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CORNELL 

UNIVERSITY 

LIBRARY 


THE  MR.  AND  MRS.  WILLIAM 
F.     E.    GURLEY    BOOK    FUND 


liorneii  university  Library 
PR  4300  1880.N53 

The  poetical  works  of  Robert  Burns: 


3  1924  013  446  376 


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GArUORD 

PRINTED  INU.S.A. 

The  original  of  tiiis  book  is  in 
tine  Cornell  University  Library. 

There  are  no  known  copyright  restrictions  in 
the  United  States  on  the  use  of  the  text. 


http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013446376 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


EOBEKT    BTIENS: 


WITH  ALL  TBE  OORBESPONDENOE 
AND  NOTES 

BY 


ILLUSTRATED. 


NEW   YORK: 
THE    ARUNDEL    PRINTING    AND    PUBLISHING    CO. 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Robert  BtmifS  was  born  on  the  35th  day  of  January,  1758,  in  a  small 
house  about  two  miles  from  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  within  a  few  hundred  yards 
of  Alio  way  Church,  which  his  poem  of  Tajno'  S/ianter  has  rendered  immortal. 
The  name,  which  the  poet  and  his  brother  modernized  into  Burns,  was 
originally  Burnes,  or  Burness.  Their  father,  William  Burnes,  was  the  son  of 
a  farmer  in  Kincardineshire,  and  had  received  the  education  common  in  Scot- 
laud  to  persons  in  his  condition  of  life  ;  he  dould  read  and  write,  and  had  some 
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 
toward  the  south  in  quest  of  a  livelihood.  He  undertook  to  act  as  a  gardener, 
and  shaped  his  course  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  wrought  hard  when  he  could 
obtain  employment,  passing  through  a  variety  of  difficulties.  From  Edin- 
burgh William  Burnes  passed  westward  into  the  county  of  Ayr,  where  he 
engaged  himself  as  a  gardener  to  the  laird  of  Fairly,  with  whom  he  lived  two 
years;  then  changed  his  service  for  that  of  Crawford  of  Doonside.  At  length, 
being  desirous  of  settling  in  life,  he  took  a  perpetual  lease  of  seven  acres  of 
land  from  Dr.  Campbell,  physician  in  Ayr,  with  the  view  of  commencing 
nurseryman  and  public  gardener,  and,  having  built  a  house  upon  it  with  his 
own  hands,  married  in  December,  1757,  Agnes  Brown.  The  first  fruit  of  this 
marriage  was  Robert,  the  subject  of  these  memoirs.  Before  William  Burnes 
had  made  much  progress  in  preparing  his-  nursery,  he  was  withdrawn  from 
that  undertaking  by  Mr.  Ferguson,  who  purchased  the  estate  of  Doonliolm,  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood,  and  engaged  him  as  his  gardener  and  overseer, 
and  this  was  his  situation  when  our  poet  was  born.  When  in  the  service  of 
Mr.  Ferguson,  he  lived  in  his  own  house,  his  wife  managing  her  family,  and 
her  little  dairy,  which  consisted  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  in  AUoway  Miln,  about  a  mile 
distant,  taught  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Campbell ;  but  this  teachfer  being  in 
a  few  months  appointed  master  of  the  workhotise  at  Ayr,  William  Burnes,  in 
conjunction  with  some  other  heads  of  families,  engaged  John  Murdoch  in  his 
stead.  The  education  of  our  poet,  and  of  his  brother  Gilbert,  was  iii  common  ; 
and  whilst  under  Mr.  Murdoch,  they  learned  to  read  English  tolerably  well, 
and  to  write  a  little.  He  also  taught  them  tlie  elements  of  English  grammar, 
in  which  Robert  made  some  proficiency — a  circumstance  which  had  consider- 
able weight  in  the  unfolding  of  his  genius  and  character ;  as  he  soon  became 
remafkable  for  the  fluency  and  correctness  of  his  expression,  and  read  the  few 
books  that  came  in  his  way  with  much  pleasure  and  improvement. 

It  appears  that  William  Burnes  approved  himself  greatly  in  the  service  of 
Mr.  Ferguson,  by  his  intelligence,  industry,  and  integrity.  In  consequence  of 
this,  with  a  view  of  promoting  his  hiterest,  Mr.  Ferguson  iea.-ed  to  him  the 
farm  of  Mount  Oliphant,  in  the  parish  of  Ayr  ;  consisting  of  upwards  of  seventy 
acres  (about  ninety,  English  Imperial  measure),  the  rent  of  which  was  to  be 
forty  pounds  annually  for  the  first  «is  years,  and  afterwards  forty-five  pounds/ 


6  MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Mr.  Ferguson  also  lent  liim  a  hundred  pounds  to  assist  in  stocking  the  farm,  to 
•which  he  removed  at  Whitsuntide,  1766;  But  this,  in  place  of  being  of  advan- 
tage to  William  Burnes,  as  it  was  intended  by  his  former  master,  was  the 
c6mmeueement  of  much  anxiety  and  distress  to  the  whole  family,  which  is 
forcibly  described  by  his  son,  Gilbert,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop: 

"  Mount  Oliphant,  the  farm  my  father  possessed  in  the  parish  of  Ayr,  is 
almost  the  very  poorest  soil  I  know  of  in  a  state  of  cultivation.  A  stronger 
proof  of  thisl  cannot  give,  than  that,  notwithstanding  the  extraordinary  rise 
in  the  value  of  lands  in  Scotland,  it  was,  after  a  considerable  sum  laid  out  in 
improving  it  by  the  proprietor,  let  a  few  years  ago  five  pounds  per  annum  lower 
than  the  rent  paid  for  it  by  my  father  thirty  years  ago.  My  father,  in  conse- 
quence of  this,  soon  came  into  difficulties,  which  were  increase  d  by  the  loss  of 
several  of  his  cattle  by  accidents  and  disease.  To  the  bufEetings  of  misfortune, 
we  could  only  oppose  hard  labour  and  the  most  rigid  economy.  We  lived  very 
sparingly.  For  several  years  butcher's  meat  was  a  stranger  in  the  house,  while 
all  the  members  of  the  family  exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  of  their 
strength,  and  rather  beyond  it,  in  the  labours  of  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  we  had  no  hired  servant,  male  or  female. 
The  anguish  of  mind  we  felt  at  our  tender  years,  under  these  straits  and  dif- 
ficulties, was  very  great.  To  think  of  our  father  growing  old  (for  he  was  now 
above  fifty)  broken  down  with  the  long-continued  fatigues  of  his  life,  with  a 
wife  and  five  other  children,  and  in  u.  declining  state  of  circumstances,  these 
reflections  produced  in  my  brother's  mind  and  mine  sensations  of  the  deepest 
distress.  1  doubt  not  but  the  hard  labour  ar^  sorrow  of  this  period  of  his  life, 
was  in  u  great  measure  the  cause  of  that  depression  of  spirits  with  which. 
Robert  was  so  often  afflicted  through  his  whole  life  afterwards.  At  this  time 
he  was  almost  constantly  afflicted  in  the  evenings  with  a  dull  headache,  which, 
at  a  future  period  of  his  life,  was  exchanged  for  a  palpitation  of  the  heart,  and. 
a  threatening  of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his  bed,  in  the  night-time. 

"  By  a  stipulation  in  my  father's  lease,  he  had  a  right  to  thi'ow  it  up,  if  lie 
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  Loch- 
lea,  of  130  acres,  at  the  rent  of  twenty  shillmgs  an  acre,  in  the  parish  of  Tar- 
holton,  of  Mr. ,  then  a  merchant  in  Ayr,  and  now  (1797)  a  mer- 
chant at  Liverpool.  He  removed  to  this  farm  at  Whitsuntide,  1777,  and  pos- 
sessed it  only  seven  years.  No  writing  had  ever  been  made  out  of  the  condi- 
tions of  the  lease  ;  a  misunderstanding  took  place  respecting  them  ;  the  sub- 
jects in  dispute  were  submitted  to  arbitration,  and  the  decision  involved  my 
father's  affairs  in  ruin.  He  lived  to  know  of  this  decision,  but  not  to  see  any 
execution  in  consequence  of  it.     He  died  on  the  13th  of  February,  1784" 

Of  this  frugal,  industrious,  and  good  man,  the  following  beautiful  character 
has  been  given  by  Mr.  Murdoch: — "He  was  a  tender  and  affectionate  father; 
he  took  pleasure  in  leading  his  children  in  the  path  of  virtue;  not  in  driving 
them  as  same  parents  do,  to  the  performance  of  ^uties  to  which  they  them, 
selves  are  averse.  He  took  care  to  find  fault  but  very  seldom;  and  therefore, 
when  he  did  rebuke,  he  was  listened  to  with  a  kind  of  reverential  awe.  A 
loo^of  disapprobation  was  felt;  a  reproof  was  severely  so;  and  a  stripe  with 
the  tews,  even  on  the  skirt  of  the  coat,  gave  heartfelt  pain,  produced  a  loud 
lamentation,  and  brought  forth  a  flood  of  tears. 

"He  had  the  art  of  gaining  the  esteem  and  good- will  of  those  that  were  la- 
bourers under  him.  1  think  I  never  saw  him  angry  but  twice:  the  one  time  it 
was  with  the  foreman  of  the  band,  for  not  reaping  the  field  as  he  was  desired, 
and  the  other  time  it  was  with  an  old  man,  for  using  smutty  iuuendoes  and 
double  entendres.     Were  every  foul-mouthed  old  man  to  receive  a  seasonable 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS; 


check  in  tliis  way,  it  ^ould'  be  to  the  advantage  of  th'o  rising  generation.  As 
he  was  at  no  time  overbearing  to  inferiors,  he  was  equally  incapable  of  that 
passive,  pitiful,  paltry  spirit,  tliat  induces  some  people  to  keep  booing  and  boo- 
ing in  the  presence  of  a  great  man.  He  always  treated  superiors  with  a  becom- 
ing respect;  but  he  never  gave  the  smallest  encouragement  to  aristoeratieal  arro? 
gance.  But  I  must  not  pretend  to  give  you  a  description  of  all  the  manly  quali- 
ties, the  rational  and  Christian  virtues,  of  the  venerable  William  Burnes.  Time 
would  fail  me.  1  shall  only  add,  that  ho  carefully  practised  every  known 
duty,  and  avoided  everything  that  was  criminal;  or,  in  the  ajjostle's  words,. 
'  Herein  did  he  exercise  himself,  in  living  a  life  void  of  ofEence  towards  Go(i 
and  towards  men.'  Oh  for  a  world  of  men  of  such  dispositions  !  We  shouldi 
then  have  no  ware.  I  have  often  wished,  for  the  good  of  mi^nkind,  that  it 
were  as  customary  to  honour  and  perpetuate  the  memory  of  those  who  excel  in 
moral  rectitude,  as  it  is  to  extol  what  are  called  heroic  actions:  then  would  the 
mausoleum  of  the  friend  of  my  youth  overtop  and  surpass  most  of  the  monu- 
ments 1.  see  in  Westminster  Abbey  !" 

Under  the  humble  roof  of  his  parents,  it  appears  indeed  that  our  poet  had 
great  advantages;  but  his  opportunities  of  information  at  school  were  more 
limited  as  to  time  than  they  usually  are  among  his  countrymen,  in  his  condi- 
tion 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  nutriment,  testify  at  once  the  extraordinary  force  and  activity 
of  ills  mind.  In  his  frame  of  body  he  rose  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches,  and  as- 
sumed the  proportions  that  indicate  agility  as  well  as  strength.  In  the  various 
labours  of  the  farm  he  excelled  all  his  competitors.  Gilbert  Burns  declares  that 
in  mowing,  the  exercise  that  ti'ies  all  the  milscles  most  severely;  Robert  was 
the  only  man  that,  at  the  end  of  a  summer's  day,  he  was  ever  obliged  to  ac- 
Icnowledge  as  his  master.  But  though  our  poet  gave  the  powers  of  his  body 
to  the  labours  of  the  farm,  he  refused  to  bestow  on  them  his  thoughts  or  his 
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  songs  of 
his  country,  musing  on  the  deeds  of  ancient  valour,  or  rapt  in  the  illusions  of 
Fancy,  as  her  enchantments  rose  on  his  view.  Happily  the  Sunday  is  yet  a 
sabbath,  on  which  man  and  beast  rest  from  their  labours.  On  this  day,  there- 
fore. Burns  could  indulge  in  a  freer  intercourse  with  the  charms  of  nature.  It 
was  his  delight  to  wander  alone  on  the  banks  of  Ayr,  whose  stream  is  now  immor- 
tal, and  to  listen  to  the  song  of  the  blackbird  at  the  close  of  the  summer's  day. 
But  still  greater  was  his  pleasure,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  in  walking  on  the 
sheltered  side  of  a  wood,  in  a  cloudy  winter  day,  and  hearing  the  storm  rave 
among  the  trees;  and  more  elevated  still  his  delight  to  ascend  some  eminence 
daring  the  agitations  of  nature,  to  stride  along  its  summit  while  the  lightning 
flashed  around  him,  and,  amidst  the  bowlings  of  the  tempest,  to  apostro- 
phize the  spirit  of  the  storm.  Such  situations  ho  declares  niost  favorable  to 
devotion— "  Rapt  in  enthusiasm,  I  seem  to  ascend  towards  Him  w7io  walks  on 
the  wingsvf  the  wind  !"  If  other  proofs  were  wanting  of  the  character  of  his 
genius,  this  might  determine  it.  The  heart  of  the  poet  is  peculiarly  awake  to 
every  impression  of  beauty  and  sublimity;  but,  with  the  higher  order  of  jjoets, 
the  beautiful  is  less  attractive  than  the  sublimfe. 

The  gayety  of  many  of  Burns'  .writings,  and  the  lively  and  even  cheerfdl 
colouring  with  which  he  has  pourtrayedhis  own  character,  may  lead  some  per- 
sons to  suppose,  that  the  melancholy  which  huag^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  his  own  and  of  hjs  brother's  testimony,  evidence  is  to  be 
found  among  his  papers  that  he  was  subject  very  early  to  those  depressions 
of  mind,  which  are  perhaps  not  wholly  separable  from  the  sensibility  of  gemus, 
but  which  in  him  rose  to  an  uncommon  degree. 


8  MEMOIR  t)F  ROBERT  BURNS. 

'  The  energy  of  Burns'  mind  was  not  exliaiisted  by  his  daily  labours,  tlie 
effusions  of  his  muse,  his  social  pltsasdres,  or  his  solitary  meditations.  Some 
time  previous  to  his  engagement  as  a  flax-dresser,  having  heard  that  a  debat- 
ing-club  had  been  established  in  Ayr,  he  resolved  to  try  kow  such  a  meeting 
■would  succeed  in  the  village  of  Tarbolton.  About  the  end  of  the  year  1780, 
our  poet,  his  brother,  and  five  other  young  peasants  of  the  neighbourhood, 
formed  themselves  into  a  society  of  this  sort,  the  declared  objects  of  which 
were  to  relax  themselves  after  toil,  to  promote  sociality  and  friendship,  and  to 
improve  the  mind.  The  laws  and  regulations  were  furnished  by  Burns.  The 
members  were  to  meet  after  the  labours  of  the  day  were  over,  once  a  week,  in 
a  small  public  house  an  the  village;  where  each  should  offer  his  opinion  on  a 
given  question  or  subject,  supporting  it  by  such  arguments  as  he  thought 
proper.  The  debate  was  to  be  conducted  with  order  and  decorum ;  and  after  it 
was  finished,  the  members  were  to  choose  a  subject  for  discussion  at  the  ensu- 
ing meetuig.  The  sum  expended  by  each  was  not  to  exceed  three-pence;  and, 
with  the  humble  potation  that  this  could  procure,  they  were  to  toast 
their  mistresses  and  to  cultivate  friendship  witli  each  other. 

After  the  family  of  our  bard  removed  from  TaTbolton  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  Mauchline,  he  and  his  brother  were  requested  to  assist  in  forming  a  similar 
institution  there.  The  regulations  of  the  club  at  Mauchline  were  nearly  the 
same  as  those  of  the  club  at  Tarbolton;  but  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  so  arising  should 
be  set  apart  for  the  purchase  of  books;  and  the  first  work  procured  in 
thifl  manner  was  the  Mirror,  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  Lounger: 

The  society  of  Mauchline  still  subsists,  and  was  in.  the  list  of  subscribers  to 
the  first  edition  of  the  works  of  its  celebrated  associate. 

Whether,  in  the  humble  societies  of  which  he  was  a  member,  Burns  acquir- 
ed much  direct  information,  may  perhaps  be  questioned.  It  cannot  however  be 
doubted,  that  by  collision  tlio  faculties  of  his  mind  would  be  excited,  that  by 
Jiractice  his  habits  of  enunciation  would  be  established,  and  thus  we  have  some 
explanation  of  that  early  command  of  words  and  of  expression  which  enabled 
him  to  pour  forth  his  thoughts  in  language  not  unworthy  of  his  genius,  and 
which,  of  all  his  endowments,  seemed,  on  his  appearance  jn  Edinburgh,  the 
most  extraordinary.  For  associations  of  u,  Jiteraiy  nature,  o|tr  poet  acquired  a 
considerable  relish;  and  happy  had  it  been  for  him,  after  he  toerged  from  the 
Condition  of  a  peasant,  if  fortune  had  permitted  him  to  enjoy  tljern  in 
the  degree  of  \Vhich  he  was  capable,  so  as  to  have  fortified  his' principles  of 
virtue  by  the  purification  of  his  taste,  and  given  to  the  energies  of  his  mind 
habits  of  exertion  that  might  have  excluded  other  associations,  in  which  it 
must  be  acknowledged  they  were  too  often  wasted,  as  well  as  debased. 

The  whole  course  of  the  Ayr  is  fine;  but  the  banks  of  that  river,  as  it  beUds 
to  the  eastward  above  Mauchline,  are  singularly  beautiful,  and  they  Were 
frequented,  as  may  be  imagined,  by  our  poet  in  his  solitary  walks.  Here  the 
muse  often  visited  him. 

At  this  time  Burns'  prospects  in  life  were  so  extremely  gloomy,  that  he  had 
decided  upon  going  out  to  Jamaica,  and  had  procured  the  situation  of  ovei-seer 
on  an  estate  belonging  to  Dr.  Douglas  ;  not,  however,  without  lamenting,  that 
want  of  patronage  should  force  him  to  think  of  a  project  ^o  repugnant  to  his 
feelings,  when  liis  ambition  aimed  at  no  higher  object  tlian  the  station  of  an 
exciseman  or  ganger  in  his  own  country.  But  the  situation  in  which  he  was 
now  placed  cannot  be  better  illusti-ated  than  by  introducing  the  letter  which  he 
wrote  to  Dr.  Moore,  giving  an  account  of  his  life  up  to  this  period.  As  it  was 
never  intended  to  seethe  light:  elegance,  or  perfect' correctness  of  composition. 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  9 

Will  not  be  expected.  These  however,  "will  be  compensated  by  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  our  poet,  as  lie  gives  the  incidents  of  his  life,  unfold  tjie  .peculiarities 
Bf  his  character-  with  all  the  careless  vigor  and  open  sincerity  of  his  mind. 

"Sir  :  Maucuiline,  2d  August,  1787. 

'  "  For  some  months  past  I  have  been  rambling  over  the  country  ;  but  I  am 
now  confined  with  some  lingering  complaints,  originating,  as'I'takc  it,  in  the 
stomach.  ^To  divert  my  spirits  a  little  in  this  miserable  fog  of  ennui,  I  hfive 
taken  a  whim  to  gvfe  you  a  history  of  myself .  My  name  has  made  some  little 
noise  in  this  country  ;  you  have  done  me  tlie  honour  to  interest  yourself  very 
warriily  in  my  behalf  ;  and  I  think  a  faithful  account  of  what  character  of 
a  man  I  am,  and  how  I  came  by  that  character,  may  perhaps  amuse  you  in  an 
idle  moment.  1  will  give  you  an  honest  nani'ative  ;  though!  know  it-  will  be 
often  at  my  own  expense  ; — for  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  have,  lilve  Solomon,  whose 
character,  except  in  the  tvifling  affair  of  wisdom,  I  sometimes  think  I  resemble 
— I  have,  1  say,  like  him,  '  turned  my  eyes  to  behold  madness  and  folly,'  and, 
like  him,  too  frequently  sh.alten  hand  with-  their  intoxicating  friendship.  *  ,  * 
*  After  you  have  perused  these  pages,.should  you.think  them  trifling  and 
impertinent,  I  only  beg  leave  t6  tell  you,  that  tlie  poor  author  wrote  them  un- 
der some  twitching  qualms  of  conscience,  .arising  from  a  suspicion  that  he 
was  doing  what  he' ought  not  to  do — a  predicament  he  has  more  than  once  been 

in  before.  

"  I  have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions  to  assume  that  character,  which 
the  pye-coated  guardians  of  escutclieous  call  a  Gentleman.  When  at  Edinbui^h 
last  winter,  I  got  acquainted  in.  the  Herald's  Office;  and  looking  through'  that 
granary  of  honours,  I  there  found  almost  every  name  in  the  kingdom;  Dut  for 
me, 

My  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 
Has  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood. 

Gules,  Purpure,  Argent,  &c.,  quite  disowned  me. 

"  My  father  was  of  the  north  of  Scotland,  the  son  of  a  farmer,  and  was 
thrown  by  early  misfortunes  on  the  world  at  large  ;  where,  after  many  years' 
Wanderings  and  sojouruings,  he  picked  up  a  pretty  large  quautity'ot  observa- 
tion and  experience,  to  which  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  my  pretensions  to  wis- 
dom. I  have  met  with  few  who  understood  .  men,  their  mamiers,  and  Uteir 
ways,  equal  to  him;  but  stubborn,  ungainly  integrity,  and  headlong,  ungovern- 
able irascibility,  ;ire  disqualifying  circumstances;  consequently,  I  was  born  a 
very  poor  man's  son.  For  tlie  first  sir  or  seven  years  of  my  life,  my  father 
was  gardener  to  a  worthy  gentleman  of  small  estate  in  tlie  neighborhood  of 
Ayr.  Had  he  continued  in  that  station,  I  must  have  marched  off  to  be  one  of 
the  little  underlings  about  a  farm  house  ;  but  it  was  liis  dearest  wish  and 
prayer  to  have  it  in  his  power  to  keep  his  children  under  his  own  eye  till  they 
could  discern  between  good  and  evil;  so,  with  the  assistance  of  his  generous 
master,  my  father  ventured  on  a  small  farm  oh  his  estate.  At  those  years  I 
was  by  no  meansafavonritewith  anybody.  I  was  a  good  deal  noted  for  a  re- 
tentive memory,  a  stubborn  sturdy  something  in  my  disposition,  and  an  enthu- 
siastic idiot  piety.  I  say  idiot  piety,  because  I  was  then  but  a  child.  Though 
it  cost  the  schoolmaster  some  thrashings,  I  made  an  excellent  English  scholar; 
and  by  the  time  I  was  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  I  was  a  critic  in  substantives, 
yerbs,  and  participles.  In  my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I  owed  much  to  an 
old  woman  who  re.sided  in  the  family,  remarkable  for  her  ignorance,  credulity, 
and  superstition.  She  had,  I  suppose,  the  largest  collection  in  the  country  of  tales 
and  songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  brownies,  witches,  warlocks, 
spunkies"  kelpies,  elf-candles,  deadlights,  wraiths,  .apparitions,  cantraips, 
giants,  enchanted- towers,  dragons,  and  other  trumpery.     This  cultivated  .the 


10  MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


latent  seeds  of  poetry  ;  but  had  so  strong  an  effect  on  my  imagination^  that  to 
this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I  sometimes  keep  a  sharp  look-out  in  sus- 
picious places  ;  and  though  nobody  can  be  more  skeptical  than  I  ana  in 
such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of  philosophy  to  shake  off  these  idl? 
terrors.  The  earliest  composition  that  I  recollect  taking  pleasure  in  was  I'lis 
Vision  ofMirza,  and  a  hymn  of  Addison's,  beginning  '  How  are  thy  servants 
blessed,  O  Lord  !'  I  particularly  remember  one  half-stanza,  which  was  music 
to  my  boyish  ear — 

For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave. 

I  met  with  these  pieces  in  Mason's  English  Collection,  one  of  my  school-books. 
The  two  first  books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which  gave  me  more  pleasure 
than  any  two  books  I  ever  read  since,  were,  Th^i  .Life  of  Ilaiuiibal,  and  The 
History  of  Sir  William  Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my  young  ideas  such  a  turn, 
that  I  used  to  strut  in  raptures  up  and  down  after  the. recruiting  drum  and  bag- 
pipe, and  wish  myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier  ;  while  the  story  of  W&llace 
potired  a  Scottish  prej  udice  into  my  veins,  which  will  boil  along  there  till  the 
llood-gates  of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest. 

"  Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was  putting  the  country  half  mad :  and 
I,  ambitious  of  shining  in  conversation  parties  on  Sundays,  between  sermons, 
at  funerals,  &c. ,  used  a  few  ye^irs  afterwards  to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so  much 
heat  and  indiscretion,  that  1  raised  a  hue-and-cry  of  heresy  against  me,  which 
has  not  ceased  to  this  hour. 

' '  My  vicinity  to  Ayr  was  of  some  advantage  to  me.  My  social  disposition, 
wjien  not  checked  by  some  modifications  of  spirited  pride,  was,  like  our  cate- 
chism definition  of  infinitude,  without  boimis  or  limits.  I  formed  several  con- 
nections with  other  yonkers  who  possessed  superior  advantages,  tlip  youhgling 
actors,  who  were  busy  in  the  rehearsal  of  parts  in  which  they  were  shortly  to 
appear  on  the  stage  of  life,  where,  alas  !  1  was  destined  to  drudge  behind  the 
scenes.  It  is  not  commonly  at  this  green  age  that  our  young  gentry  ha vo^  just 
sense  of  the  immense  distance  between  them  and  their  ragged  play-fellows.  It 
takes  a  few  dashes  into  the  world,  to  give  the  young  great  man  that  proper,  de- 
cent, unuoticing  disregard  for  the  poor,  insignificant,  stupid  devils,  the  me- 
chanics and  peasantry  around  him,  who  were  perhaps  born  in  the  same  village. 
My  young  superiors  never  insulted  the  clouterly  appearance  of  my  plough-boy 
carcase,  tlic  two  extremes  of  which  were  often  exposed  to  all  the  inclemencies 
of  all  the  seasons.  They  would  give  me  stray  volumes  of  books  :  among  them, 
even  then,  I  could  pick  up  some  observations  ;  and  one,  whose  heart  1  am  sure 
not  even  the  Muniiy  Begum  scenes  have  tainted,  helped  me  to  a  little  French. 
Parting  with  these  my  young  friends  and  benefactors,  as  they  occasionally 
went  off  for  the  East  or  West  Indies,  was  often  to  me  a  sore  affliction  ;  but  I 
was  soon  called  to  more  serious  evils.  My  father's  generous  master  died  ;  the 
farm  proved  a  ruinous  bargain  ;  and,  to  clench  the  misfortune,  wc  fell  into 
the  hands  of  a  factor,  who  sat  for  the  picture  I  have  drawn  of  one  in  my  Tale 
of  Two,  Dogs.  My  father  was  advanced  in  life  when  he  married  ;  I  was  the 
eldest  of  seven  children  ;  and  ho,  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  those  two  years,  we 
retrenched  our  expenses.  We  lived  very  poorly :  I  was  a  dexterous  plough- 
man for  my  age  ;  and  the  next  eldest  to  mo  was  a  brother  (Gilbert),  who  could 
drive  the  plough  very  well  and  help  me  to  thrash  the  corn.  A  novel-writer 
-might  perhaps  have  viewed  these  scenes  with  some  satisfaction  ;  but  so  did  not 

I  ;  my  indignation  yet  boils  at  the  recollection  of  the  s 1  factor's  insolent 

threatening  letters,  which  used  to  set  us  all  in  tears. 

"  This  kind  of  life— the  cheerless  gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  11 . 


of  a  galley-slave,  brought  me  to  my  sixteenlli  year  :  a  little  before  wliicli- 
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  the  harvest. 
In  my  fifteenth  autumn,  my  partner  was  a  bewitching  creature  a  year  younger, 
than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of  doing  her 
justice  in  that  language,  but  you  know  the  Scottisli  idiom  —  she  was  a 
bonnie,  sweet,  sonde  lass.  In  short,  she,  altogether  unwittingly  to  herself,  in- 
itiated me  into  that  delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment, 
gin-horse  prudence,  and  book- worm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  human 
joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here  below  I  How  she  caught  the  contagion,  I  cannot 
tell :  you  medical  people  talk  much  of  infection  from  breathing  the  same  air, 
the  touch,  &c.  ;  but  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved  her.  Indeed,  I  did  not  know 
myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her,  when  returning  in  the 
evening  from  our  labours  ;  why  the  tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart-strings 
thrill  like  an  .Stolian  harp  ;  and  particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  such  a  furious 
rattan  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  presumptuous  as  to  imagine  that  1  could  make 
verses  like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who  had  Greek  and  Latin  ;  but  my 
girl  sung  a  song,  which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a  small  country  laird's  son, 
on  one  of  Ills  father's  maids,  with  whom  he  was  in  love  1  and  I  saw  no  reason 
why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he :  for,  excepting  that  he  could  smear 
sheep,  and  cast  peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had  no  more 
school-craft  than  myself. 

"  Thus  with  me  "began  love  and  poetry  ;  which  at  times  have  been  my  only/- 
and  till  within  the  last  twelve  months,  have  been  my  highest  enjoyment.  My 
father  struggled  on  till  he  reached  the  freedom  in  his  lease,  when  he  entered-  on 
a  larger  farm,  about  ten  miles  farther  in  the  country.  The  nature  of  the  bar- 
gain he  made  was  such  as  to  throw  a  little  ready  money  into  his  hands  at  the 
commencement  of  his  lease  ;  otherwise  the  affair  would  have  been  impracti- 
cable. For  four  years  we  lived  comfortably  here  ;  but  a  difference  commencing 
between  him  and  his  landlord  as  to  terms,  after  three  years'  tossing  and  whirl- 
ing in  the  vortex  of  litigation,  my  father  w-as  just  saved  from  the  horrors  of  a 
jail  by  a  consumption,  which,  after  two  years'  promises,  kindly  stepped  in,  and 
carried  him  away,  to  '  where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  where  the 
weary  are  at  rest. ' 

"  It  is  during  the  time  that  we  lived  on  this  farm  that  my  little  story  is  most 
eventful.  I  was,  at  the  beginning  of  this  period,  perhaps  the  most  ungainly, 
awkward  boy  in  the  parish — no  solitaire  was  less  acquainted  with  the  ways  of 
the  world.  What  I  knew  of  ancient  story  was  gathered  from  Salmon's  and 
Guthrie's  geographical  grammars  ;  and  the  ideas  I  had  formed  of  modern  man- 
ners, of  literature  and  criticism,  I  got  from  the  Spectator.  These,  with  Pope's 
Works,  some  plays  of  Shakespeare,  TvU  and  Dickson  on  Agriculture,  The  Pan- 
theon] Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  Stackhouse's History  of  tJia 
Bible,  JusUce's  British  Gardener's  Directory,  Bayle's  Lectures,  Allan  Itamsay'^s 
Works,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine  of  Original  Sin,  A  Select  Collection  of  Eng- 
lish Song's,  aai.  Ilertey's  Meditations;  had  formed  the  whole  of  my  reading. 
The  collection  of  songs  was  my  vade  mecum.  I  pored  over  them  driving  my 
cart,  or  walking  to  labour,  song  by  song,  verse  by  verse  ;  carefully  noting  the 
true,  tender,  or  sublime,  from  affectation  and  fustian.  I  am  convinced  I  owe 
to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic  craft,  such  as  it  is. 

"  In  my  seventeenth  year,  to  give  my  manners  a  brush,  I  went  to  a  country 
dancing-school.— My  father  had  an  unaccountable  antipathy  against  these  meet- 
ings ;  and  my  going  was,  what  to  this  moment  I  repent,  in  opposition  to  his 
wishes.      My  fatTier,  as  I  said  before,  was  subject  to  strong  passions  ;   from 


13  MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


that  instance  of  disobedience  in  me,  lie  took  a  sort  of  a  dislike  to  me,  which  I 
helieve  was'  one  cause  of  the  dissipation  whifeh  nJaTked  my  succeeding  years. 
Isay  dissipation,  comparatively 'with  the  strictness,  and  sobriety,  and  regular- 
ity of  Presbyterian  country  life  ;  for  though  the  Will-o' -  Wisp  meteors  of 
thoughtless  whim  were  almost  the  sole  lights  of  my  path,  yet  early  ingrained 
piety  and  virtue  kept  me  for  several  years  afterwards  within  the  line  of  inno- 
cence. \  The  great  misfortune  of  my  life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I  had  felt  early 
some  stirrings  of  ambition,  but  they  were  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  Cyclops 
round  the  walls  of  his  cave.  I  saw  ray  father's  situation  entailed  on  me  per- 
petual 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  chicaning  bar- 
gain-making. The  first  is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  I  never  could  squeeze  my- 
self into  it  ;— the  last  I  always  hated — ^there  was  contamination  in  the  very  en- 
trance !  Thus  abandoned  of  aim  or  view  in  life,  with  a  strong  appetite  foi 
sociability,  as  well  from  native  hilarity,  as  from  a  pride  of  observatton  and  re- 
mark ;  a  con^ltutional  melancholy  or  hypochondriacism,  that  made  me  fly  soli- 
tude ;  add  to  these  incentives  to  social  life,  my  reputation  for  bookish  knowl- 
edge, a  certain  wild  logical  talent,  and  a  strength  of  thought,  something  like 
the  rudiments  of  good  sense;  and  it  will  not  seem  surprising  that  I  was  gener- 
ally a  welcome  guest,  where  I  visited,  or  any  great  Wonder  that,  always  where 
two  or  three  met  together,  there  I  was  among  them.  But  far  beyond  all  other 
impulses  of  my  heart,  was  un  penchant  d  Padorable  moitie  du  genre  Tiumain. 
My  heart  was  completely  tinder,  and  was  eternally  lighted  up  by.  some  goddess 
or  other;  and  as  in  every  other  warfare  in  this  world,  ray  fortune  was  various 
— sometimes  I  was  received  with  favour,  and  sometimes  I  was  niortified  with  a  re- 
pulse. At  the  plough,  scythe,  or  reap-hook,  I  feared  no  conipetitor,  and  thus  I 
set  absolute  want  at  defiance;  and  as  I  never  cared  farther  for  my  labours  than 
while  I  was  in  actual  exercise,  I  spent  the  evenings  in  the  way  after  my  own 
heart.  A  country  lad  seldom  carries  on  a  love-adventure  without  an  assisting 
confidant.  I  possessed  a  curiosity,  zeal,  and  intrepid  dexterity,  that  recom- 
mended 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  Tarbol- 
ton,  as  ever  did  statesman  in  knowing  the  Intrigues  of  half  the  courts  of  Eu- 
rope.— The  very  goose-feather  in  iny  hand  seems  to  know  instinctively  the 
well-worn  path  of  my  Imagination,  the  favourite  theme  of  my  song;  and  is 
with  diflBculty  restrained  from  giving  you  a  couple  of  paragraphs  on  tlie  love- 
adventures  of  my  compeers,  the  humble  inmates  of  the  farm-house  and  cottage; 
but  the  grave  sons  of  science,  ambition,  or  avarice,  baptize  these  things  by  the 
name  of  Follies.  To  the  sons  and  daughters  of  labour  and  poverty,  they  are 
matters  of  the  most  serious  nature  :  to  them  the  ardent  hope,  the  stolen  inter 
view,  the  tender  farewell,  are  the  greatest  and  most  delicious  parts  of  theii 
enjoyments. 

"Another  circumstance  in  my  life  which  made  some  alteration  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,  &c.,  in  which  I  made  a  pretty  good  progress.  But  I  made  a  greater 
progress  in  the  knowledge  of  mankind.  The  contraband  trade  was  at  that 
time  very  successful,  and  it  sometimes  happened  to  me  to  fall  in  ^*ith  those 
who  carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot  and  roaring  dissipation  were  till 
this  time  new  to  me  :  but  I  Was  no  enemy  to  social  "life.  Here,  though  1 
learnt  to  fill  my  glass'  and  to  mix  without  fear  in  a  drunken  squabble,  vet  1 
went  on  with  a  high  hand  with  my  geometry,  till  the  sun  entered  'V'irgo  a 
month  which  is  always  a  carnival  in  my  bosom,  when  a'  charming  fUette,  who 
lived  next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my  trigonometry,  and  sent  me  off  at  a 
tangent  f rota  the  sphere  of  my  studies.      I",  however.  Struggled  on  with  mj 


MEMOm  OF  ROBERT  BURSk  13 

— — ^ — ■ — 

sines  and  co-dnes  for  a  few  days  more  ;  but  stepping"  into  the  gardea  ono  cliarlu- 
mg  noon  to  take  the  sun's  altitude,  there  1  met  my  angel,  . 

Like  Proserpine  gatliering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  now.er. 

"  It  was  in  vain, to  thlnlv.  of  doing,  any  moro  good  at  school.  The  remaining 
week  I  staid,  I  did  nothing  but  craza  the  faculties,  of  my  soul  about  her,  pr 
steal  out  to  meet  her  ;  and  the  two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in  the  country,  had 
sleep  been  a  mortal  sin,  the  imago  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  human  nature  in  a  new  phasis  :  and  I  engaged  several  of  my  school-fel- 
lows to  keep  up  a  literary  corresiJOndence  with  me.  This  improved  me  in  conir 
position.  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  ol:  my  own 
letters  that  pleased  me  ;  and  a  coinparison  between  them  and  the  compositiou 
of  most  of  my  correspondents  flattered  my  vanity.  I  carried  this  whim  go  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  plodding  sp.a 
of  a,  day-book  and  ledger. 

"My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same  course  till  my  twenty-third  year. 
Vivi6  i'amour,  et  vive  la  bagatelle,  were  my  sole  principles  of  action.  The  addi- 
tion of  two  more  authors  to  my  library  gave  me  great  pleasure ;  Sterne 
and  M'Kenzie — I'Hstram  Shandy  and  IVte  Man  of  Feeling — were  my  bosoni 
favourites.  Poesy  was  still  a  darling  walk  for  my  mind  :,  but  it  was  only  in- 
dulged in  according  to  the  hamour  of  the  hoijr.  I  had  usua,lly  half  a  dozen  or 
more  pieces  in  hand  ;  I  took  up  one  or .  the  other,  as  it  suited  the  momentary 
toiie  of  the  mind,  and  dismissed  the,  work  as  it  bordered  on  fatigue._  My  pas- 
sions, when  once  lighted  up,,  raged  like  so  many  devils  till  they  got  vent  in 
rhyme;  and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses,  liks  a  spell,  soothed  all  intQ 
quiet.  None  of  the  rhymes  of  those  days  are  in  print,  except,  Winter,  a  Dirge, 
the  eldest  of  my  printed  pieces  ;  The  Death  of  Poor  MaiUe,  -John  Darlej/cQrn, 
and  songs,  first,  second,  and  third.  Song  second  was  the  ebullition  of  that 
passion  which  ended  the  f  orementioned  school  business. 

"  My  twenty-third  year  was  to  me  an  important  era.  Partly  through  wliitn, 
and  partly  that  1  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  uiUucky 
affair.  My  *****  ^  *;  and,  to  finish  the  whole,  as  we  were  giyiuga  welcom- 
ing carousal  to  the  new  year,  the  shop  took  fire,  and  burnt  to  ashesj  and  I  was 
left,  like  a  true  poet,  not  worth  a  sixpence. 

"I  was  obliged  to  give  up  this  scheme;  the  clouds  of  misfortune  were 
"■athering  thick  round  my  father's  head;  and  what  was  worst  of  all,  he  was 
visibly  far  gon'e  in  a  consumption;  and,  to  crown  my  distresses,  a  belle  fiUe 
whom  I  adored,  and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet  me  in  the  field 
of  matrimony,  jilted  me  with  peculiar  circumstances  of  mortification,  fhe 
finishing  evil  that  brought  up  the  rear  of  this  infernal  file  was,  my  constitu- 
tional melancholy  being  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that  for  three  months. I  was 
M'  a  state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be  envied  by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  haye  got 
Sieir  mittimus — Depa/rtfrom  me,  ye  accursed! 

,  "  Froni.this  adventure,  I  learned  something  of  a  town  life;  but  the; principal 
thing  which  gave  my  mind  a  turn  was  a  friendship  I  formed  with  a  youug 
fellow,  a  very  noble  character,  but  a  hapless  son  of  misfortune.  He  was  a  son 
of  a  simple  mechanic;  but  a  great  man  in  the  neighbourhood  taking  him  under 
bis  patronage,  gave  him  a  genteel    education,   with    a   view  of  bettering 


14  ,  MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS: 

Ills  situation  in  life.  The  patron  dying  just  as  lie  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,  he  had  been 
set  ashore  by  an  American  privateer,  on  the  wild  coast  of  Connaugbt,  stripped 
of  everything.  I  cannot  quit  this  poor  fellow's  story  without  adding,  that  he 
is  at  this  time  m£:ster  of  a  large  West-Indiaman,  belopging  to  the  Thames. 

"  His  mind  was  fraught  with  independence,  magnanimity,  and  every  manly 
virtue.  I  loved  and  admired  him  to  a  degree  of  enthusiasm,  and  of  course 
strove  to  imitate  him.  In  some  measure  I  succeeded;  1  had  pride  before,  but 
lie  taught  it  to  How  in  proper  channels.  His  knowledge  of  the  world  was 
vastly  superior  to  mine,  and  I  was  all  attention  to  learn.  He  was  the  only  man 
I  ever  saw  who  was  a  greater  fool  than  myself,  where  woman  was  the  presid- 
ing star;  but  he  spoke  of  illicit  love  with  the  levity  of  a  sailor,  which  hitherto 
I  had  regarded  with  horror.  Here  his  friendship  did  me  a  mischief,  and  the 
consequence  was,  that  soon  after  I  resume'd  the  plough,  I  wrote  the  Poet's 
Welcome.*  My  reading  only  increased,  while  in  this  town,  by  two  stray 
volumes  of  Pamela,  and  one  of  Ferdinand  (Jount  Fathmn,  which  gave 
me  some  idea  of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some  religious  pieces  that  are  in  piint, 
I  had  given  up;  but  meeting  with  Fei'gusson's  Scottish  Po«»««,  I  strung  anew 
my  wildly-sounding  lyre  with  emulating  vigour.  When  my  father  died,  his  all 
went  among  the  hell-hounds  that  growl  in  the  kennel  of  justice;  but  we  made 
a  shift  to  collect  a  little  money  in  the  family  among  us,  with  which,  to  keep  us 
together,  my  brother  and  I  took  a  neighbouring  farm.  My  brother  wanted  my 
hair-brained  imagination,  as  well  as  my  social  and  amorous  madness;  but,  in 
good  sense,  and  every  sober  qualification,  he  was  far  my  superior. 

"  I  entered  on  this  farm  with  a  full  resolution,  '  Come,  go  to,  I  will  be  wise!' 
I  read  farming  books ;  I  calculated  crops;  I  attended  markets:  and,  in  short,  in 
spite  of  'the  devil,  and  the  world,  and  the  flesh,'  I  believe  I  should  have  been 
a  wise  man;  but  the  first  year,  from  unfortunately  buying  bad  seed, — 
the  second,  from  a  late  harvest, — we  lost  half  our  crops.  This  overset  all  my 
wisdom,  and  I  returned,  '  like  the  dog  to  his  vomit,  and  the  sow  that 
Was  washed  to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire.' 

' '  I  now  began  to  be  known  in  the  neighbourhood  as  a  maker  of  rhymes.  The 
first  of  my  poetic  offspring  that  saw  the  light  was  a  burlesque  lamentation  on  a 
quarrel  between  two  reverend  Calvinists,  both  of  them  dramatis  perionm  in  my 
Jloly  Fair.  1  had  a  notion  myself,  that  the  piece  had  some  merit;  but 
to  prevent  the  worst,  I  gave  a  copy  of  it  to  a  friend  who  was  very  fond  of  such 
things,  and  told  him  that  I  could  not  guess  who  was  the  author  of  it,  but  that 
I  thought  it  pretty  clever.  With  a  certain  description  of  the  clergy,  as  well  as 
laity,  it  met  with  u,  roar  of  applause.  Hoi}/  Willie's  Prayer  next  made  its 
appearance,  and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that  they  held  several  meet- 
ings to  look  over  their  spiritual  artillery,  if  haply  any  of  it  might  be  pointed 
against  profane  rhymers.  Unluckily  for  me,  my  wanderings  led  me  on  another 
side,  within  point-blank  shot  of  their  heaviest  metal.  This  is  the  unfortunate 
story  that  gave  rise  to  my  printed  poem  2'lie  Lament.  This  was  a  most  melan- 
choly 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,^n  truth,  it  was  only  nominally  mine, — and  made 
what  little  preparation  was  in  my  power  for  Jamaica.  But,  before  leaving  my 
native  country  forever,  I  resolved  to  publish  my  poems.  I  weighed  my  pro- 
ductions'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  victim  to  that 

*  Rob  .the  Rhymer's  Welcome  to  his  Bastard  Child. 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS;  15 

Inhospitable  clime,  and  gone  to  tlie  world  of  spirits  !  I  can  truly  say,  that 
pauiire  incormu  as  I  then  was,  I  had  pretty  nearly  as  high  an  idea  of  myself 
and  my  works  as  I  have  at  this  moment,  when  the  public  has  decided  in  their 
favour.  It  ever  was  my  opinion,  that  the  mistakes  and  blunders,  both  in  a 
rational  and  religious  point  of  view,  of  which  we  see  thousands  daily  guilty, 
axe  owing  to  their  ignorance  of  themselves. — To  know  myself  has  been 
all  along  my  constant  study.  I  weighed  myself  alone;  I  balanced  myself  with 
Dthers;  I  watched  every  means  of  information,  to -see  how  much  ground  1  occur 
pied  a»  a  man  and  as  a  poet:  I  studied  assiduously  Nature's  design  in  my  form- 
ation— where  the  lights  and  shades  in  my  character  were  intended.  I  was  pretty 
confident  my  poems  would  meet  with  some  applause;  but,  at  the  worst,  the 
roar  of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen  the  voice  of  censure,  and  the  novelty  of  West 
Indian  scenes  make  me  forget  neglect.  I  threw  off  six  hundred  copies,  of 
which  I  had  got  subscriptions  for  about  three  hundred  and  fifty. — My  vanity 
was  highly  gratified  by  the  reception  I  met  with  from  the  public;  and  besides, 
I  pocketed,  all  expenses  deducted,  nearly  twenty  pounds.  This  sum  came  very 
seasonably,  as  I  was  thinking  of  indenting  myself ,  for  want  of  money  to  pro- 
cure my  passage.  As  soon  as  I  was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of 
wafting  nie.to  the  torrid  zone,  I  took  a  steerage  passage  in  the  first  ship  that 
•was  to  sail  from  the  Clyde;  for 

Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind. 

"  I  Iiad  been  for  some  days  skulking  from  covert  to  covert,  under  all  tlie  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  last  farewell  of  my  friends  ;  my  chest 
was  on  the  road  to  Greenock  ;  1  had  composed  the  last  song  I  should  ever 
measure  in  Caledonia,  '  The  gloomy  night  was  gathering  fast,'  when  a  letter 
from  Dr.  Blacklock,  to  a  friend  of  mine,  overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by  open- 
ing 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  somuch, 
that  awayl  posted  for  that  city,  without  a  single  acquaintance,-  or  a  single 
letter  of  introduction.  The  baneful  star,  that  had  so  longshed  its  blasting 
influence  in  my  zenith,  for  once  made  a,  revolution  to  the  Nadir  ;  and  a  kind 
Providence  placed  me  under  the  patronage  of  one  of  the  noblest  of  men,  the 
Earl  of  Glencairn.     Oublie  mm,  Omnd  Dieu,  gi  jamais  je  I'oublie  ! 

"  I  need  relate  no  farther.  At  Edinburgh  I  was  in  a  new  world  ;  I  mingled 
among  many  classes  of  men,  but  all  of  them  new  to  me,  and  I  was  all  attention 
to  catch  the  characters  and  '  the  manners  living  as  they  rise.'  Whether  I  have 
profited,  time  will  show." 

Burns  set  out  for  Edinburgh  in  the  month  of  November,  1786,  and  ar- 
rived on  the  second  day  afterwards,  having  performed  his  journey  on  foot. 
He  was  furnished  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Dr.  Blacklock  from  Mr. 
Laurie,  to  whom  the  Doctor  had  addressed  the  letter  which  has  been  repre- 
sented as  the  immediate  cause  of  his  visiting  the  Scottish  metropolis.  He  was 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  Univer- 
sity, and  had  been  entertained  by  that  gentleman  at  Catrine,  his  estate  in  Ayr- 
shire. He  had  been  introduced  by  Mr.  Alexander  Dalzel  to  the  Earl  of  Glen- 
cairn, who  had  expressed  his  liigh  approbation  of  his  poetical  talents.  He  had 
friends,  therefore,  who  could  introduce  him  into  the  circles  of  literature,  as 
well  as  of  fashion,  and  his  own  manners  and  appearance  exceeding  every  ex- 
pectation that  could  have  been  formed  of  them,  he  soon  became  an  object  of 
general  curiosity  and  admiration. 

The  scene  that  opened  on  our  bard  in  Edinburgh  was  altogether  new,  and  in 
a  variety  of  other  respects  highly  interesting,  especially  to  one  of  his  disposi, 
tion  of  mind.     To  use  an  expression  of  his  own  he  found  himself  "suddenly 


16  MEMOIB  OF  ROBERT  BURNS: 

translated  from  the  veriest  shades  of  life,"  into  the  presence,  and  indeed  int8 
the  society,  of  a  number  of  persons,  previously  known  to  him  by  report  as  of 
the  highest  distinction  in  his  country,  and  whose  characters  it  was  natural 
for  him  to  examine  with  no  common  curiosity. 

From  the  men  of  letters  in  general,  his  reception  was  particularly  flattering. 

A  taste  for  letters  is  not  always  conjoined  with  habits  of  temperance  and 
regularity;  and  Edinburgh,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  contained  perhaps 
an  uncommon  proportion  of  men  of  considerable  talents,  devoted  to  social  exr 
cesses,  in  whieli  their  talents  were  wasted  and  debased. 

Burns  entered  into  .several  parties  of  this  description,  with  the  usual  vehe: 
mence  of  his  character.  His  generous  affections,  his  ardent  eloquence,  his 
brilliant  and  daring  i'toagination,  fitted  him  to  be  the  idol  of  such  associations  ; 
and  accustoming  himself  to  conversation  of  unlimited  range,  and  to  festive  in- 
dulgences that  scorned  restraint,  he  gradually  lost  some  portion  of  his  relish 
for  the  more  pure,  but  less  poignant  pleasures,  to  be  found  in  the  circles  of 
taste,  elegance  and  literature.  The  sudden  alteration  in  liis  habits  of  life  op- 
erated on  him  physically  as  well  as  morally.  The  humble  fare  of  an  Ayrshire 
peasant  he  had  exchanged  for  the  luxuries  of  the  Scottish  metropolis,  and  the 
effects  of  this  jjhajige  on  his  ardent  constitution  could  not  be  inconsiderable. 
But  wliatever  influence  might  be  produced  on  his  conduct,  his  excellent  under.' 
standing  suffered  no  correspojading  debasement.  He  estimated  his  friends  and 
associates  of  every  description  at  their  proper  value,  and  appreciated  his  own 
conduct  with  a  precision  that  might  give  scope  to  much  curious  and  melan- 
choly reflection.  He  saw  his  danger,  and  at  times  formed  resolutions  to 'guard 
against  it;  but  he  had  embarked  on  the  tide  of  dissipation,  and  was  borne 
along  its  stream. 

By  the  new  edition  of  his  poems.  Burns  acquired  a  sum  of  money  that  en- 
abled him  not  only  to  partake  of  the  pleasures  of  Edinburgh,  but  to  gratify  a 
desire  he  had  long  entertained,  of  visiting,  those  parts,  pf  his  native  country 
most  attractive  by  their  beauty  or  their  grandeur;  a  desire  which  the  return  of 
summer  naturally  revived.  The  scenery  of  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  and  of  its 
tributary  streams,  strongly  interested  his  fancy;  and,  accordingly,  he  left 
Edinburgh  on  the  6th  of  May,  1787,  on  a  tour  through  a  country  so  much  cele- 
brated in  the  rural  songs  of  Scotland.  He  travelled  on  horseback,  and  was 
accompanied,  during  some  part  of  his  journey,  by  Mr.  Ainslie,  writer  to  the 
signet,  a  gentleman  who  enjoyed  rriuch  of  his  friendship  and  his  confidence. 

Having  spent  three  weelis  in  exploring  tl^  interesting  scenery  of  the  Tweed, 
the  Jed,  the  Teviot,  and  other  border  distriSs,  Burns  crossed  over  into  Nortli- 
umberland.  Mr.  Kerr  and  Mr.  Hood,  two  gentlemen  with  whom  he  had 
become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  tour,  accompanied  him.  He  visited 
Alnwick  Castle,  the  princely  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Northumberland  ;  the  hermit- 
age and  old  castle  of  Warksworth  ;  Morpeth,  and  Newcastle.  In  this  town  he 
spent  two  days,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  southwest  by  Hexham  and  Wardrue, 
to  Carlisle.  After  spending  a  day  at  Carlisle  with  his  friend  Mr.  Mitchell,  he 
returned  into  Scotland  by  way  of  Annan. 

Of  the  various  persons  with  whom  he  became  acquainted  in  the  course  of 
this  journey,  he  has,  in  general,  given  some  account,  and  almost  always  a 
favourable  one.  From  Annan,  Burns  proceeded  to  Dumfries,  and  thence 
through  Sanquhar,  to  Mossgiel,  near  Mauchline,  in  Ayrshire,  where  he  arrived 
about  the  8th  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  estimation,  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  remained  with  them  a  few  days,  he  proceeded  again  to  Edinburgh, 
and  immediately  set  out  on  a  journey  to  the  Highlands. 


MEMOIR. OP  ROBERT  BURNS.  1? 

From  tills  journey.  Burns  returned  to  his  friends  in  Ayrshire,  with  whom  he 
spent  the  month  of  July,  renewing  his  friendiships,  and  extending  his  acquaintT 
jihce  throughout  the  county,  where '  he  was  now  very  generally  linovvn  a,nd 
admired.  In  August  he  again  visited  Edinburgh,  whence  he  undertook 
another  journey,  towards  the  middle  of  this  mouth,  in  company  with  Mr.  M. 
Adair,  afterwards  Dr. 'Adair,  of  Harrowgate. 

.  The  difEerent  journeys  already  mentioned  did  not  satisfy  the  curiosity  of 
Burns.  About  the  beginning  of  September  ho  again  set  out  from  Edinburgh, 
on  a  more  extended  tour  to  the  Highlands,  in  company  with  Mr.  Nicol,  with 
whom  he  had  contracted  a  particular  intimacy,  which  lasted  during  the  remain- 
der of  his  life.  Mr.  Nicol  was  of  Dumfriesshire,  of  a  descent  equally  hnmblo 
with  our  poet.  Like  him  he  rose  by  the  strength  of  his  talents,  and  fell  by  the 
strength  of  his  passions.  He  died  in  the  summer  of  1797.  ILaving  received 
the  elements  of  a  classical  instruction  at  his  parish  school,  Mr.  Nicol  made  a 
very  rapid  and  singular  proficiency  ;  and  by  early  undertaldng  the  office  of  au 
instructor  himself,  he  acquired  the  means  of  entering  himself  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  There  he  was  first  a  student  of  theology,  then  a  student  of 
medicine,  and  was  afterwards  employed  in  the  assistance  and  instruction  of 
graduates  in  medicinCj  in  those  parts  of  their  exercises  in  which  the  Latin  lan- 
guage is  employed.  In  this  situation  he  was  the  contemporary  and  rival  p£ 
the  celebrated  Dr.  Brown,  whom  he  resembled  in  the  particulars  of  his-history, 
as  well  as  in  the  leading  features  of  his  character.  The  office  of  assistant-, 
teacher  in  the  High-School  being  vacant,  it  was  as  usual  filled  up  by  compe- 
tition ;  and  in  the  face  of  some  prejudices,  and  perhaps  of  some  well-founded 
objections,  Mr.  Nicol,  by  superior  learning,  carried  it  from  all  the  other  candi- 
dates.    This  office  he  filled  at  the  period  of  which  we  spealc 

Mr.  Nicol  and  our  poet  travelled  in  a  post-chaise,  which  they  engaged  foe 
the  journey,  and  passing. thi^ough  the  heart  of  the  Highlands,  stretched  north- 
wards about  ten  miles  beyond  Inverness.  There  they  bent  their  course  east- 
ward, across  the  island,  and  returned  by  the  shore  of  the  German  Sea  to  Edin- 
bui^gh.  lu  the  course  of  this  tour,  they  visited  a  number  of  remarkable 
scenes,  and  the  imagination  of  Burns  was  constantly  excited  by  the  wild-  and 
sublime  scenery  through  which  he  passed.  ■ 

A  few  days  after  leaving  Blair  of  Atholfe,  our  poet  and  his  fellow-travellers 
arrived  at  Fochabers.  In  the  course  of  the  preceding  winter  Burns  had  been 
introduced  to  the  Duchess  of  Gordon  at  Edinburgh,  and  presuming  on  thi^ 
acquaintance,  he  proceeded  to  Gordon  Castle,  leaving  Mr.  Nicol  at  the  inn  in 
tlie  village.  At  the  castle  our  poet  was  received  with  the  utmost  hospitality 
and  kindness,  and  the  family  being  about  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  he  was  invited 
to  take  his  place  at  the  table,  as  a  matter  of  course.  This  invitation  he  accepted, 
and  after  drinking  a  few  glasses  of  wine,  he  rose  up,  and  proposed  to  with- 
draw. On  being  pressed  to  stay,  he  mentioned,  for  the  first  time,  his  engage- 
ment with  his  fellow-traveller;  and  liis  noble  host  offering  to  send  a  servant  to 
conduct  Mr.  Nicol  to  the  castle.  Burns  insisted  on  undertaking  that  office  him- 
self. He  was,  however,  accompanied  by  a  gentleman,  a  particular  acquaint- 
ance of  the  Duke,  by  whom  the  invitation  was  delivered  in  all  the  forms  of 
politeness.  Tlie  invitation,  however,  came  too  late;  the  pride  of  Nicol  was 
inflamed  to  the  highest  degree  by- the' neglect  which  he  had  already  suffered. 
He  had  ordered  the  horses  to  be  put  to  the  carriage,  })eing  determined  to  pro- 
ceed on  his  journey  alone;  aiid  they  found  him  parading  the  streets  of  Focha- 
bers, bfefore  the  door  of  the  inn,  venting-  his  anger  on  the  postillion,  for  the 
slowness  with  which  be  obeyed  his  commands.  As  no  explanation  nor  en- 
treaty could  change  the  purpose  of  his  fellow-traveller,  our  poet  was  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  separating  from  him  entirely,  or  of  instantly  proceeding 
with  him  on  their  journey.  He  chose  the  last  of  these  alternatives;  and  seat- 
ing himself  hegide  Nicol  in  the  post-chaise,  with  mortification  and  regret  ha 


16  MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS: 

translated  from  the  veriestsliades  of  life,"  into  tke  presence,  and  indeed  iute 
tlie  society,  of  a  number  of  persons,  previously  known  to  him  by  report  as  of 
the  highest  distinction  in  his  country,  and  whose  characters  it  was  natura]. 
for  him  to  examine  with  no  common  curiosity. 
From  the  men  of  letters  in  general,  his  reception  was  particularly  flattering. 
A  taste  for  letters  is  not  always  conjoined  with  habits  of  temperance  and 
regularity;  and  Edinburgh,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  contained  perhaps 
an  uncommon  proportion  of  men  of  considerable  talents,  devoted  to  social  ex^ 
cesses,  in  whicli  their  talents  were  wasted  and  debased. 

Burns  entered  into  .several  parties  of  this  description,  virith  the  usual  vehe; 
mence  of  his  character.  His  generous  ailections,  his  ardent  eloquence,  his 
brilliant  and  daring  iYuagination,  fitted  him  to  be  the  idol  of  such  associations  ; 
and  accustoming  himself  to  conversation  of  unlimited  range,  and  to  festive  in- 
dulgences that  scorned  restraint,  he  gradually  lost  some  portion  of  his  relish 
for  the  more  pure,  but  less  poignant  pleasures,  to  be  found  in  the  circles  of 
taste,  elegance  and  literature.  The  sudden  alteration  in  his  habits  of  life  op- 
erated on  him  physically  as  well  as  morally.  The  humble  fare  of  an  Ayrshire 
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  wliatever  influence  might  be  produced  on  his  conduct,  his  .excellent  under- 
standing suffered  no  correspoading  debasement.  He  estimated  his  friends  and 
associates  of  every  description  at  their  proper  value,  and  appreciated  his  own 
conduct  with  a  precision  that  might  give  scope  to  much  curious  and  melan- 
choly reflection.  He  saw  his  danger,  and  at  times  formed  resolutions  to 'guard 
against  it;  but  he  had  embarked  on  the  tide  of  dissipation,  and  was  borne 
along  its  streanu 

By  the  new  edition  of  his  poems.  Burns  acquired  a  sum  of  money  that  en- 
abled him  not  only  to  partake  of  the  pleasures  of  Edinburgh,  but  to  gratify  a 
desire  he  had  long  entertained,  of  visiting,  those  parts,  of  his  native  country 
most  attractive  by  their  beauty  or  their  grandeur:  a  desire  which  the  return  of 
summer  naturally  revived.  The  scenery  of  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  and  of  its 
tributary  streams,  strongly  interested  his  fancyj  and,  accordingly,  he  left 
Edinburgh  on  the  6th  of  May,  1787,  on  a  tour  through  a  country  so  much  cele- 
brated in  the  rural  songs  of  Scotland.  He  travelled  on  horseback,  and  was 
accompanied,  during  some  part  of  his  journey,  by  Mr.  Ainslie,  writer  to  the 
signet,  a  gentleman  who  enjoyed  much  of  his  friendship  and  his  confidence. 

Having  spent  three  weeks  in  exploring  the  interesting  scenery  of  the  Tweed, 
the  Jed,  the  Teviot,  and  other  border  districts,  Bums  crossed  over  into  North- 
umberland. Mr.  Kerr  and  Mr.  Hood,  two  gentlemen  with  whom  he  had 
become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  tour,  accompanied  him.  He  visited 
Alnwick  Castle,  the  princely  seat  of  the  Dukeof  Northumberland  ;  the  hermit- 
age and  old  castle  of  Warksworth  ;  Morpeth,  and  Newcastle.  In  this  totvnlie 
spent  two  days,  and  then  proceeded  to  the  southwest  by  Hexham  and  Wardrue, 
to  Carlisle.  After  spending  a  day  at  Carlisle  with  his  friend  Mr.  Mitchell,  he 
returned  into  Scotland  by  way  of  Annan. 

Of  the  various  persons  with  -whom  he  became  acquainted  in  the  course  of 
this  journey,  he  has,  in  general,  given  some  account,  and  almost  always  a 
favourable  one.  From  Annan, '  Bums  proceeded  to  Dumfries,  and  thence 
through  Sanquhar,  to  Mossgiel,  near  Mauchline,  in  Ayrshire,  where  he  arrived 
about  the  8th  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  iu  public  estinja,tion,  and 
easy  in  his  circumstances.  He  returned  to  them  unchanged  in  his  ardent 
affections,  and  ready  to  share  vrith  them,  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  the  pittance 
that  fortune  had  bestowed. 

Having  remained  with  them  a  few  days,  he  proceeded  again  to  Edinburgh, 
and  immediately  set  out  on  a  journey  to  the  Highlands. 


MEMOIR. OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  17 

From  this  journey  Bums  returned  to  liis  friends  in  Ayrshire,  witli  whom  he 
spent  the  month  of  July,  renewing  his  friendships,  and  extending  liis  acquaintv 
p.nce  throughout  the  county,  where  he  was  now  very  generally  known  and 
admired.  In  August  he  again  visited  Edinburgli,  whence  he  undertook 
another  journey,  towards  the  middle  of  this  month,  in  company  with  Mr.  M. 
Adair,  afterwards  Dr.  'Adair,  of  Harrowgate. 

.  The  different  journeys  already  mentioned  did  not  satisfy  the  curiosity,  of 
Burns.  About  the  beginning  of  September  he  again  set  out  from  Edinburgh, 
on  a  more  extended  tour  to  the  Highlands,  in  company  with  Mr.  Nicol,  with 
whom  he  had  contracted  a  particular  intimacy,  which  lasted  during  the  remain- 
der of  his  life.  Mr.  Nicol  was  of  Dumfriesshire,  of  a  descent  equally  humble 
with  our  poet.  Like  him  he  rose  by  the  strength  of  his  talents,  and  fell  by  the 
strength  of  his  passions.  He  died  in  the  summer  of  1797.  Having  received 
the  elements  of  a  classical  instruction  at  his  parish  school,  Mr.  Nicol  made  a 
very  rapid  and  singular  proficiency  ;  and  by  early  undertaldng  the  office  of  au 
instructor  himself,  he  acquired  the  means  of  entering  himself  at  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  There  he  was  first  a  student  of  theology,  then  a  student  of 
medicine,  and  was  afterwards  employed  in  the  assistance  and  instruction  of 
graduates  in  medicine;  in  those  parts  of  their  exercises  in  which  the  Latin  lan- 
guage is  employed.  In  this  situation  he  was  the  contemporary  and  rival  of 
the  celebrated  Dr.  Brown,  whom  he  resembled  in  the  particulars  of  his  history, 
as  well  as  in  the  leading  features  of  his  character.  The  office-  of  assistant-, 
teacher  in  the  High-School  being  vacant,  it  was  as  usual  filled  up  by  compe- 
tition ;  and  in  the  face  of  some  prejudices,  and  perhaps  of  some  well-founded 
objections,  Mr.  Nicol,  by  superior  learning,  carried  it  from  all  the  other  candi- 
dates.    This  office  he  filled  at  the  period  of  which  we  spealc 

Mr.  Nicol  and  our  poet  travelled  in  a,  post-chaise,  which  they  engaged  for 
the  journey,  and  passing.thi^ough  the  heart  of  the  Highlands,  stretched  north- 
wards about  ten  miles  beyond  Inverness.  There  they  bent  their  course  east- 
ward, across  the  island,  and  returned  by  the  shore  of  the  German  Sea  to  Edin- 
burgh, lu  the  course  of  this  tour,  they  visited  a  number  of  remaricable 
scenes,  and  the  imagination  of  Burns  was  constantly  excited  by  the  wild  and 
sublime  scenery  through  which  he  passed.  • 

A  few  days  after  leaving  Blair  of  Athole,  our  poet  and  his  fellow-traveller 
arrived  at  Fochabers.  In  the  course  of  the  preceding' winter  Burns  had  been 
introduced  to  the  Duchess  of  Gordon  at  Edinburgh,  and  presuming  on  this 
acquaintance,  he  proceeded  to  Gordon  Castle,  leaving  Mr.  Nicol  at  the  inn  in 
the  village.  At  the  castle  our  poet  was  rieceived  with  the  utmost  hospitality 
and  kindness,  and  the  family  being  about  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  he  was  invited 
to  take  his  place  at  the  table,  as  a  matter  of  course.  This  invitation  he  accepted, 
and  after  drinking  a  few  glasses  of  wine,  he  rose  up,  and  proposed  to  with- 
draw. On  being  pressed  to  stay,  he  mentioned,  for  the  first  time,  his  engage- 
ment with  his  fellow-traveller;  and  his  noble  host  offering  to  send  a  servant  to 
conduct  Mr.  Nicol  to  the  castle.  Burns  insisted  on  undertaking  that  office  him- 
self. He  was,  however,  accompanied  by  a  gentleman,  a  particular  acquaint- 
ance of  the  Duke,  by  whom  the  invitation  was  delivered  in  all  the  forms  of 
politeness.  The  invitation,  however,  came  too  late;  the  pride  of  Nicol  was 
iuflamed  to  the  highest  degree  by  the"  neglect  which  he  had  already  suffered. 
He  had  ordered  the  horses  to  be  put  to  the  carriage,  being  determined  to  pro- 
ceed on  his  journey  alone;  aiid  they  found  him  parading  the  streets  of  Focha- 
bers, bfeforfe  the  door  of  the  inn,  venting' his  anger  on  the  postillion,  for  the 
slowness  with  which  be  obeyed  his  commands.  As  no  explanation  nor  en- 
treaty could  change  the  purpose  of  his  fellow-traveller,  our  poet  was  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  separating  from  him  entirely,  or  of  instantly  proceeding 
with  him  on  their  journey.  He  chose  the  last  of  these  alternatives;  and  seat- 
ing himself  beside  Nicol  in  the  post-chaise,  with  mortification  and  regret  ha 


48  MEMOIR  OP  ROBERT  BURNS; 

turned  liis  back  on  Gordon  Castle;  where  lie  had  promised  himself  some  happy 


Bums  remained  at  Edinburgh  during  the  greater  part  of  the  winter,  1787-8< 
and  again' entered  into  the  society  and  dissipation  of  that  metropolis. 

•  On- settling  with  his  publisher,  Mr.  Creech,  in  February,  1788,  Burns  found 
himself  master  of  nearly  five  hundred  pounds,  after  discharging  all  his  expen- 
ses. Two  hundred  pounds  he  immediately  advanced  to  his  brother  Gilbert, 
who  had  taken  upon  himself  the  support  of  their  aged  mother,  and  was. Strug, 
gling  with  many  difficulties  in  the  farm  of  Mossgiel.-  With  the  remainder  of 
this  sum,  and  some  farther  eventiial  profits  from  his  poems,  he  determined  ou 
Settling  himself  for  life  in  the  occupation  of  agriculture,  and  took  from  Mr. 
Miller,  of  Dalswiuton,  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Nith, 
six  miles  above  Dumfries,  on  which  he  entered  at  Whitsunday,  1788.  Having 
been  previously  recommended  to  the  Board  of  Excise,  his  name  had  been  put 
on  the  list  of  candidates  for  the  humble  office  of  a  ganger,  or  exciseman ; 
and  he  immediately  applied  to  acquiring  the  information  necessary  for  filling 
that  office;  when  the  honourable  Board  might  judge  it  proper  to.  employ  him. 
He  expected  to  be  called  into  service  in  the  district  in  which  his  farm  was  sit. 
uated,  and  vainly  hoped  to  unite  with  success  the  labours  of  the  farmer  witli 
the  duties  of  the  exciseman. 

■'  When  Burns  had  in  this  manner  arranged  his  plans  for  futurity,  )iis  gener- 
ous heart  turned  to  the  object  of  his  most  ardent  attachment,  and  listenmg  to 
no  considerations  but  those  of  honour  and  affection,  he  joined  witli,  her  in  a 
public  declaration  of  marriage,  thus  legalising  their  union,  and  rendering  it 
permanent  for  life.  ■ 

It  was  not  convenient  for  Mrs.  Bums  to  remove  immediately  from  Ayrshire; 
and  our  poet  therefore  took  up  his  residence  alone  at  Ellisland,  to  prepare  for 
the  reception  of  his  wife  and  children,  who  joined  him  towards  the  end  of  thei 
year.  ■  ■ 

■  The  situation  in  which  Burns  now  found  himself  was  calculated  to  awaken 
reflection .  The  different  steps  he  had  of  late  taken  were  in  their  nature  highly 
importiint,-  and.  might  be  said  to  have,  in  some  measure,  fixed  his  destiny.  He 
had  become  a  husband  and  a  father ; .  he  had  engaged  in  the  management  of  a 
6onsiderable  farm,  a  difficult  and  labourious  imdertaking  ;  In  his  success  the 
happiness  of  his  family  was  involved  ;  it  was  time,  therefore,  to  abandon  tlie 
gayety  and  dissipation  of  which  he  had  been  too  much  enamoured ;  to  ponder 
Seriously  on  the  past;  and  to  form  virtuous  resolutions  respecting  the  future. 

He  commenced  by  immediately  rebuilding  the  dwelling  house  on  his  farm, 
which,  in  the  state  he  found  it,  was  inadequate  to  flie  accommodation  of  his 
family.  On  this  occasion,  he  himself  resumed  at  times  the  occupation  of  a  la- 
bourer,  and- found  neither  his  strength  nor  his  skill  impaired.  Pleased  with 
surveying  the  grounds  he  was  about  to  cultivate,  and  with  the  rearing  of  a 
building  that  should  give  shelter  to  his  wife  and  children,  and,  as  he  fondly 
hoped,-  to  liis  own  gray  hairs,  sentiments  of  independence  buoyed  up  his  mind, 
pictures  of  domestic  content  and  peace  rose  on  his  imagination  ;  and  a  few 
days  passed  away,  as  he  himself  informs  us,  the  most  tranquil,  if  not  the  hap.. 
piest,  which  he  had  ever  experienced. 

•  His  fame  naturally  drew  upon  him  the  attention  of  his  neighbouis,  and  he 
soon  formed  a  general  acquaintance  in  the  district  in  which  he  lived.  The 
public  voice  had  now  pronounced  on  the  subject  of  his  talents ;  the  reception 
he  had  met  with  in  Edinburgh  had  given  him  the  currency  which  fashion  be-^ 
Btows ;  he  had  surmounted  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  often  seduced  him 
from  his  rustic  labours,  and  it  was  not  long,  therefore,  before.  Burns  began  to" 
»^iew  his  farmr  with  dislike  and  despondence,  if  not  with  disgust,    ; 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  19 

He  might  indeed  still  be  seen  in  tlie  spring  directing  his  plough,  a  labour  in 
■which  he  excelled  ;  or  with  a  white  sheet  containing  his  seed-corn,  slung 
across  his  shoulders,  striding  with  measured  steps  along  his  tumed-up  fur- 
TOWS,  and  scattering  the  grain  in  the  earth.  But  his  farm  no  longer  occupied 
-the  principal  part  of  his  care  or  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  at  EUisland  that  he 
was  now  in  general  to  be  found.  Mounted  on  horseback,  this  high-minded 
"poet  was  pursuing  the  defaulters  of  the  revenue  among  the  hills  aud  vales  of 
Nithsdale,  his  roving  eye  wandering  over  the  charms  of  nature,  and  Muttering 
Ms  wayward  fancies  as  he  moved  along. 

Besides  his  duties  in  the  Excise  and  his  social  pleasures,  other  circumstanced 
interfered  with  the  attention  of  Burns  to  his  farm.  He  engaged  in  the  forma- 
tion of  a  society  for  purchasing  and  circulating  books  among  the  farmers  of  his 
neighbourhood,  of  which  he  undertook  the  manfigement ;  and  he  occupied  him- 
self occasionally  in  composing  songs  for  the  musical  work  of  Mr.  Johnson, 
then  in  the  course  of  publication.  These  engagements,  useful  and  honourable 
in  themselves,  contributed,  no  doubt,  to  the  abstraction  of  his  thoughts  from 
the  business  of  agriculture. 

The  consequences  may  be  easily  imagined.  Notwithstanding  the  uniform 
prudence  and  good  management  of  Mrs.  Burns,  and  though  his  rent  was  mod-' 
erate  and  reasonable,  our  poet  found  it  convenient,  if  not  necessaryj  to  resign 
his  farm  to  Mr.  Miller,  after  having  occupied  it  three  years  and  a  half.  His 
office  in  the  Excise  had  originally  produced  about  fifty  pounds  per  annum. 
Having  acquitted  himself  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Board,  he  had  been  ap- 
pointed to  a  new  district,  the  emoluments  of  which  rose  to  about  seventy  pounds 
per  annum.  Hoping  to  support  himself  and  his  family  on  his  humble  income 
till  promotion  should  reach  him,  he  disposed  of  his  stock  •  and  of  his  crop  on 
EUisland  by  public  auction,  and  removed  to  a  small  house  which  he  had  taken 
in  Dumfries,  about  the  end  of  the  year  1791. 

Hitherto  Burns,  though  addicted  to  excess  in  social  parties,  had  abstained 
from  the  habitual  use  of  strong  liquors,  and  his  constitution  had  not  sufEered 
any  permanent  injury  from  the  irregularities  of  his  conduct.  In  Dumfries, 
temptations  to  "  the  sin  that  so  easily  beset  him"  continually  presented-  them- 
selves ;  and  his  irregularities  grew  by  degrees  into  habits.  These  temptations 
unhappily  occurred  during  his  engagements  in  the  business  of  his  office,  as  well 
as  during  his  hours  of  relaxation  ;  and  though  he  clearly  foresaw  the  conso- 
■quence  of  yielding  to  them,  his  appetites  and  sensations,  which  could  not  per-- 
vert  the  dictates  of  his  judgment,  finally  triumphed  over  the  powers  of  his 
will. 

Still,  however,  he  cultivated  the  society  of  persons  of  taste  and  respectability) 
and  in  their  company  could  impose  upon  himself  the  restraints  of  temperance 
and  decorum.  Nor  "was  his  muse  dormant.  In  the  four  years  which  he  lived 
at  Dumfries,  he  produced  many  of  his  beautiful  lyrics,  though  it  does  not  ap- 
pear that  he  attempted  any  poem  of  considerable  length.  " 
'  Burns  had  entertained  hopes  of  promotion  in  the  Excise  ;  but  circumstances 
occurred  which  retarded  their  fulfilment,  and  which,  in  his  own  mind,  destroys 
ed  all  expectation  of  their  bemg  ever  fulfilled. 

In  the  midst  of  all  his  wanderings,  Bums  met  nothing  in  his  domestic  circle 
but  gentleness  and  forgiveness,  except  in  the  gnawings  of  his  own  remorse. 
He  acknowledged  his  transgressions  to  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  promised  amend- 
ment, and  again  received  pardon  for  his  offences.  But  as  the  strength  of  his 
body  decayed,  his  resolution  became  feebler,  and  habit  acquired  predominating 
strength.  . 

Froai  October,  1795,  to  the  January  following,  an  accidental  complamt 
Confined  him  to  the  house. '  Afew  days-after  he  began  to  go  abroad,  hedined 
at  a  tavern,  and  returned  about  three  o'clock  in  a  very  cold  morning,  benumbed 
and  intoxicated.  This  was  followed  by  an  attack  of  rheumatism,  which  con- 
iSned  him  about  a  week:    His  appettte  now  began  to  fail;  his  hand  shook,  and 


20  MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

his  voice  faltered  oa  any  exertion  or  emotion.  His  pulse  befcame  wealser  and 
more  rapid,  and  pain  in  tlie  larger  joints,  and  in  the  hands  and  feet,  depriyed 
him  of  the  enjoyment  of  refreshing  sleep.  Too  much  dejected  In  his  spirits, 
and  too  well  aware  of  his  real  situation  to  entertain  hopes  of  recovery,  he  was 
ever  musing  on  the  approaching  desolation  of  his  family,  and  his  spirits  sunk 
into  a  uniform  gloom. 

It  was  hoped  by  some  of  his  friends,  that  if  he  could  live  through  the  months 
of  spring,  the  succeeding  season  might  restore  him.  But  they  were  disappoint- 
ed. The  genial  beams  of  the  sun  infused  no  vigour  into  his  languid  frame ;  the 
summer  wind  blew  upon  him,  but  produced  no  refreshment.  About  the  latter 
end  of  June  he  was  advised  to  go  into  the  country,  and,  impatient  of  medical 
advice,  as  well  as  of  every  species  of  control,  he  determined  for  himself  to  try 
the  effects  of  bathing  in  the  sea.  For  this  purpose  he  took  up  his  residence  at 
Brow,  in  Annandale,  about  ten  miles  east  of  Dumfries,  on  the  shore  of  the 
Solway-Frith. 

At  first.  Burns  imagined  bathing  in  the  sea  had  been  of  benefit  to  him;  the 
pains  in  his  limbs  were  relieved  ;  but  this  was  inur.ediately  followed  by  a  new 
flttaiik  of  fever.  "When  brought  back  to  his  own  house  In  Dumfries,  on  the  18th 
July,  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand  upright.  At  this  time  a  tremor  pervaded 
his  frame;  his  tongue  was  parched,  and  his  mind  sunk  into  delirium,  when  not 
roused  by  conversation.  On  the  second  and  third  day  the  fever  increased, 
and  his  strength  diminished.  On  the  fourth,  the  sufferings  of  this  great  but  ill- 
fated  genius  were  terminated,  and  a  fife  was  closed  in  which  virtue  «nd  passion 
had  been  at  perpetual  variance. 

The  death  of  Burns  made  a  strong  and  general  impression  on  all  who  had 
interested  themselves  in  his  character,  and  especially  on  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town  and  country  in  which  he  had  spent  the  latter  years  of  his  life.  The 
Gentlemen- Volunteers  of  Dumfries  determined  to  bmy  their  illustrious  associate 
with  military  honours,  and  every  preparation  was  made  to  render  this  last  ser- 
vice solemn  and  impressive.  The  Fencible  Infantry  of  Angusshire.  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  neighbourhood  determined  to  walk  in  the  funeral  procession ;  and  a  vast  con- 
course of  persons  assembled,  some  of  them  from  a  considerable  distance, 
to  witness  tlie  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  tlie  Volunteers, 
selected  to  perform  the  military  duty  in  the  churchyard  stationed  themselves 
in  the  front  of  the  procession  with  their  arms  reversed ;  the  main  body  of  the 
corps  surrounded  and  supported  the  coffin,  on  which  were  placed  the  hat  and 
sword  of  their  friend  and  fellow-soldier;  the  numerous  body  of  attendants 
ranged  themselves  in  the  rear ;  while  the  Fencible  regiments  of  infantry  and 
cavalry  lined  the  streets  from  the  Town  Hall  to  the  burial-ground  in  the 
Southern  churchyard,  a  distance  of  more  than  half  a  mile.  The  whole  proces- 
sion moved  forward  to  that  sublime  and  affecting  strain  of  music,  the  Bead 
March  iu  Saul ;  and  three  volleys  fired  over  Ms  gi-ave  marked  the  return  of 
Burns  to  his  parent  cai-th!  The  spectacle  was  in  a  high  degree  grand  and 
solemn,  and  according  with  the  general  sentiments  of  sympathy  and  sorrow 
which  the  occasion  had  called  forth. 

It  was  an  affecting  circumstance,  that,  on  the  morning  of  the  day  of  her  hus- 
band's funeral,  Mrs.  Burns  was  undergoing  the  pains  of  labour,  and  that  during 
the  solemn  service  we  have  just  been  describing,  the  posthumous  son  of  our 
poet  was  born.  This  infant  boy,  who  received  the  name  of  Maxwell,  was  not 
destined  to  a  long  life.  He  has  already  become  an  inhabitant  of  the  same  grave 
with  his  celebrated  father. 

The  sense  of  his  poverty,  and  of  the  approaching  distress  of  his  infant  family, 
pressed  heavily  on  Burns  as  he  lay  on  the  bed  of  death.    Yet  he  alluded  to  hia 


MEMOIR  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  21 

j^_ . . 

indigence,  at  times,  with  something  appvoaoliing  to  liis  wonted  gayety. — "Wliat 
business,"  said  he  to  Dr.  Maxwell,  who  attended  him  with  the  utmost  zeal, 
' '  has  a  physician  to  waste  his  time  on  me  V  I  am  a  poor  pigeon  not  worth 
plucking.  Alas  1  I  have  not  feather  enough  upon  me  to  carry  me  to  my  grave." 
And  when  his  reason  was  lost  in  delirium,  his  ideas  ran  in  the  same  melancholy 
train;  the  horrors  of  a  jail  were  continually  present  to  his  troubled  imagination, 
and  produced  the  most  aflecting  exclamations. 

On  the  death  of  Burns,  the  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  and  its  neighbourhood 
opened  a  subscription  for  the  support  of  his  wife  and  family.  The  subscrip- 
tion was  extended  to  other  parts  of  Scotland,  and  of  England  also,  particularly 
London  and  Liverpool.  By  this  means  a  sum  was  raised  amounting  to  seven 
hundred  pounds,  and  thus  the  widow  and  children  were  rescued  from  imme- 
diate distress,  and  the  most  melancholy  of  the  forebodings  of  Burns  happily 
disappointed. 

Burns,  as  has  already  been  mentioned,  was  nearly  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height, 
and  a  form  that  indicated  agility  as  well  as  strength.  His  well-raised  forehead, 
shaded  with  black  curling  hair,  indicated  extensive  capacity.  His  eyes  were 
large,  dark,  full  of  ardour, and  intelligence.  His  face  was  well  formed;  and  his 
countenance  uncommonly  interesting  and  expressive.  The  tones  of  his  voice 
happily  corresponded  with  the  expression  of  his  features,  and  with  the  feelings 
of  his  mind.  When  to  these  endowments  are  added  a  rapid  and  distinct  appre- 
hension, ajnost  powerful  understanding,  and  a  happy  command  of  language — 
of  strength  as  well  as  brilliancy  of  expression — we  shall  be  able  to  account  for 
the  extraordinary  attractions  of  his  conversation — for  the  sorcery  which,  in  his 
social  parties,  he  seemed  to  exert  on  all  around  him.  In  the  company  of  women 
this  sorcery  was  more  especially  apparent.  Their  presence  charmed  the  fiend 
of  melancholy  in  his  bosom,  and  awoke  his  happiest  feelings;  it  excited  the 
powets  of  his  fancy,  as  well  as  the  tenderness  of  his  heart;  and,  by  restraining 
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. 


CONTENTS. 


Original  Preface ^ 

Dedication  to  Edinburgh  Edition 

Memoir S 

POEMS. 

^  Bard's .  Epitaph 90 

Adam  A 's  Prayer 138 

A  Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. ...    gb 

A  Dream §4 

Address  of  Beelzebub  to  the  President  of 

■    the  Hig^hland  Society 83 

Address  Spoken  by  Miss  Fontenelle  on 

her  Benefit  Night 147 

Address  to  Edinburgh loi 

Address  to  the  Deil 53 

Address,  to  the  Shade  of  Thomson,  on 
Crowning-  his  Bust  at  Ednam,  Rox- 
burghshire, with  Bays 137 

Address  to  the  Toothache 118 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly 

RighteouS;v>  T, 78 

A  Moth^r'is  Lament  for  the  Death  of  her 

Son™":; 114 

Afiswer  to  a  Poetical  Epistle  sent  to  the 

Author  by  a  Tailor 67 

A  Prayer,  Left  by  the  Author  at  a  Rev- 
erend   Friend's    House,  in  the    Room 

where  he  Slept 96 

A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death. ......     37 

A  Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  Violent 

Anguish 35 

A  Winter  Night 63 

Castle  Gordon 109 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook 39 

Delia 118 

Despondency;  an  Ode-.... 82 


.Elegy  on  Captain'Matthew  Henderson...  128 

Elegy  on  Miss  Burnet  of  Monboddo 134 

.Elegy  on  Peg  Nicholson 127 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Dundas, 

Esq.,  of  Arniston iii 

,Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Ruisseaux,  38 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter 

Btair 107 

Elegy  on  the  Year  1788 115 

Epistle  from  Esopus  to  Maria 141 

lEpifaph  on  Holy  Willie 44 

Halloween 45 

fioty  Willie's  Prayer 43 


PAGE- 

Impromptu  on  Mrs.  Riddel's  Birthday....  141 
Invitation  to  a  Medical  Gentleman  to  At- 
tend a  Masonic  Anniversary  Meeting...     92 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn 135 

Lament  occasioned  by  the  Unfortunate 

Issue  of  a  Friend's  Amour. ■   80 

Lanjent  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  on  the 

approach  of  Spring 135 

Lib^ty.:  a  Fragment 144 

Lines  on  Fergusson 139 

Lines  on  Me'etihg  with  Lord  Daer loo 

Lines  sent  to  Sir  John  Whitefoord,  Blart., 

of,  Whitefoord.. 137 

Lin^s  Written  in  a  Wrapper,  enclosing  a 

Letter  to  Captain  Grose 123 

Lines  Written  in  Friars'  Carse  Hermitage, 

on  the  Banks  of  the  Nith . ' 113 

Lines  Written  in  Friars'  Carse  Hermitage, 

on  Nithside '. -.  114 

Lines  Written  on  a  Bank-Note 93 

Lines.  Written  to  a  Gentleman  who  had 

S^ni  him  a  Newspaper,  and  offered  to 

Contmue  it  free  of  Expense 128 

Lines  Written    with  a  Pencil    oVer  the 

Chimney-jaiece  in  the    Parlour  of   the 

Inn  at   Kenmbre,  Taymouth loS 

Lines  Written  with  a  Pencil,  Standing  bv 

the  Fall  of  Fyers,  near  Loch  Ness 109 

Man  was  Made  to  Mourn 49 

Mauchline  Belles 36 

Monody  on  a  Lady  Famed  for  her  Caprice.  142 

Nature's  Law ,. los 

Ode, :  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Os- 
wald   115 

Ode  to  Ruin 8a 

Oh,  why  the  Deuce  should  I  Repine 37 

On   Scaring    some    Water-fowl  in  Loch 

Turit no 

On  .Sensibility 139 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Posthumous  Child 134 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favourite  Child 140 

Poem  on  Pastoral  Poetry 143 

Poetical  Address  to  Mr.  William  Tytler.. .  no 
Prologue    for    Mr,   Sutherland's    Benefit 

Night,  Dumfries .' 126 

Prologue,  Spoken  at  the  Theatre,  Dum- 
fries,   on    New-Year's    Day    Evening, 

1790 ■  124 

Prologue,  Spoken  by  Mr.  Woods  on  his 
Benefit  Night 104 

23 


u 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Remorse 67 

Scotch  Drink 65 

Sketch :  Inscribed  to  the  Right  Hon.  C. 

J.  Fox 117 

Sketch — New-Year's  Day,  1790 123 

Sketch  of  a  Character ....'. ioi6 

Sonnet  on  Hearing  a  Thrush  Sin|»'  in  a 

Morning  Walk 141 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Robert  Riddel, 

Esq.,  of  Glenriddei 143 

Stanzas  in  the  Prospect  of  Death 37 

Stanzas  on  the  Duke  of  Queensberry 127 

Tarn  o'  Shanter 130 

Tarn  Samson's  Eleey 94 

The  Auld  Farmer^  New-Year  Morning 

Salutation  to  his  Auld  Mare  Maggie,  on 

Giving  her  the  Accustomed  Rip  of  Com 

to  Hansel  in  the  New  Year 71 

The  Author's  Earnest  Cry- and  Prayer  to 

the  Scotch  Representatives  in  the  House 

of  Commons '. 68 

The  Belles  of  Mauchline 37 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr 06 

The  Calf 93 

.The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 50 

The   Death  and   Dying  Words  of  Poor 

Maillie 35 

The  Farewell 92 

The  first  Psalm 38 

The  First  Six  Verses  of   the  Ninetieth 

Psalm 38 

The  Hermit 105 

The  Holy  Fair 86 

The  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water  to 

the  Noble  Duke  of  Athole 108 

The  Inventory 79 

The  Jolly  Beggers 55 

The  Kiric's  Alarm iig 

The  Ordination 76 

The  Poet's  Welcome  to  his  Illegitimate 

Child 102 

The  1  Eights  of  Woman 139 

The  Torbolton  Lasses 33 

The  Tree  of  Liberty 144 

The  Twa  Dogs 72 

The  Twa  Herds :  or.  The  Holy  Tukie. ...  41 

One^ision 60 

The  Vowels:  A  Tale^ i„ 

The  Whistle 120 

To  aHaggis 103 

To  a  Kiss , 140 

To  a  Louse,  qii  Seeing  one  on  a  Ladv's 

Bonnet  at  Church .' . .  -6 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 80 

To  a  Mouse .4 

To  Captain  Riddel  of  Glenriddei 115 

To  Chloris ■. j.g 

To  Clannda 1,2 

To  Clarinda ri2 

To  Clarinda 1 13 

To  Clarinda u. 

To  Collector  Mitchell 147 

To  Colonel  De  Peyster 148 

To  John  Taylor 116 

To  Miss  Cruikshank no 

To  Miss  Fcrrier 107 

To  Miss  Jessy  Lewars,  Dumfries 148 


PAGE 

To  Miss  Logan,  with  Beattie's  Poems  as 
a  New- Year's  Gift,  January  i,  1787 103 

To  Mrs.  C ,  on  Receiving  a  Work  of 

Hannah  More's 103 

To  the  Owl 125 

Tragic  Fragment •  •    33 

Verses  intended  to  be  Written  Below  a 
Noble  Earl's  Picture --•  103 

Verses  on  an  Evening  View  of  the  Ruins 
of  Lincluden  Abbey 125 

Verses  on  a  Scotch  Bard  Gone  to  the 
West  Indies 89 

Verees  on  Captain  Grose's  Peregrinations 
through  Scotland  Collecting  the  An- 
tiquities of  that  Kingdom 122 

Verses  on  Reading  in  a  Newspaper  the 
Death  of  John  M'Leod^-^Esq 106 

,  Verses  on  Seeing  a  wounded  Hare  Limp 
-  by  me  which  a  Fellow  had  just  Shot. ...  117 

Verses  on  the  Destruction  of  the  Woods 
near  Drumlanrig 146 

Verses  to  an  old  Sweetheart  After  her 
Marriage 93 

Verses  to  John  Maxwell  of  Terraughty,  _ 
on  his  Birthday 137 

Verses  to  John  Rankine 139 

Verses  to  Miss  Graham  of  Fintry,  with  a 
Present  of  Songs 144 

Verses  to  my  Bed 127 

Verses  Written  under  Violent  Grief 93 

Willie  Chalmers 94 

Winter :  a  Dirge 35 

EPISTLES. 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend 164 

Epistle  to  Davie 15a 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Blacklock 171 

Epistle  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq jSj 

Epistle  to  Hugh  Parker 168 

Epistle  to  James  Smith 161 

Epistle  to  James  Tait  of  <ilenconner 17c 

Epistle  to  John  Goudie,  Kilmarnock 155 

Epistle  to  John  Lapraik... 152 

Epistle  to  John  Ranl^ine 149 

Epistle  to  Major  Logan 165 

Epistle  to  Mr.  M'Adam  pf  CraigengiUan.  165 

Epistle  to  the  Rev.  John  M'Math 159 

Epistle  to  William  Creeclift 167 

Epistle  to  William  Simpson... 155 

FirstEpistletoR.  Graham, Esq., of  Fintry.  i6g 
Fourth  Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq., 

of  Fintry lyg 

Poetical  Invitation  to  Mr.  John  Kennedy.  163 

Second  Epistle  to  Davie. , 16a 

Second  Epistle  to  Lapraik 153 

Second  Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq., 

of  Fintry jya 

Third  Epistle  to  John  Lapraik 158 

Third  Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,  Esq.,  of 

Fintry 174 

To  the  Guidwife  of  Wauchope  House i6fr 

EPIGRAMS,  EPITAPHS,  &c.     " 

A  Bottle  and  an  Honest  Friend iftfi 

A  Farewell „, 

A  G-race  before  Dinner *  jgg 

A  Mother's  Address  to  her  Infant.  - , 1  18^ 


CONTENTS. 


25 


I'AGE 

Epigram  on  Bacon xSb 

Epitaph  on,  a  Suicide 183 

Epitaph  on' Robert  Aiken,  Esq 185 

Epitaph  on  Ta-ta  the  Chapman 185 

Epitaph  on  the  Author's  r  ather 176 

Epitaph  on  W— ; — 179 

Extempore  on  Two  Lawyers 177 

Extempore  on  William  Smellie 178 

Extempore^  Pinned  to  a  Lady's  Coach 183 

Extempore  to  Mr.  Syme. 184 

trrace  after  Dinner... 188 

Grace  after  Dinner. 188 

Howlet  Face 187 

Innocence 179 

Inscription  on  a  Goblet 184 

Johnny  Peep 186 

Lines  on  ViewiM-  Stirling  Palace. .'. 178 

Lines  sent  to  a  Gentleman  whom  he  had 

Offended 181 

Lines  Spoken   Extempore  on  being  ap- 

pomted  to  the  Excise 179 

Lines  to  John  Rankine . '. 18S 

Lines  Written  under  the  Picture  of  the 

Celebrated  Miss  Bums 178 

Lines  Written  on  a  Pane  of  Glass  in  the 

Inn  at  Moffat 179 

On  a  Celebrated  Ruling  Elder. 185 

On  a  Country  Laird 185 

On  a  Friend.^ 185 

On  a  Henpecked  Country  Squire j86 

On  a  Henpecked  Country  Squire j86 

On  a  Henpecked  Country  Squire 186 

On  a  Noisy  Polemic 186 

On  a  Noted  Coxcomb 186 

On  a  Bgraoii  Nicknamed  the  Marquis 179 

On  a  S^ldolmaster 179 

On  a  Sheep's  Head...  —  .., i8t 

On  a  Wag  in  Mauchline 177 

On  Andrew  Turner 188 

On  Burns*  Horse  being  Impounded 180 

On  Captain  Francis  Grose iBo 

On  Elphinstone's  Translation  of  Martial's 

"Epigrams" 179 

On  Excisemen 183 

On  Gabriel  Richardson,  Brewer,  Dum- 
fries   181 

On  Gavin  Hamilton 185 

On  Grizzel  Gfim 180 

On  Incivility  shown  to  him  at  Invcrary.. .  179 

On  John  Bushby 187 

On  John  Dove,  Innkeeper,  Mauchline. . .  176^ 

On  Lord  Galloway 182 

On  Lord  Galloway 182 

On  Miss  Jean  Scott  of  Ecclefechan 18^ 

On  Mr.  Burton 180 

On  Mr.  W.  Cruikshank 187 

On  Mrs.  Kemble 182 

On  Robert  Riddel. 183 

On  Seeing  Miss  Fontenelle  in  a  favourite 

Character 181 

On  Seeing  the  Beautiful  Seat  of  Lord 

Galloway 182 

On  the  Death  of  a  Lap-Dog  named  Echo.  181 

On  the  Illness  of  a  Favourite  Child 177 

On  the  Kirk  of  Lamington,in  Clydesdale,  187 


PAGE 

On  the  Poet's  Daughter. 184 

On  the  Recovery  01  Jessy  Lewars 188 

On  the  Sickness  of  Miss  Jessy  LeWars —  188 

On  Wat 187 

On  Wee  Johnny 185 

Poetical  Inscription  for  an  Altar  to  Inde- 
pendence    184 

Poeticdl  Reply  to  an  Invitation 177 

Poetical  Reply  to  an  Invitation 180 

The  Black-heAded  Eagle 181 

The  Book-worms 182 

The  Creed  of  Poverty 183 

The  Epitaph 182 

The  Henpecked  Husband 186 

The  Highland  Welcome 178 

The  Parson's  Looks 183 

The  Parvenu ". 184 

The  Reproof 178 

The  Selkirk  Grace 183 

The  Toast 184 

The  Toast .188 

The  True  Loyal  Natives 183 

Though  Fickle  Fortune  has  Deceived  Me.  176 

To  a  Painter 176 

To  a  Young  Lady  in  a  Church 177 

To  Dr.  Maxwell 183 

To  John  M'Murdo,  Esq 180 

To  John  M'Murdo,  Esq 180 

To  Lord  Galloway 106 

To  Miss  Jessy  Lewars 188 

To  Mt.  Syme 184 

To  the  Editor  of  the  Star 180 

Verses  Addressed  to  the  Landlady  of  the 
Inn  at  Rosslyn 179 

Verses  to  John  Rankine i8i 

Verses  Written  on  a  Pane  of  Glass,  on  the 
Occasion  of  a  National  Thanksgiving 
for  a  Naval  Victory -- 187 

Verses  Written  on  a  Window  of  the  Globe 
TdVefn:  Dumfries 183 

Verses  Written  on  a  Window  of  the  Inn 
at  Carron 178 

Verses  Written  under  the  Portrait  of 
Fergusson  the  Poet 177 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Pocket-book 183 

SONGS. 

Address  to  the  Woodlark 283 

Adown  Winding  Nith 256 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 232 

A  Farewell  to  the  Brethren  of  St.  James' 

Lodge,  Torbolton 2ot 

A  Fragment 196 

Afton  Water. . . .- -™  ^. .  v-i^-r-.-. jJ99 

Ah,  Chloi^is ! 265 

Amang  the  Trees,  where  Humming  Bees.  27-; 

An  Excellent  New  Song 2S8 

Anna,  thy  Charms 261 

A,Red,  Ited  Rose 259 

A  Rosebud  by  my  Early  Walk 206 

As  I  was  A-wandering 246 

Auld  Lang  Syne 21.3 

Auld  Rob  Morris — .' 243 

A  Vision , 359 


S6 


CONTENTS. 


Bannocks  o*  Barley ,.  z-j-^ 

Behold  the  Hour. 232 

Bess  and  her  Spinning- Wheel 238 

JBeware  p'  Bonny  Ann 223 

t lithe  Hae  I  Been 253 
lithe  was  She. ,.- ; 206- 

Blooming^  Nelly 224 

Bonny  Dundee 206 

Bonny  X.ealey .• 234 

Bonny  Peg 244 

Bonny  Peg-a-Ramsay 272 

Bonny  Peggy  Alison , 210 

Braving  Angry  Winter's  Storms 207 

Braw  lads  of  Gala  Water ^ 214 

Brose  and  Butter 291 

Bruce's  Address  to  his  Army  at  Bannock- 
burn  257 

By  AUan  Stream  I  Chanced  to  Rove 255 

.Caledonia ; 271 

Caledonia ' 284 

Canst  thou  Leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 268 

Cassillis'  Banks 273 

Ca'  the  Ewes 220 

,Ca'  the  Yowes 263 

Chloris 264 

Cock  up  your  Beaver 243 

Come  Boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie 217 

Come,  lot  Me  Take  Thee ,  256 

'Come  Rede  Me,  Dame 227 

Coming  through  the  Braes  o*  Cupar 276 

Commg  through  the  Rye 278 

Contented  wi"  Little 268 

Couhtrie  Lassie 239 

Craigie-Burn  Wood 235 

Dainty  Davie 256 

Damon  and  Sylvia 291 

Deluded  Swain,  the  Pleasure 25S 

Duncan  Gray 243 

feliza. . 


5^ppie  Adair 227 

Fair  Eliza 239 

FairesLMaid  on  Devon  Banks 280 

Faif  Jeinoy ^sr 

FareWeel  to  a*  our  Scottish  Fame 249 

Farewell,  thou  Stream 267 

Forlorn,  my  Love,  no  Comfort  near 283 

For  the  Sake  of  Somebody 260 

Frae  the  Friends  and  Land  I  Love 235 

Fragment — Chloris^ 284 

Gara  Water 250 

Gloomy  December 2-'2 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  O  ! jge 

Guid  E'en  to  You,  Kimmer 277 

Guidwife,  Count  the  Lawin 228 

Had  I  a  Cave ^„ 

Had  I  the  Wyte .7? 

hSILS"'!':'?:-::;:;::;::::::;; VA 

HerDaddie  Forbad 215 

Here's  a  Health  to  Them  that's  Awa 249 

Here's  his  Health  in  Water 273 

Here's  to  thy  Health^  my  Bonny  Lass. ...   261 

Her  Flowing  Locks 274 

Hey  for  a  Lass  wi' a  Tocher. -87 


Hey,  the  Dusty  Miller. ,. 215 

Highland  .Mary 242 

How  Cruel  are  the  Parents  ! 285 

How  Long  and  Dreary  is  tiie  Night ! 265 

Hunting  Song 290 

I  do  Confess  thou  Art  sae  Fair 237 

I  Dream'd   I   Lay  where  Flowers  were 

Springing 1S9 

I  hae  a  Wife  o' my  Ain 213 

I'll  Aye  Ca'  in  by  Yon  Town 270 

I'm  o'er  Young  to  Marry  Yet 218 

Jls  there,  for  HonesfPbverty 27S 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  Bonny  Face 341 

Jamie,  Come  Try  me 228 

Jeanie's  Bosom 260 

Jenny  M'Craw.. ..../..; 269 

Jessy  — .- : 28? 

Jockey's  ta'en  the  Parting  Kiss sfia 

John  Anderson,  my  Jo..;.:..;;; ...........  223  " 

John  Barleycorn 192 

Katherine  Jaffray 290 


Lady  Mary  Ann 

Lady  Onlie ; 

Lanient,  Written  at  a  Time  when  the  Poet 

was  about  to  leave  Scotland 

Landlad)^,  Count  the  Lawin 

Lassie  wi'  the  Lint-White  Locks 

Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer 

Let  not  Woman  e'er  Complain 

Lines  on  a  Merry  Ploughman 

Logan  Braes 

Lord  Gregory 

Lovely  Davies 

Lovely  Polly  Stewart 

Luckless  Fortune. 


247 
205 

198 
216 
266 
285 
266 
269 

Z53 
250 
230 
260 
196 

Macpherson's  Farewell ^^g 

Mark  Yonder  Pomp „o. 

Mary! .,..: ^^ 

Mary  Morison Tn-* 

Mego'the  Mill.: HI 

Meg  o' the  Mill lH 

Menie j^ 

Montgomery':!  Peggy ,?! 

Musing  on  the  Roaring  Ocean 200 

My  Ain  Kind  Dearie,  0 24a 

My  Bonny  Mary „^. 

My  Collier  Laddie Zi 


My  Father  wii;;  a  Farmer.. 


248 

My  Hrndsomc'Ne^r.7.^\" '.'.".;."!'. ".".""  ]ll 

My  Harry  wos  a  Gallant  Gay ^-X 

^My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 224 

-My  Heart  was  ance  as  Blithe  and  Free. . .  21I 

My  Hogffib... 217 

My  Jean  i j  ' 

My  Lady's  Gown,  there's  Gairs  upon't. . .  261 

My  Lovely  Nancy. 222 

My  Love  she's  but  a  Lassie  yet 220 

My  Nannie,  O j^ 

My  Nannie's  Awa' -„ 

My  Peggy's  Face ;;;;;  207 

My  Spouse,  Nancy... -^ 

My  Tocher's  the  Jewel ."..   H^ 

My  Wife's  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing '. ! !  2^2 

Nithsdale's  Welcome  Hamc. . . 

Now  ^ing  has  Clad  the  Grove  in  Green,  2S6 


CONTENTS/ 


37> 


PACE 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  Blaw 210 

Oh,  Aye  my  Wife  she  Dang  me. 281 

Oh,  Bonny  waa  Yon  Rosy  Brier 2S4 

Oh,  can  ye  Labour  Lea 229 

Oh  for  Ane-and-T weaty,  Tarn ! 237 

Oh,  Guid  Ale  Comes 276 

Oh,  how  can  1  be  Blithe,  and  Glad  ? ^36 

Oh,  Kenmure's  on  and  Awa' 248 

Oh,  Lay  thy.'Loof  m  Mine,  Lass.< 262 

Oh,  Luve  will  Venture  in , , .' 240 

Oh,  Mally-s  Meek,  MalW^'s  Swee'. 262 

Oh,  Merry  hae  I  been  Teething'  a  Heckle.  227 

Oh,  Saw  ye  my  Dearie 245 

Oh,  Steer  Her  Up 272 

Oh,  that  I.  had  Ne'er  been  Married 289 

Oh,  Wat  ye  Wha's  in  Yon  Town  ? 2S2 

Oh,  wat  ye  what  My  Minnie  did  ? 276 

Qh,  were  loa  Parnassus'  Hill 21  t 

Oh,  were  my  Love  Yon  Lilac  fair 258 

Oh.  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast 287 

Oh,  Wha  is  She  that  Lo'es  Me  ? 291 

Oh,  Whistle,  and  I'll  Come  to  You,  my 

Lad -255 

Ohj  Willie  Bre w'd  a  Peck  o*  Maut. ._ 218 

O  Lassie,  art  thou  Sleeping  yet  ? 279 

On  Cessnock  Banks 190 

On  Chloris  being  111 283 

On  the  Seas  and  Fai-  Away 263 

Open  the  Door  to  Me,  oh  ' 251 

O  Philly,  Happy  be  that  Day 267 

O  Tibbie,  T  hae  seen  the  Day 190 

Our Thrissles  flourished  Frpsh  and  Fair..  226 
put  Over  the  Forth 259 

Peffffy ,.  194 

PhiUis  the  Fair 254 

Rattlin',  Roarin' Willie 217 

Raving  Winds  around  her  Blowmg 209 

Robin 196 

Robin  Shure  in  Hairst 290 

Sae  Far  Awa'... 274 

Saw  ye  my  Phely?. 265 

Sic  a  Wife  as  Willie  had......... 240 

Simmer's  a  Pleasant  Time 230 

ShelEih  O'Neil 291 

She  says  she  Lo'es  Me  best  of  a' 263 

She's  Faif  and  Fause 241 

Smiling  Spring  Comes  m  Rejoicing 241 

Song 201 

Song,    in    the    Character    of    a    Ruined 

'  Fafdaer.. 201 

Stay,  my  Charmer 208 

Strathalldh's  Lament * 209 

Sweetest  May 290 

Tarn  Glen...,, 225 

The  Amerigan  War 203 

The  Banks  of  Cree 262 

ffhe  JBanks  o'  Doon 240 

The  Banks  of  Doon 240 

The  ESanks  pf  the  Devon 207 

The  Banks  of  Nith 225 

The  Battle  of  Killiecrankie 228 

The  Battle  of  Sheriff-Muir 223 

The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy 204 

The  Blue-Eyed  Lassie 221 

The  Bonny  Banks  of  Ayr 203 

The  Bonny  J-ass  of  Albany 205 


PAGE 

The  Bonny  Wee  Tiling 231  ■ 

The  Braes'o'  Ballochmyle 197 

The  Captain's  Lady 227 

The  Cardin'  o't..... 269 

The  Carle  ol  Kellyburn  Braes 245 

The  Carles  of  Dysatt 278 

The  Charming  Month  of  May 266 

The  Chevalier's  Lament , 210 

The  Cooper  o'  Cuddle 275 

The  Cure  for  all  Care 195 

The  Day  Returns 212 

The  Dean  ot  Faculty 286 

The  Deil  's  aw'  w  i'  the  Exciseman 234 

The  Deuk's  Dang  o'er  my  Daddie,  O 244 

The  Discreet  Hint 212 

The  Dumfries  Volunteers 282 

The  Farewell 272 

The  Fete  Champetre 211 

The  Five  Carlines 220 

The  Gallant  Weaver 241 

The  Gowden  Locks  of  Anna 270 

The  Heron  Election  Ballads- 
Ballad  1 279 

Ballad  H 280- 

Ballad   IIL— John  Bushby's  Lamenta- 
tion   281 

The  Highland  Laddie 274- 

The  Highland  Lassie 199- 

The. Highland  Widow's  Lament 275 

The  Joyf uT  Widower 206 

The  Laddies  by  the  Banks  o'  Nith. 219 

The  Lass  of  Ballochmyle .^201 

The  Lass  of  Eccleiechan 275 

■  The  Lass  that  Made  the  Bed  to  me 274 

The  Last  Braw  Bridal. 269 

The  Last  Time  I  Came  o'er  the  Moor....  253' 

The  Lazy  Mist 213 

The  Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness 259 

The  Lover's  Morning  Salute  to  his  Mis- 
tress   264 

The  Mauchline  Lady 197- 

The  Mirk  Night  o'  December 233" 

Theniel  Menzie's  Bonny  Mary ^r$' 

The  Piper 269 

The  Ploughman 216 

The  Poor  and  Honest  Sod^er 2,51 

The  Rantin'  Dog  the  Daddie  o't •..  197 

There'll  oever  be  Peace  till  Jamie  Comes 

Hame...-- 230 

There's  a  Youth  m  this  City ; 226 

There's  News,  Lasses,  News 292 

There  was  a  Bonny  Lass .' .  276. 

There  was  a  Lass 199 

There  was  a  Lass,  and  She  was  Fair 254 

There  was  a  Wife 292 

The  Rigs  o'  Barley - 194 

The  Ruined  Maid  s  Lament 289 

The  Slave's  "Lament 247 

The  Sons'ofOld  Killio 201 

The  Tailor 225 

The  Tither  Morn 244 

The  Wearv  Piind  o'  Tow 247 

The  Winter  is  Past 2i» 

The  Wmter  of  Life 270 

The  Young  Highland  Kover • 209 

This  is  no  my  Ain  Lassie 286 

Thou  hast  Left  Me  Ever 257 

Tibbie  Dunbar 222 

To  Chloris ^ 265 

To  Daunton  Me 216 

To  Mary 260 


28 


CONTENTS. 


PACE 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 219 

*Twas  na  her  Bonny-  Blue  Ee 285 

Up  in  the  Morning  Early 217 

Wae  is  my  Heart z6i 

Wandering  Willie 233 

War  Song. .  ^ - 231 

Weary  Fa'  You,  Duncan  Gray 215 

Wee  Willie  Gray 228 

Welcome  to  General  Dumourier 252 

Wha  is  that  at  My  Bower-Door  ? 269 

What  Can  a  Young  Lassie  Do  ? 236 

When  Cloadstin  Skies  do  Come  together.  196 

When  First  I- Saw- Fair  Jeanie's  Face 221 

When  I  Think  on  the  Happy  Days 290 

When  Rosy  May  Comes  m  wi'  Flowers. .  222 
Whistle,  and  I'll  Come  to  You,  my  Lad.. .  208 

Whistle  o'er  the  Lave  o't 228 

Will  ye  Go  to  the  Indies^  my  Mary? 200 

Wilt  Thou  be  My  Dearie  ? 260 

Women's  Minds 229 

Ye  Hae  Lien  Wrang,  Lassie 226- 

Ye  JacQbltes  by  Name 246 

Yon  Wil4  Mossy  Mountains 237 

Young  J^inire,  Pride  of  a'  the  Plain 277 

Young  Jessie 251 

Young  Jockey 227 

Young  Peg-gy 197 

REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 

Absence 324 

Ah !  the  Poor  Shepherd's  Mournful  Fate..  319 

Allan  Water.. 306 

As  I  Cam  t)dwn  by  yon  Castle  Wa' 337 

A  Southland  Jenny 335 

a"m  fe'*K^^<5^"^ 334 

Auld  Robm  Gray 330 

Auld  Rob  Morris 325 

A  Waukrife  Minnie 333 

Bess  the  Gawkie 20J 

Bide  Ye  Yet 314 

Blink  o'er  the  Burn,  Sweet  Bettie 309 

Bob  o'  Dunblane 335 

Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen 320 

Cease,  Cease,  my  Dear   Friend,  to  Ex- 

„  plorc „,o 

Clout  the  Caldron .^ 296 

Corn-Rigs  are  Bonny 014 

Cromlet's  Lilt 3,1 

Dainty  Davie; ,^g 

Donald  and  Flora iij^ 

Down  the-Burn,  Davie ^08 

Dumbarton  Drums ,10 

Duncan  Gray ".*  3^^ 

Fairest  of  the  Fair -02 

Fife,  and  a'  the  Lands  about  it ii-. 

For  Lack  of  Gold ^20 

r'ye,'gaeRubhero'er  wi'  Strac 298 

Galloway  Tam ^^^ 

GiiMorice :::::::::  3'^6 

Gramachrte. .  - , i 


PACE 

Here's  a  Health  to  my  True  Love,  &c 321 

He  Stole  my  Tender  Heart  Away 303 

Hey  Tutti  Taiti 32* 

Highland  Laddie •  30= 

Hughie  Qraham 335 

I  Had  a  Horse,  and  I  Had  nae  mair 324 

I'll  never  Leave  thee 3'4 

I  wish  my  Love  were  in  a  Mire 303 

Jamie  Gay 297 

John  Hay  s  Bonny  Lassie 309 

Johnnie's  Gray  Breeks 299 

Johnnie  Faa,  or  the  Gipsy  Laddie 323 

Johnnie  Cope 329 

John  o'  Badenyon 33= 

Kirk  wad  Let  me  be.....:./> 323  ' 

Laddie,  Lie  Near  Me 32S 

Leader-Haughs  and  Yarrow 327 

Lewie  Gordon 313 

Lord  Ronald,  my  Son 337 

Love  is  the  Cause  of  my  Mourning 317 

Mary  Scott,  the  -Flower  of  Yarrow 308 

Mary's  Dream 304 

May  Eve,  or  Kate  of  Aberdeen 303 

Mill,  Mill.  0 319 

My  Ain  Kind  Dearie,  0 308 

My  Dear  Jockev 297 

My  Dearie,  if  thou  Die 314 

My  Jo,  Janet 316 

My  Tocher's  the  Jewel 336 

Nancy's  Ghost 325 

O'er  the  Moor  anfang  the  Heather 337 

Oh  Ono  Chrio 314 

Oh,  Open  the  Door,  Lord  Gregory 294 

Polwart  on  the  Green 315 

Roslin  Castle 295 

Sae  Merry  as  we  Twa  hae  been 310 

Saw  ye  Johnnie  Cummin  ?  quo'  she 295 

Saw^e  Nae  my  Peggy? 296 

She  Rose  and  Let  me  In 312 

Since    Robb'd   of   all  that    Charm'd  my 

View 322 

Strephonand  Lydia 316 

Tak  your  Auld  Cloak  about  ye 321 

Tarry  Woo 306 

The  Banks  of  Forth 310 

The  Banks  of  the  Tweed 294 

The  Beds  of  Sweet  Roses 20^ 

The  Black  Eagle 329 

The  BJaithrie  o't 302 

The  Blithesome  Bridal 309 

The  Bonny  Brucket  Lassie qio 

The  Bridal  o't 331 

The  Bush  aboon  Traquair 311 

The  Captive  Ribband 331 

The  Collier's  Bonny  Lassie -07 

The  Ewie  wi'  the  Crooked  Horn o- . 

The  Flowers  of  Edinburgh iiZ 

The  Gaberlunzie  Man ^^g 

The  Gentle  Swain , "  tl. 


CONTENTS. 


29 


The  Happy  Marriage 300 

The  Highland.  Character 327 

The.  Hig-hland  Queea 293 

The  Lass  of  Livingston 299 

The  Lass  of  Patie's  Mill 300 

The  Last  Time  I  Came  o'er  the  Moor 299 

The  Maid  that  Tends  the  Goats 305 

Then,  Guidwife,  Count  the  Lawin' 336 

The  Posie 304 

There's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House 306 

The  Shepherd's  Preference 332 

The  Soger  Laddie 336 

The  Tears  I  Shed  must  ever  Fall 338 

The  Tears  of  Scotland 318 

The  Turnimspike 301 

The  Wauking  o'  the  Fauld 314 

The  Young  Man's  Dreara 317 

This  is  no  my  Ain  House 328 

To  Daunton  Me 324 

Todlen  Hame 332 

To  the  Rosebud 338 

Tranent  Muir 315 

Tullochgorura 333 

Tune  yc\ur  Fiddles,  &c 325 

Tweed-side , . . .  303 

Up  and  Warn  a\  Willie 325 

Waly,  Waly 319 

Werena  my  Heart  Light  I  wad  Die 317 

When  I  upon  thy  Bosom  Lean 326 

Where  wad  Bonny  Annie  Lie  ? 336 

-Will  ye.gglo  the  Ewe-Bughts,  Marion. . .  313 

Ye  Gods,  was  Strephon's  Picture  Blest  ? . .  322 
Young  Damon 322 

GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Introduction 225 

17S1. 

I.  To  William  Burness,  Dec.  27 342 

1783. 

II.  To  Mr.  John  Murdoch,  Schoolmaster, 
London,  Jan  15 343 

III.  To  Mr.  James  Burness,  Writer,  Mont- 

■  rose,  June  21 344 

IV.  To  Miss  Eliza 345 

V.  To  the  Same 346 

VL,  To  the  Same 347 

Vn.  To  the  Same :..-.  348 

1784. 
VIII.  To  Mr.  James  Burness,  Montrose, 

Feb.  17 348 

,  IX.  To  Mr.  James    Burness,  Montrose, 

Aug 349 

X_  To  Miss , 349 

1786. 
XI.  To  Mr.  John  Richmond,  Edinjjurgh^ 

Feb.  17 350 

Xn.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy,  March  3 350 

Xin.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  Kilmarnock, 

March  20. 351 

XIV.  To  Mr.  Aiken,  April  3 351 

XV-  To    Mr.    M'Whinnie,   Writer,  Ayr, 

April  17 351 


I'AGE 

XVI.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy,  April  20. . . .  351 
XVn.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy,  May  17..,.  352 
XVHL  To  John  Ballantyne.of  Ayr,  June.  352 

XIX.  To  Mr.  David  Brice,  June  12 ...  352 

XX.  To  Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  July 353 

XXI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  July.  ■  ■  354 

XXII.  To  Mons.  James  Smith,  Mauchfine.  355 

XXIII.  To  John  Richmond,  Edinburgh, 
July  9 355 

XXIV.  To  Mr.  David  Brice,  Shoemaker, 
Glasgow,  July  17 355 

XXV.  To  Mr.  John  Richmond,  July  3P. . .  356 

XXVI.  To  Mr.  John  Kennedy,  Aug 356 

XXVIL.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  Kilmarnock, 

Sept 1 356 

XXVIII.  To  Mr.  Burness,  Montrose,  Sept.  357 

XXIX.  To  Dr.  Archibald  Lawrie,Nov.  13.  357 

XXX.  To  Miss  Alexander,  Nov.  18., 358 

XXXI.  To  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair,  Nov... .  358 

XXXII.  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  Nov.  18....  359 

XXXIII.  In  the  Name  of  the  Nine 359 

XXXIV.  To  Dr.  Mackenzie,  Mauchline, 
Nov ( 360 

XXXV.  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Mauch- 
line, Dec 360 

XXXVI.  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq. ,  Bank- 
er, Ayr,  Dec.  7 361 

XXXVII. ■  To  Mr.  Robert  Muir,  Dec.  2p..  361 

XXXVUL  To  Mr.  Cleghorn 361 

XXXIX,     To    Mr.    William    Chalmers,       . 
Writer,  Ayr,  Dec.  27 363 

1787. 
XL.  To  Gitvin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Mauch- 

Ime,  Jan.  7 363 

XLI.  To  the  Earl  of  Eglinton,  Jan 363 

XLIi,  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.>  Jan.  14.  363 

XLIII.  To  the  Same,  Jan 3G4 

XLIV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Jan.  15 364 

XLV.  To  Dr.  Moore,  Jan 365 

XL VI.  To  theRev.  G.  Lawrie,Ne\VmilIs 

near  Kilmarnock,  Feb.  g 366 

XLVII.  To  Dr,  Moore,  Feb.  15 366 

XLVIII.  To  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.,  Feb. 

24  ■ *  367 

XLIX.  To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  Feb...  367 

L.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan,  Feb '368 

LI.  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  March  8..  368 
LII.  To  Mr.  James  Candlish,  March  21..  369 
LIII.  To  Mr.  William  Dunbar,  March. .  - .  369 

LIV.  To : — , March , ....  370 

LV,  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  March  22 371 

LVI.  To  the  Same,  April  15 373 

LVII.  To  Dr.  Moore,  April  23 373 

LVIII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  April  30 374 

LIX.  To  James  Johnson,  Editor  of  the 

*' Scots  Musical  Museum,"  May  3 374 

LX,  To  the  Rev.  m.  Hugh  Blair,  May  3.  374 
LXI.  To  William  Creech,  Esq.,  Edinburgh,      - 

May  13 37S 

LXIL  To  Mr.  Patison,  Bookseller,  Pais-      ■ 

ley.May  17 375 

LXIIl.  To  Mr.  W.  Nicol,  Master  of  the 

High  School,  Edinburgh,  June  i 375 

LXiV.  To  Mr.  James  Smith,  at  Miller  and      - 

Smith's  Office,  Linlithgow,  June  ii 376 

LXV.  To  Mr.  William  Nicol,  June  18...  376 

LXVI.  To  Mr.  James  Candlish 377 

LXVII.  To  William  Nicol,  Esq.,  June....  378 
LXVm.    To    William    Cruikshank,    St. 

James's  Square,  Edinburgh,  June 378 


so 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LXIX.  To  Robert  Ainslie  Esq.,  June....  378 
LXX.  To  Mr.  James  Smith,  at  Linlith- 

fow,  June 378 
XI.  To  the  Same,  June 379 

LXXII.  To  Mr.  John  Richmond,  July  7. .  380 
LXXIII.  To  Robert  Ainslie,  Esq.,  July..  380 

LXXIV.  To  Dr.  Moore,  Aug.  2 380 

LXXV.  To  Robert  Ainslie;  Jr.,  Aug.  23  381 
LXXVI.  To  Mr,  Robert- Muir,  Aug...z6  .. 
LXXVII.  To  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.  Aug. 

28 382 

LXXVIII.    To  Mr.    Walker    Blaine,   of 

Athole,  Sept.  s 383 

LXXIX.  To  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns,  Sept.  17.  383 
LXXX.      To  Miss   Margaret   Chalmers, 

Sept.  26 384 

LXXXI.    Tothe  Same 38s 

LXXXII.   To  James  Hoy,  Esq.,  Castle 

Gordon,  Oct.  20 383 

LXXXIII.  To  Rev.  John  Skinner,  Oct.  25  386 
LXXXIV.  To  James  Hoy,  Esq.,  Nov.  6. .  387 

LXXXV.    To  Miss  M n,  Nov 388 

LXXXVI.  .To  Miss  Chalmers,  Nov.  21...  388 
LXXXVII.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,  Nov. 

23.  ,...^ ; 389 

LXXXVIII.  To  the  Same 389 

LXXXIX.  To  James  Dalryrople 389 

XC.'    To  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  Dec 390 

XCI.    To  Miss  Chalmers,  Dec.  12. 391 

XCII.    To  the  Same,  Dec.  19 39I 

XCIII.  To  Charles  Hay.  Esq.,  Dec 391 

XCIV.  To  Sir  John  Whitetoord,  Dec 392 

XCV.  To  Miss  Williams.  Dec 393 

XCVI.    To  Mr.  liichard  Brown*  Irvine, 

'   Dec.  30 394 

XCVII.  To  Gavin  Hamilton 395 

XCVIII.  To  Miss  Chalmers 39s 


XCIX.    To  Mrs.  Dunlap,  Jan.  21 396 

C.    To  the- Same,  Feb.  12 397 

CI.    To  Rev.  John  Skinner,  Feb.  14 397 

ClI.    To  Richard  Bro-wn,  Feb.  15 397 

CHI.    To  Miss  Chalmers,  Feb.  15 398 

CIV.    To  the  Same 398 

CV.    To  Mrs.   Rose  of  Kilravock,  Feb. 

17 398 

-C VI.  To  Richard  Brown,  Feb.  24 399 

CVII.  To ; 40J 

CVMI..    To    Mr.     William     Cruikshank, 

March  3. 400 

CIX.  To  Robert  Ainslie,  Esq.,  March 3...  401 

ex.  To  Richard  Brown,'  March  7 401 

CXI.  To  Mr.  Muir,  Kilmarnock,  March  7  401 

CXII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  March  17 402 

CXIII.  To  Miss  Chalmers,  March  14 402 

CXIV.  To  Richard  Brown,  March  26 403 

CXV.  To  Mr.  Robert  Cleghorn,  March  31  403 
CXVI.  To  Mr.  William  Dunbar,  April  7..  404 

CXVII.  To  Miss  Chalmers,  April  7 404 

CXVIII.To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  April  28 405 

CXIX.  To  Mr.  James  Smith,  Linlithgow, 

April  28., 40s 

CXX,  To  Dugald  Stewart,  May  3 406 

'CXXI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  May  4 406 

CXXII.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,  May  26,.  407 

CXXIII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  May  27 407 

CXXIV.  To  the  Same,  June  13 407 

CXXV.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,  June  14..  408 

CXX VI.  To  the  Same,  June  25 409 

CXXVII.  To  the  Same,  June  30 409 


PAG^ 

CXXVni.  To  Mr.  George  Lockhart,Glas- 

fow.  Jul-y  18  - 41a 
XlX.ToMr  Peter  Hill 4" 

CXXX.  To  Robert  Graham,  Esq 4" 

CXXXI.  To  William  Cruikshank,  Aug. .  412 

CXXXII.  To  Mrs  Dunlop,  Aug  2 413 

CXXXIII.  To  the  Same,  Aug  10 413 

CXXXIV.  To  the  Same,  Aug  16....- 414 

CXXXV.   To   Mr    Beugo,    Edinburgh, 

Sept-5 41S 

CXX-XVI.  To  Miss  Chalmers,  Sept  16...  416 
CXXXVU.  To  Mr.  Morrison,  Sept.  22  . .  418 
CXXXVIII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Sept.  27...  418 
CXXXIX.  To  Mr  Peter  Hill,  Oct.  r.  ,  ..  419 
CXL.  To  the  Editor  of  The  Star,  Nov.  8.  420 

CXLI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Nov.  13 4^1 

GXLII.  To  Mr.  James  Johnson,  Nov.  15  .  422 

CXLIII.  To  Dr.  Blacklock,  Nov.  15 423 

CXLIV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  17 423 

CXLV.  To  Miss  Davies,  Dec 423 

CXLVI.  To  Mr.  John  Tennant,  Dec.  22..  424 

1789. 

CXL'V^II-  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Jan.  1 424 

CXLVIII.  To  Dr.  Moore,  Jan.  4. 425 

CXLIX.  .To  Mr.  Jlobert  Ajnslle,.Jan.  6. .  426 
CL.  To  Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  Jan  20  427 

CLI.  To  Bishop  Geddea,  F£b.  3 428 

CLII.  To  Mr.  James  Burness,  Feb.  9 428 

CLIII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  March  4 429 

CLIV.  To  Rev.  P.  Carfrae,  March  4 439 

CLV.  To  Dr  Moore,  March  23 431 

CLVI.  To  William  Burns,  March  25 432 

CLVn.  To  Mr  Hill,  April  2 432 

CLVIII,  To  Mrs  Dunlop,  April  4 433 

CLIX.  To  Mrs  M'Murdo,  May  2 433 

CLX.  To  Mr  Cunningham,  May  4......  433 

CLXI.  To  Samuel  Brown,  Mtiy  4 434 

CLXni.  To  Richard  Brown,  May  21 434 

CLXiri.  To  James  Hamiltbri,  May  26  ...  43s 

CLXIV.  To  William  Creech,  May  30 435 

CLXV.    To    Mr    Macaulay,    of    Dum- 
barton, June  4 ^33 

CLXVI.  To  Robert  Ainslie,  June  8 436 

CLXVIL  To  Mr  M'Murdo,  June  19 436 

CLXVIII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  June  21 .  437 

CLXIX.  To  Miss  Williams,  Aug 438 

CLXX.  To  Mr.  John  Logan,  Aug  7 '  304 

CLXXLToMr-_^;Sept  - 

CLXXII.  To  Mrs  Dunlop.  Sept  6 440 

CLXXIII.  To  Captain  Riddel,  Oct  16. . . .  441 

CLXXIV.  To  the  Same...- 442 

CLXXV.  To  Robert- Ainslie,  Nov.  i..:..  442 

CLXXVI.  To  Richard  Brown,  Nov.  4 Ai-i 

CLXXVn.  To  R.  Graham,  Dec.9.  .!....  .1% 
CLXXVIH.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  13..:.  444 
CLXXIX.    To  Lady  W.  M.    Constable, 

Dec.  16 4,5 

CLXXX.  To  Provost  Maxwell,  Dec.  20..  446 


1790. 

CLXXXI.  To  Sir  John  Sinclair 447 

CLXXXII.  To  Charles  SHarpe,  Esq.,  of 

Hoddam 4.3 

CLXXXIII,  To  GilbertBurns,  Jan.  II,...  ^ia 
CLXXXIV.  To  William  Dunbar,  Jan.  14,  Iln 
CLXXXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Jan.  25...  .  IS 
CLXXXyi.  To    Peter  Hill,  Edinburgh, 

CLXXXVli".  'to  W.'NicilV  Feb.'  "9'.'.'.'.'. ! ! !  452 


CONTENTS. 


gl 


I'AGE 

CLXXXVIII.  To  Mr.  Cunningham,  Feb. 

13 453 

CLXXXIX.  To  Mr.  Hill,  March  2 454 

CXC.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  April  10 455 

CXCr.  To  CoUeci or  Mitchell 456 

CXCII.  To  Dr.  Moore,  July  14  457 

CXCXII.  To  Mr.  Murdoch,  July  16 457 

CXCIV.  To  Mr.  M'Murdo,  Aug.  2 458 

CXCV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Aug.  8 . . .  458 

CXCVI.  To  Mr.  Cunningham,  Aug.  8....  458 

eXCVII.  To  Dr.  Anderson 459 

CXCVIII.  To  Crawford  Tait,  Oct.  15. ...  459 

CXCIX.  To^ 460 

CC.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Nov 461 

1791. 

CCI.  To  La4y  W.  AL  Constable,  Jan.  ir.  461 

ecu.  To  William  Dunbar,  Jan.  17 461 

CCIII.  To  Mrs.  Graham,  Jan 462 

CCIV.  To  Peter  Hill,  Jan.  17 462 

CCV.  To  Alex.  Cunningham,  Jan.  23 463 

CCVI.  To  A.  F.  Tytler,  Feb 463 

CCVII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Feb.  7. 464 

CCVIII.  To  Rev.  Arch.  Alison,  Feb.  14. .  464 

CCIX.  To  Rev.  G.  Baird,  Feb '..  465 

CCX.  To  Dr.  Moore,  Feb.  28 465 

CCXI.  To  Alex.  Cunningham,  March  12..  467 
CCXII.  To  Alexander  Dalzel,  March  19..  467 

GCXIH.  To ,March 468 

eCXIV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  April  11 468 

GCXV.  To  Alex.  Cunningham,  June  11..  469 
eCXVI.  TotheEarlof  Buchan,  June....  470 

CCXVri.  To  Thomas  Sloan,  Sept.  1 470 

CCXVIII.  To    Lady    E.     Cunningham, 

CCXIX.'to'CoI.  Fullartonof 'Fiiliarton,  *'' 

Oct.  3..' 471 

CCXX.  ToMr.Ainslie 471 

CCXXI.  To  Miss  Davies 472 

CCXXII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  17 473 

179a. 

CCXXIII.  To  William  Smellie,  Printer, 

Jan.  22 474 

CCXXIV.  To  Peter  Hill,  Feb.  5 475 

CCXXV.  ToW.  Nicol,  Feb.  20 475 

CCXXVI.  To  Francis  Grose 476 

CCXXVH.  To  the  Same 476 

CCXXVin.   To   J.    Clarke,    Edinburgh, 

July  16 47S 

CCXXIX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Aug.  22. . . .  478 
CCXXX.  To  Mr.  Cunningham,  Sept.  10..  479 
CCXXXI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  Sept.  24...   ,  481 

CCXXXII.  To  tlie  Same,  Sept 482 

CCXXXIH.  To  Captain  Johnston,  Editor 

of  the  Edinburgh  Gazetteer^  Nov.  13 482 

CCXXXI  V.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  6 483 

CCXXXV.  To  R.  Graham,  Esg.,  Dec.  6..  484 
CCXXXVI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  31. . . .  484 


1793- 

CCXXXVII.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Jan.  5 48s 

CCXXXVni.     To    Mr.     Cunningham, 

March  3 486 

CCXXXIX.  To  Miss  Benson,  March  21 . .  487 

CeXL.  To  Patrick  Miller,  April 487 


PAGE 

CCXLI.  To  John  Francis  Erskine,  Esq., 

of  Mar,  April  13 '. 487 

CCXUI.  To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie,' April  26.  480 

CCXLHI.  To  Miss  Kennedy 49S 

CCXLIV.  To  Miss  Craik,  Aug 490 

CCXLV.  To  Lady  Glencairn 491 

CCXLVI.  To  John  M'Murdo,  Esq.,  Dec.  492 

CCXLVIL  TotheSame 49, 

CCXLVHI.  To  Captain 493 

CCXLIX.  To  Mrs.  Riddel 493 

1794. 

CCL.  To  a  Lady 494 

CCLI.  To  the  Earl  of  Buchan 494 

CCLII.  To  Captain  Miller 494 

CCLHI.  To  Mrs.  Riddel 495 

CCHV.  TotheSame 495 

CCLV.  TotheSame 495 

CCLVI.  To  the  Same 496 

CCLVJI.  TotheSame 496 

CCLVin.  To  John  Syme,  Esq 406 

CCLIX.  To  Miss , 497 

CCLX.  To  Mr.  Cunningham,  Feb.  26 497 

CCLXI.  TotheEarlof  Glencairn,  May..  498 
CCLXII.   To    David    Macculloch,  Esq., 

June  21 499 

CCLXni.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop.  June  25 499 

CCLXIV.  To  Mr.  James  Johnson 500 

CCLXV.    To  Peter  Miller,    Jun.,  Esq., 

Nov 500 

CCLX VI.  To  Samuel  Clarke,  Jun 501 

'795- 

CCLXVII.  To  Mrs.  Riddel '. 501 

CCLXVIII.  TotheSame Kca 

CCLXIX.  To  Miss  Fontenelle 502 

CCLXX.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  is 503 

CCLXXr.  To  Alexander  Findlater.......  504 

CCLXXII.  To  the  Editor  of  the  Morning 

Chronicle eo4 

CCLXXIII.  To  Col.  W.  Dunbar 505 

CCLXXIV.  To  Mr.  Heron 503 

CCLXXV.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  Dec.  20 506 

CCLXXVI.  Address  of  the  Scotch  Dis- 
tillers      507 

CCLXXVII.  To  the  Hon.  The  Provost, 
Bailies  and  Town  Council  of  Dumfries.  508 

1796. 

CCLXXVIII.  To  Mrs.  Riddel,  Jan.  20...  509 

CCLXXIX.  ToMrs.  Dunlop,  Jan.  31 509 

CCLXXX.  To  Mrs.  Riddel,  June  4 509 

CCLXXXI.  To  Mr.  Clarke,  Forfar.,  June 

26 510 

CCLXXXII.  To  James  Johnson,  July  4..  510 
CCLXXniX.  ToMr.Cunningham,  July  7  511 

CCLXXXIV.  To  Gilbert  Burns 511 

CCLXXXV.  ToMrs.  Burns 512 

CCLXXXVI.  To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  July  12.  .  512 
CCLXXXVII.  ToJamesBumess,Julyi2.  512 
CCLXXXVIII.  ToJamesGracie.  July  lO.  513 
CCLXXXIX.  To  James  Armour,  July  iS.  513 
Correspondence  of  Burns  with    George 

Thomson 514 

Prefatory  Note 561 

Letters  to  Clarinda 562 

Commonplace  Book 579 


TItE 


POETICAL    WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT    BURNS. 


TRAGIC  FRAGMENT. 

The  following  lines  are  thus  introduced  by 
Burns  in  one  of  his  manuscripts,  printed  in 
*■  Cromek's  Reliques  :" — "  In  my  early  years 
nothing  less  would  serve  me  than  courting" 
the  tragic  muse.  I  was,  I  think,  about 
eighteen  or  nineteen  when  I  sketched  the 
outlines  oi  a -tragedy,  forsooth;-  but  the 
bursting"  of  a  cloud  of  family  misfortunes, 
which  had  for  sqmc  time  threatened  us,' 
prevented"  my  further  progress.  In  those 
days  I  never  wrote  down  anything  ;  so,  ex- 
cept a  speech  or  two,  the  whole  has  es- 
caped my  memory.  The  above,  which  I 
most  distinctly  remember,  was  an  exclama- 
tion from  a  great  character — great  in  occa- 
sional instances  of  generosity,  and  daring  at 
times  in  villanies.  He  is  supposed  to  meet 
with  a  child  of  misery,  and  exclaims  to  him- 
self, as  in' the  words  of  the  fragment"  ; — 

All  devil  as  I  am,  a  damned  wretch, 

A  harden' d,  stubborn,  unrepenting  vil- 
lain. 

Still  my  heart  melts  at  human  wretch- 
edness ; 

And  with  sincere,  though  unavailing 
sighs, 

I  view  the  helpless  children  of  distress. 

With  tears  indignant  I  behold  the  op- 
pressor [tion, 

■Rejoicing  in  the  honest  man's  destruc- 

Whose  unsubmitting  heart  was  all  his 
ferime. 

Even  you,  ye  helpless  crew,  I  pity  you; 

Ye,  whom  the  seeming  good  think  sin 
to  pity  ;  [Tionds, 

Ye  poor,    despised,   abandon'd  vaga- 

WTiom  vice,  as  usual,  has  turn'd  o'er 
to  ruin. 


— Oh,  but  for  kind)  though  iU-requi£. 

ed,  friends,  [lorn, 

I  had  been  driven  forth  like  you  for- 

The  most  detested,  worthless  wretch 

among  you  !, 
O  injured  God  !  Thy  goodness  has  en- 
dow'd  me  [peers. 

With  talents  passing  most -of  my  com- 
Which  1  in  just  proportion  have  abused 
As  far  surpassing  other  common  vil- 
lains, 
As  Thou  in  natural  parts  hadst  given 
me  more. 


THE  TORBOLTON  LASSES.      . 

The  two  following  poems,  written  at  different 
timeg^  give  a  list  of  thd  eligible  .damsels  in 
the  poet's  neighborhood : — 

If  ye  gae  up  to  yon  hill-tap, 
Ye'll  there  see  bonny  Peggy; 

She  kens  her  faither  is  a  laird, 
And  she  f  orsooth's  a  leddy. 

There  Sophy  tight,  a  lassie  bright. 
Besides  a  handsome  fortune  :  _ 

Wha  canna  win  her  in  a  iiiglit, 
Has  little  art  in  courting.        ' 

Gae  down  by  Faile,  and  taste  the  a!e, 

And  tak  a  look  o'  Mysie  ; 
She's  dour'  and  din,  a  deil  within, 
,  But  aiblins'^  she  may  please  ye. 


'  Obstinate. 


2  Perhaps. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


If  she  be  shy,  her  sister  try, 

I'e'll  maybe  fancy  Jenny, 
If  yell  dispense  \vi'  want  o'  sense-^ 

She  kens  hersel  she's  bonny. 
As  ye  gae  up  by  yon  hillside, 

Speer'  in  for  bonny  Bessy; 
She'll  gie  ye  a  beck,^  and  bid  ye  lichtj- 

And  handsomely  address  ye. 
There's  few  sae  bonnie,  nane  saeguid. 

In  a'  King  George'  Dominion  ; 
If  ye  should  doubt  the  truth  o'  this — 

it's  Bessy'fe  ain  opinion. 

In  Torbolton,  ye  ken,  there  are  proper 

young  men, 

And  proper  young  lassies  and  a',  man ; 

But  ken  ye  the  Ronalds  that  live  in  the 

Bennals,  [man. 

They  carry  the  gree'  frae  them  a", 

Their  father's  a  laird,  and  weel  he  can 

spare  't,  [man. 

Braid   money  to  tocher*    them   a'. 

To  proper  young  men,  he'll  clink  in  the 

hand 

Gow  d  guineas  a  hunder  or  twa,  man.. 

There's  ane  tliey  ca'  Jean,  I'll  warrant 

ye've  seen 

As  bonny  a  lass  or  as  liraw,  man ; 

But  for  sense  and  guid  taste  she'll  yie 

wi'  the  best,  [man. 

And   a   conduct   that  beautifies    a', 

The  charms  o'  the  min',  they  langer 

they  shine,  [man; 

The    mair    admiration  they  draw, 

While  peaches  and  cherries,"  and  roses 

and  lilies. 

They  fade  and  they  wither  awa,  man. 

If  ye  be  for  Miss  Jean,  tak.  this  frae  u. 
frien', 
A  hint  o'  a  rival  or  twa,  man. 
The    Laird    o'  Blackbyre    wad    gang- 
through  the  fire. 
If  that  wad  entice  her  awa,  man. 

The  L^ird  o'  Braehead  has  been  on  his 

speed,  [man ; 

For  mair  than  a  towmond'  or  twa. 

The  Laird  o'  the  Ford  will  straught  on 

a  board," 

If  he  canna  get  her  at  a',  man. 


J  Ask  or  call.    ^  Bow.    ^  Palm.    ">  Portion. 
^  Twelvemonth.    *  Die  and  be  stretched  on 
a  board. 


Then  Anna  comes  in,  the  pride  o'  her 
kin, 
The  boast  of  our  bachelors  a',  man; 
iiae  sonsy'  and  sweet,  sae  fully  com- 
plete. 
She  steals  our  affections  awa,  man. 

If  I  should  detail  the  pick  and  the 

wale'' 

O'  lasses,  that  live  here  awa,  man, 

The  fault  wad  be  mine,  if  they  didna 

shine,  [man. 

The  sweetest  and  best  o'  them  a', 

1  lo'e  he3>mysel,  but  dareua  weel  tell. 
My  poverty  keeps  me  in  awe,  man. 

For  maJdng  o'  rhymes,  and  working  at 
times. 
Does  little  or  naething  at  a',  man. 

Yec  I  wadna  choose  to  let  her  refuse. 

Nor  hae't  in  her  power  to  say  na, 

man;  [scare. 

For  though  I  be  poor,  unnoticed,  ob- 

My  stomach's  as  proud  as  them  a', 

man. 

Though  I  canna  ride  in  weel-bootod 

pride,  [man. 

And  flee  o'er  the  hills  like  a  craw, 

I  can  haud  up  my  head  with  the  best  p' 

the  breed. 

Though  fluttering  ever  so  braw,  man. 

My  coat  and  my  vest,  they  are  Scotch 

o'  the  best,  [man, 

0*  pair§  o'  guid  breeks  I  hae  twa, 

And  stockings  and  pumps  to  put  on  my 

stumps,  [man. 

And  ne'er  a  wrang  steek  in  them  a'. 

My   sarks'   they   are  few,  but  five  o' 

them  new,  [man, 

Twal'  hundred,'"  as  white  as  the  snaw, 

A  ten-shilling  hat,  a  Holland  cravat: 

There  are  no  mony  poets  sae  braw, 

man. 

I  never  had  frien's  wrol  stockit    in 

means. 
To  leave  me  a  hundred  or  twa,  man; 
Nae   weel-tochei-'d   aunts,  to  wait  ou 

their  drants," 
.     And  wish  tln'in  in  hell  forit  a',  man. 


'  Comely.      «  Choice. 
"Shirts.    "  A  kind  of  doth.    "Humors. 


POEMS. 


85 


I'  never  was  cannie'^   for  lioarding  o' 

^    money. 

Or  claughtin't"  together  at  a',  man, 

I've  little    to  spend,  and  naetliing  to 

lend. 

But  deevil  a  shilling"  I  awe,  man. 


WmTER. 

A.  DIRGE. 

"Winter:  a  Dir^e,"  was  copied  into  Bums's 
Commonplace  Book  in  April,  1784,  and  pre- 
.  faced  with  the  following  reflections : — *'  As 
I  am  what  the  me:i  of  the  woild,  if  they 
knew  such  a  man,  would  call  a  whimsical 
mortal,  I  have  various  sources  of  pleasure 
and  .  enljoytnent,  which    arc    in  a  manner 

'  peculiar  to  myself,  or  some  here  and  there 
such  -  out-of-the-way  person.  Such  is  the 
peculiar  pleasure  I  take  in  the  season  of 
Winter  more  than  the  rest  of  the  year.  This,  j 
I  believe,  niay  be  partly  owing  to  my.,  mis- 
fortunes giving  my  mind  a  melancholy  cast : 
t .  but  .there  is  something  even  in  the 

*  Mighty  tempest,  and  the  heavy  "waste. 
Abrupt,  and  deep,  stretch'd  o'er  the  buried 
earth,' 

.Tvhich  raises  the  mind  to  a  serious  sublimity 
favorable  to  everything  great  and  noble. 
There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives 
me  more — I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it 
pleasure — but  soinething  which  exalts  me — 
something  which  enraptures  me^han  to 
walk  m  the  sheltered  side  of  a  wood ,  or  high 
plantation,  in  a  cloudy  winter-day,  and 
hear  the  stormy  wind  howling  among  the 
trees  and  raving  over  the  plain.  It  is  my 
■  best  season  for  devotion :  my  mind  is  wrapt 
up  in  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  to  Him,  who,  m 
the  pompous  language  of  the  Hebrew  bard, 
*  WcJks  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.'  In  one 
of  these  seasons,  just  after  a  train  of  misfor- 
tunes, I  composed  the  following :" — 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  hlaw;   [forth 
Or,   the  stormy   north  sends  driving 

'The  Winding  sleet  and  snaw;  [down, 
"While  tumbling  brown,  the  bum  comes 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

"  The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'er- 
cast,  "*' 

The  joyless  winter-day, 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May : 


The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join; 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please. 

Their  fate  resembles  mine  1 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty 
scheme 
Those  woes  of  mine  fulfil. 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best. 

Because  they  are  Thy  will  ! 
Then  all  I  want  (oh,  do  Thou  grant 
'  This  one  re^liest  of  mine  !) 
Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 
Assist  me  to  resign. 


"  Careful.     "  Gathering  greedily.      '*  Owe. 
*  Dr.  Young. 


A  PEAYER, 

UNDER    THE    PRESSURE    OS'    VIOLENT 
AITGUISH. 

In"  the  Commonplace  Book  already  alluded  to 
the  following  melancholy  note  actompanies 
this.  Poem : — "  There  was  a  certain  period 
fif  my  life  that  my  spirittwas  broken  by  re- 
peated losses  and  disasters,  which  threat- 

-  'ijned,  and  indeed  effected,  the  utter  ruin  of 
my  fortune.  My  body,  too,  was  attacked  by 
that  most  dreadful  distemper,  a  hypochon- 
dria, qr  confirmed  melancholy.  In  tliis 
wretched  state,  the  recollection  of  which 
makes  me  yet  shudder,  I  hung  my  harp  on 
the  willow  trees,  except  in  some  lucid  inter- 
vals, in  one  of  which  I  composed  this 
Prayer  ;"-^ 

0  Tiiou  great  Being  !  what  Thou  art. 

Surpasses  me  to  know: 
Yet  sure  1  am,  that  known  to  Thee 

Are  all  Thy  works  below. 
Thy  creature  here  before  Thee  stands. 

All  wretched  and  distrest; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  thy  high  behest. 
Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
0-1,  free  my  weary  eyps  from  tears. 

Or  close  them  fajst  in  death  ! 
But  if  I  must  afflicted  be. 

To  suit  some  wise  desigjn; 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves. 

To  bear  and  not  repine  1 


THE  DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS 
OP  POOR    MAILIB. 

THE  author's    only  PET   YOWE. 

(An  Unco  Moumfu'  Tale.) 
As  Mailie  and  her  lambs  thegither 
Was  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether. 


36 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Upon  lier  cloot  she  coost  a  Uitcli, 
And  owr^  she  wareled'  in  tlie  ditch ; 
There,  groaning,  dying,  slie  did  lie, 
Wlien  Haghoc  he  caiii  doytin"''  by, 
,Wi'  glowring  een,  and  lifted  han's, 
Poor  Hughoc  like  astatiie  Stan's;    [ed. 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-liand  end- 
But,  waes  my  lieai't !  ho  couldna  mend  ; 

it!  , 

He  gaped  wide,  bnt  naething  spak — 
At  length  poor  Mailie  ^ence  brak: — 

"O  tlioU,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case! 
My  dying  words' attentive  hear, 
And  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 
I'ell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
,As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep. 
Oh,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
A\'i'  wielved  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair! 
But  ca'  them  put  to  park  or  hill. 
And  let  them  wander  at  their  will; 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  and  groAi» 
To  sr-ores  o'  lambs,  and  packs  o'  woo' ! 

'■  Tell  him  he  was  a  master  kin'. 
And  aye  was  guid  to  me  and  mine: 
And  now  my  dying  charge  I  giehim — 
Jly  helpless  Iambs  I  trust  t.liera  wi'  him. 
"  Oh,  bid  him  save  their  harmless 

lives.  [knives! 

Frae°  dogs,   and  tods,  and    butchers' 
But  gie  tliem  guid  cow-millc  their  fill. 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel; 
And  tent  them  duly,  e'en  and  mom 
Wi'  teats  o'  hay,  and  ripps  o'  corn, 
"  And   may   they   never   learn   the 

gaets* 
Of  ither  vile,  wanrestfu'*  pets!     [steal 
To  slink  through  slaps,  and  reave  and 
At  stacks  o'  peas  or  stocks  o'  kail. 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbeai-s. 
For  mony  a  year  come  through  the 

shears; 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  bread. 
And    bairns    greet*   for    them    when 

they're  dead.  [heir, 

"My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  and 
Oh,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care! 
And  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast. 
To  pit  some  havins'  in  his  breast! 
'  And  warn  him,  what  1  >vinna  name. 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  at  hame; 
And  no  to  rin  and  wear  his  clouts,- 

^  Struggled.    2  Walking  Stupidly.    *,  From. 

*  Habits.    ^ Restless.    *  uccp.,    ^ Good  sense, 

*,Clouts,  clothes  or  rags,  with  reference  to 


Like  ither  menseless,*graceless  brutes. 

"  And  ueist  my  yowie,  silly  thjng, 
Guid  keep  the  frae  a  tether  string! 
Oh,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up 
Wi'  ony  blastit.f  moorland  toop. 
But  aye  keep  mind  to  moop  and  mell, 
Wi'  sheep  e'  credit  like  thysel ! 

"  And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last 
breath 
1  lea'e  my  blessin'  wi'  you  baith: 
And  when  you  thinic  upo'  your  mlther, 
Mind  to  be  kin'  to  aue  anither. 

"  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail  ■ 
To  tel  1  my  master  a'  my  tale; 
And  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether. 
And,   for  thy  pains,   thou's   get  my 

blether. "» 
This  said,  poor  Mailie  turned  her  head, 
And  closed  her  een  amang  the  dead. 

THE  ELEGY. 
Lamext  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 
Wi'   saut  tears   trickling  down  your 

nose: 
Our  bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close. 
Past  a'  remead; 
The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes; 

Poor  Slailie's  dead! 
It's  no  the  loss  o'  warl's  gear. 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear. 
Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed; 
He's  lost  a  friend  arid  neibor  dear 

In  Mailie  dead. 
Through  a'  the  toun*  she  trotted  by 

him; 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy 
him 

She  ran  wi'  speed: 
A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigU 
him 

Than  Mailie  dead. 
I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense. 
And  could  behave  hersel  wi'  mense:'" 

^Senseless.  ^Bladder.  *'' Decorum, 
a  piece  of  clothing  with  which  rams  are  cum- 
bered at  certain  seasons,  lor  a  purpose  which 
will  hardly  bear  full  explanation.  Mr.  Smith, 
in  his  recent  "edition  of  "the  poet's  works, 
misled  by  the  usual  spelUng:of  the  word-c^oo/s, 
which  means  hoofs.or  feet,  and  being  appar- 
ently ignorant  of  this  custom,  robs  the  allusion 
"  of  ait  its"broad"fium"or. 

+  A  contemptuous  term. 

*  Hound  the  iarm. 


POEMS. 


37 


Til  say't,  slie  never  brak  a  fence 

Tkrougli  tliievish  greed. 

Our  'bardie,  lauely,  keeps  tlie  spencef 
Sin  Mailie's  dead. 

Or,  if  lie  wanders  up  the  liowe," 
Her  living  image  in  her  yowe 
Comes    bleating    to    liim,     owre    the 
knowe,''^ 

For  bits  o'  bread; 
And  down  tlie  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead: 

She  was  nae  get  o'  moorland  tips, 
Wi'  tawted  ket,'^  and  hairy  hips; 
For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 

Frae  yont  the  Tweed: 
A  bonnier  fleesh  ne'er  cross'd  the  clips 

Than  Mailie  dead,  r  , 

[sliape 
Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did 
That  vile,  Avanchancie'-*  thing — a  rape! 
It  maks   guid  fellows  girn  an'  gape,| 

Wi'  chokm'  dj?ead; 
And  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape, 

For  Mailie  dead. 

Oh,  a'  ye  bards  on  bonny  Doon! 
And  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune! 
Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

0'  Hobiris  reed! 
His  heart  will  never  get  aboon 

His  MaUie.dead. 


O  WHY   THE    DEUCE  SHOULD  I 
EEPIXE. 

The  following  is  said  to  have  been  written 
extempore : — 

0  WHY  the  denes  should  I  repine. 
And  be  an  ill  forebodor? 

I'm  twenty-three,  and  five  feet  nine — 
I'll  go  and  be  a  sodger. 

1  gat  some  gear  wi  meikle  care, 

I  held  it  weel  thegither;         [mair — 
But  now   it's  gane,    and    something 
I'll  go  arid  be  a  sodger. 


THE  BELLES  OF  MAUCHLINE. 

Ik  Mauchline  there  dwells  six  proper 

young  belles,  [bourhood  a'; 

The  pride  o'  the  ijlace  and  its  neigh- 


U  Dell.  12  Knoll.  '=  Matted  fleece.  >■> Unlucky. 

+  Shuts  himself  up  in  the  parlor  with  bb 
sorrow." 

.*  Grin  and  rfasp— an  clluijicn  to  hanging-. 


Their  carriage   and  dress,  a  stranger 

would  guess. 

In  Lou'oa  or  Paris  they'd  gotten  it  a'. 

Miss  Miller  is  flue,  Miss   Markham's 

divine,  [Betty  is  braw; 

Miss  Smith  she  has  wit,  and  Miss 

There's  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi' 

Miss  Morton.  [them  a'. 

But   Armour's  the  jewel   for  me  o' 

A  PRATER 

IN  THE  PROSPECT  OP  DEATH. 

"  This  '  Prayer '  and  the  '  Stanzas,'  which  fol- 
low," the  poet  wfote  in  hiis  Commonpliice. 
Book,  "  were  composed  when  fainting:  fits, 
and  other  alaroling  symptoms  of  pleurisy, 
or  some  other  dangerous  disorder,  which 
indeed  still  threatens  me,  first  put  natUta 
on  the  alart](l.  The  stanzas  are  ntisgivings 
in  the  hour  of  despondency  and  prospect  ot 
death.  The  grand  end  of  human  life  is  to 
cultivate  an  intercourse  with  that  Beingto 
whom  we  owe  life  with  every  enjoyment 
that  renders  hfe  delightful." 

0  Tnou  unknown.  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear. 
In  whose  dread  presencs,  ere  an  hour. 

Perhaps  I  must  appear! 
If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun; 
As  something,  loudly,  in  tuy  breast. 

Remonstrates  I  have  done; 
Thou  know'st  that  thou  Ijast  form'd 
me 

With  passions  wild  and  strong; 
And  listening  to  their  witching  voice 

Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

Where    human    v.-ealcness    has   come 
short. 

Or  frailty  stept  aside, 
Do  Thou,  All-good!  for  such  Tliou  art, 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 
Where  with  intention  I  have  err'd. 

No  other  plea  I  have, 
But,  Thoil  art  good;  and  goodness  .still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 

STANZAS. 

ON  THE   SAME  OCCASION. 

Why  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly 

scene?'  [char.ns'/ 

Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing 

Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill 

between;  [newing  storms. 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  re- 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms? 
Or    death's   unlovely,   dreary,  dark 
abode?  [arms; 

For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in 
.  I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And   justly  smart    beneath  His    sin- 
avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  "  Forgive  my  foul 
.  offence!" 
Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey; 
Biit  should  my  Author,  health' again 

•dispense,   , 
Again  1  might  desert  fair  Virtue's  way; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray; 
AgB.in  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the 
Inan;  [P''*y> 

Tiien  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mer- 
cy's plan? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  moum'd,  yet  to 
tsmptation  ran. 

0  Thou  great  Governor  of  all  belpw! 
If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease 
to  blow, 
Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea; 
With  that    controlling  power    assist 
even  me,  [confine. 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be, 
To  rule  their  torrent  in  the  allow'd 
line:  [tence  Divine. 

Oil,  aid  me  with  Thy  help,  Omnipo- 


THE  FIRST  FSALM. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever'  placed, 

Hath  happiness  in  store, 
Who  walks  not  in  the  vricked's  way, 

Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore. 

Nor  'from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees. 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high, 
And  firm  the  root  below, 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt,- 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 


For  why?  that  God  the  good  adore. 
Hath  given  them  peace  and  rest. 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


THE  FIRST  SIX  VERSES  OF  THE 
I  NINETIETH  PSALM. 

O  Thou,  the  first,  the  greatest  friend 

Of  all  the  human  race ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling-place! 

Before  the   mountains    heaved   their 
heads 

Beneath  Thy  forming  hand. 
Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself, 

Arose  at  'Thy  command;  _  . 

That  power  which  raised  and  still  up- 
liolds 

This  universal  frame, 
From  countless  unbeginning  time 

Was  ever  stUI  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years 
•  Which  seem  to  us  so  vast. 
Appear  no  more  before  Thy  sight 
Than  yesterday  that's  past. 

Thou  givest  the  word;  Thy  creature, 
man. 

Is  to  existence  brought. 
Again  Thou  say'st,  "  Te  sons  of  men 

Return  yo  into  nought!' 

Thou  layest  them  with  all  their  cares, 

In  everlasting  sleep; 
As  with  a  flood  Thou  takest  them  ofE 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flower. 

In  beauty's  pride  ari-ay'd; 
But  long  ere  night  cut  down,  it  lies 

All  wither'd  and  decayed, 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ROB- 
ERT  RUISSEAUX. 

This  fragment  was  lound  by  Cromek  among 
the  poet's  manuscripts.  Rmsseaux— a  trans- 
lation of  his  own  name — is  French  for 
rivulets. 

Now  Robin  lies  In  his  last  lair. 

He'll  gabble  rhyme  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

Cauld  poverty,  wi'  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  fear  him; 
Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankert  care, 

E'«r  mair  come  near  him. 


POEMS. 


39 


To  tell  the  truth,  they  seldoai  fashthim. 

Except  the  liioment  that  they  .cruslit 

liim:  :  ['em. 

For  sune  as  chance  or  fate  had  husht 

Thougli  e'er  saeshort, 
Then  wi'  a  rhyme  or  song  height  'em, 
And  thought  it  sport. 

Though  ho  was  bred  to  kintra  wark, 
And  counted  was  baith  wight  and  stark, 
Yet  that  it  was  never  Robin's  mark 

Tomakaman; 
But  tell  him  he  was  learn'd  and  dark, 

Ye  rocsed  him  than  1 


MATJCHLINE  BELLES. 

On  leave  novels,  yo  Mauchlino.  belles  ! 

Ye'er  safer  at  your  sp^^ning  wheel; 
Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 

For  rakish  rooks  lilce  Rob  Mossgiel. - 

Your  iine  Tom  Jones  and  Grandisons, 
They  make  your  youthful  fancied 
reel;  [brains. 

They  heat  your  veins,  and  fire  your 

[giel. 
And  then  ye'ro  prey  for  Rob  Moss- 
Beware  a  tongue  that's  smoothly  hung, 
.  A  heart  that  warmly  seems  to  feel ; 
That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part — 
'Tis  rakish  art  in  Bob  Mossgiel. 

The  frank  address,  the  soft  caress. 
Are  worse  than  poison'd  hearts  of 
steel ; 

The  frank  address  and  politesse 
Are  all  finesse  in  Rob  Mossgiel. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

A  TRITE  STORY. 

"Death  and  Pr.  Hombook,"  says  Gilbert 
Bums,  **■  though  not  published  m  the.  Kil- 
marnock edition,  was  produced  early  in  the 
year_i785.  The  schoolmaster  of  Torbolton 
parish,  to,  eke.  out  the  .scanty  subsistence 
allowed  to  that  useful  class  of  men,  set  up  a 
s^op'  of  grocery  goods.    Having  accid'ent- 

-  ally  fallen  in  with  ^ome  medical  books,  and 
beconie  mpst  hobby-horsically  attached  to 
the  study  of  medicine,  he  had  added  the  sale 
.  Qfj  a  few'  medicines  to  his  little  trade.  He 
had.got  a  shop-bill  printed,  at  the  bottom  of 
which,  overlooking  his  own  incapacity,  he 
had  advertised  that  advice  would  be  given 
in  common  disorders,,  at  the  shop  gratis! 


*  Rob  Mossgiel— Robert  Burns  of  Mossgiel. 


Robert  was  at  a  masoihrmeeting  iu,Tci-bDU 
ton,  when  the  domiijiqiinade  too  ostenta- 
tio'us  a  display  of  his  medical  skill.  As  he 
parted  in  the  evening 'from  this  mixture  of 
pedantry  and  physic  at  the  place  where  he  de- 
scribes his  njeetmg  with  Deatt^,  one  of  those 
floating  ide4s  of  apparitions  mentioned  in 
his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore  irossed  His  rtiind  ; 
this  set  him  to  work  for  the  rest  of  his  way 
home.  These  circumstances  he'ralated  when 
he  repeated  the  verses  to  me  the  next  after- 
noon, as  I  was  holding  the  .plou'eh,'.and  he 
was  letting  the  water- off  the  -fteld  beside 
me.".  ... 

The  mirth  and  amusement  occasioned  by  the 
publication  of  the  poem  droVe  the  sthool-' 
master  out  of  the  district,  and  he  became 
session--clcrk  of  the  Gorbala  parish,  Glas.?.'. 
gow,  and  died  there  in  1839.  -  ■    . 

Some  books  are  lies  f  ra  end  to  end 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn'd: 
E'en 'ministers,,  they  hae  beeh  kenn'd, 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid'  at  time's  to  vend. 

And  nail't  wi'  Scripture; - 

But  this  that  I  am  gaun^  to  tell. 
Which  lately  011  a  night  befell. 
Is  just  as  true's  the  deil's  in  hell 

Or  Dublin  city: 
That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel 

'S  a  mucklc  pity. 

The  clachan  yi'U^  had  made  me  canty, 
I  wasna  fou,  but  just  had  plenty;  [aye 
I  stachef'd''  whiles,'  but  yet  took  tent 

To  free  the  ditches;., [aye 
And  hillocks,  stanes  and  bushes  kenn'd 

Frae  ghaists  and  wHighesj. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glower" 
'The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre; 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a'  my  power, 

I  set  mysel; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four;, 

I  couldna  tell. 

I  was  come  round  about  the  hill. 
And  todlin'''  down,  on  Willie's  mill,* 
Setting  my  staff  wi'  a'  my  skill. 

To  keep  me  sicker:*  [will. 
Though  leeward  whiles,   against  my 

I  took  a  bicker.^ 

I  there  wi'  sDmething. did  forgather,. 
That  put  me  in  ah  eerie  svyither;'" 

1  Lie.  ^.  Going.  ^  Village  ale.  ^  Staggered, 
fi  Sometimes.  *  Stare.  ''Tottering;  •*  Steady. 
*  Short  race.    ^"^  An  uncertain  fear. 

*  Torbolton  Mill,  then  occupied  by  William 
Muir,  an  intimate  .friend  of  the  Bums  family 
whence  called  Wiiiie's  mill. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


An  awf u'  scythe,  out-owre  ae  slioutlier. 

Clear-dangling,  hang; 
A  three-taed  liester"  on  the  ither 
,    Lay  large  and  lang. 

Its  stature  seem'd  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
!rhe  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw, 
For  fient  a  wame'^.  it  had  ava; 

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

As  cheeks  o'  branks.* 

"  Quid-een,"  quo' I;  "friend,  hae  ye 

been  maw-in', 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawia'?"-f 
It  seemed  to  malt  a  kind  o'  stan', 
but  naething  spalc; 
At  length,  says  I,  ' '  Friend,  whare  yo 
gaun  ? 

Will  yo  go  back  ?" 

It  spak  right  liowe,'" — "  My  name  is 
Death;  [faith, 

But  be'  na  fley'd,""— Quoth  I,  "  Guid 
Yc're  maybe  come  to  stap  my  breath; 

But  tent  me,  billie; 
I  red"  yc  weel,  take  care  o'  skaith,'* 

See,  there's  a  gully  !"" 

"  Guid  man,"  quo'  he,   "  put  up  your 

whittle, 
I'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle ; 
But  if  I  did,  I  wad  bo  kittle'" 

To  be  niislear'd," 
I  wad  na  mind  it,  no  that  spittle 

Out-owre  my  beard." 

"  Weel,  wecl !"  says  I,  "  a  bargain  be't ; 
Come,- gies  your  hand,  and  sae  we're 

gree't; 
We'll  ease  our  shanks'^"  and  tak  a  seat — 

Come,  gies  your  news; 
This  while  ^  ye  hae  been  mony  a  gate," 

At  mony  a  house." 

"Ay^  ay,  !"  quo'   lie,   and  shook  his 

head, 
"  Il's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  iiideed 


-  -^*  A  fishspear. 
>2  Belly.    'S  Hollow.   "Frightened.   >=  Warn. 
**  Harm.  ^^  Clasp-knife.  ^^  fraight  be  tempted. 
^^  Mischievous.  ^"  Limbs,  ^^  Road. 

■  *  A  kind  of  bridle. 

t  This  rencounter  happened  in  seed-time  of 
1785.— B. 

t  An  epidemic  fever  was  then  raging  in  that 
rountry  — B. 


Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread 

And  choke  the  bceath :      [bread. 
Folk    maun  do  something   for    their 
And  sae  maun  Death. 

"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand 

fled 
Sin'  I  was  to  the  butchering  bred,  [laid. 
And  mony  a  scheme  in  vain's  been 

To  stap  or  scar  me; 
Till  ane  Hornbook's  ta'en  up  the  trade, 

And  faith  he'll  waur  me. 

'  'Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  clachan , 

Deil  mak  hi&  king's-hood  in  a  spleu- 

chan  !'-  [Buchan  § 

He's  grown  sae   weel  acquaint  with 

And  ither  chaps,  [laughin', 

Tlie   weans*^   hand  out  their  fingers 

And  povdt  my  hips.'* 

"  See,  here's  a  scythe,  and  there's  a 

dart. 
They  hae  pierced  mony  a  gallant  heart; 
But  Dpct^-Hombook,  .wi'  his  art; 

vi  -  And  cursed  skill, 
Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  t — ^t, 
Damn'd  haet  they'll  kill. 

' '  'Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  farther  gaen, 

I  threw  a  noble  throw  at  ane; 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sure,  I've  hundreds  slain  ^ 

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

But  did  nac  mair. 

"  Homboolv  was  by,  wi'  ready  arty 
And  had  sae  fortified  the  part. 
That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart. 

It  was  sae  blunt,      [heart 
Fient  haet  o't  wad   hae  pierced    the 

0'  a  kail-runt.-* 

"  I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 
I  near-hand  cowpit-'  Avi'  my  hurry. 
But  yet  the  bauld  apothecary 

Withstood  the  shocks 
I  might  as  weel  hae  tried  a  quarry 

0'  Imrd  whin  rock. 

"  Even  them  he  canna  get  attended, 
Although  theirface  he  ne'er  had  keun'd 

it. 
Just  sh — e  in  a  kail-blade  and  send  it, 

=••  Tobacco-pouch,      "s  Children.       =4  Plucls 
at  his  hams — show  their  contempt  for  him. 
26  Cabbage-stalk.  2»  Tumbled  over. 

§  Buchan's  Domestic.  Medicine. — B, 


POEMS. 


41 


As  soon's  he  smells't, 
Baitli  tlieir  disease  and  what  will  mend 
it  •      ' 

At  auce  he  tells't. 

"  And  then  a  doctor's  saws  and  whittles, 
Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  and  metals, 
A'  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  and  bottles 

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

As  A  B  C. 

"  Calces  o'  fossils,  earths,  and  trees; 
True  salmarinum  o'  the  seas; 
The  farina  of" beans  and  peas. 

He  lias't  in  plenty; 
Aquafontis,  what  you  please, 

He  can  content  ye. 

' '  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weap- 
ons, 
Urinus  spiritus  of  capons;  L™S®' 

Or  mite'horn' shavings,  filings,  scrap- 

Distill'd  per  m;  _ 
Salalkali  o'  midge-tail  clippings, 
And  mony  mae." 

"  Waes  me   for  Johnnie  Ged's  *  hole 

noo'," 
Quo'  I,  if  that  tliae  news  he  true  ! 
His  braw  calf- ward  f  wliai'e  gowans^' 
grew, . 

Sae  white  and  bonnie, 
Nae  doubt  they'll  rive  it  wi'thepleugh; 
They'll  ruin  Johnnie  !" 

The  creature  grain'd  an  eldritch'-"  laugh, 
And  says,  "  I'e  needna yoke  the  pleugh. 
Kirk-yards  vnW.  soon  be  till'd  eneugh, 

-  Tak  ye  nae  fear. 

They'll    a'   be    trench'd    wi'  mony  a 

sheugh'-' 

In  twa-three  year. 

"  'WTiare  I  kill'd  ane  a  fairstrae  death. 
By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  o'  breath. 
This  night  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith, 

That  Hornbook's  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith. 

By  drap  and  pill. 

"  An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 
Wliase  wife's  twa  nieves  were  scarce 
weel  bred. 


2'  Daisies.    "'Unearthly.    "» Furrow. 

*  The  grave-digger. 
-  +  The  church-yard  had  been  EQmetimes  used 
as  an  enclosure  tor  calves, 


Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head 
When  it  was  sair; 

The  witeslade  caunie  to  her  bed. 
But  ne'er  spak  mair. 

"  A  country  laird  had  ta'en  the  batts. 
Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts. 
His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets. 

And  pays  him  well; 
The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer-pets,™ 

Was  laird  himsel. 

"A  bonnie  lass,  ye  kenn'd  her  name. 
Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hoved  her 

wame 
She  trusts  hersel,  to  hide  the  shame, 

In  Hornbook's  care; 
Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame. 

To  hide  it  there. 

"  Thafs  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's 

way; 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day. 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  and  slay, 

An's  weel  paid  for't; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawf  u'  prey 

Wi'  his  damn'd  dirt: 

"  But  hark!  I'll  tell  you  of  a  plot. 
Though  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o't; 
I'll  nail  the  self-conceited  sot,,  ■ 

As  dead's  a  herrin'; 
Neist  time  we  meet,  I'll  wall  a  groat. 

He's  got  his  f alrin' !""' 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kiric  .hammer  strali  the  bell 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twa!, 

Wliich  raised  us  baith: 
I  took  the  way  that  pleased  mysel. 

And  sae  did  Death. 


THE  TWA  HEEDS  ;  OR,  THE 

HOLY  TULZIB. 

The  Twa  Herds  were  the  Rev.  John  Russell 
assistant  minister  of  Kilmarnock,  and  after^ 
wards  minister  at  Stirlingj  and  the  Rev. 
Alexander  Moodie,  parish  minister  at  Riccai;. 
ton,  two  zealous  "  Auld-Licht"  men,  mem-." 
bers  of  the  clerical  party  \.o  whom  Burns 
was  opposed  on  .all  occasions.  TBey  tiad. 
quarrelled  over  some  question  of  parjsh 
boundaries ;  and  in  the  presbytery,  where 
the  question  had  come  up  for  settlement, 
they  fell  foul  of  each  other  after  the  manner 
of  the  wicked  and  ungodly-  Mr.  Lockhart 
says ; — "  There,  in  the  open  court,  to  which 
the  announcement  of    tne  discussion  had- 


3 "  Youpg  ewes. 


8>  Deserts, 


42 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


.4rav?n  a  multitude  of'  the  country-people; 
and  Burns  among  the  rest,  the  reverend 
divines,  hitherto  sworn  friends  and  assooi- 
ates,'lost  all  command  of  temper,-and  abused 
each  other  coram  populo^  with  a  fiery  viru- 
lence of  personal  invective  such  as  Iftis  long 
J>eenJ}anished  from  all- popular  assemblies 
Wherein  the- laws  of  courtesy  are -enforced 
by  those  •of  a  certain  unwritten-  code:" 
Burns  seized  the  opportunity,  and  in  "  The 
Twa  Herds"  gave  his  version  of  the  affair. 
In  is  only -justice  to  the  poet  to  mention, 
that  he  did  not  include  this  poem  in  any  of 
the  editions  of  his  works  published  during 
his  lifetime.-  •   ■ 

'*  Blockheads    with    reason    wicked    wits 
-    abhor; 
But    fool  with    fool  is    barbarous   civil 
war.^''  —  Pope. 

On,  a'  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 
Weel  fed  on  pastures  ortliodox, 
Wha  no\v  will  keep  you  frae  the  fox. 

Or  -worrying  tykes;' 
Oi  wlia  will  tent  the  waifs  and  crocks, - 

About  "the  dikes? 

The  twa  best  herds  in  a'  the  wast. 
That  e'er  gae  gospel  horn  a  blast, 
These  five  and  twenty  simmera  past,- 

Oh!  dool  to  tell, 
Hae  had  a  bitter  black  outcast^ 

Atween  themsel. 

O  Moodle  man,  and  wordy  Russell, 
How  could  jfou  raise  so  vile  a  bustle, 
Ye'ir  see  how  New-Light  herds  will 
whistle. 

And  think  it  fine : 
The  Lord's  cause  ne'er  gat  sic  a  twistle 
Sin'  I  hae  min'. 

O  sirs!  whae'er  wad  hae  expeckit, 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negleckit. 

Ye  wha  were  ne'er  by  lairds  respeckit, 

To  wear  tjie  plaid. 
But  by  the  brutes  themselves  eleckit. 

To  be  their  guide. 

What   flock  wi'  Moodio's  flock   could 

rank, 
Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank  ? 
Nae  poison'd  sour  Arminian  stank 

He  let  them  taste. 
Frae   Calvin's    well,  aye   clear,    they 
drank, — 

Oh,  sic  a  feast ! 

The  thummart,''  wil'-cat,  brock,^  and 
tod,« 

1  Dogs.      ^  Stray    sheep    and    old      ewes, 
s  Quarrel.    •'  Pole-cat.    "  Badger.    "  Fox. 


Weel  -kenn'd  his  voice  through  a'  the 

wood. 
He  smelt  their     ilka   bole   and   road, 

Balth  out  and  in. 
And  weel  he  liked  to  shed  their  bluid; 

And  sell  their  skiu. 

\Miat  herd  like  Ru.ssell  tell'd  his  tale. 
His  voice  was  heard  through  muir  and 

d;.le. 
He  kenn'd  the  Lord's^sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O'er  a'  the  height. 
And  saw  gin  they  were  tick  or  hale. 

At  the  firat  sight. 

He  fine  a  iuangy  sheep  could  scrub. 
Or  nobly  swing  the  gospel-club. 
And   New-Light    herds   Could  nieely 
drub,  -    ■--         -..; 

Or  pay  tkeir  skin;     [dub. 
Could  shake. them  owtc  the    burning 
Or  heave  them  in. 

Sic  twa^oh  !  do  I  live  to  see't. 
Sic  farnous  twa  should  diSagreet, 
And  names    like    "villain,"    "Uypo-' 
crite," 

Ilk  ither  gi'en. 
While  New-Liglit  herds,  wi'  laughiu' 
spite, 

Say  neither's.  liein' !' 

A'  ye  wha  tent  the  gospel  fauld,  'i 

There's  Duncan,*  deep,  and  Peebles,f 

shaul,^ 
But  chiefly  thou,  apostle  Auld.J 
We  trust  in  thee,' 
That   thou  wilt  work  them,  het  and 
cauld. 

Till  they  agree. 

Consider,  sirs,  how  we're  beset. 
There's  scarce  a  new  herd  that  we  get 
But  comes  frae  'mang  that  cursed  set 

I  wiima  name; 
I  hope  frae  heaven  to  see  them  j-et. 

In  fiery  flanie. 
Dalrympleg  has  been  lang  our  fae, 

'  Lying.      »  Shallow. 

*  Dr.  Robert  Duncan,  minister  of  Dundoh- 
ald. 

t  Rev.  William  Peebles,  of  Newton-upon 
Ayr. 

\  Rev.  William  Auld,  miruster  of  Mauch. 
line.  ^ 

§  Rev.  Dr.  Dalrymple,  one  of  the  ministeis 
of  Ayr. 


POEMS. 


43- 


M,Gill  II  has  wrought  us  meikle  wae. 
And  that  cursed  rascal  ca'd  M'Quhae^Tf 

And  baith  the  Shaws ,** 
That  aft  hae  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi'  vengefu'  paws. 

Auld  Wodrow|-f  lang  has  hatched  mis- 
chief, 
We  thought  aye  death  wad  bring  relief, 
But  he  has  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Aae  to  succeed  hun, 
A  chiel  wha'U  Soundly  buff  our  beef; 

I  meikle  dread  him. 

And  mony  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 
Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forbye  turn-coats  amang  oursel; 

There's  Smith  for  ane, 
I  doubt  he's  but  a  gray-nick  quiU, 

And  tiiat  ye'll  fin'. 

Oh!  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  powers  themsels 

To  choose  their  he|^. 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance. 
And  Learning  in  a  woody'  dance, 
And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 

That  bites  sae  sair, 
Be  banish'd  o'er  the  sea  to  Prance: 

Let  him  bark  there^ 

Then  Shaw's  and  D'rymple's  eloquence, 
M'Gill's  close  nervous  excellence, 
M'Quhae's  pathetic  manly  sense, 

And  guid  M'Matli, 
Wi'  Smith,  wha  through  the  heart  can 
glance. 

May  a'  pack  aff. 


IIOLY  WILLIE'S  PRATER. 

T^e  origrin  of  this  terrible  satire  may  be  briefly 
told  as  follows  : — Gavin  Hamilton,  the  spe- 
cial friend  of  'the  poet,  had  been  denied  the 
benefit  of  the  ordinances  of  the  church, 
because  he  was  alleged  to  have  made  a 
journey  on  the  Sabbath,  and  to  have  made 
one  of  his  servants  take  in.  some  potatoes 
from  the  garden  on  another  Sunday — hence 
the  allusion  to  his  "kail  and  potatoes"  in 

9  Halter. 
"I!  Rev.  William  M'Gill,  one  of  the  ministers 
of  Ayr. 
IT  Minister  of  St.  Quivox. 
**  Dr.  Andrew  Shaw  of  Cralgie,  and  Dr. 
David  Shaw  of  Coylton. 
tt  Dr.  Peter  Wodrow,  Torbolton. 


the  poem.  William  Fisher,  one  of  Mr.  Auld's 
elders,  made  himself  somewhat  conspicuous 
in  the  case.  '  He  was  a  great  pretender  to 
sanctity,  and  a  purictilious '  stickler  for 
outward  observances.  Poor  man,  he  unfor- 
tunately merited  the  satire  of  the  poet,  as 
he  nvas  a  drunkard,  .ind  latterly  made  too 
free  with  the  church-money  in  his  hands. 
Returning  drunk  from  Mauchliile  one'night, 
he  fell  into  a  ditch  and  died  fronl  exposure. 

0  Tiiou,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel,' 
Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  liell, 

A'  for  thy  glory, 
And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 

'They've  done  afore  thee  I 

1  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might. 
Whan   thousands   thou   hast    left   in 

night. 
That  I  am  here,  afore  thy  sight, , 
For  gifts  and  grace, 
A  bumin'  and  a  shinin'  light 
To  a'  this  place. 

Wliat  wSs  I,  or  my  generation. 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation  ? 
I,  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation 

For  broken  laws. 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  creation. 

Through  Adam's  cause. 

Wlien  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  hae  pluuged  me  into  hell. 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and.wail. 

In  bumm'  lalce, 
Whare  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain'd  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample. 

To  show  tliy  grace  is  great  and  ample; . 

I'm  here,  a  pillar  in  thy  temple, 

Sti-ong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example. 

To  a'  thy  flock. 

0  Lord,  thou  kens  what  zeal  I  bear. 
When  drinkers  drink,   and  swearers 

swear, 
And  singing  there,  and  dancing  here, 

Wi'gr-eat  and  sma'; 
Fori  am  keepit  by  thy  fear. 

Free  frae  them  a'. 

But  yet,  0  Lord  !  confess  I  must. 
At  times  I'm  fash'd'  wi'  fleshy  lust; 
And  sometimes,  too,  wi'  wardly  trust, 
Vile  self  gets  in. 


>  Troubled. 


u 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defiled  in  sin. 
O  Lord  !  yestreen,  tliou  kens,  wi'  Meg — 
Thy  pardon  I  sincerely  beg, 
Oh,  may  it  ne'er  be  a  livin'  plague, 

To  my  dishonor. 
And  I'll  ne'er  lift  a  lawless  leg 

Again  upon  her. 
Besides,  I  farther  maun  avow, 
Wi'  Lizzie's  lass,  three  times  1  trow 
But,  Lord,  that  Friday  I  was  fou' 

Wlieu  I  came  near  her,  ■ 
Or  else,  thou  kens,  thy  servant  true 
Wad  ne'er  hae  steer'd  her. 

Maybe  thou  lets  this  fleshy  thorn 
Beset  thy  servant  e'en  p,nd  morn, 
Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should 
turn, 

'Cause  he's  sae  gifted; 
If  sae,  thy  han'  maun  e'en  be  borne 

Until  thou  lift  it. 
Lord,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  filace. 
For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race : 
But  God  confound  their  .stubborn  face, 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wlia  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 

And  public  shame. 
Lord,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton's  deserts. 
He  drinks,  and   swears,  and  plays  at 

cartes,      '  • 

Yet  lias  sae  mony  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  grit  and  sma', 
Frae  God's  ain  priests  the    people's 
hearts 

He  steals  awa'. 
4-nd  whan  we  chasten'd  him  therefore. 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore,' 
As  set  the  world  in  a  roar 

O'  laughin'  at  us;— 
Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 
Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  prayer 
Against  tlie  presbyt'ry  of  Ayr; 
Thy  strong  right  hand.  Lord,  mak  it 
bare 

Upo'  their  heads, 
Lord, weigh  it  down,  and  dinua  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 
0  Lord,  my    God,   that  glib-tongued 
Aiken,* 

2  Disturbance., 
•    *  William  Aiken,  a  lawyer,  a  friend  of  the 
poet's. 


My  very  heart  ande  saul  are  quakin'. 
To    think    how    we    stood    groanin'; 
shakin'. 

And  spat  wi'  dread. 
While  he,  wi'  hangiu'  lip  and  snakin',' 

Held  lip  his  head. 

Lord,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 
Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him. 
And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  'em. 

Nor  hear  their  prayer; 
But  for  thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em. 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine, 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine. 
That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excell'd  by  nane, 
And  a'  the  glory  shall  be  thine. 

Amen,  Amen ! 


EPITAPH  ON  HOLY   WILLIE. 

Here  Holy  Willie's  sair  worn  clay 

Taks  up  its  last  abode; 
His  saul  has  ta'en  some  other  way, 

I  fea*  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  !  there  he  is,  as  sure's  a  gun. 

Poor  silly  body,  see  him; 
Nae  wonder  he's  as  black's  the  grun, — 

Observe  wha's  standing  wi'  him  ! 

Your  brunstane  devilship,  I  see. 
Has  got  him  there  before  ye; 

But  baud  your  nine-tail  cat  a  wee,' 
Till  ance  ye've  heard  my  story. 

