mj way, I take my seat
under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet
on my one aide, and my dddlc-case on the
other, and placing my hat between my
legs, I can by means of its brim, or' ra-
ther brims, go through the whole doctrine
of the Conic Sections.

However, Sir. don't \elmBin\B\Qa&30U.

as if I would interest yonr 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 inde-
pendent, and much more happy than a
monarch of the world. According totha
hackneyed metaphor, I value the aevenl
actors m the great drama of life, simply
as thev act their parts. I caji look uia
worthless fellow of a duke with unquali-
fied contempt ; and cut regard an hooot
BCavenger with sincere respect. As yoo.
Sir, go through your roll with such di»
tinguiahed merit, permit me to make ona
in the chorus of universal applause, and
assure you that, with the higbest re^MC^
I have the honour to be, «c

No. XC.
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS.
Eliuland, lltk

17H

iHEANtotakeadvantageofthe&tak,
though I have not, in my present frame of
mind, much appetite for exertion in wri-
ting. My nerves aie in a **** sUte. 1
feel that horrid hypocondria pervading
every atom of both body and soul. Thii
farm has undone mv enjoyment of myadC
It is a ruinous afiair on all hands. Bol
let it go to**"! I'll fight it out and be (dT

We have ^tten a set of very deceit
players here just now. I have seen thin
an evening or two. David Campbell, in
Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of Ike
company, a Mr. Sutherland, who isamin
of apparent worth. On New-Year-dif
evening 1 gave hun the following pD-
lo^ue,* which be spouted to hie audieaM
with applause —

I can no more. — If once I waa cleat u
thia ***■ farm, I should respire more U

No. XCI.

TO MRS. DITNLOP.

EUulaiui, tsth January, 1790.
It has been owinsto unremitting
hurry of businesi that I nave not writleo

LETTERS.

151

to you. Madam, loug ere do w. My health
is greatly better, a^ 1 now begin once
more to share in satisfaction and enjoy-
laent with the rest of my fello.wH:reature8.

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend,
for your kind letters ; but why will you
make me run the risk of being contemp-
tible and mercenary in my own eyes ?
When I pique myself on my independent
spirit, I hope it is neither poetic license,
nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered
with the honour you have done me, in
making me your compeer in friendship
and friendly correspondence, that I can-
not without pain, and a degree of morti-
fication, be reminded of the real inequali-
ty between our situations.

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you,
dear Madam, in the good news of Antho-
ny. Not only your anxiety about his fate,
but my own esteem for such a noble,
wann-hearted, manly young fellow, in the
little I had of his acquaintance, has inter-
ested me deeply in his fortunes.

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the
Skipwrecky which you so much admire, is
Oo more. Afler witnessing the dreadful
catastrophe he so feelingly describes in
his poem, and after weathering many hard
galea of fortune, he went to the bottom
with the Aurora frigate ! I forget what
part of Scotland had the honour of giving
nim birth, but he was the son of obscurity
and misfortune.* He was one of those

* Falconer wai.hi'eArly life aiea- boy, to uie a word
#f Sbakipeare, on board a man-of-war, In which ca-
pttcity be auracted the notice of Campbell, the author
of tbe aatire on Or. Johnson, enUUed Lexipkttnes^ then
^rHer of the ihip. Campbell took him aa bii servant,
«ad delighted in giving him Instruction ; and when
Valeoner afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of him
as hie setiolar. The Editor had this Informaiion from
a sargeon of a man-of-war, hn 1777, who knew both
Gaoipbell and Falconer, and wholitmseif perished soon
aftar Igr atalpwroek on the coast of America.

TlMUgh the d^ath of Falconer happened so lately as
1770 ur 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr. An-
deraoo to his worlcs, In the complete ediUonof the Poet$
•/ Or*at Britam, it is said— "Of the ftmily, birth-
place, and education of William Fakoner, there are
no memorials.** On the authority already 'given, it
Bay be mentioned, tliat be wm ■ native of one of the
•owns on tbe coast of Fife: and that hif parents who
had suffered some misfortunes, removed to one of tbe
seft-ports of England, where tliey both died soon after,
•f an epideeklc fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a
bey, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of which
he entered on board a man-of-war. These lost cir
eamstances are, however Icaseertain. E.

daring adventurous spirits which Scotland,
beyond any other country, is remarkable
for producing. Little does the fond mo-
ther think, as she hangs delighted over
the sweet little leech at her bosom, where
the poor fellow may hereafler wander,
and what may be his fate. I remember
a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which
notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks
feelingly to the heart :

" LitUe did my mother think,

That day slie cradled ma.
What land 1 was to travel iq.

Or what death I should die !*

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a
favourite study and pursuit of mine; and
now I am on that subject, allow me to
give you two stanzas of another old simple
ballad, which I am sure will please you.
The catastrophe of the piece is a poor
ruined female lamenting her fate. She
concludes with this pathetic wish :

" O that my fktber bad ne*er on me smil*d ;

O that my mother had ne*er to me sung !
O that my cradle luul never been rock'd ;

But that I bad died when 1 was yoonf !

O that tbe grave it were my bed ;

My blankets were my winding sheet ;
Ttie doclcs and tbe worms my liedfbllowi a* ;

And O see sound as I should sleep !*'

I do not remember in all my reading to
have met with, any thing more truly the
language of misery than the exclaiiSation
in the last line. Misery is like love ; to
speak its language truly, the author must
have felt it. '

I am every day expecting the doctor to
give your little godson* the small-pox.
They are rife in the country, and I trem-
ble ror his fate. By the way I cannot
help congratulating you on his looks and
spirit. Every person who sees him ac-
knowledges him to be the finest, hand-
somest child he has ever seen. I am my-
self delighted with the manly swell of his
little chest, and a certain miniature dig-
nity in the carriage of his head, and the
glance of his fine black eye, wliich pro-
mise the undaunted gallantry of an inde-
pendent mind.

I thought to have sent you some rhymes,
but time forbids. I promise ^ou poetry
until you are tired of it, next time I have
the honour of assuring you how truly I
am, &c.

* Ttie bard's second son, Francis. R.

LETTERS.

No. XCII.

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM.

ftdth Jfumary^ 1790.

In some inftances it is reckoned un-
pardonable to aaote 9Xlj one's own words;
put the Tidue I have for your friendship,
nothing can more truly or more elcganUy
express than

*TiflW Int tlMtepranloB Mroacer makes,
Ai stnami ttwir chaimelfl deeper weer.**

Having written to you twice without
having heard from yon, I am apt to think
my letters have miscarried. My conjec-
ture is only framed upon the chapter of
accidents turning up against me, as it too
often doed, in the trivial, and, I may with
truth add, the more important affairs of
life ; but I shall continue occasionally to ,
inform yon what is going on among the |
circle of yopr friends in these parts. In
thesedaysof merriment, I have frequent-
ly heard yonr ntune proclaimed at the jo-
vial hoard — under the roof of our hospi-
table friend at Stenhousc-mills ; there
were no

•

" Liafering momenti numbered with' care.**

I saw your Addrui to the Jfew Year^
ra the Dumfries Journal. Of your pro-
ductions I shall say nothing ; but my ac-
quaintance allege that when your name
is mentioned, which every man of colebri-
(y must know oflon happens, I am the
champion, the Mendoza, against all snarl-
ing critics and narrow-minded reptiles, of
iniom a few on this planet do crawl.

With best compliments to your wife,
and her black-eyed sister, I remain

Yours, &c.

No. XCIII.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

. EUUland, \3th Fdtruary, 1790.

I BEG your pardon, my dear and much
valued friend, for writing to you on this
very nnfashionable, unsightly sheet—

" Mjr povert» but not my win coaeeiila.**

But to make amends, smce oa modish
post I have none, except one poor widow-
ed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my
drawer ambng my plebeian foolscap pagM»
like the widow of a man of •fashion, whom
that unpolite scoundrel, Necessity, has
driven from Burgundy and Pine-apple, to
a dislf of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing
help-mate of a village-priest ; or a glass
of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-noeed
yoke-follow of a foot-padding exciseman
— I make a vow to enclose this sheet-foil
of epistolary fragments in that my only
scrap of gilt paper.

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for
three friendly letters. I ought to have
written to you long ere now, but it is a
literal fact, I have scarcely a spare mo-
ment. It is not that I wUl not write to
you ; Miss Bumet is not more dear to her
guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke
of**'******* to the powers of **«♦ than
my friend Cunningham to me. It is not
that I cannot write to you; should yoe
doubt it, take the following fragment
which was intended for you some time
ago, and be convinced that I can anMe-
tize sentiment, and circumvokite periodi,
as well as any coiner of phrase in the re-
gions of philology.

December f 1789.

MT DVAR CUITlf INGHAM,

Where are you ? and what are you
doing P Can you be that son of levity who
takes up a friendship as he takes up a
fashion; or are you, like some other of
the worthiest fellows in the world, tbe
victim of indolence, laden with fetters of
ever-increasing weight ?

What strange beings we are ! Since we
have a portion of conscious ezistence,
equally capable of enjoying pleasure, hap-
piness, and rapture, or of sufiering pain,
wretchedness, and misery, it is surely
worthy of an inquiry whether there be
not such a thing as a science of life , whe-
ther method, economy, and fertOity of ex-
pedients, be not applicable to ci^oyment;
and whether there be not a want of dex-
terity in pleasure which renders our little
scantling of happiness still less ; und i
profusoncss and intoxication in blism
which leads to satiety, disgust, and selP
abhorrence. There is not a doubt bo!
that health, talents, character, decent
competency, respectable friends, aro retl

LETTERS.

153

flobitaiitial blessings ; and yet do wc not
daily see those who enjoy many or all of
these good things, contrive, notwith-
fltmndinff, to be as unhappy as others to
whose lot few of them have fallen: I be-
lieve one great source of this mistake or
nuscoDdnct is owing to a certain stimulus,
with us called ambition, which goads us
op the hill of life, not as we ascend other
eminences, for the laudable curiosity of
▼iewing an extended landscape, but rather
for the dishonest pride of looking down on
others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly
diminutive in humbler stations. Sic. &c.

Sundmfy Uth Fdrntary^ 1790.

God help me ! I am now obliged to
jmn

■f NiflK to day, and Sanday to thn week/'

Ifthere be any truth in the orthodox faith
of these churches, I am ***** past rcdcmp-
tkm, and what is worse, ***** to all eter-
idty. I am deeply read in Boiton^g Four-
find SkUej JUargfuU on SancHfication^ Oth
Ourit^B Trial qf a Samn^ InUrett^ &c. ;
bat ^ there is no balm in Gilead, there is
no physician there,** for me; so I shall
e*eii tnm Arminian, and trust to ** sincere,
though imperfect obedience.**

My time is once more expired. I wiU
write to Mr. Clcghorn soon. God bless
him and all his concerns. And may all
the powers that preside over conviviality
and friendship, be present with all their
kindest influence, when the bearer of this,
Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could
also make one. — I think we should be *

Finally, brethren, farewell! Whatso-
ever things are lovely, whatsoever thin^
are gentle, whatsoever things are chan-
tablc, whatsoever thin^ are kind, think
on these things, and thmk on

ROBERT BURNS.

Tuesday y \6th,

LucKTLT for me I was prevented from
the discussion of the knotty point at -which
I had just made a full stop. All my fears
and cares are of this world : if there is
another, an honest man has nothing to
fear from it. I hate a man that wishes to
be a Deist ; but, 1 fear every fair, unpre-
judiced inquirer must in some degree be
a Sceptic. It is not that there are any
very staggering arguments against the
immortality of man ; but like electricity,
phlogiston, d&c. the subject is so involved
m du'kness, that we want data to go upon.
One thing frightens me much : that we
are to live for ever, seems too good news
to be true. That we are to enter into a
new scene of existence, where exempt
ftom want and pain, we shall enjoy our-
selree and our friends without satiety or
separation^how much should I be in-
debted to any one who could fully assure
me that this was certain.

No. XCIV.

TO MR. HILL.

Ellisland, 2d J^arch, 1790.

At a late meeting of the Monkland
Friendly Society, it was resolved to aug-
ment their library by the following books,
which you are to send us as soon as pos-
sible : — 7%c Mirror, The Lounger, Man
of Feeling, Man of the World, (these, for
my own sake, I wish to have by the first
carrier,) Knox*s HiMory of the Reform
motion ; Rae's History of the Rebellion in
1715 ; any good History of the Rebellion
in 1745 ; a Display of the Secession Act
and Testimony^ by Mr. Gibb; Hervey's
Meditations; Beeerids^e's Thoughts; and
another copy of Wai^ton's Body of Dtri-
nity.

I wrote to Mr. A. Mastcrton three or
four months ago, to pay some money he
owed me into your hands, and lately I
wrote to you to the same purpose, but I
have heard from neither one nor other of
you.

In addition to the books I commission-
ed in my last, I want very much, An In-
dex to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment
of all the Statutes now in force relcUive to
the Excise, by Jellingcr Symons ; I want
three copies of this book : if it is now to
be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. An
honest country neighbour of mine wants,
too, A Famihf Bible, the larger the bet-
ter, but second-handed, for he does not

164 LETTERS.

choose to give above ten shillings for the know my national prejudicefl. I had (^«

book. I want likewise for myself as you ten read and admunsd the Speetaior^ M"

can pick them up, second-handed or cheap, venturer, /Zomdier, and World; but stiD

copies of Otroay't Dramaiic Workty B§n with a certain regret, that thev were so

Jonton's^ Dryden'sy Congr€ve*s^ Wycher- thoroughly and entirely English. Alas !

iey>, yarJburgtC8y Gibber's^ or any Dra- have I oflen said to myself, what arc aH

HMtic WorkM of the more modem, JUack- the boasted advantages which my coon-

Ufij Oarrick, Foote, Coleman, or Sheridan, try reaps from the union, that can coun-

A good copy too, of J^oliere, in French, terbalance the annihilation of her inde-

I much want Any other good dramatic pendence, and even her very name ! I of-

authors in that language I want also, but ten repeat that couplet of my favourite

comic authors chiefly, though I should poet, Goldsmith —
wish to have iZocme, Comeule, and F'ol-

taire too. I am in no hurry for all, or anv " Sutei of naUve liberty poMmM,

of these ; but if you accidentally meet with Tbo* very poor may yet be very bleH*d.**

them very cheap, get them for me.

Nothing can reconcile me to the com-

ness,

how

not so elegantly handsome, at least as ami- Hastings, impeached by " the Commons of

able, and smgs as divmely as ever. My England." TeU me, my friend, is this weak

good wife, too, has a charming " wood- prejudice? ITielieve in my conscience such

note wild ;" now could we four ideas as, " my country; her independence;

her honour; the illustrious names thit

* * * * mark the history of my native land;" &c

^ „ ...... ^ believe these, among your men of thi

I am out of all patience with this vile y^orldy men who in fact guide for the moit

world for one thmg. Mankind are by na- p^t and govern our world, are looked on

ture benevolent creatures. Except in a as so many modifications of wronghead-

few scoundrelly instances, I do not think edncss. They know the use of bawling

that avarice of the good things we chance out such terms, to rouse or lead the kab-

to have, is born with us; but we are ble; but for their own private use ; with

E laced here amid so much nakedness, and almost all the able Hatesmen that ever ex-

unger, and poverty, and want, that we isted, or now exist, when they talk of right

are under a cursed necessity of studying and wrong, they only mean proper and

selfishness, in order that we may exist ! improper, and their measure of conduct

Stm there are, in every age, a few souls, ig, not what they ought, but what they

that all the wants and woes of this life dare. For the truth of this 1 shall not

cannot debase to selfishness, or even to ransack the history of nations, but appeal

the necessary aUoy of caution and pru- ^^ ^ne of the [ablest judges of men, and

dence. If ever I am in danger of vanity, himself one of the ablest men that ever

It IS when I contemplate myself on this Uved— the celebrated Earl of Chester

kl^wfT][m?oTVnTV'hl^^^^ P'^* feeld. In fact, a man who could thorough-

S'JnTlll «nH pinrto^n^^^^^ ly coutrol his vicos wheuevor they iuL

on.f?^ !n^ T hZlI T 5^7 ' f ' ' ^ i^ "^ ^ fered with his interests, and who could
could, and 1 believe I do it as far as I can, 1*1 * *i.« ^ «.

I would wipe away all tears from all eyes ^PJ^P^^^^^y P"^ ^'^ *^,« appearance of every
Adieu! • ^^ virtue as often as it suited his purposes,

is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfed

man; a man to lead nations. But are

• great abilities, complete without a flaw,

and polished without a blemish, the stand-
No. XCV. ard of human excellence ? This is cer-
tainly the staunch opinion of men of the
TO MRS. DUNLOP. trorW ; but I call on honour, virtue, and

worth to give the styeian doctrine a loud
Ellielandj 1 9th April, 1790. negative ! However, this must be allowed,

that, if you abstract from man the idea of

I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured existence beyond the grave, then the true

friend, enjoyed a very nigh luxury, in measure of human conduct isprotperand

reading a paper of the Lounger . You improper .-Virtue and vice, as dispositions

LETTERS.

155

of tlio heart, ire, in that case, of scarcely
the same import and valae to the world
at large, as harmony and discord in the
modifications of sound; and a delicate
sense of honour, like a nice ear for music,
though it may sometimes give the pos-
sessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser
orgrans of the herd, yet, considering the
harsh gratings and inharmonic jars, in
this ill-timed state of being, it is odds but
the individual would be as nappy, and cer-
tainly would be as much respected by the
true judges of society, as it would then
stand, without either a good ear or a good
heart.

Yon must know I have just met with
the ^^rror and Lounger for the first time,
and I am quite in raptures with them ; I
should be glad to have your opinion of
some of the papers. The one I nave just
read Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more
honest tears than anv thing I have read
of a long time. M^Kenzie has been call-
ed the Addison of the Scots; and, in my
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at
the comparison. If he has not Addison's
SKquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes
him in the tender and pathetic. His Man
qf Feeling, (but I am not counsel-learned
in the laws of criticism,) I estimate as the
first performance in its kind I ever saw.
From what book, moral, or even pious,
will the susceptible young mind receive
impressions more congenial to humanity
and kindness, generosity and benevolence ;
in short, more of all that ennobles the
soul to herself, or endears her to others —
than from the simple, affecting tale of
poor Harley ?

Still, with all my admiration of M'Ken-
zie*s writings, I do not know if they are
the fittest reading for a young man who
is about to. set out, as the phrase is, to
make his way into life. Do not you think,
Madam, that among the few favoured of
Heaven in the structure of their minds

I for such there certainly are,) there may
»ea purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an
elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay,
in some degree, absolutely disqualifying
for the truly important business of mak-
mg a man's way into life. If I am not
much mistaken, my gallant voung friend,
A***** is very much under these aisquali-
fieations ; and for the young females of a
family I could mention, well may they
excite parental solicitude ; for I, a com-
mon acquaintance, or, as my vanity will
have it, an humble friend, have often trem*

V •

bled for a turn of mind whicn may render
them eminently happy— or peculiarly mi-
serable !

I have been manufacturing some verses
lately ; but as I have got the most hurried
season of excise-business over, I hope to
have more leisurl to transcribe any thing
that may show how much I have the ho-
nour to be. Madam, yours, dLC.

No. XCVI.
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM.
Edinburgh, 25<^ Jlfoy, 1789.

MT DEAR BURNS,

I AM much indebted to you for your
last friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall
make a part of the vanity of my com'
position, to retain your correspondence
through life. It was remarkable your in-
troducing the name of Miss Burnet, at a
time when she was in such ill health : and
I am sure it will ^eve your gentle heart,
to hear of her bemg in the last stage of a
consumption. Alas! that so much beauty,
innocence, and virtue, should be nipped
in the bud. Hers was the smile of cheer-
fulness— of sensibility, not of allurement ;
and her elegance of manners correspond-
ed with the purity and elevation of her
mind.

How does your friendly muse ? I am
sure she still retains her affection for you,
and that you have many of her favours in
your possession, which I have not seen.
1 weary much to hear from you.

I beseech you do not forget m

I most sincerely hope all your concerns
in life prosper, and that your roof-tree en-
joys the blessing of good health. All
your friends here are well, among whom,
and not the least, is your acquaintance,
Cleghom. As for myself, I am well, as
far as ♦***•♦* wiU let a man be, but with
these I am happy.

When you meet with my very agreea-

150

LETTERS.

ble friend, J. Sym^, jprivc him for me a
hearty squeeze, and bid Ood bless him.

Is there any probability of your being
soon in Edinburgh ?

No. XCVII.
TO DR. MOORE.
D%m/rie», Excite-ojffice, HihJvlyy 1790.

SIR,

CoMmG into town this morning, to
attend my duty in this office, it being col-
lection-day, I met with a gentleman who
tells me he is on his way to London ; so
I take the opportunity of writing to you, as
franking is at present under a temporary
death. I shall have some snatches of lei-
sure through the day, amid our horrid busi-
ness and bustle, and I shall improve them
as well as I can ; but let my letter be as
stupid as * ♦ * *, as
miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as
a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long
as a law paper in the Douglass cause ; as
ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or
as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre-
Mucker's answer to it — I hope, consider-
ing circumstances, you will forgive it ;
and, as it will put you to no expense of
postage, I shall have the' less reflection
about it. • .....

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning
you thanks for your most valuable present,
Zeluco. In fact you are in some degree
blameable for my neglect. You were
pleased to express a wish for my opinion
bf the work, which so flattered me, that
nothing less would serve my overweening
fancy, than a formal criticism on the book.
In fact, I have gravely planned a compa-
rative view of you, Fielding, Richardson,
and Sniollet, m your different qualities
and merits as novel-writers. This, I own,
betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may
probably never bring the business to bear ;
but I am fond of tlje spirit young Elihu
shows in the book of Job — " And I said,
1 will also declare my opinion." I have
quite disfigured my copy of the book with
my annotations. 1 never take it up with-
out at the same, time taking my pencil,
and marking with asterisms, parentheses,
&c. wherever I meet with an original
thought, a nervous remark on life and
manners, a remarkably well turned period

or a character sketched with mtcommon
precision.

Though I .shall hardly think of fairly
writing out Jny " Comparative View," I
shall certainly trouble you with my re-
marks, such as they are.

I have just received from my gentle-
man, that horrid summons in the book
of Revelation — '* That time shall be no
more !"

The little collection of sonnets hare
some charming poetry in them. If mdeed
I am indebted to the fair author for the
book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a
celebrated author of the other sex, I
should certainlv have written to the lady,
with my gratenil acknowledgments, and
my own ideas of the comparative excel-
lence of her pieces. I would do this last
not from any vanity of thinking that mj
remarks could be of much consequence to
Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own
feeling as an author, doing as I would be
done by.

No. XCVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Bth Aug. 1790.

BEAR MADAM,

Aftsr a long day's toil, plague, and
care, I sit down to write to you. Ask me
not why I have delayed it so long ? It was
owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty other
things ; in short, to any thing — ^but for-
getfulness of la plus amiable de «m test-
By the by, you are indebted your be«t
courtesy to me for this last compliment,
as I pay it from my sincere convictioo ot
its truth — a quality rather rare in com-
pliments of these grinning, bowing, scrap-
ing times.

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a
little my troubled soul. Sorely has it
been bruised to-day I A ci-devant friend
of mine, and an intimate acquaintance of
yours, has given my feelings a wound
that I perceive will gangrene danger-
ously e}^ it cure. He has wounded my
pride !

LETTERS.

157

No. XCIX.
I. CUNNINGHAM.
luland, Qth AuguH, 1790.

•

: me, my once dear, and ever

my secminff negligence.

it down and fancy the busy

n my goose feather to beat
an apt simile, and had some
1 country grannum at a fa-
ting; a bride on the mar-
e her marriage !

a tavern-keeper at an
icr ; &.C. &c. — but the re-
at'hits my fancy best, is that
liscrcant, Satan, who roams
roaring lion, seeking, gearch^
e may devour. However,
GLs I am, if I choose (and who
hoose) to bind down with
of attention the brazen foun-
egrity. I may rear up the
re of Independence, and, from
arrets, bid defiance to the
Q, And is not this a " con-
cvoutly to be wished ?'*

Independence, let me share;
e Uon-heartf and eagle-eye !
'bUow with mj boaom bare,
Jie itorm that bowls along the sky !

lesc noble verses ? They are
tion of SmolUVs Ode to Inde-
you have not seen the poem,
t to you. How wretched is
t hangs on by the favours of
To shrink from every dignity
le approach of a lordly piece
quence, who amid all his tin-
ind stately hauieur is but a
•med as thou art — and per-
/ell formed as thou art— came
d a puling infant as thou didst,
out of it as all men must, a

No. C.

Ihig letter expl^ns the feelings under
written. The strain of Indignant In-
some time longer In the style whleh our
A to indulge, and of whirh the reader
I so much. B.

FROM DR. BLACELOCK.

Edinburgh, IH September^ 1790.

How does my dear fhend, much I languish

to hear,
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear!
With love of the Muses so strongly still

smitten,
I meant this epistle in verse to have writ-
ten.
But from age and infirmity indolence flows.
And this, much I fear will restore me to

prose.
Anon to my business I wish to proceed,
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to

speeu,
A man of integrity, genius, and worth.
Who soon a performance intends to set

forth :
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free.
Which will weekly appear by the name

of the Bety
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan.
And hope you will give^what assistance

you can.
Entangled with business^ and haunted

with care.
In which more or less human nature must

share.
Some moments of leisure the Muses will

claim,
A sacrifice due to amusemtot and fame.
The Bee, which sucks honey from every

gay bloom.
With some rays of your genius her work

may illume.
Whilst the flower whence her honey spon-
taneously flows.
As firagrantly smells, and as vig*roasly
. .grows.

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to
conclude,

And add, your promotion is here under-
stood ;

Thus free from the servile employ of ex-
cise. Sir,

We hope soon to hear you commence Su-
pervisor ;

You then more at leisure, and free from
control.

May indulge the strong passion that reigns
in your soul ;

But I, feeble I, must to nature ^ve way.

Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey

From verses though languid my thoughts
must unbend,

Though still I remain your affectionate
friend,

THO, Bl.^C¥AAC,V..

xxTBAC-r or A lbttm
PROM MR. CUNNINGHAM.
KdMmrgh, 14th October, 1190.

I tiTKLT received ■ letter from onr
fHend B**'" .—what a chBrming fel-
low lOHt to Mciety — born to great expec-
Utions— with superior abilities, a pure
heart, and untainted morals, hie fate in
life has been hard indeed — still I nm per-
suaded he ii happy: not liLe the gallant,
the gay Lothario, but in the Himplicily of
rur J enjoyment, unmixed with rceret at
the remembrance of " the days of other

I iaw Mr. Dunbar put under the coffer
of your newspaper Mr. Wood's poem on
Thomaoa. This poem has suggeated an
idea to roe which you alone are capable
to execute — a aong adapted to eocAaeaBon
Oftheyear. Thetaakis difficult, but the
theme ia charming : should you aucceed,
I will undertake to pet new mijsic worthy
of the subject. What a fine field for
your imagination 1 and who is there alive
can draw so many beauties from Nature
and pastoral imafjery as yourself? It is,
by the way, aurprising, that there does
Dot exist, BO far as I know, a proper long
fbi each scoBon. We have songson hunt-
ing, fishing, skating, and one autumnal
•ong, Harnett Home. As your Muse is
neither spavined nor rusty, you may mount
the hill of Pnrnassue, and return with a
■onnet in your pocket for every season.
For my Buggestions, if I be rude, correct
me 1 if impertinent, chastise me ; if pre-
suming, despise me. But if you blend all
my weaknesses, and pound out one grain
of insincerity, then I am not thy

Faithful Friend, &.C.

No. CII.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

JVownifeer, 1790.

" Ab cold waters to a thirsty soul, so it
good news from a far country."

LSTTER8.

Fate haalongowedme a letter of goon
aews from you, in return for the many
tidings of sorrow which I have received.
In Ihia instance I moat cordially obey the
ipoatle — "Rejoice with them that do re-
joice," — for me (o ting for ^of , is no new
thing; but (o preach for joy, as I haie
done in the commenceiDent of this epis-
tle, is a pitch of extravagant raptoiele
which I never roee before-

I read your letter — I literally jumped
for joy — How could auch a mercurial
creature as a poet lumpisbly keep hia teat
an the receipt of the beet news from hit
best friend .' I seized my gilt-heided
Wangee rod an instrument indispeiiBablj
aecesaary in my lefl hand, in the momeiit
>f inspiration and rapturs ; and stride,
stride — quick and quicker — out skipped
I among tbe broomv banks of Nith, to
mnse over my joy by retail. To ke»p
within the bounds of prose was imposn-
ble. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, hot
not a more sincere compliment, to tb
sweet little fellow, than I, extempore, al-
most, poured out to him in tbe foUomng
veraea. See Pocmt, p. 74 — On Iht Birt*
^ a fotthvmout Child.

I am mnch flattered by your approba-
tion of my Tarn o'Shanier, which you e*.

press in your fornici letter ; though, by
the by, you load me in that said letter
with accusations heavy and many; to all
which I plead not gvtUy ! Your book is.
I hear, on the road to reach me. As to
printing of poetry, when you prepare ii

for the press, you have onlv to spell
■,ght, and place the capital '-"

I have a copy of Tarn o'SkauUr ready
to send you by the first opportunity : it ■•
too heavy to send by post.

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in
consequence of your recommendation, i>
most lealoue to aerve me. Please fcvonr
me soon with an account of your go«i
folks ; if Mrs. H. is recovering, and ths
young gentleman doing well

LETTERS.

No. cm.

MR. CUNNINGHAM.

llislandy 23d January, t791.

happy returns of the season to
ear friend ! As many of the
\s of this life as is consistent
sual mixture of good and evil
of being !

ist finished a poem, which you
e enclosed. It is my first les-
way of tales.

9r these several months been
; at an elegy on the amiable
plished Miss Burnet. I hav§
n get no farther than the fol-
^ment, on which please give
rictures. In all kinds of poetic
1 1 set ^eat store by your opi-
in scntunental verses, in the
he heart, no Roman Catholic
)re value on the infallibility of
'ather than I do on yours.

the introductory couplets as

lear from you soon. Adieu !

No. crv.

MR. PETER HILL.

nth January, 1791.

these two guineas, and place
lorainst that **♦**♦ account of
;h has gagged my mouth these
months ! I can as little write
as apologies to the man I owe

O the supreme curse of ma-
ruineas do the business of five !

labours of Hercules ; not all
s' three centuries of Egyptian
}re such an insuperable busi-
an *♦***♦♦♦ task ! Poverty !
stcr of death, thou cousin>ger-

y after this were coplM the flnt fix
^1^7 given in p. 89, of the Poeraa.

man 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 prac-
tice of every virtue, laden with years and
wretchedness, 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 man of sentiment, whose heart
glows with independence, and melts with
sensibility, inly pines under the neglect,
or writhes in bitterness of soul under the
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth.
Oppressed . by thee, the son or erenius,
wnose ill-starred ambition plants him at
the tables of the fashionable and polite,
must see in suffering silence his remark
neglected, and his person despised, while
shdlow jneatness, m his idiot attempts at
wit, shaU meet with countenance and ap-
plause. Nor is it only the fSunilv of worth
that have reason to complain of thee, the
children of folly and vice, though in com-
mon with thee the offspring of evil, smart
equally under thy rod. Owin^ to thee,
the man of unfortunate disposition and
neglected education, is conaemned as a
fool for his dissipation, despised and shun-
ned as a needy wretch, when his follies,
as usual, bring him to want ; and when
his unprincipled necessities drive him to
dishonest practices, he b 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. Hu
early follies and extravagance are spirit
and fire; his consequent wants are the
embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and
when, to remedy the matter, he has gain-
ed a legal commission to plunder distant
provinces, or massacre peacefiil nations,
he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils
of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and
respected, and dies a ***•♦* ^nd a lord.
Nay, worst of all, alas, for helpless wo-
man ! the needy prostitute, who has shi-
vered at the corner of the street, waiting
to earn the wages of casual prostitution, it
lefl neglected and insulted^ ridden down by
the chariot-wheels of the coroneted Rip,
hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she
who without the same necessities 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 evacuations

No. CV.
FROM A. F. TVTLER, ESQ.

Edmburgk, IStA Mawth, 1791.

Mb. Hill jetAetdvj put into mf
huida a sheet of Grote't AnUtjmlUM, con-
taining a poem of yoMit cntiUed, T^m
o'Shanler, a tale. The very high plea-
■nre 1 have received from the peruMl of
this ndmiroblo piece, I feci, demands the
wanncet ochiiowlcdgnieDtB. Hill tells me
be is to send offa packet for jou this day ;
I cannot resist, therefore, putting on pa-
per what 1 must have told ;ou in person,
had ! met with you after the recent peru-
sal of your talc, which is, that 1 feel I owe
you a debt, which, if undischarged, would
reproach me with ingratitude. I have
•eidom in my life lasted of higher enjoy-
ment from any work of genius, than I
have received from this composition : and
I am much mistaken, if this poem sJone,
' had you never written another eyllahlc,
would not have been sufficient to have
transmitted your name down to posterity
with high reputation. In the introducto-
ty part, where you paint the character of
your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-
house iiffle, with his tippling cronies, yoo
have di'lineated nature with a humour and
naivcU that would do honour to Matthew
Prior; but when you describe the infer-
nal orgies of the witches' sabbath, and
the hciliKli scenery in which they are ex-

have exceeded. I know not that I have
ever met with a picture of more horrible
&Dcy than the following :

■■ Cofllni noad round Uh< oi«n prtMo,

But when I came to the succeeding lineS)
my blood ran cold within me ;

1 fuher'iUiniwhUtiuniled,

And here, after the two followine lines,
" Wi' mair o' horrible and awfn'," &.c- the
descriptive pari might perhaps have been
better closed, Ibaii the four lines which
succeed) which, though good in them-

selves, yet aa tbey done aB tfarir mait
from tiie satire they conlaiB, kra Iwre ra-
gthe ■

pure horror.*
young witch, is most lupph lietiibrf
the eSect of her channs czubited in tlN
dance on Satan himaelf— tte Bpostiophc
" Ah ! bttle though tlqr nrwmai giBC-
nie !" — the transport of Tarn, who ler.
fBta hia situation, and eatters completely
mto the spirit of the ecene, aie ul fe«-
turea of high merit in this excellent cob-
poaitioD. The only faolt that it poaess-
cs, is, that the winding up, or conelnaiw ■
of the story, is not Gommensurate to tbt
interest which is excited by the duuis-
tivc and characl eristic punting of tM
preceding parts. The prepantficRi is fat,
but the result is not adequate. But tn
this, perhaps, yon have a i
you stick to the popular U

And now that I have got ont my mind
and feel a little relieved pf the weight ol
that debt I owed ypu, let me end tUt de-
sultory scroll, by an advice: you havs
proved your talent for h species of com-
position in which but a very few of out
own poets have succeeded — Go on — writs
more tales in the same style — yon wil
eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for wiUi
equal wit, equal power of numbers, and
equal jiaivtte of expression, you have *
bolder, and more vigorous Lmagination-
I ara, dear Sir, with much etiecra
Yours, &o

NO.CTI.

TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ.

aiB,
Nothing less than the unibrtniitlB
accident I have met with could have pre-
vented my grateful acknowledgments lor
your letter. His own favourite poem,
and that an essay in a walk of the moMi
entirely new to him, where consequently
his hopes and fears were on the mod
anxious alarm for his success in the at-
tempt : to have that poem so much ap-
plauded by one of the first jndffes, w*i
the- moat delicious vibration t£at svei

• Qu Bud proSicd by Uc. Tjtlv*! iilllilMi. nl

LETTERS.

161

trilled along the heart-Btrings of a poor
poet. However, Provideocc, to keep up
the proper proportion of evil with the
good, which it seems is necessary in this
aublonary state, thought proper to check
my exultation by a very serious misfor-
tune. A day or two after I received your
^tter, my horse came down with me and
broke my right arm. As this is the first
service my arm has done me since its dis-
aster, I find myself unable to do more than
just in generid terms to thank you for this
additional instance of your patronage and
friendship. As to the faults you detected
m the piece, they are truly there : one of
them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I
shall cut out : as to the falling off in the
catastrophe, for the reason you justly ad-
duce, it cannot easily be remedied. Your
approbation. Sir, has given me such ad-
ditional spirits to persevere in this species
of poetic composition, that I am already
revolving two or three stories in my fan-
cy. If I can bring these floating ideas to
bear any kind of embodied form, it will
give me an additional opportunity of as-
suring vou how much I have the honour
to be, »c.

No. GVII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

ElUilandy 1th February, 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 wri-
tinj?, you will allow that it is too good an
apology for my seemingly ungrateful si-
lence. 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 over I mentioned
to yon my having an idea of composing an
elegr on the late Miss Burnet of Mon-
lioddo. I had the honour of being pretty
well acquainted with her, and have sel-
dom felt so much at the loss of an ac-
quaintance, as when I heard that so ami-
able and accomplished a piece of God's
works was no more. I have as yet gone
no farther than the following fragment,
of which please let me have your opinion.
You know that elegy is a subiccl so much

exhausted, that any new idea on the busi-
ness is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we
can place an old idea in a now light. How
far 1 have succeeded as to this last, you
will jlidge from what follows : —

{HerefoUowed the Elegy, as given in the
Poems, p. 82, with this additional verse .*)

The parent's heart that nestled fond In tbee,
That bean bow lunk, a prey to grief and care t

So deck*d tbo woodbine sweet yon aged tree,
So from it ravish*d, leaves it bleak and bare

I have proceeded no further.

Your kind letter, with your kind rAnem-
brance 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 I have of a
long time seen. He is now seventeen
months old, has the small-pox and measles
over, has cut several teeth, and yet never
had a groin of doctor's drugs in his bow-
els.

I am truly happy to hear that the " lit«
tic floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair,
and that the ^* mother plant" is rather re-
covering her drooping head. Soon and
well may her " cruel wounds" be healed !
1 have written thus far with a good deal
of difficulty. When I get a litUe abler,
you shall hear farther from.

Madam, yours, d&c.

No. cvin.

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE,

Acknowledging a present of a valuable
Snuff-box , with a fine picture of Mabt,
Queen of Scots, on the Lid,

MT LAor,

Nothing less than the unlucky ac-
cident of having latiely broken my right
arm, could have prevented me, the mo-
ment I received your Ladyship's elegant
present by Mrs. Miller, irom returning
you my warmest and most grateful ac-
knowledgments. I assure your Ladyship
I shall set it apart ; the symbols of religion
shall only be more sacred. In the mo-
ment of poetic composition, the box shall
be my inspiring genius. When I would
breathe the comprehensive wish of bene-

169 LETTERS.

Tolence for the happ ness of othen, I shall ver^ soon to bring to the jpnsii & new

recollect your Ladyship : when I would edition (long since talked of; of Mchaei

interest my fancy in the distresses inci- Bruce* sPoemt, Theprofitsof the edition

dent to humanity, I shall remember the are to go to his mother— a woman of eifffa-

unfortunate Mary. ty years of a^e — poor and helpless. Ths

poems are to be published by subscription ;

and it may be possible, I think, to make

No. CIX. ^^^ ^ ^^* ^^* ^^ ^''* volume, with the as-
sistance of a few hitherto unpublished

TO MRS. GRAHAM verses, which I have got from the mother

* of the poet,
or riifTRT.

MADAM, But the design I have in view in wri-

Whether it is that the story of our ^? ^« y^"; \^''\ "^T^^ ^ "^5"? y°"

Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar ef- of these facts, it ui to sohcit the aid of your

feet on the feelings of a poet, or whether 5^ « »»d P^?' "^ ^^PP^^ ?^ ^,b« ^^^:

I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded ^he reputation of Bruce is already high

beyond my usual poetic success, I know !"i^ ^^T^ '^^^er of classical taste, and

not; but it has pleased me beyond any ^^^^^ \^. «^^»«"« J^ fiT"*^^ J^V^ ^'

effort of my muse for a good while past; °^«^>n& ^'^ character, by allowmg any

on that account I enclose it particulsrly Efw poems to appear that may lower it

toyou. It is true, the purity of my mo- ^^^^^^^ purpose the MSS. I am in P<»-

tivw may be suspected. I am already session of, have been submitted to the re-

deeply indebted to Mr. G 's goodness ; vision of some whose critical talents I can

and what, in the usual toays of men. is of J'"^J *«' "^^ ^ ""^^ «^ ^ "^^"^ ^*»

infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can ^^ otners.

do me service of the utmost importance ^^y I beg to know, therefore, if yoQ

m time to come. I was born a poor dog ; ^ju ^^^^^ t^^ trouble of perusing the MSS.

and however I may occasionally pick a _of giving your opinion, and suggesting

better bone than I used to do, I know I ^j,at curtailments, alterations, or amend.

must live and die poor ; but I will mdul^e ^ents, occur to you as advisable ? And

the flattering faith that my poetry will ^^ y^^ ^\q^ ^g ^o let it be known, that

considerably outlive my poverty ; and, ^ f^^ ijugg by you wiU be added to the

without any fustian affectation of spirit, volume ^

I can promise and affirm, that it must be

no orainary craving of the latter shall I know the extent of this request It

ever make roe do any thing injurious to is bold to make it. But I have this oon-

the honest fame of the former. What- solation, that though you see it proper to

ever may be my failings, for failings are a refuse it, you will not blame me for hav-

part of human nature, may they ever be ing made it ; you will see my apology in

those of a generous heart and an inde- the motive,

pendent mind ! It is no fault of mine that

I was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. May I just add, that Michael Brace ii

6 's chiefest praise that he can com- one in whose company, from his past ap-

mand influence ; but it is his merit to be- pearance, you would not, I am convinced,

stow, not only with the kindness of a bro- blush to be found ; and as T would submit

ther, but with the politeness of a gentle- every line of his that should now be pob-

man ; and I trust it shall be mine to re- lished, to your own criticisms, you would

ceive with thankfulness, and remember be assured that nothing derogatorv, either

with undiminished gratitude. to him or you, would be admitted in that

• appearance he may make in future.

^ Qxr You have already paid an honourable

tribute to kindred genius, in Fer^sson ;

FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. ^ f?.°^^y ^^P^ *^** the mother of inice

will expenence your patronage.

g,j, ' ^' I wish to have the subscnption-papers

circulated by the 14th of March, Bruce^

T TROUBLE you with this letter to in- birthday, which I understand some friends

form you that I am in hopes of being able in Scotland talk this year of observing-'

LETTERS.

163

it will be resolved, I imagine,
ilain humble stone, over his
is at least I trust you will
-to furnish, in a few couplets,
n for it.

points may I solicit an answer

)088ible ? a short delay might

8 in procuring that relief to

which is the object of the

be pleased to address for me
to the Duke of Athole, Lon-

pose of clearing a little the vlitaof
spection.

70 you ever seen an engrav-
ed here some time ago, from
poems, " O thou pale Orb;"
not, I shall have tn^ pleasure
t to you.

No. CXI.

IE REV. G. BAIRD.

moer fo ths/bregoing,

i you, my dear Sir, write to
I hesitating style, on the busi-
r Bruce ? Don't I know, and
elt the many ills^ the pecuhar
itic flesh is heir to ? You shall
choice of all the unpublished
e ; and had your letter had
I so as to have reached me
ily came to my hand this mo-
ild have directly put you out
on the subject. I only ask
refatory advertisement in the
1 as the subscription-bills may
le publication is solely for the
Iruce's mother. I would not
) power of ignorance to sur-
ice to insinuate, that I clubbed
i work for mercenary motives,
ou give me credit for any re-
enerosity in my part oi the
'. have such a host of pecca-
igs, follies, and backsudings
It myself might perhaps give
m a worse appellation,] that
>me balance, however trifling,
int, I am fain to do any good
in my very limited power to a
ore, iust for the selfish pur-
Z

No. cxn.

TO DR. MOORE.

EUiOandy tBth February, 1791.

I DO not know, Sir, whether yon are
a subscriber to Chin'i AnHquities ofScU'
land* If yon are, the enclosed poem wiU
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. Shoula you have read the
piece before, still this will answer the
principal end I have in view ! it will give
me another opportunity of thanking yoa
for all your goodness to the rustic oard;
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 Hendereon is a
tribute to the memory of a man I loved
much. Poets have in this the same ad-
vantage as Roman Catholics ; they can
be of service to their friends after they
have past that bourn where all other kind-
ness ceases to be of any avail. Whe-
ther, after all, either the one or the other
be of any real service to the dead, is, I
fear, very problematical : but I am sure
tKey are highly gratifying to the living :
and, as a very orthodox text, I forget
where in Scripture, says, ** whatsoever is
not of faith is sin ;" so say I, whatsoever
is not detrimental to soeietv, and is of
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver
of all good things, and ought to be receiv-
ed and enjoyed by his creatures with
thankful delight. As almost all my re-
ligious tenets originate from my heart, I
am wonderfuUy pleased with the idea,
that I can still keep up a tender inter-
course 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 begnn
while I was busy with Percy*$ Reliqves
of English Poetry. By the way, how
much is every honest heart, which has a
tincture of Caledonian prejudice, oblured
to you foryour glorious story of BuAa-
nan and Targe ! *Twas an uneqaivocal

proor of your loyiil giUantry of loul, giv-
UgTar^the victory. lahoiildhavflbeen
Mortified to the grouod if jrou htd not.