Your  pity  I  will  not  implore. 

For  pity  ye  ha  nane  ! 
Justice,  alas  !  has  gien  him  o'er. 

And  mercy's  day  is  gane. 

But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are. 
Look  something  to  yonr  credit; 

A  coof^  lilie  him  wad  stain  your  name,. 
If  it  were  kent  ye  did  it. 


TO  A  MOUSE, 

ON  TrniNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH   THE 
PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER,    1785. 

"  The  verses  to  the  '  Mouse'  and  '  Mountain 
^  Daisy,'  "  Gilbert  Burns  says,  "  were  com- 
'  posed  on  the  occasions  mentioned,  and 
■while  the  author  was  holding  the  plough : 


'  Sneering.       i  Little. 


■  Fool. 


POfEMS. 


45 


I  could  point  out  the  particular  spot  where 
each  was  composed.  Holding  the  plough 
was  a  favorite  situation  with  Robert  Kir 
poetic  composition?,  and  somC'  pf  his  best 
verses  were  produced  while  he  was  at  that 
exercise." 

"  John  Blanc,"  says  Mr.  Chambers,  "  who  was 
farm-servant  at  Mossgiel  at  the  time  of  its 
composition,  still  (1838)  lives  at  Kilmarnock. 

.;  He  stated  to  rae  that  he  recollected  the  inci- 
dent perfectly.  Burns  was  holding  the 
plough,  with  Blanc  for  his  driver,  when  the 
little  creature  was  observed  running  off 
across  the  field.  Blane,  having  the  peiile^  or 
plough-cleaning  utensil,  in  his  hand,  at  the 
moment,  was  thoughtlessly  running  after  it, 
to  kill  it,  when  Burns  checked  him,  but  not 
-angrily,  asking  what  ill  the  poor  mouse  had 
ever  done  him.  The  poet  then  sefemed  to 
his  driver  to  grow  very'  thoughtful,  and, 
djiring  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon,  he 
spoke  not.  In  the  ni^ht  time  he  awoke 
Blane,  who  slept  with  htm,  and,  reading  the 
poem  which  had  in  the  meantime  been  com- 
posed, asked  what  he  thought  of  the  mouse 
now." 

Wee,  sleekit,  co-m-in',  tim'roiis  beastie. 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  needna  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle !' 

I  waAv.be  laith  to  rin  and  eliase  thee, 

''  Wi'  murd'ring-  pattle  !^ 

I'm  truly  sorr^  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union. 
And  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  maks  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-bom  companion, 

And  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt    na,  whiles/   but   thou  may 
thieve;  [live! 

.What  then  't  poor  beastie,  thou  maun 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave* 

'S  a  sma'  o  request: 
I'll  get  a  blessiji'  wi'  the  lave,'' 
And  never  miss't  ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  1 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
And  naething  now  to  big'*  a  new  ane 

0'  foggage  green  ! 
And  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin' 

Baith  snell"  and  keen  ! 

.  Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste. 
And  wejiry  winter  comin'  fast. 


I  Hurrying   run.      "^  Pattle    or   Pettle,    the 
■  plough  spade.      "  Sometimes.      *  Remainder. 
'   Build.    'Sharp. 

*  An  ear  of  corn  in  a  thrave— that  is,  twen- 
ty-four sheaves. 


And  coisie'  here,  beneath  the  blast, 
Thou  thought  to  dwell. 

Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 
Out  through- thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  and  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  !  ' 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble. 

But*  house  or  hauld,' 
To  thole'"  the  winter's  sleety  dribble,' 

And  cranreuch"  cauli 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain; 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,   ' 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compa'red  ■wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee. 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  ee 

On  prospects  drear  ! 
And  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  giiess  and  fear. 

HALLOWEEN. 

The  following  poem  will,  by  many  readers, 
be  well  enough  understood  ;  but  for  the 
sake  of  those  who  are  unacquainted  with 
the  manners  and  traditions  of  thq^ountry 
where  the  scene  is  cast,  notes  are  added,  to 
give  some  account  of  the  principal  charms 
and  spells  of  that  night,  so  big  with  proph- 
ecy to  the  peasantry  in  the  west  of  Scoft- 
lahd.    The  passion  of  prying  into  futurity 

-  makes  a  striking  part  of  the  history ,  of 
human  nature  in  its  rude  state,  in  all  ages 
and  nations  ;  and  it  may  be  some  entertain- 
ment to  a  philosophic  mind,  if  any  such 
should  honor. the  author  with  a  perusal,  to 
see  the  remains  of  it'amon^  the  more  unen- 
lightened in  our  own.^B. 

"  Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,'  the  proud  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art.'^ 
— Goldsmith. 

Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light 
On  Cassilis  Downaus  f  dance, 

Or  owre  the  lays',  in  splendid  blaze. 
On  sprightly  coursers  prance; 

Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en. 
Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams; 

'  Comfortable.  "  Without.  "  Holding.  i«  En- 
dure.   1'  Hoar-frost. 

1  Fields. 

t  Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky,  green  hills, 
in.  the  neighborhood  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the 
Earls  o:  Cassilis.— B. 


46 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


There,  up  the  cove,  |  to  stray  and  rove, 
Among  the  rocks  and  streams 
To  sport  that  night 

Among  the  bonny  wmding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin',  clear, 
Where  Bruce  §  ance  ruled  the  martial 
rajiks> 

And  shook  his  Carrick  spear. 
Some  merry,  friendly,  country-folkB, 

Together  did  convene,  [stocks. 

To  bum    their  nits,   aud  pou'^  their 

And  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu'  blithe  that  night. 

The  lasses  feat,'  and  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  -when  there're  fine; 
Their  faces  blithe,  f  u'-  sw^eetly  kythe,''  I 

Hearts  leal,'  and  warm,  and  kin': 
The  lads  sae  trig,*  wi'  wooer-babs,' 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten, 
Some  unco  blate,*  and  some  wi'  gabs,' 

Gar  lasses'  heaits  gang  startin' 
Whiles  fast  at  night. 

Then,  first  aud  foremost,  through  the 
kail, 
Thei  r  stocks  ||  maun  a'  be  sought  ance ; 
They  steek'"  their  een,  and  graip"  and 
wale,'^ 
Foi^iuckle  anes  and  straught  anes. 
Poor  hav'rel'''  Will  fell  aff  the  drift, 

And  wauder'd  through  the  bow-kail. 
And  pou't,  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

=  Pull.  s  Trim.  <  Show.  "True.  »  Spruce. 
'  Double  loops.  '  Bashful.  »  Talk,  if  Close. 
"  Gr9pe.      "  Ghoose.      "  Half-witted. 

t  A  noted  Cavern  near  Colean^house, 
called  the  Cove  of  Colean  ;  which,  as  well  as 
Cassilis  Downans,  is  famed  in  country  story 
for  being  a  favorite  haunt  of  fairies.— B. 

§  The  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ances- 
tors of  Robert  Bruce,  the  great  deliverer  of 
his  country,  were  Earls  of  Ckrrick. — B. 

•B  The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween  is  pulling 
eaohastock  or  plant- of  k-ail.  They  must  ^o 
out,  hand  in  hand,  with  eyes  shut,  and  pilll 
the  first  they  meet  with  ;  its  being  big  or  little, 
straight  or  crooked,,  is  prophetic  of  the  size-t 
and  shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their 
spells — the  husband  or  wife.  If  any  yird,  or 
earth  stick  to  the  root,  that  is  tocher  or  for- 
tune, and  the  taste  of  the  custoc,  that  is,  the 
heart  ot  the  stem,  is  indicative  of  the-natural 
temper  and  disposition.  Lastly,  the  stems,  or, 
to  give  them  Iheir  ordinary  appellation,  the 
runts,  are  placed  somewhere  above. the' head 
of  the  door  ;  and  the  Christian  names  of  'the 
.people  whom  cha^nce  brings  into  the  house, 
ar^,  according  to  .the  priority  of  placing  the 
runts,  the  names  in  question. — B.         ^ 


A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't"  thait  night. 

Then,    sti'aught  or   crooked,  yird  or 
nane. 

They  roar  and  cry"  a'  throu'ther; 
The  very  wee  things,  todlin','*  rin, 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther; 
And  git  the  custoc's  sweet  or  sour. 

Wi'  joctelegs"  they  taste  them; 
Syne  cozily,''  aboon  the  door,       [them 

Wi'  caunie'"    care,    they've   placed 
To  lie  that  night. 

The  lasses  staw"  frae  'mang  them  a' 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  com:* 
But  Rab  slips  out,  and  jinks  about, 

Beliint  the  muckle  thorn: 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  and  fast; 

Loud  skirl'd^"  a'  the  lasses; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost. 

When  Mtlin'^'  in  the  f ause-house  f " 
Wi'  him  that  night. 

The  auld  guidwife's  weel-hoordit  nitsj 

Are  round  and  round  divided,       ,  S 
And  monie  lads'  and  lasses'  fates 

Are  there  that  night  decided:  ^ 

Some  kindle  coothie,'-  side  by  side. 

And  bum  thegither  trimly; 
Some  start  awa,  wi'  saucy,  pride. 

And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 
Fu'  high  that  night. 

Jean  slips  in  twa  wi'  tentie  ee; 

Wha  'twas  she  wadna  tell; 
But  this  is  Jock,  and  this  is  me. 

She  says  in  to  hersel :  [him'. 

He  bleezed  owre  her,  and  she  owre 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part; 


"  Crooked.  "^  Totterijig.  i"  Clasp-knivev 
"Comfortably.  »»  Gentle.  1»  Stole.  =*  Scream- 
ed.   ='   Cuddling.    ="  Agreeably. 

*  They  go  to  the  barn-yard  and  pull  each 
at  three  several  times,  a  stalk  of  oats.  If  the 
third  stalk  wants  the  top-pickle,  that  is,  the 
{^rain  at  the  top  of  the  stalky  the  party  in  ques- 
tion will  come  to  the  marhage-bed  anything 
but  a  maid. — B. 

1-  When  the  com  is  in  a  doubtful  state,  by 
being  too  green  or  wet,  the  stack-builder,  by 
means  of  old  timber,  &c.,  makes  a  large  apart- 
ment in  hjs  stack,  with  an  opening  in  the  side 
whi.ch  is  fairest  exposed  to  the  wmd  ;  this  he 
calls  a  f ause-house. — B. 

t  Burning  the  riiits  is  a  famous  charm. 
They  name  the -lad  and  lass"  to  each  particular 
nut,  as  they  lay  them  in  the  fire,  and,  accord- 
ingly as  they  burn  quietly  together,  or  start 
from  beside  one  another,  the  course  and  issue 
of  the  courtship  will  be. — B. 


POEMS. 


47 


Till,  fufE!  he  started  up  the  lum,'' 
And  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 
To  see't  that  night. 

Poor  Willie,  -wV  his  bow-ltail.Tunt, 
Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallie; 

And    Mallie,- nae    doubt,    took    the 
druiit," 
To  Be  QompiLred  t»  WilKe; 

Mall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridef  u'  iiing. 

And  her  ain  fit  it  brunt  it; 
Wliile  Willie  lap,  and  swore  by  jing, 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night.^ 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min'. 

She  pits  hiersel  and  Rob  in ; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  wliite  in  ase  they're  sobbin'; 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin'  at  the  view, 

She  whisper'd  Rob  to  leuk  for't: 
Rob,  stowlins,  prie'd'^*  her  bonny  mou', 

Fii'  cozie'^'  in  the  neuk  for't. 
Unseen  that  night. 

But  Merran  sat  beliint  their  backs. 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 
She  lea'es  them  gasliin'-^  at  their  cracks, 

And  slips  out  by  hersel: 
She  through  the  yard  the  nearest  taks. 

And  to  the  kiln  goes  then, 
And  darklins  graipit  for  the  banks,''* 

And  in  the  blue-clue*  throws  then. 
Right  fear't  that  night. 

And  aye  she  win't,"  and  aye  she  swat, 

1  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin',"" 
Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  Lord  !  but  she  was  quakin'! 
But  whether  'was  the  deil  himsel. 

Or  whether  'twas  a  bauk-en'. 
Or  w'lietlier  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  didna  wait  on  talkin' 

To  spier"  that  night. 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  grannie  says. 


=»  Chinmey.  -'  Pet.  ''■'  Stealthily  kissed. 
=«  Snugly.  '^  Talking.  '^  Cross-beams. 
"9  Winded.      ^'  Dallying.      "  Inquire. 

♦Whqever  would,  with  success,  try  this 
spell,  must  strictly  observe  these  directions : 
— Steal  out,  all  alone,  to  the  kiln,  and  dark- 
ling, throw  into  the  pot  a  clue  of  blue  yarn  ; 
wind  it  in  a  new  clue  off  the  old  one ;  and, 
towards  the  latter  end,  something  will  hold 
the  thread,  demand,  "  Wha  hauds?"— /.<?., 
who  holds  ?■  An  answer  will  be  returned  from 
-the  kiln-pot,  jjy  naming  the  Christian  and  si;r- 
nzme  of  your  future  spouse.— B. 


"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  grannie? 
I'll  eat  the  applef  at  the  glass 

I  gat-frae  Uncle  Johnnie: ' 
She  f uff't  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt,'^ 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin'i 
She  notice't  na,  an  aizle'^  br^nt 

Her  braw  new  worset  apron 

Out  through  that  night.- 
"  Ye  little  skelpie-liuuner's  face  ! 

I  daur  you  try  sic  sportin', 
As  seek  the  foul  thief  ony,  place, 

For  him  to  s'pae**  your  fortune, . 
Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear, it; 
For  mony  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright, 

And  lived  and  died  deleeret 
On  sic  a  night.      . 
"  Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherramoor, — 

I  niind't  as  weel's  yestreen, 
I  was'  a  gilpey*°  then,  I'm  sure 

I  wasna  past  fifteen; 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  and  wat, 

And  stuff  was  unco  green; 
And  aye  a  rantin'  kirn"'  we  gat. 

And  just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 
"  Our  stibble-rig,  was  Rab  M'Graen, 

A  clever  sturdy  fallow: 
His  son  gat  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean. 

That  lived  in  Achmacalla: 
He  gat  hemp-seed,  1 1  mind  it  weel, 

And  he  made  unco  light  o't; 
But  mony  a  day  was  by  himsel. 

He  was  sae  sairly  friglited 

That  very  night." 
Then  up  gat  fechtin'  Jamie  Fleck, 

And  he  swore  by  his  conscience, 

==  Smoke.  "  Cinder.  "  Foretell, 

so  Young  Girl.       ««  Harvest  home. 
t  Take  a  candle,  and  go  albne  to  a  looking- 

flass ;  eat  an  apple  before  it,  and,  some  tra- 
itions  say,  you  should  comb  yourhair  all  the 
time;  the  face  of  your  conjugal  companion  to  be 
will  be  seen  in  the  glass,  as  if  peeping  over 
your  shoulder. — B. 

t  Steal  out,  unperceived,  and  sow  a  handful 
of  hemp-seed,  harrying  it  with  anything  you 
can  conveniently  draw  after  you.  Repeat  now 
and  then,  "  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee  ;  hemp- 
seed,  I  saw  thee  ;  and  him  (or  her)  that  is 
to  be  my  true  love,  come  after  me  and  pou 
thee."  Look  over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you 
will  see  the  appearance  of  the  person  invoked, 
in  the  attitude  of  pulling  hemp.  Some  tradi- 
tions say,  "  Come  after  me  and  shaw  thee," 
that  is,  show  thyself  ;  in  which  case  it  simply 
appears.  Others  omit  the  harrowing,  and  say, 
*■  Come  after  me  and  harrow  thee." — B. 


BUEiVS'  WORKS. 


That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck ; 

For  it- was  a'  hut  nonsense.       [pock, 
The  auld  guidman  rauglit^'  down  the 

And  out  a  hauf  u'  gied  him ; 
Syne  hade  liim  slip  frae  'mang  tlie  folk, 

Some  time  when  nae  ane  see'd  Mm, 
And  try't  tliat  night.     , 
He  marches  through  amang  the  stacks. 

Though  he  was  something  sturtin;^" 
The  graip^'  he  for  a  harrow  taks, 

And  haurl.s'"'  it  at  his  curpin;'" 
And  every  now  and  then  he  says, 

'  ■  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee, 
And  her  tliat  is  to  be  my  lass, 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee 
As  fast  this  night. " 
He  wliistled  up  Lord  Lennox'  march 

■Ta  keep  liis  courage  cheery; 
Although  his  hair  began  to  arch, 

He  was  say  fley'd*  and  eerie: 
Till  presently  he  hears  a  squealc, 
'And  then  a  grane  and  gruntle; 
He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek, 

And-iumbled  wi'  a  wintle''^ 

Ont-owre  that-  night. 
He  roar'd  a  horrid  murder-shout. 

In  dreadfu'  de,speration ! 
And  young  and  auld  cam  runnin'  out 

To  hear  the  sad  narration ; 
He  swore  'twas  hilchin'"  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie''^  Merran  Humphie,  [a' — 
Till,  stop  !  slie  trotted  through  them 

And'  wlia  was  it  but  grumphie''* 
Asteer  that  night ! 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  hae  gaen, 
1o  win  three  wechts"  o'  naetliing;* 

But  for  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane. 
She  pat  but  little  faith  in : 

^^  Reached.  ^^  Timorous.  ^*  Dung-fork. 
<"  Drags.  "  Rear.  ■''^  Frightened.  '^  Stagger. 
"  Hailing.  "  Croolsbacked.  ^°  The  pig. 
*''  Corn-baskets. 

*  This  charm  must  likewise  be  performed  un- 
perceived  and  alone.  Yougo  to  the  barn,  and 
open  both  doors,  taking  them  off  the  hinges, 
if  possible  ;  for  "there  is  danger  that  the  being 
about  to  appear  may  shut  the  doors,  and  do 
■  you  some  mischief.  Th  en  take  that  instru- 
ment used  in  winnowing  the  com,  which  in 
our  country  dialect  we  call  a  wecht ;  and  go 
through  all  the  attitudes  of  Uitting  dowircom 
against  the  wind.  Repeat  it  three  timtiS;'and 
the  third  time  an  apparition  will  pass  through 
the  barn.  In  at  the  wmdy  door,  and  out  at  the. 
other,  having  both  the  figure  in  question,  an4 
the  appearance  or  retinue  marking  the  em- 
ployment or  station  in  life. — B. 


She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle*  nits. 
And  two  red-cheekit  apples. 

To  watch,  while  for  the  bam  she  sets. 
In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples  - 
That  very  nicht. 

She  turns  the  key  wi  cannie'"  thraw. 

And  owre  the  tlireshold  ventures; 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  ca' 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters: 
A  rattou  rattled  up  the  wa'. 

And  she  cried.  Lord,  perserve  her  I 
And  ran  through  midden-hole  and  a'. 

And  pray'd  wi'  zeal  and  fervour, 
Fu'  fast  that  night;. 

They  hoy't'"  out  Will  wi'  sair  advice; 

They''  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane; 
It  chanced  the  stack  he  f  addom't  thricef 

.  AVas  timmer-propt  for  thrawin'; 
He  taks  a  swirlie,"-  auld  moss-oak. 

For  some  black  grousome°^  carlin ; 
And  loot  a  winze, "  and  drew  a  stroke. 
Till  skin  in  blypes*'  cam  haurlin' 
AfE's  nieves'*  that  night. 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlin ; 
But,  och !  that  night  amang  the  shaws,'' 

She  got  a  f eari'u'  settlin' !  [cairn. 
She  through  the  whins,"'*  and  by  the 
And  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin,  [bum| 
Whare  three  lairds'   lands  met  at  a 

To  dip  her  left  sark-sleeve  in. 

Was  bent  that  night. 

Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays,, 
As  through  the  glen  it  wimpl't;'' 

Whyles  round  a  rocky  scaur*"  it  strays; 
Whyles  in  a  wieF-  it  dimpl't; 


48  Fe^,  48  Gentle,  '^o  Urged,  'i  Promised. 
"-  Knotty.  ^^  Hideous.  "  Oath.  '»» Shrtds. 
^^  Hands.  "  Woods,  '«  Gorse.  '"  Wheeled. 
"P  Cliff.       «'  Eddy. 

+Take  an  opportunity  of  going  unnoticed 
to  a  bean-stack,  and  fathom  it  three  times 
round.  The  last  fathom  of  the  last  time,  you 
will  cateh  in  your  arms  the  appearance  of 
your  future  conjugal  yoke-fellow. — B.  ' 

t  You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a  social 
spell,  to  a  soutli-running  spring  or  rivulet, 
where  "  three  lairds'  lands  meet,  and  dip  your 
left  shirt-sleeve.  Go  to  bed  in  sight  of^a  fire, 
and  hang  your  wet  sleeve  before  it  to  dry. 
Lie  awake  ;  and;  some  time  near  midnight,  an 
apparition  having  the  exact  figure  of  the 
grand  object  in  question,  will  come  and  turn 
the  sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the  other  side  of  it.— 
B. 


POEMS. 


AVhyles  glitter'd  to  tlie  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle; 
Wliyles  cookit  underneatli  the  braes. 

Below  the  spreading  hazel. 

Unseen  that  niglit. 
Amang  the  brackens,  on  the  brae. 

Between  lier  and  the  moon, 
The-deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey,*' 

Gat  up  and  gae  a  croon:''* 
PoorLeezie's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool  !*' 

Near  lav'rock-height  she  jumpit; 
But  mist  a  fit,  and  in  the  pool 

Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  plunge  that  night. 
In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane. 

The  luggies  three||  are  ranged, 
And  every  time  great  care  is  ta'en' 

To  see  them  duly  changed: 
Auld  Uncle  John,  wha  wedlock  joys 

Sin'  Mar's  year  did  desire, 
Because  lie  gat  the  toom"  dish  thrice. 

He  heaved  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  and  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  didna  weary; 
And  unco  tales,  and  funny  jokes. 

Their  sports  were  cheap  and  cheery; 
Till  butter'd  so'ns,§  wi'  fragrant  lunt,"" 

Set  a'  their  gabs''  a-steerin' ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt," 

They  parted  afE  careerin' 

Fu'  blytlie  that  night. 


Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A  DIKGE. 

"■Several  of  the  poems,"  says  Gilbert  Bums, 
"  were  produced  for  the  purpose  of  bring- 
ing  forward  some  favourite  sentiment  of  the 

f' Unhoused  heifer.  "-Moan.  "Durst  its 
case,  ®*  Empty.  ^^  Smolce.  **  Mouths. 
•^  Spirits. 

il  Take  three  dishes  ;  put  clean  water  in 
one,  foul  water  in  another,  leave  the  third 
empty :  blindfold  a  person,  and  lead  him  to 
the  hearth  where  the  dishes  are  ranged  ;  he 
(or  she)  dips  the  left  hand  :  if  by  chance  in  the 
clean  water,  the  future  husband  or  wife  will 
come  to  the  bar  of  matrimony  a  maid  :  if  in  the 
foQl.awidow,  it  in  the  empty  dish,  it  foretells, 
witti  equal  certainty,  no  marriage  'at  all.  It 
is  repeated  three  times,  and  every  time  the 
arrangement  of  the  dishes  is  altered. — B. 

§  SowENS. — The  shell  of  the  corn  (called,  m 
the  rural  districts, "  shellings)  is  steeped  in 
water  until  all  the  fine  meal  particles  arc  ex- 
t,racted  ;  the  liquid  is  then  -strained  off,  and 
boiled  with  milk  and  butter  until  it  thickens. 


author's.  He  used  to  remark  to  me  that  he 
could  not  well  conceive  a  more  mortifying 
picture  of  human  life'  than  a  man  seeking 
work.  In  casting  about  in  his  mind  how 
this  sentiment  might  be  brought  forward, 
the  elegy.  '  Man  was  Made  to  Mourn,'  was 
composed." 
An  old  Scottish,  ballad  had  suggested  the  form, 
and  spirit  of  this  poem.  "  1  had  an  old 
grand-uncle,"  Says  the  poet  to  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
"  with  whom  ray  mother  lived  a  while  ■  in 
her  girlish  years.  The  good  old  man  was 
long  blind  ere  he  died,  during  which  time 
his  highest  enjoyment  was  to  sit  down  and 
cry,  while  my  mother  would  sing  the  simple 
old  song  of  '  The  Life  and  Age  of  Man.'  " 
From  the  poet's  mother,  Mr.  Cromek  pro- 
cured a  copy  of  this  composition ;  it  com- 
mences  thus : — 

'•  Upon  the  sixteen  hundred  year 
Of  God  and  fifty-three 

Frae  Christ  was  born,  who  bought  us  dear. 
As  Writings  testify  ; 

On  January  the  sixteenth  day, 
As  1  did  lie  alone, 

With  many  a  sigh  and  sob  did  say 
Ah  !  man  was  made  to  moan  !" 

When  chill  Novemter's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 
One  evening,  as  I  wander'd  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary  worn  with  care; 
His  face  was  f urrow'd  o'er  with  years. 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

"  Young  straijger,  whither  wanderest 
thou  ?" 

Began  the  reverend  sage ;        [strain, 
"Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  con- 

Or  youthful  pleasures  rage '! 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth  with  me  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man. 

' '  The  Sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors. 

Outspreading  far  and  wide. 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride: 
I've,  seen  yon- weary  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return. 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 
"  0  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  !     . 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway; 

Licentious  passions  burn; 
Wliich  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law, 

Tliat  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


50 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind. 

Supported  is  his  right. 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn; 
Then  age  and  want — oh  !  ill  match'd 
pair  ! — 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate. 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest; 
Yet  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  lUiewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh  !  what  crowds  in  every  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn — 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  malce  ourselves — 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  tpil; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow- worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

"  If  Tm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave — 

By  nature's  law  design'd — 
Wliy  was  an  indepentlent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

' '  Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son. 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast; 
This  partial  view  of  human  kind 

Is  suiely  not  the  last ! 
The  poor;  oppress'd,  honest  man. 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 
Had  tliere  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn. 

"O' Death!    the  poor  man's  dearest 

friend — 
,    The  kindest  and  the  best ! 


Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  bloW; 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn; 
But,  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn  !" 


THE  COTTER'S   SATURDAY 
NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED  TO  KOBEBT  AIKEN,  ESQ. 

Gilbert  Bums  gives  the  followiDg  distinct 
account  of  the  origin  of  this  poem  ; — "  Rob- 
ert had  frequently  remarked  to  me  that  he 
thought  there  was  something  peculiarly 
venerable  in  the  phrase,  '  Let  us  worship 
God  r  used  by  a  decent,  sober  head  of  a 
family,  introducing  family  worship.  To  this 
sentiment  of  the  author,  the  world  is  indebt- 
ed for  'The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.' 
When  Robert  had  not  some  pleasure  in  view 
in  which  I  was  not  thought  fit  to  partici- 
pate, we  used  frequently  to  walk  together, 
when  the  weather  was  favourable,  on  the 
Sunday  afternoons— those  precious  breath- 
mg  times  to  the  laboring  part  of  the  com- 
munity— 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  Night.'  I  do 
not  recollect  to  have  read  or  heard  anything 
by  which  I  was  more  highly  electrilied. 
The  fifth  and  sixth  stanzas,  and  the  eigh- 
teenth, thrilled  with  peculiar  ecstasy  through 
my  soul.  The  cotter,  in  the  '  Saturday 
Night,'  is  an  exact  copy  of  my  father  in  his 
manners,  his  family  devotion,  and  exhorta- 
tions ;  yet  the  other  parts  of  the  dcEcnption 
do  not  apply  to  our  faimly. .  None  of  us 
were  '  at  service  out  ai^o^  the  farmers 
louu'.'  Instead  of  ottr-'ffcpositing  our 
*  sau-won  penny-fee*  with  our  parents,  my 
father  laboured  hard^^gmd  lived  with  the  roost 
rigid  economy,  that'  he  might  be  able  to 
keep  his  children  at  home,  thereby  having 
an  opportunity  of  watching  the  progress  of 
our  young  mind s,.and  lonning  in  them  early 
habits  of  piety  and  virtue  ;  and  from  this 
motive  alone  did  he  engage  in  fanning,  the 
source  of  all  his  difficulties  and  distresses. 

"  Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor.'* 
— Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honor'd,  much -respected 

friend  ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 

With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish 

end:  [and  praise, 

My  dearest  meed,  a,  friend's  esteem 


POEMS. 


51 


To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  Jowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd 

scene;  [less  ways: 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guile- 

Wliat  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have 

been ;      [happier  there,  I  ween  ! 

All !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry 

sugh;'  [close; 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a 

The  miry  beasts   retreating  frae  the 

pleugh;  [their  repose; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws   to 

The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  -labour 

goes,  [end. 

This  night  his  weeldy  moil  is  at  an 

Collects  his  spades,  liis  mattocks,  and 

his  hoes,  [spe-id, 

Hoping  the  mom  in  ease  and  rest  to 

And,  weary,  o'er  the  moor  his  course 

does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'    expectant  wee  things,    toddlui', 
stacher  thro:igh  [noise  and  glee. 
To  meet  their   dad,   wi'   flichterin' 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonnily. 
His  clean   hearthstane,    his   thrifty 
wifie's  smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  be- 
guile, [and  his  toil. 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour 

Belyve,'  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping 
in,  [roun' : 

At  service   out  among  the  farmers 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some 
tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  town: 
Their  eldest  hopo,  their  Jenny,  woman 
grown,  [her  ee, 

In  youthf  u'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  show  a  braw 
new  gown. 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in 
hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters 

meet,  spiers;" 

And  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly 


The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd  unnotic- 
ed, fleet;  [hears; 
Each  tells  the  uncos'*  that  he  sees  or 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful 
years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  viev,'. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her 
shears,                         [the  new — 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  duo. 
Their    master's    and  their    mistress's 
command, 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent* 
hand,                     [jauk*  or  play: 
And  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to 
' '  And  oh  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  al  - 
way  !                                  [night ! 
And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and 
Lest    in   temptation's    path  ye    gang 
astray                                [might: 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought 

the  Lord  aright  !" 

But,  hark  1  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the 

door,  [same, 

Jenny,  wlia  kens  the  meaning  o'  the 

Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the 

moor,  [liamo. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious 

flame  [elieek. 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  ee,  and  flush  her 

Wi'  heart-struck  an-xious  care,  inquires 

his  name,  [speak ; 

While  Jenny  haflSins  is    afraid    to 

Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae 

wild,  worthless  rake. 
Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him 
ben;  [^^'^  ^i'^' 

A  strappin'  youth ;  he  taks  the  moth- 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs, 
and  kye.  [wi'  joy, 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows 
But  blate'  and  lathefu',''  scarce  can 
weel  behave;  [spy 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman'  wiles,  can 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashf  u' 
and  sae  grave ; 
Weel  pleased  to  thmk  her  bairn's  re- 
spected like  the  lave,' 

■*  Strange  things.        ^  Diligent.        "  Dally 
>  Moaa.  2  By  and  by.         =  Inquires.         '  Bashful.       "  Hesitating.       » Other  people. 


BURNS'  Works. 


Ok  liappy  lore  I — ^ where  love  like  this 

is  found  ! —  [yond  compare  ! 

Oh     heart-felt  raptures! — bliss  bc- 

I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal 

round-,  [declare — 

And  sage  experience   bids  me  this 

"If    Heaven  a   draught  of  heavenly 

pleasure  spare. 

On  3  cordial  in  this  melancholy  Tale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest 

pair,  [tender  tale, 

.In  other's    arms,   breathe    out  the 

Beneath  the  milk-white   thorn,    that 

scents  the  evening  gale." 
Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a 
heart,  '  [truth  ! 

A  wretch  !  a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring 
art,  youth  ? 

Betray   sweet  Jenny's  xinsuspecting 
Curse  ou  his  perjured  arts  !    dissem- 
bling smooth  !  [exiled  ? 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er 
their  child  ?     [distraction  wild  ! 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  sim- 
ple board,  [Scotia's  food. 
The    halesome    parritch,'"  chief  of 
The  soupe"  their  only  hawkie''^  -does 
afford,  [her  cood: 
That  'yont  the  hallan"  snugly  cliows 
The  dame  lirings  forth,  in  complimen- 
tal  mood,         [kebbuck,'"  fell,'* 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd 
And  aft  he's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it 
guid:  [tell, 
The   frugal    wifie.   garrulous,    will 
How  'twas  a  towmond'"  auld,  sin'  lint 
was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious 

face;  [wide; 

They,  round  the  ingle,  fonn  a  circle 

The  sire   turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal 

grace,  [pride; 

The  big  ha'  Bible,  aiico  his   father's 

His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets"  wearing  thin  and 

bare ;  [Zion    glide. 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in 


'"Porridge,  'i  Milk.  '-  Cow.  "  Porch. 
'■•  Cheese.  '»  Biting.  "  Twelvemonfll. 
^^  Gr.ty  temples. 


He  wales'"  a  portion  with  judicious 

care;  [with  solemn  air. 

And  "Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 
guise;  [noblest  aim: 

They  tune  their  hearts,  hy  far  the 
Perhaps    "Dundee's"     wild  warbling 
measures  rise,  [the  name; 

Or  plaintive   "Martyrs,"  worthy  of 
Or  noble  ' '  Elgin"  beets  the  heaven- 
ward flame,  [lays: 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are 
tame;                                   [raise; 
The  tickled  ear  no  heartfelt  raptures 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's 

praise. 
The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred 
page,  [on  high; 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

^Vith  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny: 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath     the     stroke   of    Heaven's 

avenging  ire  [cry; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailmg 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild  seraphic  fire; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred 

lyre. 
Perhaps  the  (^ristiau  volume  is  the 
theme,  [was  shed; 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man 
How  He,  who    bore    in    heaven    the 
second  name,  [His  head: 

Had    not  on   earth  whereon  to  lay 
How  His  first  followers  and  .ser\-ants 
.sped;  [a  land: 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  tanish'd. 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand; 
And  heard  great  Eab'lou's  deem  pro- 
nounced by 
Heaven's  command. 
Then  kneeling    down,    to  Heaven's 
ETERNAL  KiNG,       [band  prays: 
The  saint,  tho  father,  and  the  hus- 
Hope  ' '  springs  exulting  on  triumphant 
wing,"*  [future  days: 

That  thus  they   all   shall  meet  in. 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  tiie  bitter 
tear, 

'  ^  Selects. 
**Pope's  "  Windsor  Forest." 


POEMS. 


58 


Together     hymning    their    Creator's 
praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an 

etenml  sphere. 
Compared  with    this,    how  poor  re- 
ligion's pride,  [art, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of 
When  men   display  to  congregations 
wide                                   [heart ! 
Devotion's  every  grace,   except  the 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  wUl 
desert                                   [stole: 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal 
But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language 
of  the  soul;                         [enrol. 
And  in  his  hook  of  life  the  inmates  poor 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev 
eral  way; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest  • 
The   parent-pair  their  secret   homage 
pay,  [request 

And  proffer  up  to  heaven  the  warm 
That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clamor- 
ous nest,  [pride, 
And  decks  tlio   lily  fair  in  flowery 
Would,  iu  the  way  Hia  wisdom  sees  the 
best,                                 [provide; 
For  them  and   for  their   little  ones 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace 
divine  preside. 

From  scenes   like  these  old    Scotia's 
grandeur  springs,  [ered  abroad : 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  rev- 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of 
kings,  [of  God;" 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly 
road,  [hind. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  fur  be- 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp? — a  cum- 
brous load,  [kind. 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  iu  wickedness 

refined  ! 
O  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil  ! 
For  whom    my  warmest    wish    to 
Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of   rustic 
toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and 
sweet  content !        [lives  prevent 
And,  oh  !  may  Heaven  their  simple 


From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  ajnd 

vile  I  [rent. 

Then,  liowe'er  crown  and  coronets  be 

A  virtuous  populace  miy   rise  the 

while,  [much-loved  isle. 

And  stand  a  wall  of  lire  around  their 

0  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That    stream'd    through    Wallace's 

undaunted  heart;  [pride, 

Wlio  dared  to  nobly  stem    tyrannic 

Or   nobly   die,  tho  second  glorious 

part, 

(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and 

reward  !) 

Oh,  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot- 

bard,  [ment  and  guard  ! 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  orna- 


ADDEESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 

"  Oh  prince !     Oh  chief  of  many  throned 
powers, 
That  led  th'  embattled  seraphim  to  -war !" 
— Milton. 

0  THOU  I  whatever  titlo  suit  thee, 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie,* 
\^^la  in  yon  cavern  grim  and  sootie. 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairgesf.  about  the  brunstane  cootie,:]: 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  ! 
Hear  me,  auld  Uangie,  for  a  wee. 
And  let  poor  damned  bodies  be  ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie. 

E'en  to  a  deil , 


*  A  well-known  term  applied  to  Satan  in 
Scotland  in  allusion  lo  his  hoofs  or  cloots, 

^Spairges  is  the  best  Scots  word  m  its 
place  I  ever  met  with.  The  deil  is  not  stand- 
ing flinging  the  liquid  brimstone  on  his 
friends  with  a  ladle,  but  we  see  him  standing 
at  a  large  boilmg  vat,  with  something  lilce  a 
golf-bat,  striking  the  liquid  this  way  and  that 
way  aslant,  with  all  his  might,  making  it  fly 
through  th2  whole  apartment,  while  the  in- 
mates are  winking  and  holding  up  their  arms 
to  defend  their  faces.  This  is  precisely  the 
idea  conveyed  by  sfiairging  ;  flinging  it  many 
other  way  would  be  laving  or  splashing. — 
The  Ettrick  Shepherd. 

X  The  legitimate  meaning  nf  this  word  is  a 
small  wooden  tub ;  here  it  implies  not  only 
the  utensil,  but  liquid  brimstone  ;  just  as  a 
toper  talits  of  his  can  ctt  his  cope^  meaning 
both  ttie  liquor  and  the  utensil  in  which  it  is 
held. 


54 


BUEJfS'  WORKS. 


To  skelp  and  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 
And  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  power,  and   great   thy 

fame ; 
Far  kenn'd  and  noted  is  thy  name  : 
And  though  yon  lowin'  heugh's'  thy 
hame, 

Thou  travels  far  :   [lame. 
And,   faith !    thou's    neither  lag  nor 
Nor  blate  nor  scaur. '' 

Wliyles  ranging  like  a  roaring  lion. 
For  prey  a'  holes  and  corners  tryin'  : 
Whyles  on  the  strong -wing'd  tempest 
flyiu', 

Tirlin''  the  kirks ; 
Whyles  in  the  human  bosom  pryiu'. 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I've  heard  my  reverend  grannie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray  : 
Or  where  auld  ruiu'd  castles,  gray. 

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

Wi'  eldritch  croon.'' 

When  twilight  did  my  grannie  sum- 
mon, [woman  ! 
To    say  her    prayers,    douce,   honest 
Aft  yont    the  dilce  she's   heard  you 
bummin', 

Wi'  eerie  drone  ; 
Or,  rustlin',  through    the     boortries' 
comin', 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ao  dreary,  windy,  winter  night,  [light. 
The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin' " 
Wi'  you,  myself,  I  gat  a  fright 

Ayont  the  lough  ; 
Ye,  lilie  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve'  did  shake. 
Each  bristled  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 
When  wi'  an  eldritch,  stoor  qiiaick, 
quaick, 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa'  ye  squatter'd,  like  a  drake. 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  and  wither'd  hags. 
Tell  how  wi'  you,  on  ragweed  nags. 
They  skim  the  muirs  and  dizzy  crags, 
Wi'  wicked  speed ; 


^  Burning:  pit.  ^  Apt  to  be  frightened.  ^  Un- 
fipvering..  *  Unearthly  moan.  ^  Elder-trees. 
•  Glancing.    '  Fist. 


And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues 
Owre  howkit*  dead. 

Thence    countra  wives,  wi'  toil    aiid 
pain,  [vain : 

May  plunge  and  plunge  the  kirn  in 
For,  oh  !  the  yellow  treasure  's  tia'en 

i3y  vritching  skill ; 
And  dawtit'  twalpint  hawkie's  gaen 

As  yell's'"  the  bill. 
Thence  mystic  Imots  mak  great  abuse 
[crouse ; 
On  young  guidmen,   fond,  keen,  and 
When    the    best    wark-lume    i'   the 
house. 

By  cantrip  wit, 
Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse,     ' 

Just  at  the  bit. 
A\Tien    thowes    dissolve    the     snawy 

hoord. 
And  float  the  jinglin'  icy  boord. 
Then  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foprd, - 
By  your  direction  ;        - 
And  'nighted  travellers  are  allured 

To  their  destruction. 
And  aft  your   moss-traversiug  spun- 
kies  §  [is : 

Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk 
The  bleezin',  curst,  mischievous-  mon- 
keys 

Delude  his  eyes. 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is. 

Ne'er  malr  to  rise. 
When  mason's  mystic  word  and  grip 
In  storms  and  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell  ! 
The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 
AfE  straught  to  hell ! 
Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonnie  yar^. 
When     youthfu'     lovers     first    were 

pair'd. 
And  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shared. 

The  raptured  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flowery  sward. 
In  shady  bower.  | 

8  Disinterred.        »  Petted.        "  Milkless. 
§  Will  o'  the  wisp. 

IThis  verse  ran  originally  thus  :— 
Langf  syne  in  Eden's  happy  scene 
When  strappin'  Adam's  days  were  green, 
And  Eve  was  lilie  my  bonnie  Jean, 

My  4earest  part, 
A  dancin  ,  sweet,  youngj  handsome  queen 

wr  guileless  heart. 


POEMS. 


55 


JJiea    you,   ye    auld   saeck  -  drawing 

dog  n 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. , 
And  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa' !) 
'And  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog," 

'Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

D'ye  mind  tliat  6,a,y,  when  in  a  bizz,'^ 
Wi'  reekit  duds, '^  and  reestit  gizz," 
Xe  did  present  your  smoutie'°  phiz 

'Mang  better  folk. 
And  sklented"  on  the  man  of  Uzz 

Your  spitefu*joke  ? 

And  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall, 
And  brak  him  out  o'  house  and  hall. 
While,  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall, 
Wi'  bitter  claw. 

And   lowsed   his  ill-tongued,  wicked 
scawl," 

Was  warst  ava? 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 
Tour  wily  snares  and  fechtm'  fierce. 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time. 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan'*  tongue  or  Erse," 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

And  now  old  Cloots,  I  ken  ye're  thinkin', 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin',  drinkin', 
Some    luckless    hour   will   send   him 
linkin' 

To  your  black  pit; 
But,  faitli,  he'll  turn  a  comer  jinkin'," 

And  cheat  yon  yet. 
But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 
Oh,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'  ! 
Ye  aiblins^'  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  liae  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den. 

Even  for  your  sake  ! 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS. 

A  CANTATA. 

This  famous  poem,  or  rather  drama,  is  found- 
ed on  a  scene  actually  witnessed  by  the 
poet.  In  company  with  his  friends,  John 
Richmond  and  James  Smith,  he  was  pass- 

"  Shake.  '^  Hurry.  "  Smolced  clothes. 
"  Singed  hair.  "  Dirty.  '«  Glanced.  "  Scold- 
me  wife.  '"  Lowland.  '"  Celtic.  ^°  Dodging. 
""flerhaps. 

T  Literally,  withdrawing  a  latch  burglar- 
iously—Iiere  it  means  taking  an  advantage — 
getting  into  Paradise  on  false  pretences. 


jng'  Poosie  Nansie's,,  when  their  attention 
bemg  attracted  by  sounds  bf  mirth  and  jol- 
lity proceeding  from  the  interior,  they  enter- 
ed, and  were  rapturously  welcomed  by  the 
motlc  band  of  beggars  and  tinkers  carousing 
there.  Burns  proiessed  to  have  bfeen  great- 
ly delighted  with  the  scene,  more  especially 
with  the  jolly  behaviour  of  a  maimed  old 
soldier.  In  a  few  days  he  recited  portions 
of  the  poem  to  John  Richmond,  who  used 
to  speak  of  songs  by  a  sweep  and  a  sailor 
which  did  not  appear  in  the  completed  man- 
uscript. 

EECITATIVO. 

When  lyart'  leaves  bestrew  the  yird,' 
Or  wavering  like  the  baukie-bird,' 

Bedim  cauld  Boreas'  blast; 
When  hailstanes  drive  wi'  bitter  skyte,' 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite, 
In  hoary  cranreuch^  drest; 
Ae  night  at  e'en  a  merry  core 

O'  randie,  gangrel"  bodies, 
In  Poosie  Nansie's  held  the  splore,' 
To  drink  their  orra  duddies:* 
Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing. 

They  ranted  and  they  sang; 
Wi'  jumping  and  thumping. 
The  vera  girdle*  rang. 
First,  neist  the  fire,  in  auld  red  rags, 
Ane  sat,  weel  braced  wi'  mealy  bags. 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order; 
His  doxy  lay  within  his  arm, 
Wi'  usquebae  and  blankets  warm — 

She  blinket  on  her  sodger: 
And  aye  he  gied  the  toziedrab 

The  tither  skelpin'  kiss. 
While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab, 
Just  like  an  aumos  dish.f 

Ilk  smack  still,  did  crack  still. 
Just  like  a  cadger's  |whup. 
Then  staggering  and  swaggering 
He  rop,?d  this  ditty  up — 

AIK. 

Tune — "  Soldiers'  Joy." 
I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in 
many  wars, 

'  Gray.  '  Earth.  =  The  bat.  '  Dash 
^  Thin  white  frost.  *  Vagrant.  ^  Merry  meet- 
ing.    ^  Odd  garments. 

*  A  circular  iron  plate,  on  which,  when 
hung  over  the  fire,  oaten  cakes  are  baked. 

+  The  aumos,  or  beggar's  dish,  was  a  wood- 
en platter  or  bowl,  which  every  nlendicant 
carried  ^n  the  olden  time  as  part  of  his  pro- 
fessional accoutrements.  It  was  used  to  re- 
ceive the  aumos  or  alms  in  the  shape  of  oat 
meal,  broth,  milk,  or  porridge. 

t.A'Cad^er  is  a  vendor  of  various  kinds  of 
merchandise,  who  employs  a  horse  or  ass  in 
carrying  about  his  wares  from  place  to  place. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  sliow  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever 
I  come: 

This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that 
other  in  a  trench, 

Wlien  welcoming  the  French  at  the 
sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  dandle,  &c. 

My 'prenticeship  I  past  where  my  lead- 
er breathed  his  last, 

When  the  bloody  die  is  cast  on  the 
heights  of  Abram;§ 

I  served  Out  my  trade  when  the  gallant 
game  was  play'd 

And  the   Moro  |   low  was   laid   at  the 
sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

I  lastly  was  with   Curtis,  among  the 
floating  batteries,  ^  [a  limb; 

And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and 

Yet  let  my  country  need  nie,with  Elliot 
*  *to  head  me,  [of  the  drum. 

I'd  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

And  now  though  I   must   beg  with  a 
wooden  arm  and  leg,  [my  bum, 

And  many  a  tatter'd  rag  liiinging-  over 

I'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bot- 
tle and  my  callet,  [drum. 

As  when  I  used  in  scarlet  to   follow  a 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

Wliat  though  with  hoary  locks  I  must 
stand  the  winter  shocks. 

Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  often- 
times for  a  home,        • 

WT^ien  tlie  t'othei-  bag  I  sell,  and  the 
t'other  bottle  tell,  [of  a  drum. 

I  could  meet  a  troop  of  hell  at  the  sound 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

BKCITATIVO. 

He  ended;  and  the  kebars'  sheuk 
Aboou  the  chorus  roar; 


»  Ratters. 
§  The  battle-field  in  front  of  Quebec,  where 
General  Wolfe  fell  in  the  arms  of  victory  in 

1759. 

f  El  Moro,  a  strong  castle  defending  Havan- 
nah,  which  was  gallantly  stormed  when  the 
city  was  taken  by  the  British  in  1762. 

T  The  destruction  of  the  Spanish  floating 
batteries  during  the  famous  siege  of  Gibraltar 
in  1782,  on  which  occasion  the  gallant  Captain 
Curtis  rendered  the  most  signal-service. 

**  George  Augustus  Elhot,  created  Lord 
Heathfield,  for  his  memorable  defence  of  Gib- 
raltar, during  the  siege  of  three  years.  He 
died  in  179a, 


While  frighted  rattons"'btM!kwardleuk, 
And  seek  the  bemnost"  bore; 

A  fairy  fiddler  frae  the  neuk. 

He  skirled  out  ' '  Encore  I" 
But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck. 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — "  Soldier  laddie." 
1  once  was  a  maid,  though  1  cannot  tell 

when,  [men; 

And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was 

my  daddie. 
No  wonder  I'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  &c. 
The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering 

blade,  prade; 

To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  liis  cheek  was 

so  ruddy,  [laddie. 

Transported  I  was  Ai-itli    my    sodger 
.     Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  hiin  in 
the  lurch,  [the  church; 

The  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of 

He  ventured  the  soul,  and  I  risk'd  the 
body,  [laddie. 

'Twas  then  I  proved  false  to  my'sodger 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified 
sot,  [got;  _ 

The  regiment  at  largefora  husband  I ' 

From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  the  fife  I 
was  ready, 

I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

But  the  peace  it  reduced  me  to  beg  in 

despair,  [fair. 

Till  I  met  my  old  boy  at  a  Cunninghaia 
His  rags  regimental  they  flutter'd  so 

gaudy. 
My  heart  it  rejoiced  at  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 
And  now  I  have  lived — 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,  [laddie. 

Here's  to  thee,"  my  hero,  my  sodger 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 


"  Rats. 


1^  Innermost. 


POEMS. 


57 


EBCITATIVO. 

Poor  merry  Andrew  in  the  neiilt. 

Sat  guzzling  wi'  a'  tinkler  hizzie; 
They  mind't  na  wha  the  chorus  teuk, 

Between  themselves  they  were  sae 
busy; 
At  length  wi'  drink  and  courting  dizzy 

He  stoiter'd  up  and  made  a  face; 
Then  turn'd  and  laid  a  smack  on  Griz- 
zle, [grimace : — 

^ne     tuned    his    pipes   wi'  grave 


Tune — "Auld  Sir  Symon." 
Sir  Wisdom's  a  fool  when  he's  fou. 

Sir  linave  is  a  fool  in  a  session ; 
He's  there  but  a  'prentice,  I  trow. 

But  I  am  a  fool  by  profession. 

My  grannie  she  bought  me  a  beuk. 
And  I  held  awa'  to  the  school; 

I  fear  I  my  talent  misteuk. 
But  what  will  ye  hae  of  a  fool  ? 

For  drink  I  would  venture  my  neck, 
A  hizzie's  the  lialf  of  my  craft. 

But  what  could  ye  other  expect. 
Of  ane  that's  avowedly  daft  ? 

I  ance  was  tied  up  like  a  stirk,'^ 
For  civilly  swearing  and  quaffing! 

I  ance  was  abused  in  the  kirk, 
For  touzling"  a  lass  i'  my  daffin." 

Poor  Andrew  that  tumbles  for  sport. 
Let  naebody  name  wi'  a  jeer; 

There's  even,  I'm  tauld,  i'  the  court 
A  tumbler  ca'd  the  Premier. 

Observeiye  yon  reverend  lad 
Mak  faces  to  tickle  the  mob? 

He  rails  at  our  mountebank  squad — 
It's  rivalshii)  just  i'  the  job. 

And  now  my  conclusion  I'll  tell. 
For  faith  I'm  confoundedly  dry; 

Tlie  chiel  that's  a  fool  for  himsel, 
Qude  Lord  !  he's  far  dafter  than  I. 

EECITATIVO. 

Then  neist  outspak  a  rauclc  oarlin," 
Wha  keft't  f  u'  weel  to  cleelt  the  ster- 
ling, 
For  monie  a  pursie  she  liad  liookit. 
And  had  in  monie  a  well  been  doukit. 


'^.  Eullock.      "  Rumpling. 
Tra- Stout  Bedlam. 


'*  Merriment. 


Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie. 
But  weary  fa'  the  waefu'  woodie  !'" 
Wi'  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her    braw    John    Highland- 
man; — 

AIR. 

Tune — "Oh,  an  ye  were  Dead,  Quid- 

man  I" 
A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  Vo-  n, 
The  Lawland  laws  he  held  in  scorn ; 
But  he  still  was  faithfu'  to  his  clan. 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 


Sing,  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandman! 
Sing,  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman! 
There's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

With  his  philabeg  and  tartan  plaid, 
And  guid  claymore  down  by  his  side. 
The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan. 
My  gallant  braw  Jolm  Highlandman 
.Sing,  hey,  &c. 

We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
And  lived  like  lords  and  ladies  gay; 
For  a  lawland  fiice  he  fearSd  none. 
My  gallaiit  braw  John  Highlandman! 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

They  banished  liini  beyond  the  sea. 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 
Embracing  my  John  HighlandmaiE 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

But,  oh  I  they  catch'd  him  at  the  last. 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast; 
My  curse  upon  them  every  one, 
Tliey've  hang'd  my  braw  John  High- 
landman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return; 
Nae  comfort  but  a  hearty  can. 
When  I  think  on  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey  &c. 

EECITATIVO. 

A  pigmy  scraper,  wi'  his  fiddle, 
Wha  used  at  trysts  and  fairs  to  driddle,  >• 
Her  strappin'  limband  gavicy  middle 
(He  reach'd  nae  higher) 


^"  The  gallows. 


'Play. 


58 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Had  holed  liis  heartie  like  a  riddle. 
And  blawn't  on  fire. 

Wi'  hand  on  haunch,  and  upward  ee, 
H6  croon'd  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three. 
Then  in  an  arioso  key. 

The  wee  Apollo, 
Set  oS  wi'  allegretto  glee 

His  giga  solo. 


Tune — "  Whistle  owre  the  lave  o't." 
Let  me  lyke"  up  to  dight"  that  tear, 
And  go  wi'  me  and  be  my  dear, 
And  then  your  every  care  and  fear 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
CHOKUS. 
I  am  a  fiddler  at  my  trade. 
And  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  played. 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid. 
Was  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we'se  be  there. 
And  oh  !  sae  nicely's  we  will  fare; 
We'll  bouse  about  till  Daildy  Care 
Sings  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &c. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we'll  pyke, 
And  sun  oursels  about  the  dike. 
And  at  our  leisure,  when  ye  like. 
We'll  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &c. 

But  bless  itie  wi'  your  heaven  o'  charms. 
And  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms. 
Hunger,  cauld,  and  a'  sic  hai-ms. 
May  whistle  tfwre  the  lave  o't. 

I  am,  &c. 

KECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a  sturdy  caird,'-" 
As  weel  as  poor  gut-scraper; 

He  taks  the  fiddler  by  the  beard. 
And  drows  a  roosty  rapier — 

He  swore  by  a'  was  swearing  worth. 
To  speet  liim  like  a  pliver,|| 

Unless  he  wad  from  that  time  forth 
Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi"  ghastly  ee,  poor  Tweedle-dee 
Upon  his  hunkers*'  bended. 

And  pray'd  for  grace  wi'  ruefu'  face. 
And  sae  the  quarrel  enr'od. 


'"  Reach.      "  Wipe.     =»  Tinker. 
t+  To  spit  him  like  ii  plover. 


'  Hams. 


But  though  his  little  heart  did  grieye/^ 
When  round  the  tinkler  press'd  her. 

He  feign'd  to  snirtle"  in  his  sleeve, 
When  thus  thecaird  address'dher: — 

Am. 
TusE — "  Clout  the  Caudron." 
My  bonny  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  my  station: 
I've  travell'd  round  all  Cliristian  gron^nd 

In  this  my  occupation. 
I've  ta'en  the  gold,  I've  been  enroll'd 

In  many  a  noble  squadron:  [march'd 
But   vain    they  search'd,   when  off   I 
To  go  and  clout-^  the  caudron, 

I've  ta'en  the  gold,  &c. 

Despise  that  shrimp,  that  wither'd  imp, 

Wi'  a'  his  noise  and  ca'prin'. 
And  tak  a  share  wi'  tliose  that  bear 

The  budget  and  the  apron. 
And  by  that  stoup,'my  faith  andhoup. 

And  by.  that  dear  Kilbagie, 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant. 

May  I  ne'er  weet  my  cragie.-^ 

And  by  that  stoup.  &c. 

KECITATIVO. 

The  caird  prevail'd — the  unblushing 
fair 

In  his  embraces  sunlc. 
Partly  wi'  love,  o'ercome  sae  sair. 

And  partly  she  was  drunk. 
Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

That  show'd  a  man  of  spunk, 
Wish'd  unison  between  the  pair. 

And  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  night. 

But  urchin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft 

That  play'd  a  dame  a  shavie,** 
The  fiddler  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 

Ahint  the  chicken  cavic. 
Her  lord,  a  wight  o'  Homer's  craft,-'^ 

Though  limping  wi'  the  spavie. 
He  hirpled  up,  and  lap  like  daft. 

And  shored-'  them  Dainty  Davie 
0'  boot  that  night. 
He  was  a  care-defying  blade 

As  ever  Bacchus  listed. 
Though  Fortune  sair  upon  him  laid. 

His  heart  she  ever  raiss'd  it. 
He  had  nae  wish  but — ^to  be  glad, 

Nor  want  but — when  he  thirsted; 

==  Laugh.       =3 Patch.      "Throat.         ="  A 
trick.     s«  A  ballad-singer.    .»'  Offered. 


POEMS. 


m 


He  hated  nought  but — to  be  sad, 
And  thus  the  muse  suggested 
His  sang  that  night. 

AIK. 

Tune—"  For  a'  that,  and  a'  that." 
I  am  a  bard  of  no  regard, 

Wi'  gentle  folks,  and  a'  that: 
But  Homer-like,  the  glowrin'  byke,'* 

Frae  town  to  town  I  draw  that. 

CHORDS. 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

And  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that; 

I've  lost  but  ane,  I've  twa  behin', 
I've  wife  eneugh  for  a'  that. 

I  never  drank  the  Muses'  stanlc,^' 
Castalia's  burn,  and  a'  that; 

But  there  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 
My  Helicon,  1  ca'  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair. 
Their  humble  slave,  and  a'  that; 

But  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still 
A  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  hour  we  meet, 
Wi'  mutual  love,  and  a'  tha;t: 

But  for  how  laag  the  flee  may  stang. 
Let  inclination  law  that. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

Their  tricks  and  craft  hae  nit  u.e  daft, 
They've  ta'en  me  in,  and.  -  that; 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here's  the 
sex  ! 
I  like  the  jads  for  a'  that. 

cnOKUS. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

And  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that; 
My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid. 
They're  welcome  till't  for  a'  that. 

KBCITATIVO. 

So  sang  the  bard — and  Nansie's  wa's 
Shook  wi'  a  thunder  of  applause. 

Be- echoed  from  each  mouth; 
They  toom'd  their  pokes  and  pawn'd 

their  duds. 
They  scarcely  left  to  co'er  their  f  uds. 

To  quench  their  lowin'  drouth,  2° 

='  The  staring  crowd.    "  Pool.    '"  Burning 
thirst. 


Then  owre  again,  the  jovial  thrang, 

The  poet  did  request, 
To  loose  his  pack  and  wale"  a  sang, 
A  ballad  o'  the  best; 
He,  rising,  rejoicing. 

Between  his  two  Deborah  s, 
Looks  round  hun,  and  found  them 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 

AlB. 

Tune.  —  "  Jolly    Mortals,    fill    your 

Glasses. " 
See  !  the  smoldng  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring ! 
Round  and  round  talce  up  the  chorus. 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 

CHORUS. 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  ! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast ! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 
Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title  ?  what  is  treasure  ? 

What  is  reputation's  care  ? 
If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

'Tis  no  matter  how  or  where  ! 

A  fig,  &c. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 

Round  we  wander  all  the  day: 
And  at  n,ight,  in  bam  or  stable. 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

A  fig,  Ac- 
Does  the  train-attended  carriage 

Through  the  country  lighter  rove? 
Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 

Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love'? 
A  fig,  &c. 

Life  is  all  a  variorum. 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes. 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum, 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

A  fig,  &e. 

Here's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  I 
Here's  to  all  the  wandering  train  ! 

Here's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets  I 
One  and  all  cry  out — Amen  ! 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  ! 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast ! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 

Cliurches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

3'  Choose. 


60 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


THE  VISION. 

This  beautiful  poem  depicts,  in  the  hijrhest 
strain  of  poetical  eloquence,  a  struggle 
which  was  constantly  going  on  in  the  poet's 
mind  between  the  meanness  and  poverty  of 
his  position  and  his  higher  aspirations  and 
hopes  of  mdependence,  which  he  found  it 
impossible  ever  to  realize.  It  must  have 
been  evident  to  his  mind  that  poetry  alone 
was  not  to  elevate  him  above  the  reach  of 
worldly  cares  ;  yet  m  this  poem,  as  in  many 
others,  he  accepts  the  poetical  calling  as  its 
own  sweet  and  sufficient  reward.  In  the 
appearance  of  the  Muse  of  Coila,  the  matter 
is  settled  after  a  fashion  as  beautiful  as  po- 
etical. In  the  Kilmarnock  edition  of  his 
poems,  the  allusion  to  his  Jean  in  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  Muse's  appearance  ; — 

"  Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen. 
And  such  a  leg  !  my  bonny  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it ; 
Sac  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 
Nane  else  cam  near  it — " 

was  replaced  by  the  name  of  another  charm- 
er, in  consequence,  it  is  presumed,  of  his 
quarrel  with  her  father.  When  the  Edin- 
burgh edition  appeared,  his  old  affections 
had  again  asserted  their  sway,  and  her 
name  was  restored.  In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dun- 
lop,  dated  February,  1788,  the  poet,  in  allu- 
sion to  Miss  Rachel  Dunlop,  one  of  her 
daughters,  being  engaged  on  a  painting 
representing  "The  Vision,"  says :— "  I  am 
highly  flattered  by  the  news,  you  tell  me  of 
Coila.  I  may  say  to  the  fair  painter  who 
does  me  so  much  honor,  as  Dr.  Beattie  says 
to  Ross,  the  poet,  of  his  Muse  Scota,  from 
which,  by  the  by,  I  took  the  idea  of  Coila  ; 
('tis  a  poem  of  Beattie's  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  which  perhaps  you  have  never 
seen) : — 

'  Ye  shake  your  head,  but  o'  my  f  egs, 
Ye've  set  auld  Scota  on  her  legs ; 
Lang  had  she  hen  wi,  buffs  and  fiegs, 

Bumbazed  and  dlzzie  ; 
Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pega^- 
Wae's  me,  poor  hizzie  F' 

DUAN  FIBST.* 

The  sun  had  closed  the  winter  day, 
The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play.f 

*-i>Krt«,  a  term  of  Ossian's  for  the  different 
divisions  of  a  digressive  poem.  See  his 
"  Cathloda,"  vol,  li.  of  Macphcrson's  transla- 
tion.— B. 

t  Curling  is  a  wintry  game  peculiar  to  the 
southern  counties  of  Scotland.  When  the  ice 
is  sufficiently  strong  on  the  lochs,  a  number  of 
individuals,  each  provided  with  a  large  stone 
of  the  shape  of  an  oblate  spheroid,  smoothed 
at  the  bottom,  range  themselves  on  two  sides, 
and  being  furnished  with  handles, .  play 
against  each  other.  The  game  resembles 
bowls,  but  is  much  more  aniniated,  and  keenly 
enjoyed.  It  is  well  characterized  by  the  poet 
as  a  roaring  play. 


And  hungered  maiikin  ta'en  her  way 
To  kail-yards  green, 

While  faithless  snaws  Wk  step  betray 
Whare  she  has  been. 

The  thrashei^s  weary  flingin'-tree" 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me; 
And  when  the  day  had  closed  his  ee. 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,:j:  right  penslvelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek,' 
I  sat  and  eyed  the  spewing  reek,' 
That  fill'd  wi'  hoast-provoking  smeek. 

The  auld  clay  biggin'; 
And  heard  the  restless  rattens*  squeak 

About  the  riggiu'. 

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

And  done  naething, 
But  stringin'  blethers'  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might  by  this  hae  led  a  market. 
Or  strutted  in  a  bank,  and  clerkit 

My  cash -account: 
While  liere,  half  mad,  half-fed,  half- 
sarkit, 

Is  a',th'  amount. 

I  started,  muttering,  Blockhead  !  coof !» 
And  heaved  on  high  my  waukit  loof,' 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof. 
Or  some  rash  aith. 
That  I  henceforth  would  be  rhyme- 
proof 

Till  my  last  breath — 

Wlien,  click  !    the  string  the  sneck'" 

did  draw 
And  jee  !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa';" 
And  by  my  ingle-lowe  I  saw, 

Now  bleezin  bright, 
A  tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw. 
Come  full  in  sight. 

Ye  needna  doubt,  I  held  my  whisht; 
The    infant    aith,    halfform'd,    was 
crusht. 


'The  flail  'Fireside,  3  Smoke.  «  Fmoke. 
'  Rats.  6  Hazy,  '  Nonsense.  »  Fool.  »  Hard- 
ened palm.    •»  Latch. 

t  The  parlour  of  the  farm-house  of  Moss- 
giel— the  only  apartment  besides  the  kitchen. 


POEMS. 


61 


I  glower'd  as  eerie's  I'd  been  dusht' ' 
In  some  wild  glen ; 

When  sweet,  like  modest  Worth,  she 
hlusht. 

And  stepped  ben.  '- 

Green,  slander,  leaf-clad  liolly-boughs 
Were    twisted     gracefu'    round     her 

brows — 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token: 
And  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Would  soon  be  broken. 

A  '  hare-brain'd  sentimental  trace' 
Was  strongly  marked  in  lier  face; 
A  wildly- witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her; 
Her  eye  e'en  tura'd  on  empty  space, 

Beam'd  keen  with  honour. 

Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen. 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrim  ply  seen; 
And  such  a  leg  !  my  bonny  Jean 
Could  only  peer  it; 
Sae   straught,  sae   taper,  tight'^,  and 
clean, 

Nane  else  cam  near  it. 

Her  mantle  larg.?,  of  greenish  hue. 
My  gazing  wanlsr  chiefly  drew  ; 
;  lieep.  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling 

'^^■,  A  lustre  grand  ; 

And  seem'd,  to  my  astouish'd  view, 
A  well-known  land. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 
There,  mountains  to  the  skies   wera 

tost. 
Here,  tumbling  billows    mark'd    the 
coast. 

With  surging  foam  ; 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  boast. 
The  lordly  dome. 

Here,  Doon  pour'd  down  his  far-fetched 

floods 
There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds  i''' 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  '•'  through  his 
woods. 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds. 
With  seemiiig  roar. 

Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread, 

"  Frightened.   >=  into  the  room.  ^'  Hand- 
some, well-formed.     "  Sounds.     "  Stole. 


An  ancient  borough  §  rear'd  her  head ; 
Still,  as  in  Scottisli  story  read. 

She  boasts  a  race 
To  every  nobler  virtue  bred, 

,  And  polish'd  grace. 

By  stately  tower  or  palace  fair,  ' 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air. 
Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

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

With  features-  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel. 
To  see  a  racs  |  heroic  wheel, 
And   brandish  round  the  deep  -  dyed 
steel 

In  sturdy  blows ; 
While  back-recoiling  seem'd  to  reel 

Their  suthron  foes. 

His    country's    saviour,  Tf    mark    him 

well  ! 
Bold  Richardton's  **  heroic  swell ; 
The  chief  on  Sarkf f  who  glorious  fell. 

In  high  command  ; 
And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 

His  native  land. 

There,    where     a     sceptred     Pictish 

shadelt 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  portray'd 

In  colors  strong  ; 
Bold,  soldier- featured,  undismayed 

They  strode  along. 
Through  many  a  wild  romantic  grove  §§ 


§  The  town  of  Ayr. 

II  The  Wallaces.— B. 

1  Sir  William  Wallace.— B. 

**  Adam  Wallace  of  Richardton,  cousin  to 
the  immortal  preserver  of  Scottish  independ- 
ence.— B. 

t+  Wallace,  Laird  of  Craigie,  who  was  sec- 
ond in  command,  under  Douglas,  Earl  of 
Ormond,  at  the  famous  battle  on  the  banks  of 
Bark,  fought  in  1448.  That  glorious  victory 
was  principally  owing  to  the  judicious  con- 
duct and  intrepid  valour  of  the  gallant  Laird 
of  Craigie,  who  died  of  his  wounds  after  the 
action. — B. 

it  Coilus,  king  of  the  Picts,  from  whom  the 
district  of  Kyle  is  said  to  take  its  name,  lies 
buried,  as  tradition  eays,  near  the  family  seat 
of  the  Montgomeries  of  Coilsfield,  where  his 
burial-place  is  still  shown.— B. 

§§  Barskimming,  the  seat  of  the  late  Lord 
Justica-Clerk.— B.  (Sir  Thomas  Miller  of 
Glenlee,  afterwards  President  of  the  Court  of 
Session.) 


BURNS'  WORKS 


Near  many  a  liermit-fancied  cove, 
(Fit  liauuts  for  f liendsliip  or  for  love,) 

lu  musing  mood. 
An  aged  judge,  I  saw  Jiim  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw,|||| 
To  nature's  trod  and  nature's  law 

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

That,  to  adore. 

Brydone's  brave  ward  1[T[  I  well  could 

spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  : 
Who  call'd  on  Fame,  low  standing  by. 

To  hand  him  on, 
Where  many  a  patriot  name  on  high 
And  hero  shone. 

DUAN    SECOND. 

■^ITH  musing-deep,  astonish'd  stare, 
I  view'd  the  heavenly  seeming  fair  ; 
A  whispering  throb  did  witness  bear 

Of  kindred  sweet. 
When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

She  did  me  greet : — 
"  All  hail  !  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 
In  me  thy  native  Muse  regard  ; 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low  ! 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  rev/ard 

As  we  bestow. 

' '  Know,  the  great  genius  of  tliis  land 
Has  many  a  light,  aerial  band. 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command. 

Harmoniously, 
As  arts  or  arms  they  understand. 

Their  labours  ply. 
"  Tliey    Scotia's    race     among    them 

share ; 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare  ; 
Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

Corruption's  heart : 
Some  teach  the  bard  a  darling  care. 

The  tunefu'  art. 
'"Mong   swelling   floods    of    reeldng 
gore. 


ill  The  Rev.  Dr.  Matthew  Stewart,  the  cel- 
ebrated mathematician,  and  his  son,  Mr. 
Dugald  Stewart,  the  elegant  expositor  of  the 
Scottish  school  of  metaphysics,  are  here  meant, 
their  villa  of  Catrinc  being  situated  en  the 
Ayr. 

^^  Colonel  FuUarton.— B. 


They  ardent,  kindling  spirits,  pour  ; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar. 

They,  sightless,  stand. 
To  mend  the  honest  patriot-lore. 

And  grace  the  hand. 

"  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age. 
They  bind  the  wild,  poetic  rage. 

In  energy, 
Or  point  the  ineonolusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 

"Hence    Fullarton,  the     brave     and 

young ; 
Hence  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  tongue; 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 

His  Minstrel  lay ; 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardor  stung,  • 

The  sceptic's  bays. 

"To  lower  orders  are  assigri'd 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human  kind. 
The  rustic  bard,  the  laboring  hind. 

The  artisan  ; 
All  choose,  as  various  they're  inclined. 

The  various  man. , 

' '  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 
The  threatening  storm  some,  strongly, 

rein  ; 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain. 

With  tillage  skill; 
And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train. 

Blithe-  o'er  the  hill. 

"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  Tvile; 
Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile; 
Some  soothe  the  labourer's  weary  toil. 

For  humble  gains. 
And  make  his  cottage  scenes  beguile 

His  cares  and  pains. 

"  Some  bounded  to  a  district-space. 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race. 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  bard: 
And  careful  note  each  opening  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

' '  Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name. 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim. 
Where  once  the  Campbells,***  chiefs 
of  fame. 

Held  ruling  power, 

**=!!  The'  Loudoun. branch  of  tile  Campbells 
is  here  meant  Mossgiel,  and    much  of    the 
neighbouring  ground  was  then  the  property 
I  of  the  Earl  of  Loudon. 


POEMS. 


63 


I  mark'.d  thy  embryo  tuneful. flame, 
Thy  natal  hour. 

"  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would,  gaze. 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 

Thy  rudely-caroll'd,  chiming  phrase. 

In  uncouth  rhymes. 
Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays, 

Of  other  times. 

"  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted -with  the  dashing  roar; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Brove  through  the  sky, 
I  saw  grim  nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

"Or    when    the  deep  green-mantled 

earth 
Warm  cherish'd  every  floweret's  birth, 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  every  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

"  Wlien  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Call'd  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 
I  gaw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys. 

And  lonely  stalk, 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing, 

strong 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along. 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

'Th.'  adored  Name, 
I  uaught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song. 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

"I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening 4)lay, 
Wild,   send   thee   Pleasure's   devious 

way. 
Misled  my  Fancy's  meteor-ray. 

By  passion  driven; 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

"  I  taught  thy  manners  painting  strains. 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends; 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains, 

Become  thy  f  riencfe. 

"Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  Ishow, 
To  paint  with    Thomson's  landscape 
glow; 


Or  wake  the  bosom -melting  throe, 
With  Sheustone's  art. 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 

"Yet  all  beneath  the  unrivall'd  rose. 
The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows; 
Though  large  forest's  monarch  throws 

His  army  shade. 
Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows. 

Adown  the  glade. 

"  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  sliine; 
And,  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine. 

Nor  kings'  regard. 
Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatching  thine — 

A  rustic  bard. 

' '  To  give  my  counsels'  all  in  one, 
Tliy  tilnef&l  flame  still  careful  fan; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  man, 

With  soul  erect; 
And  trust  the  universal  plan 

Will  all  protect. 

"And  wear  thou  this,"  she  solemn  said. 
And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head; 
The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thpught,  she  fled 

In  light  away. 


A  WINTElt  NIGHT, 

''  Poor   naked    wretches,    whereso'er    you 
are. 

That    bide    the  pelting   of    the    pitiless 
storm!.  ■,    ' 

How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  un- 
fed sides, 

Your  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness, 
defend  you, 

From  seasons  such  as  these  ?" 

— Shakespeare. 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell'  and  doure,'^ 

Sharp    shivers    through    the  leafless 

bower;  [glower? 

When     Phoebus    gies    a    short-lived 

Far  south  the  lift,* 
Dim-darkenmg     through    the     flaky 
shower. 

Or  whirling  drift: 

i.o  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked^ 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked; 


'  Keen.    ^  Stern.    '  Stare.    '  Sky. 


6i 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


While  bums,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up- 
choked, 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or  through  the  mining  outlet  bocked,^ 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Listening   the    doors    and    winnocks" 

rattle, 
I  thought  mo  on  the  ourie'  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle' 

O'  winter  war, 
And  through  the  drift,   deep-lairing 
sprattle,' 

Beneath  a  scaur. '" 

Ilk  happing"  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing, 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring. 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing. 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Wharo  %rflt  thou  cower  thy  chittering 
wing. 

And  close,  thy  ee  ! 

Even  you,  on  murdering  errands  toiVd, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exiled. 
The  blood-stain'd  roost,  and  sheep-cot 
spoil'd, 

My  heart  forgets. 
While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 
Sore  on  yon  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign. 
Dark  muffled,  vie w'd  the  dreary  plain ; 
Still    crowding   thoughts,   a    pensive 
train, 

Bose  in  my  soul, 
Wlien  on  my  oar  this  plaintive  strain. 

Slow,  solemn,  stole: — 

"Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier 

gust ! 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost  ! 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 
Not  all    your  rage,   as    now  united, 

shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting. 
Vengeful  malice  unrepenting, 
Than  heaven-illumined  man  on  brother 

man  bestows  ! 

"  See  stern  Oppression's  iron  grip, 

Or  mad  Ambition's  gory  hand. 
Sending,  like   blood-hounds  from  the 

slip, 
M'oe,  A\  ant,  and  Murder  o'er  a  land ! 


"  Belched.  »  Windows.  '  Shivering 

"  Dashing  storm.  °  Struggle.  >°  Qiff 

*^  Hopping, 


Even  in  the  peaceful  rural- vale. 

Truth,  weeping,    tells    the  mournful 

tale,  [lier  side. 

How  pamper'd  Luxury,   Flattery    by 

The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear. 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the 

rear,  [wide; 

Looks  o'er  proud  Property,  extended 

And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 
WTiose  toil  upholds  the  glittering 
show, 
A  creature  of  another  kind. 
Some  coarser  substance  unrefined. 
Placed  for  her  lordly  use  thus  far,  thus 
vile,  below. 

"Where,  where  is  Love's  fond,  tender 

throe. 
With  lordly  Honour's  lofty  brow. 

The  powere  you  proudly  own  ? 
Is  there,  beneath  Love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbour  dark  the  selfish  aim. 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 
Mark  maiden  innocence  a  ijrey 

To  love-pretending  snares. 
This  boasted  Honour  turns  away, 
Shunning  soft  Pity's  rising  sway, 

Hegardless  of  the  tears  and  unavail- 
ing prayers !  [squalid  nest, 
Perhaps    this    hour,     in    misery's 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless 

breast,  [rocking  blast  ! 

And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the 

"  0  ye  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  do^vn, 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves 
create,  [fate 

Think  for  a  moment  on  his  wretched 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  dis- 
own, [call, 
111  satisfied  keen  nature's  clamourous 
Stretch'd  onliis  straw  he  lays  him- 
self to  sleep,           [chinky  wall, 
Wlrile  thi'ough  the  ragged  roof  and 
Chill   o'er    his    slumbers   piles  the 
drifty  heap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine. 
Where  Guilt  and  poor  Misfortune  pine! 

Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  ! 
But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  Fortune's  undeserved  blow  1 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 
A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the 
bliss !" 


POEMS. 


85 


I  heard  na  niair,  for  clianticleer 
Shook  off  the  pouthery  snaw, 

And  liail*d  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 
A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

But    deep    this    truth    impress'd   my 
mind — 

Through  all  His  works  abroad, 
Tlie  heart  benevolent  and  Iciud 

The  most  resembles  God. 


SCOTCH  DRINK. 

This  poem.,  written  after  the  manner  of  Fer- 
giisson's  **  Caller  Water,"  i^  not  to  bt  taken 
as  evidence  of  the  poet's  feehngs  and  prac- 
tices. It  was  suggested,  along  with  the  fol- 
lowing poem,  by  the  withdrawal  of  an  Act 
of  Parliament  empowering  Duncan  Forbes 
of  CuUoden  to  distil  whisky  on  his  barony 
of  Ferintosh,  free  of  duty,  in  return  for 
services  rendered  to  the  Government.  This 
privilege  was  a  source  of  great  revenue  to 
the  family:  and  as  Ferintosh  whisky  was 
cheaper  than  that  produced  elsewhere,  it 
became  very  popular,  and  the  name  Ferin- 
tosh thus  became  something  like  a  syno- 
nyme  for  "whisky  over  the  country.  Com- 
pensation for  the  loss  of  privilege,  to  the 
tune  of  £2z,s8o,  was  awarded  to  the  Forbes 
family  by  a  jury.  Attention  was  further 
drawn  to  "the  national  beverage  "  at  this 
time  by  the  vexatious  and  oppressive  way 
in  which  the  JExcise  laws,  were  enforced  at 
the  Scotch  distilleries.  Many  distillers  aban- 
doned the  business ;  and  as  barley  was 
beginning  to  fall  in  price  in  consequence, 
the  county  gentlemen  supported  the  distil- 
lers,-and  an  act  was  passed  relieving  the 
trade  from  the  obnoxious  supervision. 
These  circumstances  gave  the  poet  his  cue ; 
an,d  the  subject  was^ne  calculated  to  evoke 
his  wildest  humour.  Writing  to  Robert 
Muir,  Kilmarnock,  he  says,  "  I  here  enclose 

you^my  '  Scotch  Drink,'  and  may  the  — ^ 

follow  with  a  blessing  for  your  edification. 
1  hope  some  time  before  we  hear  the  gowk, 
[cuckool  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
at  Kilmarnock,  when  I  intend  we  shall  have 
a  gill  between  us  in  a  mutchkin  stoup, 
which  will  be  a  great  comfort  and  consola- 
tion to  your  humble  servant,  R.  B." 

"  Gie  him  strong  drink,  until  he  wink, 
That's  sinking  in  despair ; 
And  liquor  gujd  to  fire  his  bluid. 
That  s  prest  wi'  grief  and  care  ; 

There  let  him  bouse,  and  deep  carouse, 

Wi'  bumpers  flowing  o'er, 
Till  he  forgets  his  loves  or  debts. 

And  minds  his  griefs  no  more-  ' 
— Solomon's  Proverbs  xxxi.  6,  7. 

Let  other  poets  raise  a  fracas' 
'Bout  vines,  and  wines,  and  drueken 
Bacchus, 

*  A  row. 


And  crabbit  names  and  stories  wrack'^ 
i^s,  ,     _ 

And  grate  our  lug,^  [us, 
I  sing  the  juice  Scotch  beare  can  mak 

In  glass  or  jug. 

0  thcu,  my  Mu:e  !  guid  auld  Scotch 
drink,  [thou  jink,' 

Whether    through    wimplin'''    worraS 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o'er  the  brinks 

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

To  sing  thy  name  ! 

Let  husky  wheat  the  liaughs  adorn, 
And  aits  set  up  tlieir  awiile  horn," 
And  peas  and  beans,  at  e'en  or  inorn. 
Perfume  the  plain, 

1  ezB  me  on  thee,  John  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain  ! 

On  the  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood. 
In  souple  scones,''  the  wale  o'  food  ! 
Or  tumblin'  in  the  boilin'  flood 

Wi'  kail  and  beef ;     , 
But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart'^ 
blood, 

There  thoii  shines  chief. 

Food   fills  the  wame,   and  keeps   us 

livin'; 
Though  life's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin', 
When    heavy  dragg'd  wi'  pine"  and 
grievin'; 

But  oil'd  by- thee. 
The    wheels    o'    life   gae    down-hill,, 
scrievin'' 

Wi'  rattliu'  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  Lear; 
Thou.cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  Care; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labour  sair, 

At's  weary  toil; 
Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair, 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 

Aft  clad  in  massy  siller  weed,'"- 
Wi"  gentles  thou  erects  thy  head; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need. 

The  poor  nian's  wine,* 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread. 

Thou  kitchens"  fine. 


'Bother.  =  Ear.  <  Crooked,  »  Steal, 
*  Beard.  '  Cakes  *  Pain.  "  Gilding  glee- 
somely.      *"  Silver  jugs.      ^^  Relishest. 

*  Ale  is  meant,  which  is  frequently  mixed 
witli  porridge  instead  of  milk.  ; 


66 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Tliooi  art  the  lifeo'  public  haunts; 
But    thee,   what  were  our  fairs  and 

rants  ^' 
Even  goodly  meetings  o'  the  saunts. 

By  thee  inspired, 
When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents.f 

Are  doubly  fired. 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 
,0h,  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn 

in! 
Or  reekin'  a  new  year  morning 

In  cog  or  bicker,''^ 
And  just  a  wee  drap  sp'ritual  burn  in, 

And  gusty  sucker  !'■' 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 
And  plowmen  gather  wi'  their  graith,'* 
Oh,  rare  !  to  see  thee  fizz  and  f  reath 

1"  the  lugget  caup  !'^ 
Then  Bumewin'*  comes  on  like  death 

At  every  chap. 

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

The  strong  forehammer. 
Till  block  and  studie  ring  and  reel, 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 

When  skirlin'  weanies"  see  the  light, 
Thou  maks  the  gossip?  clatter  bright. 
How    fumbliu'    cuifs'*    their    dearies 
slight; 

Wae  worth  the  name  ! 
Nae  howdie"  gets  a  social  night. 
Or  plack'-"  frae  them. 

When  ueibors  anger  at  a  plea, 
And  just  as  wud  as  wud*'  can  be, 
How  easy  can  the  barley -bree 

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

To.  taste  the  barrel. 

Alake  !  that  e'er  my  Muse  has  reason 
To  wyte'^'-*  her  countrymen  wi'  treason! 
But  mony  daily  weet  their  weason'''' 
Wi"  liquors  nice, 


12  Wooden  vessels.  ^^  Tooihsome  sugar. 
1*  Implements.  ^^  Cup  with  ears.  i"  The 
blacksmith.  '^  Screaming  children.  ^^  Awk- 
ward fools.  "  Midwife.  =»  Coin,  ^i  Mad. 
'»  Charge.    ^'^  Throat. 

+  The  tents  for  refreshment  at  out-of  door 
communiont.    (See  "  Holy  Fair." 


And  hardly,  in  a  winter's  season, 
K'er  spier'^*  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  brandy,  burning  trash. 
Fell  source  o'  mony  a  pain  and  brash !" 
'Twins  mony  a  poor,  doylt,  drickien 
hash*' 

O'  half  his  days;  j 

And  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland's,  cash 

To  her  worst  faes. 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well' 
Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell, 
Poor  plackle^  devils  like  mysel. 

It  sets  you  ill, 
Wi'  bitter,  dearthfu'  wines  to  mell," 

Or  foreign  gill. 

May  gravels  round  his  blether  wrench. 
And  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch, 
Wha  twists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch'* 

O'  sour  disdain, 
Out-owre  a  glass  o'  whisky  punch 

Wi'  honest  men. 

0  whisky  !  soul  o'  plays  and  pranks  ! 
Accept  a  Bardie's  gratetu'  thanks  ! 
When   wanting  thee,   what    tuneless 
cranks 

Are  my  poor  verses  ! 
Thou  comes — they  rattle  i'  their  rjuks 

At  ither's  a — es. 

Thee,  Ferintosh  !  oh,  sadly  lost  ! 
Scotland  lament  frae  coast  to  coast ! 
Now  colic  grips,  and  barkin'  hoast,^^.    > 

May  kill  us  a' ;  ,       ' 

For  loyal  Forbes's  charter'd  boast. 

Is  ta'en  awa'  ! 

Thae  curst  horse-leeche^  o'  th'  Excise, 

Wlia  mak  the  whlsky-stells  their  prize! 

Haud  up  thy  han',  deit !  ance,  twice, 

thrice !  .     , 

There,  seize  the  blinkers!"" 

And  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

For  poor  damn'd  drinkers. 

Fortune  !  if  tliou'U  but  gie  me  still 
Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  and  whisky  gill, 
And  rowth^'  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Tak  a'  the  rest, 
And  deal't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Directs  the  best. 


=<  Ask.  25  Sickness.  =«  Rouffh  fellow. 
"  Meddle.  »8  p^ce  with  a  grin.  >»  Cough. 
2°  A  contemptuous  te'm.       si  Abundance. 


POEMS. 


67 


KEMOHSE. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

The  following  lines  occur  in  an  early  Com- 
monplace-book of  tile,  poet's,  and .  probably 
relate  to  th^  consequences  of  iiis  first  serious 
error: — 

Of  all  tte  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our 
peace,  [with  arguish, 

That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind 
Beyond  comparison,  the  worst  are  those 
That  to 'otir  folly  or  our  guilt  we  owe. 
In  every  other  circumstance,  the  inind 
Has  this  to  say — "It  was  no  deed  of 

miAe;" 
But  when,  to  all  the  evil  of  misfortune. 
This  sting  is  added — "  Blame  thy  fool- 
ish self,"  .  [morse — 
Or,  worser  far,  the  pangs  of  keen  ro- 
The  torturing,  gnawing  consciousness 
of  guilt —  [others, 
Of  guilt  perhaps  where  we've  involved 
The  young,  the  innocent,  who  fondly 
lo'edus,                                   [of  ruin! 
Nay,  more — ^that  very  love  their  cause 
O  burning  hell !  in  all  thy  store  of  tor- 
.  -  ments. 

There's  not  a  keener  lash!  [Ms  heart 
Lives  there  a  miai  so  firm,  who,  while 
Feels  all  the  bitter  horrors  of  his  crime. 
Can  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs; 
And,  after  proper  purpose  of  amend- 
ment, [to  peace? 
Can  firmly  force  his  jarring  thoughts 
Oh,  happy,  happy,  enviable  man ! 
Oh,  glorious  magnanimity  of  soul! 


ANSWER  TO  A  POETICAL 
EPISTLE, 

SENT  TO  THE  AtJTHOB  BY  A  TAILOR. 

A  tailor  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mauchline 
having  taken  it  upon  him  to  send  the  poet  a 
rhymed  homily  on  his  loose  conversation 
and  irregular  behaviour,  received  the  fol- 
lowing lines  in  reply  to  his  lecture  : — 

What  ails  ye  now,  ye  lousie  bitch, 
To  thrash  my  back  at  sic  a  pitch? 
Losh,  man  I  hae  mercy  wi'  your  natch, ' 

Your  bodkin's  bauld, 
I  didna  suffer  half  sae  much 

Frae  Daddie  Auld. 

'  Grip. 


What  though  at  times,  when  I  ^row 

crouse,- 
I  gie  the  dames  a  random  pouse. 
Is  that  enough  for  you  to  sOuse' 

Your  servant  sae?  [louse 

Gae  mind  your  seam,   ye    prick-the- 
And  jag-the-flae. 

King  David,  o'  poetic  brief. 

Wrought  'mang  the  lasses  sic  mischief 

As  fiU'd  his  after  life  wi'  grief 

And  bluidy  rants. 
And  yet  he's  rank'd  among  the  chief 

0'  lang-syne  saunts. 

And  maybe,  Tam,  for  a'  my  cants,* 
My  wicked  rhymes,  aud  drucken  rants, 
I'll  gie  auld  cloven  Clootie's  haunts 

An  unco  slip  yet. 
And  snugly  sit  among  the  saunts 

At  Davie's  hip  yet. 

But  fegs,'  the  session  says  I  maun 

Gae  fa  upon  anither  plan. 

Than  garrin'  lasses  cowp  the  cran 

Clean  heels  owre  gowdy. 
And  sairly  thole*  their  mither's  ban 

Afore  the  howdy.' 

This  leads  me  on,  to  tell  for  sport, 
How  1  did  wi'  the  session  sort: 
Auld  Clinkum  at  the  inner  port 

Cried  three  times — "  Robin! 
Come  hither  lad,  and  answer  for't, 

Ye're  blamed  for  jobbin'." 

Wi'  pinch  I  put  a  Sunday's  face  on. 
And  snooved'  awa'  before  the  session; 
I  made  an  open,  fair  confession — 

I  scorned  to  lie;        [sion, 
And  syne  Mess  John,  beyond  expres- 

Fell  foul  o'  me. 

A  fumicator-loon  he  call'd  me. 

And  said  my  f aut  frae  bliss  expell'd  me; 

I  owu'd  the  tale  was  true  he  tell'd  me, 

' '  But  what  the  matter?  " 
Quo'  I,  "  I  fear  unless  ye  geld  me, 

I'll  ne'er  be  better." 

"Geld  you!"  quo'  he,  "and  what  for 

no? 
If  that  your  right-hand,  leg  or  toe. 
Should  ever  prove  your  spiritual  foe, 
You  should  remember 


"Happy.  3 Scold.  ■'Tricks.  » Faith.   "Bear. 
'  Midwife.    "  Sneaked. 


68 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


To  wt  it  aff — and  wliat  for  no 

Your  dearest  member?  " 

"  Na,  na,"  quo'  I,  "  I'm  no  for  that, 
Gelding's  nae  better  than  'tis  ca't; 
I'  rather  suffer  for  my  faut, 

A  hearty  iiewit, 
As  sair  owre  hip  as  ye  can  draw't, 

Tliougli  I  should  rue  it. 

"  Or  gin  ye  lilce  to  end  the  bother, 
To  please  us  a',  I've  just  ae  ither-^ 
When  next  wi'  yon  lass  1  forgather, 

Whate'er  betide  it, 
I'll  frankly  gie  her't  a'  thegither, 

And  let  her  guide  it." 

But,  sir,  this  pleased  them  warst  ava. 
And  therefore,  Tarn,  when  that  I  saw, 
I  said,  "  Guid  night,"  and  cam  awa'. 

And  left  the  session; 
I  saw  they  were  resolved  a' 

On  my  oppression. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  EARNEST  CRT 
AND  PRAYER 

TO  THE  SCOTCH    EJEPRESENTATIVES    IN 
THE  HOUSE  OF  COMMONS. 

For  an  account  of  the  circumstances  which 
gave  rise  to  the  following  lines ,  see  the  in- 
troduction to  the  poem  entitled  "  Scotch 
Drink,"  p.  f  5. 

**  Dearest  of  distillations  !  last  and  best! 
How  art  thou  lost !" 

—Parody  on  Milton. 

Ye  Irish  lords,  ye  knights  and  squires, 
"VVha  represent  our  brughs  and  shires. 
And  doucely'  manage  our  affairs 

In  parliament, 
To  you  a  simple  Bardie's  prayers 

Are  humbly  sent. 

Alas!  my  roopit*  Muse  is  hearse!  ^ 
Your  honours'   heaii  wi'  grief  'twad 

pierce, 
To  see  her  sittin'  on  her  a — e 

Low  i'  the  dust, 
And  scrachin'^f  out  prosaic  verse 

And  like  to  burst! 

^  Soberly.  "^  Hoarse.  ^  Screaming  hoarsely 
— the  cry  of  fowls  when  displeased. 

*  A  person  with  a  sore  throat  and  a  dry 
tickling  cough,  is  said  to  be  roopy. 

t  Some  editors  giVe  this  '  screechin', 
Cscreamihg),  but,"  taken  in  connection  with 
the  hoarseness,  every  one  who  has  heard  the 
word  used  will  endorse  our  reading. 


Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction, 
Scotland  and  me's  in  great  affliction. 
E'er  sin  they  laid  that  curst  restridtibii 

On  aqua  vitae;  [tionp 

And  rouse  them  up  to  strong  convic- 

And  move  their  pity. 

Stand    forth    and    tell    yon    Premier 

youth,  X 
The  honest,  open,  naked  truth: 
Tell  him  o'  mine  and  Scotland's  drouth,^ 

His  servants  humble: 
The  muclile  devil  blaw  ye  south. 

If  ye  dissemble  ! 

Does  ony  great  man  glunch"  and  gloom! 
Speak  out,   and  never  fash  youi 

tliooni  !* 
Let  posts  and  pensions  sink  or  soom' 

Mi'  them  wlia  grant  'em; 
If  honestly  they  canna  come. 

Far  better  want  'em. 

In  gath'rin'  votes  you  werena  slak;    . 
Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack; 
Ne'er  claw  your  lug,'*  and  fidge'  your 
back. 

And  hum  and  haw; 
But    raise    your    arm,  and  tell  your 
crack'" 

Before  them  a'. 

Paint    Scotland    greetiu'"    owre    her 
thrissle:  [whissle; 

Her    mutchkin    stoup   as    toom's'^  ■  a 
And  damn'd  excisemen  in  a  bussle, 

Sezzin'  a  stell. 
Triumphant  crushin'  't  like  a  mussle 
Or  lampit  shell. 

.  Then  on  th«  tither  hand  present  her, 
A  blackguard  smuggler  right  behint 

her. 
And  cheek-for-chow  a  chuffie"  vintner, 

Colleaguing  join. 
Picking  her  pouch  as  baie  as  winter 

Of  a'  kind  com. 

Is  there  that  bears  the  name  o'  Scot, 
But  feels  his  heart's  bluid  rising  hot. 
To  see  his  poor  auld  mither's  pot 

Thus  dung  in  staves. 
And  plunder'd  o'  her  liindmost  groat  . 

By  gallows  knaves '? 

«  Thirst  »  Frown.  «  Trouble;  your  thumb. 
'Swim.  "Ear.  "Shrug.  "Tale.  "Weep- 
uig.    ""^Empty.    i3  Fat-f„ced.  - 

X  WiJUam  Pitt. 


POEMS. 


Gfl 


Alas  !  I'm  but  a  nameless  wiglit. 
Trod  i'  tEe  mire  and  out  o'  siglit  ! 
But  could  I  like  Montgomeries  figlit,§ 

Or  gab  lUie  Boswell,  || 
There's  some  sark-necks  I  wad  draw 
■.  tight,  = 

And  tie  some  lioso  well. 

God  bless  your  honours,  cant  ye  see't. 
The  kind,  auld,  cantie  carlin  greet," 
And  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet. 

And  gar  them  hear  it. 
And  tell  them  wi'  a  patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear    it  ? 

Some  o'  you  nicely  ken  the  laws. 
To  round  the  period  and  pause. 
And  wi'  rhetoria  ^jause  on  clause 

To  make    harangues; 
Then  echo  through  St.  Stephen's  wa's 

Auld  Scotland's  wrangs. 

Dempster^^  a  true-blue  Scot  I'se  war- 
ran';  [ran;** 
Thee,    aith-detesting,    chaste    KiUier- 
And  that  glib-gSibbet"  Highland  baron. 

The  laird  o'  Graham  ;ff 
And  ane,  a  cliap  that's  damn'd  auld- 
f arran, '' 

Dundas  hi3  name.|4 

ETskine,§§  a  spunkie"  Norland  baillie; 
True  Campbells,  Frederick  and  Ilay;|| 
And  Livingstone,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie ; 

And  mony  ithers, 
\Miom  auld  Demosthenes  or  "Tully 

Might  own  for  brithers. 


"  THe  cheerful  old  wife  cry.  (Scotland 
'jSersonifiedO  ^^  Ready-tongued.  ^^  S&gati- 
ous.      1^  Plucky. 

§  Colonel  Hugh  Montgomery,  who  had 
.served  in  the  American  war,  and  was  then 
representing  Ayrshire. 

II  Jamds  Boswell  of  Auchinleck,  the  biogra^ 
pher  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

1  George  Dempster  of  Dunnichen,  Forfar- 
shire. 

**  Sir  Adam  Fergusson  of  Kilkerran,  then 
member  for  Edinburgh. 
++  The  Marquis  of  Graham. 

tt  Henry  Dundas,  afterwards  Viscount  Mel- 
ville. 

a  Thomas  Erskine,  afterwards  Lord  Ers- 
Icine. 

!iil  Lord  Frederick  Campbell,  brother  to  the 
Duke  of  Argy'e,  and  Hay  Campbell,  then  Lord 
Advocate. 


Thee,    Sodger  Hugh,   my    watchman 

stented,ll1 
If  bardies  e'er  are  represented; 
I  ken  if  that  your  sword  were  wanted, 

Ye'd  lend  your  hand: 
But  when  there's  ought  to  say  anent  it, 

Ye're  at  a  stand.*** 

Arouse,  my  boys:  e±ert  your  mettle. 
To  get  auld  Scotland  back  her  kettle; 
Or,  faith  !   I'll  wad  my   new  plough- 
pettle,'8 

Ye'll  see't  or  lang. 
She'll  teach  you,  wi'  a  reeldn'  whittle," 

Auither  sang. 

This  while  she's  been  in   crankous'" 
mood,  - 

Her  lost  militia  fired  her  bluid; 
(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  good,) 

Play'd  her  that  pliskie  !" 
And  now  she's  like  to  rin  red-wud'^'-" 

About  her  whisky. 

And,  Lord,  if  ance  they  pit  her  till't. 
Her  tartan  petticoat  she'll  kilt. 
And  durk  and  pistol  at  her  belt. 

She'll  tak  the  streets. 
And  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt 

r  th'  first  she  meets! 

For  God's  sa,ke,  sirs,  then  speak-  her 

fair. 
And  straik'^  her  cannie  wi'  the  hair. 
And  to  the  muckle  House  repair 
Wi'  instant  speed, . 
And  strive,  wi'  a'  your  wit  and  lear. 
To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongued  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  and  mocks; 
But  gie  him't  het,  my.  hearty  cocks  ! 

E'en  cowe  the  caddie  I''* 
And  send  him  to  his  dicing-box 

And  sportin'  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o'  auld  Bocon- 

nock'sfff 


IB  Plough-stafE.  "  Knife.  "  Ill-tempered, 
restless.  »'  Trick.  "  Mad.  i"  Stroke. 
"  Fellow. 

^T  Being  member  for  Ayrshire,  the  poet 
speaks  of  him  as  his  stented  or  vanguard 
watchman. 

***  This  stanza  alludes  to  Hugh  Montgom- 
ery's imperfect  elocution. 

ttt  William  Pitt  was  the  grandson  Of  Robert 
Pitt  of  Boconriock,  in  Cornwall. 


TO 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


I'll   be  liis  debt  twa  maslilum    ban- 

nocliS.Itt 
And  drink  Lis  liealth  In  auld  Nanse 
Tinnock's,S8§ 

Kine  times  a  week, 
If  lie  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  win- 
nocl«i,|||||| 

Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  commutation  broach, 
I'll  pledge  my  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch. 
He  ueedna  fear  their  foul  reproach 

Nor  erudition. 
Yon  mixtie-maxtie,  queer  hotch-potch. 

The  coaHtion.tf  t 

t^tf  Cakes  made  of  oats,  beans,  and  peas, 
with  a  mixture  of  wheat  or  barley  flour. 

§§§  A  worthy  old  hostess  of  the  author's  in 
Mauchline,  where  he  sometimes  studied  pol- 
itics over  a  glass  of  guid  old  Scotch  drink. — B. 
"  Nanse  Tinnock  is  long  deceased,  and  no  one 
has  caught  up  her  mantle.  She  is  described  as 
having  been  a  true  aie-wije^  in  the  proverbial 
sense  Oi  the  word — close,  discreet,  civil,  and 
no  tale-teller.  When  any  neighbouring  wife 
came,  asking  if  her  John  was  here, '  Oh,  no,' 
Nanse  would  reply,  shaking  money  in  her 
pocket  7S  she  spoke,  '  he's  no  here,'  implying 
to  the  querist  that  the  husband  was  not  m  the 
house,  while  she  meant  to  herself  thatThe  was 
not  among  her  half-pence — thus  keeping  the 
word  of  promise  to  the  ear,  but  breaking  it  to 
the  hope.  Her  house  was  one  of  two  stories, 
and  hid  a  front  towards  the  street,  by  which 
Burns  must  have  entered  Mauchline  from 
Mossgiel.  The  date  over  the  door  is  1744.  It 
is  remembered,  however,  that  Nanse  never 
could  understand  how  the  poet  should  have 
talked  of  enjoying  himself  in  her  house  '  nine 
times  a  week.'  "^The  lad,'  she  said, '  hardly 
ever  drank  three  half-mutchkins  under  her 
roof  in  his  life.'  Nanse,  probably,  had  never 
heard  of  the  poetical  license.  In  truth,  Nanse's 
hostelry  was  not  the  only  one  in  Mauchline 
.which  Bums  resorted  to  :  a  rather  better-look- 
ing house,  at  the  opening  of  the  owgate, 
kept  by  a  person  named  John  Dove,  and  then, 
and  still  bearing  the  arms  of  Sir  John  White- 
ford  of  Ballochmyle,  was  also  a  haunt  of  the 
poet's  having  this  high  recommendation,  that 
Its  back  windows  surveyed  those  of  the  house 
in  which  his 'Jean' resided.  The  reader  will 
find  in  its  proper  place  a  droll  epitaph  on  John 
Dove,  in  which  the  honest  landlord's  religion 
is  made  out  to  be  a  mere  comparative  appreci- 
ation of  his  various  liquors." — Chambers. 

IJil  Pitt,  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer, 
had  gained  some  credit  by  a  measure  intro- 
duced in  1784  for  preventing  smuggling  of  tea 
by  reducing  the  duty,  the  revenue  being  com- 
pensated by  a  tax  on  windows, 
■  ^TT  Mixtie-maxtie  is  Scotch  for  a  mixture 
of  incongruous  elements.  Hotch-potch  is  a 
dish  composed  of  all  sorts  of  vegetables. 
This  coalition,  like  many  others  since,  was  in 
the  poet's  eyes  an  unnatural  banding  together 
of  men  of  different  opinions. 


Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle-'  tongue; 
She's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung:*' 
And  if  she  promise  auld  or  young 

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

She'll  no  desert. 

And    now,    ye   chosen    Five-and-For- 
ty,****  [ye; 

May  still  your  mother's  heart  support 
Then  though  a  minister  grow  dorty,'' 

And  kick  your  place, " 
Ye'U     snap    your  fingers,   poor    and 
hearty. 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  honours  a'  your  days 
Wi'  sowps-'  o'  kail  and  brats  o'  claise,'^- 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes^" 

That  haunt  St.  Jamie's  ! 
Your  humble  poet  sings  and  prays 

While  Eab  his  name  is. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half -starved  slaves  in  warmer  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust'ring,  rise; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies. 

But  blythe  and  frisky. 
She  eyes  her  free-born,  martial  boys, 

Tak  aif  their  whisky. 

What   though  their  Phoebus  kinder 

warms,  [charms  ! 

While  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty 

When    wretches   range,    in  famish'd 

swarms, 

The  scented  groves, 
Or,  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 
In  hungry  droves. 

Their  gun's  a  burthen  on  their  shou- 

ther; 
They  downabide^'  the  stink  o'  p'outher; 
Their  bauldest  thought's  a  hanlc'ring 
swither^'^ 

To  Stan'  or  rin,       [ther,'* 
Till  skelp — a  shot — they're  aff  a'  throu'- 
To  save  their  skin. 


=5  Rough.  2B  Cudgel.  ='  Sulky.  ^^^  Spoon- 
fuls. "  Rags  o'  clothes.  »°  Jackdaws,  "They 
dare  not  stand.    "^  Uncertainty.    *3  pgn  melt 

****  The  number  of   Scotch   representa- 
tives. 


POEMS. 


71 


But  bring  a  Scotsman  f  rae  his  hill, 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill, 
Say,  such  is  royal  George's  will, 

And  there's  the  foe; 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings 
tease  him;  [him; 

Death  comes — wi'  fearless  eye  he  sees 
Wi'  bluidy  han'  a  welcome  gies  \im; 

And  when  he  fa's,  [him; 
His  latest  draught  o'  breathin'  lea'es 

In  faint  huzzas  ! 

Sages  their  solemn  een  may  steek,** 
And  raise  a  philosophic  reek,^^ 
And  physically  causes  seek. 

In  clime  and  season ; 
But  tell  me  whisky's  name  in  Greek, 
'  I'll  tell  the  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither  ! 
Though     whiles    ye    moistify     your 

leather, 
Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o'  heather, 

Te  tine'"  your  dam; 
Freedom  and  whisky  gang  thegither!— 

Tak  all  your  dram  I 


THE  AULD  FARMER'S  XEW-TEAR 

MORNING  SALUTATION  TO  HIS 

AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  RIP 

OF  CORN   TO  HANSEL  IN  THE  NEW 

YEAB. 

Most  editors  have  alluded  to  the  tenderness 
of  Buftis'towards  the  lower  animals  ;  this  is 
a  true  poetic  instinct,  and  with  him  was  un- 
usually strong.  The  Ettrick  Shepherd  says, 
in  a  note  to  this  poem  . — "  Bums  must  have 
been  an  exceedingly  good  and  kind-hearted 
being ;  for  whenever  he  has  occasion  to 
address  or  mention  any  subordinate  being, 

'  /however  mean,  even  a  mouse  or  a  flower, 
tlien  .there  is  a  gentle  pathos  in  his  language 

'  that  awakens  the  finest  feelings  of  the 
heart." 

A  6UID  New- Year  Iwish  thee,  Maggie! 
Hae,  there's  a  rip*^  to  thy  auld  baggie. 
Though   thou's  howe-backit  now  and 
Icaaggie,^ 

"  Eyes  may  shut.    ^=  Smoke.    "  Lose. 

1  A  handful  of  corn  in  the  stalk,    ^  Bent- 
backed  and  ridged. 


I've  seen  the  day 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  onystaggie 
Out  owrethe  lay.^ 

Thou    now  thou's    dowie,''  stiff   and 

crazy. 
And  thy  auld  hide's  as  white's  a  daisy, 
I've  seen  the  dappl't,  sleek  and  glazie,' 

A  bonny  gray; 
He   should  been  tight  that  daur't  to 
laize"  thee, 

Ance  in  a  day. 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rf^nk, 
A  filly  bairdly,  steeve  and  swank,' 
And  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank. 

As  e'er  tread  yird;* 
And  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  stank,' 

Like  ony  bird. 

It's  now  some  nine-and-twenty  year,'  ' 
Sin'  thou  was  iny  guid  father's  meer: 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher'"  clear. 

And  fifty  mark;     •  [gear, 
Though  it  was  sma',  twas  weel'won 

And  thou  was  stark. " 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny,' 
Ye  then  was  trottin'  wi'  your  Minnie, " 
Though  ye  was  trickle,  slee,  and  fun^ 
nie. 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie" 
But  hamely,  towie,  quiet,  and  cannie," 

And  unco  sonsie.'" 

That  day  ye  pranced  wi'  muckle  pride 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonny  bride:' 
And  sweet  and  gracef  u'  she  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air  !    , 
Kyle-Stewart*  I  could  hae   bragged.'? 
wide. 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Though  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and 

hoble," 
And  wintle  like  a  saumont  coble, '^ 
That  daf  ye  was  j  inker"  noble,  ' 

For  heels  and  win'! 


3  Grass-field.  *  Low-spirited.  ^  Shift- 
ing. *  Excite,  ^  Stately,  strong,  active. 
»  Earth.  »  Ditch.  >»  Dowry.  ii  Strong. 
'2  Mother.  ^^  Mischievous.  ^^  Good- 

natured.  ^^  Engaging.  '"  Challenged. 
1^  Can  but  limp  and  totter.  ^^  x^jg^  iji^g 
the  ungainly  boat  used  by  salmon  fishers. 
1^  Runner. 

*The  district  between  the  Ayr  and  the 
Doon. 


V3 


BURNS'  "WORKS. 


And  ran  them  till  tlipy  a'  did  wauble,™ 
Far,  far,  behin'j 

Wlien  thou  and  I  were  ^  young  and 

skeigh,'-'' 
And  stable-meals  at  fairs  worn  dreigh,'* 
How  thou  would  prance,  and  snore  and 
skreigh 

And  tak  the  road  ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh,'' 
And  ca't  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't.'and  I  was  mel- 
low, 
We  took  the  road  aye  like  a  swallow: 
At  Brooses*"*  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow. 

For  pith  and  speed; 
But  every  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 
Whare'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma'  droop-rnrnpl't,'^  hunter  cat- 
tle, [tle;'^fi 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brat- 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their 
mettle. 

And  gar't  them  whaizle'^' 
Nae  whupnor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle''' 
0'  saugh  or  hazle. 

Tliou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan',*' 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  ! 
Aft  thee  and'I,  in  aught  houra'  gaun, 

In  guid  March  weather, 
Hae  tum'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han'. 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  bramdg't,  and  fech't,  and 
fliskit,^''  [kit,3i 

But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whis- 
And  spread  abreed  thy  well-fill'd  bris- 
ket, ^^ 

Wi'  pith  and  pow'r, 
'Till  spritty  knowes   wad  rair't    and 
risket,"' 

And  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  and  snaws  were 

deep. 
And  threaten'd  labour  back  to  keep. 


2°  Stagger— exhausted.  ^i  Mettlesome. 

22  Scarce  ==  Aside.  =<  Wedding  races. 
26  Sloping-backed.  ^6  Might  perhaps  have 
beaten  thee  for  a  short  race.  27  Wheeze. 
2«  A  switch.  29  xhe  near  horse  of  the  hind- 
most pair  in  the-plough.  ^^  Never  r-illed  by 
fits  or  starts,  or  fretted.  ^^  Shaken.  ^2  Breast. 
83  Till  hard,  dry  hillocks  would  open  with  a 
crarking  sound,  the  earth  falling  gently  over. 


I  gied  thy  cog*^  a  wee  bit  heap 
Aboon  the  timmer; 

I  kenn'd  my  Maggie  wadna  sleep 
For  that,  or  simmer. 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit;''    [it; 
The  steyesf  brae  thou  wad  hae  faced 
Thou  never  lap,  and  sten't,  and  breast- 
it,3' 

Then  stood  to  blaw; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit,'* 

Thou  snoov't  awa. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  baim-time  a';^' 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw  ; 
Forbye  sax  mae,  I've  sell't  awa'. 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen     pund  and 
twa. 

The  vera  warst. 

Mony  a  sair  darg"  we  twa  hae  wronght,  * 
And  wi'  the'  weary  warl'  fought ! 
And  mony  an  anxious  day  I  thought 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought 

AVi'  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld"^  trusty  servan'. 
That  now  perhaps  thou's  less  deser- 

vin'. 
And  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin'. 

For  my  last  fou, 
A  heapit  stimpart,*'  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither  ; 
We'll  toyte*^  about  wi'  ane  anither  ; 
Wi'  tentie  care  I'll  flit  thy  tether 

To  some  hain'd  rig,'"  [er, 
Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax^  your  leath^ 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 


THE  TWA  DOGS  : 

A  TALE. 

Gilbert  Burns  says :— "  The  tale  of  '  The  Twa 
Dogs '  was  composed  after  the  resolution  of 
publishing  was  nearly  taken^  Robert  had  a 
dog,  which  he  called    Luath,  that  was  '  a 

treat  favourite.    The  dog  had  been  killed 
y  the  wanton  cruelty  of  sbme  person,  the 

Si  Wooden  measure,  si  Stppped.  ''  Steep, 
est:  ^'  Never  leaped,  re*i*d,  or  started  for. 
ward.  '»  Quickened.  »«  My  plough  team 
are  all  thy  children.  1°  Day's  labour.  <■  A 
measure  of  com  the  eighth  part  of  a  bushel 
'-  Totter,    "  Saved  ridge  of  grr.ss.  "  StretcB. 


poems:. 


night  before  ray  father's  death.  Robert  said 
to  me  that  he  shoiild  like  to  confer  such  im- 
mortality 4s  he  could  bestow  on  his  old 
friend  Luath,  and  tliat  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  ^iven 
up  for  the  poem  as  it.  now  stands.  Caesar 
was  merely  the  creature  of  the  poet's  imag- 
ination, created  for  the  purpose  of  holding 
chat  with  his  favourite  Luath."  The  factor 
who  stood  for  h  s  portrait  here  was  the  same 
of  whom  he  writes  to  Dr.  Moore  in  1787 : — 
"My  indignation  yet  boils  at  the  scoundrel 
4i(5lor's  insolent  threatening  letters,  which 
tKe^  to  set  us  all  in  tears.'"  All  who  have 
been  bred  in  country  districts  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  finding  parallels  to  the  factor  of 
the  poem.  Often  illiterate  and  unfeeling, 
they  think  to  gain  the  favour  of  the  laird  by 
an  over-zealous  pressure  on  poor  but  honest 
tenants,  who,  if  gently  treated,  would 
struggle  through  their  difficulties. 

'Twas  in  tliat  place  o'  Scotland's  isle, 
..^hat  bears  tUe  name  o'  auld  King  Coil,' 
Upon  a  bonny  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  tlirougli  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs  that  werena  thrang-  at  hame, 
Forgatker'd  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I'll  name,  they  ca'd  liim  Caesar 
Was  keepit  for  his  honour's  pleasure; 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs," 
Show'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs; 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 
\^^lere  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar; 
But.  thou  he  was  o'  high  degree. 
The  fient''  a  piide — ^nae  pride  had  he; 
But  wad  hafi  spent  an  hour  caressin'. 
Even  wi'  a  tinkler-gypsy's  messan:^ 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae   tawted'   tyke,    though    e'er   sae 

duddie,' 
But  he  wad  stan't,  as  glad  tQ  see  him. 
And  stroan't'  on  stanes  and  hillocks 

wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  jjloughman's  collie, 
A  rhyming,  ranting,  roving  billie,  [him, 
Wha  ■  for  his  friend  and  comrade  had 
And  in  his  frealis  had  Luath  ca'd  him. 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,* 

1  The  middle  district  of  Ayrshire.  ^  Busy. 
^  Ears.  *  A  petty  oath — "the  devil  a  bit  o'." 
'  Cur:  °  Matted  and  dirty.  '  Ragged. 
^  Pissed. 

*  ■  Cuchullin's  dog  in  Ossian's  "  Fingal." 
— B. 


Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knaws  how 
lang. 

He  was  a  gash'  and  faithf u'  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh'"  or  dike. 
His  honest  sonsie,  baws'nt  face,'' 
Aye  gat  him  friends  in  illia  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie''^  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  'o  glossy  black; 
His  gaucie"  tail,  wi'  upward  curl, 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdles'*  wi'  a  swirl. 

Kao  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'lther,'" 
And  imco  pack  and  thick"  thegither; 
Wi'   social  nose  whyles    snutt'd  and 
snowkit,"  [howkit;'* 

Whyles  mice  and  moiidieworts  they 
Whyles  scour'd  awa'  in  lang  excursion) 
And  worried  ither  in  diversion ; 
Until  wi'  daffin'"  weary  grown. 
Upon  a  knowe'"  they  sat  them  down. 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 


I've  often  wonder'd,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you 

have. 
And  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw. 
What  way  poor  bodies  lived  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents. 
His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a'  his  stents;^' 
He  rises  when  he.  likes  himsel ; 
His  flunldes  answer  at  the  bell ; 
He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse; 
He  draws  a  bonny  silken  purse  [steeks,^^ 
As  'ang's  my  tail,  whare,  through  the 
The  yellow-letter'd  Gteordio  keeks." 

Frae  mom  to  e'en  it's  nought  but  toil- 
ing, 

At  baking,  roasting,  frying  boiling; 

And  though  the  gentry  first  are 
Btecliin,-'' 

Yet  e'en  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan" 

Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  siclike  trash- 
trie. 


?  Knowing.         ^"  Ditch.  ^^  His  honest, 

comely,    white-striped    face.  ^^  Shaggy. 

'*  Bushy.  "Hips.  '°  Fond  of  each  other. 
10  Very  interested  and  friendly.  "  Scented. 
"^  Sometimes  for  mice  and  moles  they  dug. 
'"  Sporting.  !*"  Hillock.  ^^  His  corn  rents  and 
assessments.  "''  Stitches.  =»  Glances.  "'  Stuff- 
ing.  2a  Stomach, 


74 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


That's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie, 

dur  whipper-in,  we,  Wastit  wonner,-" 

Poor  wortliless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner 

Better  than  ony  tenant  man 

His  honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian' ; 

And    what    poor    cot-folk    pit    their 

painch'''  in, 
I  own  it's  past  my  comprehension. 


Trowth,  CaBSar,  whyles  they'll  fasht'^' 

eneugli ; 
A  cotter  howkin'  in  a  sheugh," 
Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin'  a  dilie, 
Baring  a  quarry,  and  siclilie; 
Himsel,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans,'" 
And  nought  hut  his  han'  darg^'  to  keep 
Them  I'ight  and  tight  in  thack  and  rape'' 

And  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o'  health  or  want  o'  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer. 
And  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and 

hunger; 
But  how  it  comes  I  never  kenn'd  yet,   ' 
They're  maistly  wonderf u'  contented ; 
And  buirdly  chiels,  and  clever  hizzies,''' 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 

But  then  to  how  ye'ro  negleckit,     [it ! 
Howhufi'd,  and  cufE'd,  and  disrespeck- 
Lord,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
Fpr  delvers,  ditchers,  and  sic  cattle; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folic 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinkin'  brock.  "■• 
I've  noticed,  on  our  laird's  court-day. 
And  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wae. 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash. 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash  ;^* 
He'll  stamp  and   threaten,  curse  and 

swear; 
He'll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear; 
While   they    maun  stan',   wi'  aspect 

humble. 
And  hear  it  a',  and  fear  and  tremble  ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 


^^  Wonder,  a  contemptuous  appellation. 
'■"  Paunch.  ^^  Troubled.  ="  Digging  in  a 
ditch.  30  A  number  of  ragged  children. 
31  Day's    work.  32  Under  a   roof-tree. — 

literally,  thatch  and  rope.  33  Stalwart  men 
and  clever  women.  34  Badger^  30  Bear  a 
factor's  abuse. 


LUATH. 

They're  no  sae  wretched  's  an6  wad 

think ; 
Tho  ugh  constantly  on  poortith's^"  brink : 
They're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  Sight, 
The  view  o't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  and  fortune  are  sae  guided. 
They're  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided; 
And  though  fatigued  wi'  close  employ- 
ment, 
A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives. 
Their    gushie"'    weans    and    faithfu' 
wives ;  [pride. 

The    prattling  things   are  just  thA' 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fire  side;     [py*" 
And  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nap- 
Can  inak  the  bodies  unco  happy  ; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares. 
To  mind  the  Kirk  and  state  affairs  : 
They'll  tallc  o'  patronage  and  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts  ; 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  comin'. 
And  ferlie""  at  the  folk  in  Lon'cn. 

As  bleak-faced  Hallnrwrnas  letums. 
They  get  the  joviaJ  fanting  kirns,"" 
Wlien  rural  life  o'  every  station 
Unite  in  common  recreation  ;       [Mirth 
Love    blinks.   Wit    slaps,   and  social 
Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  win's  ; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream. 
And  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam  ; 
The  luntin  pipe  and  sneeshin  mill'" 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guid  will ; 
The  cantie'''^  auld  folks  crackin'  crouse,** 
The  young  anes  rantin'  through  the 

house, — 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them. 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said. 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd. 
There's  mony  a  creditable  stock 
0'  decent,  honest,  fawsont**  folk. 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch. 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thiiks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 


36  Poverty.         37  Thriving.  

whisky.      _  39  Wonder.        ••«  Harvest-homes. 


38  Ale  or 


wjiiaB.y.  --  vvuiiuer.  "-"  narvesi-^jomes. 
"  The  smoking  pipe  and  snuff-box.  *^  Cheer- 
ful     "  Talking  briskly.      ■'■'Seemly. 


POEMS. 


73 


In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha  aibliiis''*  thrang  a  parliamentin' 
For  Britain's  guid  liis  saul  indentin' — 

C/ESAR. 

Haitli,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ;     [it. 
For  Britain's  guid  !  guid  faith,  I  doubt 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him; 
And  saying  Ay  or  No's  they  bid  him  ; 
At  operas  and  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading; 
Or  maybe,  in  a  frolic  daft, 
To  Hague  or  Calais  taks  a  waft,'*' 
To  make  a  tour,  and  tak  a  whirl. 
To  learn  hon  ton,  and  see  the  worl'. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails  f' 
Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  route,  [te;'"* 
To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi'  now- 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles,       [ties. 
Whore-hunting  among  grovej  o'  myr- 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water. 
To  mak  Uimssl  look  fair  and  fatter. 
And  clear  the  consequentiil  sorrows. 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 
For  Britain's  guid !— f  or  lier  destruction ! 
Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  and  faction  ! 

LUATII. 

Hech  man  !  dear  sirs  !  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate  ! 
Are  we  sae  foughten  and  harass'd 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

Oh,  would  they  stay  aback  fra  courts, 
And    please    themselves  wi'   country 

sports. 
It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better. 
The  Laird,  The  Tenant,  and  the  Cot- 
ter! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin'  ramblin'  billies, 
Fient  haet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows; 
Except  for  breakin'  o'  their  timmer. 
Or  speakin'  lightly  o'  their  limmer, 
Or  shootiu'  o'  a  hare  or  moorcock, 
The  ne'er  a  bit  they're  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me, Master  Caesar, 
Sure  great  folk's  life's  a  life  o'  pleasure? 
Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer 

them. 
The  very  thought  o't  needna  fear  them. 


*=  Perhaps.     "Atrip.      ■"  Breaks  the  entail         "  Pains  and  groans.    ""Trouble.     "'Devil 
on  his  estate.    *"  See  bull-fights.  a  thing.     "'^  Solder.     ""  A  giddy  girl. 


Lord,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  wliare 

I  am. 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 
It's  true  they  needna  starve  nor  sweat, 
Through   winter's   cauld  or  simmer's 

heat;  [banes. 

They've  nae  sair  wark   to  craze  their 
And  fill  auld  age  wi'  grips  andgranes:*' 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools. 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 
They  mak  enow  tliemsjls  to  vex  them; 
And  aye  the   less  they   hae  to  sturt™ 

them. 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh. 
His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  eneugh; 
A  country  girl  at  her  wheel, 
Her  dizzens  done,  she's  unco  weel : 
But  Gentlemen,  and  Ladies  warst, 
Wi'  evendown  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 
They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  and  lazy; 
Though    deil    haet"   ails    them,    yet 

uneasy; 
Their  days  insijnd,  dull,  amd  tasteless; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  and  restless; 
And  e'en  their  sports,  their  balls  and 

races. 
Their  galloping  through  public  places, 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp  and  art,   '' 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches. 
Then  sowther"'^  a'  in  deep  debauches; 
Ae  night  they're   mad  wi'  drink   and 

whoring, 
Neist  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither. 
They're  a'  run  deils  and  jads*^   tlie- 
gither.  [tie, 

Whyles,  owre  the  wee  bit  cup  and  pla- 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty : 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks, 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictured  beuks; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard. 
And  cheat  like  ony  unhanged   black- 
guard, [man; 
There's  some  exception,  man  and  wo- 
But  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 


70 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


By  this,  the  sun  was  ont  o'  sight. 
And    darker    gloaming    brought   the 
night:  [drone; 

The    bum -clock'''    humui'd    wi'    lazy 
The  kye  stood  rowtin"'  i'  the  loan: 
When  up  they  gat  and  shooli  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  werena  men,  but  dogs; 
And  each  toolc  aff  his  several  way. 
Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


TO  A  LOUSE, 

ON  SEEING  ONE  ON   A  LADY'  S  BONNET 

AT   CIIURCir. 

Burns's  fastidious  patrons  and  patronesses 
sometimes  ventured  to  lecture  him  on  the 
homeliness  and  vulgarity  of  some  of  his 
themes.  "  The  Address  to  a  Louse  "  was  a 
notable  instance.  The-  poet  defended  it  on 
account  of  the  moral  conveyed,  and  he  -was 
right,  we  think.  He  was  ever  impatient  of 
criticism  and  suggestions ;  and,  judging 
from  the  kind  of  criticisms  and  suggestions 
frequently  offered  to  him,  we  may  De  glad 
that  he  so  frequently  followed  his  own  judg- 
ment. 


Ha  !    whare    ye    gaun,    ye    crowlin' 

ferlie  !' 
Your  impudence  pTotects  you  sairly; 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt-  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace; 
Though,    faith,   I   fear  ye  dine    but 
sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Te  ugl.v,  creepin',  blastit  wonner,  [ner, 
Detested,  shunn'd,  by  saunt  and  sin- 
How  dare  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady '! 
Gae  somewhere  else,   and  seek  your 
dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  haffet  squattle^ 
There  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and 

^prattle'' 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumping  cattle, 
In  shoals  and  nations; 
Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  daur  un- 
settle* 

Your  thick  plantations. 

"■i  Beetle.      "^  Lowing. 

•  i  Wonder.  ^  Strut.  ^  Swift  crawl  in  some 
beggar's  hair.  ^  Scramble.  '•>  Where  the  hair 
ii  never  combed. 


Now  hand  you  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight. 
Below  the  fatt'rils,"  snug  and  tight; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye'll  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it. 
The  very  tapmost,  towering  height 

O'  Miss's  bormet. 

My  sooth !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose 

out. 
As  plump  and  gray  as  ony  grozet:' 
Oh  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet,* 
Or  fell,  red  smeddum,' 
I'd  gie  j-ou  sic  a  hearty  doze  o't. 

Wad  dress  your  droddum!'" 

I  wadna  been  siirprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  ■wife's  flahnen  toy:" 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat;'^ 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi  !*  fie  ! 

How  daur  ye  do't  ? 

O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head. 
And  set  your  beauties  a'  abread  ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makiu'  ! 
The  winks  and  finger-eiids,  I  dread. 

Are  notice  takin'  ! 

Oh  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us  1 
It  wad  frae  mony  a  blunder  free  us. 

And  foolish  notion:      [us 
What  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea'e 

And  even  devotion  ! 


THE  ORDINATION. 

"  For   sense    they  little    owe  to  frugal 
Heaven— 
To  please  the  mob,  they  hide  the  little 
given." 

KiLMAKNOCK  wabsters,'  fidge  and  claw 
And  pour  your  ereesliie  nation's  :'■' 

And  ye  wha  leather  rax^  and  draw 
Of  a'  denominations,  f 


"  The  ribbon  ends.  '  Gooseberry.  ^  Rosin, 
1  Powder.  "  Breach.  "  Flannel  cap. 

'2  Flannel  Waistcoat. 

'  Weavers.      ^  Greasy  crowds.      ^  Stretch: 

*  A  kind  of  bonnet,  at  one  time  fashionable, 
called  after  an  Italian  aeronaut. 

t  Kilmarnock  was  then  a  town  of  between 
three  and  foiu- thousand  inhabitants,  most  of 
whom  were  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of 
carpets  and  other  coarse  woollen  goods,  or  in 
the  preparation  of  leather. 


POEMS. 


77 


Switli  to  tlie  Laigli  Kirk,  ano  and  a', 
And  tliei'e  tak  up  your  stations; 

Then  afE  to  Begbie's  f  in  a  raw. 
And  pour  divine  libations 
For  joy  tliis  day. 

Curst  Common  Sense,  tliat  imp  o'  hell, 

Cam  in  with  Maggie  Lauder;  | 
But  Oliphaut  aft  made  her  yell, 

And  Russell  sair  misca'd  her;  § 
This  day  Mackinlay  talis  the  flail. 

And  he's  the  boy  will  blaud'  her  ! 
He'll  clap  a  shangan*  on  her  tail, 

And  set  the  bairns  to  daud"  her 
Wi'  dirt  this  day. 

Mak  haste  and  turn  king  David  owre, 

And  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor; 
O'  double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

And  skirl  up  the  Bangor: 
This  day  tlie  Kirk  kicks  u.p  a  stoure,'' 

Nae  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her. 
For  Heresy  is  in  her  power. 

And  gloriously  she'll  whang'  her 
Wi'  pith  this  day. 

Come,  let  a  proper  text  be  read, 

And  touch  it  afE  wi'  vigour, 
How  graceless  Ham||  leiigli  at  his  dad, 
■ '  Which  made  Canaan  a  nigger; 
Or    PliinehasT[    drove  the  murdering 
bl^ide, 
Wi'  ^^hore-abhorring  rigour; 
Or  Zipporah,**  the  scauldin'  jade. 
Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

1'  the  inn  that  day. 

There,  try  liis  meUle  on  the  creed. 

And  bind  him  drrwa  wi'  caution. 
That  stipend  is  a  carnal  weed 

He  taks  but  for  the  fashion; 
And  gie  him  owre  the  flock  to  feed. 

And  punish  each  transgression ; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin'. 
Spare  them  nae  day. 


*  Slap.  5  A  cleft  stick.  "  Bespatter.  ^  A  dust. 
8  Lash. 

+  A  tavern  near  the  church  kept  by  a  per- 
son of  this  name. 

t  Aliudins^  to  a  scoffing  ballad  which  was 
made  on  the  admission  of  the  late  rever- 
end and  worthy  Mr.  Lindsay  to  the  Laigh 
Kirk.-.B. 

I  01i[>hantand  Russellwere  ministers  of  the 
Auld-Licht  party. 

B  Genesis  ix.  22. 

i  Numbers  xxv.  8. 

**  Exodus  iv.  25. 


Now,  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy,  tail,. 

And  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty^'  [dale, 
Nae  mair  thou'lt  rowte'°  out-owre  the 

Because  thy  pasture's  scanty; 
For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty, 
And  runts' '  o'  grace  the  pick  and  wale, 

No  glen  by  way  o'  dainty, 
But  ilka  day. 

Nae  mair   by    Babel's   streams  we'll 
weep, 

To  think  upon  our  Zion; 
And  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin';      [cheep. 
Come,   screw    the    l")egi,   wi'  tunefu' 

And  o'er  the  thairms'''  be  tryin'; 
Oh,  rare  •  to  see  our  elbucks  wheep,''* 

And  a'  like  lamb-tails  flyin' 
Fn'  fast  this  day  ! 

Lang,  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  aim. 

Has  shored'^  the  Kirk's  undoin'. 
As  lately  Fenwick.f  (■  sair  forfairn,'^ 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin: 
Our  patron,  honest  man  !  Glencairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewiu'; 
And,  like  a  godly  elect  bairri. 

He's  waled""  us  out  a  true  ane. 
And  sound  this  day. 

Now,  Robinson, It  harangue  nae  mair, 

Bnl  steek  your  gabl'  for  ever: 
Or  try  the  wiclced  town  of  Ayr,- 

For  there  they'll  think  .you  clever  ! 
Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  lear. 

Ye  may  commence  a  shaver; 
Or  to  the  NethertonS^^  repair. 

And  turn  a  carpet-weaver 

AfE  hand  this  day. 

Mutrielll  and  you  were  just  a  match. 
We  never  had  sic  twa  drones : 

Auld  Hornie  did  the  Laigh  Kirk  watch. 
Just  like  a  winkin'  baudrons,"* 

And  aye  he  oatch'd  the  tither  wretch. 
To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons  : 

^  Merry.  ^"  Low.  ^^  Cabbage  stems. 
'2  Strings.  '3  Elbows  jerk.  ^*  Threatened. 
?6  Menaced,  i"*  Chosen.  ^' Shut  your  mouth. 
"A  cat. 

+t  Rev.  William  Boyd,  minister  of  Fenwick, 
whose  settlement  had  been  disputed. 

it  The  colleague  of  the  newly-ordained 
clergyman — a  moderate. 

§§  A  part  of  the  town  of  Kilmarnock. 

Ill  The  deceased  clergyman,  whom  Mr, 
Mackinlay  succeeded. 


78 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But  now  liis  lionour  maun  detach, 
Wi'  a'  his  brimstone  squadrons, 
Fast,  fast  this  day. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy's  faes 

She's  swingein'"  through  the  -city ; 
Hark,  how  the  nine-tail'd  cat  she  plays! 

I  vow  its  unco  pretty  :  [face, 

There,  Learning,   with  his  Greekish 

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

To  mak  to  Jamie  Beattie  i[Tf 
Her  plaint  this  day 

But  there's  Morality  himsel, 

Embracing,  all  opinions ; 
Hear  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell. 

Between  his  twa  companions  ; 
See  how  she  peels  the  skin  and  fell,^" 

As  ane  were  peelin'  onions  ! 
Now  there — they're  packed  afE  to  hell. 

And  banish'd  our  dominions 

Henceforth  this  day. 

0  liappy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter  ! 
Mo'rality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  hero  nae  mair  find  quarter  : 
Mackiulay,  Russell,  are  the  boys, 

That  Heresy  can  torture, 
They'll  gie  her  on  a  rape  a  hoyse,'' 

And  cowe''-'  her  measure  shorter 
By  the  head  some  day. 

Come,  bring  the  tither  mutchkin  in. 

And  here's,  for  a  conclusion. 
To  every  New- Light  ***  mother's  son. 

From  this  time  forth.  Confusion  : 
If  mair  they  deave^'  us  wi'  their  diu. 

Or  patronage  intrusion. 
We'll  light  a  spunk,'''  and,  eveiy  skin, 

We'll  ring  them  aff  in  fusion. 
Like  oil  some  day. 


Address  to  the  unco  guid, 
or  the  rigidly  righteous. 

"  My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 
And  lump  them  aye  thegither ; 
The  rigid  righteous  is  a  fool. 
The  rigid  wise  anither  ; 

"  Whipping.  "  The  flesh  under  the  skin. 
21  A  swing  in  a  rope.  22  Cut_  23  Deafen. 
'^  A  match. 

^1"  The  well-known  author  of  the  "  Essay 
on  Truth." 

***  "  New  Light"  is  a  cant  phrase,  in  the 
west  of  Scotland,  for  those  religious  opinions 
which  Dr.  Taylor  of  Norwich  has  defended 
so  strenuously.— B. 


The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 
May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caiT  in ; 

So  ne  er  a  fellow-creature  slight 
For,  random  tits  o'  daffin."  -  '- 

— Solomon. — Kccles.  vii.  x6. 

0  YE  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sae  pious, and  sae  holy, 
Te've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neibour's  fauts  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  lilte  a  weelgaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water. 
The  heapet  happer's  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter.  , 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core,  r/. 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals,     .[doo? 

That  frequent  past  douce'  Wisdonri 
For  glakit'^  Folly's  portals; 

I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes. 
Would  here  propone  defences. 

Their  donsie'  tricks,  their  black  mis- 
takes. 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  nifEer,* 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard. 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave. 

That  purity  ye  pride  in. 
And  (what^s  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 
What  raging  must  his  veins  convulse. 

That  still  eternal  gallop: 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail. 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail. 

It  malces  an  unco  lee-way. . 

See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking,     [grown 
Till,     quite    transmugrified,*    they're 

Debauchery  and  drinking: 
Oh  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

The  eternal  consequences: 
Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state. 

Damnation  of  expenses  ! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames. 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces. 
Before  ye  gie  poor  frailty  names. 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases; 


1  Thoughtful.      =  Senseless.       3  Unluckv. 
*  Comparison.    ^  Transformed. 


POEMS. 


73 


A  dear-loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 
A  treacherous  inclination — 

But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug,* 
Ye're  alblins'  uae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

StUl  gentler  sister  woman;    [wrang. 
Though  they  may    gang  a  kennin''' 

To  step  aside,is  human: 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark. 

The- moving  why  they  do  it: 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

.Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us; 
He  Itnows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring — ^its  various  bias: 
■Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


THE  INVENTORY, 

VS(    ANSWER  TO  A  MANDATE    BT    THE 
SCKVEYOE   OF  TAXES. 

SiK,  as  your  mandate  did  request, 
I  send  you  here  a  faithfu'  list 
0'  gui<i  and  gear,  and  a'  my  graith. 
To  which  I'm  clear  to  gie  my  aith. 

Imprimis,  then,  for  carriage  cattle, 
I  hae  four  brutes  o'  gallant  njettle. 
As  ever  drew  afore  a  pettle,' 
My  h^n'-afore's'-'  a  guid  auld  Tuts-been. 
And  wight  and  willfu'  a'  his  days  been 
My  han'-ahin's'  a  weel-gaun  filly. 
That  aft  has  borne  me  hame  fae  Killie,* 
And  your  auld  burro'  mony  a  time. 
In  days  when  riding  was  nae  crime — 
But  jance,  when  in  my  wooing  pride, 
I,  like  a  blockhead  boost-'  to  ride. 
The  wilfu'  creature  sae  I  pat  to 
(Lord,  pardon  a'  my  sins,  and  that  too !) 
I  play'd  my  filly  sic  a  shavie,^ 
She's  a  bedevil'd  wi'  the  spavio. 
My  fur-ahin's'  a  worthy  beast. 


'  Ear.     '  Perhaps.     «  A  little  bit. 

'  A  plough  spade.  *  The  foremost  horse  on 
the  left-hand  in  the  plough.  '  The  hindmost 
horse  on  the  left-hand  in  the  plough.  '  Must 
needs,  ^  A  trick.  *  The  hindmost  horse  on 
the  right-hand  in,  the  plough. 
*  Kilmarnock. 


As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  traced,    [ti^. 

The  fourth's  a  Highland  Donald  has- 

A  damn'd  red-wud  Kilburnie  blastie  1 

Forbyea  cowte,'  o'  cowte's  the  wale,^ 

As  ever  ran  afore  a  tail; 

If  he  be  spared  to  be  a  beast. 

He'll  draw  me  fifteen  pun'  at  least. 

Wheel-carriages  I  hae  but  few. 
Three  carts,  and  twa  are  feokly'  new; 
An  au-ld  wheelbarrow,  mair  for  token 
Ae  leg  and  baith  the  trams  are  broken; 
I  made  a  poker  o'  the  spin'le, 
And  my  auld  mither  brunt  the  trin'le. 

For  men,  I've  three  mischievous  boys, 
Eun-deils  fot  rantin'  and  for  noise 
A  gauesman  ane,  a  thrasher  t'other; 
Wee  Davoc  hands  the  nowte  in  fother'" 
I  rule  them,  as  I  ought,  discreetly. 
And  aften  labour  them  completely; 
And  aye  on  Sundays  duly,  nightly, 
I  on  the  question  targe"  them  tightly, 
TiU,   faith,   wee   Davoc's  turn'd    sae 

Though  scarcely  langer  than  my  leg, 
He'll  screed  you  afE  Effectual  CallingJ- 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 

I've  nane  in  female  servan'  station, 
(Lord,  keep  me  ae  f  rae  a'  temptation  !) 
I  hae'nae  wife,  and  that  my  bliss  is. 
And  ye  hae  laid  nae  tax  on  misses  ; 
And  then,  if  kirk  folks  dinna  clutch 

me, 
I  ken  the  devils  darena  touch  me. 
Wi'  weans  I'm  mair  than  weel  con- 
tented. 
Heaven  sent  me  ane  mair  than  I  wanted. 
My    sonsie,''    smirking,'    dear-bought 

Bess.t 
She  stares  the  daddy  in  her  face. 
Enough  of  ought  you  like  but  grace  ; 
But  her,  my  bonny  sweet  wee  lady, 
I've  paid  enough  for  her  already. 
And  gin  ye  tax  her  or  her  mither, 
B'  the  Lord  !  ye'se  get  them  a'  tho- 
gither. 

'  A  colt.  '  Choice.  »  Nearly.  '"  Keeps 
the  cattle  in  fodder.  "'Task.  »2  Sq  sharp. 
>3  Comely. 

+  A  leading  question  in  the  Shorter  Cate- 
chism of  the  Westminster  Assembly  of  di- 
vmes. 

i  A  child  born  to  the  poet  by  a  female  ser- 
vant of  his  mother's 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  now,  remember,  Mr.  Aiken,  • 
Nae  Idnd  of  license  out  I'm  talien  ; 
Frae  this  time  forth  I  do  declare, 
I'se  ne'er  ride  horse  nor  liizzie  mair  ; 
Throxigh    dirt  and  dub   for   life   I'U 

paidle,  '■' 
Ere  I  sae  dear  pay  for  a  saddle  ; 
My  travel  a'  on  fpot  I'll  shank'"  it, 
I've  sturdy  bearers,  Gude  be  thankit. 
The  kirk  and  you  may  tak  you  that. 
It  puts  but  little  in  your  pat ; 
Sae  diuna  put  me  in  your  buke, 
Nor  for  my  ten  white  shillings  luke. 

This  list  wi'  my  ain  hand  I've  wrote 

it. 
The  day  and  date  as  under  noted  ; 
Then  know  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subaeripsi  huie,  Robeet  Burns. 

MossGlEL,  February  22,  1786. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

OiJ    TUIiNIKG    ONE    DOWN    WITH    THE 
PLOUGH  IN  APRIL,  1876. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Tliou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure' 

Thy  slender  stem  : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonny  gem. 

Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet. 
The  bonny  lark,  companion  meet. 
Bending  thee  'raang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
Wlien  upward   springing,   blithe,   to 
greet. 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter -biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted^  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun 

shield ; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield^ 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie''  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alanc. 


'■>  Tramp.       "  Walk. 
'  Duul.    ••'  Peeped.  ■  =  Sbeltcr.    ■■  Barren. 


There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  aliare  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid. 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  iaiA. 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd ! 

Unsldlf  ul  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has 

striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven. 

To  misery's  brink. 
Till  wrench'd  of  every  stay  but  heaven. 

He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  moum'st  the  Daisy's 

fate, 
Tliat  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till    crush'd    beneath    the     furrow's 
weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  UNFORTUNATE 
ISSUE  OP  A  FRIEND'S  AMOUR. 

After  mentioning  the  appearance  of  "Holy 
Willie's-  Prayer,"  -which  alarmed '  the  kirk- 
session  so  much  that  they  held  several  meet- 
ings to  look  over  their  spirittial  artiUery,  if 
haply  any  of  it  might  be  pointed  against 
profane  rhymers,  Burns  states : — '*  Unluck- 
ily for  me,  my  wanderings  led  me  on  anoth- 
er side,  within  point-blank  shot  of  their 
heaviest  metal.  This  is  the  unfortunate 
story  that  gave  rise  to  my  printed  poem, 
*'The  Lament.'  This  was  a  most  melalT- 
choly  affair,  which .  I  cannot  -vet  bea-r  to  re- 
flect on,  and  liad  very  nearly'given  me  one 
or  two  of  the  principal  qualifications  fot  a 
place  among  those  who  have  lost  the  charac- 
ter, and  mistaken  the  reckoning  of  fational- 
ity.  I  had  been  for  some  days  skulking  from 
covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of^ 
jail ;  as  some  ill-advised  people  had  uncou- 


POEMS. 


81 


plefl  the  merciless-  pack  of  the  law  at  my 
heels.;  1  had  taken  the  last  farewell  of  my 
few  fi/tends;  my  chest  was  on  the  road  to 
Green;  -ck ;  I  had  composed  the  last  soim- 1 
should  ever,  measure  in  Caledonia,  *  The 
Gloom'''  Night  is  Gathering  Fast,' when  a 
'letter  f  om  Dr.  Blacklbck  to  a  friend  of  mine 
overthi  aw  all  my  schemes,  by  opening  new 
prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition. 
"It  is  s<  arcely  necessary,"  Gilbert  Bums 
^  says,  "^  mention  that  *  The  Lament'  was 
compodtti  on  that  unfortunate  passage  in 
his mati^oaial  history  which  I'have  men- 
tioned ift  my  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  [allud- 
ing^to'hfs  connexion 'with  Jean  Armour.] 
A^^^the  first  distraction  of  his  feelings  had 
s^^^lad,  that  connexion  could  no  longer  be 
conceaind.  Robert  durst  not  engage  with  a 
family  in  his  poor,  unsettled  state,  but  was 
anxious  to  shield  his  partner  by  every  means 
in  his  power,  from  the  consequences  of 
their  imprudence.  It  was  agreed,  therefore, 
;  between  them,  that  they  should  make  a 
legal  acknowledgment  of  an  irregular  and 
private  maVriage,  that  he  should  go  to  Ja- 
maica to  pttsh  his  /brtune^  and  that  she 
should  remain  with  her  father  till  it  might 
please  Providence  to  put  the  means  of  sup- 
porting a  fahiily  in  his  power.'' 

**  Alas !  how  oft  does  goodness  wound  it- 
self, 
And  sweet  affection  prove  the  spring  of 
woe !"  —Home. 

0  THOU  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines, 
While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep! 

Thovt  seest  a  wretch  that  inly  pines, 
And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep! 

With  woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep 
Beijeaththy  wan,  un warming  beam; 

And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep, 
How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 

1  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

The  faintly-marked  distant  hill; 
I  joyles^  view  thy  trembling  horn, 

Keflected  in  the  gurgling  rill: 
My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

Thou     busy    power,    remembrance 
cease ! 
Ah  !  must  the  agonising  thrill 
"  For  ever  bar  returning  peace  ! 

Ko  idly-feign'd  poetic  pains 

My  sad,  love-lorn  liunentings  claim; 
No  shei')lierd's  pipe — Arcadian  strains; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame; 
■The  plighted  faith;  the  mutual  flame; 

The  oft-attested  Powers  above; 
The  promised  father's  tender  name; 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love  ! 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms,  [flown, 
How   have  the  raptured   moments 


How  have  I  wish'd  for  fortune's  charms. 
For 'her  dear  salie,  and  hers  alone  I 

And  must  I  think  it ! — is  she  gone, 
My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast  V 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  ? 
And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost  ? 

Oh  !  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart, 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth, 
As  from  the  fondest  loA'er  part. 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth  ! 
Alas  !  life's  jjath  may  be  unsmooth  ! 

Her  way  may  lie  through  rough  dis- 
tress !  [soothe, 
Then  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will 

Her  sorrows  share,  and  make  them, 
less? 

Ye  wingfed  hours  that  o'er  us  pass'd, 

Enraptured  more,  the  more  enjoy'd, 
Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast. 

My    fondly-treasured  thoughts  em- 

ploy'd.  [void. 

That  l^reast,  how    dreary    noW,    and 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  ! 
Even  every  ray  of  hope  destroy'd, 

And  uot  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom  I 

The  morn  that  warns  th'  approaching 
day. 

Awakes  me  np  to  toil  and  woe: 
I  see  the  hours  iii  long  array. 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 
Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  thioe. 

Keen  recollection's  direful  train; 
Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low, 
1    Shall  kiss  the  distant,  western  main. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try, 

Sore  harass'd    out  with    care    and 

grief,  [Gye, 

My    toil-beat    nerves,  and    tear-woru 

Keep  watchings  with  the    nightly 
thief: 
Or  if  I  slumber,  fancy,  chief,  [fright: 

Reigns  haggard-wild,  in  soar  af- 
Even  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief, 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 

0  thou  bright  queen,  who  o'er  th'  ex- 
panse, [sway  ! 

Now  highest  reign'st  with  boundless 
Oft  has.thy  silent -marking  glance 

Observed  us,  fondly  wandering  stray! 
The  time  unheeded,  sped  away,  [liigh, 

Wliile  love's  luxurious  pulse  beat 
Beneath  thy  silver-gleamina:  ray. 

To  mark  the  mutual  kindling  eye. 


82 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Oh  !  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set  ! 

Scenes  never,  never  to  return  ! 
Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget. 

Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn  ! 
From  every  joy  and  pleasure  torn, 

Life's  weary  vale  I  wander  through; 
And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I'll  mourn 

A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow. 


DESPONDENCY  : 

AU  ODE. 

A  sorrow  or  a  cross  is  half  conquered  when,  by 
telling  it,  some  dear  friend  becomes,  as  it 
were,  a  sharer  in, it.  Burns  poured  out  his 
troubles  in 'verse  with  a  like  result.  He 
says,  "  I  think  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  attending  a  poetic  genius,  that  we 
can  give  our  woes,  cares,  joys,  and  loves,  an 
"embodied  form  in  verse,  which  to  me  is 
ever  immediate  ease." 

Oppkess'd  with  giief,  oppress'd  with 

care, 
A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

I  set  me  down  and  sigh: 
O  life  1  thou  art  a  galling  load. 
Along  a  rough  and  weary  road. 

To  wretches  such  as  I  ! 
Dim  backward  as  I  cast  my  view. 
What  sickening  scenes  appear  ! 
What    sorrows    yet    may    pierce    me 
through. 
Too  justly  I  niay  fear  I 
Still  caring,  despairing. 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom: 
My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er, 
Biit  with  thi3  closing  tomb  ! 

Happy,  ye  sons  of  busy  life. 
Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife. 

No  other  view  regard  ! 
Even  when  the  wisli'd  end's  denied. 
Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  plied, 

They  bring  their  own  reward: 
Whilst  I,  a  hope-abandou'd  wight. 

Unfitted  with  an  aim. 
Meet  every  sad  returning  night 
And  joyless  mom  the  same; 
You,  bustling,  and  justling. 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain; 
I,  listless,  yet  restless. 
Find  every  prospect  vain. 

How  blest  the  solitary's  lot. 
Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot. 

Within  his  humble  cell, 
The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots. 


Sits  o'er  his  newly-gather'd  fruits. 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 
Or,  haply,  to  his  evening  thought. 

By  unfrequented  stream. 
The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought, 
A  faint  collected  dream; 
While  praising,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  heaven  on  high. 
As  wand'ring,  meand'ring. 
He  views,  the  solemn  sky. 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  placed 
Where  never  human  footstep  traced. 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 
The  lucky  moment  to  improve. 
And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move. 

With  self-respecting  art :  [joys 

But,  ah  !  those   pleasures,  loves,  and 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste. 
The  solitary  can  despise. 
Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not. 

Or  human  love  or  hate, 
Wliilst  I  here,  must  cry  here 
At  perfidy  ingrate  !  ' 

Oh!  enviable,  early  days,  [maze. 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure's 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 
How  ill  exchanged  for  riper  times. 
To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes. 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sfport. 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush. 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 
Wlien  manhood  is  your  wish  ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses. 

That  active  man  engage  ! 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all. 
Of  dim  declining  age  ! 


ODE  TO  RUIN. 

Currie  says : — "  It  appears  from  internal  evi- 
dence that^the  above  lines  were  composed 
in  1786,  when  '  Hungry  Ruin  had  him  m  the 
wind.'    The  'dart'  that 

'  Cut  my  dearest  tie, 
And  quivers  in  my  heart, 

is  evidently  an  allusion  to  his  separation 
from  his  '  bonny  Jean.'  Bums  seems  to 
have  glanced  into  futurity  with  a  prophetic 
eye :  images  of  misery  and  woe  darkened 
the  distant  vista :  and  when  he  looked  back 
on  his  career  he  saw  little  to  console  him. — 
'  I  have  been,  this  morning,'  he  observes, 
'  taking  a  peep  through,  as  Young  finely 
says,      The   dark*  postern    of     time    long 


POEMS. 


elapsed."'  *Twas  a  rueful  p'rospect !'  '  What 
a  tissue  of  thoughtlessness,  weakness,  and 
folly!  My  life  reminded  me  of' a  ruined 
temple.  What '  strength,  what  proportion, 
in  some  parts !  What  unsightly  gaps,  what 
prostrate  ruin  in  others !  I  kneeled  down 
before  the  Father  of  mercies  and  said, 
"  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and 
in  thy  sight,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be 
called  thy  son."  1  rose,  eased  and  strength- 
ened.' '' 

All  hail !  inexorable  lord  ! 

At  whose  destruction  breathing  word 

The  mightiest  empires  fall ; 
Thy  cruel,  woe-delighted  train. 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all  1 
With  stern-resolved,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aimed  dart ; 
For  one  lias  cut  my  dearest  tie. 
And  quivers  in  my  heart. 
Then  lowering  and  pouring. 

The  storm  no  more  I  dread ; 
Though  thick'ning  and  black'ning. 
Round  my  devoted  head. 

And  thou  grim  power,  by  life  abhorr'd. 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  aiEord, 

Oh  I  hear  a  wretch's  prayer  ! 
No  mora  I  shrink  appall'd,  afraid; 
I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid 
To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 
When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  life's  joyless  day; 
My  weary  heart  its  throbbings  cease. 
Cold    mouldering  in  the"  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face; 
Enclasped,  and  graspfed 
Within  thy  cold  embrace  ! 


ADDRESS  OF  BEELZEBUB 

TO  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE  HIGHLAND 
SOCIETY. 

The  history  of  this  poem  is  as  follows : — "  On 
Tuesday, 'May  23,  there  was  a  meeting  of 
the  Highland  Society  at  London  for  the  en- 
couragement of  the  fisheries  in  the  High- 
lands, &c;  -  Three  thousand  pounds  were 
immediately  subscribed  by  eleven  gentlemen 
present  for  this  particular  purpose.  The 
Earl  of  Breadalbiuie  informed  the  meeting 
that  five  hundred  persons  had  ^reed  to 
"  emigrate  from  the  estates  of  Mr.  Macdonald 
;of -Qlengarry ;  .that  they  had  subscribed 
"money,  purchased  ships,  &c.,  to -Carry  their 
design  into  effect.  The.noblemen  and  gen- 
tleinen  agreed  to  co-operate  with  the  Gov- 
emmeiit  to  frustrate  their  design  ;  and  to 
"  recommend  to  the  principal  noblemen  and 


gentlemen  in  the  Highlands  to  endeavour  to 
prevent  emigration,  by  improving  the  fish- 
eries, agriculture,  ana  manufactures,  and 
particularly,  to  ent^  into  a  subscription  for 
that  purpose."'  Tiiis  appeared  in  the  Edin- 
bur^  Advertiser  of  30th  May,  1786,  Re- 
membering the  outcry  made  a  few  years 
ago  against  Highland  evictions,  we  cannot 
help  being  somewhat  surprised  at  the  poet's 
indignation.  Mackensie  of  Appleciross,who 
figures  in  the  poem,  was  a  liberal  landowner. 
Mr.  Knox,  in  his  tour  of  the  Highlands, 
written  about  the  same  time  as  the  Address, 
states  that  he  had  relinquished  all  feudal 
claims  upon  the  labour  of  his  tenants,  paying 
them  for  their  labour.'  The  Address  first 
appeared  in  the  Scots  Magazine  with  the 
following  heading :— "  To  the  Right  Hon- 
ourable the  Earl  of  Breadalbane,  President 
of  the.  Right ,  Honourable  and  .  Honourable 
the  Highland  Society,  which  met  on  tfte  23d 
of  May  last,  at  the  Shakespeare,  Cbvent 
Garden,  to  concert  ways  and  means  to  frus- 
trate the  designs  of  five  hundred  Highland- 
ers, who,  as  the  Society  were  informed"  by 

Mr.  M of  A s,  were  so  audacious  as 

to  attempt  an  escape  from  .their  la'vi^f ul  lords 
and  masters,  whose  property  they  were,  by 
emigrating  from  the  lands  of  Mr.  Macdon- 
ald of  Glengarry,  fe  the  wilds  of  Canada,  in 
search  of  that  fantastic  thing.  Liberty." 

Long  life,  my  lord,  and  health  be  yours 
Unscaitli'd    by     hunger'd     Highland 

boors;'  [g^r, 

Lord,  grant  nae  duddie^  desperate  beg- 
Wi'-  dirk,  claymore,  or  rusty  trigger,- 
May  twin  auld  Scotland  o'  a  life 
She  likes — as  lambkins  like  a  knife. 

Faith,  you  and  A s  were  right 

To  keep  the  Highland  hounds  in  sight: 
I  doubt  na  !  they  wad  bid  nae  better 
Then    let  them    ance    out  owre  the 

water; 
Then  up  amang  thae  lakes  and  seas 
They'll  mak  what  rules  and  laws  they 

please; 
Some  daring  Hancock,  or  a  Franklin, 
May  set  their  Highland  bluid  a.  rauk- 

lin';  [them, 

Some    Washington   again    may  head 
Or    some  Montgomery,  fearless    lead 

them. 
Till  God  knows  what  may  be  effected 
"Wlien  by  such  heads  and  hearts  di- 
rected— 
Poor  dunghill  sons  of  dirt  and  mire 
May  to  Patrician  rights  aspire  !   [ville, 
Nae  sage  North,  now,  nor  sager  Sack- 
To  watch  and  premier  o'er  the  pack 

vile, 

'  Clodhoppers.       '  Ragged. 


84 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And   vvha;i:o  will  yo  get  Howes   and 

Clintons 
To  bring  them  to  a  right  repentance, 
To  cowc  the  rebel  generation, 
And  save  the  honour  o'  the  nation  1 
They  and  bo  damu'd  !  what  right  hae 

they 
To  meat  or  sloop,  or  light  o'  day  ? 
Par  less  to  riches,  power,  or  freedom, 
But  what  your  lordship  lilies  to  gie 
them'? 

But  hear,  my  lord  !  Glengarry, hear! 
Your  hand's  owre  light  on  them,  I  fear! 
Tour    factors,    grieves,   trustees    and 

bailies, 
I  canua  say  but  they  do  gaylies;' 
Then  lay  aside  a'  tender  mercies. 
And  tirl  the  hallions  to  the  birses;* 
Yet  while  they're    only  poind't   and 

herriet,'  [spirit; 

They'll  keep  their  stubborn  Highland 
But   smash  them  !   Crash  them  a'  to 

spalls  ]" 
And  rot  the  dyvors'  i'  the  jails  ! 
The  young  dogs,  swinge"  them  to  the 

labour; 
Let  wark  and  hunger  male  them  sober! 
The  hizzies,  if  they're  aughtllns  faw- 

sont,» 
Let  them  in  Drury  Lane  be  lesson'd  I 
And  if  the  wives  and  dirty  brats 
E'en  thigger'"  at  your  doors  and  yetts," 
FlafEan  wi'  duds  and  gray  wi'  beas','* 
Frightiu'  awa'  your  deucks  and  geese. 
Get  out  a  horsewhip  or  ajowler," 
The  langest  thong,  the  fiercest  growler. 
And  gar'^  the  tatter'd  gypsies  pack 
Wi'  a'  their  bastards  on  their  back  ! 
Go  on,  my  lord  !  I  lang  to  meet  you. 
And  in  my  house  at  hame  to  greet  you; 
Wi'  common  lords  ye  shanha  mingle, 
Tlie  benmost  neuk'°  beside  the  ingle," 
At  my  right  ban"  assign'd  j-our  seat, 
'Twcen  Herod's  hip  and  Polycrate, — 
Or  if  you  on  your  station  tarrow,'' 
Between  Almagro  and  Pizzaro, 
A  seat,  I'm  sure  ye're  well  deservin't; 
And  till  je-  come — ^Your  humble  ser- 
vant, Beelzbbtib. 

ynneist^  Antio  MundL  ,';7QO  [A-  D-  1786.1 

2  Pretty  well.  ■>  And  strip  the  clowns  to  the 
skin.  ^  Sold  out  and  despoiled.  ^  Chips', 
'  Bankrupts.  »  Whip.  »  The  girls  if  they 
be  at  all  handsome.  '"  Beg.         "Gates. 

^2  Fluttering  in  rags  and  gray  with  vermin. 
13  A  dog.  '^  Make.  i^The  innermost 

corner.        "  Fire  place.       >'  Complaia 


A  DREAM. 

The  publication  of  "The  Dream"  in  the JEd- 
inburgh  edition  ol  the  poems,  according  to 
many,  did  much  to  injure  the  poet  with  the 
dispensers  of  Government  patronage.  Mrs. 
Dunlop  and  others  endeavoured  in  vain  to 
prevent  its  publication.  The  free-spoken 
and  humourous  verses  of  Burns  contrast  odd- 
ly with  the  servile  ode  of  Wartbh,  which 
Burns  represents  himself  as  having  fallen 
asleep  in  reading. 

"  Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute 
blames  with  reason  ; 
But  surely  dreams  w^re  ne'er  indi(:ted 
treason." 

On  reading  in  the  public  papers  the  Laureate's 
"  Ode,  *  with  tne  other  parade  of  June  4, 
1786,  the  author  was  no  sooner  dropt  asleep- 
tlianhe  imagined  himself  transported  t6  the 
birthday  levee  ;  and  in  his  dreaming  fancy 
made  the  following  Address. — Burns. 

Qdid-mohnin'  to  your  Majesty  ! 

May  Heaven  augment  your  blisses. 
On  every  new  birthday  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes  ! 
My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee. 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is. 
Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

Among  thae  birthday  dresses 
Sae  fine  this  day. 

I  see  ye're  complimented  thrang. 

By  many  a  lord  and  lady: 
"  God  save  tJie  king"  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That's  unco  easy  said  aye ; 
The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang; 

Wi'  rhj-raes  weel-turn'd  and  ready. 
Wad  gar  ye  trow'  ye  ne'er  do  wrang. 

But  aye  unerring  steady. 
On  sic  a  day. 

For  mc,  before  a  monarch's  face, 

Even  there  I  winna  flatter; 
For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  place. 

Am  I  your  humble  debtor: 

1  Would  make  you  believe. 

*  Thomas  Warton  then    filled   this    oiKcc. 
His  ode  for  June  4,  1786,  begins  as  follows  :— 
"  When  freedom  nursed  her  native  lire 
In  ancient  Greece,  and  ruled  the  lyre, 
Her  bards  disdainful;  from  the  tyrant's 
brow 
The  tinsel  gifts  of  flattery  tore, 
But  paid  to  guiltless  power  their  willinj; 
vow, 
And  to  the  throne  of  virtuous  kings," 
&c. 

On  these  verses,  the  rhymes  of  the  Ayrshire 
bard-  must  be  allowed  to  form  an  odd  enough 
commentary. — Chamber.'-.. 


POEMS. 


85 


So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace. 
Your  kingsliip  to  bespatter;  ; 

There's  mony  waur'  been  o'  the  race, 
And  aiblins'  ane  been  better 
Than  you  this  day. 

'Tis  very  true,  my  sovereign  king, 

My  slcill  may  weel  be  doubted: 
But  facts  are  cliiels  that  wiuna  ding,' 

And  downa*  be  disputed: 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  o'en  right  reft  and  clouted* 
And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string. 

And  less  ^vill  gang  about  it 
Tliau  did  ae  day.f 

Far  be't  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

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

To  rule  this  mighty  nation  ! 
But,  faith !  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire, 

Ye've  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,'  w;ha,  in  a  barn  or  byre. 

Wad  better  fill'd  their  station 

Thau  courts  yoii  day. 

And  now  ye've  gien  auld  Britain  peace, 

Her  broken  sliins  to  plaister: 
Your   air  taxation  does  her  fleece. 

Till  slie  has  scarce  a  tester: 
For  me,  thank  God,  my  life's  a  lease, 

Xae  bargain  wearing  faster. 
Or,  faith  !  I  fear  that  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortlf'  boost*  to  pasture 

1'  the  craft  some  day. 

I'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

Wlieu  taxes  lie  enlarges, 
(And  Will's  a  true  guid  fallow's  get,| 

A  name  not  envy  spairges.)' 
That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt. 

And  lessen  a'  your  charges; 
But,  God-salce  !  let  nae  saving  fit 

Abridge  your  bonny  barges  § 
And  boats  this  day. 

^  Many  worse.  =  Pcrhap3.  *  Beat  '  Will 
not.  *  Broken  and  patched.  ^  Fellows. 
"*, Behoved.      "  Bespatters. 

+  In  this  verse  the  poet  alludes  to  the  im- 
mense curtailment  of  the  British  dominion  at 
the  close  of  the  American  war,  and  the  cession 
of  the  territory,  of  Louisiana  to  Spain, 

t  Gait,  gett,  or  gyt^  a  homely  substitute  for 
the  word  child  in  Scotland.  The  above  stanza 
is  not  the  only  testimony  of  admiration  which 
Bums  pays  to  the  great  Earl  of  Chatham. 
-  I  On  the  supplies  for  the  navy  being  Voted, 
spring,   J786,  Captain    Macbride    couijselled 


Adieu,  my  liege  !  may  Freedom  geek'" 

Beneath  your  higl}  protection; 
And  may  you  rax"  Corruption's  neck. 

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

In  loyal,  true  affection, 
To  pay  your  queen,  with  due  respect, 

My  fealty  and  subjection 

This  great  birthday. 

Hail,  Majesty  Most  Excellent  I 

Wliile  nobles  strive  to  please  ye, 
Will  ye  accept  a  compliment 

A  simple  poet  gies  ye  V  [lent, 

Thae  bonnie  bairn-time,''^  Heaven  has 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze'*  ye 
In  bliss,,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent. 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

For  you,  yoiing  potentate  o'  Wales, 

I  tell  your  highness  fairly         ' 
Down  pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling 

I'm  tauld  ye're  driving  rarely; 
But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  naOs, 

And  curse  your  folly  sairly. 
That  e'er  ye  britk  Diana's  pale.9. 

Or  rattled  dice  wi'  Charlie,  || 
By  night  or  day. 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  cowte's"  been  known 

To  maka  noble  aiver;'^ 
So,  ye  may  doucely'*  fill  a  throne. 

For  a'  their  clisji-ma,-claver;" 
There,  him  at  Agincourt  T[  wlia  shone. 

Few  better  were  or  braver:  • 

And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John,** 

He  was  an  unco  shaver'^ 

For  mony  a  day. 

For  you,  right  reverend  Osnaburg,-|"f. 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter". 
Although  a  ribbon  at  your  lug 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer: 
As  ye  disown  yon  paughty''  dog 

That  bears  the  keys  o'  Peter, 
Then,  swith  !  and  get  a  vrife  to  hug, 

"  Lift  her  head.  "Stretch.      "Children. 

'3  Rais3.       "  Colt.  '« Horse.      >»  Wisely. 

1^  Idle  scandal.  *^  A  humourous  wag:. 
"  Haughty. 

some  changes  in  that  force,  particularly  the 
giving  up  of  6.|-gun  ships,  which  occasioned'a 
good  deal  of  discussion. 

I  The  Right  Hon.  Charles  James  Fox. 

•f  King  Henry  V.— B. 

**  Sir  John  Falstsft—viWe  Shakespeare.— B. 

+t  The  Duke  of  York-  -• 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Or,  trouth  !  ye'U  stain  the  mitre 
Some  luckless  day. 

Young,  royal  Tarry  Breeks.tt  I  learn, 

Ye've  lately  come  athwart  her; 
A  glorious  gall ey,§S  stem  and  stem, 

Weel  rigg'd  for  Venus'  barter; 
But  first  hang  out,  that  she  'U  discern. 

Your  hymeneal  charter. 
Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple-airn. 

And,  large  upon  her  quarter. 
Come  full  that  day. 

Ye,  lafjtly,  bonny  blossoms  a', 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty. 
Heaven  mak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw. 

And  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  : 
But  sneer  na  British  boys  awa', 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  aye  ;*" 
And  German  gentles  are  but  sma'. 

They're  better  just  than  want  aye 
On  ouy  day. 

God  bless  you  a'  !  consider  now, 

Ye're  unco  muckle  dautit ;'" 
But  ere  the  course  o'  life  be  through. 

It  may  be  bitter  sautit  •j'^ 
And  I  hae  seen  their  coggie  fu';*'' 

That  yet  hae  tarrow't "  at  it ; 
But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow. 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautit*^ 
Fu'  clean  that  day. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.* 

This  is  by  far  the  ablest  of  the  satires  Bums 
levelled  at  the  Church ;  and  his  worst  ene- 
mies could  not  avoid  confessing  that  it  was 
as  well  deserved  as  it  was  clever.  Scenes 
such  as  the  poet  describes  had  become  a 
scandal  and  a  disgrace  to  the  Church.  The 
poem  was  met  by  a  storm  of  abuse  from  his 
old  enemies :  but,  amid  all  their  railings, 
they  did  not  fail  to  lay  it  to  heart,  and  from 
that  time  forward  there  was  a  manifest  im- 
provement in  the  bearing  of  ministers  and 
people  on  such  occasions.  This  is  not 
the  least  of  its  merits  in  the  eyes  of  his 
countrymen  of  the  present  day.  Notwith- 
standing the  daring  levity  of  some  of  its  al- 
lusions and  incidents,  the  poet  has  strictly 
contined  himself  to  the  sayings  and  doings 
of  the  assembled  multitude — the  sacred  rite 
itself  is  never  once  mentioned. 

2"  Always  scarce.  ^^  Too  much  flattered. 
"  Salted.        '3  Platter  full.  =*  Grumbled. 

^^  They  have  scraped  out  the  dish. 

$t  William  IV.,  then  Duke  of  Clarence. 

§§  Alluding  to  the  -newspaper  account  of  a 
certain  royal  sailOr*s  amour. 

*  Holy  Fair  is  a  common  phrase  in  the  west 
of  Scotland  for  a  sacramental  occasion.— B. 


"  A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 
Hid  crafty  observation ; 
And  secret  hung,  with  poison'd  crust. 

The  dirk  of  Defamation  : 
A  mask  that  like  the  gorget  show'd, 

Dye-varying  on  the  pigeon  ; 
And  for  a  mantle,  large  and  broad. 
He  wrapt  him  in  Religion." 

— Hypocrisy  it-la-Mode. 

Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn. 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walkfed  forth  to  view  the  com. 

And  snufE  the  caller"  air. 
The  rising  sun  owre  Galstonf  muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin';'^ 
The  hares  were  hirpUn'  down  the  f  urs,'» 

The  lav'rocks  they  were  chantin' 
Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I  glower'd"  abroad. 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay. 
Three  hizzies,*  early  at  the  road, 

0am  skelpin'  up  the  way; 
Twa  had  manteeles  o'  d61efu'  black. 

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

Was  in  the  fashion  shining 
Fu'  gay  that  day. 

The  twa  appear'd  like  sisters  twin. 

In  feature,  form,  and  claes; 
Their  visage,  wither'd,  laang,  and  thin. 

And  sour  as  ony  slaes: 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-and-lowp. 

As  light  as  ony  lamMe,     % 
And  wi'  a  curchie  low  did  stoop. 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  ine, 
Fu'  kind  that  day. 

Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  "Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me; 
I'm  sure  I've  seen  that  bonny  face. 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  and  laughin'  as  ^lie  spak. 

And  taks  me  by  the  hari^, 
"  Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gicn  the  feck' 

Of  a'  the  ten  commands 

A  screed  some  day. 

"  My  name  is  Fun — your  crony  dear. 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae; 
And  this  is  Superstition  here. 

And  that's  Hypocrisy. 
I'm  gaun  to  Mauchyne  holy  fair, 

'  Fresh.     »  Glancing,     s  Limping.     <  Fur. 
rows.    "  Looked.  "Wenches.  '  Gray,  «  Most. 

t  The  adjoining  parish  to  Mauchline. 


POEMS. 


87 


To  spend  an  liour  in  daffin' ;" 
Gin  ye'll  go  tliere,  yon  runkled  pair, 
We  will  get  famous  laughin', 
At  them  this  day." 

Quotli  I,  "  With  a'  my  heart,  I'll  do't, 

I'll  get  my  Sunday's  sark'"  on. 
And  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot; 

Faith,  we'se  hae  fine  remarkin'!' 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time," 

And  soon  I  made  me  ready; 
For  roads  were  clad,  f  rae  side  to  side, 

Wi'  mony  a  weary  body. 

In  droves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash,'*  in  ridin'  graith," 

Gaed  hoddin''''  by  their  cotters; 
There,    swankies'*    young,    in    braw 
braid  claith. 
Are  springin"  owre  the  gutters; 
The  lasses,  skelpin'  barefit,  thrang. 

In  silks  and  scarlets  glitter; 
Wr  sweet-milk    cheese,   in    mony  a 
whang," 
And  farls,"  baked  wi'  butter, 
,   '  Pu'  crump  that  day. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glower  Black-bonnet:]:  throws. 

And  wamaun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show. 

On  very  side  they're  gath'rin' 
Some  carrying  dails,"  some  chairs  and 
stools. 

And  some  are  busy  bleth'rin'" 
Eight  loud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  showers. 

And  screen  our  country  gentry. 
There     Bacer   Jess,§    and    twa-three 
whores, 


"Sport.  i«  Shirt.  "  Breakfast-time.  "  Sen- 
sible. ^^  Attire,  i*  Jogging,  »5  Striplings. 
i^Cut.  "  Calces.  '»  Planks,  or  boards,  to 
sit  on.    "  Chatting'. 

X  AcoUoquial  appellation  bestowed  on  the 
church  elders  or  deacons,  who  in  landward 
parishes  in  the  olden  time  generally  wore 
black  bonnets  on  Sundays,  when  they  offici- 
ated at  ^  the  plate  "  in  making  the  usual  col- 
lection for  the  poor. — Motherwell, 

§  The  following  notice  of  Racer  Jess  ap- 
peared in  the  newspapers  of  February,  1818 : — 
.*'  Died  at  Mauchline  a  few  weeks  since,  Janet 
Gibson,  consigned  to  immortality  by  Burns  in 
his  *  Holy  Fair,"  under  the  turf  appellation  of 
*  Ilacer  Jess.'  She  was  the  daughter  of  '  Poo- 
sie  Nansie,'  who  figures  in  '  The  Jolly  Beg- 
gars.'   She  was  remarkable  for  bejc  pedestrian 


Are  blinkin'  at  the  entry. 
Here  sits  a  raw  of  tittlin'^"  jades, 

Wi'  heaving  breast  and  bare  neck, 
And  there  q,  batch  o'  wabster  lads, 

Blackguarding  f  rae  Kilmarnock, 
For  fun  this  day. 

Here  some  are  tliinkin'  on  their  sins. 

And  some  upo'  their  claes; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  f yled*'  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  and  prays:  ! 

On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch,  '* 

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

Thrang  winkin'  on  the  lasses 
To  chairs  that  day. 

Oh,  happy  is  that  man  and  blest ! 

Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him  ! 
Whase  ane  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best. 

Comes  clinkin'  down  beside  Mm ! 
Wi'  arm-reposed  on  the  chair  back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose,  liim; 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  iei 
neck, 

Ah's  loof*'  upon  her  bosom, 

Unlcenn'd  that  day. 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation: 
For  Moodie||  speels''^  the  holy  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  damnation. 
Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him. 
The  very  sight  o'  Moodie's  face 

To's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 
Wi'  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  faith 
Wi'  rattlin'  and  wi'  thumpin' ! 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath, 
He's  stampin'  and  he's  jumpin' ! 

His  lengthen'd  chin,  his  turn'd-up 
snout, 

2»  Whispering.  "^  Soiled.  =2  Sample. 
M  Hand.       2<t:iimbs. 

powers,  and  sometimes  ran  long  distances  for 
a  waeer." 

Ij  Hoodie  was  the  minister  of  Riccarton,  and 
on6  of  the  heroes  of  "The  Twa  Herds."-  He 
was  a  never-failing  assistant  at  the  Mauchline 
sacraments.  His  personal  appearance  and 
style  of  oratory  were  exactly  such  as  described 
by  the  poet,  .He  dwelt  chiefly  on  the  terrors 
of  the  law.  On  one  occasion  he  told  the  audi- 
ence that  they  would  find  the  text  in  John 
viii.  44,  but  it  was  so  applicable  to  their  case 
that  there  was  no  .peed  of  his  reading  it  to 
them.  The  verse  begins,  "Ye  are  of  your 
father  the  devil." 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


His  eldritcli '''  squeal,.a3d  gestures. 
Oh,  liow  they  fixe  the  heart  dfiVout, 
,  Like  cantliaridian  plasters. 
On  sic  a  day  ! 

But,  hark  !  the  tent  has  changed  its 
voice  ! 

There 's  peace  and  rest  nae  langer  ■- 
For  a'  tlie  real  judges  rise. 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 
Smithiy  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues 

On  practice  and  on  morals  ; 
And  affi  the  godly  pour  in  tlirangs. 

To  gie  the  jars  and  barrels 
A  lift  that  day. 

•What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

Of  moral  powers  and  reason  ? 
His  English  style  and  gesture  fine. 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Lilie  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen. 
The  moral  man  he  does  define. 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That 's  right  that  day. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 

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

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 
See,  up  he 's  got  the  Word  o'  God, 

And  meek  and  mim-"  has  view'd  it,  ■ 
While  Common  Sense  f  f  has  talten  the 
road, 

And 's  aff  and  up  tho  Cowgate,:|:^ 
Fast,  fast,  that  day. 


-*  Unearthly.        -'^  Primly. 

^  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  George  Smith,  min- 
ister of  Galston^^the  same  whom  the  poet  in- 
troduces, in  a  different  feeling,  under  the  ap- 
pellation of    Irvine-side,   in    ^'The    kirk's 

■  Alarm."  •  Burns  meant  on  this  occasion  to 
compliment    him  on    his    rational    mode    of 

,  preaching,  but  the  reverend  divine  regarded 
the  stanza  as  satirical. 

**The  Rev;  Mr.  (afterwards  Dr.)  William 
Peebles,  minister  of  Newton-upon-Ayr,  some- 

■  times  named,irom  its  situation,  M<?  lVater~yii, 
and  the  moving  hand  in  the  prosecution  of 
Dr.  M*Gill,  on  which  account  he  is  introduced 
into  "The  Kirk's  Alarm."  He  was  in  great 
favour  at  Ayr  among  the  orthodox  party, 
though  much  inferior  m  ability  to  the  hetero- 
dox ministers  of  that  ancient  burgh. 

+t  Dr.  Mackenzie,  then  of  Mauchline,  after 

■  wards  of  Irvine,  had  recently  conducted  some 
village  controversy  under  the  title  of  "  Com- 
mon Sense."  Some  local  commentators  are  of 
opinion  that  he,  and  not  the  personified  ab- 
straction-iimeant., - 

X\  A  street  so  called  which  faces  the  teat  in 


Wee  MiUer§§  neist  the  guard  relieves. 

And  orthodoxy  raibles,*' 
Though  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes 

And  thinks  it  auld  -wives'  fables: 
But,  faith  !  the  birkie  wants  a  manse, 

So,  cannily  he  hums  them; 
Although  his  carnal  wit.  aiid  sense 

Like  hafflins-ways^'  o'ercomes  him 
,  At  times  that  day. 

Now  but  and  ben  the  change-house  Alls 

Wi'  yill-caup  commentators: 
Here's  crying  out  for  bakes'-'  and  gills. 

And  there  the  pint-stoup  clatters: 
WhUe  thick  and^lirang,  and  loud  and 
lang, 

Wi'  logic  and  wi'  Scripture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that,  in  the  end. 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

0'  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  mo  on  drink  !  it  gies  tis  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college: 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair. 

It  pangs^"  us  fou  o'  knowledge, 
Be't  wliislty  gill,  or  penny  wheSp, 

Or  ony  stronger  potion. 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep. 

To  kittle^'  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  and  lasses,  blithely  bent. 

To  inind  baith  sSiul  and  body. 
Sit  round  the  table  weel  content. 

And  steer  about  the  toddy. 
On  this  ane's  dress,  and  that  ane's  leulc, 

The're  making  observations; 
While  some  are  eozie  i'  the  neuk,^- 

And  forming  assignations 

I'o  meet  some  day. 

But  now  the  Lord's  ain  trumpet  touts, 

TUl  a'  the  hills  are  rai-in'. 
And  echoes  beck  return  the  shouts. 

Black  Russell  ||||  is  na  sparin'; 

i"  Rattles.  28  Li]jg  Hafflins-ways— almost. 
2»  Biscuits,  so  Crams,  si  Rqujc.  s2  Snug  in 
the  comer. 

Mauchlinfc.—B.  The  same  street  in  which 
Jean  Armfitir  lived. 

SITh^Sicv.  Mr.  Miller,  afterwards  minister 
of  Kilm^tt^.  He  was  of  remarkably  low 
stature,  bill  enormous  girth.  Bums  believeS 
him  at  the  time  to  lean  at  heart  to  the  moder- 
ate party.  This  stanza,  virtually  the  most  de- 
preciatory in  the  whole  poem,  is  said  t»  have 
retarded  Miller's  advancement. 

Ill  The  Rev.  John  Russell,  at  this  time  minis- 
ter of  the  chapel  of  case,  Kilaiarnook, after- 


POEMS. 


His    piercing    ^vo^cls,    like    Higlifand 
swords. 
Divide  the  joints  and  marrow; 
His  tallc  o'  liell,  whare  devils  dwell; 
Our  vera  s^iuls  does  liarrow  ^^^ 
Wi'  friglit  tliat  day. 

A  vast,  iinbottonl'd,  boundless  pit, 

Fill'd  fu'  o'  lowin'  brunstane, 
Whase  ragin'  flame,  and  scorchin'  lieat. 

Wad  melt  tlie  hardest  whnnstans  ! 
The  half -asleep  start  up  wi'  fear. 

And  think  they  hear  it  roarin', 
When  presently  it  does  appear 

'Twas  but  some  neibor  snoriu' 
Asleep  that  day. 

'Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  mony  stories  past, 
And  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill 

Wlien  they  were  a'  dismist: 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  and 
caups. 

Among  the  forms  and  benches:  [laps 
And  cheese  and  bread,  frae  women's 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches. 

And  dauds^''  that  day. 

In  comes  a  gaucie,^'  gash*^  guidwife. 

And  sits  down  by  tlie  fire,       pcnife; 
Syne  draws  her   kebbuck""  and    her 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer. 
The  auld  guidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother. 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays. 

And  gies  them't  like  a  tether, 
Fu'  laiig  that  day. 

Waesuclis  !^'  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass. 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace. 

Or  melvie^*  his  braw  claithing* 
O  wives,  be  mindfu'  ance  yersel 

How  bonny  lads  ye  wanted, 
And  dinna,  for  a  kebbuck-heel,'' 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 
On  sic  a  day! 


33  Lumps.  34  Fat.  35  Sagacious.  3o  Cheese. 
3^  Alas.  38  Soil.  39  Cheese-crust, 
wards  minister  of  Stirling— one  of  the  heroes 
of  "  The  Twa  Herds."  ^^  He  was,"  says  a  cor- 
respondent of  Cunningham's,  "  the  most  tre- 
mendous man  I  ever  saw-;  Black  Hugh  Mac- 
pherson  was  a  beauty  in  comparison.  His 
voice  was  like  thunder,  and  his  sentiments 
.  were  such  as  must  have  shocked  any  class  of 
hearers  in  the  least  more  refined  than  those 
whom  he  usually  addressed." 
IT  Shakespeare's  "  Hamlet.'  — B. 


Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  rattlin'  tow. 

Begins  to  jow  and  croon;'"        [dow^' 
Some  swagger  hame,  the  best   they 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps'^  the  billies"  halt  a  blink. 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon:   [drink,. 
Wi'   faith    and    hope,    and  love  and 

They're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 

How  mony  hearts  tjkis  day  converts 

O'  sinners  and  o'  iasses!  [gane, 

Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gia  night,  are 

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

There's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy; 
And  mony  jobs  that  day  begin 

May  end  in  houghmagandy'" 
Some  ither  day. 


VERSES  OX  A  SCOTCH  BARD, 

GONE  TO  THE  "WEST  INDIES. 

The  following  playfully  personal  lines  were 
written  by  the  pofet  when  he  thought  he 
was  about  to  l^ave  the  country  in  1786  for 
Jamaica: — 

A'  YE  wha  live  by  sowps  o'  drink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink,' 
A'  ye  wha  live  aind  never  think. 

Come,  mourn  wi'  me! 
Our  bUlie'sgien  us  a'  a  jink,'' 

And  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin'  core, 
Wha  dearly  like  a  random  splore,^ 
Nae  mair  he'll  join  the  merry  roar 

In  social  key; 
For  now  he's  taken  anither  shore. 

And  owre  the  sea! 

The  bonny  lasses  weel  may  wlss  him. 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him; 
The  widows,  wives,  and  a'  may  bless 
him, 

Wi'  tearfu'  ee; 
For  weel  I  wat"  they'll  sairly  miss  him 

That's  owre  the  seal 
O  FortHne,  they  hae  room  to  grumble! 


*'  S'itig  and  groan.      "  Can.      "  Breaches 
in  fences.    ^3  ^ads.      **  Fornication. 

'Versifying^.    "  "Our  friend  has^elufled  lis," 
'Frolic.         <  Well   I   know. 


90 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


Hadst  thou    ta'en    aff    some    drowsy 

bummle*  [ble," 

Wlia  can  do  nought  but  fyke  and  fum- 

'Twad  been  nae  plea; 
But  he  was  gleg'  as  ony  wumble," 

Tliat's  owre  the  sea! 

Auld  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear. 
And  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear; 
'Twill  make  her  poor  auld  heart,  I 
fear. 

In  flinders'  flee; 
He  was  her  laureate  mony  a  yeSir 

That's  owre  the  sea! 

He  saw  misfortune's  cauld  nor'-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast; 
A  jillet"'  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be! 
So,  took  a  berth  afore  the  mast. 

And  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  Fortune's  cummock, ' ' 
On  scarce  a  bellyfu'  o'  drummock,''?. 
Wi'  his  proud,  independent  stomaxih 

Could  ill  agree;  ' 

So,  row't  his  hurdles"  in  a  hammock. 