I have jujt read orer, onea more of
many times, your Zc/uca. I marked with
my pencil, a« I went along, every puBUte
that pleased me' particularly aoove the
rest ; aud one, or two I think, which with
hiunble deference, I am disposed to think
unequal to the merits of the book. I have
■ometimes thought to tnnacribe these
narked pasaageH, or at least bo much of
them as to point where they are, and send
them to you. Original strokes that
■trongly depict the human heart, is your
and Fielding's province, beyond any other
novelist I have ever perused. Richard-
son indeed misht perhaps bo excepted;
bat unhappily. Ilia rfnunalu periotue are
beings o! some other world ; and however
they may captivate tha inexperienced ro-
mantic fancy of a boy or girl, they will
ever, in proportion as we have made hu-
man nature our study, diBsatisfy our riper

Aa to my private concerns, I am going
on, R mighty tax-gatherer before the
Lord, and have lately had the interest to
get myself ranked on the list of Excise aa
■ supervisor- 1 am not yet employed as
Buch, but in a few years I shaU ful into
the file of super visorship by seniority. I
liavo had an immense loss m the death of
the Earl of Glencairn, the patron from
whom all my fame and good fortune took
its rise. Independent of my grateful at-
tachment to him, which was indeed so
■troDgthat it pervaded my very soul, and
was entwined with the thread of my ex-
istence ; BO soon as the prince's friends
had ^ot in, (and every dog, yon know,
has his day) my getting forward in tlie
Excise would have been an easier buai-
ness than otherwise it will be. Though
this was a consummation devoutly to be
wiahed, yet, thank Heaven, 1 con live and
rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, poor
little fellows '. if I cannot place them on
•B high an elevation in life as I could wish,
I shall, if I am favoured so much of the
Disposer of events as to see that period,
fix them on aa broad and independent a
basis as possible. Among the many wise
adages which have been treasured up by
our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the
bostf Better be Ihe head o' the comownalty
»i tht tail o' the gti-lry.

LETTERS.
But I

1 a nbject, which, bow-
ever interesting to me, is of no marnifr of
consequence to you : so I shall give yon
a short poem on the other page, and ckM
this with assuring you bow Btncerdj I
have the honour to be yours, &c.

Written on the blank leaf ofabacA
which 1 presented to a verj young lady
whom I had formerly characterized under
the denomination of T%» 1
Poems, p. 71.

FROM DR. UOORE.

London, tUA Marek, ITSt.
ncu siK,
YoDB letter of the S8th of Febniuj
I received only two daya ago, and thii
day I had the pleasure of waiting on ths
Rev. Mr. Baird, at the Duke of Athole'i,
who had been so obliging as to trananit
it to me, with the printed verses on JUIm
Church, the Eltgyon Captain Haidtrnm,
and the Epii^ik. Thare are many poeti-
cal beanties in the former; wbat I par-
ticularly admire, arc the three striking
aimilea from —

and the eight lines which begin with

so exquisitely expressive of the anpenti
tious impressions of the conntrj. Aai
the twenty-two lines from

which, in my opinion, are equal to tbein-
gredienta of Shakspeare'a canldton ia
JUacbtth.

As for the EUgy, the chief merit of it
consists in the very ^phical descriptiM
of the objects bctnnging to the country in
which the poet writes, and which noas
but a Scottish poet could have deacribad,
da cloae ob-
mdeacrfaed.

LETTERS.

les

There ii eomethiiig origina], and tome
ndeifbUy pleauDg in tne EpUaph.

I remember yoa once hinted before,
what you repeat in your last, that you
had made some remarks on Zeluco on the
margin. I should be very glad to see
them, and regret you did not send them
before the last edition, which is just pub-
lished. Pray transcribe them for me ; I
sincerely value your opinion very highly,
and pray do not suppress one of those m
whicn you cenmre the sentiment or expres-
sion. Trust me it will break no squares
between us — I am not akin to the bishop
of Grenada.

I must now mention what has been on
my mind for some time: I cannot help
thinking you imprudent, in scattering
abroad so many copies of your verses. It
is most natural to give a ^w to confiden-
tial friends, particularly to those who are
connected with the subject, or who are
perhaps themselves the subject; but thb
ought to be done under promise not to
give other copies. Of the poem you sent
me on Queen Mary, I refused every so-
licitation for copies, but I lately saw it in
a newspaper. My motive for cautioning
yoo on this subject, is, that I wish to en-
gage you to collect all your fugitive pieces,
not already printed ; and, after they have
been re-considered, and polished to the
utmost of your power, I would have you
publish them by another subscription : in
promoting of which I will exert myself
with pleasure.

In yoor fbture compositions I wish you
i»oula use the modem English. You have
shown your powers in Scottish sufficient-
ly. Although in certain subjects it gives
additional zest to the humour, yet it is
lost to the English ; and why should vou
write only for a part of the island, when
yon can command the admiration of the
whole!

If you chance to write to my friend
Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affec-
tionately remembered to her. She must
not jnd^ of the warmth of my sentiments
Tespiectmg her by the number of my let-
ters ; I Iwrdly ever write a line but on
hneiness ; and I do not know that I should
have scribbled all this to ^ou, but for the
bosineai part, that is, to mstigate you to
a new publication ; and to tell you, that
when you have a sufficient number to
make a volnmey you should set your

friends on getting subscriptions. I wish
I could have a tew hours' conversation
with you — ^I have many things to say
which I cannot write. If ever I go to
Scotland, I will let you know, that yon
may meet me at your own house, or my
friend Mrs. Hamilton, or both.

Adieu, my dear Sir, &e

No. CXIV.
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. '
EUiilandf near Dumfriei, \AOi Feb, 1791.

SIR,

You must, by this time, have set me
dowti as one of the most ungrateful of
men. You did me the honour to present
me with a book which does honour to
science and the intellectual- powers of ^
man, and I have not even so much as ac«
knowledged the receipt of it. The (act
is, you yourself are to blame for it. Fhit-
tered as I was by your telling me that yoa
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 witn
the look-out of a critic, and to draw up,
forsooth, a deep-learned digest of stric-
tures, on a composition, of which, in fact,
until I read the book, I did not even know
the first principles. I own. Sir, that, at
first glance, several of your propositions
startled me as paradoxical. That the
martial clangor of a trumpet had some-
thinff' in it vastly more grand, heroic, and
sublime, than the twin^le-twangle of a
Jew's harp ; that the delicate flexure of a
rose twig, when the half-blown flower ia
heavy with the tears of the dawn, was in-
finitely more beautiful and elegant than
the upright stub of a burdock ; and that
from something innate and independent
of all association of ideas ; — these I had
set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths,
until perusing your book shook my faith.
In short, Sir, except Euclid's ElemenU of
Geometry, which I made a shifl to unra-
vel by my father's fire-side, in the winter
evenings of the first season I held the
plough, I never read % book which gav^B
me such a quantum of information, and
added so much to my stock of ideas, as
your " Eimys on the Principles of TeuCs."
One thing, Sir, yon must forgive my men-

IM LET

tioniag u M) nncommoD merit in the work,
1 mewi the lugaige. To clothe sbetract
ptulosophf in elegance of atjle, ioundg
•ometbiDg like a contradiction in teniu ;
but ;ou luve conrinced me that tlie; ue
quits compatible.

I endoae yon loinc poetic ba^teUea of
m; late composition. The one m print if
107 tint eiMj in the way of telling a tale.
I am. Sir, &c.

No. CXV.

Exiracl of a LeUer

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

\2tK March, no\.

If the foregoing piece be worth your
rtnctures, let me have them. For my own
part, a thing that 1 have juqt composed al-
ways appears through a double portion of
that partial medium in which an author
will ever view hi* own works. I believe,
in genera], novelty has aometbing in it
that inebriates the fuicy, and not nnfte-
quentl^ diasipates and fumes away lUce
other intoxication, and leaves the poor
patient, as usual, with an aching heart.
A striking instance of this might be ad-
duced in tlio revolution of many a hyme-
neal honey-moon. But lest I sink into
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude
OD the office of my parish priest, I ahall
fill up the page in my own way, and give
you another song of mj kte composition,
which will appear, perhaps, in JohnsonV
work, as well u the farmer.

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air,
Uiere'll never be peace lilt Jamie comet
kame. When political combustion ceases
to be the object of princes and patriots, it
then, you know becomes the lawM prey
of historians and poets.*

to the few friends whom you indulge in
that pleasure. But I have scribbled on
'till I hear the dock has intimated lbs
near approach of

"Thuboui, o' nlibf) Mack aitb Ibi ktrtam.'

So, good night to yon ! soimd be yoor
sleep, and delectable your dreams! ti^ro-
mt, how do you like this thought in a m1-
lad I have just now on the taina !

Good night, onco more, and God Uen

TO MBS. DUNLOP.

Eltuland, nthAprii, I7>1.

1 AM once more able, my hononnd
friend, to return you, with mj own band,
thanks for the many instanceis of yoot

If you like the air, and if the stanzas
hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, my
dear friend, now much you would ohlire
me, if, by the charms of your delightnil
Toice, you would give my honest effusion
to " the memory of joys that are past!"

* fr«n ronowed m copT of ih« Boni prCsud la p. S3
«f Hi* pail " Kj jroD (mUi wa'," fee.

anxiety in this last disaster that my evil

f genius had in store for me. However,
ife is chequered — joy and sorrow — for <m
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Bums majs
me a present of a fine boy, rather BtoatM,
but not *a handsome as jour godson wti
at hi* Lme of life. Indeed I look on yoor
little name sake to be mj chtf tFatnrr in
tl>at species of manufacture, as I look on
Tamo' Sfianter lohe my standard perform-
ance in the poetical line. 'Tis true both
the one and the other discover a spice of
roguish waggery that might, perhaps, be
as weli spared : but then they also show,
in my opinion, a force of genius, and ■
finbhing polish, that 1 despair of ever
excelling. Mrs. Bums is getting stoat
again, and laid as lustily about her to-day
at breakfast, as a reaper from the com
ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and
blessing of our hale sprightly damsels^
that arc bred among the Aoy md ktaOitr.
We cannot hope for that highly polished
mind, that charming delicacy of son],
which is fbundamonglhefemiJe world in
the more elevated stations of life, and
which is certainly by far the most be-
witchinff charm in the fauoui cmtui of

.'■<

LETTERS.

10')

I. It is, indeed, socli an inestima-
iasure, that where it can be had in
ive heavenly purity, unstained by
me or other of the many shades of
ttion, and unalloyed by some one or
of the many species of caprice, I
e to Heaven, I should think it cheap-
phased at the expense of every other
f good I But as this angelic crea-
, I am afraid, extremely rare in any
I and rank of life, and totally denied
!h an humble one as mine : we
r mortals must put up with the next
Ffemale excellence — as fine a figure
ce we can produce as any rank of
latever ; rustic, native grace ; un-
d modesty, and unsullied purity ;
's mother wit, and the rudiments of
a simplicity of soul, imsuspicious
luse unacquainted with the crooked
fa selfish, interested, disingenuous

and the dearest charm of all the

yielding sweetness of disposition,
renerous warmth of heart, grateful
3 on our part, and ardently glow-
h a more than equal return ; these,

healthy frame, a sound, vigorous
ution, which your higher ranks can
y ever hope to enjoy, are the

of lovely woman in my humble
riife.

the public papers, where you mngt have
seen it.

is the greatest effort my broken
8 yet made. Do let me hear, by
St, how cher petit Momieur comes
h his small-pox. May Almighty
sfl preserve and restore him !

No. CXVIT.

I SIR,

iM exceedingly to blame in not
you long ago ; but the truth is,

.m the most indolent of all human
and when I matriculate in the

I office, I intend that my support-

II be two sloths, my crest a slow-
ind the motto, " Deil tak the fore-

So much by way of apology for
nking you sooner for your kind
on of my commission.

lid have sent you the poem : but
w or other it found its way into

I am ever, dear Sir, yoore nncerelyy
ROBERT BURNS.

No. CXVIII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

nthJune^im.

Let me interest you, my dear Cun-
ningham, in behalf of the gentleman who
waits on vou with this. He is a Mr.
Clarke, of Mofiat, principal school-mas-
ter there, and is at present sufiTering se-
verely under the ***** * of one or two
powerful individuals of his employers.
He is accused of harshness to * * * ♦ that
were placed under his care. God help
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and
genius, and such as my friend Clarke,
when a booby father presents him with
his booby son, and insists on lighting up
the rays of science in a fellow's head whose
skull is impervious and inaccessible by
any other way than a positive fracture
with a cudgel : a fellow whom, in fact, it
savours of impiety to attempt making a
scholar of, as he has been marked a block-
head in the book of fate, at the Almighty
flat of Iiis Creator.

The patrons of Moffat school are tne
ministers, magistrates, and town-coimeil
of Edinburgh; and as the business comes
now before them, let me beg my dearest
friend to do every thing in nis power to
serve the interests of a man of genius and
worth, and a man whom I particularly re-
spect and esteem. You know some good
fellows among the magistracy and council,
* % * » • »

but particularly you have much to say
with a reverend gentleman, to whom you
have the honour of being very nearly re-
lated, and whom this country and age
have had the honour to produce. I need
not name the historian of Charles V.*
I tell him, through the medium of his ne*
phew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a
gentleman who will not disgrace even hie
patronage. I know the merits of the

* Dr. RobtrlKmwitaiMlttollr. Ountaihak X*

LETTERS.

cause thoroQghly, and lay it, that my
friend ifl falling a sacrifice to prejudiced
if noranee, and ***♦♦♦. God help the
children of dependence 1 Hated and per-
secuted by their enemies, and too often,
alas! almost unexceptionably, received
by their friends with disrespect and re-
proach, under the thin disguise of cold
civility and humiliating advice. O ! to
be a sturdy savage, string in the pride
of his independence, amid the solitary
wilds of his deserts ; rather than in civi-
lized life ; helplessly to tremble for a sub-
sistence, precarious as the caprice of a
fellow-creature ! Every man has his vir-
tues, and no man is without his failing ;
and curse on that privileged plain-dealmg
of friendship, which in the hour of my
calamity cannot reach forth the helping
hand, without at the same time pointing
out those faiUngs, and apportioning them
their share in procuring my piesent dis-
tress. 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, i^are my follies : the first will
witness in my breast for themselves, and
the last will give pain enough to the in-
genuous 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 consequences of those
errors ^ I do not want to be independent
that I may sin, but I want to be indepen-
dent in my sinning

To return, in this rambling letter, to
the subject I set out with, let me recom-
mend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your ac-
quaintance and good offices ; his worth
entitles him to the one, and his gratitude
will merit the other. I long mucn to hear
from you — Adieu !

No. CXIX.
PROM THE EARL OP BUCHAN.

Dryhurgh Abbey ^ 1 1th Juney 1 79 1 .

Lord Buchaw has the pleasure to in-
vite Mr. Burns to make one at the coro-
nation of the bust of Thomson, on Ed-
man Hill, on the 22d of September ; for
which day, perhaps, his muse mav inspire

an ode suited to the occasion. Boppose
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 ot
Thomson's pure parent stream, catch in-
spiration on the devious walk, till he finds
Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry-
burgh. There the commendator will eive
him a hearty welcome, and try to light
his lamp at the pure flame of native ge-
nius upon the altar of Caledonian virtue.
This poetical perambulation of the Tweed,
is a thought of the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's
and of Lord Minto's, followed out by his
accomplished grandson, the present Sir
Gilbert, who having been with Lord Bu-
chan lately, the project was renewed, and
will, they hope, be executed in the man
ner proposed.

No. CXX.

TO THE EARL t)P BUCHAN.

MT LORD,

Lakouagg sinks under the ardoaro
my feelings when I would thank yoar
Lordship for the honour you have done
me in inviting me to make one at the co
ronation of the bust of Thomson. In my
first enthusiasm in reading the card yoa
did me the honour to write to me, I over-
looked 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 doobt
I dare not venture on«

Your Lordship hints at an ode for the
occasion : but who could write after Col-
lins ? I read over his verses to the me-
mory of Thomson, and despaired. — I ^t,
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 thorn, which, I am t^raid, will be
but too convincing a proof how unequal
I am to the task. However, it affords
me an opportunity of approaching your
Lordship, and declarinrr how sincerely
and irratefully I have thn honour to be. dtc.

* s

LETTERS.

leo

No. CXXI.

FROM THE SAME.

Dfiburgh Abbey, leihSepiember^lldl.

Youm addrev to the shade of Thorn-
eon has heen well received by the public;
and thouffh I should disapprove of your
allowing Pegasus to ride with you off the
field of your honourable and useful pro-
fession, yet I cannot resist an impulse
which I feel at this moment to suggest to
vour Muse, HarveH Homey as an excel-
lentsubject for her grateful song, in which
the peculiar aspect and manners of our
country might furnish an excellent por-
trait and landscape of Scotland, for the
employment of happy moments of leisure
and recess from your more important oc-
cnpations.

Your Hailowem, and Saturday Mghty
will remain to distant posterity as inter-
esting pictures of rural innocence and hap-
piness in your native country, and were
happily written in the dialect of the peo-
ple ; but Harvett Home, being suited to
descriptive poetry, except, where collo-
quial, mav escape the disguise of a dia-
lect which admits of no elegance or dig-
nity of exppssion. Without the assist-
ance of anf god or goddess, and without
the invocation of any foreign Muse, you
may convey in epistolary form the de-
scription of a scene so gladdenipg and
picturesque, with all the concomitant lo-
cnl position, landscape and costume ; con-
trasting the peace, improvement, and hap-
piness of the borders of the once hostile
nations of Britain, with their former op-
pression and misery; and showing, in
Jiveljr and beautiful colours, the beauties
and joys of a rural life. And as the un-
vitiated heart is naturally disposed to
overflow with gratitude in the moment of
prosperity, such a subject would furnish
you with an amiable opportunity of per-
petuating the names of Glencairn, Miller,
and your other eminent benefactors ;
which, from what I know of your spirit,
and have seen of your poems and letters,
win not deviate from the chastity of praise
that u so uniformly united to true taste
and goiiusy

I am Sir, &c.

No. cxxn.

TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM.

MT LADT,

I WOULD, as usual, have availed my-
self of the privilege your goodness has al-
lowed me, of sending vou any thing I
compose in my poetical way ; but as I
had resolved, so soon as the shock of my
irreparable loss would allow me, to pay
a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter-
mined 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 perusal : as
it is, I beg leave to lay it at your Lady-
ship's feet. As all the world knows iny
obligations to the Earl of Glencaim, I
would wish to show as openly that my
' heart glows, and shall ever glow with the
most grateful sense and remembrance of
his Lordship's goodness. The sables I
did myself the honour to wear to his Lord-
ship's memory, were not the "mockery of
wo." Nor shall my gratitude perish with
me I — If, among my children, I shall have
a son that has 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 Glencaim !

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.*

No. CXXIII.
TO MR. AINSLIE.

MT DEAR AT^'SLIE,

Can you minister to a mind diseased.^
Can you, amid the horrors of penitence,
regret, remorse, headache, 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 yoa
speak peace to a troubled soul ?

* The poem melOMd li pQbliilMd,— flee **TlMLa
ment for Jamee Earl of OlMieaim." Foevis V* ^

ITO

LETTERS.

JiiierabU perdu that I am ! I have tried
ev«ry thing that used to amuse me, hut
in vain : hero must I sit a monument of
the vengeance laid up in store for the
wicked, slowly counting every check of
the clock as it slowly— slowly, numbers
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who

d d them, are ranked up before me,

every one at bis neighbour's backside, and
every one with a burden of anguish on his
back, to pour on my devoted nead— and
there is none to pity toe^ 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 fel-
low. — When I tell you even * * * has
lost its power to please, you will guess
■omething of my hell withm, and all
around me.— I began FAibankt and Eli'
braeMy but the stanzas Ml unenjoyed and
unfinished from mv 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 plea-
surable existence. — Well — 1 begin to
breathe a little, since I began to write
you. How are you ? and what are you
doing? How goes l4aw? A propoMy for
connexion's sa^e, do not address to me
supervisor, 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 by to act as one : but at present I
am a simple gauger, though t'other day
I got an appointment to an excise division
of £25 per ann. better than the rest.
My present income, down money, ia jS70
per arm.

I have one or two good fellows here
whom you would be glad to know.

No. CXXIV.
PROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD.

Jfear Maybole, Uth October^ 1791.

tin.

Accept of my thanks for your favour,
with the Lament on the death of my much-
eateemed friend, and your worthy patron,
Ciie feruial of which ploased and idBTected

me much. The lines rnddresMd tome
are very flattering.

I have always thought it moat natural
to suppose (and a strong argument in fa-
vour of a future existence) that when we
see an honourable and virtuous man lap
bouring under bodily infirmities, and op-
pressed by the frowns of fortune in tlui
world, that there was a happier state be-
yond the ^rave ; wheTe that worth aid
honour, which were neglected here, would
meet with their just reward; and where
temporal misfortunes would receive an
eternal recompense. Let us cherish this
hope for our departed friend, and mode-
rate our grief for that loss we have sus-
tained, knowing that he cannot retani to
us, but we may go to him.

Remember me to your wife ; and with
every good wish for the prosperity of
you and your family, believe me at iQ
times,

Your most sincere friend,

JOHN WHITEFOORD

No. CXXV.
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ.
Edinburgh^ ^^f/i ^ovember^ 1791.

ftCAR SIR, •

Yon have much reason to blame roe
for neglecting till now to acknowledge
the receipt of a most agreeable packet,
containing 7%s JFhutle^ a ballad: and
The Lament; which reached me akoot
six weeks ago in London, from whence I
am just returned. Your letter was for-
warded to me there from Edinburgh,
where, as I observed bv the date, it had
lain for some days, l^his was an addi-
tional reason for me to have answered it
immediately on receiving it ; but the truth
was, the bustle of business, engagements,
and confusion of one kind or another, in
which I found myself immersed all the
time I was in London, absolutely put it
out of my power. But to have done with
apologies, let me now endeavour to prove
myself in some degree deserving of the
very flattering compliment you pay me,
bv giving you at least a frank and candid,
if it shomd not be a judicious, criticism on
the poems you sent me*

LETTERS.

171

The ballad of The WhiMtle is, in my
opinion truly excellent. The old tradi-
tion which you have taken up is the best
adapted for a Bacchanalian composition
of any I ever met with, and you have done
it fuU justice. In the first place, the
■trokea of wit arise naturally from the
subject, and are uncommonly happy. For
ezample,

** Tbe baadi |mr Uw tighter tb« more they were wet,
'*C)nilhU hinted he'd And them next mom.'*
'* Tbo* Fate nid— a hero shonld perish in light ;
80 np loae brifht Pbabus,— and down fell the kuight."

In the next place, you are singularly hap-
py in the discrimination of your heroes,
and in giving each the sentiments and lan-

ae suitable to his character. And,
y, you have much merit in the deli-
cacy' of the panegyric which you liave
contrived to throw on each of the dra-
moHM pertitna^ perfectly appropriate to his
character. The compliment to Sir Ro-
bert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly fme.
In short, this composition, in my opinion,
does you great honour, and 1 see not a
line or word in it which I could wish to
be altered.

As to the Lameniy I suspect from some
expressions in your letter to me that you
are more doubtful with respect to the
merits of this piece than of the other ;
and I own I think you have reason ; fur
although it contains some beautiful st an-
sae, as the first, *' The wind blew hollow,"
4tc. ; the fifth, '* Ye scattered birds ;" the
thirteenth, '^ Awake thy last sad voice,"
&c. ; yet it appears to me faulty as a
whole, and inferior to several of those
you have already published in the same
■train. My principal objection lies against
the plan of the piece. I think it was un-
neceeaary and improper to put the lamen-
tation in the mouth of a fictitious charac-
ter, an agtd hard, — It had been much bet-
ter to have lamented your patron in your
own person, to have expressed your ge-
nuine feelings for the loss, and to have
■poken the language of nature, rather
tnan that of fiction, on the subject. Com-
pare this with your poem of the same title
in your printed volume, which begins, O
ikou pale Orb ; and observe what it is that
forms the charm of that composition. It
ia that it speaks the language of frti^ and
otnahtre. The change is, in my opinion
injadicioufl too in tliis respect, that an
oged bard has much less need of a natron
and a protector than \ymmg cnc. I have

thus given you, with much freedom, my
opinion of both the pieces. I should
have made a very ill return to the com-
pliment you paid me, if I had given you
any other than my genuine sentiments.

It will give me great pleasure to hear
from you when you find leisure ; and I
beg you will believe me ever, dear Siii
yours, &c.

No. CXXVI.

TO MISS DAVIES.

It is impossible. Madam, that the gene«
reus 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 uf sinners ; I mean
a turpitude of the moral powers, that may
be called a lethargy of conscience — In
vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and
rouses all her snakes : beneath the deadly
fixed eye and leaden liand of Indolence,
their wildest ire is charmed into the tor-
por 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 com-
mands. Indeed I had one apology — the
bagatelle was not worth presenting.
Besides, so strongly am I interested in
Miss D 's fate and welfare in the se-
rious business of life, amid its chances and
changes ; that to make her the subject of
a silly ballad, is downright mockery of
these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an imper-
tinent 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 blessed, impotent and inefiectual —
as the idle breeze that crosses the path-
less desert ? In my walks of life I have
met with a few people to whom how glad-
ly would I have said — *"■ Go be happy!"
I know that vour hearts have been wound-
ed by the scorn of the proud, whom ac-
cident 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. Independence,
and look justly down on their littleness of
soul. Make the worthless tremble under
your indignation, and the foolish sink be-
fore your contempt ; and largely impart
that happiness to otiiers which I am cer-

171

LETTERS.

tain, will give yourselvM 00 much plea-
fure to bestow.'*

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from
this delightful reverie, and find it all a
dream ? Why, amid mv generous enthu-
siasm, must I find myself poor and power-
less, incapable of wipinfir one tear from
the eye of pity, or of adding one comfort
to the friend I love! — Out upon the
world ! say I, that its affairs are adminis-
tered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good
Heaven what a reform would I make
among the sons, and even the daughters
of men ! — Down immediately should go
fools from the high places where misbe-
gotten chance has perked them up, and
through life should they skulk, ever haunt-
ed 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 1
them; — had I a world, there should not|
be a knave in it.

But the hand that could give, I would
liberally fill ; and I would ponr 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 shockod at
the rude, capricious distinctions of for-
tune. 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 ori-
ginal comoonent feature of my mind.

their fullest extent ; and then Mrs. Heari
will find her little darling the representa-
tive of his late parent, in every thing but
his abridged existence.

I have just finished the following sonr,
which, to a lady the descendant of WtJ-
lace,'and many heroes of his truly iUostri-
ous line, and herself the mother of seve-
ral soldiers, needs neither preface nor
apology.

No, CXXVII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

EUuland, llth December, 1791.

Hant thanks to you. Madam, for your
good news respecting the little, floweret
and the mother-plant. I hope my poetic
prayers have been heard, and will be an-
MWMed up to thft warmest sinccritv of

Scene-^ Field of Batil&^Time^if the
Day, Evening'-~4he wounded and dying
of the victorioui Army are wuppoted to
join in the following

BONG OF DSATH

Farewell Ukni fair day, tboa frecneaith, and ye
Now gay wiUi ihe broad letting aan *

Farewell loves and frienddilpa ; ye dear,
Our race of existence ii run !

Thou grim king of terrortt thou 1iie*a giooaqr fbt»

Go frighten the coward and slave ;
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrau ! bvtkMMr,

No teiTOis hast thou to the brave !

Thou Btrlk*st the poor peasant— he ainln fai the dark,
Nor saves e*en the wreck of a name ;

Thou strik*st the young hero— a glorioua mark,
He fklls in the blaie of his ftune !

In the fleld of proud honour— our swoids la oar
Our king and our country to save —

While victory shines on life's last ebhli^
O, who would not die with the brare T*

The circumstance that gave rise to tbe
foregoing verses, was looking over, ^Mh
a rausicflu friend, McDonald's collectiou 0.
Highland airs, I was struck with one, an
Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an «^o^.
or. The Song of Death, to the measure o**
which I have adapted my stanzas. I ha\>
of late composed two or three other little
pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon,
whose broad impudent face, now staios at
old mother earth all night, shall have
shrunk into a modest crescent, iust peep-
ing forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an
hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu jt
votu commende I

* This is a little altered from the rae girtn to > tt
of the Poems.

No. cxxym.

> MR3. DUNLOP.

5tt Jomiory, 1792.
B my homed life, Madam : I
imnumd atuta of time: how-

g[t.i of one thing; iinee I

other sheet, the poUtieil blut
■ned my welfare ib overblown.
esporded with ComraiBsioner
r the Board had made me the
leir animadvefBiOEis : and now
Jeaaure of informing you, that
rights in that quarter. Now

infoimera, may the devil be

but hold ! I was praying

ntly in my laat sheet, and 1

soon fall a swearing in this.

>w little do the wantonly or
a think what miscluef they do
diciouB insinuations, indirect
■.e, or thoughtless blabbings!
Berence there is in intrinsic
loor, henevolence, generosity,
n all the caaritics and all the
ween one class of human be-
LOther! For instance, the ami-
I 80 lately mixed with in the

hall of D , their

iir unconteminated. digni
ir intbrmed and polished
;s — what a contrast, when c
jch comparing were not do
ege — with the soul of the i
I can deliberately plot the da.
r an honest man that nevei
m, and with a grin of saUsfaC'
! UDfortunate being, his faith-
d prattling innocents, turned
gary and ruin !

i.tny dear Madam, arrived safe,
worthy fellows dining with me
ay, when I with great formali-
■d my whigmeleerie cup, and
hat it had been a family-piece
. descendantB of Sir William

This roused such an enthosi-
hey insisted on bumpering the
d in it ; and, by and by, never
eat ancestor lay a SuVtrrm more

to rest, than for a time did
my two friends. A-propot!
season of wishing. May God
my dear friend '. and bless me,
«t and ainceiest of your friends,
ig you yet many returns of the

ml Umy all good tlunfi attend you

and youra wherever they an scattered
~ the earth 1

No. CXXIX.
TO MR. WILLIAM SHELLIE,

Dum/'riM, VUt January, ]7SS.

IT down, my dear Sir, to introduce
a young lady to you, and a lady in the
first rank of fashion, too. What a task !
you — who care no more for the herd
of animals called young ladies, than you
do for the herd of animals called jounv

Sentlemen. To you — who despise and
etest the groupings and combinations o*
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems in-
duatrious to place staring fools and un-
principled knaves in the loregrouad of hi*
picture, while men of sense and honesty
are too often thrown in the dimmest
shades. Mrs. Riddle, 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 & philosopher,
would be an acquisition to your acquain-
tance. The lady.too ii a votary of the
muses; and aalthink myself aomewhatof
a judge inmyowntrade, I assure yon that
her\eraes, always correct, and often ele-
gant, are much beyond the common run
of the tody poettatt of the day. She is a
great admirerofjourbook: and, hearing
me say that I was acqrajnted with you,
she begged to be know i to you, as she m

i'ust going to pay her first visit to our Ca-
edonian capital. I told hertbat her best
way was, to desire her near relation, and
vour intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to
have you at his house while she was there ;
and lest you might think of a lively West
Inflian girl of eighteen, as girls ofeighteen
too often deserve to be thought of,l should
take care to remove that prejudice. To
be impartial, 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 indulg-
ing In it ; and a failing that you will aa
easily pardon, aa it is a sin which vet^
much besets yourself; — where she dia-
hkes or despises, she is apt to mak? no
more a secret of it, than where she ea-
teenw and respects.

I will not pment jron with tbe untBekn- 1 perfect: never did the pen of etlamnf Uoi
ing complimenU of lA> Miuon, but I will I the &ir page of hia repntation, d

■ond you my warmest wishes uid mo:
ardent prayers, that Fortune raaj ncviT
throw your bl'bsistehce Io the mercy uf
B knave, or set your character on ' '
judgment of a fool; but that, upright
erect, you may walk to an honeBt grare,
where men of Icttera shall say, Here lii
a man who did honour toecience! ai
men of worth shall say. Here lies a m;
who did honour to human nature !

TO MR. W. NICOL.

20lh February, 1793.

O THon, wisest among the wise, mc
ridian blaze of prudence, full moon oTdu
cretion, and chief of many counsellors
How infinitely is thy puddled -headed, ra'
tie-headed, wrong-headed, round-head**'
slave indebted to thy supcreminent good
ness, that from the luminous path of tli
1 right-lined rectitude, thou lookers
' -'i down on an erring wretch, u

benignly c
whom the ;

, from the simple
copulation of units up to the hidden mys-
teries of fluxions : May one feeble ray ol'
that li^ht ofwisdom which darts front tiiy
■ensontim, straight as the arrow of heaven.
and bright as tne meteor of inspiration.
may it be my portion, so that I may be
less unworthy of the face and favour oT
that father of proverbs and master of
mazims, that antipode of folly, and mag--
net among the sages, the wise and witty
Willie Mico) I Amen ! Amen ! Yea, eo
belt!

For me t I am a beast, a reptile, and
know nothing! From the cave of my ig-
norance, amid the fogs of ray du!ne«?.
and pestilential fumes of my political he-
Teaiea, I look up to thee, as doth a toad
tlirough the iron-barred lucerne of a pe^!-
tiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory
of a summer aun ! Sorely sighing in
bitterness of soul, I say, when shalf mv
name be the quotation of the wise, aor!
my countenance be the delieht of the god-
ly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan'^
many hilla P* Aa for him, hia works aru

holt of hatred fly at hia dwelling.

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the
elGne lamp of my gUmeroua uudentand
ingi purged from sensual appetites aid
gross desires, shine li][e the constellalita
of thy intellectual powers ! As for the*,
thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips an
holy. Never did the unhallowed breath
of the powers of darkness, and the plea-
sures of darkness, pollute the sacred
flame of thy sky-descended and heaTen-
bound desires : never did the vapour* of
impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy
cerulean imagination. O that like thhw
were the tenor of my life ! like thine the
tenor of my conversation ! then should
no friend fear for my strength, no enemy
rejoice in my weakness ! then should I lii
down and rise up, and none to make oe
afraid— May thy pity and thy prayer be
exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and
mirror of morality! thy devoted slave.*

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

3d Mareh, 1792.

StncE I wrota von the last lugubrion
sheet, I have not nad tine to write yos
farther. When I say that I had not tine,
that, as usual, means, that the three de-
mons, indolence, business.andenniB, hive
so completely shared my hours aroonf
them, as not to leave me a flve-miiiuu^
fragment to take up a pen in.

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoy-
ing upwards with the renovating yeai.
Now I shall in good earnest take up
lougs. 1 dare say he thinks )
have used him unkindly, and I mutt oan
with too much appearance of truth. J-
propoi ! Do you know the much admired
old Highland air, called ThtSutor'tDorli-
first-rate favourite of mine.

oldHigUa
Ur? ItU

LETTERS.

176

'. haTO written what 1 •reckon one of
est songs to it. I will send it to you
wtLB son^r with great applause in some
>nable circles by Major Robertson of
y who was here with his corps.

ere is one commission that I must
le you with. I lately lost a valuable
a present from a departed friend,
I vexes me much. 1 have gotten
)f your Highland pebbles, which I
would make a very decent one ; and
it to cut my armorial bearing on it ;
roQ be so obliging as inquire what
>e the expense of such a business ?
lot know that my name is matricu-
as the heralds call it, at all ; but I
invented arms for myself, so you
I shall be chief of the name ; and,
urtesy of Scotland, will likewise be
&d to supporters. These, however,
lot intend having on my seal. I am
of a herald, and shall give vou, te-
rn artem, my arms. On a field, azure,
f bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a
erd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise,
roper, in chief. On a wreath of the
*s, a wood-lark perching on a sprig
^ tree, proper, for crest. Two mot-
round the top of the crest. Wood
mid ; at the bottom of the shield, in
lual place. Better a wee buth than nae
By the shepherd's pipe and crook
ot mean the nonsense of painters of
lia, but a Stock and Horn, and a
such as you see at the head of Al-
Eunsay, in Allan's quarto edition of
enile Shepherd. By the by, do you
Allan ? He must be a man of very
genius— Why is he not more known?
I he no patrons ? or do " Poverty's
ind and crushing rain beat keen and
" on him ? I once, and but once,
glance of that noble edition of that
It pastoral in the world ; and dear as
, I mean, dear as to my pocket, I
have bought it ; but I was told that
printed and engraved for subscri-
nly. He is the only artist who has
%uine pastoral cottume. What, my
Cunningham, is there in riches, that
larrow and harden the heart so ? I
that were I as rich as the sun, I
I be as generous as the day ; but as
) no reason to imagine my soul a
' one than any other man's, I must
id» that Weaitli impftrts a bird-lime

quality to the possessor, at which the
man, in his native poverty would have re«
volted. What has led me to this, is the
idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses,
and such riches as a nabob or government
contractor possesses, and why they do noi
form a mutual league. Let wealth shibw
ter and cherish unprotected merit, and
the gratitude and celebrity of that merit
will richly repay it.

No. cxxxn.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Annan Waier Foot^ 22d Aug. 179S.

Do not blame me for it Madam — my
own conscience, hackneyed and weather-
beaten as it is, in watching and reproving
my vagaries, follies, indolence, &c. has
continued to blame and punish me suffi-
ciently.

Do you think it possible, my dear and
honoured friend, that I could be so lost
to gratitude for many &vours ; to esteem
for much worth, and to the honest, kind,
pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance,
and I hope and am sure of progressive,
increasing friendship— as, for a single day,
not to think of you — to ask the Fates what
they are doin^ and about to do with my
much-loved fnend and her wide-scattered

connexions, and to beg of them to be
kind to you and yours as they possibly
can?

A'propos ! (though how it is a-propoMy
I have not leisure to explain) Do you
know that I am almost in love with an
acquaintance of yours ? — Almost ! said I
— 1 am in love, souse ! over head and ears,
deep as the most imfathomable abyss of
the boundless ocean ; but the word Love,
owing to the intermingledotM of the good
and the bad, the pure and the impure,
in this world, being rather an equivocal
term for expressinsr one's sentiments and
sensations, I must do justice to the sacred
purity of my attachment. Know, then,
that the heart-struck awe; the distant,
humble approach ; the deUi^t ^^ %bss^^
have m gaxva^ ^^u vGLVW«Kffii^ \a ^

i7e

LETTERS.

Messenger of heaven, appearing in all the
unspotted purity of his celestial home,
among the coarse, polluted, far inferior
sons of men, to deliver to them tidings that
make their hearts swim in joy, and their
imaginations soar in transport—such, so
delighting and so pure, were the emotion
of my soiD on meeting the other day with
Miss L— B — , your neighbour, at M— -s
Mr. B. with his two daughters accompa-
nied by Mr. H. of G., passing through
Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to
England, did me the honour of calling on
me ; on which I took my horse (though
God knows I could ill spare the time,)
and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen
miles, and dined and spent the day with
them. 'Twas about nine, I think, when
I lefl them ; and, riding home, I composed
the following ballad, of which you will
probably think you have a dear bargain,
as it will cost you another groat of post-
age. You must know that there is an old
ballad beginning with —

" My bonnle Lizle Bailie,
ril rowe tbce in my plaidie<**

So I parodied it as follows, which is lite-
rally the first copy, " unanointed, unan-
neal'd ;" as Hamlet says. —

*' O saw ye bonnle Lesley/* Ate.

So much for ballads. I regret that you
are gone to the east country, as I am to
be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This
world of ours, notwithstanding it has ma-
ny good things in it, yet it has ever had
this curse, that two or three people, who
would be the happier the oftcner they
met together, are almost without excep-
tion, always so placed as never to meet
but once or twice a-year, which, consider-
ing the few years of a man's life, is a very
great " evil under the sun," which I do
not recollect that Solomon has mentioned
in his catalogue of the miseries of man.
I hope and believe that there is a state of
existence beyond the grave, where the
worthy of this life will renew their former
intimacies, with this endearing addition,
that, *' we meet to part no more !"

" Tell ufl ye dead,
Win none of you in pity diacloae the Mcret
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be T*

A thousand times have I made this apos-
trophe to the departed sons of men, but
JiOi one of them has ever thought fit to

answer the question. " O tliat aome eour-
teous ghost would blab it out !" but it can-
not be ; you and I, my friend, most make
the experiment by ourselves, and for our-
selves. However, I am so convinced that
an unshaken faith in the doctrines of re
ligion is not only necessary, by makhig
us better men, but also by making us hap-
pier men, that I shall take every care that
your little godson, and every uttle crea-
ture that shall call me father, shall be
taught them.

So ends this heterogeneous letter, writ-
ten at this wild place of the world, in the
intervals of my labour of discharging a
vessel of rum from Antigua.

No. cxxxni.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

DumfrUi^ lOth September^ 1792.

No ! I will not attempt an apologj—
Amid all my hurry of business grinding
the faces of the publican and the sinner
on the merciless wheels of the* Excise;
making ballads, and then drinking, and
singing them; and, over and above all,
the correcting the press- work of two dif-
ferent publications, still, still I might ban
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of
the first of my friends and fellow-crea-
tures. I might have done, as I do at
present, snatched an hour near *' witch-
ing time of night," and scrawled a n{8
or two. I might have congratulatea my
friend on his marriage, or I might haYe
thanked the Caledonian archers fbr tbe
honour they have done me (though to do
myself justice, I intended to have doBS
both in rhyme, else I had done both losf
ere now.) Well, then, here is to jour
good health ! for you must know I have
set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just \ff
way of spell, to keep away the mokle
homed Deil, or any of his subahem iiBfi
who may be on their nightly rounds.

But what shall I write to yon f '* Tbe
voice said. Cry ! and I said. What shall 1
cry ?" — O, thou spirit ! whatever thou art,
or wherever thou makest thyself visible !
he thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld
thorn, in the dreary glen throu^ wkicb
the herd callan maun bicker in nis gloft>

LETTERS.

1T7

nun routd frae the faulde! Be thou a
brownie, set, at dead of ni^ht, to thy task
by the biasing ingle, or in the solitary
barn, where the repercussions of thy iron
flail half affright thyself as thou perform-
est the work of twenty of the sons of men,
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy
ample cog of substantial brose. Be thou
a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell
with the howling of the storm and the
roaring of the flood, as thou viewest the
perils and miseries of man on the founder-
ing horse, or in the tumbling boat ! — Or,
lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy noc-
turnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed
grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in
the shadow of the time-worn church, while
the moon looks, without a cloud, on the
silent ghastly dwellings of the dead around
thee ; or taking thy stand by the bedside
of the villain, or the murderer, portrayinff
on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadfiu
ts the horrors of unveiled hell, and terri-
ble as the wrath of incensed Deity! —
Come, thou spirit ! but not in these hor-
rid forms : come with the milder, gentle,
easy inspirations which thou breathest
round ^the wig of a prating advocate, or
the iete of a tea-sipping gossip, while
their tongues run at the light-horse gal-
bp of clish-maclaver for ever and ever —
come and assist a poor devil who is quite
jaded in the attempt to share half an idea
ftmong half a hundred words ; to fill up
four quarto pages, while he has not £rot
one single sentence of recollection, iufor-
mation, or remark, worth putting pen to
paper for.

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatu-
ral assistance ! circled in the embrace of
my elbow-chair, my breast labours like
the hloated Sibyl on her three-footed stool,
ftnd like her too, labours with Nonsense.
Nonsense, auspicious name! Tutor, friend,
ind finger-post in the mystic mazes of law;
the cadaverous paths of physic ; and par-
ticularly in the sightless soarings of school
Diviif ITT, who leaving Common Sense con-
founded at his strength of pinion, Reason,
delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; and
Truth creeping back into the bottom of
tier weU, cursing the hour that ever she
>fiered her scorned alliance to the wizard
power of Theologic Vision — raves abroad
an all the winds. '' On earth, Discord !
% gloomy Heaven above opening her jea-
lous gates to the nineteen thousandth part
of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an in-
ipable and inexoirable Hell, expanding

its leviathan Jaws for the vast residue of
mortals ! ! !" O doctrine ! comfortable and
healing to the weary, wounded soul of
man ! Ye sons and daughters of affliction,
ye pawres muerabUf^ to whom day briiu^
no pleasure, and night yields no restVbe
comforted! '*'Tis but one to nineteen
hundred thousand that your situation will
mend in this world ;" so, alas ! the expe-
rience of the poor and the needy too ofien
affirms ; and, 'tis nineteen hundred thou-
sand to one, by the dogmas of •*•••**♦,
that vou will be damned eternally in the
world to come !

But of all Nonsense, Religious Non-
sense is the most nonsensical ; so enough,
and more than enough, of it. Only, by
the by, will you, or can you tell me, my
dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn
of mind has always a tendency to narrow
and illiberalize the heart ? They are or-
derly: they may be just; nay, I have
known them merciful ; but still your chil-
dren of sanctity move among their, fellow-
creatures, with a nostril-snuffing putres-
cence, and a foot-spuming filth ; in short,
with a conceited dignity that your titled
* * * * or any other of your Scottish
lordlinffs of seven centuries' standing, dis-
play when they accidentally mix among
the many-aproned sons of mechanical life.
I remember, in my plouffh-boy days, I
could not conceive it possible that a noble
lord could be a fool, or a godly man could
be a knave. — How ignorant are plough-
boys ! — Nay, I have since discovered that
a godly vjoman may be a * * * * * ! — ^But
hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is ge-
nerous Antigua, so a very unfit menstru-
um for scandal.

A-propot; How do you like, I mean
really, like the married life ? Ah ! my
friend matrimony is quite a difierent thing'
from what your love-sick youths and sigh-
ing girls take it to be I But marriage, we
are told, is appointed by God, and I shall
never quarrel with any of his institutions.
I am a husband of older standing than you,
and shall give you my ideas of the conju-
gal state [en pcusant, you know I am no
Latinist : is not confugal derived ftomju-
gtrniy a yoke ?) Well, then the scale of
good wifeship I divide into ten parts :—
Good-nature, four; Good Sense, two;
Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet
face, eloouent eves, fine limbs, graceful
carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but
that is soon spoiled you know^\ all tJb»M<k
one ; as tot XYl^ Q\!tist ^^^i^vua'^^^cw^^^

to, or atUndin^ on, a wife, avcli u For-
tune. CouncxiODB, Education, [1 meui
•ducKtion extraoidinuy,] Faraily Blood,
iic, divide the two remaining de^ieoe
Among them ta you pleaaej only remem-
ber that all thcio minor propertiea mual
be eipieesed by /nulUmt, for there is nol
anyone of them in the aforesaid scale, en-
titled to the digmty of an mUger.

As for tho rest of my fancies and
reveries— how I lately met with Misa

li B , the most beautiful, elegant

woman in the world — how I accompanied
her and her father's family fit\een miles
on their jcjumey out of pure devotion, to
admire the lovelinesH of tho works of God,
in Huch an unequalled display of them —
how, in galloping home at night, I made a
ballad on her, of which these two staniaa
made a part —

TlM HIT Dell ba could n laibs

Wbiunr wad bttini IhM !
Et*i iDnk Into tb/bonnl* fkee,

^Behold all these things are written in
the chronicles of my imaginations, and
•hall be read by thee, my dear friend,
and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear
friend, at a more convenient aeaion.

Now, to thee, and to thy before de-
wgned boMRi-companion, be given the
precious things brought forth by the sun,

and the precious thin^ brought forth by
the moon, and the benignest influences of
tbo stars, snd the living strcsme which
Bow from the fountains of life, and by
the tree of life, for ever and ever !

No. CXXXIV.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Dumfria, 2ilh September, 179S.
I BAvE this moment, my dear Madam,
yours of the twenty-third. All your
other kind reproaches, your news, &.c.
ueout ofrayheadwhcn I read and think
aailn. H--- -■■ -■- " ■ " ■ •

a heart-woonded, hdpleM young woman
—in a Strang, foreign land, and that land
convulsed with every horror tfa&tcan har-
row tjie human feelings — trick — looking,
longing for a comforter, but finding none
— a mother's feelings too— but it is too
much ; He who wounded (Bo only cas]
may He heal 1*

ing a dear, unconscionable rent, a nmd
l^e ! As to a laird farming hia own pro-
perty; sowing his own com in hope; ud
reaping it, in apitc of brittle weather, ii
gladness ; knowing that none can My
unto him, ^ what dost thou !" — fatleaiaf
his herds; shearing his flocks; rejoidaf
at Christmas: and begetting- sons ind
daughters, until he be the venerated,
gray-baited leader of a little tribe — 'tis
a heavenly life !— But devil take the lift
of reaping the finiita that naothei moat

Well, your kind wiahea will be grati-
fied, Bi to seeing me, when I make my
Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Hrs. B—
until her nine months' race is nin, which
may perhaps be in three or four weeki.
She, too, seems determined to make ins
the patriarchal leader of a hand. How-
ever, (f Heaven will be so obligiiig ■■ t»
let me have them in proportion of three
boys to one ffirl, I shall be eo much the
more pleased. I hope, if T am spared
with them, to shown set of boys that will
do honour to my cares and name ; but 1
~n not equal to the task of rearing virls.
esides, 1 am too poor: a girl aboula sl-
ays have a fortune. — .S-propoi; yoor
little godson ia thriving charmingly, bet

's a very devil. He, though '

rounger, has completely mas

very devil. He, though two yean
younger, has completely maaterea bis
brother. Robert is indeed the mildest,
gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a
most surprising memory, and is quite ths
pride of hia Bchoolmaateri

You know how readily wa get inls

? rattle upon a subject dear to our heart:
ou can excuse it. God Uom jon and

• Tfali mock laUBUd ladr wai fsH Id ikt hA^

LETTERS.

ir9

No. CXXXV.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Md to home been vnriiien on the Death
ifjire. H , her daughter.

ID been from home, and did not re-
four letter until my return the other
What ahall I say to comfort you,
och-Talued; much afflicted friend !
but grieve with you ; consolation I
lone to offer, except that which re-
holds out to the children of afflic-
Children of affliction! — ^how just
pression ! and like every other fa-
they have matters among them,
they hear, see, and feel in a serious,
[M>rtant manner, of which the world
)t, nor cares to have, any idea. The
looks indifferently on, makes the
g remark, and proceeds to the next
occurrence.

8, Madam ! who would wish for
years ? What is it but to drag ex-
e until our jo^s gradually expire,
»ve us in a night of misery ; like
oom which blots out the stars one
3, from the face of night, and leaves
hout a ray of comfort in the howl-
&ste!

a interrupted, and must leave off.
hall soon hear from me again.

No. CXXXVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Dumfries, Sth December y 1792.

HALL be in Ayrshire, I think next
; and, if at all possible, I shall cer-
, my much-esteemed friend, have
easure of visiting at Dunlop-House.

s, Madam ! how seldom do we meet
I world that we have reason to con-
late ourselves on accessions of hap-
i! I have not passed half the ordi-
;erm of an old man's life, and yet I
sly look over the obituary of a news-
, that I do not see some names that
3 known, and which I and other ac-
uinces, little thought to meet with
Aa

there so soon. Eveir other instance of
the mortality of our kind makes us cast
an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of
uncertainty, and shudder with apprehen-
sion for our own fate. But of how differ-
ent an importance are the lives of different
individuals ? Nay, of what importance is
one period of the same life more than ano-
ther ? A few years ago, I could have lam
down in the dust, " careless of the voice
of the morninff;" and now not a few,
and these most helpless individual, would,
on losing me and my exertions, lose both
their '* staff and shield." By the way,
these helpless ones have lately got an ad-
dition, Mrs. B having given me a
fine girl since I wrote you. There is a
charming passage in Thomson's Edward
and Eleanora —

** The vftliant £» knuelf, wlitt cm be nffiBr 1
Of what need lie regard hk singU W00»V* Itc

As I am got in the way of quotations,
I shall give you another from the same
piece, peculiarly, aJas ! too peculiarly ap-
posite, my dear Madam, to your present
frame of mind :

" Who M unworthy but may proudly deck hhn
With hie fair-weatber virtue, that exuka
Glad o*er the summer main 1 the tempeit comes,
The iough winds rage aloud ; when from the hehn
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies
Lamenting— Heavens ! if privileged from trial,
How cheap a thing were virtue !'*

I do not remember to have heard ^u
mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up
favourite quotations, and store them in
my mind as ready armour, offensive or
defensive, amid the struggle of this tur-
bulent existence. Of these is one, a very
favourite one, from his Alfred :

" Atuch thee firmly to the virtuous diedi

And offices of life ; to life itaelf,

WiU^aU its vain and tnnaient Joy^ ait loots.**

Probably I have quoted some of these
to yon formerly, as indeed when I write
from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of
such repetitions. The compass of the
heart, in the musical style of expression,
is much more bounded than that of the
imagination ; so the notes of the former
are extremely apt to run into one another ;
but in return for the paucity of its com
pass, its few notes are much more sweet.
I must still give you another quotation,
which I am almost sure I have given ^ou
before, bat I cannot resist tK^tA^^l^JLv^*^.

tto

LETTERS.

The mtbjeol ii religk i i peaking of ita
tmpoftance to mankind, the anther Bays,

•• *Tli fUf, aqr dritnd, that itreaka our Borniof bright,

*Tlt this tiMt fildi Um horror of oar nIghL

When woolth Ibnmkm lu, ond wbeo friondi wo fow ;

Wboo flrlondo oro AOUiImi, or wbta foes ponoo;

*Tlo tbh that wndt Um Mowf or 111111 tbo ■nait,

Wmtmm oillktloii, or rtpek bit dart ;

WUbtn tbo breut Mdt pamt rapcviw riao,

BMi HoUiof couKknco iprMd ber clOttdtow akiak'*

I see you are in for a double postage,
00 I shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet.
We, in this country here, have many
alarms of the reforming, or rather the re-
publican spirit, of your part of the king-
dom. Indeed, we are a good deal in com-
moUen ourselves. For me, I am a place"
man, you know : a very humble one in-
deed. Heaven knows, but still so much so
es to gag me. What my private senti-
ments are, you will find out without an
interpreter.

I have taken up the subject in another
view, and the other day, for a pretty Ac-
tress's benefit-night, I wrote an Address,
which I will give on the other page, call-
ed The Rights of Woman.*

I shall have the honour of receiving
jrour criticisms in person at Dunlop.

No. CXXXVII.

TO MISS B***^, OF YORK.

tut Jfarch, 1792.

MADAM,

Among many things for which { envy
those hale, long<Jived old fellows before
the flood, is this' in particular, that when
they met with any body after their own
heart, they had a charming long prospect
of many, many happy meetings with them
in after-life.

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day
of our fleetmg existence, when you, now
and then, in the Chapter of Accidents,
meet an individual wnose acquaintance
if a real acquisition, there are all the.pro-

* Um Poems, p. 83.

babilities against too, that yoa ahall never
meet with that valued character more. On
the other hand, brief as this miserable be*
ing is, it is none of the least of the nuee
ries belonging to it, that if there is any
miscreant whom yoa hate, or creature
whom you despise, the ill ran of the
chances shall be so against yoa, that m
the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of
life, pop, at some unlucky comer etemtl-
ly comes the wretch upon you, and will
not allow your indignation or contempt a
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy be-
liever in the powers of darkness, I take
these to be the doings of that old author
of mischief, the devU. It is well knows
that be has some kind of short-hand way
of taking down our thoughts, and I make
no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted
with my sentiments respecting MissB— ;
how much I admired her abilities, and
valued her worth, and how very fortunate
I thought myself in her acquaintance. For
this last reason, my dear Madam, I must
entertain no hopes of the very great plea-
sure of meeting with you again.

Miss H tells me that she is sending

a packet to vou, and I beg leave to send
you the enclosed sonnet, though, to teD
you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere
pretence, that I may have the opportuni-
ty of declaring with how mnch respectful
esteem I have the honour to be, dzrC.

No. CXXXVIIL

TO MISS C**^.

AuguH^ 1793.

MADAM,

Some rather unlooked-for accidents
have prevented my doing myself the ho-
nour of a second visit to Arbeigland, as I
was so hospitably invited, and so positive-
ly meant to have done. — However, I still
hope to have that pleasure before the bu-
sy months of harvest begin.

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as
some kind or return for the pleasure I have
received in perusing a certain MS. volume
of poems in the possession of Captain Rid-
del. To repay one with an old <ofi^, is a
proverb, whose force, you. Madam, I
know, will not allow. What is said of
illustrious descent is, I believe equahy

LETTERS.

181

me of a talent fbr poetry, none ever de-
pised it who had pretennona to it. The
■tes and characters of the rhyming tribe
Iten employ my thoughts when I am dis-
oeed to be melancholy. There is not
mong all the mar^n^logies that ever
rere penned, so rueml a narrative as the
ivee of the poets. — In the comparative
iew of wretches, the criterion is not what
bey are doomed to suffer, but how they
re formed to bear. Take a bein^ of our
ind, give him a stronger imagination and
more delicate sensibility, which between
!iem will ever engender a more ungovem-
ble set of passions than are the usual lot
fman ; implant in him an irresistible im-
olse to some idle vagary, such as ar-
inging wild flowers in fantastical nose-
aya, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt
f his chirpmg song, watching the frisks
r the little minnows, in the sunny pool,
r hunting after the intrigues of butter-
ies — ^in short, send him adrifl afler some
iirsuit which shall eternally mislead him
om the paths of lucre, and yet curse him
ith a keener relish than any man living
ir the pleasures that lucre can purchase:
jtly, nil up the measure of his woes bv
estowin^ on him a spuming sense of his
Bni digmty, and you have created a wight
sarly as miserable as a poet. To you,
fadun, I need not recount the fairy plea-
ires the muse bestows to counterbalance
lis catalogue of evils. Bewitching poe-
y 11 like bewitching woman ; she has in
11 ages been accused of misleading man-
ind from the councils of wisdom and the
Uhs of prudence, involving them indiffi-
ilties, baiting them with poverty, brand-
ig them with infamy, and plungmg them
I the whirling vortex 9f ruin ; yet where
the man but must own that all our hap-
ness on earth is not worthy the name —
lat even the holy hermit's solitary pros-
ict of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter
^a northern sun rising over a frozen re-
on, compared with the many pleasures,
le nameless raptures that we owe to the
vely Queen of the heart of Man!

No. CXXXIX.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

December J 1793.

sia.

pay mjEelfti very high compliment in the
manner in which I am going to apply the
remark. I have owed you monerjonger
than ever I owed to any man. jBfere is
Ker*s account, and here are six guineas ;
and now, I don't owe a shilling to man-
or woman either. But for these damned
dirty, dog's-eared little pages,* I had done
myself the honour to have waited on you
long ago. Independent of the obligations
your hospitality has laid me under ; the
consciousness of your superiority in the
rank of man and gentleman, of itself was
fully as much as I could ever make head
against ; but to owe you money too, wai
more than I could face.

I think I once mentioned something of
a collection of Scots songs I have some
years been making : I send you a perusal
of what I have got together. I could not
conveniently spare them above five or six
days, and five or six glances of them will
probably more than suffice you. A very
few of them are my own. w hen you are
tired of them, please leave them with Mr.
Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not
anothercopy of the collection in the world;
and I should be sorry that any unfortunate
negligence should deprive me of what has
cost me a good deal of pains.

It is said that we take the greatest
lerties wiUi onr greatest friends, and 1 1

No. CXL.

TO MRS. R**^,

WhowuiobeipeakaPlayoMEvmiingai
the DuMFKixs Theatre.

I AM thinking to send iny Addrue to
some periodical publication, but it 1^ not
got yonr sanction, so pray look orar it.

As to the Tuesday's play, let me l^offp^
you, my dear Madam, to give us, The
Wonder^ a Woman kape a Secret! to
which please add, ne Spoilt ChUd^—jou,
will highly oblige me by so doing.

Ah ! what an enviable creature yoo
are ! There now, this cursed gXoomj blue-
devil day, you are going to a party of choiea
spirita—

* BeoCtMi Beak Nolu*

But u jon rajoiee with th«m thmt do
njtrice, do also remember to weep with
tbem that weep, and pit^ yonr nielucfaolj
fiiend.

HADAH,

To0 were 10 Terjr good u to promue
BM to hononT my friend with Tour pre-
■enoe on hii benefit-night. TiaX night
ii fixed fer Friday fint '. the play a most
interefting one ! T7u Way to ketp Aim.
I have the pkasoie to know Mr. O. well.
Hie merit u an actor ia general); ac-
knowledged. He has genius and worth
which would do honour to patronage; he
ia a poor and modest man : claims which
ftom their very tilaue have the more
forcible power on the generous heart.
Alan, for pt; ! that from the indolence of
those who have the good things of this
life in their gift, too oflen does brazen-
fronted importunity snatch that boon, the
rightful due of retiring, humUlo want!
Of all the qualities we assign to the au-
thor and director of Nature, by far the
most enviable is — to be able " to wipe
kway all tears from all eyes." O what
inaignifleant, sordid wretches are they,
however chance may have loaded them
with wealth, who go to their gravea, to
their magnificent mautoltumt, with hardly
the oooBoonRiess of having made one
|Mt hooeet keait happy :

But I crave yotir pardon. Madam, I
came to beg, not to praach.

No. CXUt.
BXTIUCT OF A LETTER

TO MR. .

1794.
I AH extremely obliged to you (br
jaur Jtiod OMBtioD of my interests, in a

letter wMch Mr. 8*** riiowed me. At
present, my situation in life mnat be in a
gre«t raeaaure HtatioQary, at lecMt for two
or three years. The statement is this —
I am on the superrisors' list ; and as we
come 00 there by precedency, in two or
three years I shall oe at the head of that
list, and be appointed ^ tourie — then, a
Friend might be of service to me in set-
ting me into a place of the kingdom n^ich
1 would like. A supervisor's income va-
ries from about a hundred and twenty ta
two hundred a-vear; but the bnsinesa ii
an inceasant drudgetj, and wonld be
nearly a complete bar to every apccin
of literary pursuit. The moment I am
appointed saperviaor in the conunon roo-
tme, I may be nominated on the Col-
lector's list ; and this is always a business
pureljr of political patronage. A collcc-
torship varies much from Mtter than tvo
hundred a-year to near a thousand. They

alsoo

ntbe

list, and have, besides a
a life of complete leisure. A life of lilp-
rary leisure, with a decent compelrncp,
is the summit of my wishes. It would be
the prudish affectation of silly pride in
me, to say that I do not need, or would
not be indebted to a political friend ; at
the same time, Sir, I by no means lay my
affairs before you thus, to hook my de-
pendent situation on your benevolence.
If, in my progress in life, an opening
should occur where the good offices of a
gentleman of your public character and
political consequence might bring me for-
ward, I will petition your goodness with
the same frankness and sincerity as I now
do myself the honour to aabscribe my-

TO MRS. R**»«

DEAB UAOiK,

I MEANT to have called on you yes-
tanight ; but as I edged up to your box-
door, the first object which greeted my
view was one of those lobster- coated pup-
pies, sitting like another dragon, giimilin^
the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions
and capitulations you so obligingly off'T.
1 shall certainly make my weather-bcaton
rustic phis a part of your box-furniture

AnuMiv tbe prafnaion of idlo
meat*, w^ieh ioiidiouB crsfl, or i
ing follj, inceMantly offer at yaai shrine
—4 ahrine, bow far exalted above such
ftdoratioD — permit me, were it but for
nritj''a Bake, to psy joa the boneet tri-
bute of • warm beait and an independent
mind ; and to asmre you tbat I am, tboii
Bloat amiable, and moat accaiQpliahed of
tbf Mz, with tbe most respectful csteom,
and fervent regard, tbine, &,c.

No. CXUV.
TO THE SAME.

I WILL wait on you, my cver-valocd
friewl, but wlietber in the mornine J am
not Bure> Sunday closes ■ periocTof our
cursed revenue buBioesB, and maj pro-
bkblj keop me employed with my pen un-
til 'noon. Fine employment for a poet's
pen ! There ia a GpecicH of tho human
genus that I call lAe gin-hone clot* : what
enviablsdogi they are! Round, and round,
ftod round tfaey go — MimdeH'i ox, that
drivea liis cotton-mill, \a their exact pro-
totype — withoot an idea or wish beyond
their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient,

Jaiet, and contented: while here I sit,
[together Novcmberish, a d nulange

offretfuloesaand melancholy; not enough
of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of
the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul
flouncing and fliitteriog round her tene-
ment, like a wild finch caught amid the
horrors of winter, and newly thrust into
a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it
waa of me the Hebrew sago prophesied,
when he foretold — "And behold on what-
soever this man doth set biaheart, it shall
not proaper!" If mv resentment is awak-
ened, it is anre to ne where it dare not
•qneak ; and iT—

Pray that wisdom and bll^be moi
frequent vwitora of

R. B.

TO THE SAME.

I BATz this moment got tbe song fl«m
S***, and I am sorry to see that he hae
spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a leaaoa
to me bow I lend bim any thing sixain.

I have sent you Werltr, tmljliappy to
have any, the smallest opportunity of
obliging you.

'Tis true. Madam, I saw ynn once aince

I was at W 1 and that once froMthe

very lifo-blood of my heart. Your re-
ception of me was such, that a wretch
meeting the eye of his judee, about to
pronounce the sentence of death on bin,
could only have envied my feelings and
situation. But I hate the thema, and
never more shall write or apeak on it>

One thing I shall proudly aay, tbat I

can pay Mra. a lugher tribute of ai^

teem, and appreciate her amiable wotft
more truly, than any man whom I ban
seen approach her.

TO THE SAME.

I HAva oflen told yon, 119 dear fHend,
that you had a apice of caprice in your
composition, and you have aa oftaB diaa-
vowed it : even, perhaps, while yonr oin-
nions were, at the moment, irreftagaUy
proving it. Could ontf Htn; estrange nia
firom a friend sncb aa yon I — No t To-
morrow I shall have the honour of wait-
ing on you.

Farewell thon lirat of friends, and most
accomplished of women: even with all
Uiy little caprices !

TO THE SAUE.

1 ^nMA'4

184

LETTERS.

and would have continued my criticuma ;
bfit aa it seema the critic has forfeited
your esteem, his strictures must lose their
value.

If it is true that ** offences come only
firom the heart," hefore you I am guilt-
less. To admire, esteem, and prize you,
as the most accomplished of women, and
the first of friends--if these are crimes, I
am the most offending thing alive.

In a face where I used to meet the kind
oomplaceacy of friendly confidence, now to
find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn
-—is a wrench that my heart can iU hear.
It is, however, some kind of miserable
good luckithat while de havt-et^'bfu rigour
may depress an unoffending wretch to the

Kound, it has a tendency to rouse a stub-
m somethingin his bo8om,which,though
it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at
^^:lNtft an opiate to blunt their poignancy.

With the profoundest respect for your
abilities ; the most sincere esteem and ar-
^Bt regard for your ffentle heart and ami-
able manners ; and the most fervent wish
and prayer for your welfare, peace, and

this, such a woman ! — ^but of her I shall
say nothing at all, in despair of saying any
thmg adequate. In my song, I have en-
deavoured to do justice to what would be
his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have
drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As I
am a good deal pleased with my perform-
ance, I in my first fervour, thought of

sending it to Mrs. O ; but on second

thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the ho-
nest incense of genuine respect, might,
from the well-known character of poverty
and poetry, be construed into some modi-
fication or other of that servility which
my soul abhors.*

No. CXLIX.
TO MISS

MADAM.

Nothing short of a kind of absolute
necessity could have made me trouble you

•«n«i*^T WrUrK^.r«. r l*^^ '^ with this letter. Except my ardent and
ohss, I have the honour to be, Madam, .„., ^,,^„ f. , ^^„, ''^J .,^ _.

your most devoted, humble servant.

No. CXLVIII.

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ.

You know that, among other high dig-
nities, you have the honour to be my su-
preme court of critical judicature, from
which thiere is no appeal. I enclose you
a song which I composed since I saw you,
and I am going to give you the history of
it. Do yon know, that among much that
I admire in the characters-ana manners of
those great folks whom I have now the
honour to call my acquaintances, tl|e
O***** family, there is nothing charms me
more than Mr. O's. unconcealable attach-
ment to that incomparsjble woman. Did
you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a
man who owed more to the Divine Giver
of all good things than Mr. O. A fine
fortune, a pleasing exterior, self-evident
amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous
apright mind, and that informed too,
louea beyond the usual run of yo\\n|^ fe\- \ •
^W9 of hiM rank and fortune : and \o a\\\

just esteem for your sense, taste, and
worth, every sentiment arising in my
breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is
painfuL The scenes I have passed with
the friend of my soul and his amiable con-
nexions ! the wrench at my heart to think
that he is gone, for ever gone from me,
never more to meet in the wanderings of
a weary world ! and the cutting reflec-
tion of all that I had most unfortunately,
though most undeservedly, lost the coim-
dence of that soul of worth, ere it took
its flight !

These, Madam, are sensations of no
ordinary anguish. — However, you also
may be offended with some imputed im-
proprieties of mine ; sensibility you know
I possess, and sincerity none will deny
me.

To oppose those prejudices which have
been raised against me, 4b not the busi«
nesB of- this letter. Indeed it is a war-
fare I know not how to wage. The pow-
ers of positive vice I can in some degree
calculate, and against direct malevolence
I can be on my guard ; but who can esti-

npi

* The ■onfvndoKd wu that, glvm in
116 b«dnDiiif,

PMBMilMge

LETTERS.

185

mate the fiituity ofgiddv caprice, or ward
off the aDthinkiDflr mischief of precipitate
foUy?

1 hare & favour to request of you, Ma-
dam ; and of your sister Mrs. — , through
your means. You know that, at the wish
of my late friend, I made a collection of
all my trifles in verse which I had ever
written. There are many of them local,
some of them puerile and silly, and all of
them, unfit for the public eye. As I have
some little fame at stake, a fame that I
trust may live when the hate of those
** who watch for my halting," and the
contumelious sneer of those whom acci-
dent has made my superiors, will, with
themselves, be grone to the regions of ob-
livion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of
those manuscripts.— Will Mrs. -^— have
the goodness to destroy them, or return
them to me ? As a pledge of friendship
they were bestowed ; and that circum-
stance indeed was all their merit. Most
unhappily for me, that merit they no
longer possess; and I hope that Mrs.
's iroodness, which T well know, and
ever will revere, wiU not refuse this fa-
vour to a man whom she once held in
0ome degree of estimation.

With the sincerest esteem, 1 have the
honour to be, Madam, &c.

No. CL.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

Z5th February, 1794.

Caubt thou minister to a mind dis-
eaied ? Canst thou speak peace and rest
to a soul tossed on a sea of troubles, with-
out one friendly star to guide her course,
and dreading that the next surge may
ovj^rwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a
fratne, tremblingly alive as the tortures of
suspense, the stability and hardihood of
the rock that braves the blast ? If thou
caost not do tlie least of these, why
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries
with thy inquiries after me ?

For these two months, I have not been
able to lift a pen. My constitution and

frame were ab ortgme, blasted with a
deep incurable taint of hypochondria,
which poisons my existence. Of late, a
number of domestic vexations, and some
pecuniary share in the ruin of these *** ""
* * times ; losses which, though trifling,
were yet what I could ill bear, have so ir-
ritated me, that my feelings at times could
onl^ be envied by a reprobate spirit Ks-
temng to the sentence that dooms it to
perdition.

Are you deep in the language of conso-
lation? I have exhausted in reflection
every topic of comfort. A heart at eoH
would have been charmed with my senti-
ments and reasonings ; but as to myself,
I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the
Gospel : he might melt and mould the
hearts of those around him, but his own
kept its native incorrigibility.

Still there are two great pillars that
bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune
and miseiy. The one is composed of the
different modifications of a certain noble,
stubborn something in man, known by the
names of courage, fortitude, magnanimi-
ty. The OTHER is made up of those feel-
ings and sentiments, which, however the
sceptic mav deny them, or the enthusiast
disfigure tnem, are yet, I am convinced,
original and component parts of the hu-
man soul : those tenses of the mt'mf, if I
may be allowed the expression, which
connect us with, and link us to, those aw-
ful obscure realities — an all-powerfuL and
equally beneficent God ; and a world to
come, beyond death and the mive. The
first gives the nerve of combat, while a
ray of hope beams on the field : — the last
pours the balm of comfort into the wounds
which time can never cure.

I do not remember, my dear Cunning-
ham, that you and I ever talked on tho
subject of religion at all. I know some
who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty
TEW, to lead the undisccrning mant ; or
at most as an uncertain obscurity, which
mankind can never know any thing of,
and with which they arc fools if they ffive
themselves much to do. Nor would I
quarrel with a man for his irreligion any
more than I would for his want of a mu-
sical ear. I would regret that he was shut
out from what, to me and to others, were
such superlative sources of enjoyment. It
is in this point of view, and for this rea-
son, that I will deeply imbue the mind of
every child of mine witK T«l\%\Aa. U tQ!\

186

LETTERS.

son should happen to be a man of feeling,
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add
largely to hia enjoj^ments. Let me flatter
myself that this sweet little fellow, who
is just now running about my desk, will
be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing
heart ; and an imagination, delighted with
the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let
me figure him wandering out in a sweet
ercning, to inhale the balmy gales, and en-
joy the growing luxuriance of the spring!
himself the while in the blooming youth
of life. He looks abroad on all nature,
and through nature up to nature's God.
His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is
rapt above this sublunary sphere, until he
can be silent no longer, and bursts out in-
to the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson,

" TtHve, as thej clwnffe, Ahnlgbty FaUier, Umm
Are but the Taried God— The rolling year
Is foU of thee/*

And so on in all the spirit and ardour
of that charming hymn.

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are
real delights : and I ask what of the de-
lights among the sons of men are superior,
not to say equal, to' them ? And they
have this precious, vast addition, that con-
scious virtue stamps them for her own ;
and lays hold on them to bring herself in-
to the presence of a witnessing, judging,
and approving God.

No. CLL

TO MRS. R**^.

Suppate9 himtelf to be torUing from the
Dead to the Lining.

MADAM,

I DARK say this is the first epistle you
ever received from this nether world. I
write you from the regions of Hell^ amid
the horrors of the damned. The time and
manner of my leaving your earth I do not
exactly know, as I took my departure in
the heat of a fever of intoxication, con-
tracted at your too hospitable mansion ;
but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried
•ad f eiitenced to endure the \i>\T|^\Ai\al

tortures of this infernal confine fbr the
space of ninety-nine years, eleven months,
and twenty-nine days, and all on account
of the impropriety of my conduct yester-
night under your roof. Here am I, laid
on a bed, of pitiless furze, with mj aching
head reclined on a pillow of ever-pierdng
thorn ; while an infernal tormentor, wrink-
led, and old, and cruel, his name I think
is Recollectiony with a whip of scorpions,
forbids pcsce or rest to approach me, and
keeps anguish eternally awake. Still,
Madam, if I could in any measure be re-
instated in the good opinion of the &ir
circle whom my conduct last nig^ so
much injured, I think it would be an al-
leviation to my torments. For this rea-
son I trouble you with this letter. To^
men of the company I will make no apo-
logy. — Your husband, who insisted on my
drinking more than I chose, has no rifffat
to blame me ; and the other g^itlem^
were partakers of my guilt. But to yoo,
Madam, I have much to apologise. loor
good opinion I valued as one of the great-
est acquisitions I bad made on earth, and
I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There

was a Miss I , too, a woman of fine

sense, gentle and unassuming manners-
do make, on my part, a miserable d d
wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs.

Qt , a charming woman, did me the

honour to be prejudiced in my favoor ;—
this makes me hope that I have not out-
raged her beyond all forgiveness. — To aQ
the other ladies please present my hnm-
blest contrition for m^ conduct, and mr
petition for their gracious pardon. O, ill
ye powers of decency and i'Necorum ! whis-
per to them, that my errors, thoagh great,
were involontary-^ that an intoxicated
man is the vilest of beasts— that it wu
not my nature to be brutal to any one
—that to be rude to a woman, when
in my senses, was impossiUe with me-
but—

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three
hell-hounds that ever dog my steps and
bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me !

Forgive the ofiTences, and pity the per-
dition of.

Madam,
Your humble slavci.

i-.-fc'

LETTERS.

187

No. CLII.

'O MRS. DUNLOP.

5th Decembery 1795.

R THIEND,

am in a complete Decemberish
Tloomy, sullen, stupid, as even
}f Dulncss herself could wish, I
Irawl out a heavy letter with a
:' heavier apolo^es for ray late
Only one I shall mention, be-
low you will sympathize in it :

months, a sweet little girl, my
child, has been so ill, that every
ek or less, threatened to termi-

existence. There had much
nany pleasures annexed to the
husband and father, for God
ey have many peculiar cares. I
scribe to you the anxious, sleep-
, these ties frequently rive me.
"ain of helpless little folks ; me
txertions all their stay ; and on
ittle thread does the life of man
I am nipt off at the command of
n in all the vigour of manhood
such things happen every day —
jfod ! what would become of my
: ! 'Tis here that I envy your
fortune ! A father on his death-
ig an everlasting leave of his
has indeed wo enough ; but the
mpetent fortune leaves his sons
Iters independency and friends ;
but I shall run distracted if I
longer on the subject !

e talking of the matter so grave-
sing with the old Scots ballad —

tbit I bad ne*er been married
iroold never bad naa care ;
r Pve gotten wife and bairns,
bey erj crowdie ! evermair.

frdle! ance! crowdic twice;
rowdia ! tbree times In a day :
ire crowdic ony mair,
a*U crowdia a* my meal away.**

December Z4th.

Lve had a brilliant theatre here
on; only, as all other business
iperienees a stagnation of trade
Am 2

from the epidemical complaint of the
country, want of cash, I mention our the-
atre merely to lug in an occasional Ad--
drett which I wrote for the benefit night
of one of the actresses, and which is at
follows.*

25thf Chriiinuu J^ommg,

This my much-loved friend is a morn-
ing of wishes ; accept mine— eo heaven
hear me as they are sincere ! that bleia-
ings may attend your steps, and affliction
know you not ! in the charming words of
my favourite author, 7^ Jlfoit of Feelings
** May the Great Spirit bear up the weight
of thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow that
brings them rest !"

Now that I talk of authors, how do yoa
like Cowper ? Is not the Taak a glorious
poem ? The religion of the TVwAr, bating
a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the
religion of God and Nature ; the religion
that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not
you to send me your ZelucOy in return for
mine ? Tell me how you like my marks
and notes through the book. I would not
give a farthinfir for a book, unless I were
at liberty to blot it with my criticisms.

I have lately collected, for a friend's
perusal, all my letters. I mean those
which I first sketched in a rough draught,
and afterwards wrote out fair. On look-
ing over some old musty papers, which,
from time to time, 1 had parcelled by, as
trash that were scarce worth preserving,
and which yet at the same time I did not
care to destroy; I discovered many of
these rude sketches, and have written and
am writing them out, in a bound MS. for
my friend's library. As I wrote always
to you the rhapsody of the moment, I can-
not find a single scroll to you, except one,
about the commencement of our acqoaint-
.ance. If there were any possible con-
veyance, I would send you a perusal of
my book.

No. CLni.
TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON.

DumfHiM^ SOCA Deemher^ 1795.

I R ATX been prodigiously disappoint-
ed in this London journey of yours. In

188

LETTERS.

the first place, when your last to me
reached Dumfries, I was in the country,
and did not return until too late to answer
your letter ; in the next place, I thought
you would certainly take this route ; and
now I know not what is become of you,
or whether this may reach you at aU. —
God grant that it may find you and yours
in prospering health and good spirits ! Do
let me hear from you the soonest possible.

As I hope to get a frank from my friend
Captain Miller, I shall every leisure hour,
take up the pen, and gossip away what-
ever comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or
song. In this last article I have abound-
ed of late. I have often mentioned to
you a superb publication of Scottish songs
which is making its appearance in your
great metropolis, and where I have the
honour to preside over the Scottish verse
as no less a personage than Peter Pindar
does over the English. I wrote the fol-
lowing for a favourite air. See the Song
entUMf Lord Chregoryy Poemt^ p. 87.

December 29th.

Since I began this letter, I have been
appointed to act in the capacity of super-
visor here : and I assure you, what with
the load of business, and what with that
business being new to me, I could scarcely
have commanded ten minutes to have
spoken to you, had you been in town,
much less to have written you an epistle.
This appointment is only temporary, and
during the illness of the present incum-
bent; but I look forward to an early pe-'
riod when I shall be appointed in full
form ; a consummation devoutly to be
wished ! My political sins seem to be for-
given me.

This is the season (New-year's day is-
now my date) of wishmg ; and mine are
most fervently offered up for you ! May
life to you be a positive blessing while it
lasts for your own sake ; and that it may
yet be greatly prolonged, is my wish for
my own sake, and for the sake of the rest
of .your friends ! What a transient busi-
ness is life ! Very lately I was a boy ;
but t'other day I was a young man ; and
I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and
stiffening joints of old age coming fast
o'er my/rame. With all my follies of
routhf and, I fear, a few vices oif man- 1
hood, still I congralulate m^ae\£ ohY^an-

ing had, in early days, religion strongly im-
pressed on my mind. I nave nothing to
say to any one as to which sect he be-
longs to, or what creed he believes ; but
I look on the man, who is firmly persuad-
ed of infinite Wisdom and Goodness su-
perintending and directing every circum-
stance that can happen in his lot — I feli-
citate such a man as having a solid foun-
dation for his mental enjoyment ; a firm
prop and sure stay in the hour of difficul-
ty, trouble, and distress : and a never-
fading anchor of hope, when he looks be-
yond the grave.

January IZih

You will have seen our worthy and in-

fenious friend the Doctor, long ere this,
hope he is well, and beg to be remem-
bered to him. I have just been reading
over again, I dare say for the hundred
and fiftieth time, his View of Society and
•Manneri ; and still I read it with d^ht
His humour is perfectly original— it is
neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift,
nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr.
Moore. By the by, you have deprived
me of Zeluco ; remember that, when jos
are disposed to rake up the sins of my
neglect from among the ashesof my lazi-
ness.

He has pud me a pretty compliment,
by quoting mo in his last pablication.*

No. CLIV.
TO MRS. R***«.

ZOth Jmnuary^ 1796

I CANNOT express my gratitude to yoa
for allowing me a longer perusal ofJIna-
chartit. In fact I never met with a book
that bewitched me so much ; and T, as a
member of the library, must warmly fwl
the obligation you have laid us under.
Indeed to me, the obligation is stronger
than to any other individual of oor socie*
ty ; as Anachartis is an indispeiaable de-
sideratum to a son of the Musss*

The health you wished me in yonr
morning's card, is I think, flown from me
for ever. I have not been able to leave
my bed to-day till about an hour ag<>*

* Edward.

LETTERS.

189

iwiekedly unlucky advertisements
(I did wrong) to a friend, and I am
3 to go in quest of him.

i Muses have not quite forsaken me.
allowing detached stanzas I intend
trweave in some disastrous tale of a
3rd*

No. CLV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Sltt January^ 1796.

Kss many months you have been
ickets in my debt — what sin of ig-
« I have committed against so
valued a friend I am utterly at a
gaess. Alas! Madam! ill can I
at this time, to be deprived of any
small remnant of my pleasures. I
itely drunk deep of tiie cup of af-
. The autumn robbed me of my
LUghter and darling child, and that
itance too, and so rapidly, as to put
)f my power to pay the last duties
I had scarcely begun to recover
lat shock, when I became myself
tim of a most severe rheumatic fe-
id long the die spun doubtful ; un-
er many weeks of a sick bed, it
to have turned up life, and I am be-
l to crawl across my room, and
ideed have been before my own
the street.

n pleamire faadnates the mental light,

llctlon purifief Uie visual ray,

Ion ball! tho drear, the untried night.

d dintfl, for ever shuts, life's doubtful day !

No. CLVI.
TO MRS. R*****^

ad denred him to go to the Birth-
/ Assembly on that day to show
his loyalty,

4th June, 1796.

t in such miserable health as to be
incapable of showing my loyalty
NtLV. Racked as I am with rheu-
I, I meet everv face with a greet-

ing, like that of Balak to Balaam — *^ Come,
curse me Jacob ; and come, defy me
Israel !" So say I — come, curse me that
east wind : and come, defy me the north !
Would you have me in such circumstan-
ces, copy you out a love song ?

I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday,
but I will not be at the ball. — Why ■hould
I ! *^ Man delights not me, nor woman
either?" Can you supply me with the
song, Let tu eUl be unhappy iogeiher^^
do 5 you can, and oblige le paaore mise'
rable.

R. B.-

No. CLVII.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

JBroto, Sea-baihtrig Quarters^ lUi July^

1796.

MT DEAK CUNHINOHAM,

I RECEIVED yours here this moment,
and am indeed highly flattered with the
approbation of the literary circle you men-
tion ; a literary circle inferior to none in
the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I
fear the voice of the bard will soon be
heard among you no more ? For these
eight or ten months I have been ailing,
sometimes bedfast, and sometimes not ;
but these last three months, I have been
tortured with an excruciating rheumatism,
■which has reduced me to nearly the last
stage. You actually would not know me
if you saw me. — ^Pale, emaciated, and so
feeble as occasionally to need help from
my chair ! my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I
can no more on the subject— only the
medical folks tell me that my last and
only chance is bathing, and country quar-
ters, and riding. — The deuce of the mat-
ter is this ; when an exciseman is off duty,
his salary is reduced to j£35 instead of
£50. — What way, in the name of thrift,
shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse
in country quarters — with a wife and five
children at home, on £35 ? I mention
this, because I had intended to beg your
utmost interest, and that of all the friends
you can muster, to move our Commission-
ers of Excise to grant me the full salary
— ^I dare say you know them all person-
ally. If they do not grant it me, I must
lay my account. ^\.Vi >&si «x\\.\x\s\^ nv t^tc^

TETTERS.

)t of iliieue, I mnat perteh with

in die I

I have sent you one of the wiigs; the
other my memory doea not BETVO
and I have no copy here; but I
at homo Boon, when I will aend i
— A-pro/iot to beine at home, Mrs. iturna
[hrciLlciu in a week or two to add om
more to mj paternal charge, which, ifo
the right gender, I intend ahall bo intro
diircd to tlie world by the rcapRttah]!
designation of Altxander Ctmniii^hmi
Burnt. My last wbb Jama Olemaint
to you can hive no objection to t!io cum
pauy of nobility- Farewell !

No. CLVIII.
TO MRS. BURNS.

Brtne, TTiurtdai/.

a writing until I could tell
jou what effect sea-bathing was tkely to
produce. It would be injustice to deny
that it has eased my puns, and ] think,
has atrengthened me ; but my appetite is
still 'extremely bad. No flesh nor li^h
can I swallow ; porridge and milk are Ihi
only thing I can taste. I am verv happy
to near, dv Miaa Jess Lewars, t)iat }oi]
are all well. My very best and kindeBt
compliments to her, and to all the chil-
dren. I will aea you on Sunday. Your
affectionate husband.

a. B.

TO MRS. DUNLOP

Bro»,ltthJuts,\nt

I HAT* written jou so often witbont
receiving any answer, that 1 would lut
trouble you again, but for the circuiD-
stances in wbicn 1 un. An illnesa whicb
haa long hung about me, in sll probabilitj
wiH speedily send me beyond that bam
whence no travelltrrehirru. Youi friend- ,
ship, with which for many years you ho-
noured me was a frienMhip dearest t»
my soul. Your conversation, and e^w-
ciaHy yonr correspondence, were at onn
highly entertaining and inatnictive. With
what ideasure dia 1 use to break up ths
sea] ! The remenihrance yet adds oM
nulse more to my poor palpitatiiig hMit
i'arewellni*

R.B.

Ttw aban li nppond to
BobtnBnnii, wbo dlad on tl)
U* bad, h

tam anplj (UUUM.

blm mndMrorid bjo* Bb< ■! ia«ll— —W I

CORRESPONDENCE

atm^ (GUB(Dm(GNB VXKDXItS^DIf.

BTB remaining part of this Volume, consists principally of the Correspondence
m Mr. BuRivs and Mr. Thomson, on the subject of the beautiful Work pro-
aod executed by the latter, the nature of which is explained in the first num-
the following series.* The undertaking of Mr. Thomson, is one in which
Mic may be congratulated in various pomts of view ; not merely as having
ed the finest of the Scottbh songs and airs of past times, but as having given
m to a number of original songs of our Bard, which equal or surpass the for-
Rnts of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, may be
compared with the Ivric poetry of any age or countiy. The letters of Mr.
to Mr. Thomson include the songs he presented to him, some of which appear
srent sta^fes of their process ; and these letters will be found to exhibit occa-
f his notions of song-wntingv and his opinions on various subjects of taste and
an. These opinions, it will'be observed, were called forth by the observations
correspondent, Mr. Thomson ; and without the letters of this gentleman, those
tVB would have been often unintelligible. He has therefore yielded to the
tjeqoest of the Trustees of the family of the poet, to suffer them to appear
r natural order; and, independently of the illustration they give to the letters
Bard, it is not to be doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure them a re-
1 from the public, far beyond what Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit him
[KMe. The whole of this correspondence was arranged for the press by Mr.
ion, and has been printed with little addition or variation,
ivoid increasing the bulk of the work unnecessarily, we have in general re-
the reader for the Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and have
the verses entire, only when they differ in some respects from the adopt-

No. I.
THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
Edinburgh J September^ 1792.

OR some years past, I have with a

of two, employed, many leisure

in selecting and collating the most

favourite of our national melodies for pub-
lication. We have engaged Pleyel, the
most agreeable composer living, to put
accompaniments to these, and also to
compose an instrumental prelude and con-
clusion to each air, the better to fit them
for concerts, both public and private.
To render this work perfect, we are
desirous to have the poetry improved;
wherever it seems unworthy of the music.

« wotk b tntitledi '* A Select Collection of orifiinal Scottish Airs for the Voice : to which «ro added
iUiTj and Concludinc Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Piano Forte and Violin by Pkyel and
Ji: with aelett uad cbtracterisUc Venet, by the most aduuitAScMtkilti Vo«uk^^ %u^

192

LETTERS.

and that is so in many instancee, is allow-
ed by every one conversant with our mu-
sical collections. The editors of these
seem in general to have depended on the
music proving an excuse for the verses :
and hence, some charming melodies are
united to mere nonsense and doggerel,
while others are accommodated with
rhymes so loose and indehcate, as cannot
be sung in decent company. To remove
this reproach would be an easy task to
the author of The Cotter's StUurday J>/iffht ;
and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would
fain hope he may be induced to take up
the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to
present the public with a collection linfi-
nitely more interesting than any that has
yet appeared, and acceptable to all per-
sons of taste, whether they wish for cor-
rect melodies, delicate accompaniments,
or characteristic verses. — We will esteem
your poetical assistance a particular fa-
vour, besides paying any reasonable price
vou shall please to demand for it. Profit
is quite a secondary consi(leration with us,
and we are resolved to spare neither pains
nor expense on tlie publication. Tell me
frankly, then, whether you will devote
your leisure to writing twenty or twenty-
five songs, suited to the particular melo-
dies which I am prepared to send you.
A few songs, exceptionable only in some
of their verses, I will likewise submit to
your consideration ; leaving it to you,
either to mend these, or make new songs
in their stead. It is superfluous to assure
you that I have no intention to displace
any of the sterling old songs ; those only
will be removed, which appear quite silly,
or absolutely indecent. Even these shall
all be examined by Mr. Bums, and if he
is of opinion that any of them are deserv-
ing of the music, in such cases no divorce
«hall take place.