And  owre  the  sea. 
He  ne'er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding. 
Yet  coin  his  pouches"  wadna  bide  in; 
Wi'  hini  it  ne'er  was  under  hiding: 

He  dealt  it  free' 
The  Muse  was  a'  tliat  he  took  pride  in 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel, 
And  hap  hiin  in  a  cozie  biel;'* 
Ye'll  find  him  aye  a  dainty  chiel," 

And  fii'  o'  glee; 
He  wadna  wrang  the  very  deil, 

'  That's  owre  the  sea. 

Fare  weel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie! 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill- willie; 
But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  1^, 

Now  bonnilie! 
I'll  toast  ye  in  my  hindmost  gillie  " 

Though  owre  the  sea! 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

Of  this  beautiful  epitaph,  which  Bums  wrote 
for  himself,  Wordsworth  says,— "Here  is  a 


"  Bungler.  •  "  Make  a  fuss."  '  Sharp, 
s  Wimble.  "Shreds.  '»  Jilt.  "Rod.  i  a  Meal 
and  water.  "  Wrapt  his  hams.  ^*  Pockets. 
"  Warm  Shelter.  '«  Kindly  fellow.  "My 
last  gill. 


sincere  and  solemn  avowal — a  i  public  decla- 
ration from  his  own  will — a  confession  at 
once  devout,  poetical,  and  human — a  history 
in  the  shape  of  a  prophecy!" 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool,      [rule, 
Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for 
Owre  blate'  to  seek,  owre  proud  to 
snool?  ^ 

Let  him  draw  near; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool,'  ' 
Aiid  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 

Who;  noteless,ste.-ds  the  crowds  among,  . 

That  weekly  this  area  throng  ">. 

Oh,  pass  not  by  ! 
But,  with  a  f rater-feeling  strong. 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man,  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career 

Wild  as  the  Wave  ?  [tear. 
Here  pause — and,  through  the  starting 

S  ur vey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn,  and  wise  to  know. 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow,      _, 

And  softer  flame, 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stain'd  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit; 
Know,'  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


A  DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN    HAM- 
ILTON, ESQ. 

Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 
A  fleechin','  fletli'rin'^  dedication. 
To  roose'  you  up,  and  ca  you  guid, .    " 
And  sprung  o'  great  and  noble  bluid, 
Because  ye're  surnamed  like  his  Grace, 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race; 
Then  when  I'm  tired,  and  sae  aje  ye. 
Wi'  mony  a  fulsome,  sinfu'  lie. 
Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short. 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 


1  Bashful.      2  Be  obsequious.    *  Lamenta- 
tion. 
'  Flattering.    "  Fawning.    '  Praise, 


POEMS. 


91 


This  may  do— maun  do,  sir,  yfV  them 
;-„-yirha      ,,  ,    ..         ,1,^,-,.      [wamef ii' -.'' 
Maun   please  tlie  great   folks   for  a 
For  jne  !  sae  laigli'  1  needna  bow, 
Eqr,  Lord  be  thahkit,  I  can  plougl).; 
And  when  I  downa'  yoke  a  naig, 
Then,  Lord  be  tliankit,  1  can  beg; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  and  that's  nae  flatterin'. 
Its  just  sic  poet,  and  ^ic  patron. 

The  poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him. 
Or  else,  I  fear,  some  ill  ane  skelp''  him, 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he's  done  yet. 
But  only — he's  no  just  b^un  yet. 

The  patron,  (sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me,) 
On  every  hand  it  will  allow'd  be. 
He's  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

1  readily  and  freely  grant. 
He  downa  see  a  pooj  man  want; 
What's  no  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 
What  ance  he  says  he  winna  break  it; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he'll  no  refus't, 
TiU  aft  his  guidness  is  abused, 
And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang. 
Even  that  he  doesna  mind  it  lang- 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 
He  doesna  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that; 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca'  that; 
It's  naething  but  a  milder  feature 
Of  our  poor  sinfu',  corrupt  nature: 
Ye'U  get  the  best  o'  moral  works, 
'Mang^  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 
Or  huntere  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he's  the  poor  man's  friend  mneed. 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed. 
It's  no  through  terror  of  damnation; 
It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Morality  thou  deadly  bane. 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain  ! 
Vatn'  is  his  hope  whose  stay  and  trust  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  ! 

No-T-stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack;* 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back: 
Steal  through,  a  winnock'  f  rae  a  whore. 
But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door. 
Be  to  the  poor  like  ony  whunstane. 


*  Bellyful.    6  Low.     'Cannot.    ''Beat.    =A 
Coin— third  part  of  a  penny.       "  Window. 


And  baud  their  noses  tothe  grunstane, 

Ply  every  art  o'  legal  thieving; 

No  matter,  stick  to  sound  believing;    ■ 

Learn  three-mile  prayers,  and:  half- 
mile  gracfes,  [faces; 
Wi'  weel-spread  looves,'"  and  lang  wry 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengtlien'd  groan. 
And  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own;  ' 
I'll  warrant  then,  y'e're  nae  deceiv'er — 
A  steady,  sturdy,  stanch  believer. 

0  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  o'  Calvin, 
For  gumlie"  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin'! 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 

Y  e'll  some  day  squeel  in  quaking  terror! 
When  Vengeance  draws  the  sword  in 

wrath. 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath; 
When  Ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom". 
Just  frets  till  Heaven  commission  gies 

him;  [moans. 

While  o'er  the  harp  pale  Misery 
And  strikes  the  ever-deepening  tones,  • 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans ! 

Tour  pardon,  sir,  for  this  digression, 

1  maist  forgat  my  Dedication; 

But  when  divinity  comes'  'cross  mej 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose.  me.    ■ 

So,  sir,  ye  see  'twas  nae  daft  vapour. 
But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper 
When  a'  my  works  r  did  review. 
To  dedicate  them,  sir,  to  you: 
Because  (ye  needna  tak  it  ill) 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel.. 
Then  patrohise  them  wi'  y6ur  favour. 

And  your  petitioner  shall  eveii 

I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray; 

But  that's  a  word  I  needna  say: 

For  prayin'  I  hae  little  skill  o't; 

I'm  baith  dead-sweer,''^  and  wretched  . 

ill  o't; 
But  I'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  prayer 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  sir — 

' '  May    ne'er    Misfortune's    growling 
bark  [Clerk!* 

Howl   through    the    dwelling   o'    the 
May  ne'er  his  generous,  honest  heart 
For  that  same  generous  spirit  smart  !    i 

«» Palms.    "Muddy.   "Unwilling:. 

*A  term-  applied  to  Mr.  Hamilton  from  his 
having  acted  in  that  capacity  to  some  of  the 
county  courts.  -.^^ 


-93 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


May  Kennedy's  far  lionour'd  name 
Lang  beat  his  hymeneal  iiame 
Till  Hamiltons,  at  least  a  dizen,' 
Are  f  rae  their  nuptial  labours-  risen  : 
Five  bonny  lasses  round  their  table, 
And  seven  braw  fellows  stout  and  able 
To  serve  their  king-  and  country  wcel. 
By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel ! 
May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual 

rays. 
Shine  on  the  evening  o'  his  days ; 
Till  his  wee  curlie  John'sf  ier-oe," 
When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow. 
The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow  !" 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion 
Wi'  complimentary  effusion  : 
But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are    blest  wi'   Fortune's    smiles  and 

favours, 
I  am,  dear  sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 
Your  much  .indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  it  (which  Powers  above  prevent !) 
That  iron-hearted  carl.  Want, 
Attended  in  his  grim  advances,     , 
By  sad  mistakes  and  black  mischances. 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures 

fly  him. 
Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am. 
Tour  humble  servant  then  no  more  ; 
For  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor  ? 
But  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  Heaven  ! 
While  recollection's  power  is  given, 
If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life. 
The  victim  sad  of  Fortune's  strife, 
I,;  through  thii  tender  gubhing  tear. 
Should  jeoognize  my  master  dear, 
If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together. 
Then,  sir,  your  hand — ^my  friend  and 
brother ! 


INVITATION  TO  A  MEDICAL 
GENTLEMAN 

TO  ATTEND  A  MASONIC  ANNITBRSAIIY 

MEETING. 

Friday  first 's  the  day  appointed, 
By  our  Right  Worshipful  anointed, 

To  hold  our  grand  procession  , 
To  get  a  blade  of  Johnny's  morals, 


And  taste  a  swatdi '  o'  Manson's  bar- 
rels, 
r  the  way  of  our  profession. 
Our  Master  and  the  Brotherhood 

Wad  a'  be  glad  to  sec  you  ; 
For  me  I  would  bo  mair  than  proud 
To  share  the  mercies  wi'  you. 
If  death,  then,  wi'  skaith,  then, 

Some  mortal  heart  is  hcchtiu'' 
Inform  him,  and  storm  him,         , 
That  Saturday  ye  '11  fechthim.^ 

Robert  Bthsns. 


13  Great-granddliild. 
i"Iohn  Hamilton,  Esq.,  a  worthy  scion  of  a 
noble  stock. 


THE   FAREWELL. 

"■  The  following  touching'  stanZc^,'^  says  Cun- 
ningham, "were  composed  in  the  autumn  of 
1780,  when  the  prospects  of  the  poet  darken- 
ed, and  he  looked  towards  the  West  Indies 
as  a. place  of  refuge,  and  perhaps  of  hope. 
All  wno  shared  his  affections  are  mentioned 
— his  mother — his  brother  Gilbert— his  ille- 
gitimate child,  Elizabeth, — whom  he  con- 
signed to  his  brother's  care,  and  for  whose 
support  he  had  appropriatefl  the  copyrighi 
of  his  poems, — and  his  friends  Smiths  Hainit- 
ton,  and  Aiken;  but  in  nothing  he  ever 
wrote  was  his  affection  for  Jean  Armour 
more  tenderly  or  more  naturally. displayed.'' 

"  The  valiant  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffcrt 
Or  what  does  he  regard  his  single  woes?"~  ;■ 
But. when,  alas!  he  multiplies  himself,  "..;  J- 
To  deaier  selves,  to  the  loved  tender  fair,  *»■ 
To  those  whose  bUss,  whose  being  hang  iippn 
him.  ^ 

To  helpless  children!  then,  oh,  then!  he  feel^ 
The  point  of  misery  festering  in  his  heart,  ' 
And  weakly  weeps  his  fortune  like  a  coward". 
Such,  such  am  I! — undone!" 

— Thomson's  Ed^vard  and  Eleanora. 

Fahewell,    old    Scotia's     bleak    do- 
mains, 
Far  dearer  thap  tlxe  torrid  plains 

AVhere  rich,  ananas  blow  ! 
Farewell,  a  mother's  blessing  dear  ! 
A  brother's  sigh  !  a  sister's  tear  ! 
My  Jean's  heart-rending  throe  ! 
Farewell,  my   Bess  !  ■  though  thou  *rt 
bereft 
Of  my  parental  care  ; 
A  faithful  brother  1  have  left, 
ISIy  part  in  him  thou  'It  share  ! 
Adieu  too,  to  you  too. 

My  Smith,  my  bosom  frien' ; 
When  kindly  you  mind  me, 

Ohj  then  befriend  my  Jean  ! 


I  Sample.         a  Thrc:xtcning.         a  Fight. 


POEMS. 


93 


What    bursting    anguish     tears     my 

heart  ! 
From  thee,  my  Jeanie,  must  I  part  I 
Thou,  weeping,  answerest,  "  No  !" 
Alas  !  misfortune  stares  my  face, 
And  points  to  ruin  and  disgrace, 

I,  for  thy  salte  must  go  ! 
Thee,  Hamilton  and  Ailten  dear, 

A  grateful,  ■warm,  adieu  ! 
I,  with  a  much-indebted  tear, 
Shall  still  remembar  you  ! 
All  hail,  then,  tha  gale  then. 

Wafts  me  from  thee,  dear  shore! 
It  rustles  and  whistles — 
I'll  never  see  thee  more  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BANK- 
NOTE. 
Wab  worth  thy  power,  thou  cursfed 
■  leaf  ! 

Fell  source  o'  a'  my  woe  and  grief ! 
For  lack  o'  thee  I've  lost  my  lass  ! 
For  lack  o'  thee  I  scrimp  my  glass. 
I  see  the  children  of  affliction 
Unaided,  through  thy  cursed  restric- 
tion. 
I've  seen  the  oppressor's  cruel  smile. 
Amid  his  hapless  victim's  spoil. 
And,  for  thy  potence  vainly  wish'd 
To  crush  the  villain  in  the  dust. 
For  lack  o'  thee,  I   leave  this  much- 
loved  shore. 
Never,  perhaps,  to  greet  auld  Scotland 
more. 

R.  B.— Kyle. 


VERSES    TO    AN    OLD    SWEET- 
HEART AFTER  HER   MARRIAGE. 

WRITTEN  OX  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A 

COPT  OF  HIS  POEMS  PRESENTED 

TO  THE  LADY. 

Once  fondly  loved,  and  still  remem- 
bered dear,  [vows! 
Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful 
Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm 
sincere, —          .                [allows. 
Friendship  !   'tis  all.  cold  duty  now 

And  when  you  read  the  simple,  artless 

rhypies,  [mpre,^ 

One  f  rieadly  sigh  for  him — ^he  asks  no 

Who  disfatat  burns  in  flaming  torrid 

clltaes,  [roar. 

Or  haply  lies  beneath  th'  Atlantic's 


VERSES  WRITTEN  tNDER 

VIOLENT  ORIEF. 

The  following  lines,  which  first  appeared  in 
the  Sun  newspaper,  April  1823,  appear  10 
have  been  originally  written  on  a  leaf  of  a 
copy  of  his  poems  pi  esented  to  a  friend:— 

Accept  the  gift  a  friend  sincere 
Wad  on  thy  worth  be  pres.sin'; 
Remembrance  oft  may  start  a  tear, 
But  oh  !  that  tenderness  forbear. 
Though  'twad  my  sorrows  lessen. 

My  morning  raise  sae  clear  and  fair, 

I  thought  sair  storms  wad  never 
Bedew  the  scene;  but  grief  and  care 
In  wildest  fury  liae  made  bare 
My  peace,  my  hope,  for  ever  ! 

You  think  I'm  glad;  oh,  I  pay  weel 

For  a'  the  joy  I  borrow. 
In  solitude — then,  then  I  feel 
I  canna  to  myself  canceal 

My  deeply-ranklin'  sorrow. 

Farewell !  within  thy  bosom  free 

A  sigh  may  whiles  awaken ; 
A  tear  may  wet  thy  laughin'  ee. 
For  Scotia's  son — ance  gay  like  thee 
Now  hopeless,  comfortless,  forsaken! 


THE  CALF. 

TO  THE  REV.  UK.  JAMES  STEVEN. 

The  Rev.  James  Steven  was  afterwards  one 
of  the  Scottish  clergy  in  London,  and  ulti^ 
mately  minister  of  Kilwinning;  in  Ayrshire, 
I't  appears  that  the  poet,while  proceeding  to 
church  at  IMauchline,  one  day,  called  on  his 
friend  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  who,  being  un- 
well, could  not  accompany  him.  but  desired 
him,  a^  parents  were  wont  to  do  with  chil- 

•  dren,  to  bring  home  a  note  of  the  text. 
Burns.called  on  his  return,  and-sitting  down 
for  a  minute  at  Mr.  Hamilton's  business  ta- 
ble, wrote  the  following  lines  as  an  answer 
to  his  request.  It  is  also  said  that  the  poet 
had  a  wager  with  his  friend  Hamilton,  that 
he  would  produce  a  poem  within  a  certain 
time,  and  that  he  gained  it  by  producing 
"The  Calf." 

On  his  text,  Malachi  iv.  2— "And  they  shall 
go  forth,  and  grow  up  like  calves  of  the  stall,'' 

Right,  sir  !  your  text  I'll  prove  it  true. 
Though  heretics  may  laugh; 

For  instance;  there's  yoursel  just  now, 
God  knows,  an  unco  calf  ! 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  should  some  patron  be  so  kind 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  na,  sir,  but  then  we'll  find 

Ye're  stiil  as  great  a  strrk. ' 

But  if  the  lover's  raptured  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot, 
Forbid  it,  every  heavenly  power. 

You  e'er  should  bea  stot-  ! 

Though,  when  some  kind  connubial 
dear 

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

A  noble  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 

'I'o  hear  you  roar  and  rowte,* 
Few  men  o'  sense  will    doubt   your 

claims 
To  rank  amang  the  nowte.' 

And  when  ye're  number'd  wi'  the  dead. 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
Wi'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head, 

' '  Here  lies  a  famous  bullock  !" 


WILLIE  CHALMERS. 

Mr.  W.  Chalmers,  a  gentleman  in  Ayrshire, 
a  particular  friend  of  mine,  asked  me  to 
write  a  poetic  epistle  to  a  young  lady,  his 
dulcinea.  I  had  seen  her,  but  was  scarcely 
acquainted  with  her,  and  wrote  as  follows : 
- — R.  B, 

Madam: 

Wi'brawnewbranks.'in  mickle  pride. 

And  eke'  a  braw  new  brechan,^ 
My  Pegasus  I'm  got  astride. 

And  up  Parnassus  pechin;*    [crush. 
Whiles    owre  a  bush,  wi'  downward 

The  doited  beastie^  stammers; 
Then  up  he  gets,  and  oS  he  sets, 

For  sake  o'  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  that  weel-kenn'd  name 

May  cost  a  pair  o'  blushes; 
1  am  nae  stranger  to  your  fame. 

Nor  his  warm-urged  wishes. 
Your  bonny  face,  sae  mild  and  sweet. 
His  honest  heart  enamours. 
And  faith  ye'll  no  be  lost  a  whit, 

Though  waired"  on  Willie  Clialmers : 

1  A  one-year-old-bullock.     ^  Ox.    ^  Kitchen 
and  parlour.    ^  Bellow.    ^  Cattle. 
,  1  Bridle.      «  Also.       s  Collar.       ■•  Panting. 
*  Stupid  animal.  ^  Spent. 


Auld  Truth  hersel  might  swear  ye're 
fair. 

And  Honour  safely  back  her. 
And  Modesty  assume  your  air. 

And  ne'er  a  ane  mistak'  her: 
And  sic  twa  love-inspiring  een 

Might  fire  even  holy  palmers; 
Nae  wonder  then  they've  fatal  been 

To  honest  Willie  Chalmers. 

I  doubt  na  Fortune  may  you  shore'  [tie. 

Some  mim-mou'd"  pouther'd'  pnes- 
Fu'  lifted  up  wi'  Hebrew  lore. 

And  band  upon  his  breastie: 
But  oh  !  what  signifies  to  you 

His  lexicons  and  grammars. 
The  feeling  heart's  the  royal  blue. 

And  that's  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 

Some  gapin',  glowrin'"  country  laird 

May  warsale"  for  your  favour; 
May  claw  his   lug'*  and    straik"  Lis 
beard. 

And  hoast'''  up  some  palaver. 
My  bonny  maid,  before  ye  wed 

Sic  clumsy- witted  hammers,'*. 
Seek    Heaven   for    help,    and    barefit 
skelp>« 

Awa'  wi'  Willie  Chalmers. 

Forgive  the  bard!  my  fond  regard 

For  ane  that  shares  my  bosom 
Inspires  my  muse  to  gie  'm  his  dues,  " 

For  deil  a  hair  I  roose"  him. 
May  powers  aboon  unite  you  soon. 

And  fructify  your  amours, — 
And  every  year  come  in  mair  dear 

To  you  and  WUlie  Chalmers. 


TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY.* 

"  No  poet,"  says  Cunningham,  "  ever  embla- 
zoned fact  with  fiction  more  happily  than 
Burns  :  the  hero  of  this  poem  was  a  respect- 
able old  nursery-seedsman  in  Kilmarnock 
greatly  addicted  to  spoiting,  and  one  of  the 
poet's  earliest  friends,  who  loved  curling  en 
the  ice  in  winter,  and  shooting  on  the 
moors  in  the  season.  When  no  longer  able 
to  march  over  hill  and  hag  m  quest  of  - 
'  Paitricks,  teals,  moor-pouts,  and  plivers,' 


'  Promise.  =  Prim.  »  Powdered.  '»  Staring. 
"Strive.  12  Ear.  ^3  stroke.  »'  (_oueii. 
's  Blockheads.     i«  Run.   "Flatter. 

*  When  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went 
out  last  muirfowl  season,  he  supposed  it  was 
to  be,  in  Ossian's  phrase,  "the  last  of  his 
helds;  and  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  die 
and  be  buried  in  the  muirs.  On  this  hint  the 
author  composed  his  elegy  and  epitaph.— B.  " 


POEMS. 


m 


'  "he  loved  to  lie  on'ttie  langf^ettte^  and  listen 
to  the  deeds  of  others  on  field  and  flood: 
and  when  a  good  tale  was  told,  he  would 
cry, '  Hech,"  man!  three  at  a  shot;  that  was 
famous!'  Some  one  havmg  informed  Tarn, 
in  his  old  age,  that  Burns  liad  written  a  poem 
— '  a  gay.  queer  ane  * — concerning  him,  he 
sent  for  the.  bard,  and,  in  something  like 
wrath,  requested  to  hear  it;  he^smiled  grim- 
ly at  the  relation  of  his  exploits,  and  then 
cried  out,..' I'm  no  dead'  yet,  Robin  —  I'm 
worth  ten  dead  fowk:  wherefore  should  ye 
sa^  that  I  am  dead?'  Burns  took  the  hint, 
retired , to  the  window  for  a  minute  or  so, 
and  coming  back,  recited  the  '  per  Contra,' 

'  Go,  Fame,  and  canter'like  a  filly,' 

with  which  Tam  was  so  delighted  that  he 
rose  unconsciously,  rubbed  his  hands,  and 
exclaimed,  *  Thatl  do^-ha!  ha! — that'l  do!'. 
He  survived  the  poet,  and  the  epitaph  is  in- 
scribed on  his  gravestone  in  the  churchyard 
of  Kilmarnock. ' 

"  Ah  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 
-  — Pope. 

Has  auld  Kilmarnock  seen  the  deil? 
Or  great  Mackinlayf  tlirav?n'  his  heel? 
Or  Robinson:!:  again  grown  weel, 

To  preach  and  read? 
"Na,  waur  than  a'!"  cries  ilka  ctiel; 

"  Tam  Samson's  dead!" 

Kilmarnock  lang  may  grunt  and  grane. 

And  sigh,   and    sob,    and    greet^  her 

lane,  [wean 

And  deed'  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  and 

In  mourning  weed; 
To  Death,  she's  dearly  paid  the  kane* — 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 

The  brethren  o'  the  mystic  level 
May  liing  their  head  in  waef  u'  bevel. 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  re- 
vel. 

Like  ony  bead; 
Death's  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  deveP — 
Tam  Samson's  dead! 

Wlien  Winter  muffles  up  his  cloak. 
And  binds  the  mire  up  like  a  rock; 


■  1  Twisted.     2  Cry.     '  Clothe.     ■■  Rent  paid 
in  kind.     ^  Blow. 

+  A  certain  preacher,  a  great  favourite  with 
fhe  million.  Fit^  "  The  Ordination,"  stanza 
II.— B. 

X  Another  preacher,  an  equal  favourite  with 
the  few,  who  was  at  that  time  ailing.  For 
him,  see  also  "Xhe  Ordination,"  stanza  IX.— 
B. 


When  to  the  lochs  the  curlers  flock 
Wi'  gleesome  speed, 

Wlia  will  they  station  at  the  cock? — 
Tam  Samson's  dead! 

He  was  the  king  o'  a'  the  core, 
To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore; 
Or  up  tbe  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  o'  need ;  [score, — 
But  now   he    lags    on    Death's    hog- 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 

Now  safe  the  stately  salmon  sail. 
And  trouts  be-dropp'd  wi'  crimson  hail, 
And  eels  weel  kenn'd  for  souple  tail. 

And  geds*  fpr  greed, 
Since  dark  in  Death's  fish-creel  we  wail 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks?  a'; 

Ye  cootie"  moorcocks,  crousely"  craw; 

Ye  maukins,'"  cock  your  fud  fu'  braw, 

Withouten  diead ; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  nowawa,' — 

Tam  Samson's  dea<i! 

That  waefu'  morn  be  ever  moum'd 
Saw  him  in  sliootin'  graith"  adorn'd 
While  pointers  round  impatient  bum'd, 

Frae  couples  freed; 
But,  och!  he  gaed  and  ne'er  retum'd! 

Tam  Samsotfs  dead! 

In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters;    . 
In  vain  the  gout  his  ankles  fetters; 
In  vain  the  burns  cam'  down  like  wa- 
ters. 

An  acre  braid! 
Now  every  auld  wife,  greetin'  clatters, 

Tam  Samsbii's  dead  ! 

Owre  mony  a  weary  liag"  lie  limpit, 
And  aye  the  tither  shot  he  tkumpit," 
Till  coward  Death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi'  deadly  feide;" 
Nowhs  proclaims, wi'  tout'"  o'  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 

When. at  his  heart  he  felt. the  dagger. 
He  reel'd  his  wonted  bottle-swagger. 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 
Wi'  weel-aim'd  heed; 
' '  Lord,  five !"  he  cried,  and  owre  did 
stagger — 

Tam  Samson's  dead! 


'  Pikes.  '  Whirring  partridges  *  Feath;r- 
igged.  »  Gleefully.  '".Hares.  "Dress. 
■■"Moss,    "  Fired.    "  Fend.     "  Sound. 


BURIN'S'  WORKS. 


Ilk  lioary  hunter  mourn'd  a  brither; 
Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoan'd  a  father: 
Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  hea- 
ther, 

Marks  out  his  head, 
Wh£»re  Burns  has  wrote,  in  rhyming 
blether, 

Tam  Samson's  deadl 
There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest; 
Perhaps  upon  his  mouldering  br«ast 
Some  spitfu'  nioorfowl  bigs  her  nest. 

To  hatch  and  breed ; 
Alas  !  nae  mair  he'll  them  molest ! 
Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

When  august  winds  the  heather  wave. 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave. 
Three  volleys  let  his  memory  crave 

0'  pouther  and  lead. 
Till  Echo  answer  f  rae  her  cave — 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Heaven  rest  his  saul,  whar'er  he  be  ! 
Is  the  wish  o'  mony  mae  than  me; 
He  had  twa  fauts,  or  maybe  three, 

Tet  what  remead? 
Ae  social  honest  man  want  we — 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

EPITAPH. 

Tam  Samson's  weel-wom  clay  here  lies 
Ye. canting  zealots,  spare  him  ! 

If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 
Ye'll  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 

PEK  CONTRA. 

Go,  Fame,  and  canter  like  a  filly, 
Through  a'  the  streets  and  neuks  o' 

Killie,§ 
Tell  every  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin'. 
For  yet,  unscaithed'*  by  Death's  gleg 
gullie," 

Tam  Samson's  leevin' ! 


A  PRAYER, 

LEFT    BY  THE    ATTTHOR  AT  A  REVER- 
END FRIEND'S  HOUSE,    IN  THE 
EOOM  WHERE   HE   SLEPT. 

0  Tnoti  dread  Power,   who  reign'st 
,  above  ! 

'"Unharmea;    ^' Sharp    knife.       " 
§  Killie  is  a  phrase  the  country-folks  some- 
times use  for  the  name  of  a  certain  town  in 
the  west  [Kilmarnock?]— B;  -    '     ' 


I  know  Thou  wilt  me  hear. 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love 
I  make  my  prayer  sincere. 

The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke. 
Long,  long,  be  pleased  to  spare  I 

To  bless  his  filial  little  flock. 
And  show  what  good  men  are. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 
With  tender  hopes  and  fears. 

Oh,  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys. 
But  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 

Their  hope — their  stay — ^their  darling 
youth. 
In  manhood's  dawning  blush — 
Bless  him,   Thou    God    of  love   and 
truth, 
tTp  to  a  parent's  wish  ! 

Tlie  beauteous  seraph  sister-band, 
With  earnest  tears  I  pray,     [hand — 

Thou  know'st   the    snares    on    every 
Guide  Thou  their  steps  alway  ! 

When  soon   or  late  they  reach  that 
coast. 

O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driven. 
May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost, 

A  family  in  heaven  ! 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR. 

INSCRIBED  TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE, 
ESQ.,    AYE. 

In  the  autumn  of  1786,  a  new  bridge  was  be- 
gtln  to  be  erected  over  the  river  at  Ayr,  in 
order  to  supersede  an  old  structure  which 
had  long  been  found  unsuitab'le,  and  was 
then  becoming  dangerous ;  and  while  the 
work  was  being ' proceeded  witli,  under  the 
chief  magistracy  of  Mr.  Ballantyne,  the 
poet's  generous  patron,  he  seized  the  oppoi^ 
tunity  to  display  his  gratitude  by  inscribing 
the  poem  to  him.  The  idea  of  the  poem  ap- 
pears to  have  been  taken  irom  Fergusson  s' 
"  ^Dialogue  between  the  Plainstanes  and  the 
Causeway  ;"  the  treatme  nt  of  the  subject  is, 
however,  immeasurably  superior  to  the  old- 
er piece,  and  peculiarly  Burns'  own. 

The  simple  bard,  rough  at  the  rustic 
plough,  [bough ; 

Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every 
The  chanting  linnet,   or  the  mellow 
thrush,  [green-thorn  bush ; 

Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the 
The  soaring  lark,  the   perching  red- 
breast shrill. 


POEMS. 


97 


Or  deep-toned  plovers,  gray,  wild- 
whistling  o'er  the  hill  ;  [shed. 
Shall  he,,nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly 
To  liardy  ind^iendence  bravely  bred, 
By  early  poverty  to  hardsliip  steel'd, 
Aid  traiji'd  to  arms  in  stem  Misfor- 
tune's field —  [crimes, 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling 
The     servile,   mercenary     Swiss     of 

rhymes  ? 
Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close. 
With,  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating 
prose?  [rudely  sings, 

No!    though   his    artless    strains    ho 
And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o'er 
the  strings,  {bard. 

He  glows  with  all  the   spirit  of  the 
Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great;  his  dear 
.reward  !  [he  trace. 

Still,  if  some  patron's  generous  care 
Skill'd  in  the  secret,  to  bestow  witii 
grace  i  •  '        [ble  name, 

AVhen  Biallantyae  befriends  his  hum- 
And  hands  the  rustic  stranger  up  to 
fame,  (lioaonl  swells. 

With    heart-felt  throes  his    grateful 
The  god-like:  bliss,  to  give,  alone  ex- 
cels. ^i_ 

'Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their 

winter-hap,'  [won  crap  ; 

And  thack  ^  and  rape  secure  the  toil- 

Potato-bings '  are    snugged    up    frao 

skaith  ■*  [breath  ; 

O'  coming  Winter's  biting,  frosty 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer 

toUs,  [cious  spoils 

Unnflumljer'd  buds  and  flowers'  deli- 
Seai'd  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive 

waxen  pil^,  [the  wealc. 

Are  4oom'd  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er 
The  death  o'  devils,  smoor'd  '  wi'  brim- 
stone reek :  [every  side. 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on 
The  wounded  coveys',  roeling,  Hcatter 

wide ;  [Nature's  tie, 

Th,e  feather'd  field-mates,  boraid  by 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  cjrnagc 

lie :  [bleeds, 

(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless 

deeds  !) 


^Covepni:. 

*  Smofhercd. 


=  Thatch.    '  ITcips.     <  Harm. 


Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow 
springs,  [rings, 

Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert 
Except,  perhaps,  the  robin's  whistling 
glee,  [tree: 

Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half -lang 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny 
days,  [iidontidei  blaze. 

Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide  spreads  the 
While  thicK  the  gossamer  waves  wan- 
ton in  the  rays. 

'Twas  in  that  season,  when  a  simple 

bard, ,  [ward. 

Unknown  and   poor,   simplicity's  re- 

Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of 

Ayr,  [cafe. 

By  whim  inspired,  oi:  haply  prest  wi' 
He  left  his  bed  and  took  his  wayward 

route,  [left  about: 

And  dow;n  by  Simpson's*  wheel'd'  the 
(Wither     impell'd    by  all-directing 

Fate, 
To  witness  wliat  I  after  slmll  narrate; 
Or  penitential  pangs  for  former  sins. 
Led  him  to  rove  by  quondam  Merran 

Dins; 
Or  whetlier,  rapt  in  meditation  high. 
He  wander'd  out,  he  knew  not  where 

nor  why)  [ber'd  two. 

The  drowsy  Dungeon  clockf  had  num- 
And  Wallace  Tower|  had  sworn  the 

fact  was  true :  '  [ing.roar, 

The  tide-swoln  Firth,  wi'  sullen  sounct- 
Throiigh  tlie  still  night  d^isJii'd  hoarse 

along  the  shore.  "  [ee: 

All  else  was  hush'd  as  Nature's  closed 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tower 

and  tree:  [beam. 

The  chilly  frost,^  beneath  the  silver 
Crept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  the  glitter- 
ing stream: 

When,  lo!  on  either  hand  the  listening 
bard,  [heafd;, 

The  clangingsughofwh&tling  wings  is 

Two  dusky  forms  dart  thrjugh  tlie 
midnight  air  [ing  hare; 

Swift  as  the  goog  drives  oa  tne  wheel- 

*  A  noted  tavern  at  the  Auld  Brip  end.— P. 

+  A  clock  in  a  steeple  connected  with  the 
old  jail  of  Ayr. 

t  The  clock  in  the  Wallace  Tower— an 
anomalous  piece  of  antique  masonry,  sur- 
mounted by  a  spire,  which  formerly  stood  in 
the  High  street  of  Ayr. 

§  The  goshawk,  or  falcon. — B. 


BUKNS'  WORKS. 


Ane^n  the  AuM  Biig  his  airy  shape 

uprears7  ' '  '  '-.,,'. 

The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  piers: 
Our  warlOckThymer  instantly  descried 
The  spijtes  that  ovvre  the  Brigs  of  Ayr 
•   preside.  Lfoke, 

(That  bards  are  socond-srghted  is  naa 
And  lien  the  lingoof  the  spiritual  folk; 
Faya,  spunkies,  kelpies,  a',  they  can 

exjplain  thorn,    y  [l^en"  them.) 

.  And  even  the  very  deils^  wiey  brawly 
AUld  Urig  a'ppear'd  o'  ancient  Pictish 
,   race,  „    "      ; 

The  very  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face' 
He  seem'd  as  he  vvi'  Time   li^d   wars- 
.  tied  l»ng,  [bang* 

Yet,  teuglily  doure,'  he  bade  an  unc3 
Now  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new 

coat; 
That  1x0  at  Lon'on  frae  ane  Adams  got; 
Xn's-hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth's 

a  bead, 
Wi'  virls  and  whirlygigiims  at  the  head. 
The  Goth  was  stallung  round  witli  anx- 
-  ious  search,  [arch;— 

Spying  the  time-worn  ilaws  in  every 
It  .dianced  Tiis  new-come  neibor  toolc 
L.hisee,  [he! 

And  e'en  a  vex'd  and  angry  heart  liad 
Wi'  thieveless' sneer  to  sj3  hi?  modish 

mien,  [e'en: — 

He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guid 

-  ATJLD  BBIQ. 

I  doubt nafrien',  ye'U  think  ye're  nae 
sheep-shank,'''  .    [to  bank  ! 

-Ance  ye  were  streekiib"  owre  frae  bank 
But-  gia  ye  be  a  brig  as  aald  as  me — 
Though,  faith,  that  date  I  doubt  ye'U 
never  see —  [a  boddle,'' 

Therell  be,  if  that  date  <iome,  I'll  wad 
Some  fewer  whigmaleeries  in  your  nod- 
dle. 

NEW  DHIQ. 

.-  Auld  Vandal,  yo  bat  show  your  little 
mense,'^  [sense; 

Just  much  about  it,  vd'  your  scanty 
WilLyour  Jioor  iiarrow  footpath  of  a 
/   street — :.  [when  they  meet^- 

jWhere    twa     wheelbarrows    tremble 


"  Well  know.  '  Toughly  obdurate.  »  He 
endured  a  miglity  blow.  °  Spited.  ^^  No 
worthless  thing.  '  "  Stretched.  >'  Bet  a 
doit.  _  "  Civility. 


Your  ruin'd,  formless  bulk  o'  stane  and 
lime,  '  [time  ? 

Compare/  wi'  bonny  ferigs  o'  modem 
There's  men  o'  taste   would  tak  the 
Ducat  Stream,  II  [and  swim. 

Though. they  should  cast  the  Tery  sark 
Bre  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi' 

the  view 
0'  sic  ati  ugly  Gothic  hullras  yon. 

"AULD    BBIG. 

Conceited    gowk  !"  puif' d    up    wi' 
windy  pride!  [and  tide; 

This  mony  a  year  I've  stood  the  flood 
And   though  wi'  crazy  eild'°  I'm  sair 
forfaim,^"  [cairn  I 

I'll  be  a  brig  when  ye're  a  shapeless 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter. 
But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  ye 
better.  .  [rains, 

Wlien  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day 
Wi'    deepening   deluge,    o'erflow    the 
plains,  [brawling  Coil, 

.When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the 
Or.stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil. 
Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his,moor. 
land  course,  [source. 

Or  haunted  Garpalf  draws  his  feeble 
Aroused  by  blusterihg  winds  and  spot- 
ting thowes,  [rowes; 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  snaw-broo 
While  craslring  icej  borne  on  the  roar- 
ing sfate,"                     .     [the  gate;''* 
Sweeps  dams,  and  mills,  ana  brigs  a'  to 
And  from    Gleabudi,**  down  to  the 
Ha,tton-key,f  |-                     [ling  sea — 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd  tumb- 
Then  down  ye'll  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never 
rise  !                             [pouriii^  skies. 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups"  up  to  the 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost. 
That  Architecture's  noble  arTis  lost  I 


"Fool.    I"  Age.       's  Enfeebled.    "Flood. 
19  Way.    ^8  Muiidy  spray. 

II  A  noted  ford,  just  above  the  Auld  Brig.— 
B, 

If  The  Banks  of  GarpM  Water"— one  of  the 
few  places  in  the  West  of  Scotland  wheiE 
those  fancy-scaring  beings  known  by  the 
name  of  ghaists  still  continue  pertinaciously 
to  inhabit.— B. 

**  The  source  of  the  river  Ayr.— B. 

tt  A  small  landing-place  above  the  laree 
key.— B.  '. 


poems; 


'M 


HEW  BRIG. 

Fine   Arcliitectuie,  trowtli,  I  needs 

must  say  o't,  [the  gate  b't! 

The  Loid  be  tliankit  that  we've  tint^" 

Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices. 

Hanging'  witlL  threatening   jut, 'like 

precipices;  [coves, 

O'erarching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring. 
Supporting     roofs      fantastic,     stony* 

groves;  [turc  drest, 

Windows  and  doors,  in  nameless  sculp- 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 
Forms  like  some    bedlam    statuaiy's 

dreain,  [whim; 

The  crazed  creations  of  misguided 
Forms  might  be  worship'd  on  the  ben- 
ded knee;  [free. 
And  still  thesecond  dread  command  be 
Their  lUteness  is hot  found  on  earth,  in 
-  air,  or  sea.  [building  taste 
Manaiajj^  that  would  disgrace  the 
Of  anx«j^ijpaoitre^l»i  bird;  or  beast; 
Fit  only^fQ^a^doited"  monkish  race. 
Or  frosty  maids .  forsworn   the    dear 

embrace;  [notion 

Or  cuifs™  of  later  times  wha  held  the 
That  sullen  gloom  was  "sterling  true 
.    devotion; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  brugh  denies 

protection  !  [with  resurrection  ! 

And   soon  may  they  exjaie,  unhlest 

Am.D  BKIG. 

O  ye,  my  dear-remember'd  ancient 
yealings,'^^  [ed  feelings  ! 

Were  ye  but  here  to  share  mj  wound- 
Te  worthy  proveses,  andmony  a  bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did 
toil  aye  ;    ■  [veeners, 

Ye  da,inty  deacons,  and  ye  douce  con- 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey- 
cleaners  !  [town ; 
Te  godly  councils  wha,  hae  blest  this 
Xe  godly  brethren  o'  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meekly  gae  your  hurdies  to  the 
smiters  ;                       fe^^y  writers  ; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I've  borne  aboon  the 
■  broo,**                                        [or  do  ! 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep 
vexation 


'^  Lost.      ■ 
"  Water. 


'  Stupid.      22  Fools.      "'  Coevals. 


To  see  each  nielancholy  alteration  ; 
Aijd,  agonizing,  curse  the  time  and 
pjace  [race  1 

When  ye  begat  the  base,  degenert^e 
Nae  langer  reverend  men,  their  coun- 
try's glorjr,  [braid  story! 
In  plain  hraid  Scots  hold  forth  a  plaia 
Jira;e  langer  thrifty  citizens  and  douce^'- 
Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  council-;' 
house  ;  [less  gentry j- 
Bnt  staumrel,*' corkey-headed,   grace-- 
The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  coun- 
try ;  [by  barbers. 
Men  three  parts  made  by  tailors  an.d 
Wha  vrtiste  your  weel-hain'd  gea^  on 
-  damn'd  new  brigs  and  harbours  ! 

NEW  BKIG. 

>  Now  hand  you  there  1  for  faith  ye've 
said  enough,  [through ; 

And^uckle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to 
That 's  aye  a  string  auld  d6ited  gray- 
beards  harp  on,  [on. 
A -topic  for  their  peevishness-  to  carp 
As  for  your  priesthood,  I  shall  say  but 

little,  '  -        [tie ; 

Corbies  and  clergy  are  a  shot  right'kit- 
But,    under   favour   o'   your    larger 

beard,  [spared ; 

Abuse  o'  magistrates  might  weel  be 
To  liken  them  fb  your  auld-'warld 

squad, 
I  must  needs  say  comparisons  are  odd. 
In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a 

handle  [dal  ; 

To  mouth  "  a  citizen"  a  term  o'  scan- 
Nae  mair  the  council  waddles  down 

the  street. 
In  all  -the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 
No  difference  but  bulkiest  or  tallest. 
With  comfortable  dullness  in  for  bai- 

last ;     '  [cautiou, 

Nor  shoals  nor  currents  need  a  pilotfs 
For  regularly  slow,  they  only  witness 

motion  ;  [liops  and  Taisins, 

Men  wha    grew  wise    priggin'  owre 
Or  gather'd  liberal  views  iii  bonds  and 

«eisihs,-  [tramp. 

If    haply  Knowledge,  on   a    random 
Had  shored^'themwi' a  glimmer  of  his 

lamp,  [betray'd  them, 

And  would  to  Common  Sense  for  once 


s»  Half-witted.        "e  Exposed. 


100 


BURNS-  WORKS. 


Plain,  dull  Stupidity  stept  kindly  in  to 
'  aid  them. 


What  further  clishmaclaver^'  might 
been  said,  [to  shed; 

Wliat  bloody  war^,  if  sprites  had  blood ! 

No  man  can  tell ;  but  all  before.their 
sigiit, 

A  fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  bright ; 

Adown  the  glittering  stream  theyieat- 
ly  danced ; 

Bright  to  the  moon  their  various  press- 
es glanced ;  [neat. 

They  footed  o'er  the  watery  glass  so 

The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath 
their  feet ;  .,  [rung, 

While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them 

And  sonl-ennbbling  bards  heroic  dit- 
ties sung. 

Oh,  had  M'Lachlan,  Jl  thairm'*  inspir- 
ing sage,  ■  '  [engagei 

Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band 

Wllen  through  bis  dear  straAspeys 
lliey  bore  with  IJighland  rage; 

Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  inelt- 
iog  airs,  ^ 

Tlie  ^o^•cr's  raptured  joys  or  bleeding 
cares;.  ^  [noblej  fired, 

IIow  would  his  Highland  liig*"  been 

And  even  his  matchless  hand,, with 
finer  touch  inspired  !  [appear'dj . 

No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument 

Bnt  all  the  soul  of  Music's  self  _ was 
heard; 

Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part. 

While  -,simple  melody  pour'd  moving 
on  the  heiart. 

The  Genius  of  the  stream  in  front 

,    appears, 
A.venerable  chief  advanced  in  years; 
His    hoary    head    with     water-lilies 

cvown'd,  [bound. 

His.  ■  manly     leg  ^  with    garter-tanglp 
Next  came  the  loveiiest  pair  in  all  the 
■  ring,  -  [with  Spring; 

Sweet  Female •  Beauty _liand  in  hand 
Tlien,  crown'd  with  flowery  hay,  came 
■    Rural  Joy,  ^  .  [eye: 

And^Summer,  vrith  his  fervid-beaming 


"  Palaver.    =«  Cat-gut.    "  Ear. 
. ,  tt  A  well-knowa  performer  of  Scottisji  music 
on  the  violin.— B. 


AlLcheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowing 

horn,  [nodding  com. 

Led  yellow  Autumn,    wreathfed   with 

Tlien  Winter's  time-blcach'd  locks  did 

hoaryshovf : 
By  Hospitality  vrith  cloudless  brow. 
I^ext  foUow'd  Courage,  with  his  •  mar- 
tial stride,'  '  [coverts  hide; 
From  where  the  Feal  §  g  wild-woody 
Benevoleioce,  witli  mild,  beni^ant  air, 
A  female  form  cairie  from  the  towers, 
of  Stair:[|| '    '  [trode. 
Learning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures 
From  smple   Catriue,' their  long-loved 
abode  :"if^                   [a  hazel  wreath. 
Last.  >vhite-robed  Peace,  crowned  with 
To  rustic,  Agriculture  did  bequeath  j 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death; 
At  sight  of  wliom  our  sprites  forgat 
their  kindling  wrath. 


LIXES  ■ 


ON  MEETING  WITH  LOKD  DAER. 

In  1786^  .Professor  Dugald  Stewart,  the  well- 
knowQ  .expounder  of  the  Scottish  system 
of  nie'taphysics,  resided- in' a. villa  at  Catrine; 
on  the'  Ayr,  a  few  miles  from  the  poet's 
farm;  and  having  heard  of  his  astcnishing 
poetical  .productions,  through  Mr.'  Macken- 
zie, a  talented  and --generous  sui^eon.,'jn 
Mauchliiie,  he  inviteq  Burn?  to  dme  with 
him,  accdhipanied  by'  his  medical  friend. 
The '  poet  seems  to  have  been  somewhat 
alarmed  at  the  idea  of  meeting  so  distin- 
guished, a  member-  of  the  literary  world; 
and,. to  incr^a^e  his  embarrassment,  it  h^p- 

gened  that  Lord  Daer,  (son  of  the  Earl  of 
elkirk,)  an  amiable  young  nobleman,  was 
ona  visit  to  thepEofessorat  thetiine,  The 
result,  however,  appears  to  have  been  rath- 
er agreeable  than  othferwise  to  the  poet, 
who  nas  recorded  MS  feelings  on  -the  sul>- 
ject  in  the  following  lines : —     , 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty  third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day  I 
Sae  far  I  sprachled'  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner'd  wi'  a  lord. 


'  Clambered. 
§§  The  poet  .here  alludes  to  Captain  Mont- 
gomery of  Coilsfield— soger  Hugh— afterwards 
twelfth  Earl  of  Eglintott,  whose  seat  of  Coils- 
field  is  situated  on  the  Feal,  or  Faile,  a  tribu- 
tary stream  of  the  Ayr, 

III  A  compliment  to  his  early  patroness,  Mrs. 
Stew.art  oCStair. 

•:«i  A  well-merited  tribute  to  Professor  Du- 
gald  Stewart. 


SOBMg. . 


101 


I've  been  at  drucken  wrijters';  fca,5ts, 
Nay,    heen    oitcli    fou  '  'inang  godly 
:   priests; 

iii;      ..  (Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken  !) 
I've  even  join'd  the  honour'd  jorum 
When  mjghty  squireships  o'  the  quo 
•  :,rum. 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

^  o    ^,  -     .,   ■ 

But.wi'  a  lord  !— ^tand  out,  my  shin: 
A  lord — a  peer— an  earl's  son  i — 
,  Up  higher  yet,  my  bonnet  1 

And,sic  a  lord!— lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
Our  peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a', 
As  1  look-  o'er  my  sonnet. 

Buti  oh  !  for  Hogarth's  magic  power  ! 
To  show  Sir  Bardie's  willyart  glower, - 

And .  liow  he  stared   an  stam- 
mer'd  I 
When  goayan,'  as  if  led  wi'  braiiks,'' 
And  stumpin'  on  his  ploughman  shanks 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd. 

To  Btiaet  good  Stewart  little  pain  is, 
Or  Sowfeia^-sacred  Demosthenes; 

Thinks  I,  they  are  but  men  ! 
But    Burns,   my  lord — -guid  God!  I 

,  doited  !? 
My  kaeeson  ane  anither  knoited,' 
As  f  aultering  I  gaed  ben  I' 

I -sidling  shelter'd  iii  a  nook, 
'And  at  his  lordship  steal't  a  look, 

Like  some  portentous  ome,, ; 
Excaptgood  sense  and  social  g^. 
And  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 
'    I  marked  nought  uncommon. 

I  watch'd  the  symptoms  o'  the  great, 
Tlie  gentle  pride,  the  lordly  state. 

The  arrogant  assuming; 
The.  fient  a  pride,  nae  pride  had  he. 
Nor  sauce,  nor  state,  tliat  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  lordship  I  shall  learn 
Htenceforth  to  meet  with  unconcern 

One  rank  as  weel's  another; 
Nae  honest,  worthy  man  need  care 
To  meet  wi-  noble,  youthful  Daek, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 


,  '^  Bewildened  stare.     'Moving 
stupidly.'      *  Bridle.;    •*■  Became      stupefied. 
*  Knocked.    "^  Into  the  room. 


ADDRESS  TO.  EDINBURGH.    . 

Writing  to  his  friend,  William  Chalmers,  the 

Foet  says  :  "1  enclose  you  two  poems,  which 
have  carded  and  spun  since  I  pa^ed 
Glenbuck.  '  Fair  Burnet '  is  the  heavenly 
Miss  Burnet,  daughter  of  Lord  Monboddo, 
at  whose  house  I  have  had  the  honour  to  be 
more  than  once.  There  has  not  b^en  any- 
thing nearly  like  her  in  all  the  combinations 
of  beauty,  grace,  and  goodness  the  great 
Creator  Sjas  formed,  since  Milton's  Eve  on 
ths- first  diLy  of  her  existence!" 

Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  sestt! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towei-s, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  Legislation's  sovereign  fipwers! 
From  marking  vyildly-Bpatter'd  flowers,  . 

As  on  the  bank^  of  Ayr  I  stray'd,  " 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 
.    I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 

Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden 
tide. 

As  busy  "Trade  his  labour  plies; 
There  Architecture's  noble  pride 

Bids  elegance  and  S|)lendour  rise; 
Here  Justice,  from  her  native  skieaj 

■  High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod; 
There  Learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes. 

Seeks  Science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Thy  sons,  Edina!  social,  kind. 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail; 
Their    views   enlarged,    their    liberal 
rnind. 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale; 
Attentive  still  to  Sorrow's  wail, 

Or  modest  Merit's  silent  claim; 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail  ! 

And  never  dhvy  blot  their  name  ! 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn, 

Gay'as  the  gilded  summer  sky. 
Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn. 

Dear  as  the_  raptured  thrill  of  joy  ! 
Fair  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye. 

Heaven's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine; 
I  see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high. 

And  own  His  work  indeed  divine. 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 
Thy    rough,   rude  fortress    gleams 
afar: 
Like  some  bold  veteran,^  ffray  in  aims, 
"  And  mark'd  vrith  many  a  seamy  scar: 
The  ponderous  wall  and  massy  bar 
Grim-rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock, 
Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war, 
And  oft  repell'd  the  inyader's  shock. 


lOS 


BURNili'  WORKS. 


Witli  awestruck  thought,  afid  pitying 
.  tears,  . 

I  view  that  nobis,  stately  dome. 
Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years, 

■Famed  heroes!  had  their  royal  home: 
Alas!  liow  changed  the  tiines  to  coide! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust! 
Their    hapless    race    wild-wandering 
yoam!  [just. 

Tliough  rigid  law  cries  out,  'Twas 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your 
steps. 

Whose  ancestors,  in  days  cf  yore. 
Through  hostile  ranks  and  rnin'd  gaps 

Old  Scotili's  bloody  lion  bore: 
Even  r  who  sing  in  rustic  lore. 

Haply,  my  sires  have  left  tlieir  shed. 
And  faced  grim  Danger's  loudest  roar, 

Bold-following  where  your  father's 
led!  -      " 

Edina!  Scotia's  darling  seat! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers. 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  Legislation's  sovereign  powers! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flowers, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  1  stray 'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  houour'd  shade. 


THE    POETS  WELCOME    TO  IIIS 
ILLEGITIMATE  CHILD.* 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  feeling  which 

f>rompted  the  composition  of  this  and  simi- 
ar  poems  was  not  that  of  the  reckless  liber- 
tine who  was  lost  to  aU  shame  and  was 
■without -regard  for  the  good  opinion  of  his 
fellows.  Lockhart  hits  the  truth  wl^n  he^ 
says: — "'*To  vavc '  (in  his  own  langliage)' 
'  the  quantum  of  the  sin,'  he  who,"  two  years 
afterwards,  wrote  the  '.Cotter's  Saturday 
Night '  had  not,  we  may  Ije  sure,  hardened 
his  heart  to  the  thought  of  bringing  addi- 
tional sorrow  and  unexpected  shame  to  the 


*  The  subject  of  these  verses  was  the  poet's 
illegitimate  daughter  whom,  in  "  The  Inven- 
tory," he  styles  his 

"  Sonsie,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess." 

She  grew  up  to  womanhood,  vs&  married, 
and  had  a  family,.  Her  death  is  thus  an- 
nounced in  the  Scots  Magaeiney  December  8,- 
1817: — "  Died,  Elizabeth  Burns,  wife  of  Mr. 
John  Bishop,  overseer  at  Polkemmet,  near 
Whitburn.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  cel- 
ebrates Robert  Burns,  and  the  subject  of 
some  of  his  most  beautiful  lines. 


fireside  df  a  widowed  mother.    But  his  falsft/ 
pride  recoiled  from  letting  his  jovial  associ- 
'  ates  guess  how  little  he  was  able  to  drown 
the  \vhispers  of  the  '  still  small  voice;'  and 
the  fermenting  bitterness  oi  a  mind  ill  at  ease 
within  itself  escaped,. (as  may  be  too  often 
traced  in   the  history  of  satirists,)  in    the: 
shape  of    angry  sarcasms  against   others, 
■wbp,  virliatever  their  pri vate.errors  might  be,  ^ 
had  at-feast  (Jone  him  no  wrong.-    It  is  lm-'~ 
possible' not  to  smile  at  one  item  of  consola- 
tion which  Burns  proposes  to  himself   on 
this  Octasion  : — ■■  -^ 

The  mairthey  talk,  I'm-kenn'd  the  better:/ 

.  1    E'en  let  them  clash  J 
.This  is  indeed  a  singular  roanifcst:ition  of 
'  the  last  infirmity  of  noble  mindsj  " 

THOtj's    welcome,  wean !    mishanter' 

fa'  me, 
If  ought  of  thee,  or  of  thy  mammy. 
Shall  ever  danton  me,  or  awe  me. 

My  sweet  wee  lady. 
Or  it  I  blush  when  tlion  shalt  ca'  me 

Tit-taor  daddy- 
Wee  image  of  my  bonay  Betty, 
I  fatherly  will  kiss  and  daut^  thee, 
As  dear  and  near  my  heart  I  set  thee   ^ 

Wi'  as  guid  will, 
-As  a'  the  priests  had  seen  nie  get  tliee 

That's  out  o'  hell. 

What  though  they  ca'  me  fornicator. 
And  tease  my  name  in  kintra  clatter:' 
The  mair  they  talk  I'm  -kenn'd  the 
better. 

E'en  let  them  clash  !' 
An    auld    wife's  tongue's  a  feckless^ 
matter 

T'>  .Tjo  ane  fash.° 

,  .Sweet  fruit  o'  mony  a  merry  dint, 
fMy  funny  toil  is  now^  a'  tint. 
Sin'  thou  came  to  the  warld  asklent,' 

Which  fools  may  scoff  at ; 
In  my  last  plack  thy  part's  be  iu't — 
The  better  half  o't. 

And  if  thou  be  what  I  wad  hac  thee, 
-And  tak  the  counsel  I  shall  gie  thee, 
A  lovin'  father  Til  be  to  thee. 

If  thou  be  spared,    ffliee; 
Through  a'  thy  childish  years   I'll  e© 

And  tliiiik  't  weel  wared. 

Quid  grant  that  thou  may  aye  inherit 
Thy  mither'3  person,  grace,'und  merit. 


'  Misfortune.  =  Fondle.  s  Country  talk 
■•  Gossip.  '  Very  small.  •  Trouble.  '  Irreg- 
ularly. ■ 


-POEMS. 


103. 


And  thy  poor  worthless-daddy's  spirit, 

.  without  his  failiu's, 

'Twill  please  me  mair  to  hear  and  see't, 
Thau  stockit  mailins.^ 


TO  MRS  C , 

ON    RECEIVING  A  WORK   OF    HANNAH 
MORE'S. 

Thoit   flattering  mark  of  friendship 

kind,    ,.,,,;. 
Still  miy  tliy  pages  call  ta  mini 

TJxe  dear,  the  beauteous  donor  I 
Tiiough  sweetly  female  every  part. 
Yet  such  a  head,  and  more  the  heart, 

Does  both  the  sexes  honour. 
She  show'd  her  taste  refined  and  just 

When  she  selected  thee, 
Tet  deviating,  own  I  must, 
For  so  approving  me. 

But  kind  still,  I  mind  still 

The  giver  in  the  gift, , 

I'll  bless  her,  and  wiss  her 

A  friend  above  the  lift.' 


TO  MISS  LOGAN. 

WITH  BEATTIE'S  POEMS  AS  A  NEW- 
TEAR'S  GIFT,  JANl  1,  1787. 
Miss  Susan  Logan  was  the  sister  of  the  Major 
Logan,  to  whom  Burns  wrote  a  rhymed 
epistle.  He  was  indebted  to  both  for  many 
pleasant  hours  when  he  was  suffering  from 
despondency . 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  animal  round  have  driven. 

And  you,   though    scarce    in  maiden 
primfe, 
Are  so  milcli  nearer  heaven.  '  ' 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

Tlve  infant  year  to  hail; 
I  send  you  more  than  India  boasts, 

In  Edwin's  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 
Is  charged,  perhaps,  too  true; 

But  may,  dear  maid,  each  Ipver  prove 
An  Edwin  still  to  y  ou  ! 


VERSES 

INTENDED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BELOW  A 
NOBLE  earl's  PICTURE. 

"  The  enclosed  stanzas,'*  said  the  poet,  in  a 
letter  to  his  patroh,  the  Earl  of  Glencaim, 


I  intended  to  write  bejow  a  picture  or 
profile  of  your  lordship,  could  I  have  been 
so  happy  as  to  procure  one  with  anythine  of 
ahlceaess.'  '         '        "     . 

Whose  is  that  noble,  dauntless  brow  ? 

And  whose  that  eye  of  fire  ?    ,  [mifen 
And   whoso    that    generous    princ61y 

Even  rooted  foes  admire  1 

Stranger,  to  justly  show  that  brow, 
And  mark  that  eye  of  fire,         [tints 

Would  take  His  hand,  whose  vernal 
His  other  works  admire. 

Bright  as  a  cloudless  summer  sun, 
With  stately  port  he  moves;  / 

His  guardian  serapli  eyes  with  awe 
The  noble  ward  he  loves.  >/ 

Among  the  illjistriotis  Scottish"  sons 
That  chief  tliou  mayst  discern: 

Mark  Scotia's  fond  returning  eye- 
It  dwells  upon  Glencaim. 


®  Stocked  farms. 


'Sky. 


TO  A  HAdfGIS. 

ThciJia^isis  adainty  peculiar  to  Scotland, 
though  it  is  supposed  to  be  an  adaptation 
of  a  French  dish..  It  is  composed  of  Mihced 
offal  of  mutton,  mixed  with  meal  and  suet, 
to  which  are  added  various  condiments  -by 
way  of  seasoning,  and  the  whole  is  tied  up 
tightly  in  a  sheep's  stomach,  and  boiled 
therem.  Although  the  inm-cdients  of  this 
dish  are  not  over  inviting,  the  poet  does  not 
far  exceed  poetic.l  license  in  singing  its 
praises.  .We  would  recommend  the  reader 
to  turn  topage  173  of  vol.  i.  of  Wilson's' 
"NocteS  Ambrosianae,"  where  he  will  find 
a  graphic  and  humorous  description  of  a 
monster  haggis,  and  what  resulted'  fro'm 
cutting  it,  up.  y[x  Edinburgh  Literary 
Jourjiai^  1829  ,  madi?  the  fcllowing  state- 
ment:— "  About  sixteen  years  ago  tnei;e  re- 
sided at  Mjiufihliiie  Mr.  Robert  Morrison, 
cabinetmaker.'  He  was  a  great  crony  -of 
Burns',  and  it  was  in  Mr.  Morrison's  house 
that"  the  poet  usually  spent  the  '  mids  o'  the 
day'  on  Sunday,"  It  was  in  this' house  that 
he  wrote  his  celebrated  '  Address  to  a  Hag- 
gis,' after  partaking  liberally  of  that  dish  as 
prepared  by  Mrs.  Morrison." 

Fair  fa' your  honest,  sonsie'  face. 
Great  chieftain  o'  the  puddin'  race  ! 
Aboon  them  a'  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm  :' 
Weel  are  ye  -worthy  of  a  grace 

As  lang  's  my  arm. 

'  Jolly.    5  Small  intestmes. 


'f04 


BURNS'  -WORKS. 


The  grpaning  trencher  there  ye  fill, 
Your  hurdle^  like  a  distant  hill. 
Tour  pin*  wad  help  to  inend  amill  • 

In  time  of  need. 
While  through  yonr  poires  the  dews 
distil.  ' 

Like  fimber  bead. 

His  knife  gee  rustic  labour  dight,' 
And  cut  you  up  wi'  ready  slight. 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 

Like  ony  ditch ; 
And  then,  oh,  what  a  glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin',''  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  and 

strive, 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive. 
Till  all  their  weel-swall'd  kytes  belyve  f 

Are  bent  like  drums  ; 
Then  auld  guidman,  maist  like  tarivc,' 

Bethankit  hums. 

Is  there'  that  owre  his  French  ragoiit. 
Or  olio  that  wad  staw  a  sow,* 
Or  fricassee  wad  make  her  spew' 

Wi'  perfect  scunner,^ 
Looks    down    wi'    sneering,   scornfu' 
view 

On  sic  a  dinner? 

Poor  devil !  see  him  owre  his  trash. 
As  feckless'  as  a  wither'd  rash, 
His  spindle-shank  a  guid  whip-lash, 

His  nieve'"  anit ; 
Through  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

Oh,  how  unfit ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed, 

The    trembling   earth     resounds    his 

tread, 
Clap  luhis  walie  nieve  a  blade. 

He  '11  mak  it  whisslo  ; 
And  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads  will 
sned,'' 

LUte  taps  o'  thrissle. 

Ye  powers  wha  mak  mankind  your 

care. 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare. 


"  ''  Wipe.  '  Smoking.  »  Burst.  "  Pig 
'  Vomit.  «  Loathing.  ...■ »  Pithless.  '»  Fist. 
"  Cut  o«E. 

*  A  wooden-  skewer  with  which  it  is  lifted 
-outond  injo.the.vessel  in  whicltit,i3_cooked. 

•f  Tin  all  their  well-swollen  bellies  by-and- 
by.  ■  -    -        •    .  -    •         .      - 


Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skink^g 
ware'-  .     .  . 

That  jaups"  in-luggjes ;" 
But  if^ye  wish  her  gratefu'  prayfeir, 

Gie  her  a  haggis  1 


PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  WOODS*  ON  HIS  BENE- 
FIT NIGHT,  MOND.\Y,  APRIL-16,  1787. 

When  by  a  generous  public's  kind  ac- 
claim, [fame. 
That  dearest  meed  is  .granted — honest 
When  here  yoUr  favour  is  the  actor's 
lot,  [got; 
Nor  even  the  man  in  private  life  for- 
Wliat  breast  so  dead  to  heavenly  vir- 
tue's glow,                          [f itl  tl^qe  ? 
But  heaves  impassion'd  with  the  grate- 
Poor  is  the  taslc  to  please  a  barbar- 
ous throng,                    [em's  song ; 
It-  needs  no  Siddons'  powers  in  South- 
But  here  an  ancient  nation  famed  afar, 
For  genius,  learning  high,  as  great  in 

war^ — 
Hail,  Caledonia  !  name  for  ever  dear ! 
Before  whose  sons  I'm  honour'd  to  ap- 
pear !  [art^ 
Where  every  science — every  nobler 
That  can  inform  the  mind,  or  mend 
the  heart,  [found. 
Is  known  :  as  gratefaj  natious  oft  have 
Far  as  the  rude  barbarian  marks  the 

bound.  "~ 

Philosophy,  no  idle  pedant  dream. 
Here  holds  her  .search  Ijy  heaven-taught 
Reason's  beam ;  [force. 

Here  History  paints  with  elegance  and 
The  tide  of  Empire's  fluctuating  course; 
Here  Douglas  forms  wfld  ShaSespeare 

into  plan. 

And  Harleyf  rouses  all  the  god  in  man. 

When  weU-form'd  taste  and  sparkling 

wit  unite  [bright. 

With    manly  lore,  or  female  beauty 


'=  Thin  stuff, 
dishes. 


' '  Splashes.      "In  wcoden 


*  Mr.  Woods  had  been  the  friend  of  Fergus- 
son.  He  was  long  a  favourite  actor  in  Edin- 
btirgh,  and  was  himself  a-  man  of  some  poetical 
talent, 

t  Henry  Mackenzie,  author  of  "  The  Man  of 
Feeling.''  -      •  •. 


PdEMS. 


105 


(Beauty,  where  faultless  symmetry  and 

grace, 
'Cstifbttly  charm  us  in  tho  second  place), 
Witness  my  heart,  how  oft  with  pant- 
ing fear,  [liere : 
As.  on  this  night,  I've  met  tliese  judges 
But  still  the  hope  Experience  taught 
to  live,  [give. 
Equal  to  judge — you  he  candid  tOj^pr- 
No  hundred-headed  Riot  hers  we  mest, 
With  decency  and  law  heneath    his 
^feet :                                     '  -  [name; 
Nor  Insolence  assumes  fair  Freedom's 
Like ,  Calbdohians,  you  applaud   or 
.    Ijlamc. 

O  Thou  dread  Povirer  !  wliose  ejnpire- 
l^ving  hatfd  [honour'd  land  ! 

Has  oh,  been  stretcli'd  tp  shield  the 
Strong  may  she  glow  wittiall  her  an- 
cient; fire !  f 
May  every  son  he  worthy  of  his  sire  ! 
Firm  may  she  rise  with  generous  dis- 
dain [.chain  ! 
At    Tyranny^  or.  direr    Pleasure's, 
Still    self  -  d^jmjent   in    Uer    native 
..shore                  '             [loudest  roar. 
Bold  may  s^,  brave -grim  Danger's 
Till  Fate  the  curtain  drops  on  worlds 
to  be  no  more. 


NATURE'S  LAW. 

HUMBLY    INSCnrBBD    TO  GAVIN    HAM-! 
ILTON,    ESQ. 

These  verses  were  first  published  in  Mr.  Pick- 
ering's edition  of  the  poet's  works,  printed 
•  from  the  original  MS.  in  the  poet  s  hand- 
Writing.  They  appear  to  have  been  written 
s^brtlj^  after  "  Bonny  Jean  "  had  presented 
him  with  twins. 

.*'  Great    Nature   spoke — observant   man 
obcy'd."      -  — Pore. 

Let  other  heroes  boast  tiieir  scars,        ■ 

The  marks  of  sturt  and  strife; 
And  other  poets  sing  of  wars, 

The  plagues  of  Imman  life: 
Shame  fa'  the  fun,  wi'  sword  and  gun. 

To  slap  mankind  like  lumber  ! 
■  I  sing  his  name  and  nobler  fame, 

Wna  multiplies  our  number. 

Great  Nature  spoke,  with  air  benign, 

"Go  on,  ye  human  race  ! 
This  lower  world  I  you  resign; 

Be  f;-Uitful  and  increase. 


Tho  liquid  five  of  strong  desire 
I've  potlr'd  it  in  each  bosom; 

Here,  in  this  hand,  does  mankind  stand, 
And  there  is  beauty's  blossom  !" 

The  hero  of  these  artless  strains, 

A  lowly  bard  was  he, 
Who  sung  his  rhymes  in  Coila's  plains. 

With  miokle  mirth  and  glee;    '    •'  ^ 
Kind  Nature's  care  had  given  hife  share 

Large  of  the  flaming  currenff;'' 
And  ail  devout,  ho  never  sought 

To  stem  the  sacred  torrent 

He  felt  the  powerful,  high  behest, 

Thrill,  vital,  thro.ugh  and  through; 
And  sought  a  correspondent  breast 

To  give  obedience  due :  [flowers 

Propitious  Powers  screen'd  the  young 

From  mildews  of  abortion: 
And  lo  !  the  batd,  a  great  reward;  ,  " 

Has  got  a  double  portion !  , 

Auld  cantie-Goil  may  count  tlie  day,    -' 

As  annual  it  returns, 
The  third  of  Libra's  equal  sway,   ' 

That  gave  another  Burns, 
With  future  rhymes,  and  other  times, 

To  emulate  his  sire; 
To  sing  ojd  Coil  in  nobler  style, 

With  more  poetic  fire. 

Ye  powers  of  peace,  and  peaceful  song, 

Look  .down  witli-gl;acious  eyes; 
And  bless-  auld  Coila,  large  and  long. 

With  multiplying  joys; 
Lang  may  she  stand  to:^rop  the  land. 

The  flower  of  ancient  nations; 
And  Buriis'  spring,  her  fame  to  sing. 

To  endless  generations ! 


THE  HERMIT.' 

■WRITTEN  ON  A  MARBLE  SIDEBOARD  IN 
THE  HEKMITAGE  BELONGING  TO  THE 
DUKE  OF  ATHOLE,  IN  THE  WOOD  OF 
ABEBPELDY. 

Whoe'er  thou  art, .  these  lines  now 
reading,  [receding, 

Think  not,   though   ffom  the    wOrld 

I  joy  my  lonely  days  to  lead  in 

This  desett  drear;      [ing, 

That  fell  remorse,  a  conscience  bleed- 
Hath  led  me  here. 


100 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No  tlioiight  of  guilt  my  bosom. sours; 
Pree-will'd  I  fled  from  courtly  bowers; 
For  well  I  saw  in  Lalls  and  towers 
That  lust  and  pride, 
The     arch -fiend's    dearest,     darkest 


powers, 


In  state  preside. 


I  saw  mankind  with  vice  incrusted; 
I  saw  that  Honour's  sword  was  rusted; 
That  few  for  aught  but  folly  lusted; 
That  he  was  still  deceived  w'ho  trusted 

To  love  or  friend; 
And  hither  came,  with  men  disgusted, 

My  life  to  end. 

In  this  Ipne  cave,  in  garments  lowly. 

Alike  a  foe  to  noisy  Wily, 

Aijd  brow-bent  gloomy  melancholy, 

I  wear  away 
My  life,  and  in  my  office  holy 

Consume  the  day. 

This  rook  my  shield,  when  storms  are 

blowing; 
The  limpid  streamlet  yonder  flowing . 
Supplying  drink,  the  earth  bestowing 

Aly  simple  food:  - 
But  few  enjoy  the  calm  I  know  in 
This  desert  wood. 

Content  and  comfort  bless  me  more  in 
This  grot  than  e'er  I  felt  before  in    -^.^ 
A  palace — and  with  thoughts  still  soar- 
ing 

To  God  on  high. 
Each  night  and  morn,  with  voice  im- 
ploring, 

This  wish  I  sigh — 

"Let  me,  0  Lord!  from  life  retire. 
Unknown  each  guilty  worldly  fire, 
Remorse's  throb,  or  loose  desire; 

And  when  I  jdie. 
Let  me  in  tliia  belief  expire — 

'To  God  I  fly." 

Strangej',  if  f^iU  of  youth  and  riot, 
And  yet  no  grief  has  marr'd  thy  quiet, 
Thou  haply  throw'st  a  scornful  eye  at . 

The  hermit's  prayer; 
But  if  thou  hast  good  cause  to  sigh  at 

'Bhy  fault  or  care;  ; 

If  thou  hast  known  false  -love's  veSa^ 

tion,  • 

Or  hast  been  exiled  from  thy  nation, 


Or  guilt  affrights  thy  contempla,tion, . 

And  makes  thee  pine,    ' 
Oh !  how  must  thou  lament  thy  station. 

And  envy  mine! 


SKETCH  OF  A  CHARACTER, 

"This  fragment,"^ says  Burns  to  Dugajd" 
Stewart,-"!  have  not  shown  to  man  living 
till  I  now  send  iifto  you.  It  forms  the  pos- 
tulata,  the  axioms,  the  definitiqn  <pf  a  char-  i 
acter,  which,  if  it  rppear  at.  ^all,  shall  be 
placed  in'ai  vaoety  of  lights.  This  particular 
part  I  send  you  merely  as  a  sample  of  my 
hand  at  portr4it-sketchmg." '  '    ■ 

A  LITTLE,  upright,  pert,  tart,  tripping  ' 

wight,  [lig^t: 

And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  de-  ' 
Who. loves  his  own  smart  sliadov.'  in 
the  streets  [meets: 

Better    than    e'er  the  fairest  she  lie 
A  man  of  fasliion,  too",'  he  made  hii> 
tour       -■  ■■  ^-  '  '    •  ^       [Vumoiir! . 

Learn'd  Vive  la  lagatelle,  et  Vive 
So  travell'd  morikies  their  grimace  im- 
prove, .  .  [love.r 
Polish  their  grin,  nay,  sigh  for  IxtdiGti', ! 
Much  specious  lore,  but  little  under- 
stood: .  ,  ,  .  , 
Veneering  oft  outshines  the  solid  wood : 
His  solid  sense  by  inches  you  must  tell, 
But  mete  his  cunning'  by  the  old  Scots 

"ell;  :^ 

His  meddling  vanity,  a  busy  fiend      ,^ , 
Still    making   work  his  selfish  craft 
must  mend.  '  .... 


VERSES 

OK  BEADING  IN  A  NEWSPAPER  THE 
DEATH  OP  JOHN  M'LKOD,  ESQ.,  BKO- 
THER  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  A  PARTIC- 
ULAR FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR'S.    .    . 

Sad  thy  tale,  thou  idle  page,  -    "' 

And  ruefal'thy  alarms: 
Death  tears  the  brother  of  her  love' 

From  Isabella's  arms.  ,.  ,, 

Sweetly  Cezki  with  pearly  dew       •   - 
Tlie  morning  ro.?e  may  blow; 

But  cold  successive  noontide  blasts 
May  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fair  on  Isabella's  morn 
The  sun  propitious  smiled; 

But,  long  ere  nooii,  succeeding  clouds 
Succeeding  hopes  beguiled. 


-POEMS-* 


107 


Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  chords 
That  nature  finest  strung:  . 

So  Isabella's  heart  was  t'orm'd. 
And  so  that  heart  was  wrung. 

Were  it  in  the  poet's  power, 
Strong  as  he  shares  the  grief 

That  pierces  Isabella's  heart, 
To  give  that  heart  jrelie'f ! 

Dread  Omnipotence  alone 
Can  heal  the  wound  he  gave; 

Caji  point  the  brimful  grief- worn  eyes 
To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Vjjtue's  blosspms  there  shall  blow,    . 
And  fear  nowi^^ierlng  blast; 
■  There  Isabella's?  SB5)tleas  wortili 
Shall  happjfto  St  last. 

ELEGY  ON  THE   DEATH  OF  SIK 

JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR. 

Sir  James  Hunter  Blair,  who  died  in  1787,  was 
a  partner  in  the  eminent  banking  house  of 
Sir  WiUiam  Forbes  &^o.,  of  Edinburgh. 

The  lainp  of  day,  with  ill-preSaging 

glare,  [em  wave; 

Dim,  cloudy,  sunk  beneath  the  west- 

The  inconstant  blast  howl'd  through 

the  darkening  air^  [cave. 

And   hollow  whistled   in  the  rocky 

Lone  as  I  wander'd  by  each  cliff  and 

■    dell,  [royal  train;* 

Oncq  the  loved  haunts  of  Scotia's 

Or  musQd  where  limpid  streams,  once 

hallow'd,  well.f  [fane.J 

Or  mouldering  ruins  mark  the  sacred 

The  increasing  blast  roar'd  round  the 

beetling  rosks,  [starry  sky, 

The  clouds  swift- wing'd  flew  o'er  the 

The  groaning  trees  untimelyshed their 

locks,  [startled  eye. 

And    shooting  meteors  caught  the 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  lh3  livi  i  east. 

And  'mong  the  cliffs  disclosed  a  stately 

form,  [breast. 

In  weeds  of  woe,  that  frantic  beat  her 

And  mix'd  her  wailings  with  the 

raving  storm. 

♦JTJie  King's  Parle,  at  Holyrood  House. 
+  St.  Anthoay.'s  Well. 
i  St.  Anthony's  Chapel. 


WiW  to  niyJieart'the  filial  puljsesglow, 

'Twas  Caledonia's  trophied'  shield  I 

view'd:  '  [Wde, 

Her  form  majestic  droop'd  in  pensive 

The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears 

imbued. 

Reversed  that  spear  redoubtable  in  war. 

Reclined  that  banner,  ^rgt  in  fields 

unfurVd,  ,  [afar. 

That  like  a  deathful   meteor  gleam'd 

And  brayed  the  mighty  monarchs -of 

tlie  wori(i. 

"My'patribf  son    fills    an   untimely 

gravel"-  -'   [she  cried; 

With  acqents  wild  and  HfteiJ  arms 

"'  Low  lies'  the  hand  that,  oft  was 
stretch'd  to  save,    [honest  pride. 

Low  lies  the  heart  that  swell'd  with 

••A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's' 

tear,  ,  .         [phan's  cry; 

The  helpless  poor  mix  with  the  or- 

The  drooping  arts  surround  their  pa' 

tron's  bier,  [heartfslt'sighl 

And    grateful'   ccieneo  'hteaves-  the 

' '  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient 
fire:.  .    .  .,.,,-  [blow: 

I  saw  fair  Freedoiu's  blossbriis  richly 
But  ah  !  how  hope  is  bom  but  to  expire! 
Relentless  Fate  ha§,  l?iLd  their  guard- 
ian-low. ... 


','  My  patriot  falls,  biit  shall  he  lie  un- 
sung, [worthless  name"? 
While    empty    greatness  .  saves  ..a 
No;  every  Muse  shall  join  her  tuneful 
tongue,  ,,■■.  [fame. 
And  future  ages  hear  his  growing 

"  And  'I  will'  join  a  mother's  tender 

•cares,'  [virtues  last; 

Tlirough  future  times  to  make  his 

•That  distant  years  may  boast  ojf  other 

Blairs!"—  [sleeping  blast. 

She    said,  and    vanish'd    with  the 


TO  MISS  FERRIER, 

ENCLOSING  THE   ELEGY  ON    SIR  J.    H. 
BliAIE. 

Nae  heathen  name  shall  I  prefix 

Frae  Pindus  or  Parnassus; 
Auld  Reekie  dings'  them  a'  to  sticks, 

For  rhyme-inspiring  lasses. 

'  'Beats.         ^'  ""'" 


168 


BUIfisrS'-  WORKS. 


Jove's  tOUefu'  dbchters    three   times 
three 

Made  Homer  deep  their  debtor; 
But,  gien  th&  body  half  an  ee, 

Nine  Ferriers  wad  done  better! 

Last  day.  my  mind  was  in  a  bog,. 

Down  Geoi^e's  street  I  stoited;- 
A  creeping,  cauld,  prosaic  fog 

My  very  senses  doited.^ 

Do  what  I  doughl''  to  set  her  free. 

My  saul  lay  in  the  mire; 
Ye  turn'd  a  neuk° — I  saw  your  ee — 

She  took  the  wing  lilce  fire  I 

The  mournf  u'  sang  I  here  enclose. 

In  gratitude  I  send  you; 
And  [wish  and]  pray  in  rhyme  sincere, 

A'  guid  things  may  attend  you. 


LINES 


■WRITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL  OVBK  THE 
CHIMNET-PIECE  IN  THE  PABLOUK 
OF  THE  INN  AT  KENMORE,  TAY- 
MOUTH. 

ADMiBiNa  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace. 
These  northern  scenes  with  weary  feet 

I  trace;  [steep, 

O'er  ihany  a  winding  dale  and  painful 
The  abodes  of  covey 'd  grouse  and  timid 

sheep. 
My  saVage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue. 
Till  famed  Breftdalbane  opens  to  my 

view, —  [divides, 

The  meeting  cliffs  each  deep-sunk  glen 
The  woods,  wild  scatter'd  clothe  their 

ample  sides;  ['mong the  hills. 

The  outstretching  lake,  embosom'd 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement 

fills:  [pride, 

The  Tay,  meandering  sweet  in  infant 
The  palace,  rising  on  its  verdant  side; 
The  lawns,  wood-fringed  in  Nature's 

native  taste;  [liaste; 

The  hillocks,  dropt  in  Nature's  careltes 
The  arches,  striding  o'er  the  new-born 

stream ;  Jliejiui — 

The  village,  glittering  in  the  jK-ioriticlp 

Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell. 


2  Tottered. 
°  Cerncr, 


3  Stupefied.  *  Would. 


Lone  wandering  by  the  hermit's  mossy 
cell:  [woods! 

The    sweeping  -  theatre    of    hanging 
The  incessant  roar  of  headlong' tum- 
bling floods. 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  Heaven- 
taught  lyre,  [tivcfiro; 
And  look  through  Nature  w^th  crea- 
Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  Fate  half -recon- 
ciled,                                   [der  wild; 
Misfortune's  lighten'd  steps  might  wan- 
And  Disappointment,  in  these  lojiely 
bounds,                           [liiig  wounds; 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter  rank- 
Here  heart-struck  Grief  jnight  heaven- 
ward stretch  her  scan,  *    [man. 
And  injured  Worth  forget  and  pardon 


THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF 
BRUAR  WATER.* 

TO  THE  NOBLE  DUIiE  OP  ATHOLE- 

My  lord,  I  know  your  noble  ear 

Woe  ne'er  assails  in  vain; 
Embolden'd  thus,  I  beg  you'll  hear 

Your  humble  slave  complain, 
How  saucy  Phcebus'  scorching^cams. 

In  flaming  summer  pride,    [streams, 
Dry  -  withering,     waste     my     foamy 

And  drink  my  crystal  tide. 

The  lightly-jumpin'  glowrin'  trouts. 

That  through  my  waters  play. 
If,  in  their  random,  Wanton  spouts. 

They  near  the  margm  stray; 
If,  hapless  chance!  they  linger  laiig, 

I'm  scorching  ;ip  so  shallow, 
"They  're  left,   the    whitening    stanes 
amang. 

In  gasping  death  to  wallow. 

Last  day  I  grat  wi'  spite  and  teen, 

As  Poet  Burns  caine  by,  ' ' 

That  to  a  bard  I  should  bo  seen 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry; 
A  panegyric  rhyme,  I  ween. 

Even  as  I  was  ho  shored'  me  ; 
But  had  I  jn  my  glory  been. 

He,  kneeling,  wad  adored  me. 


*  Promised. 
*  Bruar  Falls,  in  Athole,  are  exceedingly 
picturesque  and  .beautiful ;  but  their  effect  is 
much  impaired    by    the  want' of  treea  ioid 
shrubs.— B.  - 


POEMS. 


10» 


Here,  foaming  down  the  sUelvy  rocks, 

Liv  twisting  strength  I  rin  ; 
There,  high  my  boiling  torrent  smokes, 
-  .1  .Wild-roaring  o'er  a  linn  : 
Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well. 

As  nature  gave  tliem  me, 
I  am,  although  I  say  't  mysel, 

Worth  gaun'^  apiilo  to  see. 


Would,  then,  iay,;t^est  mjister  please 

To' grant  my  higliest  wishes, 
He  '11  shade  my   ba|lks  wi'  towering 
trees,      %:ji' "  ' 
And  bonny  spri&ding  bushes, 
Delighted  doublyV'then,  my  lord, 
-    You '11  wander  on  my  banks, 
And  listen  mony  a  grateful.  Ijird 
Return  you  tuneful  tlianks. 

The  sober  laveroclc,"  warbling  wild, 
, .    Shall  to  the  skies  aspire  ; 
The  gowdspink.  Music's  gayest  child, 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir  ; 
The   blackbird  strong,  the    lintwhite 
clear. 
The  mavis^  mild  and  mellow  ; 
The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer. 
In  ^11  her  locks  of  yellow. 

This,  tpo,  a  covert  shall  insure. 

To  shieldthem.  from;  the  storms ; 
And  coward  mauldnai  sleep  secure 

Low  in  their  grassy  fornls  ; 
The    shepherd  here    shall   make  his 
seat. 

To  weave  hig  crown  of  flowers  ; 
Or  find  a  sheltering  safe  retroat 

From,  prone  descending  ajiowers. 

Ari4  -here,  by  sW^eet  endearing  "stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  |SDving  pair, 
Dd^ising worlds  v.ith  all  their  wealtlj. 

As  empty  idle  care.  [charms 

The   flowers    shall    vie    in  all    their 

Tfee  hour  of  heaven  to  grace. 
And  birks  extend  their  fragrant  arms 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 

Here  haply,  too,  at  vernal  dawn, 
_gome  musing  bard  may  stray, 

And  eye  the  smoldng-dewy  lawn, 
Ajjd  misty  mountain  gray  ;■ 

Or,  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam," 
Mild-chequering  through  the  trees, 


,  -  ^  Going.       3,j^ark. 
*  The  harvest  moon. 


*  Thrush.       '  Hares. 


Bave  to  my  darkly-dashing  stream. 
Hoarse  swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool. 

My  Ipwly  baiiks  o'erspread. 
And  view,  deep-bending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows'  watery  bed  1 
LeJ  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn  ;  . ' 

And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest. 

The  close-embowering  "thoA. 

So  may  old  Scotia's  darling  hope, 
,  Your  little  angel  band. 
Spring,  like  their  fathers',  up  to  prop 

Their  honotlir*d'native  land! 
So  may  through  Albion's  furthest  ken, 
.  To  social-flowing  glasses. 
The  grace  be — "  Athble's  honest  men, 
And  Athole's  bonny  lasses !" 


LINES 


■WRITTEN    ■WITH  A  PBNCIl.,    STANmNG 
BY  ■  THE     FALL     OP     ITYEHS,      NEAK 
'     LOCH  NESS. 

Among  the  heathy  hills  and  ragged 

woods  --{floods; 

The, 'roaring  Fyers  pours  .  his  mospy 
Till  full  he  dashes  on  the  rocky  mounds; 
Where,  through  a  shapeless  breach, 

his  stream  resounds,  ■  [flow. 

As  liighlin  air  thie  bursting  torrents 
As  deep-recoiling  surg^  foam  below. 
Prone   clown  the  rock  the  whitening 

sheet- descends,  [rends. 

Ancl  viewless  Echo's  ear,  astonished 
.Dim  seen  thtough   rising  mists  and 

ceafl^J^sa  showers,  [lowers. 

The  hoary  cavern,  wide-surrounding, 
Still,  tliroughthe  gap  the  struggling 

river  toils,  [boils. 

And    still,  below,  the  horrid  caldron 


CASTLE-aORDON. 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains, 
Never  bound  by  Winter's  chains!  • 

Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There- commix'd  with  foulest  stains 

From  tyranny's  empurpled  bands: 
These,  their  richly -gleaming  waves, 
I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves; 
GUve  me  the  stream  that  sweefly  laves 

The  banks  by  Csistle-Gordon. 


110 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


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  SjMil ; 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave. 
Give  me  the  proves  that  lofty  brave 

The  storms  by  Castle-Gordon. 

Wildly  here  witlioilt  control. 
Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole; 

In  that  sober  pensive  mood. 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul,        .  [flood: 

She    plants    the    forest,  pours    the 
Life's  poor  day  I'll  musing  i-ave. 
And  find  at  night  a  sheltering  cavfe. 
Where  waters  flow ,  and'  wild  woods 
wave,  .  , 

By  bonny  Castle-Gordon. 


ON   SCARING   SOME  WATER-. 
FOWL  IN  LOCH  TURIT. 

A  WILD   SCENE   AMONG  THE  HILLS  OF 
OCfttERTYnE. 

Why,  ye  tenants  of  the.  lake, 
For  me  your  watery  haunts  forsake  ? 
Tell  me,  fellow-creatures,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly'! 
Wliy  disturb  your  social  joysj 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties? — 
Common  friend  to  you  and  me. 
Nature's  gifts  to  all  aire  free: 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  lave; 
Or,  beneath -the  sheltering  rock, 
Bido  the  surging  billow's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race. 
Soon,. too  soon,  your  fears. I  trace. 
Man,  yoiir  proud  usurping  foe, 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below  . 
Plumes  himself  in  freedom's  pride. 
Tyrant  stern  to  all  beside. 
The  eagle,  from  the  cliffy  brow, 
Marking  you  his  prey  below. 
In  his  breast  no  pity  dwells. 
Strong  iiecessity  compels : 
Brit  man,  to  whom  alone  is  given 
A  ray  direct  from  pitying  Heaven, 
Glories  in  his  heart  humane — 
And  crqatures  for  his  pleasure  slain, 
In  these  savage,  liquid  plains. 
Only  known  -to  wandering  swains,  - 


Wliere  the  mossy  rivulet  strays,"  ' '' 

Far.  from  human  haunts  and  ways* 

All  on  nature- you  depend'. 

And  life's  poor  season  peaceful  spend. 

Or,  if  man's  superior  might 

Dare  invade  your  native  right. 

On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 

Man  with-  all  his  powers  you  scorn  i 

Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings. 

Other  lakes  and  othjer  springs; 

And  the  foe  you  cannot  bravo 

Scorn  at  least  to  be  Ms  slave. 


TO  MISS  CUUIKSHANK, 

A  VERY  YOUNG  LADY.  '  WEITTEN  ON 
THE  BLANK  LEAF  OP  A  BOOK  PRE- 
SENl'ED  to  HEK  BY  THE  AtTTHOK. 

Thjs  yaung  lady  was  the  subject  of  on^iof  the 
poet's  songs,  "A  Rosebud  by  my  Early 
Walk."  She  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank.  No.  1 30  -  St;'  James'  Square,  Edin- 
burgh,: with  whom  the  poet  resided.-i  for 
some  time  during  one  of  *is  visits  to  Edin- 
burrfi.  "  She  after-wards  became  the  wife  of. 
Mr.  Henderson,  a  solicitor  m  JedbUrgh. 

Beauteous  rosebud,  -young  and .  gay^ 
Blooming  in  thy  eaily  May, 
Never  mayst  thou,  lovely  flower! 
Chilly  shrink  in  sleety  shower  ! 
Never  Boreas'  hoary  path. 
Never  Eurus'  poisonous  breath, 
Never  baleful  stellar  lights. 
Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights ! 
Never,  never  reptile  tliief 
Riot:on  thy  virgin  leaf! ' 
Not  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 
Thy  bosom  blushing  still  with  dew! 

Mayst  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gem. 
Richly  deck  thy  native"  stem ; 
VAIX  some  evening,  sober  calm,        •  - 
Dropping  dews,  and  breathing  balm. 
While  all  around  the  woodland  rings. 
And  every  bird  thy  requiem  sings; 
Thou,  amid  the  dirgefnl  sound, 
Shed  thy  dying  honours  round,        . 
And  rejagn  to  parent  earth  :<-^i 

The  loveliest  form  she  e'er  gave  birth. 


POETICAL  ADDRESS  TO  ME.  WIL. 
LIAM  TYTLER. 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  THE  BARD'S 
'PICTURE. 

William  Tytler,  Esq.,  of  Woodhouselee,  to 
whom  ■  these"  lines  were  "addressed;  wrote  a 


POEMS. 


■Ill 


work  in  defence  of  Maty  (Jueen  of  Scots, 
and  earned  the  gratitude  ofBurns,  who  had 
allapoet's  sympathies  for  the  unfostunate 
and  beautiful  pueen.  Mr.  Tytler  wasgrand- 
1. father -to  Patricic  Fraser  Tytler,  the  author 
of  "  The  History  of  Scotland." 

Eevbkbd  defender  of  beauteotiis  Stu- 
art, 
Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respeotedj — 
A  name  wliicli  to  love  was  the  mark  of 
a  true  heart. 
But  now  'tis  despised  and  neglected. 

Though  soraetliiog  like  moisture  con- 

globe® in  my  eye, 

Let  no  one  misdeem  me  disloyal ; 

A  poor  f  rieudloss  wanderer  may  vv-cll 

claim  a  sigli,  [royal. 

Still  more,  if  that  wanderer  were 

My  fathers  that  name  have  revered  on 
a  throne ; 

.My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 
Those  fathers  would  spurn  their  degen- 
,  erate  son,  ._    {slight  it. 

That    name    should    he    scoffingly 

StiEin  prajrers  for  King  George  I  most 
heartily  join,  . 

The  queen  and  the  res  t  of  the  gentry ; 
Be  they  wise,  be  they  foolish,  ij  noth- 
ing of  mine — 
Their  title's  avow'd  by  my  country. 

But  why  of  this  epocha  make  such  a 

BiSS 

Th^  gave  us  the  Hanover  stem ; 

If  br^glng  them  over  was  lucky  for  us, 

1  'm  sure  'twas  as  lucky  for  them". 

But,  loyalty,  trace  !  we  're  on  danger- 
ous'ground,  [alter  ? 
Who  kriows  how  the  fashions  may 
The    doctrine    to-day  that  is    loyalty 
sound, 
To-morrow  may  bring  us  a  haltter. 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  a  head  of  a  bard, 
A  trifle  scarce  worthy  your  care  : 

But  accept  it,  good  sir,  as  a  mark  of  re- 
gard. 
Sincere  as  a- saint's  dying  prayer. 

Now  life's  chilly  evening  dim  shades 

on  your  eye, 

And  ushers  the  Ion";  dreary  night : 

But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart 

gilds  the  sky. 

Your  coui:se  toj  the  latest  is  bright. 


ELEGY  OX  THE  DEATH  OF  BOB- 
ERT  DUNDAS,  ESQ.,^0P'ARn1S- 
TON,* 

LATE  LOKD  rRESIDBNT  OF  THE  OOtTRT 

OF   SESSION. 

In  a  letter  to  Dr.  Geddes,  Burns  tells  the  fate 
of  this  poem,  and  niakes  his  own  comment : 
— ''  The  following  elegy  has  some  tolerable 
lines  in  it,  but  the  incurable  wound  of  my 
pride  Will  not  suffer  me  to  correct,-  or  even 
peruse,  it.  I  sent  a  copy  of  it,  with  my  best 
prose  letter,  to  the  son  of  the  great  man,  the 
theme  of  the  piece,  by  the  hands  of  one  ol^, 
the  noblest  men  in  God's  world — Alexander 
Wood,  surgeon.  When,  behold  !  liis  solicit- 
orship  took  no  more  notice  of  liiy  poem  or 
me  than  .if  I-had  been  a  strolliqg  fiddler  whd 
liad  made  free  with  his  lady's  name  over  a 
silly  new  reel !  Did  the  gentleman  imagine 
that  I  looked  for  any  dirty  gratuity  !" 

Lone  on  the  bleaky  hills  the  straying 
flocks  '     [tering  rocks ; 

Shun  the  fierce  storms  among  the  sliel- 
Down  foam  the  rivulets,  red  with  dash- 
ing rains  ;  [tant  plains,; 
The  gathering  floods  burst  o'er  the  dis- 
Beneath  the  blast  the  leafless  forests 

groan  ;  , 

The  hollow  caVes  return  a  sullfen  moan. 

Ye  hills;  ye  plains,  ye  forests,  and  ye 
caves,       ,  '  [waves  ! 

Ye  howling  winds,  and  wintry-swelling 
Unheard,  unseen,  by  human  ear  or  eye. 
Sad  to  your  sympathetic  scenes  I  fly; 
Where,  to  the  wliistling  blast  and  wa- 
ter's roar  -  '  [plore. 
Pale  Scotia's  recent  wound  I  may  de- 
Oh  heavy  loss,  tliy  country  ill  could 

bear  ! 
A  loss  these  evil  days  can  ne'er  repair  ! 
Justice,  the  high  vicegerent  of  her  God, 
Her  doubtful  balance  eyed,  and  sway'd 

her  rod ;  -  -  ^ 

She  heard  the  tidfngs  of  the  fatal  blow. 
And   sunk,  abandon'd  to  the  wildest 


Wrongs,  injuries,  from  many  a  daA- 

somo  den,  [men : 

Now  gay  in  hope  explore  the  paths  of 

See,  from  his  cavern,  grim  Oppression 

rise. 


*  Elder  brother  to  Viscount  Melville,  born 
17(3,  appointe'd '  President  in  1760,  and  died 
Deeenatrer'is,  1787,  after  ashort  illness 


113 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  throve  on  Poverty' liis.  cruel  eyes  ; 
Keen  on  the  lielpless  victim  see  him 
■"fly,-    ■     •     ■•'  ,      _  [Cfy. 

And  stifle,  dark,  tlio  feebly-bursting 

Mark  ruffian  Violence,  diatained  with 
crimes,        ■  '  [times ; 

Bousing- elate    in- these ^  degenerate 
View  unsuspecting  Innocenioe  a  i)rey, 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  c^ri-inrj 

way : 
While  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Eight 
•    and  Wrong  :  [listen'd  tale. 

Hark!  injured  Want,  recounts  tli'  iiu- 
And  much-wrong'd  Misery  pours  the 
unpitied  wail ! 

Ye  dark  waste  hills,  and  brown  un- 
sightly plains,  r.'.         . .      .    [strains  : 
trb.  yoii    I    sing  'my    grief  -  mspired 
Ye  tempests,  rage  !  yo  turbid  torrents, 

roll  !  .  . 

Ye  suit  the  joyless  tenor  of  my  soul, 
life's  social  liaunts  and  pleasures  I  re- 
sign, [ings  mine. 
Be  naiiieless  wilds  and  ■  lone  wander- 
To  mourn  the  v^oes  my  country  must 
■  endure,  [cure. 
That   wound  degenerate  ages  cannot 


TO  CLAEINDA, 

ON  THE  POET'S  LEAVING  EDINBTJBGH. 

The  maiden  name  of  Clarinda  was  Agnes 
Craig.  At  -  the  time  Bums  made  ■  her  ac- 
quaintance she  was  the  wife  of  a  Mr.  M'Le- 
hose,  from,  whom  she  had  been  separated 
on  account  of  ineoinpatibility  of  temper, 
etc.  _  She  .seems  to  have- entertained  a  sin- 
cere affection  for  the  poet.  Burns,  who  was 
always  engaged  in  some  affair  of  the  heart, 
seems  to  have  been  much  less  sincere.  His 
letters  to  her  are  somewhat  forcjcd  and  stilt- 
ed, and  contrast  verjt  .unfavourably  with 
those  of  hers,  which  have  been  preserved. 
He  soon,  fcfrgot  her,  however,  to  her  great 
regret  and  mortification.  She  was  beautiful 
and  accomplished,  and  a  poetess.  (See  jirc- 
iatpry  note  to  Letters  to  Clarinda.)  Burns 
thus  alludes  to  bn'e  of  her  prodiictiona ; — 
"  Your  last  verses  to  me  haye  s©  delighted 
me.that  I  have  got  an,e5cellent.old  Scots  air 
that  -suits  the,  measure,  and  you  shall  see 
them  inpnntin  the  Scots  JSTusUaLMvsfm^ 
a  work  publishing  by  a  friend  of  mitfediL. 
this  town.  The  air  is  '  The  Banks  oi  Spey,' 
andls  most  beautiful."  r  want 'four  stanzas 
— you  gave  me  but  three,  and  one,  of  them 
alluded  to  an  expression  in  my  former  let- 
ter: 50  I  have  taken  your  first  two  verses. 


with  ■»  slight 'altei^tion  in  the  second,  aftd 
'  have  added  a  third ;  .but-you  must  help  me 
to  a  fourth.  Here  they  arc  ;  the  latter  half 
of  the  first  stanzaveould  have  been  worthy 
of  Sappho  ;  I  am  in*raptures  wfth  it: — 

"  '  Talk  not  of  Xove;  it  gives  me  pain. 
For  love  has  been  my  foe  ;      ,  .  .  - 
He  boundme  with  an-ircm  chain. 
And  plunged  me  deep  in  woe. 

" '  But  friendship's  pure  and  lasting  joys 
My  heart  was  lorm'd  to  prove  ; 
There,  welcome,  win,  and. v/car  the  prize. 
But  never  talk  of  Love. 

'^ '  Your  friendship  much  can  mal:e  me  b'.est. 
-Oh  !  why- that  bliss  destroy? 
Why  urge  the  .odious  [j^nlyl.jone  request 
.  You  know.  I  oust  twill]  deny  ?'  '  ■ 

"  P.S. — What  v/ould  you  think  ol  this  for  a 
fourth  stanza  ? 

"  '  Your  thoti^ht,  if  Love  must  harbour  there, 
.  Conceal  it  in  that  thought ; 
Nor  cause  mc-from  my  bosom  tear 
The  very  friend  I  sought.'  ' 

These  verses  are  inserted  in  the  second  vol- 
ume of  the  Musical  Museum.  ' 

Clarinda,  mistress  oi'my  sovil. 

The  measured' time  is  tan  ! 
The  wretch  beijeath  the  dreary  pole,     > 

So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cavo  of  frozen  night 

Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie  ? 
Deprived  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, . 

'I'he  sun  of  all  his  joy  ! 

We  part — ^but,-  by  these  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  I ' 
No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 

Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 
,    Has  blest  my  glorious  day; 
And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
•My  worship  to  its  ray  'I  * . 


TO  CLARINDA. 

WITH  A  PEKSENT  OP  A  PAIR  OF  DRIl^K- 

IKS-GLASSES.  :' 

Fair  empress  of  the  poet's  soul. 

And  queen  of  poetesses; 
.Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon. 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses. 

And  flu  them  lligh  with  generous-  juice, 

As.generous  as  your  mind; 
And  pledge  me  in  the  generovis  toast — 

"The"  whole  df  human  kiad  !" 


POEMS. 


113 


'.'  To  those  tliat  lovo  us  1"— second  fill; 

But  not  to  those  whom  we  love; 
Lest  we  love  those  who  lovo  not  us  ! 

A.  third — "  To  thee  and  me,  love  I" 

Long  may  we  live  !  long  may  wo  love  I 
And  long  may  we  be  happy  I 

And  never  may  we  want  a  glass 

Well  charged  with  generous  nappy  ! 


TO  CLAEINDA. 
Before  I  saw  Clarinda's  face. 

My  heart  was  blithe  and  gay. 
Free  as  the  wind,  or  feather'd  race 

That  hop  from  spray  to  spray. 

But  now  dejected  I  appear, 

Clarinda  proves  unkind; 
I,  sighing,  drop  the  silent  tear, 

But  no  relief  can  find. 

In  plaintive  notes  my  tale  rehearses 
When  I  the  fair  have  found; 

On  every  tree  appear  my  verses 
That  to  her  praise  resound. 

But  she,  ungrateful,  shuns  my  sight, 

My  faithful  love  djSdains, 
My  vows  and  tears  her  scorn  excite — 
"  Anbther  happy  feigns. 

^h,  though  my  looks  betray, 

I  envy  your  success; 
Yet  love  to  friendship  shall  give  way, 

I  cannot  wish  it  less._ 


TO  CLARIXDA. 
"  I  BiniN,  I  burn,   as  when  -i(hrough 

ripen'd  corn,  [are  borne!" 

By  driving  winds,  the  crackling  flames 
Now  maddening  wild,    I  ,ciir=ie   that 

fatal. night;  [my  guilty  sight. 

Now  bless  the  ,  hour  wliich  charm'd 
In  vain  the  "laws  their   feeble   force 

oppose;  [vanquish'd  foes: 

Chaiu'd  at  his  feet  tliey  groan  Love's 
In  vain '  lieligion  meets  my  shrinking 

eye; 
I  dare  not  combat — ^but  I  turn  and  fly: 
Conscience  in  vain  upbraids  the  unhal- 

low'dflre;  [expire; 

Love  grasps  its  ocorpion*-— stifled  they 
Eeason  drops  headlong  from  his  sacred 

throne. 


Your  dear  idea  reigns,  and  reigns  alone; 
Each    thought     intoxicated     homage 

yields. 
And  ripts  wanton  in  forbidden  fields  ! 

By  all  on  high  adoring  mortals  know  ! 
By  all  the  conscious  villain  fears  belowl 
By  your  dear  self  !— the  last  great  oath 

I  swear-;— 
Nor  life  nor  soul  was  ever  half  so  dear  f 


LINES 


WBITTEN   IN  FBIABS    CAIiSii!  HERMIT- 
AGE, ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  NITH. 
{First  Version^ 

Bmns  thought  so  well  of  this  poem,  that  he 
preserved  both  copies.  The  first  was  writ- 
tea  in  June,  1783.  The  MS.  of  the  amended 
copy  is  headed,  "  Altered  from  the  forego- 
ing^, in  December,  1788.""  The  hermitage  in 
which  these  lines  were  written  wa&  on  the 
property  of  Captain  Riddel  of  Friars'  Carse, 
a  beautiful  house  wiiH  fiHe  gr6unds,a  mile 
above'  EUisland.  .  One  of  the  many  kindly 
favours  extend  to  the  poet  by  Captain  Rid- 
del-and  his  accomplished  lady  was  the  per- 
hiissi'oh  to  wairid'er  at  ■  will  ill'  the  beautiful 
.grounds  of  Friars'  Carse.  The  first  six  lines 
were  graveti  with  a  diamoiid  on  a  pane  of 

,    glass  in  a  window -of  the  hermitage. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed. 
Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole. 
Grave  these  maxims  on  thy  soul: —  ' 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most. 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 
Day,  Jiow  rapid  in  its  flights- 
Day,  how  few  must  see 'the  night; 
Hope  not  sunshifle  every  honr. 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 
Happiness  is  but  a  name. 
Make  content  and  ease  thy  aim; 
Ambition  is  a  meteor  gleam  ; 
Fame  an  idle,  restless  dream  : 
Pleasures,  insects  on  the  wing. 
Round  Peace,  the  tenderest  flower  of 

Spring! 
Those  thp,t  sip  the  dew.  alone. 
Make  the  butterflies  thy  own  ; 
Those  thai;  would  the  bloom  devour, 
Crush"  the  loouists — save  the  flower. 
For  the  future  be  prepared. 
Guard  whatever  thou  canst  guard  : 
But,  thy  utmost  duly 'done, 
AVelcome  what  thou  canst  not  shun. 
Follies  past  give  thou  to  air. 


114 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Make  tlieir  consequence  thy  care  : 
Keep  the  name  of  man  in  mind, 
And  dishonour  not  thy  kind. 
Reverence  with  lowly  heart 
Him  whose  wondrous  work  thou  art ; 
Keep  His  goodness  still  in  view, 
Tliy  trust — and.  thy  example,  too. 

Stranger,  go  !  Heaven  be  thy  guide. 
Quoth  the  Beadsman  on  Nithside. 


LINES 


WMTTEN  IN  miABS'   CAKSE    HERMIT- 
AGE, ON  NITHSIDE. 

(Second  Version.) 

Thou  whoin  chance  may  hither  lead. 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed. 
Be  thou  deckt  in  siUien  stole, 
Urave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul  : — 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most, 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ; 
Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

As  -  Youth  and  Love,  with  sprightly 

dance. 
Beneath  tliy  moniingrstar  advance. 
Pleasure,  with  her  siren  air. 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair  ; 
Let  Prudence  bless  Enjoyment's  cup. 
Then  raptured  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high. 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh. 
Dost  tliou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  summits    wouldst  thou 

scale  ? 
Clieck  thy  climbing  step,  elate. 
Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait : 
Dangers,  eagle-pinion'd,  bold. 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold, 
While  cheerful  Peace,  with  linnet  song, 
Qiants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  evening  close. 
Beckoning  thee  to  long  repose  ; 
As  life  itself  becomes  disease, 
Seelt  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  high  or  low  1 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 
Wast  thou  cottager  or  king? 
Peer  or  peasant  V — no  such  thing  ! 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 
Or  frugal  Nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 
The  smile  or  frovm  of  awful  Heaven 
To  Virtue  or-  to  Vico  is  given. 
Say,  "  To  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wisei- 
There  solid  Self-enjoyment  lies; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile  and  base."  " 

Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 

To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep; 

Sleep,  whenc3  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake. 

Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break. 

Till  future  lif c^f uture  no  more — 

To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore,        ' 

To  light  and  joy  unknown  before! 

Stranger,  go!  Heaven  be  thy  guide! 
Quoth  the  Beadsman  of  Nithside. 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE 
DEATH  OF  HER  SON. 

The  poet  says: — "  '  The  Mother's  Lament' 
was  composed  partly  with  a  view  to  Mrs._ 
Ferg«|feon  of  Craigdarroch,  and  partly  to  the" 
worthy,  patroness  of  my"  early  unknown 
muse;  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Alton."  It  was  also 
inserted  in  the  Ah'isicai Museum^xo  the  tune 
of  *'  Finlayston  House." 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sped, 

And  pierced  my  darling's  heart ; 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 

Life  can  to  me  impart. 
By  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops. 

In  dust  dishonour'd  laid; 
So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes. 

My  age's  future  shade. 

The  mother-linuet  in  the  brake 

Bewails  her  ravish'd  young; 
So  I,  for  my  lost  darling's  sake. 

Lament  the  live-day  long. 
Death,  oft  I've  fear'd  thy  fetal  blow, 

Now,  fond,  I  bare  my  breast. 
Oh,  do  thou  kindly  lay  me  low 

With  him  I  love,  at  rest! 


POEMS. 


118 


ELEGY  0:X  THE  YEAR  1788. 

A   SKKTCn. 

Cunningham  says : — "  Truly  has  the  plough- 
man bard  described  the  natures  of  those 
illustrious  rivals,  Fox  and  Pitt,  under  the 
similitude  of  the  *  birdie  cocks,'  Nor  will 
the  allusion  to  the  '  hand-cuffed,  muzzled, 
hali -shackled  regent '  be  lost  on  those  who 
remember  the  alarm  into  which  the  nation 
was  thrown  by  the  king's  illness." 

Foalords  or  kings  I  dinua  mourn, 

E'en  }et  tliem  die — for  tliat  they're 

-   born! 

But  oil!  prodigious  tareflec'l 

A  towmont,'  sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck! 

0  Biglity-eigkt,  in  tliy  sma'  space 

What  dire  events  kae  talcen  place  I 

Of  wkat  enjoyments  thou  hast  reft  us! 

I'-  what  a  pickle  thou  hast  left  us! 

'ike  Spanish  empire's  tint'  a  head, 
And  my  auld  teethless  Bawtie's'  dead; 
The  tulzie's^  sair  'tween  Pitt  and  Fox, 
And  our  guid wife's  wee  birdie  cocks; 
The  tane  is  game,  a  bluidy  devil. 
But  to  the  hen-birds  unco  civil; 
The  tither's  something  dour  o'  treadin', 
But  better  stuff  ne'er  claw'd  a  midden. 

Ye  ministers,  como  mount  the  pu'pit. 
And  cry  till  ye  be  hoa,rse  and  roopit, 
For  Eighty -eight' he  wish'd  you  weel. 
And  gied  you  a'  baith  gear'  and  meal;' 
E'en  mony  a  plack,  and  mony  a  peck. 
Ye.  ken  yoursels,  for  little  feck  1" 

Ye  bonny  lasses ,  dighf  your  een. 
For  some  o'  you  hae  tint  a  frieu'; 
In  Eighty-eight,  ye  ken,*  was  ta'en 
What  ye'U  ne'er  hae  to  gie  again. 

Observe  the  very  nowte'  and  sheep, 
•  How  dowf  and  dowie'"  now  they  creep; 
\Nay,  even  the  yirth  itsel  does  cry, 
-For  Eriibragh  wells  are  grutten"  dry. 

O  Eighty-nino,  thou's  but  a  bairn. 
And  no  owre  auld,  I  hope  to  learn  ! 
Thou  beardless -boy,  I  pray  tak  care, 
Tho'u  now  hast. got  thy  daddy's  chair, 
Nae  hand-cufE'd,  muzzled,  half -shack- 
led regent, 
But  likehimsel,  a  full, "free- agent. 
Be  sure  ye-f olio w  out  the  plan 


'  Twelvemonth.        .  '  tost.  .'  His  dog. 

■*  Fight.  5  Goods;    «  Work.  '  Wipe.    »  Know. 
"Cattle.  '"Pithless  and  low  spirited.  "Wept. 


Nae  waur"  than  he  did,  honest  man  ! 
As  muckle  better  as  you  can. 
Jim.  I,  1789. 


TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL  OP  GLEN- 
KIDDEL. 

EXTEMPOBB  LINES    ON    KBTURNING  A 
NEWSPAPEB. 

The  newspaper  sent  contained  some  sharp 
strictures  on  the  poet's  works, 

Ellisland,  Monday  Evening, 

YoDB  news  and  review,  sir,  I've  read 

.    through  and  througli,  sir. 

With  little  admiring  or  blaming; 

The  papers  are  barren  of  home  news  or 

foreign,  [ing. 

No  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  nam- 

Our  friendi;tiie  reviewers,  tliose  chip- 

pers  and  bewers. 
Are  judges  ofSajortar  and  stone,sir; 
But  -of  me,e,t    or   umaeet,  in  a  fabric 

complete, 
I  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  sir. 

My 'goose-quill  too  rude  is  to  tell  all  your 

goodness 

Bestow'd  on  your  servant  the  poet; 

Would  to  God  I  had  one  like  a  beam 

of  the  sun,  [know  it  I 

And  then  all  the  world,  sir,  should 


ODE: 


SACKED  TO  THE  MEMORY  03" 
MRS.    OSWALD. 

The  origin  of  this  bitter  and  not  very  credit- 
able efEusion  is  thus  related  by  the  poet  in  a 
letter  to  Dr.  Moore  : — "  The  enclosed  '  Ode' 
is  a  compliment  to  the  memory  of  the  late 
Mjs.  Oswald  of  Auchincruive,  You  prob- 
ably knew  het  personally,  an  honour  which 
I  cannot  boast,  but  I  spent  my, early  years 
in  her  neighbourhood,  and  among  her  ser- 
vants and  tenants.  I  know  that  she  was  de- 
tested with  the  most  heartfelt  .cordiahty. 
However,  in  the  particular  part  of  her  con- 
duct which  roused  my  poetical  wrath  she 
was  much  less  blamable.  In  January  last, 
on  ray  road  to  Ayrshire,  I  had  to  put  up  at 
Bailie  Whigham's  m  Sanquhar,  the  only 
tolerable  inn  in  the  place.  The  frost  was 
keen,  and  the  grim  evening  ^nd  howling 
wind  were  ushering  in  a  night  of  snow  and 
drift.    My  horse   and   1  were  both  much 


»  Worse. 


116 


BURNB*  WORKS. 


fatigued  with  the  labours  of  the  day ;  and 
just  as  my  friend  the  bailie,  and  I  were  bid- 
ding defiance  to  the  storm,  over  a  smoking 
bowl,  in  wheels  the  funeral  pageantry  of  the 
late  Mrs.  Oswald  ;  and  poor  I  am  forced  to 
brave  all  the  terrors  of  the  tempestuous 
night,  and  jade  my  horse — my  young  favor- 
ite horse,  whom  I  had  just  christened 
Pegasus — further  on,  through  the  wildest 
hills  and  moors  of  Ayrshire,  to  New  Cum- 
nock, the  next  inn.  The  powers  of  poesy 
and  prose  sink  under  me  when  I  wquld  de- 
scribe what  I  felt.  Suffice  it  to  say  that, 
when  a  good  tire  at  New  Cufanock  had  so 
far  recovered  my  frozen  sinews,  1  s&t  down 
and  wrote  the  enclosed  '  Ode.' "  The  poet 
lived  to  think  more  favourably  of  the  name  : 
one  of  his  finest  lyrics, ''  Oh,  wat  ye  wha's 
in  yon  town,"  was  written  in  honour  of  the 
beauty  of  the  succeeding  Mrs.  Oswald. 

Dweller  in  yon  dungeon  dark. 
Hangman  of  creation,  mark  ! 
Who  in  widow- weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unhonour'd  years. 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse. 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ! 


View  the  wither'd  beldam's  face — 
Can  thy  keen  inspection  trace     [grace? 
Aught    of   humanity's    sweet  melting 
■  Note  that  eye,  'tis  rheum  o'erflows. 
Pity's  flood  there  never  rose. 
See  these  hands',  ne'er  stretch'd  to  save, 
Hands  that  took — but  never  gave. 
ICeeper  of  Mammon's  iron  chest, 
Lo,     there    she    goes,     unpitied    and 
unblest —  [lasting  rest ! 

She  goes,  but  not  to  realms  of  ever- 

ANTISTROPHK 

Plunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 
(A  while  forbear,  ye  torturing  fiends:) 
Seest  thou  whose  step,  unwilling  hither 
bends  ?  [skies ; 

No  fallen    angel,    hurl'd  from   upper 
'Tis  thy  trusty  quondam  mate, 
Doom'd  to  share  thy  fiery  fate. 
She,  tardy,  hellward  plies. 

EPODE. 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail, 

Ten  thousand  glittering  pounds  a  year  ? 

In  other  worlds  cau  Mammon  fail, 

Omnipotent  as  he  is  here  V 

Oh,  bitter  mockery  of  the  pompous  bier, 

"While  down  the  wretched  vital  part  is 

driven  !  [science  clear, 

The  cave- lodged  beggar,  witli  a  con- 
Expires  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to 

heaven. 


TO. JOHN  TAXLOR. 

"  The  poet,"  says  a  correspondent  of  Cunning- 
ham s,  "  it  seems,  during  one  of  his  journeys- 
over  his  ten  parishes  as  an  exciseman,  .had 
-arrived  at  Wanlockhead  on  a  winter^4ay, 
when  the  roads  were  sHppery  with  ice,  and 
Jenny  Geddes,  his  mare,  icept  her  feet  with 
difficulty.  Tlie  blacksmith  of  the  place  was 
busied  with  other  pressing  matters  in  the 
forge  and  could  not  spare  time  for  'frosting* 
the  shoes  of  the  poet's  mare,  and  it  is  likely 
he  would  have  proceeded  on  his^dangerous 
journey,  had  he  not  bethought*  himself  of 
propitiating  the  son  of  Vulcan  iwith  verse. 
He  called  for  oen  and  ink,  wrote  these 
verses  to  John  Taylor,  a.  person  of  influence 
in  Wanlockhead  ;  and  when  he  had  done,  a 
gentleman  of  the  .name  of  Sloan,  who  ac- 
companied him,  added  these  words: — 'J. 
Sloan's  best  compliments  to  Mr.  Taylor,  and 
■it  would  be  doing  him  and  the  Ayrshire 
bard  a  particular  favour,  if  he  would  oblige 
them  instanter  with  his  agreeable  company. 
The  road  has  been  so  slippery  that  the  ridei^ 
and  the  brutes  w«re  equally  in  danger  of 
getting  some  of  their  bones  broken.  For 
uie  poet,  his  life  and  limbs  are  of  some  con- 
sequence to  the  world  ;  but  for  poor  Sloan, 
it  matters  very  little  what  may  become  of 
him.  The  whole  of  this  business  is  to  ask 
the  favour  of  getting  the  horses'  shoes 
sharpened.'  On  the  receipt  of  this,  Taylor 
spoke  to  the  smith,  the  smith  flew  to  his 
tools,  sharpened  the  horses'  shoes,  and,  it  is 
recorded,  lived  thirty  years  to  say  he  had 
never  been  '  weel  paid  but  ance,  and  that 
was  by  the  poet,  who  paiti.him  in  money, 
paid  hin^n  drink,  and  palS  him  in  Verse.' '' 

With  Pegasus  upon  a  day, 

Apollo  weary  flying, 
Through  frosty  hills  the  journey  lay. 

On  foot  the  way  v*'as  plying. 

Poor  slipshod  giddy  Pegasus 

Was  but  a  sorry  walker; 
To  Vulcan  tlien  Apollo  goes. 

To  get  a  frosty  caulker.* 

Obliging  Vulcan  fell  to  work. 
Threw  by  his  coat  and  bonnet. 

And  did  Sol's  business  iu  a  crack; 
Sol  paid  him  with  a  sonnet. 

Ye  Vulcan's  sons  of  Wanlockhead,^ 

Pity  my  sad  disaster; 
My  Pegasus  is  poorly  shod — • 

I'll  pay  you  like  my  master. 

Robert  Burns, 

Ramage's,  three  o'clock. 

*  A  nail  put  into  a  shoe  to  prevent  the  foot 
from  slipping  in  frosty  weather. 


POEMS. 


117 


SKETCH: 

INSCRIBED    TO    THE    EIGHT    HON. 
C.    J.    POX. 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  the  poet  says,  "  I 
have  a  poetic  whim  in  my  hftad,  which  I  at 
,  present  dedicate  or  rather  inscribe,  to  the 
■  ■Rigllt  Hon.  Charles  James  Fox ;  but  how 
P  long-  that  fancy  may  hold,  I  cannot  say.  A 
'  few  of  the  first  lines  I  have  just  rough- 
sketched  as  follows: " — 

How  wisdom  arid,  folly  meet,  mix,  and 

unite;  [and  tlieir  white; 

How  virtne  and  vice  blend  tlieir  black 

How  genius  tlie  illustrious  father  of 

fiction,  [tradlctioii— 

Confounds  rule  and  law,  reconciles  con- 

1  sing:  if  these  mortals,   the   critics, 

should  bustle,  [whistle! 

I  care  not,   not  I — let  the   critics  go 

But    now   for  a  patron,  whose^  name 

and  whose  glory  [story. 

At  once  may.  illustrate  and  honour  my 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our 

wits;  [seem  mere  lucky  hits; 

Yet    whose    parts    and  acquirements 
With  knowledge  so  vast,    and    with 

judgment  so  strong,  [far  wrong; 

Ko  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went 
With  passions  so  potent,  and  fancies  so 

bright,  [quite  right; — 

No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went 
A   sorry,    poor    mdsbegot  sou  of  the 

Muses, 
t'or  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  Lord,  what  is  man  ?  for  as  simple 
he  looks,  [his  crooks; 

Do  but  try  to  develop  his  hooks  and 
With  his  depths  and  his  shallows,  his 
good  and  his  evil;  [the  devil. 

All  in  all  he's  a  problem  must  puzzle 
On  his  one  ruling  passion  Sir  Pope 

hugely  labours. 
That,  like  the    old   Hebrew  walking- 
switch,  eats  up  its  neighbours  ; 
Manliind  are  his  show-box — a  friend, 

would  you  know  him  ? 
Pull   the    string,  ruling  passion    the 

picture  will  show  him. 
What  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a 
system,  (Itave  miss'd  him  ; 

One  trifling  particular  truth  should 
For,  spite  of  his  fine  theoretic  positions. 
Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 


Some  sort  all  our  qualities  each  to  its 

tribe,  [describe ; 

And  think  human  nature  they  truly 

Have  you  found  this,  or  t'other  "i  there's 

more  In  the  wind. 
As  by  one   drunken  fellow  his  com- 
rades you  '11  find.  [the  plan. 
But  such   is  the  flaw,  or  the  dept^  of 
In  the  malte  of  that  wonderful  creature 
call'd  man,  [claim. 
No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they 
Nor  even  two  different  shades  of  the 
same,                                  [to  brother, 
Though  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother 
Possessing  the  one  shall  imply  you  've 
the  other. 

But  truce  with  abstraction,  and  truc3 

with  a  Muse,  [deign  to  peruse: 

Whose  rhymes  you  '11  perhaps,  sir,  ne'er 
Will  you  leave  your  justings,  your  jars,' 

and  your  quarrels,  [ding  laurels  ? 
Contending  with  Billy  for  proud-nod- 
My  much  -  honour'd    patron,  believe 

your  poor  poet. 
Your  courage  much  more  than  your 

prudence  you  show  it  ; 
In  vain  with  Squire  Billy  for  laurels 

you  struggle. 
He  '11  have  them  by  fair  trade,  if  not, 

he  will  smuggle ;  [ceal  'em, 

Not  cabinets  even  of  kings  would  con- 
He  'd  up  the  back-stairs,  and  by  God 

he  would  steal  'em. 
Then  feats  like  Squire  Billy's  you  ne'er 

can  achieve  'em,  [thieve  him, 

It  is  not,  outdo  him,  the  task  Is  out- 


VERSES 

ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED  HABE  LIMP 
BY  ME  WHICH  A  FELLOW  HAD  JUST 
SHOT. 

This  poem  was  founded  on  a  real  incident. 
James  Thomson,  a  neighbour  of  the  poet's, 
states  that  having  shot  at,  and  wounded  a 
hare,  it  ran  past  the  poet,  who  happened  to 
be  near.  "  He  cursed  me,  and  said  he  would 
not  mind  throwing  me  into  the  water ;  and 
I'll  warrant  he  could  hae  done't,  though  I 
was  both  young  and  strong." 

Inhuman  man  I  curse  on  thy  barb'rous 

art,  [eye ; 

And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming 

May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a 

sigh. 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruelhaart  1 


ns 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and 

field  ! 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains  ; 
,   No  more  the  thickening  lirakes  and 

verdant  plains  [yield. 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of 

wonted  rest,  [bed  ! 

No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying 

The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er 

thy  head,  [prest. 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom 

Oft  as  by  vrindiug  Nith,  I,  musing, 

wait  ,     [dawn; 

The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful 

I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy 

lawn,  [thy  hapless  fate. 

And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn 


DELIA. 


AN  ODE. 

This  ode  was  sent  to  the  Star  newspaper  with 
the  following  eharacteristic  letter  : — "  Mr. 

.  Printer,:— If  the  productions  of  a  simple 
ploughman  can  merit  a  place  in  the  same 
papei-  with;  the  "other  favourites  of  the' 
Muses  "who  illuminate  the  Star  with  the 
lustre  of  genius,  your  insertion  of  the  en- 
closed trifle  will  be  succeeded  by  future 
communications  from  yours,  etc., 

"  Robert  Burns. 

"  Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  May  i8,  1789.'' 

Fair  the  face  of  orient  day. 
Fair  the  tints  of  opening  rose; 
But  fairer  still  my  Delia  dawns. 
More  lovely  far  her  beauty  blows. 

Sweet  the  lark's  wild- warbled  lay. 
Sweet  the  tinlding  rill  to  hear; 
But,  Delia,  more  delightful  still. 
Steal  thine  accents  on  mitie  ear. 

The  flower-enamour'd  busy  bee, 
The  rosy  banquet  loves  to  sip; 
Sweet  the  streamlet's  liinpid  lapse 
To  the  sun-brown'd  Arab's  lip. 

But,  Delia,  on  thy  balmy  lips 
Let  me,  no  vagrant  insect,  rove! 
Oh,  let  me  steal  one  liquid  kiss ! 
For,  oh!  my  soul  is  parch'd  with  love! 


ADDRESS  TO   THE   TOOTHACHE. 

WBITTEN  WHEN  THE  AUTHOR  WkS 
GBIEVOtrSLY  TORMENTED  BY  THAT 
DISORDER. 

My  curse  upon  the  venom'd  stang, 
That  shoots  my  tortured  gums  alang; 
And  through  my  lugs  gies  mony   a 
twang, 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance;  - 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang, 

Lilce  racking  engines! 

Wlien  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes. 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  orcholic  squeezes; 
Our  neighbour's  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan: 
But  thee — ^thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases. 

Aye  moclis  ourgroan! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle! 
I  kick  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  mlckle, , 
Asl'ouud  the  fire  the  gigletskeckle,'  • 

To  see  me  loap;'  ■ 

WhUe  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle* 

Were  in  their  doup. 

Of  a'  thonurtterous  human  dools,' 

In  hairsts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools,  - 

Or  worthy  friends  raked  i'  the  mools,* 

Sad  sight  to  see! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves,  or  fash  o'  fools. 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree. 

Wliere'er  that  place  be  priests  ca'  liell. 
Whence  a'  the  tones  o'  misery  yell. 
And  janlced   plagues    their,  numbers 
tell,  ' 

In  dreadfu'  r^w,         [bell 
Thou,    Toothadie,   surely  bear'st  th^ 

Amang  them  a' ! 

O  thou  grim  mischief -making  chiel. 
That  gars  the  notes  of  disc&rd  squeel,  ' 
Till  daft  manldnd  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe  thick. 
Gie  a'  the  faes  o'  Scotland's  weal 

A  towmond's^  toothache  I 


1  The  mirthful  children  laugh.  ^  Jump. 
=  Troubles.  *  Grave— earth.  ^  Twelve- 
month's. 

*  A  frame  in  which  is  stuck,  sharp  ends  up- 
permost, from  fifty  to  a  hundred  steel  .spikes, 
through  which  the  hemp  is  drawn  to  straight- 
en It  for  manufacturing  purposes,    - 


POEMS. 


lit) 


THE  KIRK'S  ALARM. 

A  SATIRE. 

We  quote  Lockhart's  account  of  the  origin  of 
the  "Kirk's  Alarm :"—"  M'Gill  and  Dal- 
rymple,  the  two  ministers  of  the  town  of  Ayr, 
had  long  been  suspected  of  entertainmg 
heterodox  opinions  on  several  points,  par- 
ticularly the  doctrine  of  original  sin  and  the 
Trinity  ;  and  the  former  at  length  published 
*An  Essay  on  the  Death  cf  Jesus  Christ,' 
which  vfas  considered  as  demanding  the 
notice  of  the  Church  courts.  More  than  a 
year  was  spent  in  the  discussions  which 
arose  out  of  this :  and  at  last.  Dr.  M'Gill  was 
fain  to  acknowledge  his  errors,  and  promise 
that  he  would  take  an  earljr  opportunity;  of 
apolQgising  for  them  to  his  congregation 
from  the  pulpit,  which  promise,  however, 
he  never  performed.     The   gentry  of   the 

,  country  took,  for  the  most  part,  the  side  of 
M'Gill,  who  was  3.  ma^-6f  cold,  unpopular 
manners,  but  of  unreproached  moral  char- 
acter, and  possessed  of  some  accomplish- 
ments. The  bulk  of-, the  lower  orders 
espoused,  with  far^'mofrS"  fervid  zeal,  the 
cause  of  those  who  conducted  the  prosecu- 
tion against  this  erring  doctor.  Gavin 
Hamilton,  and  all  persons  of  his-stamp,  were, 
of  course,  on  the  side  of  M'Gill — Auld  and 
the  Mauchhne  elders  with  his  enemies. 
Robert  Aiken,  a  writer  in  Ayr,  a  man  of  re- 
markable talents,  particularly  in  public 
speakMg,  had  the  principal  management  of 
M'Gill's  cause  before  the  presbytery  and  the 
synod.  He  was  an  imiitiate  friend  of  Ham- 
ilton's, and  through  him  had  about  X-his  time 
formed  an  acquaintance  which  soon  ripened 
into  a  warm  friendship  with  Burns.  -  Bums 
was,  therefore,  from  the  beginning,  a  zeal- 
ous, as  in  the  end  he  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
effective, '  partisan  of  the  side  on  which 
Aiken  had  staked  so  much  of  his  reputation." 

Orthodox,  orthodox, 
Wha  believe  in  John  Knox, 
Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  con- 
science— 
There's  a  heretic  blast 
Has  been  blawn  i'  the  wast, 
That  what  is  not  sense  must  be  non- 
sense. 

Doctor  Mac,*  Doctor  Mac, 

You  should  stretch  on  a  rack 
To  strike  evil  doers  wi'  terror; 

To  join  faith  and  sense. 

Upon  ony  pretence. 
Is  heretic,  damnable  error. 

Town  of  Ayr,  town  of  Ayr, 
It  was  mad,  I  declare. 


*  Dr.  M'Gill. 


Tq  meddle  wi'  mischief  a-brewing ; 
Provost  Johnf  is  still  deaf 
To  the  Church's  relief,  ' 

And  Orator  Bob  i  is  its  ruin. 

D'rymple  mild,§  D'rymple  mild, 

Though  your  heart 's  lilte  a  child. 
And  your  life  like  the  new-driven 
snaw  ; 

Yet  that  winna  save  ye, 

Auld  Satan  must  have  ye,  [twa. 
For  preaching  that  three 's  ano  and 

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  adle,' 

And  roar  eveiy  note  of  the  damn'd. 

Simper  James  ,T[  Simper  James, 
Leave  the  fair  Killie^  dames. 

There  's  a  holier  chase  in  your  view 
1  '11  lay  on  your  head 
That  the  pack  ye  '11  soon  lead, 

For  puppies  like  you  there  's  but  few. 

Singet  Sawney,**  Singet'  Sawney," 

Are  ye  herding  the  penny, 
Unconscious  what  evil  await  ? 

Wi'  a  jump,  yell  and  howl, 

Alarm  every  soul, 
For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Auld,  ft  Daddy  Auld, 

There 's  a  tod-*  in  the  fauld,    ' 
A  tod.meilde  waur  than  the  clerk  ;ii 

Though  ye  downa  do  skaith,"        > 

Ye  '11  be  in  at  the  death. 
And  if  ye  canna  bite,  ye  can  bark. 

*  Putrid  water.  2  Kilmarnock.  *  Singed. 
*  Fox.     '  Harm.  -  - 

t  John  Ballantyne,  Esq.,  provost  of  Ayr,  to 
whom  the  "  Twa  Brigs  "^is  dedicated. 

$  Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  writer  in  Ayr^  to-whont 
the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night' is  inscribed. 
He  was  agent  for  Dr.  M'Gillin  the  presbytery 
and  synod. 

§  The  Rev.  Dr.  William  Dalrymple,  senior 
minister  of  the  collegiate  church  of  Ayr. 

I  "The  Rev.  John  Russell,  celebrated  in  the 
"  Holy  Fair." 

^  The  Rev.  James  Mackinlay,  the  hero  ot 
the  "  Ordination."  ,  '  - 

**  The  Rev  Alexander  Moodie.of  Riccarton, 
one  of  the  heroes  of  the  "  Twa  Herds." 

H  The  Rev^  Ml,  Auld.  of  Mauchhne, 

jj  The  olerk  was  Mr,  Gavin  Hamilton,  who 
had  been  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Mr.  Auld. 


130 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


,  Davie  Bluster,  §§  Davie  Bluster, 
For  a  saunt  if  ye  muster. 

The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits  ; 
Yet  to  wortli  let 's  be  just. 
Royal  blood  ye  might  boast. 

If  the  ass  were  the  king  of  the  iDrutes. 

Jamie  Goose,|||  Jamie  Goose, 
Ye  hae  made  but  toom  roose," 

In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant ; 
But  the  doctor  's  your  mark, 
For  the  Lord's  haly  ark  [in 't. 

He  has  cooper'd  and  ca'd'  a  wrang  pin 

Poet  Willie,!!  Poet  Willie, 

Gie  the  Doctor  a  volley,  [wit; 

Wi'  your  "Liberty's  chain"  and  your 

O'er  Pegasus'  side 

.  Ye  ne'er  laid  a  stride.  [he  — — . 
Ye  but  smelt,  man,   the  plac  e  where 

Andro  Gonk,***  Andro  Gouk, 
Ye  may  slander  the  book,  [tell  ye; 

And  the  book  nane  the  waur,  let  me 
Though  ye're  rich  and  look  big. 
Yet  lay  by  hat  and  wig,       [value. 

And  ye'll  hae  a  calf's    head    o'  sma' 

Barr  Steenie,fff  Barr  Steenie, 

What  mean  ye,  what  mean  ye  1 
If  ye'll  meddle  nae  mair  wi'  tlie  matter. 

Ye  may  hae  some  pretence 

To  havins*  and  sense, 
Wi'  people  wha  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine  side,||:f  Irvine  side, 
Wi'  your  turkey-cock  pride. 

Of  manhood  but  sma'  is  your  share; 
Ye've  the  figure,  'tis  true. 
Even  your  f aes  will  allow. 

And  your  friends  they  daur  grant  you 
nae  mair. 

Muirland  Jock,§§§  Muirland  Jock, 
When  the  Lord  makes  a  rock 

*  Empty  fame.   '  Driven.   ^  Good  manners. 

§§  Mr.  Grant,  Ochiltree. 

Ill  Mr.  Young,  Cumnock. 

^^  Tlie  Rev.  Dr.  Peebles,  of  Newton-upon- 
Ayr,  the  author  of  an  indifferent  poem  on  the 
centenary  of  the  revolution,  in  which  occurred 
ihe  line  to  which  the  poet  alludes. 

*♦*  J}r.  Andrew  Mitchell,  Monkton,  a 
wealthy  member  of  presbytery. 

ttt'  Rev.  Stephen  Young,  Barr. 
■  iit  Rev.  Mr.  Georjre  Smith,  Galston. 

iSi-Mr.  John  Shepherd,  Muirkirk. 


To  crush  Common  Sense  for  her  sins. 

If  ill  manners  were  wit. 

There's  no  mortal  so  fit 
To  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  ance. 

Holy  Will, II III  Holy  Will, 
There  was  wit  i'  your  skull 

When  ye  pilfer'd  the  alms  o'  the  poor; 
The  timmer  is  scant. 
When  ye're  ta'en  for  a  saunt, 

Wlia  should  swing  in  a,  rape  for  an 
hour. 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons. 
Seize  your  spiritual  guns. 

Ammunition  you  never  can  need; 
Your  hearts  are  the  stuff 
Will  be  powther  enough. 

And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o'  lead. 

Poet  Burns,  Poet  Bums, 

Wi'  your  priest-skelplng  turns. 

Why  desert  ye  your  auld  native  shire  ? 
Your  Muse  is  a  gipsy — 
E'en  though  she  were  tipsy, 

She  could  ca'  us  nae  waur  than  we  are. 


THE  WHISTLE. 

Bums  says : — "  As  the  authentic  prose  his- 
tory of  the  '  Whistle '  is  curious,  I  shall 
here  give  it : — In  the  train  of  Anne  of  Den- 
mark, when  she  came  to  Scotland  with  our 
James  the  Sixth,  there  came  over  also  a 
Danish  gentleman  of  gigantic  stature  and 

great  prowess,  and  a  matchless  champion  of 
acchus.  He  had  a  little  ebony  whistle, 
which  at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies 
he  laid  on  the  table,  and  whoever  was  the 
last  .able  to  blow  it,  everybody  else  being 
disaibled  -by  the  potency  of  the  bottle,,  was 
to  carry  oft  the  whistle  as  a  trophy  of 
\'^ory.  The  Dane  produced  credentials  of 
Ms  victories,  without  a  single  defeat,  at  the 
courts  of  Copenhagen,  Stockholm,  Moscow, 
Warsaw,  and  several  of  the  petty  courts  in 
Germany ;  and  challenged  the  Scots  Bac- 
chanalians to  the  alternative  of  trying  his 
prowess,  or  else.of  acknowledging  their  in- 
feriority. After  many  overthrows  on  Uie 
Eart  of  the  Scots,  the  Dane  was  encountered 
y  Sir  Robert  Bawrfe  of  Maxwelton,  ances- 
tor of  the  present  worthy  baronet  of  that 
name,  who,  alter  three  days*  and  three 
nights'  hard  contest,  left  the  Scandinavian 
under  the  table, 

And  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requiem  ^rill. 

Sir  Walter,  son  of  Sir  Robert  before  men- 

ililll  William    Fisher,    elder    in     Mauchline, 
whom  Burns  so  often  -scourged. 


POEMS; 


131 


tioned,  afterwards  lost  the  wliistle  to  Walter 
Riddel  of  Glenriddel,.wha  had"  married  a 
Sister  of  Sir  Walter's.  On  Friday,  the  i6th 
of  October,  1789,  at  Friars'  Carse,  the  whis- 
tle Was  oiic^-  more  .contended  f  or»  as,  related 
in  the  ballad,  by  the  present  Sir  Robert 
Lawrie  of  Maxwelton  ;  Robert  Riddel,  Esq., 
of  Glenriddel,  lineal  descendant  and  repre- 
sentative of  WaltePfeRiddel,  who  won  the 
whistle,  and  in  whaise  family  it  had  contin- 
ued ;  and  AiexMtitr  Ferguson,  Esq.,  of 
Craigdarroch,  likewise  descended  from  the 
great  Sir  Robert,  which  last  gerttleman  car- 
_ried  off  the  hard-won  honours  of  the 
field." 
A  good  deal  of  doubt  was  at  one  time  felt  as 
to  whether  Burns  was  present  at  the  con- 
test for  the  whistle — Professor  Wilson  hav- 
ing contended  that  he  was  not  present:  cit- 
ing as  evidence  a  letter  to  Captain  Riddel, 
which  will  be  found  in  the  General  Corre- 
spondence. These  doubts  are  now  set  at 
rest.  Captain  Riddel,  in  replying  to  the 
letter  mentioned,  invited  the  poet  to  be 
present.    He  answered  as  follows  : — 

"  The  king's  poor  blackguard  slave  am  I, 
And  scarce  dow  spare  a  minute  ; 
But  I'U'be  with  you  by-and-by, 
Or  else  the  devil's  in  it !"— B. 

Mr.  Chambers  places  the  matter  still  further 
beyond  doubt  by  quoting  the  testimony  of 
William  Hunter,  then  a  servant  at  Friars' 
Carse,  who  was  living  in  1851,  and  who  dis- 
tinctly remembered  that  Burns  was  there, 
and,  what  was  better  still,  that  Burns  was 
remarkably  temperate  during  the  whole 
evening,  and  took  no  part  in  the  debauch. 

I  STNG  of  a  whistle,  a  wliistle  of  worth, 
I  sing  of  a  whistle,  the  pride  of  the 
North,  [Scottish  king. 

Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good 
And  long  with  this  whistle  all  Scot- 
land shall  ring. 

Old  Loda  *  still  rueing  the  arm  of 
Fingal,  [  his  hall— 

The  god  of  the,  bottle  sends  down  from 

' '  This  whistle's-  your  challenge — ^to 
Scotland  get  o'er,  [me  more!" 

And  drink  them  to  hell,  sir,  or  ne'er  see 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles 
tell,  [pions  fell; 

What  champions  ventured,  what  cham- 

The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror 
still,  [shrill, 

And  blew  on  the  whistle  his  requiem 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Cairn  and 

the  Skarr,  [in  war, 

Uumatch'd  at  the  bottle,  unconquer'd 

*  See  Ossian's  Caric-thura,^B. 


He  drank  his  poor  godship  as  deep  as 

the  sea,  [he. 

No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e'erdrunlcerthaii 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy 
hasgain'd;  [remaln'd; 

Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages 

Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of 
his  blood. 

The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew'd. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts 
clear  of  flaw:  [and  law; 

Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth, 

And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill'dinold 
coins:  [old  .wines. 

And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a  tongue 
smooth  as  oil,  [spoil; 

Desiring    Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the 

Or  else  hq  would  muster  the  heads  of 
the  clan    •  [was  the  man. 

And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which 

"  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients!"  Glen- 
,  riddel  replies, 

"  Before  I  siirrende/so  glorious  a  prize, 

I'll  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rorie 

Moref  [times  o'er." 

And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would 
pretend,  [ — or  his  friend, 

But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  f  00 

Said,  Toss  down  the.  whistle,  the  prize 
of  the  field,  [he'd  yield. 

And,  knee-deep  in  claret,  he'd  die  ere 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes 
repair,  [care ; 

So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and 

But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more 
known  to  fame,  [sweet  lovely  dame. 

Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a 

A  bard  was  selected  to  witness  the 
fray,  [day; 

And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the 

A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and 
«pleen,  [had  been. 

And  wish'd  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard 

The' dinner  beiijg  over,  the  claret  they 

ply;  [of  Joy; 

And  every  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of 


t  See  Johnspns  Tour  to  the' Hebrides. -B. 


13? 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Jn  the  biw.ds  of  old  f  rie»idBhip  and  kin- 
dred so  set,        [more  they  were  wet. 
And   the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riof  as  bumpers  ran 
o'er:  [ous  a  core, 

Bright  Phoebus  ne'er  witness'd  so  joy- 

And  vow'd  that  to  leave  them  he  was 
quite  forlorn,  [morn. 

Till  Cynthia  hinted  he'd  see  them  next 

Six  bottle  apiece  had  well  wore  out  the 
night,  [fight, 

Wlien  gallant  Sir  Robert  to  finish  the 
Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of 
.  red,  [ancestors  did. 

And  swore  'twas  the  way  that  their 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious 
•    and  sage,  [wage; 

No  longer  the  warfare,  vmgodly,  would 
A  high  ruling-elder  tQ  wallow  in  wine! 
He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less 
divine.      ,'-'., 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to 
the  end;  [bumpers  contend  ? 

But  who  can  with   Fate   and  quart- 

'Though  Fate  said — A  hero  shall  perish 
in  light;  [fell  the  knight. 

So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus — and  down 

Next  up  rose  our  bard,  li^e  a  prophet 
in  drink:  [tion  shall  sink! 

."  Craigdarroch,  thou'lt  soar  when  crea- 

But  if  thou  wouldst  flourish  immortal 
in  rhyme,  .[the  subliine! 

Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at 

"  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for 

freedom  with  Brace, 
Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce: 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the 

bay;  [god  of  day!" 

.The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright 


VERSES 

ON  CAPTAIN  GKOSB'S  PBKEGBINATIONS 
THROUGH  SCOTLAND,  COLLBCTI»«g( 
THE  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THAT  K.ING- 
DOM. 

Captain  Grose,  the  hero  of  this  poem,  author 

■    of  a  work  on  the  Antiquities  of  Scotland, 

was  an  enthusiastic  antiquary,  fond  of  good 

wine  and  ^ood  company.    Burns  met  him 

.  at  the  hospitable  tabiesa  Xilaptain  iUddel  of 


Friars'  Carse.  He  died  in  Dublin,  of  an 
apoplectic  fit,  in  1791,  in  the  sad  year  of  his 
age. 

Hbab,    Land    o'   Cakes,  and    brither 

Scots, 
Frae  Maidenkirk*  to  Johnny  Groat's; 
If  there's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 
I  rede  you  tent'  it; 
A  duel's  amang  you  takin'  notes, 

A^d,  faith,  he'll  prent  it! 

If  in  your  bounds  you  chance  to  light, 
Upon  a  fine,  fat,  fodgel^  wight, 
O'  stature  short,  but  genius  bright. 

That's  he,  mark  weel — • 
And  wow  !  he  has  an  unco  slight 

0'  cauk  and  keel,  f 

By  some  auld,  houlet-haunted  biggin',  j: 

Or  kirk  deserted  by  its  riggin'; 

It's  ten  to  aiie  ye'll  find  him  snug  in' 

Some  eldritch^  part,   . 
Wi'  deils,  they  say,  Lord  save's !  col- 
leaguin' 

At  some  black  art. 

Hit  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  ha'  or  chau- 

mer, 
Ye  gipsy  gang  that  deal  in  glamour,* 
And  you,    deep  read  in  hell's  black 
grammar. 

Warlocks  and  witches; 
Ye'll  quake  at  his  conjuring  hammer. 
Ye  midnight  bitches  ! 

It's  tauld  he  was  a  sodger  bred, 
And  ane  wad  rather  fa'n  than  fled; 
But  now  he's  quat  the  spurtle-blade 

Arid.jdiog-skin  wallet, 
-And  ta'en — ^the  antiquarian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a  fouth^  o'  auld  nick-nackets. 
Busty  aim  caps  and  jinglin  jaekets,§ 
Wad  haud  the  Lothians  three  in  tackets 

A  towmondguid;       [ets. 
And  parritch-pats,  and  auld  saut-back- 

Afore  the  flood. 


'  Heed.  "  Plump.  =  Unholy.  <  Black  art. 
^  Abundance. 

*  An  inversion  of  the  name  of  Kirkmaiden, 
in  Wigtonshire;  the  most  southerly  parish  in 
Scotland.  .        ''•..' 

1'  Alluding  to  his  powers  as  a.draughtsmaij. 

t  See  his  "  Antiquities  of  Scotland."— B. 
"  I  S6e  Ills  "-  Treatise  on  Ancieat  Armo'Of  ana 
WeapQns."-r-B.  -    • 


POEMS. 


:133 


.Of  Eve's  firat  Are.' lie  lias  a  cinder;     . 
Auld  Tubal  Cain's  flre-sliool  and  fender; 
Tliat  which  distingu.is6d  the  gender 
i-.''  O' Balaam's  ass; 

A  broomstick  o'  the  witch  o'  Endor, 
Weel  shod  wi'  brass. 

Forbye  he'll  shape  yon  aff,  fu'  gleg,* 
The  cut  of  Adam's  philabeg: 
The  knife  that  iiicket  Abel's  craig' 

He'll  prove  you  fully, 
It  was  a  faulding  jooteleg, 

Or  lang-kaU  gully. 

Jiut  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee, 
Eor  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he. 
Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Quid  fellows  wi'  him; 
And  port,  O  port  !  shine  thou  a  wee. 

And  then  ye'll  see  him  ! 

Now,  by  the  powers  o'  verse  and  prose! 
Thou  art  a  dainty  chiel,  0  Grose  ! — 
Whae'er  o'  thee  shall  ill  suppose, 

They'sair  misca'  thee; 
J'd  take  the  rascal  by  the  nose, 

Wad  say.  Shame  fa'  thee! 


LINES  WEITTEjST  IN  A  WRAPPER, 

ENCLOSING  A  LETTER  TO  CAPTAIN 
GSOSB. 

Burns  having   undertaken .  to   gather   some 

■  antiquarian  arid  legendary  material  as  to  the 

■  ruins  in  Kyle,  inlsepding  them  to  Captain 
Grose  under, cover  to  Mr.  Cardonnel,  a  bro- 

'  ^rcr  antiquary,  the  following  ;ver^es,  in  imi- 
fation  of  the  ancient  ballad .  of  *'  Sir  John 
Malcolm,",  were  .enclosed.  ^Cardonnel  read 
them  everywhere,  much  to  the  captain's 
annoyance,,  and  to  the  amusement  pf  his 
friends. 

Ken  ye  oijglit  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 
If  he's  amang  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

IraiH,  «oram,  dago. 

Is  he  south,  or  is  he  north  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 
Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Iraln,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highlan'  bodisS? 

Igo  and  ago, 
Aiid  leaten  like  a  wether-haggis  J. 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

'  Full  quickly.  .   '  Throat. . 


Is  he  to  Abra'na's' bosom  j;aue ! 

I  Igo  and  ago. 

Or  haudin'  Sarah  by  the  wame  ?  ' 

-  Iram,  coram,  dago. 

Where'er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him  1 

Igo  and  ago. 
As  for  the  deil,  he  daurna  steer  him  ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  the  enclosed  letter, 

Igo  a~nd  ago. 
Which  will  oblige  your  humble  debtor, 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  hae  auld  stanes  in  store, 

Igo  and  ago. 
The  very  stanes  that  Adam  bore, 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

So  niay  ye  get  in  glad  possession, . , 

Igo  and  ago, 
The  coins  o'  Satan's  coronation  !  ' 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


SKETCH— NEW  YEAR'S  CAY, 
[1790.] 

TO  MRS.    DUNLOP. 

On  the.  origmal  MS.  of  these  lines,  the  pofet 
writes  as  follows: — "  Oh  second  thoughts  I 
send  you  this  extempore  blotted  -sketch.,  it 
is  just'thfe  first  VUndom  scraiwl :  but* if  you 
think  the  piece  worth  while,  I  shall  retouch 
it,  and  finish  it.  Though  I' have  no  copy  of 
it,  my  memory  serves.me."  ,    .  ■■ 

This  day,  Tima  winds  the  exhausted 

chain-,  -  ._  , 
To  run  the  twelvemonth's  length  again ; 
I  see  the  old,  bald.pated  fellow. 
With  ardent  eyes,  complexion  sallow, 
Adjilst  the  unimpair'd  machine. 
To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir 
In  vain  assail  him  with  their  prayer; 
Deaf,  as  my  friend,  he  sees  them  press. 
Nor  makes  the  hour  one  moment  less. 
Will    you     (the    Major's*    with    the 

hounds. 
The  happy  tenants  share  his  rounds;  • 
Coila's  fair  Rachel'sf  care  to-day. 


*  Major,  afteiwards  General,  Andrew  Dun- 
lop,  Mrs.  Dunlop's  second  son. 

+  Miss  '  Rachel  Dunlop,  who  afterwards 
married  Robert Glasgo.w,  Esq*        - ,  .^    .  ^ 


134 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  blooming  Keith's  f  engaged  with 
Wray)  '  [row — 

From  housewife  cares  a  minute  hor- 
That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-mor- 
row— 
And  join  with  me  a-moralising. 
This  day's  propitious  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  did  yesternight  deliver  ? 
"  Another  year  is  gone  forever!" 
And  what  is  this  day's  strong  sugges- 
tion? [on!" 
"The    passing   moment's  all  we  rest 
Rest -on — for  what  ?  what  do  we  here  ? 
Or  why  regard  the  passing  year?  [lore? 
Will    Time,   amused  with    proverb'd 
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  1 
The  voice  of  Nature  loudly  cries. 
And  many  a  message  from  the  skies. 
That  something  in  us  never  dies: 
That  on  this  frail,  uncei-tain  state. 
Hang  matters  of  eternal  weight: 
Tliat  future  life,  in  worlds  unltnown, 
Must  take  its  hue  from  this. alone; 
Whether  as  heavenly  glory  bright, 
Or  dark  as  Misery's  woful  night. 

Since,    then,    my   honour'd,   first    of 

friends. 
On  this  poor  being  all  depends. 
Let  us  the  important  noio  employ. 
And  live  as  those  who  never  die. 

Though  you,  with  days  and  honours 

crown'd. 
Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 
(A  sight,'  life's  sorrows  to  repulse, 
A  sight,  pale  Envy  to  convulse). 
Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard; 
Yourself,  -you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN  AT  THE    THBATEE,   DUMPKIES 

ON  NEW  -YEAE'S  day  EVENING, 

[1790.] 

Burns,  writing  to  his  brother  Gilbert,  says  : — 
"We  have  gotten  a  set  of  very  decent 
players  here  ]ust  now:  I  have  seen  them  an 


i  Miss  Keith  Dunlpp,  the  youngest  daughter. 


evening  or  two.  David  Campbell,  in  Ayr, 
wrote  to.  me  by  the  manager  of  the  company^ 
a  Mr.  Sutherland,  who  is  a  man  of  apparent 
worth.  On  New  Year's  Day  I  gavd  him  the 
following  prologue,  which  he  spouted  to  his 
audience  with  applause  :" — 

No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon 
great  city  [more's  the  pity: 

That    queens    it  o'er  our    taste — the 
Though,  by-the-by,  abroad  why  will 
you  roam  ?  [at  home: 

Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here 
But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear, 
I  come  to  wish  you  all  a  good  new  year! 
Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  be^ 
fo.'e  ye,  [story.. 

Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple 
The  sage  grave  ancient  cough'd,  and 
bade  me  say,  [day." 

"  You're  one  year  older  this  important 
If  wiser,  too — ^he  Jiinted  some  sugges- 
tion, [the  question; 
But  'twould  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask 
And  with  a  would-be  rougish  leer  and 
wink,  [word—"  Think!" 
Ho  bade  me  on  you  press  this  one 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush'd  with 

hope  and  spirit,  [of  merit. 

Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint 
To  you  the  dotard  has  a  deal  to  say. 
In  his  sly,  dry,   sententious,   proverb 

wa,y!  ■  [less  rattle. 

He  bidi?-you  mind,  amid  your  thought- 
That  the  first  blow  is  ever  half  the 

battle;  [to  snatch  him, 

That  though  some  by  the  skirt  may  try 
Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch 

him;  [bearing. 

That  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  for- 
You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  though  not  least  in  love,  ye  faith- 
ful fair,  [care! 
Angelic  forms,  high  Heaven's  i)eculiar 
To  you   old  Bald-pate  smoothes    his 
wrinkled  brow,            [portant  Now  ! 
And  humbly  begs  you'll  mind  the  im- 
To  crown  your  happiness  he  asks  your 
leave. 

And  offers  bliss  to  give  and  to  receive. 

,  ,  .-j  (, 

For  our  sincere,  though  haply  weak, 

endeavours,         '   - 
With   grateful    pride    we   own  -your 

many,  favours; 


POEMS. 


13t 


And  howsoe'er  our  tongues  may  ill  re- 
veal it,  [it. 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel 


TO  THE  OWL. 

This  poem  was  originally  printed,  from  a  MS. 
in  the  poet's  handwriting,  by  Cromek,  who 
threw  some  doubts  on  its  being  written  by 
Burns.  But  as  the  MS.  copy  showed  occa- 
sional interiineations  in  the  same  hand, 
there  can  be  little  doubt,  we  presume,  as  to 
its  authenticity. 

Sad  bird  of  night,  wliat  sorrows  call 

tUee  forth,      -         [night  hour  ? 

To  vent  thy  plaints  thus  in  the  mid- 

Is  it  some  blast  that  gathers  in  the 

north,  [bower  ? 

Threatening  to  nip  the  verdure  of  thy 

Is  it,  sad  owl,  that  Autiunn  strips  the 
shade,  [forlorn  ? 

And  leaves  thee  here,  unshelter'd  and 
Or  fear  that  %Yiuter  ^vill  thy  nest  in- 
vade ?  [mourn  ? 
Or  friendless  melancholy  bids  thee 

Shut    out,   lone    bird,    from   all    the 

feather'd  train,  png  gloom; 

To  tell  thy  sorrows  to  the  unheed- 

No  friend  to  pity  when  thou  dost  com- 

.  plain,  [thy  home. 

Grief  all  thy  thought,  and  solitude 

Sing  on,  sad  mourner  !  I  will  bless  thy 

.   strain,  [song: 

And  pleased  in  sorrow  listen  to  thy 

Sing   on,   sad  mourner;    to  the  night 

complain,  [along. 

While  the  lone  echo  wafts  thy  notes 

Is  beauty  less,  when  down  the  glowing 

cheek  [fall? 

Sad,  piteous  tears,  in  native  sorrows 

Less  Idnd  the  heart  when  anguish  bids 

it  break?  [call? 

Less  happy  he  who  lists  to  pity's 

Ah  no,  sad  onW  nor  is  thy  voice  less 

sweet;  [is  there  ;■ 

Tliat  sadness  tunes  it,  and  that  grief 

That  Spring's  gay  notes,  unskill'd,  thou 

canst  repeat;  [repair. 

That  sorrow  bids  thee  to  the  gloom 


Nor  that  the  treble  songsters  of  the  day 
Are  quite    estranged,   sad   bird   of 
night !  from  thee;      [ing  spray, 
Xor  that  the  thrush  deserts  the  even- 
When  darkness  calls  thee  from  thy 
reverie. 

From  some  old  tower,  thy  melancholy 

dome,  [solitudes 

While   the  gray  walls,  and   desert 

Return  each   note,  responsive   to  the 

gloom  [woods. 

Of  ivied   coverts  and    surrounding 

There  hooting,  I  will  list  more  pleased 

to  thee 

Than  ever  lover  to  the  nightingale; 

0:^   drooping   wretch,  oppress'd   with 

misery,  [tale. 

Lending  his  ear  to  some  cond,oling. 


VERSES 

ON  AN  EVENING  VIEW  OF  THE  BUINS 
OF  LINCI/tTDBN  ABBEY.* 

Ye  holy  walls,  that,  still  sublime. 
Resist  the  crumbling  touch  of  time; 
How  strongly  still  your  form  displays 
The  piety  of  ancient  days  ! 
As  through  your  ruins  hoar  and  gray — 
Ruins  yet  beauteous  in  decay — • 
The  silvery  moonbeams  trembling  fly;  . 
The  forms  of  ages  long  gone  by 
Crowd  thick  on  Fancy's  wondering  eye. 
And  wake  the  soul  to  musings  high. 
Even  now,  as  lost  in  thought  profound, 
I  view  the  solemn  scene  around. 
And,  pensive,  gaze  with  wistful  eyes. 
The  past  returns,  the  present  flies; 
Again  the  dome,  in  pristine  pride, 
Lifts  high  its  roof  and  arches  wide. 
That,  knit  with  curious  tracery. 
Each  Gothic  ornament  display. 
The  high-arch'd  windows,  painted  fair. 
Show  many  a  saint  and  martyr  there. 
As  on  their  slender  forms  I  gaze, 
Methinks  they  brighten  to  a  blaze  ! 
With  noiseless  step  and  taper-bright, 
What   are   you   forms  that  meet  my 
sight  ? 

*  On  the  banks  of  the  river  Cluden,  and  at  a 
short  distance  from  Dumfries,  are  the  beauti- 
ful ruins' of  the  Abbey  of  Lincluden,  v/hich 
was  founded '  in  the  time  of  Maltolra,'  the 
fourth  King  of  Scotland. 


336 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Slowly"  they  move,  while  every  eye 
Is  heavenward  raised  in  ecstasy. 
'Tis  the  lair,  spaUeas»..-v:eiitaiL,traiiv,  . 
That  seek  in  prayer  the  midnig'Itt  fane. 
And,  hark  !    what  more   than  mortal 

sound 
Of  music  breathes  the  pile  around  ? 
'Tis  the  soft-chanted  choral  song, 
Whose  tones  the  echoing  aisles  prolong ; 
Till,  thence  return'd,  they  softly  stray 
O'er  Clud'n's  wave,  with  fond  delay; 
Now  on  the  rising  gale  swell  high. 
And  now  in  fainting  murmurs  die; 
The  boatmen  on  Nitli's  gentle  stream, 
That  glistens  in  the  pale  moonbeam. 
Suspend  their  dashing  oars  to  hear 
The  holy  anthem  loud  and  clear;        , 
Each  worldly  thought  a  while  forbear. 
And  mutter  forth  a  lialf-form'_d  prayer. 
But  as  1  gaze,  the  vision  fails. 
Like  frost-work  touch'd   by  southern 

gales; 
The  altar  sinks,  the  tapers  fade-. 
And  all  the  splendid  scent'j  decay'd. 

In  window  fair  the  painted  pane 
No  longer  glows  with  holy  stain, 
But  through  the  broken  glass  the  gale 
Blows  chilly  from  the  misty  vale ; 
The  bird  of  eve  flits  sullen  by. 
Her  home  these  aisles  and  arches  high ! 
The  choral  hymn,  that  erst  so  clear 
Broke  softly  sweet  on  Fancy's  ear. 
Is  drown'd  amid  the  mournful  scream 
'f  hat  breaks  the  magic  of  my  dream  ! 
Roused  by  the  sound,  I  start  and  see 
The  ruin'd  sad  reality  ! 


PROLOGUE, 

FOR  MB.  SUTHERLAND'S  BENEFIT 
NIGHT,  DUMFRIES. 

Xhis  prologue  was  accompanied  with  the  fol- 
lowing letter  to  Mr.  Sutherland,  the  man- 
ager of  the  Dumfries  Theatre ; — 

"  Monday  Morning: 

"  I  was  much  disappointed  in  wanting  your 
most  agreeable  company  yesterday.  How- 
ever, I  heartily  pray  for  good  "weather  next 
Sunday  ;  and  whatever  aerial  being  has  the 
"  ^idance  of  the  elements,  "lie  may  take  any' 
other  half  dozen  of  Sundays  he  pleases,  and 
clothe  them  with 

Vapours,  and  clouds,  and  storms, 

Until  he  terrify  himself 

At  combustion  of  his  own  raising. 


I  shall  see  you  on  Wednesday  forenoon.   In 
the  greatest  hurry. — R.  B." 

What  needs  this  din  about  the  town 
r. .  o'  Eott'OB*.,  [is  comin'  ? 

How  this  new  pla^  aBjiMUat  new  sang 
Why  is  outlandish  stuff*  saen.ja^U^' 
courted  ?  [importe<^?. 

Does  nonsense  mend  lUce  whisky, when 
Is  there  nae  poet,  burning  keen  for 
fame,  [hame? 

Will  try  to  gie  us  sangs  and  plays  at 
For  comedy  abroad  he  needna  toil, 
A  fool  and  knave  are  plants  of  every 
soil ;  ,     [Greece, 

Nor  need  he  hunt  as  far  as  Rome  and ' 
To  gather  matter  for  a  serious  piece ; 
There 's  themes  enow  in  Caledonian- 
story,  [glory.  - 
Would  show  the  tragic  muse  in  a'  her 

Is  there  no  daring  bard  will  rise  and 
tell  :  .[less  fell ?- 

How  glorious  Wallace  stood,  now  hap- 
Where  are  the  Muses  lied  that  could 
produce  .  - 

A  drama  worthy  o'  the  name  o'  Bruce  ; 
How    here,  even    here,  he    first    uu- 
sheath'd  the  sword,  [lord ; 

'Gainstmighty  England  and  her  guilty: 
And  after  mony  a  bloody,  deathless  do- 
ing, [jaws  of  ruin  ? 
Wreuch'd  his  dear  country  from,  the! 
Oh  for  a   Shaliespeare   or   an  Otway 
scene  [queen ! 
To  draw  the  lovely,  hapless  Scottish 
Vain  all  the  omnipotence  "  of  female' 
charms                        [hellion's  arms. 
'Gainst  headlong,  ruthless,  mad    Re- 
She  fell,  but  fell  with  spirit  truly  Ro-", 
man,                                        [woman: 
To    glut    the    vengeance     of  a  rival 
A  woman  —  though  the  phrase  may 

seem  uncivil — 
As  able  and  as  cruel  as  the  devil ! 

One  Douglas  lives  in  Home's  immortal' 


But  Douglases  were  heroes  every  age  ; 
And  though  vour  fathers,  prodigal  of 

life, 
A  Douglas  followed  to  the  martial  strife. 
Perhaps  if  bowls  tow  right,  and  Right 

succeeds,  [leads !: 

Ye  yet  may  follow  where  a  Douglas 

'  Much. 


POEMS. 


127 


As  yo  liae  generous    done,  if  a'  tlie 

-  land  [hand ; 

Would  take  tlie  Muses'  servants  by  tlie 

Not  only  hear,  but  patronise,  befriend 

them,  [commend  them; 

And  where  ye  justly   can   commend. 
And  aiblins  when  they  winna  stand  the 

test,  .  [their  best  ! 

Wink  hard  and  say  the  folks  hae  dono 
Would  a'  the  land  do  this,  then  I'll  be 

caution  [tion. 

Yell  soon  liae  poets  o'  the  Scottish  na- 
Will  gar  Fame  blaw  until  her  trumpet 
.  crack,  .  [back  ! 

And  warsle?  Time,  and  lay  him  on  his 
For  us  and  for  our  stage  slwrtild  ony 

spier,^  [thi§  bustle  hero  ?" 

"  Wha's    aught  thae  cMels   maks  a' 
My  best  leg  foremost,  I'll  set  up  my 

brow. 
We  have  the  honour  to  belong  to  you  ! 
We're  your  ain  bairns,  e'en  guide  us 

as  ye  lUie,  [ye  strike. 

But  like),  good  mithers,  shore*  before 
And  grrfefu'  still  I  hope  ye'U  everfind 

us,  [ness 

For  a'  the  patronage  and  meikle  kind- 
We've  got  f rae  a'  professions,  sets  and 

ranks;  [get  but  thanks. 

God  help  us !    we're  but  poor — ye'se 


STANZAS  ON  THE  DUKE  OF 

QUEENSBERRY. 

On  beiij^  .questioned  as  to  the  proprieny  of 
satirising  people  unworthy  'of  his  notice, 
and  the  Dukeof  Queensberry  being  cited  as 
an  instance,  Burns  drew  out  his  pencil  and 
penned  the  following  bitter  lines  as  his  re- 
ply :— 

How  shall  I  sing  Drumlanrig's  Grace — 
Discarded  rernnant  of  a  race 

Once  great  in  martial  story  ? 
His  forbears'  virtues'all  contrasted — 
The  very  name  of  Douglas  blasted — 

His  that  inverted  glory. 

Hate,  envy,  oft  the  Douglas  bore; 
But  he  has  superadded  more, 
'       And  sunk  them  in  cont-empt; 
Follies  and  crimes   haye.  stain'd  the 
name;  [claim. 

But,    Qiieensberry,   thine    the   virgin 
From  aught  that's  good  exempt. 

2  Wrestle.     »  Ask.      ■>  Threaten.' 


VERSES  TO  MY  BED. 
Thou  bed,  in  which  I  first  began 
To  be  that  various  creature — man  ! 
And  when  again  the  fates  decree. 
The  place  where  I  must  cease  to  be;-^ 
When  sickness  comes,  to  whom  I  Hy, 
To  soothe  my  pain,  or  close  miae  eye ; — 
When  cares  surround  me  wheie  I  weep. 
Or  lose  them  all  in  balmy  sleep  ;-.- 
When  sore  with-Iabour   whom  I  court 
And  to  thy  downy  breast  resort — 
Where,  too,  ecstatic  joys  I  find. 
When  deigns  my  Delia  to  be  kind — 
And  full  of  love  in  all  her  charms, 
Thou  gi vest  the  fair  One  to  my  arms. 
The  centre  thou,  where  grief  and  pain. 
Disease  and  rest,  alternate  reign. 
Oh,  since  within  thy  little  space 
So  many  various  scenes  take  place; 
Lessons  as  useful  shalt  thou  teach, 
As  sages  dictate — churchmen  preach; 
And  man  convinced  by  tliee  alone. 
This  great  important  truth  shall  own  ■.-~ 
That  thin  partitions  do  divide 
The  bound-s  where  good  and  ill  reside;  • 
Thatnought  is  perfect  here  below; 
But  hlisa  still  bordering  upon  woe. 


ELEGY  ON'  PEG  NICHOLSON. 

Peg  Nicholson,  the  "  good  bay  mare,"  te- 
long-ed  to  Mr.  William  Nicol.'afast  Iriend  ~ 
of:  the  poet's,  and  was  so  named  from  a. 
frantic  virago  who  attempted  the  life  of 
George  ^I.  The  poet  enclosed  the  follow-" 
ing  verses  in  a  letter  to  his  friend,  in 
February,  1790,  with  along  account  of  the 
deceased  mare,.which  letter  will  be  found, 
in  the  correspondence  of  that  year. 

Pes  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  ma:e 

Asever  trode  on  airn;' 
But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 

And  past  the  Diouth  0'  Cairn. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  maro, 
And  rode  through  thiclv  and  thin ; 

But  now  she's  floating  down  tho  Nith,- 
Aiid  wanting  even  tlie  skin. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 
And  ance  she  bore  a  priest; 

But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith,- 
For  Sol  way  fish  a  feast.. 

Peg  Nicholson  wa.g  a  good  bay  maro, 

■  And  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair;  [was 
And  much  oppress'd  and  bruised  she' 

As  priest- rid  cattle  are.    ' 

'  iron.         ""^        '■  ' 


128 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


LINES 

WBITTEN  TO  A  GENTLEMAN  WHO  HAD 
SENT  HIM  A  NEWSPAPEK,  AND  OF- 
FERED TO  CONTINUE  IT  FREE  OF 
EXPENSE. 

Kind  sif,  I've  read  your  paper  tlirougli. 
And  f  aiti,  to  me  'twas  really  new !  [ted? 
How  guess'd  ye,  sir,  what  maist  I  wau- 
This  mony  a  day  I've  gran'd'  and  gaun- 

ted^  [in'. 

To  ken  wliat  French  mischief  was  bre  w- 
Or  what  the  drumlie  Dutcli  were  doin'; 
That     vile     doup-skelper.     Emperor 

Joseph, 
If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  nose  off; 
Or  how  the  collie&'hangie''  works 
Atween  the  Russians  and  the  Turks; 
Or  if  the  Swede,  hefore  lie  halt. 
Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt: 
If  Denmarli,  anybody  spalc  o't; 
Or  Poland,  wha  had  now  the  tack^  o't; 
How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  were 

hingin';' 
How  libbet*  Italy  was  singin' : 
It  Spaniards,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss 
Were  sayin'  or  takin'  augkt  amiss: 
Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  liame. 
In  Britain's  court,  kept  up  the  game: 
How  royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o'er 

him  ! 
Was  managing  St  Stephen's  quorum; 
If  sleekif  Chatham  Will  was  livin'. 
Or  glaikit'  CTiarlie  got  his  nieve'  in; 
How  Daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cook- 
in',  [iu';'» 
If  Warren  Hastings'  neck  was  yeuk- 
How    cesses,   stents,   and    fees    were 

rax'd," 
Or  if  bare  a — s  yet  were  tax'd; 
The  news  o'  princes,  dukes,  and  earls, 
Pimps,    sharpers,    bawds,  and   opera 

girls; 
If  that  daft  buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 
Was  tlireshin'  still  at  hizzies'  tails;   - 
Or  if  he  was  grovpn  oughtlins  douser,^* 
And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser. 
A'  this  and  mair  I  never  heard  of ; 
And  but  for  you  I  might  despair'd  of. 

1  Groaned.  ^  Yawned.  ^  Quarrel. 

*  Lease.  ^  Hanging;,  "^  Castrated.  ^  Sly. 
«  Thoughtless.  »  Fist.  i°  Itching. 

*^  Stretched.     ^2  At  all  more  sober. 


So  gratef  u',  back  your  news  I  send  you. 
And  pray,  a'  guid  things  may  attend, 
you ! 

Ellisland,  Monday  Morning;^  1790. 


ELEGY  ON  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW 
HENDERSON, 

A  GENTLEMAN  WHO  HELD  THE  PAT- 
ENT FOB  HIS  HONOURS  IMMEDIATB- 
■  LT  FROM  ALMIGHTY  GOD. 

The  following  note  was  appended  to  the 
onginal  MS.  «  the  Elegy  :^"  Now  that  you 
are  over  with  the  sirens  of  flattery,-the  har- 
pies of  corruption,  and  the  furies  of  ambi- 
tion— those  infernal  deities  that,  on  all  sides 
and  in  all  parties,  preside  over  the  villain- 
ous business  of  polidcs — permit  a  rustic 
muse  of  your  acquaintance  to  do  her  best  to 
soothe  you  with  a  song.  You  knew  Hender- 
son. •  I'have  not  flattered  his  memory." 

In  a  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  dated  February  1791, 
the  poet  says :— "  The  Elegy  on  Captain 
Henderson  is  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a 
man  I  loved  mudh.  Pcets  have  in  this  the 
same  advantage  as  Roman  Cathc^ics  ;  they 
can  be  of  service  to  their  friends  after  they 
have  passed  that  bourne  where  all  other 
kindness  ceases  to  be  of  any  avail.  Whether, 
after  ail,  either  the  one  or  the  other,  be  of. 
any  real  servicetb'Ifie  dead  is,'I  fear,  very 
problematical ;"  but-lvam  sure  they  are  high-' 
ly  gratifying  to  the  living.  Captain,  Hender- 
son was  a  retired  soldier,  of  .agreeable  man- 
ners and  upright  character,  who  had  a  lodg-^ ' 
in^  in  Carrubber's  Close,  Edinburgh,  and 
mingled  with  the  best  society  of  the  city ; 
he' dined  regularly  at  Fortune's  Tavern, 
and  was  a  member  of  the  Capillaire  ClUb, 
which  was. composed  of  all  who  inclined  to 
the  witty  and  the  joyous." 

"  Should  the  poor  be  flattered  ?" 

— Shakespeare^ 

But  now  his  radiant  course  is  run, 
For  Matthew's  course  was  bright ; 

His  soul  was  like  the  glorious  sun," 
A  matchless  heavenly  light ! 

0  Death  !  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody! 

The  meilde  devU  wi'  a  woodie' 

Hauf  1-  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie,* 

O'er  hurcheon"  hides. 
And  like  stock-fish  come  o'er  his  stud, 
die^  . 

Wi'  thy  auld  sides  1 

He's   gano  !   he's  gane !   he's  frae  us 

torn  ! 
The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born  ! 

1  Halter.      -  Drag-.  .  =  Hedgehog.     *  Anvil. 

*■  Smiddie^  a  blacksmith's  shop — whence  the 
appropriateness  of  its  use  in  the  .present  in., 
stance.  ,  ,. 


POEMS. 


129 


Thee,    Matthew,    Nature's   sel    shall 
mourn 

By  wood  and  wild. 
Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 
Frae  man  exiled  ! 

Ye  hills  !  near  neibors  o'  the  starns,' 
That  proudly  cock  yonr  cresting  cairns ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  liaunts  of  sailing  yearns," 

Where  Echo  slumbers  ! 
Come  join,  ye  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  !'  _ 
Ye  hazelly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wimplin'  down  your  glens, 

Wi'  toddlln'  din,'j- 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens,* 

Frae  lin  to  lin  ! 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea; 
Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see; 
Ye  woodbines,  hanging  bonnilie 

In  scented  Ifowers; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o'  flowers. 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head. 
At  even,  when  beans  their  fragrance 
shed, 

I'  the  rustling  gale. 
Ye    maukins    whiddin''  through  the 
glade. 

Come,  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap'"  the  heather  bud; 
Ye  curlews  calling,  through  a  clud:" 

Ye  whistling  plover; 
And    mourn,   ye  whirring    paitrick'- 
brood! — 

He's  gane  forever. 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Ralr  J  for  his  sake. 


*  Stars.      ^  Eagles,      '  Wood-pijfeon  knows. 

*  Bounds.    "  Hares'  running,     "*  Crop,    eat. 
"  Cloud.  '=  Partridge. 

tTVith  the  noise  of  one  who  goes  hesitat- 
ingly or  insecurely, 

X  We  can  hardly  convey  the  meaning  here  ; 
but  we  know  of  no  better  word. 


Mourn,   clam'ring  craiks"  at  close  o' 

day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flowering  clover  gay; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore. 
Tell  thae  far  warlds  wha  lies  in  clay. 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  honlets,  "frae  your  ivy  bower. 
In  some  auld  tree  or  eldritch'*  tower. 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow- 
er,"* 

Sets  up  her  horn, 
-  WaU.  through  the  dreary  midnight  liour 
Till  waulmfe"  morn ! 

0  rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains  ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty'*  strains: 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 

But  tales  of  woe? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,   Spring,   thou  darling  of  the, 

year ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep"  a  tear: 
Thou,  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green,  flowery  tresses  shear 

For  him  that's  dead  1 

m 
Thou,  Autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair. 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 
Thou,  Winter,  hurling  through  the  air 

'The  roaring  blast. 
Wide  p'er  the  naked  world  declare 

The  worth  we've  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,  great  source  of 

light  ! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night  I 
Afad  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright,  , 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 
For  Hirougli  your  orbs  he's  ta.'en  his 
fliglit, 

Ne'er  to  return, 

0  Henderson  !  the  man — ^tlie  brother  ! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  forever? 
And  hast  thou  cross'd  that  unknown 
river. 

Life's  dreary  bound  ? 
Like  tliee,  where  shall  I  find  another 
,     The  world  around  ! 

"Landrails.  "Owls.  '»  Haunted.  "Stare. 
"  Wakening.   '»  Happy,    '»  Gatch.  ' 


130 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,ye  great. 
In  a'  tlie  tinsel  trash  o'  state  ! 
But  by  thy  honest  turf  I'll  wait. 

Thou  man  of  worth  1 
And  weej)  the  ae  best  fellow^s  fate 

E'er  lay  in  earth. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Stop,  passenger  ! — my  stor/s  brief, 
And  truth  1  shall  relate,nian; 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o'  grief — 
For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

if  thou  uncommon  merit  hast, 

Yet  spurn'd  at  Fortunes  door,  man, 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast — 
For  Matthew  was  a  poor  man. 

If  thou  a  noble  sodger  art. 
That  passest  by  this  grave,  man, 

There  moulders  here  a  gallant  heart — 
For  Matthew  was  a  brave  man. 

If  thou  on  men,  their  worlcs  and  ways. 
Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man. 

Here  lies  wha  weel    had    won    thy 
praise — 
For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man. 

Jf  thou  at  friendship's  sacred  ca' 
Wad  life  itself  resign,  man, 

Tlie  sympathetic  tear  maun  fa' — 
For  Matthew  was  a  kind  man  ! 

If  thou  art  stanch  without  a  stain, 
hike  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  billie,  dam,  and  sire — 
For  Matthew  was  a  queer  man. 

If  ony  whiggish  whingin'  sot. 
To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man. 

May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  lot  I — 
For  Matthew  was  a  rare  man. 


TAM  0'  SHANTER: 

A  TALE. 

Captain    Grose,    in    the    introduction  to  his 

-     Antiquities  of  Scotland,  "  says,  "To  my 

ingenious  friend,  Mr.  Robert  Bums,  I  have 

■  been  seriously  obligated  ;  he  was  not  only 


at  the  pains  of  making  out  what  was  most 
worthy  of  notice  in  Ayrshire,  the  country 
honoured  by  his  birth,  but  he  also  wrote, 
expressly  for  this  work,  the  pretty  tale 
annexed  to  AUoway  Church."  This  pretty 
tale  was  "  Tam  o'  Shanter,"  cenainly  the 
most  popular  of  all  our  poet's  works. 

In  a  letter  to  Captain  Grose,  No.  CCXXVII. 
of  the  General 'Correspondence,  Burns  gives 
the  legend  which  formed  the  ground  wcM-k 
of  the  poem": — ""  On  a  market  day  in  the 
town  of^  Ayr,  a  farmer  from  CaiTick,  and 
Consequently  whose  way  laid  by  the  very 
gate  cf  AUoway  kirkyard,  in  order  to  cross 
the  river  Doon  at  the  old  bridge,  which  is 
about  two  or  three  hundred  yards  farther  on 
than  the  said  gate,  had  been  detained  by  his 
business,  till  by  the  time  he  reached  AUo- 
way it  was  the  wizard  hour,  between  night 
and  morning.  Though  he  wras  terrified 
with  a  blaze  streaming  from  the  kirk,  yet  it 
is  a  well-known  fact  that  to  turn  back  on 
these  occasions  is  running  by  far  the  great- 
est risk  of  mischief,— he  prudently  advan- 
ced on  his  road.  When  hehad  reached  the 
gate  of  the  kirkyard,  he  was  surprised  and 
entertained,  through  the  ribs  and  arches  of 
an  old  Gothic  window,  which  still  faces  the 
highway,  to  see  a  dance  of  witches  merrily 
footing  it  round  their  old  sooty  blackguard 
master,  who  was  keeping  them  all  alive 
with  the  power  of  his  bagpipe.  The  farmer, 
stopping  nis  horse  to  obser\'e  them  a  little, 
could  plainly  descry  the  faces  of  many  old 
women  of  his  acquaintance"  and  neighbour- 
hood. How  the  gentleman  was  dressed  tra- 
dition does  not  say,  but  that  the  ladies  were 
all  in  their  smocks :  and  one  of  them  happen- 
ing unluckily  to  have  a  smock  which  was 
considerably  too  short  lo  answer  all  the 
purpose  of  that  piece  of  dress,  our  farmer 
was  so '  tickled  that  he  ipvoluntarily  burst 
out,  with  a  loud  laugh,  ''Weel  luppen, 
Maggie  wi' the  short  sark.l'  and,tecollect- 
ing  himself,  instantly  spurred  his  horse  to 
the  top  of  his  speed.  I  need  not  mention 
the  univereally-knowTi  fact  that  no  diaboli- 
cal power  can  pursue  you  beyond  the 
middle  of  a  runnmg  stream.  Lucky  it  was 
for  the  poor  farmer  that  the  river  Doon  was 
so  near,  for  notwithstanding  the  speed  of  his 
horse,  which  was  a  good  one,  against  he 
reached  the  middle  of  uie  arch  of  the  bridge, 
and  conse<)uently  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
the  pursuing,  vengeful  hags,  were  so  close 
at  his  heels  that  one  of  them  actually  sprung, 
to  seize  him ;  but  it  was  too  late,  nothing 
was  on  her  side  of  the  stream  but  the  horse's 
tail,  which  immediately  gave  way  at  her  in- 
fernal grip,  as  if  blasted  by  a  stroke  of 
lightning ;  but  the  farmer  was  beyond  her 
reach.  However,  the  unsightly,  tailless 
condition  of  the  vigorous  steed  was,  to  the 
last  hour  of  the  noble  creature's  life,  an 
awful  warning  to  the  Carrick  farmers  not  to 
stay  too  late  in  Ayr  markets." 
Douglas  Grahame  of  Shanter,  a  farmer  on  the 
Carrick  shore,  who  was  in  reality  the  drunk- 
en, careless  being  the  poet  depicts  him, 
became  the  hero  of  the  legend,  and  several 
ludicrous  stories  current  about  him  were 
woven  into  ^  with  admirable  skill.  It  is  re- 
ported of  him  that  one  market,  day  being  in 


POEMS. 


131 


Ayr  he  had  tied  his  mare  by  the  bridle  to  a 
ring  at  the  door  of  a  public  liouse,  and  while 
he  was  making  himself  happy  with  some 
cronies  inside,  the  idle  boys  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood pulled  all  the  hair  out  of  the 
mare's  tail.  This  was  not  noticed  until  the 
following  morning,  when,  becoming  bewil- 
dered as  to  the  cause  of  the  accident,  he 
could  onljr  refer  it  to  the  agency  of  witch- 
craft. It  is  further  related  of  Grahame  that 
when  a  debauch  had  been  prolonged  until 
the  dread  of  th6  "  sulky  sullen  dame "  at 
home  rose  up  before  him,  he  would  frequent- 
ly continue  drinking  rather  than  face  her, 
even  although  delay  would  add  to  the 
terrors  of  the  inevitable  home-going. 
The  poem  was  composed  in  one  day  in  the 
winter  of  1790.  Mrs.  Bums  informed  Cro- 
mek  that  the  poet  had  lingered  longer  by  the 
river  side  than  his  wont,  and  that  taking 
the  children  with  her,  she  went  out  to  join 
him,  but  perceiving  that  her  presence  was 
an  interruption  to  him,  she  lingered  behind 
him :  her  attention  was  attracted  by_  his 
wild  gesticulations  and  ungovernable  mirth, 
while  he  was  reciting  the  passages  of  the 
poem  as  they  arose  in  nis  mind. 

"  Of  brownyis  and  of  bogilis  full  is  this  buke." 
— Gawin  Douglas. 