Relying on the letter accompanying
this, to be forgiven fox the liberty 1 have
taken in addressing you, I am, with great
esteem, Sir, your most obedient humble
servant,

G. THOMSON.

will positively add to my enjoyments in
complying with it, I shall enter into your
undertaking with all the small portion ol
abilities I have* strained to their utmost
exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm.
Only, don't hurry me : '^ Deil tak the
hindmost," is by no means the cri dt
guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am
inferior to none of you in enthusiastic at-
tachment to the poetry and music of old
Caledonia, and, since you request it, hive
cheerfuUy promised my mite of assistance
— will you let me have a Ust of your ain^
with the first line of the printed versei
you intend for them, that I may have an
opportunity of suggesting any alteration
that may occur to mc. You know 'tis ii
the way of my trade ; still leaving yos,
gentlemen, the undoubted right of pab-
lishers, to approve, or reject, at yom
pleasure, for your own publication. ' i-
propos! if you are for Engiuh verBei,
there is, on my part, an end of the matto.
Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or
the pathos of the song, I can only hope
to please myself in being allowed at kttf
a sprinkling of our native tongue. £b-
glish verses, particularly the worb of
Scotsmen, that have merit, are certunljf
very eligible. Ttcee4side — Ah^ the poor
shephera't mournful fait — Ah^ ChlariM
could I now but nt^ Slc» you cannot mend;
but such insipid stuff as, Tb Faiwffmr
could I impart^ &,c. usually set to 3^
J^ill J^ill O, is a disgrace to the coUefr
tion in which it has already appeared, and
would doubly disgrace a collection thit
will have the very superior merit of yoin&
But more of this in the farther prosed-
tion of the business, if I am ctJled on ftr
my strictures and amendment»^I sijf,
amendments : for I will not alter ezeejiC
where I myself at least thiidE that I
amend.

No. II.
MR. BbRNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Dumfries, \^ih September, 1792.

SIR,

I HAVE just this moment got your
letter* As the request ^o\\ la^ke to me [

As to any remuneration, you may tkiflk
my songs cither above or belowpriee;
for they shall absolutely be the oneortbv^
other. In the honest enthusiasm wili^
which I embark in your undertaking* K|
talk of money, wages, fee, hire, dtc. worf j
be downright proHihtiion qfwul ! A pro^j
of each of the songs that I compo«e ' |
amend, I shall receive as a favour, b
the rustic phrase of the season, '^ (j^
speed the wark!"

I am, Sir, your very humble sernA,

R. BURNS.

P. S. I have some particular revo*
for wishing my interference to be kiio^[
as little as possible

•7»?r"-j-v.

*l|«

ly^^'-^^

wrt -.%L*

LETTERS.

19&

No. m.

IfR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
Edinburgh, nth Octcber, 1792.

DSAB 8IR9

r RscEiYED, with much satisfaction,
)Qr pleasant and obligin^r letter, and I
rtum my wannest acCiowledgments for
le enthnsiasm with which you have en-
red into our undertaking. We have
)w no doubt of being able to produce a
iDection Righly deserving of public at-
ntion in all respects.

I agree with you in thinking English
tmea that have merit, vyry eligible,
herever new verses are necessary ; be-
joae the English becomes every year
ore and more the language of Scotland;
It if you mean that no Lnglish verses,
:eept those by Scottish authors, ought

be admitted, I am half inclined to diner
ym you. I should consider it unpardon-
ile to sacrifice one good song in the
sottish dialect, to make room for Eng-
ih verses ; but if we can select a few
:cellent ones suited to the unprovided

iU-provided airs, would it not be the
ry bigotry of literary patriotism to re-
st mch, merely because the authors
ne bom south of the Tweed ? Our
reet air, JIfy J^Tannie O, which in the
Uections is joined to the poorest stuff
■t Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning,
Thtfs aome/or pleasure nawn their healvi^
mmetn so finely to Dr. rercy's beautiful
ng*, O, JVhfMy unit thou go with me, that
m would thii^c he wrote it on purpose

Lthe air. However, it is not at all our
h to confine you to English verses ;
n thall freely be allowed a sprinkling of
mr native tongue, as you elegantly ex-
tm it : and moreover, we will patiently
ait your own time. One thing only I beg,
hich ia, that however gay and sportive
e muse maybe, she may always be de-
nt. Let her not write what beauty would
ash to apeak, nor wound that charming
ilicacy which forms the most precious
»wry of our daughters. I do not con-
dve the song to be the most proper ve-
de for witty and brilliant conceits ;
nplicity, I believe, should be its pro-
inent feature ; but, in some of our son^,
w writers have confounded simplicitv
ih coarseness and vulgarity ; although
Btween the one and the other, as Dr.
|Battie well observes, there is as great a
iftrence as between a plain suit of clothes I

and a bundle of rags. The humorous
ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suit-
ed to our artless melodies ; and more in-
teresting, indeed, in all songs, than the
most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions,
and flowery fancies.

With these trite observations, I send
you eleven of the songs, for which it is
my wish to substitute others of your wri-
ting. I shall soon transmit the rest, and,
at the same time, a prospectus of the
whole collection : and you may believe
we will receive any hints that you are so
kind as to give for improving the work,
with the greatest pleasure and thankful-
ness.

I remain, dear Sir, &,r..

No. IV.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

BfT DEAR SIR,

Let me tell you, that you are too
fastidious in your ideas of songs and bal-
lads. I own that your criticisms are just ;
the songs you specify in your list have
all, but one, the faults you remark in theni ;
but who shall mend the matter ? Who
shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make
a better ? For instance, on reading over
the Lea^rig, I immediately set about try-
ing my hand on it, and, after all, I could
make nothing more of it than the fol-
lowing, which, Heaven knows is poor
enougn :

When o*er the hill the eastern star,

T«lls bughtin time is near my jo ;
And owsen firae the fiirrow*d field.

Return sae dowf and weary O ;
Down by the bum, where scented birks*

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig.

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkcst glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee.

My ain kind dearie O.
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,t

And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rigr,

My ain kind dearie O.

* For *' Kentod birka,** in somt eoplti, ** birkni
buds/* E.

t In the copy uannniUed to Mr TbomKNi, bwUnd

104

LETTERS.

Yoar observation as to the aptitude of
Dr. Percy's ballad to the air MumU O,
is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most
beautiftil ballad in the English language.
But let me remark to you, that, in the
sentiment and style of our Scottish airs,
there is a pastoral simplicity, a something
that one may call the Doric style and dia-
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of
our native tongue and manners is parti-
cularly, nay peculiarly apposite. For
this reason, and, upon my honour, for this
reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I
told you before, my opinion is yours, freely
yours, to approve, or reject, as you please]
that my ballad of Dannie O, might, per-
haps, do for one set of verses to the tune.
Now don't let it enter into your head, that
you are under any necessity of taking my
verses. I have lohg ago made up my
mind as to my own reputation in the busi-
ness of authorship ; and have nothing to
be pleased or offended at, in your adop-
tion or rejection of my verses. Though
you should reject one half of what I give
you, I shall bo pleased with your adopting
the other half, and shall continue to serve
you with the same assiduity.

In the printed copy of my Dannie O,
the name of the river is horridly prosaic.
I will alter it,

** BeMnd jon hUls where Lvgar flows.*'

Girvan is the name of the river that
suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lu-
gar is the most agreeable modulation of
syllables.

of wild^ waa ineerted tut. But in ono of the mftnii-
■cripti, probet>ly written afterwards, wet was ehanged
into wild ; evidently a great improrement. The lovers
might meet on the lea-rig, *' clthough the night were
ne*cr80wiU,** that is, although the snmmer-wind blew,
the skj lowered, and the thunder murmured ; such cir-
cumstances might render their meeting still more lote*
resting. But if the night were acmdllf wet, why should
thej meet on thelea-ilg t Un a wet night the imagina-
Uon cannot contemplate their situation there with any
eomplac<»ncy.— TibuUus, and, ader'him, Hammond,
has conceived a happier situation for lovers on a wet
night. Probably Bums had in his miud the verse of an
old Scottish Bong, in which wet and loeory are natu-
rally enough conjoined.

" When my ploughman comes hame at ev*n

He's often wet and weary ;
Cast off the wet, put on the dry, |

/tnci gae to bed my deary."

I win soon ^ive you a great many more
remarks on this business ; but I have just
now an opportunity of conveying you this
scrawl, free of postage, an expense that
it is ill able to pay : so, with my best
compliments to honest Allan, Good be
wi* ye, &c.

Fri4tiynigki

Sahtrday mormiig.

As I find I have still an hour to spare
this morning before my conveyance goes
away, I will give you JVbfwiu 0» it lengtL
See Poemi, p. 66.

Your remarks on Ewe-burhU^
are just: still it has obtained a place
among our more classical Scottish Songs
and what with many beauties in its con-
position, and more prejudices in its fk-
vour, you will not find it easy to sup-
plant it.

In my very early yearn, when I wis
thinking of going to the West Indies. 1
took the following farewell of a dear girl
It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the
merits of Ewe-^ugfUg ; but it wiU fiH sp
this page. You must know, that all mv
earlier love-songs were the breathings of
ardent passion : and though it might have
been easy in afler-times to have given
them a polish, yet that polish, to me,
whose they were, and who perhaps alone
cared for them, would have defaced the
legend of my heart, which was ao faith-
fully inscribed on them. Their nncovth
simplicity was, as they say of wines, their
race.

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?

See PoenUy p. 85.

Galla Water^ and Auld Rob Jlforris^ I
think, will most probably be the n«^xt sub-
ject of my musings. However, even on
my verses^ speak Out your criticisms with
equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand
aloof, the uncomplying bigot of cgnnioAnrfA
but cordially to join issue with you in the
furtherance of the work.

RNS TO MR. THOMSON.

JfoMnAtr tOt, nn.

I mean, my dear Sir, that all th«
jrour collection (hail be poetry
t merit, I am afraid you will End
;iiltyin the undertaking than yoa
; of. There is a peculiar rliyth-
uiy of our aiia, and a uecessily
ig syllables to the emphasiB, or
juld call the fialurt nolei of the
'. cramp the poet, and lay him
lost insuperable ditficultiea. For
in the air, JtTy vife't a ttanlon
. ifa few lines smooth and pretty
apted to it, it ia all you can ex-
be foUawing were 'made extem-
:, and though, on further study,
pve you Bomethingr more pro-
: it mi^ht not suit the light-bone
the air «o well aa tim random

HR. BURNS TO MR- TH0H80N.

Ltelotwg Om Soiig on Highland If try.

5m POMM, p. 8S.

14th JVottmbtr, 17».

^£-S A WINSOHS WEE
TmNG.

■ wineome wee thing,
a handsome wee thing,

Sm Foemt, p. Q5.

just been looking over tha Col-
oeDochler; andif the following
. which 1 compoi<*d the other

charming Ayrshire girl, Miss
Aa paaaed through this place to

will iiiit yonr taste better than
»- Lauit, fall on and welcome.

w ye bonnie Lesley

I ahs gaed o'er the border?

5m Poetiu,p. 85.

lutherto deferred the miblimer,
betic aire, until more leisure, ta
take, and deserve, a rreater ef'
oWGver. they are all put into
la, aa clay into the bands of the
I make one vessel to honour, and
o dishonour. Farewell, Sk.

I AGaxE with yon that the aony, fa-
IfLorine OgU, ia very poor etnff, and nn-
wonby, altogether unworthy, of so bean-
tiful an air. I tried to mend it, but the
awkward sound OgU recurring bo oflen
iTi tlie rliyniL', f poUa every attempt at in-
Iruilucing f^entiTui^nt into the piece. The
tgregoing song p1«aseB myself ; Itfainkit
i* IB. my liHp]>ipst manner; you will ees
at fail ^Iniic'c; ihnt it Boits the air. The
siil.JFTt iifili.' tcpcigiaone of the moet in-
HT.-'i[iL' [iri-.--L;:i 1 of my youthriil daya;
and I own that I should be much flattered
to see tht verses set to an air, which would
ensure celebrity. Ferhape, afler all, 'tie
the etill glowing prejudice of my heart,
that throws a borrowed loatre over tlM
merits of the composition.

I have partly takmi yonr idea of JwU
Rob JIforru. I ha ve adopted the two flrat
rersee, and am going on with the eeu
on a new plan, wtuch promises pretty weU.
I take up'one or another, just aa the bee
of the moment buuoa in m^ bonnet-lug ;
and do you, tan* ttrtmotue, make wut
use yon chooee of the produotiona.
Adieu 1 &c.

No. vri

MR. THOMSON TO UR. BURNS.

EdiRburgh, JfottwJM', ITSS.
DXAK ant,
I WAS just going to write to yon thai
on meeting with your JVhuHW I had fallen
violently in love with her. 1 thank yoo, -
therefore for sending the charming ruatio
to me, in the drees you wish her to appear
befote the publie- She does you great
credit, and will aoon be admitted into the
beet company.

I regret that your wngfbr tha £«»4V,
it ao short ; the air is easy, sooa BUBf .

196

LETTERS.

and very pleasiog ; bo that, if the singer
etopu at the end of two stanxas^ it is a
pleasure loet ere it ia well possessed.

Although a dash of our native tongue
and manners is doubtless peculiarly con-
genial and appropriste to our melodies,
yet I shall be able to present a consider-
able number of the yery Flowers of Eng-
lish Song, well adapted to those melodies,
which in England at least will be the
means of recommending them to still
greater attention than they have procured
there. But you will observe, my plan is,
that every air shall, in the first place, have
verses wholly by Scottish poets : and that
those of Englisn writers shall follow as
additional songs, for the choice of the
siuger.

What you say of the Ewe-hughit is just;
I admire it and never meant to suj)plant
it. All I requested was, that you would
try your hand on some of the inferior
stanzas, which are apparently nd part of
the original song : but this I do not urge,
because the song is of sufficient length
though those inferior stanzas be omitted,
as they will be by the singer of taste.
You must not think I expect a// the songs
to be of superlative merit ; that were an
unreasonable expectation. I am sensible
that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen
verses, and succeed weU at all times.

ter than the foLowmg : ao you mend it,
or, as Yorick did with the love-letter,
whip it up in your own way.

O leexe me on my wee thioff •
My bonnie blythsome wee thing;
Sae lang's I hae my wee Uung,
ru think my lot divine.

Tho' warld*B care we share o't.
And may see meickle mair o't ;
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it.
And ne'er a word repine.

I am highly pleased with your humour-
ous and amorous rhapsody on Bonnie />#-
lie ; it is a thousand times better than the
Collier' i Lassie. " The deil he could na
Bcaith thee," d&c. is an eccentric and hap-
py thought. Do you not think, however,
that the names of such old heroes as Alex-
ander, liound rather queer, unless in pom-
pous or mere burlesque verse } Instead
of the line " And never made another,"
I would humbly suggest, ** And ne'er
made sic anither ;" ana I would fain have
you substitute some other line for " Re-
turn to Caledonia," ih the last verse, be-
cause I think this alteration of the ortho-
Sraphy, and of the sound of Caledonia,
isfigiires the word, and renders it Hudi-
brastic.

Of the other song, Jdywfe's a toifuofiM
%Dee ihing^ I think the first eight lines very
good, but I do not; admire the other eight,
because four of t nem are a bare repetition
of the first verse. I have been trying to
9pin i stanza, but :ould make nothing bet-

You perceive my dear Sir, I avail my-
self of the liberty which you condescend
to allow me, by speaking freely what I
think. Be assured it is not my dispod-
tion to pick out the faults of any poem or
picture I see : my first and chief object is
to discover and be delighted with the
beauties of the piece. If I sit down to ex-
amine critically, and at leisure, what per-
haps you have written in haste, I may
happen to observe careless lines, the re-
perusal of which might lead you to im-
prove them. The wren will often 'see
what has been overlooked by the eagb.
I remain yours faithfully, &c.

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Hary
are just come to hand : they breathe the
genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the mu-
sic, will last for ever. Such verses united
to such an air, with jthe delicate harmony
of Pleyel superadded, might form a treat
worthy of being presented to Apollo him-
self. I have heard the sad story of your
Mary : you always seem inspired when
you write of her.

No. VIII.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

DttmfrieSf IH December^ 1793.

Your alterations of my J^anme are
perfectly right. So are those of My
wife's a wanton wee thing. Your altera-
tion of the second stanza is a positive im-
provement. Now, my dear Sir, with the
freedom which characterizes our correi-
pondence, I must not, cannot, alter Bfmr
nie LesUe, You are rivht, the word,
''Alexander" makes the line a little un-
couth, but I think the thought is pretty*
Of Alexander, beyond all o^er heroes, it

t nid in the sabUnw laofotge of
ir«, that "he went fbrth conqaer-
I to conquei."

M maAi b«r whit ika li,

ia in my opinion more poetical
Ne'er nuide iic anither." How
la immaterial 1 makeiteithcr viy.'
lonie," I agree with you, is not s<
word aa could be wished, thoug)
ictioned in three or four inetaik-t':^
in Ramsay: but I cannot help it.
t that specie* of atanxa isthemofi

that I have evei tried.

Lea-riff ie aa follows- {Hera iht
wt the two firit ttanxtu, at befare,
trilh Ihtfoltomng in addition,)

ater lo'es the mombg Bun,
utae the mountain deer, my jo ;

the fiBher weka the glen,
I the bum to steer, my jo:

the hour o' gloomin ^ay,
ka my heart sae cheery O,
t thee on the lea-rig,
in kind dearie , O.

tntemipted.

No. IX.
JRNS TO MR. THOMSON.

f Anld Rob Morris, and Duncan
jtkj. See Poentt, p. 86.

iUiDtcembtr, 1793.
yiegaiag {Auld Rob JSarrit and

Gray,) I submit, my dear Sir, tn
ter judgment. Acquit them, ut
I them as seemeth goodinjour
Dimcan Gray is that kind of light-
Jlop of an air, which preclade^
it. The ludicrous is ita ruling

MR. BURNS TO HR. THOMSON

WiUi. FoorUth Caold tmd Galla Watw.
Set Foemt, pp. 80, 87.

Jaiuiary, 1 793.
Mah> letnras of the season to yon,
my dear Sir. How cornea on yont pnb-
licntiiin ? will these two foregoing be of
any service to you ! I should Uke to know
wti.it songs you print to each tune b«-
rictus the verses to which it is set. In
tlicrl. I would wish to give yon my opi-
nion on all the poetry you publish. Yoa
know it is my trade, and a man in the
way €f his trade, may suggest usefiil hints,
that escape men of much superior pviti
and endowments in other things.

If foil meet with my dear and mncb-
valuel C. greet him in my name, with the
coDiplimeots oTthe seasoD.

Youn, &«.

UR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
Ediubm-gh, January 30, 1703.

Ymj make me happy my dear Sir, and
thousand will be happy to see the charm-
ing songs you have sent me. Many mer-
ry returns of the season to you, and mar
you long continue, among the sons and
daughters of Caledonia, to delight them
id tc honour yourself.

Thofourla

n Graif, Oalla Wattr, and Could Kail,

a admirable. Duncanu indeedaladof
grace, and his humour wiQ eodearbimto

everybody

The distracted lover in Auld Jlob, and
the huppy Shepherdess ia Oaila JVaUr,
exhibit anezeellent contrast : tfaeyspeak
from genuine (b«lsig, and powerfully touch
the heart. ,

The nnmhn of soiv* which I had ori-
ginally in view w^a limited ; but I now
lesolvB to include every ScMch ur and

198

LETTERS.

Bong worth sinking, leaving^ none behind
but mere g^leanm^, to which the publish-
ert of omnegather%tm are welcome. I
would rather be the editor of a collection
from which nothing could be taken away,
than of one to which nothing could be
added. We intend presenting^ the sub-
scribers with tw*o beautiful stroke en-
graving ; the one characteristic of the
plaintive, and the other of the lively songs ;
and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of an
essa^ upon the subject of our national
music, if his health will permit him to
write it. As a number of our songs have
doubtless been called forth by particular
•vents, or by the charms of peerless dam-
sels, there must be many curious anec-
dotes relating to them.

The late Mr. Tytler of WoodhouseMb^
I beliew knew more of this than any bodf,
for he joined to the pursuits of an ^anti-
quary a taste for poetry, besides being, a
man of the world, and possessing, an en-
thusiasm for music beyond <nDst gf his
contemporaries. He was quite pleased
with thi0 plan of mine, for I may say it
has been so]ely managed by me, and we
had several long conversations about it

abent writing for the airs I £ent to himt
because of the peculiarity of their mea-
sure, and the trammels they inipcee on
his flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your
perusal the only one I have yet ffot from
him, being for the line air ^^ Lord Grego-
ry." The Scots verses printed with that
air, are taken from the middle of an old
ballad, called The Ltirt of Lochroyan^
which I do not admire. I have set down
the air therefore as a creditor of yours.
Many of the Jacobite songs are replete
with wit and humour, might not the best of
these be included in our volume of comic
songs ?

when it was in embryo. If I could sim- immortal. I someUmes hear of you^

ply mention the name of the heroine of
each song, and the incident which ooca-
aioned the verses, it would be gratifying.
Pray, will you send me any information
of this sort, as well with re^rd to your
own songs, as the old ones ^

^ POSTSCRIPT.

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE.

•

Mr. Thomson has been so obligiag as
to give me a petusal of your i^ngs. .^gb-
land Diiary is most enchanting ly pathetic,
and Duncan Gray possesses native geno-
ine humour; '^spak o' lowpin o'er a unn^'*
a a liiie of itself that should inake yoa

To all the favourite son^s of the plain-
tive or pastoral kind, will be joined the
delicate accompaniments, &c. of Pleyeli
To those of the comic and humorous class,
I think accompaniments scarcely neces-
sary ;^ they are chiefly fitted for the coii-
vividity of the festive board, and a tune-
ful voice, with a proper delivery of the '
words, renders them perfect. Neverthe-
less, to these I propose adding bass ac-
companiments, because then they are fit-
ted either for singing, or for instrumental
performance, when there happens to be
no singer. I mean to employ our right
trusty friend Mr. Clarke, to set the bass
to these, which he assures me he will do
con amore^ and with much greater atten-
tion than he ever bestowed on any thing
of the kind. But for this last class chairs
I will not attempt to find more than one
set of verses.

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has
gUrted J know not how many difliculties,

,our mutual friend C. who is a most exr
cellent fellow, and possesses, above all
poen I know, the charm of .a most oblig-
ing disposition. You kindly promised me,
about a year ago, a cdflection of your un-
published productions, rqligious and amo-
'Tous: I know from^ experience how irk-
some it is to copy. It you wHl get any
trusty person in DulqIflPies to write them
over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever
n^>ney he asks £r his tr<5ubJe, and I ce^
tainly shall not betray ^\it confidence.-*
r Am your hearty admirer,

ANDREW ERSKINE

No. XII.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

i^th Januaryy 1793.

I A99WUOVM greatly my dear Sir, of
your plans ; Dr. BeaUie's essay will of
Itself be a treasure. On my part, I mesa
to draw up an appendix to the Doctor^
essay, containing my stock of anecdotes,
dLC. of our Scots fitongs. All tlie hxe Mr.
Tytler's anecdotes fhave bv me, takes

tke course of my acquaintanee
from his own mouth. I tm
DtbusiBsC, that, in the courss oi'
J peregrinstioDB through Scot-
ide > pilgrims^ to the indiri
from whirh every sang took lU
habrr, uid the Braa of Balltn-
:pted. So far as the locality,
m the title of the air, or thr
le Kong, could be ascertained, I
my devotions at the particular
irery Scots rouse.

t doubt but you mifht make a
blecollectionof Jacobite songs;
itg-ivenoofieoce? luthemean
ot you think tfaat soDje ofthem
y The rme't tail to GeordU, ae
th other words, mi^ht be well
see in your collection of lively

xe possible to procure songs of
ould be proper to have one set
/aiis to every air, and that the-
da to which the notes onght to

There is a mdiiete, a pAstoral
in a slight intermixture of Scoti
phraseology, which is more in
least to my taste, and I will
■rj genuine Caledonia^ taste]
imple pathos, or rustiftipright-
iT native music, than anjEng-
whatever.

y name of Peter Pindar ia on
to your work. His Qrtgory
I. 1 have tried to give you a
tas in Scots, on the same aub-
are at your service. Not that
1 enter the lists with Peter ;
be presumption indeed. Hy
[h much inferior in poetic mert,
I, more of the ballad simplicity

Hy moat reapectful complimoUi to th*
honourable |>entleman who favoured nw
with a postscript in your last. He sbaU
hear from me and receive hie MSB. aooa.

MR. BUENS TO MR. THOMSUN

Tm song prefixed i* one of my Ju-
venile works.f I leave it in your hano.
I do not think it very remarkable, either

s merilBor demerits. It is impoMibla
(at least I fc«I it ao in my stinted powan]
to be always original, entertaining, au
witty. .

What ia become of the list, dto. ofyoor
longs f I shall be out of all temper with
you by and by. I have always looked
upon myaelfas the prince of indoliat cor-
respondents, and valued myself accor-
dingly ; and I win not, cannot bear rivil-
ihlp from you, nor any body else.

No. XIT.
UR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON

WUk th*JirH copy ^Wandering Willie.
8tt Poem*, p. 8B.

'. LKAVK it to yon, my dear Sir, to de
termine whether the above, or the oU
T%ra' the kmg Xuir, be the best.

ma wim wo » ihl
rim or (hi

FTitld B-nce ilellfht,
.rd'Bt ■ pllsrim monni,

I'll nn mr ■'it ud put :
Aid think Um fiotiBi iliu rooBd B* Mow,
Fu UsdM Uiu ibj beut

IltibDtdolB|>i(Ue*iaDi.W>]cMiisBmkiii,ibM

hli iiin« )• Um oriftnil. Mi. Bum hw it, Ukti 1^

■Dd munolluilr *n)la Iti* ntber on Uw iMM nblMl

ib b dntnd rram u old Beoukli bmid cf unv

I Man KoclanB. Pntmi. a

LETTERS.

No. XV.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

OPUf TBE DOOR TO ME OUI
WITH ALTS&ATXOlfl.

Or * open the door, some pity to show,
Oh ! open the door to me, Oh !*

See Poemi^ p. 88.

I do not know whether this song be
retllj mended.

No. XVI.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

JESSIE.
-" Bonnie Dnndee.**

T&UB hearted was he, the sad Swain o'

the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks o'

the Ayr;

See Poemsy p. 89.

No. xvn.

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

Edmburgk, Zd April , 1793.

I WILL not recognize the title you grive
yourself, " the prince of indolent corres-
pondents ;" but if the adjective were
token away, I think the title would then
fit vou exactly. It gives me pleasure to
find you can furnish anecdotes with re-
spect to most of the songs : these will be
a literary curiosity.

I now send you my list of the songs
which I believe will be found nearly com-
plete. I have put down the first hues of
all the English songs which I propose giv-
ing in addition to the Scotch verses. If
any others occur to you, better adapted
to the character of the airs, pray mention
them, when you favour me with your

* Tbif aenoni line wai originilly,

' low Umay na ba^ 01 .

Strictures upon every thing else relatmg
to the work.

Pleyel has lately sent me a number t>f
the songs, with his symphonies and ac-
companiments added to them. I wish
you were here, that I might serve up some
of them to you with your own verses, by
way of dessert after dinner. There is so
much delightful fancy in the symphonies,
and such a delicate simplicity in the ac-
companiments — ^they are indeed beyond
all praise.

I am very much pleased with the seve-
ral last productions of your muse : your
Lord Gregory, in my estimation, is more
interesting than Peter's, beauti^ as his
is ! Your Here awa Willie must undergo
some alterations to suit the air. Mr.
Erskine and I have been conning it over;
he will suggest what is necessary to make
them a fit match.*

The gentleman liiave mentioned, whose
Une taste you are no stranger to, is so
well pleased both with the musical and
poetical part of our work, that he hti
volunteered his assistance, and tias al-
ready written four songs for it, which,
by his owi} desire, I send for your pe-
rusaL < jr

No. xvni.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

WIflBN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS

BLAwrr.

.««r-«« The Mill MinO."

Whin wild war's dead]|y blast was blawO)
And gentle peace returning.

See Poemiy p. 89.

* See the iUerc4 copy of Wanderinf Willie, p. tt-
of the Poeme. Several of the altermtiona seem tio be of
little iropertance in themaelTes, and were adoptcB^il
may l>e presumed, for the sake of suiUnf the wordi
hetter to the nnisic. The Homeric epithet for the sea,
dark-heaving'^ suggested by Mr. Er«klne,iB in itself mors
beautiful, as well perhaps as more sublime, thanviU
roarings which he fias retained ; but as it is only up
plicable to a placid state of Uie aem, or at most to tbt
swell left on its surface after the storm is over, Itfiv*
a picture of that element not so weU adapted to tbi
ideas of eternal separation, which tlM fair roaomfr is
supposed to imprecate. From the original song sf
Here awa ffUliey Bums has borrowed nothing bat tbs
second line and part of tlie firiL The Miperior excel
lenee of Uiis bcauUful poem, will, it is hoped, jo^
the diflereot editions of it wliich we have girtn. S-

HEG O- THE MILL.

«fr~-"0 tout* iMi win jroa Udnahunck."

O Kxn ye what Heg o' the Mill hu got-
ten,

An' ken ye what Heg o' the Mill bu got-
tenP

See Poem*, p. 89.

No. xrx.

HR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.
Itk April, 1793.
Thakk jrou, tny dear Sir, for your
packet. Yoa cannot imagine bow much
thia bnaineei of composing for your publi-
cation hu added to my enjoymenta.
What with my early att&cbnient to bal-
lads, yODT booka, &c, ballad- making IB
now aa completely my hobby-horee, as
ever fortification waa uncle Toby's ; so
I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the
limit of niy race (God grant that I may
take the right side of the winning post !)
and then cfiserfully looking back on the
koneat foUi witb whom I have been hap-
py, I ahall lay or sing, " Sae merry as we
a' hae been !" and raising my last looks
to the whole human race, the last words
oftfaevoiceofCoi/a*aha]1be," Good night
and joy be wi' you a' !" So much for my
past worda : now for a few present re*
maiks, as they have occurred at random
on looking over youi liat.

The fint lines of The lati lime I eame
o'er lh£ moor, and aeveral other lines in it,
arebeantiful; but in my opinion — pardon
me revered shade of Ramsay ! the song
ia unworthy of the divine air. I shall try
to nuike or mend. For ever. Fortune, viitt
tkouprtne, ia a charming aong ! but Lo-
gan burn and Logan braet, are sweetly
■ueceptibleof rural imagery : I'll try that
likewise, and if I aiieceed, the other aonj
may class amongthe Engliah ones. I re
meinber the two 'last lines of a verse, i
•omeof theoldaongsof Z«^n Jfalcr(fu
I know n good many different ones) which
I think pretty

■ Bona Iwfa caUi hlnwlf i
MllaaarOiriu,who denom
fCumm. Wwrrruwa'

" Now my dear lad maun fkce hia faea,
Far, far frae me and Logon braes."

JSy PaHe it a iover gay, is unequal.
" Hia mind ia never muddy," ia a muddy
esproBaion indeed.

" Then I'll resign and marry Tate,
And syne my cockemony."—

This iaaurely far mi worthy of Ramsay,
or your book. My song, iiig-i o/" Bar(^,
to the aame tune, doea not altogether
plcaae me ; but if I can mend it, and
thrash a few loose aentimenta out of it, I
will eubmit it to your consideralion. Tie
Lati o' PaUe't Mill ia one of Ramaay's
best eoD^; but there is one loose senti-
ment in it, which my much valued friend
Mr. Brskine will takt into hia critical con-
sideration. — In Sir J. Sinclair's Statist!*
cal volumes, are two claims, one, I think,
from Aberdeenshire, and the other from
Ayrshire, for the honour of thia song.
The following anecdote, which I lud IVom
the preaent an William Cunningham, of
Robertland, who had it of the late John,
Earl of Loudon, I can, on auch authorities,

Allan Ramsay was residing at London-
castle with the then Earl, father to Earl
John ; and one forenoon, riding or walk-
ing out together, hia Lordship and Allan
paaaed 3 sweet romantic spot on Irvine
water, still called "Patie'a Mill," where
a bonnic laas waa " tedding hay, bare heed-
ed on the green." My Lord observed to
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a
song. Ramaay took the hint, and linger-

of it, which he produ

d at dinner.

One day I 'ktard Mary toy, ia a fine
aong; but for consiatency'a sake alter the
name " Adonis." Were there ever euch
banns published, as a purpose of marriage
between .ddoitif and JtTary^ lagreewith
you that my song, There'i nought but fare
nn every hand, is much superior to Poor-
tilh ca-^Ud. The original song. The Mill
Milt O, though excellent, is, on account
of delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the
title, and think a Scottiah song would
suit the notes best; and let your chosen
Bong, which is very pretty, follow, as an
English aet. The Banki nf the Der, \it,
you know, literally Ltmgolet, to alow
time. The aong ia well enough, but haa
aome falac imagery in it : for instance.

LETTERa

In the first place, the Dightingale sings
in a low bush, but never from a tree ; and
in the second place, there never was a
nSf htingale seen, or beard, on the banks
or the Dee, or on the banks of any other
river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery
is dways comparatively fiat. If I could
hit on another stanxa, equal to Tke tmall
birdi rejoice^ dtc. I do myself honestly
avow, that I think it a superior sone**
John Ander$on my jo — ^the song to this
tune in Johnson's Museum, is my compo-
sition, and I think it not my worst : if it
suit you, take it, and welcome. Your
collection of sentimental and pathetic
tongs, is, in my opinion, very complete ;
but not so your comic ones. Where are
T\Uiochgorum^ Lump€ o' puddiriy Tibbie
Fowier^ and several others, which, in my
humble judgment, are well worthy of pre-
servation ? There is also one sentimen-
tal song of mine in the Museum, which
never was known out of the immediate
neighbourhood, until I got it taken down
from a countrygirrs singing. It is called
Craig^i^mm Wood; ana in the opinion of
Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scot-
tish songs. He is quite an enthusiast
about it : and I would take his taste in
Scottish music against the taste of most
connoisseurs.

You are qdite right in inserting the last
dye in your list, though they are certainly
Irish. Shepherds^ I have lott my love!
is to me a heavenly air — what would you
think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I
have made one to it a good while ago,
which I think * * * but in
its original state is not quite a lady's song.
I enclose an altered, not amended copy
for you, if you choose to- set the tune to
it, and let the Irish verses foUow.f

Mr. Erskine's son^ are all pretty, bot-
his Ixme Vale^ is divme.

Yours, &c.

Let me know just how you like these
random hints.

* It irilt 1m rnand, In th« coarse of thii eorrespon-
d«nc«, that the Bard produeed a second stanza of 71^
Ck0vatier*s Lament (to which be here alludes) worthy
of the first. £.

t Mr. Thomson, It appetrt, did not approve of this
ionf, even In its altered ttate. It does not appear ki
the correspondence ; but it Is probably one to be fouud
tejytMSS.begtnnlnf,

** Teetreen I got a pint of wine,
A piaot whtra body saw*M ;

No. XX

MR. THOMSON TO M&. BURNS.

Edinburgh^ Aprii^ 179S.

I RKJoicB to find, my dear Sir, that
ballad-making continues to be your hobby-
horse. Great pity 'twould be were it
otherwise. I hope you wiU amble it away
for many a year, and '* witch the world
with your horsemanship."

I know there are a good many Uvely
songs of merit that I have not put down
in the list sent you ; but I have them all
in my eye. J\iy PaHe u a hter gay,
though a little unequal, is a natural and
very pleasing song, and I humbly think
we ought not to displace or alter it, ex
cept the last stanza.*

No. XXI
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

AprU^ 1793.

I HAVE yonrs, my dear Sir, this mo-
ment. I shall answer it and your ibnner
letter, in my desultory way of saying
^H^iatever comes uppermost.

The business of many of our tunes want-
ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call
a starting-note, is often a rub to us poor
rhymers.

"There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow
braes,

That wander through the blooming hea-
ther,"

you may alter to

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes.
Ye wander," &c.

Yestreen lay on this breast of Bias,
The gowden locks of Anna.

•«

It Is highly characteristic of our Bard, bat the strata
of sentiment does not correspond with the air to wkieii
he proposes It should be alUed. E.

* The original letter from Mr. Thomson contslm
many observations on the ScouMi songs, and oa tb«
manner of adapting the words to the music which, st
his desire, are suppressed. The iobeeqiiint letter of
Mr. Bums rs<ers to aaveral of fbeaa obiirTatloBa. £

Uj Mug, B»n «M, Uare ami, as
vwnded b; Mr. Enkine; I entiielj' ap-
prove of, and return joo.*

Give me leave to criticise youT taste b
the only tbing in wliich it ia in my opinion
reprebenakble. You know I ought to
kiMW fomething of my own trade. Of
patho*, aentiment, and point, you are i,
MMDpIete jud^ : but there ia, a quality
■ore neceaaary than either, in a aong,
lod which ia the very eaaence of ^ ballad.
( mean aimplicity; now, if I miatake not,
jiia laat l^ature you are & little apt to
«crifice to the foregoing.

tiU I cannot approve of taking such 11-
lerties with an author as Mr. W. pro-
loaea doing with 7^ tail Hntt I came o'n'
ke moor. Let a poet, if he chooses, take
ip the idea of another, and work it into
. piece of hka own ; but to mangle the
rorka of the poor bard, whose tuneful
[ingue is now mute for ever, in the dark
aa narrow house ; by Heaven 'twould
eaaerile^! I grant that Mr. W. 'a ver-
ion ia an improvement : but t know Mr.
V. well, and esteem him nincb i let him
Mnd the anng, aa tbs Highlander mend-
i hia gun— he gave it a neW atock, a
•w lock, and a new barrel.

I do not by thia object to leaving out
nproper atanzaa, where that can be done
•ithout spoiling the whole. One stanza
I Th« Ltu> ofPatit'i Miil, must be left
at: the' aong will be nothing worge ibr
. I am not sure if we can take the sam%
bertjr with Com ri/ft are bonnit. Per-
apa it might want the last atanza, and be
le better for it. Cavld kail in Abtrdeen
)a muBt leave with me yet a while. I
ive vowed to have a song to that air, on
le lady whom I attempted to celebrate
J the verses Pooriilk cauld and rtitlat
•e. At any rate my other song, Qreen
•w the raihet, will never suit. That
>ng ia current in Scotland under the old
tie, and to the merry old tune of that
iroe, whichof course would mar the pro-
"eaa of your aong to celebrity. Your
H)k will be the standard of Scott songs
r the future: let this idea ever keep
HIT judgment on the alarm.

I aend a aong, on a celebrated toast in

' Tb* nttit tm alretdr t—a tkal Butm ill
MradoiaiBafMr.EnUH'aalUntioah t
BbS

7%t but (iiM / enm* o'er the moor, I
would fain attempt to make a Scots song
for, and let Ramsay's be the Ungtiah ee£
You ahali hear from me eoon. Wlisn
you go to London on this business, can
you come by Dumfries .' 1 have still seve-
ral MS. Scots airs by me which I havs
picked up, mostly from the singing of

country lasses. They please me vastly;
but vour learned ttigt would perhaps be
displeased with the very feature for which

I like them. 1 call them simple j yon
would pronounce them silly. Do yoa
know a fine air called Jackie Bvme'i La-
ment? I have a song of considerable m»-
rit to that air. I'll enclose jou both tho
BODE and tune, as I had them ready to
send to Johnson's Muaeum.f I send yoa
likewise, to me,.a very beautiful little airt
which 1 had taken down from moa«>et,\

UR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON
April, 1793.

MT DCAXaiKI

I BAD scarcely pat my last letter into
the post-office, when I took up the sub-
ject of Tht Itttt time I came o'er the moor,
md, ere I slept, drew the outlines of tbs
foregoing.) How far T have succeeded,
I leave on this, as on every other occa-
sion, to you to decide. I own my vanity
IS flattered, when you give mj aonga «
place in your elegant and superb work {
t>ut to be of service to the work is mr
first wish. As I have often told you, I
ilo not in a single instance wish you, out
uf compliment to me, to insert any thing
'- ine. One hint let me give you— r

I Uiu flTn Ia lb*
lrtaa,f.m. O kim fm wkmt Mtg «' tU MiU Iimi git-
ntf TblM tout !• innhr Mr. Bunia'i own wiUlBf,
xagh kg ioet Ml icunUf pnlia hli ows nip ■•

ii ibatflK <TUeh be wnX
I, llvan IB t. SO of lb* FB«nB

204

LETTERS.

whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not
alter one Uda of the ori^nal Scottish airs ;
I mean in the song department ; but let
our national music preserve its native
features. They are, I own, frequently
wild and irreducible to the more modem
rules ; but on that very eccentricity, per-
haps, depends a great part of their effect.

No. XXIII.
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 2eth April, 1793.

I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir,
for your last two letters, and the songs
which accompanied them. I am always
both instructed and entertained by obser-
vations; and the frankness with which
you speak out your mind, is to me highly
agreeable. It is very pnossible I may not
have the true idea of simplicity in com-
position. I confess there are several
songs, of Allan Ramsay's for example,
that I think silly enough, which another
person, more conversant than I have been
with country people, would perhaps call
simple and natural. But the lowest*
scenes of simple nature will not please
generally, if copied precisely as they are;.
The poet, like the painter, must select
what will form an agreeable as well as a
natural picture. On this subject it were
easy to enlarge ; but at present suffice it
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly
understood, as a most essential quality in
composition, and the ground- work of beau-
ty in all the arts. I will gladly appro-
priate your most interesting new ballad,
TFken wild tocir't deadly blcut, &c. to the
JUill Mill O, as well as the two other
songs to their respective airs ; but the
third and fourth lines of the first verse
must imdcrgo some little alteration in or-
der to suit the music. Pleyel does not
alter a single note of the songs. That
would be absurd indeed ! With the airs
which he introduces into the sonatas, I
allow him to take such liberties as be
pleases ; but that has nothing to do with
the songs.

P. S. I wish you would do as you pro-
posed with your JRt^* of Barley, If the

loose sentiments are thruhtd out of it, I ^__^ ^ ^__

wiU find an air Tor it ; but as lo lYuslViet^V >,, Vkx.TYATMKni^^\iV:ii Barm did not tppnf%vu

No. XXIV.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSOlf.**

June, 1793.

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a
friend of mine, m whom I am much in-
terestedf iifis fallen a sacrifice to these
accursed times, you will easily allow that it
might unhinge me for doing any good
among ballads. My own loss, as to pecuni-
ary matters, is trifling; but the total ruin
of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed.
Pardon my seeming inattention to your
last commands.

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the
Mill Mill O* What you think a defect
I esteem as a positive beauty ; so yon see
how doctors differ. I shall now with as
much alacrity as I can muster, go on with
your commands.

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player
in Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a
band of music for a fencible corps quar-
tered in this country. Among many of
his airs that please me, there is one, well
known as a reel, by the name of The Qua-
ker*s Wife; and which I remember a
grand aunt of mine used to sing by the
name of t,iggeram Cosh, my bonnie uee
lass. Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with
an expression that quite charms me. I
became such an enthusiast about it, that 1
made a song for it, which I hear subjoin;
and enclose Frazer's set of the tune. If
they hit your fancy, they are at your ser-
vice ; if not, return me the tune, and I will
put it !n Johnson*s Museum. I think the
song is not in my worst manner.

Bltthe hae I been on yon hill.
As the lambs before me ;

See Poems, p. 90.

* Tbe lints were tbe third and fonith. Bee Focnii
p. 96.

'• wr monjr a iweVt babe (ktherlea,
And mony a widow mourninf .*'

At our poet bad maintained a long alienee, and the
ftrat number of Bfr. Tbomaon*a Musical Work wu ia
tbe preai, this gentleman ventured by Mr. EnUnc'a
advice, to enbitluite for them In that pubUeatloo,

" And eyea again with pleasure beam*d
That had been blear*d with nMmmlng.**

Though better suited to the mosle, these lines are iafe*
rior to the original. This i^ the only aheratton adopcsi

IB no hurrv.

\c»aV«m«QX>».

LETTERS,
old wiih to hear how thii pleases

SOS

No. XXV.
tURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

25<AJtme»1793.

ni you ever, my dear Sir, felt year
rea^ to burst with indignation on
; of those mighty villains who di-
igdom against kingdom, desolate
es, and lay nations waste, out of
itonness of ambition, or often from
re ignoble passions ? In a mood of
id to-day, I recollected the air of
Water ; and it occurred to me that
Tilous melody probably had its ori-
n the plaintive indignation of some
g, suffering heart, fired at the ty-
strides of some public destroyer ;
3rwhelmed with private distress,
isequence of a country's ruin. If
done any thin? at all like justice
*eeling8, the following song, com-
D three quarters of an hour's me-
i in my elbow chair, ought to have
lerit

>GAN,

; day

, sweetly didst thou ^lide,
I was my Willie's bride ;

See Poems, p. 90

ou know the following beautiful
ragment in Witherspoon's Collec-
Scots Songs?

^n my love were yon red rose,
at grows upon the castle wa' ;*'

See Poems, p. 90.

thought is inexpressibly beautiful :
ite, so far as I know, original. It
hort for a song, else I would for-
jTOu altogether, unless you gave it
. I have often tried to eke a stan-
it, but m vain. After balancing
for a musing five mmutes, on the
igB of my elbow chair, I produced
lOwing.

verses are far inferior to the fore-
I franklv confess ; but if worthy of
>n at all, they miffht be first in
as every poet, woo knows any
>f his trade, will husband his best
its for a eonclnding stroke.

O, were my love yon lilach fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ;

See Poemif p, 90.

No. XXVI.
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

Monday^ let July^ 1793.

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir,
that any thing should happen to unhinge
you. The times are terribly out of tune ;
and when harmony will be restored, Hea-
ven knows.

The first book of songs, just published,
will be despatched to you along witH this.
Let me be favoured with your opinion of
it frankly and freely.

I shall certainly give a place to the
song you have written for the Quaker's
Wife ; it is quite enchanting. Pray will
you return the list of sbngs with such aim
added to it as you think ought to be in-
clqded.' The business now rests entirely
on myself, the p^entlemen who ori|rinally
agreed to join the speculation having re-
quested to be ofi*. No matter, a loser I
cannot be. The superior excellence of
the work will create a general demand
for it as soon as it is properly known.
And were the sale even slower than it
promises to be, I should be somewhat
compensated for my labour, by the plea-
sure I shall receive from the music. I
cannot express how much I am obliged
to you for the exquisite new songs yoa
are sending me ; but thanks, my friend,
are a poor return for what you have done :
as I snail be benefited by the publication,
you must suffer me to enclose a small
mark of my gratitude,* and to repeat it
afterwards when I find it convenient.
Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you
do, our correspondence is at an end; and
though this would be no loss to you, it
would mar the publication, which under
your auspices cannot fail to be respecta
ble and interesting.

Wednesday Mormng.

I thank you for your delicate additional
verses to the old fragment, and for your

^ TV<v%'YtiQaAa.

LETTERS.

exeeUent song to Lcgan WaUr; Thom-
■on* ■ truly eleg&nt one will follow, for the
Englbh tinger. Your apostrophe to
ftatetmen is admirahle: hut I %m not
■ure if it is quite auitahle to the supposed
f entle character of the fair mourner who
■peaks it.

No. XXYIL
MR. BURNS TO MR* THOMSON.

Jtf/y U, 1793.

mr DBA& srRy

I RATS just finished the following
baJad, and, as I do think it in my best
•tyle, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who
wrote down the air from Mrs. 6ums*8
wood^ntiU wild, is very fond of it, and has
given it a celebrity, by teaching it to some
young ladies of the first fkshion here. If
Tou 00 not like the air enough to give
it a place in your collection, pliase return
it. The song you may keep, Baiffimem*
bcrit. '''

Thkrc was a lass, and she was fair, '
At kirk and market to be seen ;

See PotttiM^ p. 90 and 91.

I have some thoughts of inserting in
your index, or in my notes, the names of
the fair ones, the themes of my songs, I
do not mean the name at full ; but dashes
or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find
them out.

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss
M. daughter to Mr. M. of D. one of your
subscribers. I have not painted her in
the rank which she holds in life, but in
the dress and character of a cottager.

No. xxvni.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

July, 1793.

I AttuKK you, my dear Sir, that you

truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel.

It degrades me in my own eyes. However

to return it would savour of afrect«.tvoTi *.

bat M to Bny more trafiic of lYvat dc\A.ot

and creditor kind, I swear by thst Honoom
which crowns the upright statue of Ro>
BERT BuRNk's IifTEGRiTv— on the least
motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the
by-past transaction, anu from that mo-
ment commence entire stranger to you !
BuRNs's character for generosity of sen-
timent and independence of mind, vnll, I
trust, long out-live any of his wants which
the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least,
I will take care that such a character he
shall deserve.

Thank yon for my copy of your pubfi-
cation. Never did my eyes behold, in
any musical work, such elegance and cor-
rectness. Your preface, too, is admirably
written ; only your partiality to me has
made you say too much : however, it will
bind mo down to double every effort in
the future progress of the work. The
following are a few remarks on the songs
in the list you sent me. I never copy
what I wnte to you, so I may be often
tautological, or perhaps contradictory.

Tkie Flowers rftht Forest is charming
as a pcem, and should be, .and must be,
set to the notes ; but, thou^ out of your
rule, the three stanza^ beginning,

** I hae Men tbe tmillnf o* foitime begolllif,'*

are worthy of a place, were it but to im-
mortalize the author of them, who is tn
old lady of my acquaintance and at this
moment living in Edinburgh. She is a
Mrs. Cockbum; I forget ^ what place;
but fVom Roxburghshire. Whatactoiii*
ing apostrophe is

*' O fleUe ftMftnne, wby Uite cruel upoittaii,
Whjr, whjr tomeot uh-^mt mm tfm Uf!^

The old ballad, / wM I were whin

Helen lies, is silly to contemptibility.*
My alteration of it in Johnson's is not
much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his whit
he calls ancient ballads (many of them
notorious, though beautiful enough, for-
geries) has the best set. It is fuU of his
own interpolations, but no matter.

In my next I will suggest to your con-
sideration a few songs which may haV9

* TlMre is A eopf of this ballad |tT«n In Um aceooii
of the PailihorKlrlrpatrick-FleeiDiiif (wblcb natalna
Um tomb of (Ur Helen Inrinf,) In Uie BtaUaUct of Sir
SoVctt fL\t«itir^ Tol xlit ]>. 875, to whkh thit

LETTERS.

tor

ti eip ej yev ImrrMd ootiee. In the
mmn tine, tUow me to concratulata yoa
now, «s ft brother of the quiuT You have
CMMRtttatf your character and fame: which
will Jiow be tried for ages to come, by the
illufltrioiifl jury of the Sons and Daugh-
TEMM of Taite— Hdl whom poesy can
pleftae, or muaic charm.

. Bein^ a bard of nature, I have some
pntoMioiis toeecond sight; and I am
warranted by the spirit to foretell and af-
firm, that your great-grand-child will hold
vp your volumes, and say, with honest
prUfe. ** This so much admired selection
was the work of my ancestor."

No. XXX.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

AugttHf 1793.

MT DSAR THOMSON,

No. XXIX.'

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

E^kbwrgkfUt'.

, 1793.

MLi

».

1 SAO ifae^jdoj^te of receiving your
hat (wo titers Jni^ am happy to find you
are quite ploaaeoWith the appearance of
the first Ijook./ When you come to heoj
the songs sung phd accompanied, yon will
be cbarm^ with them.
'■■J'- '

TlU-li^wk hrvdeHI^net cert^nly de-
MiTet HeflJer vjsrsee, and I hope you will
■MtAteb Cauid Kail in Aherdeenr^
'Lei wmm ihii ae mghL, and eeveral of the
livelier airs, wait the mu8e*b leisure :
these ate pedmiarly worthy of her choioe
gfSla: besides, you'll notic^ that in airs
of this aort, the singer can always do

K Niter ibstice to the poet, than in the
wer €ini of The Buth abocn TrofiwUr,
Lard Chregwy^ and the like ; for in the
manner the latter are frequently sung,
yo« most be contented with the sound,
wilhoat the sense. Indeed both the airs
and wdrds ar^ disguised bv the vmy slow,
languid, psalm^singing style in which they
are too often performed, they lose anima-
tion and expression altogether ; and in-
stead of speaking to the mind, or touching
the heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set
WB a yawning!

Your ballad, TTitre wu a Ian and the
woijair^ is simple and beautiful, and shall
undoubtedly gracA mv collection.

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke,
who at present is studying the music of
the spheres at my elbow. The Omfrgium
Sidus he thinks is rather out of tune ; so
until he rectify that matter, he cannot
stoop to terrestrial affairs.

He sends you six of the Rondeau sub-
jects, and if more are wanted, he says yoo
shi^ have them.

Confound your long stairs !

8. CLARKE

No. XXXI.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON

Aug%ulf 1793.

! Your objection, my dear Sir, to the
' passages in my song of Logan Waier^ is
right m one instance, but it is difficult to
mend it ; If I can, I will. The other pas-
fihge you object to, does not appear in Um
same light to me.

I have tried my, hand on Robin Adair ^
and you will probably think, with little
success : but it ia such a cursed, cramp
Qut-of-the-way measure, that I despair of
doing any thing better to it.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

While larks with little wing,
Fann'd the pure air,

See Poenu^p, 9t.

So much for namby-pamby. I may,
afler all, try my hand on it in Scots verse.
There I always find myself most at home.

I have justput the last hand to the sooff
I meant K>r Could Kail in Aberdeen. It
it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased
as the heroine is a flivourite of mine ; it

with, tnd wQl be ^IxA, to tee jon act de-
cidedly on the buuneoi.* Tie s tribute
ea e nun of tute, ud as in editor, whicb
jan owe younelT.

HA. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
Atiguil, 1793.

I coHaiDCR it one of the moat agrm-
able ciicumataacea attending' thia publi-
cation of mine, that it has prociu-rvl mc
BO mwiy of your much valued epi-i !.>,-;.
Fray make my acknowledcTQenta I'l Si.
Stephen for the tunes : teU him I iiilmi!
the justness of his complaint onniy &ln.ir<
cue, conveyed in hia laconic pOKiHcrJpt
toyour yeu if etprit, which I perused more
thao once, without discoveiing t',\act!y
whether your diacUBBiou was muaic. as-
troBomy, OT politics: though a sag ncious
friend, acquainted with the convivial ha-
bits of the poet and the musician, oflered
me a bet of two to oner you were jiut
drowning care together ; that an empty
bowlw&s the onlything that would deeply
affect you, and the onlyroattei vou coald
then study how to reinedj !

' I ahall be glad to see you give Jta!nn
idair a Scottish dress. Peter is furnish-
ing him with onEag-Uihauitfor a ctiang-p,
and you are well matched together. Ro-
bin's air is excellent, though he certainly
baa an ont of the way meftsuie ts evvr
Poor Pamassisji wight was plagued witli.
I wish you would invoke the muse ri>r a
■ingle elegant afanza to be aubsEitiitcd
for the concluding objectionable verr^es of
Dovm the Bum Davie, bo that this most
exquisite song may no longer be excluded
from good company.

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable driiw-
ima from your John Anderton mii Jo.
which I am to have engraved as a fron-
tispiece to the humourous claea of eoni^s:
you will be quite charmed with it 1 pre.
miae you. The old couple are seated by
the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in jjrcat
sood humour, is clapping John's ^houl*
dera, while he smiles, and looks at her

with iucb giee, as to show tbat he .fiitlf
recollects 3m pleaaant days and nights
when tber were itnl aeqtaii. The draw-
ing <would do honour to tba pencil of

MR. BURNS TO HR. THOMSON

Aiigtut, 1793.
That crinkum-crankum tune Robia
Adair, baa run so in my bead, and I buc-
ceeded so ill in my last attempt, that I
have ventured in this roomine''a walk, one
essay niore. You, my dear Sir, will re-
member an unfortunate part of our worthy
ftiend C.'a story, which happened about
three years ago. That ctruck my fancy,
and I endeavoured to do the idea jnatica
asfalloyB: •. '

■ I

Had I & cave on some wild distani abare,
Wheie the winda howl tn the wavei* dat-
ing roar i

* The (oiif In

1, !■ ibu Inn. OS, orUio

SuPoemt,p.n.

By the way, I have met with a muaicil
Highlander in BRdalbane's Fencibln.
' hich are quartered here, *ho aastire*

le that he well remembers hia mother'!

nging Gaelic songs to both Roim Adm
and OnuruKhree. They certainly bate
more of the Scotch than Iriab taata in
ihem. , . .

I man comes from the vicinity of
ess ; BO it could not be any inler-
with Ireland that could bring themi
— except, what I shrewdly suspect to be
tbe case, the wandering minEtrels, hii-
pers, and pipers, used to ga frequently
nrrant through the wilds both of Scotland
find Ireland, and so some favourite ain
might be common to both; A case in
in point— They have lately in Ireland,
^lublished an Irish air as they say ; called
Cavn da delUk. Tbe fact is, in a pubU-
cation of Corn's, a great while ago, you
will find the eame air, called a H^blond
cne, with a Gaelic song iH to iL Ita
name there, I think, is Ortm Cl^ioU, and
n fine air it is. Do ask honeet Allan, or
the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about tbeaa

NO.XXX1V.
(naWS TO MR. THOMSON.

Augrut, 1793.

me^thitaemght. I will conBiJer.
lad tbftt 70U are pleosei) with my
lad la coot, &.c.,a9 I liked it m;^-

Iked oat yesterday evening with a
of the Museum in my hnnJ; when
: up AUan Water, " What num-
lall the muse repeat," &c. as the
appeared to me rather unworthy
iB« an ■if, tuid recoUi^cting that
I your list, I eat and raved under
de of an old thorn, till I wrote one
the measure. 1 may be wrong;
link it not in my worst style. You
:iiow, that in Ramsay's Tea-table,
the modem son^ first agipeaied,
:ieat narapaf tli-'tiine, Allan sar?,
in Water, *a -Wi/ l.-ve .Qnme's Ttrij
Thii Ifsf I11L& certainly been a.
tbe imginal song ; go I took up
ft, and as you irillscOi ha\e inrro-
Jie line in its place wliicli T pre-
1 formerly oecupieci ; thon^li 1 bkc-
iTe you a cfcunnj? imt, if it ahoold
the cut of yout fancy-
in stream I chanced to rove,
Phffibna sank beyond Benleddi,*
See Poena, p. 91. '

Disayl: it is a ifood song. Should
ak so too (not else,] you can aet
ric to it, and let the other follow

and yesterday [ Mt the following veiMi
to it. Urbani, whom I have met with
bere. begged them of me, as he admire*
the air much : bat as I understand that
he looks with rather an evil eye on vonr
work, I did not choose to comply. How-
ever, if the song does not suit your taste,
1 may possibly send it him. The set
of tbc air which I had in my eye is in
Johnson's Museum.

. id I'll come to yon, my lad,*
O whistle, and I'll coma to yon, mj Ud:
Se« Poewu, p. 92.

God bless yon .'

Another favourite tur of m

Anowx winding Hitb I did wander.f
To m&rk the s neet flowers as they spring :
See Poem*, p. 99.

Mr.Clarke hega you to give Miss Phil-

lis a rorn'.T in your book, as she is a par<
ticulnr Ikme of his. She U a Hiss P. M.
^i=tfr to BiHinleJaHi. They are both pu-
pils of his. You shall hear from me tbs
verv first grist I get from my ihymiog-

No. XXXVI.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Avgutt, 1793.
Tb&t tune, CauU Kail, is such a :
Toniite of yours, that J once more too
out yesterday for n gloamin-shot at
mnseBit whcDthemusethatpresideBO'et
the shores of Nitb, or rather my old iti-

tfae

niif(b«IIS8. UMnrarBmUnMi

No. XXXV.
URNS TO MR. THOMSON.

whi«i* wd rn m™ to urn,*,*),
a whtei*, ud ni ««t u i]H», BT jD :

TlB' fitl>« uH niollicr, ind «■ .binld •» no,
whkUa ud rn ram. K> ihw, mr Jo.

Atigtut, 1793.
mtfle, and ril lometo you, my
1 of your ajrs ; I admire it much ;

umla. n« ofSlrUli-AIIui, ym Am M^

s»n ■dnsufi wlitiim Um elMnu : ■■ ti tadHl tb

J fikwnln-iwllliM: vtibM, horn fioaalzt.
baatiniLpOBIIulmavUclioaibtU bsadopud t

SIO

LETTERS.

spinng, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered
me the following. I have two reasons for
^inkin^ that it was my early, sweet, sim-
ple inspirer that was by my elbow, ** smooth
gliding without step," and pouring the
song on my glowing fancy. In the urst
place, since I lefl Coila's native, haunts,
not a fragment of a poet has arisen to
cheer her solitary musings, by catching
inspiration from her ; so I more than sus-
pect that she has followed me hither, or
at least makes me occasional visits : se-
condly, the last stanza of this song I send
you, is the very words that Coila taught
me many years ago, and which I set to an
old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum.

CoMx, let me take thee to my breast.
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ;

See Poemty p. 92.

If' you think the above will suit your
idea of your favourite air, I shall be highly
pleased. The latt time J came o'er the
moor^ I cannot meddle with, as to mend-
ing it ; and the musical world have been
so long accustomed to Ramsay's words,
that a different son&f, though positively
superior, would -not he so well received
I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I
have not made one for the foregoing.

No. XXXVUL

No. XXXVII.
MR. BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

Auguit 1793.

DAINTY DAVIE.*

Now rosy May comes in wi! flowers.
To deck her gay, green spreading bow-
ers;

See Poemty p, 93.

So much for Davie. The chorus, you
know, IS to the low part of the tune. See
Clarke's set of it in the Museum.

N. B. In the Museum they have drawl-
ed out the tune to twelve lines of poetry,
which is **** nonsense. Four lines of
song, and four of chorus, is the way.

* Dtiinty Davie Is the title of an old Seoteh long,
from which Burn* has taken twUiV«i ^^ ^^ title and
ibe measQtem £.

MR. THOMSON TO ME. BURNS.

EdMurgh^ Iff SqfL 1793.

MT DKA& SIR,

SnrcB writing yon last, I have re-
ceived half a dozen songs, with which I
am delighted beyond expression. The
humour and fancy of WhutU^ and FU
come to you, my lad, will render it nearly
as great a favourite as Ihmcan Chray,
Come^ let me take thee to my breatt--Jidoten
winding JVtt^ and By Allan Hream^ &c.,
are full of imagination and feeling, and
sweetly suit the airs for which they are
intended. Had I a cave on some wUd di»^
tant shore, is a striking and aiTecting cfm-
position. Our friend, to whose sto^ it
refers, read it with a swelling heart, I
assure you. - The union WMre now form-
ing, I think, can never be^roken ; these
songs of yours will descewwith theimif
sic to the latest posterity^ and. will be
fondly cherished so loil|p as genius, taste
and sensibility exist m oar iuand. ■

I -,

. While the muse seems so propitious, T
think it right to enclose a list of aHtbe
favours I nave to ask of her, no foi^
than twenty and three ! I have burdened
the pleasant Peter with as many as it is
probable he will attend to : most of the
remaining airs would puzzle the En^isb
poet not a little ; thev are of that pecu-
liar measure and rhythm, that they moit
be familiar to him who writes for tbem*

No. XXXIX.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Sept. 1793.

You may readily tmst, my dear Sir,
that any exertion in my power is heartily
at your service. But one thing I most
hint to you ; the very name of Peter Pin-
dar is of great service to your publication,
so get a verse from him now and then ;
though I have no objection, as well ss I
can, to bear the burden of the business.

You know that my pretensioiis to nm*
sical taste are merely a few of nature's
instincts, untaught and untutored by art.
¥oT this reason, niany musical composi-

LETTERS.

211

tioDS, paiticiiltrly where mnch of the me-
rit lies in counterpoint, however they may
transport and ravish the ears of you con-
noisseurs, affect my simple lug no other-
wise than merely as melodious din. On
the other band, by way of amends, I am
deliffhted with many little melodies, which
the learned musician despises as silly and
insipid. I do not know whether the old
air Hey iuiHe taittie may rank among this
number : but well I know that, with Fra-
zer*s hautboy, it has oflen filled my eyes
with tears. There is a tradition, which
I have met with in many places of Scot-
land, that it was Robert Bruce's march
at the battle of Bannockbum. This
thought, in my solitary wanderings, warm-
ed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the
theme of Liberty and Independence, which
I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted
to the air, that one might suppose to be
the ffallant Royal Scot's address to his
heroic followers on that eventful morn-
ing.*

So may God ever defend the cause of
tmth and Liberty, as He did that day! —
Amen.

P. S. I showed the air to Urban!, who
was highly pleased with it, and be^ffed
me to make soft verses for it ; but I had
no idea of giving myself any trouble on
the subject, till the accidental recollection
of that glorious struggle for freedom, as-
sociated with the glowing ideas of some
other struggles of the same nature, not
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming ma-
nia. Clarke's set of the tune, with his
bass, you will find in the Museum ; though
I am afraid that the air is not what will
entitleit to a place in your elegant selec-
tion.

Nc. XL.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

September^ 1793.

I DARK say, ray dear Sir, that you will
begin to think my correspondence is per-
secution. No matter, I can't help it; a
ballad is my hobby-horse ; which though
otherwise a simple sort of harmless idioti-

• Hers foDowMl Bnica*i addraii m giTen In the
Tnmu, |». 81.

Tbli noble uniii wm coneelTed by our poet dartof
A Morm tmosf tZio wUdM ofGleo-Ktu in Gtllowtr.

cal beast enough, has yet this blessed
headstrong property, that when once it
has fairly made off with a hapless wight»
it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gin-
gle, tinkle-gingle, of its own bells, that it
is sure to run poor pilgarlic, the bedlam-
jockey, quite beyond any useful point or
post in the common race of man.

The following song I have composed
for Oran Gaoily the Highland air that von
tell me in your last, you have resolved to
give a place to in your book. I have this
moment finished the song, so you have it
glowing from the mint. If it suit you,
well ! — if not, *tis also well I

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ;
Thou goesty thou darling of my heart I

SeePoemifp. 9S.

No. XLI.

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNa

Edinbiirghf 5th September ^ 1793.

I BELIEVE it is generally allowed that
the greatest modesty is the sure attend-
ant of the greatest merit. While you are
sending me verses that even Shakspeare
might be proud to own, you speak of them
as if they were ordinary productions !
Your heroic ode is to me the noblest com-
position of the kind in the Scottish lan-
guage. I happened to dine yesterday
with a party of our friends, to whom I
read it. They were all charmed with it ;
intreated me to find out a suitable air
for it, and reprobated the idea of giving
it a tune so totally devoid of interest or
grandeur as Hey ttUUe taittie. Assuredly
your partiality for this tune must arise
from the ideas associated in your mind by
the tradition concerning it ; for T ^ever
heard any person, and I have conversed
again and again, with the greatest entha-
siasts for Scottish airs, 1 say I never
heard any one speak of it as worthy of
notice.

I have been mnmng over the whole
hundred urs, of which I lately sent yoa
the list ; and I think Lewie Chrdon^ w
most happily adapted to your ode t at least
Willi a N%rj ^\^\i Nw^3^^1\wi ^^>^^^««<^

t)X LETTERS.

line, winch I sliull prcacntlj Eubtnit tti
you. There is iu fjmit Gordon niOTC of
iho grand thui the plaintive, particulail}^
wlion it is Bung witli & decree of spiri!
which your words would oblige the ainget
to give it. I would have no scruple ibout
gubiTituting yourodi! in the room of £cwjc
Gordon, which has neither the interest,
the grandeur, nor tlie poetry that cha~
TBCteriie your verses. Now the varia~
tion I have to suggest npon the last lint
of each verse, the only line too short fo^
tho «hr, is M follows :

Ftrti IM, Or M/lnWu Waorie.
U, CU<iu-ilitJ« and alncfl
3d. IaH bim, laUmtamtBil
41*, L*l bin triHly rotlnw qm.
lU, But UUf (UU, Ibcf itaaO b
SIX, Lci ui, b( u dd nr die I

If you connect each line with its
Vtrse, I do not think you will find thai
cither the sentiment or the e:rpresaion
loses any of its enerpy. The only line
which I dishke in the whole of the sonp
i8,"WcIcomo to yoiiTfforybod." Would
not another word be preTcrable to tottcome ?
In your next I will expect to be informed
whether you agree to what I have pro-
pMed. The Tittle alterations I submit
with the greatest deference.

The beauty of the verses you have made
tOt Oran OaoU will ensure celebrity to

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Sepltmbcr, 1793.
1 HATB received your list, my dear Sir,
and here go my obaervationa on it.*

Down the bam Davie. I have this mo-
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the
last half of the third stanza, and the first
half of the Ia«t staniu, thus :

Aa down the bum they took their way

And thro' the floweiy dale ;
His cheek to here he aft did lay.

And love was ay the tale.

•Mr. TliniiKB'f IM of lonii tot bli publlcaitun.

With " Mary, when shall we ntmnn,

Sic pleasure to renew f"
<luoth Maiv, " Love, I like the bun.

And ay shall follow yon."*

TTiro' Ikt wood Laddie — I am decidedly
of opinion that both in this, and TJitre'U
never bt ptaee tilt Jamit cobui honu, ttte
second or high part of the tuno, being a re-
petition of the first part an octave higher,
19 only for instnunental music, one would
be much better omitted in singing.

Coteden-tnoaet. Remember in your
index that the song in para English to this
tune> beginningi

Ihmuf h ifw wlinlB ; IhiI im m:

Laddie He near me, must lie (y m« for
some time. 1 do not know the air ; and
until 1 am complete master of a tune, in
my own singing (such aa it is,] I can never
compose for it. My way is : 1 consider
the poetic sentiment correspondent to my
idea of the musical expression ; then
choose my theme ; begm one stanza ;
when that ia composed, which is generally
the most difficult part of the business, 1
walk out, ait down now and then, look out
for objects in nature around me that ara
La unison and harmony with the cogita-
tions of my fancy, and worktnes of my
bosom; hummingeverynowandthenthe
air, with the verses I have framed. Wken
[ feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire
to the solitary fire side of my stttdy, and
there commit my efiusiona to paper;
swinging at intervals on the hind fen of
my elbow chair, by way of cttUing forth
my own critical strictures, aa my pen goes
on. Seriously, this, at home, ia almoit
invariably my way.

What cursed egotism !

OiU Xorice, I am for leaving out. It
is a plaguy length ; the ur itself ia never
aung ; and its place can well be supplied
by one or two songs for fine airs that are
your list. For instance, Cntgit-
ftum-irood and Roi/'t Wife. The first,
beside its intrinsic merit, haa novelty;
tmd the last has high merit, u well u

(4 (DtU

!it 10 Uk Nailct.

LETTERS.

313

g^rcat celebrity. I have the original words
of a Bonff for the last air, in the hand-
vrriting of the lady who composed it ; and
they are superior to any edition of the
aong which the public has yet seen.*

Highland Laddie. The old sot will
please a mere Scotch ear best ; and the
new an Italianized one. There is a third,
and what Oswald calls the old Highland
Laddie, which pleases more than either
of them. It is sometimes called Gi;i^/an
Johnnie ; it being the air of an old hu-
morous tawdry song of that name. You
will find it in the Museum, / hcte been at
Crookieden^ &c. I would advise you in
this musical quandary, to offer up your
prayers to the muses for inspiring direc-
tion ; and in the mean time, waitin? for
this direction bestow a libation to Bacchus ;
and there is not a doubt but you will hit
on a judicious choice. Probatum Est,

Auld Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave
out, and put in its place The Quaker^t
Wife.

Blithe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of
the finest songs ever I made in my life ;
and besides, is composed on a youn^ lady,
positively the most beautiful, lovely wo-
man in the world. As I purpose giving
Yoa the names and designations of all my
heroines, to appear in some future edition
of yoxu work, perhaps half a century
hence, you must certainly include TT^e
bomdut late in a* the toarld in your col-
lection.

DainUe Davie, I have heard sung, nine-
teen thousand nine hundred and ninety-
nine times, and always with the choius
to the low part of the tune ; and nothing
has surprised me so much as your opinion
on this subject. If it will not suit as I
proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas
together, and then make the chorus fol-
low.

Fee him father — ^I enclose you Prazer's
Bet of this tune when he plays it slow ; in
fact be makes it the language of despair.
I shall here give you two stanzas in that
style, merely to try if it will be any im-
provement. Were it possible, in singing
to give it half the pathos which Frazer
^ves it in playing, it would make an ad-
mirably pathetic song. . I do not give

• Tlili ■oog^ fo much admired by our bard, wlU be
fonadMibehoUomofp.SSB. R.

these verses for anv merit they have. I
composed them at the time in which Paiie
Allan't mither died, that teas about the back
o' midnight ; and by the lea-side of a bowl ^
of punch, which had overset every mortal
in company, except the hautbois and the
muse.

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast

left me ever.
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast

left me ever.

See Poeme, p. 93.

Jockey and Jenme I would discard, and
in its place would put There's nae Iwk
about the house, which has a very pleasant
air, and which is positively the finest love
ballad in that style in the Scottish or per-
haps any other language. When she came
ben she bobbit, as an air, is more beautifU
than either, and in the andante way, would
unite with a charming sentimental ballad.

Saw ye my FaJther ? is one of my great-
est favourites. The evening before last^
I wandered out, and began a tender song ;
in what I think is its native style. I must
premise, that the old way, and the way
to give most effect, is to have no starting
note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst
at once into the pathos. Every country
girl sings — Saw ye my father, &c.

My song is but just begun ; and I should
like, before I proceeded, to know yonr
opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with
the Scottish dialect, but it may easily be
turned into correct English.*

Todlin hame. Urbani mentioned an
idea of his, which has long been mine ;
that this air is highly susceptible of pa-
thos ; accordingly, you will soon hear him
at your concert try it to a song of mine in
the Museum ; Ye banks and braes o* ftoa-
nie Doon, One song more and I have
done : Auld lang sme. The air is but
mediocre ; but the following song, the old
song of the olden times, and which has
never been in print, nor even in manu-
script, until I took it down from an old
man's singing, is enough to recommend
any air.f

* ThlfMnic begins,

* WberearetiieJoyilbaeaMttaUM»Mttoi%? ^>
tTV^wyn%«t^^cMfiSi^dAA>giVMBMBX. V.>A^^m

'^ thy oCoiaiVax^

tl4

LETTERS.

AULD LANU 8YNK.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min' ?

See Poems, p. 93.

Now, I Hupposo I have tired your pa-
tience fairly. You must, after aU ie over
have a number of ballads, properly so
called. Om Morice^ Tranent J\fmr^ JtP-
Pherton's Farewell, Battle of Sheriff J^uir,
or We ran ami they ran, (I know the au-
thor of this charming ballad, and his his-
tory), Ilardiknuie, Barbara Allan, (I can
fiirnifih a finer set of this tune than any
that has yut appeared,^ and besides, do
vou know that I really liavc the old tune
to which The Cherry and the Slae was
sung ; and which is mentioned as a well
known air in Scotland's Complaint, a
book published before poor Mary's days.
It was then called Th^ Banki o' Tlelicon ;
nn ohlpoem which Pinkcrton has brought
to light. You will see all this in Tytler's
history of Scottish music. The tune, to
a learned ear, may have no ^rcat merit;
but it is a great curiosity. I nave a good
many original things of this kind.

No. XLIII.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

September, 1793.

I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode
pleases you so much. Your idea ** ho-
nour's bed," is, though a beautiful, a hack-
neyed idea ; so, if you please, wo will let
the line stand as it is. I have altered the
song as follows :

BANNOCK-BURN.

aOBERT BRUCE*8 ADDRESa tO HIS ARMY.

Scots, wha hae wi* Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ;

See Poem$, p. 94.

JV*. B. I have borrowed the last stanza
from the common stall edition of Wallace.

'* A fkiM uiurper tlnkiin ereiy foe,
And liberty returns with every Wow."

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yoster-
f^B V you had enough of my cnTTc«ipcmdctvcG.

rably. One comfort ! — I sofier so mach,
just now, in this world, for last night'a
joviality, that I shall escape 8cot-fr«e for
It in the world to come.^Amen.

No. XLIV.
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

I2th September, 1793.

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear
Sir, for your observations on the list of
my songs. I am happy to find your ideas
BO much in unison with my own, respect-
ing the generality of the airs, as well as
the verses. About some of them we differ,
but there is no disputing about hobby-
horses. I shall not fail to profit by the
remarks you make; and to re-consider
the whole with attention.

Dainty Davy, must be sung two stanzas
together, and then the chorus : 'tis the
proper way. I agree with you that there
may be something of pathos, or tender-
ness at least, in the air of Fee ?um Father,
when performed with feeling : but a ten-
der cast may be given almost to any lively
air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively,
and with scnous words. I am, however,
clearly and invariably for retaining the
cheerful tunes joined to their own humo-
rous verses, wherever the verses are pass-
able. But the sweet song for Fee hun
Father, which you began aoout the back
of midnight, I will pulHish as an additional
one. Mr. James Balfour, the kimr of

food fellows, and the best singer of the
vely Scottish ballads that ever existed,
has charmed thousands of companies with
Fee him Father, and with ThdHn home
also, to the old words, which never should
be disunited from either of these airs —
Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard.
Fy, lets a' to the Bridal, for instance, is so
coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only
to be sung in a company of drunken col-
liers ; and Saiw ye my Father? appears to
me both indelicate and silly.

One word more with regard to your
heroic ode. I think, with great defer-
ence to the poet, that a prudent general
would avoid saying any thing to his sol-
diers which would tend to make death
more frightful than it is. Gory presents
a disagreeable image to the mind, and to

The past goen, and my head acVieB inis^i-X V.€^ ^Jmsox*''' NPT^lcome to your gory bed

LETTERS.

fIS

seeniB rather a discouraging addresfl, not-
withstanding the alternative which fol-
lows. I have shown the song to three
friends of excellent taste, and each of
them objected to this line, which embol-
dens me to use the freedom of bringing it
again under your notice. I would sug-
gest,

** Now orcptra for boBoar*! bed,
Or for glorioiu victorie.'*

No. XLV.
MIL BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

September^ 1793.

*^ Who shall decide when doctors dis-
agree?'* My ode pleases me so much
that I cannot alter it. Your proposed
alterations would, in my opinion, make it
tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you
for putting me on reconsidering it ; as I
think I have much improved it. Instead
of " soger ! hero !" I will have it " Cale-
donian ! on wi' me !"

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and
to the world some way or other it shall go
as it is. At the same time it will not in
the least hurt me, should you leave it out
alto^ther, and adhere to your first in-
tention of adopting Logan's verses.*

* Mr. Tbomion bu rtry property adopted thii wong
(if It nuf be eo ealled,) u tbebard pr«Mnted it to him.
Hit hat attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and pei^
tepa aBMmg tbc ezlattiig ain be could not find a better ;
tat the poetry is iulted to a mach hiKber strain ofmu-
ak, aad may employ tbe genlos of some Scottish Han*
4mU If any such should in future arise. The reader
will bare ofaaenred, thai Burns adopted tbe alterations
pr o pose d by bis friend and correspondent in roimtT in-
stances, with great readiness: perhaps, indeed, on all
Indtflbreat oecastons. In tbe present instsncr, how-
ever, be rctJected them, though repeaiodly urged, with
determined resolution. With every respect for the
lodgment of Bfr. Thomson and bis friends, wc may be
•atisaed that be did lo. He, who in preparing for an
•ngagement, attempts to withdraw his imnginntfon
iWmi Images of death, will probably have but imporfKct
■n rc sai, and is not fitted to stand in tbe ranks of battle,
wbere the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of nicb
■aai tbe eonqueron of Bannockbum were not compos-
ad. Broce's troops were inured to war, and familiar
with all its sulTerings and dangers. On the nve of that
gemo r aMe day, their spiriu were, without doubt, wound
vp to • plteh of enibusiam, suited to the occasion : a
pilch of aBtboslaam, at which danger becomes attrac-
tive, aad Uw moat tarrific forms of death are no longer
tonlMt. CkKli a sualn of saatiment, this heroic " wel-

I have finished ray song to Saw ye my
Father? and in English, as you will see.
That there is a syllable too much for tha
expre$ntm of the air, is true ; but allow
me to say, tliat the mere dividing of a
dotted crochet into a crochet and a qua-
ver, is not a great matter ; however, in
that I have no pretensions to cope in
judgment with you. Ofthepoetrvlspeak
with confidence ; but the music is a busi-
ness where I hint my ideas with the ut-
most diffidence.

The old verses have merit, though un-
equal, and are popular : my advice is, to
set the air to the old words, and let mine
follow as English verses. Here they
are —

FAIR JENNY.

See p. 213.

■* *

Tsae— ** etew ye my Father V*

Where are the joys I have met in the
morning.
That danc'd to the lark's early song .'

See PoemSf p. 94.

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so
I shall defer some other remarks until
more leisure.

come" may be supposed well calculated to elevate— to
raise their hearts high above fear, and to nerve their
arms to tbe utmo«t pitch of mortal exertion. These
observaUons might be illustrated and supported by a.
reference to that martial poetry of all nations, from the
spirit-stirring strains of Tyrtcus, to tlic war>K>iv of
General Wolfe. Mr. Thomson's observation, that
" Welcome to your gory bed, is a discouraging address,**
seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, Indeed, It
may be admitted, that the term gortf is somewhat ob-
jectionable, not on account of Its presenting a f^ightAjl,
but a disagreeable imageto the mind. Bute great poet,
uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasitm,
seeks always to pre«ent a pic ure that is vivid, and la
uniformly disposed tn sacrifice the dcliracles of taiite ua
the altar of the imagination. And it is the privilege of
superior gvniu^ by producing a new assoriaiion, to ele-
vate expressions that were originally low, siid thus to
triumph over the dcflciencios of lanieiiaije. In how
many instances might this be exciuplifiod from Uia
works of our immortal Shakspeare :

" Who would /srrfrfs bear,
To groan and tiotat under a weary life ;—
When he himself might bis quittu* make
ViMiubarebodlinr

It were easy to enlanre, but to avggest socb
tiODS to probably sofflcianu

No. XLYl
ME. BURNS TO HR. THOMSON.
Seplanbtr, 1793.
I HAT« been turning over «ome vo-
InnieB of songa, to fiod venea whose mc&-
•urei wonld suit the un, foi which you
bars kllotted me to 6Dd Engliab tongs.

FoiMidrland IF^^ic, von have, in Ram-
Mj'i Tea-table, an excellent song, begin-
ning, " Ah ! why those teara in NeUy'B
eye* f" Ai for The CoUier't DochUr, take
t&e following old Bacchanal.

Dkludcd Bwain, the plea^nre
The fickle Fair can give thee.
See Poaru, p. 94.

The faulty line in Logan- Water, I mend

The Bong otherwise will pase. Ae to
JS'Qrtf^oira Rua Rulh, you will see a
•OQg of mine to it, with a set of the air
miperior to yoara, in the Hiuetun, Vol. ii.
p. 181. The eong begins,

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they ire
downright Irish. If they were lllce the
Banki o^ Baiuia, for instance, though

really Irish, yet in the Scottish tasti^, yc
mivht adopt them. Since you are so for
of Irish music, what say ^ou to twenty-

five of them in an additional number.
We could euily find this quantity of'
charming airs : I will talie care that yon
■hall itot want aonga ; and T aaaure you
that you would find it the most saleable
. of the whole. If you do not approve of
Soy't Wife, for the music's sake, we shall
not insert it. Deil take the teart, is a
charming song ; ho is, Sam ye my Peggy !
7%ert't na luck about Vu kmue, well de-
serves a piece. I cannot ssy that, O'er
the hiilt aadjar aiea, strikes me as equal
to your selection. Thu U no mine am
Aouie, is a great favourite air of mine:
and if you will send mc your set of it, I
wiU task my muse to her highest effort.
What is youropinionof/ftaefcud a Her-
rinintawtT Ilikeitmucb. Your Jaeo-
xte >in are pretty ; and there are many

others of the tame kind, pretty; bntjm
have not room for them. You cannot, I
think, insert Fi», M w a' to tte bridal,
to any other words than its own.

What pleases me, a; simple and ttait,
disgusts you as ludicrous and low. F«
this reuon, FU, gie me my cogie, tm—
Fie, let ut a' to lAe bridat, with sevenl
others of that cast, are to me higUy
pleasing ; while, Saw ye my Father, or
fan ye my Mother ; delights me with itt
descriptive simple pathos. Thus my son;,
Ken ye vhat Sleg o' the Mill luu gottatj
pleads myself so much that I cannot by
my hand at another song to the air; ml
shall not ittempt it. I know you will
lauffh at all this: but, "Ilka maowetn
his belt his ain gait."

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSOH.

. Otiober, 17S3.

Your lest letter, my dear Thomson,

wnfl indeed laden with heavy news. Alw,

poor Erskinel* The recollection that tie

LB a coadjutor in your publication, bU

I now scared me from writing to foil,

turning my thoughts on composing for

pleased that you are reconciled to
ofthe Quaker't Wife; though, bT
the by, an old Highland gentleman, iM
deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic
ir, and known fay the name ofLeiger'*
chon. The following verses, I hope.wiU
please you as an En^ish song to the tii

TaiKE am I, my faithfijl fiur.
Thine, my lovely Nancy ;

5m Ptmne, p. 64.

Your ejection to the English eong I
proposed for JbAn Artderton my jo, iscer
tainly just. The foUowine' ii "

--'ance of mine, and I

The song was never in print,
which I think is so much in your favour.
The more original good poetry your col
lection contains, it certainly has so much

LETTERS.

217

SONG.

BT 6AVIN TURNBULL.

O, C0KDXSCEND, dcET charming maid,
My wretched state to view ;

A tender swain to love betray'd,
And md despair, by you.

While here, aH melancholy.

My passion I deplore.
Yet, urged by stem resistless fate,

I love thee more and more.

I heard of love, and with disdain.
The urchin's power denied ;

I laugh'd at every lovef s pain.
And mock'd them when they sigh'd.

But how my state is alter'd !

Those happy days are o*er ;
For all thv unrelenting hate,

I love thee more and more.

O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield.

No longer let me mourn ;
And though victorious in the field,

Thy captive do not scorn.

Let ffenerous pity warm thee,
My wonted peace restore ;

And, mteful, I shall bless thee still,
And love thee more and more.

The following address of TumbuU's to
Che Nightingale, will suit as an English
moDg to the air. There totu a !ati ana the
Meat fair. By the by, Turnbull has a
|rreat many songs in MS. which I can com-
mand, if you like his manner. Possibly,
u he is an old friend of mine, I may be
prejudiced in his favour, but I like some
of his pieces very much.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

BT 6. TURNBULL.

Tflou sweetest minstrel of the grove.
That ever tried the plaintive strain,

A'Wake thy tender tale of love.
And Boothe a poor forsaken swain.

For though the muses deign to aid,
And teach him smoothly to complain;

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid.
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons.
In sport she wanders o'er the plain :

Their tales approves, and still she shuns
The notes of her forsaken swain.

When evening shades obscure the sky.
And bring the solemn hours again;

Bcgin, sweet bird, thy melody.
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.

I shall just transcribe another of Tum-
buU's which would go charmingly to
Lewie Chrdon,

LAURA.

BT G. TURVBULL.

Let me wander where I wiD,
By shady wood or winding rill ;
Where the sweetest May-bom flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ;
Where the linnet's early song
Echoes sweet the woods among :
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy stilL

If at rosy dawn I chuse,
To indulge the smiling muse ;
If I court some cool retreat.
To avoid the noon-tide heat ;
If beneath the moon's pale ray,
Through unfrequented wilds I stray »
Let me wander where I will>
Laura haunts my ^cy still.

When at night the drowsy god
Waves hiB deep-compelling rod.
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise ;
While with boundless joy I rove,
Thro' the fairy-land of love ;
Let me wander where I wiU,
Laura haunts my fancy still.

The rest of your letter I shall answer
at some other op\>ortuiilt^*

No. XLVni.

HR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

1A Mnemher, 1793.

MT oooD iim,

Attek go long a ailence, it gv/e me

peculiar pleasure to recogaize your well-

Inown hand, for I bad begun to bo ap-

fTeheniive thnt all was not well with you.
am happy to And, however, that youi
Mience did not proceed from that cause,
utd that you have got among the ballada
oDce more.

I have to thank you for your English
■ong to Lager 'm ckoii, which I tnink
eztiemely good, although the colouring
is warm. Your friend Mr. Turnbtill's
aongs have, doubtleas considerable merit;
and as ^ou have the command of his
mauuicnpta, I hope you will lind out some
that will aiiflwer, as English songs, to the
airs yet unprovided-

No. XLIX.
HR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Dtctmber, 1793.

HiraBAND, huiband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave. Sir ;

Ste Poemi, p. 95.

Wht thou be my dearie i

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart.

Wilt thou let me cheer thee }

SeePoesw,j>.ll4.

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
EditAnrgh, 17(A April, 1794.

I had not an opportunity, till latdy, of pe-
rusing it.* How sorry I am to find Bomt
say'"gi '* Canst thou not minieter to i
mind diseased f" while ht is delightin|
others from one end of the island to ths
other. Like the hy^chondriac who went
to consult a physician upon his case — Go,
says the doctor, and see the ftmous C«-
lini, who keeps all Paris In good humoni.
AlsB ! Sir, replied the patient, I am that
unhappy C&rlini !

Your plan for our meeting together
pleases me greatly, and I trust that by
some means or other it will soon take
place ; but your Bacchanalian challenga
almost frightens me, for I am a misennla
Toak drinlter !

Allan is much cratified by yonr good
opinion of his taTcnts. He has just be-
gun a sketch from your CoUrr't 5alan%
■ffiffht, and if it pleases himself in the de-
sign, he will probably etch or engrave it
In flubjects of the pastoral and humorout
hind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any art-
ist living. He fails a little in giving
beauty and grace to his females, and hit
colouring is imnbre, otherwise his paint-
ings and drawings would be in greater
request.

I like the munc of the Svlor'r Dothter,
and will consider whether it shall be ad-
to the last volume \ your verses to it
pretty: but your humorous English
song, to suit Jo Janet, is inimitable.
What think you of the air, ITHhin a miU
of Edinlnirgk? It has always struck me
as a modern imitation, but it is said to be
Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I be-
lieve 1 must include it. The verses are
little better than namby pambj/. Do yM
■!__ .. ^Qi^i, jgtania or two'

UR. BURNS TO HR. THOMSON.
JUfiy, 1794

MT BEAK Silt,

I BF.TURN yon the plates, with which
I am highly pleased ; T would humbly
propose instead of the younker knitting
stockings, to put a stock and horn iiil«

^ your admirable but me\anc\u>\^\tft\«i,\MtACt

Ua huidM. A Triend of mine, who ii po
■tiTdy ths ablest judge on the subject 1
have erer met with, uid though in un
known, ia yet % superior artist with thi
Bitrm, is quite charmed with Allan's man'
aVT. I gothim a.peefoT the OentleShfp-
A«rri; and he proDouncea Allan a moai
original artist of great eiceUence.

For mj part, I look on Mr. Allan'^
cbnnnglnj favourite poem for his subjcctn
to be one of the highest complimouts 1
lure erer received.

I am quite vexed at Fkvel's bein^
cooped np in France, as it will put an en-
tire atop to OUT work. Now, and for nix
or seven months, I thalt be quite in tang.
«■ you shall see bj and by. I got an air.
pretty enough, composed by Lady Eliza-
beth Heron, of Heron, whicli Bhn cbUf
TKt Bankt tf Cree. Cree in a beautiful
romantic atreani; and as her Ladyship u
a particular friend of mine,] have written
tlu) following song to it>

BANKS OP CREE.

Hkki m the glen, and here the bower ;
AH nndomeath the birchen shade ;

See Poeim, p. 95.