When    chapman    billies'    leave   tlie 

street, 
And  droutliy''  neibors  neibors  meet. 
As  market  days  are  ^vearin'  late, 
And  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate;^ 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy,* 
And  gettin'  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles,* 
That  lie  between  ns  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame. 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering 

storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  f rae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  sur- 
passes 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 

O  Tam  !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
film  .tauld  thee  weel  thou,  wast  a  skel  ■ 
lum,*  [blellum;' 

A    blethering,     blustering,     drunken 
That  f rae  November  till  October, 
.  Ao  market  day  thou  wasna  sober; 


1  Fellows.  2  Thirsty.  ^  Road.  ■>  Ale. 
s  Breaches  in  hedges  or  walls.  ^  A  worthless 
fellow.  '  A  talker  of  nonsense,  a.  boaster, 
and  a  dninkon  fool. 


That  ilka  melder,*  wi'  the  miller 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  hadst  siller;' 
That  evel-y  naig'  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  even  on  Sun- 
day, [Monday, 
Thou    drank  wi'  Kirktonf  Jean  till 
She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon. 
Thou  wouldst  be  found  deep  drown'd 

in  Do^n ! 
Or  catch'd  wi'  Warlocks  i'  the  mirk,'" 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars"  me  greet 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengtheu'd  Sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale: — Ae  market  night, 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco"  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,'^  bleezing  linely, 
Wi'   reaming  swats,"  that  drank  di- 
vinely; 
And  at  his  elbow  Souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy''  crony; 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither — 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither! 
The  night  they  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and 

clatter. 
And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'   favours    secret,  sweet,  and  pre- 
cious; 
The  Souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories. 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 
The  storm  without  might  rair'"  and 

rustle — 
Tam  didna  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drown'd  himsel  araang  the  nappy! 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades"  0'  treasure. 
The    minutes    wing'd  their    way  wi' 
pleasure:  [glorious. 

Kings    may  be  blest,  but    'Tam    was 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 


8  Money.  »  Horse.  '»  Dark.  "  Makes. 
"  Unusually.  '*  Fire.  '•'  Foaming  ale. 
IS  Thirsty.    '«  Roar.    "  Loads. 

*  Any  quantity  of  corn  sent  to  the  mill  is 
called  a  melder. 

t  The  village  where  a  parish  church  is  situa- 
ted is  usually  called  the  Kirkton  (Kirk-town) 
in  Scotland.  A  certain  Jean  Kennedy,  who 
kept  a  repuuhle  public  house  in  the  village  of 
Kirkoswald,  is  here  alluded  to, 


132 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Bnt  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
Tou  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed! 
Or  like  the  snowfall  in  the  riter, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race. 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form. 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 
Nae  man  can  tether'*  time  or  tide; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride; 
That  iour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the 
ke^tane,  [in; 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast 
And  sic"  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darltness  swal- 
low'd;  [low'd: 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bel- 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg,  [mire, 

Tarn    skelpit^"  on  through  dub   and 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
\A'^hiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bon- 
net. 
Whiles  crooning^'  o'er  some  auld  Scots 
.sonnet;  [cares. 

Whiles  glowering'-  round  wi'  prudent 
Lest  bogles*'  catch  him  unawares: 
Kirk-AUoway  was  drawing  nigh,  [cry. 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets"  nightly 

By  this  time  he  was  'cross  the  foord, 
Whare    in    the    snaw    the    chapman 

smoor'd;'* 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck- 
bane:  [cairn** 
And  through  the  whins,  ?nd  by  the 
Whare    hunters    fand   the    murder'd 

bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Wliare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. 
Before  him  Doou  pours  a'  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  through  the 

wood.s; 
Tlie  lightnings  flash  frae  pole  to  pole; 

^^  Tie  up.  *^  Such.  -"  Rode  with  careless 
speed.  21  Humming.  ^^  Staring.  23  Spirits. 
»*  Ghosts  and  owls.  ^^  Pedlar  was  smothered. 
"  Stone-heap.. 


Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll; 

When,  glimmering  through  the  groan- 
ing trees, 

Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze; 

Through  ilka  bore"  the  beams  were 
glancing,  [iiig- 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  danc- 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  mali  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny,*"  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquebae,*'  we'll  face  the  devil ! — 
The  swat  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  nod- 
dle, i» 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle.^' 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd. 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  liglft; 
And,  wow  !  Tam  saAv  an  unco  si^m  i 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  s.  dame; 
Nae  cotillon  brent-new"*  frae^i"fa"nee; 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,""»n(i 

reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  i'  their  heels  : 
At  ^vinnock-bunker,'*  i'  the  east, 
Tliere  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A    towzie    tyke,**    black,    grim,    and 

large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge: 
He  screw'd  the  pipes,  and  gart^'  them 

skirl,^* 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl." 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses. 
That    shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last 

dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip^'  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light,;— 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able. 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims;^' 
Twa    span-lang,    wee,*    unchristen'd 

bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  tape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab'"  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted; 
Five  scimitarSj  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, 

"  Every  hole  in  the  wall.  =«  Twopenny  ale. 
2'  Whisky.  s»  The  ale  so  wrought  in  Tam- 
mie's head.  =1  A  small  coin.  ^^  Brand-new. 
"  A  kind  of  window  seat.  "  A  rQujth  dor. 
ssMade.  "Scream,  s' Vibrate.  9»  SpelL 
s»  Irons.    "  Small.     «'  Mouth. 


POEMS. 


13a 


The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft:''^ 
i 

Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As    Tammie  glower'd,'"  amazed  and 
curious,  [ous: 

The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  f uri- 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reel'd,   they  set,   they    cross'd, 
-    they  cleekit. 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit,^ 
And,eoost*°  her  duddies*"^  to  the  wark. 
And  linket"  at  it  in  her  sark.^* 

Now  Tarn  !  O  Tain  !    had  thae  been 

queans,"" 
A'  piump  and  strappin'  in  their  teens, 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flan- 

nen,^''  [linen  !  § 

Been    snaw- white    seventeen  -  hunder 
Thirbreeks*'  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue 
,  hair, 
•  I  wad  hae  gien  them  afE  iny  hurdies,*' 
For  ae  blink*'  o'  the  bonny  burdies  !" 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld,  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie^*  hags,  wad  spean^  a  foal, 
Lowpin'  and  flingin'  on  a  cummoek," 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd''  what  was  what  f  u' 

brawlie,^'  fwalie,"™  || 

"  There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and 


"  Handle.  *'  Stared.  "Till  each  old 
beldam  smoked  with  sweat.  ■"  Stript.  ^« 
Clothes.     ■"  Tripped.     *«  Shirt.    <»  Young 

fjrls.  ^°  Greasy  flannel,  s'  These  breeches. 
'Hams.  ='  Look.  =•  Lasses.  ">  Gallows- 
worthy.  5*Wean.  ^'Jumping  and  capering 
on  a  staff.  "»  Knew.  "  Full  well.  «»  A 
hearty  girl  and  jolly. 

J  The  following^  four  lines- were,  in  the 
original  MS.,  in  this  place  :— 

Three  lawyers'  tongues  tum'd  inside  out, 
Wi'  lies  seam'd  like  a  beggar's  clout :' 
And  priests'  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 
Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk.^ 

The  poet  omitted  them  at  the  suggestion  of 
Mr.  Tytler  of  Woodhouselee. 

1  Rags.    2  Corner. 

I  The  manuficturers'  term  for  a  fine  linen 
■  woven  in  a  reed  of  1700  divisions, — Cromek. 

I  Allan  Ramsay. 


That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore; 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonny  boat. 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country  side  in  fear.) 
Her  cutty  sark,*'  o'  Paisley  harn. 
Thai,  while  a  lassie,*'-  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.*' 

AU  !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie. 
That  sark  she  coff*  for  her  wee  Nan- 
nie, [riches,) 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots,  ('twas  a'  her 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches  ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun 

cour,"* 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang," 
(A  souple  jade*'  she  was  and  Strang,^) 
And  .how    Tam    stood,   like  ane  be- 

witch'd. 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd; 
Even   Satan  glower'd,  and  fidged  fu' 

fain,  [and  main: 

And  botched' d"'  and  blew  wi'  might 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne™  anither, 
Tam  tint"  his  reason  a'  thegither. 
And  roars  out,   "Weel  done.   Cutty- 

sark  !" 
And  in  an  instant  a'  was  dark: 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 
As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,'- 
When  plundering  herds   assail  their 

byke," 
As  open  pussie's-mortal  foes,       [noae; 
When,   pop  !   she  starts  before  their 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When   "Catch  the   thief!"   resounds 

aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch"  screech  and 

hollow. 

Ah,   Tam  !  ah.  Tarn  !  thou'lt  get  thy 

fairiu'!" 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin' ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin'! 

«"  Short  shirt,  "»  Girl.  »»  Proud  of  it,  «« 
Bought.  "  Lower.  "  Jumped  and  kicked. 
"  Girl,  •"  Strong.  "  HItchel.  '°  Then. 
"  Lost.  "  Fuss.  "  Hive.  "  Unearthly. 
75  Deserts, 


134 


BUllNS'  WORKS. 


Kate  soon  will  be  a  wof  u'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  keystane^f  of  the  brig; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  darena  cross; 
But  ere  the  keystane  she  could  make 
■  The  fient'*  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle:" 
But  little  wisf'  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail; 
The  carlln  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk"  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed: 
Whane'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  Cutty -sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Tliiuk  !    ye  may  buy  the  joys  owre 

dear — 
Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


ON   THE   BIRTH   OF   A  POSTHU- 
MOUS CHILD, 

BORN  IN  PECULIAE  CmCTJMSTANCES  OF 
FAMILY  DISTRESS. 

The  mbtherof  the  child  was  Miss  Susan  Dun- 
lop,  daughter  of  Bums'  friend,  Mrs.  Dunlop. 
She  had  married  a  French  gentleman  of 
birth  and  fortune,  named  Henri,  who  died 

Erematurely.  Some  time  afterwards,  Mrs. 
lenri  went  to  the  south  of  France,  where 
she  died,  leaving  her  phild  exposed  to  all 
the  dangers  of  me  revolutionary  excesses. 
He  was  carefullytKnded  by  an  old  domestic 
of  the  family's,  and  restored  to  his  friends 
when  the  tranquillity  of  the  country  was 
secured. 

Sweet  floweret,  pledge  o'  meiklelove. 
And  ward  o'  mony  a  prayer;  [move. 

What  heart  o'  stane  would  thou  na 
Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair  ! 

November  liirples'  o'er  the  lea, 
Chill  on  thy  lovely  form; 


70  Ne'er.    "  Design.    '»  Knew.    "'  Each. 
1  Moves  slowly. 

T"  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  witches,  or 
,any  evil  spirits,  have  no  pow«r  to  follow  a 
poor  wight  any  farther  than  the  middle  of  Ihe 
next  running  stream.  It  may  be  proper  like- 
wise to  mention  to  the  benighted  traveller 
that,  when  he  falls  in  with  bogles^  whatever 
'^^ger  may  be  in  his  going  forward,  there  is 
j^uch  more  hazard  in  turning  back. — B. 


And  gane,  alas  !  the  sheltering  tree 
Should  shield  thee  from  the  storm. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  tp  pour, 
And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw,    . 

Protect  the  frae  the  driving  shower; 
The  bitter  frost  and  suaw  ! 

May  He,  the  friend  of  woe  and  want. 
Who  heals  life's  various  stounds," 

Protect  and  guard  the  mother-plant. 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  ! 

But  late  she  flourish'd,  rooted  fast. 
Fair  on  the  summer's  mom: 

Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 
Unshelter'd  and  forlorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gem, 
Unscathed  by  ruffian  hand  ! 

And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem 
Arise  to  deck  our  land  ! 


ELEGY  ON  MISS  BURJSET  OF 
MONBODDO. 

Miss  Burnet  was  the  daughter  of  the  accom- 
plished and  eccentric  Lord  Monboddo.  She 
IS  alluded  to  in  the  "Address  to  Edin- 
burgh," (p.  lOl.) 

Fair  Burriet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye. 
Heaven's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shisc ; 

I  see  the  Sire  of  Love  on  high. 
And  own  His  work  indeed  divine. 

She  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
of  her  time,  and  died  of  consumption  in  the 
twenty-third  year  of  her  age. 

Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize 
As  Burnet,   lovely   from    her    native 

skies ;    «  [blow. 

Nor  envious  Death  so  triumph'd  in  a 
As  tliat  which  laid  th'   accom'plish'd 

Burnet  low. 

Tliy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I 

forget  ? 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set ! 
In  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  truest 

shown,  [best  is  known. 

As  by  His-  noblest  work  the  (lodliead 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer's  pride ,  yo 

groves;  [flowery  shore. 

Thou    crystal    streamlet    with    tliy 

Ye  woodland  choir  that  chant  yoiir-idte 

loves. 

Ye  cease  to  charm — Eliza  is  no  more! 

2  Pangs. 


POEMS. 


13& 


I'e  heathy  wastes,  immix'd  with  reedy 

fens,-,     :  ,;.  .  [rushes  stored; 

Ye  mossy  streams,  with  s^dge  and 

Ye  ragged  "cliffs,  o'erhanging  dreary 

glens. 

To  you  I  fly,  ye  with  my  soul  accord. 

Princes,  whose  cumbrous  pride  was  all 

.  their  worth, ,  [liail  1 

Shall  venal  lays  their  pompous  exit 

And  thou,  sweet  excellence  !   forsake 

our  earth,  [wail  ? 

And  not  a  Muse  in  honest  grief  be- 

We  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  and  beau  ■ 
ty's  pride,  [yond  the  spheres; 

And  virtue's  light,  that  beams  be- 
But,  like  the  sun  eclipsed  at  mprning 
tide,  [of  tears. 

Thou  left'st  us  darkling  in  a  world 

The  parent's  heart  that  nestled  fond  in 

thee,  [and  care 

That  heart  how  sunk,  a  prey  to  grief 

So  deckt  the  woodbme  sweet  joh.  aged 

tree;  [and  bare. 

So  from  it  ravish'd,  leaves  it-  blealc 


LAMENT    OF   MARY   QUEEN   OF 

SCOTS,  ON  THE  APPROACH  OF 

SPRING. 

This  poem  is  said  to  have  been  written  at  the 
instigation  of  Lady  Winifrsd  Maxwell  Con- 
stable, daugliter  of  William  Maxwell,  Earl 
of  Nithsdale,  who  rewarded  him  with  a 
present  of  a  valuable  snufE-box,  having  a 
portrait  of  p-aeen  Mary  on  the  lid.  In  a  let- 
ter to  Graham  of  Fintry,  enclosing  a  copy  of 
"  The  Lament,"  the  poet  says  : — ''  Whether 
it  IS  that  -t^e  story  of  our  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  has  a  peculiar  effect.on  the  feelings  of 
a  poet,  or  whether  I  have,  in  the  enclosed 
ballad,  succeeded  beyond  my  usual  poetic 
success,  1  Icnow  not,  but  it  has  pleased  mc 
beyond  any  effort  of  my  Muse  for  a  good 
white  past.  ' 

Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 

On  every  bloaming  tree, 
And  spreads  her  sheets  o'  daisies  white 

Out  o'er  the  grassy  lea; 
Now    Phoebus      cheers    the    crystal 
streams. 

And  glads  the  azure  skies; 
But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 

That  fast  in  durance  lies. 

Now  lav'rocks  wake  the  merry  morn. 
Aloft  on  dewy  wing; 


The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bower. 
Makes  woodland  echoes  ring; 

The  mavis  wild,  wi'  mony  a  note, ' 
Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest; 

In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 
Wi'  care  or  thrall  opprest. 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  bank. 

The  i^rimrose  down  the  brae; 
The  hawthorn's  budding  in  the  glen, 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae; 
The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotland 

May  rove  their  sweets  amang; 
But,  I,  the  queen  Of  a'  Scotland, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang  ! 

I  was  the  queen  o'  bonny  France, 

Where  happy  I  hae  been; 
Fu'  lightly  rise  I  in  the  morn. 

As  blithe- lay  down  at  e'en: 
And  I'm  the  sovereign  of  Scotland, 

And  mony  a  traitor  there; 
Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreign  bands, 

And  never-ending  care. 

But  as  for  thee,  thou  false  woman  ! — 

My  sister  and  my  fae. 
Grim  Vengeance  yet  shall  whet  a  sword 

That  through  thy  soul  shall  gae  ! 
The  weejjing  blood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee;         [woe 
Nor  the  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of 

Frae  woman's  pitying  ee. 

Jiy  son  !  my  son  !  may  kinder  stars 

Upon  thy  fortune  shine  ! 
And  may  those  jileasures  gild  thy  reign. 

That  ne'er  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 
God  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes. 

Or  turn  their  hearts  to  thee:  [friend. 
And  where  thou  meet'st  thy  mother's 

Remember  him  for  me  ! 

Oh/!  soon  to  me  may  summer  suns 

Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn  ! 
Nau  mair  to  me  the  autumn  winds 

Wave  o  er  the  yellow  corn  ! 
And  in  the  narrow  liouse  o'  death 

Let  winter  round  me  rave;      [spring 
And  the  next   flowers   that  deck  the 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave  ! 


LAMENT  FOR  JAMES,  EARL  OF 

GLENCAIRN. 

The  early  death  of  the  Earl   of  Glencaim 
robbed  the  poet  of  an  intelligent  friend  and 


13ft 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


fjatron.  Burns  enclosed  the  '*  Lament  in  a 
etter  to  Lady  Elizabeth  Cunningham,  the 
sister  of  the  ear],  from  which  we  quote  the 
following  ;— "  My  heart  .glows,  and  shall 
ever  glow,  with  the- most  grateful  sense  and 
remembrance  of  his  lordship'^  goodness. 
The  sables  I  did  myself  the  honour  to  wear 
to  his  lordship's'  memory  -were  not  the 
■*  mocker3r  of  woe.'    Nor  shall  my  gratitude 

Ferish  'with  me !  If,  among  my  children, 
shall  have  a  son  that  has  a  heart,  he  shall 
hand  it  down  to  hts  child  as  a  family  hon- 
our, and  a  family  debt,  that  ray  dearest  ex- 
istence 1  owe  to  the  noble  house  of  Glen- 


The  wind  blew  hollow  frae  the  hills, 

By  fits  the  sun's  departing  beam 
Look'd  on  the  fading  yellow  woods 

That  waved  o'er  Lugar's  winding 
stream 
Beneath  a  craigy  steep,  a  bai-d, 

Laden  with  years  and  meikle  pain, 
In  loud  lament  bewail'd  his  lord, 

Whom  death  had  all  untimely  ta'en. 

He  lean'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Wliose  trunk  was  mouldering  down 

■with  years;  [time, 

His  locks  were  bleached  white  with 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi'  tears; 
And  as  he  touched  his  trembling  harp, 

And  as  he  tuned  his  doleful  sang. 
The    -winds  lamenting  through  their 
caves. 

To  Echo  bore  the  notes  alang; — 

"  Ye  scatter'd  birds  that  faintly  sing 

The  reliques  of  the  vernal  quire  ! 
Ye  woods  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

The  honours  of  the  aged  year  ! 
A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gay, 

Again  ye'll  cli£|,rm  tlie  ear  and  ee; 
But  nocht  in  all  revolving  time 

Can  gladness  bring  again  to  mo. 

"  I  am  a  bending  aged  tree. 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and 
rain ;  ■■ " 

But  now  has  come  a  cruel  blast. 

And  my  last  hold  of  earth  is  gane; 
Nae  leaf  o'  mine  shall  greet  the  Spring, 

Nae  simmer  sun  exalt  my  bloom; 
But  I  maun  lie  before  the  storm. 

And  itliers  plant  them  in  my  room. 

"  I've  seen  saemony  changefu'  years. 
On  eartli  I  am  a  stranger  grown ; 

I  wander  in  the  ways  of  men. 
Alike  unknowing  and  unknown : 


Unheard,  unpitied,  unrelieved, 
I  bear  alane  my  lade  o'  care, 

For  silent,  low,  on  beds  of  dust, 

Lie  a'  mat  would  my  sorrows  share. 

"  And  last  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs  !) 

My  noble  master  lies  in  clay; 
The  flower  amang  owr  barons  bold. 

His  country's  pride — ^his    country's 
stay ! 
In  weary  being  now  I  pine. 

For  a'  the  life  of  life  is  dead. 
And  hope  has  left  my  aged  ken, 

On  forward  wing  forever  fled. 

' '  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harp  ! 

The  voice  of  woe  and  wild  despair; 
Awak*!  resound  thy  latest  lay — 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 
And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  friend, 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb^ 
Accept  this  tribute  from,  the  bard 

Thou  brought  from  Fortune's  mirk- 
est  gloom. 

"  In  Poverty's  low  barren  vale 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involved  me 
round: 
Tliough  oft  I  turrfd  the  wistful  eye; 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found ; 
Thou  found'st  me,   like  the  morning 
sun, 

Tliat  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air — 
The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song 

Became  alilte  thy  fostering  care. 

"Ohl    why    has    worth    so    short    a 
date. 

While  villains  ripen  gray  with  time? 
Must     thou,     the     noble,     generous, 
great. 

Fall  in  bold  manhood's  hardy  prime! 
Why  did  I  live  to  see  that  day  ? 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  woe ! — 
Oh!  had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft  ; 

Which  laid  my  benefactor  low! 

"The    bridegroom    may    forget    the 

bride 
.    Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen : 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee; 
But  I'll  remember  tliee,  Glencairn, 

And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me  !" 


POEMS. 


137 


LINES 

SENT  TO  SIK  JOHN  ■WHITEFOOKD, 
BAKT. ,  OF  WHITEFOOKD,  WITH  THE 
FOEBGOING   POEM. 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  re- 
verest,  [earthly  fear'st, 

Who,  save  thy  mind's  reproach,  nought 
To  thee  this  votive-offering  I  impart, 
The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 
The  friend  thou  valued'st,  I  the  patron 
loved;  [approved. 

His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world 
We'll  mourn  till  we  too  go  as  he  has 

gone, 
And  tread  the  dreary  path  to  that  dark 
world  unknown. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SHADE  OF 

THOMSON, 

on  crowning  his  bust  at  ednam, 

roxbukghshire,  with  bays. 

The  Earl  of  Buchan  invited  Ihe  poet  to  be 

g resent  at    the  coronation    of  Thomson's 
ust,  on  Ednam  Hill.    He  could  not  attend, 
'   but   sent   the    following    "  Address "    in- 
stead : — 

While  virgin  Spring,  hy  Eden's  flood, 
Unfolds  her  tender  mantle  green. 

Or  pranlts  the  sod  in  frolic  mood, 
Or  tunes  .lEolian  strains  between: 

While  Summer  with  a  matron  grace, 
Retreats  to  Dryburgh's  cooling  shade, 

Yet  oft,  delighted,  stops  to  trace 
The  progress  of  the  spiky  blade: 

While  Autumn,  benefactor  land. 
By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 

And  sees,  with  self -approving  mind. 
Each  creature  on  his  bounty  fed: 

While  maniac  Winter  rages  o'er 
The    hills    whence    classic  Yarrow 
flows. 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent's  roar, 
Or  .sweeping,  wild,  a  waste  of  snows : 

So  long,  sweet  poet  of  the  year  ! 

Shafl  bloom  that  wreath  thou  well 
liastwon; 
Wliile  Scotia,  with  exulting  tear. 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son ! 


VERSES 

to  JOHN  MAXWELL  OF  TBRRAUGHTY, 
ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 

Health  to  the  Maxwells'  veteran  chief  I 
Health,  aye  unsour'd  by  care  or  grief: 
Inspired,  I  turn'd  Fate's  sybil  leaf 

This  natal  morn; 
I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o'  prief,' 

Scarce  quite  half  worn. 

This  day  thou  metes  threescore  eleven, 
And  I  can  tell  that  bounteous  Heaven 
(The  second  sight,  ye  ken,  is  given 

Toilka^.pbet) 
On  thee  a  tack  o'  seven  times  seven 

Will  yet  bestow  it. 

If  envious  buckles'  view  wi'  sorrow 
The  lengthen'd  days  on  this  blest  mor- 
row. 
May  Desolation's  laug-teeth'd  harrow, 

Nine  mfles  an  hour. 
Rake  them,  like  Sodom  and  Gomorrah, 
In  brunstane  stoure  l* 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  mony, 
Baith  honest  men  and  lasses  bonny. 
May  couthie^  Fortune,  kind  and  canny. 
In  social  glee,  [ny, 

Wi'  mornings  blithe  and  e'enings  fun- 
Bless  them  and  thee ! 

Fareweel,  auld  birkie  !*  Lord  be  near 

ye, 

And  then  the  deil  he  daurna  steer  ye: 
Your  friends  aye  love,  your  faes  aye 
fear  ye; 

For  me,  shame  fa'  me. 
If  neist  my  heart  I  dinna  wear  ye, 

While  Burns  they  ca'  me! 


THE  VOWELS: 

A  TALE. 

'TwAS  where  the  birch  and  sounding 

thong  are  plied, 
Tlie  noisy  domicile  of  pedant  pride; 
Where  Ignorance  her  darkening  vapour 

throws,  [blows,; 

And    Cruelty  directs  the  thickening 
Upon  a  time,  Sir  Abece  the.  great, 
In  all  his  pedagogic  powers  elate, 


'  Proof.    «  Every.    =  Bucks.  *  Dust.  "  Lov- 
ing.   ^  A  lively  fellow. 


138 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


His  awful  chair  of  state  resolves  to 

mount,  [count. 

And  call  tke  trembling  Vowels  to  ac- 

First  enter'd  A,  a  grave,  broad,  solemn 
wight,  [sight  ! 

But,  ah  !    deform'd,  dishonest  to.  the 
His  twisted  head  look'd  backward  on 
Ills  way,  [grunted  ai  ! 

And   flagrant   from    the    scourge     he 
Reluctant,  E  stalk'd  in ;  with  piteous 
race  [face ! 

The  jostling  tears  ran  down  his  honest 
That  name,  that  well-worn  name,  and 
all  his  own,  [throne  ! 

Pale    he    surrenders    at  the    tyrant's 
The  pedant  stiiies  keen  the   Roman 
sound  [compound ; 

Not  all  his  mongrel   diphthongs  can 
And  next  the  title  following  close  he- 
hind,  [sign'd. 
He  to  the  nameless  ghastly  wretch  as- 

The  cobweb'd  Gothic  dome  resounded 

Y! 
In  suUep  vengeance,  I  disdain'd  reply: 
The   pedant   swung  his  felon  cudgel 

round,  [the  ground ! 

And  knocked  the  groaning  vowel  to 

In  rueful  apprehension  enter'd  0, 
The  wailing   minstrel  of    despairing 

woe;  [pert. 

The  inquisitor  of  Spain  the  most  ex- 
Might  there  have  learnt  new  mysteries 

of  his  art:  [ing.  ^ 

So  grim,  deform'd,  with  horrors  enter- 
His  dearest  friend  and  brother  scarcely 

knew  1 

As  trembling  U  stood  staring  all 
aghast,  [Iiim  fast. 

The  pedant  in  his  left  hand  clutch'd 

In  helpless'  infants'  tears  he  dipp'd  his 
right,  [his  sight. 

Baptized  Mm  eu,  and  kick'd  him  from 


ADAM  A- 


-'S  PRAYER. 


The  circumstances  under  which  the  following 
lines  were  written  were  as  follows  : — The 
servant  of  a  Mauchline  innkeeper  having 
been  too  indulgent  to  one  oi  her  master^ 
customers,  a  numbfer  of  reckless  young  fel- 
lows, among  whom  was  Adam  A ,  an 

ill-made  little  fellow,  made  her  "  nde  the 
stang  " — that  is,  placed  her  astride  r,  wood- 
en pole,  and  carried  her  through  the  streets. 


An  action  being  raised  against  the  offend- 
ers, Adam  A absconded.  While  skulk- 
ing about,  Burns  met  him  and'  suggested 
that  he  needed  some  one  tp  pray  for  him ; 
"Just  do't  yoursel.  Burns:  1  know  no  one 

so  fit,"  Adam  replied.  Adam  A 's  Prayer 

was  the  result.  ^ 

GilDE  pity  me,  because  I'm  little. 
For  though  I  am  an  elf  o'  mettle. 
And  can,  like  ony  wabster's'  shuttle, 

Jink'^  there  or  here;  [tie.* 
Yet,  scarce  as  lang's  a  guid  kail  whit- 

I'm  unco  queer. 

And  now  thou  kens  our  woefu'  case. 
For  Geordie's  jurr*  we're  in  disgrace, 
Because  we've  stang'd  her  through  the 
place; 

And  hurt  her  spleuchan. 
For  which  we  daurna  show  our  face 

Within  the  clachan.' 

And  now  we're  dem'd^  in  glens  aiid 

hollows. 
And  hunted,  as  was  William  Wallace, 
Wi'  constables,  those  blackguard  fal- 
lows. 

And  sodgers  baith ; 
But  Gude  preserve  us  frae  the  gallows. 
That  shamefu'  death  ! 

Auld,   grim,   black-bearded  Geordie's 

sel. 
Oh,  shake  him  o'er  the  mouth  o'  hell. 
There  let  him  hing,  and  roar,  and  yell, 

Wi'  hideous  din7 
And  if  he  offere  to  rebel. 

Just  heave'  him  in. 

When  Death  comes  in,  wi'  glimmering 
blinlv,  [wink. 

And  tips  auld    drunKen    Nanse  f  the 
May  Hornie  gie  her  doup  a  clink 

Ahint  his  yett,' 
And  fill  her  up  wi'  brimstone  drink. 

Red,  reeking,  liet. 

There's  Jockie  and  the  haveril  Jenny,  J 
Some  devils  seize  them  in  a  hurry, 


^  Weaver's.  ^  Dodge.  ^ -Knife.  *  Village. 
"  Hidden.     «  Pitch.     '  Gate. 

*  "  Jurr"  is  in  the  west  of  Scotland  a  collo- 
quial term  for  "journeyman,"  and  is  often 
applied  to  designate  a  servant  of  either  sex. 

t  Geordie's  wife. 

%  Geordie's  son  and  daughter. 


POEMS. 


139 


And  waff  them  in  tile  infernal  wlierry 
Strauglit.  tlirougli  the  lalte. 

And  gie  their  hides  a  noble  curry, 
Wi'  oil  of  aik. 

As  for  the  jurr,  poor  worthless  body, 
She 's  got  mischief  enough  already  ; 
Wi'  stanged  hips,  and  buttocks  blViidy, 

She 's  sufEer'd  sair  ; 
But  may  she  wintle  in  a  woodie," 

If  she  whore  ,mair. 


VERSES  TO  JOHN  RANKINE.* 

Ae  day,  as  Death ,  that  grusome  carl. 
Was  driving  to  the  tither  warl' 
A  mixtie-maxtie,  motley  squad. 
And  mony  a  guilt-bespotted  lad  ; 
Black  gowns  of  eacli  denomina;tion, 
And  thieves  of  every  rank  and  station. 
From  him  that  wears  the  star  and  gar- 
ter. 
To  him  that  wiutles'  in  a  halter. 
Ashamed  himsel  to  see  the  wretches, 
He  mutters,  glowerin'-  at  the  bitches, 
"  By  God,  I  Tl  not  be  seen  behint  them. 
Nor  'mang  JEhe  sp'ritual  core  present 

them. 
Without,  at  least,  ae  honest  man. 
To  grace  this  damn'd  infernal  clan." 
By  Adamhill  a  glance  he  threw, 
"Lord  God!"  quoth  he,  "1  have  it 

now  ; 
There 's  just  the  man  I  want,  i'  faith  !" 
And  quicldy  stoppit  Rankine's  breath. 


ON  SENSIBILITY. 

TO     MT  DE^VH     AND    MUCn-IIONOTIBED 
FRIEND,  MKS.  DITNLOP  OF  DDNLOP. 

Sensibility,  how  charming. 
Thou,  my  friend,  canst  truly  tell  ; 

But  distress,  with  horrors  arming. 
Thou  hast  also  known  too  well  ! 

Fairest  flower,  behold  the  lily. 
Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray  : 

Cet  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley. 
See  it  prostrate  on  the  clay. 


Hear  the  woodlark  charm  the  forest. 

Telling  o'er  his  little  joys  ; 
Hapless  bird  !  a  prey  the  surest, 

'to  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure 
Finer  feelings  can  bestow  ; 

Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure - 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 


'  Struggle  in  a  Baiter. 

>  Struggles.    =  Stating. 
*  John  Rankine  of  Adamhill,  the  "  rough, 
rude,  ready-witted  Rankine"  of  the  Epistle. 


LINES  ON  FERGUSSON. 

The  following  lines  were  inscribed  by  Burns 
on  a  blank  leaf  af  a  copy  of  the  periodical 
.  publication  entitled .  the  World,  from  which 
they  have  been  copied  :  — 

III  -  FATED  genius  !    Heaven  -  taught 
Fergusson  !  [yield  a  tear. 

What  heai-t  that  feels  and  will  not 
To  thinlc  life's  sun  did  set  ere  well  be- 
gun '  [career. 
To  shed  its  influence  on  thy  bright, 
Oh,  why  should  truest  worth  and  ge; 
nius  pine  [Woe, 
Beneath  the  iron  grasp  of  Want  and 
Wliile  titled  knaves  and  idiot  great- 
ness shine                           [stow  I 
In  all  the  splendour  Fortune  can  be- 


THE  BIGHTS  OP  WOMAN, 

AN  OCCASIONAL  ADDHESS  SPOKEN  BY 
MISS  PONTENELLE  ON  HER  BEN- 
EFIT  NIGHT. 

While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty 
things,  [kings ; 

The  fate  of  empires  and  the  fall  of 
While  quacks  of  state  must  each  pro- 
duce his  plan,  [man  ; 
And  even  children  lisp  the  rights  of 
Amid  this  mighty  fuss,  just  let  me 
mention,  [tention. 
The  rights  of  woman  merit  some  at- 

First,  in  the  sexes'   intermix'd    con- 
nexion, [tection. 
One  sacred  right  of    woman  is,  pro- 
The  tender  flower  that  lifts  its  head, 
elate,    '  [fate. 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blasts  of 
Sunk  on  the  earth,  defaced  its  lovely 
form,                                         [storm. 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th'  impendmg 


140 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Our  second  right — but  needless  here  is 

caution,  [ion  ; 

To  keep  that  right  inviolate 's  the  fash- 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before 

him,  [corum. 

He  'd  die  before  he  'd  wrong  it — 'tis  de- 
There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polish'd 

days,  [naughty  ways ; 

A  time,  when  rough,  rude  man,  had 
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  ;  [well  bred  ! — 

Now,  well-bred  men — and  ye  are  all 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much 

the  gainers)  [manners. 

Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor 

For  right  the  third,  our  last,  our  best, 
our  dearest,  [the  nearest, 

That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts 
Which  even  the  rights  of  kings  in  low 
prostration  [miration! 

Most  humbly  own — 'tis  dear,  dear  ad- 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and 
move  ;  [love ; 

There  taste  that  life  of  life — ^immortal 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flir- 
tations, airs,  [dares — 
'Gainst  such  a  host  what  flinty  savage 
When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her 

charms, 
WTio  is  so  rash  as  rise  in  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with 
constitutions,  [tions ! 

With  bloody  armaments  and  revolu- 

Let  majesty  your  first  attention  sum- 
mon. 

Ah!  fa  ira!  the  majesty  op  woman! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVOURITE 

CHILD. 

The  following  lines  were  composed  on  the 
death  of  a  daughter,  which  took  place  sud- 
denly while  the  poet  was  absent  from 
home  : — 

Oh,  sweet  be  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of 
the  grave. 

My  dear  little  angel  forever;  [slave. 
For  ever — oh  no  I   let  not  man  be  a 

His  hopes  from  existence  to  sever. 


Though  cold  be  the  clay  where  thou 
pillow'st  thy  head. 
In  the  dark  silent  mansions  of  sorrow. 
The  spring  shall  return  to  thy  low  nar- 
row bed,  [row. 
Like  the  beam  of  the  daystar  to-mor- 

The  flower-stem  shall  bloom  like  thy 

sweet  seraph  form,  [som; 

Er^  the  spoiler  had  nipt  thee  in  blos- 

When  thou  shrunk  from  the  scowl  of 

the  loud  winter  storm, 

And  nestled  thee  close  to  that  bosom. 

Oh,  still  I  behold  thee,  all  lovely  in 

death. 

Reclined  on  the  lap  of  thy  mother. 

When  the  tear  trickled  bright,  when 

the  short  stifled  breath,    [other. 

Told  how  dear  ye  were  aye  to  each 

My  child,  thou  art  gone  to  the  home  of 

thy  rest,  [ye, 

Where  suffering  no  longer  can  harm 

Where  the  songs  of  the  good,  where 

the  hymns  of  the  blest. 

Through  an  endless  existence  shall 

charm  thee. 

While  he,  thy  fond  parent,  must  sigh- 
ing sojourn 
Through  the  dire  desert  regions  of 
sorrow. 
O'er  the  hope  and  misfortune  of  being 
to  mourn. 
And  sigh  for  his  life's  latest  morrow. 


TO  A  KISS. 

Hdmid  seal  of  soft  affections, 
Teuderest  pledge  of  future  bliss, 

Dearest  tie  of  young  connexions, 
Love's  first  snowdrop,  virgin  kiss  ! 

Speaking  silence,  dumb  confession. 
Passion's  birth,  and  infant's  play. 

Dove-like  fondness,  chaste  concession, 
Glowing  dawn  of  brighter  day, 

Sorrowing  joy,  adieu's  last  action. 
When  lingering  lips  no  more  must 
.  join, 

What  words  can  ever  speak  affection 
So  thrilling  and  sincere  as  thine  i 


POEMS. 


141 


SONNET. 

ON  IIEABINO  A  THllUSH  SING  IN  A 
MORNING  WALK;  -WKITTEN  JAN.  25, 
1793,  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  THE' AU- 
THOR. 

Sink  on,  sweet  tlirush,  upon  tlie  leaf- 
less bough,         ,  [strain: 
Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy 
See,   aged  Winter,    'mid  his    surly 
reign,  [brow. 
At  thy  blithe  carol  clears  his  f  urrow'd 
So  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear. 
Sits  meek  Content  with  light  unanx- 
ious  heart,                  [them  part. 
Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids 
Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or 
fear. 

I  thank  Thee,  Author  of  this  opening 

day  !  [orient  skies  ! 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  yon 

Riches  denied.  Thy  boon  was  purer 

joys,  [away ! 

What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  Poverty  and 

Care; 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestow'd,  that 

mite  with  thee  I'll  share. 


IMPROMPTU  ON  MBS.  KIDDEL'S 
BIRTHDAY. 

NOVEMBER  4,  1793. 

Old  Winter  with  his  frosty  beard 
Thus  once  tc  Jove  his  prayer  preferr'd — 
"What  have  I  done,  of  all  the  year. 
To  bear  this  hated  doom  severe? 
My  cheerless  suns  no  pleasure  know; 
Night's  horrid  car  drags  dreary,  slow; 
My  dismal  months  no  joys  are  crown- 
ing,  [ing. 

But  spleeny  English,  hanging,  drown- 

"  Now,  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil. 
To  counterbalance  all  this  evil; 
Give  me,  and  I've  no  more  to  say, 
Give  me,  Maria's  natal-day  ! 
That  brilliant  gift  shall  so  enrich  me, 
Spring,     Summer,     Autumn,     cannot 
match  me."  [story, 

"'Tis  done!"  says  Jove;   so  ends  my 
And  Winter  once  rejoiced  in  glory. 


EPISTLE  FROM  ESOPUS  TO 

MARIA. 

The  Esopus  of  this  epistle  was  Williamson,  the 
■  actor;  and  the  Maria  to  whom  it  is  address- 
ed was  Mrs.  Riddel—"  A  lady,"  says  Allan 
Cunningham,  "  whose  memory  will  be  held 
in  g^rateful  remembrance,  not  only  for  her 
having  forgiven  the  poet  for  his  lampoons, 
but  for  her  having  written  a  sensible,  clear, 
heart-warm  account  of  him  when  laid  in  the 
grave.  Mrs.  Riddl^  was  a  sincere  friend 
and  admirer  of  Burns,  who  quarrelled  with 
her  on  account  of  some  fancied  slight. 
Williamson  was  amember  of  tlie  dramatic 
company  which  frequently  visited  Dumfries. 
He  nad  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  Mrs. 
Riddel's.  While  the  dramatic  company 
were  at  Whitehaven,  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale 
committed  them  to  prison  as  vagfrants. 
Burns  had  no-  favour  for  the  Earl  of  Lons- 
dale, and  managed  in  the  epistle  to  gratify 
his  aversion  to  him,  as  well  as  his  temporary 
anger  with  Mrs  Riddel.  His  behavioiir 
towards  the  latter  was  as  discreditable  to 
him  as  Mrs-  Riddel's  generosity  in  forgiving 
it  was  worthy'of  hei-  goodness  and  her  high 
opinion  of  his  better  nature." 

From  those  drear  solitudes  and  frowsy 
cells,  [dwells; 

Where   infamy  with  sad  repentance 
Where  turnkeys  make  the  jealous  mor- 
tal fast,  [past; 
And  deal  from  iron  hands  the  spare  re- 
Where  truant  'prentices,  yet  young  in 
sin,  [in; 
Blush  at  the  curious  stranger  peeping 
Where  strumpets,  relics  of  the  drunken 
roar,                                      [no  more; 
Resolve  to,  drink,  nay,  half  to  whore. 
Where  tiny  thieves,  not  destined  yet  to 
swing,                                       [string: 
Beat  hemp   for  others   riper  tor  the 
From  these  dire  scenes  my  wretched 

lines  I  date. 
To  tell  Maria  her  Esopus'  fate. 

"  Alas  !  I  feel  I  am  no  actor  here  !  " 
'Tis  real  hangmen  real  scourges  bear  ! 
Prepare,  Maria,  for  a  horrid  tale 
Will  turn  thy  very  rouge  to  deadly 

pale;  [gipsy  poH'd, 

Will  make  thy  hair,  though  erst  from 
By  barber  woven,  and  by  barber  sold. 
Though  twisted  smooth  with  Harry's 

nicest  care, 
Like  hoary  bristles  to  erect  and  stare. 
The  liero  of  the  mimic  scene,  no  more 
I  start  in  Hamlet,  in  Othello  roar; 
Or  haughty  chieftain,  'mid  the  din  of 

arms,  [charms; 

In  Highland   bonnet   woo   Malvina's 


1^ 


BURNS'  WOHKS. 


Whilst    saus-CuloUes    stoop    up    tlie 

mountain  liigh. 
And  steal  from  me  Maria's  prying  eye-. 
Blest     Highland     bonnet !    once    my 

proudest  dress,  [press. 

Now  prouder  still,  Maria's  temples 
I  see  her  wave  tliy  towering  plumes 

afar,  [war; 

And  call  each  coxcomb  to  the  wordy 
I  see  her  face  the  first  of   Ireland's 

sons,  [bronze; 

And  even  out-Irish  his  Hibernian 
The  crafty  colonel  leaves  the  tartan'd 

lines,  [shines; 

For  other  wars,  where  he  a  ■  hero 
The  hopeful  youth,  in  Scottish  senate 

bred,  [the  head; 

Who  owns  a  Bushby's  heart  without 
Comes,   'mid  a  string  of  coxcombs  to 

display 
That  'Deni,  mdi,  vici,  is  his  way ; 
The  shrinking  bard  adown  an   alley 

skulks,  [Woolwich  halks: 

And  dreads  a  meeting  worse  than 
Though  there,  his  lieresies  in  church 

and  state  [mer's  fate; 

Might  well  award  him  Muir  and  Pal- 
Still  she  undaunted  reels  and  rattles  on, 
And  dares  the  public  like  u,  noontide 

sun.  [stagger 

(What  scandal  call'd  Maria's  janty 
The  Ticket  reeling  of  a  crooked  swag- 
ger; [venom  when 
Whose  spleen  e'en  worse  than  Burns' 
He  dips  in  gall  unmix'd   his    eager 

pen, —  [iug  line, 

And  'jjours  his  vengeance  in  the  burn- 
Who     christen'd    thus    Maria's    lyre 

divine; 
The  idiot  strum  of  vanity  bemused. 
And  even  the  abuse  of  poesy  abused; 
Who  call'd  her  yerse  a  parish  work- 
house, made  [or  stfay'd  ?) 
For  motley,  foundling  fancies,  stolen 

A  workhouse  !  ha,  that  sound  awalies 
my  woes,  [pose  ! 

And  pillows  on  the  thoni  my  rack'd  re- 
in' durance  vile  here  must  I  wake  and 
weep,  [steep ! 

And  all  my  frowsy  couch  in  sorrow 
That  straw  where  many  a  rogue  has. 

lain  of  yore. 
And  vermin'd  gipsies  littered  hereto- 
fore. ■ 


Why,  Lonsdale,  thus -thy  wrath  on  va- ! 

grants  pour,  [dure? 

Must  earth  no  rascal  save  thyself  e'n- 
Mtist  thou  alone  in    guUt    immortal 

swell;    - 
And  make  a  vast  monopoly  of.  hell? 
Thou  kuow'st  the  virtues  cannpt  hate 

thee  worse;  [curse  ? 

The  vices  also,  inust  they  club  their 
Or  must  no  tiny  sin  to  others. faD, 
Because  thy  guilt's  supreme  enouglii 

for  all?, 

Maria,   send  me  to    thy    grief  s    and 
cares;  _    ' 

In  all  of  these  sure  thy  Esopus  shares. 
As  thou  at  all  mankind  the  flag  un- 
furls,        ~  [hurls-? 
Who  on  my  fair  one  satire's  vengeance 
Who  calls  thee  pert,  affected,  vain  co- 
quette, 
A  wit  in  folly,  and  a  fool  in  wit  ? 
Who  says  that  fool  alone  is  not  thydue. 
And,  quotes  thy  treacheries  to  prove  it 
true  ?  .  _    .     -  - 
Our  force  united  on  thy  foes  we'll  turn. 
And  dare  the  war  with  all  of  woman 
bom;                                          [and  I? 
For  who  can  write  and  speak  as  thou 
My  periods  that  deciphering  defy. 
And  thy   still  matchless  tongue  that 
conquers  all  reply. 


MONODY  ON  A  LADY  FAMED  FOK 
HER  CAPRICE.* 

How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly 
once  fired. 
How  pale  is  that  cheek  where  the 
rogue  lately  glisten'd ! 
How  silent   that    tongue    which    the 
echoes  oft  tired. 
How  dull  is  that  ear  which  to  flat- 
tery so  listen'd  ! 

If  sorrow  and  anguisli  their  exit  await, 
From  friendship  and  dearest  affec 
tion  removed; 
How  doubly  severe,  Eliza,  thy  fate. 
Thou  diedst  unwept  as  thou  livedst 
unloved. 


*  This  was  another  of  the  poet's  splenetic 
attacks  0*11  Mrs.  Riddel. 


POEMB.  ■ 


143 


Loves,  Graces,  and  Virtues,  I  call  not 

on  you;  [not  a  tear 

So  shy,  grave,  and  distant,  ye  slled 

But  come,  all  ye  ofcspring  of  Folly  so 

true,  [<;o]d  bier. 

And  flowers  let  us  cull  for ,  Eliza's 

We'll  search  through  the  garden  for 

each  silly  flower, 

We'll  roanj  through  the  forest  for 

each  idle  weed; 

But    chiefly    the    nettle,    so    typical, 

shower,        [rued  the  rash  deed. 

For  none    e'er  approach'd  her  but 

We'U    sculpture    the    marble,    we'll 

measure  the  lay; 

Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  lyre; 

There  keen  Indignation  shall  dart  on 

her  prey,       [deem  from  his  ire. 

Which  spurning  Qjntempt  shall  re- 


POEM  ON  PASTORAL  POETRY. 

Hail,  Poesie  !  thou  njTuph  reserved  ! 
In  chase  o'  thee,   what   crowds   hae 

swerved 
Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  ennerved 

'Mang  heaps  o'  clavers ;' 
And    och !    owre    aft    thy    joes'^    hae 
starved 

'Mid  a'  thy  favours  ! 

Say,  lassie,  why  thy  train  amang. 
While  loud  the  trump's  heroic  clangs 
And  sock  or  busldn  skelp  alang 

To  death  or  marriage; 
Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd  sang 

But  wi'  miscarriage  ? 

In  Homer's  craft  Jock  Milton  thrives; 
Bschylus'  pen  Will  Shakespeare  drives; 
Wee  Pope,  the  knurlin,^  till  him  rives'" 

Horatian  fame; 
In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 

Even  Sappho's  flame. 

But  thee,  Theocritus,  wha  matches? 
Tlaey're     no    herd's    ballats,    Maro's 

catches: 
Squire  Pope  but   busks  his  skinklin' 
.  patches 

0'  heathen  tatters : 
I  pass  by  hunders,  nameless  wretches. 
That  ape  their  betters. 

_  1' Nonsense.  "  Lovgrs.  3  Dwarfish. 

*  X>rav.rs.       5  Thin  or  gauzy. 


In  this  braw  age  o' wit  and  lear, 
Will  nane  the  Shepherd's  whistle  mair 
Blaw  sweetly  in  its  native  air 

And  .rural  grace ; 
And  wi'  the  far-famed  Orecian  share 

A  rival  place  ? 

Yes  !  there  is  ane;  a  Scottish  callah — 
There's  ane;  come  forrit,  honest  Allan!* 
Thou  need  na  jouk'  behint  the  hallan^ 

A  chiel  sae  clever; 
The  teeth  o'  time  may  gnaw  Tantallan, 

But  thou'sfor  ever! 

Thovi  paints  auld  nature  to  the  nines. 
In  thy  sweet  Caledonian -lines;  [twines, 
Nae  gowden  stream  through  myrtles 

Where  Philomel, 
While' nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vinesi 

Her  griefs  will  tell  ! 

In  gowany  glens  thy  bumie  strays. 
Where  bonny,  lasses  bleach  their  claes; 
Or  trots  by  hazelly  shaws  and  braes, 

Wi'  hawthorns  gray. 
Where  blackbkds  join  the  shepherij's 
lays 

At  close  o'  day. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  nature's  sel; 

Xae  bombast  spates  o'  nonsense  swell; 

Nae  snap  conceits — but  that  sweet  spell 

0'  witehin'  love ;  ' ' 

That  charm  that  can  the  strongest  quell, 

The  sternest  move. 


SONNET 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF    ROBEKT  RIDDEL, 
ESQ.,    OP  GLEN  EIDDEL.f 

No  more,  ye  warblers  of  the  wood,  no 
more  !  [my  soul: 

Nor  pour  your  descant,  grating,  on 
Thou  young-eyed  Spring,  gay  in  tliy 
verdant  stole — 
More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Win- 
ter's wildest  roar. 

How  can  ye  charm,  ye  flowers,  with  all 
your  dyes  ?  [friend  ! 

Ye  blow  upon  the  sod  that  wraps  my 
How  can  I  to  the  tuneful  strain  at- 
tend? 


«  Hide. 

*  Allan  Ramsay. 

+  Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Friars'  Carse,  q 
very  worthy  gentleman,  and  one  from  whani 
Burns  had  received  many  obligations.         '* 


144 


BUHNS'  WORKS. 


That  strain  flows  round  the  untimely 
tomb  where  Riddel  lies  ! 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes 

of  woe  !  [his  bier: 

And  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  o'er 

The  Man  of  Worth,  who  has,  not  left 

his  peer,  [low. 

Is  in  his  narrow  house,  for  ever  darkly 

Thee,  Spring,  again  with  joy  shall 

others  greet,  [ineet. 

Me,  memory  of  my  loss  will  only 

LIBERTY : 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Writing  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  from  Castle-Douglas, 
the  poet  says; — "  I  am  just  going  to  trouble 
your  critical  patience  with  the  first  sketch 
of  a  stanza  1  have  been  framing  as  1  passed 
along  the  road.  The  subject  is  Liberty: 
you  Know,  my  honoured  friend,  how  dear 
the  theme  is  to  me.  I  design  it  as  an  irreg- 
ular ode  for  General  Washington's  birth- 
day.   After  having  mentioned  the  d^gener- 

'  -acy  of  other  kingdoms,  I  come  to  Scotland 
thus ;" — 

Thee,    Caledonia,    tliy    wild    heaths 
among,  [sacred  song. 

Thee,  famed  -for    martial    deed    and 
To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  fled? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead. 
Beneath    the    hallow'd  turf  where 
Wallace  lies  ! 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of 
death  ! 
Ye  babbling  winds,  in  silence  sweep; 
Disturb' not  ye  the  hero's  sleep. 
Nor  give  the  coward  secret  breath. 
Is  this  the  power  in  freedom's  war 
That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  ? 
Behold  that  eye  which  shot  immortal 
hate. 
Braved  usurpation's  boldest  daring  ! 
That  arm  which,  nerved  with  thunder- 
ing fate,  [ing : 
Crush'd  the  despot's  proudest  bear- 
One  quench'd  in    darkness,  like   the 
inking  "tar,        [powerless  age. 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering. 


His  royal  visage  seam'd  with  many  a 

sear,  [form. 

That   Caledonian    rear'd  his   martial 


Who  led  the  tyrant-quelling  war. 
Where    Bannockbum's     ensanguined 

flood 
Swell'd  with  mingling  hostile  blood, 
Soon  Edward's"  myriads  struck  with 

deep  dismay,  [their  way. 

And   Scotia's*  troop  of  brothers    win 
(Oh,  glorious  deed  to  bay  a  tyrant's 

band  !  ,  [laud ! 

Oh,  heavenly  joy  to  free  our  native 
While  high  their  riiighty  chief  pour'd 

on  the  doubling  storm. 


VERSES 

TO  MISS  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRY,  WITH  A 
PRESENT    OF    SONGS. 

Here,  where  the   Scottish  Muse  im- 
mortal lives,  [bers  join'd. 
In  sacred  strains  and  tuneful  num- 
Accept  the  gift,  though  humble  he  who 
gives ;  [mind. 
Rich  is  the  tribute  of  the  grateful 

So  may  no  ruffian  feeling  in  thy  breast 

Discordant    jar  thy  bosom  -  chords 

among !  [rest, 

But  Peace  attune  thy  gentle  soiil  to 
Or  Love,  ecstatic,  wake  his  seraph 


Or  Pity's  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears, 
As  modest  Want  the  tale  of  woe  re- 
veals ;  [endears, 

Wliile  conscious  Virtue  all  the  strain 
And  heaven-born  Piety  her  sanction. 


THE  TREE  OF  LIBERTY. 

This  poem  was  taken  from  a  MS.  in  the  poet's 
handwriting  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  James 
Ifuncan,  Mosesfield,'  near-  Glasgow,  and 
was  first  printed  in  Mr.  Robert  Cham'bers' 
edition  of^the  poet's  works,  1838. 

Heard  ye  o'  the  tree  o'  France, 

1  watna'  what's  the  name  o't; 
Around  it  a'  the  patriots  dance, 

Weel  Europe  kens  the  fame  o't. 
It  stands  where  ance  the  Bastile  stood, 

A  prison  built  by  kings,  man,  ,  ■. 
When  Superstition's  hellish  brood 

Kept  France  in  leading-strings,  man. 

'  Know  not. 


POEMS. 


'145 


TJpo'  this  tree  there  grows  sic  fruit, 
f    Its  virtues  a'  can  tell,  man; 
It  raises  man  aboon  tlie  brute. 

It  makes  liint  ken  liimsel,  man. 
Gif  auce  the  peasant  taste  a  bit, 
■  He's  greater  than  a  lord,  man, 
And  wi'  the  beggar  shares  a  mite 

Of  a'  he  can  aflord,  man. 

Sriiis  fruit  is  worth  a'  Af ric's  wealth, 

-To  comfort  us  'twas  sent,  man : 
To  gie  the  sweetest  blush  o'  health. 

And  mak  us  a'  content,  man. 
It  clears  the  een,  it  cheers  the  heart, 

Maks  high  and  low  guid  friens,  man. 
And  he  whaacts  the  traitor's  part 

It  to  jjerdition  sends,  man. 

My  blessings  aye  attend  the  chiel- 

Wha  pitied  Gallia's  slaves,  nian, 
And  staw^  a  branch,  spite  o'  the  deil, 

Frae  yont'  the  western  waves,  man. 
Fair  Virtue  water'd  it  wi'  care. 

And  now  she  sees  wi'  pride,  man. 
How  Weel  it  buds  and  blossoms  there. 

Its  branches  spreading  wide,  man. 

Uat  vicious  folic  aye  hate  to  see 
,  The  works  o'  Virtue  thrive,  man; 
The  Courtly  vermin's  bann'd  the  tree, 

And  grat^  to  see  it  thrive,  man ; 
King  Louis  thought  to  cut  it  down. 

When  it  was  unco'  sma',  man; 
For  this  the  watchman  cracked  his 
crown. 
Cut  aff  his  head  and  a',  man. 

A  wicked  crew  syne,'  on  a  time. 

Did  tak  a  solemn  aitli,  man. 
It  ne'er  should  flourish  to  its  prime, 

I  wat^  they  pledged  their  faith,  m^n. 
Awa'  they  gaed,'  wi'^mock  parade, 
-  Lilie  beagles  Imating  game,  man. 
But  soon  grew  weary  o'  the  trade,    . 
And  wished'-  they'd  been  at .  hame, 
man. 

For  Freedom,  standing  by  the  tree, 
,  Her  sons  didlbudly  ca',  man; 
She  sanga  sang  o'  liberty. 

Which  pleased  them  ane  and  a',  man. 
By  her  Inspired,  the  new-bom  race 
-Soon  drew  the  avenging  steel,  man; 


^  Man.   '^  Stole.    •  From  beyond.    '  Wept. 
•  Very.     ^  Then.     «  Know.    "  Went. 


Tlio    hirelings  ran  —  her  foes  gied'P 
chaSe, 
And  bang'd"  the  despot  weel,  man. 

Let  Britain  boast  her  hardy  oak, 

Her  poplar  and  her  pine,  fflaUi 
Auld  Britain  ance  could  crack  her  joke> 

And  o'er  her  neighbours  shine,  man. 
But  seek  the  forest  round  and  round. 

And  soon  'twill  be  agreed,  man, 
That  sic  a  tree  cannot  be  found' ' 

.'Twist  London  and  the  Tweed,  man. 

Without  this  tree,  alake,  this  life 

Is  but  a  vale  o'  woe,  man; 
A  scene  o'  sorrow  mix'd  wi'  strife, 

Nae  real  joys  we  know,  man. 
We  labour  soon,  we  labour  late. 

To  feed  the  titled  knave,  man; 
An4-  a'  the  comfort  we're  to  get 

Is  that  ayont  the  grave,  man. 

Wi^  plenty  o'  sic  trees,'I  trow, 

The  warld  would  live  in  peace,  ip,an ; 
The  sword  wpuld  help  to  mak  a  plough, 

The  din  o'  war  wad  cease,  man. 
Like  brethren  in  a  common  cause. 

We'd  on  each-other  smile,  man; 
And  equal  rights  and  egual  laws 

Wad  gladden  every  isle,  man. 

Wae  worththe  loon"  wha  wadna  eat^ 
Sic  halesonie   dainty  clieer,-  man; 

I'd' gie  my  shoon  frae  aff  my  feet,- 
To  taste  sic  fruit,  I  s  wear,  man. 

Syne  let  us  pray,  auld  England  may- 
Sure  plant  this  far-famed  tree,  man; 

And  blithe  we'll  sing,  and  hail  the  day 
That  gives  us  liberty,  man. 


TO  CHLOEIS. 

The  Chloris  of  the  following:  lines,  and  of  sev- 
eral songs  of  the  poet's,  was  a  Mrs,-  Whelp- 
dale,  the  beautiiul  daughte/  of  ^Mr.  Williaip 
LoHmer,  farmer  of  Keffimis  Hall,  near  Ellis- 
land.  Her  marriage  was  unfortunate,  for  a 
few  months  after  it  took  place  slje  was  sep- 
arated from  her  husband;  whom  she  did  not 
again  meet  for-  twenty-three  yeai's. 

'Tis  Friendship's  pleslge',  my  young-f 
fair  friend. 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse, 
Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 

The  moralising  Muse.^ 


,10  Gave.    "  Beat.    '=  Fellow. 


146 


BURNS' -WORKS. 


Since    thou,   in    all    thy    youth    and 
charms. 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu 
(A  world  'gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast, 
Chill  came  the  tempest's  lower; 

(And  ne'er  misfortune's  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a  fairer  flower.) 

Since  life's  gay  scenes  must  charm  no 
more. 

Still  much  is  left  behind; 
Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store — 

The  comforts  of  the  mind  ! 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow. 
On  conscious  honour's  part: 

And,  dearest  gift  of  Heaven  below. 
Thine  friendship's  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refined  of  sense  and  taste. 

With  every  Muse  to  rove : 
And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest. 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 


VERSES 

ON  THE  DESTBtrCTION  OP  THE  WOODS 

NEAB    DKUMLANRIG. 

The  Duke  of  Queensberry,  who  was  no  fav- 
ourite of  the  port's,  and  who  was  deserved- 
ly held  in  little  esteem  wherever  his  charac- 
ter was  known,  had  (we  quote  from  Mr. 
Chambers)  "  stripped  his  domains  of  Drum- 
lanrig  in  Dumfriesshire,  and  Neidpath  in 
Peeblesshire,  of  all  the  wood  fit  for  being 
cut,  in  order  to  enrich  the  Countess  of  Yar- 
mouth, whom  he. supposed  to  be  his  daugh- 
ter, and  to  whom,  by  a  singular  piece  of 
good  fortune  on  her  part,  Mr.  George  Sel- 
wyn,  the  celebrated  wit,  also  left  a  fortune, 
under  the  same,  and  probably  equally  mis- 
taken, impression." 

As  on  the  banks  o'  wandering  Nith 

Ae  smiling  summer  morn  I  stray'd. 
And  traced  its  bonny  howes  and  haughs. 

Where  Unties  sang  andr  lambkins 
play'd, 
I  sat  me  down  upon  a  craig. 

And  drank  my  fill  o'  fancy's  dream. 
When,  from  the  eddying  deep  below. 

Uprose  the  genius  of  the  stream. 

Park,  like  the  frowning  rock,  his  brow. 
And  troubled  like  his  wintry  wavo. 


And  deep,  as  sughs'  the  boding  wind 

Amang  his  eaves,  the  sigh  he  gave — 
"And    came  ye    here,   my  son,"   he 
cried, 
' '  To  wander  in  my  birken  shade  ? 
To  muse  some  favourite  Scottish  theme. 
Or    sing    some    f atwurite    Scottish 
maid  ! 

"  There  was  a  time,  it 's  nae  langsyne,' 

Ye  might  hae  seen  me  in  my  pride. 
When  a'  my  banks  sae  bravely  saw 

Their  woody  pictures  in  my  tide  ; 
When  hanging  beech  and  spreading 
elm 

Shaded  my  stream  sae  clear  and  cool; 
And  stately  oaks  their  twisted  arms 

Threw  broad  and  dark  across  the 
pool  : 

"  Wlien  glinting  through  Ihe  trees  ap- 
pear'd 

The  wee  white  cot  aboon  the  mill. 
And  peacefu'  rose  its  ingle  reek,' 

That  slowly  curl'd  up  the  hill. 
But  now  the  cot  is  bare  and  cauld. 

Its  branchy  shelter  's  lost  and  gane. 
And  scarce  a  stinted  birk  is  left 

To  shiver  in  the  blast  its  lane. " 

"  Alas  !"  said  1,  "  what  ruefu'  chance 

Has  twin'd^  ye  o'  your  stately  trees  ! 
Has  laid  your  rocky  bosom  bare  ? 

Has  stripp'd  the  deeding'  o'  your 
braes  ! 
Was  it  the  bitter  eastern  blast. 

That  scatters  blight  in  early  spring? 
Or  was 't  the  wil-fire  scorch'd  their 
boughs. 

Or  canker-worm  wi'  secret  sting  ?" 

"  Nae  eastlin  blast,"  the  sprite  replied; 

"  It  blew  na  here  sae  fierce  and  fell; 
And  on  my  dry  and  halesome  banlis 

Nae   canker    worms    get    leave   to 
dwell : 
Man  !  cruel  man  !"  the  genius  sigh'd — 

As  through  the  cliffs  he  sank  him 

down —  [trees, 

"  The  worm  that  gnaw'd  my  bonny 

That  reptile  wears  a  ducal  crown  !" 


'  Sighs.    '  Since.    '  The  smoke  of  its  fire. 
*  Reft.     5  Clothing. 


POEMS. 


147 


ADDRESS 

SPOKEN  BY  MISS  FONTENBLLE  OK  HEK 
BENEFIT   NIGHT. 

"  We  hifve.  had  a  brilliant  theatre  here  this 
season,"  the  poet  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlop^ ; 
**  only,  as  all  otlier  business  does,  it  experi- 
ences a  stagnation  of  trade  from  the  epidem- 
ical complamt  of  the  country — want  of  cash. 
I  mention  our  theatre  merely  to  lug  in  an 
occasional  address  which  I  wrote  for  the 
benefit  night  of  one  of  the  actresses." 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial 

favour,  [than  ever, 

And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night 
A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  some   such 

matter,  [ing  better; 

'Twoiild  vamp  my  hill,  said  I,  if  noth- 
So  sought  a  poet,  roosted  near  the  skies, 
Told  him  I  came  to  feast  my  curious 

eyes;  [printed; 

Said  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever 
And  last,  my  Prologue-business  slily 

hinted.  [man  of  rhymes, 

"^Ma'am,  let  m^e  tell  you,"  quoth  my 
"I   know   your   bent — ^these    are   no 

laughing  times: 
Can  you-^but,  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my 

fears —  . 

Dissolve  in  pause  and  sentimental  tears ; 
With  laden  sighs,  and  solemn-rounded 

sentence,       '  [Repentance ; 

Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers  fell 
Paint  Vengeance,  as  he  takes  his  horrid 

stand. 
Waving  on  liigli  the  desolating  brand, 
,  Calling  the  Storms  to  bear  htm  o'er  a 
.    guilty  land  ?" 

I  could  no  more — askance  the  creature 
eyeing,  [for  crying  ? 

D'ye  think,  said  I,  this  face  was  made 

I'll  laugh,  that's  poz — nay,  more,  the 
■     world  shall  know  it:  [Poet! 

And  so,  your  servant !  gloomy  Master 

Firm  as  my  creed,  sirs,  'tis  my  fix'd  be- 
lief. 

That  Misery's  another  word  for  Grief; 

I  also  think — so  may  I  be  a  bride  ! 

That  so  much  laughter,  so  much  life 
enjoy'd. 

Thou  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless 

sigh,  [eye; 

Still  under  bleak  Misfortune's  blasting 

Doom'd  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  alive — 


To  make  three  guineas  do  the  work  of 

five;  [lam  witch  t 

Laugh  in  Misfortune's  face — the  bed- 
Say  you'll  be  merry,  though  you  can't 

be  rich.  [love. 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in 
Who  long  with  jiltisli  arts  and  airs  hast 

strove ;  [ject, 

Wlio,  as  the  boughs  all  temptingly  pfo^ 
Measured    in    desperate     thought — a 

rope — ^thy  neck —  [the  deep. 

Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o'erhangs 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap: 
Wouldst  thou  be  cured,  thou  silly, 

moping  elf,  [thyself: 

Laugh  at   her  follies — ^laugh  e'en   at 
Learn  to  despise  those  frowns  now-  so 

terrific,  [specific. 

And  love  a  kinder — that's  your  grand 

To  sum  up  all,  be  merry,  I  advise; 
And  as  we're  merry,  may  we  still. be 
wise  1 


TO  COLLECTOR  MITCHELL. 

The  poet  died  within  a  few  months  of  writing 
this.  But  Collector  Mitchell,  who  was  a 
sincere  friend  to  him,  was  not  aware  of 
his  distress  at  this  time. 

Fbiend  of  the  poet,  tried  and  leal, 
Wlia,  wanting  thee,  might  beg  or  steal; 
Alake  !  alake  !  the  meikle  deil 

Wi'  a'  his  witches 
Are  at  it  skelpin'^  jig  and  reel. 

In  my  poor  pouches  ! 

I  modestly  fu'  fain  wad  hint  it. 
That  one  pound  one  I  sairly  want  it; 
If  wi'  the  hizzie''  down  ye  sent  it, 

It  would  be  kind; 
And    while   my  heart  wi'   life-blood 
dunted,^ 

I'd  bear't  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang^  out  moan- 

To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groanmg, 
Wi'  double  plenty  o'er  the  loaning' 

To  thee  and  thine; 
Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 

The  hale  design. 


I  Dancing.      '^  Girl.      =  Throbbed. 
<•  The  road  loading  to  the  farm. 


4  Go. 


148 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


POSTSCRITT. 

Ye've  heard  tliis  while  how  I've  been 

licket,* 
And  by  fell  Death  was  nearly  nicket;' 
Grim  loun  !  he  gat  me  by  the  fecket,' 

And  sair  me  sheuk; 
But  by  guid  luck  I  lap  a  wicket, 

And  turn'd  a  neuk. 

But  by  that  health,  I've  got  a  share 
o  't,  [o  't. 

And  by  that  life  I'm  promised  mair 
My  hale  and  weel  I'll  tak  a  care  o  't, 

A  tentier'  way: 
Then  fareweel  folly,  hide  and  hair  o'  t, 

For  ance  and  aye  ! 


TO  COLONEL  DE   PEYSTER.* 
My  lionour'd  colonel,  deep  I  feel 
Your  interest  in  the  poet's  weel . 
Ah  !  now  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  speel' 

The  steep  Parnassus. 
Surrounded  thus  by  bolus  piU 

And  potion  glasses. 

Oh,  what  a  canty'  warld  were  it. 
Would  pain,  and  care,  and  sioloiess 

spare  it; 
And  foirtune  favour  worth  and  merit 

As  they  deserve  I 
And     aye  a  rowth^,   roast  beef    and 
claret; 

Syne''  wha  wad  starve  ? 

Dame  Life,   though  fiction  out  may 
trick  her.  Pier; 

And  in  paste  gems  and  frippery  deck 
Oh  !  flickering,  feeble,  and  unsicker' 

I've  found  her  still. 
Aye  wavering,  like  the  willow  wicker,* 

'Tween  good  and  iU. 

-Then  that  curst  caniiagnole,auld  Satan, 
Watches,  like  baudrons'  by  a  ratton, 
Our  sinf  u'  saul  to  get  a  claut*  on 

Wi'  felon  ire; 
Syne  whip  !   his  tail  ye'U  ne'er  cast 
saut'  on— 

He's  aff  like  fire. 


Ah,  Nick  I  ah,  Nick  !  it  is  nae  fair. 
First  showing  us  the  tempting  ware. 
Bright  wines  and  bonny  lasses  rare. 

To  put  us  daft;™ 
Syne  weave,  unseen,  the  spider  snare 

O'  hell's  damn'd  waft. 

Poor  man,  the  flee  aft  bizzes  by, 
And  aft  as  chance  he  comes  thee  nigh. 
Thy  auld  damn'd  elbow  yeuks"  wi' 
joy, 

And  hellish  pleasure; 
Already  In  thy  fancy's  eye, 

■  Thy  sicker  treasure. 

Soon,  heels-o'er-gowdie  !'^  in  he  gangs, 
And,  like  a  sheep-head  on  a  tangs. 
Thy  girning'^  laugh  enjoys  his  pangs 

And  murdering  wrestle. 
As,  dangling  in  the  wind,  he  hangs 

A  gibbet's  tassel. 

But  lest  you  think  I  am  uncivil. 

To  plague  you  with  this  draunting" 

drivel. 
Abjuring  a'  intentions  evil, 

I  quat  my  pen: 
The  Lord  preserve  us  f  rae  the  devil  ! 

Amen  !  Amen ! 


«  Beaten.  '  Cut  off.  «  Waistcoat.  '  Morq 
careful. 

'  Climb.  2  Happy.  ^  Abundance.  *  Then, 
s  Insecure.    » Twig.    'Cat.    « Claw.    "Salt. 

*  Arentz  de  Peyster,  colonel  of  the  Gentle- 
men Volunteers  of  Dumfries,  of  wTlicTi  Burns 
was  a  ipenjber.  He  had  made  some  kind  in- 
quiries as  to  the  poet's  health. 


TO  MI^   JESSl    LEWARS,  DUM- 
FRIES, 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  BOOKS. 
Cunningham  says  :— "  Miss  Jessy  Lewars 
watched  over  the  poet  and  his  little  house- 
hold'durmg  his  declining  days  with  all  the 
affectionate  reverence  of  a  daughter.  For 
this  she  has  received  the  silent  thanks  of 
all  who  admire  the  genius  of  Bums,  or  look 
with  sorrow  on  his  setting  sun  ;  she  has  re- 
ceived more — the  undying  thanks  of  the  poet 
hlinself ;  "his  songs  to  her  honour,  andr  his 
simple  gifts  of  books  and  verse,  will  keep 
her  nameand^ame  long  in  the  world." 

Thine  be  the  volumes,  lessy,  fair. 
And  with  them  take  the  poet's  prayer—^ 
That  Fate  may  in  her  fairest  page,  ■ 
With  every  Idndliest,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  thy  name; 
With  native  worth,  and  spotless  fame. 
And  wakeful  caution  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man's  felon  snare. 
All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  Snu„ 
And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind — 
These  be  thy  guardian  and  reward; 
So  prays  thy  faithful  friend — the  Bard. 

i»  Mad.    >i  Itches.     '-  Topsy-turvey.  »=  Gripv 
ning.    1^  Drawling. 


EPISTLES. 


-EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING  SOME  POEMS. 

O  ROUGH,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankbie, 
Thei  wale'  o'  cooks  for  fun  and  drinkin'! 
There's  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin- 

Your  dreams*  and  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korali-like,  a-sinkin', 

Straught  to  auld  Nick's. 

Ye  liae  sae  mony  cracks  and  cants,^ 
And  in  your  wicked,  drucken  rants,^ 
Ye  mak  a  devil  o'  the  saunts. 

And  fill  them  to\i-*\ 
And   then    their   failings,  flaws,  and 
wantSj 

Are  a'  seen  through. 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 

That  holy  robe,  oh,  dinna  tear  it  !    [it, 

Spare't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear 

The  lads  in  black  ! 
But  your  curst  wit,   when   it  comes 
near  it, 

Eives't'  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  whaye'reskaith- 

Ing,"  [elaithingt 

It's    just    the    blue-gown    badge  and 


1  Choice,  2  Stories  and  tricks.  .  ^  Bouts. 
< -Tipsy.       s  Pulls  it.       "Injuring. 

*  A  certain  humorous  dream  of  his  was  then 
making  a  noise  in  the  country-side.— B. 

t  A  minister  or  elder,  some  say  Holy  Willie, 
had  caHed.  on  Ikankine,  and  had  partaken  so 
freely  of  whisky-toddy  as  to  have  ended  by 
tumbhng  dead-drunk  on  the  floor, 

i  "  The  affusion  Rere  is  tp  a  privileged  class 
ofioendicantswtll known  In  Scotland  by  tie 
nathe  of '  Blue  Gowns.'  -The  order  was  insti- 
tuted by  James  V,  of  Scotland,  the  royal 
.'  Gaberlunzie-Man,' " 


0'  saunts;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  nae- 
thing 

To  ken  them  by, 
Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 

Like  you  or  I. 

I've  sent  you  here  some  rhyming  ware, 
A'  that  I  bargain'd  for,  and  mair; 
Sae,  when  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect 
Yon  sang,§  ye'U  sen't  wi'  cannie  care. 

And  no  neglect. 

Though,   faith,   sma'   heart  hae  I  to 
si-ng !  [wing  1 

My  muse  dow'   scarcely   spread  her 
I've  play'd  mysel  a  bonny  spring, 
And  danced  my  fill  ! 
I'd  better  gaen  and  sair't"  the  king. 
At  Bunker's  Hill. 

'Twas  ae  night  lately,  in  my  fun, 

I  gaed  a  roving  wi'  the  gun, 

And  brought  a  paitrick'  to  the  grun', 

A  bonny  hen. 
And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun. 

Thought  nane  wad  ken,'" 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hur*> 
I  straikit"  it  a  wee  for  sport,       [for't; 
Ne'er    thinking  they  wad  fash''^  me 

But,  diel-ma  care  ! 
Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

The  hsje  affair. 

Some  auld-used  hands  had  ta'en  a  note, 
That  Sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot. 


'  Dare     »  Served.     »  Partridge.    •"  Know. 
"Stroked.     "Trouble, 

§  A  song  tie  had  promised  the  author.— B, 


150 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


I  was  suspected  for  tlie  plot; 

I  scom'd  to  lie; 
So  gat  the  whistle  o'  my  groat, 

And  pay't  the  fee. 

But,  by  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale, 
And  by  my  pouther  and  my  liail, 
And  by  my  hen,  and  by  her  tail, 

I  vow  and  swear  ! 
The  game  shall  pay  o'er  moor  and  dale, 

For  this,  neist  year. 

As  soon's  the  clocking-tune  is  by. 
And  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry. 
Lord,  I'se  hae  pportiu'  by  and  by. 

For  my  gowd  guinea. 
Though  I  should  herd  the  buckskin 
kye 

For't  in  Virginia. 

Trouth,  they  had  muckle  for  toblamej 
'Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb, 
But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame 

Scarce  through  the  feathers : 
And  baith  a  yellow  George  to  claim 
Ajid  thole  their  blethers !'* 

It  pits  me  aye  as  mad's  a  hare; 
So  I  can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair; 
But  pennyworths  again  is  fair, 

When  time's  expedient; 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  sir. 

Your  most  obedient. 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE,, 

A  BHOTHER  POET. 

January^  1785. 
David  Sillar,  to  whom  this  epistle  was 
addressed,  was  a  native  of  Tdrbolton,  a  poet 
■and  scholar.  He.  was  for  many  years  a 
schoolmaster  at  Irvine,  and  was  latterly  a 
magistrate  of  that  town.  He  published  a 
vc^ume  of  poems  in  the  Scottish  diaject. 

Wnn.E  winds  frae  aff  Ben  Lomond 

blaw. 
And  bar  the  doors  wi'  driving  snaw, 

And  hing'  us  owre  the  ingle,' 
I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time. 
And  spin  a  verse  or  twa  o'  rhyme, 

In  hamely  westlin  jingle.' 
While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug.* 


*^  Nonsense. 
'  Hang.  2  Fire.  s  Homely 

west  country  dialect.  *  Chitpney  corner. 


I  grudge  a  wee  the  great  folk's  gift. 
That  live  sae  bien°  and  snug: 
I  tent'  less,  and  want  less 

Their  roomy  fire-side; 
But  hanker  and  canker 
To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

It's  hardly  in  a  body's  power 
To  keep  at  times  frae  being  sour. 
To  see  how  things  are  shared; . 
How  best  o'  chiels'  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs*  on  countless  thousands 
rant,' 
And  ken  na  how  to  wair't;'" 
But,  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash"  your  head, 

Though  we  hae  little  gear,  '^ 
We're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 
AS  lang's  we're  hale  and  fier:'' 
"Mair  spier  na,  nor  feer  na,"" 
Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  feg,'* 
The  last  o't,  the  warst  o't, 
Is  only  but  to  beg. 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e'en,  [thin. 
When  banes  are  crazed,  and  blitid  is 

Is  doubtless  great  distress  ! 
Yet  then  content  could  make  us  blest  r 
Even  then,  sometimes,  we'd  snatch  a 
taste 
Of  truest  happiness. 
The  honest  heart,  that's  free  frae  a' 

Intended  fraud  or  guile. 
However  Fortune  kick  the  ba'. 
Has  aye  some  cause  to  smile-. 
And  mind  still,  you'll  find  still, 

A  comfort  this  nae  sma' ; 
Nae  mair  then,  we'll  care  then, 
Nae  farther  can  we  fa.' 

What  though  like  commoners  of  air. 
We  wander  out  we  know  not  where,    ' 
But  either  house  or  hall  !      [woods. 
Yet    nature's   charms — the  hills  and 
The    sweeping    vales,    and    foaming 
floods — 
Are  free  alilte  to  all. 
In  days  when  daisies  deck  the  ground, 

And  blackbirds  whistle  clear. 
With  honest  joy  our  hearts  will  bound 
To  see  the  coming  year: 
On  braes,. when  we  please  then, 
We'll  sit  and  sowth"  a  tune:  ' 

'  ComfortaWej  « Heed.  '  Men.  » Fools. 
»  Live  extravagantly.  "  Spend  it.  "Trouble. 
"  Goods  or  wealth.  "  Whole  and  sound. 

"More  ask  hot,  nor  fear  not,  ^=Fig,  "Whistle. 


EPISTLES. 


151 


Syne  iliyme-tiirt,  we'll  time  till't, 
And  sing- 1  when  we  iae  dune. 

It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank: 

It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank, 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest: 
It's  no  in  making  muckle  mair;" 
It's  no  in  books,  it's.no  in  lear;'* 

To  malie  us  truly  blest; 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest: 
Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures. 
Could  make  us  happy  lang: 
The  heart  aye's  the  part  aye 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

Think  ye  that  sic"  as  you  and  I,  [dry, 
Wha  drudge  and  drive  through  wet  and 

Wi'  never-ceasing  toil; 
Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they 
Wha  scarcely  tent'"'  us  in  their  way, 
.  As  hardly  worth  their  while  ? 
Alas  !  how  aft  in  haughty  mood, 
God's  creatures  they-  oppress  ! 
Or  else,  neglecting  a'  that's  guid. 
They  riot  in  excess  ! 
Baith  careless  and  fearless 

Of  either  heaven  or  hell  f 
Esteeming-and  deeming 
It's  a'  an  idle  tale  ! 

Then  let  us  cheerfu'  acquiesce; 
Nor  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less. 

By  pining  at  our  state ; 
And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 
I  here  wha  sit  hae  met  wi'  some, 

An's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth; 

They  let  us  ken  oursel; 
They  niake  us  see  the  naked  truth, 
'  .  The  real  guid  and  ill. 

Though,  losses  and  crosses 
Be  lessons  right  severe. 
There's  wit  there,  ye'Il  get  there, 
Ye'll  find  nae  other  where. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts  I  [tes, 
(To  say  aught  less  wad  wrang  the  car- 

And  flattery  I  detest,) 
This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I; 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy: 

And  joys  the  very  best. , 

"  Much  more.  "  Learning.  "  Such.  '"  Heed. 


There's  a'  the  .pleasures  o'  the  heart, 

The  lover  and  the  frien'; 
Ye  hae  your  Meg,*  your  dearest  part. 
And  I  my  darBng  Jean  I 
It  warms  me,  it  charms  me. 
To  mention  but  her  name: 
It  heats  me,  it  beets  me. 
And  sets  me  a'  on  flame  ! 

Oh,  all  ye  powers  who  rule  above  ! 
0  "Thou,  whose  very  self  art  love  ! 

Thou  know'st  my  words  sincere  ! 
The  life-blood  streaming  through  my 

heart. 
Or  my  more  dear  immortal  part. 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  1 
When  heart- corroding  care  and  grief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest. 
Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being,  all-seeing. 

Oh,  hear  my  fervent  prayer ! 
Still  take  her  and  make  her  , 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  ! 

All  hail !  j'e  tender  feelings  dear  ! 
The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear. 

The  sympathetic  glow  ! 
Long  since,  this  world's  thorny  ways 
Hard  number'd  out  my  weary  days. 

Had  it  not  been  for  you  ! 
Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a  friend. 

In  every  care  and  ill; 
And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 
A  tie  more  tender  still. 
It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene. 
To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean  ! 

Oh,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style! 
The  words  come  skelpin','''  rank  and 

Amaist"  before  I  ken  !''  [file, 

The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine 
As  Phoebus  and  the  famous  Nine 

Were  glowerin'  owre  my_pen. 
My  spaviet'''  Pegasus  will  limp, 

Till  ance  he's  fairly  het;         [jimp," 
And  then  he'll  hilch,"  and  stilt, '"-'and 

And  rin  an  unco  fit: 


"  Dancinpr.  "^  Almost.  "  Know.  '*  Spa- 
vined.    "  Hobble.    "  Halt.    s'Jump. 

*  Sillar's  flame  was  a  lass  of  the  name  of 
Margaret  Orr,  who  had  charge  of  the  children 
of  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair,  It  was  not  the  for- 
tiine  of  "  Meg  "  to  become  Mrs.  Sillar. 


l52 


BUKNS'  WORKS. 


But  lest  tlien,  the  beast  tlien, 
Sliould  xue^'  this  hasty  ride, 

I'll  light' now,  and  dight''  now 
His  sweaty,  wizen'd™  hide. 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  LAPEAIK, 

AN  OLD    SCOTTISH  BAKD. 

April  1,  1785.- 

Whtle  briers  and  woodbines  budding 

green. 
And  paitricks'  scraichin^  loud  at  e'en. 
And  morning  pouSsie^  whiddiu  seen. 

Inspire  my  Muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frieu' 
1  pray  excuse. 

On  Fasten-e'en  we  had  a  rockin',* 

To    ca'    the    crack^    and    weave    our 

stockin'; 
And  there  was  muckle^  fun  and  jokin'. 

Ye  needna  doubt; 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin'* 

At  sang  about. 

Tliere  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best. 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife: 
It  thirl'd  the  heari;-strings  through  the 
breast, 

A'  to' the  life.f 

I've  scarce  heard  ought  described  sae 

weel. 
What  generous  manly  bosoms  feel; 
Tliorigfe  I,    "Can  this  be  Pope,   or 
Steele,  ■ 

Or  Beattie's  wark  ?  " 
They  tauld  me  'twas  an  odd  kind  chieP 
About  Muirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain^  to  hear't. 
And  sae  about  him  there  I  spiert;' 


»"  Repent.    ^<>  Wipe,    s"  'Withered. 

*  PartridgeSi  ^  Screaming,  ^  xhe  hare. 
*  To  drive  the  talk.  .»  Much.  '  Bout.  '  Man. 
'  Made  me  fidget  with  desire.         '  Inquired. 

,  *  In  former  times  young  women  were  wpnt 
to  meet  together,  each  having  her  distajT  or 
itick  for  the  purpose  of  spinning  while  tli6 
song  and  the  gossip  went  round. 

+  This  song  is  entitled,  "  When  I  upon  thy 
bosom  Icjin." 


Then  a'  that  kent'"  him  round  declared 

He  had  ingine;" 
That  nane  excell'd  it,  few  cam  near't. 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That,  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale. 

And  either  douce'*  or  merry  tale. 

Or  rhymes  and  sangs  he'd  made  himsel. 

Or  witty  catches: 
'Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale 

He  had  few  matches. 

Then  up  I  gat,  and  swore  an  aith," 
Though  I  should  pawn  my  pleugh  and 

graith" 
Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death. 

At  some  dike  back, 
A  pint  and  gill  I'd  gie  them  baith 

"To  hear  you  crack. 

But,  first  and  foremost,  I  should  tell, 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
I  to  the  crambo-jingle'^  fell. 

Though  rude  and  rough: 
Yet  crooning"  to  a  body's  sel 

Does  weel  enough. 

I  ain  nae  poet,  in  a  sense. 

But  just  a  rhymer,  like  by  chance, 

And  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence. 

Yet  what  the  matter  ? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  my  cock  their  nose. 
And  say,  ' '  How  can  you  e'er  propose. 
You,  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose. 

To  malt  a  sang  V 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye're  maybe  wrang. 

AMiat's  a'  your  jargon  o'  yotir  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  and  stools; 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools. 

What  sairs  jour  grammars? 
Ye'd    better    ta'en    up    spades    and 
sliools. 

Or  knappiu' -hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes," 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes! 
They  gang  in  stirks,'*  and  come  out 
asses. 

Plain  truth  to  speak; 


>"  Knew.  "  Genius  or  geniality.  "  Sober. 
'=  Oath.  »  Taclde.  >»  Doggerel  verses, 
'« Humming.  "  Bldckheads,  '"Vear-old  cattle; 


EPISTLES.- 


158^ 


And  syne"  they  think  to  climb  Par- 
nassus- 

By  dint  o'  Greek  ! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  6'  Nature's  Are  ! 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire; 
Then,  though  I  drudge  through  dub 
and  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  Muse,  though  hainely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

Oh  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's™  glee. 

Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  and  slee,'" 

Or  bright  Lapraik's,  my  friend  to  be. 

If  I  can  liit  it ! 
That  would  be  lear'^'  enough  for  me. 

If  I  could  get  itJ 

Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow. 
Though  real  friends  I  b'lieye  are  few. 
Yet,-  if  your  catalogue  be  f  u', 

I'se  no  insist. 
But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that's  true, 

I'm  on  your  list. 

I  winna''  blaw  about  mysel; 

As  ill  I  like  my  faults  to  tell; 

But  friends  and  folk  that  wish  me  well. 

They  sometimes  roose'*  me ; 
Though  I  maun^'  own,  as  mony  still 

As  far  abuse  me. 

There's  ae  wee  faut'-''  they  whiles  lay 

to  me, 
I  like  the  lasses — Gude  f  orgie  me  ! 
For  mdny  a  pladc  they  wheedle  frae 
me,  , 

At  dance  or  fair; 
Maybe  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me. 
They  weel  can  spare. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there; 
We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  Care, 

If  we  forgather, 
And  hae  a  swap^'  o'  rhymin'  ware 

Wi'  ane  anither. 

The  fduT-gill  chap'^  we'se  gar''  him 
clatter, 


19  Then.  =»  Allan  Ramsay.  "  Sly. 
"  Learning.  "  will  not.  "  Praise.  =»  Must 
'"'  Small  fault.  27  An  exchange.  ="  Stoup. 
29  Make.  ■ 


And  kirsen^"  hiin  wi'  reekin'  water;  • 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  and  tak  our  whit. 
ter,8i 

To  cheer  our  heart; 
And  faith,  we'se  be  accuainted  better 

Before  we  part. 

There's  naething  like  the  honest  nap- 
py F 
Whar'll^^  ye  e'ei  see  men  sae  happy. 
Or  women  sonsie,  saft,  and  sappy^' 

'Tween  morn  and  morn. 
As  them  wha  like  to  taste  the  drappy^' 

In  glass  or  horn  ! 

I've  seen  me  dais't^"  upon  a  time, 

I  scarce  could  wink,  or  see  a  styme;^'  • 

Just  ae  half-mutehldn  does  me  prime. 

Aught  less  is  little. 
Then  back  !  rattle  on  the  rhyme. 

As  gleg's  a  whittle  !** 

Awa'  ye  selfish  war'ly  race,        [grace,. 
Wha  think  that  havins,''  sense,  and 
E'en  love  and  friendship,  should  give  ' 
place 

'To  catch-the-plack  !" 
I  dinna'*'  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  your  crack.  ^^ 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms. 
Whose    hearts  the  tide  of    kindness 

warms, 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms, 
"  Each  aid  the  others," 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms. 
My  friends,  my  brothers. 

But  to  conclude  my  long  epistle. 
As  my  auld  pen's  Worn  to  the  grissle; 
Twa  lines  frae  you  would  gar  me  iis- 
sle,« 

Who  am,  most  fervent, 
Wliile  I  can  either  sing  or  wliissle. 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  LAPRAIK. 

April  11^  1785^ 

While  new-ca'd    kye  rowte'   at  the 

stake. 
And  pownies  reek',  in  pleugh  orbrailc,^ 


31  Christen.      »'  Hearty  draught.     "^  Ale'. 
S3  Where  win.       =<  Comely.       so  Smalldrop.  ■ 
s"  Stupid.     8'  See  in  the  least.    '"  As  keen  as 
a  knife.        s"  Decorum,        ■'°  To  seek  after 
money.    «i  Do  not.    ^^  Talk.   4'  Fidget. 

'  Driven  cows  low.    "^  Smoke.     ^  Harrow. 


154 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


This  hour  on  e'enin's  edge  I  take, 
To  own  I'm  debtor   . 

To  honest-hearted,  auld  Lapraik, 
For  his  Idnd  letter. 

Forjraket  sair,'  wi'  weary  legs, 
Rattlin'  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs. 
Or  dealing  through  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours'  bite. 
My  awkward    Muse  sair  pleads  and 


I  wouldna  write. 

The  tapetless  ramfeezledhizzie,^ 
She's  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 
Quo'  she,   "Ye  ken,   we've  been  sae 
busy. 

This  month,  aiid  mair. 
That,  trouth,  my  head  is  grown  right 
dizzy. 

And  something  sair." 

Her  dowfE  ^  excuses  pat  me  mad : 
"Conscience,"  says  I,    "ye  thowless 

iadP 
I'll  write,  and  that  a  hearty  blaud,' 

Tliis  vera  night; 
So  dinna  ye  affront  yoar  trade. 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

"  Shall  bauld   Lapraik,   the    king  o' 

hearts. 
Though  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes, 
Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts. 

In  tenns  sae  friendly, 
Yet  ye'll  negjlect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

And  thank  him'  kindly  ?  " 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink,' 

And  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink; 

Quoth  I,  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

I  vow  I'll  close  it; 
And  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink,'" 

By  Jove  I'll  prose  it! " 

Sae,  I've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhyme,  or  prose,  or  baitli  thegither. 
Or  some  hotch-potch*  that's  rightly 
neither. 

Let  time  malt  proof  ; 

*  Worn  sore  with  fatigue.  ^  The  heedless 

and  exhausted  jade,       *  Silly.       '  Lazy  jade. 
8  Quantity.  >  Twinkling.  '"  Rhyme. 

*  Hotch  potch  is  the  Scotch  name  for  a  soup 
made  of  all  sorts  of  vegetables.  No  other  ex- 
planation could  give  a  proper  idea  of  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase  here. 


But    I    shall    scribble     down    some 
blether" 

Just  clean  aff-loof.f 

My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  ani, 

carp,  [sharp; 

Though   Fortune  use  you    hard  and 

Come,  kittle'^  up  your  moorland-haq>' 

Wi'  gleesome  touch ! 
Ne'er  mind    how  Fortune  waft    and 
warp; 

She's  but  a  bitch. 

She's  gien'^  me  mony  a  jert  and  fleg;''' 

Sin'  I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig; 

But,  by  the  Lord,  though  I  shouldbeg 

Wi,  lyart  pow,'^ 
I'll  laugh,  and  shig,  and  shake  my  leg. 

As  lang's  I  dow  !  '* 

Now  comes  the  sax  and  twentieth  sim- 
mer 
I've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timmer," 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer" 

Frae  year  to  year; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer," 

I,  Rob,  ain  here. 

Do  you  envy  the  city  gent, 

Behint  a  kist  to  lie  and  sklent.J 

Or  purse-proud,  big  wi'  cent,  per  cent. 

And  muckle  wame,'° 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A  bailie's  name  t 

Or  is't  the  paughty,^'  feudal  thane, 
AVi'  ruffled  sark  and  glancing  cane, 
Wha  thinks  himsel  nae  sheep-shank 
bane. 

But  lordly  stalks,  ■ 
"While  caps  and  bonnets  aff  are  ta'en,'* 

As  by  he  walks. 

0  Thou  wlia  gies  us  eacli  guid  gift  ! 

Gie  me  o'  wit  and  sense  a  lift. 

Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift, 

Through  Scotland  wide; 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift. 

In  a'  their  pride  ! 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
'  ■  On  pain  o'  hell  be  rich  and  great," 


"  Nonsense.  "  Tickle.  '»  Given.  "  Jerk 
and  kick.  ^^  Gray  head,  i*  Can.  '' Tree. 
18  Jade.  1"  Girl.  2«  Big  belly.  "  Haughty, 
s"  Taken. 

t  Scotticism  for  extemporaneous. 

X  Behind  a  counter  to  lie  and  leer. 


EPISTLES. 


135 


Danmation  tlien  would  be  our  fate 
Beyond  remead; 

But,  thanks  to.  Heaven,  that's  no  the 
gate 

We  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran. 
When  first  the  human  race  began, 
"  The  social,  friendly  <  honest  man, 
_'  Whate'er  he  be, 

'Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  plan, 
And  none  but  he  !" 

G  mandate,  glorious  and  divine  ! 
The  Tagged  followers  o'  the  Nine, 
Poor,    thoughtless    devils  !   yet   may 
shine 

In  glorious  light. 
While  sordid  sons  o'  Mammon's  line 

Are  dark  as  night. 

Though  here  they  scrape,  and  squeeze, 

Slid  growl, 
Their  worthless  nievef  u'*'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl; 

The  forest's  fright; 
Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 
To  reach  their  native  kindred. skies, 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  and 
joys, 

In  some  mild  sphere. 
Still  closer:  knit  in  friendship's  ties 

Each  passing  year  ] 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  GOUDIE,  KIL- 
MARNOCK, 

ON  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  HIS   ESSAYS. 

John  Goudie  was  a  Kilmarnock  tradesman. 
His  Essay,  fully  discussingr  the  authority  of 
the  HolyScriptures,  first  appeared  m  1780, 
and  .a  new  edition  in  1785,  The  publication 
of  the  new  edition  called  forth  the  following 
epistle  from  the  poet : — 

0  Goudie  !  terror  of  the  Whigs, 
Dread  of  black  cQats  and  reverend  ^^'igs, 
Sour  Bigotry,  on  her  last  legs, 

Gimin','  looks  back, 
WisWn'  the  ten  Egyptian  plagues 

Wad  seize  you  quick. 


s=  Handful. 


*  Grinning. 


Poor  gapin',  glowrin,'!  Superstition, 
Waes  me  !  she's  in  a  sad  condition; 
Fie  I    bring  Black   Jock,*  her.  state 
physician, 

To  see  her  water: 
Alas  1  there's  ground  0'  great  suspicion 
She'll  ne'er  get  better. 

Auld  Orthodoxy  long  did  grapple. 
But  now  she's  got  an  unco  ripple;' 
Haste,  gie  her  name  u    i'  the  chapel. 

Nigh,  unto  death ; 
See  how  she  fetches  at  the  thrapple,*- 

And  gasps  for  breath  ! 

Enthusiasm's  past  redemption, 
Gaen*  in  a  galloping  consumption,. 
Not  a' the  quacks,  wi'  a'  their; gump- 
tion," 

Will  ever  mend  her. 
Her  feeble  pulse  gies  strong  presump. 
tion 

Death  soon  will  end  her. 

'Tis  you  and  Taylorf  are  the  chief, 
,Wha  are  to  bjame  for  this  mischief; 
But  gin  the  Lord's  ain  folk  gat  leave, 

A  toom'  tar-barrel 
And  twa  red  peats*  wad  send  relief, 

And  end  the  quarrel. 


EPISTLE  TO  WILLIAM  SIMPSON, 


OCHILTKEB. 


May^  T785. 


William  Simpson  was  schoolmaster  of  .Ochil-- 
tree,  a  parish  a  few  miles  south  of  Mauch- 
line.  According  to  Mr.  Chambers,  he  had 
sent  a  rhymed  epistle  to  Burns,  on  reading 
hissatireof  the  ^"Twa  Herds',''  whicli  called" 
forth' the  following  beautiful  epistle  in  re- 
ply :— 

I  GAT  your  letter,  winsome'  Willie; 
Wi'  gratefu-'  heart  I  thank  vou  braw- 

lie,-^ 
Though  I  maun  s^'t,  I  wad  be  silly. 

And  unco  vain. 
Should  I  believe,  my  coaxin'  billie,^ 

Your  flatterin'  strain. 


2  Staring.  ^"Pains  in  the  back  and  loins. 
<  Throat.  °  Gone.  «  Knowledge.  '  Empty.' 
^  Two  burning  peats  to  set  fire  to  the  tat 
barrel. 

>  Hearty.    =  Heartily.    »  Fellow. 

*  The  Rev.  John  Russell,  Kilmarnock,  one 
of  the  heroes  of  the  "  Twa  Herds." 

t  Dr.  Taylor  of  Norwich.— B. 


158 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But  I'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 
I  sud*  be  laitli,  to  tliink  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented'' 

■  On  my  poor  Musie; 
Though  in  sic  phrasin'*  terms  ye'vo 
penn'd  it, 

I  scarce  excnse  ye. 

My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel,* 
Slujuld  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  speel, 
Wi'  Allan  or  wi'  Gilbertfield,} 

The  braes  o'  fame; 
Or  Fergusson,!  the  writer  chiel, 

A  deathless  name. 

(0  Fergusson,  thy  glorious  parts 
III  suited  law's  dry  musty  arts  ! 
Bty  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  E'nbrugh  gentry ! 
The  tithe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes' 

Wad  stow'd*  his  pantry  ! ) 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head. 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed,' 

As  whiles  they're  like  to  be  my  dead, 

(0  sad  disease !) 
I  kittle'"  up  my  rustic  reed; 

It  gies  me  ease. 

AuldCoila§,now  may  fidge  fu'  fain," 
She's  gotten  poets  o'  her  ain,       [hain" 
Cliiels'-    wha    their    chanters    winna 

But  tune  their  lays, 
Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 
To  set  her  name  in  measured  style; 
She  lay  lilce  some  unkenn'd-of  isle 

Beside  New  Holland, 
Or  where  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

Besouth  Magellan. 

Bamsay  and  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  and  Tay  a  lift  aboon;" 


4  Should.  '  Obliquely  directed.  »  Flatter- 
ing. '  Cards,  s  Stored.  »  Rent.  "  Tickle. 
"Fidget  with  Joy.  "  Fellows.  "  Will  not 
spare.     ^*  Above. 

*  A  basket.  When  a  person's  wits  are  sup- 
posed to  be  a  wool-gathering,  he  is  said  to  be 
in  a  creel. 

+  Allan  Ramsay,  and  William  Hamilton  of 
Gilbertfield,  a  forgotten  poet  and  contempo- 
rary of  Ratfisay's. 

i  Robert  Fergusson,  the  poet. 

§  An  application  frequently  applied  by 
Burns  to  the  district  of  Kyle. 


Yarrow  and  Tweed,  to  mony  a  tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rin^,      .,. 

While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  and  Dooiai; 
Naebody  sings. 

Th'    missus,    Tiber,     Thames,     and 

Seine, 
Glide  sweet  in  mony  a  tunefu'  line  ! 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

And  cock'°  your  crest. 
We'll  gar''  our  streams  and  bumies 
shine 

Up  wi'  the  best. 

We'll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  and  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  wi'  heather-bells. 
Her  banks  and  braes,  her  dens  and 
dells, 

Where  glorious  Wallace- 
Aft  bare  the  gree,"  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace'  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ! 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side, 
Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod," 

Or  glorious-died. 

Oh,    sweet  are  Coila's    haughs"  and 

woods,  [buds. 

When    lint  whites    chant    amang   the 

And  jinkiu''^°  hares,  in  amorous  whids,  J 

Their  love  enjoy. 
While  through  the  braes -die  cushai 
croods^' 

With  wailf  u'  cry  ! 

Even  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me,  . 
When  winds  rave  through  the  naked 

tree ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray: 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Darkening  the  day  L 

O  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  and  forms. 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms! 
Whether  the  summer  kindly  warms 

Wi'  life  and  light. 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

Thelang,  dark  night! 


'»  Elevate.  "  Make.  ,  "  Often  bore  the  bell. 
"  Their  shoes  red  in  blood.  "  Meadows 
2«- Dodging.     "  Coos.  ■ 

I  A  word  expressive  of. the  quick,  nimble 
movements  of  the  hare. 


EPISTLES. 


157 


The  Musp,  nae  poet  ever  fand''^  her, 
Till  by  himself  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  hum's  meander. 

And  no  think  lang; 
Oh,  sweet  to  stray,  and  pensive  ponder 

A  heart-felt  sang! 

The  war'ly  race  may  drudge  and  drive, 
Hog-shouther,    jundie,"   stretch,  and 
.  strive — 
Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive,'1 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure. 
Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  liive 

Bum. owre-*  theirtreasure. 

Fareweel,      "  my    rhyme  -  composing 
brither'"  [ither:'-"" 

We've  been  owre  lang  unkenn'd  to 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither, 

In  love  fraternal; 
May  Envy  wallop-'  in  a  tether'^* 

Black  fiend,  infernal  1 

While  Highlandmen  hate  tolls    and 
taxes;  [braxies,T[ 

While   moorlan'  herds  like   gold   fat 
While  terra  flrrtia  on  her  axis 

Diurnal  turns, 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  and  practice, 
In  Robert  Bukns. 

POSTSCKIPT. 

My  memory's  no  worth"  a  preen  i''^' 

I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 

By  this  New  Light,*  * 
'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 

Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  cal- 

lans**** 
At  grammar,  logic,  and  sic  talents, 
They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to 
balance. 

Or  rules  to  gie,^' 
But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain.,  braid 
lallans,"^ 

Like  you  or  me. 


"Found.  23  Jostle,  push.  i''' Describe. 
?^  Hum  over.  '^^  Too  long  '  unknown  to 
each  other.  ''  Struggle.  ^S^Rope.  =»  Pin. 
^''.Juveniles.    ^^  Give.     32  Lowland     speech. 

1"  Sheep  which  have  died  of  disease ;  and 
which  are  understood  to  tJelong  to  the  shep- 
herds as  their  perquisites.  - 

**  An  allusion  to  the  "Twa  Herds." 


In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the 

moon, 
Just  like  a  sark,''  or  pair  of  shoon,^* 
Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon^' 

Gaed  past  their  viewing, 
And  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  gat  a  new  one. 

This  pass'd  for  certain — undisputed: 
It  ne'er  cam  i'  their  heads  to  doubt  it. 
Till  chiels**  gat  up  and  wad  confute  it, 

And  ca'd  it  wrang: 
And  iftuckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,   weel    learn'd    upo'    the 

beuk,"  -  [teuk;3' 

Wad  threap^*  auld  folk  the  thing  mis- 

For  'twas  the  auld    moon    turn'd    a 

neuk,« 

And  out  o'  sight, 
And  backlins^'-comin',  to  the  leuk''^ 
She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  denied — it  was  affirm'd; 
The  herd  and  hirsels^^  were  alarm'd; 
The  reverend  gray-beards   raved  and 
storm'd 

That  beardless  laddies" 
Should    think   they  better    were    in- 
form'd 

Than  their  auld  daddies** 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks;.    , 
Frae  words  and  aiths'  to  clours  and 

nicks;*" 
And  mony  a  fallow  gat  his  licks,*' 

Wi'  hearty  crunt:** 
And  some,  to  learn  them    for  their 
tricks, 

Were  hang'd  and  brunt. 

This  game  was  play'd  in  mony  lands, 
And    Auld-Hght    caddies*'    bure    sjc 
hands  [sands 

That,  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the 

Wi'  nimble  shanks,^" 
Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands. 

Sic  bluidy  pranks.  ' 

But  New -Light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe,*' 
Folk  thought  them  ruih'd  stick  and 
stowe,*'* 


33  Shirt.  34  Shoes.  3S  Shred.  '^  Fellows.- 
"  Book.  3"  Argue.  3°  Mistook.  ^  Corner. 
«'  Backwards.  <"  Look.  <3  Flocks.  <<  Lads; 
^°  Fathers.  ^^  Blows  and  cuts.  ^'  Got  a  beat- 
ing. <3  Dint.  <»  Fellows.  «»  Legs.  "  Such 
a   fright,     s^*  Stump   and  rump.   - 


158 


BUHNS'  WORKS. 


Till  now  amaist  on  every  knows*' 
Ye'll  find  ane  placed; 

And  some  tlieir  New-bight  fair  avow, 
Just  quite  barefaced. 

Nae  doubt  the   Auld-Light  flocks  are 
bleatin';  [sweatin'; 

Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  and 
Mysel,  I've  even  seen  them  greetin'** 

Wi'  girnin'*°  spite, 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lied  on. 

By  word  and  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  loons  !=° 
Some  Auld-Light  herds  in  neibor  towns 
Are  mind't,  in  things  they  ca'  balloons. 

To  tak  a  flight, 
And  stay  ae  month  amaug  the  moons. 

And  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them; 
And  when  the  auld  moon's  gauu  to 
lea'e  them,  [wi'  tlxem, 

The  hindmost  shaird,"  they'll  fetch  it 

Just  i'  their  pouch,'' 
And  when  the  New-Light  billies"'  see 
them, 

I  think  they'll  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observed  that  a'  this  clatter*" 
Is  naething  but  a  "moonshine  matter;" 
But  though  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splat- 
ter 

In  logic  tulzie,"' 
I  hope  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Than  miud  sic  brulzie.'- 


THIRD  EPISTLE  TO  JOHN 
LAPRAIK 

This  epistle  did  not  appear  in  either  of  the 
editions  of  his  worlcs  which  the  poet  saw 
through  the  press.  It  was  written  while  in 
the  midst  of  his  second  harvest,  at  Mossgiel 
— an  unfortunate  one,  as  it  proved  ;  for  be- 
ing both  a  iate  and  a  wet  season,  an  evil 
conjunction  on  the  cold  wet  soil,  half  the 
crops  were  lost. 

Sejiiember  13, 1785. 

GuiD  speed  and  furder*  to  you,Johnny, 
Guid  health,  hale  ban's,  and  weather 
bonny; 

'^=  Hillock.  '«  Cryins-.  ==  Grinning.  5S 
Rascals.  *'  Shred.  »»  Pocket.  «»  Fellows. 
^°  Gossip.    *i  Contention.    *2  Broils. 

*  Good  speed  and  success  in  furtherance  "to 
you. 


Now    when  ye're    nickau'   down  fu' 
canny 

^The  staff  o'  bread. 
May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  bran'y 
To  clear  your  head. 

May  Boreas  never  thrash  your  rigs,f 
Nor  kick  your  ricldes*  aff  their  l^s, 
Sendin'  tlie  stufE  o'er  muirs  and  haggs' 

Like  drivin'  wrack; 
But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack. 

I'm  bizzie  too,   and  skelpin'^  at  it. 
But  bitter,  daudin'°  showers  hae  wat  it, 
Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 

Wi'  muckle  wark. 
And  took  my  jocteleg^  and  whatt'  it. 

Like  ony  dark. 

It's  now  twa    month    that  I'm  your 
debtor,  [ter. 

For  your  braw,  nameless,  dateless  let- 
Abusiu'  me  for  harsh  ill  nature 

On  holy  men, 
WhUe  deil  a  hair  yoursel  ye're  better. 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  bells', , 
Let's  sing  about  our  noble  sels; 
We'll  cry  nae  jads*  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help  or  roose'  us. 
But  browster  wives'"  and  whisky  stills. 

They  are  the  muses. 

Your  friendship,  sir,  I  winna  quat  it. 
And  if  ye  mak  objections  at  it. 
Then  han'  in  nieve"   some  day  we'll 
knot'^  it. 

And  witness  take. 
And  when  wi'  usquebae  we've  wat  it. 

It  winna  break. 

But  if  the  beast  and  branks"  be  spared 
Till  kye  be  gaun"  without  the  herd, 
And  a'  the  vittel'*  in  the  yard. 

And  theekit'*  right, 
I  mean  your  ingle -side  to  guard 

Ae  winter  night. 

'  Cutting.  =  Stooks  or  shocks  of  corn. 
'  Morasses.  ■■  Driving  at  it.  '  Wind-driven. 
«  Clasp-knife.  '  Cut  or  sharpened  it.  =  Muses. 
»  Rouse.  '»  Ale-house  wives.  "  Hand  in  fist. 
"  Bind.  "  Bridle.  "  Gome.  "  Victual. 
"Thatched. 

t  May  Boreas  never  shake  the  com  in  your 
ridges. 


EPISTLES. 


159 


Then  muse-inspirin' aqua  vitae  [witty, 
Shall  malte  us  baltli  sae  blitue  and 
Till  ye  forget  ye're  auld  and  gatty," 

And  be  as  canty"*  [ty. " 
As  ye  were  nine  years  less  than  thret 

Sweet  ane  and  twenty  I 

But  stocks  are  cowpit™  wi'  the  blast, 
And  now  the  slnu  keeks''  in  the  west. 
Then  I  maun  rin  amang  the  rest. 

And  quat  my  chanter; 
Sae  I  subscribe  myself  in  haste, 

Yours,  Rab  the  Ranter. 


EPISTLE    TO    THE    REV.    JOHN 

M'MATH. 

The  Rev.  John  M'Math  was  at  this  time  assist- 
ant to  the  Rev.  Peter  Wodrow  of  Torbolton. 
As  a  copy  of  "  Holy  Willie's  Prayer"  accom- 
panied the  epistle,  we  need  hardly  say  he 

■-was,  a  member  of  the  New-light  party. 
The  bleak  un^enial  harvest  weather  is  very 
graphically  pictured  in  the  first  verse. 

September  17,  1785. 

While  at  the  stook  the  shearers'  cower 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudin-  shower, 
Or  in  giilravage.  rinnin'  scower' 

To  pass  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 
"In  idle  rhyme. 

My  Musie,  tired  wi'  mony  a  sonnet 
On  gown,  and  ban',  and  douce^  black 

bonnet. 
Is  grown  right  eerie'  now  she's  done  it. 
Lest  they  should  blame  her, 
And  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it 
And  anathem  her. 

I  own  'twas  rash,  and  rather  hardy, 
That  I,  a  simple  country  bardie, 
Should  meddle  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  they  ken  me. 
Can  easy,  wi'  a  single  wordie, 

Lowse  hell  upon  me. 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces. 
Their     sigh  in',    cantin',    grace-proud 
faces,     ' 


"  Frail.     '9  Happy.     "  Thirty.     =»  Over- 
turned.   ■•"  Sun  blinks. 

1  Harvest  people.  '^  Pelting.    ^  Run  riotous- 
ly for  amusement.      *  Sedate.       '  Timorous. 


Their  three-mile  prayers,  and  half-mile 
graces; 

Their  raxin'"  conscience, 
Whase  greed,  revenge,  and  pride  dis- 
graces 

Waur  nor'  their  nonsense. 

There's  Gawn,*  misca't'  waur  than  a 

beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honour  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid's  the  priest 

Wha  sae  abus't  him. 
And  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  jest 

What  way  they've  use't  him? 

See  him,  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed. 
And  shall  his  fame  and  honour  bleed 

By  worthless  skellums,' 
And  not  a  muse  erect  her  head 

To  cowe  the  blellums  ?'" 

0  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts. 
To  gie  the  rascals  their  deserts, 
I'd  rip  their  rotten,  hollow  hearts. 

And  tell  aloud. 
Their  jugglin'  hocus-pocus  arts, 

To  cheat  the  crowd. 

God  knows,  I'm  no  the  thing  I  should 

be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be. 
But  twenty  times  I  rather  would  be 

An  atheist  clean, 
Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be 

Just  for  a  screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass. 
An  honest  man  may  like  a  lass, 
But  mean  revenge,  and  malice  fause," 

He'll  still  disdain, 
And  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws. 

Like  some  we  ken. 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth ; 
They  talk  o'  mercy,  grace,  and  truth, 
For  what  ? — to  gie  their  malice  skouth" 

On  some  puir  wight, '^ 
And  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right  and 
ruth,'^ 

To  ruin  straight. 


"  Stretching.  '  Worse  than.  ^  Misnam2j. 
»  Wretches.  >»  Fellows.  >'  False.  "  Scope. 
"  Fellow.     '*  Mercy. 

*  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq, 


160 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


All  hail,  Religion  !  maid  divine  ! 
Pardon  a  Muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 
Who,  in  her  rough  imperfect  line, 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee; 
To  stigmatise  false  friends  of  thine 

Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 

Though  blocht  and  foul   wi'  mony  a 

stain, 
And  far  unworthy  of  thy  train. 
With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

To  join  with  those 
Who  boldly  daur  thy  cause  maintain 

In  spite  o'  foes: 

In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs, 
In  spite  o'  undermining  jobs, 
In^pite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  worth  and  merit. 
By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes. 

But  hellish  spirit. 

O  Ayr  !  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
Within  thy  presbyterial  bound, 
A  candid  liberal  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers. 
As  men,  as  Christians  too,  renown'd, 

And  manly  preachers. 

Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  named; 
Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  famed; 
And  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine's 
blamed, 

(^^^lich  gies  you  honour). 
Even,  sir,  by  them  your   heart's   es- 
teem'd. 

And  winning  manner. 

Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ta'en. 
And  if  impertinent  I've  been. 
Impute  it  not,  good  sir,  in  ana 

Whase  heart  ne'er  wrang'd  ye. 
But  to  his  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belang'd  ye. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A  BROTHER  POET. 

AULD  Nbibor, 
I'M  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor, 
For  your  auld-farrant'  friend'ly  letter; 
Though  I  maun  say't,  I  doubt  ye  flatter. 

Ye  speak  sae  fair, 
Fm  my  puir,  silly,  rhymm'  clatter 
Some  less  maun  sair.^ 


^  Sagacious.    ^  Must  serve. 


Hale  be  your  heart,  hale  be  your  fiddle; 
Langmayyour  elbuck  jink  and  diddle,^ 
To  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle* 

0'  warly  cares. 
Till  bairns'  bairns  kindly  cuddle' 

Your  auld  gray  hairs. 

But,  Davie,  lad,  I'm  rede  ye're  glakit;" 
I'm  tauld  the  Muse  ye  hae  negleckit; 
And  gif  it 's  sae,  ye  sud  be  licket' 

Until  ye  fyke;' 
Sic  hauns  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faikit,' 

Be  haint'"  wha  like. 

For  me,  I'm  on  Parnassus'  brink 
Rivin'"  the  words  to .gar'^  them  clink;. 
Whiles  dais't'*  wi'  love,  whiles  dais't 
vri'  drink, 

Wi'  jads  or  masons; 
And  whiles,  but  aye  owre  late,  I  think 
Braw  sober  lessons. 

Of  a'  the  thoughtless  sons  o'  man, 
Commen'  me  to  the  bardie  clan; 
Except  it  be  some  idle  plan 

0'  rhymin'  clink. 
The  devil-haet,'''  that  I  sud- ban. 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  o' 

livin', . 
Nae  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  grieTin'; 
But  just  the  pouchie'"  put  the  nieve" 
in, 

Arid  while  ought's  there. 
Then  hiltie  skiltie''  we  gae  scrieviu'," 
And  fash"  nae  mair. 

Leeze  me'-"  on  rhyme  !  its  aye  a  treas- 
ure. 
My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure. 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  wark,  or  leisure. 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie'.*' 
Though  rough  and  raploch*'^  be  her 
.  measure. 

She's  seldom  lazy. 

Haud  to  the  Muse,  my  dainty  Davie, 
The  warl  may  play  you  mony  a  sha- 
vie;22 

3  Elbow   dodge  and  jerk.     *  Struggle.    ^ 
Fondle.     «  I  fear  you  are  foolish.       '  Should 
be  beaten.       » Shrug,      "Spared,      i"  Saved. 
11  Twisting.     12  Make.     "  Stupid.      i«  The 
devil- a' bit,     ■=  Pocket.    "Fist,      "  Helter, 
skelter.     "  Go  smoothly.    i»  Trouble.     .=»  A , 
term  of  endearment,  an  expression  of  happi.)  - 
ness  or  pleasure.  =i' Lass.  ^'Coarse.    2"  Tricks* 


EPISTLES. 


161 


But  ft)r  tlifi  Muse  she'll  never  leave  ye, 
ITiough  e'er  so  puir, 

Na,  even  though  limpin'  wi'  the  spa- 
vie« 

Frae  door  to  door. 


EPISTLE-  TO  JAMES  SMITH. 

James  Smith,  oae  of  Bums'  earliest  friends, 
was  a  merchant  in  Mauchline.  He  was 
present  at  the  scene  in  *'  Poosie  Nansie's," 
which  suggested  "The  Jolly  Beggars." 

*'  Friendship !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul! 
'    Sweet'ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society ! 
1  owe  thee  much."—  Blair. 

Dbak  Smith,  thesleest,"  paukie^  thief. 
That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  rie^,^ 
Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock  breef'' 
-    "  -  Owre  human  hearts; 
For  ne'er  a  bosom  yet  was  prieP 
Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  and  moon. 
And  eveiy  star  that  blinks  aboon, 
Ye've  cost  me  twenty  pair  of  shoon' 

Just  gaun  to  see  you; 
And  every  ither  parr  that's  done, 

Mair  ta'en  I'm  wi'  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin,'  Nature, 
To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit'  stature, 
Slie's  turn'd  you  aii,  a  human  creature 

On  her  first  plan; 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  every  feature 

She's  wrote,  "The  Man.' 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme,. 
My  barmie'  noddle's  working  prime. 
My  fancy  yerkit'"  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon: 
Hae  ye  a  leisure  moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin'? 

Some  rhyme  a  neibor's  name  to  lash; 
Some  rhyme  (vain  thought!)  for  needfu' 
.cash;  ,  [clash," 

Some    rhyme    to   court    the    country 

And  raise  a  din," 
Far  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash;" 
I  rhyme  for  fun. 


24  Sparin. 
'  Slyest.    "  Knowing.    '  Robbery.  '■>  Spell. 
■''Proof.       "Shoes.       'Woman.      "Stinted. 
'Yeasty.   "'Fermented.   "Gossip,  "Noise. 
"  Trouble. 


The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot 

Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 

And  damn'd  my  fprtuue  to  the  groat; ' 

But  m  requit, 
Has  blessed  me  wi'  a  random  skot 

O'  country  wit. 

This  while  my  notion's  ta'en  a  sklent,  '^ 
To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent; 
But  still,  the  mair  I'm  that  way  bent. 

Something  cries,  "  Hoolie!'' 
I  rede"  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent," 
Ye'll  shaw  your  folly. 

"There's  ither  poets  much  your  betters. 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Hae  thought   they  had  insured  their 
debtors. 

A'  future  ages; 
Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tatters 

Their  unknown  pages. " 

Then  fareweel  hopes  o'  laurel-boughs. 
To  garland  my  poetic  browsJ  ' 

Henceforth     I'll    rove     where    busy 
ploughs 

Are  whistling  tlirang. 
And    teach    the    lanely    heights    and 
howes'* 

My  rustic  sang.  ; 

I'll  wander  on,  with  tentless"  heed 
How  never  halting  moments  speed. 
Till  Fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread; 

Then,  all-unknown, 
I'll  lay  me  with  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone! 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we're  living  sound  and  hale, 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  saU,^' 

Heave  Care  owre  side! 
And  large,  before  Enjoyment's  gale, 

Let's  tak  the  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  f u'  light. 

The  magic  wand  then  let  us  wield. 
For,  anoe  that  five-and- forty's  speel'd,'" 


"  Twist.     >'  Beware.    '*  Warn.     "  Care. 
JB  Hollows.   i»  Aimless.  '"  Climbed. 


162 


BUftNS'  WORKS. 


See,  crazy,  weary,  joyless  Eild,'" 
Wi'  wrinkled  face. 

Comes     liostin','^^  lijrpliu',''*  owre  the 
field, 

Wi'  creepin'  pace. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the 

gloamin'. 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin' ; 
And  fareweel  cheerf  u'  tankards  f  oatnin' 

And  social  noise; 
And  fareweel,  dear  deluding  woman  ! 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

O  Life  !  how  pleasant  is  thy  morning, 

Young  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning ! 

Cold  -pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning. 
We  frisk  away,  [ing, 

Like  schoolboys,  at  the  expected  warn- 
To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here. 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 
•Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near. 

Among  the  leaves; 
And  though  the  puny  wound  appear. 

Short,  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flowery  spot. 
For  which  they  never  toil'd  or  swat;'* 
They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat 

But  care  or  pain; 
And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim  some  fortune  chase; 
Keen  hope  does  every  sinew  brace; 
Through  fair,  through  foul,  they  urge 
the  race 

And  seize  the  prey: 
Then  cannie,'"  in  some  cozie  *'  place. 

They  close  the  day. 

And  others  like  your  humble  servan', 
Poor  wights  !^'  nae  rules  nor  rodes  ob- 

servin' 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervia', 

They  zig-zag  on ;      [vin'. 
Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  and  star- 
They  aften  groan. 

Alas  !  what  bitter  toil  and  straining — 
But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complain- 
ing ! 

^^  Age.  22  Coughing.  ^^  Limpinff. 

=<  Sweated.  ?=  Quietly,    ''  Snug.  2'  Fellows. 


Is  Fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning?,^  ,< 
E'en  let  her  gang  !    ' 

Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining^ 
Let's  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door, 
Andlineel,  "Ye  Powers  !"  and  warm 

implore, 
' '  Though  I  should  wander  Terra  o'er. 

In  all  her  climes. 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more. 

Aye  rowth-*  o'  rhymes. 

"  Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  country  laird^, 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards;  ,. 
Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards. 

And  maids  of  honour  ! 
And  yill  and  whisky  gie  to  cairds,'^' 

Until  they  sconner,"" 

"  A  title,  Dempster*  merits  it; 

A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt; 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit,  ?  T 

In  cent,  per  cent. ; . 
But  gie  me  real,  sterling  wit. 

And  I'm  content. 

"While  ye  are  pleased  to  keep. me 

hale, 
I'll  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be't  water-brose,  or  muslin-kaU," 

Wi'  cheerf u'  face,       .  ^  j 
As  lang's  the  Muses  dinna  fail  .  -- 

To  say  the  grace. " 

An  anxious  ee  I  never  throws 

Behint  my  lug'*  or  by  my  nose ; 

I  jouk"  beneath  Misfortune's  blows    . 

As  weel's  I  may,  -" 

Sworn  foe  to  Sorrow,  Care,  and  Prose. 

I  rhyme  away.  ' 

0  re  douce**  folk,  that  live  by  rule. 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compared  wi'  you — 0  fool!  fool!  fool! 

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

Your  lives  a  dike !'' 

Nae  har«brain'd,  sentimental  traces,'  i 
In  your  unletter'd  nameless  faces! 

='  Abundance.  "  Tinkers.  »"  Are  nauseated; 
^^  Broth  made  without  meat.  sa  Ear 

=2  Stoop.       34  Serious.         ss  Blank  as  a  wall." 
*  George  Dempster  of  Dunnichen,  a  parlia- 
mentary orator  of  the  time. 


EPISTLES. 


163 


111  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray, 
fiuf  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Te  hum  away. 

Te  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye're  wise; 

Nae  '^erly^"  tiiougli  ye  do  despise 

Tke  liairum-scairum,  ram-stam*'  boys. 

The  rattling  squad: 
I  see  you  upward  oast  your  eyes — 

Ye  ken  tlie  road. 

Wliilst  I— but  I  sliall  hand  me  there — 
Wi'  you  I'll  scarce  gang  ony  where — 
Then,'  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair, 

Bttt  quat  my  sang, 
Cijntent  wi'  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang. 


EPISTLE  TO  GAVIN    HAMILTON, 

Esq., 

recommending  a  boy. 

Gavin  Hamilton,  solicitor  in  Mauchiine,  was 
-  a  warm"'and  generous  friend  of  the  poet's, 

a  New-Light  partisan    who  had   suffered 

from  Aul^-Lignt  persecutions. 

MOSGAVILLE,  May  3,  1786. 

I  HOL.D  it,  sir,  my  bounden  duty 
To  warn  you  liow  that  Master  Tootie, 

Alias,  Laird  M'Gaun, 
Was  here  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tither  day. 

And  wad  hae  done't  aff  han':' 
But  lest  he  learn  the  callan'  tricks. 

As,  faith,  I  muckle  doubt  him, 
Like    scrapiu'    out   auld     Crummie's 
nicks. 
And  tellin'  lies  about  them : 
, ,  As  lieve'  then,  I'd  have  then. 
Your  clerkship  he  should  sair. 
If  sae  be,  ye  may  be 
Not  fitted  other  where. 

Although  I  say't,  he's  gleg*  enough. 
And' 'bout  a  house  that's  rude    and 

rough, 
_The  boy  might  learn  to  swear; 
But  then  wi'  you  he'll  be  sae  taught, 

-  =i«  Wonder,    "  Reckless. 

'  Cffl-Hand.      '  Boy.       '  More     willingly. 
*  Sliarp.- 


And  get  sic  fair  example  si;raught, 

I  haeha  ony  fear. 
Ye'U  catechise  him  every  quirk. 
And  shore'  him  weel  wi'  hell; 
And  gar*  him  follow  to  the  kirk — 
Aye  when  ye  gang  yoursel. 
■  If  ye  then,  maun  be  then 

Erae  hame  this  comin'  Friday; 
Then  please  sir,  to  lea'e,  sir. 
The  orders  wi'  your  lady. 

My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien, 

In  Paisley  John's,  that  night  at  e'en. 

To  meet. the  warld's  worm;'' 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree, 
And  name  the  airles'  and  the  fee. 

In  legal  mode  and  form: 
I  ken  he  weel  a  sneck  can  draw,' 

When  simple  bodies  let  him; 
And  if  a  devil  be  at  a', 

In  faith  he's  sure  to  get  him. 
To  phrase  you,  and  praise  you. 
Ye  ken  your  laureate  scorns: 
The  prayer  stUl;  yon  share  still. 
Of  grateful  MiNSTKBL  Burns. 


POETICAL   INVITATION   TO  MR. 
JOHN  KENNEDY. 

This  rhymed  epistle  was  accompanied  by  a 

Erose  letter,  and  a  copy  of  the  '^  Cotter's 
aturday  Night."  Kennedy  had  interest^' 
himself  greatly  in  the  success  of  the  Kilmar- 
nock edition  of  the  poems.  He  was  after- 
wards ■  factor  to  the  Marquis  of  'Breadal- 
bane. 

Now  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 
E'er  bring  you  in  by  Mauehline  corse,' 
Lord,  man,   there's  lasses  there  wad 
-    force 

A  hermit's  fancy;  [worse. 
And  down  the  gate,   in  faith  they're 

And  mair  unchancy. 

But,  as  I'm  sayin',  please  step  to  Dow's, 
And  taste  sic  gear  as  Johnnie  brews. 
Till  some  bit  callant''  bring  me  news 

That  you  are  there; 
And  if  we  dinna  baud  a  bouze 

I'se  ne'er  drink  mair. 

'•  Threaten.  *  Make.  ^  Avaricious  crea- 
ture. '  Earnest  money.  »  Can  take  advant. 
age.  .   ■  ,  ,  -  ."  - 

'  Mauchiine  market  cross.    "  Boy 


164 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


It's  no  I  like  to  sit  and  swallow. 
Then  like  a  swine  to  puke  and  wallow; 
But  gie  me  just  a  true  good  fallow, 

Wi'  right  ingine,' 
And  ppunkie,''ance  to  make  us  mellow. 

And  then  we'll  shine. 

Now,  if  ye're  ane  o'  warld's  folk, 
Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak. 
And  sklent*  on  poverty  their  joke, 

Wi'  bitter  sneer, 
Wi'  you  no  friendship  will  I  troke,' 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 

But  if,  as  I'm  informed  weel, 
Te  hate,  as  ill's  the  very  deil. 
The  flinty  heart  that  canna  feel — 

Come,  sir,  here's  tae  you  ! 
Hae,  there's  my  haun',  I  wiss  you  weel. 

And  guid  be  wi'  you. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

This  epistle  was  addressed  to  Andrew  Aiken, 
the  son  of  his  old  friend  Robert  Aiken,  writer 
in  Ayr.  Andrew  Aiken  afterwards  earned 
distinction  in  the  service  of  his  country. 

May^  1786. 
I  LANG  hae   thought,    my    youthfu' 
friettd, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Though  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento; 
But  how  the  subject  theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  and  chance  determine ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  ssmg, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon, 

Te'll  try  the  world  fu'  soon  my  lad. 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me. 
You'll  find  manldnd  an  unco  squad,^ 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye: 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thougit. 

Even  when  your  end's  attain'd; 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought. 

Where  every  nerve  is  strain'd. 

I'll  no  say  men  are  villains  a': 
The  real,  harden'd,  wicked, 

Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law, 
Are  to  a  few  restricked : 


'  Genius    or  tcihperament. 
'meant,    ^  Throw.     "  Exchange. 

*  Queer  lot. 


'  Whisky  is 


But,  ocli !  mankind  arc  unco^  weak,  . 

And  little  to  be  trusted; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake,    ^ 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife. 

Their  fate  we  shouldna  censure. 
For  still  the  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer; 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart. 

Though  poortith'  hourly  stare  him; 
A  man  may  talc  a  neibor's  part. 

Yet  hae  na  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free  aff  han'  *  your  story  tell. 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony;= 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel,  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection; 
But  keek'  through  every  other  man, 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  sly  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love. 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  the  illictrove. 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it: 
I  waive  the  quantvim  o'  the  sin. 

The  hazard  of  concealing;  - 
But,  och  lit  hardens  a'  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile. 

Assiduous  wait  upon  lier; 
And  gather  gear'  by  every  wile 

That's  justified  by  honour; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge. 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip 

To  liaud  the  wretch  in  order; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip. 

Let  that  aye  be  your  border: 
Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Debar  a'  side  pretenses; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws. 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere 
Must  sure  become  the  creature; 

But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear. 
And  even  the  rigid  feature: 

2  Very,     s  Poverty.      <  Off-hand.      '  Boon 
companion.    °  Look     pryingly.    '  Wealth. 


EPISTLES. 


165 


Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 

Be  complaisance  extended; 
An  isitlieist  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  o&ended! 

When  ranting  round  in  Pleasure's  ring. 

Religion  may  be  blinded; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

Jt  may  belittle  minded; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heaven 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor! 

Adieu,  deir,  amiable  youth! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth- 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  "  God  send  you 
speed," 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser: 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser! 


,     EPISTLE  TO  MR.  M'ADAM  OF 
CRAIGENGILLAN. 

The  following  was  written  on  receiving  a  let- 
.  ter,  congratulating  him  on  his  p^ic  efforts, 
from  Mr.  M'Adam. 

Sib,  o'er  a  gill  I  gat  your  card, 

I  trow'  it  made  me  proud; 
"  See  wha  taks  notice  o'  the  bard!" 

I  lap-  and  cried  fu'  loud. 

Now  deil-ma-care  about  their  jaw. 
The  senseless,  gawky^  million; 

I'll  cock  my  nose  aboon  them  a' — 
I'm  robs'd'*  by  Craigengillan! 

'Twas  noble,  sir;  'twas  like  yoursel, 
To  grant  your" high  protection: 

A  great  man's  Smile,  ye  ken  f  n'  well. 
Is  aye  a  blest  infection. 

Though  by  his*  banes  wha  in  a  tub 
Match'd  Macedonian  Sandy  !f 

On  my  ain  legs,  through  dirt  and  dub, 
I  independeift  stand  aye. 


>^yow.      "Leaped.      »  Silly.      <  Praised. 
.■  *  Diogenes. 
+  Alexander  the  Great. 


And  when  those  legs  to  guid  warm 
kail,'> 

Wi'  welcome  canna  bear  me; 
A  lee  dilie-side,*  a  sybow'  tail. 

And  barley  scoue"  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to   kiss  the 
breath 

0'  mony  flowery  simmers! 
And  bless  yoiir  bonny  lasses  baith— 

I'm  tauld  they're  loe'some  kimmers!' 

And  God  bless  young  Dunaskin's  laird. 
The  blossom  of  our  gentry! 

And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard, 
A  credit  to  his  country. 


EPISTLE  TO  MAJOR  LOGAN. 

Major  Logan,  a  retired  military  officer,  lived 
at  Parle  House,  near  Ayr,  with  his  mother 
and  sister — the  latter  the  Miss  Logan  to 
whom  Burns  addressed  some  verses,  with  a 
present  of  Beattie's  poems. 

Hail,  thairm'  inspirin',  lattlin'  Willie! 
Though  Fortune's  road  be  rough  and 

hilly 
To  every  fiddling,  rhyming  billie. 

We  never  heed. 
But  tak  it  lilte  the  unback'd  filly,      ' 
Proud  o'  her  speed. 

When  idly  goavan'  whiles  we  saunter, 
Yirr,  Fancy  barks,  awa'  we  canter. 
Up  hill,  down  brae,  till  some  mischan- 
ter,^ 

Some  black  bog-hole. 
Arrests  ua,  then  the  scaith  and  banter 
We're  forced  to  thole.  ^ 

Hale  be  your  heart!  hale  be  your  fiddle! 
Lang  may  your  elbuek  jink  and  did- 
dle,*' [dle« 
To  cheer  you  through  the  weary,  wid- 

0'  this  wide  warl*. 
Until  you  on  a  cummock  driddle' 
A  gray-hair'd  carl. 


°  Broth.  °  A  shadv  wall-side.  '  The  young 
onion.    ^  Cake.    ^  Heart-enticing  creatures. 

^  Fiddle-string.  "  Walking  aimlessly.  ^  Misr 
hap.  *  Bear.  *  Elbow  dodge  and  jerk. 
*  Struggle.     '  Until  you  hobble  on  a  staff. 

*  These  two  lines  also  occur  in  the  Second 
Epistle  to  Davie. 


166 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Come  wealth,  come  poortith*  late  or 
soon,  [tune. 

Heaven  send  your  heart-strings  aye  in 
And  screw  your  temper-pins  aboon, 

.  A  fifth  or  mair, 
The  melancholibus,  lazy  cioon' 
O'  cankrie  care! 

May  still  your  life  from  day  to  day 
Nae  lente  largo  in  the  play. 
But  aMegretto  f(rrte  gay 

Harmonious  flow: 
A  sweeping,   kindling,   bauld  strath- 
spey— 

Encore!  Bravo! 

A  blessing  on  the  cheery  gang 
Wha  dearly  like  a  jig  or  sang, 
And  never  think  o'  right  and  wrang 

By  square  and  rule. 
But  as  the  clegs'"  o'  feeling  stang 

Are  wise  or  fool! 

My  hand-waled"  curse  keep  hard  in 
chase  [race, 

The   harpy,   hoodock,"   purse-proud 
Wha  count  on  poortith  as  disgrace — 

Their  tuneless  hearts ! 
May  fireside  discords  jar  a  base 

To  a'  their  parts ! 

But    come,    your   hand,   my  careless 

brither — 
r  til'  ither  warl',  if  there's  anither — 
And  that  there  is  I've  little  swither'' 

About  the  matter — 
We  cheek  for   chow"  shall   jog  the- 
.  gither, 

I'se  ne'er  bid'  better. 

We've    faults   and    failings — ^granted 

clearly. 
We're  frail  backsliding  mortals  merely. 
Eve's  bonny  squad,  priests  wyte'*  them 
sheerly," 

For  our  grand  fa'      [ly — 
But  stiU — but  still — 1  like  them  dear- 
God  bless  them  a'! 

Ochon  !  for  poor  Castalian  drinkers, 
When  they  fa'  foul  o*  earthly  jinkere," 


*  Poverty.  »  Drone.  >"  Gadflies.  "  Chosen. 
"Money-loying-.  i=  Doubt.  "  Jole.  '»  Blame. 
>•  Sorely,    "  Sprightly  girls. 


'The  witching,  cursed,  delicious  blink- - 
ers"*  -  1 .     ■     '.',  A 

Hae  put  meliyte,"  [e-ei,^" 
And  gart  me  weet  my  waukrife  wink- 
Wi'  girnin'^'  spite. 

But  by  yon  moon! — and  that's  liigU 

swearin' — 
And  every  star  within  my  hearin' ! 
And  by  her  een  wha  was  a  dear  ane  !f 

I'll  ne'er  forget; 
I  hope  to  gie  the  jads''^  a  clearin' 

In  fair  play  yet. 

My  loss  I  mourn,  but  not  repent  it, 
I'll  seek  my  pursie  whare  I' tint  it,'' 
Ance  to  the  Indies  I  were  wonted. 

Some  cantrip"  hour. 
By  some  sweet  elf  I'll  yet  be  dinted, 

Then;  Vive  V amour  ! 

Hhitea  mes  baisemai'ns  respectueuses. 

To  sentimental  sister  Susie, 

And  honest  Lucky;  no  to  roose^°  ye. 

Ye  may  be  proud. 
That  sic  a  couple  Fate  allows  ye 

To  grace  your  blood. 

• 
Nae  mair  at  present  can  I  measure. 
And  trouth  my  rhymin'   ware's  nae 
treasure;  [leisure. 

But  whe%  in  -Ayr,  some  half-hour's 
Be't  light,  be't  dark,    ,  ,  ■ 
Sir  Bard  will  do  liimsel  the  pleasure 
To  call  at  Park. 


MOSSGIEL,  Oct.  30,  1786. 


EoBEET  Burns. 


TO  THE  GUIDWIFE  OP  WAU- 
CHOPE  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Scott  of  Wauchope,  to  whom  this  epistle 
was  addressed,  was  a  lady  of  considerable 
taste  and  talent,  a,  writer  of  veise,.  and; 
something  of  an  artist.  She  was,  niece  to 
Mrs.  Cockburn,  authoress  of  a  beautiful 
version  of  "  The  Flowers  of  the  Forest."- 

GuiDwiPE,  •    '  : 

I  mind  it  weel,  in  early  date,    [blaie,' 
When  I  was    beardless,  young,  and 
And  first  could  thrash  the  barn, 

''  Pretty  girls.  "  Mad:  =»  Sleepy  eyelids. 
='  Gnnnlnpr.  22  Lasses.  =3  Lost.  =■>  witch- 
ing.   2'  Praise. 

•      '  Bashful. 

t  An  allusion  to  tlie  unfortunate  termination 
of  his  courtship  with  Jean  Armour.  i 


EPISTLES. 


W: 


d'haiid  a  yokia'  at  the  pleugh;  • 
And,  thougli  forfoughten'  sair  eneugh, 
'  Yet  unco  proud  to  learn: 

When  first,  iamang.  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  rfeckon'd  was. 
And  wi'  the  lave*  ilk  merry  morn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass, 
Still  sliearing,  and  clearing, 

The  tither  stooked  raw, 

Wi'  claivers  and  haivers* 

Wearing  the  day  awa'. 

Even  then,  a  wish,  (I  mind  its  power,) 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

ShaJl  strongl;^.lieave  my  breast— 
That'I  fo>poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Somd  ugefu'  plan  or  beuk  could  malte, 

Or  sing^a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  burr-thistle,  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  tuni'd  the  weeder-clips  aside. 
And  spared  the  symbol  dear: 
No  nation,  no  station. 

My  envy  e'er  could  raise, 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
I  knew  nae  higher  praise. 

But  still  the  elements  o'  sang. 

In  formless  jumble  right  and  wrang,  ' 

Wild  floated  in  my  brain ; 
Till  on  that  hairst^  I  said  before. 
My  ^rtner  in  the  merry  core. 

She  roused  the  forming  strain: 
I  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  quean,* 

Tluit-ljghted  up  my  jingle, 
Her  witching  Smile,  her  pauky  een, 
That  gart'  my  heart-strings  tingle  ! 
I  fired,  inspired, 

At  every  kindling  keek,* 
But  bashing  and  dashing, 
I  feared  aye  to  speak. 

Health  to  the  sex  !  ilk  guid  chiel'  says, 
Wi'  merry  dance  in  winter-days, 
■  And  we  to  share  in  common : 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  saul  o'  life,  the  heaven  below. 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 
Ye  surly  suaiphs, '"  who  hate  the  name. 

Be  mindfu'  o'  your  mither: 
She,  honest  woman,  may  think  shame 

That  ye're  coimected  with  her. 


'  Fatigued. '  Rest.  *  Idle  stories  and  gossip. 
^'•Harvest.  ^Comely  lass-  '' Made.' **  Glance. 
» Fellow.    "Blockheads.    '        ' 


Ye're  wae"  men,  ye're  nae  men, 
That  slight  the  lovely  dearS; 

To  shame  ye,  disclaim  ye. 
Ilk  honest  birkie", swears. 

For  you,  no  bred  to  barn  and  byre, 
Wha  sweetly  tune  the  Scottish  lyre. 
Thanks  to  you  for  your  line : 
The  marled  plaid  ye  kindly  spare 
By  me  should  gratefully  be  ware;"  * 

'Twad  please  me  to  the  Nine. 
I'd  be  mair  vauntie"  o'  my  haj)," 

Douce  hingin'''' owre  my  curple," 
Than  ony  ermine  ever  lap, 
Or  proud  imperial  purple. 

Fareweel  then,  lang  heal  then. 

And  plenty  be  your  fa'; 
May  losses  and  crosses 
Ne'er  at  your  hallan'*  ca'! 


EPISTLE  TO  WILLIAM  CREECH. 

William  Creech  was  the  publisher  of  the  first 
Edinburgh  edition  of  the  poet's  works.  He 
was  the  most  celebrated  publisher  of  his 
time  in  Edinburgh  ;  and  it  was  his  good 
fortune  to  be  the  medium  through  which 
the  works  of  the  majority  of  that  band  of 
eminent  men  who  made  Edinburgh  the 
head-quarters  of  literature  during  the  latter 
half  of  the  eighteenth  centurj^,  passed  to 
the  world.  This  epistle  was  written  during 
the  .poet's  Border  tour,  and  while  Creech 
was  in  London. 

AtJi.D  chuclde'  Reekie's^  sair  distrest 
Down  droops  her  ance  weel-burnisht 

crest, 
Nae  joy  her  bonny  buskit*  nest 

,     Can  yield  ava,* 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo'es  best, 
Willie's  awa'! 

0  Willie  was  a  witty  wight,' 
And  hado'  things  an  unco  slight;' 
Auld  Reekie  aye  he  keepit  tight. 
And  trig  and  braw: 
But  now  they'll  busk  her  like  a  fright- 
Willie's  awa'l 

The  stifEest  o'  them  a'  he  bow'd; 
The  bauldest  o'  them  a'  he  cow'd;  ' 


"Woeful.  1' Fellow.  "Worn.  "Proud. 
^5  Covering.  ^^  Bravely  hangingf.  ^^  Rump. 
■a  Porch.  _      ^ 

*  Literally  a  hen.  ^  Edinburgh.  ^  'Decor- 
ated. *  At  all.  "  Fellow.  °  A-great  knowl- 
edge. 


m 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


They  durst  nae  mair  tlian  lie  allow'd. 

That  was  a  law: 
We've  lost  a  birkie'  weel  worth  gowd — 

Willie's  awa' ! 

Now,  gawkies,   tawpies,   gowks,*  and 

fpols, 
Frae  colleges  and  boarding-schools, 
May    sprout    like  simmer   puddock'- 
Stools 

In  glen  or  sliaw; 
He  wlia  could  brush  them  down  to 
mods'" — 

Willie's  awa'! 

The  brethren  o'  the  Commerce-Cliau- 
mer*  [our; 

May  mourn  their  loss  wi'  doolfu'  clam- 
He  was  a  dictionar  and  grammar 

Amang  them  a' ; 
I  fear  they'll  now  mak.  mouy  a  stam- 
mer"— 

Willie's  awa' ! 

Nae  mair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Philosophers  and  poets  pour. 
And  tootliy  critics  by  tlie  score. 

In  bloody  raw ! 
The  adjutant  o'  a'  the  core — 

Willie's  awa' ! 

Now  worthy  Gregory's  f  Latin  face, 
Tytler'sJ   and    Greenfield's  §    modest 

grace; 
Mackenzie,!  Stewart,^!  sic  a  brace 

As  Rome  ne'er  saw; 
They  a'  maun''^  meet  some  ither  place — 

Willie's  awa' ! 

Poor  Burns — e'en  Scotch  drink  canna 
qnicken,  [en, 

He  cheeps'^  like  some  bewilder'd  chick- 
Scared  frae  its  minuie'*and  the  cleck- 
in'5 

By  hoodie-craw; 
Griers  gien  his  heart  an  unco  kickin' — 
Willie's  awa ! 

^  Fellow.  ^  Simpletons,  sluts — gtjwk  means 
Bterally  cuckoo,  also  a  fool.  '  Toad,  >»  The 
dust.  "Stumble.  "Must.  " CMrps.  " 
Mother.    ">  Brood. 

*  The    Chamber  of   Commerce,  of   which 
Creech  was  secretary. 
■  t  Dr.  James  Gregbry. 

t  Tytler  of  Woodhouselee. 

I  Professoir  of  Rhetoric  in  the.  University. 

H  Henry  Mackenzie. 

K  Bugatd  Stewart. , 


Now   every   sour-mou'd  girnin'  blel- 

lum," 
And  Calvin's  folk,  are  fit  to  fell  him; 
And  self-conceited  critic  skellum"         * 

His  quill  may  draw; 
He  wlja  could  brawlie'*  ward  their  hel- 
ium"— 

Willie's  awa'! 

Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I've  sped. 
And  Eden  scenes  ^n  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red. 

While  tempests  blaw; 
But  every  joy  and  pleasure's  fled — 

Willie's  awa' ! 

May  I  be  Slander's  common  speech; 
A  text  for  Infamy  to  preach ;  > 

And  lastly,  streekit™  out  to  bleach     J  ■ 

In  w^iuter  snaw. 
When  I  forget  thee,  Willi^  Creech, 

Though  far  awa' ! 

May  never  ividied  Fortune  touzle"  himi 
May  never  wicked  men  bamboozle" 

him  ! 
Until  a  pow'^^  as  auld's  Methusalem 

He  eanty^''  claw  ! 
Then  to  the  blessed  N<^^^rusa^em, 
Fleet  wing  awa' ! 


EPISTLE  TO  HUGH  PARKER. 

Mr.  Hugh  Parker  was  a  Kilmarnock  merchant, 
and  an  early  friend  and  admirer  of  the 
poet's. 

In  this    strange    laud,  this    unoouth_ 

clime, 
A  land  unknown  to  prose  or  rhyme; 
Where  words  ne'er  crost  the  muse"() 

heckles,* 
Nor  limpet'  in  poetic  shackles; 
A  land  that  Prose  did  never  view  it. 
Except     when    drunk   -he    stachert-. 

through  it; 
Here,  ambush 'd  by  the  chimla  cheek,* 
Hid  in  an  atmosphere  of  reek,^ 
I  hear  a  wheel  thrum  i'  the  neuk,^ 
I  hear  it — for  in  vain  I  leuk. 


>•  Talking  fellow,  i^  A  term  of  contempt. 
18  Easily.  >»  Attacks.  =»  Stretched.  »>  Teaze/ 
aa  Bother.    "Head.    "Cheerful. 

'  Limped.  »  Staggered.  *  Chimney  comer, 
*  Smoke.  *  Comer. 

*  A  series  of  sharpi-pointed  spikes  througlj 

which  flax-  is  drawn  in  dressing  it  for  manu.. 

1  facture.    Its  application  here  is  obvious.       '^ 


EPISTLES. 


Tlie  red  peat  gleams,  a  fiery  kernel, 
Euhusked  by  a  fog  infernal: 
Jlere,  for  my  wonted  rhyming  raptures, 
I  sit  and  count  my  sins  by  diapters; 
For  life  and  spunk  like  ither  Christians, 
I'm  dwindled  down  to  mere  existence; 
Wi'  nae  converse  but  Gallowa  bodies, 
Wi'  nae  kehn'd  face  but  Jenny  Ged- 

des.f 
Jenny,  my  Pegasean  pride  ! 
Do*&'  she  saunters  down  Nithside, 
And  aye  a  westliu  leuk  she  throws. 
While  tears  hap'  o'er  her  auld  brown 

nose  ! 
Was  it  for  this  wi'  canny^  care. 
Thou  bure  the  bard  through  many  a 

shire  ? 
At  howes'  or  hillocks  never  stumbled. 
And  late  or  •arly  never  grumbled  ? 
Gh,  had  I  power  like  inclination, ' 
I'd  heeze'"  thee  up  a  constellation. 
To  canter  with  the  Sagitarre, 
Or  loup  the  ecliptic  like  a  bar; 
Or  turn  the  pole  like  any  arrow; 
Or,  when  auld  Phoebus  bids  good-mor- 
row, 
Down  the  zodiac  urge  the  race. 
And  cast  dirt  on  his  godship's  face; 
For  I  could  lay  my  bread  and  kail 
He'd  ne'er  cast  saut  upo'  thy  tail. 
Wi'.a'  this  care  and  a'  this  grief. 
And  sma,'  sma'  prospect  of  relief, 
Aojd  nought  but  peet-reek  i'  my  head, 
How  can  I  write  what  ye  can  read  ? 
Torbolton,  twenty-fourth  o'  June, 
Ye'll  find  me  in  a  better  tune: 
But  tUl  we  meet  and  weet' '  our  whistle, 
Tak  this  excuse  for  nae  epistle. 

Robert  Btokns. 


FIRST  EPISTLE  TO  R.  GRAHAM, 

ESQ.,  OF  fintrt; 

Robert   Graham  of   Fintry  was  a   Commis- 
sioner of  Excise. 

When  Nature  her  great  masterpiece 
design'd,  [liuman  mind. 

And.  framed  her  last,  best  work,  the 
Her  eye  intent  6n  all  the  mazy  plan, 
She  form'ddf  various  parts  the  various 
man. 

.« Sadly.    'Hop.    s  Gentle.    "Hollows.    K' 
Raise..    '.'  Wet. 
t  The  poet's  mare. 


Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many 

forth;  [worth: 

Plain   plodding   industry    and    sober 

Thence  peasants,  fanners,  native  sons 

of  earth,  [their  birth: 

And  merchandise'  whole  genus  talie 

Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  existence 

finds,  [kinds. 

And    all    mechanics'    many  -  apron'd 

Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet. 

The  lead  and  buoy  are  needful  to  the 

net; 
The  caput  mortuum  of  gross  desires 
Makes  a  material  for  mert-  knights  and 
squires,  [flow. 

The  martial  phosphorus  is  taught  to 
She  kneads  the  lumpish  philosophic- 
dough,  [grave  designs. 
Then  marks  th'  unyielding  mass  with 
Law,  physic,  politics,  and  deep  divines: 
Last,  she  sublimes  th'  Aurora  of  the 

poles. 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls.- 

The  order'd  system  fair  before  her  stood, 
T^ature,    well-pleasei,   pronounced  it 

very  good: 
But  ere  she  gave  creating  labour  o'er. 
Half -jest,  she  tried  one  curious  labour 

more. 
Some  spumy,  fiery  ignis-fatuusvaatteTTf 
Such  as  the  slightest   breath  of'  air 

might  scatter; 
With  arch  alacrity  and  conscious  glee 
(Nature  may  have  her  whim  as  well  as 

we,  [show  it) 

Her  Hogarth-art  perhaps  she  meant  to 
She  forms  the  thing,  and  christens  it — 

a  Poet,  [and  sorrow. 

Creature,  though  oft  tlie  prey  of  care 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to- 
morrow. 
A  being  form'd  t'  amuse  his  graver 

friends. 
Admired  and  praised — and  there  the 

homage  ends: 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  Fortune's  strifes- 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches 

give. 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewitljal  to  live; 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal 

each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a  TuA, 


170- 


BURNS'  "WORKS. 


She  laugh'd  at  first,  then  felt  for  her 
poor  work.  [kind, 

Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  man- 
She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find; 
And,  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine 
state,  [great, 

Attach'd  him  to  the   generous   truly 
A  title,  and  the  only  one  I  claim. 
To  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  boun- 
teous Graham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  Muses'  hapless  train. 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life's  stormy 
main !  [stuff, 

Their  hearts  no  selfish  stem,absorbent 
That    never  gives  —  though    humbly 
takes  enough;  [soon, 

I'he  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as 
Unlike  saga,  proverb'd,  wisdom's  hard- 
wrung  boon.  [depend. 
The  world  were  blest  did  bliss  on  them 
Ah,    that   "the  friendly  e'er  should 
want  a  friend!"              •  [son. 
Let  prudence  number  o'er  each  sturdy 
Who  life,  and  wisdom  at  one  race  be- 
gun,                 .                           [rule. 
Who  feel  by  reason  and  who  give  by 
(Instinct's  a  brute,   and  sentiment    a 
fool!)                                     [slwuld — 
Who  make  poor  wiU  do  wait  upon  / 
We  own  they're  prudent,  but  wlio  feels 
they're  good?  [eye! 
Ye  wise  ones,  hence!  ye  hurt  the  social 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd    on    base 
alloy! 

But  come,  ye  who  the  godlike,  pleasure 
know,  [bestow! 

Heaven's    attribute  distinguish'd  —  to 
Whose  arms  of  love  would  grasp  the 
human  race:  [tier's  grace; 

Come  thou  who  givest  with  all  a  cour- 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my 
rhymes!  [times. 

Prop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  half -blushing, 
half -afraid,  [aid  ? 

Backward,  abash'dtoask  thy  friendly 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving 
hand,  [mand; 

I  crave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  com- 
But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tune- 
ful Nine —  [be  mine! 
Heavens!  should  the  branded  character 
Wkose  Yerse  in  manhood's  pride 
sublimely  flows, 


Yet  vilest   reptiles  in   their    begging  j 

prose.  1  ') 

Mark,   how  their    lofty,  independent! 

spirit  [meiit! 

Soars  on  the  spuming  wing  of  injured 
Seek  not  the  proofs  in  private  life  to 

find;  .     [wind!! 

Pity  the  best  of  words  should  be  but 
So  to  heaven's  gate  the  lark's  shrUl 

•  song  ascends. 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the   carol 

ends. 

In  all  the  clam'rous  cry  of  starving 

want,  [front; 

They  dun  benevolence  with'  shameless: 
Oblige  them,  patronise  their  tinsel  laySy.' 
They  persecute  you  all  your  future 

days!  [stain. 

Ere  ipy  poor  soul  such  de^  damnation 
My  homy  fist  assume  the  plough  again; 
The  piebald  jacket  let  me  patch  once 

more;  [fore; ' 

On  eighteenpence  a  week  I've  lived  be- 
Though,  thanlis  to  Heaven,  1  dare  even 

that  last  shift!  [gifti- 

I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy 
That,  placed  by  thee  upon  the  wish'd- 

f  or  height,  [sights!. 

Where,  man  and  nature  fairer  in  he£ 
My  Muse  may  imp  her  wing  for  some 

sublimer  flight. 


EPISTLE    TO    JAMES    TAIT    OP 

GLENCONNER. 
Atild  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner. 
How's  a'  the  folk  about  Glenconner? 
How  do  ye  this  blae  eastlin'  win', 
That's  like  to  blaw  a  body  blin'? 
For  me,  my  faculties  are  frozen. 
My  dearest  member  nearly  dozen,'        - 
I've  sent  you  here,  by  Johnnie  SimsoUiJ 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on ! 
Smith,  wi'  hi  s  sympathetic  feeling. 
And  Eeid,  to  common  sense  appealing. 
Philosophers  have  fought  an  wrangled;' 
And  meikle  Greek  and  Latin  mangled. 
Till  wi'  their  logic-jargon  tired. 
And  in  the  depth  of  science  mired. 
To  common  sense  they  now  appeal. 
What  wives  and  wabster.s'^  see  and  feel,- 
But,   hark,  ye,  frieu'!   I  charge  .you 
strictly. 


1  Numbed,      ^Weavers, 


EPISTLES. 


171 


Peruse  them,  and  return  them  quickly, 
For  now  I'm  grown  sae  cursed  douce^- 
I. pray  and  ponder  butt  the  house; 
My  shins,  my  lane,'' I  there  sit  roastin', 
Perusing  Bunyan,  Brown  and  Boston; 
Till  by  and  by,  if  I  hand  on, 
I'll  grunt  a  real  gospebgroau: 
Already  I  begin  to  try  it. 
To  cast  my  een  up  like  a  pyet,' 
When  by.  the  gun  she  tumbles  o'er. 
Fluttering  and  gasping  in  her  gore; 
Sae  shosjily  you  shall  see  me  bright, 
A  burning  and  a  shining  light. 

My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace'*nd  wale*  of  honest  men: 
When,  bending  down  wi'  auld  gray 

hairs,     ' 
Bene^^  tlie  load  of  years  and  cares, 
May  ^e  who  made  him  still  support  him. 
And  views  beyond  the  grave  comfort 

him. 
His  worthy  family,  far  and  hear, 
God  bless  them  a'  wi'  grace  and  gear  ! 

My  auld  schoolfellow,  preacher  Willie, 
The  manly  tar,  my  mason  BUlie, 
And  Auchenbay,  I  wish  him  joy; 
If  he's  a  parent,  lass  or  boy, 
May  he  be  dad,  and  Meg  the  mither. 
Just  flve-and-f orty  years  theglther ! 
And  no  forgetting  Wabster  Charlie, 
I'm  tauld  he  ofEers  very  fairly. 
And,  Lord,  remember  singing  Sannook 
Wi'  hale-breeks,'  saxpence,  and  a  ban- 
nock.* [cy. 
And  next  my  auld  acquaintance,  Nau- 
Sihce  she  is  fitted  to  her  fancy; 
And  her  kind  stars  hae  aii-ted'  till  her 
A  good  chiel  wi'  a  pickle  siller.'" 
My  kindest,  best  respects  I  sen'  it. 
To  cousin  Kate  and  sister  Janet;  [tious. 
Tell  them,  frae  me,  wi'  chiels"  be  cau- 
For,  faith,    they'll  aiblins'^  fin'  them 
fashiqus;'* 

To  grant  a  heart  is  fairly  civil. 
But  to  grant  a  maidenhead's  the  devil. 
And  -lastly,  -Jttmie,  for  yoursel. 
May  guardian  angels  tak  a  spell. 
And  steer  you  seven  miles  south  o'  hell : 
But  first,  before  you  see  heaven's  glory, 
May  ye  get  mony  a  merry  story, 

'  Serious.  *  By  myself.  ">  Magpie.  " 
Choice.  '  Whole  breeches.  ^  Oat  cake. 
'Directed.  '"  Some  money.  "Fellows.  '2 
Perhaps.    '^  TroubJ^some. 


Mony  a  laugh,  and  mony  a  drink. 
And  aye  eneugh  o'  needf u'  clink.  '■' 

Kow  fare  ye  weel,  and  joy  be  wi'  you; 
For  my  sa^e  tliis  I  beg  it  o'  you. 
Assist  poor  Simson  a'  ye  can, 
Ye'll  find  him  just  an  honest  man; 
Sae  I  conclude,  andquat  my  chanter. 
Yours,  saint  or  sinner, 

Rob  the  Eantbr. 


EPISTLE  TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK, 

ISr  ANSWER  TO  A  LETTER. 

Dr.  Blackiock,  the  blind  poet,  had  been  edu- 
cated for  the  Church,  but  in  consequence  of 
his  blindness  was  disappointed  of  a  charge. 
He  kept  a  boardin^ctlool  for  young  men 
attendmg  college.  He  was  much  respected 
by  the  literati  of  the  town ;  but,  what  is 
more  important,  it  was  his  letter  to  Mr. 
Georgie  Lawrie  of  Kilmarnock,  the  friend 
of  Bums,  which  fired  the  poet's  ambition^ 
and  induced  his  visit  to  Edinburgh,  and  the 
abandonment  of  his  projected  departure  for 
the  West  Indies. 

Ellisland,  October  2r,  1789. 

Wow,  but  your  letter  made  me  vaun-" 

tie!' 
And  are  ye  hale,  and  weel,  and  cantie?' 
I  kenn'd  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie 

Wad  bring  you  to: 
Lord  send  you  aye  as  weel's  I  want  ye. 
And  then  ye'll  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron*  south! 
And  never  drink  be  near  his  drouth !' 
He  tauld  mysel,  by  word  o'  mouth. 

He'd  tak  my  letter; 
I  lippen'd*  to  the  chiel  in  trouth" 

And  bade^  nae  better. 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron 
Had  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  one 
To  ware'  his  theologic  care  on. 

And  holy  study; 
And  tired  o'  sauls  to  waste  Iris  lear^  on. 

E'en  tried  the  body. 

Bat  what  d'ye  think,  my  trusty,  fier,' 
I'm  tum'd  a  ganger'" — Peace  be  here ! 


'^  Monej-, 

'  Proud.  2  Cheerful,  s  Thirst.  <  Trusted. 
'■>  A  petty  oath.  ^  Deserved.  ^  Spend.  ^  Learn- 
ing.     *  Friend.      '"  Exciseman. 

*  "  Heron,  author  of  a  History  of  Scotland 
published  in  i8co  ;  and,  among  various  other- 
works,  of  a  respectable  life  of  our  poet  him- 
self."— CURRIE, 


173 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Parnassian  queans,"  I  fear,  I  fear, 
Ye'llnow  disdain  me! 

And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a  year 
Will  little  gain  me. 

Ye  glaikit,"  gleesome,  dainty  damies, 
Wlia,  by  Castalia'a  wimplin'  streamies, 
Lowp,'-"   sing,   and  lave  your  pretty 
limbiea. 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken. 
That  Strang  Necessity  supreme  is, 
'Mang  sons  o'  men. 

I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 
They  maun  hae  brose    and  brats  o' 
du'ddies:'''  [is 

Ye  ken  yoursels  my  heart  right  proud 

I  needna  vaunt,"' 
But  I'll  sned  besoms"  thraw  saugh 
woodies," 

Before  they  want. 

Lord,  help  me  through  this  world  o' 

care  ! 
I'm  weary  sick  o't  late  and  air;'^ 
Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  share 

Than  mony  ithers; 
But  why  should  ae  man  better  fare,    , 

And  a'  men  brithers  ? 

Come,  firm  Resolve,  take  thou  the  van, 
Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man  !f 
And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne'er  wan 

A  lady  fair: 
Wha  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 

Will  whiles"  do  mair. 

Bnt  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 
(I'm  scant  o'  verse,  and  scant  o'  time,) 
"To  make  a  hawy  fire-side  clime. 

'fo  weans'^"  and  wife; 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie; 
And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky, 

"  Lasses.  '=  Foolish.  13  Jump.  i*  Rags 
o'  clothing.  1'  Boast.  W  Cut  brooms,  i' 
Twist  willow  withes.  ■»  Early ,■  "  Some- 
times.     20  Children. 

•  +  The  male  hemp— that  which  bears  the 
seed.  "  Ye  have  a  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  you," 
is  a  Scotch  remark,  and  means  that  a  man  has 
more  stamina  in  him  than  ordinary. 


I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chnckie.j:  4 

As  e'er  tread  clay ! 

And  gratefully,  my  guid  auld  cockie§ . 
I'm  yours  for  aye. 

Robert  Buens. 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO 

ROBERT    GRAHAM,    ESQ.,   OF 

FINTRY, 

ON  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  DISPUTED  ELEC- 
TION BETWEEN  SIB  JAMBS  JOHNSTON 
AND  CAPTAIN  MILLEE,  FOB  THE 
DUMFRIES  DISTRICT  OF  BOROUGHS. 

FiNTRT,  my  stay  in  wordly  strife. 
Friend  o'  my  Muse,  friend  o'  my  life. 

Are  ye  as  idle's  I  am  'i 
Come  then,  wi'  uncouth,  kiutra  fleg,' 
O'er  Pegasus  I'll  fling  my  leg. 

And  ye  shall  see  me  try  him. 

I'll  sing  the  zeal  Dmmlanrig*  bears, 
Wha  left  the  all-important  cares 

Of  princes  and  their  darlin's: 
And,  bent  on  winning  borough  touns. 
Came  shaking  hands  wi'  wabster  louns. 

And  kissing  barefit  carlins- 

Combustion  through  ourboroughs  rode. 
Whistling  his  roaring  pack  abroad. 

Of  Tnad,  unmuzzled  lions; 
As    Queensberry    "buff    and    blue" 

unfui-I'xi,' 
And  Westerha'f  Hopetoun  hurl'd 

To  every  Whig  defiance. 

But  cautious  Queensberry  left  the  war. 
The  unmamier'd  dust  might  soil  his 
star; 

Besides,  he  hated  bleeding: 
But  left  behind  him  heroes  bright. 
Heroes  in  Csesarean  fight. 

Or  Ciceronian  pleading. 


1  Country  kick.  2  Barefooted  women. 

t  Chuckle — literally,  hen.  Often  lised  as  a 
familiar  term  of  endearment  in  speaking  of  a 
female. 

§  Cockle — literally,  cock.  Used  in  the  same 
way  as  chuckle. 

*  The  fourth  Duke  of  Queensberry,  of  in- 
famous memory. 

t  Sir  James  Johnston,  the  Tory  candidate. 


EPISTLES. 


173 


Oh,  for  a  throat  like  huge  Mons-Meg, 
To  muster  o'er  each  ardent  Whig 

Beneath  DrumlaHiig's  banners, 
Heroes  and  heroines  commix. 
All  in  the  field  of  politics, 

'  To  win  immortal  honours. 

M'MurdoJ:  and  his  lovely  spouse 

(Th'  enamour'd  laurels  kiss  her  brows  I) 

Led  on  the  Loves  and  Graces: 
She  won  each  gaping  burgess'  heart. 
While  he,  all  conquering,  play'd  his 
part 

Amang  their  wives  and  lasses. 

Craigdarrochg  led  a  light-arm'd  corps; 
Tropes,  metaphors,  and  figures  pour, 

Like  Hecla  streaming  thunder: 
Gleniiddel,  |'  sldU'd  in  rusty  coins. 
Blew  up  each  Tory's  dark  designs, 

And  bared  the  treason  under. 

In;  either  wing  two  champions  fought, 
Redoubted  Staig,Tr  who  set  at  nought 

The  wildest  savage  Tory; 
And  Welsh,**  who  ne'er  yet  ilinch'd 
"    his  ground. 
High- waved  his  magnum-bonum  round 

With  Cyclopean  fury. 

Miller  brought  up  the  artillery  ranks, 
The  many-pounders  of  the  Banks, 

Resistless  desolation  ! 
While  Maxwelton,  that  baron  bold, 
Mid   Lawson's-|:f  port    entrench'd  his 
hold, 

And  threaten'd  worse  damnation. 

To  these,  what  Tory  hosts  opposed; 
With  these,  what  Tory  warriors  closed. 

Surpasses  my  discriying: 
Squadrons  extended  long  and  large, 
With   furious    speed    rush'd   to   the 
charge. 

Like  raging  devils  driving. 

What    verse    can    sing,    what    prose 
narrate, 

t  Chamberlain  of  the  Duke  of  Queensberry 
at  Drumlanrig,  and  a  friend  of  the  poet's. 

§  Fergusson  of  Craig-darroch. 

I  Captain  Riddel  of  Glenriddel,  another 
friend  of  the  poet's. 

^  Provost  Staig  of  Dumfries. 

**  Sheriff  Welsh. 

tt  A  wine  merchant  in  Dumfries. 


The  butcher  deeds  of  bloody  Fate 
Amid  tliis  mighty  tulzie  I' 

Grim    Horror    grinn'd  —  pale    Terror 
roar'd. 

As  Murther  at  his  thrapple  shored,'' 

And  Hell  mix'd  in  the  brulzie  !* 

As  Highland  crags  by  thunder  cleft, 
When  lightnings  fire  the  stormy  lift,' 

Hurl  down  wi'  crashing  rattle:. 
As  flames  amang  a  hundred  woods; 
As  headlong  foam  a  hundred  floods; 

Such  is  the  rage  of  battle  I 

The  stubborn  Tories  dare  to  die; 
As  soon  the  rooted  oaks  would  fly 

Before  th'  approaching  fellei-s: 
The  Whigs  come  on  like  Ocean's  roar. 
When  all  his  wintry  billows  pour 

Against  the  Buchan  Bullers.:|::|: 

Lo,  from  the  shades  of  Death's  deep 

night, 
Departed  Whigs  enjoy  the  fight. 

And  think  on  former  daring: 
The  muflled  murtherer  of  Charles  §  § 
The  Magna-Charta  flag  xmfuirls,  ' 
All  deadly  gules  its  bearing. 

Nor  wanting  ghosts  of  Tory,  fame. 
Bold    Scrimgeour  1 1|   follows    gallant 
Grahame,T[T[ 

Auld  Covenanters  shiver. 
(Forgive,  forgive,  much-wrong'd  Mon- 
trose! 
While  death  and  hell  ingulf  thy  foes. 
Thou  liv'st  on  high  forever!) 

Still  o'er  the  field  the  combat  burns. 
The  Tories,  Whigs,  give  way  by  turns; 

But  Fate  the  word  has  spoken; 
For  woman's  wit  and  strength  o'  man, 
Alas!  can  do  but  what  they  can — 

The  Toiy  ranks  are  broken! 

Oh  that  my  een  were  flowing  bums! 


>  Conflict.  *  Threatened.  '  Broil.  « Fir- 
mament. 

XX  The  "  Bullers  of  Buchan"  is  an  appella- 
tion given  to  a  tremendous  rocky  recess,  on 
the  Aberdeenshire  coast,  near  Peterhead — 
having  ah  opening  to  the  sea,  while  thetop'is 
open.  The  sea,  constantly  raging  in-  it,  gives 
it  the  appearance  of  a  pot  or  boiler,  and  hence 
the  name. 

§§  ^The  executioner  of  Charles  I,  was 
masked. 

Ill  John  Earl  of  Dundee. 

^^'The  great  "Marquis  of  Montrose. 


174 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


My  voice  a  lioneSs  that  mourns 

Her  darling Gub's  undoing! 
That  I  might  greet,  that  I  might  cry, 
While  Tories  fall,  while  Tories  fly, 
And  furious  Whigs  pursuing! 

What   Whig  hut  wails  the  good  Sir 

I    James  ? 

Dear  to  his  country  hy  the  names 

Friend,  patron,  benefactor! 
Not  Pulteney's  wealth  can  Pulteney 
save,  [brave! 

And    Hopetoun    falls,    the    generous 

And  Stewart,***  bold  as  Hector. 

Thou,  Pitt,  shalt  rue  this  overthrow, 
4^nd  Thurlow  growl  a  curse  of  woe: 

And  Melville  melt  in  wailing! 
Now  Fox  and  Sheridan  rejoice! 
And  Burke  shall  sing,  "0  Prince  arise! 

Thy  power  is  all -prevailing." 

For  your  poor  friend,  the  bard  afar 
Ho  liears,  and  only  hears,  the  war, 

A  cool  spectator  purely; 
So  wjien  the  storm  the  forest  rends. 
The  robin  in  the  hedge  descends. 

And  sober  chirps  securely. 

Additional  verse  in  Glosebum  MS: — 
Now  for  my  friends'  and  brethren's 


And  formy  dear-loved  Land  o'  Cakes, 

I  pray  with  holy  fire: 
Lord,  send  a  rough-shod  troop  o'  hell. 
O'er  a'  wad  Scotland  buy  or  sell, 

To  grind  them  in  the  mire ! 


THIRD    EPISTLE    TO    ROBERT 
GRAHAM,  ESQ.,  OF  FINTRY. 

Late  crippled  of  an  arm,  and  now  a 

leg,* 
About  to  beg  a  pass  for  leave  to  beg: 
■Dull,   listless,   teased,    dejected,    and 

deprest, 

***  Stewart  of  Hillside. 

*  Burns  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  on  the  7th  of 
February,  1791,"  that,  by  a  fall,  not  from  my 
horse,  but  with  my  horse,  I  have  been  a 
cripple  for  some  time,  and  this  is  the  first  day 
my  arm  and  hand  have  been  able  to  serve  mc 
in  writihg," 


(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple's  rest;) 
Will    generous    Graham   list    to    his 

poet's  wail  T  [her  tale;,) 

(It  soothes  poor  Misery,  heark'ning  .to 
And  hear  him  curse  the  Kght  he  fifst 

survey 'd,  [tra4^? 

And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyining 

Thou,    Nature  !      partial    Nature  !     I 

arraign : 
Of  thy  caprice  maternal  I  complain: 
"The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  Tiave 

found. 
One  shakes  the  forests,  and  one  spurns 

the  ground: 
Thou  giv'st  the  asS  his  hide,  the  snail 

his  shell, 
Th'  envenom'd  wasp,  victorious,  guards 

his  cell; 
Thy  minions,  kings,  defend,  control, 

devour,  [power; 

In-  all  th'  omnipotence  of  rule  and 
Foxes    and    statesmen    subtle    vriles 

insure;  [secure; 

The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are 
Toads  with  their  poison,  doctors  with 

their  drug. 
The  priest  and  hedgehog  in  their  robes 

are  snug; 
Even  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts. 
Her  ,  tongue    and    eyes — her  dreaded 

spear  and  dai-ts.  [hard. 

But,  oh  !  thou  bitter  stepmother  and 
To  thy  pool',  fenceless,  naked,  child-^ 

the  bard  ! 
A  thing  unteachable  in  wordly  skill. 
And  half  an  idiot,  too,  more  helpless 

still ;  [don, 

Xo  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  opening 
No   claws  to  dig,  his  hated  sight  .to 

shun;  [worn. 

No  horns,  but  those  by  luckless  Hymeu 
And  those,  alas  !  not  Amalthea's  horn: 
No  nerves  olfactory.  Mammon's  trusty 

cur,  [fur; — 

Clad  in  rich  Dullness'  comfortable 
In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride. 
He  bears    the    unbroken  blast    from 

every  side:  [heart. 

Vampire  booksellers  drain  him  to  the 
And  scorpion  critics  curseless  venom 

dart. 

Critics  ! —  appall'd   I   venture    on    the 

name,  [of  fame: 

Those  cut-throat  bandits  in  the  paths 


EPISTLES. 


175 


Bloody     dissectors,    worse    tlian    ten 

Monroes  If  [expose. 

He  hacks  to  teach,   they  mangle  to 

His  heart  by  causeless  wanton  malice 

wrung,  [stung: 

By  hlockheads'  daring  into  maSness 
His  well-won  bays,   Stan    life    itself 

more  dear,  [sprig  must  wear: 

By  miscreants  torn,  who  ne'er  one 
Foil'd,     bleeding,     tortui-ed,     in    the 

unequaJ  strife,  [life; 

The  hapless  poet  flounders  on  through 
Till,  fled  each  hope  that  once  his  bosom 

fired,  [inspired. 

And  fled  each  muse  that  glorious  once 
Low  sunk  iu  squalid  unprotected  age, 
.Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injured 

page,  [less  critic's  rage. 

He  heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruth- 
So,  by  some  hedge,  the  generous  steed 

deceased, ,  [feast. 

For  half-starved  snarling  curs  a  dainty 
By  toil  and  famine  worn  to  skin  and 

bone,  [son. 

-Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch's 

,0  Dullness  !  portion  of  the  truly  blest ! 
■Calm'd  shelter'd  haven  of  eternal  rest ! 
Thy  sons  ne'er  madden  in  the  fierce 

extremes 
Of  Fortune's  polar  frost,or  torrid  beams. 
It  mantling  high  sh«  fills  the  golden 

cup. 
With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up: 
Conscious   the  bounteous   meed  they 

well  deserve,  [not  starve. 

They  only  wonder  "some  folks"  do 
Tile  grave  sage  hem  thus  easy  picks 

his  frog,  [less  dog. 

And  thinks  the  mallard  a  sad  worth- 
When  disappointment  snaps- the  clue 

of  Hope,  [darkling  grope, 

And  tlirough  disastrous  night  they 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggishly  they 

bear,  [fortune's  care. " 

And  just  conclude  tliat  "fools  are 
So,'  heavy,   passive  to   the  tempest's 

shoclis,  [stupid  ox. 

Strong  on  the    sign-post    stands   the 


'"  t  The  allusion  here  is  to  Alexander  Manro, 
the  distinguished  Professor  of  Anatomy  in 
the  University  of  Edinburgh  in  Bums'  day. 


Not  so  the  idle  Muse's  mad-cap  train. 
Not  such  the  workings  of  their  moon- 
struck brain  I 
In  equanimity  they  never  dwell, 
By  turns  in  soaring  heaven  or  vaulted 
hell. 

I    dread    thee.    Fate,    relentless    and 

severe,  [fear ! 

With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's 
Already  one  stronghold  of  hope  is  lost — 
Glencajrn,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust; 
(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclipsed  as  noon 

appears,  tears:) 

And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of 
Oh  !  hear  my  ardent,  grateful,  selfish 

prayer  ! —  [spare  ! 

Pintry,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  and 
Through,  a  long  life  his   hopes  and 

wishes  crown,  [go  down! 

And  bright  in  cloudless  skies  liis  sun 
May  bliss  domestic  smooth  his  private 

path,  [latest  breatjli. 

Give  energy  to  life,  and  soothe  his 
With  many  a  filial  tear  circling  the  bed 

of  death  ! 


FOURTH  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT 
GRAHAM,  ESQ.,  OF  FINTR'S:. 

The  following  verses  were  written  in  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  favour  the  previous 
epistle  prayed  for. 

I  CALL  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  Muse  may  suit  a  bard  that 
feigns;  [burns. 

Friend  of  my  life  !  my  ardent  spirit 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns, 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new. 
The  gift  still  dearer,  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day  !  thou  other  paler 
light  !  [night; 

And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of 

If  aught  that  giver  from  my  mind 
efface; 

If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace; 

Then  roll  to  me  along  j'our  wandering 
spheres, 

Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years  ! 


EPIGRAMS,    EPITAPHS,    ETC. 


THOUGH  FICKLE  FORTUNE  HAS 
DECEIVED  ME. 

"  The  following,"  says  Burns,  "was  written 
extempore,  under  the  pressure  of  a  heavy 
train  of  misfortunes,  which,  indeed,  threat- 
ened to  undo  me  altogether.  It  was  just  at 
the  close  of  that  dreadful  period  mentioned 
already  (in  Commonplace-book,  March, 
1784) ;  and  though  the  weather  has  bright- 
ened up  a  little  with  me  since,  yet  there  has 
always  been  a  tempest  brewm^  round  me 
in  the  grim  sky  of  futurity,  which  I  pretty 
plainly  see  will;  some  time  or  other,  per- 
haps ere  long,  overwhelm  me,  and  drive  me 
,into  some  doleful  dell,  to  pine  in  solitary, 
squalid  wretchedness." 

Though  fickle  Fortune  lias  deceived 
me,  [ill; 

She  promised  fair  and  perform'd  but 
Of  mistress,    friends,  and  wealth  be- 
reaved me,  [still. 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me 

I'll  act  with  prudence  as  f  ar's  I'm  abl«, 
But  if  success  I  must  never  find, 

Then  come.  Misfortune,  I  bid  thee  wel- 
come, [mind. 
I'll  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted 


ON  JOHN  DOVE,    INNKEEPER, 
MAUCHLmE. 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pigeon; 
What  was  his  religion  ? 

Whae'er  desires  to  ken,' 
To  some  other  warl' 
Maun  follow  the  carl," 

For  here  Johnny  Pigeon  had  nanel 


1  Know.  2  Old  man. 


Strong  ale  was  ablution- 
Small  beer  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori/ 
But  a  full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  Ms  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 


TO  A  PAINTER. 

While  in  Edinburgh,  the  poet  paid  a  visit  to 
the  studio  of  a  well-known  painter,  whom 
he  found  at  work  on  a  picture  of  Jacob's 
Dream  ;  and  having  looked  at  the  sketch  foi 
a  little,  he  wrote  the  following  verses  on 
the  back  of  it : — 

Dear- — ,  I'll  gie  ye  some  advice. 

You'll  tak  it  no  uncivil : 
You  shouldna  paint  at  angels  mair. 

But  try  to  paint  the  devil. 

To  paint  an  angel's  kittle  wark, 
Wi'  auld.Nick  there's  less  daiiger; 

You'll  easy  draw  a  weel-kent  face, 
But  no  sae  weel  a  stranger. 

R.  B. 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  AUTHOR'S 

FATHER. 

The  following  Imes  were  inscribed  on  a  small 
headstone  erected  over  the  grave  of  the 
poet's  father,  in  Alloway  Kirkyard  t— 

O  YE  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity 
stains;  [attend! 

Draw  near  with  pious  reverence,  and 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  re- 
mains, [friend; 
The  tender  father,  and  the  generous 


EPIGRAMS,  EPITAPHS,  Etc. 


177 


The  pitying  heart'  that  felt  for  human 
woe;  [human  pride; 

The   dauntless  heart  that  fear'd  no 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  alone  a  foe: 
'  For  even  his  faUings  lean'd  to  vir- 
tue's side,"* 


A  FAREWELL. 

These  lines  form  the  conclusion  of  a  letter 
from  Burns  to  Mr.  John  Kennedy,  dated 
Kilmarnock,  August,  1786. 

Pabeweli,,   Aaar  friend!  may   guid 

luck  hit  you,     ' 
And,  'mang  her  favourites  admit  you  ! 
If  e'er  Detraction  shone  to  smite  you. 

May  nane  believe  him! 
And  ony  deil  that  thinks  to  get  you. 

Good  Lord  deceive  him. 

OH  A  WAG  IlSr  MAUCHLINE. 

The  wag  here  meant  was  James  Smith,  the 
James  Smith  of  the  epistle  commencing 
'^  Dear  Smith,  the  sleest,  pawkie  thief." 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a', 

He  aften  did  assist  ye; 
For  had  ye  staid  whole  years  awa'. 

Your  wives  they  ne'er  had  miss'd  ye. 
Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  pass 

To  school  in  bands  thegither. 
Oh,  tread  ye  lightly  on  his  grass — 

Perhaps  he  was  your  father. 


POETICAL  REPLY   TO  AN  INVI- 
TA'TION. 

MOSSGIEL,  17S6. 

Sm, 
Yours- this  moment  I  unseal. 

And  faith,  I  am  gay  and  hearty! 
To  tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  deil, 

I  am  as  fou  as  Bartie  .f 

But  foorsday,  sir,  my  pronuse  leal. 

Expect  me  o'  your  party, 
If  on  a  beastie  I  can  speel, 

Or  hurl  in  a  cartie. — II.  B. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  IN  A 
CHURCH. 
During  the   poet's  Border  tour,  he  went  to 
church  one  Sunday,  accompanied  by  Miss 
*  Goldsmith. 

+  A  proverbial  saytag,  which  may  be  inter- 
preted by  arline  of  an  old  song : — 

"I'mnoiUstfou,  but  I'm  gayley  yet." 


Ainslie,  the  sister  of  his  traveling  compan- 
ion. The  text  for  the  day  happened  to  con- 
tain a  severe  denunciation  of  obstinate  sin- 
ners ;  and  Burns,  observing  the  young  lady 
intently  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  Bible 
in  search  of  the  passage,  took  out  a  stnall 
piece  of  paper,  and  wrote  the  following 
lines  upon  it,  which  he  immediately  passed 
to  her:— 

Fair  maid,  you  need  not  take  the  hint. 

Nor  idle  texts  pursue; 
'Twas  guUty  dnners  that  he  meant, 

Not  angels  such  as  you  1 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PORTRAIT  OF 
FERGUSSON,  THE  POET,  IN  A  COPY  OP 
THAT  author's  WORKS  PRESENTED 
TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  IN  EDINBUReH, 
MARCH,  17,  1787. 

Curse  on  ungrateful  man,  that  can  be 
pleased,  [pleasure ! 

And  yet  can  starve  the  author  of  the 
0  thou,  my  pjder  brother  in  misfortune, 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  Muses, 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ! 
Why  is  the  bard-unpitied  by  the  world. 
Yet  has  so  keen  a  relish  of  its  pleasures'? 


ON  THE  ILLNESS  OF  A  FAVOUR- 
ITE CHILD. 
Now  health  forsakes  that  angel  face, 

Na©  mair  my  dearie  smiles; 
Pale  sickness  withers  ilka  grace, 

And  a'  my  hopes  beguiles. 

Tlie  cruel  Powers  reject  the  prayer 

I  hourly  mak  for  thee  1 
Ye  heavens,  how  great  is  my  despair,  \ 

How  can  I  see  him  die  1 


EXTEMPORE  ON  TWO  LAWYERS. 

During  Burns'  first  sojourn  in  Edinburgh,  in 
1787,  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  Parliament 
House,  and  the  result  was  ^o  well-drawrt 
sketches  of  the  leading  counsel  of  the  day— 
the  Lord  Advocate,  Mr.  Hay  Campbell, 
(afterwards  Lord  President),  and  the  Dean 
of  Faculty,  Harry  Erskme. 

LORD  ADVOCATE. 

He  elencli'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist, 
Ho  quoted  and  ke  hinted-. 


178 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Till  in  a  declamation  mist 
His  argument  he  tint'  it; 

He  gaped  for  't,  he  graped'  for  't, 
He  found  it  was  awa',  man; 

But  what  liiB  common  sense  cam  short. 
He  eked  out  wi'  law,  man. 

DEAN  OP  FACULTY. 

Collected  Harry  stood  a  wee, 

Then  open'd  out  his  arm,  man; 
His  lordship  sat  wi'  ruef  u'  ee. 

And  eyed  the  gathering  storm,  man: 
Like  wind-driven  hail,  it  did  assail. 

Or  torrents  owre  a  linn,  man; 
The  Bench  sae  wise,  lift  up  their  eyes, 

Half-waken'd  wi'  the  din,  man. 


THE  HIGHLAND  WELCOME. 

When  Death's  dark  stream  I  feriy  o'er, 
A  time  that  surely  shall  come; 

In  heaven  itself  I'll  ask  no  more 
Than  just  a  Highland  welcome. 


EXTEMPORE  ON  WILLIAM 
SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR  OP  THE  "PHILOSOPHY  OP 
NATURAL  niSTOUY,"  AND  MEMBER 
OP  THE  ANTIQUARIAN  AND  ROYAL 
SOCIETIES   OP  EDINBUKGH. 

Smellie  belon^d  to  a  club  called  Ihe  Crochal- 
lan  Fencibles,  of  which  Burns  was  a  mem- 
ber. 

Shrewd  Willie  Smellie  to  Crochallan 
came,  [the  same; 

The  old  cock'd  hat,  the  gray  surtout. 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its 
might,  [shaving  night; 

'Twas  four  Jong  nights  and  days  to 
His  uncomM  grizzly  locks  wild  star- 
ing, thatclPd  ,  [unmatch'd: 
A  head  for  thought  profound  and  clear 
Yet  though  his  caustic  wit  was  biting, 
rude,  [good. 
His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent,  and 

}  Lost.    "  Groped. 


VERSES     WRITTEN     ON    A 

WINDOW  OF  THE  INN 

AT    CARRON. 

The  following  lines  were  written  on  being 
refused  admittance  to  the  Carroa "  iron- 
works : —  '-" 

We  cam  na  here  to  view  your  warks 

In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise. 
But  only  lest  we  gang  to  hell. 

It  may  be  nae  surprise: 

But  when  we  tirled  at  your  door. 
Your  porter  dought  na  hear  us; 

Sae  may,  should  we  to  hell's  yetts  come 
Your  billy  Satan  sair  us  ! 


LINES  ON  VIEWING  STIRLING 

PALACE. 

The  following  lines  were  scratched  with  a 
diamond  on  apane  of  glass  in  a  window  of 
the  Inn  at  which  Bums  put  up,  on  the'occa- 
sion  of  his  first  visit  to  Stirling.  They  were 
quoted  to  his  prejudice  at  the  time,  and  no 
doubt  did  him  no  good -with  those  who 
could  best  serve  his  interests.  On  his  next 
visit  to  Stirling,  he  smashed  the  pane  with 
the  butt-end  of  his  riding  whip : — 

Here  Stuarts  once  in  glory  reign'd. 
And  laws  for  Scotland's  weal  ordain'd; 
But  now  unroof'd  their  palace  stands. 
Their  sceptre's  sway'd  by  other  hands; 
The  injured  Stuart  line  is  gone, 
A  race  outlandish  fills- their  throne — 
An  idiot  race,  to  honour  lost;  ' '  [most. 
Who  know  them  best  despise  "them 

THE  REPROOF. 

Rash  mortal,  and  slanderous  poet,  thy 
name  [of  fame; 

Shall  no  longer  appear  in  the  records 

Dost  not  know,  that  old  Mansfield, 
who  writes  like  the  Bible; 

Says,  The  more  'tis  a  truth,  sir,  the 
more  'tis  a  libel  ? 


LINES 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  PICTBBE  OF  THE 
CELEBRATED  MISS  BURNS. 

Cease,  ye  prudes,  your  envious  railing, 
Lovely  Burns  has  charms — confess* 

True  it  is,  she  had  one  failing- 
Had  a  woman  ever  less  ? 


EPIGRAMS,  EPITAPHS,  Etc. 


179 


ON   INCIVILITY  SHOWN  TO  HIM 

AT  INVERARY. 

The  poet  having-  halted'  at  Inverary  during 
-iiis  first  Highland  tour,  put  -up  at  the  inn : 
but  on  finding  himself  neglected  by  the 
landlord,  whose  house  was  filled  with  visit- 
0^^tO'th6  Duke  of  Argyle,  he  reseated  the 
incivility  in  the  following  lines : — 

Whoe'er  "he  be  that  sojourns  here, 
.    I  pity  much  liis  case, 
Unless  lie  come  to  wait  upon 
The  lord  their  god,  his  Grace. 

There's  natliipg   liere    But  Highland 
pride, 

And  Highland  cauld  and  hunger; 
If  Providence  lias  sent  me  here, 

'Twas  surely  in  His  anger.      * 


ON  A  SCHOOLMASTER. 

Hbbe  lie  Willie  Michie's  banesj 
O  Satan,  when  ye  tak  him, 

Gie  him  the  sclioolin'  o'  your  weans. 
For  clevei  deils  he  '11  mak  'em  ! 


VERSES 

addressed  to  the  landlady  of  the 
inn  at  rosslyn. 

Mt  blessings  on  you,  sonsie  wife; 

I  ne'er  was  here  before;  [knife, 

You've  gien  us  walth  for  born  and 

Nae  heart  could  wish  for  more. 

Heaven  keep  you  free'  frae  care  and 
strife. 

Till  far  ayont  fourscore; 
And,  while  I  toddle  on  through  life, 

m  ne'er  gang  by  your  door. 


INNOCENCE. 

Innocence 
Looks  gayly-smiling  on;    while  rosy 
Pleasure  [wreath, 

Hides  young  Desire  amid  her  flowery 
And  pours  ber  cup  luxuriant;  mantling 
high  [and  Bliss  ! 

The  sparkling  heavenly  vintage — Love 


ON  ELPHINSTONE'S  TRANSLA- 
TION OP  MARTLAL'S  "  EPI- 
GRAMS." 

"  Stopping  at  a  merchant's  shop., in  Edin- 
burgh," says  Burns^ "  a  friend  of  mine  one 
day  put  Elphinstone  s  translation  of  Martial 
into  my  hand,  and  desired  my  opinion  of  it. 
1  asked  permission  to  write  my  opinion  on  a 
blank  leaf  of  the  "book  ;' which  being  grant- 
ed, I  wrote  this  Epigram;" — 

0  Thou,  whom  Poesy  abliors  ! 
Wbom  Prose  lias  turned  out  of  doors  ! 
Heard'st  thou  that  groan  ? — proceed  no 
further —  [tlier!" 

'Twas  laurell'd  Martial  roaring,  "  Mur- 


LINES 


WRITTEN  ON  A  PANE  OF  GLASS  IN 

THE   INN  AT  MOFFAT. 

While  Bums  was  in  the  inn  at  Moffat  one 
day,  the  "  charming,  lovely  Dayies"  of  one 
of  nis  songs  happened  to  pass,  accompanied 
by  a  tall  and  portly  lady :  and  on  a  friend 
asking  him  why  God  had  made  Miss  Davies 
so  small  and  the  other  lady' so  large,  he  re- 
plied : — 

Ask  why  God  made  the  gem  so  small. 
And  why  so  huge  tbe  granite  ? 

Because  God  meant  manfind  should  set 
Tbe  higher  value  on  it. 


LINES 

SPOKEN     EXTEMPORE     ON    BEING    AP- 
POINTED TO  THE  EXCISE. 

Searching  auld  wives'  barrels, 
Ocb,  bon  !  the  day  !  [laurels; 

That    clarty    barm    should    stain  my 
But — wbat'U  ye  say  ?  [weans 

'These  moviu'  things    ca'd  wives  and 
Wad  move  the  very  hearts  o'  stanes ! 


EPITAPH  ON  W . 

Stop,  tliief !    Dame  Nature^  cried  to 

Death, 
As  Willie  drew  his  latest  breath ; 
You  have  my  choicest  model  ta'en. 
How  shall  I  make  a  fool  again  1 


ON  A  PERSON  NICKNAMED  THE 

MARQUIS. 
The  person  who  bore  this  name  was  the  land- 


tso 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


lord  of  a  tavern  in  Dumfries  frequented  by 
Burns.  In  a  moment  ofweakness  he  asked 
the  poet  to  write  his  epitaph,  which  he  im- 
mediately did,  in  a  style  not  at  all  to  the 
taste  of  the  Marquis. 

Heius  lies    a  mock    Marquis,   wliose 

titles  were  sliamm'd; 
If  ever  he  rise — ^it  will  be  to  be  damn'd. 


TO  JOHN  M'MUEDO,  ESQ. 

John  M'Murdo  was  steward  to  the  Duke 
of  Queensberry,  and  the  faithful  friend  of 
Burns  during  the  whole  period  of  his  resi- 
dence in  Nithsdale. 

Oh  could  I  give  thee  India's  wealth 

As  I  this  trifle  send  ! 
Because  thy  joy  in  both  would  be 

To  share  them  with  a  friend. 

But  golden  sands  did  never  grace 

The  Heliconian  stream; 
Then  take  what  gold  could  never  buy — 

An  honest  bard's  esteem. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Blest  be  M'Murdo  to  his  latest  day  1 
No  envious  cloud  o'ercast  his  evening 

ray;  [Care, 

No  wrinkle  furrow'd  by  the  hand  of 
Nor  ever  sorrow  add  one  silver  hair  ! 
"Oh,  may  no  son  the  father's  honour 

stain,  [pain ! 

Nor  ever  daughter  give  the  mother 


ON  CAPTAIN  FRANCIS  GROSE. 

One  night  at  table,  when  the  wine  had  circu- 
lated pretty  freely,  and 

*'The  mirth  and    fun  grew    fast   and 
furious," 

Captain  Grose,  it  is  said,  amused  with  the 
sallies  of  the  poet,  requested  a  couplet  on 
himself.  Having  eyed  the  corpulent  anti- 
quary for  a  little.  Bums  repeated  the  follow- 
ing :— 

The  devil  got  notice  that  Grose  was 

a-dying,  [came  flying; 

So  whip  at  the  summons  old  Satan 

But  when  he  approach'd  where  poor 

Francis  lay  moaning,      [a-groaning, 

And  saw  each  bedpost  with  its  burden 

Astonish'd,   confounded,   cried  Satan, 

"By  God!  [nableload!" 

I'll  want  'im,  ere  ,1  take  such-  a  dam- 


ON  GRIZZEL  GRIM. 

Heke  lies  with   Death    auld    Grizzel 
Grim, 

Lincluden's  ugly  witch; 
O  Death,  how  horrid  is  thy  taste 

To  lie  with  such  a  bitch  ! 


ON  MR.  BURTON. 

Burns  having  on  one  occasion  met  a  young 
Englishman  of  the  name  of  Burton,  he  be- 
came very-importunate  that  the.  poet  should 
compose  an  epitaph  for  him.  "  In  vain," 
says  Cunningham,  "  the  bard  objected 
that  he  was  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with 
his  character  and  habits  to  qualify  ^im  for 
the  task ;  the  request  "was  constantly  repeat- 
ed with  a  "  Dem  my  eyes.  Burns,  do"  write 
an  e^taph  for  me;  oh,  dem  my  bloody  do. 
Bums,  write  an  epitaph  for  me."  Over- 
come by  his  importunity.  Burns  at  last  took 
out  his  pencil  and  produced,  the  follow- 
ing:— 

Here  cursing,  swearing  Burton  lies, 
A  buck,  a  beau,  or  Dem  my  eyes  ! 
Who  in  his  life  did  little  good;  [blood  1 
And  his  last  words  were — Dem  my 


POETICAL  REPLY  TO  AN  INVITA- 
TION. 
The  king's  most  humble  servant,  I 

Can  scarcely  spare  a  minute; 
But  I'll  be  wi'  you  by  and  by. 

Or  else  the  devil's  in  it. 


TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  STAB. 

'*  Bums  at  one  period,"  says  Cunningham, 
"  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  the  Star 
newspaper  gratuitously ;  but  as  it  came 
somewhat  irregularly  to  hand,  he  sent  the 
following  lines  to  head-quarters,  to  insure 
more  punctuality :" — 

Dear  Peter,  dear  Peter, 

We  poor  sons  of  metre. 
Are  often  negleckit,  ye  ken; 

For  instance,  your  sheet,  man, 

(Though  glad  I'm  to  see't,  man,) 
I  get  it  no  ae  day  in  ten. 


ON    BURNS'    HORSE  BEING    IM- 
POUNDED. 
Was  e'er  puir  poet  sae  befitted,    [ted  ? 
The  maister  drunk — the  horse  commit- 


EPIGRAMS,  EPITA.PHS,  Etc. 


-181 


Puir  harmless  beast !  tak  thee  nae  care, 
Thou'lt  be  a  horse  when  ie's  nae  mair 

•0 


LINES 


BENT  TO  A  GENTLEMAN  WHOM  HE  HAD 
OFFENDED. 

The  friend  whom  wild  from,  wisdom's 

way 
,     The  fumes  of  wine  infuriate  send; 
(Not  moony  madness  more  astray;) 
Wlio    but    deplores   that    hapless 
friend? 

Mine  was  the  insensate  frenzied  part  ! 

Ah  V  why  should  I  such  scenes  out- 
live ! 
Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart  I 

'Tis  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


VERSES  TO  JOHN  EANKINE, 

ON  HIS  WHITING  TO  THE  POET  THAT  A 
GIRL  IN  THAT  PART  OF  THE  COUNTRY 
WAS  WITH  CHILD  BY  HIM. 

I  AM  a  keeper  of  the  law 

In  some  sma'  points,  although  not  a': 

Sopie  people  tell  me  gin  I  fa', 

Ae  way  or  ither. 
The  breaking  of  ae  point,  though  sma'. 

Breaks  a'  thegither. 

I  hae  been  in  for't  ance  or  twice. 
And  winna  say  o'er  far  for  thrice. 
Yet  never  met  with  that  surprise 
That  broke  my  rest, 
•  But  now  a  rumour's  lilte  to  rise, 

A  whaup's  i'  the  nest. 


ON    SEEING  MISS  FONTENELLE 
IN  A  FAVOURITE  CHARACTER. 

Sweet  ndwete  of  feature, 
Simple,  wild,  enchanting  elf, 

Not  to  thee,  but  thanks  to  Nature, 
Thou  art  acting  but  thyself. 

Wert  thou  awkward,  stiff,  affected, 

Spurning  nature,  torturing  art; 
.  lioves  and  graces  all  rejected, 
Then  indeed  thou'dst  act  apart. 


ON    GABRIEL-    RICHARDSON, 
BREWER,   DUMFRIES. 

Here  brewer  Gabriel's  fire's  extinct, 
And  empty  ajl  his  barrels: 

He's  blest— if,  as  hebrew'd,  he  drink- 
In  upright  honest  morals. 


THE  BLACK-HEADED  EAGLE: 

A  FRAGMENT  ON  THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE 
ATISTRIANS  BY  DUMODRIBB,  AT  GEM- 
APPE,  NOVEMBER,  1793. 

The  black-headed  eagle. 

As  keen  as  a  beagle, 
He  hunted  owre  height  and  owre  howe; 

But  fell  in  a  trap 

On  the  braes  of  Qemappe, 
E'en  let  bim  come  out  as  he  dowe. 


ON  A  SHEEP'S-HEAD. 

Having'  been  dining  at  the  Globe  Tavern, 
Dumfries,  on  one  occasion  when  a  sheep's- 
head  happened  to  be  the  fare  provided,  he 
was  aslced  to  give  something  new  as  a 
grace,  and  instantly  replied : — 

0  Lord,  when  hunger  pinches  sore. 
Do  Thou  stand  us  in  stead, 

And  send  us  from  Thy  bounteous  store 
A  tup  or  wether  head ! — Amen. 

After  having  dined,  and  greatly  enjoyed  this 
dainty,  he  was  again  asked  to  return  thanks, 
when,  without  a  moment's  premeditation, 
"  he  at  once  said  : —  - 

0  Lord,  since  we  have  feasted  thus, 

Which  we  so  little  merit. 
Let  Meg  now  take  away  the  flesh. 

And  Jock  bring  in  the  spirit ! — Amen. 


ON    THE  DEATH  OF  A  LAP-DOG 
NAMED  ECHO. 

In  wood  and  wild,  ye  warbling  throng. 

Your  heavy  loss  deplore; 
Now  half-extinet  your  powers  of  song, 

Sweet  Echo  Is  no  more, 

Ye  jarring,  screeching  things  around. 
Scream  your  discordant  joys; 

Now  half  your  din  of  tuneless  sound 
With  Echo  silent  lies.- 


183 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


ON    SEEING      THE    BEAUTIFUL 

SEAT  OFLOKD  GALLOWAY. 

This  and  the  three  following  verses  were 
written  as  political  squibs  during  the  heat 
of  a  contested  election : — 

What  dost  thou  in  that  mansion  fair? — 

Flit,  Galloway,  and  find 
Some  narrow,  dirty,  dungeon  cave. 

The  picture  of  thy  mind  I 


ON  THE  SAME. 

No  Stewart  art  thou,  Galloway, 
The  Stewarts  all  were  brave; 

Besides,  the  Stewarts  were  but  fools. 
Not  one  of  them  a  knave. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

Bright  ran  thy  line,  O  Galloway, 
Through  many  a  far-famed  sire  ! 

So  ran  the  far-famed  Roman  way. 
So  ended — in  a  mire  ! 


TO  THE  SAME. 

ON  THE  AUTHOB'S  BEING  THREATENED 
WITH  HIS  RESENTMENT. 

Spare  me  thy  vengeance,  Galloway, 

In  quiet  let  me  live : 
I  ask  no  kindness  at  thy  hand, 

For  thou  hast  none  to  give. 


HOWLET  FACE. 

One  of  the  Lords  of  Justiciary,  says  a  corre- 
spondj^nt  of  Mr.  Chambers',  while  on  circuit 
at  Dumfries,  had  dined  one  day  at  Mr.  Mil- 
ler's of  Dalswinton  ;  and  having',  according^ 
to  the  custom  of  the  time,  taKen  wine  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  affect  his  sight,  said  to 
his  host,  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  and 
at  the  same  time  pointing  to  one  of  his 
daughters,  who  was  thought  ah  uncommon- 
ly handsome  woman,  "  Wha's  you  howlet- 
f'aced  thin^  in  the  corner?"  The  circum- 
stance having  been  related  to  Burns,  who 
happened  to  dine  there  next  day,  he  took 
out  his  pencil  and  wrote  the  foUov/ing  lines, 
which  he  handed  to  Miss  Miller; — 

Ho"W  daur  ye  ca*  me  liowlet- faced. 
Ye  ugly  glowering  spectre  ? 

My  face  was  but  the  keekin'  glass. 
And  there  ye  saw  your  picture  I 


THE  BOOK- WORMS. 

Having  been  shown  into  a  magnificent  Jibrary, 
while  on  a  visit  to  a  nobleman,,  and  observ- 
ing a  splendidly-bound,  but  iincut  and 
worm-eaten,  copy  of  Shakespeare  on  the 
table,  the  poet  left  the  following  lines  in 
the  volume  :— 

Through  and  through  the  inspired 
leaves. 

Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings; 
But,  oh,  respect  his  lordship's  taste. 

And  spare  the  golden  bindings ! 


EPIGRAM  ON  BACON. 
Brownhill  w^as  a  posting  station  some  fifteen 
miles  from  Dumfries.  Dining  there  on  one 
occasion^  the  poet  met  a  Mr.  Ladyman,  a 
commercial  traveller,  who  soticited«  sample 
of  his  "  rhyming  ware."  At  dinner,  beans 
and  bacon  were  served,  and  the  landlord, 
whose  name  was  Bacon,  had,  as  was  his 
wont,  thrust  himself  somewhat  offensively 
into  the  company  of  his  guests. 

At  Brownhill  we  always  get  dainty 
good  cheer,  [year; 

And  plenty  of  bacon  each  day  in  the 

We've  all  things  that's  neat,  and  mostly 
%a  season,  [me  a  reason. 

But  why  always  Bacon  Y — come,  give 


THE  EPITAPH. 

In  this  stinging  epitaph  Bums  satirizes  Mrs. 
Riddel  of  Woodley  Park.  He  had  taken 
offence  because  she  seemed  to  pay  more  at- 
tention to  officers  in  the  company  than  to 
the  poet,  who  had  a  supreme  contempt  for 
^'epauletted  puppies,"  as  he  delighted  to 
call  them. 

Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting 
neglect,  [life's  beam: 

What  once  was  a  butterfly,  gay  in 
Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  re- 
spect, [esteem. 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her 


ON  MRS.  KEMBLB. 

The  poet  having  witnessed  the  performance 
of  Mrs.  Kemble  in  the  part  of  Yarico,  one 
night  at  the  Dumfries  theatre,  seized  a  piece 
of  paper,  wrote  these  lines  with  a  pencil, 
and  handed  them  to  the  lady  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  performance ; — 

Kemble,  thou  curst  my  unbelief 

Of  Moses  and  his  rod; 
At  Yarico's  sweet  notes  of  grief 

The  rock  with  tears  had  flow*d. 


EPIGRAMS,  EPITAPHS,  Etc. 


183 


THE  CREED  OF  POVERTY. 

"  When  the  Board  of  Excise,"  says  Cunning- 
■  ham,  "  informed  Burns  that  his  business 
'  was  to  act,  and  not  thinlc,  he  read  the  order 
'to  a  friefid,  turned  the  paper,  and  wrote  as 
'-follows:" — 

In  politics  if  tliou  wouldst  mix, 

And  mean  thy  fortunes  be; 
Bear  this  in  miAd — ' '  Be  deaf  and  blind ; 

Let  great  folks  heai-and  see." 


WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  POCKET- 
BOOK. 

The  following  lines  indicate  how  strongly 
Burns  sympathized  with  the  lovers  of  lib- 
erty during  the  first  outbreak  of  the  French 
Revolution : — 

Qkant  me,  indulgent  Heaven,  that  I 
may  live  [give; 

To  see  the  miscreants  feel  the  pairi  they 

Deal  Freedom's  sacred  treasures  free 
as  air,  [which  were. 

Till  slave  and  despot    be  but  things 


THE  PARSON'S  LOOKS. 

Some  one  having  remarked  that  he  saw  false- 
hood in  the  very  look.of  a  certain  reverend 
gentleman,  the  poet  replied  : — 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 

I  must  and  will  deny; 
They  say  their  master  is  a  knave — 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


EXTEMPORE, 

PINNED  TO  A  lady's  COACH. 

If  you  rattle  along  like  Jrour  mistress's 
tongue. 
Your  speed  will  outrival  the  dart; 
But  u  fly  for  your  load,  you'll  break 
down  on  tho  road. 
If  your  stufE  be  as  rotten's  her  heart. 


ON  ROBERT  RIDDEL. 

The  poet  traced  these  lines  with  a  diamond 
on  the  window  of  the  hermitage  of  Friars' 
Carse.'the  first  time  he  visited  it  after  the 
death  of  his  friend  the  Laird  of  Carse. 

To  Riddel,  much-lamented  man. 

This  ivied  cot  was  dear; 
Reader,  dost  value  matchless  worth? 

Tills  ivied  cot  revere. 


ON  EXCISEMEN. 

WKifl»M:N  ON  A  WINDOW  IN  DUMFRIES. 

"  One  Say,''  says  Cunningham,  "  while  in  the 
King's  Arms  Tavern,  Dumfries,  Burns 
overheard  a  country  gentleman  talking  dis- 
paragingly conceitamg  excisemen.  The  poet 
went  to  a  window,  and  on  one  of  the  panes 
wrote  this  rebuke  with  his  diamond :' — 

Ye  men  of  wit  and  "l^^alth,  why  all 

this  sneering  [a  hearing; 

'Gainst  poor  excisemen  ?  give  the  cause 
What  are  poor   landlords'  rent-rolls? 

taxing  ledgers; 
What    premiers — what?    even   mon- 

archs'  mighty  gangers : 
Nay,  what  are  priests,  those  seeming 

godly  wise  men  ?  [cise  men  ? 

What  are  they,  pray,  but  spiritual  ex- 


VEKSES 

WRITTEN  ON  A  WINDOW  QF  THE  GLOBE 
TAVERN,    DITMFRIES. 

The   graybeard,    old    Wisdom,  may 
boast  of  his  treasures. 
Give  me  with  gay  Folly  to  live  ; 
I  grant  him  calm-blooded,  time-settled 
pleasures. 
But  Folly  has  rapture  to  give. 


THE  SELKIRK  GRACE. 

The  poet  having  been  on  a  visit  to  the  Earl  of 
Selkirk  at  St.  Mary's  Isle,  was  asked  to"  say 
grace  at  dinner.  He  repeated  the  following 
words,  which  have  since  been  known  in  the 
district  as  "  The  Selkirk  Grace  :"— 

Some  hae  meat,  and  canna  eat. 
And  some  wad  eat  that  want  it; 

But  we  hae  meat,  and  we  can  eat. 
And  sae  the  Lord  be  thankit. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  SUICIDE. 

Earth'd  up  here  lies  an  imp  o'  hell. 
Planted  by  Satan's  dibble — 

Poor  silly  wretch  he's  damn'd  himsel 
To  save  the  Lord  the  trouble. 


TO  DR.  MAXWELL, 

ON  MISS  JESSIE  STAIS'S  RECOVERY. 

'  How  do  you  like  the  following  epigram,'' 
says  the  poet,  in  a  letter  to  Thomson, 
'^  which  I  wrote  the  other  day  on  a  lovely 
young  girl's  recovery  from  a  fever  ?  Doctor 


184 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Maxwell  was  the  physician  who  seemingly 
saved  her  from  the  grave ;  and  to  him  I 
address  the  ioilowing :" — 

Maxwell,  if  merit  here  you  crave. 

That  merit  I  deny; 
You  save  fair  Jessie  from  the  grave  ? — 

An  angel  couli  not  die. 


THE  PARVENU. 

Bums  being  present  in  a  company  where  an 
ill-educated  parvemt  was  boring  every  one 
by  boasting  of  the  many  great  people  he 
had  lately  been  visiting,  gave  vent  to  his 
feelings  in  the  following  lines : — 

No  more  of  your  titled  acquaintances 

boast,  [been; 

And  in  what   lordly  circles  you've 

An  insect  is  still  but  an  insect  at  most. 

Though  it  crawl   on  tlie  head  of  a 

queen  I 


POETICAL  INSCRIPTION 

FOR  AN  ALTAR  TO  INDEPENDENCE. 

The  following  lines  were  inscribed  on  an  altar 
erected  at  the  seat  of  Heron  of  Kerrough- 
tree.  They  were  written  in  1795,  when  the 
hopes  and  triumphs  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion had  made  it  a  fashion  to  raise  altars  to 
Freedom,  and  plant  trees  to  Liberty. 

Thou  of  an  independent  mind. 

With  soul  resolved,  with  soul  resign'd; 

Prepared  power's    proudest  frown  to 

brave. 
Who  wilt  not  be,  nor  have,  a  slave; 
Virtue  alone  who  dost  revere. 
Thy  own  reproach  alone  dost  fear. 
Approach    this    shrine,   and  worship 

here. 


EXTEMPORE  TO  MR.   SYME, 

ON    REFUSING  TO  DINE  WITH   HIM 
Dec.  17,  179s. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled 
or  not. 
And  cookery  the  first  in  the  nation; 
Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse 
and  wit 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


TO  MR.  SYME, 

WITH  A  FRESBNT   OF  A  DOZEN  OP 
POBTEB. 
Jerusalem  Tavekw,  Dumfries- 
Oh,  had  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind. 

Or  hops  the  flavour  of  thy  wit, 
'Twere  drink  for  first  of  humankind, 
A  gift  that  e'en  for  Syme  were  fit. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  GOBLET. 

THBaiE's  death  in  the  cup — sae  beware ! 
Nay,  more — there  is  danger  iu  toucli- 
ing; 
But  wha  can  avoid  the  fell  snare  ? 
The  man  and  his  wine's  sae  bewitch- 
ing! 


THE  TOAST. 

Burns  having  been  called  on  for  a  song  at  a 
dinner  given  by  the  Dumfries  Volunteers 
in  honour  of  the  anniversary  of  Rodney's 
great  victory  of  the  12th  of  April,  1782^  gave 

,  the  following  lines  in  reply  to  the  call  :— 

Instead  of  a  song,  boys,  I'll  give  you 

a  toast — 
Here's  the   memory  of  those  on  the 

twelfth  that  we  lost! — 
That    we   lost,    did  I  say?  nay,   by 

Heaven,  that  we  found; 
For  their  famo  it  shall  last  while  the 

world  goes  round. 

The  next  in  succession,  I'll  give  you — 

The  Kmg!  [may  he  swing! 

Whoe'er  would  betray  him,  on  high 
And  here's  the  grand  fabric.  Our  free 

Constitution,  _  [olution; 

As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Rev- 
And    longer    with  politics  not  to  be 

cramm'd,  [damn'd; 

Be  Anarchy  cursed,  and  be  Tyranny 
And  who  would  to  Liberty  e'er  prove 

disloyal  -  [first  trial  t- 

May  his  son  be  a  hangman,  and  he  his 


ON  THE  POET'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  following  lines  were  written  on  the  loss 
of  an  only  daughter  and  darling  child  "  of 
the  poet  s,  who  died  in  the  autumn  of 
179s  :- 

Herb  lies  a  rose,  a  budding  rose. 

Blasted  before  its  bloom : 
Whose  innocence  did  sweets  disclose 

Beyond  that  flower's  perfume. 


EPIGR'AMS,  epitaphs,  Etc. 


185 


To  tljose  who  for  her  loss  are  grieved, 

This  consolation's  given- 
She's  from  a  world  of  woe  relieved. 

And  blooms  a  rose  in  heaven. 


ON  A  COUNTRY  LAIRD. 

Bless  the  Redeemer,  Cardoness, 
With  grateful  lifted  eyes, 

Who  said  that  not  the  soul  alone. 
But  body,  too,  must  rise; 

For  had  He  said,  "  The  soul  alone 
From  death  I  will  deliver;" 

Alas!  alas!  O  Cardoness, 

Then  thou  hadst  slept  forever! 


THE  TRUE  LOYAL  NATIVES. 

The- origin  of  these  lines  is  thus  related  by 

Cromek : — "  When  politics  ran  high  the  poet 

happened  to  be  in  a  tavern,  and  the  follow- 

'    ing  lines — the  production  of  one  of  'The 

'-  True  Loyal  Natives' — wrere  handed  over  the 

table  to  Bums:  — 

*  Ye  sons  of  sedition,  give  ear  to  my  song, 
Let  Syme,  Bums,   and  Maxwell,  pervade 
every  throng ;  [quack. 

With  Craken  the  attorney,  and  Mundell  the 
Send  Willie  the  monger  to  hell  with  a  smack.' 

The  poet  took  out  a  pencil  and  instantly 
wrote  this  reply; " —  ^ 

Y'E  true  ' '  Loyal  Natives"  attend  to  my 
song,  [long; 

In  uproar  and  riot   rejoice  the  night 

From  envy  and  hatred  your  corps  is 
exempt,  -  [of  contempt  ? 

But  where  is  your  shield  from  the  darts 


EPITAPH    ON    TAM    THE 
CHAF^IAN. 

Tarn  the  chapman  was  a  Mr.  Kennedy,  a 
travelling  agent  for  a  commercial  house. 
'The  foHpwing  lines  were  composed  on  his 
recovery  from  a  severe  illness : — 

As  Tam  the  Chapman  on  a  day 
Wi'  Death  forgather'd  by  the  way, 
Weel  pleased,  he  greets  a  wight'  sae 
famous,  ['Thomas, 

And  Death  was  nae  less  pleased  wi' 
Wha  cheerfully  lays  down  the  pack. 
And  there  Maws  up  a  hearty  crack  ;^ 
His  social,  friendly,  honest  heart 
Sae  tickled  Death,  they  couldna  part:. 


1  Fellow, 


2  Gossip. 


Sae,  after  viewing  knives  and  g*rtei?s. 
Death    takes  him   hame   to   gie  him 
quarters. 


EPITAPH  ON  ROBERT  AIKEN.ESQ. 

Know  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame 
Of    this  much-loved,   much-honour'd 

name, 
(For  nond  that  knew  him  need  be  told) 
A  warmer  heart  Death  ne'er  made  cold! 


ON  A  FRIEND. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest. 
As  e'er  God  with  His  image  blest ! 
The  frieind  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth; 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  youth; 
Few    hearts    like     hiS,    with    virtue 

warm'd. 
Few  heads  with  knowledge  so  inform'd: 
If  there's  another  world,  he  lives  in 

bliss,  [this. 

If  there  is  none,  he  made  the  best  of 


ON  GAVIN  HAMILTON. 
The   poor   man   weeps— here   Gavin 


Whom  canting  wretches  blamed: 
But  with  such  as  he,  where'er  he  be. 
May  I  be  saved  or  damn'd  ! 


ON    WEE    JOHNNY. 

HIC     JACET     WEE     JOHNNY. 

John  Wilson,  the  printer  of  the  Kilmarnock 
edition  of  the  poet's  works. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  0  reader,  knovir 
That  Death  has  murder'd  Johnny  ! 

And  here  his  body  lies  f  u'  low — 
For  caul  he  ne'er  had  ony. 


ON  A  CELEBRATED  RULING 
ELDER. 

Heke    sonter    Hood   in    death    does 
sleep; — 

To  hell,  if  he's  gone  thither, 
Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear'  to  keep. 

He'll  haud'^  it  weel  thegither. 


I  Wenlth.    2  Hold. 


186 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC. 

James  Humphrey,  a  working  mason,  was  the 
*'  noisy  polemic "  of  this  epitaph.  Burns 
and  he -frequently  disputed  on  Auld-Light 
and  New-Light  topics,  and  Humphrey, 
although  an  illiterate  man,  not  unfrequently 
had  the  best  of  it.  He  died  in  great  pover- 
ty, having  solicited  charity  for  some  time 
before  his  death.  We  have  heard  it  said 
that  in  soliciting  charity  from  the  strangers 
who  arrived  and  departed  by  the  Maucliline 
coach,  he  grounded  his  claimsto  their  kind- 
ness on  the  epitaph — "  Please  sirs,  I'm 
,  Bums'  bletherin*  bitch  1 " 

Below  tliir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  banes: 

0  Deatli,  it's  my  opinion. 
Thou  ne'er  took  such  a  bleth'rin'  bitch 

Into  thy  dark  dominion  ! 


ON  A  NOTED  COXCOMB. 

Light  lay  the  earth  on  Billy's  breast, 
His  chicken  heart  so  tender; 

But  build  a  castle  on  his  head, 
His  skull  will  prop  it  under. 


ON  MISS  JEAN  SCOTT  OP 
ECCLEFECHAN. 

The  young  lady,  the  subject  of  these  lines, 
dwelt  in  Ayr,  and  cheered  the  poet,  not 
only  by  her  sweet  looks,  but  also  with  her 
sweet  voice. 

Oh  !  had  each  Scot  of  anqient  times 
Been,  Jeannie  Scott,  as  thou  art, 

The  bravest  heart  on  English  ground. 
Had  yielded  like  a  coward  ! 


ON  A  HENPECKED  COUNTRY 
SQUIRE. 

As  Father  Adam  first  was  fool'd, 
A  case  that's  still  too  common, 

Here  lies  a  man  a  woman  ruled — 
The  devil  ruled  the  woman. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

0  Death,  hadst  thou  but  spared  his 
life 

Whom  we  this  day  lament ! 
We  freely  wad  exchanged  the  wife, 

And  a'  been  weel  content ! 

E'en  as  he  is,  cauld  iri  his  graff. 
The  swap'  we  yet  will  do't ; 

1  Exchange. 


Tak  thou  the  carlln's*  carcase  aff, 
Thou'se  get  the  saul  to  boot. 


ON  THE  SAME. 
One  Queen  Artemisia,  as  old  stories  tell. 
When  deprived  of  her  husband  she 

loved  so  well, 
In  respect  for  the  love  and  aSection 

he'd  show'd  her 
She  reduced  him  to  dust  and  she  drank 

up  the  powder.  [complexion^ 

But  Queen  Netherplace,  of  a  different 
When  call'd   on   to  order  the  funeral 

direction. 
Would  have  eat  her    dead  lord,   on 

a  slender  pretence. 
Not  to  show  her  respect,  but — ^to  save 

the  expense ! 


JOHNNY    PEEP. 

Bums  having  been  on  a  visit  to  a  town  in 
Cumberland  one  day,  entered  a  tavern  and 
opened  the  door  of  a  room,  but  on  seeing 
three  men  sitting,  he  was  about  to  withdraw, 
when  one  of  them  shouted,  "  Come  in, 
Johnny  Peep."  The  poet  accordingly  en- 
tered, and  .soon  became  the  ruling  spirit 
of  the  party.  In  the  midst  of  their  mirth',  it 
was  proposed  that  each  should  vvrite  a  verse 
of  poetry,  and  place  it  along  with  a  half- 
crown,  on  the  table — the  best  poet  to  have 
his  half-crown  returned,  and  the  other  three^ 
to  be  spent  in  treating  the  party.  It  is 
almost  needless  to  say  that  the  palm  of 
victory  was  awarded  to  the  following  lines 
by  Bums : — 

Heeb  am  I,  Johnny  Peep; 
I  saw  three  sheep, 

And  these  three  sheep  saw  me; 
Half-a-crown  apiece 
AVill  pay  for  their,fleece. 

And  so  Johnny  Peep  gets  free. 


THE  HENPECKED  HUSBAND. 

It  is  said  that  the  wife  of  a  gentleman,  at 
whose  table  the  poet  was  one  day  dining, 
expressed  herself  with  more  freedom  than 
propriety  regarding  her  husband's  ex- 
travagant convivial  habits,  a  rudeness 
which  Burns  rebuked  in  these  sharp  lines  ;— 

CuKSED  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch 

in  life. 
The  crouching  vassal  to  the  tyrant  wife ! 


^  *  Carlin— a  woman  with  an  evil  tongue.  In 
olden  times  used  with  reference  to  a  woman 
suspected  of  having  dealings  with  the  devil. 


EPIQKAMS,  EPITAPHS,  Etc. 


187 


Who  lias  no  will  but  by  lier  high  per- 
mission; [session; 
Who  has  not  sixpence  but  in  her  pos- 
Who  must  to  her  his  dear  friend's 
secret  tell;                           [than  hell! 
Wlio  dreads  a  curtain-lecture  worse 
Were  such  the  wife  had  fallen  to  my 
part,  [heait; 
I'd  break  her  spirit,  or  I'd  break  her 
I'd  charm  her  with  the  magic  of  a 
switch,                              [verse  bitch. 
I'd  kiss  her  maids,  and  kick  the  per- 


ON  ANDREW  TURNER. 

In  se'enteen  hunder  and  forty-nine, 
Satan  took  stuff  lo.mak  a  swine. 

And  cuist  it  iiva  corner; 
But  wilily  he  changed  Ms  plan. 
And  shajjed  it  something  like  a  man, 

And  ca'd  it  Andrew  Turner. 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER. 

O  Thou,  who  kindly  dost  provide 

For  every  creature's  wanW 
We  bless  thee,  God  of  nature  wide. 

For  all  thy  goodness  lent: 
And,  if  it  please  thee,  heavenly  Guide, 

May  never  worse  be  sent; 
But,  whether  granted  or  denied. 

Lord,  bless  us  with  content! — Amen. 


ON    MR.    W.    CRUIKSHANK. 

One  of  the  masters  of  the  Hig:h  School,  Edin- 
burgh, and  a  well-known  friend  of  the 
poet's. 

Honest  Will's  to  heaven  gane. 
And  mony  shall  lament  him; 

His  faults  they  a'  in  Latin  lay, 
In  English  nane  e'er  kent  them. 


ON  WAT. 

Sic  a  reptile  was  Wat, 

Sic  a  miscreant  slave. 
That  the  very  worms  damn'd  him 

When  laid  in  his  grave. 
"  In  his  flesh  there's  a  famine," 

A  starved  reptile  cries; 
"  And  his  heart  is  rank' poison,'' 

Another  replies. 


ON   THE  KIRK    OF   LAMINGTON 

IN    CLYDESDALE. 

Having  been  stayed  by  astorm  one  Sunday  at 
Lamington  in  Clydesdale,  the  poet  went  to 
church  ;  but  the  day  was  so  cold;  the  place 
so  uncomfortable,  and  .  the  sermon  so  poor, 
that  he  left  the  -  following  poetic  protest 
in  the  pew ; — 

Aa  cauld  a  wind  as  ever  blew, 
A  caulder  kirk,  and  in't  but  few; 
As  cauld  a  minister's  e'erspak, 
Ye'se  a'  be  het  ere  I  come  back. 


A  MOTHER'S  ADDRESS  TO  HER 
INFANT. 

My  blessin's  upon  thy  sweet  wee  lippie: 
My  blessin's  upon  thy  bonny  ee-brie  I 

Thy  smiles  are  sae  like  my  blithe  sod- 

ger  laddie,  [me! 

Thou's  aye  the  dearer  and  dearer  to 


VERSES 

■WniTTEN  ON  A  PANE  OF  GLASS,  ON 
THE  OCCASION  OP  A  NATIONAL 
THANKSGIVING  POX  A  NAVAL  VIC- 
TORT. 

¥e  hypocrites  !  are  these  your  pranks? 
To  murder  men,  and  gie  (Jod  thanks  ! 
For  shame  I  gie  o'er — proceed  no  fur- 
ther—  [ther ! 
God  won't  accept  your  thanks  for  mur- 


I  MURDER  hate  by  field  or  flood. 
Though  glory's  name  may  screen  us ; 

In  wars  at  hame  I'll  spend  my  blood. 
Life-giving  wars  of  Venus. 

The  deities  that  I  adore, 
Are  social  peace  and  plenty; 

I'm  better  pleased  to  make  one  more, 
Than  be  the  death  of  twenty. 


My  bottle  is  my  holy  pool. 

That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  and  dool ; 

And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout. 

An'  ye  drink  it  dry,  ye'll  find  him  out. 


ON  JOHN  BUSHBY. 

Bushby,  it  seems,  was  a  sharp-witted,  clever 
lawyei',  who  happened  to  cross  the  poet's 
path  in  politics,  and  was  therefore  consid- 
ered a  fair  subject  for  a  lampoon.  ■ 

Here  lies  John  Bushby,  honest  man  ! 
Cheat  liim,  devil,  gin  you  can. 


188 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


LINES  TO  JOHN  RANKINE. 

These  lines  were  written  by  Burns  while  on 
his  death-bed,  and  forwarded  to  Rankine 
immediately  after  the  poet's  death. 

He  who  of  Rankine  sang  lies  stiff  and 

dead,  [head; 

And  a  green  grassy  hillock  haps  his 

Alas  !  alas  1  a  devilish  change  indeed  ! 


TO  MISS  JESSY  LEWARS. 

"  During  the  last  illness  of  the  poet,"  says 
Cunningham,  "  Mr.  Brown,  the  surgeon 
who  attended  him,  came  in,  and  stated  that 
he  had  been  looking  at  a  collection  of  wild 
beasts  iust  arrived,  and  pulling  out  t^e  list 
ot  the  animals,  held  it  out  to  Jessy  Lewars. 
The  poet  snatched  it  from  him,  took  up  a 
pen,  and  with  red  ink  wrote  the  following 
on  the  back  of  the  paper,  saying, '  Now  it  is 
fiL  to  be  presented  to  a  lady.'  " 

Talk  not  to  me  of  savages 

From  Afric's  burning  sun, 
No  savage  e'er  could  rend  my  heart 

As,  Jessy,  thou  hast  done. 

But  Jessy's  lovely  hand  in  mine, 

A  mutual  faith  to  plight. 
Not  even  to  view  the  heavenly  choir 

Would  be  so  hlest  a  sight. 


THE  TOAST. 

On  another  occasion,  while  Miss  Lewars  was 
waiting  upon  him  during  his  illness,  he  took 
up  a  crystal  goblet,  and  writing  the  follow- 
ing lines  on  it,  presented  it  to  her  ;— 

Fill  me  with  the  rosy  wine. 
Call  a  toast — a  toast  divine; 
Give  the  poet's  darling  ilame. 
Lovely  Jessy  be  the  name ; 
Then  thou  mayst  freely  boast 
Thou  hast  given  a  peerless  toast. 


ON  THE  SICKNESS  OF  MISS  JESSY 
LEWARS. 

On  Miss  Lewars  complaining  of  illness  in  the 
hearipg-  of  the  poet,  he  said  he  would  pro- 
vide 'for'  the  worst,  and  seizing  another 
crystal  goblet,  he  wrote  as  follows  :— 

S-A.Y,  sages,  what's  the  charm  on  earth 
Can  turn  Death's  dart  aside  ? 


It  is  not  purity  and  worth. 
Else  Jessy  had  not  died. 


ON  THE  RECOVERY  OF  JESSY 

LEWARS. 

On  her  recovering  health,  the  poet  said, 
"  There  is  a  poetic  reason  for  it,'  and  com- 
posed the  following  :— 

But  rarely  seen  since  nature's  birth. 

The  natives  of  the  sky; 
Yet  still  one  seraph's  left  on  earth, 

For  Jessy  did  not  die. 


A  BOTTLE  AND  AN  HONEST 
FRIEND. 

Some  doubt  has  been  expressed  by  the 
brother  of  the  poet  as  to  the  authenticity  of 
this  small  piece  ; — 

"  There's  nane  that's  blest  of  humankind 
But  the  cheerful  and  the  gay,  man. 
Fal,  lal,"'&c. 

Hbbb's  a  bottle  and  an  honest  friend! 

What  wad  you  wish  for  mair,  man  1 
Wha  kens,  before  his/life  may  end, 

What  his  share  may  be  of  care,  man? 

Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 
And  use  them  as  ye  ought,  man; 

Believe  me.  Happiness  is  shy,  [man. 
And    comes  not  aye  when  sought. 


GRACE  AFTER  DINNER, 

0  Thou,  in  whom  we  live  and  move. 
Who  madest  the  sea  and  shore; 

Thy  goodness  constantly  we  prove, 
And,  grateful,  would  adore. 

And  if  it  please  Thee,  Power  above. 
Still  grant  us,  with  such  store, 

,The  friend  we  trust,  the  fair  we  love; 
And  we  desire  no  more. 


ANOTHER. 

LOBD,  we  thank  Thee  and  adore. 
For  temp'ral  gifts  we  little  merit; 

At  present  we  will  ask  no  more — 
Let  William  Hyslop  give  the  spirit  ! 


SONGS. 


MY  HANDSOME  NELL. 

Tune — "  I  am  a  man  unmarried." 
Nelly  Kilpatrie^,  the  heroine  of  this  sonff, 
,was  the  daughter  of  the  village  blacksmith, 
"and  the  poet  s  first  partner  in  the  labours  of 
the  harvest-field.  She  -was  the  "sonsie 
quean"  he  sin^  of,  whose  "  witchingsmile" 
first  made  his  heart-strings  tingle.  "  This 
song,"  he  says,  "  was .  the  first  of  my  per- 
formances, and  done  at  an  early  period  of 
my  life.  When  my  heart  glowed  with  honest, 
warm  simplicity^unacquainted  and  uncor- 
rupted  with  the  ways  of  a  vi^icked  world. 
It  has  many  faults ;  but  I  remember  I  com- 
posed it  in  a  wild  enthusiasm  of  passion ; 
and  to  this  hour  I  never  recollect  it  but  my 
hfeart  melts — my  blood  sallies,  at  the  remem- 
brance." 

Oh,  once  I  loved  a  bonny  lass. 

Aye,  and  I  lov&her  still; 
And  whilst  tli4t  virtue  warms  my  breast 

I'll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 

Fal^  lal  de  ral,  &c. 
As  bonny  lasses  I  liae  seen, 

Andmony  fuU  as  braw;' 
But  for  a  modest,  gracef u'  mien, 

The' like  I  never  saw. 

A  bonny  lass,  I  will  confess. 

Is  pleasant  to  the  ee 
But  without  some  better  qualities 

She's  no  a  lass  for  me. 

But  Nelly's  looks  are  blithe  and  sweet; 

And,  wliat  is  best  of  a' — 
Her  reputation  is  complete, 

And  fair  without  a  flaw. 
She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat, 

Baith  decent  and  genteel ; 
And  then  there's  something  in  her  gait 

Gars^  ony  dress  look  weel. 


1  Well  dressed. 


2  Makes. 


A  gsiudy  dress  and  gentle  air 
May  slightly  touch  the  heart; 

But  it's  innocence  and  modesty 
That  polishes  the  dart. 

'Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 
'Tis  this  enchants  my  soull 

For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reigns  without  control. 


I  DEEAM'D  I  LAY  WHERE  FLOW. 

ERS  WERE  SPRINGING. 

"  These  two  stanzas,"  says  the  poet,  "  which 
are  among  the  oldest*!  my  printed  pieces,. 
I  composed  when  I  was  seventeen." 

I  dkeam'd  I  lay  where  flowers  were 
springing 

Gayly  in  the  sunny  beam. 
Listening  to  the  wild  birds  singing 

By  a  falling  crystal  stream : 
Straight  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring; 

Through  the  woods  the  whirlwinds 
rave; 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring. 

O'er  the  sweUirig,  drumlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning. 

Such  the  pleasures  I  en  joy 'd; 
But  lang  or'  noon,  loud  tempests  storm- 
ing. 

A'  my  flowery  bliss  destroy'd.     [me, 
Though  fickle   Fortune  has  deceived 

(She  promised  fair,  and  perform'd 
but  ill,) 
Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereaved  me, 

I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still. 


'  Ere. 


190 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


MY  NANNIE,  O. 
Tune — "  My  Nannie,  O." 

Behind  yon  hills,  where  Lugar  flows 
'Mang  moors  and  mosses  many,  O, 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  closed. 
And  I'll  awa'  to  Nauni^,  0. 

Tlie  westliu  wind  blaws  load  and  shrill : 
The  night's  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  0; 

But  I'll  get  my  plaid,  and  out  I'll  steal. 
And  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  Nannie's    charming,   sweet,   and 
young, 

Nae  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O: 
May  ill  befa'  the  flattering  tongue 

'That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O, 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true. 
As  spotless  as  she's  bonny,  O: 

The  opening  go  wan,'  wat  wi'  dew, 
Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  0. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree. 
And  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be, 
I'm  welcome  aye  to  Nannie,  O. 

My  riches  a's  my  penny-fee,' 
And  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  0; 

But  warl's  gear"  ifl'er  troubles  me, 
My  thoughts  are  a'  my  Nannie,  0. 

Our  auld  guidman  delights  to  view 
His  sheep  and  kye  thrive  bonny,  0; 

But  I'm  as  blithe  that  hands  his  pleugh. 
And  has  na  care  but  Nannie,  O. 

Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by, 
I'll  tak  what  Heaven  will  sen'  me,  O; 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I 

But  live  and  love  my  Nannie,  0  ! 


O  TIBBIE,  I  HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY. 
Tune — "  Invercauld's  Reel." 
O  TrBBlB,  I  hae  seen  the  day 

Ye  wadna  been  sae  shy; 
For  lack  o'  gear  ye  lightly'  me. 
But,  trowth,  I  care  na  by. 


Daisy. 


Wages.      s  World's  wealth. 
>  Slight. 


Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor. 
Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stoure:" 
Ye  geek'  at  me  because  I'm  poor, 
But  feint  a  hair  care  I. 

I  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think, 
Because  ye  hae  the  name  o'  clink,* 
That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink 
Whene'er  yc  like  to  try. 

But  sorrow  tak   him  that's  sae  mean. 
Although  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean, 
Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean,'' 
That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

Although  a  lad  were  e'er  sae  smart. 
If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt 
Ye'U  cast  yer  head  anither  airt,* 
And  answer  him  f  u'  dry. 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o'  gear,' 
Ye'U  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier. 
Though  hardly  he,  for  sense  or  lear,' 
Be  better  than  the  kye.' 

But  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice. 
Your  daddie's  gear  maks  you  sae  nice; 
The  deil  a  ane  wad  spier  your  price 
Were  ye  as  poor  as  I. 

There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park, 
I  wadna  gie  her  in  her  sark'" 
For  thee,  wi'  a'  thy  thousau'  mark  ! 
Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 


ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS. 
Tune—"  If  he  be  a  butcher  neat  and  trim." 

On  Cessnock  banks  there  lives  a  lass. 
Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien. 

The  graces  of  her  weelfaurd'  face, 
And  the  glancing  of  her  sparkling 
eeu. 

She's  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn. 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen. 

When  dew-drops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn; 
And  she"s  twa   glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

She's  stately,  like  you  youthful  ash 
That  grows   the   cowslip  braes  be- 
tween, " 


-.Dust  driven  by  the  wind.  » Mock.  * 
Money.  » Wench.  "Direction.  >  Wealth. 
'Learning,    s  Cows,    w  Shift. 

'  Well-favoured. 


SONGS. 


191 


And  shoots  it's  liead  above  each  busli; 
And'  she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

She's  spotless  as  the  flowering  thorn, 
With  flowers  so  white  and  leaves  so 
green, 
Wlien  purest  in  the  dewy  morn ; 
And    she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb, 
When  flowery  M&y'adorns  the  scene. 

That  wantons  roanffits  bleating  dam; 
And  she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

Her  hair  is  lUie  the  curling  mist    [e'en 
That    shades  the  mountain-side  at 

When  flower-reviving  rains  are  past; 
And  she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

Her  forehead's  like  the  showery  bow. 
When  shining  sunbeams  intervene. 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow; 
And  she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  evening  thrush 
That  sings  on  Cessnock  banks  un- 
seen, [bush; 
Wliile  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the 
And  she's  twa  glancing,  sparltling 
een. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  cherries  ripe 

.    That     sunny     walls     from    Boreas 

screen —  [sight; 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the 
•    Andshe's  twa   glancing,  sparkling 

een. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean. 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep; 
And  she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 


Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom'd  bean 

When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas; 
And  she's  twa  glancing,  sparkling 
een. 

But  it's  not  her  air,  her  fonn,  her  face. 
Though  matching  beauty's  fabled 
qaeen, 

But  the  mind  that  shines  in  every  grace, 
And  chiefly  in  her  sparkling  een. 


IMPROVED  VERSION. 

On  Cessnock  banks  a  lassie  dwells, 
Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien, 

Our  lassies  a'  she  far  excels; 
And  sMs  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

She's  sweeter  than  the  morning  dawn. 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen. 

And  dew-drops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn/ 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

She's  stately,  like  yon  youthful  ash 
That  grows  the  cowslip  braeS  be- 
tween, {fresh; 

And  drinks  the  stream  tcith  mgour 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

She's  spotless,  like  the  flowering  thorn. 
With  flowers  so  white,  and  leaves  so 
green. 

When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn; 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  vernal  May, 
When  evening  Phcebus  shines  serene. 

While  Tnrds  rejoice  oil  every  spray; 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist  [e'en 
That  climbs  the  mountain-sides  at 

When  flower-reviving  rains  are  past; 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

Her  forehead's  like  the  showery  bow. 
When  gleaming  sunbeams  intervene. 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow; 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

Her  clieeks  are  like  yon  crimson  gem, 
Tlie  pride  of  all  the  fiowery  scene. 

Just  opening  on  its  thorny  stem; 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

Her  teeth  are  Wee  the  nightly  snow. 
When  pale  th^  morning  rises  keen, 

While   hid   the  murm'ring  streamlets 
flow; 
And  she's  twa  spa/rkling,  roguish  een. 

Her  lips  are  like  yon  cherries  ripe 
That     sunny   walls     from     Boreas 
screen —  [sight; 

They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the 
And  she's  twa  sparkling-,  roguish  een. 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze. 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom'd  bean 

When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas; 
And  she's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 


m 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Her  voice. is  like  tlie  evening. thrush, 
That  sings  on  Cessnock  banks  un- 
seen, [bush; 

W-htlB  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the 
Andshe's  twa  sparkling,  roguish  een. 

But  it's  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 

'Though   matching  beauty's  fabled 

queen,  [grace; 

'Tis  the  mind  that  shines  in  every 
And  chiefly  in  her  roguish  een. 


MY  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 

XytfE—"  The- Weaver   and  his  Shuttle,  D." 

"'The  foUowHng  song,"  says  the  poet,  "is  a 
wild  rhapsody,  miserably  deficient  in  versi- 
fication ;  but  the  sentiments  were  the 
genuine  feelings  of  my  heart  at  the  time  it 
was  written." 

My  father  was  a  farmer 

Upon  the  Carrick  border,  O, 
And  carefully  he  bred  me 

In  decency  and  order,  0; 
He  bade  me  act  a  manly  part. 

Though  I  had  ne'er  a  farthing,  0, 
For  without  an  honest  manly  heart, 

No  man  was  worth  regarding,  O. 

Then  out  into  the  world 
My  course  I  did  determine,  O; 

Though  to  be  rich  was  not  my  vrish, 
Yet  to  be  great  was  charming,  0: 

My  talents  they  were  not  the  worst, 

.  .  Nor  yet  my  education,  O; 

Resolved  was  I,  at  least  to  try, 
To  mend  my  situation,  0. 

In  many  a  way,  and  vain  essay, 

I  courted  Fortune's  favour,  O; 
Some  cause  unseen  still  stept  between. 

To  frustrate  each  endeavour,  O; 
iSometimes  by  foes  I  was  o'erpower'd; 

Sometimes  by  friends  forsaken,  0; 
And  when  my  hope  was  at  the  top, 

I  still  was  worst  mistaken,  O. 

Then  sore  harass'd,  and  tired  at  last, 

With  Fortune's  vain  delusion,  0, 
'I  dropt  my  schemes,  like  idle  dreams, 

And  came  to  this  conclusion,  O: 
The  past  was  bad,  and  the  future  hid; 

Its  good  or  ill  untried.  0; 
But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  power, 

And  so  I  would  enjoy  it,  0. 


No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I, 

Nor  person  to  befriend  me,  O; 
So  I  must  toil,  and  sweat,  and  broil, 

And  labour  to  sustain  me,  O; 
To  plough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow, 

My  father  bred  me  early,  O; 
For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred. 

Was  a  match  for  Fortune  fairly,  O. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor. 

Through   life  I'm  doomed  to  wan- 
der, 0, 
-Till  down  my  weary  bones  I  lay 

In  everlasting  slumber,  O, 
No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'ei- 

Might  breed  .me  pain  or  sorrow,  O; 
I  live  to-day  as  well's  I  may. 

Regardless  oi  to-morrow,  O. 

But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well 

As  a  monarch  in  a  palace,  O,- 
Though  Fortune's  frown  still  hunts 
me  down. 

With  all  her  wonted  malice,  0: 
I  make  indeed  my  daily  bread. 

But  ne'er  can  make  if  farther,  0; 
But  as  daily  bread  is  all  I  need, 

I  do  not  much  regard  her,  0. 

"WTien  sometimes  by  my  labouc 

I  earn  a  little  money,  0, 
Some  unforaeen  misfortune 

Comes  generally  upon  me,  O: 
Mischance,  mistake,,  or  by  neglect, 
:    Or  my  good-natured  folly,  O; 
But  come  what  will,  I've  sworn  it  still 

I'll  ne'er  be  melancholy,  0. 

All  you  who  follow  wealth  and  power 

With  unremitting  ardour,-  O,' 
The  more  in  tliis  you  look  for  bliss, 

You  leave  your  view  the  farther,  0", 
Had  you  the  wealth  Potosi  boasts. 

Or  nations  to  adore  you,  O, 
A  cheerful,  honest-hearted  clown 

T  will  prefer  before  you,  0  ! 


JOHN    BARLEYCORN: 

A  BALLAD. 

The  following  is  an  improvement  of  an  early 
song  of  English  origin,  a  copy  of  which 
was  obtained  by  Mr.  Robert  Jameson  from 
a  black-letter  sheet  in  the  Pepys  Library, 
Caaibridge,  and  first  published  in  his 
"  Ballads : "— 


SONQS. 


193 


Theke  were  three  kings  inta  the 'east, 
Three  kings  both  g'reat  and  high; 

And  they  hae  swore  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  should  die. 

They  took  a  plough  and  plough'd  him 
down. 

Put  clods  upon  his  head ; 
And  they  liae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  oh, 
And  showers  began  to  fall; 

John  Barleycorn  got  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  spears. 
That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  enter'd  mild. 
When  he  grew  wan  and  pale; 

His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Show'd  he  began  to  fail. 

His  colour  sicken'd  more  and  more. 

He  faded  into  age; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They've  ta'en  a  weapon  long  and  sharp. 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee; 
Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a  cart, 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

They  laid  him  down  vipon  his  back. 
And  oudgell'd  him  full  sore; 

They  hung  liim  up  before  the  storm. 
And  turu'd  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  fillM  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim; 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  hiui  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 
To  work  him  further  woe: 

And  still,  as  signs  of  life  appear'd, 
They  to.s3'd  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

The  marrow  of  his  bones; 
But  a  miller  used  him  worst  of  all — 

He  crushed  him  'tween  two  stones. 

And  they  hae    ta'en   his  very  heart's 

Mood,         _  _   y      

And  drank  it  round  and  round, 


And  still  the  more  and    more  they 
drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold. 

Of  noble  enterprise; 
For  if  you  do  blit  taste  his  blood, 

'Twill  makb  your  courage  rise. 

'Twill  make  a  man  forgpt  his  woe; 

'Twill  heighten  all  his  joy: 
'Twill  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing. 

Though  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

Then  let  tis  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a  glass  in  hand; 
And  may  his  great  posterity 

Ne'er  fail  in  old  Scotland ! 


MONTGOMERY'S  PEGGT. 

Tune— "Gala  Water." 

"  Montgomery's  Peggy."  says  the  poet,  "who 
had  been  bred  in  a  style  of  life  rather 
elegant,  was  my  deity  for  six  or  eight 
months." 

Although  my  bed  were  in  yon  muir, 
I    Amang  the  heather,  in  my  plaidie. 
Yet  happy,  happy  would  I  be, 
Had  I  my  deaf  Montgomery's  Peggy. 

When  o'er  the  hill  beat  surly  stbrms. 
And   winter  nights  were  dark  and 
rainy; 

I'd  seek  some  dell,  and  in  my  arms 
I'd  shelter  dear  Montgomery's  Peggy. 

Were  I  a  baron  proud  and  high, 
And    horse    and    servants    waiting 
ready. 

Then  a'  'twad  gie  o'  joy  to  me, 
Tlie     sharin't    wi'     Montgomery's 


MARY  MORISON. 
Tune—"  Bide  ye  yet.'' 

O  Mahy,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trystedhour!, 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor; 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 


194 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Yestreen,     when    to    the    trembling 
string,  [ha', 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted 
To  thee  my  iancy  took  its  wing — 

I  sat,  hut  neither  heard  nor  saw: 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was 
braw. 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigli'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

' '  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison. " 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 

Wha  for  tliy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his 

Whase  only  f aut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  nagie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

'Ihe  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


THE  RIGS  0'  BARLEY. 
Tune — "  Corn  Rigs  are  Bonny." 

It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 

When  corn  rigs  are  bonny, 
Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa'  to  Annie: 
The  time  flew  by  wi'  tentless  heed. 

Till,  'tween  the  late  and  early, 
Wi'  sma'  persuasion  she  agreed 

To  see  me  through  the  barley. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still. 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly, 
I  set  her  down,  wi'  right  good  will, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley: 
I  kent  her  heart  was  a'  my  ain, 

1  loved  her  most  sincerely: 
I  kiss'd  her  owre  and  owre  again, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

I  lock'd  her  in  my  fond  embrace ! 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarely. 
My  blessings  on  that  happy  place, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley! 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright. 

That  shone  that  hour  so  clearly! 
She  aye  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

I  hae  been  blithe  wi'  comrades  dear; 

I  hae  been  merry  drinkin'! 
1  hae  been  joyfu'  gath'rin'  gear; 

I  hae  been  happy  thinkin' : 


But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw. 

Though  three  times  doubled  fairly. 

That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a', 
Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

Corn-  rigs,  and  barley  rigS, 
And  corn  rigs  are  boiffly: 

I'll  ne'er  forget  that  happy  night, 
Amang  the  rigs  wi'  Aimie. 


PEGGY. 
Tune — "  I  had  a  horse,  1  had  nac  main" 
Now  westlin  winds  and  slaught'ring 
guns 
Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather; 
The    moorcock   springs    on  whirring 
wings, 
Amang  the  blooming  heather: 
Now  waving  grain,  wide  o'er  the  plain. 

Delights  the  weary  farmer; 
And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I 
rove  at  night. 
To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountains; 
'  The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains: 
Through  lofty  groves  the  cushat'  roves, 

The  path  of  man  to  shun  it; 
The  hazel  bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush. 

The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

Thus  every  kind  their  pleasure  find. 

The  savage  and  the  tender; 
Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine; 

Some  solitary  wander: 
Avaunt,  away !  the  cruel  sway. 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion;  [cry. 

The  sportsman's  joy,  the  murdering 

The  fluttering,  gory  pinion! 

But  Peggy,  dear,  the  evening's  clear, 

Thick  flies  the  skimmmg  swallow; 
The  slfv  is  blue,  liie  fields  in  view. 

All  fading  green  and  yellow: 
Come,  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way. 

And  view  the  charms  of  nature; 
The  rustling  com,,  the  fruited  thorn. 

And  every  happy  creature. 

We'll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk. 
Till  the  silent  moon  shine  clearly; 

i ' 


^  Wood-pigeon. 


SONGS. 


195 


I'll  grasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest. 
Swear  how  I  love  thee  dearly : 

Not  vernal  showers  to  budding  flowers, 
Not  autumn  to  the  farmer. 

So  dear  can  be,  as  thou  to  me. 
My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer! 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES,  0  ! 

Tune—"  Green  gfrow  the  rashes." 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ! 
Green  grow  ihe  rashes,  0  ! 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spend. 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0  ! 

There's  nought  but  care  on  every  han'. 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  0: 

Wliat  signifies  the  life  o'  man. 
An'  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  0  ? 

The  warl'ly'  race  may  riches  chase. 
And  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O; 

And  though  at  last  they  catch  them 
fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  0. 

But  gie  me  a  canny''  hour  at  een. 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O, 

And  warl'ly  cares,  and  warl'ly  men. 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,"  0. 

For  you  sae  douce,''  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O; 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw. 
He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  0. 

Auld  Nature  swears  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O, 

Her  'prentice  hand  she  tried  on  man. 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 


THE  CURE  FOR  ALL  CAKE. 

Tune — "  Prepare,  my  dear  brethren,  to  the 
tavern  let's  fly." 

The  poet  composed  this  song  shortly  after 
joining  the  Torbolton  Mason  Lodge,  which 
was  long  noted  in  the  west  for  its  festivities. 

No  churchman  am  I  for  to  rail  and  to 
write,  [fight. 

No  statesman  nor  soldier  to  plot  or  to 

No  sly  man  of  business  contriving  a 
snare—  [my  care. 

For  a  big-bellied  bottle's  the  whole  of 

1  'Worldly.    2  Happy,  lucky.    *  Topsy-turvy. 
•  Grave. 


The  peer  I  don't  envy,  I  give  liira  his 
bow;  [low; 

I  scorn  not  the  peasant,  though  ever  so 

But  a  club  of  good  fellows,  like  those 
that  are  here,  [care. 

And  a  bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and 

Here  passes,  the  sqiiire  on  his  brother — 
his  horse;  [liis  purse; 

There  centum  per  centum,  tlie  cit  with 

But  see  you  the  crown,  how  it  waves 
in  the  air  !  [care. 

There  a  big-bellied  bottle  still  eases  my 

The  wife  of  my  bosom,  alas  !  she  did 
die;  [fly; 

For  sweet  consolation  to  church  I  did 
I  found  that  old  Solomon  proved  it  fair, 
That  a  big-bellied  bottle's  a  cure  for  all 
care. 

I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to 
malte ; .  [wreck ; — 

A  letter  informed  me  that  all  was  to 

But  the  pursy  old  landlord  just  wad- 
dled up  stairs  [cares. 

With  a  glorious  bottle  that  ended  my 

"Life's  cares  they  are  comforts," — a 

maxim  laid  down 
By  the  bard,  what  d'ye  call  him,  that 

wore  the  black  gown;  [a  hair; 

And  faith,  I  agree  with  the  old  prig  to 
For  a  big-bellied  bottle's  a  heaven  of  a 

care. 

ADDED  IN  A  MASON  LODGE. 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper,  and  make  it 
o'erflow,  [throw; 

And  honours  masonic  prepare  for  to 

May  every  true  brother  of  the  compass 
and  square  [with  care  ! 

Have  a  big-bellied  bottle  when  harass'd 


MY  JEAN  ! 

Tune—"  The  Northern  Lass." 

"  The  heroine  of  this  sweet  snatch,"  says  Cun- 
ningham, "  was  bonny  Jean.  It  was  com- 
fosed  when  the  poet  contemplated  the  West 
ndia  voyage,  and  an  eternal  separation 
from  the  land  and  all  that  was  dear  to 
him." 

Though  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part, 

Far  as  the  pole  and  line. 
Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 

Should  tenderly  entwine. 


196 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Though  mountains   rise,  and  deserts 
howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between; 
Yet,  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul, 

I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 


A  FRAGMENT. 
Tune — "  John  Anderson  my  Jo." 

One  night  as  I  did  wander , 

When  corn  begins  to  shoot, 
I  sat  me  down  to  ponder 

Upon  an  auld  tree  root: 
Auld  Ayr  ran  by  before  me, 

And  ijicker'd'  to  the  seas; 
A  cushat  croodled^  o'er  me. 

That  echo'd  through  the  braes. 


WHEN  CLOUDS  IN  SKIES  DO 
COME  TOGETHER. 

"  The  following,"  says  the  poet  in  his  first 
Commonplace  Book,  "  was  an  extempore 
effusion,  composed  under  a  train  of  misfor- 
tunes which  threatened  to  undo  me  alto- 
gether." 

When  clouds  in  skies  do  come  together 

To    hide    the     brightness    of    the 

sun  [weather 

There  will  surely  be  some   pleasant 

When  n,'  their  storms  are  past  and 

gone. 

Though  fickle   Fortune   has  deceived 
me,  [but  ill; 

She  promised   fair,  and   perform'd 
Of  mistress,  friends,  and  wealth  be- 
reaved me,  [still. 
Yet  I  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me 

I'll  act  with  prudence,  as  far's  I'm  able; 

But  if  success  I  must  never  find. 
Then  come  Misfortune,  I  bid  thee  wel- 
come, [mind. 

I'll  meet  thee  with  an  undaunted 


ROBIN. 

Tune — "  Dainty  Davie." 

It  is  related  that  when  the  poet's  mother  felt 
her  time  approach,  his  father  took  horse  in 
the  darkness  of  a  stormy  ■  January  night, 
and  set  out  for  Ayr  to  procure  the  nece_ssary 


*  Raced  leapingly.    '^  Wood-pfgeon  cooed. 


female  attendant.  On  acriving  at  the  ford 
of  a  rivulet  which,  crossed  the  road,,  he 
found  it  so  deep  in  flood,  that  a  female  way- 
farer sat  on  the  opposite  side  unable  fo 
cross  ;  and,  notwithstanding  his  own  haste, 
he  conveyed  the  woman  through  the  stream 
on  his  horse.  On  returning  from  Ayr  with 
the  midwife,  he  found  the  gipsy,  for  sudh 
she  proved  to  be,  seated  at  his  cottage  fire- 
side ;  and  on  the  child's  being  placed  in  the 
lap  of  the  woman,  shortly  after  his  ,.birth, 
she  is  said  to  have  inspected  his 'palm, 
after  the  manner  of  her  tribe,  and  made  the 
predictions  which  the  poet  has  embodied  in 
the  song. 

There  was  a  lad  was  bom  in  Kyle, 
But  whatna  day  o'  whatna  style, 
I  doubt  it's  hardly  worth  thie  while 
To  be  sae  nice  wi'  Robin. 
Robin  was  a  rovin'  boy, 

Rantin'  rovin',  rantin'  rovin"; 
Robin  was  a.  rovin'  boy,- 
Rantin'  rovin'  Robin  ! 

Our  monarch's  hindmost  year  btit  ane 
Was  five  and  twenty  days  begun, 
'Twas  then  a  blast  o'  Januar  win 
Blew  hansel  in  on  Robin. 

The  gossip  keekit'  in  his  loof ,' 
Quo'  she,  wha  lives  will  see  the  proof, 
"This  waly'  boy  will  be  nae  coof'' — 
I  think  we'U  ca'  him  Robin. 

He'll  hae  misfortunes  great  and  sma', 
But  aye  a  heart  aboon  them  a'; 
He'll  be  a  credit  till  us  a'. 
We'll  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin. 

But,  sure    as  three  times  three  mak 

nine, 
I  see,  by  ilka  score  and  line, 
This  chap  will  dearly  like  our  kin'. 
So  leeze^  me  on  tliee^  Robin. 

Guid  faith,  quo'  she,  I  doubt  ye  gar 
The  bonny  lasses  lie  aspar. 
But  twenty  fauts  ye  may  hae  waur. 
So  blesstn's  on  thee,  Robin!  , 


LUCKLESS  FORTUNE. 

0  RASING  Fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  O  ! 

0  raging  Fortune's  withering  blast 
Has  laid  my  leaf  full  low,  0  ! 


1  Peeped.    '  Palm, 
term  of  endearment. 


5  Goodly.    ■>  Fool.  »  A 


SONGS. 


197 


My  stem  was  fair,  my  bud  was  green, 
My  blossom  sweet  did  blow,  O ; 

The  dew  fell  fresli,  the  sun  rose  mild. 
And  made  my  branches  grow,  0. 

Put  luckless  Fortune's  northern  storms 
Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  0; 

But  luckless  Fortune's  northern  storms 
Laid  a'  my  blossoms  low,  0. 


THE  MAUCHLINE  LADY. 
Tune — "  I  had  a  horse,  I  had  nac  mair.'' 

When  first  I  came  to  Stewart  Kyle, 

My  mind  it  was  na  steady: 
Where'er  1  gaed,  where'er  I  rade, 

A  mistress  still  I  had  aye; 

But  when  I  came  rouu'  by  Mauchline 
town, 

Not  dreadin'  ony  body. 
My  heart  was  caught,  before  I  thought; 

And  by  a  Mauchline  lady.* 


THE  BRAES   0'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune—"  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle." 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen. 

The  flowers  decay'd  on  Catrine  lea, 
Nae  laverock'  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  nature  sicken'd  on  the  ee. 
Through  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while. 
And  aye  the  wild- wood  echoes  rang, 

Fareweel  the  Braes  o'  Ballochmyle  ! 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds. ye  flowers. 

Again  ye'll  flourish  fresh  and  fair; 
Ye  birdies  dumb  in  withering  bowers. 

Again  ye'll  charm  the  vocal  air. 
Biit  here,  alas  !  for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm  or  floweret  smile: 
Fareweel  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fareweel,  fareweel  1- sweet  Balloch- 
myle ! 


Tune 


YOUNG  PEGGY. 

'  The  last  time  I  cam  o'er  the  muir.'' 


Young  Peggy  blooms  our  bonniest  lass, 
Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 

1  Lark. 
*  Jean  Armour, 


The  rosy  dawn  the  springing  grass 
With  pearly  gems  adorning: 

Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 
That  gild  the  passing  shower, 

And  glitter  o'er  the  crystal  streams, 
And  cheer  each  freshening  flower. 

Her  lips  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 
A  richer  dye  has  graced  them ; 

They  charm  th'  admiring  gazer's  sight, 
And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them ;. 

Her  smile  is,  like  the  .evening,  mild, 
When  feather'd  tribes  are  courting. 

And  little  lamb  ins  wanton  wild, 
'  In  playful  bauds  disporting. 

Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe, 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her; 
As  blooming  Spring  unbends  the  brow 

Of  surly,  savage  Winter. 
Detraction's  eye  no  aim  can  gain. 

Her  winning  powers  to  lessen; 
And  spiteful  Envy  grips  in  vain, 

The  poison'd  tootli  to  fasten. 

Ye    Powers    of    Honour,  ■  Love,    and 
Truth, 

From  every  ill  defend  her; 
Inspire  the  highly-favqur'd  youth 

The  destinies  intend  her; 
Still  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame. 

Responsive  in  each  bosom; 
And  bless'  the  dear  parental  name 

With  many  a  filial  blossom. 


THE  RANTIN'  DOG  THE  DADDIE 
O'T. 

Tune—"  East  neuk  o'  Fife." 

The  subject  of  this  lively  ditty  was  a  girl  of 
the  name  of  Elizabeth  Paton,  a  domestic 
servant  in  the  poet's  house,  and  the  mother 
of  his  illegitimate  child — "  sonsie,  sihirking, 
dear-bought  Bess."  "I  composed  it,"  he 
says,  "  pretty  early  in  life,  and  seji't  it  to  a 
young  girl,  a  very  particular  acquaintance 
of  mme,  who  was  at  the  time  under  a 
cloud." 

Oh  wha  my  babie-clouts'  will  buy  ? 
Oh  wha  will  tent'  me  when  I  cry  ? 
Wha  will  kiss  me  where  I  lie  ? — 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 

Oh  wha  will  own  he  did  the  faut  ? 
Oh  wha  will  buy  the  groanin'  maitt  ?^ 


'  Baby-clothes.     '  Heed.     "  Malt  to  brew 
ale  to  wercoihc  the  birth  of  a  chil.l. 


198 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Oh  wlia  will  tell  me  liDw  to  ca't — 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 

Wlien  I  mount  the  creepie-chair,* 
Wha  will  sit  beside  me  there  ! 
Gie  me  Rob,  I'll  seek  nae  mair, 
•The  rantin'  sdog  the  daddie  o't. 

Wha  will  crack  to  me  my  lane  1 
Wlia  will  mak  me  fidgin-fain  ?* 
Wha  will  kiss  me  o'er  again  ? — 
The  rantin'  dog  the  daddie  o't. 


MENIE.+ 

Tune — "  Johnny's  Gray  Breeks." 

The  choras  of  this  beautiful  lyric  was  bor- 
rowed by  L  rns  f  -om  a  song  composed  by 
an  Edinburgh  gentleman ;  but  it  n'as  been 
generally  objected  to  by  critics  as  interfer- 
ing with  the  sombre  sentiments  of  the 
lines. 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 
Her  robe  assiime  its  vernal  hues, 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 
All  freshly  steep'd  in  morning  dews. 


And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  dote. 
And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  ee  ? 

For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  and  it's  like  a 
hawk, 
And  it  winna  let  a  body  be  ! 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw. 
In  vain  to  me  the  violets  spring; 

In  vain  to  me  in  glen  or  shaw' 
The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite''  sing. 

The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie^  seedsman  stalks; 

But  life  to  me's  a  weary  dream, 
A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks." 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 
Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry. 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims. 
And  everytlring  is  blest  but  I. 

The    shepherd    steeks'    his    faulding 

slap,"  [shrill; 

And    owre  the  moorlands  whistles 

*  Fidget  with  delight. 

>  Wood.  "  Linnet.  =  Heedful,  i  Wakes. 
'  Shuts.    «  Gate. 

*  The  stool  of  repentance,-  on  wjiich  cul- 
prits formerly  sat  when  making  public  satis- 
faction in  the  church. 

t  The  common  abbreviation  of  Mariamne. 


Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wandering  step, 
I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  liill. 

And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  a.ni" 
•  dark, 
Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side. 
And  mounts   and  sings  on  fluttering 
wings,  [glide.' 

A    woe  •  worn    ghaist  I  hameward 

Come,-  Winter,  with  thy  angry  howl, 
And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree:   , 

Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless 
soul,  .  1  '. 

When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me! 


LAMENT, 

WEITTEN  AT  A  TIME   WHEN  THE  POET 
WAS  ABOOT  TO  LEAVE   SCOTLAND. 

Tune—"  The  Banks  of  the  Devon." 

These  verses  were -first  given  to  the  public  in' 
,    the  columns  of  the  -Z>u»tyries  JouruaL 


O'ER  the  inistshrouded  cliffs  of  the 
lone  mountain  straying, 
Wliere  the  wild  winds  of  winter  in- 
cessantly rave. 
What  woes  wring  my  heart  while  in- 
tently surveying 
The    storm's    gloomy  path  on  the 
breast  of  the  wave! 

Ye  foam-crested  billows,  allow  me  to 

wail,  [native  shore; 

Ere  ye  toss  me  afar  from  my  loved 

Where    the    flower     which,    blooni'd 

sweetes''  in  Coila's  green  vale, 

The  pride  of  my  bosom,  my  Mary's 

no  more! 

No  more  by  the  banks  of  the  streamlet 

we'llwander,  [in  the  wave: 

And  smile  at  the  moon's  rimpled  face 

No  more  shiJl  my  arms  cling  with 

fondness  around  her, 

For  the  dewdrops  of  morning  fall 

cold  on  her  grave. 

No  more  shall  the  soft  thrill  of  love 

warm  my  breast,       [tant  shore; 

I  haste  with  the  storm  to  a  far-dis- 

Where,    unknown,    unlamented,    my 

ashes  shall  rest,  [more. 

And  joy  shall  revisit  my  bosom  no 


SONGS. 


THERE  WAS  A  LASS. 
Tdne — ''  Duncan  Davison." 

There  was  a  lass,  they,  ca'd  her  Meg, 
And  she  held  o'er  the  moor  to  spin; 

There  was  a  lad  that  foUow'd  her, 
They  ca'd  liim  Duncan  Davison. 

The  moor  was  driegh'  and  Meg  was 
sklegli,* 

Her  favour  Duncan  couldna  win ; 

For  wi'  the  rock  she  wad  him  knock. 
And  Siyo  she  shook  the  temper-pin. 

As  o'er  the  moor  they  lightly  foor,' 
A  burn  was  clear,  a  glen  was  green, 

Upon    the    banks    they    eased   their 
shanks, 

And  aye  she  set  the  wheel  between: 

But  Duncan  swore  a  haly  aith, 

That  Meg  should  be  a  bride  the  mom, 

Then  Meg  took  up  her  spinnin'  graith,* 
And  ilang  them  a'  out  o'er  the  burn. 

We'll  big  a  house — a  wee,  wee  house. 

And  we  will    live    like  king  and 
queen, 
Sae  blithe  and  merry  we  will  be 

When  ye  sit  by  the  wheel  at  e'en. 
A  man  may  drink  and  no  be  drunk; 

A  man  may  fight  and  no  be  slain; 
A  man  may  kiss  a  bonny  lass. 

And  aye  be  welcome  back  again. 


AFTON  WATER. 
TiTNE— "The  Yellow-hair'd  Laddie." 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Af  ton,  among  thy 
green  braes,  [thy  praise; 

Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in 

My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring 
stream —  [lier  dream. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds 
through  the  glen,  [thorny  den. 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon 
Tllou     green-crested      lapwing,     thy 
screaifting  forbear —  [ing  fair. 

I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumber- 
How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbour- 
ing hills,  [winding  rills; 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear 


There  daily  I  waader  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in 
my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  val- 
leys below,  .  [roses  blow; 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  prim- 
There  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over 
the  lea,  [and  me. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how.  lovely 
it  glides,  [resides; 

And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary 

How  wanton  thy  waters  hei 'snowy  feet 
lave,  [thy  clear  wave. 

As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  she  stems 

Flow  geiitly,-  sweet  Afton,  among  thy 
green  braes,  [my  lays; 

Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  thteme.of 

My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring 
stream —  .       [not  her  dream  ! 

Flow    gently,   sweet    Afton,'  disturb 


THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

Tune — *'  Tlie  deuks  dang  o'er  my  daddy." 

"  This,"  says  the  poet, "  was  a  composition  of 
mine  before  I  was  at  all  known  in  the 
world.  My  Highland  lassie  [Mary]  was  a 
"warm-hearted,  charming  young  creature  as 
ever  blessed  a  man  with  generous  Jpve." 
For  an  account  of  this  simple,  inf^esting 
girl,  whom  the  poet's  passfdn  has  placed  in 
'•  Fame's  proud  temple,"  and  clothed,  with 
immortality  as  with  a  gartnent,  the  i;eader 
is  referred  to  the  introduction  to  the  verses 
entitled,  "To  Mary  in  Heaven,"  p.  219. 
Burns  having  sent  this"  song  to  Mary  when 
she  was  residing  with  her  parents  in  the 
Highlands,  her  mother  saw  it,  and  greatly 
admired.it;  and  years  after -the  death  of 
this  gentle  girl,  whom  every  one  seems  to 
have  loved,  it  is  said  the  poor -old  woman 
was  wont  to  soothe  her  sorrow  ,  by  singing 
to  her  grandchildren  the  sweet  strains  in 
■which  the  poet  has  celebrated  the  beauty 
and  charms  of  her  favourite  daughter.  Hav- 
ing outlived  her  husband  and  many  of  her 
children,  she  died  in  great  poverty  at 
Greenock  in  1822. 

Nab  gentle*  dames,  though  e'er  Sae 

fair. 
Shall  ever  be  my  Muse's  care: 


'  Tedious. 
*  Gear. 


s  High-minded.       »  Went. 


*  Gentle  is  used  here  in  opposition  to  sim- 
ple, in  the  Scottish  and  old  English  sense  of 
the  word. — i^ae  gentle  Hatnes — no  high-blood- 
ed names. — Cukrie,  . 


300 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Their  titles  a'  are  empty  show; 
&ie  me  my  Highland  Lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen  sae  husliy,  0, 
Ahoon  the  plains  sae  rushy,  O, 
I  set  me  down  wi'  right  good  will. 
To  sing  my  Highland  Lassie,  0. 

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. 

But  fickle  Fortune  frowns  on  me, 
And  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea  ! 
But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow, 
I'll  love  my  Highland  Lassie,  0. 

Although  through   foreign     climes  I 

range, 
I  know  her  heart  will  never  change, 
For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour's 

glow, 
My  faithful  Highland  Lassie,  0. 

For  her  I'll  dare  the  billows'  roar, 
For  her  I'll  trace  the  distant  shore. 
That  Indian  wealth  may.  lustre  thvow 
Around  my  Highland  Lassie,  0. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  liaud. 
By  sacred  tiiith  and  honour's  band  ! 
'Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
I'm  thine,  my  Highland  Lassie,  0. 

Fareweel  the  glen  sae  bushy,  0! 
Fareweel  the  plain  sae  rnsliy,  0! 
To  other- lands  I  now  must  go, 
To  sing  my  Highland  Lassie,  0! 


MARY! 

Tune — "Blue  Bonnets." 

This  beautiful  "song  was  found  amongst  the 
poet's  manuscripts  after  his  death,  inscribed, 
A  Prayer  for  Mary."    Who  Mary  was  the 
world  knows. 

Powers  celestial !  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 
While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Mary,  be  your  care; 
Let  her  form  sae  fair  and  faultless, 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own. 
Let  my  Mary's  kindred  spirit 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down. 

Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her 
Soft  and  peaceful  as.  her  breast; 


Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her. 
Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest. 

fluardian  angels!  oh,  protect  her, 
Wlien  in  distant  lands  I  roam;  [me, 

To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles 
Make  her  bosom  still  my  Jiome  I 


WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY 
MARY? 

rt',  ■ 
"  In  my  very  early  years,"  says  the  poet,  in  a 
.letter  to  Mr.  Thomson  in  1792,  "  when  I  was 
thinking  of  going  to  the  West  Indies,  I  took 
the  following  farewell  of  a  dear  girl  [Higfe 
land  Mary]  .■^' — 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  the  Atlantic's  roar? 

Oh,-  sweet    grow    the  lime   and  the 
orange. 

And  the  apple  on  the  pine; 
But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 

Can  never  equal  thine. 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 
I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be 
true; 

And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me 
When  I  forget  my  vow ! 

Oh,  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary,- 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand; 

Oh,  plight  me  jour  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 
In  mutual  affection  to  join;  [us) 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part 
The  hour  and  the  moment  o'  time! 


ELIZA. 


Tlne— "  Gilderoy.'" 
Fbom  thee,  Eliza,  I  must  go. 

And  from  my  native  shore: 
The  cruel  fates  between,  us  throw 

A  boundless  ocean's  roar; 
But  bolindless  oceans  roaring  wide 

Between  my  love  and  me. 
They  never,  never  can  divide 

My  heart  and  soul  from  thee! 

Farewell,  farewell,  Eliza  dear, 

The  maid  that  I  adore! 
A  boding  voice  is  in  mine  ear. 

We  part  to  meet  no  more'! 


SONGS. 


301 


The  latest  throb  that  leaves  my  heart, 
While  death  stands  victor  by. 

That  throb,  Eliza,  is  thy  part, 
And  thine  that  latest  sigh  I 


A  FAREWELL  TO  THE  BRETH- 
REN OF  ST.  JAMES'  LODGE, 
TORBOLTON. 

Tune—"  Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a' !" 

The  poet  is  said  to  have  chanted  this  "  Fare- 
well "  at  -a  meeting  of  St.  Jlmes'  Mason 
Lodge  at  Torbolton,  while  his  chest  was  on 
the  way  to  Greenock,  and  he  had  just 
written  the  last  song  he  thought  he  should 
ever  compose  in  Scotland.  The  person 
alluded  to  in  the  last  stanza  was  Major- 
Genera,  James  Montgomery,  who  was 
-Worshipful  Master,  whilft  Burns  was 
Depute-Master. 

Adieu  !  a  heart-warm,  fond  adieu  ! 

Dear  brothers  of  the  mystic  tie  ! 
Ye  favonr'd,  ye  enlighten'd.few, 

Companions  of  my  social  joy  ! 
Though  I  to  foreign  lands  must  hie, 

Pursuing  Fortune's  slidd'ry  ba',' 
With  melting  heart,  and  brimful  eye, 

I'll  mind  you  still,  though  far  awa'. 

Oft  have  I  met  your  social  band, 

And  spent  the  cheerful,  festive  night; 
Oft,  honour'd  with  supreme  cWnmand, 

Presided  o'er  the  sons  of  light: 
And,  by  that  hierogl^■Tlhic  bright, 

Whicli  none  but  craftsmen  ever  saw  !■ 
Strong    memory    on    my  heart  shall 
write 

Those  happy  scenes  when  far  awa'. 

May  freedom,  Jiarmony,  and  love, 

Unite  you  in  the  grand  design. 
Beneath  "the  Omniscient  eye  above. 

The  glorious  Architect  Divine  ! 
Tliat  you  may  keep  the  unerring  line, 

Still  rising  by  the  plummet's  law. 
Till  order  bright  completely  shine, 

Shall  be  my  prayer  when  far  awa'. 

And  you,  farewell!  whose  merits  claim, 

Justly,  that  highest  badge  to  wear  ! 
Heaven  bless    your    honour'd,    noble 
name, 

To  masonry  and  Scotia  dear  ! 
A  last  request  permit  me  here, 

When  yearly  ye  assenible  a', 
One  round — I  ask  it  with  a  tear — 

To  him  the  Bard  that's  far  awa'. 


'  Slippery  ball. 


THE  SONS  OF  OLD  KILLlE. 

Tune — "  Shawnboy." 

Bums  having  been  induced  to  participate  in 
the  festivities ,  of .  the  Kilmarnock  Mason 
Lodge,  which  was  presided  over  by  his 
friend  William  Parker,  produced  the  follow- 
ing appropriate  song  for  the  occasion ; — 

Yb  sons  of  old  Killie,  assembled  by 
Willie, 
To  follow  the  noble  voca,tion ; 
Your  thrifty  old  mother   has  scarce 
such  another 
To  sit  in  that  honoured  station. 
I've  little  to  say,  but  only  to  pray. 

As  praying's  the  ton  of  your  fashion.; 
A  prayer  from  the  Muse  you  well  may 
excuse, 
'Tis  seldom  her  favourite  passion. 

Ye  powers  who  preside  o'er  the  wind 
and  the  tide,  ~  , 

Who  marked  each  element's  border; 
Who  formed  this  frame  with  benefi- 
cent aim, 
Whose  sovereign  statute  is  order; 
Within  this  dear  mansion  may  way- 
ward Contention 
Or  withered  Envy  ne'er  enter; 
May   Secrecy  round  be   the  mystical 
bound, 
And  Brotherly  Love  be  the  centre  ! 


SONG, 


IN     THE     CHARACTER     OF     A     RUINED 
FARMER. 

Tune — "  Go  from  my  window,  love,  do." 

The  sun  he  is  sunk  in  the  west. 
All  creatures  retired  to  rest, 
While  here  I  sit  all  sore  beset 

With  sorrow,  grief,  and  wo; 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0  1 

The  prosperous  man 'is  asleep. 

Nor  hears  how  the  whirlwinds  sweep; 

But  Misery  and  I  must  watch 

The  surly  tempest  blow: . 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0  ! 

There  lies  the  dear  partner  of  my  breast, 
Her  cares  for  a  moment  at  rest: 
Must  I  see  thee,  my  youthful  pride, 

Thus  brought  so  very  Ipwl 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0  ! 


203 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


There  lie  my  sweet  babies  in  lier  aTms, 
No    anxious    fear   tlieir    little    lieart 

alarms; 
But  for  tlieir  sake  my  lieart  dotli  aclie, 
With  many  a  bitter  throe; 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0  ! 

I  once  was  by  Fortune  carest, 
I  once  could  relieve  the  distrest: 
Now,  life's  poor  support  hardly  earn'd, 
My  fate  will  scarce  bestow: 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0  ! 

No  comfort,  no  comfort  I  have  ! 
How  welecme  to  me  were  the  grave  ! 
But  then  my  wife  and  children  dear, 

0  whither  would  they  go  'I 
And  it's  O,  fickle  Fortune,  O  ! 

O  whither,  0  whither  shall  I  turn  ! 
All  friendless,  forsaken,  forlorn  ! 
For  iu  this  world  Rest  or  Peace 

1  never  more  shall  know  ! 
And  it's  0,  fickle  Fortune,  0  ! 


THE  LASS  OF  BALLOCHMTLE. 

Tune — *'  Miss  Forkes'  Farewell  to  Banff." 

The  beautiful  estate  of  Ballochmyle,  which  is 
situated  on  the  Ayr,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Mauchline,  was  at  this  period  of  the  po- 
et's life  transferred  from  the  family  of  the 
Whitefoords  (whose  departure  he  has 
lamented  in  the  lines  on  "  The  Braes  of 
Ballochmyle'')  to  Mr.  Claud  Alexander,  a 
gentleman  who  had  made  a  large  fortune  as 
paymaster-general  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany's troops  at  Bengal  ;  and  havinpf  just 
taken  up  his  residence  at  the  mansion- 
house,  his  sister.  Miss  Wilhelmina  Alexan- 
der, was  one  day  walking  out  through  the 
grounds,  which  appear  to  have  been  a  fav- 
ourite haunt  of  Burns',  when  she  accident- 
ally encountered  him  in  a  musing  attitude, 
with  his  shoulder  leaning  against  a  tree. 
As  the  grounds  were  thought  to  be  strictly 
private,  the  lady  appears  to  have  "been 
somewhat  startled  ;  but,  having  recovered 
herself,  passed  on^  and  thought  no  more  of 
the  matter.  A  short  time  afterwards,  how- 
ever, she  was  reminded  of  the  circumstance 
by  receiving  a  letter  from  the  poet,  enclos- 
ing the  song.  "  I  had  roved  out."  he  says, 
"  as  chance  directed  in  the  favourite  haunts 
of  my  Mu£e,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr.  to 
view  nature  ui  all  the  gayety  of  the  vernal 
year.  The  evening  sun  was  flaming  over 
the  distant  western  hills ;  not  a  breath 
stirred  the  crimson  opening  blossom,  or  the 
verdant  spreading  leaf.  It  was  a  golden 
moment  for  a  poetic  heart.  Such  was  the 
scene,  and  such  was  the  hour — when,  in  a 


corner  of  my  prospect,  I  spied  one  pf  the'rj 
fairest  pieces  of  Nature's  workmariship  that 
ever  crowned  a  poetic  landscape  Or  met  a 
poet's  eye.     The  enclosed    song  was    fhfe^- 
work  of  my  return  home  ;. and- perhaps*'jit 
but  poorly  answers  what  might  have  Deen 
expected  from  such  a  scene."     Much  to  the 
mostification  of  Btirns,  however,  the  lady 
took  no  notice  of  either  the  letter  or.  the 
song,  although  she  ultimately  displayefiili 
high  sense  of  the  honcmr  which  the  genius 
of  the  poet  had  conferred  on  her.    She  died 
■  unmarried  in  1843,  at  the  age  of  qightynr, 
eight.  ■'   '  '■;,  "'^t 

'TwAS    even — the    dewy^  fields    were 
green,  -     ■  ,    ■ 

On  every  blade  the  pearls  hang,         ;' 
The  zephyrs  wanton'd  round  the  bean, ," 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang:    -' 
In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang,  ..  ,_t'. 

All  nature  listening  seem'd  the  while, 
Except  where  greenwood  echoes  rangt.T^' 

Ainang  the  braes  o'  Ballochmyle.     '  f= 

With  careless  step  I  onward  stray 'd,     ' 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  Nature's  joy,  -  ' 
When  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 

A  maiden  fair  I  chanced  to  spy; 
Her  look  was  lilte  the  morning  s  eye,  '  - 

Her  air  like  Nature's  vernal  smile,  .„, 
Perfection  ■wh'isper'd,  passing  by,'    ''.; 

Behold  the  lass  o'  Ballochmyle  !        ' . 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May,  . , 

And  sweet  is  night  in  autumn  mil^; ' 
When  roving  tlirough  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wandering  in  the  lonely  wild:     „,, 
But  woman,  Nature's  darling  child  ! '  .',. 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  com- 
pile; ~ 
Even  there  her  other  works  are  foil'cl 

By  the  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 

Oh  !  had  she  been  a  country  maid,      ,7 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Though  shelter'd  in  the  lowest  shed  ,1? 

That  ever  rose  on  Scotland's  plain;" 
Through  weary  vvinter'swind  and  rain,. 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would,  toijv 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochmyle  ! 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slippery 

steep, 

Wliere  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine; 

And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the 

deep, 

Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine; 


.  SONGS. 


Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine 

;,To  tend  the  flocks,  or  tillthe  soil,  ' 
A»Q  every  day  have  joys  divine 

With  the  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochmyle'. 


.THE  BONNY  BANKS  OF  AYR. 

Tune — '^  Roslin  Castle."* 

TSe  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast, 
Loud  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast; 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain ; 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor. 
The  scatter'd  coveys  meet  secure; 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care. 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 
-.* 

Tjie  Auliuran.  mourns  her  ripening  corn. 
By  eariy.  Winter's  ravage  torn; 
Across  her  placid,  azure  sky, 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly: 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave — 
1  think  upon  the  stormy  wave. 
Where  many  a  danger  I  must  dare. 
Far  from  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

'Tis  not  the  surging  billow's  roar, 
'Tis  not  the  fatal,  deadly  shore; 
Though  death  in  every  shape  appear, 
The  wretched  have  no.  more  to  fear  ! 
Bijt  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound. 
That  heart  transpierced  with  many  a 

wound; 
These  bleed  afresh,  those  ties  I  tear. 
To  leaye  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 

Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales. 
Her  heathy  moors  and  winding  vales; 
The    scenes    where    wretched    fancy 

roves. 
Pursuing  past  unhappy  loves  !     [foes  ! 
Farewell,   my  friends  !    farewell  my 
My  peace  with  these,   my  love  with 

tiiose — 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare; 
PaTe\Vell  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr ! 


-X'--'-  THE  BANKS  OF  BOON. 

FIRST  TBESION. 

"Hie  following  song  relates  to  an  incident  in 
real  life— an  unhappy  love  tale.  The  unfor- 
tunate heroine  was  a  beautiful  and  accom- 
'{<lishbd  woman,  the  daughter  and  heiress  of 


a  gentleman  of  fortune  in  Carrick.  .  Having; 
been  deserted  bv  her  lover,  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  Wigtonshir^  pbrprietor,  to  whom 
she  had  born  a  child  without  the  sanction  of 
the  Church,  she  is  said  to  have  'died  of  a 
broken  heart.  The  poet  composed  a  second 
version  of  this  song  in  ,1792,  for  the  Scois 
Musical  Museum;  but  it'  lacks  the  pathos- 
and  simplicity  of  the  present  one. 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonny  Coon, 
How  can'ye  bloom  sae  fair; 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 
And  I  sae  f  u'  o'  care  ! 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonny 
bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  love  was  true. 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  bonny- 
bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

Aiid  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonny  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love. 
And  sae  did  I  b'  mine; 

Wi'  lightsome  lieart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  off  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw'  the  rose. 

But  left  the  thorn- wi'  me. 


THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 

A  FEAGMENT. 

Tune — "Killiecrankic."." ' 

WHEN'Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood. 

And  did  our  helm  thraw,'  man, 
Ae  night,  at  tea,  began  a  plea. 

Within  America,  man: 
Then  up  they  gat  the  maskin'-pat,'' 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,'*  man; 
And  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 

1  Stole. 
'  Turn.  2  Teapot.  » Throw. 
*  The  English  Parliament  having  imposed 
an  excise  duty  upon  tea  imported  .into  North 
America,  the  Kast  India  Company  sent  several 
ships  laden  with  that  article  to  Boston  ;  but, 
on  their  arrival,  the  natives  went  on  board  by 
force  of  arms,  and  emptied  all  the  tea  into  the 
sea. 


304 


BUKNS'  WOKKS. 


Then  througli  the  lakes,  Montgomeryf 
takes, 

I  wat  he  wasna  slaw,  man! 
Down  Lowrie's  burn  i  he  took  a  turn. 

And  Garleton  did  ca',  man: 
But  yet,  what-reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 

Montgomery -like  §  did  fa',  man : 
Wi'  sword  in  hand,  before  his  band, 

Amanghis  en"mies  a",  man. 

Poor  Tammy  Gage,  within  a  cage. 

Was  kept  at  Boston  ha',  mau;| 
Till  Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knowe 

For  Philadelphia,  man; 
Wi'  sword  and  gun  he  thought  a  sin 

Quid  Cliristian T)luid  to  draw,  man; 
But  at- New  York,  wi'  knife  and  fork. 

Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma',  man.f 

Burgoyne  gaed  up,  like  spiir  and  whip. 

Till  Fraser  brave  did  fa',  man; 
Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day, 

In  Saratoga  shaw,'' man.** 
C'ornwallis  fought  as  long's  he  dought" 

And  did  the  buckskins  claw,  man : 
But  Clinton's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save, 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man. 

Then  Montague,  and  Guildford  too. 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man; 
And  Sack  villa  doure,*  wha  stood  the 
stoure,' 

The  German  chief  to  tliraw,'  man; 
For  Paddy  Burk,  like  ony  Turk, 

Nae  mercy  had  at  a',  man; 
And  Cliarlie  Fox  threw  by  the  box, 

And  loosed  his  tinkler  jaw.f  f  man.|| 


'  Woulq.      »  Could.       '  Stubborn.       '  Dust. 
8  Thwart. 

1  General  Montgomery  invaded  Canada  in 
1775,  and  took  Montreal,  the  British  general, 
Sir  Guy  Carleton;  retiring  before  him. 

X  A  pseudonym  for  the  St.  Lawrence. 

§  A  compliment  to  the  poet's  patrons,  the 
Montgomeries  of  Coilsfield. 

I  An  allusion  to  General  Gage's  being  be- 
sieged in  Boston  by  General  Washington. 

1  Alluding  to  an  inroad  made  by  Howe, 
when  a  large  number  of  cattle  was  destroyed. 

**  An  allusion  to  the  surrender  of  General 
Burgoyne's  army  at  Saratoga. 

it  Free-spoken  tongue.  Tinkers  are  pro- 
verbial for  their  power  of  speech. 

%i  By  the  union  of  Lord  North  and  Mr. 
Fox,  in  1783,  tlie  heads  of  the  celebrated  coa- 
lition, Lord  Shclburne  was  compelled  to  re- 
sign. 


Then  Eockinghajn  took.'up  the  game. 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca',  man; 
When    Shelburne  meek  held  up  his 
cheek, 

Conform  to  gospel  law,  man; 
Saint  Stephen's  boys  wj'  jarring  noise, 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 
For  North  and  Fox  united  stocks, 

And  bdre  him  to  the  wa',  man.       1 

Then  clubs  and  hearts  were  Cliarlie's 
cartes. 

He  swept  the  gtaltes  awa',  man, . 
Till  the  diamond's  ace,  of  Indian  race. 

Led  him  3,'%a.u  faux  pas,  man;§§.\ 
The  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  placards,' 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca',  man; 
And  Scotland  drew  her  pipe,  and  blew, 

' '  Up,  Willie,  waur'"  theni  a',  man !" 

Behind    the  throne    then.  Grenville's 
gone, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man; 
While  slee  Dundas  aroused  the  class 

Be-north  the  Roman  wa',  man: 
And  Chatham's  wraith,"  in  heavenly 
graith, 

(Inspired  Bardies  saw,  man;) 
Wi'  kindling  eyes  cried,  "Willie,  rise !' 

' '  Would  I  hae  f  ear'd  them  a' ,  m:au  V 

But,  word  and  blow.  North,  Fox,  and 
Co., 
GowfE'd'-  Willie  like  a  ba',  man. 
Till  Suthrons  raise,  and  coost'^  their 
claes 
Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man; 
And  Caledon  threw  by  the  drone. 

And  did  her  whittle"  draw,  man; 
And  swoor  f  u'  rude,  through  dirt,. and 
bluid. 
To  make  it  guid  in  law,  man. 


THE  BIRKS  OP  ABERFELDT. 
Tune—"  The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy." 

The  poet  tells'  us  he  composed  this  song  on  a 
visit  which  he  paid  to  the  beautiful  falls  of 


'  Cheers.    ,  '»  Beat.  "   Ghost. 

^2  Knocked  him  about.  The  phrase  properly 
refers  to  the  game  of  frolf.  i*  Doffed. 
"  Knife. 

§§  An  allusion  to  Mr.  Fox's  India  Bill,  which 
threw  him  out  of  office  in  December,  1783. 


SONGS. 


205 


Moness,,,at  Abgiff eldy,.,  in  Perthshire,  while' 
on  his  way  to  InvefnesW.  The  air  is  old 'and 
sprightly. 

BoNNT  lassie,  -will  ye  go, 
Will  ye  go,  will  ye  go; 
Bonny  lassie,  will  ye  go 
'  "^ "  '     To  tiie  birks'  of  Aberf eldy? 

Now  simmer  blinks'^  on  flowery  braes, 
Andd'er  tlie  crystal  streamlet  plays; 
,Come,  let  ns  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  liing 
The  little  birdies  blithely  sing. 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

The  braes  ascend,  like  lofty  wa's,    ' 
The  foaming  stream  deep-roaring  fa's, 
O'  erhung    wi'     fragrant      spreading 
shaws,*  .       •  ■ 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy.  • 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown'd  wi'  flow- 

;.  ~^ers, 
Whit?  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pdurs, 
And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 
The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Let  Fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee, 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 
Silpremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee. 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 


THE    BONNY  LASS  OF  ALBANY. 

Tune — "  Mary's  Dream.'' 

** The  , following  song,.", says  Chambers,  "is 
^-^'%rmted  from  a  manuscript  book  in  Burns' 
naBd-writiHg  in  the-  -possession-  of  -Mr.  B. 
Nightingale  of  London."  The  heroirifc  'was 
the  natural  daughter  of  Prince  Charles  Ed- 
Ward,  ^y  Clementina  Walkinshaw,  -with 
whom,  it  is  well  known,  he  lived  for  many 
years..  The  Prince  afterwards  caused  her 
to  be  legitimated  by  a  deed  of  the  parlia- 
ment of  Paris  in  1787,  and  styled  hef  the 
Duchess  of  Albany. 

My  heart  is  wae,.  and  unco  wae,' 
•  To  think  upon  the  raging  sea 
That  roars.between  her  gardens  green 
And  the  bonny  lass  of  Albany.  * 


^  Birches — Birchwood. 
3  Woods. 


--Glances. 


This  lovely  maid's  of  royal  blood 
That  rulfed  Albion's  kingdoms  three, 
But  oh,  alas!  for  her  bonny  face, 
They've  wrang  d  the  Lass  of  Albany. 

In  the  rolling  tide  of  spreading  Clyde 
There  sits  an  isle  of  high  degree. 
And  a  town  of  fame  whose  princely 

namo 
Should  grace  the  Lass  of  Albany. 

But  there's  a  youth,  a  witless  youth, 
That  fills  the  place  where  she  should 

be;  ■ 
We'll  send  him  o'er  to  his  native  shore. 
And  bring  our  ain  sweet  Albany. 

Alas  the  day,  and  wo  the  day, 
A  false  usurper  won  the  gree^ 
Who  now   commands  the  towers  and 

lands — 
The'royal  right  of  Albany. 

We'll  daily  pray,  we'll  nightly  pray, 
On  bended  knees  most  fervently, 
The  time  may  come,  with  pipe  and 

drum. 
We'll  welcome  hame  fair  Albany. 


LADY  ONLIE. 
Tune— "Ruffian's  Rant.", 

A'  the  lads  o'  Thomiebank,     [Buoky,' 
When    they   gae    to_  the    shore  .0' 

They'll  step  in  and  talc  a  pint 
Wi'  La;dy  Onlie,  honest  Lucky!'' , 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky, 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o'  Bucky; 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale. 

The  best  on  a'  the  shore  o'  Bucky. 

Her  house  sae  bien,^  her  curch*  sae 
clean, 

I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chucky;' 
And  clieerlie  blinks  the  ingle-gleed* 

Of  Lady  Onlie,  honest?  Lucky! 

Lady  Onlie,  honest  Lucky, 

Brews  guid  ale  at  shore  o'  Bucky; 
I  wish  her  sale  for  her  guid  ale. 

The  best  on  a'  the  shore  o'  Bucky. 

"  Superiority. 

^  Buckhaven.  ^  Goodwife.  ^  Well-filled. 
* -Kerchief — a  covering  for  the  head.  ^  Dear, 
^  Blazing  fire. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


BLITHE  WAS  SHE. 

Tune — '*  Andrew  and  his  Cutty  Gun." 
Blithe,  blithe,  and  merry  was  she, 
Blithe  was  she  butt  and  ben :' 
Blithe  by  the  banks  of  Earn, 
And  blithe  in  Glenturit  glen. 

By  Auchtertyre  grows  the  aik,' 
On  Yarrow  banks  the  birken  shaw;' 

But  Phemie  was  a  bonnier  lass 
Than  braes  o'  Yarrow  ever  saw. 

Her  looks  were  like  a  flower  in  May, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  morn; 

She  tripped  by  the  banks  of  Earn, 
As  right's  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 

Her  bonny  face  it  was  as  meek 
-  As  ony  lamb  upon  a  lea; 
The  evening  sun  was  ne'er  sae  sweet. 
As  was  the  blink  o'  Phemie's  ee. 

The  Highland  hills  I've  wander'd  wide. 
And  o'er  the  Lowlands  I  hae  been; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blithest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 


BONNY  DUNDEE. 
Tune — "  Bonny  Dundee^" 

Thissong  appeared  in  the  first  volume  of  the 
Museum,  The  second  verse  alone  is  Burns', 

'  the  first  having, been  taken  from  a  very  old 
homely  ditty.  -. 

Oh,   whare  ^d  ye  get  that  hauver' 
meal  bannock?       .  [see? 

Oh,  silly  blind  body,  oh,  dinna  ye 
I  gat  it  frae  a  brisk  young  sodger  lad- 
die, [Dundee. 
Between  Saint  Johnston  and  bonny 
Oh  gin  I  saw  the  laddie  that  gae  me't! 
Aft  has  he  doudled'''  me  upon  his 
knee;  [laddie. 
May  Heaven  protect  my  bonny  Scots 
And  send  him  safe  hame  to  his  baby 
and  me! 

My  blessin's  upon  thy  sweet  wee  lippie. 
My  blessin's  upon  tliy  bonny  eebree! 

Thy   smiles  are  sae  like    my  blithe 

sodger  laddie,  [me! 

Tliou's  aye  be  dearer  and  dearer  to 


'  In  kitchen  and  parlour.    =  Oak.    ^  Birch- 
woods. 

'  Oat.        a  Dandled. 


But    I'll  big  a  bower  on  yon  bonny 

banks,  [clear; 

Where    Tay  rins   wimplin'   by  sae 

And  I'll  dead  thee  in  the  tartan  sae 

fine,  [dear. 

And  mak  the  a  man  like  thy  daddie 


THE  JOYFUL  WIDOWER. 

Tune — ''  Maggy  Lauder." 

1  MAKKIBD  with  a  scolding  wife, 

The  fourteenth  of  November; 
She  made  me  weary  of  my  life 

By  one  unruly  member. 
Long  did  I  bear  the  heavy  yoke. 

And  many  griefs  attended; 
But,  to  my  comfort  be  it  spoke. 

Now,  now  her  lite  is  ended. 

We  lived  full  one-and-twenty  years 

As  man  and  wife  together; 
At  length  from  me    her  course 
steer'd, 

And's  gone  I  know  not  whither: 
Would  I  could  guess,  I  do  profess, 

I  speak,  and  do  not  flatter. 
Of  all  the  women  in  the  world, 

I  never  could  come  at  her. 

Her  body  is  bestowed  well, 

A  handsome  grave  does  hide  her; 
But  sure  her  soul  is  not  in  hell, 

The  deil  could  ne'er  abide  her. 
I  rather  think  she  is  aloft. 

And  imitating  thunder; 
For  why,  methinks  I  hear  her  voice 

Tearing  the  clouds  asunder. 


she 


A  ROSEBUD  BY  MY  EARLY 
WALK.' 

Tune—"  The  Rosebud." 

This  song  was  composed  in  honour  of  the 
young  lady  to  whom  the  poet  addressed  the 
lines  beginning,  *'  Beauteous  rosebud, 
young  and  gay."  She  was  Miss  Jenny 
Cruikshank,  daughter  of  Mr.  William 
Cruikshank,  one  of  the  masters  of  the  High 
School  of  Edinburgh. 

A  ROSEBUD  by  my  early  walk, 
Adown  a  corn-enclosed  bawk,' 
Sae  gently  bent  its  tlicray  stalk, 
All  on  a  dewy  morning. 


'  An  open  space  in  a  cornfield. 


SONGS. 


307 


Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  lied, 
In  a'  its  crimson  glory  spread 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head. 
It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A  little  linnet  fondly  prest, 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 

Sae  early  in  the  morning. 
She  soon  shall  sec  her  tender  brood. 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood, 
Amang  the  fresh  green  leaves  bedew'd, 

Awalce  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  dear  bird,  young  Jenny  fair  ! 
On  trembling  string,  or  vocal  air. 
Shall  sweetly  pay  the  tender  care 

That  tends  thy  early  morning. 
So  thou,  sweet  rosebud,  young  and  gay, 
Shalt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day. 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 

That  watch'd  thy  early  morning. 


BRAVING   ANGRY  WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Tune — "  Neil  Gow's '  Lamentation  for  Aber- 
cairny." 

The  two  following  son^s  were  written  in 
praise  of  iVliss  Margaret  Chalmers,  a  relative 
of  the  poet's  friend,  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton. 

Where,     braving     angry     Winter's 
storms. 

The  lofty  Ochils  rise. 
Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggy's  charms 

First  blest  my  wondering  eyes; 
As  one  wh9  by  some  savage  stream, 

A  lonely  gem  surveys, 
Astonish'd,  doubly  marks  its  beam. 

With  art's  most  poUsh'd  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild  sequester'd  shade. 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour. 
Where  Peggy's  charms  I  first  survey'd, 

When  first  I  felt  their  power! 
The  tyrant  Death,  with  grim  control. 

May  seize  my  fleeting"  breath ; 
But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 

Must  be  a  stronger  death. 


My  Peggy's  worth,  ray  Peggy's  mind, 
Might  charm  the  first  of  humankind. 
I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air, 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art. 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart. 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye. 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye; 
Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway  ! 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay  I 
The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear. 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear. 
The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarms— 
These  are  all  immortal  charms. 


MY  PEGGY'S  FACE. 

Tune—"  My  Peggy's  Face." 
My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  fonn. 
The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  v/arm ; 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  DEVON. 

Tune — "  Bhanarach  dhonn  a  chruidh." 

'*  These  verses,"  says  Burns,  in  his  notes  in 
the  Musical  Museum^  "  were  composed  on 
a  charming  girl,  Miss  Charlotte  Hamilton, 
who  is  now  married  to  James  M.  Adair, 
physician.  She  is  sister  to  my  worthy  friend 
Gavin  Hamilton  of  Mauchline,  and  vyas 
born  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr  ;  but  was,  at 
the  time  1  wrote  these  lines,  residing  at 
Harvieston,  in  Clackmannanshire,  on,  the 
romantic  banks  of  the  little  river  Devon." 
The  poet,  it  has  been  said,  wished  to  be 
something  more  than  a  mere  admirer  of 
this  young  lady  ;  but 

"  Meg  was  -eaf  as  Ailsa  Craig ;" 

for  the  music  of  his  lyre  appears  to  have 
fallen  on  ears  that  would  not  charm. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  dear- 
winding  Devon, 
With  green-spreading  bi,ishes,  and 
flowers  blooming  fair! 
But  the  bonniest  flower  on  the  banks  of 
the  Devon  [of  the  Ayr. 

Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet-blushing 

flower,  [in  the  dew ! 

In  the  gay  ro.sy  morn,  as  it  bathes 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal 

shower,  [to  renew. 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf 

Oh,  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient 

breezes,  [the  dawn! 

With  chill  hoary  wing,  as  ye  usher 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile, 

that  seizes  [and  lawn! 

The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


I^et  Bourbou  exult  iu  his  gay  gilded 

lilies,  [her  proud  rose! 

And  Eijgland,  triumphant,  display 

A  fairer  than  either  adqrns.  the  green 

yalleys  ,[dering  flows. 

Where  Devon,  sweet  IJevon,  mean- 


MACPHERSON'S  FAREWELL. 

'    Tune — "  M'Pherson's  Rant.' 

This  (ine .  ^one,  which  Lockhart  terms  "  a 
grand  lyric,'  and  Carlyle  "  a  wild,  stormful 
song',  that  dwells  in  ear  and  mind  with 
strange  tenacity,"  was  designed  by  the  poet 
as  an  improvement  of  a  well-known  old 
ditty  trttirled,^  "  Macphenson^s  Lament," 
and  which  is  said  to  have  been  written  by  a 
Highland  freebooter  a-night  or  two  before 
his  execution.  As  this  hero's  history  con- 
tains^OQte  elemests-of  interest,  we  borrow 
tiie'foliowinj^ account  of  himfrora  Mr,  Rob- 
ert Chambers'  recent  edition  of  the  poei's 
works  : — "  James  Macpherson  was  a  noted 
Highland,  freebooter  of  uncommon  .per- 
sonal stren^h,  and  an  excellent  performer 
on  the  violin.  After  holding  the  counties  of 
Aberdeen,  Banff,  arid  Moray  m  fear  for 
some  years,  he  was  seized  by  Duff  of  Braco, 
ancestor  of  the  Earl  of  Fife,  and  tried  before 
the  sheriff  of  Banffshire,  (November  7,  17CX)) 
along  with  certain  gipsies  who  had  been 
take^.injijs  company.  In  the.prison,  while 
he  lay  under  sentence  of  death,  he  com- 
posed a  song  and  an  appropriate  air,  the 
former  commencing  thus  . — 

'  I've  spentmy  time  in  rioting, 
,  Debaiich'd  my  health  and  strength  ; 
I  squander'd  fast  as  pillage  came, 
And-fell  to  sh&me  at  length. 
But  dantonly,  and  wantonly. 

And  rantingly  I'll  gae  ; 
-I'll  play  a  tune,  and  dance  it  roun' 
Beneath  the  gallows-tree.- 

When  brought  to  the  place  of  execution,  on 
the  Gallows-hiU  of  Banff,  (Nov.  16)  he 
played'  the  tune  on  his  violin,  and  then 
asked  if  any  friend  was  present  who  would 
accept  the  instrument  as  a  gift  at  his  hands. 
No' one  coming  'forward,  :he  indigri^htly 
broke  the  violin  on  his  knee,  and  threw 
away  the  fragments;  after  which  he  sub- 
mitted to  his  Kite.  The  traditionary  accounts 
of  Macpherson's  immense  prowess  are  justi- 
fied ;by:his  sword,  which  IS  still  preserved 
iri^Duff  Hou§e,  at  Banff,  and  is  -in  imple- 
ment of  great  -length  and  weight— as-  well 
as  his  holies,  which  were  found  a  few  years 
ago,  and  were  allowed  by  all  who  saw  them ' 
to  be  much  stronger  than  the  bones  of  or- 
dinary men." 

Farewell,    ye  dungepns    dark   and 
strong; 

The  wretch's  destinie! 
Macpherson's  time  will  not  be  long 

On  yonder  gallows-tree. 


Sae  ratitingly,  sao  wantonly, 
Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he; 

He  play'd  a  .spring,  and  danced  ii 
round, 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Oh!  what  is  death  but  parting  breath? — 

On  mony  a  bloody  plain 
I've  dared  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

r scorn  him  yet  again!  "  '' 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands> 
~  And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ! 
And  there's  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland 
Biit  I'll  brave  him  at  a  word.  ' 

I've  lived  a  Hfe  of  sturt  and  strife; 

I  die  by  treacherie . 
It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart 

And  not  avenged  bt', 

Kow   farewell    light — thou    sunshine 
bright, 
And  all  beneath  the  sky  ! 
May  coward-shame  distain  Iris  name. 
The  wretch  that  dares  rmt  die  ! 
-    -.■."ii£*^:_ 

WHISTLE,  AXD   I'LL  COME   TO 
rOU,  MY  LAD. 

This  version  of  an  old  fragment  ihe  poet 
composed  -  for  the  second  -  volume  of  the^ 
Muse7tm  ;  .but  he  afterwards  altered  and 
exteod'ed  it  for  Thomson's  collection. 

On,  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my 
lad-;      ■  [lad- 

Oh,  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my 

Though  father  and  mother  should  baith 
gae  mad,  [lad. 

Oh,  whistle,  and  I'll  come  10  you,  «iy 

Come  down  the  bade  stairs  vyhen  ye 

come  to  court  me; 
Come  down  the  back  stairs  when  ye 

come  to  court  me;  [naebody  see. 

Come  down  the    bade   siaii-s  and,  let 
And  come  as  ye  werena  coming  to  nre. 


STAY,  51Y  CHARMER. 

Tu.NE— "  An  GiUe  dubh  ciar  dhubh.' 

Stay,  my  cliavm<?r,  can  you  leave  me? 

Cruel,  cruel  to  deceive  me  ?  [me; 

Well  you  know  how  much  you  grieve 

Cruel  channer,  can  you  go  ? 

Cruel  charmer,  can  you  go  K,  •  ■ 


SONGS. 


2W- 


By  my  love  so  ill  requited; 

By  the  faith  you  fondly  pliffhted; 

By  the  pangs  of  lovers  slighted; 

Do  not,  do  ilot  leave  me  so  ! 

Do  not,  do  not  leave  me«o  ! 


STBATIIALLAN'S  LAMENT. 

William,  fourth  Viscount  of  Strathallon,  whom 
the  poet  celebrates  in  these  lines,  fell  on  the 
rebel  side'at;=.Culloden  m  i;746.  _  The  ^o^t, 
perhaps  ignorant  of  this  fact,  speaks  of  him 
as  having  survived  the  baltle,  and  fled  for 
safety  to  some  niountain  fastness. 

Thickest niglit,  o'erhang  my  dwelling! 

Howling  tenijjests,  o'er  me  rave  !  ,. 
Turbid  torrents,  wintry  swelling. 

Still  surround  my  lonely  cave ! 

Crystal  streainlets  gently  flowing. 

Busy  haunts  of  base  mankind, 
Western  breezes  softly  blowing, 
'  Suit  not  my  distracted  mind. 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged, 
Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 

Honour's  war  we  strongly  waged. 
But  the  heavens  denied  success. 

Earewell,  fleeting,  fickle  treasure, 
'T ween  Misfortune  and  FoHy  shared! 

Earewell  Peace,  and  farewell  Pleasure! 
Farewell  flattering  man's  regard  ! 

Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us. 
Not  a  hope  tliat  dare  attend. 

The  wide^orld  is  all  before  us — 
But  a  w^rld  without  a  friend  ! 


THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  ROVER. 

Tune—"  Morag." 

Lotm  blaw  the  frosty  breezes. 

The  snaw  the  mountains  cover; 
Like  winter  on  mc  seizes, 

Since  my  young  Highland  rover 

Far  wanders  nations  over. 
Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  stray, 
.May Heaven  be  his  warden; 
lieturn  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey 

And  bonny  Castle-Gordon ! 

The  trees  now  naked  groaning, 
■=Sliall  soon  wi'  leaves  be  hinging, 

Th«  birdies  do wie'  moaning,' 
•  Shall  a'  be  blithely  singing, 


I  Sidly. 


And  every  flower  be  springing.  ' 

Sae  I'll  rejoice  the  lee-lang  day, 

When  by  his  mighty  warden  ' 

My  youth's  return'd  to  fair  StrSrthspey, 

Aid  bonny  Castle-Gordon. 


RAVING  WINDS  AROUND  HER 
BLOWING. 

Tune—"  Macgregor  of  Ruara's  Lament." 

"  I  cpmposed  these  verses,"  says  Burns,  "  on 
Miss  Isabella  M'Leod  of  RaiEi5ay,alIud ibg  to 
her  feelings  on  the  death  of  her  ."iister,  and 
the  still  more  melancholy  death  of  her 
sister's  husband,  the  late  Earlr  of  I^oiidon, 
who  shot  himself -our  of  sheer  heartbreak  at 
some  morti^cation  he  suffered  from  the 
deranged'  state  of -his  finances." 

Raving  winds  around- her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strowing,  . 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 
Isabella  stray'd  deploring: — 
"  Farewell  hours  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure; 
Hail  thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheedess  night  that  knows  no  morrow! 

"  O'er  the  past  too  fondly  wandering, 
On  the  hopeless  future  pdhdering; 
Chilly  Grief  my  life-blood  freezes. 
Fell  Despair  my  fancy  seizes. 
Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing. 
Load  to  Misery  most  distressing, 
Oh,  how  gladly  I'd  ifesign  thee, 
And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee  ! " 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARING 
OCEAN. 

Tu.\E — "Druimion  Dubh." 

"  I  composed  these  verses,"  says  the  poet, 
"  out  of  compliment  to  a  Mrs.  Maclacnlan, 
whose  husband  was  an  officer  in  the  East 
Indies." 

Musing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Wliich  divides  my  love  and  me; 

Wearying  Heaven  in  warm  devotion, . 
-For  his  weal  where'er  he  be. 

Hope  and  Fear's  alternate  billow 
Yielding  late  to  Nature's  law; 

Whispering  spirits  round  my  pillow     ~ 
Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa'.    ' 

Ye  whofai  sorrow  never  wounded. 

Ye  who  never  shed  u,  tear, 
Care-untroubled,  joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy  Day  to  you  is  dear. 


210 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Gentle  Night,  do  thou  befriend  me; 

Downy  Sleep,  the  curtain  draw; 
Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, — 

Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa'  1 


BONNY  PEGGY  ALISON. 
Tune — "  Braes  o'  Balquhidder." 

'  I'LL  kiss  thee  yet,  yet, 

And  I'll  kiss  thee  o'er  again; 
And  I'll  kiss  the  yet,  yet. 
My  bonny  Peggy  Alison  I 

nk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near, 

.  I  ever  mair  defy  them,  0; 
Young  kings  upon  their  hansel'  throne 
Areunae  sae  blest  as  I  am,  0  I 

When  in  my  arras,  wi'  a'  thy  charms, 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure  O, 

I  seek  nae  mair  o'  Heaven  to  share. 
Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure,  0  ! 

And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonny  blue, 
I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever,  0  ! — 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow. 
And  break  it  shall  I  never,  O  I 


THE  CHEVALIER'S  LAMENT. 
Tune—"  Captain  O'Kean." 

"  Yesterclay,*'  wrote  Bums  to  his  friend  Cleg- 
horn,  "as  I -was  riding  through  a  tract  of 
melancholy,  joyless  moors,  between  Gallo- 
way and,  Ayrshire,  it  being  Sunday,  I 
lurried  ray  thoughts  to  psalms,  and  hymns 
and  spiritual  songs  ;  and  your  favourite  air, 
^  Captain  O'Kean,'  coming  at  length  into  my 
heao,  I  tried  these  words  to  it.  I  am  toler- 
ably pleased  with  the  verses  ;  but  as  I  have 
'only  a  sketch  of  the  tune,  I  leave  it  with  you 
.to  try  if  they  suit  the  measure  of  the  music' ' 
Cleglibrn  answered  that  the  words 
delighted  him,  and  fitted  the  tune  exactly. 
"I  wish,"  added  he, "that  you  would  send 
me  a  verse  or  two  more ;  and,  if  you  have 
no  objection,  I  would  have  it  in  the  Jacobite 
style.  Suppose  it  should  be  sung  after  the 
fatal  field  of  CuUoden,  by  the  unfortunate 
Charles."  The  poet  took  his  friend's  advice, 
and  infused  -a  Jacobite  spirit  into  the  first 
verse  as  well  as  the  second. 

The  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green 
leaves  returning. 
The    murmuring    streamlet    winds 
'  through  the  vale; 

1  New-won. 


The  ha-wthom  trees  blow,  in  the  dew 
of  the  morning, 
And  wild  scatter'd  cowslips  bedeck 
the  green  dale; 
But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what 
can  seem  fair. 
While  the  lingering  moments  are 
.'  numher'd  by  care  ? 
No  flowers  gayly  springing,  nor  birds 
sweetly  singing,  [despair. 

Can  soothe  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless 

The  deed  that  I  dared,  could  it  merit 
their  malice,  pus  throne  ? 

A  king,  and  a  father,  to  place  on 
His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right 
are  these  valleys, 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter, 
but  I  can  find  none : 
But  'tis  not  my  sufferings  thus  wretch- 
ed,— forlorn, 
My  brave  gallant  friends  !  'tis  your 

ruin  I  mourn; 
Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal  in  hot 
bloody  trial — 
Alas!  can  I  make  you  no  sweeter  return? 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN 

BLAW. 
Tune—"  Mi^  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey.'  ■ 

"  I  composed  this  song,"  says  the  poet,  "out 
of  compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns,  during  our 
honeymoon.'' 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonny  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best :  [row,' 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers 

And  mony  a  hill  between; 
But  day  and  night,  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair :    ' 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'    birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 
There's  not  a  bonny  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,'  or  green. 
There's  not  a  bonny  bird  that  sings, 

Butj  minds  me  o'  my  Jean.* 

1  Roll.  2  Wood. 

=''  The  two  ifollowing  stanzas  were  "Written 
some  years  afterwards,  by  Mr.  John  Hamilton, 
music-seller, -liaihburgh,  and  ffofri  their  sim- 


SONGS. 


nn 


■OH,  WERE  J  ON  PARNASSUS' 
HILL. 

Tune— "My  love  is  lost  to  me.*' 

This  song  was  also  produced  in  honour  of 
Mrs.  Burns;  shortly  before  she  took  up  her 
residence  at  EUisland  as  the  poet's  wife.  It 
is  thought  to  have-been  composed  while  he 
was  one  day  gazing  towards  the  hill  of 
Corsincon,  at  the  head  of  Nithsd^e,  s^tid 
'.  beyond  which,  though,  at  some  distance, 
was  the  quiet  vale  where  lived  his  "  bonny 
Jean."  ' 

Oh,  were  I  on  Parnassus'  hill ! 
Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill; 
That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill 

To  sing  how  deap:I  love  thee. 
But  Nith  maun  be  my  Muse's  well, 
My  Muse  maun  be  thy^  bonny  sel; 
On  Corsincon  I  gloweir^  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 

Tlien  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay  I 
:  ^or  a'  the  lee-Iang  simmer's  day 
r  couldna  sing,  I  couldna  say. 

How  much,  how  dear,  I  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green, 
Thy  waist  see  jimp,^  thy  limbs  sae 

clean,  ^ 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een — 
By  heaven  and  earth  I  love  thee  ! 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 
The  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame; 
-  And  aye  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name — 
I  only  live  to  love  thee. 
Though  I  were  doom'd  to  wander  on 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 
TiU  my  last  weary  sand  was  run ; 
Till  then — and  then  I'd  love  th^e. 

5  Stare.  2  Small.  ^  Well-Shaped. 

plicity  and  beauty  are  really  worthy  of  form- 
jng,the  corollary  to  this  fine  son^ : — 

"  Oh,  blaw,  ye  westlin'  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees, 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale,     ^ 

Brin^  hame  the  laden  bees  ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

"'What  sighs  and  vows  amang  th&knowes 

Hae  pass'd  atween  us  twa  ! 
'^ow  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part, 
That  night  she  gaed  awa* ! 

, The. powers  abbon  can  only  ken. 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen. 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 
r^       As  tny  sweet  lovely  Jean  ! " 
"-  -  The  two"  following,  were  also  written  as  an 
'^addition  to  this  song  by  Mr.  William  Reid,  of 


THE  FETE  CHAMPETRE. 
Tune—"  Killiecrankie." 

The  poet's  brother,  Gilbert  Burn^,  give^  the 
following  account  of  the  origin  'oiE  this 
ballad :—"  When  Mr.  Cunninghame  of 
Enterkin  came  to  his  estate,  two  mansion- 
houses  on  it,  Enterkin  and  Annbank,  were 
both  in  a  ruinous  state.  Wishing  to  intro- 
duce himself  with  some  e'c/ai  to  me  county, 
he  got  temporary  erections  made  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ayr,  tastefully  decorated  with 
shrubs  and  flowers,  for  a  supper  and  ball,  to 
which  most  of  the  respectable  families  in  the " 
county  were  invited.  It  Was  a  novelty  in  the 
county,  and  attracted  much  notice.  A  dis- 
solution of  parliament  was  soon  expected, 
and  this  festivity  was  thought  to  b6  an 
introduction  to  a  canvass  for  representing 
the  county.    Several  other  camlidates  were 

'  spoken  of,  particularly  -Sir  John  Whitef  oord, 
then  residing  at  Cloncaird,  comirjonfo"  pro- 
nounced Glencaird,  and  Mr.  BosVeU,  the 
well-known  biographer  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
The  political  views  of  this  festive  assem- 
blage, which  are  alluded  to  in  the  ballad,.if 
they  ever  existed,  were,  however,  laid  aside 
as  Mr.  Cunninghame  did  not  canvass  the 
county." 

Oh,  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen's  house, 

To  do  our  errands  there,  man? 
Oh,  wha  will  to  Saint  Stephen's  house, 

0'  th'  merry  lads  of  Ayr,'  man? 
Or  will  we  send  a  man-o'-law  ? 

Or  will  we  send  a  sodger  ? 
Or  him  wha  led  o'er  Scotland  a' 

Themeikle^  Ursa-Major? 

Come,  will  yo  cotrrt  a  noble  lord, 
'     Or  buy  a  score  o'  lairds,  man  ? 
For  worthand  honour  p'awnitheirwrord,. 
Their  vote  shall  be  Glencaird's  man  ? 

1  Great. 

the  firm  of  Brash  &  Reid ,  booksiEllers,GJi^gow, 
and  have  sometimes  ^een  printed  as  the 
poet's : — 

"  Upon  the  banks  o'  flowing  Clyde 
The  lassies  busk^  them  braw  .  ' 

But  wjien  their  best  they  hae  put  on, 
My  Jennie  dings^  them  a' : 

In  hamely  weeds  she  far  exceeds 
i        The  fairest  o'-  the  town  ! 

Balth  sage  and  gay  confess  it  sae. 
Though  drest  in  russet  gowft. 

"  The  gamesome  lamb,  that  sucks  its  dam, 

Mair  harjnless  canna  be ; 
She  has  nae  faut,  (if  sic  ye  ca't,) 

Except. her  love  for  me : 
The  sparkling  dew,  o'  clearest- hue. 

Is  like  her  shining  een : 
In  shape  and  air  nane  can  pompare 

Wi'  my  sweet  lovely  Jeaft." 


>  Dress. 


2  Excels. 


212 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Ane  giss  them  coin,  ane  gies  them  wine, 
Anither  gies  them  clatter  ■■' 

Annbank,  wha  guess'd  the  ladies'  taste, 
He  gives  a  Fete  Ohampetre. 

When  Love  and  Beauty  heard  the  news, 

The  gay  greenwoods  amang,  man; 
Where  gathering  flowers  and  busking' 
bowers,  [man; 

They  heard  the    blackbird's  sang, 
A  vow,  they  seal'd  it  with  a  kiss. 

Sir  Politics  to  fetter, 
As-theirs  alone,  the  patent-bliss, 

To  hold  a  Fete  Ohampetre. 

Then  mounted  Mirth,ongleesome  wing, 

O'er  hill  and  dale  she  flew,  man; 
nk  wimpling  burn,  ilk  crystal  spring. 

Ilk  glen  and  shaw^she  knew,  man; 
She  summon'd  every  social  sprite. 

That  sports  by  wood  or  water, 
On  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr  to  meet. 

And  keep  this  Fete  Champetre. 

Cauld  Boreas,  wi'  liis  boisterous  crew. 

Were  bound  to  stakes  like  kye.'man, 
And  Cynthia's  ear,  o'  silver  fu', 

Clamb  up  the  starry  sky,  man; 
Reflected  beams  dwell  in  the  streams. 

Or  down  the  current  shatter; 
The  western,  breeze  steals  through  the 
trees 

To  view  this  Fete  Champetre. 

How  many  a  robe  sae  gayly  floats! 

What  sparkling  jewels  glance,  man! 
To  Harmony's  enchanting  notes. 

As  moves  the  mazy  dance,  man. 
The  echoing  wood,  the  winding  flood. 

Like  paradise  di9  glitter. 
When  angels  met,  at  Adam's  yett,^ 

To  hold  their  Fete  Champetre. 

When  Politics  came  there,  to  mix 
And  make  his  ether-stano,  man! 

He  circled  round  the  magic  ground. 
But  entrance  found  he  nane,  rffan  :* 


=  Talk.  3  Dressing.  *Wood.  =  Cattle. 
«  Gate. 

*  "  Alluding^  to  a  superstition,"  says  Cham- 
bers, "  which  represents  adders  as  forming 
annually  from  their  slough  certain  little  an- 
nular stones  of  streaked  colouring,  which 
are  occasionally  found,  and  the  real  origin 
of  which  is  supposed  by  antiquaries  to  be 
Druidical."   ■ 


He  blush'd  for    shame,   he  quat  his 
name. 

Foreswore  it.  every  letter, 
Wi'  humble  prayer  to  join  and  share 

This  festive  Fete  Champetre. 


THE  DAY  RETURNS. 

Tune— "  Seventh  of  November." 

In  a  letter  to  Miss  Chalmers,  an  intimate  fe- 
male friend  of  the  poet's,  he  says  regarding 
this  song  :— "  One  of  the  most  tolerable 
thmgsl  have  done  for  some  time  is  these 
two  stanzas  I  made  to  an  air  a  musical  gen- 
tleman of  my  acquaintance  [Captain  Riddel 
of  Glenriddell  composed  Jor  the  anniver- 
sary of  his  wedding  day.'*' 

Thb  day  returns,  my  bosom  bums. 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet. 
Though  Winter  wild  in  tempest  toil'd. 

Ne'er    Summer  sun    was  half   sae 
sweet. 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide. 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line  ; 
Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and 
globes,  [mine ! 

Heaven  gave  me  more — it  made  tjiee 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight. 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give, 
Wliile  joys  above  my  mind  can  move. 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I  live  ! 
M'hen  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part. 
The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band 

It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breaks  my 
heart. 


THE  DISCREET  HINT. 

' '  Lass  when  your  mither  is  f  rae  hame, 

May  I  but  be  sae  bauld 
As  come  to  your  bower  window. 

And  creep  in  f  rae  the  cauld  1 
As  come  to  your  bower  window. 

And  when  it  's  cauld  and  wat. 
Warm  me  in  thy  fair  bosom — 

Sweet  lass,  may  I  do  that  ?  " 

' '  Young  man,  gin  yc  should  be  sae 
kind. 

When  our  gudewife's  frae  hame. 
As  come  to  my  bower  window, 

Whare  I  am  laid  my  lane. 


SONGS. 


21S 


To  warm  thee  in  my  boSom — 
Take  tent,'  I'll  tell  thee  what, 

The  way  to  me  lies  through  the  kirk — 
Young  man,  do  ye  hear  that  ?  " 


THE  LAZY  MIST. 
Tune — "  Here's  a  health  to  my  true  love." 

The  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow 

of  the  hill,  [winding  rill ! 

Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark- 
How    languid    the     scenes,    late    so 

sprightly,  appear,  [year. 

As  AutumB  to  Winter  resigns  the  pale 
The  forests  are  leafless,  the  meadows 

are  brown,  [flown  : 

And  all  the  gay  foppery  of  Summer  is 
Apart  let  me  wander,  apart  let  me 

muse,  [Fate  pursues  I 

How  quick  Time  is  flying,  how  keen 

How  long  I  have  lived — but  how  much 
lived  in  vain,  [remain  ! 

How  little  of  life's  scanty  span  may 

What  aspects  old  Time,  in  his  pro- 
gress, has  worn,  [torn  ! 

What  ties,  cruel  Fate  in  my  bosom  has 

How  foolish,  or  worse,  till  our  summit 
is  gain'd ! 

And  do wnwardj  how  weaken'd,  how 
darken'd,  how  pain'd  ! 

This  life's  not  worth  having  with  all 
it  can  give —  [sure  must  live. 

For  something  beyond  it  poor   man 


I  HAE  A  WIFE  0'  MY  AIN. 

Tune — "  Naebody." 

The  following  sprightly  lines  were  written 
shortly  after  the  poet  had  welcomed  home 
his  wife  to  his  new  house  on  the  farm  of 
ElUsland — the  first  winter  he  spent  in  which 
he  has  described  as  the  happiest  ot  his  life. 

I  HAE  a  wife  o'  my  ain — 

I'll  partake  wi'  naebody 
I'll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane, 

I'll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 
I  hae  a  penny  to  spend. 

There — thanks  to  naebody  ; 
I  hae  naething  to  lend — 

I'll  borrow  frae  naebody. 


1  Heed. 


I  am  naebody's  lord — 

I'll  be  slave  to  naebody  : 
I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword, 

I'll  tak  dunts  '  frae  naebody ; 
I'll  be  merry  and  free, 

I'll  be  sad  for  naebody  ; 
If  naebody  care  for  me, 

I'll  care  for  naebody. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Burns  has  described  this  as  an  old  sonfr  and 
tune  which  had  often  thrilled  through  his 
soul :  and  in  communicating  it  to  his  friend, 
George  Thomson,  he  professed  to  have  re> 
covered  it  from  an  old  man's  singing  ;  and 
exclaimed  regarding  it : — '*  Light  be  fhe 
turf  on  the  breast  of  the  Heaven-inspired 
poet  who  composed  this  glorious  frag- 
ment !"  The  probability  is,  however,  that 
the  poet  was  indulging  in  a  little  mystifica- 
tion on  the  subject,  and  that  the  entire  song 
was  his  own  composition.  The  second  and 
third  verses — describing  the  happy  days  of 
youth—are  his  beyond  a  doubt. 

Shotjld  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, . 

And  never  brought  to  min'  ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot; 

And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 
And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine  ; 

But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  foot 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 
Frae  morning  sun  till  dine  : 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 
Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here's  a  hand  my  trusty  fiere,' 

And  gies  a  hand  o'  thine  ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right    guid   willie- 
waught,' 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stoup. 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine  ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  ye{. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

1  Blows. 
»  Friend.  "  Draught, 


'2U 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


MY  BONNY  MART. 

Tune — "  Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o*  wine." 

The  first  four  lines  of  this  son^  are  from  an 
old  ballad  composed  in  i636,by  Alexander 
Lesly  of  Edin,  on  Doveran  side,  grand- 
father to  the  celebrated  Archbishop  Sharpe 
— the  rest  are  Burns'. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine. 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie,' 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonny  lassie; 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaWs  frae  the 
ferry ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  1  maun  leave  my  bonny  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked 
ready; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody. 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shout  o'  war  that's  heard  afar — 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonny  Mary. 


MY  HEART  WAS  ANCE  AS 
BLITHE  AND  FREE. 

Tune — "  To  the  weaver's  gin  ye  go." 

The  chorus  of  this  song  is  taken  from  a  very 
old  ditty— the  rest  is  the  production  of  the 
poet. 

My  heart  was  ance  as  blithe  and  free 
As  simmer  days  were  lang. 

But  a  bonny  westlin'  weaver  lad 
Has  gart  me  change  my  sang. 

To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go,   fair 
maids. 
To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go; 
I  rede'  you  right,  gang  ne'er  at 
night, 
To  the  weavers  gin  ye  go. 

My  mither  sent  me  to  the  town. 

To  warp'  a  plaiden  wab; 
But  the  weary,  weary  warpin'  o't 

Has  gart^  me  sigh  and  sab. 

A  bonny  westlin'  weaver  lad 
Sat  working  at  his  loom; 


He  took  my  heart  as  wi'  a  net. 
In  every  knot  and  thrum.* 

I  sat  beside  my  warpin'-wheel. 

And  aye  Ica'd  it  roun'; 
But  every  shot  and  every  knock. 

My  heart  it  gae  a  stoun.' 

The  moon  was  sinking  in  the  west 

Wi'  visage  pale  and  wan. 
As  my  bonny  westlin'  weaver  lad 

Convey'd  me  through  the  glen. 

But  what  was  said,  or  what  was  done. 

Shame  fa'  me  gin  I  tell; 
But,  oh  !  I  fear  the  kintra^  soon 

■Will  ken  as  weel's  mysel. 


'Cup. 
>  Warn*    ^  Prepare  for  the  loom,    ^  Made. 


BRAW  LADS  OF  GALA  WATER. 

Tune — "  Gala  Water." 

The  air  and  chorus  of  this  song  are  both  very 
old.  This  version  Burns  wrote  for  the 
Scots  Musical  Museum  ;  but  he  was  so  en- 
amoured with  the  air,  that  he  afterwards 
wrote  another  set  of  words  to  it  for  his 
friend  Thomson,  which  will  be  found  at  p. 

-   250. 

Braw,  braw  lads  of  Gaja  Water; 

Oh,  braw  ladsxS'tiala  Water; 
I'll  kilt'  my  coats  aboon  my  knee. 

And  follow  my   love   through 
the  water.  • 

Sae  fair  her  hair,  sae  brent*  her  brow, 
Sae  bonny  blue  her  een,  my  dearie; 

Sae  white  her  teeth,   sae   sweet  her 
mou'. 
The  mair  I  kiss  she's  aye  my  dearie. 

O'er  yon  bank  and  o'er  yon  brae. 
O'er  yon  moss  amang  the  heather; 

I'll  kilt  my  coats  aboon  my  knee. 
And  follow  my  love  through  the 
water. 

Down  amang  the  broom,  the  broom, 
Down  amang  the  broom,  my  dearie. 

The  lassie  lost  her  silken  snood,* 
That  cost    her    mony  a  blirt  and 
bleary. ' 


«  Thread. 


1  Start. 


« Country. 

'  Tuck  up  and  fix.  ^  High  and  smooth. 
3  Sigh  and  tear. 

*  The  snood  or  ribband  with  which  a  Scot- 
tish lass  braided  her  hair  had  an  emblematical 
"signification,  and  applied  to  her  maiden  char- 
acter. It  was  exchanged  for  the  curch,  toy^  or 
mif,  when  she  passed  by  marriage  into  the 


SONGS. 


215 


HER  DADDIE  FORBAD. 

Tune — "  Junipi"'  John." 

&EK  daddie  forbad,  her  minnie forbad; 

Forbidden  she  wouldna  be:  [brew'd' 

She    wadna    trow't    the   browst    she 

Wad  taste  sae  bitterlie 

The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpiu'  John 

Beguiled  the  bonny  lassie. 
The  lang  lad  they  ca'  Jumpln'  Jolin 

Beguiled  the  bonny  lassie. 

A  cow  and  a  calf,  a  ewe  and  a  hauf, 
And  thretty  guid  shillin's  and  three; 

A  very  guid  tdcher,^   a  cotter-man's 
dochter, 
The  lass  with  the  bonny  black  ee. 


HEY,  THE  DUSTY  MILLER. 
Tune—"  The  Dusty  Miller." 

Hey  the  dusty  miller. 

And  his  dusty  coat; 

He  will  win  a  shilling 

Or  he  spend  a  groat. 

Dusty  was  the  coat. 

Dusty  was  the  colour. 
Dusty  was  the  kiss 
I  got  frae  the  miller. 

Hey,  the  dusty  miller; 
And  his  dusty  sack; 
Leeze  me  on  the  calling 
Fills  the  dusty  peck. 

Fills  the  dusty  peck. 

Brings  the  dusty  siller; 
I  wad  gie  my  coatie 
For  the  dusty  miller. 


THENIEL  MENZIE'S  BONNY 
MARY. 

Tune— "The  Ruffian's  Rant." 

In  coming  by  the  brig  o'  Dye, 
At  Darlet  we  a  blink  did  tarry; 

As  day  was  dawin  in  the  sky. 

We  drank  a  health  to  bonny  Mary. 

^  She  wouldn't  believe  the  drink  she  brew'd. 
2  Dower. 

matron  state.  But  if  the  damsel  was  so  unfor- 
tunate as  to  loose  pretensions  to  the  name  bf 
maiden  without  gaining  a  right  to  that  of 
matron,  she  was  neither  permitted  to  use  the 
inood  nor  advance  to  the  graver  dignity  of 
the  curch.— ScDTT. 


Theniel  Menzie's  bonny  Mary, 
Theniel  Menzie's  bonny  Mary, 

Charlie  Gregor  tint'  his  pladie, 
Kissin'  Theniel's  bonny  Mary., 

Her  een  sae  bright,  her  brow  sae  white. 
Her  haffet^  locks  as  brown's  a  berry; 

And  aye  they  dimpl't  wi'  a  smile. 
The  rosy  cheeks  o'  bonny  Mary. 

We  lap  and  danced  the  lee-lang  day. 
Till  piper  lads  were  wae  and  weary; 

But  Charlie  gat  the  spring  to  pay, 
For  kissin'  Theniel's  bonny  Majj. 


WEARY  FA'  YOU,  DUNCAN 

GRAY. 

Tune — "  Duncan  Gray." 

This  'first  version  of  an  old  song  was  written 
for  the  Museum.  The  poet  afterwards  com- 
posed another  and  better  version  for  the 
collection  of  his  friend  Thomson,  which  will 
be  found  at  p.  243. 

Wbaet  fa'  yon,  Duncan  Gray — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin''  o't ! 
Wae  gae  by  you,  Duncan  Gray — 

Ha,  ha;  the  girdin'  o't ! 
When  a'  the  lave^  gae  to  their  play. 
Then  I  maun  sit  the  lee-lang  day. 
And  jog  the  cradle  wi'  my  tae. 

And  a'  for  the  girdin'  o't. 

Bonny  was  the  Lammas  moon — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin'  o't ! 
Glowerin'  a'  the  hills  aboon — 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin   o't  ! 
The  girdin'  brak,  the  beast  cam  down, 
I  tint'  my  curch*  and  baith  my  shoon — 
Ah  !  Duncan,  ye're  an  unco  loon — 

Wae  on  the  bad  girdin'  o't ! 

But,  Duncan,  gin  ye'll  keep  your  aith, 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin'  o't  !       [breath — ; 

I'se     bless     you    wi'     my   hindmost 

Ha,  ha,  the  girdin'  o't ! 
Duncan,  gin  ye'll  keep  your  aith — 
The  beast  again  can  bear  us  baith. 
And  auld  Mess  John  will  mend  the 
skaith," 
And  clout"  the  bad  girdin'  o't. 


>  Lost,    2  Temple. 

■  Binding.  *  Others.  '  Lost.  *  Cap.  »  Harm.' 
*  Patch  up. 


213 


BTJKNS'  WOKKS. 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

*    Tune— "Up -with  the  ploughman." 

The  fourth  and  fifth  verses  only  of  this  piece 
are  by  Burns,  the  remainder  by  some  older 
writer. 

The  ploughman  he's  a  bonny  lad, 

His  mind  is  ever  true,  jo; 
His  garters  knit  below  his  knee. 

His  bonnet  it  is  blue,  jo. 

Then  up  v.i'  my  ploughman  lad. 
And  hey  my  merry  ploughman  ! 

Of  a'  the  trades  that  I  do  ken. 
Commend  me  to  the  ploughman  ! 

My  ploua;hman  he  coraes  hame  at  e'en. 

He's  aften  wat  and  weary; 
Cast  aff  the  wat,  put  on  the  dry. 

And  gae  to  bed,  my  dearie  ! 

I  will  wash  my  ploughman's  hose. 
And  I  will  dress  his  o'erlay;' 

I  will  mak  my  ploughman's  bed. 
And  cheer  him  late  and  early. 

I  hae  been  east,  I  hae  been  west, 
I  hae  been  at  Saint  Johnston; 

The  bonniest  sight  that  e'er  I  saw 
Was  the  ploughman  laddie  dancin'. 

Snaw-white  stoekin's  on  his  legs. 
And  siller  buckles,  glancin' ; 

A  guid  blue  lx)nnet  on  his  head — 
And  oh,  but  he  was  handsome  ! 

Pommend  me  to  the  bam-yard. 

And  the  corn-mou,*  man; 
I  never  gat  my  coggie  fou. 

Till  I  met  wi'  the  ploughman. 


LANDLADY,  COUNT  THE  LA  WIN. 

Tune—"  Hey  Tutti,  Taiti." 

The  first  two  verses  of  this  song  were  sup- 
plied by  Burns;  the  others  belongs  to  a  polit- 
ical ditty  of  earlier  date. 

Landlady,  count  the  lawin,' 
The  day  is  near  the  dawin ; 


1  Cravat. 

^  Reckoning. 

*  The  recess  left  in  the  stack  of  com  in  the 
barn  as  the  sheaves  are  removed  to  the  thrash- 
ing floor. 


Ye're  a'  blind  drunk,  boys;- 
And  I'm  but  jolly  fou.^ 
Hey  tatti,  taiti. 
How  tutti,  taiti— 
Wha's  fou  now? 

Cog  and  ye  were  aye  fou. 
Cog  and  ye  were  aye  fou, 
I  wad  sit  and  sing  to  you 
If  ye  were  aye  fou. 

Weel  may  ye  a'  bo  ! 

Ill  may  we  never  see  ! 

God  bless  the  king,  boys,  ■ 
And  the  companie  i 
Hey  tutti,  taiti. 
How  tutti,  taiti — 
Wha's  fou  now  ? 


TO  DAUNTON  ME. 

Tune — "  To  daunton  me." 

The  blude-red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw. 
The  simmer  lUies  bloom  in  snaw. 
The  frost  may  freeze  the  deepest  sea; 
But  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton' 


To  daunton  me,  and  me  so  young, 
Wi'  his  fause  heart  and  flatt'ring 

tongue. 
That  is  the  thing  you  ne'er  shall  see; 
For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton 


For  a'  his  meal  and  a'  his  maut, 
For  a'  his  fresh  beef  and  his  saut. 
For  a'  his  gold  and  white  monie. 
An  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me.~ 

His  gear'  may  buy  him  kye.and  yowes. 
His    gear    may    buy  him  glens  and 

knowea; 
But  me  he  shall  not  buy  nor  fee,    [me. 
For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton 

He  hirples'  twa-fauld  as  he  dow,*      , 
Wi'  his  teethless  gab°  and  liis  auld  held 
pow,"  [bleer'd  ef. 

And  the  rain  dreeps  down  f  rae  his  red 
That  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


«  Full. 

'  Rule— intimidate.      >  Wealth, 
*  Can.    «  Mouth.    «  Head. 


5  Limps. 


SONGS. 


317 


COME  BOAT  MB  O'ER  TO 
CHARLIE. 

Tune — "  O'er  the  Water  to  Charlie.'' 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er, 
Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie; 

I'll  gie  John  Ross  another  bawbee, 
To  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie, 

We'll  o'er  the  water  and  o'er  the  sea. 
We'll  o^er  the  water  to  Charlie; 

Come  weel,  come   woe,  we'll  gath 
er  and  go. 
And  live  or  die  wl'  Charlie. 

I  lo'e  weel  my  Charlie's  name, 
Though  some  there  be  abhor  him: 

But  oh,  to  see  auld  Nick  gaun  hame. 
And  Charlie's  faes  before  him  ! 

I  swear  and  vow  by  moon  and  stars. 
And  sun  that  shines  so  early, 

If  I  had  twenty  thousand  lives, 
I'd  die  as  aft  for  Charlie. 


BATTLIN',  ROARIN'  WILLIE. 

Tune—"  Rattlin",  roarin'  Willie." 

*'  The  hero  of  this  chant,"  says  Bums,  "  was 
>  fpnC'Of  the  worthiest  fellows  in  the  world — 
^   William  Dunbar,  Esq.,  writer  to  the  Signet^ 

Edinburgh,  and  colonel  of  the  Crochallan 
-corps — a  club  of  wits,  who  took  that  title  at 
I  the  tune  of  raising  the  fencible  regiments." 

The  last  stanza  only  was  the  work  of  the 

poet. 

O  rattlin',  roarin'  Willie, 

Oh,  he  held  to  the  fair, 
Aud  for  to  sell  liis  fiddle. 

And  buy  some  other  ware; 
But  parting  wi'  his  iiddle, 
"  The  saut  tear  blin't  his  ee; 
And  rattlin',  roarin'  Willie, 

Ye're  welcome  hame  to  me  ! 

O  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 
Oh,  sell  your  fiddle  so  fine; 

O  Willie  come  sell  your  fiddle. 
And  buy  a  pint  o'  vrine  ! 

If  I  should  sell  my  fiddle. 
The  warl'  would  think  I  was  mad ; 

For  mony  a  rantin'  day 

-  My  fiddle  and  I  hae  had. 

As  I  cam  by  Crochallan, 
r  cannily  keekit  ben-^ 


Rattlin',  roarin'.  Willie 

Was  sitting  at  yon  board  en'; 
Sitting  at  yon  board  en'. 

And  amang  guidcompanie; 
Rattlin',  roarin'  Willie, 

Ye're  welcome  hame  to  me  I 


MY  HOGGIE.* 
Tune—"  What  will  I  do  gin  my  hoggie  die  ?" 

What  will  I  do  gin  my  hoggie  die  ? 

My  joy,  my  pride,  my  hoggie! 
My  only  beast,  I  had  nae  mae. 

And  vow  but  I  was  vogie!' 

The  lee  lang  ni^ht  we  watch'd    the 
fauld, 

Me  and  my  faithfii'  doggie; 
We  heard  nought  but  the  roaring  linn, 

Amang  the  bra,es  sae  scroggie;'-* 

But  the  houlet  cried  f rae  the  castle  wa'. 
The  blutter^  f  rae  the  boggie. 

The  tod*  replied  upon  the  liill, 
I  trembled  for  my  haggle. 

When  day  did  daw,  and  cocks  did  craw. 
The  morning  it  was  foggie; 

An  unco  tyke'  lap  o'er  the  dike. 
And  maisl  has  kill'd  my  hoggie. 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 

The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old  ;  but  the  two 
stanzas  are  Burns'. 

CHORUS. 

Up  in  the  morning's  no  for  me. 
Up  in  the  morning  early; 

When  a'  the  hills  are  cover'd  wi ' 
snaw, 
I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Cauld    blaws   the  wind  frae  east  to 
west. 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly; 
Sae  loud  and  shrill  I  hear  the  blast, 

I'm  sure  it's  vnnter  fairly. 

■  Vain.  "^  Full  of  stunted  bushes.  =  Mire- 
snipe.    *  Fox.    »  A  strange  dog. 

*  -Hoggie — a  young  sheep  after  it  is  smeared, 
and  before  it  is  rfrst  shorn. 


318 


BURSTS'  WORKS. 


The  birds  sit  chitteTing'  in  tlie  thorn, 
A'  day  they  fare  but  sparely; 

And  lang's  the  night  f  rae  e'en  to  morn, 
I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 


I'M  O'ER  YOUNa  TO  MARRY  YET. 

Tune — "  I'm  o'er  youngs  to  marry  yet." 

1  AM  my  mammy's  ae  bairn, 
Wi'  unco'  folk  I  weary,  sir; 

And  lying  in  a  man's  bed, 

I'm  fley'd-  wad  mak  me  eerie,'  sir. 

I'm  o'er  young  to  marry  yet; 

I'mo'er  young  to  marry  yet; 
I'm  o'er  young — 'twad  be  a  sin 
To  tak  me  f rae  my  mammy  yet. 

My  mammy  coft^  me  a  new  gown, 
The  kirk  maun  hae  the  gracing  o't ; 

Were  I  to  lie  wi'  you,  kind  sir, 
I'm  fear'd  ye'd  spoil  the  lacing  o't. 

Hallowmas  is  come  and  gane, 

The  nights  are  lang  in  winter,  sir; 

And  you  and  I  in  ae  bed, 
In  trouth  1  dare  uae  venture,  sir. 

Fu'  loud  and  shrill  the  frosty  wind 
Blaws  through  the  leafless  timmer,' 
sir  ; 

But  if  ye  come  this  gate'  again, 
I'll  aulder  be  gin  simmer,  sir. 


THE  WINTER  IS  PAST. 

The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  sum- 
mer's come  at  last. 
And  the  little  birds  sing  on  every  tree ; 
Now  everything  is  glad,  while  I  am 
very  sad. 
Since  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 

The  rose  upon  the  brier,  by  the  waters 

running  clear,  [the  bee; 

May  have  charms  for  the  linnet  or 

Their  little  loves  are  blest,  and  their 

little  hearts  at  rest. 

But  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 


^  Shivering. 

'  Strange.  =  Afraid.  '  Timorous. 
'  Trees.    «  Way, 


'  Bought. 


My  love  is  like  the  sun,  in  the  firma- 
ment does  run. 
For  ever  is  constant  and  true; 
But  his  is  like  the  moon,  that  wanders 
up  and  down. 
And  is  every  month  changing  anew. 

All  you  that  are  in  love,  and  cannot  it 
remove, 
I  pity  the  pains  you  endure  . 
For  experience  makes  me  know  that 
you  hearts  are  full  o'  woe, 
A  woe  that  no  mortal  can  cure. 


OH,  WILLIE   BREW'D  A  PECK  0' 

MAUT. 

Tl'ne — "  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o*  maut." 

The  poet's  account  of  the  origin  of  this  song 
IS  as  follows . — "  The  air  is  Allan  Master.- 
ton's,  the  song  mine.  The  occasion  of  it 
was  this — Mr.  William  Nicol  of  the  High 
School,  Edinburgh,  being  at  MoflEat  during 
the  autumn  vacation,  honest  Allan — who 
was  at  that  time  on  a  visit  to  Dalswinton — 
and  I  went  to  pay  Nicol  a  visit.  We  had 
such  a  joyous  meeting  that  Masterton  and  I 
agreed,  each  in  ourown  way,  that  we  should 
celebrate  the  business." 

Oh,  Willie  brsw'd  a  peck  of  maut, . 

And  Rob  and  Allan  came  to  pree;' 
Three    blither    hearts,    that    lee-lang 
night. 

Ye  wadna  find  in  Christendie. 

We  are  na  fou,  we're  na  that  fou. 
But  just  a  drappie  in  our  ee; 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw. 
And  aye  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys. 
Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been. 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be  ! 

It  is  the  moon — I  ken  her  horn. 
That's  blinkin'  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wile  us  hame. 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa', 
A  cuckold,  coward  loon  is  he  ! 

Wlia  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa'. 
He  is  the  king  amang  us  three  ! 


'  Taste. 


SOiNGS. 


21i3 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Tune—"  Death  of  Captain  Cook." 

The  story  of  Mary  Campbell  has  been  briefly 
alluded  to  in  the  memoir  of  the  poet;  and  m 
the  notes  to  the  Correspondence,  She  be- 
long-ed  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Dunoon,  a 
beautiful  watering-place  on  the  Clyde,  and 
was^in  the  service  of  Colonel  Monteomery 
'of  Coilsfield  when  the  poet  made  ner  ac- 
quaintance, and  afterwards  in  that  of  Gavin 
Hamilton.  They  would  appear  to  have  been 
seriously  attached  to  each  other.  When 
Jean  Armour's  father  had  ordered  her  to 
relinquish  all  claims  on  the  poet,  his 
thoughts  naturally  turned  to  Mary  Camp- 
bell. It  was  arranged  that  Mary  should 
give  up  her  place  with  the  view  of  making 
preparations  for  their  union ;  but  before 
she  went  home  they  met  in  a  sequestered 
spot  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  Standing  on 
either  side  of  a  purling  brook,  and  holding 
aBible  between  them,  they  exchanged  vows 
of  eternal  fidelity.  Mary  presented  him  with 
her  Bible,  the  poet  giving  his  own  in  ex- 
change. This  Bible  has  been  preserved, 
and  on  a  blank  leaf,  in  the  poet's  hand-- 
writing,  is  -inscribed,  ^'And  ye  shall  not 
swear  by  my  name  falsely ;  I  am  the  I-ord," 
(Lev.  XIX.  la.)  On  the  second  volume, 
*'  Thou  shalt  not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt 
perform  unto  the  Lord  thine  oath."  (Matt. 
V.  ^3.)  And  on  another  blank  leaf  his  name 
and  mark  as  a  Royal  Arch  mason.  The 
lovers  never  met  again,  Mary  Campbell 
havmg  died  suddenly  at  Greenock.  Over 
her  grave  a  monument  has  been  erected  by 
the  admirers  of  the  poet.  On  the  third  an- 
niversary of  her  death,  Jean  Armour,  then 
his  wife,  noticed  that,  towards  the  evening, 
"he  grew  sad  about  something,  went  into 
the  barn-yard,  where  he  strode  restlessly  up 
and  down  for  some  time,  although  repeat- 
edly asked  to  come  m.  Immediately  on 
etjtering  the  house,  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
'To  Mary  in  Heaven,'"  which  Xockhart 
characterizes  "  as  the  noblest  of  all  his  bal- 
lads." 

Thotj  lingering  star,  witli  less'ning  ray, 
That  lovest  to  greet  the  early  mom, 

Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O  Mary  I  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

'    Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend 
his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  o=ne  day  of  parting  love  ! 
'Eternity  will  not  efface  '  [past; 

Those  records    dear    of    transports 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace, 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  'tway  our  last! 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick*n- 
ing  green. 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured 
scene  ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray — ■ 
Till  too,  foo  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim 'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er   these    scenes    my  memory 
wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 
Time    but    the    impression    stronger 
makes. 
As  streams  their    channels  deeper 
wear, 
My  Mary!  dear  departed  shade! 

Where  is  thy  palace  of  blissful  rest ! 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  1 
Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend 
his  breast  ? 


THE    LADDIES  BY  THE    BANKS 
0'  NITH. 

Tune—*'  Up  and  waur  them  a'." 

The  following  ballad  originated  in  a  contest 
for  the  representation  of  the  Dumfries 
burghs,  which  took  place  in  September, 
1789,  between  the  former  member,  Sir  James 
Johnston  of  Westerhall,  who  was  supported 
by  the  court  and  the  Tories,  and  Captain 
Miller  of  Dalswinton,  the  eldest  son  of  the 
poet's  landlord,  who  had  the  interest  of  the 
Duke  of  Queensberry  and  the  Whigs.  As 
Burns  had  the  warmest  veneration  for  in- 
dividuals of  both  parties,  he  wished  to 
avoid  taking  any  active  part  on  either  side, 
and  contented  himself  therefore  with  pen- 
ning this  piece  chiefly  against  the  Duke  of 
Pueensberry,  the  largest  landed  proprietor 
in  Nithsdale,  and  for  whose  character  he 
seeems  to  have  entertained  the  utmost  de- 
testation. The  allusion  in  the  first  verse  is 
to  the  vote  his  Grace  gave  on  the  regency 
question,  when  he  deserted  the  king,  his 
master,  in  whose  household  he  held  office, 
and  supported  the  right  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales  to  assume  the  government  without 
the  consent  of  Parliament. 

The  laddies  by  the  banks  o'  Nith 
Wad  trust  his  (jrace  wi'  a',  Jamie; 

But  he'll  sair^  them  as  he  sair'd  the 
king, 
Turn  tail  and  rin  awa',  Jamie. 


1  Serve. 


■230 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


Fpi  and  waur^  them  a'  Jamie, 
Up  and  waur  them  a';        [o't. 

The  Johnstons  hae  the  gnidin' 
Ye  turncoat  Whigs,  awa'. 

The  day  he  stood  his  counti-y's  friend. 
Or  gaed  her  faes  a  claw,  Jamie, 

Or  frae  piiir  man  a  blessin'  wan, 
That  day  the  duke  ne'er  saw,  Jamie. 

But  wha  is  he,  the  country's  boast, 
'  Like  him  tlierejs  na  twa,  Jamie; 
There's  no  a  callant'*  tents'*  the  kye,= 
But  kens  o'  Westerlia',  Jamie. 

To  end  the  wark  here's  Wliistlebirek,* 
Lang  may  his  whistle  blaw,  Jamie; 

And  Maxwell  true  o'  sterling  blue, 
And  we'll  be  Johnstons  a';  Jamie, 

Up  and  waur  them  a',  Jamie,' 
Up  and  waur  them  a';       [o't. 

The  Johnstons  hae  the  guidin' 
Te  turncoat  Whigs,  awa'. 


THE  FIVE  CAELINES. 

Tune — "  Chevy-chace." 

This  is  another  ballad  which  the  poet  penned 
on  theconlesled  election  mentioned  alaove. ' 
It  represents  the  five  burghs  in  cleverly- 
drawn  figurative  characters — Dumfries, 
as  Maggy  on  the  banks  of  Nith  :  An- 
nan, as  Bhnkinff  Bess  of  Annandale  •  Kirk- 
cudbright, as  Whisky  Jean  of  -  Galloway  ; 
Sanquhar,  as  Black  Joan  frae  Crichton 
Peel ;  and  Lochniaben,  as  Marjory  of  the 
Many  Lochs — each  of  which  is  more  or  less 
locally  appropriate. 

Theke  were  five  carlines'  in  the  south. 

They  fell  upon  a  scheme. 
To  send  a  lad  to  Lon'on  town. 

To  bring  them  tidings  liame. 

Not  only  bring  them  tidings  hame, 
But  do  their  errands  there; 

And  aiblins"  gowd  and  honour  baith 
Might  be  that  laddie's  share. 

There  was    Maggy  by   the  banlcs  o' 
Nith, 
A  dame  wi'  pride  enough; 


=  Beat.        =  Boy.        *  Tends.        5  Cows. 

^  Old  women.  -  Perhaps. 

*  Alexander  Birtwhistle,  Esq.,  merchant  in 
Kirlvcudbright,  and  provost  of  the  burgh. 


And  Marjory  o'  the  Mony  Lochs,   '> 
A  carline  auld  and  teugh;  '  ^ 

And  Blinkin  Bess  of  Annandale, 

That  dwelt  near  Solway-side, 
And  Whisky  Jean,  that  took  her  gitl 

In  Galloway  sae  wide. 

.ife 
And  Black  Joan,  frae  Crichton, -Peel, 

O'  gipsy  kith  and  kin;— 
Five  wighter"  carlines  werena  f ooh?  ' 

The  south  countrie  within.       '  •', 

To  send  a  lad  to  Lon'on  town;"'  ,  -' 

They  met  upon  a  day; 
And  mony  a  knight,  and  moBy  a  lalrd. 

Their  errand  fain  wad  gae. 

Oh,  mony  a  knight,  and  mony  a  laiwi. 
This  errand  fain  wad  gae:  '  " 

But  nac  ane  could  their  fancy  please. 
Oh,  ne'er  ane  but  twae. 

The  first  he  was  a  belted  knight, *t 
Bred  o'  n,  Border  clan;  ' 

And  he  wad  gae  to  Lon'on  town. 
Might  nae  man  him  withstan'; 

And  he  wad  do  their  errands  weel. 

And  raeikle  he  wad  say; 
And  ilka  ane  at  Lon'on  court 

Wad  bid  to  him  guid  day. 

Then  nelst  cam  in  a  sodger  youth,:)- 
And  spak  wi'  modest  grace. 

And  he  wad  gae  to  Lon'on  town. 
If  sae  their  pleasure  was. 

He  wadna  hechf  them  courtly  gifts. 
Nor  meikle  speech  pretend; 

But  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart 
Wad  ne'er  desert  his  friend. 

Now,  wham  to  choose,  and  wham  re- 
fuse. 

At  strife  thir  carlines  fell; 
For  some  had  gentlefolks  to  pleasfe. 

And  some  wad  please  themsel.' 

Then  out  spak  mim-mou'd=  Mesf  o' 
Nith, 

And  she  spak  up  wi'  pride, 
And  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youtii. 

Whatever  might  betide.  ri- 


3  More  powerful.         *  Promise.         ^  Prim- 
mouthed. 

*  Sir  J.  Johnston. 
+  Captain  Miller. 


SONGS. 


221 


For  tlie  auld  guidman|  o'  Lou'on  court 

Slie  didna  care  a  pin; 
But  she  wad  send  a  sodger  youtli 

To  greet  Ms  eldest  son.g 

Then  up  sprstng  Bess  of  Anntodale, 

And  swore  a  deadly  altli, 
Says,  "  I  will  send  the  Border  knight 

Spite  o'  you  carlines  balth. 

"  For  far-off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair, 
And  fools  o'  change  are  fain; 

But  1  hae  tried  this  Border  knight, 
And  I'll  try  him  yet  again. " 

-Then  Whisliy  Jean    spak  owre   her 
drinlt, 
'.'  Ye  weel  ken,  kimmers  a', 
The  auld  guidman  o'  Lon'on. court. 
His  back's  been  at  the  wa'. 

"'  And  mony  a  friend  that  Mss'd  his 
-     cup 

Is  now  a  fremit'  wight, 
But  it's  ne'er  be  said  o'  WJiisky  Jean, 

I'll  send  the  Border  knight." 

Says  Black  Joan  f  rae  Crichton  Peel, 
A  carline  stoor  ■■  and  grim, — 

"  The  auld  guidman,  and  the  young 
guidman. 
For  me  may  sink  or  swim  ; 

"  For  fools    will  prate  o'  right  and 
wrang, 
While  knaves  laugh  in  their  sleeve  ; 
But  wha  blows  best  the  horn  shall 
win,    , 
I'll  spier  nae  courtier's  leave." 

Then  slow  raise  Marjory  o'  the  Lochs, 
And  wrinkled  was  her  brow  ; 

Her  ancient  weed  was  russet  gray. 
Her  auld  Scots  bluid  was  true. 

"  The  Lon'on  court  set  light  by  me — 

I  set  as  light  by  them  ; 
And  I  will  send  the  sodger  lad 
"  To  shaw  that  court  the  same." 

Sae  how  this  weighty  plea  may  end, 

Nae  mortal  wight  can  tell : 
God  grant  tlie  king,  and  ilka  man, 
-   May  look  weel  to  himsel ! 

»  Estranged.  '  Austere. 

t  George  in. 
§The  Prince  of  Wales. 


THri  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE. 
Air—"  The  Blue-eyed  Lass." 

The  "  Btue-Eyed  Lassie"  was  Miss  Jean  Jef- 
frey, daughter  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Jeffrey  of 
Lochmaben,  in  Dumfriesshire,  at  whose 
house  the  poet  was  a  frequent  visitor.  On 
the  occasion  of  his  first  visit,  the  young 
lady,  then  a  charming,  blue-eyed  creature 
of  eighteen,  did  the  honours  of-  the  table, 
and  so  pleased  the  poet,  that  next  morning 
at  breafcfast  he  presented  her  with  the  fol- 
lowing passport  to  fame,  in  the  form  "of  one 
of  his  finest  songs.  Miss  Jeffrey  afterwards 
went  out  to  New  York,  where  she  married 
an  American  gentleman  of  the  name  of 
Renwick,  to  wtibm  she  bore  a  numerous 
family.  One  of  her  daughters  became  the 
wife  of  Captain  Wilks,  of  the  United  States 
Nayy. 

I  GAED  a  waefu'  gate  '  yestreen, 

A  gate,  I  fear,  I'll  dearly  rue  ; 
I  gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o'  bonny  blue. 
'Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright ; 

Her  lips  like  roses  wat  wi'  dew  ; 
Her  heaving  bosom,  lily-white — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonny  blue. 

She  talk'd,  she  smiled,  my  heart  she 
wiled  ;  [how  ; 

She  charm'd  my  soul — I  wist  na' 
And    aye    the    stound,'    the    deadly 
wound, 

Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonny  blue. 
But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare-to  speed,* 

She'll  aibliris  ''  listen  to  my  vow  : 
Should  she  refuse,  I'll  lay  my  dead  * 

To  her  twa  een  sae  bonny  blue. 


WHEN  PIKST  I  SAW  FAIR 

JEANIE^S  FACE. 

Air—"  Maggie  Lauder," 

This  song  first  appeared  in  the  Nem  York 
Mirror  in  1846,  with  the  following  notice  of 
the  heroine,  Mrs.  Renwick  {nee  Miss  Jean 
Jeffrey)  mentioned  above:— "The  lady  to 
whom  the  following  verses— never  before 
published— were  addressed,  known  to  the 
readers  of  Burns  as  the  '  Blue-eyed  L.fssie,' 
is  one  of  a  race  whose  beauties  and  virtues 
iormed  for  several  generations,  the  inspira- 

1  Road.    -  Pang.    ^  Perhaps.    <  Death. 

^=  A  proverbial  expression — Give  me  the 
chance  of  speaking  and  the  opportunity  of 
gaining  her  favour. 


BURN'S'  WORKS. 


Take  aTuay  these  rosy  lips,     [•' 
Rich  with  balmy  treasure  ; 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love. 
Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 

Wliat  is  life  when  wanting-  love? 

Night  without  a  morning:       ': 
Love's  the  cloudless  summer  sun. 

Nature  gay  adorning. 


tion  of  the  masters  of  Scottish  song._  Her 
mother  was  Agnes  Armstrong,  in  whose 
honour  the  touching  words  and  beautiful 
air  of  '  Rosiin  Castle^  were  composed. 

When  first  I  saw  fair  Jeani  e's  face, 

I  couldna  tell  what  ail'd  me. 
My  heart  went  fluttering  pit-a-pat. 

My  een  they  almost  fail'd  me. 
She's  aye  sae  neat,  sac  trim,  sae  tight, 

All  grace  does  round  her  hover, 
Ae  look  deprived  me  o'  my  heart. 
And  I  became  a  lover. 

She's  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  sae  gay. 
She's  aye  so'blithe  and  cheerie  ; 
She's  aye  sae  bonny  ,blithe,and  gay, 
Oh,  gin  I  were  her  dearie  ! 

Had  I  Dundas'  whole  estate. 

Or  Hopetoun's  wealth  to  shine  in  ; 
Did  warlike  laurels  crown  my  brow. 

Or  humbler  bays  entwining — 
I'd  laid  them  a'  at  Jeanie's  feet. 

Could  I  but  hope  to  move  her, 
And  prouder  than  a  belted  knight, 

I'd  be  my  Jeanie's  lover. 

She's  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  &c. 

But  sair  I  fear  some  happier  swain 

Has  gained  sweet  J  eanie's  favour  : 
If  so,  may  every  bliss  be  hers. 

Though  I  maun  never  have  her  ; 
But  gang  she  east,  or  gang  she  west, 

'Twist  Forth  and  Tweed  all  over, 
While  men  have  eyes,  or  ears  or  taste. 

She'll  always  find  a  lover. 

She's  aye,  aye  sae  blithe,  &c. 


MY  LOVELY  NANCY. 
Tune—"  The  Quaker's  Wife." 

'  The  following  song,"  says  the  poet,  in  a 
letter  to  Clarinda,  to  whose  charms,  prob- 
ably, we  owe  the  lines,  "  is  one  of  my  latest 
productions  ;  and  I  send  it  to  you  as  I 
would  do  anything  else,  because  it  pleases 
myself :" — 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 
Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy  ; 

Every  pulse  along  my  veins, 
Every  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart. 
There  to  throb  and  languish  ; 

Though  despair  had  wrung  its  core. 
That  would  heal  its  anguish. 


TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 

Tune—"  Johnny  M'Gill."    ,  ^ ';'  '' 
Oh,  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie 

Dunbar?  [Dunbar? 

Oh,  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse,  or  be  drawn 

in  a  car,  [Dunlmr? 

Or  walk  by  my  side,  oh,  sweet  Tibbie 

I  care  na  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his 
money,  ,  [lordly: 

I  care  ua  thy  kin,  sae  high  and  sae 
But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me  for  better  f oi- 
-  waur —  [Dunbar  I 

And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie 


WHEN  ROSY  MAY  COMES  IN 

Wr  FLOWERS. 

Tune—"  The  gardener  wi'  his  paidle." 

The  poet  afterwards  produced'  a  newversinn 
of  this  song,  with  a  change  in  the  burden  at 
the  end  of  the  stanzas. 

When  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers, 
To  deck  her  gay  green-spreading  bow- 
ers, 
Then  busy,  busy,  are  his  hours — 

The  gardener  wi'  his  paidle. ' 
The  crystal  waters  gently  fa' 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a'; 
The  scented  breezes  round  hini  bl^iw — 

The  gardener  wi'  his  paidle. 

When, purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare,      [pair^ 
Then  through  the  dews  he  maun  fe- 

The  gardener  wi'  his  "paidle. 
When  day,  expiring  in  the  west. 
The  curtain  draws  of  nature's  rest,'!!^ 
He  flies  to  her  arms  he  lo'es  the  besjt — 

The  gardener  wi'  his  paidle. 

»Hoe. 


SONOS. 


323 


MY  HAERY  WAS  A  OALLANT 
GAY. 
Tune — "  Highlander's  Lament." 

The  chorus  of  this  song,  the  poet  tells  us,  he 
picked  up  from  an  old  woman  in  Dunblane, 
the  rest  being  his  own.  The  old  song  was 
composed  on  a  Highland  love  affair:  but 
this  version  was  evidently  intended  lor  a 
Jacobite  melody. 

li^Y  Harry  was  a  gallant  gay, 
'  Fil'  stately  strode  he  on  the  plaui; 
But  now  he's  banish'd  far  away, 
I'll  never  see  liim  back  again. 

Oh,  for  him  back  again  ! 
Oh,  for  him  back  again! 
1    ~        I  wadgie'a'  KnocMiaspie's  land 
t   •     Tor  Highland  Harry  back  againl 

WTiea;;^'  the  lave'  gae  to  their  bed, 
':  iSvander  dowie'^  up  the  glen ; 
Itsefene  down  and  greet^  my  fill. 
And  aye  'I  wish  him  back  again. 

Oh,  were  some  villains  hangit  high, 
And  ilka  body  had  their  ain ! 

Then  I  might  see  the  joyfu'  sight. 
My  Highland  Harry  back  again.       • 


BEWARE  0'  BONXY  A^'N. 

Tune — ^?'  Ye  gallants  bright." 

'■  I  composed  this  somj,"  says  the  poet,  "  out 
of  compliment  to  Miss  Ann  Masterton,  the 
;  ,-^,d?uighter  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Allan  Master- 
ton,  com^ser  of  the  air,  *  Strathallan's  La- 
inenti' "' 

Yb  gallants  bright,  I  rede'  ye  right, 

Beware  o'  bomiy  Ann ; 
Her  comely  face  sae  f u'  o'  grace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan.'' 
Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night, 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan; 
Sae  jimply^  laced  her  genty    waist, 
•  That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  Grace,  and  Love,  attendant 
move. 

And  Pleasure  leads  the  v^an:  [arms. 
In  a'  their  charms,   and   conquering 

They  wait  on  bonny  Ann. 


1  Rest.    2  Sad. 
1  Warn.    ^  Ensnare. 


'Cry. 
3  Tightly. 


The  captive  bands  may  chain  theJiands, 
But  love  enslaves  the  man; 

Ye  gallants  braw,  I  rede  you  a', 
Beware  o'  bonny  Ann  ! 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO. 
Tune—"  John  Anderson,  my  Jo." 

John  Anderson,  my  jo''  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent; 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonny  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,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  mony  a  canty*  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go; 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MUIR. 
Tune — "  Cameronian  Rant." 

"Oh-  cam  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun. 

Or  herd  the  sheep  wi'  me,  man  ? 
Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-muir, 

And  did  the  battle  see  man  ?" 
'■■  I  saw  the  battle  sair  and  tough. 
And  reekin'  red  ran  mony  a  sheugh;' 
My  heart,   for  fear,  gaed' sough-  for 

sough. 
To  hear  the  thuds,^  and  see  thecluds, 
0'  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds,-* 

Wha  glauni'd*  at  kingdoms  three, 
man. 

"  The  red-coat  lads,  wi'  black  cockades. 
To  meet  them  werna  slaw,  man ; 

They  rush'd  and  push'd,  and  bluid  out- 
gush'd. 
And  mony  a  bouk"  did  fa',  man: 

The  great  Argyle  led,  on  his  files, 

I  wat  they  glanced  for  twenty  miles. 


1  Love— dear.  ^  Smooth.  '  Head.  ■"  Happy. 
1  Ditch.      2  Sigh,      =  Knocks.      »  Clothes, 
s  Grasped.      '  Trunk,  body. 


324' 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Tliey  hack'd  and  liasli'd  wliile  broad- 
swords clasli'd,  [and  smash'd 
And  through  they  dash'd,  and  hew'd 
'Till  fey'  men  died  awa',  man. 