UK. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.
July, 1794.
Ia there no news jet of Pleypt? Oris
ywa work to be at a dead atop, until the
aUie* Mt our modem Orpheus at liberty
ftom the Mvago thraldom of democratic
discords ? Alas the day 1 And wo is nic !
That anspiciouB period pregnant with the
tiappinen of mitions.* — •••»••

I have presented a copy of your aonjrs
to the daughter of a much'Vahied aiid
mneh-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Gra-
ham, of Pintry. I wrote on the blank
side of the title-page the following address
to the young lady.

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers
Ste Poenu, p, SB.

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

lOIhA

(.1794.

MT DIAK lia,

I owx you an apology for having so
long delayed to acknowledge the favoor
]f your last. 1 fear it will be aa yon saj,
I shall have no more songs from Pleyel
till France and we are friends; but never-
theless, I am very desirous to be prepared
with the poetry : and as the season ap-
proaches in which your muao of Coila
visits you, I trust I shall, aa formerly, be
frequently gratified with the result of
your amorous and tender interviews '.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.
30tkAagutl, 1794.
The last evening, as I was straying
, and thinking of. O'er the Mlli md/ar
iieay, I spun the following stanzas for it;
but whether my spinning will deserve to
hi kid up in store, like the precious thread
of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devU,
like the vile manufacture of the spider, I
leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid
criticism, 1 was pleased with several
lines in it at Grst : but I own that now it
appears rather a flimsy business.

This is just a hasty sketch, until I sea
whether it be worth a critique. We have
many sailor songs, but as far as I at pre-
sent recollect, they are mostly the efTu-
tions of the jovial sailor, not the wallings
lit his Jove-lorn mistress. I must here
make one sweet exception — Svieel AnnU
/ntelhtiea-beachcame. Now for the song.

How can my poor heart be glad.
When absent from my sulor lad >
See PoemM, p, 9S.

•ApMttaBsrihbMucaHten left oni for r>- I give you leave to abuse this song, bat
MBi ttai wn mMr to ini^iiwd. do it in the spitit of ChntfXuN. tMft,<uM«>

Cet

srto

LETTERa

No. LV.

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
EdMurghy leth September^ 1794.

MT DSAR SIR,

You have anticipated my opinion of
On the geoi wndfar away ; I do not think
it one of your very happy productions,
tliough it certainly contains stanzas that
are worthy of all acceptation.

The second is the least to my liking,
particularly " Bullets, spare my only joy I"
Confound the bullets I It might, per-
haps, be objected to the third verse, *' At
the starless midnight hour," that it has
too much grandeur of imagery, and that

freater simplicity of thought would have
etter suited the character of a sailor's
Sfweetheart. The tune, it must be re-
membered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind.
Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble
opinion, the song would be better adapted
to the tune, if it consisted only of the first
and last verses with the choruses.

No. LVI.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

September^ 1794.

I SHALL withdraw my. On the teas and
far oioay, altogether : it is unequal, and
unworthy the work. Making a poem is
like begetting a son : jou cannot know
whether you have a wise man or a fool,
until you produce him to the world to try
him.

For that reason I send you the offspring
of my brain, abortions and all ; and, as
such, pray look over them, and forgive
them, and bum'^ them. I am flattered at
your adopting Ca^ the yotoes to the knowes,
as it was owing to me that ever it saw
the light. About seven years a^ I was
well acquainted with a worthy little fel-
low of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who
sung it charmmgly ; and, at my request,
BIr. Clarke took it down from his singing.
When I gave it to Johnson, I added some

• This Vlrgillan order of the poet should, I think, be
dlaobeyed with respect to the song in question, the se-
cond stsiisa excepted. J^oUbyMr. Thomson,

Daeion differ. The objecUon U> Um moq^ «qhuu^
^iooiaoc stfike tlM Editor. £.

stanzas to toe song and mended othets^
but still it will not do for you. In a soli*
tary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my
hand on a few pastoral lines, fbUowinsr
up the idea of the chorus, which I would
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi-
ties and imperfections on its head.

CHORUS.

Ca^ th^ yovoes to the knowes^

CkC them where the heather growth

See PoemSy p. 99.

I shall give you my opinion of yoor
other newly adopted songs my first scrib*
bling fit.

No. LVII

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON

Septewbery 1794.

Do you know ft blackguard Irish song
called Onagh's WaJter-fM ? The air «
charming, and I have oflen regretted tne
want of decent verses to it. It is too
much at least for my humble mstic muse,
to expect that every effort of hers shall
have merit ; still I think that it is better
to have mediocre verses to a favourite air,
than none at aH. On this principle I
have all along proceeded in the Scots Mu-
sical Museum ; and as that publication is
at its last volume, I intend the following
song to the air above-mentioned, for that
work.

If it does not suit yon as an editor, yoa
may be pleased to have verses to it toal
you can sing before ladies.

SHE SATS SHE LO'EB MK BEST OF A**

Sae flaxen were her ringlets.
Her eye-brows of a darker hne,

See Poemsy p. 96

Not to compare small things with great,
my taste in music is like the mighty
Frederick of Prussia's taste in paintmg;
we are told that he frequently admired
what the connoisseurs decried, and al-
ways without any hypocrisy confessed his
\ ^^^DK)s«Oui<QiGk. 1 am sensible that my taste

LETTERS.

S21

■I mniie most oe inoiegtnt and vulgar,
becanae people of undiBputed and culti-
vated taste can find no merit in my fa-
vourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply
pleased, is that any reason why I should
deny myself that pleasure? Many of our
strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me
most exquisite enjoyment, where you and
ether judges would probably be showing
disgust. For instance, I am just now
making verses for Rothiemurchie's Rant^
an air which puts me in raptures ; and, in
fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I
never can make verses to it. Here I have
Clarke on my side who' is a judge that I
will pit against any of you. Roihiemur-
ehicj he says, is an air both original and
beautiful ; and on his recommendation I
have taken the first part of the tune for a
chorus, and the fourth or last part for the
8000*. I am but two stanzas deep in the
wo», and possibly you may think and
jnstly, that the poetry is as little worth
your attention as the music*

I have begun anew. Let me in this ae
mighL Do vou think that we ought to
retain the old chorus ? T think we must
rctun both the old chorus and the first
stanza of the old song. I do not al-
together like the third line of the first
■tuixa, but cannot alter it to please m^-
eelfl I am just three stanzas deep in it.
Wonld you have the denottment to be suc-
cessful or otherwise? should she *Met
faim in," or not?

Did you not once propose Tlie So%d*s
Tail to QeordUj as an air for your work ?
I am quite diverted with it; but I ac-
knowledge that is no mark of its real ex-
cellence. I once set about verses for it,
which I meant to be in the alternate way
of a lover and his mistress chanting to-
gether. I have not the pleasure of know-
ing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and
yours I am afraid is rather burlesque for
sentiment, else I had meant to have made
yon the hero and heroine of the little
piece.

Ho^ do you like the following epi-
gram, which I wrote the other day on a
k>vely young girl's recovery from a fever ?
Doctor. Maxwell was the physician who
leeminffly saved her from the grave ; and
Co html address the following.

* !• lbs orlffaal, folloir bert two itiiizM of i ■oof ,
If T...M wl* tht Usi-wliltc locks.** «

TO DR. MAXWELL,
On Miss Jxsst Staig's Recovkkt.

Maxwell, if merit here yoa crmve,

That merit I denj :
Tou aave fair Jeay from the grave f^

An angel could not die

God grant you patience with this stu-
pid epistle !

No. LVIIL

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNI^

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now
attendant upon her favourite poet, whose
tcood-notet wild are becoming as enchant-
ing as ever. She tayt the lo^es me best of
a\ is one of the plcasantest table-songs I
have seen, and henceforth shall be mine
when the song is going round. I'll give
Cunningham a copy ; he can more pow-
erfully proclaim its merit. I am far from
undervaluing your taste for the strath-
spey music ; on the contrary, I think it
highly animating and agreeable, and
that some of the strathspeys, when gra-
ced with such verses as yours, wiU make
very pleasing songs in the same way that
rough Christians are tempered and soft-
ened by lovely woman; without whom,
you know, they had been brutes.

I am clear for having the Sou^s Taii^
particularly as your proposed verses to it
are so extremely promising. Geordie, as
you observe, is a name only fit for bur-
lesque composition. Mrs. Thomson's
name (Katherine) is not at all poetical.
Retain Jeanie therefore, and make the
othcf Jamie, or any other that sounds
agreeably.

Your Ca' the ewet is a precious little
morceau. Indeed, I am perfectly aston-
ished and charmed with the endless vari-
ety of your fancy. Here let me ask you,
whether you never seriously turned your
thoughts upon dramatic writing ? That ia
a field worthy of your genius, in which
it might shine forth in all its splendor
One or two successful pieces upon the
London stage would make your fortune
The rage at present is for musical dra-
mas: few or none of those which have
appeared since the Dtimna^ possess much
poetical merit : there is little in the con-

Stf

LETTERS.

duct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to
interest the audience. They are chiefly
vehicles for music and pageantry. I think
you miffht produce a comic opera in three
acts, which would live by the poetry, at
the same time that it would be proper to
take every assistance from her tuneful
sister. Part of the songs, of course,
would be to our favourite Scottish airs ;
the rest might be lefl to the London com-
poser — Storace for Drury-lane, or Shield
tor Covent-garden : both of them very
able and popular musicians. I believe
that interest and monoeuvring are oflcn
necessary to have a drama brought on ;
■o it may be with the namby pamby tribe
of flowery scribblers ; but were you to ad-
dress Mr. Sheridan himself by letter, and
send him a dramatic piece, I am persuad-
ed he would, for the honour of genius,
give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse
me for obtruding these hints upon your
consideration.*

No. LIX.
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

Edinburgh, Uth October, 1794.

The last eight days have been devoted
to there-examination of the Scottish col-
lections. I have read, and sung, and
fiddled, and considered, till I am half
blind and wholly stupid. The few airs I
have added are enclosed.

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all
the songs I expected from nim, which are
m general elegant and beautiful. Have
you heard of a London collection of Scot-
tish airs and songs, just published by Mr.
Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall send you
a copy. His mtroductory essay on the
subject is curious and evinces great read-
ing and research, but does not decide the
question as to the origin of our melodies ;
though he shows clearly that Mr. Tytlcr,
in his ingenious dissertation, has adduced
no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wish-
ed to establish; and that his classifica-
tion of the airs according to the eras,
when they were composed, is mere fancy
and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq.
he has no mercy; but consigns him to
damnation ! He snarls at my publication,

* Oar bard bad before received the same advice, and
eerfaJofj took it eo fiv into coniideration, as to have
mat about tot a luMect. 1^

on the score of Pindar being engaged to
write some songs for it ; uncanfidly and
unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the
sonffs of Scottish writers had been sent a
packing to make room for Peter's ! Of
you he speaks with some respect, bat
gives you a passing hit or two, for daring
to dress up a little, some old foolish songs
for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish
airs, are taken, he says, from the oldest col-
lections and best authorities : many of them,
however, have such a strange aspect, and
are so unlike the sets which are sung by
every person of taste, old or young, in
town or country, that we can scarcely
recognize the features of our favourites
By ^oing to the oldest collections of car
music, it does not follow that we find the
melodies in their original state. These
melodies had been preserved, we know
not how long, by oral communication, be-
fore being collected and printed ; and as
diflerent persons sing the same air very
diflerently, according to their accurate or
confused recollections of it, so even sap-
posing the first collectors to have pos-
sessed the industry, the taste, and dis-
cernment to choose the best they conid
hear (which is far from certain,) still it
must evidently be a chance, whether the
collections exhibit any of the melodies in
the state they were first composed. In
selecting the melodies for my own collec-
tion, I have been as much guided by the
living as by the dead. Where these dif-
fered, T preferred the sets that appeared
to me the most simple and beautiful, and
the most generally approved : and with-
out meaning any compliment to my o^ti
capability of choosing, or speaking of the
pains I have taken, I flatter myself that
my sets will be found equally freed from
vulgar errors on the one hand, and affect-
ed graces on the other.

No. LX.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. \

I9tk October y 1794.

Ml DEAR FRTEND,

By this mominff's post I have yoar
list, and, in general, I highly approve o!
it. I shall, at more leisure eWe you a
critique on the whole. Clarke goes to
your own town by to-day's fly, and I wish
you would call on him and take his opi-
idon it general : you know his tasto v

LETTERS.

rd. He will return here Rgain in
k or two ; so, please do not miss
' for him. One thing I hope he
I, persuade you to adopt my favour-
igie-hum-ycood^ in your selection ;
imreat a faVourite of his as of mine,
idy on whom it was made, is one of
est women in Scotland ; and in fact
nous) is in a manner to me, what
•*s Kliza was to him-— a mistress,
nd, or what you will in the guileless
nty of Platonic love. (Now don't
ly of your squinting constructions
( or have any clish-maclavcr about
ng our acquaintances.) I assure
at to my lovely friend you are in-

for many of your host songs of

Do you think that the sober, gin-
•outine ofexistcnco, couldinspire a
ithlifo, and love, and joy — could fire
ith enthusiasm, or molt him with
, equal to the genius of your book ?
3 1 — Whenever I want to be more
rdinary in son^ ; to be in some dc-
qual to your diviner airs ; do you
e that I fast and pray for the cc-
cmanation ? Tout au conlrarie I I
glorious recipe ; the very one that

own use was invented bv the di-
of healing and poetry, when erst
;d to the nocks of Admctus. I put

m a regimen of admiring a fine
I ( and in proportion to the adora-
3f her charms, in the proportion
3 delighted with my verses. The
ng of iKjr eye is the godhead of
sus ; and the witchery of her smile,
inity of Helicon I

esccnd to business ; if you like my
JVhen she cam ben she ho!)hil^ the
ng stanzas of mine, altered a little
hat they were formerly when set
her air, may perhaps do instead of
stanzas.

SAW TE MT PHELT.

, saw ye my dear, my Phely ?
, saw ye my dear, my Phely?

See Poemtj p. 97.

' for a few miscellaneous remarks.
me, (in the Museum) is my com-
n; the air was taken down from
3urn8*s voice.* It is well known

Po9ie wil be found in the Poonis, p. 113. This,
•ther poems of which hespeakB, bad appoarefl
in*a Miwoiiin, and Mr.T.Jiad inHuircd wheth-
f*av out Imrd'M

in the West Country, but the old words
are trash. By the by, take a look at the
tune again, and tell me if you do not think
it is the original from which Ro$lin Cob*
tie is composed. The second part in par-
ticular, for the first two or three bars, ia
exactly the old air. Strathallen'g La*
meni is mine ; the music is by our riffht
trusty and deservedly well-beloved AUan
Masterton. Donoeht-Head is not mine ;
I would give ten pounds it were. It ap-
peared first in the Edinburgh Herald;
and came to the editor of that paper with
the Newcastle post-mark on it.* Whu'
tie o'er the lave o't is mine ; the music is
said to be by John Bruce, a celebrated
violin-player in Dumfries, about the be-
ginning of this century. This I know,
Bruce, who was an honest man, though a
redwiid Ilighlandman, constantly claimed
it ; and by all the oldest musical people
iicre, is believed, to be the author of it

Andrew and his cutty Oun The soiLg
to which this is set in the Museum is
mine, and was composed on Miss Eupbe-

* The reader will be earioni to aoe thta poMB, io
highly praiflcd by Buina. Here it ia.

Keen blawR the wind o'er Donoeht-Headtf

The snow drivei melly thro* tbe dale ;
The Gaber-lunzie Urlt my aoeck,

And nhiverinf, telle hie wmelVi* Ule:
*' Cauld la the night, O let me In,

And dinna let your mlnatrel Ik* ;
And dinna let his winding abeet

Be naelliing but a wreath o'

" Full nhfiety wintcn bae I aeen.

And iiipcd where gor-oocica whinrfng flew ;
And mony a day I've danced, I ween,

To lilu which from my drono I Iriaw.**
My Kppie waked and aoon abe erledi

* Get up, guidnian, and let him in ;
For wcci ye l[en the winter night

Waa abort when iie Iwgan liii dtak'

My Epirie'a voice O wow tt*a

Even tho* she bane and icaiildf a
But when it*a tuned to awwiw l i ttl%

O, haith, it'a doubly dear to no ;
Come in, auld carl, P II atetr mf flrti

ril make it blcexe a bonolo flomoi
Your bluid ia thin, ye've tint tbo

Ye ahottld nae atray ane hi ftao

" Nae hame biTe 1,** the mloMrol aaid^
" Sad party-strife o*ertum*d mj te* ;

And weeping at the ere of life,
I wander thro* a wreath o* anaw.**

This aflecUng poem la appormtiy ineonptoco. Th
author need not be aahamed to owa hlui iai f * 11 1
worthy of Bums, or of MacnloL X.

«K4

LETTERS.

mia Murray, of Lintroso, commonly and
deservedly called the Flower of Strath-
more.

How long and dreary is the night! I
met with some such words in a collection
of songs somewhere, which I altered and
enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit
your favourite air, I have taken a stride
or two across my room, and have ar-
ranged it anew, as you will find on the
other page.

soiro.

How long and dreary is the night,
When 1 am frac my dearie !

See Poems, p, 97.

Tell mo how you liko this. I differ
from your idea of the expression of the
tunc. There is, to me, a great deal of
tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opi-
nion, dispense with a bai*s to your adden-
da airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a
noted performer, plays and sings at the
same time so charmingly, that I shall ne-
ver bear to see any of her songs sent into
the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye-
call-um has done in his London collec
tion.*

These English songs gravel me to
death. I have not that command of the
language that I have of my native tongue.
1 Iiave been at Duncan Gray, to dress it
in English, but all I can do is deplorably
stupid. For instance ;

SONG.

Let not woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love ;

See Poems, p, 97.

Since the above, I have been out in the
Goantry, taking a dinner with a friend,
where I met with the lady whom I men-
ticmed in the second page in this odds-
and-^ndfl of a letter. As usual I got into
mmg: and returning home I composed the
IbEowing:

THX lover's morning saluts to

HIS MISTRESS.

Sleep*8t thou or wak'st thou, fairest
creature ;

* Mr. Rliioii.

Rosy mom now lifts his eye,^

StePoemSfp, 86.

If you honour my verses by setting the
air to them, I will vamp up Uie old song,
and make it Ehiglish enough to be under-
stood.

I enclose you a musical cnrioajty, aa
East Indian air, which yon would swear
was a Scottish one. I knowHhe authen-
ticity of it, as the ^ntleman whobroogfat
it over, is a particular acquaintance of
mine. Do preserve me the copy I send
ou, as it is the only one I have. Clarke
as set a bass to it, and I intend putting
it into the Musical Museum. Here foU
low the verses I intend for it.

THE AULD MAN.

But lately seen in gladsome green.
The woods rejoic'd the day.

See PoemSf p. 98.

I would be obliged to yon if you would
procure me a sight of Ritson's collection
of English songs, which you mention in
your letter. I will thank you for another
information, and that as speedily as yon
please : whether this miserable drawling
hotchpotch epistle has not completely
tired you of my correspondence ?

No. L3a.
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

Edinburgh, V7th October, 1794.

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a
genuine poet can no more exist withont

* From the fifth to the eleventh Hoe of thiifoec
stood originally thus :

Now to the ■treamteg foantaia,
Or up t)ie hoathy mouBtain,
The hart, hind, and roe, f^ly wild^-wanlOBtfny;
In twining hazel bowcra
His lay the linnet poora ;
The lav*rock, kc.

t The last eight lines stood orlgtoaOy thus:

When frae my Chloris parted,
Bad, cheerless, broken-hearted, fny ^'
The night's gloomy shades, cloady, daik, o*i
But when die cbaons my sl^t,
In pride of beauty's light;
When thro* my very heart
• Her blooming g^kiries dart *
'TA^tn!u'>^^fiBnD^\^«i^kit%E»lifii^nBdjo|r t

LETTERS.

225

«B8 than his meet. I wish I
adorable she whose bright eyes
ling smiles have so oflen cnrap-

Scottish bard ! that I miglit
sweet health when the toast is
ind. Cmffie'tum-wood, mast
)c adopted into my family, since
object of the song ; but in the
lecency I must beg a new cho-
from you. O to be lying beyond
\e, is perhaps a consummation to
,, but will not do fok* singing in
iny of ladies. The songs in
i^ill do you lasting credit, and
espective airs cliarmingly. I
tly of your opinion with respect
itional airs. The idea of send-
into the world naked as they

was ungenerous. They must
thcd and made decent by our
rke.

am anticipated by the friendly
im in sending you Ritson's
ollcction. Permit me, there-
esent you with his English col-
hich you will receive by the
do not find his historical essay
1 song interesting. Your anec-

misccUaneous remarks will, I
)e much more so. Allan has
hed a charming design from
lauder. She is danchig with
: as to electrify the piper, who
lost dancing too, while he is
.th the most exquisite glee. I

inclined to get a smul copy,
^e it engraved in the style of
rints.

•ray what do your anecdotes
rning J^Iagffie Lauder? was
personage, and of what rank ?
i surely spier for her ifyouca'd
her tovm.

No. LXII.
tNS TO MR. THOMSON.

JVbt?tfm5cr, 1794.

thanks to yon, my dear Sir, for
nt. It is a book of the utmost
3 to me. I have yesterday be-
ecdotes, &c. for your work. I
wing it up in the form of a let-
which will save me from the te-
business of systematic arrange-
deed, as all I have to say con-

sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes,
scraps of old sonffs, &c., it would be im-
possible to give the work a beginning, a
middle, or an end, which the critics insist
to be absolutely necessary in a work.*
In my last I told you my objections to the
song you had selected for J^y Lodging t#
on the cold ground. On my visit the
other day to my fair Ghloris (that is the
poetic name of the lovely goddess of mj
inspiration,] she suggested an idea, which
I, in my return from the visit, wrought
into the following song.

My Chloris, mark how green the groves»
The primrose banks how fair ;

See Poenu, p. 98.

How do yon like the simplicity and ten-
derness of this pastoral ? I think it pretty
well.

I like your entering so candidly and so
kindly into the story of J^fa chere Atnie,
1 assure you I was never more in earnest
in my life, than in the account of that af-
fair which I sent you in my last. — Con-
jugal love is a passion which I deeply
feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow,
it does not make such a figure in poesy
as that other species of the passion,

*' Where love !■ liberty, and Nature law."

Musically speaking, the first is an instru-
ment of which the gamut is scanty and con-
fined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ;
while the last has powers equal to all the
intellectual modulations of the human
soul. Still I am a very poet in my enthu-
siasm of the passion. The welfare and
happiness of the beloved object is the first
and inviolate sentiment that pervades my
soul ; and whatever pleasures I might
wisli for, or whatever might be the rap-
tures they would give me, yet, if they in-
terfere with that first principal, it is hay«
ing these pleasures at a dishonest price ;
and justice forbids, and generosity dis-
dains the purchase t * * • ♦

Despairing of my own powers to give
you variety enough in English songs, I
have been turning over old collections, to
pick out songs, of which the measure it
something similar to what I want ; and,
with a little alteration, so as to suit the

* It does not appear wbetber Dunui completed tbeae
anecdote^ &c. SomctblDg of tlw kind (probshljr tba
rude draughui,)waii foand amongst bis paiierii, aod ap-
pcutv in AvpttiuUr K ^>« VL I^c^a ^>

2tB

LETTERa

rhythm of tho air exactly, to five yoo
them for your work. Where the songs
have hitherto been but little noticed, nor
have ever been set to music, I think the
shift a fair one. A song, which, under
the same first verse, ^ou will find in Ram-
say's Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut
down for an English dress to your Dam"
tie Davicy as follows :

SONG

Altered from an old English one.

It was tho charming month of May,
When all the flowers were fresh and gay.

See Poemsy p, 98.

You may think meanly of this, but take
a look at the bombast original, and you
will be surprised that I have made so much
of it. I have fmishcd my song to Rothie'
murchie's Rant ; and you have Clarke to
consult as to the set of the air for singing.

LASSIE Wl* THE LINT-WHITK LOCKS.'^

CHORUS

fjcune wi* the lint'WhUe locksy
Bonnie lasney artless lassie^

See PoemSy p. 90.

Tliis piece has at least the merit of be-
ing a regular pastoral : the vernal morn,
the summer noon, the autumna. evening,
and the winter night, are regularly round-
ed. If you like it, well : ifnot, I will in-
sert it in the Museum.

I am out of temper that you should set
so sweet, so tender an air, as Deik tak the
warsy to the foolish old verses. You talk
of the silliness of Saw ye my father ? by
heavens ! the odds is gold to brass ! Be-
sides, the old song, though now pretty
well modernized into the Scottish lan-
^age, is originally, and in the early edi-
tions, a bungling low imitation of the
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom
D'Urfey ; so has no pretensions to be a
Scottish production. There is a pretty
English song by Sheridan, in the Ihtennay
to tliis air, which is out of sight superior
to D'Urfey's. It begins,

* In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this song
ruiuitbufl:

And ihonld the howNng wint*ry blast
Disturb my lanie'f midnif^ht rest,
I'll fauld thee to my faitbfu* breast,
And comfort thee my dearie O

•* WhtB saUe nlclUtMh drooptaf plv

The air, if I understand the ezpfresaion of
it properly, is the very native language of
simphcity, tenderness and love. I hive
again gone over my song to tke tuse is
follows.*

Now for my English aong to JVbuy'i
to the grecnwoody Sfc

Fare wxL L thou stream that windingflowi
Around Eliza's dwelling !

SeePoemty p» 99.

There is an air, T%e Caledonian Bwnts
Delighiy to which I wrote a long that yoo
will find in Johnson

Ye hanks and braes o* bonnie Dotn,
this air, I think, might find a place among
your hundred, as Lear says of his knights.
Do you know the history of the air? It
is curious enough. A good many yean
ago, Mr. James Miller, writer m your
good town, a gentleman whom possibly
you know, was in company with our friend
Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music.
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be
able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke,
partly by way of joke, told him to keep
to the black keys of the harpsichord, and
preserve some kind of rhythm : and he
would infallibly compose a Scots air.
Certain it is, that, in a few days, Mr.
Miller produced the rudiments of an air,
which Mr. Clarke with some touches and
corrections, fashioned into the tune io
question. Ritson, you know, has tbe
same story of the black keys; but this
account which I have just given you, Mr.
Clarke informed me of several years afo<
Now to show you how difllcult it it to
trace the origin of our airs, I have heard
it repeatedly asserted that this was to
Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish geDtI^
man who affirmed he had heard it m Ire-
land among the old women ; while, on the
other hand, a Countess informed me, thit
the first person who introduced tiie lir
into this country, was a baronet^s lady of '
her acquaintance, who took down the ,
notes from an itinerant piper in the U^
of Man. How difficult then to asceftain
the truth respecting our poesy and mo^*
I, myself have lately seen a couple of bel*

* SeatlMaonf Inltaflntand bflitdiMilB|iifiU^
"Our bararemarktapoD it, **I couMMaUy tkaavdili
into an English mould ; hut, to my taato, la tba ilvf''
and tlia tender of tlie paatoral Mnf , m ipitakliB|af ^
oid Bcoctlah hai an tnimltahia eflto." X

LETTERS.

itragh the streete of Dumfriee
me at the head of them as the
igh it was the first time I had
lem.

ou for admitting Cragie-bum-
[ shall take care to furnish yon
chorus. In fact the chorus
work, but a part of some old
e air. If I can catch myself
ian ordinarily propitious mo-
ll write a new Cragie-bum-
!ther. My heart is much in

med, my dear fellow, to make
'tis dunning your generosity;
ment, when I had forgotten
7as rich or poor, I promised
py of your songs. It wrings
iride to write you this: but
18 request is doubly so by a
logy. To make you some
con as I have extracted the
formation out of them, I will
Litson's volumes.

s not a little proud that she
10 distinguished a figure in
)n, and I am not a little proud
t in my power to please her
lUcky it is for your patience
T is done, for when I am in
[lumour I know not when to

No. LXIII.
[SON TO MR. BURNS.
13^^ JVbtjcf?i6er, 1794.

ceiving your last, I have had
view with Mr. Clarke, and
tation. He thinks the Co-
f is more Bacchanalian than
3 nature, and recommends it
ch the air accordingly. Pray
;cur to you how peculiarly
tish airs are adapted for ver-
m of a dialogue ? The first
r is generally low, and suit-
) voice, and the second part
nces cannot be sung, at con-
; by a female voice. A song
id makes an agreeable va-
of ours are written in this
D d

form : I wish yon wonld think of it in
some of those that remain* The onlr
one of the kii^ yon have sent me it m^
mirable, and will be a nnivenal fiivonrit^.

Your verses fbr BMMimurehie are to
sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to
Chloris, for Diel iak ike wxra^ so passion-
ately tender, that I have sung myself in*
to raptures with them. Your song for
Jtfy lodging iionthe cold groundy is like-
wise a diamond of the first water; and I
am quite dazzled and delighted by it*
Some of your Chlorises I suppose have
fiaxen hair, from your partiality for thi
colour; else we differ about it; fi>r I
should scarcely conceive a woman to be
a beauty, on reading that she .had lin^
white locks.

Farewell ihou dream that windmgjlowif
1 think excellent, but it is much too se^
rious to come after J^ancy; at least it
would seem an incongruity to provide the
same air with merry Scottish and melan-
choly English verses ! The more that the
two sets of verses resemble each other in
their general character, the better. Those
you have manufactured for Dainty Dame
will answer charmingly. I am happy to
find you have begun your anecdotes ! I
care not how long they be, for it is im-
possible that any thing from your pen can
be tedious. Let me beseech you not to
use ceremony in telling me when yon
wish to present any of your friends witk
the songs : the next carrier will bring
you three copies, and you are as weleome
to twenty as to a pinch of snuff.

No. LXIV.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON

19(/i J^otenher^ 1794.

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctaal
correspondent I am ; though indeed yoa
may thank yourself for the tedium of my
letters, as you have so flattered me on
my horsemanship with my favourite hob-
by, and praised the grace of his ambling
so much, that I am scarcely ever off his
back. For instance, this morning, though
a keen blowing frost, in my walk before
breakfast, I finished my duet which you
were pleased to praise bo much. Wheth-
er I have uniformly succeeded, I will not
say ; .but here it is for yon, though it k
not an hour old.

LETTERS.

BE.

Phillt, happy be that day
When roving tarough the gathered hay,

See Poemsy p* 99.

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and
point out whatever you think faulty.

1 am much pleased with your idea of
singing our songs in alternate stanzas,
and regret that you did not hint it to me
tooner. In those that remain, I shall
nave it in my eye. I remember your
objections to the name Philly ; but it is
the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sal-
ly, the only other name that suits, has to
my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits
it for any thing except burlesque. The
legion of Scottish poetasters of the day,
whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson,
ranks with me, as my coevals, have al-
ways mistaken vulgarity for simplicity:
whereas, simplicity is as much elois^ee from
vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected
point and puerile conceit on the other.

I agree with you as to the air, Cragie-
hum-wood^ that a chorus would in some
degree spoil the effect; and shall certain-
ly have none in my projected song to it.
It is not however a case in point with Ro-
ViiemurcfUe /there, as in Roy's IVifeofAl-
divalochy a chorus goes, to my taste, well
enough. As to the chorus going first, that
if the case with Roy*» Wife, as well as
Hoikiemurckie* In fact, in the first part
of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar
and irregular, and on that irregularity de-
pends so much of their beauty, that we
must e'en take them with all their wild-
ness, and humour the verses accordingly.
Leaving out the starting note, in both
times has, I think, an eSect that no re-
gularity could counterbdancc the want of.

Try

O Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch.

O Lassie wi' the lint-white locks.

and compare toithj

Roy'9 Wife of Aldivaloch.
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks.

Does not the tameness of the prefixed
Bvllable strike you ? In the last case, with
the true furor of genius, you strike at
once into the wild originality of the
w: whereas in the fuat*ms\vVvd method^

it is like the grating screw of the pins be-
fore the fiddle is brought into tone. This
is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardoa
.of the cognoscenti*

The Caledonian Hunt is do charming
that it would make an^ subject in a wng
go down ; but pathos is certainly its na-
tive tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians we
certainly want, though the few we hare
are excellent. For instance, Todim
Name, is, for wit and humonr, an un-
paralleled composition ; and Andreio and
his cutty gun, is the work of a mister.
By the way, are you not quite vexed to
think that those men of genius, for siic&
they certainly were, who composed our
fine Scottish lyrics, should bo unknown?
It has given me many a heart-ache. A»
propos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish ;
I composed one yesterday, for an air I
like much — Lumps o* Pudding,

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,

See Poemsy p. 97.

If you do not relish this air, I will send
it to Johnson.

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have
framed a couple of Lnglish stanzas, by
way of an English song to Roy's Wift,
You will aUow me that in this instance,
my English corresponds in sentiment
with the Scottish.

CAlfST THOU LEAVE |» THUS, BIT KATT?

CHOEUB.

Casist thou leave me fAut, my Katy ?
Canst thou leave me thtUj my Katy ?*

See Poems p. 100.

* To Uiii addreaa, In thft character of a fonakca l»^
▼er, a reply was fonnd on the part of the lady, amoic
the &ISS. or our bard, evidenUy In a female baad-wrh
tnlf ; which is doubUen that referred to in p. 213, lei>
tcr No. XLn. JVV>f«. The temptation to gire it to tte
public ii irreiiitible ; and if, in so doing, offence dMoM
be given to the fair autboreaa, the beauty (rf'bcr
muft plead our.excuae.

T^ou— * Roy's Wife.*
cHoavs.

Stttjf^ my WmU — yet heiirw me^
Stay, «y Willie — ytt hdiev tne,
>Vr, ak I tk»% kn4nt*$t «« erery ^an
Wad wring my b^sum $k»uU*t iktm

Tell me that thou yot art true,
And a* mv wrongs iball be foiHwi,

LETTERS.

I think this, to be done in two
cirns across my room, and with
ree pinches of Irish Blackguard,
far amiss. You see I am de-
to have my quantum of applause
ebody.

•
J friend Allan (for I am sure that
rant the trifling circumstance of
)wn to one another, to be the
ds on carth^ that I much sus-
as, in his plates, mistaken the
the stock and horn. I have, at
in one ; but it is a very rude in-

It is composed of three parts ;
which is the hinder thigh-bone
, such as you see in a mutton
horn, which is a common High-
} honi, cut off at the smaUer
the aperture be large enough to
stock to be pushed up through
ntil it be held by the thicker end
rfh-bonc; and lastly, an oat-
:actly cut and notched like that
see every shepherd boy have,
corn-istems are green and full-
Phe reed is not made fast in the
is held by the lips, and plays
he smaller end of the stock : |
stock, with the horn han^inff on
snd, is held by the hands m play-
) stock has six or seven venti-
! upper sides, and one back ven-

tho common flute. This of
made by a man from the braes

and is exactly what the shep-
t to use iu that country.

T, either it is not quite proper-
n the holes, or else we have
: of blowing it rightly ; for we

icn thi« heart proves fause to tl)«e,
nin shall ceaM ita courae in heaven,
ty my IVillicy ifC.

think I was hctray'd,

Isclinoil e*cr our loves should randcr !

>ke the flu w 'ret to my breast,

d ttic guilcfu' scrjient under !

my JVillie, 4*c.

hope thou'dst ne'er deceive,
tial plcaMur6<<, roisht I choose 'cm,
It, nor wek in otJier spliores
heaven I'd find witiiin thy bowm.
my IViUic, ^,c.

sc the reader to be tuld, tliat on this oc-
lUenian and ttic lady Imvu exchanged the
leir respective countries. The Scottish
la address in pure English : the reply on
s lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we
by a young and beautiful EngUabwo-

can make little of it If Mr. Allan
chootBes I will send him a eight of mine ;
as I look on myself to be a kind of bro-
ther-brush with him. *' Pride in Poets is
nae sin ;" and I will say it, that I look on
Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only
genuine and real painters of Scottish cos-
tume in the world.

No. LXV
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

ZBth Jfmembery 1794

I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sir, yon are
not only the most punctual, but the most
delectable correspondent I ever met with.
To attempt flattering you, never entered
into my head ; the truth is, I look back
with surprise at my impudence, in so
frequently nibbling at lines and couplets
of vour incomparable lyrics, for which,
perhaps, if you had served me right, yoa
would have sent me to the devil. On the
contrary, however, you have all alon?
condescended to invite mr criticism with
so much courtesy, that it ceases to be
wonderful, If I have sometimes ffiven my*
self the airs of a reviewer. Your last
budget demands unqualified praise: all
the songs are charming, but the duet is a
chef tP cewore, Lumpa o' Puddkiff shall
certainly make one or my family dishes i
you have cooked it so capitally, that it
will please all palates. Do give us a few
more of this cast when you find yourself
in goods pirits ; these convivial songs are
more wanted than those of the amorous
kind, of which, we have great choice.
Besides, one does not often meet with
a singer capable of giving the proper
effect to the latter, while the former
are easily sung, and acceptable to every
body. I participate in your regret that
the authors of some of our best songs are
unknown ; it is provoking to every ad-
mirer of genius.

I mean to have a picture painted from
your beautiful baUad, The Soldier^t i2e-
tnm, to be engraved for one of my fron
tispieces. The most interesting point of
time appears to me, when she first recog-
nizes her ain dear Willy, '' She gaz'd, she
reddened like a rose." The three linee
immediately following are no doubt more
impressive on the reader's feelingta; \i-4&

(

««n tha pkistei to fix m thaae, then
you'll obMTTe the uunwtioa tnd uxiety
«f ber cmintanuiee ia ^ooe, and he coald
onlf rapr«Mnt her fuotiag in tha Boldiar'a
uma. But I aubmit tba matter to 7bu,
and beg jour opioiou.

Allan detiro* me to thank jou for jomf
Kcuiate deacriptinn of the stock and horn.

and for the very ftratifjrinc complime
TOO pay him in considering Tiim worthy
indinff in a niche by tile Bide of Bum:

HR. BDRIfS TO MU. THOHSOH

B the Scottish Pantht
tbe mde iostrumcnt you describe, so doos
not want you to send it; but wishes 1u
know whether you believe it to have ever
been genermlly osed uamuBical pipe by tl ic
Scottish shcptierds,and when, and in whst
part of the country chiofly. I doubt much
if it WIS capable of anv thing but routini;
and roaring. A friend of mine says he re-
membera to have heard one in hia younger
day* made of wood instead of your bono,
sod tbat the sound was aboniinable.

Do DoL I beseech you, return any books.

Mo. LXVI.
HE. BURNS TO MR- THOMSON
. : DteeuAer, 1794.

It is, I SMUre ^ou, the pride of my
heart, to do any thing to forward, or add
to the valueofjour ^>oki andaslagree
with you that tho Jacobite song in the
Hosanm, to Tlitre'U never be peace till
Jamie comet home, would not so well con'
•ort with Peter Pindar's excellent love-
■ong to that air, I have just framed for
you tbe following :

MT K ANN IB'

Ifow in her green mantle blithe nature

arrays.
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er

thebiaes,

5m Foemi, p. 100.

How does this please you ^ As to the
point of time for the expression, in your

r posed print from my Sodgfr't Rttum,
Dint certainly bo at — "She gaz'd."
The interesting dubiety and suspense
taking possession of her countenance, and
the ^udiing fondness w' '
roguish playfulness '

> mixture of
•vpuuMi pi^yiuiness in nis, strike me, as
things of which a master will make a
fieat deal- In great haste, but in great
truth, roura

truth, /Dun

ry, 17S5.
I PEAS for my sonp ; howarer & few

mayplease, yet originality is a coy f^
ture m compodtioD, and in « mnltiplidty
ofteflbrta in tbe same style, diMLppean
altogether. For these three thooMnd
^ear*, we poetic folks, have been describ-
uig the spring, for instance; and a« the
spring continues the same, there most
soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c.
of these said rhyming folks.

A great critic, Aikin, on songa, says,
that love and wine are the «xcIuBve
themes for song-writing. The following
is on neither subject, and consequentlj is
DO Bong; but will be sJlowed, I think, to be
two or three pretty good prose thoughts,
inverted into thyme-

«l» A' THAT jmo A' THAT-

Is there, for honest poverty.
That hangs hia head and a' that )
SssPo«f,p. 100.

I 00 not give yon the foregoing song
for your book, but merely by way of mm
la bagatetle! fbr the pece is not really
poetry. How will the foUowing do f«
Craigie-bvm-voodf*

See Pom*, p. lOt.

Farewell ! God bless you-

No- Lxvni.

UR. THOMSON TO HR. BURN&
EdMnirgh, VM Jtmumy, ITSf-

■IT OEAB SIB,

I THANK you heartily for JfmaUi
awt, as well as for CroigM-fttint, wbid

CrElgH-bBiB-wDod lariiuiuJcB Ibthukioriti
r HdITUiUii] iboDithrMnlleidliuniftwaibtrl'

— The wdoitaorcSBljle-biini udof DBncr)if,inn«
one emcCmiDuilHliiunBDraucpoal. ItntbnM
met Iha " LuMa *1- llM Un(-i»llU locki,-- ssiltolli

»auiT«i]TCw«ioriiiib*uiiraii]nk& ic

tiETTERa

very comely pair. Your obser-
tlie difficulty of ori^nal writing
>er of efibrts, in tho same style,
3 very forcibly : and it has again
I excited my wonder to find you
ly surmounting this difficulty, in
delightful songs you have sent
ir vive la bagaUlle song, For a'
I undoubtedly, be included in my

No. LXIX.

RNS TO MR. THOMSON.

February^ 1795.
is another trial at your favour-

issTC, art thou sleepin? yet ?
rt thou wakin, I would wit ?

See PoemSfp, 101.

HER ANSWER.

11 na me o* wind and rain,
aid me na wi* cauld disdain !

t know whether it will do.

No. LXX.
RNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Ecclefechan, 1th Feh.y 1795.

.R THOMSON,

cannot have any idea of the pre-

in which I write to you. In the

my duty as Supervisor (in which

have acted of late,) I came yes-

this unfortunate, wicked, bttle

1 have gone forward, but snows
}t deep have impeded my pro-
lave tried to " gae back the gait
tin," but the same obstacle nas
ip within insuperable bars. To
ly misfortune, since dinner, a
ls been torturing catgut,in sounds
d have insulted the dying ago-
ow under tho hands of a butcher,
s himself, on that very account,
f gooii c^Tipany. In fact, I have
L dilemma, either to get drunk,

these miseries, or to hang my-

self to get rid of them ; like a {inidaiit
man (a character congenial to my every
thought, word, and deed,! I of two evili^
have chosen the least, ana am very drunk^
at your service !*

I wrote to you yesterday from Dum-
fries. I had not time then to tell you all
I wanted to say ; and heaven knows, at
present I have not capacity.

Do you know an air — ^I am sure yo«
must know it, We^U gangmumair io ytm
town f I think, in slowish time, it would
make an excellent sonjpf. I am highly de-
lighted with it ; and if yon should think
it worthy of your attention, I have a fair
dame in my eve to whom I would conse-
crate it.

As I am just going to bed, I wish ycHi
a good night.

No. LXXI
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS

S5<A Fe&rtiary, 1795.

I HATE to thank you, my dear Sir, for
two epistles, one containing LH me in Uiu
ae night ; and the other from Ecclefechan,
proving, that drunk or sober, your *'mind
is never muddy." You have displayed
great address in the above song. Her
answer is excellent, and at the same time,
takes away the indelicacy that otherwise
would have attached to his entreaties.
I like the song as it now stands, very
much.

I had hopes you would be arrested,
some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged
to beguUe the tedious forenoons by song-
making. It will grive mo pleasure to re-
ceive the verses you intend for O wai yt
wha't in yon town?

No. LXXII.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON

J(f<^, 1795

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARX.

O STAT, sweet warbling woodlark, stay*
Nor quit for me the trembling spray.

See PoeniMf p, lOS.

• The bard nimt have b«tfli tlpiv indMdl, lo
flweet Ecclefarlivii at ihi^ -n** %

LETTERS.

Let me know, yoar very first leiiure,
kow yoa like this song.

OXr CHLOKIS BBUfO ILL*
CHOKUa.

Ltm^y long the nighty
Heavy comet the morrow^

See Poemtj p, 102.

How do you like the foregoing? The
Irish air, Humoun of Qlen, is a great fa-
vourite of mine ; and as, except the silly
stuff in the Poor Soldier ^ there are not
any decent yerses for it, I have written
for it as follows :

SONG.

Theik groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign

lands reckon,
' Where hright-beaming summers exalt

the perfume ;

See Poem, p. 102.

SONG.

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my
ruin;

Fair tho* she be, that was ne*er my undo-
ing;

See PoetnSip, 102.
Let me hear from you.

No. LXXin.

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

You must not think, my good Sir, that
I have any intention to enhance the value
of ray gifl, when I say, in justice to the
ingenious and worthy artist, that the de-
sign and execution of the Cotter's Satur-
day Night is, in my opinion, one of the
happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I
shall be grievously disappointed if you
are not quite pleased with it.

The figure intended for your portrait,
T think strikingly like you, as far as I can
remember your phiz. Tliis should make
tho piece interesting to your family every
way. — Tell me whether Mrs. Burns finds
you out among the figures.

I cannot express the feeling of admira-
iiiUi with which I have retd^owT^iaUetic

Addrtii io the Wood-Larky jorxt ekfiiA
Ptmegyric on Caledonia^ and your uract-
ing verses on Chloria'i Ulnem. Every
repeated perusal of these givee new de-
light. The other song to ** Laddie, lie
near me," though not equal to these, is
very pleasing.

No. LXXIV

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON

How' cruel are the parents.
Who riches only prize ;

See Poems, p. 10S»

SONG.

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion,
Round the wealthy, titled bride ;

SeePoeme^p, 103.