' '  But  had  ye  seen  the  philabegs. 
And  skyrin'  tartan  trews,  man ; 
When    in   the  teeth  they  dared  our 
Wliigs 
And  covenant  true-blues,  man ; 
In  lines  extended  lang  and  large. 
When  bayonets  o'erpower'd  the  targe. 
And  thousands  hasten'd  to  the  charge, 
Wi'  Highland  wrath   they   frae   the 

sheath 
Drew  blades  o'  death,  till  out  o'  breath, 
They   fled    like    frightened    doos,' 
man." 

"  Oh,  how  deil,  Tam,  can  that  be  true? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man; 
I  saw  mysel  they  did  pursue 

The  horeemen  back  to  Forth,  man: 
And  at  Dunblane,  in  my  ain  sight. 
They  took  the  brig  wi'  a'  their  might. 
And  straught  to  Stirling  wing'd  their 

flight; 
But,  cursed  lot!  the  gates  were  shut; 
And  monya  huutit,  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  Dundee,  man: 
Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill. 
The  Angus  lads  had  nae  good  will 
That  day  their  neibors'  bluid  to  spill; 
For  fear  by  foes  that  they  should  lose 
Their   cogs  o'  brose,  they   scared   at 
blows. 
And  hameward  fast  did  flee,  man. 

"  They've  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen 

Amang  the  Highland  clans,  man; 
I  fear  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain. 

Or  fallen  in  Whiggish  hands,  man; 
Now  wad  ye  sing  this  double  fight. 
Some  fell   for  wrang,  and  some  for 

right; 
And  mony  bade  the  world  guid-night; 
Then  ye  may  tell  how  pell  and  mell. 
By -red  claymores,  and  muskets'  knell, 
Wi'  dying  yell,  the  Tories  fell. 
And  Whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man. 


-■^  Predestined.    ^  Shining.    *"  Pigeons. 
Swoon. 


BLOOMING  NELLT. 
Tune—"  On  a  Bank  of  Flowers." 

On  a  bank  of  flowers,  in  a  summer  day. 

For  summer  lightly  drest. 
The  youthful  blooming  Nelly  lay. 

With  love  and  sleep  opprest; 
AVhen  Willie,  wandering  through  the 
wood. 

Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued. 
He  gazed,   he  wish'd,   he  fear'd,  he 
blush'd. 

And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes,  like  weapons  sheath- 
ed. 

Were  seal'd  in  soft  repose; 
Her  lips,  still  as  she  fragrant  breathed, 

It  richer  dyed  the  rose. 
The  springing  lilies  sweetly  prest. 

Wild- wanton,  kiss'dher  rival  breast; 
He  gazed,   he  wish'd,   he  fear'd,  he 
blush'd — 

His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

Her  robes,  light  waving  in  the  breeze. 

Her  tender  limbs  embrace! 
Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease, 

All  harmony  and  grace ! 
Tumultuous  tides  his  pulses  roll. 

A  faltering,  ardent  kiss  he- stole; 
He   gazed,  he   wish'd,  he   fear'd,    he 
blush'd. 

And  sigh'd  his  very  soul. 

As  flies  the  partridge  from  the  brake. 

On  fear-inspired.wings, 
So  Nelly,  starting,  half-awake. 

Away  affrighted  springs: 
But  Willie  follow'd — as  he  should; 

He  overtook  her  in  the  wood; 
He  vow'd,  he  pray'd,   he  found  the 
maid 

Forgiving  all  and  good. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGH- 
LANDS. 

Tune — "  Faille  na  Miosg." 

"The  first  half  stanza  of    this  song,"  says 
Burns,  "is  old  ;  the  rest  is  mine." 

My  heart's,  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart 

is  not  here;  [the  deer; 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing 


SONGS. 


235 


A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following 

the  roe —  [1  go. 

My  heart's  in-the  Highlands  wherever 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to 
the  North,  [of  worth: 

The  birthplace  of  valour,  the  country 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove. 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I 
love. 

Farewell,  to  the  mountains  high  cover'd 
with  snow;  [leys  below; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  val- 

Farewell  to  the  forests^nd  wild-hang- 
ing woods;  [ing  floods. 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pour- 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart 
is  not  here;  [the  deer; 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing 

A~chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following 
the  roe —  [I  go. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever 


THE  BANKS  OF  KITH. 

Tune — "  Robte  donna  Gorach." 

The  Thames  flows  proudly  to  the  seay 

Where  royal  cities  stately  stand; 
But  sweeter  flows  the  Nith,  to  me,    ■•* 

Where    Cummins*  ance  had  high 
command: 
When  shall  I  see  that  honour'd  land, 

That  winding  stream  1  love  so  dear  ! 
Must  wayjvard  Fortune's  adverse  hand 

Forev^  ever  keep  me  here? 

How  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  valeSj 

Where  spreading  hawthorns  gayly 
bloom ! 
How  sweetly  wind  thy  sloping  dales. 

Where  lambkins    wanton   through 

the  broom  !  [doom, 

"Though  wandering,  now,  must  be  my 

Far  from  thy  bonny  banks  and  braes. 
May  there  my  Jatest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days  1 


TAM  GLEN. 
Tune—"  Tarn  Glen." 

My  heart  is  breaking,  dear  tittle  !' 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len' ; 

1  Sister. 
*  The  well-known  Comyns  of  Scottish  his- 
tory. 


To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pify. 
But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tam  Glen  ! 

I'm  thinking,  wi'  sic  a  braw  fallow. 
In  poortith  I  might  mak  a  fen;'' 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow. 
If  I  mauna  marry  Tam  Glen  ? 

There's  Lowrie  the  Laird  o'  Drumeller, 
"  Guid  day  to  you  brute !"  he  comes 
ben. 
He  brags  and  blaws  o'  his  siller. 
But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam 
Glen? 

My  minnie'  does  constantly  deave  me. 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me. 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him. 
He'll  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten; 

But  if  it's  ordain'd  I  maun  ta;ke  hini. 
Oh,  wha  will  I  get  but  Tam  Glen  ? 

Yestreen  at  the  valentines'  dealing. 
My  heart  to  my  mou'  gieij  a  sten  ;* 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And    thrice  it    was  written — ^Tam 
Glen  !  ■ 

The  last  Halloween  I  lay  waukin'* 
My  droukit* sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken;* 

His  likeness  came  up  the  house  staukin'. 
And  the  very  gray  breeks  o'  Tam 
(ileu  ! 

Come  counsel,  dear  tittle  !  dont  tarry — 
I'll  gie  ye  my  bonny  black  hen, 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 
The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly — Tam  Glen. 


TUNE- 


THE  TAILOE. 

'  The  tailor  fell  through  the  bed, 
thimbles  and  a'." 


The  taUor  fell  through  the  bed,  thim- 
bles and  a' ;  [bles  and  a' ; 

The  tailor  fell  through  the  bed,  thim- 

Tlie  blankets  were  thin,  and  the  sheets 
they  were  sma',  '  [bles  and  a'. 

The  tailor  fell  through  the  bed,  thim- 


"  Shift.  '  Mother.  «  Bound. 

»  Watching.    "  Wet. 

*  For  an  cxplcination  of  this  old  usage,  see, 
under  the  bead  "  Poeps,"  Note  t,  page 


236 


BURlSrS'  WORKS. 


The  sleepy  bit  lassie,  she  dreaded  nae 
iU;  .  [ill; 

The  sleepy  bit  lassie,  she  dreaded  nae 

The  weather  was  cauld,  and  the  lassie 
lay  still,  [nae  ill. 

She  thought  that  a  tailor  could  do  her 

Ctie  me  the  groat  again,  canny  young 
man;  [man; 

Gie  me  the  groat  again,  canny  young 

The  day  it  is  short,  and  the  night  it  is 
lang, 

The  dearest  siller  that  ever  I  wan  ! 

There's  somebody  weary  wi'  lying  her 
lane:  [lane; 

Tliere's  somebody  weary  wi'  lying  her 

There's  some  that  are  dowie,"  I  trow 
wad  be  fain'''  [again. 

To  see  the  bit  tailor  come   skippin' 


YE  HAE  LIEN  WRANG,   LASSIE. 

CHORUS. 

Te  hae  lien  a'  wrang,  lassie, 

Te've  lien  a'  wrang; 
Ye've  lien  in  an  unco'  bed. 
And  wi'  a  fremit-  man. 
Tour  rosy  cheelcs  are  turn'd  sae  wan. 
Ye're  greener  than  the  grass,  lassie; 
Your  coatie's  shorter  by  a  span. 
Yet  ne'er  an  inch  the  less,  lassie. 

0  lassie,  ye  hae  play'd  the  fool. 
And  we  will  feel  the  scorn,  lassie ; 

For  aye  the  brose  ye  sup  at  e'en, 
Ye  bock'  them  ere  the  morn,  lassie. 

Oh,  ance  ye  danced  upon  the  knowes,'' 
And    through   the   wood    ye    sang, 
lassie; 

But  in  the  berrying  o'  a  bee  byke, 
I  fear  ye've  got  a  stang,  lassie. 


THERE'S  A  YOUTH  IN  THIS  CITY. 

TuNE^"  Nerl  Gow's  Lament." 

The  first  half  stanza  ol  this  song  is  old  :  the 
rest  by  Burns. 

Theke's  a  youth  in  this  city. 
It  were  a  great  pity  [awa'; 

That  he  frae  our  lasses  should  wander 


^  Melancholy.    ^  Glad. 
^Strange.    -Stranger.    ^- Vomit. 


I  Hills. 


For  he's  Jbonny  an'  braw, 

Weel  favour'd  witha',  [a'. 

And'  his .  hair  has  a  natural  buckle  and 

His  coat  is  the  hue 

Of  his  bonnet  sae  blue;  [snawf 
His  fecket*  is  white  as  the  new-drivea 

His  hose  they  are  blae. 

And  his  shoon  like  the  slae,  [uS'a. 
And  liis  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle 

For  beauty  and  fortune 
The  laddie's  been  courtin'; 

Weel-featured,     weel-tocher'd,    weel- 
mounted,^and  braw; 
But  chiefly  the  siller. 
That  gars  him  gang  till  her. 

The  penny's  the  jewel  that  beautifies  'a. 
There's  Meg  wi'  tlie  mailen,f 
That  fain  wad  a  liaeu  him; 

And  Susie,  whose  daddy  was  laird  o' 
the  ha'; 
There's  lang-tocher'd  Nancy 
Maist  fetters  his  fancy — 

But  the  laddie's  dear  sel  he  lo'es  dear- 
est of  a'. 


OUR  THRISSLES  FLOURISHED  • 

FRESH  AND  FAIR. 

Tune — "  Awa',  Whigs,  awa*." 

The  second  and  fourth  stanzas  only  of  this 
song  are  from  the  pen  of  the  poet ;  the 
others  belong  to  an  old  Jacobite. ditty. 

OuK  thrissles  flourish'd  fresh  and  fair. 
And  bonny  bloom'd  our  roses; 

But  Whigs  cam  like  a  frost  in  J  une, 
And  wither'd  a'  our  posies. 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'! 

Awa',  Whigs,  awa'! 
Y'e're  but  a  pack  o'  traitor  louns, 

Ye'll  do  nae  guid  at  a'. 

Our  ancient  crown's  fa'n  in  the  dust — 
Deil  blin'  them  wi'  the  stoure  o't; 

And  write  their  names  in  his  black 
beuk 
Wha  gie  the  Whigs  the  power  o't; 

Our  sad  depay  in  Church  and  State 
Surpasses  my  descriving;"  ' 

The  Whigs  cam  o'er  us  for  a  cursed 
And  we  hae  done  wi'  thriving. 


*  An  under  waistcoat.w.i  th  sleeyeg, 
t  A  well-stocked  farm. 


S0N9S. 


233 


Grim  Vengeance  lang  has  ta'en  a  nap, 
But  we  may  see  him  wauken; 

Gude  help  the  day  when  royaL  Ixeads 
Are  liuntedUke  a  maukin!' 


COME  EEDE  ME,  DAME. 
Comb  rede*  me,  dame,  come  tell  me, 
dame. 
And  nane  can  tell  mair  truly, 
What  colour  maun  the  man  be  of 
To  love  a  woman  duly. 

The  cafline'  flew  baith  up  and  down. 

And  leugh  and  answer'd  ready, 
I  learn'd  a  sang  in  Annandaie, 
^  A, dark  man  for  my  lady. 

-  But  for  a  country  quesin  like  thee, 

Toung  lass,  I  tell  thee  fairly, 
That  wi'- the  white  I've  made  a  shift. 
And  brown  will  d»  f u'  rarely. 

There's  mickle  love  in  raven  loclis, 
1;he  Jlaxen  ne'er  grows  yonden,' 

There's   kiss    and    hause''   me  in  the 
brown. 
And  glory  in  the  gowden. 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  LADY. 

Tune — '*  Oh,  mount  and  go." 

CHORUS. 

Oh,  mount  and  go. 

Mount  and  make  you  ready; 
Oh,  mount  and  go. 

And  be  the  captain's  lady. 

When  the  drums  do  beat. 
And  the  cannons  rattle. 
Thou  sljalt  sit  in  state, 
And  see  thy  love  in  battle. 

When  the  vanquish'd  foe 
Sues  for  peace  and  quiet 

To  the  shades  we'll  go. 
And  in  love  enjoy  it. 

OH  MERRY  HAE  I  BEEN  TEETH- 

IN'  A  HECKLE. 

Tune—"  Lord  Breadalbane's  March." 

Oh,  merry  hael  been  teethin'  a  heckle, 

And    merry    hae  I   been   shapin'  a 

spoon; 

iHare. 
1  Counsel.     "  Old  woman.     3  Gray.    *  Hug 
or  embrace. 


And  merry  hae  I  been  clou  tin''  a  ket- 
tle. 
And  kissin'  my  Katie  when  a'  was 
done.  [mer, 

Oh,  a'  the  lang  day  I  ca'  at  my  ham- 
And  a'tlie  lang  day  I  wliLstle  and  sing, 
A'  the  lang  night  I  cuddle'  my  kim- 
mer,^  [a  king. 

And  a'  the  lang  night  am  as  happy's 

Bitter  in  dool  I  lickit  my  winnin's„ 

0'  marrying  Bess,  to  ^e  her  a  slave: 

Blest  be   the  hour  she  cool'd  in  her 

linens,  [lier  gravel 

And  blithe  be  the  bird  that  sings  on 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  Katie,  my  Katie, 

And  come  to  my  arms  and  kiss  me 
again!- 
Drunken  or  sober,  here's  to  thee,  Katiel 

And  blest  be  the  day  I  did  it  again. 


EPPIE  ADAIR. 

Tune—"  My  Eppie." 

And  oh !  my  Eppie, 
My  jewel,  my  Eppie! 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 

Wi'  Eppie  Adair  ?    . 
By  love,  and  by  beauty. 
By  law,  and  by  duty, 
I  swear  to  be  true  to 

My  Eppie  Adair! 

And  oh!  my  Eppie, 
Hy  jewel,  my  Eppie! 
Wha  wadna  be  happy 

Wi' Eppie  Adair? 
A'  pleasure  exile  me. 
Dishonour  defile  me. 
If  e'er  I  beguile  thee. 

My  Eppie  Adair! 


YOUNG  JOCKEY. 

Tune — "  Young  Jockey." 

YouKG  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad 
In  a'  our  town  or  here  awa', 

Fu'  blithe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud,' 
Fu'  lightly  danced  lie  in  the  ha'. 

He  roosed^*  my  een,  sae  bonny  blue, 
He  roosed  my  waist  sae  genty  sma'. 


1  Patching  up.    2  Fondle.    ^  Dearie. 
1  Plough.       2  Praised. 


228 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  aye  my  heart  came  to  my  mou' 
When  ne'er  a  body  heard  or  Saw. 

My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain, 

Through  wind   and  weet,   through 
frost  and  snaw; 
And  o'er  the  lea  I  leuk  f u'  fain 

When  Jockey's  owsen  hameward  ca'. 
And  aye  the  night  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  takers  me  a'; 
And  aye  he  vows  he'll  he  my  aln. 

As  lang's  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 


WEE  WILLIE  GRAY. 

Wbb  Willie    Gray,   and  his   leather 

wallet;  [and  jacket: 

Peel  a  willow- wand  to  be  him  boots 
Tiie  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him 

tfouse  and  doublet,  . 
The  rose  upon  the  brier  will  be  him 

trouse  and  doublet.  [wallet. 

Wee   Willie    Gray,   and   his    leather 
Twice  a  lily  flower  will  be  him  sark 

and  cravat,  [bonnet. 

Feathers  of  a  flee  wad  feather  up  his 
Feathers  of  a  flee  wad  feather  up  his 

bonnet. 


JAMIE,  COME  TRY  ME. 
Tune — "Jamie,  come  try  me." 
CHORDS, 
Jamie,  come  try  me, 
■  Jamie,  come  try  me, 
If  thou  wad  win  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me. 

If  thou  should  ask  my  love. 

Could  I  deny  thee  ? 
If  thou  would  win  my  love, 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

If  thou  should  kiss  me,  iove, 
Wha  could  espy  thee '( 

If  thou  wad  be  my  love, 
Jamie,  come  try  me. 


THE  BATTLE  OP  KILLIE- 
CRANKIE. 

Tune — "  Killiecrankie." 

The  chorus  of  this  song,  which  celebrates  the 
battle  where  Viscount  Dundee  fell  in  the 
moment  of  victory,  is  old  ;  -the  rest  is  from 
the  pen  of  Burns^ 


Wharb  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad? 

Whare  hae  ye  been  sae  brankie,'  O? 
Oh,  whare  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad' 

Cam  ye  by  Killiecrankie,  0 1 
An'  ye  hae  been  whare  I  hae  been. 

Ye  wadna  been  sae  cantie,'^  O; 
An'  ye  ha'  seen  what  I  hae  seen. 

On  the  braes  of  Killiecrankie,  O. 

I  fought  at  land,  I  fought  at  sea; 

At  hame  I  fought  my  auntie,  0; 
But  I  met  the  devil  and  Dundee, 

On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  O. 
The  bauld  Pitcur  fell  in  a  fur,* 

And  Clavers  got  a  clankie,  0; 
Or  I  had  fed  on  Athole  gled,* 

On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  O. 


GTJIDWIFE,  COUNT  THE  LAWIN. 
Tune — "  Guidwtfe,count  the  lawin." 

Gane  is  the  day,  and  mirk's  the  night. 
But  we'll  ne'er  stray  for  fau't'  o'  light. 
For  ale  and  brandy's  stars  and  moon. 
And  blude-red  wine's  the  rising  sun. 

Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin, 

The  lawin,  the  lawin; 
Then,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin, 

And  bring  a  coggie'  mair.        ' '  ' 

There's  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen. 
And  simple  folk  maun  fecht  and  fen'; 
But  here  we're  a'  in  ae  accord. 
For  ilka  man  that's  drunk's  a  lord. 

My  coggie  is  a  haly  pool. 

That  heals  the  wounds  o'  care  and  dool;' 

And  pleasure  is  a  wanton  trout, 

An'  ye  drink  but  deep  ye'llfind  him  out. 


WHISTLE  O'ER  THE  LAVE  O'T. 

Tune — "  Whistle  o'fir  the  lave  o't." 

FmST  when  Maggy  was  my  care, 
Heaven,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air; 
Now  we're  married — spier'  nae  mair-" 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. — 
Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild. 
Bonny  Meg  was  nature's  child; 
Wiser  men  than  me's  beguiled — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 


t  Gaudy.    ^  Merry.     3  Furrow.    *  Kite. 
1  Want.       2  Bumper.       '  Grief. 

1  Ask. 


SONGS. 


229 


How  -we  live,  my  Meg  and  me,     -  •' 
How  we  love,  and  how  we  'gree, 
I  care  na  by  liow  few  may  see — 

Whistleo'er  tlie  lave  o't. 
Wlia  I  wish  were  maggots'  meat, 
Dish'd  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 
1  could  write — but  Meg  maun  see't — 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 


OH,  CAN  YE  LABOUR  LEA. 

Oh,  can  ye  labour  lea,  young  man. 

And  dan  ye  labour  lea; 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again; 

Te'se  never  scom  Hie. 

I  fee'd  a  man  at  Martinmas, 

Wi'  airl-pennies  three; 
And  a'  the  faut  I  fan'  wi'  him. 

He  couldna  labour  lea. 

The  stibble-rig  is  easy  plough'd, 

;  The  fallow  land  is  free; 
But  wha  wad  keep  the  handless  coof. 
That  couldna  labour  lea? 


WOMEN'S  MINDS. 
,TuNE— "  For  s.'  thdt." 
Though  women's  minds,  like  winter 
winds, 
May  shift  and  turn  and  a'  that. 
The  noblest  breast  adores  them  maist, 
A  consequence  I  draw  that.- 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

And  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that. 

The  bonny  lass  that  I  lo'e  best 
She'll  be  my  ain  for  a'  that. 

Great  love  I  bear  to  all  the  fair, 
Their  liumble  slave,  and  a'  that; 

Bftt  lordly  will,  I  hold  it  still, 
A  mortal  sin  to  tliraiv  that. 

But  there  is  ane  aboon  the  lave,' 
Has  wit,  and  sense,  and  a'  that; 

A  bonny  lass,  I  like  her  best. 
And  wha  a  crime  dare  ca'  that  ? 


IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONNY 
FACE. 
Tune—"  The  Maid's  Complaint." 
liFis  na,  Jean,  thy  bonny  face, 
Nor  sliape,  that  I  admire, 

'  ilest. 


Altliougji  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace! 

Might  weel  awake  desire. 
Something,  in  ilka  part  o'  thee. 

To  praise,  to  love,  I  find; 
But,  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me. 

Still  dearer  is  thy  mind. 

Nae  mair  migenerous  -wish  I  hae, 

No  stronger  in  my  breast, 
Than  if  I  canna  mak  thee  sae, 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 
Content  am  I,  if  Heaven  shall  give 

But  happiness  to  thee: 
And,  as  wi'  thee  I'd  wish  to  live. 

For  thee  I'd  bear  to  die. 


MY  LOVE  SHE'S  BUT  A  LASSIE 

YET. 

Tune—"  Lady  Badinscoth's  Reel." 

Mt  love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet,  . 

My  love  she's  but  a  lassie  yet; 
We'll  let  her  stand  a  year  or  twa. 

She'll  no  be  half  sae  saucy  yet. 
I  rue  the  day  I  sought  her,  0, 

I  i-ue  the  day  I  sought  her,  0; 
Wha  gets  her  needna  say  she's  woo'd. 

But  he  may  say  he's'  bought  her,  0 ! 

Cqme,  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet; 

Come  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet; 
Gae  seek  for  pleasure  where  ye  wijl, ' 

But  here  I  never  miss'd  it  yet. 
We're  a'  dry  wi'  drinking  o't; 

We're  a'  dry  wi'  drinking  o't: 
The  minister  kiss'd  the  fiddler's  wife. 

And  couldna  preach  for  thinkin'  o't. 


CA'  THE  EWES. 

Tune — "  Ca'  the  Ewes  to  the  Knowes." 

The  fourth  and  fifth  stanzas  of  this  sone-, 
which  wai"  written  for  the  Museum^  are  old, 
with  a  few  touches  of  improvement  by 
Burns.  He  afterwards  wrote  a  much  bettfer 
version  for  Thomson's  collection,  which  wii; 
be  found  at  p.  263. 

As  I  gaed  down  .thg  water-side. 
There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad, 
He  row'd'  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 
And  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 


'  Wrapt. 


2S0 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Ca'  the  ewes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  whare  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  whare  the  burnie  rowes. 
My  bonny  dearie  1 

Will  ye  gang  down  the  water-side, 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide  ? 
Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide 
The  moon  it  shines  f  u'  clearly. 

I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 
My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  fool, 
And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool,^ 
And  uaebody  to  see  me. 

Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet, 
And  in  my  arms  ye'se  lie  and  sleep. 
And  ye  sail  be  my  dearie. 

If  ye'll  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said, 
I'se  gang  wi'  you,  my  shepherd  lad. 
And  ye  may  rowe  me  in  your  plaid. 
And  I  sail  be  your  dearie. 

Wliile  waters  wimple'  to  the  sea: 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift^  sae  hie; 
Til]  clay-cauld  death  sail  blin'  my  ee. 
Ye  saU  be  my  dearie. 


SIMMER'S  A  PLEASANT  TIME. 

Tune — "  Aye  Waukin,  O." 

This  is  an  old  song,  on  which  the  poet  appears 
to  have  made  only  a  few  alterations. 

Simmer's  a  pleasant  time. 

Flowers  of  every  colour; 
The  water  rins  o'er  the  heugh,' 

And  I  long  for  my  true  lover. 

A  waukin,  0, 

Waukin  still  and  wearie: 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 

When  I  sleep  I  dream, 

When  I  wauk  I'm  eerie;' 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  on  my  dearie. 

Lanely  night  comes  on, 

A'  the  lave^  are  sleepin'; 
I  think  <m  my  bonny  lad. 

And  I  bleer  my  een  with  greetin'.* 


2  Grief.     3  Wander.     *  Heavens. 
^  Steep.    2  Timorous.     ^  Rest.     *  Weeping. 


THERE'LL     NEVER     BE     PEACE 
TILL  JAMIE  COMES  HAME. 

Tune — "  There  are  few  guid  fellows  when 
Willie's  awa'." 

"  When  political  combustion,'*  sdys  ih&  poet, 
in  a  letter  to  Thomson,  enclosing  Ihis^ong, 
which  had  evidently  been  composed  whife 
in  a  Jacobitical  mood,  "  ceasfes  to-'  be  the. 
object  of  princes,  and  patriots,  itthen,  y6u 
know,  becomes  the  lawful  prey  of  historians 
and  poets."  *  -.,1 

By  yon  castle  wa',  at  the  close  of  the 

day,  [was  gray: 

I  hearda  man  sing,  though  his  head  it 
And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast 

down  came,  [comes  hame; 

There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie 
The  Church  is  in  ruins,  the  State  is  in 

jars;  [ouswars; 

Delusions,  oppressions,  and  murdeis 
We  darena  weel  say't,  though  we  kein 

wha's  to  blame —  [hame  ! 

There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 

My  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie   drew 

sword,  [beds  in  the  yerd.' 

And  now  I  greet'  round  their  green 
It'Jorak  the  sweet  heart  of  my  faithfd' 

auld  dame —  [hame. 

There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 
Now  life  is  a  burthen  that  bows  me 

down,  [crow^; 

Since  I  tint'  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  his 
But  till  my  last  moments  my  words  are 

the  same —  [hame. 

There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes 


LOVELY  DAVIES. 

Tune—"  Miss  Muir." 

The  heroine  of  this  song  was  Miss  Deborah 
Davies,  a  beautiful  young  Englishwoman, 
connected  by  ties  of  blood  with  the  family 
of  Captain  Riddel  of  Glenriddel,,at  whose 
house  the  poet  probably  first  met  her.  Her 
beauty  and  accomplishments  appear  to  have 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  poet,  for 
he  lias  celebrated  tliem  m  a  number  of  e!i^ 
sions  in  both  prose  and  verse.  In  a  letter  to 
her  enclosing  this  song,  he  says,  in.  a  strain 
of  enthusiastic  gallantry: — "When-r^'iny 
theme  is  youth  and  beauty — a  young.  Ia4y 
whose  personal  charms,  wit,  and  sentimeht, 
are  equally  striking  and  unaffectedr.^by 
Heavens !  though  I  had  lived  threescore 
years  a  married  man,  and  threescore 
years  before   T   was"  a  married    man,  my 

1  Weep.    2  Churchyard.    '  Lost. 


SONGS. 


281 


imagination  would  hallow  the  very  idea ; 
and  I  am  truly  sorry  that  tlie  enclosed 
stanzas  have  done  such  poor  justice  to  such 
a  subject." 

Oh,  liow  shall  I  unskilfu'  try 

The  poet's  occupation, 
The  tunefu'  povrers,  in  happy  hours, 

That  vphispsr  inspiration  ? 
Even  they  mavm  dare  an  effort  mair 

Than  aught  they  ever  gave  us, 
Or  they  rehearse,  in  eSjual  verse. 

The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 

Each  eye  it  cheers,  when  she  appears, 
.  like  Phoebus  in  the  moniing,  [er 
When  past  the  shower  and  ;e very  flow- 
,  The  garden  is  adorning-  .  [shore, 
As  the    wretch    looks    o'er  Siberia's 

"When  winter-bound  the  wave  is; 
Sae  droops  our  heart  when  we  maun 
part  ' 

Frae  charming,  lovely  Davies. 

Per  smile's  a  gift,  frae  'boon  the  lift, 

That  maks  us  mair  than  princes; 
A  sceptred  hand,  a,  king's  command, 

Is  in  her  darting  glances:     [charms. 
The    man  in    arms,     'gainst    female 

Even  he  her  mlling  slave  is; 
He  hugs  his  chain,  and  owns  the  reign 

Of  conquering,  lovely  Davies. 

My  Muse,  to  dream  of  such  a  theme. 

Her  feeble  powers  surrender; 
The  eagle's  gaze  alone  surveys 

The  sun's  meridian  splendour: 
I  w£id-  in  vain  essay  the  strain. 

The  deed  too  daring  brave  is; 
I'll  drap  the  lyre,  and  mute  admire 

The  charms  o'  lovely  Davies. 


THE  BONNY  WEE  THING. 
Tune—"  Bonny  wee  Thing." 

This  is  another,  though  briefer  and  more  sen- 
timental, song-  in  celebration  of  the  lady 
mentioned  above—"  The  charming,  lovely 

"Davies." 

BOnny  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 
:   Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine.' 


Wishfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  bonny  face  o'  thine;    , 

And  my  heart  it  stounds'^  wi'  anguish, 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty. 

In  ae  constellation  shiue; 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty. 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  ! 
Bonny  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing, 

Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom  ,■ 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine  ! 


WAR  SONG. 

Air—"  Oran  an  Doig ;"  or,  "  The  Song  of 
Death." 

"I  have  just  finished,"  says  the  poet,  in  a 
letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlbp.  enclosing  this  noble 
lyric,  "  the  following  song,  which,  to  a  lady, 
the  descendant  of  Wallace,  and  herself  the 
mother  of  several  soldiers,  needs  neither 
preface  nor  apology.^'  The  subject,  the 
poet  tells  us,  was  suggested  to  him  by  an 
Isle-of-Skye  tune  entitled,  "Oran  an 
Doig  ;"  or,  "  The  Song  of  Death,"  which  he 
found  in  a  collection  of  Highland  airs,  and 
to  the  measure  of  which -he- adapted  his 
stanzas. 

Scene— A.  field  of  battle— Time  of  the  day, 
Evening — The  wounded  and  dj^ing  of  the 
victorious  army  are  supposed  to  join  in  the 
following-Sojig:—    . 

Fakewbli,,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green 
earth,  and  ye  skies,         i. 
Now  gay  with  the  broad  setting  sun  ! 
Farewell  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear 
tender  ties ! 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 

Thou  grim  King  of  Terrors,  thou  life's 

gloomy  foe ! 

Go,  frighten  the  coward  and  slave  ! 

Go  teach  them  to  tremble,  fell  tyrant ! 

but  know. 

No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave  ! 

Thou  strik'st  the   dull    peasant,— he 
sinks  in  the  dark,  [name; — 

Nor    saves    e'en    the    wreck    of    a 
Thou  strik'st  the  young  hero— a  glori- 
ous mark ! 
He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  ! 


1  Lose. 


2  Aches.. 


233 


BURJfS'  WORKS. 


In  tlie  fields  of  proud  honour — our 
swords  in  our  hands 

<  Our  king  and  our  country  to  save — 

While  victory  shines  on  life's  last  ebb- 
ing sands —  [brave  ! 

'  Oh !   who  would  not  die  with  the 


AE  FOND  KISS. 

Tune—"  Rory  Call's  Port." 

This  exquisitely  beautiful  song  sprang  from 
the  depth  of  the  poet's  passion  for  Clarinda  ; 
and  is  one  of  the  most  vehement  and  im- 
pressive outbursts  of  intense  feeling  ever 
written. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  fareweel,  and  then,  forever! 
Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I'll  pledge 
thee,  [thee. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'U  wage 

Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves 

him. 
While  the  stai  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  forever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  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  Pleasure  I 

Aefond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  fareweel,  alas!  forever! 
Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I'll  pledge 
thee,  [thee ! 

Warring  sighs   and  groans  I'll  wage 


GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 
Tune—"  Wandering  Willie." 

The  last  interview  of  the  poet  with  Clarinda 
took  place  in  Edinburgh  on  the  6th  of  De- 
cember,  1791,   and    appears   to  have   been 


deeply  affecting  on  both  sides.  In  remem 
brance  of  this  meeting,  and  while  stiU  under 
the  influence  of  the  feelings  evoked  by  it, 
the  poet  coihposed  these  beautiful  lines  i— 

Akce  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  glooiny 
December!  [care; 

Ance  mair  I  hail  the,  wi'  sorrow  and 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makesme  re- 
member, t™^*''- 
Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh!  ne'er  to  meet 

Fond  lovers'  parting  is  sweet  painful 
pleasure,  [ing  hour; 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  part- 
But  the  dire  feeling,  oh,  farewell  for- 
ever! [pure. 
Is  anguish  unmingled,  and   agony 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the 

forest,  [flown ; 

Till  the  last  leaf  o'  the  sanmner  is 

Such    is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my 

bosom,  [is  gone ! 

Since  my  last  hope  gjid  last  comfort 

Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  Decem- 
ber, [care ; 
Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and 
For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me 
remember,                       ,  [mair. 
Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh!  ne'er  to  meet 


BEHOLD  THE  HOUR. 
Tune — "  Oran  Gaoil." 

A  month  after  the  interview  mentBned  in  the 
introduction  to  the  preceding  song — on  the 
25th  of  January,  1792 — Clarinda,  in  antici- 
pa<:ion  of  her  iinmediate  departure  for  Ja- 
maica to  join  her  husband,  wrote  to  the  poet 
bidding  him  farewell.  "  Seek  God's  favour," 
she  says ;  "  keep  His  commandments — be 
solicitous  to  prepare  for  a  happy  eternity. 
There,  I  trust,  we  will  meet  in  never-eriding 
bliss!'  She  sailed  a  month  afterwards  j  and 
the  pofet-poured  his  feelings  on  thejoccasion 

■    into  tlie  following  fine  song  -.-^ 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive. 
Thou   goest,   thou   darling  of    my 
heart ! 
Sever'd  from  thee  can  I  surviv«  ? 
'  But  Fate  has  will'd,  and  we  must 
part> 

I'll  often  greet  this  surging  swell. 
You  di.st:ant  isle  will  often  hail: 


SONGS. 


333 


I! "  E'en  liere  I  took  the. last  farewell; 
•    There    latest  majrk'd  her  vanish'd 
sail!"* 

Along  the  solitary  shore, 

While  flitting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  lolling  dashing  roar, 
■   I'll;  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye. 

Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I'll  say, 

Where  now  my  Na;n'cy's  path  may  be! 
While  through  thy  sweets  she  loves  to 
'.\  stray. 

Oh,  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me '? 


THE  MIRK  NIGHT  0'  DECEMBER. 

TunEt-"  O  May,  thy  morn." 

The  following  song,  the  production  of  a 
lighter  mood,  is  also  said  to  have  been  writ- 
ten in  commemoration  of  the  final  meeting 
with  Clarinda ; — 

O  May,  thy  mom  was  ne'er  sae  sweet, 
As  the  mirk  night  o'  December; 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine. 
And  private  was  the  chamber:" 

And  dear  was  she  I  darena  name, 
•     But  I  will  aye  remember. 

And  dear  was  she  I  dareua  name. 
But  I  will  aye  remember. 

And  here's  to  them  that,  like  oursel. 

Can  push  about  the  jorum ; 
And  here's  to  them  that  wish  us  weel, 

May  a'  that's  guid  watch  o'er  them! 
And  here's  to  them  we  darena  tell. 

The  dearest  o'  the  quorum. 
And  here's  to  them  we  darena  tell, 

The  dearest  o'  the  quorum ! 


MY  NANNIE'S  AW  A'. 

Tune — ''  There'll  never  be  peace." 

■  Some  months  after  the  departure  of  Clarinda, 
when  time  had'mellowed  the  poet's  passion, 

*  The  above  two  stanzas  of  this  song  are 
given  by  Chambers  as  follows  :— 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat  arrive  ! 
•  My  dearest  Nancy,  oh,  fareweel ! 
Sev^r'd  frae  thee,  can  I  survive,' 
',     •.  Frae  thee , whom  I  hae  loved  sae  weel  ? 

Endless  and  deep  shall  be  my  grief ; 

Nae  ray  o'  comfort  shall  I  see  ; 
But  this  most^precious,  dear  belief  ! 

That  thou  wilt  still  remember  me. 


and  absence  calmed  the  tumult  of  his  feel- 
ings, he  wrote  the  following  touching  pas- 
toral : — 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blithe  nature 
arrays,  [o'er  the  brkes. 

And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat 

While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka 
green  shaw;'  [Nannie's  awa'  ! 

But     to      me     it's      delightless— my 

The  snaw-drap  and  primrose  our  wood- 
lauds  adorn,  [morn; 

And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet'  o'  the 

They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly 
they  blaw,  [Nannie's  awa'  ! 

They     mind     me      o'     Nannie— and 

Thou  laverock  that  springs  frae  the 

dews  of  the  lawn. 
The  shepherd    to  warn   o'  the  gray 

breaking  dawn,  [night  fa'. 

And  thou  mellow  mavis  that  hails  the 
Give  over  for  pity — my  Nannie's  awa' ! 

Come,  Autumn  sae  pensive,  in  yellow 
and  gray,  [decay: 

And  soothe  me  with  tidings  o'  Nature's 

The  dark  dreary  winter,  and  wild  driv- 
ing snaw,  [awa' ! 

Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie's 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 

In  composing  this  song,  Burns  is  thought  to 
have  thrown  himself  sympathetically-  into 
the  circumstances  of  his  mistress^Clarinda 
— and.to  ha^  given  expression  to  the  feel- 
ings with  which  he  supposed  her  to  bfc  ani- 
mated   in  seeking,    after  a  separation    of 

'  many  years,  a  reunion  with  -her  wayward, 
wandering  husband.  The,  idea-of  this  song 
appears  to  ,have  been  taken  from  an  old 
one.df  ifrhich  the  two  following  verses  have 
been  preserved  ; —  1 

"  Here  awa',  there  awa',  here  awa',  Willie, 
Here  awa',  there  awa',  here  awa'  hame  ; 
Long  have  I  sought  thee,  dear  have  I  bought 
thee. 
Now  I  hae  gotten  my  Willie  again, 

"Through  the  lang  muir  I  have  follow'd  my 
Willie. 
Through  the  lang  muir  I  have  follow'd 
him  hame ; 
Whatever  betide  us,  nought  shall  divide  us, 
Love  now  rewards  all  my  sorrow  and 
pain." 


..'Wood., 


=;Dew. 


234 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Here   awa',   there    awa',    wandering 

Willie,  jhame; 

Here  awa',   there  awa',  haud  awa' 

Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ain  only  dearie. 

Tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie 

the  same. 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at 

our  parting,  [in  my  ee; 

Fears  for  my.  Willie  brought  tears 

"Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome 

my  Willie-r  [to  me. 

The    simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of 

your  slumljers,  [alarms  ! 

How  your   dread   howling   a  lover 

Wauken,  ye  breezes  !  row  gently,  ye 

billows  !  [to  my  arms  ! 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair 

But  oh,  if  he's  faithless,  and  minds  na 

his  Nannie,  [roaring  main  ! 

Flow  still  between    us   thou  wide 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it. 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's 

my  ain. 


THE  DEIL'S  AWA'  WI'  THE 
EXCISEMAN. 

Tune — "The  dei!  cam  fiddling^  through  the 
town." 

The  deil  cam  fiddling  through  the 
town,  ; 

And  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman, 
And  ilka  wife  cries — "  Auld  Mahoun, 

I  wish  you  luck  o'  the  jirize,  man  !" 

The  deil's  awa',  the  deil's  awa'. 
The  deil's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman; 

He's  danced  awa',  he's  danced  awa'. 
He's  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Excise- 
man ! 

We'll  mak  our  maut,  we'll  brew  our 

drink,  [man; 

We'll    dance  and  sing,   and  rejoice. 

And  mony  braw  thanks  to  the  meiklo 

black  deil 

Tliat  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman. 

The  deil's  awa', the  deil's  awa'. 
The  deil's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman; 


He's  danced  awa',  he's  danced  awa'. 
He's  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Excise- 
man! 

There's  threesome  reels,  there's  four- 
some reels,  [man ; 
There's    hornpipes  and  strathspeys. 
But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam  to  the 
land,                                       [man. 
Was — the  deil's  awa'  wi'  the  Excise- 

The  deil's  awa',  the  deil's  awa'. 
The  deil's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman ; 

He's  danced  awa',  he's  danced  awa'. 
He's  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Excise- 
man ! 


BONNY  LESLEY. 

The  poet  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  gives  the 
following  account  of  the  origin  of  this  song : 
— "  Apropos  !^-do  you  know  that  I  am 
almost  in  love  with  an  acquaintance  of 
yours?  Know,  then,"  said  he,  "that  thfe 
heart-struck  awe,  the  distant  humble 
approach,  the  delight  we  should  have  in 
gazing  upon  and  listening  to  a  messenger  Qf 
Heaven,  appearing  in  all  the  unspotted  pur- 
ity of  his  celestial  home,  amon^  the  coarse, 
polluted,  far  inferior  sons  of  men,  to  deliver 
to  them  tiaings  that  should  make  their 
hearts  swim  in  joy,  and  their  imaginations 
soar  in  transport, — such,  so  delighting  and 
and  so  pure,  were  the  emotions  of  my  soul 
on  meeting  the  other  day  with  Miss  Lesley 
Baillie,  your  neighbour  at  Mayfield.  Mr. 
Baillie,  with  his  two  daughters,  accompanied 
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  left  them  ;  and  riding 
home,  I  composed  the  following  ballad. 
You  must  know  that  there  is  an  old  one 
beginning  with — 

'My  bonny  Lizzie  Baillie, 

I  U  rowe  thee  in  my  plaidic,  &c. 

So  I  parodied  it  as  follows."  Miss  BailUe 
ultimately  became  Mrs.  Gumming  of  Logic 
and  died  in  Edinburg  in  1S43. 

On,  saw  ye  bonny  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Border  ? 

She's  gane  lilcc  Alexander, 
To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 

And  love  but  her  forever; 
For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is 

And  never  made  anither  ! 


SONGS. 


238 


Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Tliy  subjects  we,  before  thee; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  lie  couldna  skaitli'  thee. 
Nor  auglit  that  wad  belang  tliee; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonny  face, 
And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee." 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent^  thee; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Keturn  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonny. 


CEAIGIE-BURN  WOOD. 

The  poet  composed  the  f  ollowinff  son^  to  aid 
the  eloquence  of  a  Mr.  Gillespie,  a  friend  of 
his,  who  was  paying  his  addresses  to  a  Miss 
Lorimer,  a  young  lady  who  resided  at  a 
beautiful  place  on  the  banks  of  the  Moffat, 
called  Craigie-burn  Wood. 

SwBET  closes  the  evening  on  Cragie- 

burn  Wood, 

And  blithely  awaukens  the  morrow; 

But  the  pride  of  the  spring  in  the 

Craigie-burn  Wood 

Can  yield  to  me  nothing  but  sorrow. 

Beyond  thee,  dearie,  beyond  thee, 
dearie, 
And  oh !  to  be  lying  beyond  thee ; 
Oh,  sweetly,  soundly,  weel  may  he 
sleep 
That's  laid  in  the  bed  beyond 
thee! 

I  see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing; 

But  pleasure  they  hae  nane  for  me. 
While  care  my  heart  is  wringing. 

I  canna  tell,  I  maunna  tell, 

I  darena  for  your  anger; 
But  secret  love  will  breaJt  my  heart. 

If  I  conceal  it  langer. 


^  Harm.       ^  Guard. 


I  see  thee  gracefu',  straight,  and  tall; 

I  see  thee  sweet  and  bonny; 
But  oh,  what  will  ray  torments  be. 

If  thou  refuse  thy  Johnnie  I 

To  see  thee  in  anither's  arms. 
In  love  to  lie  and  languish, 

'Twad  be  my  dead,'  that  will  bo  seen, 
My  heart  wad  burst  wi'  anguish. 

But,  Jeanio,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine. 
Say  thou  lo'es  nane  before  me;         ' 

And  a'  my  days  o'  life  to  come 
I'll  gratefully  adore  thee. 


SECOND  VERSION. 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn,' 
And  blithe  awakes  the  morrow; 

But  a'  the  pride  o'  spring's  return 
Can  yield  me  nought  but  sorrow. 

I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  trees, 
I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing; 

But  what  a  weary  wight  can  please, 
And  care  his  bosom  wringing  ? 

Fain,  fain  would  I  my  griefs  impart. 
Yet  darena  for  your  anger; 

But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart. 
If  1  conceal  it  langer. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me. 

If  thou  shalt  love  anither. 
When  yon  green  leaves  fade  f rae  the 
tree. 

Around  my  grave  they'll  wither. 


FRAE  THE  FRIENDS  AND  LAND 
I  LOVE. 

Am — ""Carron  Side." 

In  his  notes  to  the  Museum,  the  poet  says  of 
this  song  :— "  I  added  the  last  four  lines  by 
way  of  giving  a  turn  to  the  theme  of  th^ 

Eoem — such  as  it  is.''  The  entire  song, 
owever,  was  in  his  own  handwriting,  and 
is  generally  thought  to  be  his  own  composi- 
tion, as  the  other  twelve  lines  have  not  oeen 
found  in  any  collection. 

Fkae  the  friends  and  land  I  love,. 
Driven  by  Fortune's  felly'  spite. 


'  Death. 


2  Relentless. 


236 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Frae  my  best-beloved  I  rove. 
Never  mair  to  taste  delight; 

Never  mair  maun  liope  to  fijad 
Base  ffae  toil,  relief  frae  care: 

Wlien  remembrance  wracks  the  mind, 
Pleasures,  but  unveil  despair. 

Brightest  climes  shall  mirk  appear, 

Elesert  ilka  blooming  shore. 
Till  the  Fates,  nae  mair  severe, 

Friendship,  Love,  arid  Peace  restore; 
Till  Revenge,  wi'  laurell'd  head, 

Bring  our  banish'd  name  again; 
And  ilka  loyal  bonny  lad 

Cross  the  seas  and  win  his  ain.  , 


MY  TOCHER'S  THE  JEWEL. 
Tune  --"  My  Tocher's  the  Jewel." 
Oh    meikle    thinks    my    luve  o'  my 
beauty,  P^^in; 

And  meikle  thinks  my  luve  o'  my 
But  little  thinks  my  luve  I  ken  brawlie' 
My  tocher's'^  the  jewel  has  charms 
for  him.  [tree; 

It's  a'  for  the  apple  he'll  nourish  the 
It's  a'  for  the  hiney  he'll  cherish  the 
bee;  [siller 

My  laddie's  sae  meUde  in  luve  wi'  the 
He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Your  proffer  o'  luve's  an  airl-penny,' 

My  tocher's  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy; 
But  an  ye  be  crafty  1  am  cunnin',  [try. 

Sae  ye  wi'  anitlier  your  fortune  maun 

Ye're  like  to  the  timmer'  o'  yon  rotten 

wood,  [tree, 

Ye're  like  to  the  bark  o'  yon  rotten 
Ye'll  slip  frae  me  like  a  knotless  thread. 

And  ye'll  crack^  your  credit  wi'  niae' 
nor  me. 


WHAT  CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE  DO  ? 

Tune — "  What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi'  an 
auld  man?  ' 

What  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall 

a  young  lassie,  [auld  man  ? 

What  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi'  an 


.  ^  Know  well.-  ^  Dov/rv.  ^  Money  mveii' as 
earn<ist  of  a  bargain.  ^  Timber.  "^Injure. 
"  More. 


Bad  luck  on  the  penny  that  tempted 
my  minnie'  [and  Ian !' 

To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  for  siller 
Bad  luck  on  the  penny,  &c. 

He's  always  compleenin'  frae   mornin' 
to  e'enin',  [day  lang; 

lie  boasts''  and  he  hirples^  the  weary- 
He's  doyl'f  and  he's  dozen*  his  bluid  it 
is  frozen,  .  [maff'! 

Oh,  dreary's  the  night  wi'  a  cra^ir  auld 
He'sdoyl't  and  he's  dozen,  &c. 

He  hums  and  he  hankers,  hef  rets  and 

he  cankers,  .   ,        [I  caa; 

I  never  can  please  him  dp  a'  that 

He's  peevisii  and    jealous    of    a'  the 

yonng  fellows;  [auld  man  ! 

Oh,  dool"  on  the  day  I  met  wi'  an 

He's  peevish  and  jealous,  ^5. 

My  auld  Auntie  Katie  upon  me  taks 

pity,  [plan  ! 

I'll  do  my  endeavour  to  follow  her 

I'll  cross  him,  and  wrack"  him ,  until  I 

heart-break  him. 

And  then  his  auld   brass   will  buy 

me  a  new  pan.  [&c. 

I'll  cross  him,  and  wrack  hiii. 


OH,  HOW  CAN  I  BE  BLITHE  AND 
GLAD? 
Tone—"  Owre  the  hills  and  far  awa'.'j  . 

Oh,  how  can  I  be  blithe  and  glad, 
Or  how  can  I  gang  brisk  and  braw,. 

When  the  bonny  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 
Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa'? 

When  the  bonny  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 
Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa'? 

It's  no  the  frosty  winter  wind. 
It's  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw; 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  ee. 
To  think  on  him  that's  far  awa'. 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  ee. 
To  think  on  him  that's  far  awa'.  • 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door. 

My  friends  they  hae  disown'd  me  a'. 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak  my  part. 
The  bonny  lad  that's  far  awa'. 


'  Mother.     2  Coughs.     ^  Limps.    <  Crazed. 
'  Benumbed.    »  Woe. 


SONGS. 


237' 


But  I  hae  ano  will  tak  iny  part, 
Tlie  bbiiiiy  lad  tliat's  far  awa'. 

A  pair  o*  gloves  lie  bouglit  for  me, 
And  silken  snoods*  he  gae  me  twa; 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, — 
The  honriy  lad  that's  far  awa". 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, — 
The  bonny  lad  that's  far  awa'. 

Oh,  weary  winter  soon. will  pass, 
And  spring  wiU.  deed  the  birken- 

shaw;' 

And  my  young  baby  will  be  born, 

"  ^  And  he'll  be  hame  that's  far  awa'. 

And  my  young  baby  will  be  born,- 
And  he'll  be  hame  that's  far  awa'. 


I  DO  CONFESS  THOU  AET  SAE 

FAIR. 
Tone — "  I  do  confess  thou  art  sae  fair."^ 

This  song  was  altered  by  the  poet  intcScotch, 
from  a  poem  by  Sir  Robert  Ayton,  private 
secretary  to  Anne,  consort  of  James  VI. 

^  "  I  think,"  says  Bums,  "  that  I  have  im- 
proved the  simplicity  of  the  sentiments  by 
giving  them  a  Scots  dress."  * 


1  Birch-wood. 
*  See  p.       — note. 
*  The  following  are  the  old  words ; — 

"  I  do  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair, 

And  I  might  have  gone  near  to  love  thee; 

Had  I  not  found  the  slightest  prayer 
That  lips  could  speak  had  power  to  move 

But_I.  can  let  thee  now  alone,  ,     [thee. 

As  worthy  to  be  loyed  by  none. 

''I  dojcpnfess  thou'rt  sweet  ■  yet  iind 
Thee  such  an  unthrif  tpf  thy  sweets, 
Thy- favours  are  but  like' the  wind, 

That  kisseth  everything  it  meets  ; 
And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one, 
Thoy'rt  worthy  to-be  kissed  by  none. 

"  The  morning:  rose,  that  untouch'd  stands, 
Arm'd    with    her    briers,    how    sweetly 
smells!  [hands. 

But,  pluck'd  and  strain'd    through  ruder 

Her  sweet  no  longer  with  her  dwells. 
But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone. 
And  leaves  fall  from  her,  one  by  one. 

•*  Such  fate,  ere  long,  will  thee  betide. 

When  thou  bast  handled  been  a  while. 
Like  sun-flowers  to  be  thrown  aside. 

And  I  shall -sigh  while  some  will  smile, 
-  To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 
Jiath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none." 


I  DO  confess  thou  art  sae  fair. 

I  wud  been  owre  the  lugs'  in  luve, 
Had  I  na  found  the  slightest  prayfer 

That  lips  could  speak  thy  heart  could 
move. 
I  do  confess  thee  sweet,  but  find 

Thou  art  sae  thriftless  o'  thy  sweets, 
Thy  favours  are  the  silly  wind. 

That  kisses  ilka  thing  it  meets. 

See  yonder  rosebud,  rich  in  dew, 

Amang  its  native  briers  sae  coy; 
How  sune  it  tines^  its  scent  and  hue 

Whenpu'd  and  worn  a  common  toy! 
Sic  fate,  ere  lang,  shall  thee  betide, 

Though  thou    may  gayly  blOom  a 
while; 
Yet  sune  thou  shalt  be  thrown  aside 

Like  ony  common  weed  and  vile.- 


YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 

Tune — "  Yon  wild  mossy  mountains." 

"  This  song,"  says  the  poet,  ^'  alludes  "  to  a 
part  of  my  private  history  which  it  is  of  no- 
consequence  to  the  world  to  know." 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty 

and  wide,  [the  Clyde; 

That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o'' 
Where  the  grouse   lead  their  coveys 

through  the  heather  to  feed. 
And  the  shepherd  tends  his  flock  as  he 

pipes  on  his  reed. 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys 

through  the  heather  to"  feed. 
And  the  shepherd  tends  his  flock  as 

he  pipes  on  his  reed. 

Not  Gowrie's  rich  valleys,  nor  Forth's 

sunny  shores,  [moors; 

To  me  hajs  the  charms  o'  yon  wild  mossy 

For  there,   by  a    lanely,,  sequester'd 

clear  stream,  [my  dreamt 

Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  tliought  and 

For  there,  by  a  lanely,  sequester'd 

clear  stream,      [and  my  dream. - 

Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought 

Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still 
be  my  path,         [narrow  strath; 

Ilk  stream  foainitig  down  its  ain  green 

For  there,  wi'  my  lassie,  the  dayrlang 
I  rove,  piours  o'  love. 

While  o'er  us  unheeded,  flee  the  swift 


■Ears. 


'  Loses. 


338 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


For  tJiere,  -wi'  my  lassie,  the  day-lang 

I  rove, 
WMle  o'er  us,  iinlieeded,  flee  tlie 

swift  hours  o"  love. 

She  is  not  thff  fairest,  although  she  is 

fair; 
0'  nice  education  but  sma'  is  her  share ; 
Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can 

be;  [lo'esme. 

But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she 

Her  parentage  humble  as  humble 

can  be,  [she  lo'es  me. 

'  But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie,  because 

To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  yield 

him  a  prize,  [and  sighs  ? 

In  her  armour  of  glances,  and  blushes, 

And.  when  wit  and  reiinement  hae  pol- 

ish'd  her  darts,  [hearts. 

They  dazzle  our  een  as  tliey  fly  to  our 

And  wlien  wit  and  refinement  hae 

polish'd  her  darts,     [our  hearts. 

They  dazzle  our  een  as  they  fly  to 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the 

fond  sparkling  ee,  [me; 

Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to 
And  the  heart-beating    love,   as  I'm 

clasp'd  in  her  arms,      [charms  ! 

Gh,  these  are  my  lassie's  all-conquering 

And  the  heart-beating  love,  as  I'm 

clasped  in  her  arms. 
Oh,  these  are  my  lassie's  all-coinquer- 

iug  charms  ! 


OH  FOR  ANE-AND-TWENTY, 
TAM! 

Tune — "  The  Moudiewort." 

And  oh  for  ane-and-twenty,  Tam  ! 

And     hey,     sweet    ane-and-twenty, 
Tam  ! 
I'll  learn  my  kin  a  rattlin'  sang. 

An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 

They  snool'  me  sair,  and  hand    me 

down, 

And  gar  me  look  like  bluntie,'  Tam; 

But  three  short  years  will  soon  wheel 

roun' —  [Tam. 

And    then    comes    ane-and-twenty. 


1  Curb. 


^  A  simpleton. 


A  gleib  o'  Ian'  a  claut  o'  gear,* 
Wag  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam; 

At  kith  or  kin  I  needna  spier," 
An  I  saw  ane-and-twenty,  T^m. 

The'll  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coof.' 
Though  I  mysel  hae  plenty,  J'am; 

But  hear'st  thou,  laddie — there's  my 
loofi— 
I'm  thine  at  ane-and-twenty,  Tam. 


BESS  AND  HER  SPINNING- 
WHEEL.  .„ 
Tune — "  The  sweet  lass  that  lo'es  me.":r 
Oh,  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel. 
And  leeze  me  on  my  Tock  and  reel';  "^T 
Frae  tap  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien,' 
And  haps^  me  fieP  and  warm  at  e'en  ! 
I'll  set  me  downand  sing  and  spin,- 
Wliile  laigh  descends  the  simmer  suri,^ 
Blest  wi'  content;  and  milk  and  meal — 
Oh;  leeze  me  on  my  spinning-wheel ! 

On  ilka  hand  the  burnies  trot,* 
And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot; 
The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white. 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite, 
Alilce  to  screen  the  hirdies'  nest. 
And  little  fishes'  caller"  rest; 
The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  beil,' 
Where    blithe   I  turn    my  spinning-, 
wheel'. 

On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats'  wail, 
And  echo  cons  the  doolfu''  tale; 
The  lintwhites  in  the  hazel  braes. 
Delighted,  rival  ithel's  lays; 
The  cralk'  amang  the  clover  hay. 
The  paitrick  whirrin'  o'er  the  ley. 
The  swallow  jinkin'  round  my  shiel,'"- 
AmuSe  me  at  my  spinning-wheel. 

Wi'  sma'  to  sell  and  less  to  buy, 
Aboon  distress,  below  envy. 
Oh,  wha  wad  leave  this  humble  state, 
For  a'  the  pride  of  a'  the  great  ? 
Amid  their  flaring,  idle  toys. 
Amid  their  cumbrous,  dinsotae  joys. 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pleasure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spinning  wheel  ? 


3  A  portion  of  ground.  *  A  sum  of  money. 
»  Ask.      «  Fool.       '  Hand. 

■  Comfortably.  '  Wraps.  =  Soft.  '  Run. 
5  Cool.  »  Sheltered  place.  '  Woods-pieeon. 
8  Woeful.   -»  Landrail.    "  Cottage,  ■»   . 


SONGS. 


839 


NITHSDALE'S  WELCOME  HAME. 

This  sonff  was  written  to  celebrate  the  .return 
to  Scotland  of  Lady-  Winifred  Maxwell,  a 
descendant  of  the  attainted  Earl  of  Nitlis- 
daie.    The  music  to  which  the  poet  com- 

EDsed  the  verses  was  by  Captain  Riddel  of 
rlenriddel. 

The  noble  Maxwells  and  their  powers 

Are  coming  o'er  the  Border, 
And  they'll  gae  big  Terregle's  towers. 

And  set  them  a'  in  order. 
And  they  declare  Terregle's  fair, 

Epr  their  abode  they  ehoose  it; 
There's  no  a  heart  in  a'  the  laud 

But's  lighter  at  the  news  o't. 

Though  stars  in  sides  may  disappear. 

And  angry  tempests  gather; 
The  happy  hour  may  soon  be  near 

That  brings  us  pleasant  weather 
The  weary  night  o'  care  and  grief   • 

May  haea  joyfu'  morrow; 
.So'-dawniQg  day  has  brought  relief — 

Eareweel  our  night  o'  sorrow  1 


COUNTRIE  LASSIE. 
Tune — "  The  Country  Lass." 

In  simmer,  when  the  hay  was  mawn. 

And  corn  waved  green  in' ilka  field. 
While  clover  blooms  white  o'er  the  lea. 

And  roses  blawin  ilka  bield;' 
Blithe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel,* 

Says,  "I'll  be  wed,  come  o't  what 
will:" 
Out  spak  a  dame*in  wrinkled  eild' — • 

' '  O'  guid  advisement  comes  na  ill. 

*'  It's  ye  hae  wooers  mony  ane, 

And,  lassie,  ye're  but  young,  ye  ken; 
Then  wait  a  wee,  and  canaie  wale,"* 

A  routhie  butt,  a  routine  ben  :* 
There's  Johnnie  o'  the  Buskie  GHen, 

Fu'  is  his  barn,  f  u'  is  his  byre; 
Tak  this  f rae  me,  my  bonny  lien. 

It's  plenty  beats  the  laver's  fire." 

"For  Johnnie  o'  the  Buskie  Glen, 

I  dinna  care  a  single  flie; 
He  lo'es  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye. 

He  has  uae  luve  to  spare  for  me: 


>  Sheltered  place.    =  Shed.  '  Age. 
choose.   *  A  home- with  plenty  in  it. 


'  Wisely 


But  blithe's  the  blink  o'  Bobbie's  ee. 
And  weel  I  wat  he  lo'es  me  dear: 

Ae  blink  o'  him  I  wadna  gie 
For  Buskie  Glen  and  a'  his  gear." 

"Oh,     thoughtless-    -lassie,     life's   a 
faught;" 
The  canniest  gate,'  the  strife-is.sair: 
But  ay  f u'lhant  is  fechtin'  best, 
A  hungry  care's  an  unco  care: 
But  some"  will  spend,  and  some  will 
spare. 
And  wilfu'  folk  maun  hae  their  will; 
Syne*  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair. 
Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the 
yill." 

"  Oh,  gear  will  "buy  me  rigs  o'  land. 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye; 
But  the  tender  heart  o'  leesome'  luve 

The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy; 
We  may  be  poor-^Robbie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on; 
Content  and  luve  bring  peace  and  joy — 

What   mair    hae    queens    upon    ai 
throne  f 


FAIR  ELIZA. 

TuKN  again,  thou  fair  Eliza, 

Ati  Jiind  blink  before  we  part. 
Rue  on  thx  despairing  lover! 

Canst  thoa  break  his  f aithfn'  heart  ? 
Turn  again',  thou  fair  Eliza; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  denies. 
For  pity  hide  the  cruel  sentence 

Under  friendship's  kind  disguise! 

Thee,  dear  maid,  hae  I  offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving  thee: 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  forever 

Wha  for  thine  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Wliile  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom. 

Thou  shalt  mix  in  ilka  throe;    ' 
Turn  again,  thou  lovely  maiden, 

Ae  sweet  smile  on  me  bestow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  blossom. 
In,  the  pride  o'  sunny  noon; 

Not  tlie  little  sporting  fairy. 
All  beneath  the  simmer  moon : 


'  Struggle, 
some. 


'Easiest way.    'And.    "^Glad- 


BTJRNS'.WQKKS. 


Not.tlie;pq,et,  in  the  moment 

Fancy  lightens  in  his  ee, 
Kens  the  pleasure,  fsels  the  rapture, 

That  thy.presence  gies  to  me.  .. 


OH,  LUVE  WILL  VENTURE  IN. 
Tune— "  The  Posie." 

Oh,  luve  will  venture  in 

Where  it  daurnaweel  be  seen; 

Oh,  love-will  venture  in 

Where  wisdom  ance  Kas  been; 

But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove, 
"  Amang  the  ^oods  sae  green^ 

And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie 
To  my-  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu', 

The''firstling  of  the  year; 
Arid  Twin  pu'  the  pimt, . 

The  emblem  6*  my  dear; 
For  she's  the  pink  o'  womtmkind,. 

And  blooms  without  a  peer — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  pu'  the  budding  rose, 

When  Phoebus  peeps  in  view. 
For  it's  Jike  a  baumyj:kiss 

0'  her  sweet,  bonny  mou' ; 
The  hyacinth's  for  constancy, 

Wi'  its  unchanging  blue — 
And  a'.toTje  a  posie  . 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

■The  lily  it  is  puj-e. 

And  the  lily  It  is  fair. 
And  in  her  lovely  bosom 

I'll  place  the  lily  there; 
The  dairy's  for  simplicity. 

And  unaffected  air — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

Tlxe  hawthorn  I  will  pu', 

Wi'  its  locks  o.',  siller  gray, 
WJiere,  like  an  agedjnan. 

It  stands  at  break  of  da.y.  [bnsli 
But  ilie  songster's  nest  within  the 

I  winna  talc  away —  , 

And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

The,  W!Opdbine  .1  will  pu'. 
When  the  everiia*  star  is  near, . 


And  the  diamond  diaps  o'.dew 
Shall  be  her  een  sae  clear ; 

The  violet's  for  modesty," 
Wliich  weel  she  fa's  to  wear — 

And  a'  to  be  a  posie 
To  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  tie  the  posie  round 

Wi'  the  silkeri  band  of  love. 

And  I'll  place  it  in  her  breast. 
And  I'll  swear  by  a'  above. 

That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life 
The  band  shall  ne'er  remove — 

And  this  will  be  a  posie 
'  To  my  aiu  dear  May. 


THE  BANKS  0'  DOON. 

Tune— ''.Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight."      ■ 

This'is  a  second  version  of  the  song  wbieh-* 
the  poet  composed,  in  1787;  and  aitbpu^ 
greatly  inferior  in  many  respects  to  ~the  iirst. 
It  has  almost  entirely  superseded  it.  For 
the  subject  of  the  song,  see  the  first  version, 
P.203-. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon, 

How  can  ye  -bloom  sae  fresh  and 
fair  ; 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  biMs, 

And  -I  sae  weary,  f  u'  o'  care  !- 
Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling 
bird,  [thorn : 

That  wantons  through  the  flowering 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys. 

Departed — never  to  return  ! 

Oft  hae  I  roved  by  bonny^  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'«its  luve.  ■ 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ; '      ' 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose. 

But,  ah  !.  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. . 


SIC  A  WIFE  AS  WILLIE  HAD. 

.Tune—"  The  Eight  Men  of  Moidart." 
Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  spot  they  ca'd  it  Linkum-doddie^ 
Willie  was  a  wabster'  guid. 

Could  stown-  a  clue  wi'  ony  bodie;  . 
He  }iad  a  wife  was  dour  and  din. 

Oh,  Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mither; 


^  Weaver.       2  Stolen. 


SDNGS.' 


2ftl- 


Sic  a.  wife  as  Willie  llad, 
I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her. 

She  has  an  ee — shahas  but  ane, 

The  cat  has  twa  the  very  colour; 
Five  rusty  teeth 'forbye'  a  stump, 

A  clapper-tongue  wad  deave  a  ffiiller; 
A  whiskin'  beard  about  her  mou', 

Her  nose  and    chin    they  threaten 
ither — 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

1  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her. 

She's  bovr-hough'd,  she's  hein-shinn'd, 

Ae  limpin'  leg,  a  hand-breed  shorter; 
She's  twisted  right,  she's  twisted  left. 

To  balanoe  fair  in  ilka  quarter  : 
She  has  a  Jjnmp  upon  her  breast. 

The  twin  o'  that  upon  her  shouther — 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

i'  wadna  gie  a  butlon  for  her. 

Auld- baudrons*  by  the  ingle*  sits, 

And  wi'  her  loof  her  face  a-washin'; 
But  Willie's  wife  is  nae  sae  trig,^- 

She  dights  her-grunzie"  wi,  a  husli- 
ion;" 
fier  walie  nieves'"  like  midden-creels, 

He5  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan  Water — 
Si«  a  wife  as  Willie  had,       »    - 

I  wadna  gie.  a  button  for  her. 


SMILING  SPRING  COMES  IN 

REJOICING. 

Tune—"  The  Bonny  Bell.' 

The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

An<i  surly  Winter  grimly  flies; 
]^w  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  wa- 
ters, , 

And  bonny  blue  are  the  sunny  skies; 
Fresh  o'er  the  mountains  breaks  forth 
the  morning, 

'the  evening  gilds  the  ocean's  swell; 
4^11  creatures  joy  in  the  sun's  returning. 

And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonny  Bell.     ~  . 

The  flowery  Spring  leads  sunny  Sum- 
mer, 

And  yellow  Autumn  presses  near, 
Then  in  Ms  turn  cbnies'glbomy  Winter, 

Till  smiling  Spring  again  appear. 

"  =  Besides.  *  The  C*t.''  Eire.  .•  P^lm.  '  Clean. 
'  Mouth.     "  An  old  Mocking.    >"  Ample  fists. 


Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 
Old  Time  andTNature  their  changes 
tell,  '       ' 

Bufnever  ranging,  still  unchanging, 
I  adore  my  bonny  Bell. 


THE  GALLANT  WEAVER. 
Tune—"  The  Weavers'  March." 
Where  Cart*  rins  jowin'  to  the  sea. 
By  moiya  flower  and  spreading  tree, 
Their  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  »ie, 

,  .  He  is  a  gallant  -^yeaver. 
Oh,  I  l\ad  wooers  aught  or  nine, 
They.|!ied  me  rings  ^nd  ribbons  fine; 
And  I  was  fear'd  my  heart  would  tine,' 
And  I  gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

My  daddje  sign'd  my  tocher-band,* 
To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  land. 
But  to.  my  heart  I'll  add  my  hand, 

,  And  .gie  it  to  the  weaver. 
While.birda  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers; 
While  bees  delight  in.openingflowevs; 
While  corn  grow^  green  in  summer 
showers, 

I'll  love  my  gallant  weaver. 

SHE'S  FAIR  AND  PAUSE. 
Tune — "  She's  Fair  and  Fause." 
She's  fair  and  fause-that  causes  my 
_  sniart', 
I  lo-ed  Jier  meikle  and'  lang; 
She's  broken  her  vow,  she's  broken  my 
•heart. 
And  I  may  e'en  gae  hang. 
A  coof '  cam  wi'  routh  o'  gear,- 
And  I  hae  tint^  my  dearest  dear; 
But  woman  is  but  warld's  gear, 
Sae  let  the  bonny  lassie  gfing. 

Whae'er  ye  be  that  woman  love. 

To  this  be  never  blind, 
Nae  ferlie-*  'tis,  .though  fickle  she  prove, 

A  woman  has't  by  kind, 
O  woman,  lovely  woman  fair! 
An  angel  form's  fa'n  to  thy  share: 
'Twad  been  o'er  meikle  to  gien*  thee 
Viair — 

I  mean  an  angel  mind. 


1  Lose.       i  Marriage-deed. 

'Fool.  2  Abundance  of  wlalth.  »Lost. 
*  Wonder.    '  Have  given. 

♦  The  Cart  is  a  river  in  Renfrewshire, 
which  runs  through  the  town  of  Pkisle^,  cele- 
bratedTfor  the  labouh  of  Ihd  loom. 


243 


BUENS'  WORKS. 


MY  AIN  KIND  DEARIE,  O; 
Tune—"  The  Lea-Riff." 
When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 

Tells  bughtin-tinie'  is  near,  my  jo; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field 
Return  sae  dowf^  and  weary,  0; 
Down  by  the    burn,    where    scented 
birks' 
Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig,* 
My  ain  kind  dearie,  0 ! 

In  mirkest''  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I'd  rove,  and  ne'er  be  eerie,"  0; 
If  through  that  glen  I  gaed  to  thee. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  0! 
Although  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wild. 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  wearie,  0, 
I'd  meet  thee  on  the  lea- rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  01 

The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun. 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  ray  jo; 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen. 

Along  the  barn  to  steer,  my  jo; 
Gie  me  the  hour  o'  gloaniin'  gray. 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery,  O, 
To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  0  I 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE 
THING. 

The  following  lively  lines,  the  poet  tells  us, 
were  written  extempore  to  the  old  air  of 
"  My  Wife's  a  Wanton  Wee  Thing  ;— 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  bonny  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer: 
And  neist  my  heart  I'U  wear  her. 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine.' 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  bonny  wee  thing. 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'%iine. 


1  Folding-time.  -  Dull.  '  Birches. 

*  Grassy  ridge.    ^  Darkest.    •*  Frightened. 

1  Be  lost. 


The  warld's  wrack  ^e  share  o't. 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't; 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithely  bear  it. 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 
Tune—  "  Kathrine  Ogie." 
This  is  another  of  those 'glorious  lyrics  inspir- 
ed by  the  poet's  passion  for  Highland  Mary  ■ 
and  which  celebrates,  in  strains  worthy  of 
the  occasion,  their  last  interview,  and  her' 
untimely and'lamented  death.  "The follow- 
ing song,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Thomson, 
enclosing  the  verses,  *'  please?  me  :  I  think 
it  is  in  my  happiest  manner.  The  subject  of 
the  song'is  one  of  the  most  imeresting  pas- 
sages of  my  youthful  days ;  and  I  own  that 
I  should  be  much  flattered  to  see  the  verses 
set  to  an  air  which  would  insure  celebrity. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  the  still  glowing' 
prejudice  of  my  heart  that  throws  a  borrow- 
ed lustre  over  the  merits  of  the  composi-. 
tion."    See  p.  219.  for  an  account  of  Mary. 

Ye  banks,   and  braes,    and    streams 
around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery,  [flowers. 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your- 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  I' 
There  simmer  first  unfaulds  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  svfeetly  bloom' d  the  gay  green 
birk  !■' 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom  ! 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life. 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary  ! 

Wi'  mony  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But,  oh  !  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! — 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the- 
clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

Oh,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 
I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  1 

And    closed   for    aye    the    sparkling 
glance 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 

1  Muddy.       2  Birch, 


SONGS. 


343; 


And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly — 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary  1 


AULD  BOB  MORRIS. 

The  two  first  lines  of  the  following  song  were 
taken  from  an  old  ballad — the  rest  is  the 
poet's  :— 

Thkre'iS  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wous^ 

in  yon  gleii, 
He's    tlio  king    o'   guid  fellows  and 

wale'^  of  auld  men; 
He  has   gowd  in  his  cofEers,   he  has 

owseu  and  kine,  [mine. 

And  ae  bonny  lassie,  his  darling   and 

ShVs  fresh  as  the  -moruiBg  the  fairest 
in  May;  [new  hay; 

She's  sweet  as  the  evening  amang  the 

As  blitlio  and  as  artless  as  lambs  on 
the  lea,  [my  ee. 

And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to 

B.ut  oh  !  she's  an  heiress — auld  Robin's 
a  laird,  [house  and  yard; 

And  my  daddie  has  nought  but  a  cot- 

A  wooer  like  me  mauuna  hope  to  come 
speed;  [be  my  dead. ^ 

The  wounds  I  must  hide  that  will  soon 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight 
brings  me  nane;  [itisgane; 

The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest 

I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled 
ghaist,  [my  breast. 

And  I  sigli  as  my  heart  it  wad  buret  in 

Oh,  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 
I  then  might  hae    hoped    she'd    hae 

smiled  upon  me  !  [my  bliss, 

Oh.  how  past  descriving^  had  then  been 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can 

express ! 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

This  song  was  written  on  the  model  and  to 
the  tune  of  a  coarse  old  ditty  in  Johnson's 
Museum^  the  name  of  the  hero,  and  a  line  or 
two,  being  all  that  was  retained. 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo. 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 

'  Dwells.  2  Choice.    '  Death.   *  Describing. 


On  blithe  yule  night  when  we  were  fou. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigli,' 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abei^i;'^ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  fleech'd,"  and  Duncan  pray'd. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't: 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig,* 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't, 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat-*  his  een  baith  bleert  and  blrn', 
Spak  o'  lowpin'  o'er  a  linn ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't; 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he. 
For  a  haughty  liizzie  die  ? 
She  may  gae  to — Prance  for  me  I 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell; 

Ha,  ha,  tlie  wooing  o't; 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  heal; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings. 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings; 
And  oh,  her  een,  they  spals  sic  things! 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't; 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case ; 

Ha,  haj  the  wooing  o't. 
Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 
Swelling^  jnty  smoor'd"  his  wrath; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty"  baith,; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 


COCK  UP  YOUR  BEAVER. 

Tune-*-*'  Cock  up  your  beaver." 

The  second  stanza  only  of  this  song  is  Burns' 
— the  first  is  old. 

When  first  my  brave  Johnnie  lad 

Came  to  this  town, 
He  had  a  blue  bonnet 
■  That  wanted  the  crown; 


1  Disdainful.  ^  Aloof.    '  Flattered.    *  Wept. 
^  Smothered.    •>  Cheerful  and  happy. 

*  A  well-known  rocky  islet  in  the  Frith  of 
Clyde. 


S44 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


But  now  lie  lias  gotten 
A  hat  and  a  f  eather,-T- , 

Hey,  brave  Jolinnio  lad, 
Cock  up  your  beaver  ! 

Cock  up  your  beaver. 

And  cock  it  f  ii'  3prusli, 
We'll  over  the  Border 

And  gio  tliem  a  brush; 
There's  somebody  there 

We'll  teach  them  behaviour- 
Hey,  brave  Johnnie  lad. 

Cock  up  your  beaver  ! 


BONNY  PEG. 
As  I  catae  in  by  our  gate  end. 

As  day  was  waxin'  weary. 
Oil,  wlia  calne  tripping  down  tlie  street. 

But  bonny  Peg,  my  dearie  ! 

Her  air  sae  sweet,  and  shape  complete, 
Wi'.nae  proportion  wanting. 

The  Queen  of  Love  did  never  move 
Wi'  a  motion  mair  enchanting. 

Wi'  linlied  hands,  we  took  the  sands 

Adown  yon  winding  river; 
And,  oh !  tliat  hour  and  broomy  bower, 

Can  1  forget  it  ever  ?  " 


THE  TITHER  MORN. 

To  a  Highland  Air. 

The  tither  mom, 

Wlien  I  forlorn, 
Aneatli  an  aik  sat  moaning, 

I  did  na  trow' 

I'd  see  my  jo^ 
Beside  me  gin  the  gloaming. 

But  lie  sae  trig' 

Lap  o'er  the  rig. 
And  dawtiiigly'  did  cheer  me, 

Wlien  I,  what  reck, 
.  ■  Did  least  expec' 
To  see  my  lad  sae  near  me. 

His  bonnet  he, 

A  thought  ajee, 
Cock'd  sprush  when  first  lie  clasp'd  me; 

And  I,  I  wat,» 

Wi'  fainness  grat,° 
While  in  his  grips  he  press'd  me. 

Deil  tak  the  war! 

I  late  and  air 

>  Think.     '  Dear.       ^  Ugat.       *  Lovingly. 
'  Know.    '  Aycpt. 


Hae  wish'd  since  Jock  departed; 

But  now  as  glad 

I'm  wi'  my  lad 
As  short  syne  broken-hearted. 

Pu'  aft  at  e'en 

Wi'  dancing  keen. 
When  a''  were  lilithe  and  inerry, 

I  cared  naTjy, 

Sae  sad  was  I 
In  absence  o'  my  dearie. 

But,  praise  be  blest,  ^^  .  ^ 

My  mind's  at  rest, 
I'm  happy  wi'  my  Johnny  ; 

At  kiiji  and  fair, 

I'se  aye  be  there. 
And  be  as  canty's'  ony. 


THE  DEUK'S  DANG  O'ER  MTf  • 
DADDIE,   O. 

TuwE— "  The  deuk's  dang  o'er  my  daddie." 

The  bairns  gat  out  wi'  an  unco  shout, 

The  deuk's'  cdang  o'er  my  daddie^^  O! 
The.  fient  may  care,  quo'  the  f^j^ 
auld  wife,  •■  a^  . 

He  was  but  a  paidlin'  body,  0! 
He  paidles  out,  and  he  paidlesin, 

And  he  paidles  late  and  early,  0! 
Thae  seven  lang  years  I  hae  lien  by 
his  side, 

And  he  is  but  a  fusionless^  carlie,.0! 

Oh,  hand  your  tongue,  my  feirie  auld 
wife;  ■        ^  [O! 

Oh,  hand  your  tongue  now,  Nnnsie, 
I've  seen  the  day,  and  sae  hae  ye,  _    ; 

Ye  wadna  been  sae  donsJe,°  O! 
I've  seen  the  day  ye  butter'd  my  brose. 

And  cuddled"  me  late  and  early  ,iO; 
But  downa  do's'  come  o'er  me  now. 

And,  oh!    I  feel  it  sairly,  0! 


HAPPY  FRIENDSHIP.    " 

Herb  around  the  ingle'  bleezing, 
Wha  sae  happy  and  sae  free; 

Though    the     northern    wind    blavvs 
freezing, 
Frien'ship  warms  baitli  you  and  me. 

'  Happy.  ^,  .„% 

'  Duck.  -  Sturdy.  '  Wandering  aimlessly 
about.  ■■  Sapless.  ■>  Pettish.  » Fonaled. 
'  A  phrase  5ig.nitying  the  exhaustion  of  ages 

^  Fireside. 


SONGS. 


24S 


CHQEtJS.  .. 

Happy  we  aro  a'  tliegitUer, 
Hiippy  we'll  be  yin  and  a' ; 

Time  shall  see  us  a'  the  blither, 
Ere  we  rise  to  gang  awa'. 

See  the-inlser  o'er  his  treasure 

Gloating  wi'  a  greedy  ee ! 
Can  he  feel  the  glow  o'  pleasure 

That  aloand  us  here  wc  see  1 

Can  the  peer,  in  silk  and  ermine, 
Ca'  his  conscience  half  his  own; 

His  claes*  are  spun  and  edged  wi'  ver- 
min, 
Though  he  stau'  afore  a  throne! 

Thus,  then,  let  us  a'  be  tassing^ 
Aff  our  stoups  o'  gen'rous  flame; 

And,  while  round  th&  board  'tis  pass- 
ing, 
Raise  a  sang  in  frien'ship's  name. 

Prien'ship  maks  us  a'  mair  happy, 
,    Frien'ship  gies  us  a'  delight; 
Frien'ship  consecrates  the  drappie, 
Frien'ship  brings  us  here  to-night. 


OH,  SAW  TE  MY  DEARIE. 

Tune—"  Eppie  M'Nab." 

Oh,-  saw   ye   my    dearie,    my  Eppie 

M'Nab?  XM'J'fab? 

Oh,   iSavy  ye    my    dearie,    my    Eppie 

She's  down  in  the  yard,  she's  kissin" 

"the  laird,  [Rab, 

She  winna  come  hame  to  her  ain  Jock 

Ob,;  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my.  Eppie 
'"M'N'ab!  [M'Nab! 

Oh,*  come  thy  ways  to  me,  my  Eppie 
Whate'er  thou  hast  done,  be  it  late,  bo 
it  soon,  [Rab. 

Thou's  welcome  again  to  thy  ain  Jock 

What,  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie 
M'Nab?    .  ,  .  [M'Nab? 

i'^^Ji^t  says  she,  my  dearie,  my  Eppie 
She  lets  thee  to  wit,'  that  she  hias  thee 
i, -forgot,  .  [Rab. 

And_forever  disowns  thee,  her  ain  Jock 
Oh,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie 

--■-'"M'-Nab !    ■     ■ 


»  Clothes.  '  Tossing. 

^  Know. 


Oh,   had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Eppie 

M'Nab!         •  -  r     . 

As  light  as  the  air,  as  faiise  as  thou's 

.  fair,  [Rab. 

Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'thy  ain  Jack 


THE  CARLE  OF  KELLYBURN 
BRAES". 

Tune — "  Kellyburn  Braes." 

There  lived    a   carle'   in  Kellyburn 

braes,  [thyme;) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bomiy  wi' 

And  he  had  a  wife  was  the  plague  o' 

■  his  days;  [is  in  prime.' 

And  the  thyme  it  is  withei-'d  and  rue 

Ae  day  as  the  carle  gaed*  up  the  lang 

glen,  '         '        [thyme;) 

.    (Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  boniiy  wi' 

He  met  wi'  the  devil,  says,  "  How  do 

you  fen  ?*  [is  in. prime* 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd  and  rue 

"  I've  got  a  bad  wife,  sir:  fiat's  a'  my 

complaint;'  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

For,  saving  your  presence,  to  her  ye're 

a  saint;        •  .         [is  in  prime." 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd.and  rue 

"  It's   neither .  your    stof    nor    your 

staig*  I  shall  crave,        [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

But  gie  me  your  wife,  man,  for  her  I 

must  have,       [rue  is  in  prime." 

And  the  th%ne  it  is  wither'd,  and 

"Oh!  welcome,    most    kindly,"    thq 

blithe"  carle'said,  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

"  But  if  ye  can  match  her,  ye're  waur 

than  ye're  ca'd,      [is  in  prime." 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

The  devil  has  got  the  auld  wife  on  his 

back;  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny,  wi' 

And,  like  a  poor  pedlar,  he's  carried 

his  pack.  [is  in  prime. 

And  the  thyme.it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 


•  Man.  2  Went.   »  Live.   *  Bullock.   '  Colt, 


546 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


He's  carried  lier  Uame  to  liis  ain  hallan- 

door,  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

Syne  hade  her  gae  in,  for  a  bitch  and 

a  whore,  [is  in  prime. 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

Then  straight  he  makes  fifty,  the  pick 

o'  his  band,  [thyme.) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

Turn  out  on  her  guard  in  the  clap  of  a 

hand;  [is  in  prime. 

And  the  thyme  it  is  witlier'd,  and  rue 

The  carlin'  gaed  through  them  like 

ony  wud'  bear,  [thyme) 

(Hey,  and  tlie  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

Whae'er  she  gat  hands  on  cam  near 

hernamair;  [is  in  prime. 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

A  reekit?  wee  devil  looks  over  the  wa' ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi'. 

thyme,)  [us  a', 

"Oh,  help,  master,  help!  orshe'Uruin 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and 

rue  is  in  prime." 

The  devil  he  swore  by  the  edge  o'  his 

knife;  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

He  pitied  the  man  that  was  tied  to  a 

wife;  [is  in  prime. 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

The  devil  he  swore  by  the  kirk  and  the 

bell,  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

He  was  not  in  wedlock,  thank  Heaven, 

but  in  hell;  0  [is  in  prime. 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

Then  Satan  has  travell'd  again  with 

his  pack;  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

And  to  her  auld  husband  he's  carried 

her  back;  [is  in  prime, 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

"  I  hae  been  a  devil  the  feck  o'  my 

life;  [thyme,) 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonny  wi' 

But  ne'er  was  in  Kell,  till  I  met  wi'  a 

wife;  [is  in  prime." 

Andthe  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  rue 

*  Woman.      '  Wild.      «  Smoked.       «  Most.  ', 


YE  JACOBITES  BY  NAME. 
Tune — "  Ye  Jacobites  by  Name." 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  give  an  ear, 
give  an  ear ; 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  give,  an  ear ; 
Ye  Jacobites  by  name,  >i . 

Your  fauts  I  will  proclaim. 
Your  doctrines  I  maun  blame-^ 
You  shall  hear. 

What  is  right,  and  what  is  wraiig,  by 
the  law,  by  the  law. 
What  is  right,  and  what  is  wrang, 
by  the  law ! 
Wliat  is  right,  and  what  is  wrang? 
A  short  sword,  and  a  lang,  -     ;  - 
A  weak  arm  and  a  Strang 
For  to  draw.  -    -■ 

What  makes  heroic  strife  famed  afar, 
famed  afar  ?  [afiir  ? 

What    makes    heroic    strife  famed 
What  makes  heroic  strife  1 
To  whet  th'  assassin's  knife. 
Or  hunt  a  parent's  life 
Wi'  bluidie  war. 

Then  let  your  schemes-  alone,  in  the 
state,  in  the  state;  [state; 

Then  let  your  schemes  alone  in  the 
Theii  let  your  schemes  alone. 
Adore  the  rising  sun. 
And  leave  a  "man  undone 
To  his  fate. 


AS  I  WAS  A- WANDERING. 

Tune — "■  Rinn  Meudial  mo  Mhealladh.' 

As  I  was  a- wandering  ae  midsummer 

e'enin':  [Idng  their  game. 

The  pipers  and  youngsters  were  ma- 

Amang  them  I  spied  my  faithless  fause 

lover,  [dolour  again. 

Which   bled    a'    the    wound    o'    my 

Weel,  since  he  has  left  me,  may 
pleasure  gae  wi'  him; 
I  may  be  distress'd,  but  I  winna 
complain ; 
I'll  flatter  my  fancy  I  may  get 
anither, 
My  heart  it  shall  never  be  broken 
for  ane. 


.SONGS. 


247 


1  couldna  get  sleeping  till  da  win'  for 

'  "    greeting,'^       '         [and  the  rain : 

The  tears  tfiGltled  down  like  the  hail 

Had  I  na  got  greeiting,  my  heart  wad  a 

"broken,  [Ingpain! 

For,  oh!  luve  forsaken's  a  torment- 

Although  he  has  left  me  for  greed  o' 

the  siller,  [win; 

I'dinna  envy  him  the  gains  he  can 

I  rather  wad  bear  a'  the  lade  o'  my 

sorrow  [to  him. 

Than  ever  hae  acted  sae  faithless 


THE  SLAVE'S  LAMENT. 

It  was  in  sweet  Senegal  that  my  foes 

did  me  enthraJi 
.  For  the  laiias  of  Virginia,  O; 
Torn  from  that  lovely  shore,  and  must 

never  see  it  more, 
■  And  alas  I  am  weary,  weary,  0 ! 

All  on  that  charming  coast  is  no  bitter 

snow  or  frost. 
Like  the  lands  of  Virginia,  0; 
There  streams  forever  flow,  and  there 

flowers  forever  blow, 
•  And  alas  I  am  weary,  weary,  O! 

The  burden  I  must  bear,  while  the 
cruel  scourge  I  fjsar, 
In  the  lands  of  Virginia,  0; 
And  I  think  on  friends  most  dear,  with 
the  bitter,  bitter  tear. 
And  alas  I  am  weary,  weary,  0! 


,  THE  WEARY  FUND  O'  TOW. 

Tune—"  The  Weary  Fund  o'  Tow." 
I  BOUGHT  my  wife  a  stane  o'  lint' 

As  guid  as  e'er  did  grow: 
And  a'  that  she  has  made  o'  that 

Is  ae  poor  pund  o'  tow.^ 

The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 
The  weary  pundo'  tow; 

I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 
Before  she  spin  her  tow. 

There  sat  a  bottle  in  a  bole, 
Beyont  the  ingle  low,' 

1  Dawn.       'Wee-ping, 
lipiax.    "  Hemp  or  flax  in  a  prepared  state. 
'  Flame  of  the  fire. 


And  aye  she  took  the  tither  souk,''. 
To  drouk^  the  stourie"  tow. 

Quoth  I,  "For  shame,  ye  dirty  daine, 
Gae  spin  your  tap  o'  tow  !  " 

She  toolc  the  rock,  and  wi'  a  Jinock 
She  brak  it  o'er  my  pow. 

At  last  her  feet-=-I  sang  to  see  't — 
Gaed  foremost  o'er  the  knowe; ' 

AJjd  or  I  wad  anither  jad, 
I'll  wallop  in  a  tow.^ 


LADY  MARY  ANN. 

Tune — "  Craigton's  Growing." 

Oh,  Lady  Mary  Ann 

Looks  o'er  the  castle  waV 
She  saw  tliree  bonny  boys 

Playing  at  the  ba'; 
The  youngest  he  was 

The  flower  amang  them  a' — 
My  bonny  laddie's  young, 

But  he's  growm'  yet.' 

O  father  !  0  father ! 

An  ye  think  it  fit. 
We'll  send  him  a  year 

To  the  college  yet : 
We'll  sew  a  green  ribbon 

Round  about  his  hat. 
And  that  will  let  them  kea 

He's  to  marry  yet. 

Lady  Mary  Ann 

Was  a  flower  i'  the  dew. 
Sweet  was  its  smell. 

And  bonny  was  its  hue; 
And  the  langer  it  blossom'd 

The  sweeter  it  grew; 
For  the  lily  in  the  bud 

Will  be  bonnier  yet. 

Young  Charlie  Cochrane 

Was  the  sprout  of  an  aik; 
Bonny  and  bloomin' 

And  straught  was  its  make; 
The  sun  took  delight 

To  shine  for  its  sake. 
And  it  will  be  the  brag 

0'  the  forest  yet. 

.  Tlie  simmer  isgane 

When  the  leaves  they  were  green. 


♦Swig.  '  Drench. 

6  Swing  in  a  rope. 


«  Dusty.  '  HiU: 


248 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  the  days  are  awa' 

That  we  hae  seen; 
But  far  better  days 

I  trust  will  come  again. 
For  my  bonny  laddie's  young. 

But  lie's  growin'  yet. 


OH,  KENMURE'S  ON  AND  AWA'. 

Tune — "  Oh,  Kenmure's  on  and  awa%  Willie." 

"  This  sonff,"  says  Cunningham,  "  refers  to 
■  the  fortunes  of  the  gallant  Gordons  of  Keh- 
mure  in,  the  fatal  '  Fifteen.'  The  Viscount . 
left  Galloway  with  two  hundred  horsemen 
well  armed  ;  he  joined  the  other  lowland 
Jacobites — penetrated  to  Preston—  repulsed, 
and  at  last  yielded  to,  the  attack  of  General 
Carpenter^-and  perished  on  the  scalffold. 
He  was  a  good  as  well  as  a  brave  man,  and 
his  fate  was  deeply  lamented.  The  title  has 
since  been  restored  to  the  Gordon's  line." 
Bums  was,  once  at  least,  an  invited  guest 
at  Kenmure  Castle,  near  New  Galloway. 

Oh,  Kenmure's  on  and  awa',  Willie  ! 

Oh,  Kenmure's  on  and  awa' ! 
And  Kenmure's  lord's  the  bravest  lord 

That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

Success  to  Kenmure's  band,  Willie  ! 

Success  to  Kenmure's  band  ; 
There's'  no  a  heart  that  fears  a  Whig 

That  rides  by  Kermiure's  hand. 

Here's    Kenmure's    health  in    wine, 
Willie  ! 
Here's. Kenmure's  health  in  wine; 
There  ne'er  was  a  coward  o'  Kenmure's 
blude, 
Nor  yet  o'  Gordon's  line. 

Oh,  Kenmnre's  lads  are  men,  Willie  ! 

Oh,  Kenmure's  lads  are  men; 
Their  hearts  and  swords    are  metal 
true — 

And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame,  Willie  ! 

They'll  live  or  die  wi*  fame; 
But  soon  wi'  sounding  victorie 

May  Kenmure's  lord  come  hame  ! 

Here's  him  that's  far  awa',  Willie  ! 

Here's  him  that's  far  awa'! 
And  here's  the  flower  that  I  lo'e  best — 

"Tlie  iaae  that's  like  the  snaw  ! 


MY     COLLIER    LADDIE. 

TuME— "  The  Collier  Laddie." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  says  Bums,  "  a  blither  old- 
song  than  this ;"  which  he  modified  and 
altered,  and  then  sent  to  the  Museum.  _  _.  ^  - 

Oh,-  whare  live  ye,  my  bonny  laas  1  '■ 

And  tell  me  what  they  ca,'  feV 
My  name,  she  says,  is  Mistress  Jean, 
And  1  follow  the  Collier  Laddie. 
My  name,  she  says,   is  MistrdgS 

Jean,  " 

And  I  follow  the  Collier  Laddie; 

Oh,  see  you  not  yon  hills  and  dales, 

"The  sun  shines  on  sae  brawlie  1 
They  a'  are  mine,  and  they  shall  be 
thine,  ~i 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 
They  a'  are  mine,  and  they  shall- 

be  thine. 
Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie,; 

And  ye  shall  gang  in  gay  attire,        ,. 

Weel  buskit'  up  sae  gaudy; 
And  ane  to  wait  at  every  hand. 

Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 
And  ane  to  wait  at  every  hand. 
Gin  ye'll  leave  your  Collier  Laddie. 

Though  ye  had  a'  the  sun  shines  on. 

And  the  earth,  conceals  sae  lowly, 
I  wad  turn  my  bade  on  you  and  it  a'. 
And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie,  [a', 
I  wad  turn  my  back  on  you  and  it 
And  embrace  my  Collier  Laddie, 

I  can  win  my  five  pennies  a  day, 

And  spen't  at  night  fu'  brawlie;     ■• 

And  mak  my  bed  in  the  Collier's  nefuk' 

And  lie  down  wi'  my  Collier  Laddie. 

And  mak  my  bed  in  the  Collier's 

neuk,  [die. 

And  lie  dovim  wi'  my  Collier  had- 

Luve  forluve  is  the  bargain  for  me,  J 
Though  the  wee   cot-house  should 
hand  me;  [bread,. 

And  the  warld  before  me  to  win  my 
And  fair  fa'  my  Collier  Laddie. 
And  the  warld  before  me  to  win 

my  bread. 
And  fair  fa'  my  Collier  Laddie. 


•  Dressed. 


«Hut. 


songs; 


349 


FAREWELL  TOA'  OUR  SCOTTISH 

FAME, 

> .  Tune — *'  Such  a  Parcel  of  Rogues  in  a 
^{j.   ,,  -Nation;" 

"Bums,''  says  Cunningham,  "  has  expressed 
sentimenta  ii^.this  song  .which  were  once 
popular  in  the' north."  The  poet  himself, 
mdee^^Elppeafs  to  have  been  in  the  habit  ot 
expressing  his  feelings  pretty  freely  regard- 
ing the  Union.— "  What,"  he  exclaimed,  on 

'  ^n^  occasion,  "  are  all  the  advantages  which 
^my  country  reaps  from  the  Union  that  can 
counterbalance  the  annihilation  of  her  inde- 
pendence, and  eyen  her  very  name  ?  Noth- 
ing can  reconcile  me  to  the  terms, '  Englisli 
Ambassador,'  ^Englisli  Court,'  "  &c. 

Pareweel  to  a'  our  Scottish  fame, 

'  Fareweel  our  ancient  glory  ! 
Fareweel  even  to  the  Scottish  name, 

Sae  famed  in  martial  story  ! 
Now  Sark  rins  o'er  the  Solway  sajids, 

Aji.d  Tweed  rins  to  the  ocean, 
TO' mark  where   England's  province 
stands — 
Sach  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation  ! 

Wliat  force  or  guile  could  not  subdue. 

Through  many  warlike  ages. 
Is  wroaght  now  by  a  "coward  few. 

For  hireling  traitors'  wages. 
The  English  steel  we  could  disdain, 

Secure  in  valour's  station; 
But  English  gold  has  been  our  bane — 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation  ! 

Oh,  yvould,  ere  I  had  seen  the  day 

•That  treason  thus  could  sell  us, 
My  auld  gray  head  had  lien  in  clay, 

Wi'  Bruce  and  loyal  Wallace  ! 
But  pith  and  power,  till  my  last  hour, 

I'll  mak. this  declaration:       [gold — 
We're  bought  and  scld  for  English 

Such  a  parcel  of  rogues  in  a  nation. 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  THEM 

-^  ■     THAT'S  AWA'. 

Time—"  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'." 

The  poet^  political  predilectic ns  at  this  peribd 
of  his  life  being  somewhat  marlced,  and  of 
an  ultiu-liberal  tendency,  he  is  sui)posed  to 
have  thrown  them  into  the  following  song, 
composed  in  honour  of  the  leaders  of  the 
liberal  party  in  the  House  of  Commons : — 

Heke's  a  health  to  them  that^  awa'. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'; 


And  wha  winna  wish  giiid  luck  to  our 

cause. 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa'  I 
It's  guid  to  DB  merry  and  wise. 
It's  guid  to  be  honest  and  true. 
It's  guid  to  support  Caledonia's  cause. 
And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 

Here's  a  health  to  thera  that's  awa'. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'. 
Here's  a  health  to  Charlie*  the  chief 

of  the  clan. 
Although  that  his  band  be  but  sma*. 
May  Liberty  meet  wi'  success  ! 
May  Prudence  protect  her  frae  evil  [ 
May  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the 

'    mist. 
And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil  ! 

Here's  a  health  to  then\  that's  awa'. 

Here's  a  liealth  to  them  that's  awa'. 

Here's  a  health  to  Tammie,-)-  the  Nor- 
land laddie, 

That  lives  at  the  lug  o'  the  law  ! 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, . 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write! 

There's  nane  ever  fear'd  thai  the  truth 
should  be  heard 

But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indite." 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'. 
Here's  Cliieftain  M'Leod,J  a  chieftain 

worth  gowd. 
Though  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw ! 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa'. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa', 
And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our 

cause, 
May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa' ! 


.  SONG. 

Tune—"  I  had  a  horse,  I  had  nae  mair." 
Oh,  poortith'  eauld  and  restless  love. 
Ye  wrecli  my  peace  between  ye; 

'  Indict— impeach. 
2  Poverty. 

♦  The  Right  Hon.  Charles  JamesFox;  Bufl 
and  blue  formed  the  livery  of  Fox  during  the 
celebrated  Westminster  elections,  and  thus 
came  to  be  adopted  as  the  colours  of  the. 
Whig  party  generally. 
.  fThomas,  afterwards  Lord,  Erskine. 

X  M'Leod  of  Dunvegan.Jsle  of  Skye^  and 
then  M.  P.  for  Inverness. 


BURNS^  WORKS. 


Yet  poortitk  a'  I  could  forgive, 
An  'twere  na  for  my  Jeanie. 

Oh,  why  should  Fate  sic  pleasure 
have. 

Life's  dearest  bauds  untwining  ? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  ? 

This  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 
:   Its  pride  and  a'  the  lave  o't — 
Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man. 
That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't. 

Her  een  sae  bonny  blue  betray 
How  she  repays  my  passion; 

But  prudence  is  her  o'erword*  aye, 
She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 

Oh,  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 
Oh,  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter's  fate  * 
He  wooes  his  simple  dearie; 

The  silly  bogles,  wealth  and  state. 
Can  never  make  them  eerie.* 


GALA  WATER. 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow 
braies,  [heather. 

That  wander  through  the  blooming 
But  Yarrow  braes'  nor  Ettrick  shaws'' 

Can  match  the  lads  o'  Gala  Water. 

But  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 
Aboon  them  ai'  I  lo'e  him  better; 

And  I'll  be  his,  and  he'll  be  mine. 
The  bonny  lad  o'  Gala  Water. 

Although  his  daddie  was  nae  laird. 
And  though  I  liaena  meikle  tocher;' 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love. 
We'll  tent  our  flocks  by  Gala  Water. 

It  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  was  wealth. 
That    eoft*    contentment,   peace,  or 
pleasure; 

3  Refrain.    *  Afraid. 
'  Hills.  ■  Woods.  '  Much  money.  *  Bought. 


The  bands  and  bliss  o'  mutua,l  love,,,^ 
Oh,  that's  the  chiefest  warld's  treas- 
ure! 


LORD  GREGORY. 

This  sonff  was  written  in  imitation  ■ofi)r. 
Wolcot's  (Peter  Pindar)  ballad  onthisame 
subject,*  of  which  Bums  says,  in  a  letter  to 
Thomson,  "Pindar's  'Lord  Gregory'  is 
beautiful.  I  have  tried  to  give  you  a  Scots 
version,  which  is  at  your  service.  Not  ^at  I 
intend  to  enter  the  lists  with  Petei-— that 
would  be  presumption  indeed  !  My  song 
though  much  mfenor  in  pdetic  merit,  has,  I 
think,  more  of  the  ballad  simplicity  in  it." 
The  idea  of  both  songs,,  however,  is  takeu 
from  an  old  strain. 

Oh,  mirk,'  mirk  is  this  midnight  Lour, 
And  loud  the  tempest's  roar; 

A  waefu'  wanderer  seeks  thy  tower — 
Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door! 

An  exile  Irae-her  father's  ha', 

And  a'  for  loving  thee; 
At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw. 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

Lord  Gregory,  miud'st  thou  not  the 
grove. 

By  bonny  Irwiu-side,  ,    7 

Where  first  I  own'd  that  virgia  love 

I  lang,  lang  had  denied  ? 

How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow 

Thou  wad  for  aye  be  mine; 
And  my  fond  heart,  itsel  sae  true, 

It  ne'er  mistrusted  thine. 


1  Dark. 
*  The  following  is  Wolcot's  version : — 

"Ah,  ope,  Lord  Gregory,  thy  door ! 
A  midnight  wanderer  sighs. 
Hard  rush  the  rains",  the  tempests  roar. 
And  hghtnings  cleave  the  skies.-.'  j  ;  ^ 

"  Who  comes  with  woe  at  this  drear  night 

A  pilgrim  of  the  gloom  ? 
If  she  whose  love  did  once  delight, 
My  cot  shall  yield  her  room. 

"  Alas !  thou  heard 'st  a  pilgrim  mourn. 
That  once  was  prized  by  thee  ; 
Thmk  of  the  ring  by  yonder  bum 
Thou  gav'st  to  love  and  me. 

"  But  shouldst  thou  not  poor  Marian  know 
I'll  turn  my  feet  and  part ;  ■  i 

And  tnink  the  storms  that  round  me  blow 


Far  kinder  than  thy  heart.' 


SONGS. 


^5J 


Hard  is  thy  lieart,  tord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast — 
Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flasliest  by, 

Oh,  wilt  thou  give  me  rest? 

Ye  mustering  thunders  ftom  above, 

Your  ■willing  victim  See! 
But  spare,  and  pardon  my  fause  love 
;  -  His.  wrangs  to  Heaven  and  me ! 


OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH ! 

"  Oh,  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  show, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh! 
Though  thou  hast  been  false,  I'll  ever 

prove  true, 
,   Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh! 

"Cauld   is   the  blast  upon  my  pale 
cheek. 
But  caulder  thy  love  fof  me,  oh! 
The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my 
heart 
Is  nought  to  my  pains  frae  thee,  oh! 

"  The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the 
white  wave, 
And  time  is  setting  with  me,  oh! 
JFalse  friends,  false  love,  farewell!  for 
mair  ^ 

I'll  ne'er  trouble  them  nor  thee,  oh!" 

She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  open'd 

it  wide;  [oh! 

She  sees  his  pale- corse  on  the  plain, 

"My  true  love!"  she  cried,  and  samk 

down  by  his  side, 

Never  to  rise  again,  oh ! 


YOUNG  JESSIE. 

Tune — "  Bonny  Dundee.'* 

TRUE-hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o' 

tr, ,     the  Yarrow,  [o' the  Ayr, 

Aid  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banlcs 

But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nith's 

winding  river  [fair: 

Are  lovers  as  faithful  and  maidens  as 

To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland 

all  over;  [in  vain; 

„^o  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it 

Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her 

lover,  f  chain. 

And.,  maidenly   modesty   fixes   the 


Oh,  freph  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy 

morning,  [close; 

An^d  sweet   is   the  lily  at  evjsning 

But  in  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young 

,    Jfessie,  [rose. 

Unseen   is  the   lily,  unheeded   the 

Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  en- 

,  snaring;  [his  law: 

Enthroned  in  her  een  he   delivers 

And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a 

stranger-^.  [of  a' I 

Her  modest  demeanour's  the  jewel 


THE    POOR   AND   HONEST 
SODGER. 
Air—"  The  Mill,  Mill  O  !" 
When  wild  War's  deadly  blast  waS 
blawn. 
And  gentle  peace  returning, 
Wi'  mony  a  sweet  babe  fatherless. 

And  mony  a  widow  mourning; 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field. 
Where  Jang  I'd  been  a  lodger. 
My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth, 
A  poor  and  honest  sodger. 

A  leal  light  heart  was  in  my  breast. 

My  liand  Tinstain'd  wi'  plunder. 
And  for  fair  Scotia,  hame  again, 

I  cheery  on  did  wander. 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil,        " 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile 

•That  caught  my  youthful  fancy.  ' 

At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonny  glen 

Where  early  life  I  sported; 
I  pass'd  the  mill,  and  trysting  thorn, 

WhereNancy  aft  I  courted: 
Wlia  spied'  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling! 
And  turn'd  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 

That  in  my  een  was  swelling. 

Wi'   alter'd  voice,   quoth  I,    "  Sweet 
lass. 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom. 
Oh !  happy,  happy  may  he  be, 

That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom! 
My  purse  is  light,  I've  far  to  gang. 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger; 
I've  served  my  king  and  country  lang-^ 

Take  pity  on  a  sodger."  — 

"  '  Saw.  ^  ' 


Ss'S 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Sae  wistfully  she  gazed  on  me, 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever; 
Quo'  she,  ' '  A  sodger  ance  I  lo'ed, 

Forget  him  shall  I  never: 
Our  humWe  cot,  and  hamely  fare, 

Te  freely  shall  partake  it, 
That  gallant  badge — the  dear  cockade — 

Te're  welcome  for  the  sakQ  o't." 

She  gazed-T^he  redden'd  like  a  rose — 

Syne'  pale  like  ony  lily; 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and, cried, 

' '  Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  f 
"  By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky. 

By  whom  true  love's  regarded, 
I  am  the  man ;  and  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  rewarded! 

"  The  wars  are  o'er,   and  I'm  cotne 
hame. 

And  find  thee  still  true-hearted;  ' 
Tho,ugh  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in 
love. 

And  piair,  we'se  ne'er  be  parted." 
Quo'  she,  "  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailen^  plenish'd  fairly. 
And  come,  my  faithful  sodger  lad, 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly!" 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the 
main, 

Tlie  farmer  ploughs  the  manor; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize, 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour: 
The  brave  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise. 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger; 
Remember,  he's  his  country's  stay 

In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


MEG  0'  THE  MILL. 

Air — "  Hey  !  bonny  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a 
barrack  ?" 

Oh,  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has 
gotten  ?  [gotten  ? 

And  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  hfl,s 

She  has  gotten  a  coof'  wi'  a  claut  o' 
.siller,'  [miller. 

And   broken  the  heart  o'  the    barley 

The  miller  was  strappin',  the  miller 

was  ruddy;  [lady; 

A  heart  like  a  lord,  and  a  hue  like  a 


The    laird    was    a    widdiefu',  bleerit 

knurl  ;3  [churl. 

SJie's  left  the  guid-fellow  and  ta'entlj^ 

Tlie  miller  he  hecht^  her  a  heart  leal 
and  loving;      '  [mair  moving. 

The  laird  did  address  her  wi'  matter 

A  fine-pacing  horse,  wi'  a'clear-cliijs'd 
bridle,        '  (sadS^- 

A  whip  by  her  side,  and  a  bonny  side- 

Oh,  wae  on  the  siller,  it  is  sae  prevail- 
ing; [maiFenr 

And.  wae  on  the  love  that  is  fixed  Qn,.a 

A  tocher's'  nae  word  in  a  true  lover  s 
parle,  [warl'! 

But,  gie  me  my  lovej  and  a  fig  for  the 


a  Then.         =  Farm. 
*  Lout.    2  Plenty  of  money. 


WELCOME    TO    GENERAL" 
DUMOURIER. 

Some  one,  in  the  presence  at  the  poet,  having 
expressed  joy  at  the  desertion  of^General 
Duraourier  from  the  army  of  the'  French 
Republic,  in  i/cj^,  after  having  gained  some 
splendid  victories  with  it,  in  a  Jew  moments 
he  chanted,  almost,  extempore,  th&  follow^ 
ing  verses  to  the  tune  of  "  R.obin  Adair .:  '^- 

You'KR  welcome  to  despots,  Dumou- 
rier;  [rier; 

You're    welcome  to  despots,  Dumou- 
How  does  Dampiere*'do  ? 
Ay,  and  Beumonvillef  too  1 
Why  did  thejr  not  come  along  with 
you,  Dumourier? 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  DumW- 

rier;  [rial; 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dunaou- 

1  will  fight  France  with  you, 

I  will  take  my  chance  with  you; 

By  my  soul  I'll  dance  a  dance  with  you, 

Dumourier. 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dumourier;  - 

Then  let  us  fight  about,  Dunionrier; 

Then  let  us  fight  about. 

Till  Freedoin's  spark  is  ont;:^^- 

Then  we'll  be  damn'd,  no  doubt,  -iJu- 

mourier.  ^-'-  '-o'^ 

'  Ill-tempered,  bleared    dwarf.  .*,  Offered. 
*  Farm.  ^  Dowry. 

*  One  of  Dumourier's  generals.  _ 

+  An  emissary  of  the  Convention's.' 


SONGS. 


253 


i'ffE   LAST    TIME   I  CAMK    O'ER 
THE  MOOR. 

Ill  this  song 'the  poet  is  supposed 'to  have 

given  expression  to  certain  teelings  of  illicit 

'love  which  it  .is  known  he  entertained  ■  for 

■  '"the  beautifal  and  fascinating'  Mrs,  Riddel 

.  eo.f  Woodley  Paris.    It  is  but  just  to  remem- 

_;-'Jjej:,  however,  and    charitable  to   believe, 

that  the  poet,  with  an  eye  to  artistic  effect, 
-  may  have  purposely  heightened  his  colours 

-in  order  to  increase  the  general  effect  of  his 

picture. 

The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor. 

And  left  Mariii's  dwelling, 
\Vliat  throes,  what  tortures  passing 

/.        cure, 
If^Were  in  my  Ijosom  swelling: 
Condemned  to  see  my  rival's  reign. 

While  1  in  secret  languish; 
To  feel  a  fire  in  every  vein, 

Yet  dare  not  speak  my  anguish. 

Love's  veriest  wretch,  despairing,  I 
Fain,  fain- my  crime  would  cover: 
Tlie    unweeting  groan,  the    bursting 


.  Betray  the  guilty  lover. 
Ilfnow  my  doom  must  be  despair, 
Tliou  wilt  nor  canst  relieve  me; 
Buty  0  Maria,  hear  my  prayer, 
'  For  pity's  sake,  forgive  me  ! 

The  music  of  thy  tongue  I  heard, 
Nor  wist  while  it  enslaved  me; 
I  saw  thine  eyes;  yet  nothing  fear'd. 

Till  fears  no  more  had  saved  me. 
The  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast 
•  The  wheeling  torrent  viewing. 
In  circling  horrors  yields  at  last 
■  In  overwhelming  ruin  ! 


BLITHE  HAE  I  BEEN. 
Tune — "  Liggeram  Cosh," 
Blithe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill. 

As  the  lambs  before  me; 
Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 
J.  "As;the  breeze  flew  o'er  me. 
Now  nae  langer  sport  and  play. 

Mirth  or  sang  can  please  me; 
Lesley  Is  sae  fair  and  coy, 
-   Care  and-  anguish  seize  me. 

Jleavy,  heavy,  is.  the.  task. 
Hopeless  love  .declaring; 


Trembling,  I  dow  iiocht  but  glower,' 
Sighing,  dumb,  despairing  ! 

If  she  winha  ease  the  thraws" 
In  my  bosom  swelling; 

Underneath  the  grass-green  sod. 
Soon  maun  be  my  dwelling. 


LOGAN  BRAES. 

Tune — "  Logan  Water." 

The  poet,  in  a  letter  to  Thomson,  enclosing 
this  song,  says,  regarding  its  origin  :— 
"  Have  you  ever,  my  dear  sir,  felt  your 
bosom  ready  to  -burst  with  indignation  on 
reading  of  those  mighty  villains  who  divide 
kingdom  against  kmgdbm,  desolate  prov- 
inces, and  lay  nations  waste,  out  of  the 
wantonness'  of  ambition",  or  often  from  still 
more  igno,ble  passions?  In  a  meod  of  this 
kind  to-day,  I  recollected  the  air  of  '  Lo{;an 
Water,*  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  its  quer- 
ulous melody  probably  had  its  origin  from 
the  plaintive  indignation. of  some  swelling, 
suffering  heart,  fired  at  the  tyrannic  strides 
of  some  pubhc  destroyer ;  and  overwhellned 
with  private  distress,  the  consequence  of  a 
country's  rain.  ■-  If  I  have  done  anything  at 
all  like  justice  to  my  feelings,  the  fdUowing 
song,  composed,  in  threie-quarters  of  an 
hour's  meditation  in  my  elbow-chaiir,  ought 
to  have  some  merit."  The  two  last  lines  of 
the  first  stanza  the  poet  took  from  a  very 
pretty  song  to  the  same  air,  written  by  Mr. 
J-ohn  Mayne,  author  of  a  poem  entitled, 
'■  The  Siller  Gun," 

0  Lo&a:n,  sweetly  didst  thou  glide 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride  ! 
And  years  sinsyne  hae  o'er  us  run. 
Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 
But  now  thy  liowery  banks  appear 
Like  drumlie^  Winter,  dark  and  drear. 
While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  f aes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes  ! 

Again  the  merry  month  o'  May 
Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay; 
The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers, 
The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing 

flowers: 
Blithe  morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye. 
And  evening's  tears  are  tears  of  joy: 
My  soul  delightless,  a'  surveys, 
While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Within     yon    milk-white    hawthorn 

bush, 
Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush; 


*  Dare  nought  but  stare.        ^  Throes. 
}_  Clouded  ^nd  rainy. 


254 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Hbr  faitlif u'  mate  will  share  her  toll, 
Or  wV  his  song  her  cares  beguile: 
But  1,  wi'  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 
Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer, 
Pass  widow'd  nights  and  joyless  days 
While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Oh,  wae  upon  you,  men  o'  state, 
That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate  ! 
As  ye  make  mony  a  fond  heart  mourn, 
Sae  may  if  on  your  heads  return  ! 
How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry  ? 
But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  days 
And  Willie  hame  to  Logan  braes  ! 


THERE  WAS  A  LASS,  AND   SHE 

WAS  FAIR. 

Tune — "  Bonny  Jean." 

'^  I  have  just  finished  the  following  ballad," 
says  the  poet  to  Thomson,  "  and  as  I  do 
thinlc  it  is  in  my  best  style,  I  send  it  to 
you." 

Thebb  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair, 
At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen, 

Wlien  a'  the  fairest  maids  were  met. 
The  fairest  maid  was  bonny  Jean. 

And  aye  she  wrought  her  mammie's 
wark, 

And  aye  sang  sae  merrilie: 
Tlie  blitliest  bird  upon  the  bush 

Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

But  hav/ks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lint  white's  nest: 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers. 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest 
rest. 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad, 
The  flower  and  pride  of  a'  the  glen: 

And  lie  had  owsen,  sheep  and  kye. 
And  wanton  naigies'  nine  or  ten. 

He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryste,'' 
He  danced  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down; 

And,  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist. 
Her  Iieart  was  tint,''  her,  peace  was 
stown.-* 

As  in  the  bosom  o'  the  stream. 
The  moonbeam  dwells  at  dewy   e'en; 

'Horses.       =  Fair.       'Lost.       ^  Stolen.' 


So  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love 
Within  the  breast  o'  bonny  Jean, 

And  now  she  works  her  mammie's 
wark, 

And  aye  she  sighs  wi'  care  and  pain, 
Yet  wist  na  what  her  ail  might  be, 

Or  what  wad  make  her  weel  again. 

But  did  na  Jeanie's  heart  loap  light, 
And  did  na  joy  blink  in  her  ee. 

As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  o'  love 
Ae  e'enin  on  the  lily  lea  ? 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest, 
And  whisper'd  thus  his  tale  o'  love; — 

"  O  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear; 

Oh,  tanst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie's  cot. 

And  learn  to -tent'  the  farms  wi'  me  H 

"  At  bam  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge, 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells. 
And  tent  the  waving  com  wi'  me. " 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do  ? 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na : 
At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  consent. 

And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa. 


PHILLIS     THE    FAIR. 
Tune—"  Robin  Adair." 

Whu,b  larks  with  little  wing 

Fattn'd  the  pure  air. 
Tasting  the  breathing  spring. 

Forth  I  did  fare; 
Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peep'd  o'er  the  mountains  high; 
Siich  thy  morn  !  did  I  cry, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

In  each  bird's  careless  song 

Glad  did  I  share: 
While  yon  wild  flowers  among. 

Chance  led  me  there; 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray; 
Such  thy  bloom  !  did  I  say 

Phillis  the  fair. 


*Mind. 


SONGS. 


255 


Down  in  a  shady  walk 
D<^ves  eooing  were: 

I  mark'd  the  cruel  hawk 
Caught  In  a  snare ; 

So  kind  may  Fortune  be, 

Such  make  his  destiny  ! 

He  who  would  injure  thee, 
Phillis  the  fair. 


HAD    I   A   GAVE. 

TuKE — "  Robia  Adair." 

Mr.  "Alexander  Cunningham,  a  writer  to  the 
Signet  in  Edinburgh,  and  a  warm  friend  of 
the  poet's,  had  wooed  and,  as  he  thought, 
won,  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  ac- 
complishments;  but  another  lover  having 
E resented  hiinself ^  with  'weightier  claims  to 
er  regard  tbaB   poor   Cunningham   pos- 


"  The  fickle,  faithless  queen, 
■  Took  the -carl,  ^d  left  her  Johnnie  ;'' 

and  appears  to'liave  cast  him  off  with  as 
little  ceremony  as  she.  would  a  .piece  .of 
faded  frippery.  The  poet,  in"  the  following 
lines,  has  endeavoured  to  express  the  feel- 
ings of  his  friend  on  the  occasion  . — 

Has  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant 
shore,  [dashing  roar; 

Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves' 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 
There  seek  my  last  repose, 
Till    grief    my    eyes  should 
close. 
Ne'er  T;o  wake  more. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  tliou  de- 
clare [as  air! 
All  thy  fond  plighted  vows  fleeting 
To  thy  new  lover  hie. 
Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 
Then  in  thy  bosoni  try 
What  peace  is  there  1 


BY  ALLAN   STREAJI  I  CHANCED 
TO  ROVE. 

Tune—"  Allan  Water." 

In  a  -letter  to  Thomson,  dated  August,  1793, 
enclosing  this  sono-,  the  poet  says : — "  I 
walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a  vol- 
ume of  the  Museum  in  my  hand,  when, 
turning  up  *  Allan  Water,'  as  the  words  ap- 
peared to  me  rather  unworthy  of  so  line  an 
air,  I  sat  and  raved  under  the  shade  of  an 
old  thorn,  till  I  wrote  one  to  suit  the  meas- 
ure.   I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  it  not  in 


my  worst  style. .  Bravo  !  say  I  ;  it  is  a  good 
song.  Autumn  is  my  propitious  season.  1 
make  more  verses  in  it  tiian  all  the  year 
else." 

By  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove, 

While  Phcebus  sank  beyond  Benledi ; 
The  winds  were  whispering  through 
the  grove, 

The  yellow  corn  was  waving  ready: 
1  listen'd  to  a  lover's  sang, 

And  thought  on  youthfu'  pleasures 
many; 
Aad  aye  the  wild  wood  echoes  rang — 

Oh,  dearly  do  I  love  thee,  Aanie  ! 

Oh,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower, 

Nae  nightly  bogle  make  it  eerie;' 
Nor  ever  sorrow  stain  the  hour, 

The  place  and  time  I  met  iny  dearie  1 
Her  head  upon  my.  throbbing  breast. 

She,-  sinking,   said,  "I'm  thine  for 
ever  I" 
While  mony  a  kiss  the  seal  imprest, 

Thfr  sacred  vow, — we  ne'er  should 
sever. 

The  haunt  o'   Spring's  the  primrose 
brae,  [low- 

.  The  Simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  fol- 
How  cheery,  through  her  shortening 
day, 
Is  Autumn  in  her  weeds  o'  yellow  ! 
But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart, 
Or    chain    the    soul   in    speechless 
pleasure,  [dart. 

Or  through  each  nerve  the    rapture 
Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom's  treas- 
ure ? 


OH,   WHISTLE,   AND    I'LL   COME 
TO  YOU,  MY  LAD. 


Tune—"  Whistle, 


and  I'll  come  to  you,  ray 
lad." 


"  The  old  air  of  '  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you, 
my  Lad,'  "  says  the  poet  to  Thomson,  "  I 
admire  very  much,  and  yesterday  I  set  the 
following  verses  to  it  :"— 

On,  whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you.  my 
lad,  [ladr 

Oh,  whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my 

Though  father  and  mither  and  a'  should 
gae  mad,  [lad. 

Oh,  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my 


'  Frightsomc. 


256 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But  warily  tent'  when  you  come  ^lO 
court  me,  [a-jee; 

And  come  na  unless  tlie  back  yett'-'  be 

Syne  up  the  back  stile,  and  let  naebody 
see, 

And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin'  to  me. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  ye 
meet  me,  [na  a  flie; 

Gang  by  me  as  though  that  ye  cared 

But  steal  me  a  blink  o'  yoar  bonny 
black  ee. 

Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  looking  at  me. 

Aye  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na 
forme,  [a  wee; 

And  whiles  ye  may  lightly'  my  Deauty 

But  court  na  anither,  though  jokiu'  ye 
be,  [me. 

For  fear  that  she  wile  your  fancy  frae 


ADOWN  WINDING  KITH. 

Tune—''  The  Mucking  o'  Geordie's  Byre.*' 

Adown  winding  Nith  did  I  wander, 
To  mark  the  sweet  flowers  as  they 
spring; 

Adown  Avinding  Nith  I  did  wander. 
Of  Phillis  to  muse  and  to  sing. 

Awa'  wi'  your  belles  and  your  beau- 
ties. 

They  never  wi'  her  can  compare: 
Whaever  has  met  wi'  my  Phillis, 

Has  met  wi'  the  queen  o'  the  fair. 

The  daisy  amused  my  fond  fancy. 
So  artless,  so  simple,  so  wild; 

Thou  emblem,  said  I,  o'  my  Phillis, 
For  she  is  Simplicity's  child. 

The  rosebud's  the  blush  o'  my  charmer. 
Her  sweet  balmy  lip  when  'tisprest: 

How  fair  and  how  pure  is  the  lily, 
But  fairer  and  purer  her  breast  ! 

Yon  knot  of  gay  flowers  iu  the  arbour, 
They  ne'er  wi'  my  Phillis  can  vie : 

Her  breath  is  the  breath  o'  the  wood- 
bine, 
Its  dew-drop  o'  diamond  her  eye. 


Her  voice  is  the  song  of  the  morning. 

That     wakes    through  the    green 

spreading  grove,  [tains. 

When  Phoebus  peeps  over  the  moun- 
On  music,  and  pleasure,  and  love. 

But  beauty  how  frail  and  how  fleeting, 
"The  bloom  of  a  fine  summer's  day! 

While  worth  in  the  mind  o'  my  Pliillis 
Will  flourish  without  a  decay. 


COME,  LET  ME  TAKE  THEE 

Air—"  Cauld  Kail." 

Comb,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast. 

And  pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder;:-; 
And  I  shall  spurn  as  vilest  dust 

The  warld's  wealth  and  grandeur: 
And  do  I  hear  my  Jeanie  own 

That  equal  transports  move  her  ? . 
I  ask  for  dearest  life  alone. 

That  I  may  live  to  love  her. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi'  all  thy  charms, 

I  clasp  my  countless  treasure ; 
I'll  seek  nae  mair  o'  heaven  to  share 

Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure : 
And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonny  blue, 

I  swear  I'm  thine  forever! 
And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow. 

And  break  it  shall  I  never! 


'  Carefully  heecl.     '  Gate.     ^  Disparage. 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

This  is  an  improved  version  of  a  song  which 
the  poet  wrote"  some  years  before  for  the 
Museutn^  and  which  will  be  found  at  p.  zaa. 
The  old  song  which  furnished  the  air  is  said 
to  have  been  composed  on  a  somewhat 
indelicate  incident  that  occurred  in 
the  life  of  the  Rev.  David  Williamson, 
during  the  times  of  the  Perseciition  in  Scot- 
land. This  worthy,  it  is  aMrmed^  after 
having  married  se'ven  wtves,  died  min  ister 
of  St.  Cuthbert's,  Edinburgh. 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers. 
To  deck  her  gay  green-spreading  bow. 

ers; 
And  now  comes  in  my  happy  hours 

To  wander  wi'  my  Davie. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe. 
Dainty  Davie,  dainty  Davie; 

There  I'll  spend  the  day  wi'  you. 
My  aiu  dear  dainty  Davie. 


SONGS. 


ssr 


The  orystai  waters  round  us  fa', 
TUe  merry  birds  are  lovers  a', 
Tha  soeiited  breezes  round  us  blaw, 
A- wandering  wi'  my  Davie. 

When  purple  morning  starts  tlie  bare, 
Tq  steal  upon  lier  early  fare. 
Then  through  the  dews  I  will  repair, 
To  meet  my  faithfu'  Davie. 

When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o'  nature's  rest, 
I  flee  to  his  arms  I  lo'e  best, 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Davie. 


BRUCS'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY 

AT^    BANNOCKBURN. 

Tune—"  Hey,  tuttie  taitie." 

"  There  is  a  tradition,"  says  the  poet,  in  a 
lett^er  to  Thomson,  enclosing-  this  g^lorious 
ode,  "  that  the  old  air,  '  Hey,  tuttie  taitie,' 
was  Robert  Bruce's  march  at  the  battle  of 
Bannockburn.-  This  thought,  in  my  solitary 
wanderings,  has  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of 
enthusiasm  on  the  theme  of  liberty  and  in- 
dependence which  I  have  thrown  into  a 
kind  of  Scottish  ode,  fitted  to  the  air,  that 
one  might  suppose  to  be  the  gallant  Scot's 
address  to  his  heroic  followers  on  that  event- 
ful morning."  This  ode,  says  Professor 
Wilson — the  grandest  out  of  the  Bible — ^is 
sublime ! 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  often  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  Victory! 

Now's  the, day,  and  now's  the  hour. 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 
See  appjoach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor   knave  ? 
Wlia  can  fill  a.  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him.  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha;  fo^  Scotland's  king  and  law, 
Fkbedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw; 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me! 

By, Oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  dr-ain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free! 


Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
LibBrty's  in  every  blow! — 
Let  us  do  or  die  I 


THOU  HAST  LEFT  ME  EVER. 

Tune — "  Fee  him,  father." 

The  poet,  in  sending  these  verses  to  Thomson, , 
says.:^'  1  do  not  give  them  for  any  merit, 
they  have.  I  composed  them  about  the 
'  back  o'  midnight,'  and  by  the  leeside  of  a 
bowl  of  putich,  which  had  oyerset  every 
mortal  in  company  except  the  Muse." 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie! 

Th6ii  hast  left  me  ever;  ' 
Thou  hast  left  m«  everT  Jamie ! 

Thou  hast  left  meever. 
Aften;  hast  tljou  vow'd  that  death 

Only  should  us  sever; 
Now  thou'st  left  thy  lass  for  aye — 

I  maun  see  the  never,  Jamie, 
I'll  see  the  never! 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie  1 

TJiou  hast  me  forsaken.; 
'Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamfe! 
;  Thou  hast  me  forsalien. 
Thpu  canst  love  anither  jo. 

While- my  heart  is  breaking: 
Soon  my  weary  een  I'll  close — 

Never  mair  to  waken,  Jamie, 
Ne'er  mair  to  waken! 


FAIR  JENNY. 

Tune — "  Saw  ye  my  father." 

Where  are  the  joys  I  have  met  in  the 
morning, 
That  danced  to  the  lark's  early  song? 
Where  is  the  peace  that  awaited  my 
wandering. 
At  evening  the  wild  woods  among? 

No  more  a- winding  the  course  of  yon^ 

river,  [fair; 

And    marking    sweet    flowerets    so. 

No  more  I  trace  the  light  footsteps  of 

pleasure, 

But  sorrow  and  sad  sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  Summer's  fbrsaken  our  val- 
leys,    '^ 
And  grim,  surly  Winter  is  near  ? 


358 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No,  no  I  the  tees  humming  round  the 
gay  roses 
Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the.  year. 

Fain  would  I  hide  what  I  fear  to  dis- 
cover, [known; 
Yet    long,   long   too    well    have    I 
All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my 
hosom 
Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  im- 
mortal, 
Nor  hope  dare  a  comfort  bestow: 
Come  then,  enamour'd  and  fond  of  my 
anguish. 
Enjoyment  I'll  seek  in  my  woe. 


DELUDED    SWAIN,    THE 

PLEASURE. 
Ti'NE — "  The  Collier's  Bonny  Lassie." 
Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 
The  fickle  fair  can  give  thee 
la  but  a  fairy  treasure — 
Thy  hopes  will  soon  deceive  thee. 

The  billows  on  the  ocean. 
The  breezes  idly  roaming, 

The  clouds  uncertain  motion — 
They  are  but  types  of  woman. 

Oh  !  art  thou  not  ashamed 

To  doat  upon  a  feature  ? 
If  man  thou  wouldst  be  named, 

Despise  the  silly  creature. 

Go,  find  an  honest  fellow; 

Good  claret  set  before  thee: 
Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow. 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory. 


MY  SPOUSE,  NANCY. 

Tune—"  My  Jo,  Janet." 
•'  HusBAKD,  husband,  cease  your  strife. 

Nor  longer  idly  rave,  sir; 
Though  I  am  your  wedded  wife. 

Yet  I  am  not  your  slave,  sir." 

"One  of  two  must  still  obey, 

Nancy,  Nancy; 
Is  it  man,  or  woman,  say, 
My  spouse,  Nancy?" 


"  If 'tis  still  the  lordly  word. 

Service  and  obedience; 
I'll  desert  my  sovereign  lord, 

And  so,  good-by  allegiance  1" 

"  Sad  will  I  be  so,  bereft, 

Nancy,  Nancy; 
Yet  I'll  try  to  make  a  shift. 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 

"  My  poor  heart  then  break  it  must. 

My  last  hour  I'm  near  it; 
W^len  you  lay  me  in  the  dust. 

Think,  think  how  you  will  bear  it.' 

"  I  will  hope  and  trust  in  Heaven, 

Nancy,  Nancy; 
Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given. 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 

' '  Well,  sir,  from  the  silent  dead. 

Still  I'll  try  to  daunt  you; 
Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 

Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you." 

"  I'll  wed  another,  like  my  dear 

Nancy,  Nancy; 
Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear. 

My  spouse,  Nancy." 


OH,  WERE  MY  LOVE  YON  LILAC 

FAIR. 

Tune — "  Hughie  Graham." 

The  first  two  stanzas  only  of  this  song  are  by 
Burns  ;  the  other  two  are  old. 

Oh,  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 
Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring^;  . 

And  I  a  bird  to  shelter  there. 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing; 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn. 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  I 

But  I  wad  sing,  on  wanton  wing. 
When    youthfu'    May     its    bloom 
renew'd. 

Oh,  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose. 
That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa'. 

And  I  mysel  a  drap  o'  dew, 
Into  her  bonny  breast  to  fa'  ! 

Oh  !  there,  beyond  expression  blest, 
I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night; 

Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest/ 
Till  fley'd'  awa'  by  Phoebus'  light ! 

1  Frightened. 


SONGS. 


259 


THE    LOVELT  LASS    OF  INVER- 
NESS. 
Tune—"  The  Lass  of  Inverness." 
The  lovely  lass  of  Iverness 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries,  alas  ! 

And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  ee: 
Drumpssie  Moor — Drumossie  day — 

A'waefu'  day  it  was  to  me  ! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear. 

My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay. 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to 
see; 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 

That  ever  blest  a  woman's  ee  ! 
Now  waeto  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 

That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee. 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 
Tune — ''  Graham's  Strathspey,'' 
Oh,  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose. 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

Oh,  my  luve's  like  the  melodic 

That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonny  lass. 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I; 
And  i  will  luve  thee  still,my  dear. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun: 

I  will  luve  thee  still  my  dear. 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve. 

Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


A  VISION. 

The  following  lines  were  written  amid  the 
ruins  of  Linqluden  Abbey,  a  favourite  haunt 
of  the  poet's.  He  contributed  a  version 
somewhat  different  to  the  Scot's  Musical 
Museum  : — 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower. 
Where  the  wa'  -  flower  scents  the 
dewy  air, 


Where  the  howlet'  mourns  in  her  ivy 
bower. 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her 
care; 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 
The  stars  they  shot  along  tlie  sky; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill. 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream  adown  its  hazelly  path. 
Was  rushing  by  thei  ruin'd  wa's, 

Hastening  to  join  the  weeping  Nith, 
Whose    distant  roaring  swells  and 
fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  North  was  streaming 
forth 

Her  lights,  wi'  hissin',  eerie  din: 
Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift. 

Like  Fortune's  favours,  tint''  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turn'd  mine  eyes. 
And   by  the    moonbeam,  shook  to 
see 

A  stem  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise. 
Attired  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane. 
His  daring  look  had  daunted  me; 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain, 
The  sacred  posy — "  Liberty!" 

And  f  rae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow. 
Might  roused  the  slumbering  dead  to 
hear; 

But,  oh !  it  was  a  tale  of  woe, 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear! 

He  sang  wi'  joy  the  former  day. 
He,  weeping,  wail'd  his  latter  times; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, — 
I  winna  veuture't  in  my  rhymes. 


OUT  OVER  THE  FORTH. 

Tune — "  Charlie  Gordon's  Welcome  Hame." 

Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north. 
But  what  is  the  north  and  its  High- 
lands to  me  ?  [breast. 
The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my 
The  far  foreign  land,  or  the  wild- 
rolling  sea. 


iQwl. 


s  Lost. 


360 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But  I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to 

rest,  [slumbers  may  be; 

That    hkppy  my   dreams   and  liiy 

For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I  lo'e  best. 

The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  baby  and 

me. 


JEANIE'S    BOSOM. 
Tune—"  Louis,  what  reck  I  by  thee  ?" 

LOUIS,  what  reck  I  by  thee, 
Or  Geordie  on  his  ocean  V 

Dyvor,'  beggar  loons  to  me — 
I  reign  in  Jeanie's  bosom. 

Let  her  crown  my  love  her  law, 
And  in  her  breast  enthrone  me: 

King  and  nations — swith,  awa'! 
Beif -randies,'  I  disown  ye! 


FOB  THE   SAKE   OF  SOMEBODY. 

Tune—"  For  the  Sake  of  Somebody." 
My  heart  is  sair — I  dare  na  tell — 
My  heart  is  sair  for  Somebody; 
I  could  wake  a  winter  night 
For  the  sake  o'  Somebody. 
Oh 'lion!  for  Somebody! 
Oh-hey!  for  Somebody! 
I  could  range  the  world  around. 
For  the  sake  o'  Somebody! 

Ye  Powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love. 

Oh,  sweetly  smile  on  Somebody! 
Frae  ilka-  dapger  keep  him  free, 
And  send  iiie  safe  my  Somebody. 
Oh-hon!  for  Somebody! 
Oh-hey!  for  Somebody! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  1 
For  the  sake  o'  Somebody ! 


WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE. 
AiE— "  The  Sutor's  Dochter." 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  1 
When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart, 
Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  1 
By  the  treasure  of  my  soul. 
That's  the  love  I  bear  thee! 
I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 
Shall  ever  be  iny  dearie. 

1  Bankrupt.    ^  Thieving  beggais. 


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  thou'lt  refuse  me; 
If  it  winna,  canna  be, 
Thou,  tor  thine  may  choose  me. 
Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'est  me. 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 


LOVELY  POLLY  STEWART. 

Tune — "  Ye're  welcome,. Charlie  Stewart." 

0  Lovely  Polly  Stewart  I 

0  charming  Polly  Stewart !        [May 
There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in 

That's  half  so  fair  as  thou  art. 
The  flower  it  blaws,  it  fades  and  fa's, 

And  art  can  ne'er  renew  it; 
But  worth  and  truth  eternal  youth 

Will  gie  to  Polly  Stewart. 

May  he   whose  arms  shall  fauld  thy 
charms 

Possess  a  leal  and  true  heart; 
To  him  be  given  to  ken  the  heaven 

He  grasps  in  Polly  Stewart ! 
0  lovely  Polly  Stewart ! 

O  charming  Polly  Stewart !        [May 
There's  ne'er  a  flower  that  blooms  in 

That's  half  so  sweet  as  thou  art. 


TO  MARY. 

Tune—"  At  Setting  Day." 

CottLd  aught  of  song  declare  my  pains. 

Could  artful  numbers  move  thee. 
The    Muse    should   tell,   in    labour'd 
strains, 

0  Mary,  how  I  love  thee  ! 
They  who  but  feign  a  wounded  heart 

May  teach  the  lyre  to  languish; 
But  what  avails  the  pride  of  art. 

When  wastes  the  soul  with  anguish  ? 

Then  let  the  sudden  bursting  sigh 
The  heart-felf  pang  discover; 

And  in  the  keen,  yet  tender  eye. 
Oh,  read  th'  imploring  lover. 


SONGS. 


261 


For  well  I  know  thy  gentle  mind 
Disdains  art's  gay  disguising; 

Beyond  what  fancy  e'er  refined, 
The  voice  of  nature  prizing. 


WAE    IS    MY    HEART. 

Tune — "  Wae  is  my  heart." 

Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear's  in  my 

ee; 

Lang,  lang,  joy's  been  a  stranger  to  me: 

Forsaken  and  friendless,  my  burden  I 

bear,  [sounds  in  my  ear. 

And   tlie   sweet  voice  of    pity    ne'er 

Love,  thou  hast  pleasures,  and  deep 
hae  I  loved.  [I  proved; 

Love,  thou  hast  sorrows,  and  sair  hae 

But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds 
in  my  breast,  [at  rest. 

I  can  feel  by  its  throbbings  will  soon  be 

Oh,  if  I  were,  where  happy  I  hae  been, 
Down  by  yon  stream  and  yon  bonny 

castle-green;  [on  me, 

'For  there  he  is  wandering,  and  musing 
Wlia  wad  soon  dry  the  tear  frae  his 

Pliillis'  ee. 


HERE'S    TO    THY    HEALTH,    MY 

BONNY  LASS. 

TuNE^"  Laggan  Burn." 

Here's  to  thy  health,  my  bonny  lass, 

Gfjfcift  night  and  joy  be  wi'  thee; 
I'll  come  nae  mair  to  thy  bower-door, 

"To  tell  thee  that  I  lo'e  thee. 
Oh,  dinna  think,  my  pretty  pink. 

But  I  can  live  without  thee: 
I  vow  and  swear  I  dinna  care. 

How  lang  ye  look  about  ye. 

Thou'rt  aye  sae  free  informing  me 

Thou  hast  nae  mind  to  marry; 
I'll  be  as  free  informing  thee 

Nae  time  hae  I  to  tarry. 
I  ken  thy  friends  try  ilka  means 

Frae  wedlock  to  delay  thee; 
Depending  on  some  higher  chance — 

But  Fortune  may  betray  thee. 

I  ken  they  scorn  my  low  estate, 
But  that  does  never  grieve  me; 

But  I'm  as  free  as  any  he, 
Sma'  siller  will  relieve  me. 


I'll  count  my  health  my  greatest  wealth 

Sae  lang  as  I'D  enjoy  it: 
I'll  fear  nae  scant,  I'll  bode  nae  want. 

As  lang's  I  get  employment. 

But  far-off  fowls  hae  feathers  fair. 

And  aye  until  ye  try  them:        [care. 
Though  they  seem  fair,  still  have  a 

They  may  prove  waur  than  I  am. 
But  at  twal  at  night,  when  the  moon 
shines  bright. 

My  dear,  I'll  come  and  see  thee; 
For  the  man  that  lo'es  his  mistress 
weel, 

Nae  travel  makes  him  weary. 


ANNA,  THY  CHARMS. 

Tune — ''  Bonny  Mary." 

AmsA,  thy  charms  my  bosom  fire. 

And  waste  my  soul  with  care; 
But  ah  !  how  bootless  to  admire, 

When  fated  to  despair  1 
Yet  in  thy  presence,  lovely  fair. 

To  hope  may  be  forgiven ; 
For  sure  'twere  impious  to  despair. 

So  much  in  sight  of  heaven. 


MY  LADY'S  GOWN,  THERE'S 
GAIRS  UPON'T. 

Tune—"  Gregg's  Pipes." 

Mt  lady's  gown,  there's  gairs'  upon't. 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon't; 
But  Jenny's  jimps*  and  jirkinet,^ 
My  lord  thinks  meikle  mair  upon't. 

My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane, 

But  hounds  or  hawks  wi'liimarenane; 

By  Colin's  cottage  lies  his  game, 

If  Colin's  Jenny  be  at  hame. 

My  lady's  white,  my  lady's  red. 
And  kith  and  kin  o'  Cassillis'  blude; 
But  her  ten-pund  lands  o'  tocher  guid 
Were  a'  the  charms  his  lordship  lo'ed. 

Out  o'er  yon  muir,  out  o'er  yon  moss, 
Whare  gor-cocka  through  the  heather 


There  wous  auld  Colin's  bonny  lass, 
A  lily  in  a  wildemesSi 


*  A  triangular  piece  of  cloth  inserted  at  the 
bottom  of  a  robe,  '  A  kind  of  stays.  '  Bodice, 


BUKNS'  WORKS. 


Sae  sweetly  move  her  gentle  limbs, 
Like  music-notes  o'  lovers'  hymns: 
The  diamond  dew  in  her  een  sae  blue, 
Where    laughing    love    sae    wanton 
swims. 

My  lady's  dink,*  my  lady's  drest. 
The  flower  and  fapcy  o'  the  west; 
But  the  lassie  that  a  man  lo'es  best. 
Oh,  that's  the  lass  to  mak  him  blest. 


JOCKEY'S  TA'EJf   THE  PARTING 

KISS. 

Tune — "  Bonny  Lassie,  tak  a  Man.'' 

Jockey's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss. 

O'er  the  mountains  he  is  gane; 
And  with  him  is  a'  my  bMss, 

Nought  but  griefs  with  me  remain. 
Spare  my  luve,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 

Plashy  sleets  and  beating  rain! 
Spare  my  luve,  thou  feathery  snaw. 

Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain ! 

Wlien  the  shades  of  evening  creep 

O'er  the  day's  fair  gladsome  ee, 
Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep, 

Sweetly  blithe  his  waukening  be! 
He  will  think  on  her  he  loves. 

Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name; 
For  where'er  he  distant  roves. 

Jockey's  heart  is  still  at  hame. 


OH,   LAY    THY   LOOF   IN  MINE, 
LASS. 

Tune — "  Cordwainers'  March." 
Oh,  lay  thy  loot '  in  mine,  lass. 
In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass; 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass. 
That  thou  wUt  be  my  ain. 

A  slave  to  love's  unbounded  sway. 
He  aft  has  wrought  me  meikle  wae; 
But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae. 
Unless  thou  be  my  ain. 

There's  mony  a  lass  has  broke  my  rest, 
That  for  a  blink''  I  hae  lo'ed  best; 
But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breast, 
Forever  to  remain. 


>  Palm, 


*  Neat,  trim. 

"  Short  space. 


Oh,  lay  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass,  '-  ^- 
In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass; 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass. 
That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain,. 


OH,  MALLY'S  MEEK,  MALLY'S 
SWEET.  .    -^ 

As  I  was  walking  up  the  street,  - 

A  barefit  maid  I  chanced  to  meet- 
But  oh,  the  road  was  very  hard 
For  thai  fair  maiden's  tender  feet; 

Oh,  Mally's  meek,  MaUy's  sweet,- 
Mally's  modest  and  (fiscreet, 

Mally's  rare,  Mally's  fair, 
Mally's  every  way  complete. 

It  were  mair  meet  that  those  fine  feet 
Were  weel  laced  up  in  silken  shoon. 

And  'twere  more  fit  that  she  should  sit 
Within  yon  chariot  gilt  aboon. 

Her  yellow  hair,  beyond  compare,  ■/    / 
Comes  trinkling  down  her  swau-likS' 
neck; 
And  her  two  eyes,  like  stars  in  skies. 
Would    keep  a  sinking    ship    frae 
wreck. 


THE  BANKS  OF  CREE. 
Tune—"  The  Banks  of  Cree." 

Lady  Elizabeth  Heron  havine  composed  an 
air  entitled  ''  The  Banks  of  Cree,"  in  re- 
membrance of  a  beautiful  and  romantic 
stream  of  that  name,  "  I  have  "written,'' " 
says  the  poet,  "  the  following  song  to  it^as 
her  ladyship  is  a.  particular  friend  of  mine." 

Herb  is  the  glen,  and  here  the  bower. 

All  underneath  the  birchen  shade;  . 
The  village-bell  has  told  the  hour — 

Oh,  what  can  stay  my  lovely  maid? 

'Tis  not  Maria's  whispering  call; 

'Tis  not  the  balmy-breathing  gal^," 
Mixt  with  some  warbler's  dying  fall, ' 

The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria's  voice  I  hear! 

So  calls  the  woodlark  in  the  grove. 
His  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer-^ 

At  once  'tis  music,  and  'tis  love. 


soNas. 


263: 


And  art  thou  come  1  and  art  thou  true? 

Oh,  welcome,  dear,  to  love  and  me! 
And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 


ON  THE   SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

Tune — "  O'er  the  hills  and  far  away.'' 
How  can  my  poor  heart  he  glad. 
When  absent  f  rom*my  sailor  lad  1 
How  can  I  the  thought  forego. 
He's  on  the  seas  to  meet  the  foe  1 
Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove, 
Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love: 
Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by  day, 
Are  with  him  that's  far  away. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away. 
On  stormy  seas  and  far  away; 

-5  Nightly  dreams,  and  thoughts  by 

:   •    day, 

•  ■  Are  aye  with  him  that's  far  away. 

Wlien  in  summer  noon  I  faint. 
As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant. 
Haply  in  the  scorching  sun 
My  sailor's  thundering  at  his  gun: 
Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 
Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  I 
Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may — 
Spare  but  him  that's  far  aw^ayl 

At  the  starless  midnight  hour,  [power. 
When   winter    rules  with  boundless 
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  that's  far  away. 

Peace,  thy  olive  wand  extend, 

Aifd  bid  wild  War  his  ravage  end, 

Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 

A^d  as  a  brother  kindly  greet :     [gales 

Then  may  Heaven    with    prosperous 

Fill  my  sailor's  welcome  sails, 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey — 

My.  dear  lad  that's  far  away. 


CA'  THE  YOWES. 

This  is  an  improved  version,  which  the  poet 
■  prepared, ,  for  his  friend  Thomson,  of  a  sohgf 
already  given  at  p.  229. 


Ca'  the  yowea  to  the  knowes 
Ca'  tliem  whare  the  heather  grows,- 
Ca"  them  whare  the  burnie  rowes. 
My  bonny  dearie  I 

Hark  the  mavis'  evening  sang 
Sounding  Cluden's  woods  amang  I 
Then  a  faulding  let  us  gang. 
My  bonny  dearie. 

We'll  gae  down  by  Cluden  side, 
Through  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide. 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Yonder  Cluden's  silent  towers. 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers. 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear, 
Thou'rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near. 
My  bonny  dearie. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art. 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart; 
I  can  die — but  canna  part — 
My  bonny  dearie  1 


SHE  SAYS   SHE  LO'ES  ME  BEST- 
OP  A'. 
Tune—"  Onagh's  Waterfall." 
Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets. 

Her  eyebrows  of  a  darker  hue, 
Bewitchingly  o'er-arching 

Twa  laughing  een  o'  bonny  blue. 
Her  smiling  sae  wiling. 

Wad  malce  a  wretch  forget  his  woe; 
What  pleasure,  what  treasure. 

Unto  these  rosy  lips  to  grow  ! 
Such  was  my  Cliloris' bonny  face,    / 

When  first  her  bonny  face  I  saw; 
And  aye  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 

Like  harmony  her  motion; 

Her  pretty  ankle  is  a  spy. 
Betraying  fair  proportion. 

Wad  mak  a  saint  forget  the  sky. 
Sae  wanning,  sae  channing. 

Her  faultless  form  and  gracefu'  air; 
Ilk  feature — auld  Nature 

Declared  that  she  could  do  nae  mair. 


26*^ 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o'  love. 
By  conquering    beauty's   sovereign 
law; 

And  aye  my  Chloris'  dearest  charm. 
She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  o'  a'. 

Let  others  love  the  city, 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon; 
Gie  me  the  lonely  valley. 

The  dewy  eve,  and  rising  moon; 
Fair  beaming  and  streaming, 

Her  silver  light  the  boughs  amang; 
While  falling,  recalling,  [sang; 

The  amourous  thrush  concludes  his 
There,  dearest  Ohloris,  wilt  thou  rove 

By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw. 
And  hear  my  vows  o'  truth  and  love. 

And  say  thou  lo'est  me  best  of  a'? 


THE  LOVER'S  MORNING  SALUTE 

TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune — *'  Deil  tak  the  wars." 

"  Having  been  out  in  the  country  dininff  with 
a  friend,*' (Mr.  Lorimer  of  Kemmis  Hail,) 
says  the  poet  in  a  letter  to  Thomson,  "  I 
met  with  a  lady,  (Mrs.  Whelpdale — '  Chlo- 
ris,') and  as  usual  got  into  song ,  and  on  re- 
turning home  composed  the  following  : — 

Slbep'st  thou  or  wakest  thou,  fairest 
creature  ? 
Rosy  mom  now  lifts  his  eye. 

Numbering  ilka  bud  which  nature 
Waters  wi'  the  tears  o'  joy : 
Now  through  the  leafy  woods. 
And  by  the  reeking  floods,  [stray. 

Wild  nature's  tenants,  freely;  gladly. 
The  lintwhite  in  his  bower 
Cliants  o'er  the  breathing  flower;* 
The  laverock  to  the  sljy 
Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'joy. 

While  the  sun  and  thou  arise  to  bless 
the  day. 

Phcebus,  gilding  the  brow  o'  morning, 
Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade. 


*  VaH!ATI0N. — 

''  Now  -to  the  streaming  f  onntain. 
Or  up  the  healthy  mountain. 
The  hart,  hin4,  and    roe,  freely,   wUdly- 
wanton  stray ; 
In  twining  hazel  bowers 
His  lay  the  linnet  pours  : 
The  laverock  to  the  sky,    &c. 


Nature  gladdening  and  adorning; 
Such  to  me  my  lovely  maid. 
When  absent  f rae  my  fair. 
The  murky  shades  o'  care 

With  startless  gloom  o'ercast  my  sul- 
len sky; 
But  when,  in  beauty's  light. 
She  meets  my  ravish'd  sight. 
When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  .dart —  [joy.f 

'Tis  then  I  wake  to,  life,  to  light,  aad 


CHLORIS. 

Regarding  the  following  lines,  the  poet  says : 
— "  Having  been  on  a  visit  the  other  day  lo 
my  fair  Chloris — that  is  the  poetic  name  of 
the  lovely  goddess  of  my  inspiration— she" 
suggested  an  idea,  which,  on  iny  retufe 
home,  I  wrought  into  the  following 
song:"— 

My    Chloris,    mark   how   green  ^e 
groves,  '  i 

The  primrose  banks  how  fair; 
The  balmy  gales  awake  the  flowers. 

And  wave  thy  flaxen  hair. 

The  laverock  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': 
Tlie  shepherd  stops  his  simple  reed. 

Blithe,  in  the  birken  shaw. ' 

Tlie  princely  revel  may  survey 
Our  rustic  dance  wi'  scorn; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours. 
Beneath  the  millc- white  thorn  ? 

The  shepherd  in  the  flowery  glen,     . 

In  shepherd's  phrase  will  woo; 
The  courtier  tells  a  finer  tale — 

But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 


^  Birch-wood. 
t  Var.— 

"  When  frae  my  Chloris  parted. 
Sad,  cheerless,  broken-hearted. 
Then  night's  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark, 
o'ercast  my  sky; 
But  when  she  charms  my  sight, 
In  pride  of  beauty's  light : 
When  through  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  glories  dart, 
'Tis  then,  'tis  then  I  wake  to  life  and 
joy- 


SONGS. 


These  wild-wood    flowers  I've    pu'd, 
to  deck 

That  spotless  breast  o'  thine; 
The  courtier's  gems  may  witness  love — 

But  'tisna  love  like  mine. 


TO  CHLORIS 

;The  foUowing  lines,  says  the  poet,  were 
1  "  wrinen  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  copy  of  the 
last  edition  of  my  po«ms,  and  presented  to 
the  lady  whom,  witff  the  most  ardent  senti- 
ments of  real  friendship,  I  have  so  often 
sung  under  the  name  of  Chloris ;" — 

'Trs  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young, 
fair  friend,    ■ 

Nor  thou  the  gift  refuse. 
Nor  with  unwilling  ear  attend 

■The  moralising  Muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and 
charms. 

Must  bid  the  world  adieu,  [arms,) 
(A  world  'gainst    peace  in    constant 

To  join  the  friendly  few; 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast. 
Chill  came  the  tempests  lower; 

(And  ne'er  misfortune's  eastern  blast 
Did  nip  a  fairer  flower;) 

Since  life's  gay  scenes  must  charm  no 
more. 

Still  much  is  left  belxind; 
Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  store — 

The  comforts  of  the  mind  ! 

Thine  is  the  self -approving  glow 

Oh  concious  honour's  part; 
And — dearest  gift  of  Heaven  below^ 

Thine  friendship's  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refined  of  sense  and  taste. 

With  every  Muse  to  rove: 
And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest. 

These  joys  could  he  improve. 


'  AH,  CHLORIS! 

Tune — '^  Major  Graham." 
Ah,  Chloris  !  since,  it  mayna  be 

That  thou  of  love  wilt  hear; 
If  from  the  lover  thou  maun  flee. 

Yet  let  the  friend  be  dear. 

Although  I  love  ray  Chloris  mair 
Than  ever  tongue  could  tell; 


My  passion  I  will  ne'er  declare, 
l'li.say,  I  wish  thee  well. 

Though  a'  my  daily  care  thou  art. 
And  a'  my  nightly  dream, 

I'll  hide  the  struggle  in  my  heart, 
And  say  it  is  esteem. 


SAW  YE  MY  PHELY? 
Tune — "  When  she  cam  ben  she  bobbit." 
Oh,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
Oh,  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely? 
She's  down  i'  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. 

Oh,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 
Oh,  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou's 
fair—  [Willy. 

Thou's    broken   the    heart    o'    thy 


HOW  LONG  AND  DREARY  IS 
THE  NIGHT  ! 
To  a  Gaelic  Air. 

How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night. 
When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  ! 

I  sleepless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn, 
Though  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 

I  sleepless  lie  frae  e'en  to  mom. 
Though  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 
I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie. 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie. 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  V 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie. 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ? 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours. 
As  ye  were  wae  and  weary  ! 

It  wasna  sae  ye  glinted''  by 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

It  wasna  sae  ye  glinted  by 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 


'  Lonely. 


«  Glided. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


IMPROVED  VERSION. 

Tone—"  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen." 
"  How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night. 
When  1  am  frae  my  dearie  ! 
I  restless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn. 
Though  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary. 

For  oh  !  her  lanely  nights  are  lang; 

And  oh,  her  dreams  are  eerie; 
And  oh,  her  widow'd  heart  is  sair, 

That's  absent  frae  her  dearie. 

When  I  think  on  the  lightsome  days 
I  spent  wi'  thee,  my  dearie; 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar — 
How  can  1  be  but  eerie  ? 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours  1 
The  joyless  day  how  dreary  ! 

It  wasna  sae  ye  glinted  by. 
Where  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 


LET  NOT  WOMAN  E'ER  COM- 
PLAIN. 

Tune — "  Duncan  Gray." 

*  I  liave  been  at '  Duncan  Gray,'  says  the  poet 
to  Thomson,  '*  to  dress  it  into  English  ;  but 
all  1  can  do  is  deplorably  stupid.  For  in- 
stance :"^ 

Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Of  inconstancy  in  love;  - 
Let  not  woman  e'er  complain 

Fickle  man  is  apt  to  rove: 
Look  abroad  through  nature's  range. 
Nature's  mighty  law  is  change; 
Ladies,  would  it  not  be  strange, 

Man  should  then  a  monster  prove  ? 

Mark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies; 

Ocean's  ebb,  and  ocean's  flow: 
Sun  and  moon  but  set  to  rise. 

Round  and  round  the  seasons  go: 
Wliy  then  ask  of  silly  man 
To  oppose  greatNature's  plan? 
We'll  be  constant  while  we  can — 

You  can  be  no  more,  you  know. 


THE  CHARMING  MONTH  OF  MAY. 

The  poet  having  given  the  following  English 
dress  to  an  old  Scotch  ditty,  says,  in  trans- 
mitting it  to  Thomson  : — "  You  may  think 
meanly  of  this  ;  but  if  you  saw  the  bombast 
of  the  original  you"  would  be  surprise  that 
I  had  made  so  much  of  it."    " 


It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flowers  were  fresh  and 

gay, 
One  morning  by  the  break  of  day, 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe; 
From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose. 
Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose. 
And  o'er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes,   - 

The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 


Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn. 

Youthful  Chloe,  charming  Chloe; 

Tripping  o'er  the  pearly  lawn. 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 

The  f  eather'd  people  you  might  see 
Perch'd  all  around,  on  every  tree,.^u,:,- 
In  notes  of  sweetest  melody. 

They  hail  the  charming  Chloe; 
Till  painting  gay  the  eastern  skies, 
The  glorious  sun  began  to  rise, 
Out-rivall'd  by  the  radiant  eyes 

Of  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 


LASSIE    Wr    THE    LINT-WHITE 

LOCKS. 

Tune—"  Rothemurche's  Rant." 

"  This  piece,"  says  the  poet,  "  has  at  least  the 
merit  of  being  a  regular  pastoral:  the  veri 
nal  morn,  the  summer  noon,  the  autumnal 
evening,  and  the  winter  night,  are  regular- 
ly rounded."  "^ 

Now  nature  deeds'  the  flowery,  lea. 
And  a'  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee; 
Oh,  wilt  thou  share  its  joy  wi;  me, 
And  say  thou'lt  be  my  dearie,  0  ? 

Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks. 
Bonny  lassie,  artless  lassie. 

Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tent-"  the  flocj^st 
Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 

And     when     the    welcome     simmer- 
shower  ' 
Has  cheer'd  ilk  drooping  little  flower. 
We'll  to  the  breathing  woodHlne  bowec 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  0. 

When  Cynthia  lights  wi'  silver  rayj 
The  weary  shearer's^  hameward  way: 
Through    yellow   waving  fields  we'll 
stray, 
And  talk  o'  love, my  dearie,  O. 

'Clothes.    STeiii   ,s  Reapers.      .'   ■ 


SONGS. 


267 


And  when  tlie  howling  wintry  blast 
D^turbs  my  lassie's  midnight  rest; 
Enclasped  to  my  faithf u'  breast, 
I'll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 


FAREWELL.  THOU   STREAM. 

TuN^— ^"l^anc/s  to  the  greenwood    gane." 

This  song  appears  to  be  an  improved  version 
of  the  one  entitled,  "  The  last  time  1  came 
o'er  the  moor,"  (p.  253.  )  with  the  substitu- 
tion «f  the  name  Eliza  for  that  of  Maria, 
This  change  probably  arose  from  the  poet's 
quarrel  with  Mrs,  Riddel  having  rendered 
her  name  distasteful  to  him.  See  the  intro- 
duction to  the  song  entitled,  "  Canst  thou 
leave  me  thus,  my  Katy?"  in  the  following 
page. 

FAKEWELli,  tiiou  stream  that  winding 
.  flows 
Around  Eliza's  dwelling! 

0  Memory!  spare  the  cruel  throes 
Within  my  bosom  swelling: 

Condemned  to  drag  a  hopeless  chain. 
And  yet  in  secret  languish; 

To  feel  a  fire  in  every  vein, 
Nor  dare  disclose  my  anguish. 

Love's    veriest    wretch,    unseen,   un- 
known, 
I. fain  my  griefs  would  cover; 
The     bursting   sigh,    th'    unweeting 
'    groan. 
Betray  the  hapless  lover. 

1  know  thou  doom'st  me  to  despair. 
Nor  wilt,  nor  canst,  relieve  me; 

But  oh,  Eliza,  hear  one  prayer — 
For  pity's  sake,forgive  me! 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I  heard. 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslaved  me ; 
I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear'd, 

'Till  fears  no  more  had  saved  me: 
The  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast. 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing; 
'Mid  circling  horrors  sinks  at  last 

Jnpxerwhelming  ruin. 


OH  PHILLY,  HAPPY  BE  THAT 

DAY. 

Tune—"  The  Sow's  Tail." 

HE. 

O  PHlliLT,  happy  be  that  day. 

When  roving  through  the  gather'd  hay. 


My  youthf u'  heart  was  stown  away, 
And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly. 


0  Willy,  aye  I  bless  the  grove 
Where  I  first  own'd  my  maiden  love. 
Whilst  thou  didst  pledge  the  Powers 

above 
To  be  my  ain  dear  Willy. 

HE. 
As  songsters  of  the  early  year 
Are  ilka  day  mair  sweet  to  hear, 
So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear. 
And  charming  is  my  Philly. 

SHE. 

As  on  the  brier  the  budding  rose 
Still  richei"  breathes  and  fairer  blows. 
So  in  my  tender  bosom  grows 
The  love  I  bear  my  Willy. 

HE. 
The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky 
That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi'  joy. 
Were  ne'er  so  welcome  to  my  eye 
As  is  a  sight  o'  Philly. 

SHE. 

The  little  swallow's  wanton  wing; , 
Though    wafting     o'er    the    flowery 

spring. 
Did  ne'er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring 
As  meeting  o'  my  Willy. 

HE. 

The  bee  that  through' the  sunny  hour 
Sips  nectar  in  the  opening  flower. 
Compared  wi'  my  delight  is  poor. 
Upon  the  lips  o'  Philly. 

SHE. 

The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  weet 
When  evening  shades  in  silence  meet. 
Is  nocht  sae  "fragrant  or  sae  sweet 
As  is  a  kiss  o'  Willy. 

HE. 

Let  Fortune's  wheel  at  random  rin. 
And  fools  may  tyne,  and  knaves  may 

win; 
My  thoughts  are  a'  bound  up  in  ane. 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Philly. 

SHE. 

Wliat's  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie, 

1  careria  wealth  a  single  flie; 
The  lad  I  love's  the  lad  for  me. 

And  that's  my  ain  dear  Willy. 


268 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


CONTENTED  Wl'  LITTLE. 

Tune— "Lamps  o'  Pudding." 

This  song  is  entitled  to  more  than  ordinary 
attentioiD,  as  it  ajppears  ihe  poet-  meant  it 
for  a  personal .  sketch :  for,  in  a  letter  to 
Thomson,  thankii^  him  for  the  present  of  a 

Eicture  of  ^ '  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Nighty" 
y  David  Allan,  the  leading  painter  of  the  ■ 
day,  he  says : — "  Ten  thousand  thanks  for 
your  elegant  present.  ...  I  have  some 
'  thoughts  of  suggesting  to  you  to  prefix  a 
vignette  of  me  to  my  song,  '  Contented  wi' 
little,  and  cantie  wi'  mair,  in  order  that  the 
portrait  of  my  face,  and  the  picture  of  my 
viindy  may  go  down  the  stream  of  time  to- 
gether." 

Contented  wi'  little,  and  cantie^  wi' 
mair,  [care, 

Whene'er  I  forgather^  wi'  Borrow  and 

I  gie  them  a  skelp,^  as  they're  creeping 
alang,  [Scottish  sang. 

Wi'  a  cog  o'  guid  swats/  and  an  auld 

I  whiles  claw  the  elbow  o'  troublesome 
thought ;  [f aught ; 

But  man  is   a  sodger,  and  life  is  a 

My  mirth  and  guid  humour  are  coin  in 
my  pouch, 

And  my  freedom's  my  lairdship  nae 
monarch  dare  touch. 

A  towmond^  o'  trouble,  should  that' 
be  my  fa',  [it  a': 

A  night  o*  guid-fellowship  sowthers^ 

When  at  the  blithe  end  o'  our  journey 
at  last,  [lie  has  past? 

Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper  and 
stoyte''  on  her  way;  [ja-de  gae;"^ 

Be't  to  me,  be't  frae  me,  e'en  let  the 

Come  ease  or  come  travail;  come  pleas- 
ure or  pain;  [welcome  again  !" 

My  warst  ward    is — "Welcome  and 


CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS, 
MY  KATY? 

Tune—"  Roy's  Wife." 

This  song,  which  the  poet  says  he  composed 
in  two  or  three  turns  across  his  Jittle  room, 
was  meant  as  a  representation  of  the  kindly 
feelings  which  he  now  once  more  began  to 
entertain  for  his  former  beautiful  and  fas- 
cinating friend,  Mrs.    Riddel  of  Woodley 

1  Happy.  2  Meet.  ^  Whack.  *  Flagon  of 
ale.  6  Twelvemonth.  °  Solders.  ^  Stagger 
and  stumble.    "  Slut  go.    ^ 


Park.  She  replied  to  his  song  in  a  similar 
strain  of  poetic  licence.*  The  poet,  it  will 
b6  observed,  with  the  usual  freedom  of  the 
sons  of  Apollo,  addresses  her  as  a  mlsjeress, 
and  in  that  character  she  replies  to  him. 

Is  this  thy  plighted,  fond  reward. 
Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain's  regard^ ' 
An  aching,  broken  heart,  nay  Katy  ? 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 
Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy? 


*  The  following  are  the  pieces  which  Mrs 
Riddel  sent  to  the  poet  in  reply  to  his  song  :— 

Tune—"  Roy's  Wife. ' 

"Tell  me  that  thou  yet  art  true. 

And  a'  my  wrongs  shall  be  forgiven  ; 
Arid  when  this  heart  proves  f ause  to  thee. 
Yon  sun  shall  cease  its  course  in  heaven. 

"  Stay,  my  Willie— yet  believe  me, 
Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me. 
For,  ah  !  thou  know'st  na  every  pang    (me. 
Wad  wring  my  bosom,  shouldst  thou  leave 

"  But  to  think  I  was  betray'd,  [sunder ! 

That    falsehood    e'er  our   loves    should 
To  take  the  floweret  to  my  breast. 
And  find  the  guilefu'  serpent  under. 

"  Could  I  hope  thou'dst  ne'er  deceive. 

Celestial  pleasures  might  I  choose  'em, 
I'd  slight,  nor  seek  in  other  spheres 
That  heaven  I'd  find  within  thy  bosom, . 
"  Stay,  my  Willie— yet  believe  me, 
Stay,  my  Willie— yet  believe  me, 
For  ah  !  thou  know'st  na  every  pang 
Wad  wring  my   bosom,   should'st  thou 
leave  me." 


"  To  thee,  loved  Nith,  thy  gladsome  plains, 

Where  late  with  careless  thought  I  ranged," 
Though  prest  with  care,  and  sunk  in  woe, 

To  thee  I  bring  a  heart  unchanged. 
I  love  thee,  Nith,  thy  banks  and  braes. 

Though  Memory  there  my  bosom  tear. 
For  there  he  roved  that  broke  my  heart, 

Yet  to  that  heart,  ah,  still  how  dear ! 

"  And  now  your  banks  and  bonny  braes 

But  waken  sad  remembrance'  smart ; 
The  very  shades  I  held  most  dear 

Now  strike  fresh  anguish  to  my  heart ; 
Deserted  bower !  where  are  they  now — 

Ah !  where  the  garlands  that  I  wove 
With  faithful  care,  each  morn  to  deck 

The  altars  of  ungrateful  love  ? 

"  The  flowers  of  spring,  how  gay  they  bloom'd, ' 

When  last  with  him  I  wander'd  here  ! 
The  flowers  of  spring  are  pass'd  away 

For  wintry  horrors,  dark  and  drear.       

Yon  osier'd  stream,  by  whose  lone  banks 

My  song;s  have  lull'd  him  oft  to  rest 
Is  now  in  icy  fetters  lock'd —  ' 

Cold  as  my  false  love's  frozen  breast."      -.^ 


SONGS. 


Well    thou    knowest    my 

heart — r 
And  canst  thou 


siching 

[pity ! 

leave  me  thus  for 


Farewell  !  and  ne'er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy  1 
Thou  mayst  find  those  will  love  thee, 

dear — 
[    Btit  not  a  love  like  mine,  Katy  ! 


WHA  IS  THAT  AT  MY  BOWER- 
DOOR? 
Tone — **.Lass,  an  I  come  near  thee." 

Wha  is  that  at  my  hower-door? 

Oh,  wha  is  it  but  Kndlay  ? 
Thengae  yeregate,'  ye'se  na  be  here! — 

Indeed,  maun  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
What  maji  ye  sae  like  a  thief '? 

Oh,  come  and  see,  quo'  Findlay; 
Before  the  morn  ye'U  work  mischief — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Gif^  I  rise  and  let  you  in, — 

Let  me  in,  quo'  Findlay, 
Ife'U  keep  me  waukin  wi'  your  din — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay, — 

Let  me  stay,  quo'  Findlay; 
I  fear  ye'U  bide*  till  break  o'  day — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain, — 

I'll  remain,  quo'  Findla}'; 
I  dread  ye'U  ken  the  gate  again; — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
What  may  pass  within  this  bower, — 

Let  it  pass,  quo'  Findlay; 
Ye  maun  conceal  till  your  last  hour; — 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 


i 


THE  CARDIN'  O'T. 

Tune — "  Salt-fish  and  Dumplings." 
I  coft'  a  stane  o'  haslock'-'  woo. 

To  mak  a  coat  to  Johnny  o't; 
For  Johnny  is  my  only  jo, 

I  lo'e  him  best  of  ony  yet. 

The  cardin'o't,  the  spinnin'  o't; 
'The  warpin'  o't,  the  winnin'  o't; 


'Way. 


'If. 


■^  Remain. 


'Bought.    -  Hause-Ibck— the  wool  from  the 
throat— the  finest-of  the  flock. 


When  ilka  ell  cost  me  a  groat. 
The  tailor  staw''  the  linin'  o't. 

For  though  his  locks  be  lyart  gray, 
And  thbugh  his  brow  be  held  aboon; 

Yet  1  hae  seen  him  on  a  day 
The  pride  of  a'  the  parishen. 


THE    PIPER. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Thebe  came  a  piper  out  o'  Fife^ 
I  watna  what  they  ca'd  him; 

He  play'd  ouy  cousin  Kate  a  spring 
When  fient  a  body  bade  him; 

And  aye  the  mair  he  hotcli'd  and  blew, 
The  mair  that  she  forbade  him. 


JENNY  M'CRAW. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Jenny  M'Craw,  she  has  ta'en  to  the 

heather,  .  [her  thither; 

Say,    was    it    the    Covenant    carried 

Jenny  M'Craw  to    the  mountains  is 

gane,  [a'  she  has  ta'en; 

^heir   leagues    and    their    covenants 

My  head  and  my  heart  now,  quo'  she, 

are  at  rest,  [best. 

And  as  for  the  lave,  let  the  deil  do  his 


THE  LAST.  BRAW  BRIDAL. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

The  last  braw  bridal  that  I  was  at, 

'Twas  on  a  Hallowmas  day. 
And  there  was  routh'  o'  drink  and  fun, 

And  mickle  mirth  and  play,      [sang. 
The  bells  they  rang,  and  the  carlines* 

And  the  dames  danced  in  the  ha'; 
The  bride  went  to  bed  wi'  the  silly 
bridegroom. 

In  the  midst  o'  her  kimmers*  a'. 


LINES    ON   A   MERRY 
PLOUGHMAN. 

As  I  was  a  wandering  ae  morning  in 

spring.  [sweetly  to  sing; 

I    heard    a    merry    ploughman    sae 


1  Plenty. 


'  Stole. 
-  Old  women. 


2  Women. 


270 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  as  lie  was  singin'  tUae  words  he 

did  say. 
There's  nae  life  like  the  ploughman's 

in  the  month  o'  sweet  May. 

The  laverock  in  the  morning  she'll  rise 
frae  her  nest,  [her  breast; 

And  mount  in  the  air  wi'  the  dew  on 

And  wi'  the  merry  ploughman  she'll 
whistle  arid  sing;  [back  again. 

And  at  night  she'll  return  to  her  nest 


THE  WINTER  OF  LIFE. 
Tune — "Gil  Morice." 
But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green. 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day; 
Through  gentle  showers  the  laughing 
flowers 
In  double  pride  were  gay: 
But  now  our  joys  are  fled 
On  winter  blasts  awa' ! 
Yet  maiden  May  in  rich  array, 
Again  shall  bring  then  a'. 

But  my  white  pow,'  nae  kindly  thowe,'^ 

Shall  mi^lt  the  snaws  of  age; 
My  trunk  of  eild,^  but^  buss  or  bield'' 

Sinks  in  Time's  wintry  rage. 
Oh  !  age  has  weary  days. 

And  nights  o'  sleepless  pain  ! 
Thou  golden  time  o'  youtlifu'  prime, 

Why  comest  thou  not  again  !       " 


I'LL  AYE  CA'  IN  BY  YON  TOWN. 

Tune — "  I'll  gae  nae  mair  to  yon  town." 
I'lI;  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  by  yon  garden  green,  again: 
I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  see  my  bonny  Jean  again. 

There's  nane  sail  ken,  there's  nane  sail 
guess. 

What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again; 
But  she,  my  fairest,  faithfu'  lass, 

And  stowlins'  we  sail  meet  again. 

She'll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree, 

When  trystin'-time  draws  near  again; 

And  when  her  lovely  form  I  see. 
Oh,  haith,  she's  doubly  dear  again  ! 


I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 
And  by  yon  garden  green,  again; 

I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town. 

And  see  my  bonny  Jean  again. ' '  ' 


1  Head:   '  Thaw.  '  Aged  trunk.   *  Without. 
'  Shelter. 

1  Secretly. 


THE  GOWDEN  LOCKS  OF  ANNA. 

Tune — "  Banks  of  Baana.''       •  -i,^ 

"A  Dumfries  maiden,"  says  Cunninghatm, 
"  with  a  light  foot  and  a  merry  eye,  was  the 
heorine  of  this  clever  song.  Bi)nu;  thougfei 
so  well  of  it  himself  that  he  recommenced 
it  to  Thomson;  but  the  lattpr — aWai^^  pfec- 
haps,  of  the  free  character  oT  her  of  the 
gowden  locks,  excluded  it,  though  pressed 
to  publish  it  by  the  poet.  Irritated,  p^u 
haps,  at  Thomson's  refusal,  he  wrote  the 
additional  stanza,  by  way  of  postscript;  in 
defiance  of  his  colder-blooded  critic."       l-<-J 

Yestbj;en  I  had  a  pint  o'  wing, 

A  place  where  body  saw  na; 
Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  o'  mine 

The  gowden  locks  of  Anna. 
The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness, 

Rejoicing  o'er  his  manna. 
Was  naething  to  my  hinny  bliss 

Upon  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  monarchs  tali  the  east  and  west, 

Frae  Indus  to  Savannah  1 
Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 

The  melting  form  of  Anna. 
There  I'll  despise  imperial  charms. 

An  empress  or  sultana. 
While  dying  raptures  in  her  arms 

I  give  and  take  with  Anna  ! 

Awa',thou  flaunting  god  o'  day  ! 

Awa',  thou  pale  Diana  ! 
Ilk  star  gae  hide  tliy  twinkling  ray, 

When  I'm  to  meet  my  Anna. 
Como,  in  thy  raven  plumage.  Night! 

Sun.  moon,  and  stars  withdrawn  a'; 
And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 

My  transports  wi'  my  Anna  ! 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  kirk  and  state  may  join,  and  tell 

To  do  such  things  I  maunna: 
The  kirk  and  state  may  gae  to  hell,  - 

And  I'll  gae  to  my  Anna.  '  , 

She  is  the  sunshine  o'  my  ee, — 

To  live  but'  her  I  canna; 
Had  I  on  earth  but  wishes  three,  '  '^^ 

The  first  should  be  my  Anna. 

I  Without.  ~' 


SONGS. 


271- 


HAD  I  THE  WYTE. 

Tune—"  Had  I  the  wyte  ?— sha  bade  me." 

Had  I  the  "wyte,"  had  I  the  wyte, 

Had  I  the  wyte  ? — she  bade  me; 
She  watch'd  nie-by  the  hie-gate  side. 

And  up  the  loan  she  shaw'd  me; 
And-  when  I  wadna  venture  in,' 

A' coward  loon  she  ca'd  me; 
Had  kirk  and  state  been  in  the  gate, 

-I  Kghted  when  she  bade  me. 

Sae  craftilie  shetoofkme  hen,- 

And  bade  me  makenae  clatter;  [man 
' '  For  our  ramgunsliocli,  glum^  guid- 

Is  o'er  ayont  the  water;" 
Whae'er  shall  say  I  w^anted  grace, 

Wlieu  I  did  kiss  aiid  dawt*  her, 
Let  him  be  planted  in  my  place. 

Syne  say  I  was  a  fautor. 

Could  I  for  shame,  could  I  for  shame. 

Could  I  for  shame  refused  her  ? 
And  wadna  manhood  been  to  blame 

Had  I  unkindly  used  her? 
He  claw'd  her  wi'  the  rippliu-kame. 

And  blae  and  bluidy  bruised  her; 
When  sic  a  husband  was  f  rae  hame. 

What  wife  but  wad  excused  her? 

I  dighted"  aye  her  eeu  sae  blue. 

And  bann'd  the  cruel  randy;' 
And  weel  I  wat  her  willing  mou' 

Was  e'en  like  sugar  candy. 
At  gloamin'-shot  it  was,  I  trow, 

I  lighted  on  the  Monday ; 
But  I  cam  through  the  Tysday's  dew. 

To  wanton  WUlie's  brandy. 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune — "  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

There  was  once  a  day— but  old  Time 

then  was  young —         [lier  line, 

That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of 

From  some  of  your  northern  deities 

sprung,  [donia's  divine  V) 

(Who  knows  not  that   brave  Cale- 

From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her 

domain,  [she  would: 

To  hunt,  or  to  pasture,  or  do  what 

Her  heavenly  relations  there  fixed  her 

reign.  [warrant  it  good. 

And  pledged  her  their  godheads  to 

•  Blame.  -  In.  '  Rugged,  «oarse.    *  Fondle. 
'Wiped.    « Scold. 


A  lambkin  In  peace,  but  a  lion  in  war. 
The  pride  of  hgr  kindred  the  heroine 
grew;  [swore. 

Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly 
"Who  e'er  shall  provoke  thee  th' 
encounter  shall  rue!" 
With  tillage  or  pasture    at  times  she 
would  sport,  [rustling  corn; 

To  feed  her  fair  flocks  by  her  green 
But  chiefly  the  woods  were  her  favour- 
ite resort,  [and  the  horn. 
Her  darling  amusement  the  hounds 

Long  quiet  she  reign'd;  till  thither- 
ward steers  [strand, 
A  flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adria's 
Repeated,   successive,  for  many  long 


They    darken'd  the   air,   and   they 

plunder'd  the  land: 

Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror 

their  cry,  [beside; 

They'd  conquer'd  and  ruin'd  a  world 

She  took  to  her  hills,  and  her  arrows 

let  fly—  [died. 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they 

The  fell  harpy-raven  took  wing  from 

the  north. 

The  scourge  of  the   seas,   and  the 

dread  of  the  shore! 

The    wild    Scandinavian  boar  issued 

forth  [in  gore; 

To  wanton  in  carnage,  and  wallow 

O'er  countries  and  kingdoms  their  fury 

prevail'd,  [could  repel ; 

No  arts  could  appease  them,  no  arms 

But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  as- 

sail'd,  [cartie  tell. 

As  Largs  well  can  witness,  and  Lon- 

The   Cameleon  -  savage  disturb'd    her 

repose,  [strife; 

With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion  and 

Provoked  beyond  bearing,  at  last  she 

arose,  [and  his  life: 

And  robb'd  him  at  once  of  his  hopes 

The  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

Oft     prowling,      ensanguined     the 

Tweed's  silver  flood:         [lance, 

But,  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian 

He  leam'd  to  fear  in  his  own  native 

wood. 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer'd, 

aind  free,  [shall  rua ; . 

Her  bright  course  of  glory  forever' 


273 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be; 
I'll  prove  it  from  Eaclid  as  clear  as 
the  sun: 

Rectangle-triangle,    the    figure    we'll 
choose, 
The    upright    is  Chance,   and  old 
Time  is  the  base; 
But  brave  Caledonia's  thehypothenuse: 
Then,  ergo,  she'll  match  them,  and 
match  them  always. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

Tune—''  It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king.'' 

It  vfas  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 
We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand; 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land,  my  dear, 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

Now  a'  is  done  that  men  can  do. 
And  a'  is  done  in  vain; 

My  love  and  native  land  farewell. 
For  I  maun  cross  the  main,  my  dear. 
For  I  maua  cross  the  main. 

He  turn'd  him  right  and  round  about. 

Upon  the  Irish  shore: 
And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake. 

With  adieu  for  evermore,  my  dear. 

With  adieu  for  evermore. 

The  sodger  frae  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main ; 
But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love. 

Never  to  meet  again,  my  dear. 

Never  to  meet  again. 

Wlien  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come. 
And  a'  folk  bound  to  sleep; 

I  think  on  him  that's  far  awa',  [dear, 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep,  my 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 


OH,  STEER  HER  UP. 

Tune — "  Oh,  steer  her  up  and  baud  her 
gaun." 

Oh,  steer'  her  up  and  hand  her  gaun — 
Her  mither's  at  the  mill,  jo; 

And  gin  she  winna  tak  a  man. 
E'en  let  her  tak  her  will,  jo: 


1  Stir. 


First  shore''  her  wi'  a  kindly  kiss, 
And  ca'  anither  gill,  jo;  '  :■  •'■■. 

And  gin  she  tak  the  thing  amiss,    ^  I' 
E'en  let  her  flyte'  her  fill,  jo. 

Oh,  steer  her  up,  and  be  na  blate,^ 

And  ^a  she  tak  it  ill,  jo. 
Then  lea'e  the  lassie  till  her  fate,    ; 

And  time  na  langer  spill,  jo: 
Ne'er  break  your  heart  for  ae  rebnte,'^ 

But  think  upon  it  still,  jo; 
That  gin  the  lassie  wiima  do't, 

Ye'U  fin'  anither  will,  jo. 


BONNY  PEG-A-RAMSAT. 
Tune — "Cauldis  the  e'enin'  blast." 
Catji-d  is  the  e'enin'  blast 
0'  Boreas  o'er  the  pool; 
And  dawin'  it  is  dreary 
When  bii-ks  are  bare  at  Yule. 

Oh,  cauld  blaws  the  e'enin'  blast 
When  bitter  bites  the  frost. 

And  in  the  mirk  and  dreary  drift 
The  hills  arid  glens  are  lost. 

Ne'er  sae  murky  blew  the  night 
That  drifted  o'er  the  hill. 

But  bonny  Peg-a-Ramsay 
Gat  grist  to  her  mill. 


HEE  BALOUl 
Tone— "The  Highland  Balou." 

Concerning  this  song, Cromek  says; — "The 
time  when  the  moss-troopers  and  ca^le- 
drivers  on  the  Borders  begarT  their  nigbtfy 
depredations  was  the  nrst  Michael|^as 
mobn.  Cattle-stealing  formerly  was  amere 
foraging  expedition ;  and  it  has  been  re- 
marked that  many  of  the  best  fainilies  in 
the  north  can  trace  their  descent  from'  the 
daring  sons  of  the  mountains.  The  pro^ce 
(by  way  of  dowry  to  a  lord's  daughter)  of  a 
Michaelmas  moon  is  proverbial ;  and  by  the 
aid  of  Lochiel's  lanthorn  (the  moon)  these 
exploits  were  the  most  desirable  things  im- 
agmable.  In  the  '  Hee  Balou'  we  see  one 
of  those  heroes  in  the  cradle." 