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how
I answer your orders ; your tailor could
not be more punctual. I am just now in
a hi^h fit for poetizing, provided that the
strait jacket of criticism don't cure me.
If you can in a post or two administer a
little of the intoxicating portion of your
applause, it will raise your humble ser-
vant's frenzy to any height you want. I
am at this moment ^* holding high con-
verse" with the Muses, and have not a
word to throw away on such a prosaic
dog as you are.

No. LXXV.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

May, 1795.

Tcif thousand thanks for your elegao*
present : though I am ashamed of the va*
lue of it being bestowed on a man who
has not by any means merited such an in-
stance of kindness. I have shown it to
two or three judges of the first abilities
here, and they alfagree with mc in class-
ing it as a first rate production. My
phis is taeken-epeckle^ that the very joiner'a
apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed
to break up the parcel (I was out of town
that day,) knew it at once. — ^My most
grateful compliments to Allan, who has
honoured my rustic muac so much with
his mastorlv pencil. One stranjrc coin-

LETTERS.

233

^denoo it, that the little one wl^o is loa-
king the (bloniouB attempt on tlio cat's
tail, is the most striking likeness of an
aH-dteedie, 4— fi*<{, wec^ rumble-gairiey ur-
chin of mine, whom, from that propensity
toiritty wickedness, and manfu' mischief,
ivhich even at two dap auld, I foresaw
would form the strikmc features of his
disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a
certain friend of mine, who is one of the
masters of a grammar-school in a city
which shall he nameless.

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him
that on Wednesday I go to visit a friend
of his, to whom his friendly partiality in
speaking of me, in a manner, introduced
me— I mean a well-known dfilitary and
literary character, Colonel Dirom.

Yon do not tell me how you liked my
two last songs. Are they condemned ?

No. LXXVII.

No. LXXVI.
IIR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

I3th J^ay, 1795.

It gives me great pleasure to find that
yon are so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's
production. The chance resemblance of
your little fellow, whose promising dispo-
sition appeared so very early, and sug-
ffested whom he should be named aflcr,
u curious enough. I am acquainted with
that person, who is a prodigy of learning
and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though
no saint.

You really make me blush when you
tell me you have not merited the drawing
from me. I do not think I can ever re-
pay you, or sufficiently esteem and re-
spect you for the liberal and kind man-
ner in which you have entered into the
spirit of my undertaking, which could not
have been perfected without you. So I
beg you would not make a fool of me
■gain, by speaking of obligation.

I like your two last songs very much,
and am happy to find you are in such a
high fit of poetizing. Long may it last !
Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to
Mallet's superlative ballad of William
aqd Margaret and is to give it me to be
enrolled among the elect.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Ik JFhittlej and Til come to you, my lad,
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my
ear. Here goes what I think b an im-
provement.

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my laa
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ;
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae

mad.
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye my lad.

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I
the Priest of the Nine, offer up the in-
cense of Parnassus ; a dame, whom the
Graces have attirod 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 !

SONG.

O thi* Unomy ain lassie.
Fair tho* the lassie be ;

See Poems, p, 103.

Do you know that you have roused the
torpidity of Clarke at lost ? He has re-
quested me to write three or four songs
for him, which he is to set to music him-
self. The enclosed sheet contains two
songs for him, which please to present to
my valued friend Cunningham.

I enclose the sheet open, both for your
inspection, and that you may copy the
song, O bonnie was yon rosxj brier, I do
not know whether I am right ; but that
song pleases me, and as it is extremely
probable that Clarke's newly roused ce-
lestial spark will be soon smothered in
the fogs of indolence, if you like the song,
it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of
/ wish my love was in a mire ; and poor
Erskme's English lines may follow.

I enclose you, a For a' that and a* that,
which was never in print ; it is a much
superior song to mine. I have been told
that it was composed by a lady.

Now spring has clad the grove in grcc3,
And strcw'd the lea wi' flowers

SeA Poems, p. Q%

LETTERS.

O Boxofni wit yon rosy brier
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man;

Sm Poem$^p. 104.

Written'on the blank leaf of a copy of
the last edition of my poems, presented
to the lady, whom, in so many fictitious
reveries of passion, but with the most ar-
dent sentiments of real friendship, I have
80 often sung under the name of Chloris.

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair
friend.
Nor thou Uie gift refuse,

See PoenUf p. 104.
Uns hagaieUe de P amiHe. Coila.

No. LXXVIII.

MR. THOMSON TO" MR. BURNS.

Edinburgh, 2d Aug. 1705.

IfT DEAR SIR,

This will be delivered to you by a
Dr Brianton, who has read your works,
and pants for the honour of your acquain-
tance. I do not know the gentleman, but
nb friend, who applied to me for this in-
troduction, being an excellent young man,
I have no doubt lie is worthy of all accep-
ULtion

My eyes have just been gladdened, and
mv mind feasted, with ^our last packet-
full of pleasant things mdeed. What an
imagination is youm ! It is superfluous to
tell yon that I am delighted with all the
thiee bongs, as well as with your elegant
ana tender verses to Chloris.

I am sorry you should be induced to al-
ter O vihitde, and PU come to ye, my lad,
to the prosaic line, Thy Jeany will ven-
imre toi* ye my lad. I must be permitted
to say, that I do not think the latter either
reads or sings so well as the former. I
wish, therefore, you would, in my name
petition the charming Jeany whoever she
oe, to let the line remain unaltered.*

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke

* TiM editor, who has heard tbeberoine of tbii fong
fiBf Itberaelfin the yery spirit of arch ibBpIldty that
It requiret, tbinica M. Thomaon'i petiiion unreaaona-
M« If we miMake not, this ia the aame lady who pro-
duced the Unei to the tuno of Aoy*a Wift^ ante^ p. SS8.

produce a fbw tin to bo Joined toybor
verses. Every body regrets his writing
00 very little, as every Mij aeknomdedgaa
his ability to write welL Pray was the
resolution formed cooly before dinner, or
was it a midnight vow, made over a bowl
of punch with the bard ?

I shtU not ful to give Mr. Conning*
ham what you have sent him.

P. S. The lady's ^#r# ^ai and a' thai,
is sensible enaogm, ou^ no more to be eom-
pared to yours than I to Herenlee.

• No. LXXIX.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near.
Far, far from thee, I wander here;

See Poeme^ p. 104.

How do you like the foregoing ? I have
written it within this hour : so much for
the apeed of my Pegasns, bnt what say
you to hiB bottom?

Np. LXXX.

MR. BURNS TO MR-JTHOMSON

Last May a braw wooer cam down tne

lang glen,
" And sair wi* his love did he deave me ;*

See Poeme^p. 104«

Wht, why tell thy lover.
Bliss he never must enjoy ?

See Poem§y p. 105*

• In the original MS. the third Une of the ftNurthnsi
rana, " He up the GaUtUek to my hiack eouelB BeM>"
Mr. Thomson objected to thia word, aa well aa to ^
wofd, Dalganuek in tlie neit vena. Mr. Bubb if
pUea aa fbUowa :

I "Gateelackiithenameof n.partlcn1arp]aee,aklBi
of paasage np aaong the Lawther liUte, oq the eoadatf
of this eounty. Dalgarnoek ia atoo tin wune of a id*
manUc apot near the Kith, where are acin a miad
church and bttria^fround. However,. l:t tlie fint iMi
JH» up tks lang Uatt^** A&c

It ia always a pity to throw out any thing that ||KrM
locality to our poet's verses. E.

LETTERS.

to peenliarity of tlie rhythm
At I find it impossible to make
iza to suit it.

*CBent quite occupied with the
iDsatioDB of the tooth-ach, so
irord to spare.

No. Lxxxm.

No. LXXXI.

fSON TO MR. BURNS.
3d JiOUy 1795.

luf^lish verses to LH me in
, are tender and beautiful ;
lad to the *' Lothian Lassie,"
iece for its humour and nai-
raiment for the Caledofdan
3 suited to the original mea-
ir, and, as it plagues you so,
; must content it. I would
said before, have had Bac-
)rd8, had it so pleased the
jvertheless, for what we have
rd make us thankful !

No. Lxxxn.

ISON TO MR. BURNS.

bth Fe6. 1796. '

?tim#, are ye sleeping yet?
waukmgy I woula %oU f

^e you have made, my dear
! Am I never to hear from

I know and I lament how
ve been afflicted of late, but
returning health and spirits
iblc vou to resume the pen,
s with your musings. I have
dozen Scotch and Irish airs
' married to immortal verse."
veral true bom Irishmen on
list ; but they are now na-
d reckoned our own good
ideed we have none better,
before told you that I have
rged by some friends to pub-
ion of all our fkvourite airs

octavo, embellished with a
:hingsby our ingenious friend
it is your opinion of this?
Dd2

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

Fe6niary, 1796.

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your
handsome elegant present, to Mrs. B ■ ,
and for my remaimng vol. of P. Pindar. —
Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first fa-
vourite of mine. I am much pleased with
your idea of publishing a collection of our
songs in octavo, with etchings, I am ex
tremely willing to lend every assistance
in my power. The Irish airs I shall
cheerfully undertake the task of finding
verses for.

I have already, yon know, equipped
three with woras, and the other day I
strong up a kind of rhapsody to another
Hibernian melody, which I admire much»

HXT POft A LASS WI* A TOCHXR.

Aw A wi* your witchcraft o* beauty's

alarms.
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your

arms;

Su Poemiy p. 105b.

If this will do, you have now four of
my Irish engagement. In my by-past
sonn I dislike one thing ; the name of
Cfa^ris— I meant it as the fictitious name
of-a certain lady: but, on second thoughts,
it is a high incongruity to have a (jreek
appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad.
— Of this, and some things else, in my
next : I have more amenmnents to pro*
pose. — What you once mentioned of
^* flaxen locks" is just ; they cannot enter
into an elegarU description of beauty. Of
this also again — God bless you !*

No. LXXXIV.
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

YoiTR Hey for a late tot* a tocher ^ is a
most excellent song, and with vou the
subject is something new indeea. It is
the first time I have seen you debasing
the god of soft desire, into an amateur m
acres and guineas —

I am happy to find you approve of my

* Our Poet ncrer explalnad whtt hsbm 1m voold
have nilMiitatad for Cblorki.

SS6

LETTERS.

proposed octavo edition. Allan has do-
signed and etched ahout twenty plates,
and I am to have my choice of them for
that work. Independently of the Ho-

Sirthian hnmor with which they abound,
ey exhibit the character and costume of
the Scottish peasantry with inimitable feli-
city. In this respect, he himself says they
will far exceed the aquatinta plates he did
for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the
etching he sees clearly what he is doing,,
but not 00 with the a(}uatinta, which he
could not manage to his mind.

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarce-
ly more characteristic and natural than
the Scottish figures in those etchings.

No. LXXXV.

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

April, 1796.

Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will
be some time ere I tune my lyre again !
** By Babel streams I have sat and wept,"
almost ever since I wrote you last : I
have only known existence by the pres-
snre of the heavy hand of sickness and
have counted time by the repercussions
of pain! Rheumatism, cold and fever,
have formed to me a terrible combination.
I close my eyes in misery, and open them
without hope, I look on the vernal day,
and say, with poor Fergusson —

** Bay, wherefore bu an all-indalgent Heaven
Light to the oomfortlcfli and wretched given ?

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs.
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern
here, which for these many years has
been my hotjoffy and where our friend
Clarke and I have had many a merry
squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr.
Allan's etchings. Woo'd and married
an^ a\ is admirable. The grouping is be-
yond all praise. The expression of the
figures conformable to the story in the
ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection.
I next admire, Tum4m^mke, What I
like least is Jenny said Sr Jockey. Be-
sides the female being in her apppear-
ance .*.**♦ * if you take her
stooping into the account, she is at least
two inches taller than her lover. Poor
Cleghorn: I smcerely sympathize with
him ! Happy I ata to l\i\nk iYmxV. \vo Yvt^ l^

yet a well ^nnded hope of health and
enjoyment m this world. As for me.->
but that is a * * * ♦ ♦ enbject !

No. LXXXVI

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.

4th May, 1796.

I NSED not tell you, my good Sir, what
concern the receipt of your last gave me,
and how much I sympathize in your suf-
ferings. But do not I beseech you, give
yourself up to despondency, nor spetk
the langua^ of despair. The vigour of
your constitution, I trust, will soon set
you on your feet again ; and then it is to
be hoped you will see the wisdom and the
necessity of taking due care of .a life w
valuable to your family, to your friends,
and to the world.

Trusting that your next will bring
agreeable accounts of your convales-
cence, and returning good spirits, I re-
main, with sincere regard, yours.

P. 5. Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, deli-
vered the gold seal to you in good condi-
tion.

No. LXXXVII.
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON.

MT DEAR Sm,

I ONCE mentioned to you an air which
I have long admired — Here't a health to
them thaJPt awa, hmme, but I forget if yoa
took any notice of it. I have just been
trying to suit it with verses ; and I beg
leave to recommend the air to your at-
tention once more. I have only began it*

CHORUS.

X^ Here' 9 a health to one I lo*e dear^
Here's a health to ane I lo*e dear ^

See Poems, p, 105.

* In the letter to Mr. Thomtonf the three fint itti-
zos only arc fiveo, and Mr.Tbomson nippoKd our po*
et had never gone farther. Among hit MSS- wtfi
however, fonnd the fourth itansa, which eomplciiitUi
cxquteitc song, the last finished offspring of his muse

TENS TO MR. THOMSON,
will be delivered bjr a Mr. Le-
oung fellow of uncommon merit.
Jl be I day or two in town, you
t leisure if you choose to write
m; aod if you have a spare hall*
Bpend with him, I sh&U place
Ineea to my account. I have no
' the 9ongs I have eent you, and
ken ft fajicy to review tliem all.

u for either the
hud rather be the author of five
tcnson^, than of ten otherwise.
'eat hopes that the geniiLl inilu-
he approaching Bummcr will set
htB, but as yd I cannot boost of
; health. I have now reason ti
lat my complaint is a flying gout

loulU havo been delivered to you
ago. I am atill very poorly, but
ic much to hear from you.

No. Lxxxrx.

RN3 TO MR. THOMSON.
aeSotaayFrilk,lilhJuly,n96.

all my boasted independence,
tecssity compels me to implore
vo pounds. A cruel • • * •
rdasher, to whom I owe an ac-
king it into his head that I am
> commenced a procesa, and will
put me into jail. Do, for God's
i me that aum, and that by re-
set. Forgive me this oamcat-
thc hoiTora of a jail have made

diatracted. 1 do not ask all
ajtously; for, upon returning
hereby promise and engage to
ou with five pounds' woith of
rat song genius you have seen,
ay hand on RolhUmurchit this

The measure ia bo difficult,
impossible to infuac much geni-
he lines; they are on the other
irgive, forgive me!

Mem 10 Hiy Uiii (hl> icrlnl Dam dU

Fairett maid on Detxm bmb,
Chryilal Depon, vTindiiig Deaom,*
Set Poeau, p. lOQ

No. XC.
ME. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS.
14th July, ITOe.

Ever ainpc I received your melia-
choly letter by Mra. Hyslop, I have been
ruminating in what manner I could en-
deavour to alleviate your sufferingt.
^ n and again 1 thought ofa pecumi-
ry offer, but the recollection bf one of
your letters on this subject, and the fear
of oScnding your independent ipirit,
checked my resolution. I thank yon
heartily therefore for the froiiknesi of
your letter of the ISth, and with great
pleasure enclose a draft for the very auni
I proposed sending. Would I were
ChanceUor of tbo Exchequer but for one
day for yoor soke !

Pray, my good Sir, is it not posaible
for you to muster a volume of poetry ? If
too much trouble to you in the present
state of your health, some Utcrary friend
might be found here, who would solect
and anojige from your manuscripts, and
take upon bim the task of Editor. In the
mean time it could be advertised to be
published by subscription. Do not shun
this mode of obtaining the value of your
labour : remember Pope publiahed the
Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my
dear Bums, and do not reckon me intru-
sive with my advice. You are too well
convinced of the respect and friendship I
bear you to impute any thing 1 say to an
inworthr motive. Youra faithfully.

Th6 Tsnes to StahiemvrckU will an-
iiwer finely. I am happy to see yon can
iitill tuno joni lyre.

TMnoG, ■dUnMaradaslivtt, anwiHHa
I clnnctR ihi^ nufci Uie nrr IMAi MO* oT
ii'i bodltritreqilb. He. BjFn* li of oplnlnn iku
DDld rut biwbHBlBurdnfsrdfmjallatDuih
, wben unalnlj b« btd minr linn tAmit : mtud.
inyBiiclintfHilIyarinij^arlnf lid ^om&ItDboiflk.

embody Um Uumglit in Ajrae. If hs Ut

on two 01 three stanzu to pleaae Um, be
would then think or proper intTodoctoiy,
conncctin^,BDdconeludi])gitaiuiaiha>ee
the middle of a poem wu often fint jn-
duced. It wu, I think, in nmmerlTH,
, when in the interval of harder laboiir,h<
I and I were weeding in the garden [kail-

EXTRACT OB A LETTER,

wwoM otLaKXT BuKiH To nn. ccnsiB.

it may jTofj/y curiotiii/ to know mme par-
tieular* oftht kittory of the precaHag

viade/nm a Utter of Gilberl Burnt, the
bnthtr qf our poet, and hit /riend and
ONyUMt/nMi Au tarUttt j/tan.

MaitgUl, id April, 1798.

OBAKim,

Youn letter of tho 1 4th of March I
teeeived in dae course, but fVora tho hurry
of the eoason have been hitherto hindered
from aoawering it 1 will now try to give
you what satiafaction 1 can, in regard to
tho particulars you mention. I cannot
pretond to be very accurate in respect to
the dates of the poems, but none of them,
except Winter a Dirge, (which whb a ju-
venile piodnction,} The Death and Dying
Word* of Poor MaHlie, and some of the
aovga, were composed before the year
1784. The circumstances of the poor
■beep were pretty much ta ho has dc-
•critned them. He had partly by way of
frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from
« neighbour, and she was tethered in a
field adjoinin^the house st Lochlic. He
and I were gomg out. with our teams, and
OUT twoyounf^er brothers to drive for us,
Kt mid-day ; when Hugh Wilson, a curi-
ous looking awkward boy, clad in plaid'
ing, came to us with niuoh anxiety in hie
face, with tho information that the owe
had entangled herself in the tether, and
was lying in the ditch. Robert was mtich
tickled with ffuoc't appearance and pos-
tures on the occasion. Poor Maillio was
set to rights, and when we returned from
the plough in tho evening, he repeated to
no ner Death and Dying Wordt, pretty
much in the way they now stand.

Among the earliest of hia poems was
the Epittle to Dame. Robert often com-
poeed without any regular plan. When
any thing made a strong imprcsEion on hia
mind, so OS to rouse it to poetic exertion,
he would give way to the impulse, and

■ Tlib rsToi to Die plecn iawnol before paic TU of

idea of Robert becoming an author wu
started on this occasion. I was nsch
pleased with the epistle, and Mid to Um
1 was of opinion it would bear beintpriDt-
ed, and tW it would be weD recandby
people of taste; thatl tbooght ititktM
equal if not inperior to many rf ADn
Ramsay's epistles ; and that the merit of
these, and much other Scotch poetry,
seemed to consist principally in the ksack
of the expression, but here, there was a
train of mteresting sentiment, and tba
Scoticism of the langiisfe scarcely aeeiBed
affected, bnt appeared to be the natonl
language of the poet; that, besides, tbtre
was certainly some novelty in a poet point-
ing out the consolationa that were in store
fur him when he shonld go a-begging.
Robert seemed very well pleased with
my criticism, and we talked af sending it
to some magaaine, but ss this plan afford-
ed no opi>ortunity of knowing how it
would take', the idea wb3 dropped.

It was, I think, in the winter following,
as we were going together with carts fiir
coal to tho family fire [and I could yet poiot
out the particular spot,) that the author
first repeated to me the .4 (UrcM to (AeDri^
The curious idea of such an address wu
suggested to him by running over in his
mind tho many ludicrous acconnts and re-
presentations we have, from various quar.
teri, of this august personage. D*alk
at\d Doctor Homhoak, though not pab-
lishnd in tho Kilmarnock edition, was
produced early in the year 1785. The
Schoolmaster of Tarbotton pariah, to eke
up the scanty 'subsistence allowed to thit
useful class of men, had set up a shop oi
grocery goods. Having aceidentolly fsS-
en m with some medical books, and be-
come most hobbv-horsically attached tt*
the study of medicine, he had added tbs
sale of a few medicines to his little trade.
He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bot-
tom of which, overlooking his own inca-
pacity, he had advertised, that Advice
would be given in " common disorders at
the shop gratis." Robert was at a ma-
Qon meeting in Tarbotton, when the Do

LETTERS.

S3»

minic Tmfnrtnnntrlj' Tniflft too ostentatious
a display of his medical skill. As he
pwtea in the evening from this mixture
of pedantry and physic, at the place where
he describes his meeting with Death, one
of those floating ideas of apparition he
mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore,
crossed his mind : this set him to work
for the rest of the way home. These cir-
cumstances he related when he reoeated
the verses to me next afternoon, as I was
holding the plough, and he was letting
the water off the field beside me. The
Epiitle to John Lapraik was produced
exactly on the occasion described by the
author. He says in that poem, On fad-
efi^*€n, we had a rockin, I believe he has
omitted the word rocking in the glossary.
[t is a term derived from those primitive
times, when the countrywomen employed
their spare hours in spinning on the rack,
9r distaff. This simple implement is a
rery portable one, and well fitted to the
locial inclination of meeting in a neigh-
bour's house; hence the phrase of going
%-rockingy or with the rock. As the con-
nexion the phrase had with the implement
i^as forgotten, when the rock gave place
to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came
to be used by both sexes on social occa-
lions, and men talk of going with their
rocks as well as women.

It was at one of these rockings at our
louse when we had twelve or fifteen young
leople with their rocks, that Lapraik's
KMig beginning — " When I upon thy bo-
iom lean," was simg, and we were in-
brmed who was the author. Upon this,
Etobert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik;
ind his second in reply to his answer.
rhe verses to the Mouse and Mountain
Daisy wer§ composed on the occasions
nentioned, and while the author was hold-
ng the plough ; I could point out the par-
icular spot where each was composed,
floldin^ the plough was a favourite situ-
ation with Robert for poetic composition,
mtf some of his best verses were produced
ivhile he was at that exercise. Several
>f the poems were produced for the pur-
wse of bringing forward some favourite
(entiment of the author. He used to re-
nark to me, that ho could not well con-
;cive a more mortifying picture of human
ife, than a man seeking work. In cast-
ng about in his mind how this sentiment
night be brought forward, the elc||y Man
Wis made to mourn, was composed. Ro-
bert had frequently remarked to me that
iiA thought there was Sf^mething peculiar-

ly venerable in the phrase, '' Let as wor-
ship God," used by a decent, sober head
of a famUy, introuucing family worship.
To this sentiment of the author the world
is indebted for the Cotter* s Saturday Jfighi.
The hint of the plan, and title of the poem,
were taken from Fersnisson's Farmer^s
Ingle. When Robert had not some plea-
sure in view, in which I was not thought
fit to participate, we used frequently to
walk together, when the weather was fa-
vourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those
precious breathing times to the labouring
part of the community,) and enjoyed such
Sundays as would make one regret to see
their number abridged. It was in one of
these walks, that I first had the pleasure
of hearing the author repeat the Cotter's
Saturday J>/tght, I do not recollect to
have heard or read any thing by which I
was more highly electrified. The fifth and
sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled
with peculiar ecstacy through my soul.
I mention this to you, that you may see
what hit the taste of unlettered criticism.
I should be ?lad to know if the enlighten-
ed mind and refined taste of Mr. Roscoe*
who has borne such honourable testimony
to this poem, agrees with me in the selec-
tion. Fergusson, in his Hallow Fair of
Edinburgh, I believe, likewise furnished
a hint of the title and plan of the Holy"
Fair. The farcical scene the poet there
describes was often a favourite field of his
observation, and the most of the incidents
he mentions had actually passed before
his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to men-
tion that the Lament was composed on
that unfortunate passage in his matrimo-
nial history, which I have mentioned in
my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first
distraction of his feelings had a little sub-
sided. The Tale of Twa Dogs was com-
posed after the resolution of publishing
was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog,
which he called Luath, that was a great
favourite. The dog had been killed by
the wanton cruelty of some person the
ni^ht before my father's death. Robert
said to me, that he should like to confer
such immortality as he could bestow upon
his old friend Luath, and that he had a
great mind to introduce something into
the book, under the title of Stanzas to the
Memory of a quadruped Friend; but this
plan was given up for the Tale as it now
stands. Ccesar was merely the creature
of the poet's imagination, created for the
purpose of holding chat with his favourite
Luath. The first time Robert heard the
spinnet played upon was at the house of

S40

LETTERS

Dr. Lawric, then minister of the parish of
Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given
up the parish in favour of his son. Dr.
Ijawric has several daugliters: one of
them played; the father and mother led
down the dance ; the lest of the sistere,
the brother, the poet, and the other
guests, mixed in it. It was a dcliffhtfol
family scene for our poet, then lately in-
troduced to the world. Ilis mind was
roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the
stanzas p. 44. of the Poems j were lefl in
the room where he slept. It was to
Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter
was addressed, which my brother, in his
letter to Dr. Moore, mentions as the rea-
son of his going to Edinburgh.

When my father/c^ucrf his little proper-
ty near Alloway-Kirk, the wall of the
church-yaril had gone to ruin, and cattle
had free liberty of pasturing in it. My
father, with two or three other neigh-
bours, joined in an application to the
town council of Ayr, who were superiors
of the adjoining land, for liberty to re-
build it, and raised by subscription a sum
for enclosing this ancient cemetery with
a wall ; hence he came to consider it as
his burial-place, and we learned that re-
verence for it people generally have for
the burial-place of their ancestors. My
brother was living in Ellisland, when
Captain Grose, on his peregrinations
through Scotland, staid some time at
Carsenouse, in the neighbourhood, with
Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddel,
\a particular friend of my brother's. The
Antiquarian and the poet were "Unco
pack and thick thcgither." Robert re-
quested of Captain Grose, when he should
come to Ayrshire, that he would make a
drawing of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the
burial-place of his father, and wheYe he
himself had a sort of claim to lay down
his bone^ when they should be no lunger
serviceable to him ; and added by way of
encouragement, that it was the scene of
many a^ood story of witches and appari-
tions, ofwliich he knew the Captain was
very fond. The Captain agreed to the
request, provided the poet would furnish
a witch-story, to be printed along with it.
Thm o* Shanter was produced on this oc-
casion, and was first published in Grate's
'Antiquities of ScotUind,

The poem is founded on a traditional

story. The leading circumstances of a

man riding home very late from Ayr, in

A stormy night, his seeing ;! \ig\il in Al-

loway-Kirk, iiifl havinff the cnnoflitv to
look in, his seeing a dance of witdies.
with the devil playing on the bagpipe to
them, the scanty covering of one of the
witches, which made him so far forget
himself, as to cry We^ loupen^ short
sark ! — with the melancholy catastroplie
of the piece is all a true story, that cao
be well attested by many respectable eld
people in that neighbourhood.

I do not at present recollect any cir
cumstances respecting the other poems^
that could be at all interesting; eves
some of those I have mentioned, I am
afraid, may appear trifling enough, bat
you will only make use or what appears
to you of consequence*

The following Poems in the first Edin-
burgh edition, were not in that published
in Kilmarnock. Deaik and Dr. Horn'
book; the Brigs of Ayr; the Calf; (the
poet had been with Mr. Ga\iu Hamilton
in the morning, .who said jocularly to him
when he was going to church, in allusion
to the injunction of some parents to their
children, that he must be sure to brin
him a note of the sermon at mid-day
this address to the Reverend Gentleman
on his text was accordingly produced.)
The Ordination; The Address to the Unco
Quid; Tarn Samson's Elegy; A TTmter
J^ht; Stanzas on the same Occasion at
the preceding Prayer; Verses left at a
Reverend Friend's House; 2%e First
Psalm; Prayer wide^ tlte Pressure rfvi'
olent Anguish; the First Six Verses of
the Jfinetieth Psalm; Verses to Mst
Logan, with Beattie't Poemt ; To a Hag*
git ; Address tp Edinburgh ; J(^ Bar'
ley com; When Ouilford Owd ; Behind
yon hills where Stinchar Jlows; Oreen
grow the RcLshes ; Again re;oiSkg Jfaturt
sees; The gloomy J^ht ; J^oCkurchmM
lam.

If you have never seen the first edition,
it will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe
the preface, that you may see the man-
ner m which the Poet made his first awe*
struck approach to the bar of public judg-
ment.

[Here followed the Preface as given i»
the first page of the Poems.

I am, dear Sir,
Your most obedient humble Servant,

GILBERT BURNS
DR. cu&RiE, Liverpool.

history of the [>oema which trc-
in this volume, it m&y be addorl ,
uthor appears to have made lit-
ion in them eAcr their oiiginnl

i considerable additions havi>
duccd. AUcT ho had attractml
of the public by bis first eili-
>ufl criticisniB were offered hlin
uliaritiesof hia style, as weUus
ntiments ; and some of thc»c.
lain among his manuscripts, an'
] of great taate and juuemcrit.
of these criticisnis he aaopte<l.
■ greater part ho rejected ; an.l.
mething hai hy this mettne been
nt of delicacy and correctnei-.'^.
ipcr ijnpieaaion is lell of thi.^
lai oneinality of his geniu:;.
lesa or our poet's character,
tn a iuBt confi<lence in his oun
lay, in part, explain his tenn-
}f hispeculiar cxpreasionsi bni
in some degree accounted fijr
be circumstances under which
i were composed. Bums did
ncn of genius born under hap-
;cB, retire, in the moment of in-
to the Bilcncc and solitude nf
and commit his verses to paper
ranged themselves in his mind-
id not nfibrd him this indul^enct?.
irbg the toils of daily laboLir
ancy exerted itself ; the musf.
lelf informs us, found him at the
In this situation, it was nece^-
: his verses on his memory, ami.
tn many days, nay weeks, aftor
IS finished, before it was wrtl-
Diirinjii; all this time, by fro-
3tition, the association betweoii
ht and the expression was con-
d the impartiality of taste wii h
Iten lanfruagc 1b reviewed ainl
after it has faded on the m,'-
iild not in such instances bi:
The original manuscripts of
his poems are preservco, aiiJ
r in nothing material from tbe
od edition. — Some few varia-
be noticcd-

f^ Aulliar'i tarnett Cry atul
ler the stanza beginning,

:ars, in his book of monuscriptsr
•ing:

■diCT Hath, Dir wUEhman Hcnlal,

ni wbon Uwre'c outhi u •*} ■

Earl of Eglintoun, then Colonel Montgo-
mery of Coilsficld, and representing in
parliament the county of Ayr. Why thia
was left out in printing does not appear.
The noble earl will not be sorry to see
this notice of him, famihar though it be,
hy a bard whose genius he admired, and
whose fate he lamented.

S. In The Addrut to t\t Deit, the M-

cond Btaoza ran originally thua :

3. In TU Elegy on poor JUaiUit, Uw
stanza beginning.

was, at first, as foUows t

4. But the chief variations are found
in the poems introduced for the first time,
in the edition of two volumes, small octavo,
published in 1T9S. Of the poem urttdm tit
Ffiar'i-Carte HerTnitage, there are seve-
ral editions, and one of these has nothing
in common with the printed poem but the
first four lines. The poem that is pub-
lished, which was his second effort on the
subject, received considerable alterationa
in printing.

Instead of the six lines beginning.

1 manuscript tho following aie iniertcdt

. Bir, lb« erlurtoB of (balr hia.

LETTER&

Wot tboa eottiftr or Mag t
Prince or ptMnnt l-^o mcIi thing*

5. The EputU to R, Q. Etq. of F.
that is, to jR. Grahfon^ Ewq. of FWra^
tlso urderwent considerable alterations,
as may be collected from the General
Correspondence. The styled of poetry
was new to our poet, and, though he was
fitted to excel in it, it cost him more
trouble than his Scottish poetry. On
the contrary, Tarn o' ShatUer seems to
have issued perfect from the author's
brain. The only considerable alteration
made on reflection, is the omission of four
lines, which had been inserted after the
poem was finished, at the end of the
dreadful catalogue of the articles found
on the *^ haly table," and which appeared
m the first edition of the poem, printed
separately — They came after the line,

Wkiek nten U nam$ wmdd b§ %nlawfu\

and are as follows.

Three lawyers* tongues tum*d Inside oat,
Wi* liesseamM like a beggar's clout,
And priesls' heart, rotten, black as muck,
Lay, stinking vile, in every neuk.

These lines which, independent of other
objections, interrupt and destroy the emo-
tions of terror which the preceding de-
scription had excited, were very properly
left out of the printed collection, by the
advice of Mr. Fraser Tytler ; to which
Bums seems to have paid much defe-
rence.*

6. The Address to the shade of Thorn-
tony began in the first manuscript copy in
the following manner :

While coId-eye*d Spring, a virgin coy,

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet ;
Or pranks tlio sod in frolic joy,

A carpet for her youthful feet ;
While Summer, with a matron's grace,

Walks stately in the cooling shade ;
And, oft delighted, loves to trace

The progress of the spiky blade ;
While Autumn, benefactor kind,

With age*s hoary honours clad,
Surveys with self-approving mind.

Each creature on bis bounty fed, &e.

* These fourlinfls havel)ecn inadvertently replaced

hi the copy of Tarn 0* Shanter, publiHhed in the first

▼olame of the "Poetry, Original and Selected," of

Brash and Reid, of Glasgow ; and to this clrcumsunce

is owing their being noticed here. As our poet delibe-

nMy rejected them, it is hoped that no future printer

will ifliert tbem.

By the alterauon in thepffinCed poesi k
may be qaestioned whetfier the poetir is
much improyed; the poet however ms
found means to introaoce the shades of
Dryburgh, the residence of the Bail of
Buchan, at whose roqoest these imtm
were written.

These obsenrations nuffht be extended,
but what are already ofiered wUl mikff
curiosity, and there is nothing of any im-
portance that could be added.

THE FOLLOWING LETTER

OfBumSj iDkUh conlaim some kwUs rels-
tifoe to the ojigin of his celebrated taU tf
" Tarn & Shanter^" the PubiMers trust,
vfill he found interesUng to every reader
of his iDorks, There appears no reasm
to doubt of its bdsig gemmmey thom^ ii
has not been inserted in his eorrtsptm'
dence published by Dr> Currie*

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ. F. A. a*

Among the many witch stories I hare
heard relating to Alioway kirk, I distinctly
remember omy two or three.

Upon a stonpy nig^ht, amid whistliof
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hafl ;
in short on such a nisht as the devil woold
chuse to take the air in ; a fanner or ftr-
mer*s servant was plodding and plashiiy
homeward with his plough-irons on hi
shoulder, having been ^ettin^ some le-
pairs on them at a neighbonrmg smithy.
His way lay by the kirk of Alioway, asd
being rather on the anxious look oat in
approaching a place so well known to b«

* This Letter was first poblislMd InthmOmtufld
Csrttrio, 178S, and was commonicated to tba Bdlnrf
that work by BIr. Gilchrist of Stamford, sowByaalii
with the following remark.

" In a collection of miscellaneotts papers of the Anl'
query Grose, which I purchaaed a few yean slieibt
found the following letter written to him by Baraa,«bm
the former was collecting the Anttquitiea of fl co tl m d *
When I premise It was on the second tradltkmthsthi
afterwards formed the inimitable tale of * Tim •* Am
ter,* I cannot doabt of ita being read with graatiaMM*
It were * homing day light* to point out toa reader (mi
who is not a reader of Boms t) tba tboofhli te lA**
wards tnofptaotod loto.Uio ihytlUDlcal aanaii;^

uhut hj aiKovering through tbe horrors
M the Btorm and stonnj uiglit, s light,
which on hia nearer approich plunly
-'■howed ilBclf to proceed from the haunted
edifice. Whether he hid been fortified
from above on hia devout suppliciition, u
ia cuitomary with people when they bub-
peet the immediate presence of Satan, or
whether, according to another custoni, he
had got caurageoi]nly drunli at tUo amith;,
I wUl not pretend to determine ; but 6o it
was that ho ventured to go up to, nay into
the very kirk. As good luck would have
it hia temerity came off unpunished.

The memhers of the infernal junto were
all out on some midnij^ht business or other,
•nd he eaw nothing but a kind ofkettlo or
caldron depending from the roof, over the
fire, simmering some heads of uncliristen'
sd children, liuibs of executed malefac-
tora, Slo. for the busineaa of the night. —
It was in f<tt a penny, in for a pound, with
Ibe honest ploughnitui : bo without cere-
mony he unhooked the caldron from off
the fire, and pouring out the damnable in-
gredients, iaverted it on his bead, and
carried it fairly home, where it remained
long in tho family, a living evidence of
the truth of the story.

Another story which I can prove to bo
equally authentic, was as follows :

On a inarket day in the town of Ayr, a
ftnner from Carrick, and consequently
whose way laid by the very gate of Allo-
way kirk-yard, in order to cross the river
Doon at the old bridfrc, which ia about
two or three hundred yards farther on
tfaaa the said );ate, had been detained by
hia business, till by the time lie reached
AUoway it was the wizard hour, between
night and morning.

Though he was terrified with a blaze
breaming fromthekirIc,yct as it is a well-
known fact that to turn back on these oc-
caaionB ia tunning by far the greatest risk
of mischief, he prudently advanced on his
road- When he had reached the gate of
tbe kirk-yard, he was surprised and en-
tertained, through the ribs and arches of
an old Gothic window, which still faces
the highway, to see a dance of witches
merrily footing it round iheir old sooty
blackgnaid 'master, who was keeping them

Mia

The farmer stopping his horse to ol
them a little, coula plainly descry the
faces of many old women of his acquain-
tance and neighbourhood. How the gen-
tlemen was dressed, tradition does not say ;
but the ladies were'all in their smocks:
and one of them happening unluckily to
have a amock which was considerably too
short to answer all tho purposes of that
piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled,
that he involuntarily burst out, with a
loud laugh, " Weel luppcn, Maggy wi'
theahort sork!" and recollecting hrmself,
instantly spurred liis horse to the top of
hia apeed. I need not mention the uni<
versally known fact, that no diabolical
power can pursue you beyond the midiUe
of a mnning stream. Lucky it was for
the poor farmer that tho river Doon waa
ao near, for nol withstanding the speed of
hia horse, which was a good one, against
he reached the middle of the arch of the
bridge, and consequently the middle'c^
the stream, tbe pursuing vengeful haga,
were ao close at hia heels, that one of
them actually sprung to seize him; but it
was too late, nothing was on her aide of
the stream but the horse's tail, which im-
mediately gave way at her infernal grip,
as if blasted by a stroke of lightning ; but
the fiirmer waa beyond her reach. How-
ever, the unsightly, tailless condition of
tbe vicorous steed was, to the last hour of
the noble creature's life, an awfiil warn-
ing to the Carrick farmers, not to stay
too late in Ayr markets.

The last relation I shall ^ve, tbsugli
equally true, is not so well identified, aa
the two former, with regard to the scene;

but aa the best authorities give it for AI-
loway, I shall relate it.

the expiry of tho cheerful day, a shepherd
boy belonging to a farmer In the imme-
diate neighbourhood of Alloway kirk, had
juat folded his charge, and was retamins
home. As he passed the kirk, in the ad-
joining field, he fell in with a crew of men
and women who were busy pulling stems
of tbe plant Ragwort. He observed that
OS each person pulled a Ragwort, he or
she got astride of it, and calkd out, '* np
horaie '■" on which the Ragwort flew off
like Pegaaua, through the air with ita ri-

S44

LETTERS.

der. T\^*l fooVwh boy likewise pulled his
Ragwort, and cried witli the rest '^ up
horHie !" and, fltrange to tell, away he flew
with the company. The first stage at
which the cavalcade stopped was a mer-
chant's wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where,
without savinf^ by yo&r leave, they quaffed
away at tfie best the cellar could afford,
until the moruing, foe to the imps and
works of darkness, threatened to throw
light on the matter, and frighteaed them
from their c&rouialB.

The poor 8heplK*rd lad, being equally
a stranger to the scene and the liqnofy
heedlessly got himself 'drunk ; and when
tho rest took horse, he fell asleep, vmmL
was found so next day by some of th^
people belonging to the merchant. Stale-
body that understood Scotch, asking hinn
what he was, he said he was 8uch-a-oiie*«
herd in Alio way, and by some means c^t
olher getting home again, he lived lor&^
to tell the world the wondrous tak.

1 am, &C. &C.

fiND OF THB LrrTERtt.

1 •!

AS'S'XlTBaS*

. — JVbte A. See Life^ p» 2.

iportance of the national estab-
>f parish-schools in Scotland will
short account of the leg^lative
{ respecting it, especially as the
IS escaped the notice of all the

act of the king (James Vlth)
council of the 10th of Deccm-
I, it was recommended to his
> deale and travel with the heri-
proprietors,) and the inhabitants
jective parishes in their respec-
;ses, towards the fixing upon
jrtain, solid, and sure course"
g and entertaining a school in
m. This was ratified by a sta-
larles I. (the act 1633, chap. 5.)
ipowered the bishop, with the
f the heritors of a parish, or of
r of the inhabitants, if the heri-
ed to attend the meeting, to as-
r plough of land (that is, every
proportion to the number of
pon it) with a certain sura for
ig a school. This was an incf-
•ovision, as depending on the
fid pleasure of the heritors and
:s. Therefore a new order of
3 introduced by Slai. 1 646, chap,
oblifces the heritors and minis-
h parish to meet and assess the
•ritors with the requisite sum for
a schoolhouse, and to elect a
ster,and modify a salary for him
to come. The salary is order-
)c under one hundred, nor above
red merks, that is, in our pre-
ing money, not under £5 lis.
above £11 2s. 3d. and the as-
them, should fail to discharge

sessment is to be laid on the land in the
same proportion as it is rated for the
support of the clergy, and as it re^ulatee
the payment of the land-tax. But mease
the heritors of any parish, or the ma-
this duty, then the persons forming what
is called the CommiUee of Supply of the
county ^consisting of the principal land-
holders,) or any Jive of </iem, are autho-
rized by the statute to impose the assess-
ment instead of them, on the representa-
tion of the presbytery in which the parish
is situated. To secure the choice of a
propet teacher, the right of election by
the heritors, by a statute passed in 1693,
chap. 22, is made subject to the review and
control of .jthe presbytery of the district,
who have the examination of the person
proposed conunitted to them, both as to hit
q!iaJifications as a teacher, and as to his
proper deportment in tlie office when set-
tled in it. The election of the heritors
is therefore only a presentment of a per-
son for the approbation of the presbyte-
ry ; who, if they find him unfit, may de-
clare his incapacity, and thus oblige them
to elect anew. So far is stated on un-
qnestionablc authority.*

The legal salary of the schoolmaster
was not inconsiderable at the time it was
fixed ; but by the decrease in the value of
money, it is now certainly inadequate to
its object ; and it is painful to observe,
that the landholders of Scotland resisted
the humble application of the schoolmas-
ters to the legislature for its increase, a
few years ago. The number of parishes
in Scotland is 877; and if we allow the
salary of a schoolmaster in each to be on

• The lutbority of A. ;Fnser Tf tier, aad DavM
Hume, bqr»

t46

APPENDIX, NO. 1

an average, eeven pounds stcrlinfr, tho
amount of the Icffal provision will be
JB6, 139 sterling. If we suppose the wa-
ges paid by the scholars to amount to
twice the sum, which is probably beyond
the truth, the total of tho expenses
among 1,526,492 persons (the whole po-
pulation of Scotland,) of this most im-
portant establishment, will be £18, 417.
But on this, as well as on other subjects re-
specting Scotland, accurate information
may soon be expected from Sir John
Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, which
will complete the immortal monument he
has reared to his patriotism.

The benefit arising in Scotland from
the instruction of the poor, was soon felt ;
and by an act of the jBritish parliament,
4 Geo. I. chap. 6, it is enacted, '* that of
the moneys arising from the sale of the
Scottish estates forfeited in the rebellion
of 1715, £2,000 sterling shall be convert-
ed into a capital stock, the interest of
which shall be laid out in erecting and
maintaining schools in the Highlands.
The Society for propagating Christian
Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, have
applied a large part of their fund for tho
same purpose. By their report, 1 st May,
1795, the annual sum employed by them,
in supporting their schools in the High-
lands and Islands, was £3,913 198. lOd.,
in which are taught the Kiiglish language,
reading and writing, and the principles of
religion. The schools of the society are
additional to the legal schools, which
from the great extent of many of the
Highland parishes, were found insuffi-
cient. Besides these established schools,
the lower classes of people in Scotland,
where the parishes are large, oflen com-
bine together,and establish private schools
of their own, at one of which it was that
Burns received the principal part of his
education. So convinced indeed are the
poor people of Scotland, by experience,
of the benefit of instruction, to their chil-
dren, that, though they may often find it
difficult to feed and clothe them, some
kind of school-instruction they almost al-
ways procure them.

The influence of the school-establish-
ment of Scotland on the peasantry of that
country, seems to have deoided by expe-
rience a question of legislation of the ut-
most importance — whether a system of
national instruction for the poor be fa-
vourable to morals and good government.
Ill the year 1C98, Fletcher oC S^Uou de-

clared as follows : '* There are at this day
in Scotland, two hundred thousand people
begging from door to door. And though
the number of them be perhaps double to
what it was formerly, by reason of thk
present great distress (a famine then pre
vailed,) yet in all times there have been
about one hundred thousand of those va
gabonds, who have lived without any re
gard or subjection either to the laws of
the land, or even those of God and Na
ture ; fathers incestuously accompanying
with their own daughters, the son with
the mother, and the brother with the aia*
ter." He goes on to say; that no masifl-
trate ever could discover that they had
ever been baptized, or in what way one
in a hundred went out of the world. He
accuses them as frequently guilty of rob-
bery, and sometimes of murder : ^^ In
years of plenty,'* says he, " many thoa-
sands of men meet together in the moun-
tains, where they feast and riot for many
days ; and at country weddings, markets,
burialsy and other public occaeions, they
are to be seen, both men and women,
perpetually drunk, cuiling, blaspheming,
and fighting together."* Thia high-
minded statesman, of whom it is said by
a contemporary " that he woold lose his
life readily to save his country, and would
not do a base thing to serve it, ■ thought the
evil so great that he proposed as a reme-
dy, the revival of domestic slavery, ac-
cording to the practice of his adored re-
publics in the classic ages ! A better re-
medy has been found, which in the silent
lapse of a century I^bjb proved effectual.
The statute of 1696, the noble legacy ot
the Scottish Parliament to their country,
began soon afler this to operate; and
happily, as the minds of the poor received
instruction, the Union qpened new chan-
nels of industry, and new fields of action
to their view.

At the present da^ there is perhaps no
country in Europe, m which, in propor-
tion to its population, so smadl a number
of crimes fall under the chastisement ol
the criminal law, as Scotland. We have
the best authority for asserting, that on
an average of thirty years, preceding the
year 1797, the executions in that divimoa
of the island did not amount to six ansu-
ally; and one quarter-sessions for the
town of Manchester only, has sent, ac-
cording to Mr. Htune, more felons to the
plantations, than all the judges of Scot-

* PoliUcal Warki of Andrew Fletcher, oeufo Ler
^<iom 737 144

LETTERS.

247

Itnd umially do in the space oi a year.*
It mi^ht appear invidious to attempt a cal-
culation of the many thousand individu-
als in Manchester and its vicinity who
can neither read nor write. A majority
of those who can suffer the punislimcnt of
death for their crimes in every part of
England are, it is believed, in tliis mise-
rable state of ignorance.

There is now a legal provision for pa-
rochial schools, or rather for a school in
each of the different townships into which
the country is divided, in several of the
northern states of North America. They
are, however, of recent origin there, ex-
cepting in New England, where they
were established in tiie last century, pro-
bably about the same time as in Scotland,
and by the same religious sect. In the
Protestant Cantons of Switzerland, the
peaaantry have the advantage of similar
flchools, though established and endowed
in a different manner. This is also the
case in certain districts in England, par-
ticolarly, in the northern parts of York-
shire and of Lancashire, and in the coun-
ties of Westmoreland and Cumberland.

A law, providing for the instruction of
the poor, was passed by the Parliament
of Ireland ; but the fund was diverted
finom its purpose, and the measure was
entirely frustrated. Proh Pudor !

The similarity of character between
the Swiss and the Scotch, and between
the Scotch and the people of New Eng-
land, can scarcely be overlooked. That
It arises in a great measure from the si-
milarity of tteir institutions for instruc-
tion, cannot be nuestioned. It is no doubt
increased by physical causes. With a
superior degree of instruction, each of
these nations possesses a country that
may be said to be sterile, in the neiffh-
bonrhood of countries comparatively nch.
Hence emigrations and the other effects
on conduct and character which such cir-
eiunstances naturaUy produce. This sub-
ject is in a high degree curious. The
points of dissimilarity between these na-
tions might be traced to their causes also,
and the whole investigation would per-
haps admit of an approacli to certainty in
our conclusions, to which such inquiries
aeldom lead. How much superior in mo-
rals, in intellect, and in happiness, the

• BlnM^i CoBnanuriai on tbo Lawi of flcotiaad,

peasantry of those parts of England are
who have opportunities of instruction, to
the same class in other situations, those
who inquire into the subject will speedily
discover. The peasantry of Westmore-
land, and of the other districts mentioned
above, if their physical and moral quah-
ties be taken together, arc, in the opinion
of the Editor, superior to the peasantry
of any part of the island.

JVb/e B. See p, 3.

It has been supposed that Scotland is
less populous and less improved on ac-
count of this emigration ; but such con-
clusions are doubtful, if not wholly falla-
cious. The principle of population acts
in no country to the full extent of its pow-
er : marriage is every where retarded be-
yond the period pointed out by nature,
by the difficulty of supporting a family;
and this obstacle is greatest in long-set-
tled communities. The emigration of a
part of a people facilitates the marriage
of the rest, by producing a relative in-
crease in the means of subsistence. The
arguments of Adam Smith, for a free ex«

f)ort of com, are perhaps applicable with
ess exception to the free export of peo-
ple. The more certain the vent, the
greater the cultivation of the soil. This
subject has been well investigated by Sir
James Stewart, whose principles hare
been expanded and farther illustrated in
a late truly philosophical Ettay on Popu^
lotion. In fact, Scotland has increased
in the number of its inhabitants in the
last forty years, as the Statistics of Sir
John Sinclair clearly prove, but not in the
ratio that some had supposed. The ex-
tent of the emigration of the Scots may
be calculated with some degree of confi-
dence from the proportionate number of
the two sexes in Scotland ; a point that
may be established pretty exactly by an
examination of the invaluable Statistics
already mentioned. If we suppose that
there is an equal number of male and fe-
male natives of Scotland, alive Momewkere
or other, the excess by which the females
exceed the males in their own country,
may be considered to be equal to the
number of Scotchmen living out of Scot-
land. But thoufrh the males bom in
Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12,
and though some of the females emigrate
as well as the males, this mode of calcu-
lating would probably make the number
of expatriated Sc<Nl^V)ia«a*^«K^ «Mi>>assft

f48

APPENDIX, NO. ft.

alive, gpreater than the truth. The un-
healthy climates into which they emi-
grate, the hazardous services in which so
many of them engage, render the mean
life of those who leave Scotland (to speak
in the languafe of calculators) not ner-
haps of hfuf the value of the mean life of
those who remain.

Jfote C See p. 6.

In the punishment of this offence the
Church employed formerly the arm of the'
civil power. During the reign of James
the Vlth( James the First of England,) cri-
minal connexion between unmarried per-
sons was made the subject of a particular
statute {See Hunters Commentaries on the
Laws of Scotland, Vol, ii. p. 3S2.) which,
from its rigour, was never much enforced,
and which has long fallen into disuse.
When in the middle of the last century,
the Puritans succeeded in the overthrow
of the monarchy in both divisions of the
island, fornication wad a crime against
which they directed their utmost zeal.
It was made punishable with death In the
second instance, {See Blackstonc, 6. iv.
chap. 4. JVb. II.) Happily this sanguina-
ry statute was swept away along with the
other acts of the Common wealth, on the
restoration of Charles II. to whose tem-
per and manners it must have been pecn-
iiarly abhorrent. And afler the Revolu-
tion, when several salutary acts passed
during the suspension of the monarchy,
were re-enacted by the Scottish Parlia-
ment, particularly that for the establish-
' ment of parish-schools, the statute pun-
ishing fornication with death, was suffer-
ed to sleep in the grave of the stem fana-
iies who had given it birth.

Jfote D. See p. 6.

The legitimation of children, by subse-
quent marriage became the Roman law
under the Christian emperors. It was
the cannon law of modem Europe, and
has been established in Scotland from a
very remote period. Thus a child "bom a
bastard, if his parents afterwards marry,
enjoys all the privileges of seniority over
his brothers afterwards born in wedlock.
In the Parliament of Merton, in the reign
of Henry III. the English clergy made a
yigoTous attempt to introduce tms article
into the law of England, and it was on
this occasion that the Barons made the
noted answer t since so often appealed to ;
^uod nohmi Uge» ^nglios mutore ; qoa

hue usque usittUa sunt apprcbaUB, Witk
regard to what constitutes a marriage,
the law of Scotland, as explained, o. 6,
differs from the Roman law, which re-
quired the ceremony to be performed «i
fade eccltsim.

No. II.

JVbfe A. Seep. 12

It may interest some peraons to pense
the first poetical production of our Bard,
and it is therefore extracted from a kind
of common place book, which he seems
to have begun in his twentieth year ; and
which he entitled, '' Observations^ IJinis^
Songs, Scraps of Poetry, Sfc. by Robert
Bumess, a man who had little art in
making money, and still less in keeping
it ; but was, however, a man of some
sense, a great deal of honesty, and un-
bounded good will to every creature, ra-
tional or irrational: As he was but little
indebted to a scholastic education, and
bred at a plough-tail, his performances
must be strongly tinctured with his unpol-
ished rustic way of lifer^tmt as, I believe
they are really his own, it may be some
entertainment to a cnrious observer ot
human nature, to see how a ploughman
thinks and feels, under the pressure o{
love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the
like cares and passions, which however
diversified by the modes and manners ot
life, -operate pretty much alike, I believe,
in all the species.*'

** Pleulnf when youUi la long ezjpired to trace,
The forma our pencil or our pen designed,

Such waa our youUiftil air, and ahape, and ftce,
S^h the aon imafe of the youthful mind.'*

This MS. book, to which our poet pre-
fixed this account of himself, and orchis
intention in preparing it, contains several
of his earlier poems, some as they were
printed, and others in their embryo state.
The song alluded to is that beginning,

O once I lov*A aboimle lai^
Ay, and I knre ber atill,

SMPi

,^».

[

It must be confessed that this soog
gives no indication of the future genius
of Bums ; but he himself seems to have
been fond of it, probably* from Um reool''

APPENDIX, NO. ft.

249

JVbfeB. Seep, is.

At the time that oar poet took~the re-
solution of hecoming urue, he procured a
little hook of hlank paper, with the pur-
pose (expressed on the first page) ofma-
king fanning memorandums upon it.
These fanning memorandums are curious
enough ; many of them have heen writ-
ten with a pencil, and are now ohlite-
rated, or at least illegible. A considera-
ble number are however legible, and a.
specimen may gratify the reader. It
must be premised, that the poet kept
the book by him several years — ^that he
wrote upon it, here and there, with the
utmost irregularity, and that on the same
page are notations very distant from each
other as to time and place.

Fife an* a* the land about tf, R. Fergus-
son.

The author of 7!li« bwh aboon TVa-
quetir^ was a Dr. Stewart.

Polwart on the Qreen^ composed by
Captain John Drummond M*Grigor o
Bochaldie.

•Mem. To inquire if Mrs. Coo urn
was tbe author of / hoe eeen the fim'/tn^,

EXTEMPORE. ^prO, 1783.

O why Uie deuce •hould I re[djie,
And be an ill foreboder ;

Sm Pomu, p* 183.

FRAGMENT. 7ini#-' Donald Blue.*

O leave novelit y6 Manchline beUetf
Te*re nibr at your epiuiiinf wheel ;

89eP0ewUtp,Vih

For be*! ftt aboon Dnnkel the night
Maun wUte tbe Mick and a*' that.

Menu To get for Mr. Johnson these
two Songs : — ^ J^olly^ J^olly^ my dear
honey,' — ' The cock and the hm^ the deqr
in her derif* SfC.

Ah! Clorii! Sir Peter Halket, of Pit-
ferran, the author. — JVbto, he married
her — the heiress of Pitferran.

Colonel George Crawford, the author
of Dovm the bum Davy.

Pifdey-houiey by J. Mitchell.

My apron Deary! and AmytUa^ by
Sir G. Elliot

Willie wa» a toanUm Wag, was made
on Walkinshaw, of Walkmshaw, near
Paisley.

Iloenaa laddie hU one, Mr. Clnnzee.

The honnie wee thing — ^beautiful — Lun^
die't Dreinn^Yery b^utiful.

He tiltt and she tiWt — assez bien.

Armttronifn Fareioe/Z-^-fine.

The author of the Highland Queen was
a Mr. M'lver, Purser of the Solboy.

The above may serve as a specimen.
All the notes on farming are obliterated.

J^ote. C' Seep. 30, 31.

Rulee and reguiaHone to he obeerved in
the Bachelors' Club.

1st. The club shall meet at TarbolUm
every fourth Monday night, when a ques-
tion on any subject shall be proposed,
disputed points of religion, only excepted,
in the manner hereafter directed ; which
question is to be debated in the club,
each member taking whatever side he
thinks proper.

3d. Wh^n the club is met, the presi-
dent, or, he failing, some one of the mem-
bers, till he eome, shall take his seat;
then the other members shall seat them-
selves : those who are for one side of the
question, onfthe president's right hand;
and those who are fbr the other side, on'
his left ; which of them shall have the
right hand is to be determined by the
president. The president and four of the
members being present, shiJl have pow-
er to transact any ordinary part of the so-
ciety's business.

3d. The club met and seated, the pre-
sident shall read the question out of the
club's book of records, (which book is
always to be kept by the president,)
then the two members nearest the presi-
dent shall cast lots who of them sh^
speak first, and according as the lot shall
determine, the member nearest the pre-
sident on that side shall deliver his opin-
ion, and the member nearest on the other
side shall reply to him ; then the second
member of the side that spoke first ; then
the second member of the side that spoke
second ; and so on to the end of the com-
pal^r ; but if there be fewer members on
the one side than on the other, when all
the membera of \.U<fe \««^ ^^^Vswi^^^v^-

APPENDIX, NO. S.

ken aecorfltng to thoir pluc^, any nr
thum, aa they please among t)it.<iii3''U'c.'^.
ma; reply to the remaining inombL'rs of
Uio oppoaito side : when both siJcs linvf
■pokcn, tho president shall givo lii» o|iiii'
ion, after which they may go ovot it a :^o-
cond or more timcfi, and so cuiiiinju the
question.

4th. The club shall then proreed to
the choice ofa question for the siibjwt of
next night's meeting. The prcfiiloiit
shall firat propose one, and niiy utlior
member who chooses may propn.'^t-' mort?
questional and whatever one of ihciit is
most Bgreoab't' 'i the nMjority of idrbi-
ben, Bhall bo the subject of debate next
club-night.

Gth. The club shall, lastly, «1cn a new
president for the next meeting : the pro-
mdent shall first name one, then any o\
the club may najne another, an<] ivbouver
of them has the majority of voles ahaW
be duly elected; allowing the president
the first vote, and the casting vote upon
■ par, but none other. Then nllcr a ce-
neral toast to oiistresaes of the cliil>, Ihi^y

6th. There shall be no privuc conver-
sation carried on during the timo of de-
bate, nor shall any member interrupt
another while he i^ speaking, under the
penalty of a reprimand from tho presi-
dent for the first fault, doubling hie sliarc
of the reckoning for the seconfl, Irebling
it for the third, and so on in proport ion fur
every other fault, provided alivay, how-
ever, that any member may speak at any
time after leave asked, and given by the
president. All swearing and profane lan-
guage, and particularly all obscene and
indecent conversation, is strictly prohibit-
ed, under the same penalty aa aforesaid
in the first clause of tnis article.

7th. No member, on any pretence
whatever, shall mention any of tho club's
affairs to any oUier person but a brother
member, under tho pain of bein<r ex-
cluded i and particularly if any member
shall reveal any of the speeches or nifairs
of the club, with a view to ricJieiilp or
laugh at any of the rest of the mejnb^'r.q.
he shall be for ever excommunini lei) from
the society ; and the rest of the ninT^ilie^a
are desired, as much as possible.

■ nd have no coiAmunication with him

■ frifjid or comrade

&th. Ever^ member shall attend at tha
meetings, without he can give a proper
excuse for not attending ; and it is de-
sired that every one who cannot attend,
will send his excuse with some other
member : and he who shall be absent
three meetings without sending such ex-
cuse, shall be summoned to the club-night,
when if he fail to appear, or send an ex-
cuse be shall be excluded.

9th. The club shall not consist of more
than sixteen aembers, all bachelors, be-
longing to the parish of Tarbolton: ex-
cept a brother member marrr, and in that
case he mav be continued, if the majority
of the club think proper. No persoo
shall be admitted a member of this eoct-
ety, without the unanimous consent of
the club; and any member may withdraw
from the club altogether, by giving a no-
tice to the president ta writing of his de-
parture.

lOth. Every man proper fc
of this society, must hav

a member
a frank, honest,
open heart; above any thing dirty or
mean ; and must be a profest lover of one
or more of the female sex. No haughty,
bgIF- conceited person, who looks upon
himgelf as superior to the rest of the cmh,
and especially no mean-spirited, worldly
mortal, whose only will is to heap up mo-
ney, shall upon any pretence whatever
be admitted. In short, the proper per-
son for this society is, a cheerful, honest
hearted lad, who. If be has a friend that
is true, and a mistress that is kind, and
u mach waalth as genteelly to nuJte both
ends meet — is just as happy as this world
can make him.

Able D. Sm p. 04.

A great number of manuscript poems
ere found among tho papers of Bams,
nddressed to him by admirers of his ge
IS, fromdifferent parts of Britain, as well
from Ireland and America. Among
these wan a poetical epistle from Mr.
Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior me-
rit. It is written in the dialect of Scot-
land (of which country Mr. Telford is a
native.) and in the versification general-
ly employed by our poet himself. Its oh-
to recommend to him other sub-
'a serious nature, similar to that
bers I of the CoUtr't Sahirday Jfigkt ; and the
'aid. reader will find that the advice is happily

enforced by example. It would have

\ fri\«nA.^ Mttor pleasure to have insert-

APPENDIX, NO. «.

tSl

ed the whole of this poem, which he
hopes ¥rill one dajr see the light : he is
happy to have ohtained, in the mean time,
*^'' friend Mr. Telford's permission to in-
the following extracts :

« « « « % 4i 4i

Ponae, O Bums ! thy happy ityle,
" Thow manner-painting BtrauiB,^ that while
They bear me northward mony a mile.

Recall the days,
When tender joys, with pleasing smile,

BlessM my young ways.

I see my fond companions rise,
I join the nappy village joys,
I see our green hills toudi the skies.

And through the woods,
I hear the river^s rushing noise.

Its roaring floods.'*'

No distant Swiss with warmer giow,
E*er heard his native music flow,
IVor dould his wishes stronger ffrow,

Than still have mine,
When up this ancient moontt I go.

With songs m thine.

O happy Bard ! thy generous flame
Was ffiven to raise thy country's fame ;
For this thy charming numbers came—

Thy matchless lays ;
Then sing, and save her virtuous name,

< Tolateetdays.

But mony a theme awaits thy muse,
¥lne as thy Cotter's sacred views.
Then in such verse thy soul infhse,

With holy air;
And sinff the course the pious chooset

With all ttiy

How with religious awe mipressed.
They open lay the guileless breast ;
And youth and age with fears distressed.

An due prepare.
The symbols of eternal rest

Devout to share.|

How down ilk lang vnthdrawing hiU,
Bttcoeesive crowds the valleys fin ;
While pure religious converse still

Beguiles the way.
And gives a cast toyouthflil will.

To suit the day.

* The banks of ^ft, in Domfriet-slilrs, are ben al-

t A beantlfal tetle moaat, wblcb lUndi immediate*
tf oefoie, or ratlwr foraw a part of Bhnrtnftiury caitle,
a seat of Sir William Pnlteaej, barcmet.

t Tbs Saerament, generally admlaiit«rtd in Ike
OyparishMorScetlaod inUMopaaair £.

£e$

How plaeed along the atcred board,^
Their hoary pastor? looks adored^ —
His voice with peace and hlnpsing stoiedt

Sent firom above ;
And &ith« and hope, and joy afibrd.

And boundless Jove

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow«
Celestial beings, pleased bow ;
And, whisper^ hear the holy vow,

'Mid graiefhl tears ;
And mark amid such scenes below,

Their future peers

O mark the awfhl solemn scene ^
When hoaiy winter clothes the plain*
Along the snowy hills is seen

Approaching slow.
In mourning weeds, the village train,

In silent wo.

Some much respected brother's bier
(By turns the pious task they share)
With heavy heariB they forward bear

Along the path.
Where nei'bours saw in dodcy air,t

The light of death.

And when they pass the rocky how.
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow.
And move around the rising knowe.

Where & away
The kiric-yard trees are seen to ffrow.

By th' water orae.

Assembled round the narrow grave.
While o'er them wintery tempests rave,
In the cola wind their gray loc^ wave.

As u>w they lay
Their brother's body 'taiongst the lave

Of parent day.

Expressive looks from each declare
The ffriefii within, their bosoms bear;
One holy bow devout they share.

Then home return.
And think o'er all the virtues fan:

Of him they monm.

Say how by eariy lessons taught,
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught)
Congenial to th°untainted though^

The shepherd bo3(
Who tends his flocks on lonely height

Feels holy joy.

* A fleoth ftiaeral. ' S.

t Tldi aDoiai te a sapentUioa prevalent in Eikials,
and Annaadale, that a Hgbt pieeeidea In lbs ni^.eft-
ry fnoeral, oMrkinf tbt preelse path It is to vast. &

APPENDIX, NO. 3.

b angfat on earth ao lovely known.
On Mbbath mom and far alono,t
Hia guileleai aoul all naked shown

Before his €rod^
Such prayVi moat welcome reach the throne,

And bleai'd abode.

O teD ! with what a heartfelt joy,
ne parent eyee the yirtuous boy ;
And all hia constant, kind employ.

Is how to give
The beat of lear he can enjoy, .

As means to hvo.

The parish-school, its curious site.
The master who can clear indite, *
And lead him on to count and write,

Demand thy care ;
Nor paaa the ploughman^s school at night

Without a share.

Nor vet the tonty curious lad,
Who o^ the in^rle hings Iiis head.
And begs of nei^ours books to read ;

For hence arise
Thy ooontxy^a aons, who far are spread,

Boith bauld and wise.

The bonnie lasses, as thoy spin.
Perhaps with Allan^s sangs bc^in.
How Tay and Tweed sniootli flowing rin

Through flowery liows ;
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts win

With earnest vows.

Or may be. Bums, thy thrilling'pago
May a' their virtuous thougliUi ongTige,
Whfle playAil youth and placid age

In concert join.
To blesB the bard, who, gay or sage.

Improves the mind.

Lonff may their harmless, simple ways,
Nature s own pure emotions raise ;
May still tlie acar romantic blaze

Of purest love,
Theur boaoma warm to latest days.

And ay improve.

May still each fond attachment glow,
0*er woods, o*er streams, o^er hills of snow.
May rugged rocks still dearer grow ;

And may tlieir souls
Even love the warlock glens which through

The tempest howls.

To eternize such themes as these.
And all their happy manners seize.
Win every virtuous bosom please ;

And high in fame
To futwre times williustly raise

Thy paVriol luuxk^

While an the venal tribea decay.
That bask in flattery ^s flaunting ray-*
The noisome vermin of a day.

Thy works shall giia
O'er every mind a boundless sway,

A lasting reign.

When winter binds the hardenM ptaini,
Around each hearth, the hoary awauis
Still teach the rising youth thy strains;

And anxious say.
Our blessing with our sons remains.

And BuRNs^a Lay !

No. III.

{Firsi inserled in the Second EdUion,)

The editor has particular pleaetire in
presenting to the public the following let-
ter, to the due understanding of wluch 9
few previous observations are necessary.

The Biographer of Bums was natural-
ly desirous of hearing the opinion of the
friend and brother of the poet, on the
manner in which he had executed his
task, before a second edition should be
committed to the jSress. He had the sa-
tisfaction of receiving this opinion, in a
letter dated the 21th of August, approving
of- the Life in very obHffing^ terms, and
oflTcring one or two trivid corrections as
to names and dates chiefly, which are
made in this edition. One or two obser-
vations were offered of a diflTerent kind.
In the 3il9th page of the first volume,
first edition, a quotation is made irom the
pastoral song, Ettrick Banks, and on ex-
planation given of the phrase ** mony
feck," which occurs in this quotation.
Supposing the sense to be complete ailer
"mony," theeditorhad considered "feck"
a rustic oath which confirmed the asser-
tion. The words were therefore sepa-
rated by a comma. Mr. Bums consider-
ed this on error. " Feck," he presumes,
is the Scottish word for quantity, and
" mony feck," to mean simply, very many.
The editor in yielding to this authority,
expressed some hesitation, and hinted
that the phrase "mony feck" was, in
Burns's sense, a pleonasm or barbarism
which deformed this beautiful song.*

* The correction made by Gilbert Bams hts ■!»

been suggested by a writer in the Monthly MagvdDe,

under the signature of Albion : who, for taking tMi

trouble, and for mentioning the author of the poem of

DvmA^WoA «M«cvw the Editor's tteaks.

APPENDIX, NO. 3.

Hifl np\v to this obBervation makes the
flrat claoie of the following letter.

In the BUDe eommunication he infonned
me, thi.t the .Mirror uidtheixnin^cr were
proposed by liitn to the ConversBtian Club
«r Hauchline, uid that he had thoughts
of giving mo hia Bentiments on the re-
marks I Dad in&de respecting the fitness

The

; respecting
of Buch works for such societies.
observations of Buch a man on such
ject, the Editor conceived, would be re-
ceived with particular interest by the
public ; and, having presaed earneatly for
them, ihey will be found in the following
letter. Ofthe value of this communica-
Uon, delicacy towards his very rcspeotB-
ble correspondent prevents him from ex-
presaing his opinion. The original let-
ter is in the hands of Messrs. Caiddelland

J>ifHHfl;, Dun^ria-ikire, 34l\Oc(. IQOO.

DKAm sin, •

YoWHS of the 17th inst. came to my
hand yesterday, and I sit down this aflcr-
aoon to write you in return : but whcaJ
flhall be able to finish all I wish to say to
joa, I cannot tell. I Im sorry your con-
viction is not complete respectini; Jeek.
There is ng doubt, that if you take two
English wards which appear synonymous
to moat/Jectr, and jud^e by the rules of
English construction, it will appear a bar-
barism. 1 believe if you take this (node
of transUting from any language, the ef-
fect will frequently be the same. But if
Tou take the expression many Jeck to

in with llic English expression very many
(and such license every transistor must , ,
be allowed, especially when he translates ' P
from a simple dialect which has '

ply a« follows;*— When mjf father built

his " clay biggin," he put m two stone-
jambs, as they are called, and a lintel,
cartying up a chimney in his clay gable.
The consequence was, that as the gable
subsided, the jambs, remaining firm,
threw it off its centre; and, one very
Btormy morning, when my brother «'as
nine or ten years old, a little before d«»-
light a part ofthe gable fell out, and t^e '
reat appeared bo shattered, that my mo-
ther with the young poet, had to bo car-
ried through the storm to a neighbour's
houBe, where they remained n week till
their own dwelling was adjusted. That
you may not thinh too meanly of thia
house, or my father's taste in building,
by supposing the poet's description in 7%«
Vition (which is entirely a fancy picture)
applicable to it, allow me to take notice
to you, that tho house consisted of a kit-
chen in one end, and a room in the other,
with a fire place and chimney ; that my
father had constructed a concealed bed in
the kitchen, with a small closet at tho
end, ofthe same materials with tho house;
and, when altogether cast over, outnde
and in, with lime, it had a neat comlbrta-
ble appearance, such as no family of the
same rank, in the present improved style
of living, would think themBClvea ill-lodg-
ed in. 1 wish likewise to take notice, in
passinjf, that although the " Cotter," in
the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of
my father in his manners, hia family-de-
votion, and exhortations, yet the other
parts of the description do not apply to
our family. None of us were ever " at
service out amang the neebors roun." In-
stead of our depositing our " sairwon pen-
ny fee" with our parents, my father la-
boured hard, and lived with the most ri-

kccp his children at home, thereby hav-

leOT mbjsctod to rute, .nJ whore Ihs I "V ■" oppfiKinitr of mlchinE tho pro-

precise meaning of words is of
quence, not minutely attended to,) it will
be well enough. One thing I ain certain
of, that ours is the sense universally un-
derstood in the country ; end I believe no
Scotsman, who has lived contented at
borne, pleased with the simple manners,
the simple melodies, and the simple dia-
lect of his native country, unvitiated by
foreign intercourse, "whose soul proud
science never taught to stray," ever dis-
covered barbarian) in the song of EUrick
Bank*.

The story yon have heard ofthe gable
of my ftthe'r's house falling down, is um-

gress of our young minds and forming ic
them earlier habits of piety and virtue;
and from this motive alone did ho engage
in farming, the source of all his difficul-
ties and distresses.

When I threatened yen in my lost with
a long letter on the subject of the bookc
1 recommended to the Mauchline club,
and the effects of refinement of taste on
the labouring claBses of men, I meant
merely,- that I wished to write you in

254

APPENDIX, NO. S.

that fubjeet with the view that, in some
future communication to the public, you
might take up the subject more at large ;
that, by means of ^our happy manner of
writing, the attention of people of power
and influence might be fixed on it. I had
little expectation, however, that I should
evercome my indolence, and the difficulty
of arranging my thoughts so ^r as to
put my threat m execution; till some
time ago, before I had finished my har-
vest, having a call from Mr. Ewart,*' with
a message from you, pressing me to the
performance of this task, I thought my-
self no longer at liberty to decline it, and
resolved to set about it with my first lei-
sure. I will now therefore endeavour to
lay before you what has occurred to my
mmd, on a subject whore people capable
of observation and of placing their re-
marks in a proper point of view, have sel-
dom an opportunity of making their re-
marks on real life. In doing this, I may
perhaps be led sometimes to write more
m the manner of a person communicating
information to you which you did not
know before, and at other times more in
the style of egotism, than I would choose
to do to any person, in whose candour,
and even personal good will, I had less
confidence.

There are two several lines of study
that open to every man as he enters life :
the one, the general science of life, of du-
ty, and of happiness; the other, the par-
ticular arts of his employment or situa-
tion in society, and the several branches
of knowledge therewith connected. This
last is certainly indispensable, as nothing
can be more disgraceful than ignorance
in the way of one's own profession ; and
whatever a man*s speculative knowledge
may be, if he is ill-informed there, he can
neither be a useful nor a respectable mem-
ber of society. It is nevertheless true,
that "the proper study of mankind is
man:** to consider what duties are in-
cumbent on him as a rational creature,
and a member of society ; how he may
increase or secure his happiness : and
how he may prevent or soflen the many
miseries incident to human life. I think
the pursuit of happiness is too frequently
confined to the endeavour after the acqui-
sition of wealth. I do not wish to be con-
sidered as an idle declaimer against riches,
which, afler all that can be said against

* Th« Editor*! friend Mr. Peter Ewtut of MaaeliM
Mr. -&.

them, will still oe considered by men of
common sense as objects of importance;
and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, af-
in a\\ the fine things that can be said of
its advantages;' on the contrary I am of
opinion, that a ^eat proportion of the
miseries of life arise from the want of eco-
nomy, and a prudent attention to money,
or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit
of it. But however valuable riches may
be as the means of comfort, independenoa,
and the pleasure of doing good to others^
yet I am of opinion, that they may be, aul
frequently are, purchased at too great a
cost, and that sacrifices are made in the
pursuit, which the acquisition cannot
compensate. I remember hearing my
worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, relate an
anecdote to my father, which I think
sets this matter in a strong light, and per-
haps was the origin, or at least tended to
promote this way of thinking in me.
When M^ Murdoch left Alloway, he
went to teach and reside in the family of
an opulent farmer who had a number of
sons. A neighbour coming on a visit,
in the course of conversation, asked the
father how he meant to dispose of his
sbns. The father replied that he had not
determined. Th% visitor said, that were
he in his place ho would give them all
good education and send them abroad,
without fperhaps] having a ^ecise idea
where. The father objected, that many
young men lost their health in foreign
countries, and many their lives. True,
replied the visitor, but as you have a nuni«
her of sons, it will be strange if someone
of them does not live and make a for-
tune.

Let any person who has the feelings of
a father, comment on this story ; bat
though few will avow, even to themselves
that such views govern their conduct,
yet do we not daily see people shipping off
their sons (and who would do so by their
daughters also, if there were any demand
for tnem,) that they may be rich or perish ?

The education of the lower classes b
seldom considered in. any other point of
view than as the means of raising them
from that station to which they were born,
and of making a fortune. I am ignorant
of the mysteries of the art of acquiring a
fortune without any thing to begin with ;
and cannot calculate, wiUi any degree of
exactness, the difficulties to be surmount-
ed, the mortifications to be 8ufi*ered, ind
\}da de^[;ca.dation of character to be sub*

AFFBNDIX, NO. 3.

255

milted to« in lending one's self to be the
minister of other people's vices, or in the
practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or dis-
ajmulation, in the progress ; but even when
the wisl^ed for end. is attained, it may be
bocstioned whether happiness be much
increased by the change. When I have
een a fortunate adventurer of the lower
ranlu of life returned from the East or
West Indies, with all the hauteur of a
▼nlgai mind accustomed to be served by
slaves , assuming a character which, from
the etLty habits of life, he is ill-fitted to
support'- displaying magnificence which
raises Iho envy of some, and the contempt
of others, claiming an equality with the
fteut, which they are unwilling to allow ;
mly pining at the precedence of the he-
reditary gentry ; maddened by the ;>olish-
ed insolence of some of the unworthy part
of them; seeking pleasure in the soctety
of men who can condescend to flatter hiro,
and listen to his absurdity for the sake of
a good dinner and good wine V I cannot
avoid concluding, that his brother, or com-
panion, who, by a diligent application to
the labours of agriculture, or some usefbl
mechanic employment, and the careful bus.
banding of his gains, has acquired a com-
petance in his station, is a much happier,
and, in the eye of a person* who can take
an enlarged view of mankind, a much
more respectable man.

But the votaries of wealth may be con-
adered as a great number of fj^ndidates
striving for a few prizes : and whatever
addition the successful may make to their
pleasure or happiness, the disappointed
will always have more to suffer, I am
afraid, than those who abide contented
in the station to which they were born.
I wish, therefore, the education of the
lower classes to be promoted and direct-
ed to their improvement as men, as the
means of increasing their virtue, and
opening to them new and dignified sources
of pleasure and happiness. I have heard
some people object to the education of
the lower classes of men, as rendering
them less useful, by abstracting them
from their proper business; others, as
tending to make them saucy to their su-
periors, impatient of their condition, and
turbulent subjects ; while you, with more
humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest
the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort
of education and reading I recommend,
should render the evils of their situation
insupportable to them. I wish to ex-
amine the validity of each of these ob-

jections, beginning with the one you have
mentioned.

' I do not mean to controvert vour criti-
cism of my favourite books, the Mirror
and Lounger, although I understand
tl)ere are people who think themselves
judges, who do not agree with you. The
acquisition of knowledge, except what ia
connected with human life and conduct,
or the particular business of his employ-
ment, does not appear to me^to be the fit-
test pursuit for a peasant. ^ I would say
with the poet,

" How empty learniniTi and bow vain if art
8ave where it guides tlie life, or mende tlie heart.*

There seems to be a considerable lati-
tude in the use of the word taste. I un-
derstand it to be the perception and re-
lish of beauty, order, or any thing, the
contemplation of which gives pleasure
and delight to the mind. I suppose it ia
in this sense you wish it to be understood.
If I am ri^ht, the taste which these books
are calculated to cultivate (besides the
taste for fine writing, which many of the
papers tend to improve and to gratify,} ia
what is proper, consistent, and becommff
in human character and conduct, as al-
most every paper relates to these sub-
jects.

^ am sorry I have not these books by
me, that I might point out some instances.
I re^nembcr two one the beautiful etory
of La Roch, where, beside the pleasure
one derives from a beautiful simple story,
told in M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the
mind is led to taste with heartfelt rap-
ture, the consolation to be derived m
deep affliction, from habitual devotion
and trust in Almighty God. The other,

the story of general W , where the

reader is led to have a high relish for
that firmness of mind which disregards
appearances, the common forms and vani-
ties of life, for the sake of doing justice
in a case which was out of the reach of
human laws.

Allow me then to remark, that if the
morality of these books is subordinate to
the cultivation of taste ; that taste, that
refinement of mind and delicacy of.senti-
ment which they are intended to give,
are the strongest guard and surest toun-
dation of morality and virtue. — Other
moralists guard, as it were, the overt act ;
these papers, by exalting duty into senti-
ment, are calculated to make every de-

APPENDIX, NO. 3.

viilion from rectitodc and piopnet; «f
conduct, p&inful ta tho mind,

>' WhoM unpcfd powan,

our Bcnsibilit; to tbe evil* of life! but
wh&t Htfttion of liTo is without its cvil« !
There seems to be no such thing u per-
fect happiness in this world, and wemnsi
balance the pleosuro and tho psln which
we derive from taatc, before we can pro-

rrly upprociate it in the caae before v^.
apprehend that on s minute examiaa>
tioii It will appear, that the evils peculiar
to iho lowor ranks of life, derive thtir
power to wound ua, more from the bui;-
gi^ationx of false pride, and tho

ito remark of my brother's, that there wns
no part of the constitution of our nature, \o
which we were more indebted, than that
by which " Cattom makfi Min^« Jamilinr
<md eatij" (a copy Mr. Murdoch used io
aet uH to write,) and there ia^ittle laboii
which eiutem will not make easy to
man in health, if he is not ashamed of hi
employment, or docs not beffin to con.
pare his situation with those ae may se
going about at their ease-
But the man ofenlargod mind feels tli
reepect due to him aa a man ; ho has
lennied I hat no employment \a dishonour-
bWc in itself; that while he perfomi^
aright tho duties of that station in whi'.fi
Godhaaplaccdhim,heisoRgr?atasakiii:r
in the eyes of Him whom he is principal-
ly desirous to please; for the man of taste,
who is constantly obliged to labour, must
of necessity be rcli^ous. If you teach
him only to reason, you may make him
an atheist, a dcmagofrue, or any vile t hinij;
but if you leach him to foci, hia feelin);?
can only fmd their proper and natural re-
lief in devotion and religious resignation.
Ho knows that those people who are to
appearance at case, are not without their
fllure of evils, and that even toil itself i<^
not destitute of advantages. He listens
to the words of his favourite poet :

« O nor[il man Ihnl liven hen by loll,
Cra«tnraplnoiiHl|:nid|!cthjhDrd oilite !

And, while he repeat* the wordc, Ibt
grateful recollection comea acro« Ui
mind, how often he baa derived ioeAUa
pleasure from the sweet aong of "Hi-
tuTo's darting child." I can say, from my
own axperienco, that there is no tort off'
farm-labonr inconsistent with the me at
refined and pleasurable state of the mio^K
that I am acquainted with, tbraahii^^
alone excepted. That, indeed, I haf^S
always considered as insupportable drnd^-—'
ery, and think the ingeaioua mettemcS
who invented the' thrashing ma chine .!—
onght to have a statue among the bow *
factors of his country, and should be pla-"
ccd in the niche neit to the person whcr:
introduced the culture of potatoes iot^^
this island.

Perhaps the thing of moat importances
in the education of the common people ia. ^
to prevent the intrusion of artificial WBnt&—
I bless the memory of ray worthy fmthe^
for alroest every thing in the dispoatioD^
of my mind, and my habits of life, which
I can approve of: and for none more than
the pains he took to impresa my mind
with the sentiment, that nothing was
more unworthy the character of a man,
than that hia happiness should in tbe
least depend on what he ahould eat or
drink. So early did he impresa my mind
with this, that although 1 was as fond of
swcatmealB as children generally are, yet
I seldom laid out any of the half-penc«
which relations or neighbours gave me at
fairs, in the purchase of them ; and if I
did, every mouthful I swallowed was ac-
companied with shsme and remorse; lod
to this hour I never indulge in the use of
any delicacy, but I feci a considerable de-
gree of self-reproach and alarm for tbede-
gradation of the human character. Secb
a habit of thinking I conaider as of great
consequence, both to the virtue and hap-
piness of men in the lower ranks of life-—
And thus. Sir, I am of opinion, that if
their minds are early and deeply impress-
ed with a sense of the dignity of man. aa
such ; with Ihe love of independence and
of industry, economy and temperance, *»
the most obvious moans of making them-
selves independent, and the virtues moit
becoming their situation, and necessary
to their happiness; men in the lower
ranks of life may partake of the pleasurei
to be derived from tho perusal of booki
calculated ta improve the mind and ra

1^0 the taste, without any danger of be-
oommg more unhappy in their situation
Or ^icointented with it. Nor do I think
m there is any danger of their becoming
■ less useful. There are some hours every
W dgvf that the most constant labourer is
r neither at work nor asleep. These hours
^xe either appropriated to amusement or
^Ch sloth. If a taste for employing these
•bonrs in reading wore cultivated, 1 do not
^cippose that the return to labour would
^« more difficult. Every one will allow,
^liat the attachment to idle amusements,
even to sloth, has as powerful a ten-
ency to abstract men from their proper
usiness, as the attachment to books;
^^vhile the one dissipates the mind, and
^ie other tends to increase its powers of
^fcelf-government. To those who are
afraid that the improvement of tho minds
of the common people mifjbt bo dnngcr-
^)us to the state, or the established order
«f society, I would remark, that turbu-
lence and commotion are certainly very
inimical to the feelings of a refined mind.
Let the matter be brought to the test of
experience and obser\'ation. Of what
description of people are mobs and insur-
rections composed ? Arc they not univer-
sally owing to the want of enlargement
' and improvement of mind among the com-
mon people ? Nay, let any one recollect
the characters of those who formed the
calmer and more deliberate associations,
which lately gave so much alarm to the
government of this country. I suppose
few of the common people who were to
be found in such societies, had tho educa-
tion and turn of mind I have been en-
deavouring to recommend. Allow me to
suggest one reason for endeavouring to
enlighten the minds of the common peo-
ple. Their morals have hitherto been
guarded by a sort of dim religious awe,
which from a variety of causes, seems
wearing off. I think the alteration in
this respect considerable, in the short pe-
riod of my observation. I have already
given my opinion of the effects of refine-
ment of mind on morals and virtue.
Whenever vulgar minds begin to shake
off tho dogmas of the religion in which
they have been educated, the progress is
quick and immediate to downright infi-
delity; and nothing but refinement of
mind can enable them to distinguish be-
tween the pure essence of religion, and
the gross systems which men have been
perpetually connecting it with. In addi-
tion to what has already been done for
the education of the common people of

APPENDIX, NO. 3.

257

this country, in the establishment of par-
ish schools, I wish to see the salariea
augmented in some proportion to the
present expense of living, and the eai^-
ings of people of similar rank, endow-
ments, and usefulness in society ; and I
hope that the liberality of the present
age will be no longer disgraced by re-
fusing, to so useful a class ormen, such en-
couragement as may make parish schools
worth the attention of men fitted fbr the
important duties of that office. In filling
up the vacancies, 1 would have more at-
tention paid to the candidate's capacity
of reading the English language with
grace and propriety ; to his understand-
ing thoroughly, and having a high relish
for the beauties of English authors, both
in poetry and prose ; to that good sense
and knowledge of human nature which
would enable him to acquire some influ-
ence on the minds and affeetions of his
scholars ; to Uie gencrid worth of his
character, and the love of his king and
bis country, than to his proficiency m the
knowledge of Latin and Greek. I would
tht)n have a sort of high English class es-
tablished, not only for the purpose of
teaching the pupils to read in that grace-
ful and agreeable manner that might make
them fond of reading, but to make them
understand what they read, and discover
the beauties of the author, in composition
and sentiment. 1 would have established
in every parish, a small circulating libra-
ry, consisting of tho books which the
young people Iiad read extracts from in the
collections they had read at school, and
any other books well calculated to refine
the mind, improve the moral feelings, re-
commend the practice of virtue, and com-
municate such knowledge as might be
useful and suitable to the labouring class-
es of men. I would have the schoolmas-
ter act as librarian, and in recommending
books to his young friends, formerly his
pupils, and letting in the light of them
upon their young minds, he should have
the assistance of the minister. If once
such education were become general, the
low delights of tho public nouse, and
other scenes of riot and depravity, would
be contemned and neglected; while indus-
try, order, cleanliness, and every virtue
which taste and independence of mind
could recommend, would prevail and
flourish. Thus possessed of a Virtuous
and enlightened populace, with high de-
light I should consider my native coun-
try as at the head of all the nations of the
earth, ancient or modern.

f58

Thos, Sir, hare I exeentad my threat
to the fullest extent, in regard to the
length of my letter. If I luid not pre-
sumed on doing it more to my liking, I
■hould not have undertaken it; hut I
have not time to attempt it anew ; nor,
if I would, am I certain that I should suc-
ceed any better. I have learned to have
less confidence in my capacity of writing
on such subjects.

T am much obliged by your kind inqui-
ries about my situation and prospects. I
am much pleased with the soil of this
farm, and with the terms on which I pos-
sess it. I receive great encouraffement
likewise in building, enclosing, and other
conveniences, from my landlord, Mr. 6.
8. Monteith, whose general character
and conduct, as a landlord and country
gentleman, I am highly pleased with.
But the land is in such a state as to
require a considerable immediate outlay
of money in the purchase of manure, the
grubbing of brush-wood, removing of
atones, qlc. which twelve years' struggle
with a farm of a cold, ungrateful soil fias
but ill prepared me for. If I can get
these thmgs done, however, to my mind,

APPENDIX, NO. 3.

I think there b next to a certainty thai
in five or six years I shall be in a liop<^
way of attainmg a situation which I think
as eligible for happiness as any one I
know ; for I have iJways been of opinioa,
that if a man bred to the habits of a farm-
ing life, who possesses a farm of good
sou, on such terms as enables him easily
to pay all demands, is not happy, he ought
to look somewhere else than to his situa-
tion for the causes of his uneasiness.

I beg you will present my most respect*
ful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and re-
member me to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and
Mr. Roscoe, junior, whose kind atten-
tions to me, when in Liverpool, I shaB
never forget.

I am, dear Sir,
Your most obedient, and

Much obliged, humble Servant,
GILBERT BURN&
7b Jambs Cmtais, JiLD.F.ILS.l

FINIS

■--fo.-A-ri'^^>».-. ..s.

»^K^

■f^^a

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

REFERENCE DEPARTMENT

Thi* book ■■ under no oiroummOnoo to be
taken Irom the Bnlldiat

"• *l u

""' ( .:■»

■"--

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "The Works of Robert Burns: With an Account of His Life, and Criticism on His Writings"

See other formats