Hee  balou  !'  my  sweet  wee  Donald,  ; 
Picture  o'  the  great  Clanronald; 
Brawlie  kens  our  wanton  chief 
Wha  got  my  young  Highland  thi«f. 


"  ''"f''-      "  ?'^°''^-       *  Bashful.       6  Rebuke.' 
1  A  cradle-lullaby  phrase  used   by  nurses. 


SONGS. 


273 


Leezei  me  on  thy  bonny  craigie, 
An  thou  live,  thow'lt  steal  a  naigie: 
Travel     the    country    through     and 

through,  ■ 
And  bring  hame  a  Carlisle  cow. 

Through  the  Lavrlands,  o'er  the  Bor- 
der, 
,Weel,  my  baby,  may  thou  furder:" 
Herry'  the  louns  o'  the  laigh  countrie, 
Syne  to  the  Highlands,  hame  to  me. 


HERE'S  HIS  HEALTH  IN  WATER. 
Tune — "  The  Job  of  Tourneywork." 

Although  my  back  be  at  the  wa', 
And  though  he  be  the  fautor; 

Although  my  back  be  at  the  wa'. 
Yet,  here's  his  health  in  water ! 

Oh  !  wae  gae  by  his  wanton  sides, 

Sae  brawlie's  he  could  flatter; 
Till  forhis  sake  I'm  slighted  sair, 

And^dree'  the  kintra  clatter.'' 
But  though  my  back  be  at  the  wa'. 

And  though  he  be  the  fautor; 
But  though  my  back  be  at  the  wa'. 

Yet,  here's  his  health  in  water  ! 


AMANG  THE  TREES,  WHERE 
HUMMING  BEES. 

Tune — "  The  kin^  of  France,  he  rode  a  race." 
Amang  the    trees,     where  humming 
bees  [0, 

■   At  buds  and  flowers  were   hinging, 
>4uld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone. 
And  to  her  pipe  was  singing,  O; 
'Twas    pibroch,    sang,  strathspey,  or 
reels. 
She  dirl'd  them  afE  f u'  clearly,  O, 
When    there    cam  a  yell  o'   foreign 
squeels. 
That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,'0. 

Their  capon  craws,  and  quee^jha  ha's, 
They  madeonr  lugs'  grow  eerie,'  0; 

The  hungry  bike'' did  scrape  and  pike, ' 
Till  we  were  wae  and  weary,  O; 


^  Prosper.  '  Plunder. 

1  Bear.  =  Country  talk. 

-   ^  Topsy-turvey.  "  Ears.    *  Weary.  *  3and. 
0  Pick. 


But  a  royal  ghaist,"  wha  ance  was  cased 
A  prisoner  aughteen  year  awa', 

He  fired  a  fiddler  in  the  north 
That  dang  them  tapsalteerie,  O, 


CASSILLIS'  BANKS. 
Tune — Unknown. 
Now  bank  and  brae  are  claithed  in 
green, 
And  scatter'd  cowslips  sweetly  spring; 
By  Girvan's  fairy-haunted  stream 
The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing. 
To  Cassillis'  banks,  when  e'ening  fa's; 

There,  wi'  my  Mary,  let  me  flee, ' 
There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love. 
The  bonny  blink  o'  Mary's  ee! 

The  chield  wha  boasts  o'  warld's  Walth 

Is  aften  laird  o'  meikle  care; 
But  Mary,  she  is  a'  mine  ain — 

Ah!  Fortune  cauna  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  bonny  blink  o'  Mary's  fee! 


BANNOCKS  0'  BARLEY. 
Tune—"  The  Killogie." 
Bannocks  o'  bear-meal, 

Bannocks  o'  barley; " 
Here's  to  the  Highlandman's 

Bannocks  o'  barley! 
Wha  in  a  bmlzie,' 

Will  first  cry  a  parley  ? 
Never  the  lads  wi' 

The  bannocks  o'  barley! 

Bannocks  o'  bear-meal, 

Bannoclcs  o'  barley; 
Here's  to  the  Highlandman's 

Bannocks  o'  barley! 
Wlia,  in  his  wae-days, 

Were  loyal  to  Charlie  1 
Wha  but  the  lads  wi' 

The  bannocks  o'  barley  1 


SAE  FAR  AWA'. 

Tune — "  Dalkeith  Maiden  Bridge." 

Oh,  sad  and  heavy  should  I  part. 
But  for  her  sake  sae  far  awa'; 


«  Ghost, 


'  Broil. 


274 


BURNS'-^WORKS. 


-Unknowing  wliatmy  way  may  tliwart, 
My  native  land,  -sae  far  awa'.  ^ 

Thou  that  of  a'  things  Maker  ^t. 
That  form'd  this  fair  sae  far  awa', 

Gie  body.strength,  tlien  I'll  ne'er  start 
At  this,  my  way,  sae  far  awa'. 

How  true  is  love  to  pure  desert, 

So  love  to'  her  sae  far  awa' : 
And  noclit  can  heal  my  bosom's  smart 

While,  oh  !  she  is  sae  far  awa'. 
Nane  other  love,  nane  other  dart,      ■ 

I  feel  but  hers,  sae  far  awa'; 
But  fairer  never  touch'd  a  heart 

Than  hers,  the  fair,  sae  far  awa'. 


HER  FLOWING  LOCKS. 

Tune — Unknown. 

Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  wing, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosom  hing; 
How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling, 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her  ! 

Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi'  dew. 
Oh  what  a  feast  her  bonny  mou' ! 
Her  cheeks  a  mair  celestial  hue, 
A  cyimson  still  diviner. 


THE  HieHLAND  LADDIE. 

Tune—"  If  thou'lt  play  me  fair  play." 

The  bonniest  lad  that  e'er  I  saw. 

Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 
Wore  a  plaid,  and  was  fu'  braw. 

Bonny  Highland  laddie. 
On  his  head  a  bonnet  blue, 

Bonny  laddie.  Highland  laddie; 
His  royal  heart  was  firm  and  true, 

Boimy  Highland  laddie. 

Trumpets  sound,  and  cannons  roar. 

Bonny  lassie,  Lowland  lassie; 
And  a'  the  liills  wi'  echoes  roar, 

Bonnyliowland  lassie. 
Gloiy,  honour,  now  invite, 

Bonny  lassie,  Lowland  lassie. 
For  freedom  and  my  king  to  fight. 

Bonny  Lowland  lassie. 

The  sun  a  backward  course  shall  take, 
Bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie. 

Ere  aught  thy  manly  courage  shalre, 
Bonuy  Highland  laddie.     - ' 


Go  !  for  yoursel  procure  renown,  ;  :  yn 
Bonny  laddie.  Highland  laddie;    ; 

And  for  your  lawful  king  hi?  crpwBjH 
Bonny  Highland  Laddie. 


THE  LASS  THAT  MADE  THE  BED 

TO  ME.         _  ^ 

Tune — "The  lass  that  made  the  bed  tome." 

The  poet,  in  his  notes  to  the  Museitm^s&y^ 
regarding  this  song  : — " '  The  bonny  lass 
that  made  the  bed  to  jije*  was  composed  on 
an  amour  of  Charles  II.,  when  skullcing  ini 
the  north  about  Aberdeen,  in  the  time  of 
the  usurpation.  He  formed  une  petUe 
aj^aire  with  a  daughter  of  the  housed  of 
Port  Letham,  who  was  the  iass  that  made 
the  bed  to  him!"  -.  ,cr 

When    Januar'    wind    was    blawing 
cauld. 

As  to  the  north  I  took  my  way. 
The  mirksome'  night  did  me  enfauld, 

I  knew  na  where  to  lodge  till  day. 

By  my  good  luck  a  maid  I  met. 
Just  in  the  middle  o'  my  care; 

And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 
To  walk  into  a  chamber  fair. 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  maid. 
And  thank'd  her  for  her  courtesie; 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  Unto  this  maid. 
And  bade  her  make  a  bed  for  me. 

She  madethe  bed  baith  large  and  wide| 
Wi'  twa  white  hands  she  spread  it 
down. 
She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips, 
And-drank,  ' '  Young  man,  now  sleep 
yesoun'." 

She  snatch'd  the  candle  in  her  hand, 
And  f  rae  my  chamber  went  wi'  speed; 

But  I  call'd  her  quickly  back  again. 
To  lay  some  mair  below  my  head. 

A  cod  she  laid  below  my  head,. 

And  served  me  wi'  due  respect; 
And,  to  salute  her  wi'  a  kiss, 

I  put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

"  Hand  oif  your  hands,  young  man,l' 
she  says, 

"And  dinnasao  uncivil  be: 
Gif  ye  hae  ony  love  for  me. 

Oh,  wrangna  my  virgini'tie  !" 


'  Barksome. 


songs; 


S75 


Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gowd; 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie; 
Her  cheeks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 
iiJTwa  drifted  heaps  sae  fair  to  see; 
Her  limbs  the  polish'd  marble  stane, 
The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

I  kissed  her  owre  and  owre  again, 
And  aye  she  wist  na  what  to  say; 

I  laid'her  between  me  apd  the  wa' — 
The  lassie  thought  na  laiig  till  day. 

Upon  the  morrow,  -when  we  rose, 
.  Hihank'd  her  for  her  courtesie; 
But  aye  she  blush'd,  and  aye  she  sigli'd, 
And  said,  "Alas!  ye've  ruin'dme." 

I    clasp'd  her  waist,   and  Mss'd  her 
syne, 

Whjie  the  tear  stood  twinkling  in 
'  her  ee ; 

I  said,  "  My  lassie,  dinna  cry. 

For  ye  ayershall  mak  the  bed  tome." 

She  took  her  mither's  Holland  sheets. 
And  made  them  a'  in  sarks  to  me: 

Blithe  and  merry  may  she  be. 
The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

The  bonny  lass  made  the  bed  to  me. 
The  braw  lass  niade  the  bed  to  ine; 

I'll  ne'er  forget,  till  the  day  I  die, 
TJie  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me  ! 


THE  LASS  OF  ECCLEFECHAN. 

Tune — "  Jacky  Latin." 

Gat  ye  me,  oh^  gat  ye  mp. 

Oh,  gat  ye  ine  wi'  naething  ? 
Eoclc  arid  reel,  aridsplnnin'  wheel, 

A:mickle  quarter  basin. 
Bye  attour, '  my  gutcher''  has 

A  Iwighhouseand  a  Jaigh  ane,     ,      i 
A'  forbye  my  bonny  sel. 

The  toss  of  Ecclefechan.  ! 

Oh,  iaud   your  tongue   now,  Luckie' 
Laing,  ' 

Oh,  baud  your  tongue  and  jauner;' 
I  held  the  gate  till  you  I  met, 

Syne  I  began  to  wander; 

•1  Besides.      ^  Grandsire.       '  Complainihg. ' 


I  tint*-tny  whistle  and  my  sang, 
I  tint  my  peace  and  pleasure; 

But  your   green    graff'    now;   Luckie 
Laing, 
Wad  airt"  me  to  my  treasure. 


THE  COOPER  0'  CUDDIE.  • 
Tune—"  Bob  at  the  Bowster." 

The  cooper  o'  Cuddle  cam  liete  awa'; 

He  ca'd  the  girrs'  out  owre  us  a'— 
And  our  guidwife  has  gotten  a  ca' 

That  anger'd  the  silly  guidman,  O. 

We'll  hide  the  cooper  behind  the 

door, 
Behind  the  door,  behind  the  door. 
We'll  hide   the  coojjer  behind  the 

door,  [0. 

And  cover  him  under  a  mawn,'^ 

He  sought  them  out,  he  sought  theiji 

in, 
Wi',  Deil  hae  her!  and,  Deil  hae  him  ! 
But  the  body  he  was  sae  doited*  and 

biiu'. 
He  wistnst  where  he  was  gaun;  O.' 

They  cooper'd  at  e'en,  they  cooper'd  at 

morn. 
Till  our  guidman  has  gotten  the  scorn. 
On  ilka  brow  she's  planted  a  horn. 
And   swears   that  there  they  shall 

Stan',  O.  .    .    , 


THE    HIGHLAND.  WIDOW'S   LA- 
MENT. 

Oh  !  I  am  come  to  the  low  countrie 

Och-on,  och-on,  ocli-rie ! 
Without  a  penny  in  my  purse 

To  buy  a  meal  to  me.  ' 

It  wasna  sae  in  the  Highland  hills, 
Oeh-bn,  och-on,  och-rie  !  ' 

Nae  woman  in  the  country  wide 
Sae  happy  was  as  me.  > 

For  then  I  had  a  score  o'  kye, 

Och-on,  och-pn,  och-rie  ! 
Feeding  on  yon  hills  so  high. 

And  giving  milk  to  me. 


*  Lost. 


'  Hoops. 


'Grave. 
^  Basket. 


•  Direct 
'Stupid.  - 


S7ff 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  tliere  I  had  threescore  o'  yowes, 

Och-on,  ocli-ou,  ocli-rie  1 
Skipping  on  yon  bonny  knowes, 

And  casting  woo'  to  me. 

I  was  tlie  happiest  of  a'  the  clan, 

Sair,  sair  may  I  repine; 
For  Donald  was  the  hrawest  man, 

And  Donald  he  was  mine. 

Till  Cliarlie  Stuart  cam  at  last,  - 

■  Sae  far  to  set  us  free ; 
My  Donald's  arm  was  wanted. then 
For  Scotland  and  for  me. 

Their  waef a'  fate  what  need  I  tell  t 
■  Right  to  the  wrang  did  yield; 
My  Donald  and  his  country  fell 
Upon  CuUoden  field. 

bch-on,  O  Donald,  oh  ! 

Och-on,  och-on,  och-rie  ! 
Nae  woman  in  the  warld  wide 

Sae  wretched  now  as  me. 


THERE  WAS  A  BONNY  LASS. 

These  was  a  bonny  lass. 

And  a  bonny,  bonny  lass, 
And  she  lo'ed  her  bonny  laddie  dear; 

Till  war's  loud  alarms 

Tore  her  laddie  f  rae  her  arms, 
Wi'  mony  a  sigh  and  a  tear. 

Over  sea,  over  shore, 

Where  the  cannons  Joudly  roar. 
He  still  was  a  stranger  to  fear; 

And  noclit  could  him  quail. 

Or  his  bosom  assail, 
But  the  bonny  lass  he  lo'ed  sae  dear. 


OH    WAT  YE  WHAT  MY  MINNIE 
DID? 

Oh,  wat  ye  what  my  minnie  did. 

My  minnie  did,  my  minnie  did; 
Oh,  wat  ye  what  my  minnie  did. 

On  Tysday  'teen  to  me,  jo  ? 
She  laid  mo  in  a  saft  bed, 

A  saft  bed,  a  saft  bed. 
She  laid  me  in  a  saft  bed. 

And  bade  guid  e'en  to  me,  jo. 

And  Wat  ye  what  the  parson  did, 
The  parson  djd,  the  pargon  did. 


And  wat  ye  what  the  parson  did,  ,^  Y 

A' for  a  penny  fee,  jo  ? 
He  loosed  on  me  a  lang  man, 

A  mickle  man,  a  Strang  man, 
He  loosed  on  me  a  lang  man, 

That  might  hae  worried  me,  jo. 

And  I  was  but  a  young  thing,      ,  -  ,»;  . 

A  young  thing,  a  young  thing,   , 
And  I  was  but  a  young  thing, 

Wi'  nane  to  pity  me,  jo. 
I  wat  the  kirk  was  in  the  wyte,' 

In  the  wyte,  in  the  wyte. 
To  pit  a  young  thing  in  a  fright,,  _ 

Ajid  loose  a  man  on  me,  jo.        -' " 


OH,  GUID  ALE  COMES. 

CHORUS. 


T 


Oh,  gnid  ale  comes,  and  guid  ale  goes, 
Guid  ale  gars'  me  sell  my  hose. 
Sell  my  hose,  and  pawn  my  shoon, 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  Jbpart  aboon.     ,   '- 

I  had  sax  owsen  in  a  plengh, 
They  drew  a'  weeleneugh; 
I  sell'd  them  a'  just  ane  by  ane; 
Guid  ale  keeps  my  heart  aboon; 

Guid  ale  liaiids  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. 


COMING  THROUGH  THE  BRAES 
O'  CUPAR. 

DoNALB  Brodie  met  a  lass 

Coming  o'er  the  braes  o'  Cupar; 

Donald,  wi'  his  Highland  hand. 
Rifled  ilka  charm  about  her.        , 

CHORUS. 

Coming  o'er  the  braes  o'  Cupar, 
Coming  o'ertlie  braes  o'  Cupar, 
Highland  Donald  met  a  lass. 
And    row'd    his   Highland   plaid 
about  her. 


>  Makes. 


>  Blame. 
^  Romp. 


3  Wench* 


SONGS. 


■S77 


Weel  I  wat  she  was  a  quean,     ' 

Wad  made  a  body's  mouti  to  water; 

Our  Mess  John,  wi'  his  auld  gray  pow,' 
His  h&ly  lips  wad  licket  at  her. 

Off  she  started  in  a  friglit,       [bicker;'' 
And  through  the  braes  as  she  could 

But  souple  Donald  quicker  flew, 
And  in  his  arms  be  lock'd  her  sicker.' 


QUID  E'EN  TO  TOU,  KIMMEK. 

Tune — "'  We're  a*  noddin." 

Gdid  e'en  to  you,  kimmer,' 

And  how  do  ye  do? 
Hiccup,'  quo'  kimmer. 

The  better  that  I'^n  fou.  [din. 

We're  a'  noddin,  nid,  nid,  nod- 
We're  a'  noddin  at  our  house  at 
hame. 

Kate  sits  i'  the  neuk,* 

Suppin';heu  broo;'' 
Deil  tak  Kate, 

Au  she  be  n"a  noddin  tool 

,  How's  a'  wi"  you,  kimmer, 

And  how  do  ye  fare  ? 
A.  pint  o'  the  best  o't,  ' 
And  twa  pints  mair. 

How's  a'  wi'  yon,  kimmer. 

And  how  do  ye  thrive  ? 
How  mony  bairns  hae  ye? 

Quo'  kimmer,  I  has  iive. 

Are  they  a'  Johnny's  ? 

Eh!  at  weel,  na: 
Twa  o'  them  were  gotten 

When  Johnny  was  awa'. 


Cats  like  milk. 

And  dogs  like  broo, 

L^ds  like  lasses 

weel, 

And  lasses  lads  too. 

[din. 

We're  a' 

noddin. 

nid.  nid. 

nod- 

We're  a' 

noddin  at  our  house  at 

hame. 

I  Head. 

2  Run. 

£ 

Sure. 

»  Lass. 

^  Corner. 

'  Broth. 

MEG  O'THE  MILL. 
Tune — "  Jackie  Hume's  Lament." 

This  second  version  of"  Meff  o'  the  Mill,"  (p. 
253.)  prepared  by  the  poet  for  the  Museum^ 
was  founded  on. an  old  ditty, -which  he  al- 
tered and  amended. 

Oh,  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  bus 
gotten,    ■  [gotten  ? 

And  ken  ye  wliat  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has 

A  braw  new  naig'  wi'  the  tail  o'  a  rot- 
tan,  [gotten ! 

And  that's  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has 

Oh,  ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  lo'es 
dearly?  [dearly? 

And  ken  ye  what  Mfeg  o'  the  Mill  lo'es 

A  dram  o'  guid  striint'^  in  a  morning 
early,  [dearly. 

And  that's  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  lo'es 

Oh,  ken  ye  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was 
married,     -  [married  ? 

And  ken  ye  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was 

The  priest  he  was  oxjer'd,  the  clerk  he 
was  carried,  [married. 

And  that's  '  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  wag 

Oh,  ken  ye  bow  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was' 
bedded,  .....  [bedded? 

And  ken  ye  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was 

The  groom  gat  sae  fou,' he  felltwa- 
fauld  .beside  it,  [bedded. 

And  that's  how  Meg  o'  the  Mill  was 


YOUNG  JAMIE  PRIDE  OP  A'  THE 
PLAIN. 

Tune—"  The  Carlin  o'  the  Glen." 

YOTJNG  Jamie,  pride  of  a'  the  plain, 
Sae  gallant  and  sae  gay  a  swain; 
Through  a'  our  lasses  he  did  rove. 
And  reign'd  resistless  king  of  love: 
But  now,  wi'  sighs  and  starting  tears. 
He  strays  among  the  woods  and  briers; 
Or  in  the  glens  and  rocky  caves, 
His  sad  complaining  dowie'  raves:        , 

' '  I  wha  sae  late  did  range  and  rove, 
And  changed  with  every  moon  ray  love, 
I  little  thought  the  time  was  near  • 

Repentance  I  should  buy  sae  dear: 

> 

»  A  riding-horse.  ■  ^  Whisky.    ^  Drunk. 
'  Sadly. 


srs' 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


The  slighted  maids  my  torments  see, 
And  laugh  at  a'  the  ^angs  I  dree;' 
While  she,  my  cruel,  scornfu'  fair, 
Forhids  me  e'er  to  see  her  mair  1" 


COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

Tune — "  Coming  through  the  rye.'' 

Coming  through  the  rye,  poor  body. 

Coming  through  the  rye. 
She  draiglet'  a'  her  petticoatie. 

Coming  through  the  rye. 

O  Jenny's  a'  wat,  poor  body, 
Jenny's  seldom  dry; 

She  draiglet  a'  her  petticoatie. 
Coming  through  the  rye. 

Gin'  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coming  throiigh  the  rye; 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body — 
Need  a  body  cry  ? 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coming  through  the  glen; 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body — 
Need  the  warld  ken  ? 


THE  CARLES  OF  DYSART. 
Tune — "  Hey,  ca'  through." 

Up  wi'  the  carles'  o'  Dysart 
And  the  lads  o'  Buckhaven, 

And  the  kimmers'  o'  Largo, 
And  the  lasses  o'  Leven. 

Hey,  ca'  through,  ca''  through. 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado; 

Hey,  ca'  through,  ca'  through. 
For  we  hae  mickle  ado. 

We  hae  tales  to  tell. 
And  we  hae  sangs  to  sing; 

We  hae  pennies  to  spend, 
And  we  hae  pints  to  bring. 

We'll  live  a'  our  days. 
And  them  that  come  behin', 

Let  them  do  the  like, 
And  spend  the  gear  they  win. 

*  Suffer. 

'  Soiled,  bespattered.  ^li. 

J  Men.      2  Women.      =  Push. 


IS' THERE,  FOR  HONEST      •' 

POVERTY. 
Tune — "  For  a'  that  and  a'  that.'' 

Of  the  following  song — one  of  the  most  sja-ik- 
ing  and  characteristic  effusions  of  his  Muse 
— ^he  says,  evidently  in  a  strain  of  affected  , 
depreciation  : — "  A  great  critic  on     songs 

■  says  that  love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive 
themes  for  son^-writing.  The  following  is 
on  neither  subject,  and  is  consequently  no 
song ;  but  will  be  allowed,  I  think,  to  be 
two  or  three  pretty  good  prose  thoughts,  ^ 
inverted  into  rhyme.'  '-** 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,'  and  a'  that; 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that;        , 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea-stamp. 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  onhamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hodden  gray  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their 
wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that  1 
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; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that; 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that  ! 

A  king  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboou  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  maunna'  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  ranks  tlmn  a'  that. 


1  Fool.  2  "  He  maunna  fa'  that"— he  must 
not  try  that. 

*  Primarily,  the  word  signifies  a  livelR 
mettlesome  young  fellow  ;  but  here  the  poet'j 
meaning  wouki  be  better  rendered  by  the 
words— a  proud,  affected  person. 


SONGS 


279 


Then  let  us  pray  tliat  come  it  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree;  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that; 

It's  Cpmin'  yet  for  a'  that, 
Tliaf  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 


O  LASSIE,  ART  THOU  SLEEPING 
YET? 
■  Tune — "Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 
0  LASSIE,  art  thou  sleeping  yet, 
Or  art  thon  waking,  I  would  wit? 
For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 
And  I  Would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

Oh,  let  me  In  this  ae  night, 

"This  ae,  ae,  ae  night. 
Far  pity's  sake  this  ae  night, 

Oh,  rise  and  let  me  in,  jo! 

Thou  hear?Bt  the  winter  wind  and  weet, 
Nae  star  blinks  through  the  driving 

sleet: 
Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet. 
And  shield  me  f  rae  the  rain,  jo. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blaws. 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa's: 
The  caulduess  o'  thy  heart's  the  cause 
Of  a'  my  grief  and  pain,  jo. 

HEE  ANSWER. 

Oh,  tellna  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 
Upbraid  na  me  wi'  cauld  disdain! 
Gae  back  the  gate  ye  cam  again, 
I  winna  let  ye  in,  jo. 

I  tell  you  now  this  ae  night. 

This  ae,  ae,  ae  night; 
And  ance  for  a',  this  ae  night, 

I  winna  let  you  in,  jo. 

The  snellest,'  blast  at  rairkest  hours. 
That    round    the    pathless    wanderer 

pours. 
Is  nocht  to  what  poor  she  endures 
That's  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 

The  sweetest  flower  that  deck'd  the 

mead. 
Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed; 

'■  Sharpest. 


Let  simple  maid  tlie  lesson  read. 
The  weird  may  be  her  ain,  jo. 

The   bird   that  charm'd  his  summer 

day 
Is  now  the  cruel  fowler's  prey; 
Let  witless,  trusting  woman  say 
How  aft  her  fate's  the  same,  jo. 


THE  HERON  ELECTION  BAL- 
LADS. 

BAT,LAD  r. 

Whom  will  you  send  to  London  town, 

To  Parliament,  and  a'  thait-? 
Or  wha  in  a'  the  country  round 
The  best  deserves  to  fa'  that? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Through  Galloway  and  a'  that; 
Where  is  the  laird  or  belted  knight 
That  best  deserves  to  fa'  that  ? 

Wha  sees  Kerroughtree's  open  yett,' 

And  wha  is't  never  saw  that  ? 
Wha  ever  wi'  Kerroughtree  met^ 
And  has  a  doubt  of  a'  that  ? 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that! 
The  independent  patriot. 
The  honest  man,  and  a'  that. 

Though  wit  and  worth  in  either  sex, 

St.  Mary's  Isle  can  shaw  that; 
Wi'  dukes  and  lojds  let  Selkirk  mix. 
And  weel  does  Selkirk  fa'  that. 
For  a' that,  and  a'  that! 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that! 
The  independent  commoner 
Shall  be  the  man  for  a'  that. 

But  why  should  we  to  nobles  jouk  ?* 

And  it's  against  the  law  that; 
For  why,  a  lord  may  be  a  gouk' 
Wi'  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that,  - 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  that ! 
A  lord  may  be  a  lousy  loun 
Wi'  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that. 

A  beardless  boy  comes  o'er  the  hills 
Wi'  uncle's  purse  and  a'  that; 

But  we'll  hae  ane  frae  'mang  oursels, 
A  man  we  ken,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 


I  Gate.    2  Bend.     '  Fool, 


BUENS'  WORKS. 


Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  tlxat! 
For  we're  not  to  be  bought  and 

sold 
Like  naigs,  and  nowt,'  and  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  di-iuli  the  Stewartry, 

Kerrxjughtree's  laird,  and  a'  that, 
Our  representative  to  be. 
For  weel  he's  worthy  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 
Here's  Heron  yet  for  a'  thatl 
A  House  of  Commons  such  as  he. 
They  would  be  blest  that  saw  that. 


BALLAD  II. 
Tune — "  Fy,  let  us  a'  to  the  bridal." 

Fy,  let  us  a'  to  Kirkcudbright, 
For  there  will  be  bickering  there; 

For  Murray's  light  horse  are  to  muster. 
And  oh,  how  the  heroes  will  swear  ! 

And  there  will  be  Murray,'  comman- 
der. 
And  Gordon,'  the  battle  to  win; 
Like  brothers  they'll  stand  by  each 
other, 
Sae  knit  in  alliance  and  kin. 

And  there  will  be  black-nebbit  John- 
nie,' 

The  tongue  o'  the  trump  to  thorn  a'; 
An  he  gets  na  hell  for  his  haddin' 

I'he  deil  gets  na  justice  ava' ; 

And  there  will  be  Kempleton's  birlde,'' 
A  boy  na  sae  blaclc  at  the  bane, 

But,  as  for  his  fine  nabob  fortune, 
We'll  e'en  let  the  subject  alanc. 

And  there  will  be  Wigton's  new  sher- 
ifE,» 
t)ame  Justice  fu'  brawlie  has  sped. 
She's  gotten  the  heai-t  of  a  Bushby, 
But,   Lord  !  what's  become  o'  the 
head  ? 


<  Cattle. 

1  Murray  of  Broughton. 

^  Gordon  of  Balmaghie. 

s  Mr.  John  Bushby,  a  sharp-witted  lawyer, 
for  -whom  the  poet  had  no  little  aversion. 

^  William  Bushby  of  Kempleton,,  brother 
of  the  above,  who  had  made  a  fortune  in  In- 
dia, but  which  was  popularly  thought  to  have 
originated  m  some  questionable  transactions 
.connected  with  the  ruinous  affair  of  the  Ayr 
Bank  before  he  went  abroad. 
'  ^  Mr.  Bushby  Maitland,  son  of  John,  and 
recently  appointed  Sheriff  of  Wigtonshire. 


And  there  will  be  Cardoness,*  Esqnire, 
Sae  mighty  in  Cardoness'   eyes, 

A  wight  that  will  weather  damnation, 
For  the  devil  the  prey  will  despise. 

And  there  will  be  Kenmnre,'  sae  gen- 
erous ! 

Whose  honour  is  proof  to  the  storm; 
To  save  them  from  stark  reprobation. 

He  lent  them  his  name  to  the  firm. 

But  we  winna  mention  Redcastle,*, ,,  ^ 
The  body,  e'en  let  him  escape  ! 

He'd  venture  the  gallows  for  siller. 
An  'twere  na  the  cost  o'  the  rape. 

And  where  is  our  king's  lord-lieuten- 
ant, h 

Sae  famed  for  his  gratefu'  retu.m'? 
The  billieis  getting  his  questions^ ;,.» 

To  say  in  St.  Stephen's  the  mom. 

And  there  will  be  Douglases'  dou^i^, 
New-christenii^      towns    far    and 
near; 

Abjuring  their  democrat  doings,   ■.'-: 
By  kissing  the of  a  peer. 

And  there  will  be  lads  o'  the  gospel, 
Muirhead,'"  wha's  as  goo^  as  he's 
true; 
And  there  will  be  Buittle's  apostle," 
Wha's  mair  o'  the  black  than  the 
blue; 

And  there  will  be  folk  frae  St.Mary's, 

A  house  o'  great  merit  and  note, 
The  deil  aue  but  honours  them  high- 

ly,- 

The  deil  ane  will  gie  them  his  vote ! 

And  there  will  be  wealthy  young 
Richard,'^  [neck; 

Dame  Fortune  should  hing  by  the 
For  prodigal,  thriftless,  bestowing. 

His  merit  had  won  him  respect. 

And  there  will  be  rich  brother  nabobs. 
Though  nabobs,  yet  men  of  the  first," 


"  David  Maxwell  of  Cardoness. 
'  Mr.  Gordon^  Kenmure. 
8  Mr.  LawrieiSf  Redcastle. 
»  Messrs.  Douglas  of  Carlinwark  gave  the 
name  of  Castle '  Douglas  to  a  village  which 
rose  in  their  neighbourhood — now  a  populous 
town.  .--•.-  . 

'°  Rev.  Mr.  Muirhead,  minister  of  Urf. 
"Rev.  George  Maxwell,  minister  of  Buit- 
tle.  ,       :, 

^'^  Richard  Oswald  of  Auchincruivc 
^^  The  Messrs.  Hannay. 


SONOS. 


sai 


And  tliere  will  be  ColUeston's"  wliiak- 
ers. 
And  Quintin,"'  o'  lads  not  the  warst. 

And  there  will  be  stamp-office  John- 
'  me," 

Tak  tent  liow  ye  purchase  a  dram ; 
And  there  will  be  gay  Cassencarrie, 
.      And    there    will    be    gleg    Colonel 
Tam;" 

And  there  will   be  trusty  Kerrough- 
tree,'* 

Wliase  honour  was  ever  his  law, 
If  the  virtues  were  pack'd  iu  a  parcel, 

_His  worth  might  be     sample  for  a'. 

And  strong  and  respectf  u's  his  backing, 
The  maist  o'  the  lairds  wi'  him  stand, 

Nae  gipsy-like  nominal  barons, 
Wliase  property's  paper,  but  lands. 

And  can  we  forget  the  auld  Major," 
'    Wha'll  ne'er  be  forgot  in  the  Greys, 
Our  flattery  we'll  keep  for  some  ither. 
Him  only  it's  justice  to  praise. 

And  there  will  be  maiden  Kilkerran,'''' 
And  also  Barkskimming's  guid 
knight,si 

And  there  will  be  roaring  Birtwhistle,''- 
Wha  luckily  roars  in  the  right. 

•And  there,  f rae  the  Niddisdale  border. 
Will  mingle  the  Maxwells  iu  droves ; 
Teiigh    Johnnie,?'    stanch     Geordie,-'' 
and  Walie,»5 

That  griens  for  the  fishes  and  loaves. 

And  there  will  be  Logan  M'Dowall,'* 
Sculduddery  and  he  will  be  there; 

And  also  the  wild  Scot  o'  Galloway, 
Sodgering,  gunpowder  Blair." 


^*  Mr.  Copland  of  ColUeston. 

'5  Qiiintin  M'Adam  of  Craigengillan. 
-  ^*_-Mr.  John  Syme,  distributor  of   stamps, 
Dumfries. 

^^  Colonel  Goldie  of  Goldielea. 
^  "*  Mr.  Heron  of  Kerroughtree,  the  Whig 
candidate. 

*"  Major  Heron,  brother  of  the  above, 

*>  Sir  Adam  Ferguson  of  Kilkerran.  - 

^'  Sir  William  Miller  of  Barkskimminff,  af- 
terwards a  judge,  with  the  title  of  Lord  Glen- 
.lee.  ■    . 

--  Mr.  Birtwhistle  of  Kirkcudbright. 

''  Mr.  Maxwell  of  Terraughty. 

24  Georee'  Maxwell  of  Carruchan. 

"s  Mr.  Wellwood  Maxwell. 

2<*  Captain. M'Dowall  of  Logan. 

i""Mr.  Blair  of  Dunsky.  - 


Then  hey  the  chaste  interest  o'  Brough- 
ton,  [bring  I 

And  hey    for    the    blessings   'twill 
It  may  send  Balmaghie  to  tlie  Com- 
mons, 
In  Sodom  'twould  make  him  a  king; 

And  hey  for  the  sanctified  Murray,^* 
Our  land  wha  wi'  chapels  has  stored; 

He  founder'd  his  horse  amang  harlots, 
But  gied  the  auld  niig  to  the  Lord. 


JOHN  BUSHBY'S  LAMENTATION. 

BALLAD  III. 

'TWAS  in  the  seventeen  hundred  year. 

O'  Christ,  and  ninety-five. 
That  year  I  was  the  wae'st  man 

0'  ony  man  alive. 

In  March,  the  three-and-twentieth  day, 
The  sun  raise  clear  and  bright; 

But  oh,  I  was  a  waefu'  man 
Ere  to-fa'  o'  the  night. 

Yerl  Galloway  lang  did  rule  this  land 

Wi'  equal  right  and  fairie. 
And  thereto  was  his  kinsman  jain'dy 

The  Murray's  noble  name! 

Yerl  Galloway  lang  did  rule  the  land. 
Made  me  the  judge  o'  strife; 

But    now   Yerl    Galloway's    sceptre's 
broke,  ,  . 

And  eke  my  hangman's  knife. 

'Twas  by  the  hanks  o'  bonny  Dee, 
Beside  Kirkcudbright  towers 

The  Stewart  and  the  Murray  there 
Did  muster  a'  their  powers. 

The  Murray,  on  the  auld  gray  yaud,' 

Wi'  winged  spurs  did,ride. 
That  auld  gray  yaud,  yea,  Nid'sdale 
rade. 

He  staw-  upon  Nidside. 

And  there  had  been  the  yerl  himsel. 
Oh,  there  had  been  nae  play; 

But  Garlies  was  to  London  gane. 
And-  sae  the  kye  might  stray. 


''  Mr.  MulTay  of  BroUghton,  who  had  aban- 
doned his  wife,  and  eloped  with  a  lady  of 
rank. 


1  Mare, 


2  Stole. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  there  was  Balmaghie,  I  ween, 
In  the  front  rank  he  wad  shine; 

But  Balmaghie  had  better  been 
Drinliing  Madeira  wine. 

Fraethe  Glenkens  came  to  oiir  aid 

A  chief  o'  doughty  deed; 
In  case  that  worth  should  wanted  be, 

O'  Kenmure  we  had  need. 

And    there,    sae    grave.    Squire  Car- 
doness 

Look'd  on  till  a'  was  done; 
Sae  in  the  tower  o'  Cardoness, 

A  liowlet  sits  at  noon. 

And  there  led  I  the  Bushbys  a'; 

-My  gamesome  Billy  Will, 
And  my  sjn  Maitland,  wise  as  brave. 

My  footsteps  foUow'd  still. 

The  Douglas  and  the  Heron's  name. 
We  set  nought  to  their  score; 

The'  Douglas  and  the  Heron's  name 
Had  fd[t  our  weight  before. 

But  Douglases  o'  weight  had  we, 

A  pair  o'  trusty  lairds, 
For  building  cot-houses  sae  famed. 

And  chiistening  kail-yards. 

And  by  our  banners  march'd  Muirhead, 

And  Buittle  wasna  slack ; 
Whose  haly  priesthood  nane  can  stain. 

For  wha  can  dve  the  black  ? 


THE    DUMFRIES    VOLUNTEERS. 

"Tune — "  Push  about  the  jorum.'' 

Burns  having  joined  the  Dumfries  Volunteers 
when  they  were  formed  early  in  1795,  sig- 
nalised that  patriotic  event  by  the  composi- 
tion of  the  following  ballad,  which  after- 
wards became  very  popular  throughout  the 
district. 

Does  haughty  Gaul  invasion  threat? 

Then  let  the  louns  beware.sir; 
There's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas. 

And  volunteers  on  shore,  sir. 
The  Nith  shall  rin  to  Corsincon, 

The  CrifEel  sink  in  Solway, 
Ere  we  permit  a  foreign  foe 

On  British  ground  to  rally  ! 

We'll  ne'er  permit  a  foreign  foe 
On  British  ground  1,0  rally. 


Oh,  let  us  not,  like  snarling  curs,     ''J 

In  wrangling  be  divided;  '  ii' 

Till,  slap  !  come  in  an  unco  loun. 

And  wi'  a  rung'  decide  it. 
Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true,        '' 

Amang  oursels  united;  '    ■' 

For  never  but  by  British  hands      '^  •- 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted  i-  -1 
For  never,  iStc'V. '.'' ' ' 

The  kettle  o'  the  kirk  and  state,     ; 

Perhaps  a  clout  may  fail  in't,- 
But  deil  a  foreign  tinkler  loun 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in't. 
Our  father's  bluid  the  kettle  bought. 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it  ?  ' 
By  heavens  !  the  sacrilegious  dog 

Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it,! 

By  heavens,  &c. ,,|r-_ 

The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own/  ' 
And    the     wretch,    his    true-sworn 
brother,  [throne, 

Wha  would  set  the  inob  aboon  the 

May  they  be  damn'd  together  ! 
Wha  will  not    sing   ' '  God  save  the 
King" 
Shall  hang  as  high's  the  steeple; 
But  while  we  sing  "God  save  the 

King," 
We'll  ne'er  forget  the  People. 

But  while  we  sing,  &c. 


OH,  WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON 

TOWN? 

Tune — "  I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  town." 

Now  haply  down  yon  gay  green  shaw 
She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree; 

How  blest  ye  flowers  that  round  her 
blaw. 
Ye  catcli  the  glances  o'  her  ee  !      ' 

CHOKUS. 

Oh,  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town,  ■^'  • 
Ye  see  the  e'enin'  sun  upon  ? 

The  fairest  dame's  in  yon  town. 
That  e'enin'  sun  is  fining'  on. 

How  blest  ye  birds  that  round  her 
sing. 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year! ' 


'  Cudgel. 


SONGS. 


And  doubly  welcome  be  tbe  spring. 
The  season  to  my  Lucy  dear. 

The  sun  blmlcs  blitlie  on  ypn  town. 
And  on  yon  bonny  braes  of  Ayr; 

But  my  delight  in,  yon  town, 
And  dearest  bliss  is  Lucy  fair. 

Without  my  love,  not  af  the  charms 
O'  Paradise  could  yield  me  joy; 

But  gie  me  Lucy  in  my  arms, 

And  welcome  Lapland's  dreary  sky! 

My  cave  wad  be  a  lover's  bower, 
Though  raging  winter  rent  the  air; 

And  slie  a  lovely  little  flower. 

That  I  wad  tent  and  shelter  there.    , 

Oh,  sweet  is  she  in  yon  town 

The  sinking  sun's  gane  down  upon; 

A  fairer  than's  m  yon  town 

His  setting  beam  ne'er  shone  upon. 

If  angry  fete  is  sworn  my  foe, 
And  suffering  I  am  doom'd  to  bear, 

I  paf eless  quit  aught  else  below, 
But    spare    me  —  spare  me,   Lucy, 
dear ! 

For  while  life's  dearest  blood  is  warm 
Ae  thought  f  rae  her  shall  ne'er  de- 
part. 

And  she — as  fairest  is  her  form ! 
She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart! 

;  Oh,  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon  town. 
Ye  see  the  e'enin'  sun  upon ! 
The  fairest  dame's  in  yon  town 
That  e'enin'  sun  is  shining  on. 


ADDRESS  TO   THE   WOODLARK. 


TUNE- 


'  Where'U  bonny  Ann  lie :" 
"  Loch-Eroch  Side." 


On,  stay,  sweet  warbling   woodlark, 

stay, 
Noi;  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray; 
A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay. 
Thy  soothing,  fond  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part. 
That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art; 
For.  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart 
Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 


Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind? 
Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 
Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care, 
O'  speechless  grief  and  dark  despair: 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair! 
Or  my  poor  heart  is -broken! 


ON  CHLORIS   BEING  ILL. 

Tune—"  Aye  wakin',  O." 
Can  I  cease  to  care  ? 

Can  I  cease  to  languish. 
While  my  darling  fair 

Is  on  the  couch  of  anguish  ? 

Long,  long  the  night, 
;        Heavy  comes  the  morrow. 
While  my  soul's  delight 
Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 

Every  hope  is  fled, 

Every  fear  is  terror; 
Slumber  even  I  dread. 

Every  dream  is  horror. 

Hear  me.  Powers  divine  ! 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  me  ! 
Take  aught  else  of  mine. 

But  my  Chloris  spare  me ! 


FORLORN,  MY  LOVE,  NO  COM- 
FORT  NEAR. 
Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 
FOBLOBN,  my  love,  no  comfort  near. 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I  wander  here; 
Far,  far  from  thee,  the  fate  severe 
At'which  I  most  repine,  love. 

Oh,  wert  thou,  love,  but  near  me; 
But  near,  near,  near  me  ; 
How  kindly  thou  wouldst  cheer  me, , 
And   mingle    sighs    with   mine, 
love  ! 

Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky, 
That  blasts  each  bud  of  hope  and  joy ; 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 
Save  in  those  arms  of  thine,  love. 

Cold,,  alter'd  Friendship's  cruel  part. 
To  poison  Fortune's  ruthJesSidart — 


884 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Let  me  not  break  thy  faithful  heart. 
And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

Blit  dreary  though  the  moments  fleet. 
Oh,  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet  I 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chloris  shine,  love. 


FRAGMENT— CHLORIS. 

m    Tune — '*  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 
Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ! 
Why,  why  undeceive  him. 

Aid  give  all  his  hopes  the  lie  ? 

Oh  why,  while  Fancy,  raptured,  slum- 
bers, ' 

Chloris,  Chloris  all  the  theme  ; 
Why,  why  wouldst  thou,  cruel, 

Walte  thy  lover  from  his  dream  ? 


MARK  YONDER  POMP. 

Tu.NE-"  Deil  tak  the  Wars." 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion. 
Round  the  wealtliy,  titled  bride: 

But  when  compared  with  real  passion. 
Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 
What  are  the  showy  treasures  ? 
What  are  the  noisy  pleasures  t 

The  gay  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art: 
The  polish'd  jewel's  blaze 
May  draw  the  wondering  gaze, 
And  courtly  grandeur  bright 
The  fancy  may  delight.        [lieart. 

But  never,  never  can  come  near  the 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris 

In  simplicity's  array,  [is, 

Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower 
Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day; 
Oh  then,  the  heart  alarming. 
And  all  resistless  charming, 
In  Love's  delightful  fetters  she  chains 
the  willing  soul  ! 
Ambition  would  disown 
The  world's  imperial  crown, 
Even  Avarice  would  deny 
His  worshipp'd  deity. 
And  feel  through  every  vein  Love's 
raptures  roll. 


OH,  BONNY  WAS  YON  ROSY 
BRIER. 

Oh,  bonny  was  yon  rosy  brier,     [man; 

'That  blooms  sae  far  frae  haunt  o' 
And  bonny  she,  and  ah,  how  dear  ! 

It  shaded  frae  the  e'euin'  sun. 

Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew. 

How  pure  amang    the    leaves    sae 
green ; 
But  purer  was  the  lover's  vow   [treen. 

They  witness'd  in  their  shade  yes- 
All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower. 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and 
fair ! 
But  love  is  far  a  sweeter  flower 

Amid  life's  thorny  path  o'  care. 

The  pathless  wild  and  wimpling  burn, 
Wi'  Chloris  in  my  9,rms,  be  mine; 

And  I  the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn. 
Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune—"  Humours  of  Glen." 
"The  heroine  of  this  song,"  says  Cunning- 
ham, "was  Mrs.  Burns,  who  so  charmed 
the  poet  by  singing  it  with  taste  and  feel- 
ing, that  he  declared  it  to  be  one  of  his 
luckiest  lyrics." 

Theib    groves    o'    sweet    myrtle    let 

foreign  lands  reckon. 

Where     brig-ht-beaming     summers 

exalt  their  perfume;    [breckan,' 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green 

Wi'  the  bum  stealing  under  the  lang 

yellow  broom: 

Far  dearer  tome  are  yon  humble  broom 

bowers,  [lowly  unseen; 

Where  the  blue-bell  and  gowan  lurk 

For  there,  lightly  tripping  amang  the 

wild  flowers,  [my  Jean. 

A-listening  the  linnet,   aft  wanders 

Though  rich  Is  the  breeze  in  their  gay 

sunny  valleys,  [wave; 

And  cauld  Caledonia's  blast  on  the 

Their   sweet-scented   woodlands   that 

skirt  the  proud  palace. 

What  are  they  ?— The  haunt  o'  the 

tyrant  and  slave! 


'  Fern. 


SONGS. 


285 


The   slave's  spicy  forests,   and  gold- 
bubbling  fountains,  [dalu; 
The  brave  Caledonian  views  wi'  dis- 
He  wanders  as  free  as  the  winds  of  his 
mountains. 
Save    Love's    willing    fetters  —  the 
chains  o'  his  Jean. 


'TWAS  NA  HEH  BONNY  BLUE  EE. 

Tune — "  Laddie,  lie  near  me." 
'TwAS  na  her  bonny  blue  ee  was  my 

ruin;  [undoing: 

Fair  though  she  be,  tha1,was  ne'er  ray 
'Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody 

did  mind  us, 
'Twas  the  bewitching,   sweet,  stown 

glance  o'  kindness. 

Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 
Sair  do  1  fear  that  despair  maun  abide 
me!  [to  sever. 

But  though  fell  Fortune  should  fate  us 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for- 
ever. 
Mary,  I'm  thine  wi'  a  passion  sincerest. 
And  thou  hast  plighted  me  love  o'  the 
dearest!  [alter — 

And  thou'rt  the  angel  that  never  can 
Sooner  the  sun  in  his  motion  would 
falter 


HOW  CRUEL  ARE  THE 
PARENTS! 

ALTEKED  FKO.M    AN   OLD  ENGLISH 
SONG. 
Tune — "  John  Anderson,  my  Jo." 
How  cruel  are  the  parents 

Who  riches  only  prize. 
And  to  the  wealthy  booby 
'  Poor  woman  sacrifice  I 
Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 

Has  but  a  choice  of  strife — 
To  shun  a  tyrant  father's  hate. 
Become  a  wretched  wife. 

The  ravening  hawk  pursuing. 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flies, 
•  To  shun  impelling  ruin 

A  while  her  pinion  tries; 
Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retreat. 
She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer. 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet! 


LAST  MAY  A  BRAW  WOOER. 

Tune—"  The  Lothian  Lassie." 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the 

lang  glen,  [me; 

And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave 

I  said  there  was  naething  I  hated  like 

men,  [lieve  me. 

The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe,  be- 

The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe  me ! 

He  spak  o'  the  darts  in  my  bonny  black 

een. 

And  vow'd  for  my  love  he  was  dying, 

I  said  he  might  die  when  he  liked  for 

Jean,  [lying. 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying  ! 

A  weel-stocked   mailen' — himsel    for 

the  laird —  [proffers: 

And   marriage    aft-hand,   were    his 

I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenn'd  it,  or 

cared,  [waur  offers. 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?  in  a  fortnight 

or  less —  [her  ! 

The  deil  tak  his   taste  to  gae  near 

He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin- 


Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  i  I  could  bear 

her,  could  bear  her,  [her. 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I  could  bear 

But  a'  the  neist  week,  as  I  fretted  wi' 
care, 
I  gaed  to  the  tryst  o'  Dalgamock, 
And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was 
there  !  [warlock, 

I  glower'd-  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock,  a 
I  glower'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him. 

a  blink. 

Lest  neebors  might  say  I  was  saucy; 

My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he'd  been  in 

drink,  [dear  lassie,; 

And  vow'd  I  wafe  his  dear  lassie. 

And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie. 

I  spier'd^  for  my  cousin  f  u'  couthy  and 

sweet. 
Gin  she  had  recover'd  her  hearin'. 
And  how  her  new  shoon  fitherauld' 

shachl't*  feet, 

'Farm.    ^  Stared.    =  Inquired.     ■'Distorted. 


286 


BUKNS"  WeEKS. 


But,  heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swear- 
an',  a  svvearin',  [in'  ! 

But,  lieavens  !  how  lie  fell  a  swear- 
He  begg'd,  for  guidsalce,  1  wad  be' Ms 
wife. 

Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow; 
Sae  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  Lis 
life,  ■  [to-inorrow, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


THIS  IS  NO  MY  AIN- LASSIE. 
Tune — *'  This  is  no  my  ain  house." 
I  SEE  a  form,  I  see  a  face. 
Ye  weel  may  wi'  the  fairest  place; 
It  wants  to  me  the  witching  grace. 

The  kind  love  that's  in  her  ee. 

Oh,  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie. 
Fair  though  the  lassie  be; 

Oh,  weel  ken  I  my  ain  lassie. 
Kind  love  is  in  her  ee. 

She's  bonny,  blooming,  straight,  and 

tall, 
And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  tlirall; 
And  aye  it  charms  my  very  saul. 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  ee. 

A  thief  sae  pawkie'  is  my  Jean, 
To  steal  a  blink,  by  a'  unseen; 
But  gleg-  as  light  are  lovers'  een. 
When  kind  love  is  in  the  ee. 

It  may  escape  the  courtly  sparljs. 
It  may  escape  the  learned  clerks; 
But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 
The  kind  love  that's  in  her  ee. 


NOW    SPRING    HAS    CLAD    THE 
GROVE  IN  GREEN. 

A  SCOTTISH   SONS. 

Now  spring  has  clad  the  grove  in  green, 

And  strew'd  the  lea  wi'  flowers: 
The  furrow'd,  waving  corn  is  seen 

Rejoice  in  fostering  showers; 
While  ilka  thing  in  nature  join 

Their  sorrows  to  forego. 
Oh,  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 

The  weary  steps  of  woe  1 


'Sfy. 


"-Quick. 


The  trout  vrithin  yon  wimpling-buru  <' 

Glides  swift,  a  silver  dart,   . 
And,  safe  beneath  the  shady  thjonj,  -.ff 

Defies  the  angler's  art:  :,3 

My  life  was  aucc  that  careless  stream^ 

That  wanton  trout  was  I;  ,  - 

But  love,  wi'  unrelenting  beam,  j  ■  i'  •' 

Has  scorch'd  my  fountains  Aiy^  i 

The  little  floweret's  -peaceful  lot,  ^-  i- 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows,  ■' 

Which,  save  the  linnet's  flight,  I  w-ot? 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows,  ---- 

Was  mine;  till  love  has  o'er  me  paSt,  -5 

And  blighted,  a'  my  bloom. 
And  now,  beneatli  tlie  withering  blast. 

My  youth  and  joy  consume; 


The 


laverock. 


warbling. 


waken'd 
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  •  ■ 

0'  witching  love,  in  luckless  hodr',i;r'^ 

Made  me  the  thrall  o'  care.       '     ^ 

Oh,  had  my  fate  been  Greenland  snows. 

Or  Afric's  burning  zone, 
Wi'  man  and  nature  leagued  my  foes^' 

So  Peggy  ne'er  I'd  known  ! 
The  wretch  whase  doom  is,   "Hope 
nae  mair," 

What  tongue  his  woes  can  tell !        ^ 
Within  whase  bosom,  save  despair," 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


THE  DEAN  OF  FACULTY. 

A  BALLAD. 
Tune — "  The  Dragon  of  Wantley." 

DiEB  Tvas  fke  hate  at  old  Harlaw,     r," 

That  Scot  to  Scot  did  carry; 
And  dire  the  discord  Langside  saw 

For  beauteous,  hapless  Mary: 
But  Scot  with  Scot  ne'er  met  so  hot. 

Or  were  more  in  fury  seen,  sir. 
Than  'twixt  Hal*  and   Bobf  for  the 
famous  job — 

Who  should  be  Faculty's  Dean,  sir._ 


*  The  Hon.  Henry  Erskine. 

+  Robert  Dundas,  Esq.,  of  Arniston, 


SONGS. 


S87 


This  Hal  for  genius,  wit,  and  lore. 

Among  the  first  was  uumber'd; 
But  pious  Bob,  'mid  learning's  store, 

Commandment  tenth  remember'd. 
Y-et  simple  Bob  the  victory  got. 

And  won  his  heart's  desire;        [pot, 
Which  shows  that  Heaven  can  boil  the 

Though  the  devil in  the  fire. 

Squire  Hal,  besides,  had  in  this  case 

Pretentions  rather  brassy. 
For  talents  to  deserve  a  place 

Are  qualifications  saucy; 
So  their  worships  of  the  Faculty, 

Quite  sick  of'merit's  rudeness. 
Chose  one  who  should  owe  it  all,  d'ye 
see. 

To  their  gratis  grace  and  goodness. 

As  once  on  Pisgah  purged  was  the  sight 

Of  a  son  of  Circumcision, 
So  may  be,  on  this  Pisgah  height, 

Bob's  purblind,  mental  vision: 
Nay,  Bobby's  mouth  may  be  opeu'd  yet 

Till  for  eloquence  you  hail  him. 
And  swear  he  has  the  Angel  met 

That  met  the  Ass  of  Balaam. 

In  your  heretic  sins  may  ye  live  and 
die. 

Ye  heretic  eight-and-thirty! 
But  accept,  ye  sublime  Majority, 

My  congratulations  hearty. 
With  your  Honours  and  a  certain  King, 

In  your  servants  this  is  striking — 
The  more  incapacity  they  bring. 

The  more  they're  to  your  liking. 


HEY.FOR  A  LASS  WI'  A  TOCHEK. 
Tune — '*  Balinamona  Ora." 

Aw  a'  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's 
alarms,  [your  arms; 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in 

Oh,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o' 
charms,  [farms. 

Oh,  gie  me  the  lass  wi'  the  weel-stockit 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher. 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher; 
Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher; 
The  nice  yellow  guineas  for  me. 

Your  "beauty's  a  flower  in  the  morning 

that  blows,  .  [grows ; 

And  withers,  the. faster  the  faster  it 


But  the  rapturous  charm  o'  the  bonhy 

green  knowes,  [white  ,yowes. 

Ilk 'spring  they're  new  deckit  wi'  bonny 

And  e'en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom 
has  blest;  [possest; 

The  brightest  o'  beauty  may  cloy  when 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi' 
Gteordie  imprest,        [they're  carest. 

The    langer  ye    hae  them   the   mair 


JESSY. 

Tune — "  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's 
awa'." 

The  heroine  of  this  song  was  Miss  Jessy ,Lew- 
ars,  a  kind-hearted,  amiable  young  crea- 
ture. Her  tender  and  assiduous  attentions 
to  the  poet  during  his  last  illness,  it  is  well  - 
known,  greatly  soothed  his  fretted  spirit 
and  eased  his  shattered  frame. 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear  ! 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear ! 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond 
lovers  meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy! 

Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine. 
Although  even  hope  is  denied; 

'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — 
Jessy  ! 

I  mourn  through  the  gay,  gaudy  day. 
As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms;' 

But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slum- 
ber, [Jessy  ! 
For  then  I  am  lockt  in  thy  arms — 

I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 
I  guess  by  the  love-rolling  ee; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession. 
'Gainst  Fortune's  fell  cruel  decree  ! 
— Jessy  ! 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear  ! 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear! 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond 
lovers  meet. 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy! 


OH,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD 

BLAST. 

Tune — "The  Lass  o'  Livingstone." 

This  fine  sonq-  is  another  tribute  of  the  poet's 
Muse  to  his.  miaisteringangel,  Miss  Jessy 


BURNS' -WORKS. 


Lewars.  According  to  the  lady's  statement, 
as  related^  by  Mr.  Chambers,  the  poethay- 
ing  called  upon  her  one  morning,  said,  if 
she  would  play  -him  any  favourite  air  -for 
which  she  might  wish  new  words,  he  would 
endeavour  to '  produce  something  that 
should  please  her.  She  accordingly  sat 
down  to  the  piano,  and  played  once  or  twice 
the  air  of  an  old  ditty  beginning  with  the 
words — 

"  The  robin  cam  to  the  wren's  nest, 
And  keekit  in,  and  keekit  in  ; 
Oh,  weel's  me  on  your  auld  pow. 
Wad  ye  be  in,  wad  ye  be  in,"  &c. 

And,  after  a  few  minutes'  abstraction,  the 

fioet    produced  "  the    following    beautiful 
i|ies : —  - 

Oh,  wert  tliou  in  tlie  cauld  blast 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  slielter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee: 
Or  did  Misfoftijnp's  bitter  storms 

Around  tliee  blaw,  around  thee  blafir, 
Thy  bield'  should  be  my  bosom, 

■10  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  bleak  and  bare,  sae  bleak  and 
bare, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wertM^here,  if  thou  wert  there  • 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  SONG. 

Tune — "  Buy  Broom  Besoms." 

A  dissolution  of  Parliament  having  taken 
place  in  May  of  this  year,  a  fresh  contest 
took  place  for  the  Stewartry  ot  Kirkcud- 
bright, Mr.  Heron  being  on  this  occasion 
opposed  by  the  Hon.  Montgomery  Stewart, 
a  younger  son  of  the  Earl  of  Galloway's. 
And  the  poet,  although  prostrate  from  sick- 
ness and  confined  to  his  chamber,  once  more 
took  up  the  pen  in  the  cause  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Heron,  and  produced  the  following 
satirical  ballad  against  his  opponents.  A 
great  many  years  ago,  a  set  of  vagrant 
dealers  called  Troggers^  used  to  travel  aliout 
the  country  districts  of  Scotland,  disposing 
of  various  kinds  of  -wares,  which  were 
known  by  the  general  name  of  Troggin.  In 
the  ballad,  the  poet  has  imagined  a  "Trogger 
to  be  perambulating  the  country,  offering 
the  characters  of  the  Tory  or  Galloway 
party  for  sale  as  Troggin.    Mr,  Heron  again 


>  Shelter. 


succeeded  in  beating  his  dpponents,'but  not 
till  death  had  placed  the  poor  poet  beyond 
the  reach  of  all  earthly  joy  or  sonfow. 

Wha  will  buy  my  troggin, 

Fine  election  ware; 
Broken  trade  o'  Broughton, 
A'  in  high  repair.  •  ' 

Buy  braw  troggin, 

Frae  the  banks  o'  Dee; 
Wha  wants  troggin 
Let  him  come  to  me. 

There's  a  noble  earl's 
Fame  and  high  renown,'* 

For  an  auld  sang —  [gtown. 

It's   thought    the    guids   were 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here's  the  worth  o'  Broughtonf 

In  a  needle'aee; 
Here's  a  reputation 

Tint'  by  Balmaghie.:|: 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here's  an  honest  conscience 
Might  a  prince  adorn;  "'  " 

Frae  the  downs  o'  Tinwald- 
Sae  was  never  bom.§ 

Buy  braw  troggin^  &c. 

Here's  the  stuff  and  lining 

0'  Cardoness'  head  ;| 
Fine  for  a  sodger, 

A'  the  wale^  o'  lead. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here's  a  little  wadset,^ 
,    Buittle'sscrap  a' truth,^ 
Pawn'd  in  a  gin-shop. 
Quenching  holy  drouth. 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here's  armorial  bearings 
Frae  the  manse  o'  Urr; 

The  crest,  and  auld  crab^applci*  • 
Rotten  at  the  "core. 

Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 


'  Lost.  ^  Choice.  ^  Mortgage. 

*  The  Earl  of  Galloway. 

+  Mr.  Murray  of  Broughton. 

X  Gordon  of  Balmaghie, 

§  A  sneering  allusion  to  Mr.  Bushby.  ^ . 

1!  Maxwell  of  Cardoness. 

'i  Rev.  George  Maxwell,  minister  of  Buit; 
tie. 

'**  An  allusion  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Muirhead^ 
minister  of  Urr,  in  Galloway. 


SONGS. 


§89 


Hero  is  Satan's  picture, 

Like  a  bizzam  gled/' 
Paund'na;  poor  Kudcastle,f  f 

SprawTin'  like  a  taed.' 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c 

Here's  the  font  where  Douglas 
Stane  and  mortar  names; 

Lately  used  at  Caily 

Christening  Murray's  crimes. 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here's  the  worth  and  wisdom 
Calliestbiit  J  can  boast; 

By  a  thievish  niidge* 

They  had  been  nearly  lost. 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Here  is  Murray's  fragments 
O'  the  ten  commands; 

Gifted  by  black  Jock, 

To  get  them  aff  his  hands. 
Buy  braw  troggin,  &c. 

Saw  ye  e'er  sic  troggin  ? 

if  to  buy  ye're  slack, 
Homie's'  tumin'  chapman — • 
He'll  buy  a'  the  pack. 
Buy  braw  troggin 

Frae  the  banks  o'  Dee, 
Wha  wants  troggin 
Let  him  come  to  me. 


FAIREST  MAID  ON  DEVON 
BANKS. 

Tl'ne— "  Rothemurche," 

In  this  song — composed  during  the  last  months 
.  of  his  life,  when  prostrate  with  illness  and 
oppressed  with  poverty— his  niin^  wandered 
to  the  banks  of  the  "Devon,  where  he  had 
^ent  some  hsppy  days,  when  in  the  full 
mish  of  fame,  in  the  company  of  the  lovely 
Charlotte  Hamilton. 

Fairest  maid  on  Devon  banks, 
;  Crystal  Devon,  winding  Devon 
WSt  thou  lay  that  frown  aside. 
And  smile  as  thou  were  wont  to 
do?  .   : 


Full ,  well  thou  know'st  I  love  thee, 

dear!,  , 

Couldgt  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear  ? 
Oh,  did  not  love  exclaim,  "  Forbear, 

Nor  use  a  faithful  lover  so." 

Then  come,  thou  fairest  of  the  fair, 
■Those  wonted  smiles,  oh,  let  me  share; 
And  by  thybeauteousself  I  swear 
No  love  but  thine  my  heart  shall 
know. 


«  Kite.  »  Toad,    «  Gnat.    '  Satan. 
+t  W.  S.  Lawrie  of  Redcastle. 
$J  Copland  of  Cc^licstpn, 


OH,  THAT   i    HAD    NE'ER   BEEN 

MARRIED. 

The  last  verse  only  of  this  song  is  Bums'— 
the  first  is  old. 

Oh,  .that  I  had  ne'er  been  married, 

I  wad  never  had  nae  care; 
Now  I've  gotten'  wife  and  bairns, 
And  they  cry  crowdie'  ever  mair. 
Ance  crowdie,  twice  crowdie. 

Three  times  crowdie  in  a  day. 
Gin  ye  crowdie  ony  mair, 
•  Ye'll  crowdie  a'  my  meal  away." 

Waefu'  want  and  hunger  fley^  me,. 

Glowering  by  the  Italian  en'; 
Sair  I  f  echt.  them  at  the  door, 

But  aye  I'm  eerie'  they  come  ben. 


THE   RUINED   MAID'S    LAMENT. 

Oh,  meikle  do  I  rue.  fause  love, 
Oh,  'sairly  do  I  rue,  [tongue^ 

That    e'er    I  Jieard    your    flattering 
That  e'er  your  face  I  knew. 

Oh,  I  hae  tint'   my  rosy  cheeks. 
Likewise  my  waist  sae  sma'; 

And  I  hae  lost  my  lightsome  heart 
That  little  Wist  a  fa'. 

Now  I  maun  thole'  the  scornfu'  sneer 

0'  mony  a  saucy  quean; 
Wlien,  gin  the'trutli  were  a'  but  kent, 

Her  life's  been  waur  than  mine.    ' 

Wlieue'er  iny  father  thinks  on  me, 

He  stares  into  the  Wa'; 
My  mithe'r;  she  has  ta'en  the  bed 

Wi'  thinkin'  on  my  fa'. 

'  Gruel.       2  Fright.        "  Afraid. 
'  Lost.  2  Bear. 


burjSts'  works. 


Whene'er  I  hear  my  father's  foot, 
My  heart  wad  burst  \vi' pain; 

Whene'er  I  meet  my  mither's  ee, 
Jkly  tears  rin  down  like  rain. 

Alas  !  sae  sweet  a  tree  as  love 
Sic  bitter  fruit  should  bear  I 
Alas  !  that  e'er  a  bonny  face 
■   Should  draw  a  sauty  tear  ! 

But  Heaven's  curse  will  blast  the  man 

Denies  the  bairn  he  got; 
Or  leaves  the  painf  u'  lass  he  loved 
•  To  wear  a  ragged  coat. 


KATHERINE  JAFFRAY. 

Theke  lived  a  lass  in  yonder  dale, 
And  down  in  yonder  glen,  0  ! 

And  Katherine  JafEray  was  her  name, 
Weel  known  to  many  men,  O  ! 

Out  came  the  Lord  of  Lauderdale, 
Out  frae  the  south  countrie,  O  ! 
All  for  to  court  this  pretty  maid, 
'  Her  bridegroom  for  to  be.  0  ! 

He 's  tell'd  her   father    and    mother 
baith. 

As  I  hear  sundry  say,  0  ! 
Biit  he  hasna  tell'd  the  lass  hersel, 

Till  on  her  wedding  day,  0  ! 

Then  came  the  Laird  o'  Lochinton, 
Out  frae  the  English  Border, 

All  for  to  court  this  pretty  maid. 
All  mounted  in  good  order. 


ROBIN  SHURE  IN  HAIRST. 

CHORUS. 

Robin  sliure  in  hairst,' 

I  shure  wi'  him; 
■  Fient  a  heuk'  had  I, 
Ifet  I  stack  by  him. 

I  gaed  up  to  Dunse, 

To  warp  a  wab  o'  plaiden ; 
At  his  daddie's  yett," 

Wha  met  me  but  Robin? 

Was  na  Robin  bauld. 
Though  I  was  a  cotter ; 


Play'd  me  sic  a  trick. 

And  me  the  eller's  dochter?* 

Robin  promised  me 

A'  my  winter  vittle  ; 
Fient  haet=  had  he  but  three 

Goose  feathers  and  a  whittle. 


SWEETEST  MAT. 

Sweetest  May,  let  love  inspire  thee ; 
Take  a  heart  which  he  desires  thee ; 
As  thy  constant  slave  regard  it ; 
For  its  faith  and  truth  reward  it. 

Proof  o'  shot  to  birth  or  money. 
Not  the  wealthy,  but  the  bonny  ; 
Not  high-born,  but  noble-minded. 
In  love's  silken  band  can  bind  it  ! 


WHEN  I  THINK  ON  THE  HAPPY 
DAYS. 

When  I  thinlc  on  the  happy  days 
I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie  ; 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  He, 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 
As  ye  were  wae  and  weary  ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by- 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 


^  Reaped    in    harvest.      ^  Sickle.      ^  Gate. 


HUNTING  SONG. 

Tune—"  I  rede  you  beware  at  the  hunting." 
The  heather  was  blooming,  the  mea- 
dows were  mawn,  [dawn. 
Our  lads  gaed  a-hunting  ae  day  at  the 
O'er  moors  and  o'er  mosses,  and  mony 
a  glen,  [moor-hen. 
At    length  they    discover'd    a  bonny 

I  rede  you  beware  at  tiie  hunting, 
j-oung  men ;  '    |joung  men ; 

I  rede  you  beware  at  the  hunting, 
Tak  some  on  the  wing,  and  some 
as  they  spring:  [hen. 

But  caunily  steal  on  a  bonny  moor- 
Sweet    brushing   the  dew    from  the 
brawn  heather  bells,  [fells; 

Her  colours  betray'd  her  on  yon  mossy 

*  Elder's  daughter.        =  Nothing. ' 


SONGS. 


«9t 


Her  plumage  outlustered  the  pride  o' 

the  spring,  [wing. 

And  oh,  as  she  wanton'd  gay  on  the 

Auld-  Phoebus  himsel,  as  he  peeped 
o'er  the  hill,  [skill. 

In  spite,  at  her  plumage  he  tried  his 

He  levell'd  his  rays,  where  she  hask'd 
on  the  brae — 

His  rays  were  outshone,  and  but 
mark'd  where  she  lay. 

They  hunted  the  valley,  they  hunted 
the  hill,  [skill. 

The  best  of  our  lads  wi'  the  best  o'  their 

But  still  as  the  fairest  she  sat  in  their 
sight,  [flight. 

Then,  whirr  !  she  was  over  a  mile  at  a 


OH,  AYE  MY  WIFE  SHE  DANG 

ME. 

Tune — -'*  My  wife  she  dang  me.'" 

Oh,  aye  my  wife  she  dang  me, 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me; 
if  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will, 

Guid  faith,  she'll  soon  o'ergang  ye. 
On  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent. 

And  fool  I  was  I  mari-ied: 
But  never  honest  man's  intent 

As  cursedly  naiscarried. 

Some  sairie  comfort  still  at  last. 

When  a'  their  days  are  done,  man; 
My  pains  o'  hell  on  earth  are  past, 

I'm  sure  o'  bliss  aboon,  man. 
Oh,  aye  my  wife  she  dang  me. 

And  aft  my  wife  did  bang  me; 
If  ye  gie  a  woman  a'  her  will, 

Guid  faith,  she'll  soon  o'ergang  ye. 


BROSE  AND  BUTTER. 

Oh,  gie  my  love  brose,  brose, 
Gie  my  love  brose  and  butter; 

For  nana  in  Carriek  or  Kyle 
Can  please  a  lassie  better. 

The  laverock  lo'ea  the  grass. 
The  moor-hen  loe's  the  heather; 

But  gie  me  a  braw  moonlight, 
Me  and  my  love  together. 


OH,  WHA  IS  SHE  THAT  LO'ES 
ME? 
Tune—"  Morag." 
Oh,  wha  is  she  that  lo'es  me. 

And  has  my  heart  a-keeping  ? 
Oh,  sweet  is  she  that  lo'es  me. 
As  dews  o'  simmer  weeping. 
In  tears  the  rosebuds  steeping  I 

CHOKUS. 

Oh,  that's  the  lassie  o'  my  heart. 

My  lassie  ever  dearer; 
Oh,  that's  the  queen  of  womankind. 

And  ne'er  a  ane  to  peer  her. 

If  thou  shalt  meet  a  lassie. 
In  grace  and  beauty  charming. 

That  e'en  thy  chosen  lassie, 
Erewhile  thy  breast  sae  warming, 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming; 

If  thou  hadst  heard  her  talking. 
And  thy  attentions  plighted. 

That  ilka  body  talking. 
But  her  by  thee  is  slighted. 
And  thou  art  all  delighted; 

If  thou  hadst  met  this  fair  one ; 
When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted. 

If  every  other  fair  one. 
But  her  thou  hast  deserted, 
And  thou  art  broken-hearted. 


DAMON  AND  SYLVIA. 
Tune — ^The  tither  morn,  as  I  forlorn." 

Yon  wandering  rill  that  marks  the  hill. 
And  glances  o'er  the  brae,  sir. 

Slides    by    u.    bower,   where   mony   a 
flower 
Sheds  fragrance  on  the  day,  sir. 

There  Damon  lay,  with  Sylvia  gay. 
To  love  they  thought  nae  crime,  sir; 

The  wild-birds  sang,  the  echoes  rang, 
While  Damon's  heart  beat  time,  sir. 


SHELAH  O'NEIL. 

When  first  I  began  for  to  sigh  and  to 

woo  her,  [deal. 

Of  many  fine  things  I  did  say  a  great 


S93 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But,   above  all  the  rest,  that  wliich 
pleased  lier  the  best 
Was,  Oh,  will  you  marry  me,  Shelah 
O'Neil  ? 
My  point  I  soon  carried,  for  straight 
we  were  married. 
Then  the  weight  of  my  burden  I 
soon  'gan  to  feel, — 
For  she  scolded,  she  fisted,  oh,  then 
I  enlisted. 
Left     Ireland,     and    whisky,    and 
Shelah  O'NeU. 

Then,  tired  and  dull-hearted,  oh,  then 
I  deserted. 
And  fled  into    regions    far  distant 
from  home ; 
To  Frederick's  army,  where  none  e'er 
could  harm  me. 
Save  Shelah  herself,  in  the  shape  of 
a  bomb. 
I  fought  every  battle,  where  cannons 
did  rattle, 
Felt  sharp  shot,  alas  !  atrd  the  sharp- 
pointed  steel ; 
But  in  aU  my  wars  round,  thank  my 
stars,  I  ne'er  found  -^ 
Aught  so  sharp,  is  the  tongue  of 
cursed  Shelah  [TNeil. 


THERE'S  NEWS,  LASSES,  NEWS. 

There's  news,  lasses,  news, 
Gttid  news  I  have  to  tell  ; 
There's  a  boatfu'  o'  -lads 
■    Come  to  our  town  to  sell. 


The  wean'  wants  a  cradle. 

And  the  cradle  wants  a  cod,' 
And  I'll  no  gang  to  my  bed 

Until  I  get  a  nod. 

Father,  quo'  she,  Mither,  quo'  she, 

Do  what  you  can  ; 
1 11  no  gang  to  my  bed 

Till  1  get  a  man. 

I  hae  as  guid  a  craft  rig 
As  made  o'  yird  and  stane  ; 

And  waly  fa'  the  ley-crap, 
For  I  maun  tUl'd  again. 


THERE  WAS  A  WlFE. 

There  was  a  wife  wonn'd  in  Cockpea, 

Scroggafiif ; 
She  brew'd  guid  ale  for  geritlemen. 
Sing,  auld  Cowl,  lay  you  down  by  me, 
Scroggam,  my  dearie,  rufium. 

The  guidwife's  dochter  fell  in  a  fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The  priest  o'  the  parish  fell  in  anither. 
Sing,  auld  Cowl,  lay  you  down  by  me, 
Scroggam,  my  dearie,  rufEum. 

They  laid  the  twa  i'  the  bed  thegither, 

Scroggam  ; 
That  the  heat  o'  the  tane  might  cool 

the  tither. 
Sing,  auld  Caul,  lay  you  down  by  me, 
Scroggam,  my  dearie,  rufEum. 


1  Child. 


'  Pillow. 


REMARKS    ON    SCOTTISH    SONGS 
AND    BALLADS, 


ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  ; 


WITH  ANECDOTES  OF  THEIR  AUTHORS. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


"  There  needs  na  be  so  great  a  phrase, 
Wi'  dringing:  dull  Italian  lays, 
I  wadna  gie  our  ain  Strathspeys 

For  half  a  hundred  score  o'  *em; 
They're  douff  and  dowie,  at  the  best, 
Douff  and  dowie,  douff  and  dowie  ; 
Thej^'re  douff  and  dowie  a'  the  best, 

Wr  a'  their  variorum : 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Their  allegro^s,  and  at  the  rest, 
They  cannot  please  a  Scottish  uste, 

Compared  wi'  TuUochgorum,." 

Rev.  John  Skinner. 


"The  following  Remarks  on  Scottisli 
Song","  says  Cunningliam,  "exist  in 
the  handwriting  of  Bums,  in  an  inter- 
leaved copy  of  the  first  four  volumes 
of  Johnson's  Musical  Maaeum,  which 
the  poet  presented  to  Captain  Riddel, 
of  Friar's  Carse.  On  the  death  of 
Mrs.  Riddel,  these  precious  volumes 
passed  into  the  hands  of  her  niece, 
Eliza  Bayley,  of  Manchester,  who 
kindly  permitted  Mr.  Cromek  to  tran- 
scribe and  publish  them  in  his  volume 
of  the  Reliqiies  of  Burns. " 


THE  HIGHLAND  QUEEN. 
The    Highland   Queen,  music  and 
poetry,  was  composed  by  Mr.  M'Vicar, 
purser  of  the  Bolebay  man-of-war. — 
This  1  had  from  Dr.  Blacklock. 


The  Highland  King,  intended  as  a  parody 
on  the  former,  was^the  production  of  a  young 
lady,  the  friend  of  Charles  Wilson,  of  Edin- 
burgh, who  edited  a  collection  of  songs,  en- 
titled "Cecilia,"  which  appeared  in  1779. 

The  following  are  specimens  of  these 
songs : — 

THE  HIGHLAND  QUEEN. 

How  blest  that  youth  whom  gentle  fate 
Has  destined  for  so  fair  a  mate ! 
Has  all  these  wond'ring  gifts  in  store, 
,  And  each  returning  day  brings  more  ; 
No  youth  so  happy  can  be  seen, 
Possessing  thee,  my  Highland  Qu6en. 


THE  HIGHLAND  KING. 

Jamie,  the  pride  of  a'  the  green. 
Is  just  my  age,  e'en  gay  fifteen : 
When  first  I  saw  him,  'twas  the  day 
That  ushers  in  the  sprightly  May ; 
Then  iirst  I  felt  love's  powerful  sting. 
And  sigh'd  for  my  dear  Highland  King: 


294 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


.,     ,  THE   HIGHLAND   QUEEN. 

No  sordid  wish,  nor  trifling  joy, 
Her  settled  ^^alm  of , mind  destroy ; 
Strict  honour  iQUs  her  spotless  soul, 
And  adds  a  lustre  to  the  whole :    ' 
A  matchless  shape,  a  g-raceful  mien. 
All  centre  in  my  Highland  Queen. 

THE   HIGHI4AND    KING. 

Would  once  the  dearest  boy  but  say 
'Tis  you  I  love  :  come,  come  away 
Unto  the  Kirk,  my  love,tlet's  hie— 
Oh  me  !  in  rapture  I  comply  :■ 
And  I  should  then  have  cause  to  sing 
The  praises  of  my  Highland  Kmg. 


BESS  THE  GAWKIE.* 

This  song  shows  that  the  Scottish 
Muses  did  not  all  leave  us  when  we 
lost  Ramsay  and«Oswald;f  as  I  have 
good  reason  to  believe  that  the  verses 
and  music  are  both  posterior  to  the 
days  of  these  two  gentlemen.  It  is  a 
beautiful  song,  and  in  the  genuine 
Scots  taste.  We  have  few  pastoral 
compositions,  I  mean  the  pastoral  of 
nature,  that  are  equal  to  this. 

Blithe  young  Bess  to  Jean  did  say. 

Will  ye  gang  to  yon  sunny  brae. 

Where  flocte  do  feed,  and  herds  do  stray. 

And  sport  awhile  wi'  Jaquie? 
Ah,  na,  lass,  I'll  no  gang  there, 
Nor  about  Jamie  tak.nae  care. 
Nor  about  Jamie  tak  nae  care. 

For  he's  talen  up  wi'  Maggy ! 

For  hark,  and  I  will  tell  you,  lass. 
Did  I  not  see  your  Jamie  pass, 
Wi*  meikle  gladness  in  his  face. 

Out  o'er  the  muir  to^aggy  ? 
I  wat  he  gae  her  mony  a  kiss, 
And  Magg-y  took  them  ne'er  amiss  : 
'Tween  ilka  smack,  pleased  her  with  this. 

That  Bess  was  but  a  gawkie. 

But  whist !— nae  mair  of  this- we'll  speak. 
For  yonder  Jamie  does  us  meet : 
Instead  of  Meg  he  kiss'd  fae  sweet, 

I  trow  he  likes  the  gawkie. 
ph,  dear  Bess,  I  hardly  knew. 
When  I  came  by,  your  gown's  sae  new, 
1  think  you've  got  it  wet  wi'  dew  ; 

Quoth  she,  that's  hke  a  gawkie. 

*  The  Rev.  James  Muirhead,  minister  of 
Urr,  in  Galloway,  and  whose  name  occurs  in 
the  Heron  Ballads,  and  other  of  the  poet's 
satirical  pieces,  was  the  author  of  this  song. 

+  He  was  a  London  music-seller,  and  pub- 
lished a  collection  of  Scottish  tunes,  entitled, 
"The  Caledonian's  Pocket  Companion." 


The  lassies  fast  frae  him  they.flew, 
And  left  poor  Jamie  sSfir  to  rue 
That  ever  Maggy's  face  he  knew, 

Or-yet-ca'd  Etess  a-gawkie.    -    " 
As'Chey  went  o'er  the  muir -they  san^. 
The  h'ills''and  dales  with  echoes  rang, 
The  hills  and  dales  with  echoes  rang, 

Gang  o'er  the  muir  to  Maggy. 


OH,  OPEN   THE   DOOR,  LORI>-.- 
GREGORY. 

It  is  somewhat  singular  that  in  Lan- 
;ark,  Renfrew,  Ayr,  Wigton,' Kirkcud- 
bright, and  Dumfries  shires,  there'  is 
scarcely  an  old  song  or  tune  which, 
from  the  title,  &c.,  can  be  guessed  to. 
.belong;  to,  or  lie  the  production  of,  thes^ 
counties.  This,  I  conjecture,  is  one  of 
these  very  few;  as  the  ballad,  whichis 
a  long  one,  is  called,  both  by  tradition 
and  in  printed  collections,  '•  The  Lass 
,of  Lochroyan,"  which  I  talie  to  be 
Lochroyan  in  Galloway. 

Oh,  open  the  door.  Lord  Gregory, 

Oh,  open  and  let  me  in  ; 
The  wind  blows  through  my  yellow  hair. 

The  dew  draps  o'er  my  chin.         ' 
If  you  are  the  lass  that  I  loved  once, 

As  I  trow  you  are  not  she. 
Come  gie  me  some  of  the  tokens 

That  pass'd  'tween  you  and  me. 

Ah,  wae  be  to  you,  Gregory ! 

An  ill  death  may  you  die  ; 
You  will  not  be  the  death  of  one. 

But  you'll  be  the  death  of  three. 
Oh, don't  you  mind,  Lord  Gregory? 

"Twas  down  at  yonder  bum  side    -■.  ■■ 
We  changed  the  ring  off  our  fingers. 

And  I  put  mine  on  thine. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TWEED.- 

This  song  is  one  of  the  many  attempts 
that  Englisli  composers  have  made  to 
imitate  the  Scottish  manner,  and  which 
I  shall,  in  these  strictures,  beg  leave  to 
distinguish  by  the  appellation  of  Anglo- 
Scottish  productions;  The  music  i^ 
pretty  good,  but  the  verses  are  just 
above  contempt. 

For  to  visit  my  ewes  and  to  see  my  lambs  playi. 
By  the  banks'  of  the  Tweed  and  the  groves  I 

did  stray,  [sigh'.dj 

But  my  Jenny,  dear  Jenny,  how  oft^ha5»e4 
And  hav-e  vow'd  endless  loye  if  you  would  be 

my  bride.  — - 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


295 


To  the  £vltar  of  Hymen,  my  fair  one,  repair, 
Where  ^  knot  of  affection  shall  tie  the  fond 

pair,  .         [will  we  lead, 

To  the  pipes  sprightly  notes  the  gay  dance 
And  will  bless  the  dear  grove  by  the  banks  of 

the  Tweed. 


THE   BEDS  OP  SWEET   ROSES. 

This  song,  as  far  as  I  know,  for  the 
first -time  appeai-s  liere  in  print. — 
When  I  was  a  boy,  it  was  a  very  popular 
song-  in  Ayrshire.  I  remember  to  have 
h^ayd  those  fanatics,  the  Buchanites, 
si6g«dme  of  their  nonsensical  rhymes, 
whieh  they  dignify  with  the  name  of 
h)tmns,  to  this  air. 

As  I  was  walking  one  morning;in  May,  [gay  ; 
The  little  birds  were  singfng' delightful  and 
The  Uttle  birds  were  singing  delightful  and 
gay  ;  .,  [play, 

Where  I  and  my  true  love  did  often  sport  and 

Down  among  the  beds  of  sweet  roses,  [play, 
Where  I  and  my  true  love  did  often  sport  and 

Down  among  the  beds  of  sweet  roses. 

My  daddy  and  my  mammy  I  oft  have  heani 
them  say,  [and  play ; 

That  I  was  a  naughty  boy,  and  did  often  sport 

But  I  never  liked  in  all  my  life  a  maiden  that 
was  shy, 

Down  among  the  beds  of  sweet  roses. 


ROSLIN  CASTLE. 

These  beautiful  verses  were  the  pro- 
duction of  a  Richard  Hewit,  a  joung 
man  that  Dr.  Blacklock  (to  whom  I  am 
indebted  for  the  anecdote)  kept  for 
some  years  as  an  amanuensis.*  I  do  not 
know  who  is  the  author  of  the  second 
song  to  the  £ame  tune.  Tytler.  in  his 
amusing  history  of  Scottish  mus'ic, 
gives  the  air  to  Oswald;  but  in  Os- 
wald's own  collection  of  Scots  tunes, 
when  he  affixes  an  asterisk  to  those  he 
himself  composed,  he  does  not  make 
the  least  claim  to  the  tune. 

'TwAS  in  that  season  of  the  year, 
'    When  all  things  gay  and  sweet  appear. 
That  Colin,  with  the  morning  ray.,' 
Arose  and  sung  his  rural  lay. 
'Of  Nanny*s  charms  the  shepherd  sung, 
The  hills  and  dales  with  Nanny  rung ; 
While  Roslin  Castle  heard  ihe  swain, 
And  echo'd  back  the  cheerful  strain. 

*  This  gentleman  subsequently  became 
Secretary  to  Lord  Milton,  (then  Lord  Justice- 
Clerk,)  but  the.  fatiguing"  nature  of  his  duties 
in  that  position  hurt  his  health,  and  he  died  in 
1794- 


Awake,  sweet  Muscl'  the  breathfng  spring 
With  rapture  warms ;  awake  and  sing ! 
Awake  and  join  tlie  vocdl  throng'  - 
Who  hail  the  morning  with  a-song;  ■ 
To  Nanny  raise  the  cheerful  lay. 
Oh,  bid  her  haste  and  come  away ; 
In  sweetest  smiles  herself  adorn, 
And  add  new  graces  to  the  morn  I 

Oh,  hark,  my  love !. on  every  spray 
Each  feather'd  warbler  tunes  his  lay ; 
'Tis  beauty  fires  the  ravish'd  throng^- 
And  love  inspires  the  melting  song: 
Then  let  my  raptured  notes  arise,  / 
For  beauty  darts  from  Nanny's  eyes  j 
And  love  my  rising  bosom  warms,  - 
And  fills  my  soul  with  sweet  alarms. 

SECOND   VERSION, 

From  Roslin  Castle's  edhoing  walls, 
.  Resound  my  shepherd's  ardent  calls  ; 
My  Colin  bids  mc  come  away, 
.  And  love  demands  I  should  obey. 
'  His  tbelting  strain,  and  tuneful  lay, 
So  much  the  charms  of  loye  display, 
I  yield— nor  longer  can  refrain,' 
To  own  nay  love,  and  bless  my  swain. 

No  longer  can  my  heart  conceal 
The  pamful-pleasing  flame  I  feel: 
My  soul  retorts  the  am'.i;ous  strain.; 
Aad  echoes  back  in  love  again-        [grove 
Where  lurks  my  songster  ? ,  from  what 
Does  Colin  pour  his  notes  of  love  ?   ^ 
Oh,  bring  me  to  the  happy  bower. 
Where  mutual  love  .may  bliss  secure ! 

Ye  vocal- hills,  .that  catch  the  song, 
Repeating  as  it  flies  along; 
To  Colin's  ears  my  strain  convey. 
And  say,  I  haste  to  come  away. 
Ye  zephyrs  soft,  that  fan  the  gale. 
Waft  to  my  love  the  soothing 'tale  ; . 
In  whjspers  all  my  soul  express. 
And  tell  I  haste  his  arms  to  bless ! 

Oh  !  come,  my  love  !  thy  Colin's  lay 
With  rapture  calls,  oh,  come  away ! 
Come  while  the  muse  this  wreath  shall 

twine 
Around  that  modest  brow  of  thine  : 
Oh !  hither  haste,  and  with  theebring 
That  beauty  blooming  like  the  spring  ; 
Those  graces  that  divmely  shine, 
And  charm  this  ravish'd  breast  of  mine  I 


SAW    TE 


JOHNNIE 
QUO'  SHE. 


CUMMIN? 


This  song^,  for  genuine  humour  in 
the  verses,  and  lively  originality  in  the 
air,  is  unparalleled.  I  take  it  to  be 
very  old. 

Saw  ye  Johnnie  cummin  ?  quo'  she. 

Saw  ye  Johnnie  cummiUj 
Oh,  saw  ye  Johnnie  cummm,  quo'she ; 

Saw  ye  Johnnie  cummin, 


296 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Wi'  kis  blue  bonnet  on  his  head, 

■  And  his  cloggie  runnin',  quo'  she; 
And  his  doggie  runnin*  ? 

Fee  him.  father,  fee  him,  quo'  she  ; 

■  Fee  him,  father,  fee  him : 
For  he  is  a  gallant  lad, 

And  a  weel  doin' ; 
And  a*  the  wark  about  the  house 
Gaes  wi'  me  when  I  see  him,  quo'  she  ; 
Wi*  me  when  I  "see  him. 

What  will  I  dp  wi'  him,  hussy? 

What  will  I  do  wi'  him  ? 
He's  ne'er  a  sark  upon  his  back, 
■  And  I  hae  nane  to  g\e  him. 
I  hae  twa  sarks  into  "my  kist,  . 
'And  ane  o'  them  I'll  gie  him, 
And  for  a  mark  of  mair  fee^ 

Dinna  stand  wi'  him,  quo'  she ; 

Dinna  stand  wi'  him. 

For  weel  do  I  lo'e  him,  quo*  she: 

Weel  do  I  lo'e  him  ; 
Oh,  fee  him,  father,  fee  him,  quo'  she  ; 

Fee  him,  father,  fee  him ; 
He'll  baud  the  pleugh.  thrash  i'  the  bam, 

And  lie  wi'  me  at  e'en,  quo'  she ; 

Lie  wi'  me  at  e'en. 


CLOUT  THE   CALDRON. 

A.  TRADITION  is  mentioned  in  the 
Bee,  that  the  second  Bishop  Chisholm, 
of  Dunblane,  used  to  say  that,  if  he 
were  going  to  be  hanged,  nothing 
would  soothe  lus  mind  so  much  by  the 
way  as  to  hear  *' Clout  the  Caldron" 
played, 

I  liavc  met  with  another  tradition, 
that  the  old  song  to  this  tune, 

Hae  ye  ony  pots  or  pans. 
Or  ony  broken  chanlers, 

was  composed^on  one  of  the  Kenmure 
family  in  the  cavalier  times;  and  al- 
luded to  an  amour  he  had,  while  un- 
der hiding,  in  the  disguise  of  an  itiner- 
ant tinker.  The  air  is  also  laiown  by 
the  name  of 

"  The  Blacksmith  and  his  Apron," 

which,  from  the  rhythm,  seems  to 
have  been  a  lino  of  some  old  song  to 
the  tune. 

Hae  ye  ony  pots  or  pans, 

Or  ony  broken  chanlers  ? 
For  Fm  a  tinker  to  my  trade, 

And  newly  come  frae  Flanders, 
As  scant  o'  siller  as  o'  grace. 

Disbanded,  we've  a  bad  run  ; 
Gang  tell  the  lady  o'  the  place, 

I'm  come  to  clout  her  caldron,'* 


Madam,  if  ye  hae  wark  for  me, 
I'll  do't  to  your  contentment. 
And  dinna  care  a  single  flie 
-  For  ony  man's  resentment : 
For,  lady  fair,  though  I  appear 

To  every  ane  a  tinker. 
Yet  to  yoursei  I'm  bauld  to  tell 
I  am  a  gentle  jinker. 

Love,  Jupiter  into  a  swan 

Turn'd  for  his  lovely  Leda ; 
He  like  a  bull  o'er  meadows  ran. 

To  carry  ofE  Europa. 
Then  may  not  I,  as  well  as  he, 

To  cheat  your  Argus  blinker. 
And  win  your  love,  like  mighty  Jove, 

Thus  hide  me  in  a  tinker  ? 

Sir.  ye  appear  a  cunning  man, 

But  this  fine  plot  ye'll  fsul  in. 
For  there  is  neither  pot  nor  pan 

Of  mine  ye'll  drive  a  nail  in. 
Then  bind  your  budget  on  your  back, 

And  nails  up  in  your  apron. 
For  I've  a  tinker  under  tack 

That's  used  to  clout  my  caldron. 


SAW  TE  NAE  MY  PEGGY? 

This  charming,  song  is  much  older, 
and  indeed  superior  to  Kamsay's  verses, 
**  The  Toast,"  ^s  he  caQs  them. 
There  is  another-  set  of  the  words, 
much  older  still,  and  which  I  take  to 
be  the  original  one;  but  though  it  has 
"  very  great  deal  of  merit,  it  is  not 
quite  ladies'  reading. 

The  original  words,  for  they  ,  can 
scarcely  be  called  verses,  seem  to^heas 
follows;  a  song  familiar  from  the  cra- 
dle to  every  Scottish  ear: — 

Saw  ye  my  Maggie, 
Saw  ye  my  Maggie, 
Saw  ye  my  Maggie 
Linkin  o'er  the  lea  ? 

High  kilted  was  she. 
High  kilted  was  she. 
High  kilted  was  she. 
Her  coat  aboon  her  knee. 

What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
That  ane  jhay  ken  her  be  ?  (by.)* 


*  The  following  veree  was  added  by  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd  ;— 

Maggie's  a  lovely  woman. 
She  proves  true  to  no  man. 
She  proves  true  to  no  man, 
And  has  proven  false  to  me.       ■     '• 


EEMABKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


297 


Thougli  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
the  silliest  verses  to  an  air  must,  for 
that  reason,  Ije  the  original  song,  yet 
I  take  this  ballad,  of  which  1  have 
quoted  part,  to  be  the  old  verses. 
The  two  songs  in  Ramsay,  one  of  them 
evidently  his  own,  are  never  to  be  met 
with  in  the  fireside  circle  of  our  peas- 
antry; while  that  Which  I  take  to  be 
the  old  song,  is  in  every  shepherd's 
mouth.  Ramsay,  I  suppose,  had 
thought  the  old  "verses  unworthy  of  a 
place  in  his  collection. 

Saw  ye  nae  my  Peggy, 
Saw  ye  nae  my  Peggy, 
Saw  ye  nae  my  Peggy, 
Coming  o'er  the  lea  ? 
Sure  a  finer  creature 
Ne'er  was  fonn'd  by  nature. 
So  complete  each  feature, 
,   So  'divine  is  she. 

Oh  !  how  Peggy  charms  me  ! 
Every  look  still  warms  me  ; 
Every  thought  alarms  me  ; 

Lest  she  love  nae  me. 
Peggy  doth  discover 
Nought  but  cliarms  all  over  ; 
Nature  bids  me  love  her. 

That's  a  law  to  me. 

Who  would  leave  a  lover, 
To  become  a  rover  ? 
No,  I'll  ne'er  give  over. 

Till  I  happy  be  ! 
For  since  love  inspires  me, 
As  her  beauty  fires  me, 
And  her  absence  tires  me, 

Nought  can  please  but  she. 

When  I  hope  tog^nn  her. 
Fate  seems  to  detain  her. 
Could  1  but  obtain  her, 

Happy  would  I  be  ! 
I'll  lie  down  before  her, 
Bless,  sigh,  and  'adore  her, 
'With  faint  look  implore  her 

Till  she  pity  me ! 


.THE  FLOWERS  OP  EDINBURGH. 

This  song  is  one  of  the  many  effu- 
sions of  Scots  Jacobitism.  The  title 
"  Flowers  of  Edinburgh"  has  no  man- 
ner of  connection  with  the  present 
verses;  so  I  suspect  there  has  been  an 
older  set  of  words,  of  which  the  title  is 
■all  that  remains. 

By  the  by,  it  is  singular  enough  that 
the  Scottish  Muses  were  all  Jacobites. 
I  have  paid  more  attention  to  every 
description  of  Scots  songs  than  per- 


haps any  body  living  has  done;  and  I 
do  not  recollect  one  single  stanza,  or 
even  the  title  of  the  most  trifling  Scots 
air,  which  has  the  lea.st  panegyrical 
reference  to  the  families  of  Nassau  or 
Brunswick,  while  there  are  hundreds 
satirising  them.  This  may  be  thought 
no  panegyric  on  the  Scots  poets,  but  I 
mean  it  as  such.  For  myself,  I  would 
always  take  it  as  a  compliment  to  have 
it  said  that  my  heart  ran  before  my 
head;  and  surely  the  gallant  though 
unfortunate  house  of  Stuart,  the  kings 
of  our  fathers  for  so  many  heroic  ages, 
is  a  theme  much  more  interesting  than 

Mv  love  was  once  a  bonny  lad  : 

He  was  the  flower  of^'  his  kin ; 
The  absence  of  his  bonny  face 

Has  rent  my  tender  heart  in  twain. 
I  day  nor  night  find  no  delight — 

In  silent  tears  I  still  complain  ; 
And  exclaim  'gainst  those,  my  rival  foes. 

That  hae  ta  en  fra  me  my  darling  swain. 

Despair  and  anguish  fill  my  breast 

Since  I  have  lost  my  blooming  rose : 
I  sigh  and  moan  while  others  rest ; 

His  absence  yields  me  no  repose. 
To  seek  my  love  I'll  range  and  rove 

Through  every  grove  and  distant  plain  ; 
Thus  rilnever  cease,  but  spend  my  days 

T'  hear  tidings  from  my  darling  swain. 

There's  nothing  strange  in  nature's  change, 

Since  parents  show  such  cruelty  ; 
They  caused  my  love  from  me  to  range, 

And  know  not  to  what  destiny. 
The  pretty  kids  and  tender  lambs 

May  cease  to  sport  upon  the  plain  ; 
But  I'll  mourn  and  lament,  in  deep  discontent, 

For  the  absence  of  my  darling  swain. 


JAMIE  GAY. 

Jamie  gay  is  another  and  a  tolerable 
Anglo-Scottish  piece. 

Of  Jamie  Gay,  it  will  be  enough  to  quote 
the  first  lines  ;— 

"As  Jamie  Gay  gang'd  blithe  his  way." 

A  Scottish  bard  would  have  written  :— 

"  As  Jamie  Gay  gaed  blithe  his  way." 

The  song  was  originally  entitled  "  The  Hap- 
py Meeting,"  and  frequently  used  to  be  sung 
at  Ranelagh  with  great  applause.. 


MY  DEAR   JOCKEY. 

Another    Anglo- Scottish    produc- 
tion. 

"We  subjoin  the  first  two  verses  of  the  lady's 
lament ; — 


298 


BURNS'   WORKS. 


My  laddie  is  gane  far  away  o'er  the  plain, 
While  in  sorrow  behind  lam  forced  to  re- 
main ;  [adorn, 
Though  blue  bells  and  violets  the  hedg-es 
Though  trees  are  in  blossom  aild  sweetblqws 
the  thorn,  [gay ; 
No.pleasure  they  give  me,  in  vain  they  look 
There's  nothing  can  please  me  now  Jockey's 

away ; 
Forlorn  I  sit  singing,  and  this  is  my  strain, 
*'  Haste,  haste,  my  dear  Jockey,  to  me  back 
again." 

"When  lads  and  their  lasses  are  on  the  green 
met,  [they  chat : 

They  dance  and  they  sing,  and  they  laugh  and 
Contented  and  happy,  with  hearts  full  ol  glee, 
I  can't,  without  envy,  their  merriment  see : 
Those  pleasures  oSend  me,  my  shepherd's 

not  there  ! 
No'pleasiire  I  relish  that  Jockey  don't  sAare  ; 
It  makes  me  to  sigh,  I  from  tears  scarce  re- 
frain, 
I  wish  my  dear  Jockey  return'd  back  again. 


FYE,   GAE   RUB  HER    O'ER   WI' 
STRAE. 

It  is  self-evident  that  the  first  four 
lines  of  this  sorrg  are  part  of  a  gong 
more  ancient  than  Ramsay's  beautiful 
A-erses  which  are  annexed  to  them. 
As  music  is  the  language  of  nature, 
and  poetry,  particularly  songs,  is  al- 
ways less  or  more  localised  ( if  I  may 
be  allowed  the  verb)  by  some  of  the 
modifications  of  time  and  place,  this  is 
the  reason  why  so  many  of  our  Scots 
airs  have  outlived  their  original  and 
perhaps  many  subsequent  sets  of  ver- 
ses; except  a  single  name  or  phrase,  or 
sometimes  one  or  two  Hues,  simply  to 
distinguish  the  tunes  by. 

To  this  day,  among  people  who  know 
nothing  of  Ramsay's  verses,  the  follow- 
ing-is  the  song,  and  all  the  song  that 
ever  I  heard: 

Gin  ye  meet  a  bonny  lassie, 
Gie  her  a  kiss  and  let  her  gae  ; 

But  gin  ye  meet  a  dirty  hizzie, 
Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae. 

Fye,  gae  rub  her,  rub  her,  rub  her, 
Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  \vi'  strae: 

And  gin  ye  meet  a  dirty  hizzie, 
Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae. 

"  Ramsay's  spirited  imitation,"  says  Cromek, 
**  of  the  '  yities  nt  alte  stet  nive  candiduin^ 
Socrnie '  of  Horace,  is  considered  as  one  of  the 
happiest  efforts  of  the  author's  genius." — For 
an  elegant  critique  on  the  poem,  and  a  com- 


pariscim  of  its  merfts  with  those-of  tl^e  OPigiaal, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Lord  Woodhouseiee's 
**  Remarks  on  the  Writings  o/  liajusay."  . " 

Look  up  to  Pentland's  towering  tap,  ' 
Buried  beneath  great  wreaths  of  snaw, 

O'er  ilka  cleugh,  ilK  scar,  and  slap; ' 
As  high  as  uny  Roman  wa'. 

Driving  their  baws  frae  whins  ot-  tee. 
There  are  hae  gowfers  to  be  seen  ; 

Nor  dousser  fowk  wysing  a-jee 
The  byass-bouls  on  Tamson's  Green, 

Then  fling  on  coals,  and  ripe  the  ribs. 
And  beek  the.house  baith  but  and  b.en ; 

That  mutchkin  stowp  it  bauds  but  dribs, 
Then  let's  get  in  the  tappit  hen. 

Good  claret  best  keeps  out  the  cauld,      _- ,. 

And  drives  away  the  winter  soon ;..  '."- 
It  makes  a  man  baith  gash  and  bauIcT,    C 

And  heaves  his  soul  beyond  the  moon. 

Let  next  day  come  as  it  thinks  fit. 
The  present  minute's  only  ours. 

Op  pleasure  let's  employ  our  wit,' 
And  laugh  at  Fortune's  fickle  powers. 

Be  sure  ye  dinna  quit  the  grip 
Of  ilka  joy,  when  ye  are  young. 

Before  auld  age  your  vitals  nip, 
And  lay  ye  twafald  o'er  a  rung. 

Now  to  her  heaving  bosom  cling,- 
And  sweetljr  tastie  for  a  kiss  ; 

Frae  her  fair  finger  whoop  a  ring. 
As  token  of  a  future  bliss. 

These  benisons,  I'm  very  sure. 
Are  of  the  gods'  indulgent  grant : 

Then  surly  carles,  whist,  for^ar 
To  plague  us  wi'  your  whining  cant.  ' 

Sweet  youth's  a  blithe  and  heartsome  time; 

Then,  lads  and  lasses,  while  'tis  May, 
Gae  pu'  the  gowan  in  its  prime, 

Before  it  wither  and  decay. 

Watch  the  saft  minutes  of  delyte, 
When  Jenny  speaks  beneatii  her  breath, 

And  kisses,  laying  a'  the  wyte 
On  you,  if  she  keptony  slcaith.    - 

"  Haith,  ye're  ill-bred,"  she'll  smiling  sa:yj 
"  Ye'U  worry  me,  ye  greedy  rook;  " 

Syne  frae  yer  arms  she'll  rin  away,- 
And  hide  hersel  in  some  dark  hook." 

Her  laugh  will  lead  you  to  the  place 
Where  lies  the  happiness  you  want. 

And  plainly  tells  you,  to  your  face. 
Nineteen  nay-says  are  half  a  grarit;^ 

The  song  of  "  Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi" 
strae"  is  composed  of  the  first  four  lines  men- 
tioned by  Burns,  and  the  seven  concluding 
verses  of  Ramsay's  spirited  and  el&gant  Scot- 
tish version  of  Horace's  ninth  OaQ\  given 
abovci 


REMARKS  ON  -SCOTTISH  SONG. 


299 


THE  LASS  OF  LIVINGSTON. 

The  old  song-,  in  three  "eight-line 
stanzas,  is  well  known,  and  has  merit 
as  tp  wit  and  humour;  but  it  is  rather 
unntfor  insertion. — It  begins: 

"The  bonny  loss  o^  Livingfston, 

Hej:  name  ye  ken,  her  name  ye  ken, 
Ands^q  has  written  in  her  contract, 
Td  he  her  lane,  to  lie  her  lane,"  &c.,  &c. 

The  modern  version  by  Allan  Ramsay  is  as 
follows : — 

I'Aiif'D  with  her  slighting  Janiie's  love, 

Bell  dropt  a  tear,  Bell  dropt  a  tear  ; 
The  gods  descended  from  above, 

WelLpleased  to  hear,  well  pleased  to  hear. 
They  Heard  the  praises  of  the  youtb   [tongue, 

Froip.  her  own  tongue,  from  her  own 
Who  now  converted  was  to  tm.th, 

And  thus  she  sung,  and  thus  she  Sung : 

BlessM  days,  when  our  ingenuous  sex. 

More  frank  and  kind,,  more  frank  and  kind, 
■Did  not  their  loved  adorers  vex, 

Btit^Spoke  their  mind,  but  spoke  their  mind. 
Repentmg  now,  she  promised  fair. 

Would  he  return,  would  he  return, 
She  ne'er  again  would  give  him  care, 

Or  cause  to  mourn,  or  cause  to  mourn^ 

Why  loved  I  the  deserving  swain,        [shame. 

Vet  still  thought  shame,  yet  still  rtiought 
'  When  he  my  yi^ding  heart  did  gain. 

To  own  njiy^flame,  to  own  ray  flame. 
Why  took  T  pleasure  to  torment. 

And  seem  too  coy,  and  seem  too  coy, " 
Which  makes  me  now,  alas !  lament 

My  slighted  joy,  my  slighted  joy. 

Ye  fair,  while  beauty's  in.  its  spring. 

Own  vour  desire,  oVvn  your  desire, 
While  love's  young  power,  with  his  soft  wing, 

Fans  u.p  the  fire,,  fans  up  the  fire  ;  , 
Oh,''^0' not  with  a  silly  pride. 

Or  low  design,  oi"  low  design, 
Refuse  to  be  a  happy  bride. 

But  answer  plain,  but  answer  plain. 

Thus  the iair  mourner  'waM'd  her  crime, 

'■UTitli  flowing  eyes,  with  flowing,  eyes  ; 
Glad  Jamiie  heard  her  all- the  time 

With  sweet  surprise,  with  sweet  surprise. 
Some  god  had  led  him  to  the  g'rove,. 

I^is  m'ind  unchanged,  his  mind  unchanged. 
Flew  to  her  arms,  and  cried,  my  love, 

I  am,  revenged,  I  am  revenged. '    - 


THEJ  LAST   TIME  I  CAME  O'ER 
THE  MOOR. 

Ramsay  found  the  first  line  of  this 
song,  which  had'  been  preserved  as  the 
title  of  the  charming  air,  and  then  com- 
posed the  rest  of  tlie  verses  to  suit  that 


line.  This"  has  always  ii  finer  effect 
than_  composing  English  words;  or 
words  with  an  idea  foreign  to  tlie  spirit 
of  the  old  title.  Where  old  titles  of 
songs  convey  any  idea  at  all,  it  will 
generally  be  found. to  be  quite  in  the 
spirit  of  the  air. 

".There  are,"  says  Allan  Cunningham, 
'*  some  fine  verses  in  this  song,  though  some 
fastidious  critics  pronounce  them  over 
warm  :"-7r 

The  liast  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor, 

I  left  my  love  behind  me  : 
Ye  powers,  what  pain  do  I  endure. 

When  soft  ideas  mind  rac. 
Soon  lis  the  ruddy  morn  display  *d, 

The  beaming  day  ensuing,  ■ 
I  met  betimes  ray  lovely  maid 

In  fit  retreats  for  wooing. 

Beneath  tihe  cooling  shade  we  lay, 

Gazing  and  chastly  sporting  ; 
We  kiss^  and  promised  timeLaway, 

Till  night  spread  her  black  curtain. 
I  pitied  all  beneath  the  skies,- 

Even  kings,  when  she  was  nigh  me  ; 
In  rapture  I  beheld  her  eyes, 

Which  could  but  ill  deny  me. 

Should  I  be  call'd  where,  _cannons  roar, 

Where  mortal  steel  may  wound  me  ;' 
Or  cast  upon  some  foreign  shoTe, 

Where  danger  may^surround  me  ; 
Yet  hopes  again  to  see  my  love. 

And  feast  on  glowing  kisses, 
Shall  raake-my  cares  at  distance  move, 

In  prospect  of  such-blisses. 

In  all  my  soul  there's  not  one  place 

To  let  a  rival  enter  ; 
Since  she  excels  in  every  grace, 

In  her  my  love  shall  centre  : 
Sooner  the  seas  sliall  cease  to  flow, 

Their  waves  the  Alps  shall  cover. 
On  Greenland  ice  shall  roses  grow, 

Before  I  cease  to  love  her. 

The  next  time  I  go  o'er  the  moor,      . 

She  shall  a  lover  find  me.;. 
And  that  my  faith  is  firm  and  pure, 

Though  I  left  her. behind  me  : 
Theri  Hymen's  sacred  bonds  shall  chain,- 

My  heart  to  her  fair  bosom  ; 
There,  while  my  being  does  remain, 

My  love  more  fresh  shall  blossom. 


joepn^ie's  gray  breeks. 

Though  this  has  certainly  every 
evidence  of  being  a.  Scottish  air,  yet 
there  is  a  well-known  tune  and  song 
in  the  North  of  Ireland,  called  "  The 
Weaver  and  his  Shuttle,  O,"  which, 
though  sung  much  quicker,  is  every 
note  the  very  tune. 


300 


burns:  works. 


When  I  -was  in  my  se'enteenth  year, 

I  was  baith  blithe  and  bonny,  O  ; 
The  lads  lo'ed  me  baith  far  and  near  ; 

But  I  lo'ed  none  but  Johnnie,  O. 
He  grain'd  my  heart  in  twa  three  weeks, 

He  spEilc  sae  blithe  and  kindly,  O ; 
And  I  made  him  new  gray  breeks, 

That  fitted  him  maist  finely,  O, 

He  was  a  handsome  fellow  ; 

His  humour  was  baith  frank  and  free ; 
His  bonny  locks  sae  yellow, 

Like  gowd  they  ghtter'd  in  my  ee  ; 
His  dimpled  chin  and  rosy  cheeks'. 

And  face  sae  fair  and  ruddy,  O  ; 
And  then  a-day  his  gray  ^breeks 

Were  neither  auld  nor  duddy,  O. 

But  now  they  are  threadbare  worn. 
They're  wider  than  they  wont  to  be; 

They're  a'  tash'd-like,  and  unco  torn, 
And  clouted  sair  on  ilka  knee. 

But  gin  I  had  a  simmer's  day,  ■ 

-^    As  I  hae  had  right  many,  0» 

I'd  make  a  web  o'  new  gray. 
To  be  breeks  to  my  Johnnie,  O. 

For  he's  wee!  worthy  o*  them, 

And  better  than  I  hae  to  gie  ; 
But  I'll  take  pains  upo'  them. 

And  strive  irae  fau'ts  to  keep  them  free. 
To  cleedhim  weel  shall  be  my  care. 

And  please  him  a'  my  study,  O.;    , 
But  he  maun  wear  the  auld  pair 

A  wee,  though  they  be  duddy.  O. 


THE  HAPPY  MARRIAGE.* 

■   Another,  but  very  pretty,  Anglo- 
Scottish  piece. 

How  blest  has  my  time  been,  what  I'oys  have 
I  known,  [own : 

Since  wedlock's  soft  bondage  made  Jessy  my 
So  joyful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain, 
That  freedom  is  tasteless,  and  roving  a  pain. 

Through  walks  grown  with   w^oodbines,  as 

often  we  stray. 
Around  us  our  boys  and  girls  frolic  and  play  : 
How  pleasing  their  sport  is  !  the  wanton  ones 

see. 
And  borrow  their  looks  from  my  Jessy  and  me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  ofttimes  am  I  seen. 
In  revels  allday  with  the  nymphs  on  the  green; 
Though  painful  my  absence,  my  doubts  she 
beguiles,  [and  smiles. 

And. meets  me  at  nig^t  with  complaisance 

What  though  on  her  cheeks  the  ro^  loses  its 
,    hue,  [through ; 

Her  wit  and  her  humour  bloom  all  the  year 
Time  still,  as  he  flies,  adds  increase  to  her 
truth,  [her  youth. 

And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from 


*  This  song  was  composed  by  Edward 
Moore.-author  of-the  well-known  ■  tragedy  of 
the  "  Gamester,"  and  other  works. 


Ye. shepherds  so  gay,  who  make  love  to 
ensnare,  [fair; 

And  cheat- with  false  vows  the  too  credulous 

In  search  of  true  pleasure  how  vainly  you 
roam! 

To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home. 


THE  LASS  OF  PATIE'S  MILL. 

Ik  Sinclair's  Statistical  Account  of 
Scotland,  this  song  is  localised  (a  verb 
I  must  use  for  want  of  another  to  ex- 
press my  idea)  somewhere  in  the  north 
of  Scotland,  and  is  likewise  claimed  by 
Ayrshire.  The  following  anecdote  I 
had  from  the  present  Sir  Williant Cun- 
ningham of  Robertland,  who  had:  it 
from  John,  the  last  Earl  of  Loudon. 
The  then  Earl  of  Loudon,  and  fatlier  to 
Earl  John  before  mentioned,  had'Ram- 
say  at  Loudon,  and  one  day  walking 
together  by  the  banl^s  of  Irvine  :^vater, 
near  New  Mills,  at  a  place  called  Patie's 
Mill,  they  were  struck  with  the  appear- 
ance of  a  beautiful  country  girl.  .  His 
lordship  observed  that  she  would  be  a 
fine  theme  for  a  song.  Allan  lagged 
behind  in  returning  to  Loudon  Castle, 
and  at  dinner  produced  this  identical 
song. , 

The  lass  of  Patie's  mill, 

So  bonny,  blithe,  and  gav. 
In  spite  of- all  my  skill. 

Hath  stole  my  heart  away». 
When  tedding  of  the  hay,   ''. 

Bare-he^ed  on  the  green. 
Love  midst  her  locks  did  play,  - 

And  wantoh'd  in  her  een. 

Her  arms  white,  round,  and  smootii. 

Breasts  rising  in  their  dawii, 
To  age  it  would  give  youth. 

To  press  them  with"his  hand  : 
Through  all  my  spirits  ran 

An  ecstasy  of  bliss. 
When  I  such  sweetness  fand. 

Wrapt  in  a  balmy  kiss. 

Without  the  help  of  art, 

Like  flowers  which  grace  the~wild, 
She  did  her  sweets  impart, 

Whene'er  she  spoke  or  smiled. 
Her  looks  they  were  so  mild, 

Free  from  affected  pndcf .    "v 
She  me  to  love  beguiled: 

I  wish'd  her  for  my  bride. 

Oh,  had  I  all  that  wealth 
Hopetoun's  high  mountains- fill. 

Insured  long  life  and  health,' 
And  pleasure  at  my  will,   ' 


REMAHKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


801 


I'd  promise  and  fulfil, 
.  That  none  but  bonny  she,. 
The  lass  o'  Patie's  Mill, 
Should  share  the  same  wi'  me. 


THE  TURNIMSPIKB. 

TiijiRE  is  a  stanza  of  this  excellent 

eotig  for  local  humour  omitted  in  this 

j^et  where  I  have   placed  the  aster- 

i  r    t    They  tak  te  horse  then  by  te  head, 
^.      "         And  lere  tey  mak  her  stan*,  man  ; 

Me  tell  tem,  me  hae  seen  te  day 
-  ,  Tey  no  had  sic  comman',  raan. 

_'  A  Highlander  laments,  in  a  half-serious  and 
half-comic  way,  the  privations  which  the  act 
of  parliament  anent  ^ilts  has  made  him  en- 
dure, and  the  miseries  which  turnpike  roads 
and  toll-bars  -  have  brought  upon  his  coun- 
try :- 

Hersell  pe  Highland  shentleman, 
'Pe  auld  as  Pothwell  Prig,  man  ; 

And  mony  alterations  seen 
Afnang  te  Lawland  Whig,  man. 

Fifst  when  her  to  the  Lawlands  came, 
Nainsell  was  driving  cows,  man  ;  - 

There  was  nae  laws  about  hims  nerse. 
About  the  preefcs  or  trews,  man. 

Nainsell  didwes^r  the  philabeg. 
The  }}laid  pricket  on  ner  shoulder ; 
■  The  guid  claymore  hung  pe  her  pelt, 
De  pistol  sharged  wi'  pouder. 

But  for  "whereas  these  cursfed  preeks 
Wherewith  her  nerse  be  lockit. 

Oh  hon '  that  e'er  she  saw  the  day  I 
For  a' her  houghs  baprokit. 

Every  ting.in  ds  Highlands  now 
Pe-turn'd  to  alteration ; 
,     The  sodger  dwall  at  our  door-sheek, 
,  .Ttf*:f^>;.2Vnd  tat's  te  great  vexation. 

Scotland  be  turn't  a  Ningland  now, 
Aild  laws  pring  on  de  cadger ; 

Nainsell'waa  durk  him  for  his  deeds, 
But  oh !  she  fear  te  sodger.. 

Anither  law  came  after  that, 
Me  never  saw  te  like,  man  •. 
They  mak  a  lang  road  on  te  crund, 
L:       .And  ca'  him  Turninispikey  man. 

And  wow  I  she  pe  a  iiouny  road. 
Like  louden  corn-rigs,  man  ; 

Where  twa  carts  may  gang  on  her. 
And  no  preak  ither's  legs,  man. 

They  sharge  a  penny  for  ilka  horse, 
In  troth  she'll  no  besheaper, 

For-nought  put  gaen  upo*  the  ground, 
And  they  gie  me  a  paper. 


Nae  doubts,  himsel  maun  tra  her  purse. 
And  pay  them  what  hims  like,  man  ; 

I'll  see  a  shudgement  on  his  toor ; 
That  filthy  Turnimspike,  man. 

But  I'll  awa'  to  te  Highland  hills. 
Where  teil  a  ahc  dare  turn  her, 

And  no  come  near  your  Tnrnimspike, 
Unless  it  pe  to  pum  her. 


HIGHLAND  LADDIE. 

As  this  was  a  favourite  theme  with 
our  later  Scottish  muses,  there  are 
several  airs  and  songs  of  that  name. 
That  which  I  take  to  be  the  oldest  is 
to  be  found  in  the  Mumal  Museum, 
beginning  ''  I  hae  been  at  Crookieden." 
One  reason  for  my  thinking  so  is  that 
Oswald  has  it  in  his  collection  by  the 
name  of  *'  The  auld  Plighland  Laddie." 
It  is  also  known  by  the  name  of  ,*'Jing- 
lan  Johnnie, "  which  is  a  welLknown 
song  of  four  or  five  stanzas,  and  seems 
to  be  an  earlier  song  than  Jacobite, 
times.  As  a  proof  of  this,  it  is  little 
known, to  the  peasantry  by  the  name  of 
**  Highland  Laddie,"  while  everybody 
knows . ' '  Jinglan  Johnnie. "  The  song 
begins 

Jinglan  John,  the  meikle  man. 
He  met  wi'.a  laas  was  blithe  and  bonny. 

Another  "  Highland  Laddie"  is  also 
in  the  Museum,  vol.  v.,  which  I  take- 
to  be  Ramsay's  original,  as  he  has  bor-' 
rowed  the  chorus — '*0h,  my  bonny 
Highland  lad, "  .&c.  It  consists  of  three 
stanzas,  besides  the  chorus,  and  has 
humour  in  its  composition;  it  is  an  ex- 
cellent, but  somewhat  licentious  song. 
It  begins 

As  I  cam  o'er  Caimey-Mount, 

And  doyvnamang;  the  blooming  heather- 
Kindly  stood  the  milking-shiel. 

To  shelter  frae  the  stormy  weather. 

Oh,  my  tonny  Highland  lad. 

My  winsome,  weel-fard  Highland  laddie ; 
Wha  wad  mind  the  wind  and  rain, 

Sae  weel  rcw'd  in  his  tartan  plaidie  ? ' 

Now  Phoebus  blinkit  on  the  bent,  Tinffi 

And  o'er  the  knowes  the  lambs  were  bleat- 
But  he  wan  my  heart's  consent 
To  be  his  ain  at  the  neist  meeting. 

Oh,  my  bonny  Highland  lad. 
,  My  winsome,  weel-fard  Highland  laddie  ; 
Wha  wad  mind  the  wind  and  rain, 
Sae  v/eelrbw'din'his  tartan  plaidie  ? 


303 


BURNS'  WORKS'. 


,Tliis  air  and  the  common  "Highland 
Laddie"  seem  only  to  be  different  sets. 

Another  "  Highland  Laddie,"  also  in 
the  Museum,  yol.  v.,  is  the  tune  of 
several  Jacobite  fragments.  One  of 
these  old  songs  to  it  only  exists,'  as  far 
as  i  know,  in  these  four  lines; — 

Whare  haei  ye  been  a'  day, 
Bonny  laddie,  Highland  laddie? 

Down  the  back  o'  Bell's  brae, 
Courtin'  Magpfie,  coUrtin'  Mag-gie." 

Another  of  this  name  is  Br.  Ame's 
beautiful  aii-  called  the  new  '  *  Highland 
Laddie." 


THE  GENTLE  SWAIN. 

To  sing  sucli  a  beautiful  air  to  such 
execrable  verses  is  downriglit  prostitu- 
tion of  common  sense!  The  Scots 
verses  indeed  are  tolerable. 

The  Scottish  version,  written  by  Mr.'Majme, 
commences  thus : — 

Jeanie's  heart  was  frank  and  free, 

And  wooers  she  had  mony  yet. 
Her  song  was  aye,  Of  a'  I  see. 

Commend- me  to  my  Johnny  yet. 
For  air  and  late  he  has  sic  a  gate 

To  make  a  body  cheery,  that 
I  wish  to  be,  before  I  die. 

His  ain  kind  dearie  yet. 


HE   STOLE  MY  TENDER   HEART 
AWAY. 

This  is  an  Anglo-Scottish  production, 
but  by  no  means  a  bad  one. 
'  The  following  is  a  specimen : — 

The  fields  were  ^reen,  the  hills  were  gay, 
And  birds  were  singing  on  each  spray^ 
When  Colin  met  me  in  the  grove,  ' 
And  told  me  tender  tales  of  love. 
Was  ever  swain  so  blithe  as  he. 
So  kind,  so  faithful  and  so  free  V  -- 
In  spite  of  all  my  friends  could  say, 
Young  Colin  stole  my  heart  away. 


FAIREST  OF  THE  FAIR. 

It  is  too  barefaced  to  take  Dr. 
Percy''3  charming  song,  and,  by  means 
of  transposing  a  few  English  words 
into  Scots,  io  offer  to  pass  it  for  a  Scots 
song. — I  was  not  acquainted  Avitli  the 
editor  until  the  first  volume  was  nearly 


finished,  else,  had  I  known  in  time,  I 
would  have  j^revented  such  an  impui^ 
dent  absurdity.  _  > 

The  following  is  a  complete  copy  of  Percjr's  ^ 
beautiful  lines : — 

O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me, 

Nor  sigh  to  leave  the  flaunting  town  ? 
Can  silent  glens  have  charms  for  thee. 

The  lowly  cot  and  russet  gown  ?  /'  "* 
No  longer  drest  in  silken  sheen,        ..'  ' 

No  longer  deck'd  with  jewels  tare,  '■" 
Say,  canst  thou  quit  each  courtly  scene. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair?  :- 

O  Nancy,  when  thbu'rt  far  awa^i^^'''  "^-^ 

Wilt  thou  not  cast  a  wish  behifad*?'  '  '^' 
Say,  canst  thou  face  the  parching  rayj  '-^ 

Nor  shrink  before  the  wintry  wind  ?' ' 
Oh,  can  that  soft  and  gentle  mien 

Extremes  of  hardship  learn  to  bear ; 
Nor,  sad,  regret  each  courtly  scene,     /^ 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  i-j. 

O  Nancy !  canst  thou  love  so  true. 

Through  perils  keen  with  me  to  go,  ~ 
Or  when  thy  swain  mishap  shall  rue. 

To  share  with  him  the  pang  of  woe? 
Say,  should  disease  or  pain  befall, 

Wilt  thou  assume  the  nuree's  care. 
Nor  wistful  those  gav  scenes  recall. 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  iaSx  ?    ^ 

And  when  at  last  thy  love  shall  die. 

Wilt  thou  receive  his  partingbreath  ? 
Wilt  tiiou  repress  each  stru^Ting-sigh, ' 

And  cheer  with  smiles  the  oed  of  death  ? 
And  wilt  thou  o'er  his  breathless  clay 

Strew  flowers  and  drop  the  tender  tear. 
Nop  then  regret  those  scenes  so  gay    ' 

Where  thou  wert  fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

*'  This,    writes  Burns,  "  is  perhaps  the  most 
beautiful  ballad  jp  the  English  language." 


THE   BLAITHRIE  O'T. 

The  following  is  a  set  of  this  song,  ' 
whicli  was  the  earliest  song  I  remeVn-  ' 
ber  to  have  got  by  heart.      When  a 
child,  an  old  woman  sung  it  to  me;  and 
I   picked  it  up,   every  word  at  first^' 
hearing.  '■-' 

O  Willy.,  weel  I  mind,  I  lentyou  my  hand 
To  sing  you  a  song  which  you  did  me  com- 
mand ; 
But  my  memory's  so  bad,  I  had  almost  forgot 
That  you  call'd  it  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 

I'll  not  sing  about  confusion,  delusion  rior 
pride,  [tsfifle; 

1 11  sing  about  a  laddie  was   for  a:  vir'tiious 

For  virtue  is  an  ornament  that  time  will  never 
rot. 

And  preferable  to  gear  and  the  blaithrie.  o't. 


EEMARKS^ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


SQ3: 


T^QUgJt-  my , lassie  Jiae  nae  scarlets^nor  silks. to 
WjJr,9P>  [throne; 

We  envy  not  the  greatest  that  sits  upon  the 

1  wad  rather  hae  my  lassie,  though  she  cam 
in  her  smock,  [o't. 

That!' a  princess  wi*  tiie  gear  and  the  blaithrie 

Though  we  hae,  nae  horses  nor  menzie*  at 
command  ;  [our  hand  : 

We  willvtoil  on  our  foot,  and  we*ll  work  wi 

And  wheiiwearied  without  rest,  we'll  find  it 
sweet  in  any  spot,  [o't. 

And  we'll, value  not  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie 

If  we  hae:  ony  babies,  we'll  count  them  as 
lent ;  [tent ; 

Hae  we  less,  hae  we  mair,  we  will  aye  be  con- 

Forthey  say  tliey  hae  mair  pleasure  that  wins 
but  a  groat-  [o't. 

Than  tl^iriiser  wi'  his  gear  and  the  blaithrie 

I'll  not  meddle  wi'  the  affairs  o*  the  kirk  or 
the  queen  ;  [sink,  let  them  swim ; 

They're  nae    matters    for  a  sang,  let  them 

On  your  kirk  I'll  ne'er  encroach,  but  I'll  hold 
it  still  remote, 

Sae  tak  this  for  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 


MAT  EVE,  OR  KATE  OF  ABER- 
DEEN. 

,  "Kate of  Aberdeen''  is,  I  believe, 
tlie  work  of  poor  Cunningham  the 
player;  of  whom  the  following  anec- 
dote,' though  told  before,  deseryes  a 
recital.  A  fat  dignitary  of  the  church 
coming  past  Cunningham  one  Sunday, 
as  the  poor  poet  was  busy  plying  a 
fishing-rod  in  some  stream  near  Dur- 
ham, his  native  county,  his  reverence 
reprimanded  Cunningham  very  severe- 
ly for  such  an  occupation  on  such  a 
da^„,  The  poor  poet,  with  that  in- 
ol§nsive  gentleness  of  manners  which 
Wjas  his  peculiar  characteristic,  replied, 
thathe  hoped  God  and  his  reverence 
would  forgive  his  seeming  profanity  of 
that  sacred  day,  "  a*  Jtehad  no  dinner 
to  eat  but  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  thai 
poolj"  This,  Mr.  Woods,  the  player, 
who  knew  Cunningham  well,  and  ^- 
teemed.  Mm  much,  assured  me  was 
true. 

The  silver  .moon's  enamour'd  beam 
Steals  sohljr  through  the  night. 

To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream. 
And  kiss  reflected  light. 

*  Metizie — Retinue,  foUowers, 


"To  beds  of  staje^o,. balmy  Sleep, 

Where  you've  so  seldom  been. 
Whilst  I  May's  wakeful  vigils  keep 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen! 

The  nymphs  and  swains  expectant  wait, 
■   In  primrose  chaplets  gay, 
Till.morn  unbars  her  golden  gate, 

And  gives  the  promise.d.  May. 
The  nymphs  and  swains  shall  all  declare 

The  promised  May.  yirhen  seen,- 
Not  half  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair. 

As  Kate  of  Aberdeen  ! 

I'll  tune  my  pipe  to  playful  notes. 

And  lOuse  yon  nodding  grove  ; 
Tillnew-waked  birds  distend  their  throats, 

And  hail  the  maid  I  love. 
At  her  approach  the  lark  mistakes, 

And  quits  the  new-dress'd  green ; 
Fond  bird  !  'tis  not  the  morning  breaks  ; 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen  ! 

Now  blithesome  o'er  the  dewy  mead. 

Where  elves  disportive  play  ; 
The  festal  dance  young  shepherds  lead. 

Or  sing:  their,  love-tuned  lay. 
Till  May  in  morning  robe  draws  nigh, 

And  claims  a  Virgin  Queen  j  - 
The  nymphs  and  swains,  exulting,  cry, 

Here's  Kate  of  Aberdeen  !- 


TWEED-SIDE. 

In  Ramsay's  Tea-table  Mtseeliany,  he 
tells  us  that  about  thirty  of  the  songs 
in  that  publication  were  the  works  of 
some  young  gentlemen  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, which  songs  are  marked  with 
the  letters  D.  C.,&c.— Old  Mr.  Tytler 
of  Woodhouselee,  the  worthy  and  able 
defender  of  the  beauteous  Queen  o^ 
Scots,  told  me  that  the  songs  marked 
C.  in  the  Tea-table  were  the  composi- 
tion of  a  Mr.  Crawford,  of  the  house  of 
Achnames,  who  was  afterwards  unfor- 
tunately drowned  coming  from  France. 
As  Tytler  was  most  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  Allan  Ramsay,  I  think 
the  anecdote  may  be  depended  on.  Of 
consequence,  the  beautiful  song  of 
Tweed-side  is  Mr.  Crawford's,  and  in- 
deed does  great  honoiir  to  his  poetical 
talents.  He  was  a  Robert  Crawford; 
the  Mary  he  celebrates  was  a  Mary 
Stuart,   of    the  Castle-Milk  family,* 

*  In  a  copy  of  Cromek's  Reliques  of  Burns 
there  is  the  following  note  on  this  passage-in 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  handwriting :— "  Miss  Mary 
Lillias  Scott  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  John 
Scoti'Of    Harden,   and    v*cll   known  in- the 


30^ 


BURNS'   WOKKS. 


afterwards  married  to  a  Mr.  John  Rit- 
chie. 

I  have  seen  a  song,  calling  itself  the 
original  Tweed-side,  and  said  to  have 
heen  composed  by  a  Lord  Tester.  It 
consisted  of  two  stanzas,  of  which  I 
still  recollect  the  first — 

When  Maggy  and  I  was  ac(jualnt, 

I  carried  my  noddle  fu'  high  ; 
Nae  lintwhite  on  a'  the  green  plain. 

Nor  gowdspink,  sae  happy  as  I ; 
But  I  saw  her  sae  fair,  and  I  lo'd : 

I  woo'd,  but  I  cam  nae  great  speed ; 
So  now  I  maun  wander  abroad. 

And  lay  my  banes  far  frae  the  Tweed.t 

The  following  is  Crawford's  song,  which  is 
still- popular: — 

What  beauties  doth  Flora  disclose  ! 

How  sweet  are  her  smiles  upon  Tweed  ! 
Yet  Mary's,  still  sweeter  than  those. 

Both  nature  and  fancy  exceed, 
Nor  daisy,  nor  sweet  blushing  rose, 

Ndr  all  the  gay  flowers  of  me  field. 
Nor  Tweed,  Riding  gently  through  those, 

Stich  beauty;  and  pleasure  do  yield. 

The  warblers  are  heard  in  the  grove, 

The  linnet,  the  lark,  aiSd  the  thrush, 
The  blackbird  and  sweet  cooing  dove 

With  music  enchant  every  bush. 
Come,  let  us  go  forth  to  the  mead. 

Let  us  see  how  the  primroses  spring. 
We'll  lodge  in  some  village  on  Tweed, 

And  love  while  the  feather'd  folks  sing. 

How  does  qiy  love  pass  the  long  day  ? 

Does  Mary  not  tend  a  few  sheep? 
Do  they  never  carelessly  stray  ? 

WhiiC  happily  she  lies  asleep? 


fashionable  world  by  the  nick-name  of  Cadie 
Scott,  I  believe,  because  she  went  to  a  masked 
ball  in  such  a  disguise.  I  remember  her,  an 
old  lady,  distinguished  tor  elegant  manners 
and  high  spirit,  though  struggling 
under  the  disadvantages  of  a  narrow  income, 
as  her  father's  estate,  being  entailed  on  heirs 
male,  went  to  another  branch  of  the  Harden 
family,  then  called  the  High  Chester  family. 
I  have  heard  a  hundred  times,  from  those  who 
lived  at  the  period,  that  Tweed-side,  and  the 
song  carted  Mary  Scott,  the  Flower  of  Yarrow, 
were  both  written  upon  this  much-admired 
lady,  and  could  add  much  proof  on  the  subject, 
did  space  permit." 

t  The  following  is  the  other  stanza:— 

To  Maggy  my  love  I  did  tell, 

^ut  tears  did  my  passion  express ; 
Alas !  for  I  lo'ed  her  o'er  well, 

And  the  women  lo'e'sic  a  man  less. 
Her  heart  it  was  frozen  and  cauld, 

Her  pride  had  my  ruin  decreed  ; 
Therefore  I  will  wander  abroad,  ' 

And  lay  my  banes  far  frae  the  Tweed. 


Tweed's  murmurs  should  lull  her  to  rest. 
Kind  nature  indulging  my  bliss,  . 

To  ease  the  soft' pains  of  my  breast, 
I'd  steal  an  ambrosial. kiss. 

*Tis  she  does  the  virgin  excel. 

No  beauty  with  her  may  compare : 
Love's  graces  around  her  do  dwell,        b 

She's  fairest,  where  thousands  are  fai|^ 
Say,  charmer,  where  do  thy  flock  stray  ? 

Oh !  tell  me  at  noon  where  they  feed ;; 
Is  it  on  the  sweet  wending  Tay, 

Or  pl^fisanter  banks  of  the  Tweed"? 


THE  POSIK. 

It  appears  evident  to  me  that  Oswald 
composed  his  "Roslin  Castle"  on  the 
modulation  of  this  air.^— In  tlie  second 
part  of  Oswald's,  in  the  three  first  hars, 
he  has  either  hit  on  a  wonderfi^  simil- 
arity to,  or  else  he  has  entirely  borrow- 
ed, the  three  first  bars  of  the  old  air; 
and  the  close  of  both  tunes  is  almost 
exactly  the  same.  The  old  verses  to 
which  it  was  sung,  when  I  took  down 
the  notes  from  a  country  girl's  voice, 
had  no  great  merit. — The  following  is 
a  specimen; — 

There  was  a  pretty  may,^  and  a  milkin'  She 

went,  [hair ; 

Wi'  her  red  rosy  cheeks  and  her  coal  -black 

And  she  has  met  a  young  man  a  comin*o'er- 

the  bent, 

With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee,  fair  may. 

Oh,  wliere  are  ye  goin',  my  ain  pretty  may, 
Wi'  thy  red  rosy  cheeks  and  thy  coal  black 
hair  ? 

Unto  the  yowes  a  milkin',  kind  sir,  she  says. 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee,  fair  may. 

What  if  I  gang  alang  wi'  thee,  my  ain  pretty 

may,  -  [hair  ? 

Wi'  thy  red  rosy  cheeks  and  thy  coal  black 

Wad  I  be  aught  the  warse  o'  that,  kind  sir, 

she  says. 

With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee,  fair  may. 


MARY'S  DREAM. 

The  Mary  here  alluded  to  is  gener- 
ally supposed  to  be  Miss  Mary  M'Ghie, 
daughter  to  the  Laird  of  Airds,  in 
Galloway.     The  poet  was  a  Mr.  John 

1  Maid. 
*  This  is  a  mistake— Oswald  was  not  the 
composer  of  Roslin  Castle, 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


305 


Loive,f  who  likewise  wrote  another 
beautiful  song,  called  Pompey's  Ghost. 
—I  have  seen  a  poetio  epistle  from  him 
in  North  America,  where  he  now  m,  or 
lately  was,  to  a  lady  in  Scotland. ^^By 
the  strain  of  th©  verses,  it  appeared 
that  they  allude  to  some  love  affair. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 

Which  -rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  frftm  the  eastern  summit  shed 

Her  silver  li^ht  on  tower  and  tree, 
When  Mary  laid.her  down  to  sleep, 

Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea ; 
When,  soft  and  low,  a  voice  she  heard. 

Saying,  "  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me !" 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Herhead  to  ask  who  there  might  be  ; 
She  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand. 

With  visage  pale  and  hollow  eci 
O  Mary  dear !  cold  is  my  clay. 

It  lies  beneath  a  stormy  sea ; . 
Far,  far  from  tbee.I  sleep  in  death. — 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me ! 

Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 

We  toss'd-  upon  the  raging  main, 
And  long  we- strove  ottr  bark  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
Even  then,  when  horror  chill'd  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  fiU'd  with  love  for  thee  ; 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest. 

So,  Mary,  Weep  no  more  for  me  I 

O  maiden  dear,  thyself  pfCpare, 
We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore 

Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care. 
And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more. 

Loud  crow'd  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled, 

-   Np  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see  ; 

But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 
"  Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  !" 


THE    MAID     THAT    TENDS    THE 
GOATS. 

BY  MR.    DUDGEON. 

This  Dudgeon  is  a  respectable  farm- 
er's son  in  Berwiolishire. 


f  He  was  a  native  of  Kenmore  in  Galloway, 
and  was  employed  as  a  tutor  in  the  family  of 
M'Ghie  of  Arrds,  about  1770,  when  the  inci- 
dent recorded  in  the  song  occurred.  Miss 
Mary  'M^(5-hie,  a  daughter  of  his  employer's, 
having  been  betrothed  to  a  young  gentleman 
of  the  name  of  Miller,  who  was  at  this  time 
unfortunately  lost  at  sea,  Lowe  commemor- 
ated the  melancholy  event  in  the  above  beau- 
tiful song.  Hcafterwards  emigrated  to  the 
United  States,  where  he  made  an  unfortunate 
ingrr^^ge,  ^he  grief  occasioned  by  which  drove 
film  mto  dissipated  habils,  that  brought  him 
to  an  early  grave. 


Up  amang  yon  cliffy  rocks, 

Sweetly  rings  the  rising  echo, 

To  the  maid  that  tends  the  goats. 

Lilting  o'er  her  native  notes. 

Hark,  she  sings,  Young  Sandie's  kind, 

And  he's  promised  aye  to  lo'e  me. 

Here's  a  brooch,  I  ne'er  shall  tine. 

Till  he's  fairly  married  to  me. 
Drive  away,  ye  drone  Time, 
And  bring  about  our  bridal  day. 

Sandy  herds  a  flock  o'  sheep, 

Aften  does  he  blaw  the  whistle, 

In  a  strain  sae  vastly  sweet, 

Lam'ies  listening  dare  na  bleat ; 

He's  as  fleet's- the  mountain  roe, 

Hardy  as  the  Highland  heather, 

Wading  through  tHe  winter  snow. 

Keeping  aye  his  flock  together ; 
But  wi'  plaid  and  bare  houghs 
He  braves  the  bleakest  northern  blast. 

Brawly  he  can  dance  and  sing. 
Canty  glee,  or  Highland  cronach: 
Nane  can  ever  match  his  fling. 
At  a  reel,  or  round  a  ring  : . 
Wightly  can  he  wield  a  rung. 
In  a  brawl  he's  aye  the  baughter; 
A'  his  praise  can  ne'er  be  sung 
By  the  langest  winded  sangster. 

Sangs  that  sing  o'  Sandy, 

Seem  short,  though  they  were  e'er  sae  lang. 


I  WISH   MY  LOVE   WERE    IN   A 
MIRE. 

1  NEVER  heard  more  of  tlie  words  of" 
this  old  song  than  the  title. 

The  old  song  began  with  these  character- 
istic words : — 

I  wish  my  love  were  in  a  mire. 
That  I  might  pu'  her  out  again. 

The  verses  in  the  Museum  are  merely  a 
translation  from  Sappho  by  Ambrose  Ph'il- 
lips : — 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 
And  heats  and  sees  thee  all  the  while,- 
So  softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  bereaved  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  ray  breast, 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  toss'd, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glow'd,  the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame; . 
O'er  my  dim-cyes  a  darkness  hung. 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy-damps  my  limbs  were  chill'd. 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrill'd  ; 
My. feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play  ;■ 
I  lamted — sunk— and  died  away. 


S06 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ALLAN   WATER. 

This  Allan  Water,  which  the  com- 
poser of  the  music  has  honoured  with 
the  name  of  the  air,  I  have  been  told  is 
Allan  Water  in  Strathallan. 

What  numbers  shall  the  muse  repeat. 

What  verse  be  found  to  praise  my  Annie  ; 
On  her  ten  thousand  graces  wait,       _ 

Each  swain  admires  and  owns  she  s  bonny. 
Since  first  she  strode  the  happy  plain. 

She  set  each  youthful  heart  on  fire  ; 
Each  nymph  does  to  her  swain  complain, 

That  Annie  kindles  new  desire. 

This  lovely,  darling,  dearest  care, 

This  new  delight,  this  charming  Annie, 
Like  summer's  dawn  she's  fresh  and  fair. 

When  Flora's  fragrant  breezes  fan  ye. 
All  day  the  am'rous  youths  convene, 

Joyous  they  sport  and  play  before  her  ; 
All  night,  when  she  no  more  is  seen. 

In  joyful  dreams  they  still  adore  "her. 

Among  the  crowd  Amyntor  came. 

He  look'd,  he  lov'd,  he  bow'd  to  Annie ; 
His  riging  sighs  express  his  flame. 

His  words  were  few,  his  wishes  many. 
With  smiles  the  lovely  maid  replied. 

Kind  shepherd,  why  should  I  deceive  ye  ? 
Alas  !  your  love  m^st  be  denied. 

This  destined  breast  can  ne'er  relieve  ye. 

Young  Damon  came  with  Cupid's  art, 

His  wiles,  his  smiles,  his  charms  beguiling  ; 
He  stole  away  my  virgin  heart ; 

Cease,  poor  Amyntor  !  cease  bewailing. 
Some  brighter  beauty  you  may  find  ; 

On  yonder  plain  the  nymphs  are  many ; 
Then  choose  some  heart  that's  unconfined. 

And  leave  to  Damon  his  own  Anaie. 


THERE'S  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT 
THE  HOUSE.* 

This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
songs  in  tlie  Scots,  or  any  other,  lan- 
guage.— The  two  lines. 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 
And  I  will  hear  him  speak  ? 

as  well  as  the"  two  preceding  ones,  are 
unequalled  almost  by  anything  I  ever 
heard  or  read;  and  the  lines. 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 
The  neist  we  never  saw. 


are  worthy  of  the  first  poet,  It  is  loDfg- 
posterior  to  Kamsay's  days.  Ah6uith,Q  ■ 
year  1771,  or  1773,  it  came  first  on  the. 
streets  as  a  ballad;  and  I  suppose  the 
composition  of  the  song  was  not  much 
anterior  to  that  period. 

There's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 

When  our  guidman's  awa'. 

And  are  you  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  do  you  say  he's  weel? 
Is  this  a  time  to  speak  of  wark? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel ! 
Is  this  a  time  to  spin  a  thread, ' 

When  Cohn's  at  the  door? 
Reach- me  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay. 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 

And  gie'to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's  satin  gown  ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife ..        _  _  _  ? 

That  Colin's  in  the  town.  -  -_^  ' 

My  turken  slippers  maun  gae  on,        ''^  "^ 

My.stockings  pearly  blue  ;  -,        , ,  .  ^,-^-  ~- 
'Tis'a'  to  pleasure  my  guidman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  make  a  clean  fireside,    r,     - 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown. 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And-mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes,    " 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 
'Tis  a.'  to  pleasure  my  guidman, 

For  he's  been  lang  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ;  r 

Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  abouti 

■That  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  mak  the  table  neat  and  trim  ; 

Let  every  thing  be  braw ; 
For  who  kens  how  my  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'. 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech,  - 

His  breath  like  caller  air, 
Hi's  z'ery  foot  hath  music  hii^ 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair, 
A  nd  shall  I  see  hisjace  again  ? 

And  shall  I  hear  hint  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  giddy  w;i'  the  thought, 

In  truth  rm  like  to  greet. 

If  Colin's  weel.  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
And  gin  I  live  to  mak  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  shall  I  see  his  face  again  ?  &c.  .  ■ 


*  William  Julius  Mickle,  a  native  of  Lang- 
holm, on  the  Borders,  and  well  known  as  the 
translator  of  CamoensMmmortal  poefti,  "The 
Lusiad,"  was  the  author  of  this  song.  He 
was  born  in,  1734,  and  died  in  1788. 


TARRY    WOO. 

This  is  a  very  pretty  song:  but  I  fancy 
that  the  following  first, half-stanza, as 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


307 


welt  as  tiie  tiine  itself,  is  much  older 
tliau  the  rest  of  the  words. 

Oh,  tarry  woo  is  ill  to  spin, 
Card  it  weel  e'er  ye  be^in  ; 
Card  it  weel  and  draw  it  sma'. 
Tarry  woe's  the  best  of  a*. 


GRAHACHREE. 

The  song  of  Gramachree  was  com- 
posed by  Mr.  Poe,  a  counsellor  at  law 
in  Dublin.  This  anecdote  I  had  from 
a  gentleman  wito  knew  the  lady, '  the 
"Molly,"  who  is  the  subject  of  the 
song,  and  to  whom  Mr.  Poe  sent  the 
first  manuscript  of  these  most  beauti- 
ful verses.  I  "do  not  remember  any 
single  line  that  has  more  true  pathos 
than 

How  can  she  break    the  honest  heart  that 
wears  her  in  its  core  ! 

But  as  the  song  is  Irish,  it  had  nothing 
to  do  in  this  collection. 

As  down  on  Banna's  banks  I  stray'd, 

One  evening'  in  May, 
The-little  birds  in  blithest  notes 

Made  vocal  every  spray  ; 
They  sang  their  little  notes  of  love: 

They  sang  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Ah  !  gramachree;  mo  challie  nouge, 

Mo  Molly  Astore. 

The  daisy  pied,  and  all  the  sweets 

Th.e  dawn  of  nature  yields  ; 
The  primrose  pale,  the  violet  blue, 

Lay  scatter'd  o'er  the  fields  j 
Such  fragrance  in  the  bosom  hes 

Of  her^vhom  I  adore. 
Ah !  gramachree,  mo  ch^lie  nouge, 
■     Mo  Molly  Astore. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  a  bank, 

Bewailing'  my  sad  fate. 
That  doom  d  me  thus  the  slave  of  love^ 

And  cruel  Molly's  hate. 
How  can  she  break  the  honest  heart 

That  wears  her  in  its  core  I 
Ah !  gramachree,  mo  challie  nouge. 

Mo  Molly  Astore. 

You  said  you  loved  me,  Molly  dear; 

Ah !  why  did  I  believe  ? 
Yes,  who  could  think  such  tender  words 

Were  meant  but  to  deceive  ? 
That  love  was  all  I  ask'd  on^arth, 

Nay,  heaven  could  give  no  more. 
Ah !  gramachree,  mo  challie  nouge, 

Mo  Molly  Astore. 

Oh  !  had  I  all  the  flocks  that  graze, 
,    On  yonder  yellow  hill : 
\  ■■  Or^loyir'd  for  me  the  num  rous  herds, 
-  'That  fori  green  pastures  fill ; 


With  her  I  love-J*d- gladly  share 

My  kine  and  fleecy  store, 
Ah  !. gramachree,  mo  challie  nouge, 

Mo  Molly  Astore. 

Two  turtle  doves  above  my  head, 

Sat  courting  on  a  bough  ; 
I  envy'd  them  their  happiness, 

To  see  them  bill  add  fcoo.; 
Such  fondness  once  for  me  she  show'd, 

But  now,  alas !  'tis  o'er : 
Ah  !  gramachree,  mo  challie  nouge,  . 

Mo  Molly  Astore. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  Molly  dear, 

Thy  loss  I  still  shall  moan  ; 
Whilst  life  remains  ifi  Strephon's  heart, 

'Twill  beat  for  thee  alone.  .    . 

Though  thou  art.  false,  may  Heaven  on  thee 

Its  choieest -blessings  pour ! 
Ah !  gramachree,  mo  challie  nouge, 

Mo  Mollie  Astore. 


THE  COLLIER'S   BONNY  LAS&IR 

The  first  half  stanza  is  much  older 
than  the  days  of  Ramsay. — The  old 
"words  began  thus: — 

The  collier  has  a  dochter,  and,. oh,  she's  won- 
derboriny  ;  [lands  and  money. 

A  laird  he  was  that  sought  her,  rich  baith  m 

She  wad  nae  hae  a  laird,  nor  wad  she  be  a 
lady;'  •  [daddie. 

But  she  wad  hae  a  collier,  the  colour  o'  her 

The  verses  in  the  Museum  are  very  pretty ; 
but  Allan  Ramsay's  songs  have  always  nature 
to  recommend  them ; — 

THECollier  has  a  daughter, 

And  oh.  she's  wonder  bonny ! 
A  laird  he  was  that  sbught  her, 

Rich  baith  in  land  and  money. 
.  The  tutors  watch'd  the  motion 

Of  this  young  honest  lover, 
But  love  is  like  the  ocean  ; 

Wha  can  its  deeps  discover? 

He  had  the  heart  to  please  ye, 

And  was  by  a'  respected, 
H!s  airs  sat  round  him  easy, 

Genteel',  but  unaffected. 
The  Collier's  bonny  lassie. 

Fair  as  the  new-blown  lily, 
Aye  sweet  and  never  saucy, 

Secured  the  heart  of  Willie. 

He  loved  beyond  expression, 

The  charms  that  were  about  her, 
And  panted  for  possession, 

His  life  was  dull  without  her. 
After  mature  resolving, 

Close  to  his  breast  he  held  her 
Insaftest  flames  dissolving. 

He  tenderly  thus  tell'd  her — 

"  My  bonny  Collier's  daughter 
Let  naething  discompose  ye, 

'Tis  Tio  your  scanty  tocher 
Shall  ever  gar  me  lose  ye ; 


3oa 


BURKS'  WORKS. 


For  I  have  gear  in  plenty, 
And  love  says  'tis  my  duty 

To  wear  what  Heaven  has  lent  me, 
Upon  your  wit  and  beauty." 


MY  AIN  KIND  DEARIE,  O. 

The  old  words  of  this  song  are  omit- 
ted here,  though  much  more  beautiful 
than  these  inserted:  which  were  mostly 
composed  by  poor  Fergusson,  in  onQ  of 
his  merry  humours.  The  old  words 
began  thus: — 

I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O, 
I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O, 
Although  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wat. 

And  I  were  ne^er  sae  weary,  O, 
I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

The  following  are  Fergusson's  verses  ;— 

Nae  herds  wi'  kent  and  collie  there 
Shall  ever  come  to  fear  ye,  O, 

But  laverocks  whistling  in  the  air. 
Shall  woo,  like  me,  their  deai-ie,  O  ! 

While  others  herd  their  lambs  and  ewes. 
And  toil  for  world's^gear,  my  jo. 

Upon  the  lee  my  pleasure  grows, 
Wi'  you,  my  kind  dearie,  O ! 

Will  ye  gang  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  ? 
And  cuddle  there,  sae  kindly  wi'  me. 

My  kind  dearie,  O  ! 

At  thorny  dike,  and  birkin  tree, 
We'll  daff,  and  ne'er  be  weary,  O  ! 

They'll  sing  111  e'en  frae  you  and  me. 
My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  f 


agrees  to  keep  his  daughter  for  some 
time  after  the  marriage?  for  which  the 
son-in-law  binds  himself  to  give  him 
the    profits   of  the  first    Michaelmas 


Allan   Ramsay's    version  is  as  fol 
lows: — 

Happy's  the  love  which  meets  return, 
When  iasoft  flame  souls  equal  burn  ; 
But  words  are  wanting  to  discover 
The  torments  of  a  hapless  lover.    - 
Ye  registers  of  heaven,  relate. 
If  looking  o'er  the  rolls  of  fate,    .   - 
Did  you  there  see  me  mark'd  to  tnarrovr  ; 
Mary  Scott,  the  flower  of  Yarrow. 

Ah,  no  !  her  form's  too  heavenly  fair,  ^  -  -^-^.. 
Her  love  the  gods  alone  r^ust  share  •  ' '— '"' 
While  mortals  with  despair  explore  her. 
And  at  a  distance  due  adore  her. 
O  lovely  maid  !  my  doubts  beguile,  -  --,4 
Revive  and  bless  me  with  a  smile: 
Alas,  if  not,  you'll  soon  debar  a-  -,"!-"■ 

Sighing  swain  on  t^le  hanks  of  Yarrow. 

Be  hush'd,  ye. fears  !  I'll  not  despair. 
My  Mary's  tender  as  she's  fair  ; 
Then  I'll  go  tell  her  all  mine  anguish. 
She  is  too  good  to  let  me  languish  ; 
With  success  crown'd,  I'll  not  envy 
The  folks  who  dwell  above  the  sky  ; 
When  Mary  Scott's  become  my  marrow. 
We'll  make  a  paradise  of  Yarrow. 


MARY  SCOTT,  THE  FLOWER  OF 
YARROW. 

Mr.  Robertson,  in  his  statistical 
account  of  the  parish  of  Selkirk,  says, 
that  Mary  Scott,  the  Flower  of  Yar- 
row, was  descended  from  the  Dryhope, 
and  married  into  the  Harden  family. 
Her  daughter  was  married  to  a  prede- 
c5ssor  bf  the  present  Sir  Francis  Elliot 
of  Stobbs,  and  of  the  late  Lord  tteath- 
field. 

There  is  a  circumstance  in  their  con- 
tract of  marriage  that  merits  attention, 
and  it  strongly  marks  the  predatory 
Spirit  of  the  times.     The  fathey-in-law 


DOWN   THE  BURN.  DAVIE. 

I  HATE  been  informed  that  the  trnt* 
of  "  Down  the  Burn,  Davie/'  was  the 
composition  of  David  Maigh,  keeper 
of  the  blood  slough -hounds,  belonging 
to  tlie  Laird  of  R,iddel,  in  Tweeddale. 

When  trees  did  bud,  and  fields  were  greeo, 

And  broom  bloom'd  fair  to  see  ; 
When  Mary  was  complete  fifteen. 

And  love  laugh '<i  in  her  ee  ; 
Blithe  Davie's  blinks  her  heart  did  move, 

To  speak  her  mind  thus  free, 
"  Gang  do,wn  the  burn,  Davie,  love, 

And  I  shall  follow  thee." 

Now  Diavie  did  each  lad  surpass 

That  dwalt  on  yon  burn  side,        '  }[ 

And  Mary  was  tlje  bonniest  lass,    ,  '"  * 

Just  meet  to  be  a  bride  ;  ,  ^     . 

Her  cheeks  weVe  rosy,  red  and  white. 

Her  een  were  bonny  blue : 
Her  looks  were  like  Aurora  bright. 

Her  lips  like  dropping  dew. 


*  The  lime  when  the  moss-troopers  sujd 
cattle-^avefs  on  the  Borders  began  of  ybre 
their  nightly  depredations.. 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 
_  What  tender  tales  they  said  ! 
His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  with  her  bosom  play*d  ; 
Till  baith  at  length  iinpatient  grown 
■  To  be  mair  fully  blest, 
In  yojider  vale  they  lean'd  tliem  down — 
;  Love  only  saw  the  rest.        ' 

What  pass'd  I  guess  was  harmless  play, 

And  naething  sure  unmeet : 
For  ganging  hame,  I  heard  them  say, 

They  liked  a  walk  sae  sweet ; 
And  that  they  aften  should  return 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew, 
Quoth  Mary, '''  Love,  I  like  the  bum, 

And  aye  shall  follow  you." 


BLINK  0:ER  the  BURN/ SWEET 
BETTY. 

The  old  words,  all  that  I  remember, 
are, — 

Bunk  over  the  bum,  sweet  Betty, 

It  is  a  cauld  winter  night ; 
It  rains,  it  hails,  it  thunders, 

The  moon  she  gies  nae  light: 
It's  a'  for  the  sake  o'  sweet  Betty 

That  ever  I  tint  my  way  ; 
Sweet,  let  me  lie  beyond  thee 

Until  it  be  break  o'  day. 

Oh,  Betty  will  bake  my  bread. 

And  Betty  will  bre\v  my  ale^ 
And  Betty  will  be  my  love, 

When  I  come  over  the  dale  ; 
Blink  over  the  burn,  sweet  Betty^ 

Blink  over  the  burn  to  me. 
And  while  I  hae  life,  dear  lassie. 

My  ain  sweet  Betty  thou's  be. 


THE  BLITHESOME  BRIDAL.* 

I  FIND  the ''  Blithesome  Bridal "  in 
James  Watson's  colleetiou  of  Scots 
Poems  printed  at  Edinburgh,  in  1706. 
This  collection,  the  publisher  says,  is 
the  first  of  its  nature  which  lias  been 
published  in  our  own  native  Scots  dia- 
lect— ^it  is  now  extremely  scarce. 

The  entire  song  is  much  too  long  for  quota- 
tion ;  but  the  following  verses,  describin^f  the 
guests  who  wefe  to  be  present  and  the  dishes 
to  be  provided  for  them,  will  convey  a  very 
fair  idea  of  its  merit  :— 

Come,  fye,  let  us  a'  to  the  weddings 
For  there  will  be  lilting  there, 

*  There  appears  to  be  some  dubiety  about 
the  authorship  of  this  humorous  ballad,  it 
having  been  assigned  to  Sir  William  Scott  .of 
Thirlestane  and  Francis  Sempill  of  Beltrees. 


For  Jock  will  be  married- to  Maggie, 
The  lass  wi'  the  gowden  hair. 

And  there  will  be  lang  kail  and.  castocks, 
And  bannocks  o'  barley-meal ; 

And  there  will  be  guid  saut  herring, 
To  relish  a  cog  o  guid  ale. 

And  thfere  will  be.  Sandw.  the  sutor, 
And  Will  wi'  the  meikle  mou, 

And  there  will  be  Tam  the  blutter, 
■     With  Andrew  the  tinkler,  I  trow  ; 

And  there  will  be  bo^y-legg'd  Robie, 
With  thumbless  Katie's.gudeman, 

And  there  will  be  blue-cheek'd  Dobbie, 
And  Laurie,  the  laird  of  the  land. 

And  there  will  be  sow-libber  Patie, 

And  plookie-faced  Wat  o'  the  mill ; 
Capper-nosed  Francis  and  Gibbie, 

Ihat  wons  i'  the  Howe  o',  the  hill ; 
And  there  will  be  Agister  Sibbie, 

Wha  in  wi'  black  Bessie  did  mool, 
With  snivelling  Lillie  and  Tibbie, 

The  lass  that  stands  aft  on  the  stool. 


And  there  will  be  fadges  and  brochan, 

Wi'  routh  o'  gude  gabbocks  o'  skate  ; 
Powsowdie  and  drammock  and  crowdie, 

And  caller  howt  feet  on  a  plate ; 
And  there  will  be  partans  and  buckies, 

And  whitingsand  speldings  anew; 
With  singed  sheep  heads  and  a  haggis, 

And  scadlips  to  sup  till  ye  spew. 

And  there  will  be  lapper'd  milk  kebbuck. 

And  sowens,  and  carles,  and  laps  ; 
Wi'  swats  and  well-scraped  paunches, 

And  brandy  in  stoups  and  in  caps ; 
And  there' will  be  meal-kail  and  porridge, 

Wi'  skifk  to  sup  till  ye  rive, 
And  roasts'to  roast  on  a  brander. 

Of  flewks  that  were  taken  alive. 

Scrapt  haddocls,  wilks,  dulse,  and  tangle, 

And  a  mill  o'  guid  sneeshin  to  prie. 
When  weary  wi'  eating  and  drinsing. 

We'll  rise  up  and  dance  till  we  die : 
Then  fye  let's  a'  to  the  bridal,, 

For  there  will  be     lilting  there, 
For  Jock  '11  be  married  to  Mag-gie, 

The  lass  wi'  the  gowden  hair. 


JOHN  HAY'S  BONNY  LASSIE, 

John  Hay's  **Bonny  Lassie"  was  the 
daughter  of  John  Hay,  Earl  or  Mar- 
quis of  Tweeddale,  and  the  late  Count- 
ess Dowager  of  Roxburgh.  She  died 
at  Broomlands,  near  Kelso,  some  time 
between  the  years  1730  and  1740. 

She's  fresh  as  the  spring,  and  sweet  as  Aurora, 
When  birds  mount  and  sing,  bidding,  day  a 

good  morrow  ; 
The  sward  o'  the  mead,  enamel'd  wi'daisfes, 
Look  wither'd  and  dead  when  twinn'd  of  her 

graces.  '  ■      ■     . 

But  if  she  appear  where  verdures  invite  her, 


310 


'  3URNS'  WORKS. 


The  fountains  run  clear,  and  flowers  smell  the 

sweeter ;  . 
Ti^'h'eaven  to  be  by  when  her  wit  is  a-fldw- 

Her  smiles  and  bright  een   set   my  spirits 
a-glowing.  .  . 


THE  BONNY  BRUCKET   LASSIE. 

The  first  two  lines  of  this  song  are 
all  of  it  that  is  old.  The  rest  of  the 
song,  as  well  as  those  songs  in  the 
Museum  marked  T.,  are  the  works  of 
an  obscure,  tippling,  but  extraordinary- 
body  of  the  name  of  Tytler,  commonly 
known  by  the  name  of  Balloon  Tytler, 
from  his  having  projected  a  balloon: 
a  mortal,  who,  tliough,  he  drudges 
about  Edinburgh  as  a  common  printer, 
with  leaky  shoes,  a  sky-lighted  hat, 
and  knee-buckles  as  nnlilce  as  George- 
by-the-grace-of-God,  and  Solomon-the- 
son-of-Davia;  yet  that  same  unknown 
drunken  mortal  is  author  and  com- 
piler of  three- fourths  of  Elliot's  pomp- 
ous Encyclopedia  Britannica,  which 
he  composed  at  half-a-guinea  a  week  ! 

The  bonny  bracket  lassie, 

She's  blue  beneath  the  een ;  ■ 
'  She  was  the  fairest  lassie 

That  danced  on  the  green : 
A  lad  he  lo'ed  her  dearly, 

She 'did  his  love  return  ; 
But  he  his  vows  has  broken, 

And  left  her  for  to  mourn. 

"  My  shape,"  says  she,  "  was  handsome, 

My  face  was  fair  and  clean  ; 
But  now  I'm  bonny  bracket. 

And  blue  beneath  the  een ; 
My  eyes  were  bright  and  sparkling, 

Before  that  they  turn'd  blue  ; 
But  now  they're  dull  with  weeping, 

And  a',  my  love,  for  you. 

"  Oh,  could  I  live  in  darkness, 

Or  hide  me  in  the  sea. 
Since  my  love  is  unfaithful. 

And  has  forsaken  me. 
No  other  love  I  sufferj^ 

Within  my  breast',  to'dwell ; 
In  nought  have  I  offended, 

But  loving  him  too  well.'' 

Her  lover  heard  her  mourning, 

As  by  he  chanced  to  pass  ; 
And  press'd  unto  his  bosom 
^^  The  lovely  brucket  lass. 
*'  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  cease  grieving ; 

Smce  that  your  love  Is  true. 
My  bonny  brucket  lassie, 

I'll  faithful  prove  to  you,"  i 


SAE  MERRY  AS  WE    TWA    HAE 
BEEN. 

This  song  is  beautiful, — Tlie  cliorua 
in  particular  is  truly  pathetic.  I  never 
could  learn  anything  of  its  author. 


Sae  merry  as  we  twa  hae  been, 
Sae.  merry  as  we  twa  hae  been  ; 

My  heart  it  is  like  for  to  break. 
When  I  think  OQ  the  days  we  hae  seen. 

A  lass  that  was  laden  with  care 

Sat  heavily  under  a  thorn  ; 
I  listen'd  a  while  for  to  hear, 

Wh^h  thus  she  began  for  to  mourn : 
Whene'er  my  dear  shepherd  was  there, 

The  birds  did  melodiously  sing",  ---  '-  -  - 
And  cold  nipping- winter  did  wear 

A  face  that  resembled  the  spring. 

Our  flocks  feeding  close  by  his  side, 

He  gently  pressing  my  hand, 
I  view'd  the  wide  world  in  its  pride, 

And  laugh'd  at  the  pomp  of  command. 
"  My  dear,"  he  would  oft  to  me  say, 

"  What  makes  you  hard-hearted  to  me  ? 
Oh  !  why  do  you  thus  turn  away 

From  him  who  is  dying  for  thee  V'^ 

But  now  he  is  far  from  my  sight. 

Perhaps  adeceiver  may  prov.e:,;' 
Which  mafces.me  lameat .day  aa4  night, 

That  ever~T'§raot©a  my  love. 
At  eve,  when  the  rest  of  the  folk 

"W^gte^nerrily  seated  to  spin, 
I  set-myself  under  an  oak, 

And  heavily  sigh'd  for  him. 


THE  BANKS  OF  FORTH. 

This  air  is  Oswald's. 

"  Here's  anither— it*s  no  a  Scots  tune,  butjt 
passes  for  ane— Oswald  made  it  himsel,  I 
reckon.  He  has  cheated  mony  a  ane,  but  he 
canna  cheat  Wandering  Willie.  — Sir  Walter 
Scott, 

The  following  is  the  song  as  given  in  the 

Museum  : — 

Ye  sylvan  powers  that  rule  the  plain. 
Where  sweetly  winding  Fortha  glides. 

Conduct  me  to  those  banks  again, 
Since  there  my  charming  Mary  bides. 

Those  bank§  that  breathe  their  vernal  sweets^ 
Where  every  smiling  beauty  meets  ; 
Where  Mary's  charms  adorn  the  plain. 
And  cheer  flie  heart  of  every  swain/ 

Oft  in  the  thick  embowering  groves. 
Where  birds  their  music  chirp  aloUd,    ■    ' 

Alternately  we  sung  our  loves,  --  ■  ■  - 

And  Fortha's  fair  meandere  "view'd^ 


BEMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


311 


The  qieadows  wore  a  general  smile, , 
Love  vwas  our  banquet  all  the  while ; 
The  lovely  prospect  charm^a  the  eye, 
To  where" ine  ocean  met  the  sky. 

Once  on  the  grassy  bank  reclined 
Where  Forth  ran  by  in  murmurs  deep, 

It  was  my  happy  chance  to  find 
The  charming  Mary  luU'd  asleep ; 

My  heart  then  leap'd  with  inward  bliss, 
I'softly  stoop'd,  and  stole  a  kiss  ; 
She  waked;  she  blush'd,  and  gently  blanied, 
*'.'Why,  Damon  ',  are  you  not  ashamed  ?" 

Ye  sylvan  powers,  ye  rural  gods,_ 
To  whom  we  swains  our  cares  impart, 

Restore  me  to  those  blest  abodes, 
An^ease,  oh !  ease  my  love-sicjc  heart ! 

Those  happy  days  ag'ain  restore, 
When  Mi^y  and  I  shall  part  no  more  ; 
When  she 'shall  fill  these  longing  arms, 
And  crown  my  bliss  with  all  her  charms. 


THE  BUSH  ABOOJf  TRAQUAIR. 
This  Ls  another  beautiful  song  of  Mr. 
Crawford's  composition.  In  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Traquair,  tradition  still 
shows  the  old  "Bush,"  which,  when  I 
saw  It  in  the  year  1787,  was  composed 
of  eight  or  nine  ragged  birches.  The 
Earl  of  Traquair  has  planted  a  clump 
of  trees  near  by,  which  he  calls  "  The 
new  Bush. " 

Hear  me,  ye  nymphs,  and  every  swain, 
I  I'll  tell  how  Pegg^y  grieves  me  ; 
Though  thus  I  languish  and  complain, 
Alas  !  she  ne'er  believes  me. 
j-My  vows  %nd  sighs,  lilce  silent  air, 
V     Unheeded  never  move  her  ; 
The  bonny  bush-  aboon  Traquair, 
'  '  ■  Was  where  I  first  did  love  her. 

That  day  she  smiled  and  made  me  glad, 

No  'maid  seem'd  ever  kinder ; 
I  though.Umyset  the  luckiest  lad. 

So  sweetly  there  to  find  her. 
I  tried  to  soothe  my  amorous  flame 

lA  words'  that  I  thought  tender ; 
If  more  there  pass'd,  I'm  not  to  blame, 

I  meant  not  to  offend  her. 

Yet  now  she  scornful  flees  the  plain, 

The  fields  we  then  frequented  ; 
If  e'er  we  meet,  she  shows  disdain, 
-  -  She  looks  as  ne'er  acquainted. 
^   The  bonny  bush  bloom  d  fair  in  May,' 
Its  sweets  I'll  aye  remember  ; 
But  how  her  frbWns  make  it  decay ; , 
It  fades  as  in  December; 


Ye  rural  powers,  who  hear  my  strains. 

Why  thus  should  Peggy  grieve  me  ? 
Oh  !  make  her  partner  in  my  pains  ; 

Then  let  her  smiles  relieve  me. 
If  not,  my  love  will  turn  despair, 

My  passion  no  more  tender ; 
I'll  leave  the  bush  aboon  Traquair, 

To  lonely  wilds  I'll  wander. 


CROMLET'S  LILT. 

The  following  interesting  account  of 
this  plaintive  dirge  was  colnmunicated 
to  Mr.  Riddel  by  Alexander  Fraser 
Tytler,  Esq.,  of  Woodhouselee: — 

"  In  the  latter  end  of  the  16th  cen- 
tury, the  Chisholms  were  proprietors 
of  the  estate  of  Cromleck,  (now  posses- 
sed by  the  Drummonds.)  The  eldest 
son  of  that  family  was  very  much  atr 
tached  to  the  daughter  of  Stirling  of 
Ardoch,  commonly  known  by  the  name 
of  Fair  Helen  of  Ardoch. 

"  At  that  time  the  opportunities  of 
meeting  between  the  sexes  were  more 
rare,  consequently  more  sought  after 
than  now;  and  the  Scottish  ladles,  far 
from  priding  themselves  on  extensive 
literature,  were  thought  sufficiently 
book-learned  if  they  could  malie  out 
the  Scriptures  in  their  mother  tongue. 
Writing  was  entirely  out  of  the  line  of 
female  education.  At  that  period  the 
most  of  our  young  men  of  family 
sought  a,  fortune  or  found  a  grave  in 
France.  Cromleck,  when  he  went 
abroad  to  flie  war,  was  obliged  to  leave 
the  management  of  his  correspondence 
with  his  mistress  to  a  lay -brother  of 
the  monastery  of  Dunblane  in  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  of  Cromleck, 
and  near  Ardoch.  This  man  unfortu- 
nately, was  deeply  sensible  of  Helen's 
charms.  He  artfully  prepossessed  her 
with  stories  to  the  disadvantage  of 
Cromleck;  and,  by  misinterpreting,  or 
keeping  up  the  letters  and  messages  in- 
trusted to. his  care,  he  entirely  irritated 
both.  All  connection  was  broken  ofE 
betwixt  them:  Helen  was  inconsolable, 
and  Cromleck  has  left  behind  him,  in 
the  ballad  called  '  Cromlet's  Lilt,'  a 
proof  of  the  elegance  of  his  genius,  as 
well  as  the  steadiness  of  liis  love. , 
"  When  the  artful  monk  thought  time 


313. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


had  sufficiently  softened  Helen's  sor- 
row, lie  proposed  himself  as  a  lover: 
Helen  was  obdurate;  hut  at  last,  over- 
come by  the  persuasions  of  her  brother, 
with  whom  she  lived,  and  who,  having  a 
family  of  thirty-one  children,  was  prob- 
ably very  well  pleased  to  get  her  ofE  his 
hands — she  submitted-  rather  than  con- 
sented to  the  ceremony;  but  there  her 
compliance  ended;  and,  when  forcibly 
put  into  bed,  she  started  quite  frantic 
from  it,  screaming  out,  that  after 
three  gentle  raps  on  the  wainscoat,  at 
the  bed-head,  she  heard  Cromleck's 
voice,  crying,  *0  Helen,  Helen,  mind 
me!'  Cromleck  soon  after  coming 
Jiome,  the  treachery  of  the  confidant 
was  discovered — her  marriage  annulled 
— and  Helen  became  Lady  Cromleck." 
N.  B. — Marg!  Murray,  mother  to 
these  thirty -one  children,  was  daughter 
of  Murray  of  Strewn,  one  of  the  seven- 
teen sons  of  Tullybardine,  and  whose 
youngest  son,  commonly  called  the 
Tutor  of  Ardoch,  died  in  the  year  1715, 
aged  111  years. 

The  following-  is  a  copy  of  this  ballad  as  it 
appears  in  the  Museum  :^ 

Since  all  thy  vows,  false  njaid, 

Are  blown  to  air 

And  my  poor  heart  betray'd 

To  sad  despair. 

Into  some  wilderness, 

My  grief  I  will  express, 

And  thy  hard-hearted  ness, 

O  cruel  fair ! 

Have  I  not  graven  our  loves 

On  every  tree 

In  yonder  spreading  groves, 

Tliough  false  thou  be  ? 

Was  not  a  solemn  oath 

Plighted  betwixt  us  both — 

Thou  thy  faith,  I  my  troth- 
Constant  to  be? 

Some  gloomy  place  I'll  find. 

Some  doieful  shade. 

Where  neither  sun  nor  wind 

E'er  entrance  had  : 

Into  that  hollow  cave, 

There  will  I  sigh  and  rave, 

Because  thou  dost  behave 

So  faithlessly. 

Wild  fruit  shall  be  my  meat, 

I'll  drink  the  spring, 

Cold  earth  shall  be  my  scat ; 

For  covering. 

I'll  have  the  starry  sky 

My  head  to  canopy. 

Until  my  soul  on  high 

.  Shall  spread  its  wing. 


I'll  have  no  funeral  fire, 

Nor  tears  for  me ; 
No  grave  do  I  desire 

Nor  obsequy. 
The  courteous  redbreast  he 
With  leaves  will  cover  me. 
And  sing  my  elegy 

With  doleful  voice. 

And  when  a  ghost  I  am 

I'll  visit  thee, 

O  thou  deceitful  dame, 

Whose  cruelty 

Has  kill'd  the  fondest  heart 

That  e'er  felt  Cupid's  dart. 

And  never  can  desert 

From  loving  thee. 


MY  DEARIE,  IF  THOU  DIE, 

Another  beautiful  song  of  Craw- 
ford's. 

Love  never  more  shall  give  me  pain, 

My  fancy's  fix'd  on  thee. 
Nor  ever  maid  my  heart  shall  gain. 

My  Peggy,  it  thou  die. 
Th^  beauty  doth  such  pleasure  give,. 

Thy  love's  so  true  to  me. 
Without  thee  I  can  never  live, 

My  dearie,  if  thou  die. 

If  fate  shall  tear  thee  from  my  breast, 

How  shall  I  lonely  stray  ? 
In  dreary  dreams  the  night  I'll  waste. 

In  sighs,  the  silent  day. 
I  ne'er  can  so  much  virtue  find. 

Nor  such  perfection  see  ; 
Then  I'll  renounce  all  woman-kind. 

My  Peggy,  after  thee. 

No  new-blown  beauty  fires  my  heart. 

With  Cupid's  raving  rage  ; 
But  thine,  vt^hich  can  such  sweets  impart, 

Must  all  the  world  engage. 
'Twas  this  that  like  the  morning  sun 

Gave  joy  and  life  to  me  ; 
And  when  its  destined  day  is  done,  .; 

With  Peggy  let  me  dte. 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love,        'i 

And  in  such  pleasure  share  :  ■''' 

You  who  its  faithful  flames  approve. 

With  pity  view  the  fair ; 
Restore  my  Peggy's  wonted  charms. 

Those  charms  so  dear  to  me  !  -' ' 

Oh  !  never  rob  them  from  these  arms  ! 

I'm  lost  if  Peggy  die. 


SHE  ROSE  AND  LET  ME  IN. 

The  old  set  of  this  song,  which  is 
still  to  be  found  in  printed  collections, 
is  much  prettier  than  this  ;  but  somfe-r 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


313 


body,  I  believe  it  was  Ramsay,*  took 
it  into  his  head  to  clear  it  of  some 
seeming  indelicacies   and  made  it  at 
once  more  chaste  and  more  dull. 
The  Museum  version  is  as  follows : — 

The  night  her  silent  sables  wore 

And  gloomy  were  the  skies, 
Of  glittering  stars  appear'd  no  more 

Than  those  in  Nelly's  eves. 
When  to  her  father^s  door"!  came, 

Where  I  had  often  been, 
I  begg'd  my  fair,  my  lovely  dame, 

Tq  rise  and  let  me  in. 

But  she,  with  accents- 3II  divine, 

Did  my  fond  suit  reprove. 
And  while  she  chid  my  rash  design, 

She  but  inflanied  my  love. 
Her  beauty  oft  had  pleased  before, 

While  her  brigfot  eyes  did  roll : 
But  virtue  only  had  the  power 

To  charm  my  very  soul. 

Oh,  who  would  cruelly  deceive, 

Or  from  such  beauty  part ! 
I  loved  her  so,  I  could  not  leave 

The.charmer  of  my  heart. 
My  eager  fondness  1  obey'd, 

Resolved  she  should  be  mine. 
Till  Hymen  to  my  arms  convey  d 

My  treasure  so  divme. 

Now  happy  in  my  NeUy's  love, 

Transporting  is  my  joy, 
JNo  greater  blessing  can!  prove. 

So  blest  a  man  am  I. 
For  beauty  may  a  while  retain. 

The  conquered  flattering-  mart. 
But  virtue  only  is  the  cham  " 

Holds,  never  to  depart. 


WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  EWE- 
BUGHTS/  MARION? 

I  AM  not  sure  if  this  old  and  charm- 
ing air  be  of  the  South,  as  is  commonly 
said,  or  of  the  North  of  Scotland. 
There  is  a  song  apparently  as  ancient 
as  "  Evp-e-bughts,  Marion,"  -which  sings 
to  the  same  time,  and  is  evidently  of  the 
North — ^it  begins  thus: — 


^  Sheep-folds. 
*  "  No,  no  :  it  was  not  Ramsay,  The  song 
still  remains  in  his  Tea-Table  Miscellany^  and 
the  Orpheus  CaledoniuSy  and  even  in  Herd's 
Collection,  in  its  primitive  state  of  indelicacy. 
The  verses  in  \Xi€  Museum  were  retouched  by 
an  able  and  masterly  hand,  who  has  thus  pre- 
sented us  with  a  song  at  once  chaste  and  ele- 
gant, without  a  single  idea  to  crimson  the 
cheek  of  modesty,  or  cause  one  pang  to  the 
innocent  heart."— Stenhouse. 


The  Lord  o'  Gordon  had  three  dochters^ 

Mary,  Marget,  and  Jean, 
They  wad  na  stay  at  "bonny  Castle  Gordon, 

But  awa'  to  Aberdeen. 

The  old  ballad  begins  thus : — 

Will  ye  go  to  the  ewe-bughts,  Marion, 
And  wear  in  the  sheep  wi'  me? 

The  sun  shines  sweet,  my  Marion, 
But  nae  half  sae  sweet  as  thee.     ' 

O  Marion's  a  bonny  lass, 
And  the  blithe  blink's  in  her  ee ; 

And  fain  wad  I  marry  Marion, 
Gin  Marion  wad  marry  me. 


LEWIE  GORDON. 
This  air  is  a  proof  how  one  of  our 
Scotch  tunes  comes  to  be  composed  out 
of  another.  I  have  one  of  the  earliest 
copies  of  the  song,  and  it  has  prefixed 
— "  Tune — '  Tarry  Woo*  " — of  which 
tune  a  different .  set  has  insensibly 
varied  into  a  different  air. — To  a  Scots 
critic,  tlie  pathos  of  the  line, 

"Though  his  back  be  at  the  wa','* 

must  be  very  striking.  It  needs  not  a 
Jacobite  predjudice  to  be  a&cted  with 
this  song. 

The  supposed  author  of  "Lewie 
Gordon"  was  a  Mr.  Geddes,  priest  at 
Shenval  in  the  Ainzie. 

Oh  !  send  Lewie  Gordon  hame, 
And  the  lad  I  maunna  name  ; 
Though  his  back  be  at  the  wa', 
Here's  to  him  that's  far  awa* ! 

Oh  hon  !  my  Highland  man ! 

Oh,  my  bonny  HighUnd  man  ; 

Weel  would  I  my  true-love  ken, 

Amangten  thousand  Highland  men. 

Oh,  to  see  his  tartan  trews, 
Bonnet  blue,  and  laigh-heel'd  shoes : 
Philabeg  aboon  his  knee  ; 
That's  the  lad  that  Til  gang  wi  ! 
Oh,  hon  !  &c. 

The  princely  youth  that  I  do  mean 
Is  fitted  for  to  be  king  ; 
On  his  breast  he  wears  a  star. 
You'd  take  him  for  the  god  of  war. 
Oh,  hon  !  &c. 

Oh,  to  see  this  princely  one 
Seated  on  a  royal  throne  ! 
Disasters  a'  would  disappear. 
Then  begins  the  Jub'lee  year  \ 
Oh,  hon !  &c. 

Lord  Lewie  Gordon,  younger  brother  to  the 
Duke  of  Gordon,  commanded  a  detaChmerit 
for  the  Young  Chevalier  in  the  affairof  1745-6, 
and  acquitted  himself  with  great  gallantry 
and  judgment.    He  died  in  1754. 


814; 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


THE  WAULKINC^  0'  THE  FAULD. 

There  are  two  stanzas  still  sung  to 
tlais  tune,  which  I  take  to  be  the 
original  song  whence  Kamsay  corn- 
posed  his  beautiful  song  of  that  name 
in  the  (xentle  Shepherd.     It  begins 

"Oh,  will  ye  speak  at  our  town, 
As  ye  come  rrae  the  fauld,"  &c. 

I  regret  tliat,  as  in  many  of  our  old 
songs,  the  delicacy  of  this  old  frag- 
ment is  not  equal  to  its  wit  and  hu- 
mour. 

The  following  is  Ramsay's  version  ; — 

My  Pegg-ie  is  a  young  thing, 

Just  enter'd  in  her  teens' ; 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  always  gay^ 
My  Peggie  is  a  young  thing, 

And  1  m  not  very  auld  ; 
Yet  we'll  I  like  to  meet  her  at 

The  waulkin&  o'  the  fauld. 

My  Peggie  speaks  sae  sweetly 

whene'er  we  meet  alane  ; 
I  wish  nae  mair  to  lay  my  care, 
I  wish  nae  mair  of  a'  that's  rare. 
My  Peggie  speaks  sae  sweetly, 

To  a'  me  lave  I'm  cauld  ; 
But  she  gars  a'  my  spirits  glow 

At  waulking  o'  the  fauld. 

My  Peggie  smiles  sae  kindly 

Whene'er  I  whisper  love, 
That  I  look  down  on  a'  the  town, 
That  I  look  down  upon  a  crown. 
My  Peggie  smiles  sae  kindly, 

It  makes  me  bhthe  and  bauld  ; 
And  naething  gies  me  sic  delight 

As  waulking  o'  the  fauld. 

Mv  Peggie  sings  sae  saftly 
-    When  on  my  |)ipe  I  play  ; 
"  By  a'  the  rest  it  is  coniess'd. 
By  a'  the  rest  that  she  sings  best : 
My  "^^^Sy  sings  sae  saftly. 

And  m  her  sangs  are  tauld, 
With  innocence,  the  wale  o'  sense, 

At  waulking  o'  the  fauld. 


OH  ONO  CHRIO.* 

Dr.  Blacklock  informed  me  that 
this  song  was  composed  on  the  infamous 
massacre  at  Qlencoe. 

Oh  !  was  not  I  a  weary  wight ! 
Maid,  wife  and  widow  in  one  night  ! 
When  in  my  soft  and  yielding  arms,     [harms. 
Oh!  when  most  I   thought    him  free  from 


*  A  vitiated  pronunciation  of  "  Ockoin  ock 
■  riVr-a.  Gaelic  exclamation  expressive  of  deep 
"sorrow  and  affliction.  . , 


Kvcn  at  the  dead  time  of  the  night  -  '7/" 

They  broke  my  bower,  and  slew  my  knight,! 
With  ae  lock  of  his  jet-black  hair  J 

I'll  tie  my  heart  for  evermair  ;  :  r  .'  - 

Nae  sly-tongued  youth,  nor  flattering  swam,  - 
Shall  e'er  untie  this  knot  again  ; 
Thine  still,  dear  youth,  that  heart  shall  be,- 
Nor  pant  for  aught  save  heaven  and  thee>_  < 


I'LL  NEVER  LEAVE  THEE.    . 

This  is  another  of  Crawford's  songs, 
but  I  do  not  think  in  his  happiest  man- 
ner. What  an  absurdity  to  join  such 
names  as  Adonis  and  Mary,  together! 

Oke  day  I  heard  Mary  say. 
How  shall  I  leave  thee  ; 

Stay,  dearest  Adonis,  stay. 
Why  wilt  thou  grieve  me  ? 


CORN-RIGS    ARE  BONNY. 

All  the  old  words  that  ever  I  could: 
meet  to  this  air  were  the  following. 


which   seem 
chorus : — 


to    have    been    an    old 


Oh,  corn-rigs  and  rye-rigs. 

Oh,  corn-rigs  are  bonny  ; 
And,,  where'er  you  meet  a  bonny  lass. 

Preen  up  her  cockernony. 


BIDE   YE  YET. 

There  is  a  "beautiful  song  to  this 
tune,  beginning, 

"  Alas  I  ray  son,  you  little  know," 
which    is    the    composition    of    Miss 
Jenny  Graham,  of  Dumfries. 

Alas  !  my  son,  you  little  know 
The  sorrows  that  from  wedlock  flow  ; 
Farewell  to  every  day  of  ease  >rn- 

When  you  have  got  a  wife  to  please^,  -.  r 

Sae  bide  ye  yet,  and  bide  ye  yet, 
Ye  little  ken  what's  to  betide  ye  yet;- 
The  half  o'that  will  gane  ye  yet,    , 
Gif  a  wayward  wife  obtain  ye  yet. 

Your  hopes  are  high,  your  wisdom  small. 
Woe  has  not  had  you  in  its  thrall ; 
The  black  cow  on  your  foot  ne'er  trod, 
Which  gars  you  sing  along  the  road. 
Sae  bide  ye  yet,  &c. 

Sometimes  the  rock,  sometimes  the  reel. 
Or  some  piece  of  the  spinning-wheel, 
She'll  drive  at  you,  my  bonny  chiel,  •  ,  ,  . 
And  send  you  headlang  to  the  deil, 

Sae  bide  ye  yet,-&G»     ■ 


EEMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


815 


When  I,  like,you,Tvas  young^arid  free, 
I  valued  not  the  proudest  she  ; 
Like  you,  my  boast  was  bold  and  vain,  ■ 
That  men  alone  were  born  to  reign. 
Sae  bide  ye  yet,  &c. 

Great  Hercules,  and  Samson  too. 
Were  stronger  far  than  I  or  you  ; 
Yet  they  were  baffled  by  their  dears. 
And  felt  the  distaff  and  the  shears. 
Sae  bide  ye  yet,  &c. 

.Stout  gates  of  brass  and  well-built  walls 
Arc  proof  'gainst  swords  and  cannon  balls  ; 
But  nought  is  found,  by  sea  or  land. 
That  can  a  wayward  wife  withstand. 
Sae  bide  ye  yet,  &c. 


Heke  tlie  remarks  on  the  first  vol- 
ume of  the  Musical  Museum  conchide: 
the  second  volume  has  the  following' 
preface  from  the  pen  of  Burns : — 

"  In  the  first  volume  of  this  work, 
two  or  three  airs,  not  of  Scots  com- 
position, have  been  inadvertently  in- 
serted; -  which,  whatever  excellence 
they  may  have,  was  improper,  as  the 
collection  is  solely  to  be  the  music  of 
our  own  country.  The  songs  con- 
tained ill  this  volume,  both  music  and 
poetry^  are  all  of  them  the  work  of 
Scotsmen.  Wherever  the  old  words 
could  be  recovered,  they  had  been  pre- 
ferred :  both  as  suiting  better  the  genius 
of;  the  tunes,  and  to  preserve  the  pro- 
ductions of  tliose  earlier  sons  of  the 
Scottish  muses,  some  of  whose  names 
deserved  a  better  fate  than  has  be- 
fallen them, — 'Buried 'midst  the  wreck 
of  things  which  were. '  Of  our  more 
modern  songs,  the  editor  has  inserted 
the  author's  names  as  far  as  he  can 
ascertain  tliem;  and  as  that  was 
neglected  in  the  first  volume,  it  is  an- 
nexed .here.  If  he  have  made  any 
mistakes  in  this  affair,  which  lie  possi- 
bly may,  he  will  be  very  grateful  at 
being  set  right. 

"Ignorance  and  prejudice  may  per- 
haps affect  to  sneer  at  the  simplicity  of 
the  poetry  or  music  of  some  of  these 
poems;  but  their  having  been  for  ages 
the  favourites  of  nature's  judges — the 
common  people— was  to  the  editor  a 
sufficient  test  of  their  merit. 

**  Edinburgh,  March  i,  1778.'*  * 


TRANENT  MUIR. 

"Tranent  Mdik"  was  composed 
by  a  Mr.  Skirving,  a  very  worthy,  re- 
spectable farmer,  near  Haddington.* 
I  have  heard  the  anec(^ote  often,  that 
Lieut.  Smith,  whom  he  mentions  in  the 
ninth  stanza,  came  to  Haddington  after 
the  publication  of  the  song,  and  sSnta 
challenge  to  Skirving  to  meet  him  at 
Haddington,  and  a,nswer  for  the  un- 
worthy manner  in  which  he  had  noticed 
him  in  his  song.  "  Gang  away  back," 
said  the  honest  farmer,  "and  tell  Mr. 
Smith  that  I  hae  nae  leisure  to  come  to 
Haddington;  but  tell  him  to  come  here, 
and  I'll  tak  a  look  o'  him,  and  if  he 
think  I'm  fit  to  fecht  him,  I'll  fecht 
liim;  and  if  no,  I'll  do  as  he  did — Til 
Hn  awa'!" 

Stanza  ninth,  as  well  as  tenth,  to  which  the 
anecdote  refers,  shows  that  the  anger  of  the 
lieutenant  was  anything  but  unreasonable. 

And  Major  Bowie,  that  worthy  soul. 

Was  brought  down  to  the  ground,  man  ;  " 
His  horse  being  shot,  it  was  his  lot 

For  to  get  many  a  wound,  man ; 
Lieutenant  Smith,  of  Irish  birth, 

Frae  whom  he  called  for  aid,  man. 
Being  full  of  dread,  lap  o'er  his  head, 

And  wadna  be  gainsay'd,  man  ! 

He  made  sic  haste,  sae  spurr'd  his  baist, 

'Twas  little  there  he  saw,  man  • 
To  Berwick  rade,  and  falsely  said 

The  Scots  were  rebels  a',  man  : 
But  let  that  end,  for  well  'tis  kenrf'd. 

His  use  and  wont  to  lie,  man ; 
The  teague  is  naught,  he  never  faught 

When  he  had  room  to  flee,  man. 


POLWARTf  ON  THE   GREEN. 

The  author  of  ^'Polwart  on  the 
Green"  is  Capt.  John  Drummond 
M'Gregor,  of  the  family  of  Bochaldie.  J 

At  Polwart  on  the  green, 
If  you'll  meet  me  the  morn. 


*  Mr.  Skirving"  was  tenant  of  East  Garleton, 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  north  of  Had- 
dington. 

t  "  Polwart  is  a  pleasant  village  situate 
near  Dunse,  in  Berwickshire.  In  the  middle 
of  the  village  stand  two  venerable  thprns, 
round  which  the  Polwart  maidens,  when  they 
became  brides,  danced  with  their  partners  oa 
the  day  of  the  bridal."— Cunningham. 

%  The  poet  is  in  error  here.  The  best  au- 
thorities agree  in  ascribing  tlie  authorship  of 
the  song  tp  Allan  Ramsay, 


316 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Where  lasses  do  conveen 
To  dance  about  the  thorn, 

A  kindly  welcome  ye  shall  meet 
Frae  her  wha  likes  to  view       .  - 

A  lover  and  a  lad  complete^ 
The  lad  and  lover  you. 

Let  dorty  dames  say  na 

As  lang-  as  e'er  they  please, 
Seem  caulder  than  the  snaw, 

While  inwardly  they  bleeze. 
But  I  will  frankly  shaw  my  mind, 

And  yield  my  heart  to  thee  ; 
Be  ever  to  the  captive  kind 

That  langfs  na  to  be  free.  ^ 

At  Pol  wart  on  the  green, 

Amang  the  new-mown  hay, 
With  sangs  and  dancing  keen 

We'll  pass  the  heartsome  day. 
.  At  night,  if  beds  be  o'er  thrang  laid. 

And  thou  be  twined  of  thine,.,  , 
Thou  shalt  be  welcome,  my  dear  lad, 

To  take  a  part  of  mine. 


STREPHON  AND  LYDIA. 

The  following  account  of  this  song 
I  had  from  Dr.  Blacklock: — 

The  Strephon  and  Lydia  mentioned 
in  the  song  were  perhaps  the  loveliest 
couple,  of  their  time.  The  gentleman 
was  commonly  known  by  the  name  of 
Beau  Gibson.  The  lady  was  the  '  'Gentle 
Jean,"  celebrated  somewhere  in 
Hamilton  of  Bangour's  poems. — Hav- 
ing frequently  met  at  public  places,  they 
had  formed  a  reciprocal  attachment, 
whicii  their  friends  thought  dangerous, 
as  their  resources  were  by  no  means 
adequate  to  tlieir  tastes  and  habits  of 
lifp.  To  elude  the  bad  consequences 
of  such  a  connection,  Strephon  was  sent 
abroad  with  a  commission,  and  perished 
in  Admiral  Vernon's  expedition  to  Car- 
thagena. 

The  author  of  the  song  was  William 
Wallace,  Esq.,  of  Cairnhill,  in  Ayr- 
shire. 

Ai-L  lonely  on  the  sultry  beach, 

Expiring,  Strephon  lay ; 
No  hand  the  cordial  draught  to  reach, 

Nor  cheer  the  gloomy  way. 
Ill-fated  youth  !  no  parent  nigh 
.  To.  .catch  thy  fleetmg  breath, 
No  bride  to  fix' thy  swimming  eye. 

Or  smooth  the  face  of  death  ! 

Far  distant  from  the  mournful  scene 

Thy  parents  sit  at  ease  ; 
.Thy  Lydia  rifles  all  the  plain. 
And  all  the  spring,  to  please. 


Ill-fated  youth  !  by  fault  of -friend,    ■ 
Not  force  of  foe,  depress'd. 

Thou  fall'st,  alas  !  thyself,  thy  kind. 
Thy  country,  unredress'd  I 


MY  JO,  JANET. 
OF  THE   ''MUSEUM." 

Johnson,  the  publisher,  with  a 
foolish  delicacy,  refused  to  insert  the 
last  stanza  of  this  humorous  ballad.  - 

Oh,  sweet  sir,  for  your  courtesie^  - 
When  ye  come  by  the  Bass  then. 
For  the  love  ye  bear  to  me, 

Buy  me  a  keeking-glass  then,- 
Keek  into  the  draw-well, 

Janet,  Janet ; 
And  there  ye'll  see  your  bonny  sel"; 
My  jo,  Janet, 

Keeking  in  the  draw-well  clear. 

What  if  I  should  fa'  in  then  ;         ,-, 
Syne  a'  my  kin  will  say  and  swear  -- 

I  drown'd  mysel'  for  sin,  then. 
Haud  the  better  by  the  brae, 

Janet,  Janet ! 
Haud  the  better  by  the  brae. 

My  jo,  Janet. 

Good  sir,  for  your  courtesie. 

Coming  through  Aberdeen  then, 
For  the  love  ye  bear  to  me. 

Buy  me  a  pair  of  sheen  then. 
Clout  the  auld,  the  new  are  dear, 
Janet,  Janet ; 
A  pair  may  gain  ye  half  a  year, 
My  fo,  Janet. 

But  what,  if  dancing  on  the  green. 

And  skipping  like  a  maukin. 
If  they  should  see  my  clouted  sheeny 

Of  me  they  will  be  talkin*.  :  :^ 

Dance  aye  laigh,  and  late  at  e'en, 

Janet,  Janet ;         ■/ 
Syne  a'  their  fauts  will  no  be  seen. 
My  jo,  Janet. 

Kind  sir,  for  your  courtesie, 

When  ye  gae  to  the  cross  then. 
For  the  love  ye  bear  to  me. 

Buy  me  a  pacing'  horse  then,. 
Pace  upo'  your  spmning-wheel, 

Janet,  Janet ; 
Pace  upo'  your  spinning-wheel. 
My  jo,  Janet. 

My  spinning-wheel  is  auld  and  stifi^ 

The  rock  o't  winna  stand,  sir ; 
Tojceep  the  teraper-pin  in  tiff 

Employs  right  aft  my  hand,  sir. 
Mak  the  best  o'  that  ye  can, 

Janet,  Janet ;     . 
But  like  It  never  wale  a  man. 

My  jo,  Janefe— .  •' 


REMARKS  ON,  .SCOTTISH  SONG. 


317 


LOVE  IS  THE  CAUSE  OF  MY 
MOURNING. 

The  words  "by  a  Mr.  R.  Scott,  from 
tlie  town  or  neighbourhood  of  Biggar. 

The  first  stanza  of  this  fine  song  is  as  fol- 
lows ; — 

By  a  murmuring'  stream  a  fair  shepherdess 

lay, 
Be  so  kind,  O  ye  nymphs,  I  oft  heard  her  say, 
fell  Strephon,  I  die,  if  he  passes  this  way, 
"  And  love  is  the  cause  of  my  mourning. 
False  shepherds,  that  tell  me  of  beauty  and 
charms,  [warms, 

Deceive  me,  for  Strephon's  cold  heart  never 
Yet  bring  me  this  Strephon,  I'll  die  in  his 
arms ; 
O  Strephon  !  the  cause  of  my  mourning. 
But  first,  said  she,  let  me  go 
Down  to  the  shades  below, 
Ere  ye  let  Strephon  know 
That  I  have  loved  him  so  : 
Then  on  my  pale  cheek  no  blushes  will  show 
That  love  is  the  cause  of  my  mourning. 


FIFE,  AND  A'  THE  LANDS  ABOUT 
IT. 

This  song  is  Dr.  Blacklock's.  He,  as 
well  as  I,  often  gave  Johnston  verses, 
trifling  enough,  perhaps,  but  they  serv- 
ed as  a  vehicle  to  the  music. 

Allan,  by  his  grief  excited, 

Long  the  victim  Of  despair. 
Thus  deplored  his  passion  slighted. 

Thus  addressed  the  scornfuLfair: 
"  Fife,  and  all  the  lands  about  it, 

Undesiring,  I  can  see  ; 
Joy  may  crown  my  days  without  it. 

Not,  my  charmer,  without  thee. 

**  Must  I  then  forever  languish, 

Still  complaining,  still  endure  ? 
Can  her  form  create  an  anguish 

Which  her  soul  disdains  to  cure  ? 
Why,  by  hopeless  passion  fated, 

Must-I  still  those  eyes  admire. 
Whilst  unheeded,  unregretted, 

In  her  presence  I  expire  ? 

"Would  thy  charms  improve  their  power, 

Timely  think,  relentless  maid  ; 
Beauty  is  a  short-lived  flower, 

Destined  but  to  bloom  and  fade  ! 
Let  that  heaven,  whose  kind  impression 

All  thy  lovely  features  show. 
Melt  thy  soul  to  soft  compassion 

For  a  suffering  lover's  woe." 


WERBNA    MY  HEART    LIGHT    I 
WAD  DIE. 

LoKD  Hailes,   in  the  notes  to  his 
Collection  of  ancient  Scots  poems,  says 


that  this  song  vv^as  the  composition  of 
Lady  Qrisel  Baillie,  daughter  of  the  first 
Earl  of  Marchmont,  and  wifie  of  (George 
Baillie  of  Jerviswood. 

There  was  ance  a  may,  and  she  lo'd  na  men. 
She  biggit  her  bonny  bower  down  in  yon  glen  ; 
But  now  she  cries  dool !  and  ah,  well-a-day ! 
Come  down  the  green  gate,  and  come  here 
away. 

When  bonny  young  Johnny  came  o'er  the  sea, 
He  said  he  saw  naething^ae  lovely  as  me ; 
He   hecht    me  baith  rings  and  -  mony  braw 

things ;  ' 

And  warena  ifiy  heart  Ught  I  wad  die. 

He  had'  a  wee  titty  that  lo'd  na  me. 

Because  I  was  twice  as  bonny  as  she  : 

She  raised  such  a  pother  'twixt  him  and  his 

mother, 
That  werena  my  heart  light  I  wad  die. 

The  day  it  was  set,  and  the  bridal  to  be, 
The  wife  took  a  dwam,  and  laid  down  to  die  j 
She  main'd  and  she  grain'd,  out  of  dolour  and 

pain, 
Till  he  vow'd  he  never  wad  see  me  again. 

His>kin  was  for  ane  of  a  higher  degree, 
Said,  What  had  he  to  do  with  the  like  of  me  ? 
Albeit  I  was  bonny,  I  wasna  for  Johnny 
And  werena  my  heart  Ught  I  wad  die. 

They  said  I  had  neither  cow  nor  caff, 
Nor  dribbles  of  drink  rins  through  the  draff, 
Nor  pickles  of  meal  rins  through  t^e  mill-ee  ; 
And  werena  my  heart  light  I  wad  die. 

His  titty  she  was  baith  wily  and  slee. 
She  spied  me  as  I  came  o'er  thee  lee  '■ 
And  then  she  ran  in,  and  made  a  loud  din. 
Believe  your  ain  een,  an  ye  trow  na  me. 

His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  round  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  looks  aye  as  weel  as  some's  new ; 
But  now  he  lets't  wear  ony  gate  it  will  hing. 
And  casts  himself  dowie  upon  the  corn-bing. 

And  now  he  gaes  drooping  about  the  dykes. 
And  a'  he  dow  do  is  to  hund  the  tykes : 
The  live-lang  night  he  ne'er  steeks  his  ee. 
And  werena  my  heart  light  I  wad  die. 

Were  I  young  for  thee,  as  I  an^e  hae  been. 
We  should  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon 

green, 
And  linking  it  on  the  lily-white  lee ; 
And  wow  gin  I  were  but  young  for  thee  ! 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S    DREAM. 

This  song  is  the  composition  of  Bal- 
loon Ty tier,  mentioned  at  p.  310. 

One  night  I  dream'd  I  lay  most  easy, 

By  a  murmuring  river  side, 
Where  lovely  banKS  were  spread  with  daisies, 

And  the  streams  did  smoothly  glide ;    ' 


S18 


BURNS'  WOEKS. 


While  around  me,  and  quite  over, 
^  .Spreading  branches  were  display'd, 
All  interwoTjen  in  due  order, 
Soon  became  a  pleasant  shade. 

I  saw  my  lass  come  in  most  charming, 
■  With  a  look  and  air  so  sweet ; 
Every  grace,  was  most  alarming, 

Every  beauty  most  complete. 
Gupid-with  his  bow  attended  ; 

Lovely  Venus  too  was  there  : 
As  his  bow  young  Cupid  bended, 
'   Far  away  flew  carking  care. 

On  a  bank  of  roses  seated, 

Charming  my  true-love  sung  ; 
While  glad  echo  still  repeated, 

And  the  hills  and  valleys  rung- 
At  the  last.  By  sleep  oppress'd 

On  the  bai^k  my  love  did  lie, 
By  voung  Cupid  still  caress'd. 

While  the  graces  round  did  fly. 

The  rose's  red,  the  lily's  blossom. 

With  her  charms  might  not  compare, 
To  view  her  cheeks  and  heaving  bosom, 

Down  they  droop'd  as  in  despair. 
On  her  slumber  I  encroaching, 

Pantingr  came  to  steal  a  kiss  : 
Cupid  smiled  at  me  approaching, 

beem'd  to  say,  "  There's  nought  amiss." 

With  eager  wishes  I  drew  nigher. 

This  fair  maiden  to  embrace  : 
My  breai?h  grew  quick,  my  pulse  beat  higher. 

Gazing  on  her  lovely  face. 


The  nymph,  awaking,  quickly  check'd  me, 

Starting  up,  with  angry  tone  ; 
"  Thus,"  says  she,  "  do  you  respect  me  ? 

Leave  rac  quick,  and  hence  begone." 
Cupid  for  me  interposing, 

To  my  love  did  bdw  full  low  ; 
She  from  him  her  hands  unloosing, 
■    In  contempt  struck  down  his  bow. 

An^ry  Cupid  from  her  flying. 

Cried  out,  as  .he  sought  the  skies,- 
"  Haughty  nymphs,  their  love  denying, 

Cupid  ever  shall  despise." 
As  he  Fpoke,  old  care  came  wandering, 

With  nim  stalk'd  destructive  Time  ; 
Winter  froze  &he  streams  meandering. 

Nipt  the  roses  in  their  prime. 

Spectres  then  my  love  surrounded. 

At  their  back  march'd  chilling  Death. 
Whilst  she,  frighted  and  confounded. 

Felt  Lheir  blasting,  pois'nous  breath ; 
As  her  charms  were  swift-decaying. 

And  the  furrows  seized  her  cheek ; 
Forbear,  ye  fiends!  I  vainly  crying. 

Waked  in  the  attempt  to  speak. 


THE  TEARS  OP   SCOTLAND. 
Dr.  Blacklock  told  me  that  Smollett 
"wlio  was  at  the  bottom  a  great  Jacob- 


ite, composed  these  beaui;iful  and. 
pathetic  verses  on  the  infamous  depre- 
dations of  the  Duke'  of  Cumberland 
after  tlio  battle  of  Cull  oden. 

MdURN,  hapless  Caledonia,  moilrn. 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn! 
.    Thy  sons  for  valour  long  renown'd. 
Lie  slaughter'd  on  their  native  grotin4^ 
Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 
Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door;-     -  >-^ 
In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie, 
The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

The  wretched  owner  sees,  afar. 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war; 
Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife. 
Then  smites  his  breast,  and  curses  liiEe.  ^ 
Thy  swains  are  famish'd  on  the  rocks 
Where  once  they  fed  their  wanton  flocks; 
Thy  ravish'd  virgins  shriek  in  vain ; 
Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 

What  boots  it  then,  in  every  clime,  ' 
Through  the  wide-spreading  w^aste  of  time ; 
Thy  martial  glory,  crownM  with  praise,. 
Still  ^hone  with  undiminish'd-  blaze-:  ■ 
Thy  towering  spirit  now  is  broke,    ''' 
Thy  neck  is  bended  to-the  yoke  :         ' 
What  foreign  arms  could  never  quell  ' 
By  civil  rage  and  rancour  fell. 

The  rural  pipe  and  merry  lay  , 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day : 
No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night: 
No  strains,  but  those  of  sorrow,  flow, 
And  nought  be  heard  but  sounds  of  woe  : 
While  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
Glide  nightly  o  er  the  silent  plain. 

Oh  !  baneful  cause — oh !  fatal  morn. 
Accursed  to  ages  yet  unborn  !    \  /-^~ 

The  sons  against  their  father  stoo1ic;br.cr^  tl 
The  parent  shed  his  children's  blood  J    ^ 
Yet,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceased;    ,'*'^ 
The  victor's  soul  was  not  appeased^'  *  _ 
The  naked  and  forlorn  must  leel 
Devouring  flames  and  murdering  steel. 

The  pious  mother,  doom"d  to  death, 

Forsaken,  wanders  o'er  the  heath, 

The  bleak  wind  whistles  round  her  head. 

Her  helpless  orphans  cry  for  bread  ; 

Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend. 

She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend  ; 

And,  stretch'd  beneath  the  inclement  sldeSt 

Weeps  o'er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

Whilst  the  warm_  blood  bedews  my  veiijs. 
And unimpair'd  remembrance  reigns," : 
Resentment  of  my  country'-s  fate  -  r^if}- 

Within  my  filial. breast  shall  bt^t; 
And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe, 
My  sympathising  verse  shall  f.DW  : 
Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mrurn 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn ! 


REMAKES  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


319 


AH  I     THE      POOK     SHEPHERD'S 
-^  MOURNFUL  FATE.* 

Tune — "  Galashiels." 

,  The  old  title,  "  Sour  Plums  o'  Gal- 
ashiels," probably  was  the  beginning 
of  a  song  to  this  air,  which  is  now  lost. 
The  tujie  of  Galashiels  was  com- 
'•posed  about  the  beginning  of  the  pres- 
ent century  by  the  Laird  of  Galashiels' 
piper. 

Ah  !  tKe  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate, 

When  doom'd  to  love  and  languish. 
To  bear  the  scornful  fair  one's  hate, 

Nor  dai-e  disclose  his  anguish  ! 
Yet  eager  looks  and  dying  sighs 

My  secret  soul  discover  ; 
While  Capture  trembling  through  mine  eyes. 

Reveal?  how  much  I  love  her. 
The  tender  glance,  the  redd'ning  cheek, 
<  O'^rspread  with  rising  blushes, 
A  thousand  various  ways  they  speak, 

A  thousajid"  various  wishtes. 

For  oh^  that  form  so  heavenly  fair. 

Those  languid  eyes  so  sweetly  smiling. 
That  artless  olush  and  modest  air, 

So  fatally  b^uUing ! 
The  every -look  and  every  grace 

So  charmwhene'erl  view  thee, 
_Till  death  o'ertake  me  in  the  chase, 
.  Still  will  iny_hopes  pursue  thee  : 
Then  when  my  tedious  hours  are  past, 

Be  this  last  blessing  given,  ' 
Low  at  thy  feet  to  breathe  my  last. 

And  die  in  sight  of  heaven. 


MILL,  MILL,  0. 

The  original,  or  at  least  a  song  evi- 
dently prior  to  Ramsay's,  is  still  extant. 
It  runs  thus: — 

As  I  cam 40 wn  yon  waterside, 

And  by  yon  shellin-hill,  O, 
Tljere  I  spied  a  bonny,  bonny  lass, 

And  a  lasa  that  I  loved  right  weel,  O. 


The  mill,  mill,  O,  and  the  kill,  kill,  O, 
And  the  cqggin  o'.  Peggy's  wheel,  O. 

The  sack  and  the  sieve;  and  a'  she  did 
leave. 
And  danced  tTie,miller*s  reel,  O. 


WALY,  WALY. 

In  the  west  country  I  have  heard  n. 
diflferont  edition  of  the  second  stanza. 

*  William  Hamilton  of  Bangour,  an  amiable, 
and  accomplished  gentleman,  and  one  of  ^our 
sweetest  lyric  poets,  was  the  author  of  this 
song..  '•-.-- 


Instead  of  the  four,  lines,  beginning 
with,  ''When  cockle-shells,'''  &c.,  the- 
other  way  ran  thus: — 

Oh,  wherefore  need  I  busk  my  head, 
Or  wherefore  need  I  kame  my  hair, 

Sin  ray  fause  luve  has  me  forsook, 
And  says  he'll  never  luve  me  mair. 

Oh,  waly,  waly,  up  yon  bank, 

And  waly,  waly,  cEown  yon  brae, 
And  waly  by  yon  burn  side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  togae 
Oh,  waly,  waly,  love  is  bonny 

A  little  while,  when  it  is  new  ; 
But  when  it's  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  away  like  morning  dew. 

When  cockle  shells  turn  siller  bells. 

And  mussels  grow  on  every  tree. 
When  frost  and  snaw  shall  warm  us  a'. 

Then  shall  my  love  prove  true  to. me. 
I  leant  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trustie  tree  ; 
But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brake, 

And  sae  did  my  fause  love  to  me. 

Now  Arther  Seat  shall  be  my  bed, 
The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  filed  by  me: 

Saint  Anton's  well  shall  be  my  drink, 
Since  my  true  love's  forsaken  me, 

O  Mart'mas  wind,  whan  wilt  thou  blaw. 
And  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree  ! 

0  gentle  death,  whan  wilt  thou  cum, 
And  tak  a  life  that  wearies  me  ? 

'Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Norblawing  snaw's  inclemenciej 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry,  . 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
Wrhen  we  cam  in  by  Glasgow  town, 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see  ; 
My  love  was  clad  in  velvet  black, 

And  I  mysel  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kisst. 
That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win, 

1  had  lockt  my-heart  in  a  case  of  gowd. 
And  pinn'd  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 

Oh,  oh  !  if  my  young  babe  were  born. 
And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee. 

And  1  mysel  were  dead  and  gone  ; 
For  a  maid  again  I'll  never  be. 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Dr.BlAcklock  informed  me  that  he 
had  oftdn  heard  the  tradition  that  this 
air  ,  was  composed  by  a  carman  in 
Glasgow. 


DUMBARTON   DRUMS. 

This  is  the  last  of  the  West  High- 
land airs;  and  from  it,  over  the  wliole 
tract  of  country   to  the    confines  of 


B^O. 


.BURNS'  ^WQRKa. 


Tweed-side,  there  is  liardly^a  tune  or 
song  that  one  can  say,  has  taken  its 
origin  from  any  place  or  transaction  in 
that  part  of  Scotland. — The  oldest  Ayr- 
shire reel  is  Stewarton  Lasses,  which 
was  made  by  the  father  of  the  present 
Sir  Walter  Montgomery  Cunningham, 
alias  Lord  Lysle;  since  which  period 
there  has  indeed  been  local  music  in 
that  country  in  great  plenty. — Johnnie 
Faa  is  the  only  old  song  wliich  I  could 
ever  trace  as  belonging  to  the  extensive 
county  of  Ayr. 

DuMBAftTON's  drums  beat  bonny,  O, 

When  they  mind  me  of  my  dear  Johnnie,  O, 

How  happy  am  I 

When  my  soldier  is  by, 
While;  he^kisses,and  blesses  his  Annie,  O, 
'Tis  d  sofdier  alone  can  delight  me,  O, 
For  his  graceful  looks  do  unite  me,  O  ; 

While  guarded  in  his  arms, 

I'll  fear  no  war's  alarms,  [O, 

Neither  danger  nor  death  shall  e'er  fright  me, 

My  love  is  a  handsome  laddie,  O, 
Genteel,  but  ne'er  foppish  or  gaudy,  O 

Though  commissions  are  dear, 

Yet  I'll  buy  him  one  this  year. 
For  he  shall  serve  no  longer  a  caddie,  O  ; 
A  soldier  has  honour  and  bravery,  O,  [O, 

Unacquainted  with  rogues  and  their  knavery. 

He  minds  no  other  thing. 

But  the  ladies  or  the  King, 
For  every  other  care  is  but  slavery,  O. 

Then  I'll  be  the  captain's  lady  ;  O, 
Farewell  a\\  ray  friends  and  my  daddy,  O  ; 

I'll  wait  no  more  at  home, 

But  I'll  follow  with  the  drum. 
And  whene'er  that  beats  I'll  be  ready,  O, 
Dumbarton  drums  sound  bonny,  O, 
They  are  sprightly  like  my  dear  Johnnie,  O  ; 

How  happy  shall  I  be, 

When  on  my  soldier's  knee, 
And  he  kisses  and  blesses  liis  Annie,  O  ! ' 


CAULD  KAIL  IN  ABERDEEN. 

This  song  is  by  the  Duke  of  Gordon. 

The  old  verses  are, 

There's  cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen. 

Andcastocks  in  Strathbogie.;  -       -     " 
When  ilka  lad  maun  hae  his  lass. 

Then  fye  gie  me  my  coggie. 
There's  Johnnie  Smith  has  got  a  wife, 

That  scrimps  him  o'  his  coggie^ 
If  she  were  mine,  upon  my  life 

I  wad  douk  her  in  a  boggie. 

CHORUS. 

My  coggie,  sirs,  my  coggie,  sirs, 

I  cannot  want  my  coggie ; 
I  wadna  gie  my  three-girt  cap 

For  e'er  a  quean  in  Bogie. 


"  The  '  Cauld  Kail'  of  his  Grace  of  Gordon,'* 
says  Cunningham,  "■  has  long  been  a  favour-' 
ite  in  the  north,  and- deservedly  ..sOi^for 'it  is 
full  of  life  and  manners.  It  is  almost  needless, 
to  say  that  kail  is  cole  wort,  and  much  used  ia- 
brothvthat  castocks  are  tlie  stalks  of  a  com-- 
mon  cabbage  ;  and  that  co^'gie  is  a  wooden 
dish  for  holding  porridge :  it  is  also  a  dnnki^ji 
vessel." 

There's  cauld  kail  in  Aberdeen, 

And  castocks  in  Stra'bogie  ; 
Gin  I  but  hae  a  bonny  lass,  .  , 

Ye're  welcome  to  your  coggie ; 
And  ye  may  sit  up  a'  the  night. 

And  drink  till  it  be  braid  day7light-- 
Gie  me  a  lass  baith  clean  and  tight. 

To  dance  the  Reel  o'  Bogie. 

In  cotillons  the  French  excel ; 

John  Bull  loves  country-dances  ; 
The  Spaniards  dance  fandangos  well; 

Mynheer  an  allemande  prances  : 
In  foursome  reels  the  Scots  delight. 

At  threesome  they  dance  wondrous  liglrt, 
But  twasome  ding  a'  out  o'  sight,  /-' 

Danced  to  the  Reel  o'  Bogie.  '' 

Come,  lads,  and  view  your  partners  well. 

Wale  each  a  blithesome  rogie  ; 
I'll  tak  this  lassie  to  mysel, 

She  looks  sae  keen  and  vogie  ! 
Now,  piper  lad,  bang  up  the  spring: 

The  country  fashion  is  the  thing. 
To  prie  their  mouse'er  we  begin 

To  dance  the  Reel  o'  Bogie. 

Now  ilka  lad  has  got  a  lass. 

Save  yon  auld  doited  fogie  ; 
And  ta'en  a  fling  upo'  the  grass, 

As  they  do  in  Stra'bogie ; 
But  a'  the  lasses  look  sae  fain. 

We  canna''think:  bu'rse^s  to  hain. 
For  they  maun'hae  their  come-again  ; 

To  dance  the  Reel  o'  Bogie. 

Now  a*  the  lads  hae  done  .their  best. 

Like  true  men  o'  Stra'bogie  ; 
We'll  stop  ^.  while  and  tak  a  rest. 

And  tipple  out  a  coggie. 
Come  now,  my  lads,  and  tak  your  glass. 

And  try  ilk  other  to  surpass, 
In  wishing  health  to  eveiy  lass, 

To  dance  the  Reel  o'  Bogie. 


.  FOR  LACK  OF   GOLD. 

The  country  girls    in  Ayrshire, 
stead  of  the'  line_-7: 

"  She  me  forsook  for  a  great  duke," 
say, 

"For  Athole's  duke  she  me  forsook  •" 

which  I  take  to  be  the  original  reading. " 

This  song  was  writtenby  tlie  late  Dr.. 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


m 


Austin,*  physician  at  Edinburgh. ^He 
had  courted  a  lady,  to  whom  he  was 
shortly  to  have  beeu  married;  hut  the 
Duke  of  Athole,  having  seen  her,  be- 
came so  much  in  love  with  her^  that  he 
made  proposals  of  marriage,  which 
were  accepted  of,  and  she  jilted  the 
doctor. 

For  lack  of  gpid  she's  left  uie,  oh ! 
And  of  all  that's  dear  bereft  me,  oh ! 
For  Athfdle's  duke,  she  me  forsook. 
And  tQ  .endless  care  has  left  me,  oh ! 

A  star  aiid  garter  have  more  art 
Than  youth,  a  true  and  faithful  heart, 
For  empty  titles  we  must  part. 
And'  for  glittering'  show  she's  left  me,  oh ! 

No  cruel  fair  shall  ever  move 
My  injured  heart  a^ain  to  love, 
Through  distant  climates  I  must  rove, 

Since  Jeanie  she  has  left  me,  oh ! 
Ve  powere  above,  I  to  your  care 
Resign  my  faithless  lovely  fair. 
Your  choicest  blessings  be  her  share. 

Though  she's  forever  left  me,  oh ! 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  MY  TRUE 
LOVE,    &c. 

This  song  is  Dr.  Blacklock's.  He 
told  me  that  tradition  gives  the  air  to 
our  James  IV.  of  Scotland. 

To  me  what  are  riches  encumber'd  with  care  I 
To  i^what  is  pomp's  insignidcant  gflare ! 
No  imnion  of  fortune,  no  pageant  ofstate. 
Shall  ever  induce  me  to  envy  his  fate. 

Their  personal  graces  let  fops  idolize, 
Whose  life  is  but  death  in  a  splendid  disguise  ; 
But  soon  ihe  pale  tyrant  his  right  shall  re- 
some. 
And  sM  their  false  lustre  be  hid  in  the  tomb. 

Let  the  meteor  discovery  attract  the   fond 

sagp, 
In  fruitless  researches  for  life  to  engage  ; 
Content  with  ray  portion,  the  rest  Iforego, 
Nor  labour  to  gain  disappointment  and  woe. 

Contemptibly  fond  of  contemptible  self. 
While  misers  their  wishes  concentre  irl  pelf: 
Let  the  godlike  delight  of  imparting  be  mine, 
Enfjiiymeat  reflected  is  pleasure  divine. 


,  *  "  The  doctor  gave  his  woes  an  airing  in 
song,  and  then  married  a  very  agreeable  and 
beautiful  lady,  by  whom  he  had  a  numerous 
family.  Nor  did  Jean  Drummond,  of  Meg- 
ginch,  break  her  heart  lyhen  James, -Duke  of 
Athole,  died:  she  dried  her  tears,  and  gave 
her  hand  to  Lord  Adam  Gordon.  ;The«crag 
is  creditable  to  ihe  author."— Cunningham, 


Extensive  dominion  and  absolute  power, 
May  tickle  ambition,  perhaps  for  an  hour  ; 
But  power  in  possession  soon  loses  itscharms, 
While  conscience   remonstrates,  and    terror 
alarms. 

With  vigour,  oh,  teach  me,  kind  Heaven,  to 

sustain 
Those  ills  which  in  life  to  be  suffer'd  remain  ; 
And  when  'tis  allow'd  me  the'goal  to  descry, 
For  my  species  I  lived,  for  myself  let  me  die. 


HEY  TUTTI  TAITL 

I  HAVE  met  the  tradition  umversally 
over  Scotland,  and  particularly  about 
Stirling,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
scene,  that  this  air  was  Robert  Brujce's 
march  at  the  Battle  of  Bannockburn. 


TAK  your  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT 
YE. 

A  PART  of  this  old  soug,  according 
to  the    English  set  of  it,  is  quoted  in  ■ 


In  winter  when  the  rain  rain'd  cauld, 

And  frost  and  snaw  on  ilka  hill, 
And  Boreas,  with  his  blasts  sae  bauld. 

Was  threat'ning  a'  our  kye  to  kill : 
Then  Bell  my  wife,  wha  loves  na  strife, 

She  said  to  me  right  hastily, 
Get  up  goodman,  save  Cromie's  life, 

And  ^'your  auld  cloak  about  ye. 

ftty  Cromie  is  a  useful  cow. 

And  she  is  come  of  a  good  kyne  ; 
Aft  ha§  she  wet  the  bairns,  mou. 

And  I  am  laith  that  she  should  tyne. 
Get  up,  goodman,  it  is  fu'  time, 

The  sun  shines  in  the  lift'  sae  hie , 
Sloth  never  made  a  gracious  end, 

Go  tak  your  auld  cloak  about  ye. 

My  cloak  was  ance  a  good  gray  cloak, 
When  it  Was  fitting  for  my  wear ; 

But  now  it's  scantly  worth  a  groat. 
For  I  have  worn  t  this  thirty  year. 

Let's  spend  the  gear  that  we  have  won, 
'  We  Jrttle  Teen  the  day  we'Udie  ; 

Then  I'll  be  proud  sinc^  I  have  sworn 
To  have  a  new  cloak  about  me. 

In  days  when-our  King  Robert  rang, 
His  trews  they  cost  but  half  a  crown ; 

He  said  they  were  a  groat  o'er  dear, 
Andcall'd  the  tailor  thief  and  loun. 

He  was  the  king  that  -ftrore  a  crown, 
And  thou  the  man  of  laigh  degree, 

'Tis  pride  puts  a'  the  country  down, 

-  Sae  tak  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


YE     GODS,     WAS      STREPHON'S 
PICTURE  BLEST  ?* 
Tune—"  Fourteenth  of  October." 
The  title  of  this  airah-owsthat  it  al- 
ludes to  the  famous  King  Crispian,  the 
patron  of  the  honourable  corporation 
of  shoemakers.     St  Crispian's  day  falls 
on  tlxe  14th  of  October,  old  style,  as  the 
old  proverb  tells: — 

"  On  the  fourteenth  of  October, 
Was  ne'er  a  sutor^  sober." 

Ye  ffods,  was  Strephon's  picture  blest 
With  the  fair  heaven  of  Chloe's  breast  ? 
Move  softer;  thou  fond  fiutt'ring  heart. 
Oh,  gently -throb,  too  fierce  thou  .art. 
Tell  me,  thou  brightest  of  thy  kind, 
For  Strephon  was  the  bliss  design'd  ? 
For  Strephon's  sake,  dear  charming  maid, 
Didst  thou  prefer ius  wand'ring  shade  ? 

And  thou  blessM  shade  that  sweetly  art 
Lodged  so  near  my  Chloe's  heart, . 
For  me  the  tender  hour  improve, 
And  softly  tell  how  dear  I  love. 
Ungrateful  thing !  it  scorns  to  hear 
Its  wretched  master's  ardent  prayer, 
.  Ingrossing  all  that  beauteous  heaven 
ThatChloe,  lavish  maid,  has  given. 

I  cannot  blame  thee :  were  I  lord 

Of  all  the  wealth  these  breasts  afford  ; 

I'd  be  a  miser  too,  nor  give 

An  alms  to  keep  a  god  alive. 

Oh  !  smile  not  thus,  my  lovely  fair, 

On -these  cold  looks  that  lifeless  are : 

Prize  him  whose  bosom  glows  with  fire 

With  eager  love  and  soft  desire. 

'Tis  true  thy  charms,  O  powerful  maid  ! 
To  Ufe'can'bring  the  silent  shade  ; 
Thou  canst  surpass  the  painter's  art, 
And  real  warmth  and  flames  impart. 
But,-  oh  !  it  ne'ercan  love  like  me, 
I  ever  loved,  and  .loved  but  thee  ; 
Then,  charmer,  grant  my  fond  request ; 
Say,  thou  canst  love,  and  make  me  blest. 


SINCE  ROBB'D  OF  ALL  THAT 
CHARM'D  MY  VIEW. 

The  old  name  of  this  air  is  ' '  The 
Blossom  o*  the  Baspherry. "  The  song 
is  Dr.  Blacklock's. 


^  Shoemaker. 
*This  song  was  cottiposed  ,by  Hamilton  .of 
Bangour  .on  hearing,  .that  a  young  lady  of 
beauty  .and  rank  wore  his  picture    in    her 
bosom.  ,        .  - '  .^ 


As  the  song  is  a  long  one,  we  can  only  givje 
the  first  and  last  verses  :— 

Since  robb'd  of  all  that  charmed  my  view. 

Of  all  my  soul  e'er  fancied  f^ir, 
Ye  smiling  native  scenes  adieu, 

With  each  delightful  object  there  I'''  '  ^  '- 
Oh  !  when  my  heart  revolves  the  joyjs  .  ■ :    ^-^ 

Which  in  your  sweet  recess- I-knev^^,  , 
The  last  dread  shock,  wHich  life  d^roys, 

Is  heaven  compared  with  losing  you  I  ■ 

Ah  me  !  had  Heaven  and  she  proved  kind. 

Then  full  of  age,  and  free  from  "care, 
How  blest  had  Tmy  life  resigned, 

Where  first  I  breathed  this  vital  air :      :-   ^ 
But  since  no  flatt'ring  hope  remains. 

Let  me  my  wretched  lot  pursue  ; 
Adieu  !    dear  friends  and  native  scenes ! 

To  all  but  grief  and  love,  adieu  !- 


YOUNG  DAMON. 

Tune — "  Highland  Lamentation.'' 
This  air  is  by  Oswald.* 

Amidst  a  rosy  bank  of  flowers    -       -> 

Ybung  Damon  moum'd  his  forlorn  fate,  \ 
In  sighs  he  spent  his  languid  hours,         '"''. 

And  breathed  his  woes  in  lonely  state ;    ' 
Gay  joy  no  more  shall  ease  his  mind,;    ,-  .". 

No  wanton  sports  can  soothe  his  care. 
Since  sweet  Amanda  proved- unkind. 

And  left  him  full  of  black  despair. 

His  Jboks,  that  were  as  fresh  as  mom. 

Can  now  no  longer  smiles  impart ; 
His  pensive  soul  on  sadness  borne,  .- 

Is  rack'd  and  torn  by  Cupid's  dart ; 
Turn,  fair  Amanda,  cheer  your  swain., 

Unshroud  him  from  this  vale  of  woe'j-  -  ^ 
Range  every  charm  to  soothe  the  pain'r 

That  in  his  tortured  breast  doth  grqw. 


KIRK  WAD  LET  ME  BE.       • 

Tradition  in  the  western  parts  ^ 
Scotland  tells  tliat  this  old  song,  of 
which  there  are  still  three  stanzas  e^ 
tant,  once  saved  a  covenanting  clergy- 
man out  of  a  scrape.  It  was  a  little  prior 
to  the  Revolution — a  period  when  hein;g 
a  Scots  covenanter  was  being  a  f elon-^ 
that  one  of  their  clergy,  who  was-at 
that  very  time  hunted  by  the  merciless 
soldiery,  fell  in  by  accident  with  a  party 
of  the  military.  The  soldiers  were  not 
exactly  acquainted  with  the  person  of 
the  reverend  gentleman  of  whom  they. 
were  in  search;  but  from  suspicious 


*The  words  are  by  Fergussoh. 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


323 


"clrcumstanoes,  they  fancied  that  they 
had  got  one  of  that  cloth  and  oppro- 
bious  persuasion  among  them  in  the 
person  of  this  stranger.  '  'Mass  John," 
to  extricate  himself,  assumed  a  freedom 
of  manners  very  unlike  the  gloomy 
strictness  of  Jiis  sect:  and,  among  other 
convivial  exliibitioaa,  sung  (and,  some 
traditions  say,  composed  on  the  spur 
of  the  occasion)  "  Kirk  wad  let  me  be," 
with    such    effect,    that  the    soldiers 

swore  he  was  a  d 1  honest  fellow, 

and  that  it  was  impossible  lie  could 
belong  to  those  hellish  conventicles; 
and  so  gave  him  his  liberty. 

The  first  stanza  of  this  song,  a  little  al- 
tered, is  a  favourite  kind  of  dramatic  in- 
terlude acted  at  country  weddings  in  the 
south-west  parts  of  the  kingdom.  A 
young  fellow  is  dressed  up  like  an  old 
beggar;  a  peruke,  commonly  made  of 
carded  tow,  represents  hoary  locks;  an 
old  bonnet;  a  ragged  plaid,  or  surtout, 
bound  with  a  straw  rope  for  a  girdle; 
a  pair  of  old  shoes,  with  straw  ropes 
twisted  rotind  his  ankles,  as  is  done  by 
shepherds  in  snowy  weather:  his  face 
they  disguise  as,  like  wretched  old  a^e 
as  they  ca,n :_  in  this  plight  he  is  brought 
into  the  "wedding  house,  frequently  to 
the  astohishinent  of  strangers,  who  are 
not  in  the  secret,  and  begins  to  sing — 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  silly  auld  man, 
-  My  name  it  is  auld  Glenae,'"*  &c. 

He  is  asked  to  drink,  and  by  and  by 
to  dance,  which,  after  some  uncouth 
excuses,  he  is  prevailed  on  to  do,  the 
fiddler  playing  the  tune,  which  here  is 
fcommonly  called  "  Auld  Glenae;"  in 
sliort;  he  is  all  the  time  so  plied  with 
liquor  that  he  is  understood  to  get  in- 
Jioxicated,  and,  with  all  the  ridiculous 
.gesticulations  of  an  old  drunken  beg- 
gar, he  dances  and  staggers  until  he 
falls  on  the  floor;  yet  still,-  in  all  his 
*iot,  nay,  in  his  rolling  and  tumbling  on 
"the  floor,  with  some  or  other  drunken 
motion  of  his  body,  he  beats  time  to 
ihe  music,  till  a,t  last  he  is  supposed  to 
-be  carried  out  dead  drunk. 


*  Glenae,  on  the  small  river  Ae,in  Annan- 
dale  ;  the  seat  and  designation  of  an  ^^ncient 
branch,  and  the  present  rep'resentatiife,  of  the 
gallarif  but  uafbrtiihate  Dalzels  of  CarnwalH. 
— ^This  is  thevi?^MorV  note. 


There  are  many  versions  of  this  Nithsdale 
song ;  one  of  the  least  objectionable  is  a^  foU 
lows  : — 

I  AM  a  silly  puir  man, 

Gaun  hirplin  owre  a  tree ; 
For  courting  a  lass  in  the  dark 

The  kirk  came  haunting  me. 
If  a'  my  rags  were  off. 

And  nought  but  hale  claes  on. 
Oh,'  I  could  please  a  young  lass 

As  well  as  a  richer  man. 

The  parson  he  ca'd  me  a  fogue, 

The  session  and  a'  thegither, 
The  justice  he  cried ,  You  dog, 

Your  knaVery  I'll  cohsid^r : 
Sae  I  drapt  down  on  my  knfee 

And  thus  did  humbly  pray, 
Oh,  if  ye'll  let  me  gae  free, 

My  hale  confession  ye'se  hae, 

'Twas  late  on  tysday  at  e'en. 

When  the  moon  was  on  the  grass ; 
Oh,  just  for  charity's  Sake, 

I  was  kind  to^a  beggar  lass. 
She  had  begg'd  down  Annan  side, 

Lochmaberr  and  Hightae  ;" "     ■ 
But  dell  an  awm'ous  sne^ot, 

Till  she  met  wi'  auld  Glenae,  &c.       t 


JOHNNY  FAA,  OR  THE  GIPSY 
LADDIE. 

The  people  in  Ayrshire  begin  this 
song — 
"  The  gipsies  cam  to  my  Lord  Cassilis'  yett." 

They  have  a  great  many  more  stanzas 
in  this  song  than  I  ever  yet  saw  in  any 
printed  copy.  The  castle  is  still  re- 
maining at  Maybole  where  his  lordship 
shut  up  his  wayward  spouse,  and  kept 
her  for  life. 

The  gipsies  came  to  our  lord' s  gate. 
And  wow  but  they  sang  sweetly  :    ■ 

They  sang  sae  sweet,  and  sae  complete, 
■That  down  came  the  fair  lady. 

When  she  came  tripping  down  the  stair, 

Aiwl  a'  her  maids  before  her, 
As  soon  as  they  saw  her  weel-fard  face. 

They  coost  the  glamour  o'er  her. 

"  Gar  tak  fra  me  this  gay  mantile, 

And  bring  to  me  a  plaldie  ; 
For  if  kith  and  kin  and  a'  had  sworn,  / 

I'll  follow  the  gipsy  laddie. 

"  Yestreen  I  lay  in  a  weel-made  bed, 

And  my  good  lord  bestdis  me  ; 
This  night  I'll  lie  m  a  tenant's  barn, 

Whatever  shall  betide  me." 

Oh  !  come  to  your  bed,  says  Johnny  Faa, 
-  Oh  !  come  to  your  b^d,  my  dearie  ;   _ 
For  I  vow  and  swear  by  the  hilt  of  ray  sword 
That  your  lord  shall  nae  mair  come  near  ye. 


S24 


BURXS*  WORKS. 


"  lUgo  to  bed  to  my  Johnny  Faa, 

And  I'll  go  to  bed  lo  my  dearie  ; 
For  I  vow  and  swear  by  what  pass'd  yestreen 

That  my  lord  shall  nae  mair  come  near  me.*' 

*'  111  mak  a  hap  to  my  Johnny  Faa, 
And  I'll  mak  a  hap  to  my  dearie  : 

And  he's  get  a'  the  coat  gaes  round, 
And  my  lord  shall  na  mair  come  near  me." 

And  when  our  lord  came  hame  at  e'en, 

And  speir'd  for  his  fair  lady, 
The  lane  she  cried,  and  the  other  replied. 

She's  awa'  wi'  the  gipsy  laddie. 

"Gae  saddle  to  me  the  black,  black  steed, 
Gae  saddle  and  make  him  ready ; 

Before  that  I  either  eat  or  sleep 
I'll  gae  seek  my  fair  lady," 

And  we  were  fifteen  well-made  men. 

Although  we  were  nae  bonny  ; 
And  we  were  a'  put  down  for  ane, 

A  fair,  young,  wanton  lady. 


TO  DAUNTOX  ME. 

The  two  following  old  stauzas  to 
this  tane  have  some  merit, — 

To  daunton  me,  to  daunton  me, 

Oh,  ken  ye  what  it  is  that  '11  daunton  mt  ? — 

There's  elgirty-eight  and  eighty-nine, 

And  a'  that  I  hae  borne  slnsyne, 

There's  cess  and  press, ^  and  Preshytrie, 

I  think  it  will  do  meikle*  for  to  daunton  me. 

But  to  wanton  mc,  to  wanton  me, 

Oh,  ken  ye;  what  it  is  that  wad  wanton  me  ? 

To  see  guifl  corn  upon  the  rig^, 

And  banishment  amang  the  Whigs, 

And  right  restored  where  right  sud  be. 

1  think  it  wbuld  do  meikle  lor  to  wanton  me. 


ABSENCE. 

A  SONG  in  the  manner  of  Shenstone. 

The   song  and  air  are  both  by  Dr. 
Blacklock. 

The  following  are  two  stanzas  of  this  strain  :— 

Ye  harvests  that  wave  in  the  breeze 

As  far  as  the  view  can  extend  ; 
Ye  mountains  umbrageous  with  trees. 

Whose  tops  so  majestic  ascend  ; 
Your  landscape  what  joy  to  survey. 

Were  Melissa  with  me  to  admire ! 
Then  the  harvests  Would  glitter  how  gay, 

How  majestic  the  mountains  aspire  l 

Ye  zephyrs  that  visit  my  fair, 
Ye  sunbeams  around  her  that  play, 

Does  her  sympathy  dwell,  on  my  care, 
Does  she  number  the  hours  of  my  stay  ? 


*  Scot  and  lot. 


First  perish  ambition  and  wealth. 

First  perish  all  else  that  is  dear. 
E'er  one  sigh  should  escape  her  by  stealth. 

E'er  my  absence  should  cost  her  one  ttax. 


I  HAD  A  HORSE,  AND  I  HAD 
NAE  MAIR. 

This  story  is  founded  on  fact.  A 
John  Hunter,  ancestor  of  a  very  re^ 
spectable  farming  family,  who  live  in  a 
pla^e  in  the  parish,  I  think,  of  Galston, 
called  Bar-mill,  -was  the  luckless  hero 
that  **  had  a  horse  and  had  nae  mair." 
^For  some  little  youthful  follies  he 
found  it  necessary  to  make  a  retreat  to 
the  West  Highlands,  where  "he  fee'd 
himself  to  a  Highland  laird,"  for  that 
is  the  expression  of  all  the  bra!  editions 
of  the  song  I  ever  heard.  The  present 
Mr.  Hunter,  who  told  me  the  anecdote, 
is  the  great  grandchild  of  our  hero. 

I  HAD  a  horse,  and  I  had  nae  mair, 

I  gat  him  frae  my  daddy , 
My  purse  was  light,  and  heart  was  sair. 

But  my  wit  it  was  fu*  ready. 
And  sae  I  thought  me  on  a  time, 

Outwittens  of  my  daddy, 
To  fee  mysel  to  a  lawland  laird, 

Wha  had  a  bonny  lady. 

I  wrote  a  letter,  and  thus  began, — 

"  Madam,  be  not  offended, 
I'm  o  er-the  lugs  in  luv  wi'  you. 

And  care  not  though  ye  kend  it : 
For  I  get  little  frae  the  laird. 

And  far  less  frae  my  daddy. 
And  1  .would  blithely  be  the  man 

Would  strive  to  please  my  lady." 

She  read  my  letter,  and  she  leugh, 

"  Ye  needna  been  sae  blate,  man  ; 
You  might  hae  come  to  me  yoursel. 

And  tauld  me  o*  your  state;  man ; 
You  might  hae  come  to  me,  yoursel, 

Outwittens  o'  ony  body. 
And  made  y^An  Go7vksion  of  thel&ird, 

And  kiss'd  his  bonny  lady." 

Then  she  pat  siller  in  my  purse, 

We  drank  wine  m  a  coggie  ; 
She  fee'd  a  man  to  rub  my  horse, 

And  wow  but  I  was  vogie ! 
But  1  gat  ne'er  sae  sair  a  fleg, 

Since  I  cam  frae  my  daddy. 
The  laird  came,  rap,  rap,  to  the  yett. 

When  I  was  wi'  nis  lady. 

Theri  she  pat  me  below^a  chair, 

And  happM  me  wi'  a  plaidie  ; 
But  I  was  like  to  swarf  wi'  fear. 

And  wished  me  wi'  my  daddy. 
The  laird  went  out,  he  saw  nae  me, 

I  went  when  I  was  ready  ; 
I  promised,  but  I  ne'er  gaed  back 

Toiwissmy  bonny  lady. 


REMARKS  OK  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


323: 


UP   AND  WARN  A',  WILLIE. 

This  edition  of  the  bong  I  got  from 
Tom  Niel,  of  facetious  fame,  in  Edin- 
burgh. The  expression  "  Up  and 
■warn  a',  Willie,"  alludes  to  the  Cran- 
tara,  or  warning  of  a  clan  to  arms. 
Not  understanding  this,  the  Low- 
landers  in  the  westand  south  say,  "Up 
and  waur  them  a\"  &c. 


";        lULD    ROB  MORRIS. 

- '  It  is  remark-worthy  that  the  song  of 
*'  Hooly  arid  Fairly,'*  in  all  the  old 
^ditiQns:of  it,  is  called  "  The  Drunken 
Wife  o'  Galloway,"  which  localises  it 
to  that  country. 


Th'eBe's  Auld  Rob  Morris  that  wins  in  yon 
glen,   -  [auld  men  ; 

He's  the  king  o'  glide  fallows,  and  wale  o' 

Has  fourscore  o'  Black  sheep,  and  fourscore 
too, 

And"  auld  Rob  Morris  is  the  man  ye  maun  loo. 

DOUGHTER. 

Haud  your  tongue,  mither,  and  let  that  abee. 
For  his  eild  and  ray  eild  can  never  agree  ; 
They'll  never  agree,  and  that  will  be  seen, 
For  he  is  fourscore,  and  I'm  but'ififteen. 


Haud  you  tongue,  doughter,  and  lay  by  your 
-pride,  [bride ; 

For  he's  be  the  bridegroom,  and  ye's  be  the 
He  shall  he  by  your  side,  and  kiss  ye  too, 
Auld  Rob  Morris  is  the  man  ye  maun  loo. 

DOUGHTER. 

Auld  Rob  Morris,  I  ken  him  fu*  weel. 
His  back  sticks  out  like  ony  peat-creel ; 
He's  out-shina'd,  in-kneed,  and  ringle-eed,too, 
Auld  Rob  Morns  is  the  man  I'll  ne  er  loo. 


Though  auld  Rob  Morris  be  an  elderly  man, 
Yet  his  auld  brass  it  will  buy  a  new  pan  ; 
Then,  dough  ten  ye  shouldnabesaeill  to  shoo, 
For  auld  Rob  Morris  is  the  man  ye  maun  loo, 

DOUGHTER. 

But  auld  .Rob  Morris  I  never  will  hae, 

His  back  is  sae  stiff,  and  his  beard  te  grown 

gray  ; . 
I  had  rather  die  than  live  wi  him  a  year, 
Sae  mair  of  Rob  Morris  1  never,  will  hear. 

The  ''  Drunken  wife  o'  Galloway"  is  in  an- 
other stram  ;  the  idea  is  original,  and  it  can- 
not be  denied  tha.t  the  author,  whoever  he 
was,  has- followed  up  the  conception  with 
great  spirit.    A  few- verses  will  prove  this. 


Oh  !  what  had  I  ado  for  to  marry,      [canary  ■ 
My  wife  she  drinks  naething  but  sack  and 
I. to  her  friends  complain'd  rjght  early. 
Oh !  gin  my  wife  wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly.' 

Hooly  and  fairly  :  hooly  and  fairly^ 

Ohi  gin  my  vai/e  -wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly  t 

First  she  drank  Crommie,  and  syne  she  drank 

Garie, 
Then  she  has  drunken  my  bonny  gray  mearie> 
That  carried  me  through  the  dub  and  the 

lairie,  , ..  j 

Oh !  gin  my  wife  wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly  ! 

The  very,  gray  mittens  that  gaed  on  my  han's, 
To  her  ain  neibour  wife  she  has  laid  them  in 

V>awns,  [dearly, 

i'  ;my  bane-headed  staff  that  I  lo'ed-  sae 
Oh !  gin  my  wife  wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly  ! 

I  never  was  given  to  wrangling  nor  strife, 
Nor  e'er  did  refuse  her  the  comforts  of  life  ; 
Ere  it  come  to  a  war,  I'm  aye  for  a  parley, 
Oh !  gin  ray  wife  wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly ! 

A  pint  wi'  her  cummers  I  wad  her  allow ; 
But  when  she  sits  down  she  fills  hersel  fou' ; 
And  when  she  is  fou'she's  unco  camstrairie. 
Oh  !  gin  my  wife  wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly  ! 

An  when  she  comes  hamc  she  lays  on  the 

lads. 
And  ca's  a'  the  lasses  baith  limmers  and  jads ; 
And  I  my  ain  sell  an  auld  cuckold  carlie, 
Oh  !  gin  my  wife  wad  drink  hooly  and  fairly  t 


NANCY'S    GHOST. 
This  song  is  by  Dr.  Blacklock. 

Ah  !  hapless  man,  thy  perjured  vow 
Was  to  thy  Nancy's  heart  a  grave ! 

The  damps  of  death  bedeW'd  my  brow 
Whilst  thou  the  dying  maid  could  Kive  ! 

Thus  spake  the  vision,  and  withdrew ; 

From  Sandy's  cheeks  the  crimson  fled  ; 
Guilt  and  Despair  thpir  arrows  threw, 

And  now  behold  the  traitor  dead  ! 

Remember,  swains,  my  artless  strains. 
To  plighted  faith  be  ever  true  ; 

And  let  no  injured  maid  complain 
She  finds  false  Sandy  live  tn  you  ! 


TUNE  YOUR  FIDDLES,  &c. , 

This  song  was  composed  by  ihe  Rev. 
John  Skinner,  nonjuror  clergyman  at 
Linshart,  near  Peterhead,  He  is  like: 
wise  author  of  ' '  Tul  lochgorum , " 
'*  Ewie  wi'  the  Crooked  Horn/'  **  John 
o'  Badenyon,"  &c.,  and,  what  is  of  still 
more  consequence,  he  is  one  of  th^ 
worthiest  of  mankind.  He  is  the 
author  of  an  ecolesiastical  history  of 


326 


BURNS'   WORKS. 


Scptland.  Tlie  aix  is  by  Mr.MarsUall, 
bugler  to  tlie  Duke  of  Gordon — ^tbe  first 
corpposer  of  stratlispeys  of  tlie  age. 
I  have  been  told  by  somebody,  who 
h«i.^  it  of  Marshall  hin^elf ,  that  he  took 
tlip  idea  of  his  three  most  celebrated 
pisces;  "  The  Marquis  of  Huntley's 
B?el,"  "His  Farewell,"  and  "Miss 
A4Miral  Gordon's  Reel,'.'  from  the  old 
air,  "  The  German  Lairdie." 

,   Tune  your  fiddles,  tune  them  sweetly, 
Play  the  Marquis'  Reel  discreetly  ; 
Here  we  are  a  band  completely 

Fitted  to  be  jolly. 
Come,  my  boys,  be  blithe  and  gaucie. 
Every  younerster  choose  his  lassie. 
Dance  wi*  li^e,  and  be  not  saucy, 
Shy,  nor  melancholy. 

Lay  aside  your  sour  grimaces. 
Clouded  brows,  and  drumlie' faces; 
Look  about  and  see  their  graces, 

How  they  smile  delighted. 
Now's  the  season  to  be  merry, 
Hang  the  thoughts  of  Charon's  ferry, 
Time  enough  to  turn  camstary. 

When  we're  old  and  doited. 


1  GIL  MOKICE.* 

This  plaintive  ballad  ought  to  have 
been  called  Child  Morice,  and  uot  Gil 
Morice.  ■  In  its  present  dress,  it  has 
gained  iipmortal  honour  from  Mr. 
Home's  taking  from  it  the  groundwork 
of  his  fine  tragedy  of  "Douglas."  But 
I  am  of  opinion  that  the  present  ballad 
is'a  modern  composition, — perhaps  not 
much  above  the  age  of  the  middle  of 
the'  last  century;  at  least  I  should 
be  gkid  to  see  or  hear  of  a  copy  of  the 
present  words  prior  to  1650.  That  it 
was  ctaken  from  an  old  ballad,  called 
"  Child  Maurice,"  now  lost,  I  am  in- 
clined to  believe;  but  the  present  one 
may  be  classed  with  "  Hardyknute," 
"Kenneth,"  "  Duncan,  the  Laird,  of 
Woodhouselee,"  "  Lord  Livingston," 
"  Binnorie,"  "The  Death  of  Monteith," 
and  many  other  modem  productions, 
which  have  been  swallowed  by  many 


*  Mr.  Pinkerton  remarks  that,  in  many 
parts  of  Scotland,  "  Gill"  at  this  day  signifies 

Child,"  as  is  the  casein  the  Gaelic:  thus, 
."Gilchrist"  means  the  "Child  of  Christ.'" — 
"  Child"  seems  also  to  have  been  the  custom- 
ary appellation  of  a  young  nobleman,  when 
about  nfteen  years  of  age. 


readers  as  ancient .  fragments,  of  old- 
poems.  This'beautiful  plaintive  tune 
was  composed  by  Mr.  M'Gibbon,  the- 
selecter  of  a  collection  of  Scots  tunes;» 

In  addition  to  the  observations  on 
Gil  Moj-ice,  I,  add  that,  of  the  ^ongs 
which  Captain  Riddel  mentions,  "Ken- 
neth" and  "  Duncan"  are  juvenile  com- 
positions of  Mr.  M'Kenzie,  "  The  Map 
of  Feeling."  '. —  M'Kenzie's  father 
showed  them  in  MS.  to  Dr.  Blackloc^ 
as  the  productions  -  of  his  son,  froiji 
which  the  doctor  rightly  prognostj- 
cated  that  the  young  poet  would  maki, 
in  his  more  advanced  years,  a  respect- 
able figure  in  the  world  of  letters.      ' ' 

This  I  had  f  rom  Blacklock. 


WHEN    I    UPON     THY     BOSOM 
LEAN.* 

This  song  was  the  work  of  a  very 
worthy  facetious  old  fellow,  John 
Lapraik,  late  of  Dalfram,  near  Muir- 
kirk,  which  little  property  he  was 
obliged  to  sell  in  consequnnce  of  some 
connection  as  security  for  some  persoas 
concerned  in  that  villanous  bubble. 
The  .  Ayk  Bank.  He  has  often  told 
me  that  he  composed  this  song  one  day 
when  his  wife  had  been  -fretting  oyer 
their  misfortunes.  '    ' 

When  I  upon  thy  bospm  lean. 

And  fondly  clasp  thee  a' my  ain, 
I  glory  in  the  sacred  tieg'  ' 

That  made  us  ane  wha  ance  were  twain  : 
A  mutual  flame  inspires  us  baith. 

The  tender  look,  (he  meltingki'ss  : '    ^- 
Even  years  shall  ne'er  destroy  our  love, 

But  only  gie  us  cl^ange  o'  bliss.- 

Hae  I  a  wish  ?  it's  a'  for  thee  ; 

I  ken  thy  wish  is-me  to  please  ; 
Our  moments  pass  sae  smooth  away,    .> 

'That  numbers  on  us  look  and  gaze. 
Weel  pleased  they  see  our  happy  days. 

Nor  Envy's  sel  find  aught  to  blame  ;     ^ 
And  aye  when  weary  cares  arise. 

Thy  bosom  still  shall  be  my  hame. 


'•'  This  is  the  song  "  that  some  kind  husband 
had  addrest  to  some  sweet  wife,"  alluded  to 
in  the  "  Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik." 

There  was  ae  jrtK^amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best. 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife  ;  [breast. 
It  thrilled  the  heart-strings  through  the 
"  A' to  the  lite. 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


837 


1^1  lay  me  there,  and  take  my  rest, 

'And  if  tUatau^ht  disturb  tnydear, 
I'U  bid  her  laugh  her  cares  away, 

And  beg  her  not  to  drap  a  tear ; 
Hae  I  a  joy?  it's  a'  her  am  ; 

United  still  her  heart  and  mine ; 
They're  like  the  woodbine  round  the  tree, 

That's  twined  till  death  shall  them  disjoin. 


•THE  HIGHLAND  CHARACTER; 

OR,  GAKB   OF   OLD   GAUL. 

This  tune  was  tlie  composition  of 
Qen.  ;Reid,  and  calle;!  by  htm.  * '  The 
Highland,  or  42d  Regiment's  March." 
The  words  are  by  Sir  Harry  Erslvine. 

In  the  garb  of  old  Gaul,  with  the  fire  of  old 
Rome,  [we  come. 

From  the  heath-covcr'd  mountains  of  Scotia 

Where  the  Romans  endeavour'd  our  couittry 
to  gain  ;  [in  vain. 

But  our  ancestors  fought,  and  they  fought  not 

No  effeminate  customs  our  sinews  unbrace. 
No  luxurious  tables  enervate  our  race, 
Our  loud-sounding  pipe  bears  the  true  mar- 
-lial  strain, 
^Q  do  we  the  old  Scottish  valour  retain. 

We're  tall  as  the  oak  on  the  mount  of  the  vale, 
As  swift  as  .the  roe  which  the  hound  doth  as- 
sail, [pear, 
As  the  iii\i  moon  in  autumn  our  shields  do  ap- 
llKliaerva  would  dread  to  encounter  our  spear. 

As  a  storm  in  the  ocean  Tvhen  Boreas  blows, 
So  are  we  enraged  when  we  rush  on  our  foes  ; 
We  sons  of   the  mountains,  tremendous  as 
rocks,  [ing  strokes. 

Bash  the  force  of  our  foes  with  our  thunder- 


LEADER-HAUGHS  AND  YARROW. 

There  is  in  several  collections  the 
old^ongof  "Leader-Haughs  and  Yar- 
row." It  seems  to  have  been  the  work 
of  one  of  bur  itinerant  minstrelp,  as  he 
calls  himself,  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
song,  '*  Minstrel  Burn." 

When  Phoebus  bright,  the  azure  skies 

With  golden  rays  enlight'neth. 
He  makes  all  Nature's  beauties  rise, 

Hei-bs,  irees^  and  flowers  he  quickeneth, 
Amongst  all  those  he  makes  his  choice. 

And  with  delight  goes  thorow, 
With  radiant  beams  and  silver  streams 

O'er  Leader-Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

When  Aries  the  day  and  night 

In  equal  length  divideth, 
■Atildft*osty  Saturn  takes  his  flight, 

Nae  langer  he  abideth ; 


Then  Flora  Queen,  with  mantle  green, 

Casts  aff  her  former  sorrow. 
And  vows  to  dwell  with  Ceres'  sel. 

In  Leader-Haughs  and  YaiTOW. 

Pan  playing  on  his  aiten  reed. 

And  shepiierds  him  attending, 
Do  here  resort  their  flocks  lo  feed^ 

The  hills  and  haughs  commending. 
With  cur  and  kent  upon  the  .bent/: 

Sing  to  the  sun  good-morrow. 
And  swear  nae  fields  mair  pleasure  yields 

Than  Leader-Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

A  house  there  stands  on  Leaderside,* 

Surmounting  my  descriving, 
With  rooms  sac  rare,  and  windows  fair, 

Like  Ded^lus'  contriving : 
Men  passing  by,  do  aften  cry. 

In  sooth  it  hath  nae  marrow; 
It  stands  as  sweet  on  Leaderside, 

As  Newark  does  on  Yarrow. 

A  mile  below  wha  lists  to  ride, 

They'll  hear  the  mavis  singing  ; 
Into  St.  Leonard's  banks  she'll  bide. 

Sweet  birks  her  head  o'erhinging  ; 
The  lintwhite  loud  and  Progne  proud, 

With  tuneful  throats  and  narrow,  -     . 
Into  St.  Leonard's  banks  they  sing, 

As  sweetly  as  in  Yarrow. 

The  lapwing  lilteth  o'er  the  lee. 

With  nimble  wing  she  sporteth ; 
But  vows  she'll  flee  far  f rae  the  tree, 

Where  Philomel  resorteth : 
By  break  oJ  day  the  lark  can  say, 

I'll  bid  you  a  good-morrow, 
I'll  street  my  wmg,  and,  mounting,  sing 

O'er  Leader-Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

Park,  Wanton-waws,  and  Wooden-cleugh, 

The  East  and  Western  Mainses, 
The  wood  of  Lauder's  fair  enough, 

The  corn  is  good  in  Blainshes : 
Where  aits  are  fine,  and  sold  by  kind, 

That  if  ye  search  all  thorow 
Mearns,  Buchan,  Mar,  nane  better  are 

Than  Leader-Haughs  and  Yarrow. 

In  BurmiU  Bog,  and  Whlteslade  Shaws, 

Tha  fearful  hare  she  haunteth  ; 
Brigh-haugh  and  Braidwoodshiel  she  knaws, 

And"Chapel-wood  frequenteth ; 
Yet  when  she  irks,  to  Kaidsly  birks 

She  rins  and  sighs  for  sorrow,  **' 

That  she  should  leave  sweet  Leader-Haughs, 

And  cannot  win  to  Yarro-vv! 

What  sweeter  music  wad  ye  hear 

Than  hounds  and  beagles 'cryine? 
The  startled  hare'rins  hard  with  fear. 

Upon  her  speed  relying : 
But"  yet  her  strength  it  fails  at  length, 

Nae  beilding  can  she  burrow, 
In  Sorrel's  field,  Cleckman.  or  Hag's, 

And  sighs  to  be  in  Yarrow. 


*  Thirlstane  Castle,  an  ancient  seat  of  the 
Earl  of  Lauderdale.  .-    . 


338 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


For  Rockwood,  Ring  wood,  Spoty,  Shag, 

With  sight  and  scent  pursue  her, 
TilU  ah !  her  pith  begins  to  flag, 

Nae  cunning  can  rescue  her: 
O'er  dub  and  dyke,  o'er  seugh  and  syke. 

She'll  rin  the  fields  all  thorow. 
Till  fail'd,  she- fa's  in  Leader-Haughs, 

And  bids  fareweel  to  Yarrow. 

.Sing  Erslington  and  Cowdenknows, 

Where  Homes  had  ance  commanding  ; 
And-Dry^range  with  the  milk-white  ewes, 

'Twixt  Tweed  and  Leader  standing  ; 
The  birds  that  flee  throw  Reedpatli  trees. 

And  Gledswood  banks  ilk  morrow. 
May  chant  and  sing-~Sweet  Leader-Haughs, 

And  bonny  howms  of  Yarrow, 

But  Minstrel  Burn  cannot  assuage 

His  grief  while  life  endureth. 
To  see  the  changes  of  this  age. 

That  fleeting  time  procureth : 
For  mohy  a  place  stands  in  hard  case. 

Where  blithe  fowk  kend  nae  sorrow. 
With  Homes  that  dwelt  on  Leaderside, 

And  Scots  that  dwelt  on  Yarrow. 


THIS   IS  NO  MY  AIN  HOUSE. 

The  first  half  stanza  is  old,  the  rest 
Ss  Rainsay's.     The  old  words  aie — 

Oh,  this  is  no  my  ain  house. 
My  ain  house,  my  ain  house  ; 

This  is  no  my  ain  house, 
I  ken  by  the  biggm  o't. 

Bread  and  cheese  are  my  door-cheeks. 

My  door-cheeks,  my  door-cheeks  ; 
,  Bread  and  cheese  are  my  door-cheeks. 

And  pancakes  the  riggin  o't. 

This  is  no  my  ain  wean, 

My  ain  wean,  my  ain  wean, 
This  IS  no  my  ain  wean, 

I  ken  by  the  greetie  o't. 

I'll  tak  the  cunchie  aff  my  head  ; 

AflE  my  head,  aff  my  head  ; 
rU  take  the  curchie  aff  my  head. 

And  row't  about  the  feetie  o't. 

Tlie  tune  is  an  old  Highland  sdv, 
called"  Shuan  truishtoWghanJ** 


LADDIE,  LIE  NEAR  ME. 

This  song  is  by  Dr.  Blacklock. 

Hark,  the  loud  tempest  shakes  the  earth  to 

its  centre,  .    [ture  ' 

How  mad  were  the  task  on  a  journey  to  ven- 

How  dismal's  my  prospect,  of  life  I  am  weary. 

Oh,  listen,  my  love,  I  beseech  thee  to  hear  me, 

Hear  me,  hear  me,  in  tenderness  hear  me  ; 

All  the -lang:  winter  night,  laddie  lie  near 

me. 


Nights  though  protracted,  though  piercing 

the  weather,  fgether ; 

Yet  summer  was  endless  when  we  were  to- 

Now  since  thy  absence  I  feel  most  severely, 

Joy  is  extinguished  and  being  is  dreary, 

Dreary,  dreafy,  painful-and  dreary  ;       [me. 

All  the  long  winter  night    laddie  lie  ne^ 


THE  GABERLUNZIE  MAN.*    ■ 

The  Gaberlunzie  Man  is  supposed  to 
commemoFate  an  intrigue  of  Jaui^',^^. 
Mr.  Callander  of  Crai^orth  pubUsUed, 
some  years  ago,  an  edition  of  "Christ's 
Kirk  on  the  Green,"  and  the  '*  Gaber- 
lunzie Man,"  with  notes  critical  and 
historical.  James  V.  is  said  to  have 
been  fond  of  Gosford,  in  Aberlady 
parish;  and  that  it  was  suspected  by 
his  contemporaries  that,  in  liis  fre- 
quent excursions  to  that  part  of  the 
country,  he  had  other  purposes  in  yiew 
besides  golfing  and  archery.  Three 
favourite  ladies — Sandilands,  Weir, 
and  Oliphant  (one  of  them  resided  at 
Gosford,  and  the  others  in  the  neigh- 
borhood)— were  occasionally  visited  by 
their  royal  and  gallant  admirer,  which 
gave  rise  to  the  following  satirical 
advice  to  his  Majesty,  from  Sir  David 
Lindsay,  of  the  Mount,  Lord  Lyon.f 

Sow  not  yere  seed  on  Sandilands,        '[  ' 
Spend  not  yere  streng^th  in  Weir 

And  ride  not  on  yere  Ohphan^, 
For  gawing  o'  yere  gear. 

The  pawky  auld  carle  came  o'er  the  lea, 
Wi'  many  good  e'ens  and  days  to  me, 
Saying  Guit^wife,  for  your  courtesie, 

Willye  lodge  a  silly  poor  man  ?  ;  " 

The  night  was  cauld,  the  carle  was  wat. 
And  down  ayont  the  ingle  he  sat ; 
My  daughter's  shoulders  he  'gan  to  clap. 

And  cadgily  ranted  and  sang. 

Oh,  wow !  quo*  he,  were  I  as  free 
As  first  when  I  saw  this  countrie. 
How  blithe  and  merry  wad  I  be  ! 

And  I  wad  never  think  lang. 
He  grew  canty,  and  she  grew  fain  ; 
But  little  did  her  auld  rainny  ken 
What  thir  slee  twa  togither  wer«  sayin*. 

When  wooing  they  were  sae  thrang. 

And  oh,  quo*  he,  and  ye  were  as  black 
As  e'er  the  crown  of  my  daddy's  hat, 
*Tis  I  wad  lay  thee  on  my  back, 
And  awa*  wi'  me  thou  should  gang. 


*  A  wallet-man,  or  tinker,  who  appears  to 
have  been  formerly  a  Jack-of-all-trades      - 

t  Sir  David  was  Lion  King^t-A^m3^under 
James  V. 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONGf. 


And  oh,  quo'  she,  an  I  were  as  white 
A?  e'er  the  snaw  lay  on  the  dike, 
I'd  deed  m&  braw^  and  lady  tike 
And  awa'  withxhee  I'd  gang. 

Between  the  twa  was  made  a  plot : 
;They.  raise  awee  before  thte  cock, 
"And  wiUly  they  shot  the  lock. 

And  fast  to  the  b?nt  are. they  ^ane. 
Up  in  the  morn  the  auld  wife  raise, 
And  at  her  leisure  put  on  her  plaise  ; 
Syne  to  the  servant's  bed  she  gaes, 

To  speer  for  the  silly  poor  man. 

She  gaed  to  the  bed  where  the  beggar  lay, 
The  strac  was  cauld.  he  was  away  ! 
She.clapt  her  hand,  cried  dulefu'  day  ! 

For  some  of  our  gear  will  be  gane. 
Some  ran  to  coffer,  and  some  to  kist. 
But  nought  was  stown  that  could  be  mist. 
She  danced  her  lane,  cried.  Praise  be  blest ! 

I  have  lodged  a  leal  poor  man. 

Since  naething's  awa",  as  w^e  can  learn. 

The  kirn's  to  kirn,  and  milk  to  earn,     [bairn, 

Gae  but  the  house,   lass,  and  wauken    my 

And  bid  her  come  quickly  ben. 
The  serva,nt  gaed  where  the  daughter  lay. 
The  sheets  vtfere  cauld,  she  was  away. 
And  fast  toher  guidwife  did  say. 

She's  aff  with  the  Gaberlunzie  man. 

Ph,  fy !  gar  ride,  and  fy  !  gar  rin,  . 
And  h^te  ye  find  these  traitors  again  ; 
Ptir  she's  be  burnt,  and  he's  be  slain. 
..  The^wearifu'  Gaberlunzie  man! 
.SoQie  rade  upo'. horse,  some  ran  a-foot. 
The  wife  was  wud,  and  out  o'  her  wit. 
She  cduld  na  gaing,  nor  yet  could  she  sit, 
But  aye  did  cuise  and  did  ban. 

Meantime  far  hind  out  o'er  the  lea, 

Fu'  snug  in  a  glen  where  nane  could  see. 

The  twa,  with  kindly  sport  and  glee. 

Cut  frae  a  new  cheese  a  whang. 
The  priving  was  good,  it  pleased  them  baith^ 
To  lo'e  for  aye  he  gae  her  his  aith  ; 
Quo'  she,  to  leave  thee  I  will  be  laith, 

My  winsome  Gaberlunzie  man. 

Oh,  kenn'd  my  minnie  I  were  wi'  you, 
lU-fardly  wad  she  crook  her  mou, 
Sic  a  poor. man  she'd  never  trow, 

After  the  Gaberlunzie  man. 
My  dear,  quo'  he,  ye'er  yet  o'er  young. 
And  hae  nae  learned  the  beggar's  tongiie, 
To  follow  me  frae  town  to  town, 

And  carry  the  Gaberlunzie  on. 

Wi'  cauk  and  keel  I'll  win  your  bread, 

And  spindles  and  whorles  for  them  whaneed, 

Whilk  is  a  gentle  trade  indeed. 

To  carry  the  Gaberlunzie  on. 
I'll  bow  my  leg,  and  crook  my  knee. 
And  draw  a  black  clout  o'er  my  ee  ; 
A  cripple,  or  blind,  they  will  ca'  me. 

While  we  shall  be  merry  and  sing. 


THE  BLACK  EAGLE. 
This  song  is  by  Dr.  Fordyce,  whose 
merits    as  a  prose  writer    are    well 
known. 


Hark  !  yonder  eagle  lonely  wails  ; 
His  faithful  bosom  grief  assails  ; 
Last  night  I  heard  him  in  my  dream,     ■     - 
When  death  and  woe  were  all  the  tneme. 
Like  that  poor  birfl  I  make  my  moan,    _ 
I  grieve  for  dearest  Delia  gone  ; 
with  him  to  gloomy  rocks  I  fly; 
He  mourns  for  love,  and  so  do  I. 

'Twas  mighty  love  that  tamed  his  breast, 
'Tis  tender  grief  that  breaks  his  rest; 
He  droops  his^wings,  he  hangshis  head. 
Since  she  he  fondly  loved  was  dead. 
With  Delia's  breath  my  joy  expired,"     ■  - 
*Twas  Delia's  smiles  my  fancy  fired  ; 
Like  that  poor  bird,  I  pine,  and  prove 
Nought  can  supply  the  place  of  love. 

Dark  as  his  feathers  was  the  fate 
That  robbed  him  of  his  darling  mate; 
Dimm'd  is  the  lustre  of  his  e^e, 
That,  wont  to  gaze  the  sun-bright  sky. 
To  him  is  now  forever  lost 
The  heartfelt  bliss  he  once  could  boast ; 
Thy  sorrows,  hapless -bird,  display 
An  image  of  my  soul's  dismay. 


JOHNNIE  COPE. 

This  satirical  song  was  composed  tp 
commemorate  Greneral  Cope's  defeat  at 
Prestonpans  in  1745,  when  he  marched 
against  the  Clans. 

The  air  was  the  tune  of  an  old  song 
of  which  I  have  "heard  some  verses,  hut 
now  only  remember  the  title,  which 
was,  - 

"  Will  ye  go  to  the  coals  in  the  morning  ?'* 

Cope  sent  a  challenge  frae  Dunbar— 
Charlie,  meet  me,  and  ye'daur, 
And  I'll  learn  you  the  art  of  war. 
If  you'll  meet  me  i'  the  morning. 


Hey,  Johnnie  Cope,  are  ye  waking  yet  ? 
Or  are  your  drums  a-beating  yet  ? 
If  ye  were  waking  I  woiild  wait 
To  gang  to  the  coals  i'  the  morning. 

When  Charlie  looked  the  letter-upon, 
He  drew  his  sword  the  scabbard  from, 
Come  follow  me,  my  merry,  merry  men. 
To  meet  Johnnie  Cope  i  the  morning. 

Now,  Johnnie  Cope,  be  as  good  as  your  word 
And  try  our  fate  wi*  fire  and  s"word. 
And  dinna  tak  wing  like  a  frighten'd  bird. 
That's  chased  frae  its  nest  i'  the  morning. 

When  Johnnie  Cope  he  heard  of  this, 
He  thought  it  wadna  be  amiss 
To  hae  a  horse- in  readiness 
To  flee  awa  i'  the  morning. 

Fy,  Johnnie,  how  get  up  and  rin. 
The  Highland  bagpipes  make  a  din^ 


830 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


It's  best  to  sleep  in  a  bale  skin, 
For  'twill  be  a  bluidy  morning. 

Yori's  no  the  tuck  o'  England's  drum, 
But  it's  the  war-pipes  deadly  strum  : 
And  p'oues  the  claymore    and  the  g"un — 
It  will  be' a  bluidy  morning. 

When  Johnnie  Cope  to  Dunbar  came, 
They  speir'd  at  him.  "  Where's  a'  your  men  ?" 
*'  The  deil  confound  me  gin  I  ken, 
For  I  left  them  a'  i'  the  morning." 

Now,  Johnnie,  trouth  ye  was  na  blate. 
To  come  wi'  the  news  o'  your  ain  defeat, 
And  leave  your  men  in  sic  a  strait, 
Sae  early  i'  the  morning. 

Ah  !  faith,  quo'  Johnnie,  I  g;ot  a  fleg. 
With  their  clay  mores  and  philabeg  : 
If  I  face  them  again,  deil  break  my  leg, 
Sae  I  wish  you  a  good  morning. 

Hey,  Johnnie  Cope,  are  ye  waking  yet  ? 
Or  are  your  drums  a-beating  yet  ? 
If  ye  were  waking  I  would  wait 
To  gang  to  the  coals  i'  the  morning. 


CEASE,  CEASE,  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 
TO  EXPLORE. 

The  soug-  is  by  Dr.  Blacklock;  I 
believe,  but  I  am  not  quite  certain, 
that  the  air  is  his  too. 

Cease,  cease  my  dear  frier.o  to  explore 

,    From  whence  and  how  piercing  my  smart ; 

Let  the  charms  of  the  nymph  I  adore 

Excuse  and  mterpret  my  heart. 
Then  how  much  I  admire  ye  shall  prove. 

When  like  me  ye  are  taught  to  admire, 
And  imagine  how  boundless  my  love. 

When  you  number  the  charms  that  inspire. 

Than  sunshine  more  dear  to  my  sigfht, 

'To  my  life  more  essential  than  air. 
To  my  soul  she  is  perfect  delight, 

To  my  sense  all  that's  pleasing  and  fair. 
The  swains  who  her  beauty  behold. 

With  transport  applaud  every  charm. 
And  swear  that  the  breast  must  be  cold 

Which  a  beam  so  intense  cannot  warm. 

Does  my  boldness  offend  my  dear  maid  ? 
,   Is  my  fondness  loquacious  and  free? 
Are  ihy  visits  too  frequently  paid  ? 

Or  my  converse  unworthy  of  thee  ? 
Yet  when  grief  was  too  big' for  my  breast, 
■  And  labour'd  in  sighs    to  complain, 
Its  strug^gles  I  oft  h^ve  supprest. 
And  silence  imposed  on  my  pain. 

Ah.  Strephon,  how  vain  thy  desire, 
Thy  numbers  and  music  how  vain, 

While  merit  and  fortune  conspire 
The  smiles  of  the  nymph  to  obtain. 


Yet  cease  to  upbraid  the  soft  choice, 
Though  it  ne'er  should  determine  for  thee  ; 

If  my  heart  in  her  joy  may  rejoice,  " 

Unhappy  thou  never  canst  be. 


AULD  RGBE!^  GRAY. 

This  air  was-fonnerly  called  "  The 
Bridegroom  Greets  when  the  Sur^ 
Gangs  Down."  The  words  are  lay 
Lady  Ann  Lindsay,  of  the  Balcarraa 
family. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  a*  the 

kye  at  hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  sleep  are  gane: 
The  waes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  fMe  my 

ee. 
When  my  guidman  sleeps  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  he  ^ught 
me  for  his  bride.  ^fside ; 

But  SEiving  a  crown  he  had  naething  else  be- 
To  make  that  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed 
to  sea,  Xme. 

And  the  crown  and  the  pound  were  baith  for 

He  hadna  been  gane  a  year  and  a  day,' 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  my  Jamie 
at  the  sea,  [stown  away ; 

My  mither  she  fell  sick,  and  our  cow  was 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a  courting  to  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mither 
couldna  spin,  [na  win  ; 

I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  could- 

Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears 
in  his  ee. 

Said,  "  Jenny,yiJ7-  i/ie/r  sakes^  oh,  marry  me." 

My  heart  it  said  nae,  for  I  look'd  for  Jamie 
back,  ,  [a  wrack ; 

But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was 
The  ship  it  was  a  wrack,  why  didha  Jenny 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae's  me  ?.      [die. 

My  father  argued  sair,  though  my  mither  did- 
na  speak.  [break ; 

She  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to 

Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart 
was  in  the  sea. 

And  auld  Robin  Gray  is  a  guid  man  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna-^ink 
it  he,  [thee." 

Till  he  said, "  I'm  come  back  for  to  marry 

Oh,  sair  did  we  gre^t,  and  mickle  did  we  say. 
We  tool:  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves 

away: 
I  wish  I  were  dead  !  but  I'm  no  like  to  die. 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae's  me  \ 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin, 
I  darena  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  ^id  wife  to  be,     '  [siJi  • 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me.  ' 


BEMARKS  ON  ^CO^'TISIJ  SONG. 


331 


^      DONALD  AND  FLORA.* 

.  This  is  one  of  those  fine  Gaelic  tunes 
preserved  from  time  immemorial  in 
the  Hebrides;  they  seem  to  be  the 
groundwork  of  many  of  our  finest 
Scots  pastoral  tunes.  The ,  words  of 
this  song  were  written  to  commemorate 
the  unfortunate  expedition  of  General 
Burgoyne  in  America,  in  1777. 

^    . '.  When  merry  hearts  were  gay, 
Careless  of  aught  but  play, 
Poor  Flora  slipt  away, 
Sad'ning  to  Mora  ;t 
Loose- flow'd  her  coal  black  hair, 
Quick  heaved  her  bosom  bare>- 
As  thqs  to  the  troubled  air 
■  She  Vented"  her  sorrow  :— 

"  l-oud  howls  the  northern  blast. 
Bleak  is  the  dreary  waste  ;■ 
Haste  thee,  P  Donald,  haste,-  ' 

Haste  to  thy  Flora ! 
T_wice  twelve,  long  months  are  o'er, 
' : '  *    Sfjice.'on  a  foreign  shore. 

You  promised  to  fight  no  more, . 
But  meet  me  in  Mora. 

-  "  i-Whpre  now  is  Donald  dear?' 
Maids  cry  with  taunting  sneer ; 
'  Say  is  he  still  sincere 

'-• '       To  his  loved  Flora  V 
,         Parents  upbraid  my  moan, 

-  -  ■  Each  heart  is  turned  to  stone ; 
1 ' ,     Ah !  Flora,  thou'rt  now  alone, 

-  Friendless  in  Mora ! 

I         "  Come,  then,  oh  come  away  ! 

Donald,  no  longer  stay  ; — 

Where  can  my  rover  stray 
*'  '-"    From  his  loved  Flora  ? 
1--   Ah !  sure  he  ne'er  can  be 
'^-'     False  to  his  vows  and 'me — 
^'  '  'Oh;  Heaven!  is  not  yonder  he 
'  '-''■  Bounding  o'er  Mora  ?" 


/^Never,  ah  !  wretched  fair ! 
(Sigh'd  the  sad  messenger,) 
Never  shall  Donald  man" 
'  Meet  his  loved  Flora ! 
Cold,  cold  beyond  the  main, 
Donald,  thy  love  lies  slain  : 
He  sent  me  to  soothe  thy  pain. 
Weeping  in  Mora." 


.*  "This fine  hallad,"  says  Cunningham,  "'is 
the  composition  of  Hector  Macneil,  Esq.,  au- 
thor of  the  celebrated :  poem,''  Will  and  Jean,' 
and  other  popular  works.  Hector  Micneil 
Was  looked  up  to  as  Scotland's  hope  in  song 
wjien,  Burnsr^i.ed ;  his  poeqis  flew  over"  the 
north  Ukq'wildnre,  and  half  a  dozen  editions 
were  bought-upih'a  year.  The  Donald  of  the 
song  was  Captain  Stewart,  who  fell  at  the 
battle  of  Saratoga,  and  Flora  was  k  young 
lady  of  Athole,  to  whom  he  was  betrothed." 

+  AsnialLvalleyin  Athole^so  named  by  the 
two  lovers. 


"■  Well  fought  our  gallant  men, 
Headed  by  bfave  Burgoyne, 
Our  heroes  were  thrice  led  on 

'ro  British  glory, 
B*jt)  ah !  though  our  foes  did  flee, 
Satj  "Vvas  the  loss  to  thee. 
While  every  fresh  victory 

prown'd  us  in  sorrow. 

"  '  Here,  take  this  trusty  blade, 

g)onald  expiring  said) 
ive  it  to  yon  dear  maid, 
Weeping  in  Mora. 
Tell  her,  O  Allan  !  tell, 
Donald  thus  bravely  fell. 
And  that  in  his  last  farewell 
He  thought  on  his  Flora.' " 

Mute  stood  the  trembling  fair, 
Speechless  with  wild  despair. 
Then,  striking  her  bosom  bare, 

Sigh'd  out,  "  Poor  Floral" 
O  Donald  !  oh,  well  a  day ! 
Was  all  the  fond  heart  could  say ; 
At  length  the  sound  died  away 

Feebly,  in  Mora. 


THE  CAPTIVE  RIBBAND. 


^  Robie    donna. 


This  air  is  called 
Gorach." 

Dear  Myra,  the  captive  ribband's  mine, 
'Twas  all  my  faithful  love  could  gain  ; .  . 

And  would  you  ask  me  to  resign 
The  sole  reward  that  crowns  my  pain? 

Go,  bid  the  hero  who  has  run 

Through  fields  of  death  to  gather  fame,. 
Go,  bid  him  lay  his  laurels  down, 

An4  4II  l|is  well-earn'd  praise  disclaim. 

The  ribband  shall  its  freedom  lose. 
Lose  all  the  bliss  it  had  with  you. 

And  share  the  fate.  I  .would  impose 
On  thee,  wert  thou  my  captive  too. 

|t  shall  upon  my  bosom  live. 
Or  clasp  me  in  a  close  embrace  ;  . 

And  at  its  fortune'if  you  grieve, 
Retpve  its  doom  and  take  its  place. 


THE  BRIDAL   OT. 

This  song  is  the  work  of  a  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Ross,  late  schoolmaster  at  Loch- 
lee,  and  author  of  a  beautiful  Scots 
poem  called  "■  The  Fortunate  Shep- 
herdess." 

They  say  that  Jockey'll  speed  well  o't, 

They  say  that  Jccfcey'll  speed  weel  o't 
For  he  grows  brawer  ilka  day — 

I  hope  .we'll- hae  a  bridal  o't  r 
For  yesternight,  nae  farder  gane. 

The  backhouse. at  the  side  wa'  o't,  . ,.  ^ 
He  there  wi'  Meg  was  mirdcn.seen — 

1  hope  we'll  hae  a  bridal  o't. 


332 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


An  we  had  but  a  bridal  o"t, 

An  we  had  but  a  bridal  o't,  , 

We'd  leave  the  fe"St  unto  guid  luck. 

Although,  there  should  betide  ill  o't; 
For  bridal  days  are  merry  times, 

And  young  folks  like  the  comin'  o't. 
And  scribblers  they  bang  up  their  rhymes, 

And  pipers  hae  the  bumming  o't. 

The  lasses  like  a  bridal  o't, 

The  lasses  like  a  bridal  o't, 
Their  braws  miun  be  in  rank  and  file. 

Although  that  they  should  guide  ill  o't : 
The  bottom  o'  the  kist  is  then 

Turn'd  up  unto  the  inmost  o't, 
'  The  end  that  held  the  kecks  sae  clean. 

Is  now  become  the  teemest  o't. 

The  bangster  at  the  threshinff  o't. 

The  bangster  at  the  threshmg  o't, 
Afore  it  c6m'es  is  fidgin  fain. 

And  ilka  diay's  a  clashing  o't : 
He'll  sell  his  jerkin  f.or  a  groat. 

His  linder  for  anither  o  t. 
And  e'er  he  want  to  clear  his  shot. 

His  sark'U  pay  the  tlther  o't. 

The  pipers  and  the  fiddlers  o't. 
The  pipers  and  the  fiddlers  o't, 

Can  smell  a  bridal  unco  far, 
■And  like  to  be  the  meddlers  o't ; 

Fan*  thick  and  threefold  they  convene. 
Ilk  ane  envies  the  tither  o't, 

And  wishes  nane  but  him  alane 
May  ever  see  anither  o't. 

Fan  they  hae  done  wi'  eating  o't, 

Fan  they  hae  done  wi'  eating  o't. 
For  dancing  they  gae  to  the  green. 

And  aiblins  to  the  beating  o't : 
He  dances  best  that  dances  fast, 

And  loupsat  ilka  reesing  o't. 
And  claps  his  hands  frae  hough  to  hough. 

And  furls  about  the  feezings  o't. 


TODLEN  HAME. 

This  is  perhaps  the  first  bottle  song 
that  ever  was  composed.  The  author's 
name  is  unknown. 

When  I've  a  saxpence  under  my  thumb, 

Then  I'll  get  credit  in  ilka  town  : 

But  aye  when  I'm  poor  they  bid  me  gae  by ; 

Oh,  poverty  parts  good  company. 
Todlen  hame,  todlen  haiue, 
Coudna  my  love  come  todlen  hame  ? 

Fair  fa'  the  goodwife,  and  send  her  good  sale, 
She  gies  uswhite  bannocks  to  drink  her  ale, 
Syne  if  Jier  tippeny  chance  to  be  sma.', 
We'll'tak  a  good  scour  o't,  and  ca't  awa', 
Todlen  hame,  todlen  hame. 
As  round  as  a  neep  come  todlen  hame. 


*  Fan^  when— the  dialect  of  Angus. 


My  kimraer  and  I  lay  down  to  sleep,. , 
And  twa  pint-stoups  at  our  tied-feet ;     :  [dry. 
And  aye  when  we  waken'd,  we  drank  them 
What  think  ye  of  my  wee  kimmer  and  I  ? 

Todlen  but,  and  todlen  ben, 

Sae  round  as  my  love  comes  todlen  hame. 

Leeze  me  on  liquor,  my  todlen  dow, 

Ve*re  aye  sae  good  humour'd  when  weeting 

your  mou  ; 
When  sober  gae  sour,  ye'll  fight  wi'  ^  flee,  ' 
That  'tis  a  blithe  sight  to  the  bairns  and[me. 

When  todlen  hame,. todlen  hame,_  [hame. 

When  round  as  a  neep  ye  come  todlen 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  PREFERENCE. 

This  song  is  Dr.Blacklock's. — Idont 
know  how  it  came  by  the  name;  but 
the  oldest  appellation  of  the  air  was, 
"Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  you^  my 
lad.". 

It  has  little  iaffinity  to  the  tune  com- 
monly known  by  that  name. 

In  May,  when  the  daisies  appear  on  the  ^reen. 
And  nowers  in  the  field  and  the  forest  are 
seen  ;  [sprung. 

Where  lilies  bloom'd  bonny,  and  hawthorns  up 
A  pensive  young  shepherd  oft  whistled  and 
sung;  [flowers. 

But  neither  the  shades  nor  the  sweets  of  the 
Nor  the  blackbirds  that  warbled  in  blossom- 
ing bowers,  .        - 
Could  brig}iten  his  eye  or  his  aar  entertain,      » 
For  love  was  his  pleasure,  and  love  was  his 
pain. 

The  shepherd  thus  sung,  while  his  flocks  all 

around  [sound ; 

Drew  nearer  and  nearer,  and    sigh'd  to  the 
Around,  as  in  chains,  lay  the  beasts  "of  the 

wood. 
With  pity  disarm'd  and  with  music  subdued. 
Young  Jessy  is    fair  as    the    spring's   early 

flower,  [bower ; 

And   Mary  sings  sweet  as  the  bird   in  her 
But  Peggy  is  fairer  and  sweeter  than  they. 
With  looks  like  the  morning,  with  smiles  like 

the  day. 


JOHN   O'  BADENYON. 

This  excellent  song  is  the  compost^ 
tion  of  my  worthy  friend,  old  Skiiiner, 
at  Linsliart. 

When  first  I  cam  to  be  a  man, 

Of  twenty  years  or  so, 
I  thought  myself  a  handsome  youth, 
.  And  fain  the  world  would  know ; 
In  best  attire  I  stept  abroad. 

With  spirits  brisk  and  gay. 
And  here  and  there,  and  everywhere,  • 

Was  like  a'mom  in  May 


REMARKS  OX  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


333 


No  care  had  I,  nor  fear  of  want, 

But  rsunbled  up  and  down, 
And  for  a  be.au  f  might  have  pass'd 

In  country  or  in  town ; 
I  still  was  pleased  where'er  I  went, 
'      And  when  I  was  alone, 
I  tuned  my  pipe  and  pleased  myself 

Wi*  John  o'  Badenyon. 

Now.  in  the  days  of  youthful  prime, 

A  mistress  I  must  find, 
Fox  fyve,  they  say,  gives  one  an  air, 
"    Ahd  even  improves  the  mind : 
On  Phillis,  fair  above  the  rest, 

Kind  fortune  fixed  my  eyes ; 
Her  piercing  beauty  struck  my  heart, 

And  she  became  my  choice  : 
To  Cupid,  then,  with  hearty  prayer, 

X  offered  many  a  vow  ;  tswore, 

And  danced,  and  sung,  and  sigh'd,  and 

.  As  other  lovers  do : 
But,  when  at  last  I  breathed  my  fiame, 

I  found  her  cold^as  stone  : 
1  left  the  jilt,  and  tUoned  my  pipe 
.  To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

"WUea./ave  had  thus  my  heart  beguiled 

With  foolish  hbpes  and  vain  ; 
'^o  friendship' s  port  I  steered  my  course, 

And  laugh'd  at  lover's  pain  : 
A  friend  I  got  by  lucky  chance, 

'Twas  something  like  divine 
:  An  honest  friend's  a  precious  gift. 

And  such  a  gift  was.niine  : 
Arid  now,  whatever  might  betide, 

A 'happy  man  was  I, 
'In  any  strait  I  knew  to  whom 

\  freely  might  apply  : 
A  strait  soon  came,  my  friend  I  tried ; 

He  heard,:  and  sjJurn'd  my  moan ; 
I  hied  me  home.and  pleased  mysell, 

With  John  o'  Badenyon. 

-I  thought  I  should  be  wiser  next, 
"i-  And  would  ^patriot  turn. 
'-Began  to  dote  on  Johnny  Wilkes, 
■•  '  And  cfy  up  Parson  Home. 
Their  manly  spirit  I  admired, 
"And  praised  their  noble  zeal.. 
Who  had  with  flaming  tongue  and  pen 

Maintain'd  the  public  w^eal ; 
But  ere  a  month  or  two  had  past, 

I  found  myself  betray'd, 
"■Twas  .*»{/"  and  party  after  all, 
.  For  all  the  stir  they  made ; 
At  last  I  saw  these  factious  knaves 

Insult  the  very  throne, 
I  cursed  them  a ,  and  tuned  my  pipe 
To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

And  now^  ye  youngsters  everywhere, 

Who  want  to  make  a  show, 
Take  heed  in  time,  nor  vainly  hope. 

For  happiness  below ; 
What  you  may  fancy  pleasure  here  - 

Is  but  an  empt^  name, 
For,  girls,  and  friends,  and  books,  and  so, 

You'll  find  them  all  the  same. 
Then  be  advised,  and  warning  take 

Fr<»m  such  a  man  as  me, 
I'm  neithe/Pope,  noc  Cardinal, 

.Nor  one  of  high  degree : 


You'll  find  displeasure  everywhere  ; 

Then  do  els  I  have  done, 
E'en  tune  your  pipe,  and  please  yourself 

With  John  o'  Badenyon. 


A  WAUKRIFE  MINNIE.* 

I  PICKED  up  this  old  song  and  tune 
from  a  country  girl  in  Nithsdale. — I 
never  met  with  it  elsewhere  in  Scot- 
land : —  - 

Whare  are  you  gaun,  my  bonny  lass  ? 

Whare  are  you  gaun,  my  hinni^? 
She  answer'd  me  right  saucihe^ 

An  errandfor  my  minnie. 

Oh,  whare  live  ye,  my  bonny  lass  ? 

Oh,  whare  live  ye,  my  hinnie  ?— 
By  yon  burn-side,  gin  ye'maun  ken^ 

In  a  wee  house  wi'  my  minriie. 

But  I  foor  up  the  glen  at  e'en 

To  see  my  bonny  lassie  ; 
And  lang  before  the  gray  morn  cam 

She  wasna  half  sae  saucie. 

Oh,  weary  fa'  the  waukrifecock. 
And  the  foumart  lay  his  crawin ! 

He  wauken'd  the  auld  wife  frae  her  sleep 
A  wee  blink  o'  the  dawin. 

An  angry  wife  I  wat  she  raise. 
And  o  er  the  bed  she  brought  her. 

And  wi'  a  mickle  hazle  run£^ 
She  made  her  a  weel-pay*d  dochter. 

Oh,  fare  thee  weel,  my  bonny  lass ! 

Oh,  fare  thee  weel,  my  hinnie  I 
Thou  art  a  gay  and  a  bonny  lass, 

Bift  thou  hast  a  waukrife  minnie. 

The  editor  thinks  it  respectful  to  the 
poet  to  preserve  the  verses  hti  thus  re- 
covered.— K,  B. 


TULLOCHGORUM. 

This  fikst  of  songs  is  the  master- 
piece of  my  old  friend  Skinnek.  He 
was  passing  the  day,  at  the  town  of 
Cnllen.  I  think  it  was  [he  should 
have  said  EJ,on\  in  a  friend's  house, 
whose  name  was  Montgomery.  Mrs. 
Montgomery  observing,  en  passant, 
that  the  heautif  ul  reel  of  TkiMocJigorumf 
wanted  words,  she  begged  them  of  Mr. 
Skinner,  who  gratified  her  wishSs,  and 
the  wishes  of  every  lover  of  Scotch 
song,  in  this  most  excellent  ballad.    _ 


*  A  watchful  mother. 


334 


BURKS'   WORKS. 


These  particulars  I  had  from  tlie 
author's  son,  liishop  Skinner,  at  Aber- 
deen. 

Come,  gie's  a  sartg;,  Mdntgomery  cried, 
And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside  * 
What  signifies't  for  folks  to  chide.    . '. 

For  what  was  done  before  them  ? 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  ail  agree,- 

Whig  and  Tory,  Whig  and  Toi-y, 
Whig  and  Tory  all  agree, 

-To  drop  their  Whig-mig-fflorUm. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 
To  spend  the  night  in  mirth  and  glee, 
And  cheerful  sing  alang  wi'  me  : 

The  Reel  o'  TuUochgorum. 

Oh,  Tulloch^orum's  my  delight, 
It  gars  us  a'  in  ane  unite. 
And  ony  sumph  that  keeps  up  spite. 
In  conscience  I  atbhor  him: 
For  blithe  and  cheerie  we'll  be  a'. 

Blithe  and  cheerie,  blithe  and  cheerie. 
Blithe  and  cheerie  we'll  be  a' 
And  make  a  happy  quorupi : 
For  blithe  and  cheerie  we'll  be  a\ 
As  lang  as  we  hae  breath  to  draw. 
And  dance,  till  we  be  like  to  fa', 

The  Reel  o'  TuUochgorum. 

What  needs  there  be  sae  great  a  fraise 
Wi'  dringing  dull  Italian  lays?  . 
I  wadna  gie  our  ain  Strathspeys 

For  half  a  hundcr  score  o'  'em. 
They're  dowf  add  dowie  at  the  best,  * 
Dowf  and  dowie,  dowf  and  dowie,    . 
Dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Wi'  a'  their  variorum  ; 
They're  dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Their  allegros  and  a'  the  rest ; 
They  canna"  please  a  Scottish- taste, 

Compared  wi'  TuUochgorum. 

Let  warldly  worttis  their  mirida  oppress 
Wi*  fears  o'  want  and  double  cess, 
And  sullen  sots  themVels  distress 

Wi'  keeping  up  tlecorufli:  - 
Shall  we  sae  sou^  and  sulky  sit. 
Sour  andsulfcy,  sbiir  and  siilky, 
Sour  and  sulky  shall  we  sit, 

Like  old  philosopHorlini? 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit, 
Wi'  neither  sense,  nor  mirth,  nor  wit, 
Nor  evertry  to  shake  a  fit 

To  the  Reel  o'  TuUochgorum  ? 

May  choicest  blessings  e'er  attend 
Each  honest,  open-hearted  friend. 
And  calm  arid  quiet  be  his  end, 

,  And  all  that's  g-ood^Tvatdh  o'er  hira ! 
May  peace  and  plenty  be'his  lot, 

Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty. 
Peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 

And  daintiis  a  great  store o'  'cm; 
,   Maypeace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Unstain'd  by  any  vicioiisSpot, 
And  may  he  never  want  a  groat, 

That's  fond  o'  TuUochgorum ! 

But  for  the  sullen  frampish  fool 
•-  That  love'-s  to  be'.oppresSion's  fool, ' 


May  envy  gnawr  his  rotten  soul, 

,    And  discontent  devour  him ! 
May-dool.'ahd  sbrfow'behis  chknce 
Dool  and  sdrrow,  dool  and  sorroW, 
DooFand  sorrow  be  his  chance, 

And  nahe  say,  Wae's  me  for  him ! 
May-dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
Wi  a'  the  ills  that  come  irae  France, 
Whae'er  he  be  that  winnadance 

The  Reel  o'  TuUochgorum  ! 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Ramsay  here,  as  is  usual  withjJiim, 
has  taken  the  idea  of  the  song,  and  the 
first  line,  from  the  old  fragment, 
which  may  be  seen  in  the  Museum, 
vol.  V. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  thought  upon. 
The  flame'sof  love  extinguished. 

And  freely  past  and  gone  ?   , .,        t 
.Is  thy  kind  heart  now  grown  ss^cold^ 

In  that  loving  breast  of  thine,. 
That  thou  canst  never  once  reflect  ; 

On  auld  lang  syne ! 

If  e'er  I  have  a  house,  my  dear,-,      '>- 

That  truly  is  call'd  mine. 
And'  can  afford  but  country  cheer. 

Or  aught  that's  good  therein  ;  ^ 
Though  Ehou  wert  rebel  to  the  king. 

And  beat  with  wind  and  rain, 
Assure  thyself  of  welcome  love, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


THE    EWIE    Wr   THE   CROOKED 
HORN. 

Another  excellent  song  of  old  Skin- 
ner's. 

Oh,  Tycre  I  able  to  rehearse, 

My  ewie's  praise  in  proper  verse, 

I'd  sound  it  out  as  loud  and  fierce 

As  ever  piper's  drone  could  blaw. 
Theewiewi   the  crookit  horn 
Weel  deserved  baith  garse  and  com ; 
Sic  a  ewie  ne'er  was  born 

Hereabout,,  nor  far  awa\ 
Sic  a'  ewie  ne'er  was  born 

Hereabout,  nor  far  awa'.- 

:       -1 
I  nfeyer  needed  tar  nor  keil  ■     .  . 
T,o  mark  her  upo'  hip  or  heel, 
Her  crookit  horn  did  just  as  weel        ^  '  '" 

To  ken  her  by  amo*  them  a*  • 
She  never  threaten'd  scab  nor  rot,      .  ,  . : 
But  keepit  aye  her  ain  jog  trot, 
Baith.tp,  the  fauld  and  to  the  cot,        >     • 

Was  never  sweir  to. lead  nor  ca',:   . 
Baith  ,to  the  f auld  and  tothecot,-  .      -  ' 

Was  never  sweir  to  lead  nor  ca*.-- 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


336 


Caukl  nor  hunger  never  dang  herr, 
Winii  ngr  rain  could  never  wtang  her; 
Ance  she  lay  an  ouk,  and  langer^ 

Out  aneath  a  wreath  o'  snaw  ; 
.Whanitherewies  lap  the  dyke, 
And"  ate  the  kail  for  a'  the  tyke, 
My^ewie  never  play'd  the  like, 

But  tyc'd  about  the  barnyard  wa' ; 
My  ewie  never  play'd  the  like. 

But  tyc'd  about  the  barnyard  wa', 

A  better  nor  a  thriftier teast 

Nae  honest  man  could  weel  hae  wist, 

Puir  sHly  thing,  she  never  mist 

To  hae  ilk  year  a  lamb  or  twa. 
The  first  she  had' I  gae  to  Jock, 
To  be  to  him  a  kind  of  stock. 
And  now  the  laddie  has  a  flock 

Ofc  mair  nor  thirty  head  to  ca\ 
And  now  the  laddie  has  a  fleet 
....      Of  mair  than  thirty  head  to  ca'. 

The  neist  I  gae  to  Jean ;  and  now 
The  bairn's  sae  braw,  has  fauld  sae  fu\ 
'ThaFlad^  sae  thick  come  her  to  woo. 

They're  fain  to  sleep  on  hay  or  straw. 
I  lookit  aye  at  even'  for  her, 
Fof  fear  the  foumart  might  devour  her, 
Orsome  n^ischanter  had  come  o'er  her. 

Gin  the  beastie  bade  awa'. 
Or  some  mischanter  had  come  o'er  her. 

Gin  the  beastie  bade  awa'. 

Yet  last  ouk,  for  a'  my  keeping, 
(Wha  can  speak  it  without  weeping  ?) 
A  villain  cam  when  I  was  sleepiujg. 

And  sta'  my  ewie,  horn  and  a  ; 
I  sought  her  sair  upo'  the  morn, 
And  down  aneath  a  buss  o'  thorn, 
I  got  myewie's  crookit  horn. 

But  ah,  my  ewie  was  awa' ! 
I  got  my  ewie  s  crookit  horn, 

'But  ah,  my  ewie  was  awa'. 

Oh !  gin  I  had  the  loun  that  did  it. 
Sworn  I  have  as  weel  as  said  it, 
Though  a'  the  world  should  forbid  it, 

I  wad  gie  his  neck  a  thra' : 
I  never  met  wi*  sic  a  turn 

As' this  sin'  ever  I  was  born. 
My  ewie'wt'  the  crookit  horn, 

Puir  silly  ewie,  stown  awa' ! 
My  ewie  wi.  the  crookit  horn, 

Puir  sillie  ewie,  stown  awa'. 


HXJGHIE  GRAHAM. 

There  are  several  editions  of  tliis 
ballad. — This  here  inserted  is  from 
oral  tradition  in  Ayrshire,  where, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  it-  was  d  popular 
song. — ^It  originally  Jxad  a  siniple  old 
tune>  which  I  have  forgotten. 

Our  Lords  are  to  the  mountains  gane, 

A  huotiJig  o'  the"  fallow  deer, 
And  they  have  grippei  Hughie  Graham, 

For  cfcalrng  a  the  bishop's  mare.  - 


And  they  hae  tied  him  hand  and  foot. 
And  led  him  up  through  Stirling  toun  ; 

The  lads  and  lassies  met  him  there, 
Cried,  Hughie  Graham,  thou  art  a  loon. 

Oh,  lowse  my  right  hand  free,  he  says. 
And  put  mytbraid  sword  in  the  sajrfte. 

He's  no  in  Stirling  toun  this  day 
Daur  tell  the  tale  to  Hughie  Graham. 

Up  then  bespake  the  brave  Whitefoord, 

As  he  sat  by  the  bishop's  knee. 
Five  hundred  white  stots  I'll  gie  you, 

If  ye'U  let  Hughie  Graham  gae  free. 

Oh,  haud  your  tongue,  the  bishop  says, 
And  wi'  your  pleading  let  me  be  j 

For  though  ten  Grahams  were  in  his  coat, 
Hughie  Graham  this  day  shall  die. 

Up  then  bespake  the  fair  Whitefoord, 
As  she  sat  by  the  bishop's  knee ; 

Five  hundred  white  pence  I'll  gie  you, 
If  ye'n  gie  Hughie  Graham  to  me. 

Oh,  haud  your  tongue  now,  lady  fair. 
And  wi'  your  pleading  let  it  be  ; 

Although  ten  Grahams  were  in  his  coat. 
It's  for- my  honour  he  maun  die. 

They've  taen  him  to  the  gallows  knowe. 

He  looked  to  the  gallows  tree. 
Yet  never  colour  left  his  cheek. 

Nor  ever  did  he  blink  his  ee. 

At  length  he  lookfed  round  about,  , 

To  see  whatever  he  could  spy  : 
And  there  he  saw  his  auld  father. 

And  he  was  weeping  bitterly. 

Oh,  haud  your  tongue,  my  father  dear, 
And  wi'  your  weeping  let  it  be  ;     ' 
'      '        '  heart 

tome. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brother  John 
My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  clear ; 

And  let  him  come  at  twelve  o'clock. 
And  see  me  pay  the  bishop's  mare. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brother  James 
My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  brown ; 

And  bid  him  come  at  four  o'clock, 
And  see  his  brother  Hugh  cut  down. 

Remember  me  to  Maggy,  my  wife. 
The  neist  time  ye  gang  o'er  the  moor  ; 

Tell  her  she  staw  the  bishop's  mare. 
Tell  her  she  was  the  bishop's  whore. 

And  ye  may  tell  my  kith  and  kin 
I  never  did  disgrace  their  blood  ; 

And  when  they  meet  the  bishop's  cloak 
To  mak  it  shorter  by  the  hood. 


Thv  weeping's  sairer  on  my  I 
Than  a  that  they  can  do  to 


A  SOUTHLAND  JENNY. 

This  is  a.  popular  Ayrshire  song, 
though  the  notes'  were  never  taken 
down  before.     It,  as  woU  as  many -of 


BURL'S'  WORKS. 


the  ballad  tunes  in  this  collection,  was 
written  from  Mrs.  Burns*  voice. 

The  following'  verse  of  this  strain  will  suf- 
fice:— 

A  Southland  Jenny  that  was  right  bonny, 
She  had  for  a  suitor  a  Norlan'  Johnnie  ; 
But  he  was  siccan  a  bashfu'  wooer 
That  he  could -scarcely  speak  unto  her.      [ler. 
But  blinks  o'  her  beauty,  and  hopes  o'  her  sil- 
Forced  him  at  last  to  tell  his  mind  till  *er ; 
My  dear,  quo'  he,  we'll  nae  longer  tarry, 
Gin  ye  can  love  me,  let's  o'er  the  muir  and 
marrv. 


MY  TOCHER'S  THE  JEWEL. 

This  tune  is  claimed  by  Nathaniel 
Gow.  '  It  is  notoriously  taken  from 
*'  The  Muckin'  o'  Geordie's  Byre."  It 
is  also  to  be  found,  long  prior  to  Na- 
thaniel Gow's  era,  in  Aird's  "  Selec- 
tion of  Airs  and  Marches,"  the  first 
edition  under  the  name  of  "  The  High- 
way to  Edinburgh." 


THEN,  GUIDWIFE,  COUNT  THE 
LAWIN. 

The  chorus  of  this  is  part  of  an  old 
Bong,  one  stanza  of  which  I  recollect: — 

Every  day  my  wife  tells  me 
That  ale  and  brandy  will  ruin  me  ; 
But  if  guid  liquor  be  my  dead. 
This  shall  be  written  on  my  head — 
Oh,  guidwife,  count  the  lawin'. 


THE    SOGER    LADDIE. 

The  first  verse  of  this  is  old;  the 
rest  is  by  Ramsay.  The  tune  seems 
to  be  the  same  with  a  slow  air  called 
*'Jacky  Hume's  Lament,"  or  **  The 
HoUin  Buss,"  or  '*  Ken  ye  what  Meg  o' 
the  Mill  has  gotten!" 

My  soger  laddie  is  over  the  sea, 

And  he'll  bring  gold  and  silver  to  me, 

And  when  he  comes  hame  he  will  make  me 

his  lady ; 
My  blessings  gang  wi*  him,  my  soger  laddie. 

My  doughty  laddie  is  handsome  and  brave, 
And  can  as  a  soger  and  lover  behave  ; 
He's  true  to  his  country,  to  love  he  is  steady — 
There's-  few  to  compare  wi'  my  soger  laddie. 


Oh,  shield  him,  ye  angels,  frae  death  in  alarms. 
Return  him  with  laurels  to  my  longing  arms. 
Syne' frae  all  ray  care  ye'U  pleasantly  free  me. 
When  back  to  my  wishes  my  soger  ye  gie  me. 

Oh,  soon  may  his  honours  bloom  fair  on  his 

brow. 
As  quickly  they  must,  if  he  get  but  his  doe; 
For  in  noble  actions  his  courage  is  ready,. 
Which  makes  me  delight  in  my  soger  laddie. 


WHERE  WAD  BONNY  ANNIE 

LIE? 
The  old  name  of  the  tune  is,— 

Whare'll  our  guidman  lie? 
A  silly  old  stanza  of  it  runs  thus — 

Oh,  whare'U  our  guidman  He, 

Guidman  lie,  guidman  lie. 
Oh,  whare'U  our  guidman  lie, 

TiU  he  shute  o'er  the  simmer  ? 

Up  amang  the  hen-bawls. 
The  hen-bawks,  the  hen-bawks. 

Up  amang  the  hen-bawks. 
Among  the  rotten  timmer, 

Ramsay's  song  is  as  follows : — 

Oh,  where  wad  bonny  Annie  lie? 
Alane  nae  mair  ye  maunna  lie  ; 
Wad  ye  a  guidman  try, 

^s  that  the  thing  ye're  lacking  ? 
Oh,  can  a  lass  sae  young  as  I 
Ventufe  on  the  bndal  tye  ? 
Syne  down  wi'  a  guidman  lie  ? 
I'm  fley'd  he'd  keep  me  waukin. 

Never  judge  until  ye  try ; 
Mak  me  your  guidman,  I 
Sfaanna  hinder  you  to  lie 

And  sleep  till  ye  be  weary. 
What  if  I  should  wauking  lie. 
When  the  ho-boys  are  gaun  by. 

Will  ye  tent  me  when  I  cry. 
My  dear,  I'm  faint  and  eerie? 

In  my  bosom  thou  sbalt  lie. 
When  thou  w^aukrife  art,  or  dry. 
Healthy  cordial  standing  by 

Shall  presently  revive  thee. 
To  your  will  I  then  comply  ; 
Join  us,  priest,  and  let  me  try. 
How  I'll  wi'  a  guidman  lie, 

Wha  can  a  cordial  gie  me. 


GALLOWAY  TAM. 

I  HAVE  seen  an  interlude  (acted  on 
a  wedding)  to  tliis  tune,  called  "  The 
Wooing  of  the  Maiden."  These  en- 
tertainments are  now  much  worn  out 
in  this  part  of  Scotland.     Two  are  still 


BEMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONff. 


¥3t 


retained  In  Nithsdale,  viz.,  "  Silly 
Pair  AuldGlenae,"  and  this  lone,  "Tlie 
Wooing  of  tlie  Maiden." 

Oh,  Gallowaj;  Tam  cam  here  to  woo, 

We  d  better  hae  gien  him  the  bawsent  cow, 

For  oijr  lass  Bess  may  curse  and  baa 

The  vtfanton  wit  o'  Galloway  Tam. 

A  canine  tongue  and  a  glance  £u'  gleg, 

A  buirdly  back  and  a  lordly  leg, 

A  heart  like  a  fox  and  a  look  like  a  lamb— 

Oh,  these  are  the  marks  o'  Galloway  Tam. 

Oh'"(Talloway  Tam  came  here  to  shear. 
We'd  better   hae  gien   him   the  guid    gray 

meare,  Lguidman, 

He  kiss'd  the  gndewife  and  he  dang'd  the 
And  these  are  the  tricks  0'  GalloWay  Tam. 
He  owed-the  kirk  a  twalmonth's  score^ 
And  he  doff'd  his  bonnet  at  the  door  ; 
Thedoonxriet^  out  wha  sung  the  psalm, 
"There's  room  on  the  stool   for  Galloway 

Tam  !"^ 

Ye  lapses  o'  Galloway,  frank  and  fair, 
Tak  tent  o'  yer  hearts'  and  something  mair ; 
And  bar  your  doors,  your  windows  steek, 
For  he  comes  stealing  like  night  and  sleep  : 
Oh,  nought  frae  Tam  but  wae  ye'll  ,win, 
He'll  sihg  ye  dumb  and  he'll  dance  ye  blin' ; 
And  aff  your  balance  he'll  cowp  ye  then — 
Tak  tent  o'  the  deil  and  Galloway  Tam. 

"  Sir,"  quoth  Mess  John,  "  the  wanton  deil 
Has  put  his  birn  'boon  gospel  kiel. 
And  bound  yere  eloots  in  his'black  ban' :" 
*^  Fof  .mercy  loos't !"  quo'  Galloway  Tam. 
"  In  our  kirk-fauld  we  maun  ye  bar, 
An{3  smear  your  fleece  wi'  covenant  tar, 
And"  pettle  ye  up  a  dainty  iamb," — 
"  Among  the  Vowes,"  quo'  Galloway  Tam. 

Eased  of  a  t^ralmonth's  graceless  deeds, 
He  gaylie  doS'd  his  sackloth  weeds, ' 
And 'mang  the  maidens  h^  laughing  cam' — 
'* "Tak  tent  o'  your'hearts  "  quo*  Galloway 
A  cannie  tongue  and-a-glance  fu*-gleg,  [Tam. 
A  buirdly  back  and  a  lordly  le^, 
A  -heart  lik^  a  f  ox^  and  a  look  like  a  lamb^- 
t)h,  these  are  thcTnarks  o'  Galloway  Tam. 


AS  I  CAM  DOWN  BY  YON 
CASTLE  WA'. 

This  is  a  very    popular    Ayrshire 
song. 

As  I  cam  down  by  yon  castle  wa', 

And  in  by  yon  garden  green, 
Oh,  there  I  sj)ied  a  bonny  bonny  lass. 

But  the  flower-borders  weire  us  between, 

A  bonny,  bonny  lassie  she  was. 

As  ever  mine  eyes  did  see ; 
Oh,  five  hundred  pounds  would  I  give 

For  to  have  such  a  pretty  bride  as  thee. 

To  havp  such  a  pretty  bride  as  me, 
Yoiang  man  ye  are  sairly  mista'en; 


Though  .ye-were  king  o'  fair  Scotland, 
I  wad  disdain  to  be  your  queen. 

Talk  not  so  very  high,  bonny  lass. 
Oh,  talk  not  so  very,  very  high : 

The  man  at  the  fair,  that  wad  sell. 
He  maun  learn  at  the  man  that  wad  buy. 

I  trust  to  climb  a  far  higher  tree, 
And  berry  a  far  richer  nest.  '  ' 

Tak  this  advice  o'  me,  bonny  lass. 
Humility  wad  set  thee  best. 


LORD  RONALD,  MY  SON.' 
This  air,  u,  very  favourite  one  in 
Ayrshire,  is  evidently  the  original  of 
Lochaber.  In  this  manner  most  of  our 
finest  more  modern  airs  have  had  their 
origin.  Some  early  minstrel,  or  musi- 
cal shepherd,  composed  the  simple  art- 
less originpl  airs;  which  being  pickied 
up  by  the  more  learned  musician  took 
the  improved  form  tliey  bear. 


O'ER  THE  MOOR  AMANG  THE 
HEATHER. 

This  song  is  the  composition  of  Jean 
Glover,  a  girl  who  was  not  only  a 
whore  but  also  a  thief,  and  in  one  or 
other  character  has  visited  most  of  the 
correction  houses  in  the  West.  She 
was  born,  I  believe,  in  Kilmarnock. — 
I  took  the  song  down,  from  her  sing- 
ing, as  she  was  strolling  through  the 
country  with  a  sleight-of-hand  black- 
guard. 

Comin'  through  the  craigs  o'  Kyle, 
Amang  the  bonny  blooming  heather, 
There  1  met  a  bonny  lassie. 
Keeping  a'  her  yowes  thegither. 

O'er  the  moor  amang  the  heather^  - 
O'er  the  moor  amang  the  heather, 
There  I  met  a  bonny  lassie^. 
Keeping  a'  her  yowes  thegither.  .     .  . 

Says  I,  my  dearie,  where  is  thy  hame. 
In  moor  or  dale,  pray  tell  me  whether  ? 
She  says,  I  tent  the  fleecy  flocks 
That  feed  amajig  the  blooming  haatber. 

We  laid  us  down  upon  a  bank, 
Sae  warm  and  sUnny  was  tlie  weather. 
She  left,  her  flocks,  at  lai-ge  to  rove . 
"  Amang  the  bonny  blooming  heather. 

While  thus  we  lay  she  sane  a  sang. 
Till  echo  rang  a  mile  and  farther, 
And  aye  the  ourden  o' the  sang  ^ 

■  Was  o'er  the  moor  amang  the  heather. ' 


BURXS*  'WORKS. 


She  charm'd  •myheart,  and  aye  sinsyne, 
I  couldna  think  on  ony  ither  ; 
By  sea  and  sky  she  shall  be  mine ! 
The  bonny  lass  amang  the  heather. 


TO.  THE  ROSEBUD. 

This  song  is  the  composition  of  one 
Johnson,  ii  joiner  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Belfast.  The  tune  is  by  Oswald, 
altered,  evidently,  from  "Jockie's 
Gray  Breelts." 

All  hail  to  thee,  thou  bawmy  bud. 
Thou  charming  child  o'  simmer,  hail ; 
Ilk  fragrant  thorn  iwd  lofty  wood 
Does  nod  thy  welcome  to  the  vale. 

See  on  thy  lovely  faulded  form. 
Glad  Phoebus  smiles  wi'  cheering  eye, 
While  on  thy  head  the  dewy  morn 
Has  shed  the  tears  o'  silent  joy. 

The  tuneful  tribes  frae  yonder  bower 
Wi'  sangs  o*  joy  thy  presence  hail: 
Then  haste,  thou  bawmy,  fragrant  flower, 
And  gie  thy  bosom  to  the  gale. 

lAnd  see  the  fair,  industrious  bee. 
With  airy  wheel  and  soothing  hum. 
Flies  ceaseless  round  thy  parent  tree. 
While  gentle  breezes,  trembling,  come. 

If  ruthless  Liza  pass  this  way, 
She'll  pu'  thee  frae  thy  thorny  stem  ; 
A  while  thou'lt  grace  her  virgin  breast. 
But  soon  thou'lt  fade,  my  bonny  gem. 

Ah  !  short,  too  short,  thy  rural  reign. 
And  yield  to  fate,  alas !  thou  must ; 
Bright  emblem  of  the  virgin  train. 
Thou  blooms,  alas !  to  mix  wi'  dust. 

Sae  bonny  Liza  hence  may  learn, 
Wi'  every  youthfu'  maiden  gay. 
That  beauty,  like  the  simmer's  rose. 
In  time  shall  wither  and  decay. 


THE  TEARS  I  SHED  MUST  EVER 
PALL. 

Tnis  song  of  genius  was  composed 
by  a  Miss  Cranstoun,*  It  wanted  four 
lineS'to  make  all  the  stanzas  suit  the 
music,  which  I  added,  and  are  the 
first  four  of.  the  last  stanza. 


*  She  was  the  sister  of  George  Cranstoun, 
one  of"  the  senators  of  the  College  of  Justice 
in  Scotland,  and  became  the  second  wife  of 
the  celebrated  Professor  Dugald  Stewart, 
whom  she  outlived  for  many  years,  having 
died  in  July,  1838,  at  the  age  of  seventy-one. 


The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall  v 

I  weep  not  for  an  absent  swain. 
For  time  can  past  delights  recall. 

And  parted  lovers  meet  again.  - 
I  weep  not  for  the  silent  dead^ 

Their  toils  are  past,  their  sorrows  o'er. 
And  those  they  loved  their  steps  shall  tread. 

And  death  shall  join,  to  part  no  more. 

Though  boundless  oceans  roll  between, 

If  certain  that  his  heart  is  near, 
A  conscious  transport  glads  the  scene,  ' 

Soft  is  the  sigh,  and  sweet  the  teas.  _.-_ 

E'en  when  by  death's  cold  hand  removed, 

We  mourn  the  tenant  of  the  tomb,- 
To  think  that  even  in  death  he  lov«d. 

Can  cheer  the  terrors  of  the  glopm. 

But  bitter,  bitter  is  the  tear 

Of  her  who  slighted  love  bewaHs ; 
No  hopes  her  gloomy  prospect  cheer, 

No  pleasing  melancholy  hails. 
Hers  are  the  pangs  of  wounded  pride,    :: 

Of  blasted  hope,  and  withered  joy  : 
The  prop  she  lean'd  on  pierced  her  side^ 

The  flame  she  fed  burns  to  destroy."'  '^ 

In  vam  does  memory  renew 

The  scenes  once  tinged  in  transport's  dye  ; 
The  sad  reverse  soon  meets  the  view. 

And  turns  the  thought  to  agony. 
Even  conscious  virtue  cannot  cure 

The  pangs  to  every  feeling  due  ; 
Ungenerous  youth,  thy  boast  how  poor 

I'd  steal  a  heart,  and  break  it  too  ? 

No  cold  approach^  no  aUer'd  mien^ 

Jttst  ivhat  ivotild  make  suspicio^t  start  * 
No  pause  the  dire  extretnes  deiiueen^ —  " 

He  Jtiade  tne  blest^  and  broke  my  heart ; 
Hope  from  its  only  anchor  torn. 

Neglected,  and  neglecting  all. 
Friendless,  forsaken,,  and  forlorn. 

The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall. 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

This  song,  tradition  says,  and  the 
composition  itself  confirms  it,  was  com- 
posed on  the  Rev.  David  AVilliamson's 
begetting  the  daughter  of  Lady  Cheri-y- 
trees  with  child,  while  a  party  of 
dragoons  were  searching  her  house  to 
apprehend  him  for  being  an  adherent 
to  the  solemn  league  and  covenant. 
The  pious  woman  had  put  a  Ipdy's 
nightcap  on  him,  and  had  laid  him 
a-bed  with  her  own  daughter,  ajid 
passed  him  to  the  soldiery  as  a  latiy!, 
her  daughter's  bedfellow.  A  muti- 
lated stanza  or  two  are  to  be  found  i* 
Herd's  collection,  but  the  original  song 
consists  of  five  or  six  stanzas;  and  were 
their  delicacy  equal  to  their  mt  and 
humour,  they  would  merit  a  place  in 


REMARKS  ON  SCOTTISH  SONG. 


%Iic  first  stanza  is  as 


any  collection, 
follows: — 


Being  pursued  by  the  dragoons, 
Within  my  bed  he  was  laid  down  : 
And  weel  I  wat  he  was  worth  his  room, 
_.  Fbrhe  was  my  damty  Davie. 

Ramsay's  song,  "Lucky  Nonsy/* 
tliough  he  calls  it  an  old  song  -with 
additions,  seems  to  be  all  his  own,  ex- 
cept the  choras: 

I  was  aye  telling  you, 
Lucky  Nansy,  lucky  Nansy, 
Auld  springs?  wad  ding  the  new, 
But  ye  wad  never  trow  me. 

Which  I  shbuld  conjecture  to  be  part 
of  a  song,  prior  to  the,  affair  of  Wil- 
liamson. 

Th^;  following  is  the  version  of  "  Lucky 
Nansy,"  by  Ramsay,  of  which  the  poet 
speafe  : — 

WHit^Jops,  in  soft  Italian  verse, 
Ilk^'f&rr  ane's  een  and  breast  rehearse. 
White  sangs  abound,  and  sense  is  scarce. 

These  lines  ITiave  fndicted : 
But  neither  darts  nor  arrows  here, 
Venus  nor  Cupid  shall  appear. 
And  y^t  with  these  fine  sounds  I  swear, 

The  maidens  are  delighted, 

I  was  aye  telling  you. 
Lucky  Nansy,  lucky  Nansy, 
Auld  springs  wad  ding  the  new, 
"^But  ye  wad  never  trow  me. 

Nor  snaw  with  crimson  will  I  mix, 
To  spread  upon  my  lassie's  cheeks. 
And  syne  th  unmeaning  name  prefix, 

Miranda,  Chloe,  Phillts. 
I'll  fetch  nae  smile  from  Jove 
My  height  of  ecstasy  to  prove, 
Nor  signing,  thus  present  my  love 
^..  ,  With  roses  eke  and  lilies. 

I  was  aye  telling  you,  &c. 

'   But  stay— I  had  amaist  forgot 

■   My  misti-ess,  and  my  sang  to  boot, 
^   And  that'san  unco  faut,l  wot: 

_ ,     But,  Nansy,  'tis  nae  matter. 

-'  Ye  see,  I  clink  my  verse  wi'  rhyme, 
J'^And ,  ken  ye,  that  atones  the  crime  ; 

3jJ^rbye,  how  sweet  my  numbers  chime, 
^' .  ,  And  slide  away  like  water ! 

'■:.::  •■     I  was  aye  telling  you,  &c. 

Now  ken,  my  reverend  sonsy  fair, 
,   Thy  rlinkled  cheeks  and  lyart  hair, 


Thy  haif-shut  een  and  hodling  air. 

Are  a'  my  passion's  fuel. 
Nae  skyring  gowk,  my  dear,  can  see. 
Or  love,  or  grace,  or  heaven  in  thee ; 
Yet  thou  hast  charms  enow  for  me. 

Then  smile,  and  be  na  cruel. 

Leeze  me  on  .thy  snawy  pow. 
Lucky  Nansy,  lucky  Nansy ; 
Dryest  wood  will  eithest  lovy, 
And,  Nansy,  sae  will  ye  now. 

Troth  I  have  sung  the  sang  to  you. 
Which  ne'er  anitner  bard  wad  do ; 
Hear,  then,  my  charitable- vow, 

Dear,  venerable  Natisy. 
But  if  tb.e  warld  my  passion  wrang. 
And  say!ye  only  live  in  s^ng; 
Ken,  I  despise  a  slandering  tongue, 

And  sing  to  please  my  fancy. 
Leeze  me  on  thy,  &c. 


BOB  0'  DUNBLANE. 

Ramsay,  as  usual,  has  modernised 
this  song.  The  original,  which  I 
learned  on  the  spot  from  my  old  host- 
ess in  the  principal  inn  there,  is: — 

LASslE.'lend  me  your  braw  hemp  heckle, 
And  I'H  lend  you-mj^thripplin-kame  ; 

My  heckle  is  broken,  it  canna  be  gotten. 
And  we'll  gae  dance  the  bob  o'  Dunblane. 

Twa  gaed  to  the  wood,  to  the  wood,  to  the 
wood, 
Twa  gaed  to  the  wood — three  came  hame  ; 
An  it  be  na  weel  bobbit,  weel  bobbit,  weel 
bobbit. 
An  it  be  na  weel  bobbit,  we'll  bob  it  again. 

I  insert  this  song  to  introduce  the 
following  anecdote,  which  I  have 
heard  well  ^.uthenticated : — In  the 
evening  of  the  day  of  the  battle  of 
Dunblane,  ( SherifE-Muir, )  when  the 
action  was  over,  a  Scots  officer  in 
Argyle's  army  observed  to  his  Grace 
that  he  was  afraid  the  rebels  would 
give  out  to  the  world  that  they  had 
gotten  the  victory. — "  Weel,  weel," 
returned  his  Urace,  alluding  to  the 
foregoing  ballad  ,  "  if  they  think  it-be 
na  weel  bobbit,  we'll  bob  it  again." 


GENERAL    CORRESPONDENCE. 


The  letters  of  Robert  Burns,  extending  as  they  do  over  the  g-reater  portion  of  bis-life;, 
and  written  under  the  influence  of  the  varying  feelings  of  the  moment,  are  most  valuable  in 
leading  us  to  form  a  true  estimate  of  the  man.  Much  there  undoubtedly  is  in  them  which  is 
stilted  and  unreal ;  but  against  this  there  is  much  that  illustrates  his  genius,  his  sturdy  inde. 
fjendence,  his  strong  common  sense,  and  vivid  perceptions  of  men  and  things.  From  the  very 
tirst  he  seems  to  have  had  a  strong  sense  of  his  extraordinary-  endowments  ;  and  as  his  friends 
about  him  endorsed  his  own  opinion,  and  the  circle  of  his  admirers  extended,  we  see  from  his 
letters  how  much-,  his  humble  position  and  the  obscurity  of  his  life  chafed  his  spirit^^we  see 
how,  when  he  had  become  the  most  famous  man  in  his  country-side,  and  when  his  wonderful 
talents  were  beginning  lo  attract  the  attention  of  the  great  world  of  which  he  knew  so  little, 
his  own  irregularities  seemed  to  pieclude  the  hope  that  ever  he  would  .be  able  to  take  advan- 
tage of  his  great  gifts,  or  the  recognition  which  awaited  them — we  see  how,  in  the  fulL  tri- 
umph'of  bis  Edinburgh  success,  with  all  that  was  greatest  and  best  in  his  country  doing  -him 
honour,  his  hopes  rose  higii — w^e  follow  him  throughout  his  wanderings  in  his  dearly-loved 
native  land,  perhaps  the  happiest  period  of  his  life,  and  throughout  the  too  brief  days  of  his 
success,  when  a  life  of  independence  seemed  to  be  before  him — alas  !  never  to  be  realisedT 
and  almost  the  last  letter  he  ever  wrote  leaves  him  dying  broken  in  heart  and  broken  in.  his 
fortunes,  begging  from  a  relation  a  ten-pound  note  to  save  him  from  the  anticipated  horrors 
of  a  -jail.  During  his  lifetime,  and  at  his  death,  his  character  was  fiercely  assailed.  More  than 
sixty  years  afterwards,  at  the  time  of  the  Centenary  celebrations  in  honour  of  his.memofj', 
much  was  said  and  written  by  certain  of  his  countrymen  as  to  the  grossness  of  his  life.  We 
may,  we  think,  venture  to  state  here,  that  to  the  more  charitable  among  his  countrymen,  the 
wholesale  condemnation  of  Burns  as  a  libertine  and  blasphemer  m  certain  quarters,  gave  rise 
to  much  surprise  and  astonishment.  It  seems  to  us  that  in  the  poetry  and  correspondence  of 
Burns,  we  have  the  most  remarkable  instance  in  modern  times,  of  a  man  of  genius  laying  bare 
his  whole  heart  and  mind  to  his  countrymen.  Had  he  Hved  in  some  large  city,  where  the 
private  doings  of  even  a  celebrated  man  escape  general  notice,  the  occasion  for  alluding  to 
the  dark  side  of  his  life  would  never  have  occurred  to  him;  and  possibly  there  would  have  been 
fewer  slips  from  the  path  of  rectitude  to  chronicle,  for  there  was  much  in  Burns'  temperament 
which  led  him  to  defy  his  censors,  and  seems,  almost- to  have  led  him  into  sin  in  sheer  con- 
tempt of  petty  censors,  who  were  so  much  his  inferiors  in  intellectual  endow^ments.  To  those 
who  know  anything  of- the  lives  of  literary  men  of  our  own  day,  where  all  is  so  fair  outside, 
there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  finding  parallels— rwith  this  much  in  favour  of  the  poet,  that  we 
know  from  his  poems  and  correspondence,  that  under  all'  his  seeming  contempt  for  the  proi- 
prieties,  shame  and  contrition  weire  gnawing  at  his  vitals  ;  and  while  presbyteries,  kirfc-ses- 
sions,  and  the  "  unco  guid"  who  were  busy  with  his  doings,  were  being  made  the  victims-of 
his  wild  and  daring  humour,  he  was  suffering  through  his  own  accusing  conscience  the  pun- 
ishment which  awaits  every  true  and  honest  man,  who,  knowing  what  is  right,  is  tempted 'of 
^e  devil  and  his  own  evil  passions,  and  is  worsted  in  the  conflict.  The  man  who  reads 
attentively  his  poems  and  correspondence,  and  all  that  has  been  written  and  said  of  him  by 
his  contemporaries,  must  be  of  a  purity  which  will  find  itself  sadly  out  of  place  in  a  sinful 
worid,even  at- thepresent  day,  if  he  canfind  it  in  his  heart  to  judge  him  by  the  comnaoa 
standards.  His  letters,  while  they  add  to  our  high  estimate  of  the  genius  and  ability  of  ^tibe 
poet,  show  us  that  he  was  the  constant  correspondent  and  intimate  friend  of ,  the  men  and 
women  oftalent  and  position  in  his  own  district,  Where  his  frailties  were  known  to  all — and 
this  before  he  was  known  beyond  his  own  locality,  and  was  as  yet  unstamped  by  the  approval 
pf  a  general ormetropolitan  audience.  This  alone  should  convince  the  most  censorious,,  that 
he  was  something  higher  and  better  than  the  dissolute  and  reckless  man  of  genius  many  wish 
to  consider  him.  Let  us  hear  no  more  accusations  against  him,  and  no  more  apologies  for  hirn. 
Let  us..thinlcof  him.  with  4eep  sympathy  for  ;his  errors  ^d.misfortunes;  let  us  think  qfibe 
manliness'and  uprightness  which  never  failed  him  throughout  many  worldly  cares  and  trials  • 
and  let  us  be  proud  of  him,  for  in  his  works  we  have  the  highest  manifestation  of  true ''  poetic 
genius"  our  country  has  yet  known. 

-We  quote  the  criticisms  of  several  of  the  more  eminent  of  his  countrymen  as  to  the  value 
of- his  correspondence: — 

Professor  Wilson  says,  "■  The  letters  of  Burns  are  said  to  be  too  elaborate,  the  expression 
more  studied  and  artificial  than  belongs  to  thht  species  of 'composition.    Now  the  truth  is 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE.  34i 

Burns  never  considered  letter  writing  *  a  species  of  composition/ subject  to  certain  rules  of 
taste  and  criticism.  That  had  never  occurred  to  him,  and  so  much  the  better.  But  hundreds, 
even  of  his  most  familiar  letters,  are  perfectly  artless,  though  still  most  eloquent,  composi- 
tions. Simple  we  may  not  call  them,  so  rich  are  they  in  fancy,  so  overflowing'  in  feeling,  and 
dashed  off  every  other  paragraph  with  the  easy  boldness  ot  a  great  master  cousciouG  of  his 
strength,  even  at  times  when,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  he  was  least  solicitous  about  display': 
while  some  there  are  so  solemn,  so  sacred,  so  religious,  that  he  who  can  read  them  with  an 
unstirred  heart  can  have  no  trust*,  no  hope,  in'the  immortality  of  the  soul." 

Lockhart  observes,  "  From,  the  time  that  Burns  settled  himself  in  Dumfriesshire,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  conducted  with  much  care  the  extensive  correspondence  in  which  his  celebrity 
had  engaged  him  j  it  is,  however,  very  necessary  in  judging  of  these  letters,  and  drawing  in- 
ferences from  their  language  as  to  the  real  sentiments  and  opinions  of  the  writer,  to  take  into 
consideration  the  rank  and  character  of  the  persons  to  whom  they  were  severally  addressed, 
and  the  measure  of  intimacy  which  really  subsisted  between  them  and  the  poet.  In  his  let- 
ters, as  in  his  conversation,  Burns,  in  spite  of  all  his  pride,  did  something  to  accommodate 
himself  to  his  company :  and  he  who  did  write  the  series  of  letters  addressed  to  Mrs.  Dunlop, 
Dri  Moore,  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart,  Miss  Chalmers,  and  others,  eminently  distinguished  as  these 
are  by  purity  and  nobleness  of  feeling,  and  perfect  propriety  of  language,  presents  himself,  in 
other  effusions  of  the  same  class,  in  colours  which  it  would  be  rash  to  call  his  own.  That  hfe 
should  have  condescended  to  any  such  compliance  must  be  regretted  ;  but,  in  most  cases,  it 
would  probably  be  quite  unjust  to  push  our  censure  further  than  this." 

Professor  Walker  says,  "The  prose,  writings  of  Burns  consist  almost  solely  of  hiscorre- 
spondsnce,  and  are  therefore  to  be  considefed  as  presenting  no  sufficient  criterion  of  his  powers. 
Epistolary  effusions,  being  a  sort  of  wid£ten  conversation,  participate  in  many  of  the  advan- 
tages and  defects  of  discourse.  They,  materially  vary,  both,  in  subject  and  manner,  with  tlie 
character  of  the  person  addressed,  to  which  ihe  mind  of  their  author  for  the  moment  assumes 
an  affinity.  To  equals  they  are  famihar  and  negligent,  and  to  superiors  they  can  scarcely 
avoid  that  transition  to  careful  effort  and  studied  correctness,  which  the  behavior  of  the  writer 
■would  undergo,  when  entering  the  presence  of  those  ^^o  whom  his  talents  were  his  only  intro- 
duction. Burns,  from  the  lovvness  of  his  origin,  found  himself  inferior  in  rank  to  all  his  cor- 
respondents, except  his  father  and  brother ;  and,  although  the  superiority  of  his  genius  should 
Irav&'done -more  than  correct  this  disparity  of  condition,  yet  between  pretensions  so  incom- 
mensurable it  is  difficult  to  produce  a  perfect  equality.  Burns  evidently  labours  to  reason 
>yim3elf  into  a  feeling  of  its  completeness,  but  the  very  frequency  of  his  efforts  betrays  his  dig- 
sa:tisf action  with  their- success,  and  he  may  therefore  be  considered  as  writing  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a  desire  to  create  or  to  preserve  the  admiration  of  his  correspondents.  In  this  object 
he  must  certainly  have  succeeded  ;  for,  if  his  letters  are  deficient  in  some  of  the  charms  of 
epistolary  writing,  the  deficiency  is  supplied  by  others.  If  they  occasionally  fail  in  colloquial 
ease  an  j  simplicity,  they  abound  in  genius,  in  richness  of  sentiment,  and  strength  of  expres- 
sion. The  t-aste  of  Burns,  according  to  the  judgment  of  Professor  Stewart,  was  not  sufficient- 
ly correct  and  refined  to  relish  chaste  and  artless  prose,  but  was  captivated  by  writers  who 
labour  their  periods  into  a  pointed  and  antithetical  brilliancy.  What  he  preferred-  he  would 
naturally  be  ambitious  to  Imitate  ;  and  though  he  might  have  chosen  better  models,  yet  those 
which  were  hischoicehe  has  imitated  with  success.  Even  in  poetry,  if  we  may-judge  from 
his  few  attempts  in  English  heroic  measure,  he  was  as  far  from  attaining,  and  perhaps  from 
desiring  to  attain,  the  tiowlng  sweetness  of  Goldsmith,  as  he  is  in  his  letters  from  aiming  at 
-the  graceful  ease  of  Addison,  or  the  severe  simplicity  of  Swift.  Burns  in  his  prose  seems 
nevei-4io  have  forgot  that  he  was  a  poet*  but  though  his  style  may  be  taxed  with  occasional 
luxuriance,  and  with  the  admission  of  crowded  and  even  of  compounded  epithets,  few  will 
'deny  that  genius  isdisplayed  in  their  invention  and  application,  as  few  will  deny  that  there  fs 
eloquence  in  the  harangue  of  an  Indian  sachem, ^although  it  be  not  in  the  shape  to  which  we 
are  accustomed,  nor  pruned  of  its  flowers  by  the  critical  exactness  of  a  British  orator. 
—  "  It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  Burns  could  diversify  his  style  with  great  address  to 
€uit  the  taste  of  his  various  correspondents :  and  that  when  he  occasionally  swells  it  into  dec- 
^lamation,  or  stiffens  it  into  pedantry,  it  is  for  the  amusement  of  an  individual  whom  he  knew 
'h  would  amuse,  and  should  not  be  mistaken  for  the  style  which  he  thought  most  proper  for 
the  public.  The  letter  to  his  father,  for  whom  he  had  a  deep  veneration,  and  of  whose  ap- 
^plause  he  was  no  doubt  desirous,  is  written  with  care,  but  with  no  exuberance.  It  is  grave, 
pious,  and  gloomy,  like  the  mind  of  the  person  who  was  to  receive  it.  In  hia  correspondence 
with  Dr.  Bluir,  Mr.  Stewart,  Mr.  Griham,  and  Mr.  Erskine;  his  style  has  a  respectful -propri- 
ety and  a  regulated-vigour,  which  show  a  just  conception  of  what  became'himselt  and  suited 
"his  relation  with  the  persons  whom  he  addressed.  He  writes  to  Mr.  Nichol  in  a  vein  of  strong 
and  ironical  extravagance,  which  was  congenial  to  the  manner,  and  adapted  to  the  taste,  of 
his  friend.'  To  his  female"  correspondents,  without  excepting  the  Venerable  Mrs.  Dunlop.  he 
is  lively,  and  sometimes  romantic  ;  and  a  skilful  critic  may  perceive  his  pen  under  the  mfl;u- 
erice  of  that  tenderness  for  the  feminine  character  which  has  been  alreadifcnoticed,-  In  short, 
through  the  whole  collection,  we  see  various  shades  of  gravity  and  care,  or  of  sportive  pomp 
and  intentional  affectation,  according  to  the  familiarity  which  subsisted  between  the:  writer 
and  the  person  for  whose  exclusive  perusal  he  wrote :  and  before  we  estimate'  the  merit  of 
.any^siiigle  letter,  we  should  fenow  the  character  of  both  correspondents,  and  the  measure  of 
thek  jntimacy.    These  remarks  are  suggested  by  the  objections  of  a  distinguished  critic  to' a 


3^ 


BtTRNS'  WOilKS. 


letter  which  was  communicated  to  Mr.  Cromek,  without  its  address,  by  the  author  of  this^ 
critique,  and  which  occurs  in  the  *  Reliques  of  Burns/  The  ceflsure  would  perhaps  have  beea^ 
,softened  had  the  critic  been  aware  that  the  timidity  .which  he- blames  was  no  serious  attempt 
at  fine  writing",  but  merely  aplayful  effusion  in  moclc-heroic,  to  divert  a  friend  whoin  he  haj^ 
formerly  succeeded  in  diverting  with  similar  sailies.'  Burns  was  sometimes  happy  in  short 
complimentary  addresses,  of  which  a  specimen  is  subjoined.  It  is  inscribed  on  the  blank-leaf 
of  a  book  presented  to  Mrs.  Graham  of  Fintray,  from  which  it  was  copied,  by  that  lady's  per- 
mission:—  , 

'  TO  MRS.  GRAHAM  OF  FINTRAY. 

*  It  is  probable,  MAdam,  iha:  this  page  may  be  read  when  the  hand  that  now  writes'it 
shall  be  mouldering  in  the  dust :  may  it  then  bear  witness  that  I  present  you  these  volumeSJas 
a  tribute  of  gratitude,  on  my  part  ardent  and  sincere,  as  your  and  Mr.  Grraham's  goodness  -to 
me  has  been  generous  and  noble  \  May  every  child  of  yours,  in  the  hour  of  need,  find  such  a 
friend  as  1  shall  teach  every  child  of  mine  that  their  father  found  in  you. 

*■  Robert  Burns.*' 

"  The  letters  of  Burns  may  on  the  whole  be  regarded  as  a  valuable  offering  to  theptiblic. 
They  are  curious,  as  evidences  of  his  genius,  and  interesting,  as  keys  to  his  character*  and 
they  can  scarcely  fail  .to  command  the  admiration  of  all  who  do  not  measure  their  pretensions 
by  an  unfair  standard."  -    .     .  .,. 

"  The  prose  works  of  Burns,"  says  Jeffrey,  "consist  almost  entirely  of  his  letters.  They 
bear,  as-well  as  his  poetry,  the  seal  and  impress  of  his  genius  ;  but  they  contain  much  more 
bad  taste,  and  are  written  with  far  more  apparent  labour.  His  poetry  was  almost  .all  written 
primarily  from  feeling,  and  only  secondarily  from  ambition.  His  letters  seem  to  have  been 
nearly  all  composed  as  exercises,  and  for  display.  There  are  few  of  them  written  with  sim* 
plicity  or  plainness  :  and,  though  natural  enough  as  to  the  sentiment,  they  are,  generally,  very 
strained  and  elaborate  in  the  expression.  A  very  great  proportion  of  them,  too,  relate  neither 
to  facts  nor  feelings  peculiarly  connected  with  the  author  or  his  correspondent,  but  are  mad^ 
up  of  general  declamation,  moral,  reflections,  and'  vague  discussions— all  evidently  composed 
for  the  sake  of  effect." 

Readers  of  the  present  day  will  more  readily  endorse  the  opinion  of  Cunningham,  who 
says,  "  In  the  critic's  almost  wholesale  condemnation  of  the  prose  of  Burns,  the  world  has  ndt 
concurrfed  :  he  sins  somewhat,  indeed,  in  the  spirit  of  Jeffrey's  description,  but  his  errors  are 
heither  so  serious  nor  so  frequent  as  has  been  averred.  In  truth,  his  prose  partakes  largely  of 
the  character  of  his  poetry :  there  is  the  same  earnest  vehemence  of  lauguage :  the  same 
happy  quickness  of  perception :  the  same  mixture  of  the  solemn  with  the  sarcastic,  and  the 
humourous  with  the  tender ;  and  the  presence  everywhere  of  that  ardent  and  penetrating 
spirit  which  sheds  light  and  communicates  importance  to  all  it  touches.  He  is  ^occasiona^ 
turgid,  it  is  true ;  neither  is  he  so  simple  and  unaffected  in  prose  as  he  is  in  verse :  but  this  is 
more  the  fault  of  his  education  than  of  his  taste.  His  daily  language  was  the  dialect  of  hfs 
native  land  ;  and  in  that  he  expressed  himself  with  almost  miraculous  clearness  and  precisicai^ 
the  language  of  his  verse  corresponds  with  that  of  his  conversation  :  but  the  etiquette  of  his 
day  required  his  letters  to  be  in  English ;  and  in  that,  to  him,  almost  foreign  tongue,  he  now 
and  then  moved  with  little  ease  or  grace.  Yet  though  a  peasant,  and  labouring  to  express 
himself  in  a  language  alien  to  his  lips,  his  letters  yield  not  in  interest  to  those  of  the  ripeSt 
scholars  of  the  age.  He  wants  the  colloquial  ease  of  Cowper,  but  he  is  less  minute  and  tedi- 
ous ;  he  lacks  the  withering  irony  of  Byron,  but  he  has  more  humour,  and  infinitely  less  of 
that '  prtbble  prabble '  which  deforms  the  noble  lord's  correspondence  and  memoranda," 


No.  I. 
TO  WILLIAM  BURNESS. 

Irvine,  Dec.  27, 1771. 
HoNOtTBED  SiE, — I  have  purposely 
delayed  writing,  in  the  hope  that  I 
should  have  thi pleasure  of  seeing  you 
on  new-year's  day;  but  work  comes  so 
hard  upon  us  that  I  do  not  choose  to 
he  absent  on  that  account,  as  well  as 


for  some  other  little  reasons  which  I 
shall  tell  you  at  meeting.  My  health 
is  nearly  the  same  as  whea  you  were 
here,  only  my  sleep  is  a  little  sounder, 
and  on  the  whole  1  am  rather  better 
than  otherwise,  though  I  mend  by  very 
slow  degrees.  The  weakness  of  my 
nerves  has  so  debilitated  my  mind  that 
I  dare  neither  review  past  wants,  nor 
look  forward  into  futurity;  for  the  least 


GENERAL.  COCKESPONDENCE,^ 


ais 


anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast 
produces- most  unliappy  effects  on  my 
wliole-  frame.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
when  for  an  hour  or  two  my  spirits  are 
alightetted,  I  glimmer  a  little  into 
futurity;  but  my  principal,  and  indeed 
my  only  pleasurable,  employment,  is 
looking  backwards  and  forwards  in  a 
floral  and  religious  way;  I  am  quite 
transported  at  the  thought  that  ere 
long,  ijerhaps  very  soon,  I  shall  bid  an 
eternal  adieu  to  all  the  pains,  and  un- 
easiness, and  disquietudes  of  this 
weary  life;  for  I  assure  you  1  am 
heartily  tired  of  it;  and,  if  I  do  not 
Tery  much  deceive  myself,  I  could  con- 
tentedly and  gladly  resign  it. 

*'^hesoul,  uneasy,  and  confined  at  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come." 

It  is  foT  this  reason  I  am  more  pleased 
with  the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  verses  of 
the  7th  chapter  of  Revelations  than 
with  any  ten  times  as  many  verses  in 
the.  whole  Bible,  and  would  not  ex- 
change" the  noble  enthusiasm  with 
which,  tl^^  inspire  me,  for  all  that  this 
woriali^^  offer.  As  for  this  world, 
I  despair  of  ever  making  a  figure  in  it. 
I  am  not  formed  for  the  bustle  of  the 
busy,  nor  the  flutterof  the  gay.  Ishall 
never  again  be  capable  of  entering  into 
such  scenes.  Indeed,  I  am  altogether 
unconcerned  at  the  thoughts  of  this 
life.  I  foresee  that  poverty  and  obscu- 
rity probably  await  me,  and  I  am  in 
iome  measure  prepared,  and  daily  pre- 
paring to  meet  them.  I  have  but  j  ust 
time  and  paper  to  return  you  my  grate- 
ful thanks  for  the  lessons  of  virtue 
and  piety  you  have  given  me,  which 
were  too  much  neglected  at  the  time 
of  giving  them,  but  which  I  hope  have 
been  remembered  ere  it  is  yet  too  late. 
Present  my  dutiful  respects  to  my 
^mother,  gad  my  compliments  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Muir;  and  wishing  you  a 
jaerryjie  w-year's  day,  I  shall  conclude. 
".^I  am,  honoured  sir,  your  dutiful 
son^ 

ROBBKT   B0BNE3S.* 


'"  *  At  this  time  Burns  was- working a5  a  heck- 
ler, (a  dresser  of  flax.)  A  few  days  after,  the 
■.workshop  wjas  burnt  to"  the  ground,  and  he 
had  to  begin  the' world  anew, -^ 


P.  S.. — My  nieal  Is  nearly  out,  but  I 
am  going  to  borrow  till  I  get  more. 


No.   II. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 

STAPLES  INN  BUILDINGS,    LONDON. 
LocHLEA,  Jan.  15, 1783. 

Deab  Sir, — As  I  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  sending  you  a  letter  without 
putting  you  to  that  expense  which  any 
production  of  mine  would  but  ill  re- 
pay, I  embrace  It  with  pleasure,  to  tell 
you  that  I  have  not  forgotten,  nor  ever 
will  forget,  the  many  obligations  I  lie 
under  to  your  kindness  and  friendship.' 

I  do  not  doubt,  sir,  but  you  will  wish 
to  know  what  has  been  the  result  of 
all  the  pains  of  an  indulgent  father; 
and  a  masterly  teacher;  and  I  wish  I 
could  gratify  your  curiosity  with  such 
a  recital  as  you  would  be  pleased  Avith; 
but  that  is  what  I  am  afraid  will  not 
be  the  case.  I  have,  indeed,  kept 
pretty  clear  of  vicious  habits;  and  in 
this  respect,  I  hope  my  conduct  will 
not  disgrace  the  education  I  have  got- 
ten, but  as  a  man  of  the  world  I  am 
m3st  miserably  deficient.  Ono  would 
have  thought  that,  bred  as  I  have 
been,  uiider  a  father  who  has  figured 
pretfrf  well  as  un  homme  des  affaires; 
I  might  have  been  what  the  world 
calls  a  pushing,  active  fellow;  but  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  there  is  hardly 
anything  more  my  reverse.  I  seem 
to  be  one  sent  into  the  world  to  see 
and  observe;  and  I  very  easily  com- 
pound with  the  knave  who  tricks  me 
of  my  money,  if  there  be  anything 
original  about  him,  which  shows  me  _ 
human  nature  in  a  different  light  f  roni 
anything  I  have  seen  before.  In 
short,  the  joy  of  my  heart  is  to  "study 
men,  their  manners,  and  their  ways," 
and  for  this  darling  subject  I  cheer- 
fully sacrifice  every  other  considera- 
tion. I  am  quite  indolent  about  those 
great  concerns  that  set  the  bustling, 
busy  sons  of  care  agog  ;  and  if  1  have 
to  answer  for  the  present  hour,  I  am 
very  easy  with  regard  to  anything  fur- 


344 


T3TTBNS'  WOEKS. 


tlier..  Even  the  last,  worst  shift  of 
the  .unfortunate  and  the  wretched*  does 
not  much  terrify  me.  I  know  that 
even  then  my  talent  for  what  country- 
folks call  "a  sensible  crack,"  when 
once  -it  is  sanctified  by  a  hoary  head, 
wouM  procure  me  so  much  esteem 
that  even  then  I  would  learn  to  be 
happy.  However,  I  am  under  no 
apprehensions  about  that;  for  though 
indolent,  yet  so  far  as  an  extremely 
delicate  constitution  permits,  I  am  not 
lazy;  and  in  many  things,  especially 
in  tavern  matters,  I  am  a  strict  econo- 
mist,— not,  indeed,  for  the  sake  of  the 
money,  but  oiie  of  the  principal  parts 
in  my  composition  is  a  kind  of  pride  of 
stomach;  and  I  scorn  to  fear  the  face 
of  any  man  living:  above  everything, 
I  abhor  as .  hell  the  idea  of  sneaking 
into  a  corner  to  avoid  a  dun — possibly 
some  pitiful,  sordid  wretch,  who  in 
my  heart  I  despise  and  detest.  'Tis 
this,  and  this  alone,  that  endears  econ- 
omy to  me.  In  the  matter  of  books, 
indeed,  I  am  very  profuse.  My  favour- 
ite authors  are  of  the  sentimental 
kind,  such  as  Shenstone,  particularly 
his  ''Elegies;"  Thomson;  "Man  of 
Feeling," — a  Ijook  I  prize  next  to  the 
Bible;  "Man  of  the  World;"  Sterne, 
especially  his  "  Sentimental  Journey," 
Macpherson's  ' '  Ossian , "  &c. ;  — these 
are  the  glorious  models  after  which  I 
endeavour  to  form  my  conduct;  and 
'tis  incongruous, 'tis  absurd,  to  suppose 
that  the  man  whose  mind  glows  with 
sentiments  lighted  up  at  their  sacred 
flame — the  man  whose  heart  distends 
with  benevolence  to  all  the  human 
race — ^Ixe  "  who  can  soar  above  this 
little  scene  of  things" — can  descend  to 
mind  the  paltry  concerns  about  which 
the  terrae-filial  race  fret,  and  fume,  and 
"  vex  themselves  !  Oh,  how  the  glorious 
triumph  swells  my  heart !  I  forget  that  I 
am  a  poor,  insignificant  devil,  unnoticed 
and  unknown,  stalking  up  and  down 
fairs  and  markets,  when  I  happen  to 
be  in  them,  reading  a  page  or  two  of 
mankind,  and  ' '  catching  the  manners 
living  as  they  rise,"  whilst  the  men  of 


*  The  last  shift  alluded  to  here  must  be  the 
condition  of  _an  itinerant  beggar, — ^Ct-'RRiE. 


business  jostle  me  on  every  Side,  as  an 
idle  encumbrance  in  their  way.  But  1 
dare  say  I  have  by  this  time  tired  your 
patience;  so  I  shall  conclude  with  beg- 
ging you  to  ^ve  Mrs.  Murdoch:-*-Dot 
my  compliments,  for  that  is  «.  mere 
commonplace  story,  but  my  warmest; 
kindest  wishes  for  her  welfare;  and 
accept  of  the  same  for  yourself.  .froni;^i 
dear  sir,  yours,  -  • - 

R.  B. 


No.  Ill; 
TO    MR.    JAMES    BURNESS, 


WRITER,  MONTROSE." 


LocHLEA,  June  21, 1783,  .^  ^ 

Dear  Sm, — MJr  father  received  your 
favour  of  the  10th  current,  and  as  he 
has  been  for  some  months  very  poorly 
in  health,  and  Is  in  hLs  o^vn  opinion 
(and,  indeed,  in  almost  every-body's 
else)  in  a  dying  condition,  he  has  only,' 
with  gi'eat  difficulty,  written  a  fev.' 
farewell  lines  to  each  of  his  brothers- 
in-law.  For  this  melancholy  reason; 
I  now  hold  the  pen  for  him  to  thank 
you  for  3'our  kind  letter,  and  to  assure 
you,  sir,  that  it  shall  not  b3  my  fault 
if  my  father's  correspondence  in  the 
north  die  with  him.  My  brother 
writes  to  John  Caird,  and  to  him  I 
must  refer  you  for  the  news  of  our 
family. 

I  shall  only  trouble  you  with  a  few 
particulars  relative  to  the  wretched 
state  of  this  country.  Our  markets  are 
exceedingly  high;  oatmeal,  17d.  and- 
18d.  per  peck,  and  not  to  be  got  even 


*  This  gentleman,  (the  son  of  an  elder 
brother  of  my  father.)  When  he  was  vei^ 
young,  lost  his  parent,  and  having  discoverecl' 
in  his  repositories  some  of  my  father's  letter^",, 
he  requested  that  the  cojrcespeirdeiice'  might ' 
be  renewed.  My  father  continued  till  Ui^' 
last  year  of  his  life  to  correspond  with  his 
nephew,  and  it  was  afterwards  kept  up  by  my 
brother.  Extracts  from  some  of  my  brother's 
letters  to  his  cousin  are  introduced  in  Ihis'edi- 
tioh-for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  the  poet  be- 
fore hfi  had  .attracted  the  notice  of  the.  public, 
and  in  his  domestic  family  relations  after- 
wards.—Gilbert  Burns.  \ 

He  was  grandfather  of  Sir  Alexaqder 
Burnes,  author  of  "  Travels  in  Bokhara." 


GENERAL-  CORRESPONDENCE. 


!H3 


at  that  price.  We  have  indeed  been 
jH-etty  well  supplied  with.quautities  of 
white  pease,  from  England  and  else- 
where, but  that  resource  is  lilcely  to 
fail  us,  and  what  will  become  of  us 
then,  particularly  the  very  poorest 
sort.  Heaven  only  knows.  This 
country,  till  of  late,  was  flourishing 
incredibly  in  the  manufacture  of 
silk,  lawn,  and  carpet  weaving;  and 
we  are  still  carrying  on  a  good  deal  in 
that  way,  but  much  reduced  from 
what  it  was.  We  had  also  a  fine  trade 
in  the  shoe  way,  but  nosv  entirely 
ruined,  and  hundreds  driven  to  a 
starving  concUtion  on  account  of  it. 
Farming  is  also  at  a  very  low  ebb  with 
us.  Oar  lands,  generally  speaking, 
are  mountainous  and  barren;  and  our 
landholders,  full  of  id:eas  of  farming, 
gatliered,  from  the  English  and  the 
Lothians,  and  other  rich  soils  in  Scot- 
land, make  no  allowance  for  the  odds 
of  the  quality  of  land,  and  consequently 
stretch  us  much  beyond  what  in  the 
event  we  will  be  found  able  to  pay. 
We  are  also  much  at  a  loss  for  want 
of  proper  methods  in  our  improve- 
ments of  farming.  Necessity  compels 
us  to  leave  our  old  schemes,  and  few 
of  us  have  opportunities  of  being  well 
informed  in  new  ones.  In  short,  my 
dear  sir,  since  the  unfortunate  begin- 
ning of  this  American  war,  and  its  as 
unfortunate  conclusion,  this  country 
has  besn,  and  still  is,  decaying  veiy 
fast;  Even  in  higher  lifo,  a  couple  of 
Ayrshire  noblemen,  and  the  major 
part  of  our  knights  and  squires,  are  all 
insolvent.  A  miserable  job  of  a 
Douglas,  Heron,  &  Co.'s  bank,  which 
no  doubt  you  heard  of,  has  undone 
numbers  of  them;  and  imitating  Eng- 
lish and  French,  and  other  foreign 
luxuries  and  fopperies,  has  ruined  as 
many  more.  There  is  a  great  trade  of 
smuggling  carried  on  along  our  coasts, 
whitih  however  destructive  to  the  in- 
terests of  the  kingdom  at  large,  cer- 
tainly enriches  this  corner  of  it,  but 
too  often  at  the  expense  of  our  morals. 
However,  it  enables  individuals  to 
make,  at  least  for  a  time,  a  splendid 
appearance;  but  Fortune,  as  is  usual 
with  her  when  she  is    uncommonly 


lavish  '  of  her .  favours,  is-,  generally, 
even  withthem  at  the  last;  and  happy 
were  it  for  numbers  of  them  if  she 
would  leave  them  no  worse  than  when 
she  foand  them. 

My  mother  sends  you  a  small  present 
ofa  cheese;  'tis  but  a  very  little  one, 
as  our  last  year's  stock  is  sold  off;  but 
if  you  could  fix  on  any  correspondent 
in  Edinburgh  or  Glasgow,  we  would 
send  you  a  proper  one  in  the  season. 
Mrs.  Black  promised  to  take  the  cheese, 
under  her  care  so  far,  and  then  to  send 
it  to  you  by  the  Stirling  carrier. 

I  shall  conclude  this  long  letter  with . 
assuring  you  that  I  shall  be  very  happy 
to  hear  from  you,  or  any  of  our  friends 
in  your  country,  when  opportunity, 
serves. 

My  father  sends  you,  probably,  for 
the  last  time  in  this  world,  his 
warmest  wishes  for  your  welfare  and 
happiness;  and  my  mother  and  the 
rest  of  the  family  desire  to  enclose, 
their  kind  compliments  to  you,  Mrs, 
Bnrness,  and"  the  rest  of  your  family; 
along  with  those  of,  dear  sir,  your 
afEectionate  cousin,         ,  ,R.  B. 


No.    IV. 
TO  MISS   ELIZA .* 

LoCHtEA,   1783 

I  VBTirLY  believe,  my  dear  Eliza, 
that  the  pure  genuine  feelings  of  lovq 
are  as  rare  in  the  world  as  the  pure 
genuine  principles  of  virtue  and  piety.' 
This  1  hops  will  account  for  the  uu: 
common  style  of  all  my  letters  to  you. 
By  uncommon,  I  mean  their  being 
written  in  such  a  hasty  manner;  which, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  has  made  me  often 
afraid  lest  you  should  take  me  for 
some  zealous  bigot,  who  conversed 
with  his  mistress  as  he  would  converse 
with  his  minister.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  my  dear,  for  though^  except 
your  company,  there  is  nothing  oh 
earth  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  as 

*  The  name  of  the  lady  to  wh  ora  this  and 
the  three  succeeding  letters  were  addressed 
was  Ellison  Begbie.  She  was  a  superior  ser- 
vant in  the  family  of  Mr.  Montgomery  of 
Colisfield— hence  a  song  addressed  to  her. 
'•  Montgomery's  Peggy.  —See  p.  ig'3. 


346 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


writing  to  you,  yet  it  never  gives 
me  tliose  giddy  raptures  so  much 
tallied  of  among  lovers.  I  have 
often  thought  that .  if  a  well-grounded 
affection  be  not  really  a  part  of  virtue, 
'tis  something  extremely  akin  to  it. 
Whenever  the  thought  of  my  Eliza 
warms  my  heart,  every  feeling  of  hu- 
manity, every  principle  of  generosity 
kindles  in  my  breast.  It  extinguishes 
every  dirty  sparkj)f  malice  and  envy 
which  are  but  tooTipt  to  infest  me.  .  I 
grasp,  every  creature  in  the  arms  of 
universal  benevolence,  and  equaUy 
participate  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
happy,  and  sympathise  with  the  miser- 
ies of  the  unfortunate.  I  assure  you, 
my  dear,  1  often  look  up  to  the  Divine 
Disposer  of  events  with  an  eye  of  grati- 
tude for  the  blessing  which  Ihope  He 
intends  to  bestow  on  me  iu  bestowing 
you.  I  sincerely  wish  that  He  may 
bless  my  endeavours  to  make  your  life 
as  comfortable  and  happy  as  possible, 
both  iu  sweetening  the  rougher  parts 
of  my  natural  temper.and  bettering  the 
unkindly  circumstances  of  my  fortune. 
This,  my  dea%  is  a  passion,  at  least  in 
my  view,  wortliy  of  a  man,  and  I  will 
add  worthy  of  a  Christian.  The  sordid 
earthworm  may  profess  love  to  a 
woman's  person,  whilst  in  reality  his 
affection  is  centred  iu  her  pocket;  and 
the  slavish  drudge  may  go  a-wooing  as 
he  goes  to  the  horse-market  to  choose' 
one  who  is  stout  and  firm,  and,  as  we 
may  say  of  an  old  horse,  one  who  will 
be  a  good  drudge  and  draw  kindly.  I 
disdain  their  dirty,  puny  ideas.  1 
would  Le  heartily  out  of  h.imour  with 
myself,  if  I  thought  I  were  capable  of 
having  so  poor  a  notion  of  the  sex 
which  was  designed  to  crown  the 
pleasures  of  society.  Poor  devils  !  I 
don't  envy  tliem  their  happiness  who 
have  such  notions.  For  my  part  I  pro- 
pose qiiite  other  pleasures  with  my 
dear  partner.  B.  B. 


No.  V. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

LOOHLEA,  1783. 

Mt  dbah  Eliza, — I  do  not  remem- 
ber,  in  the  course  of  your  acqua,intance 


and  mine,  ever  to  have  heard  your 
opiniim  on  the  ordinary  way  of  failmg 
in  love  amongst  people  in  our  stati-jn, 
in  life;  I  do  not  mean  the  persons- who 
proceed  in  the  way  of  bargain,,  but 
those  whose  afEection  is  really  placed 
on  the  person.  ■•'^■i 

Though  I  be,  as  you  know  very  well,.; 
but  a  very  awkward  lover  myself,'yet, 
as  I  have  some  opportunities.of  obser-,  . 
ving  the  conduct  of  others .  who  ace. 
much  better  skilled  in  the ,  affair  of, 
courtship  than  I  am,  I  often  think,  it 
is  owing  to  lucky  chance,  more  than  ta 
good  management,  that  there  are  ■  not 
more  unhappy  marriages  than  usually, 
are.  .  ,  -    ■     ,       ... 

It  is  natural  for  a,  young  fellow  to 
like  the  acquaintance  of  the  femiales, 
and  customary  for  him  to  keep  them, 
company  when  occasion  serves  :  some, 
one  of  them  is  more  agreeable  to  him, 
than  the  rest;  there  is  something,  ha 
knows  not  what,  pleases  him,  he  knows 
not  how,  in  her  company. "  This  I  take 
to  be  what  is  called  love  with  the 
greater  part  of  us;  and  I  must  own,  my 
dear  Eliza,  it  is  a  hard  game  such  .  a 
one  as  you  have  to  play  when  you  mee^ 
with  such  a  lover.  You  cannot  jef  use 
but  he  is  sincere;  and  yet  though  youi 
use  him  ever  so  favourably,  perhaps  in 
a  few  months,  or  at  furthest  in  a  year 
or  two,  the  same  unaccountable  fan- 
cy may  make  him  as  distractedly  f  on^ 
of  another,  whilst  you  are  quite  forgot^^ 
I  am  aware  that  perhaps  the  next  tim^ 
I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  you 
may  bid  me  take  my  own  lesson  liom?, 
and  tell  me  that  the  passion  I  have  pror 
fessed  for  you  is  perhaps  one  of  those 
transient  flashes  I  have  been  dtscribi 
ing;  but  I  hope,  my  dear  Eliza,  you 
will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  me, 
when  I  assure  you  that  the  love  I  have 
for  you  is  founded  on  the  sacred  prim, 
eiples  of  virtue  and  honour,  and  by 
consequence  so  long  as  you  continue 
possessed  of  those  amiable  qualities 
which  first  inspired  my  passi(m '  for 
you,  so  long  must  I  continue  to  love 
you.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  it  is  love 
like  this  alone  which  can  render -the 
marriage  state  happy.  People  "may 
talk  of  flames  and  raptures  as  Ibn*'  as 


GENERAL  CORRESPONOENCE. 


347 


,  tWey  please,  and  a  warm  fancy,  With  a. 
Sow  of  youthful  spirits, may  make 
them  feel  something  like  what  they 
describe;  but  sure  I  am  the  nobler 
faculties  of  the  mind  with  kindred 
feelings' of  the  heart  can  only  be  the 
foundation  of  friendship,  and  it  has 
always  been  my  opinion  that  the  mar- 
ried life  -was  only  friendship  iu  a  more 
exalted  degree.  If  you  will  be  so  good 
as  to  grant  my  wishes,  and  it  should 
;^ease  Providence  to  spare  us  to  the 
latest  period  of  life,  I  can  look  forward 
and  see  that  even  then,  though  bent 
down  with  wrinkled  age, — even  theli, 
when  all  other  worldly  circumstances 
■will  be  indifferent  to  me,  I  will  regard 
my  EKi^  with  the  tenderegt  affection, 
and  for  tlfis  plain  reason,  because  she 
is  &till  possessed  of  these  noble  quali- 
ties, improved  to  a  much  higher  de- 
gree, which  first  inspired  my  affection 
for  her. 

":Oh  happy  gfate  when  souls  each  other  draw 
, ,-  Where  love  is  liberty  and  nature  law  !" 

I  know  were  I  to  speak  in  such  a 
stylo  to  many  a  girl  whotLiaks  herself 
possessed  of  no  small  share  of  sense; 
she  would  think  it  ridiculous;  but  the 
language  of  the  heart  is,  my  dear 
Eliza,  the  only  courtship  I  shall  ever 
use  to  you. 

When  I  look  over  what  I  have  writ- 
ten, I  am  sensible  it  is  vastly  different 
from  the  ordinary  style  of  courtship; 
but  I  shall  malce  no  apology — I  know 
your  good-nature  will  excuse  what 
your  good  sense  may  see  amiss. 

R.  B. 


No.  VI. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

LOCELEA,  1783. 

I  HAVE  often  thought  it  a  peculiarly 
unlucky  circumstance  in  love,  that 
though  in  every  other  situation  in  life 
,t§lling.  the  truth  is  not  only  the  safest, 
.but  actually  by  far  the  easiest,  way  of 
proceeding,  a  lover  is  never  under 
greater  ^iflSculty  in  acting,  or  more 
puzzled  for  expression,  than  when  his 
passion  is  sinceie,  and  his  intentions 


are  honourable.-  1  do  not  think  that  It 
is  so  difficult  for  a  person  of  ordinary 
capacity  to  talk  of  love  and  fondness 
whiclx  are  not  felt,  and  to  make  vows 
of  constancy  and  fidelity  which  are 
ne'ver  intended  to  be  perfoi-med,  if  he  be 
villain  enough  to.practise  such  detes- 
table conduct;  but  to  a  man  whose 
heart  glows  with  the  principles  of  in- 
tegrity and  truth,  and  whp  sincerely 
loves  a  Avoman  of  anyable  person,  un- 
common refinement  of  sentiment  and 
purity  of  manners — to.  such  a  one^-  in 
sucli  circumstances,  I  can  assure  you, 
niy-dear,  fi-om  my  own  feelings  at  this 
present  moment,  courtship  is  a  task 
indeed.  There  is  such  a  number  of 
foreboding  fears  and  distrustful  anxie- 
ties crowd  into  my  mind  when  I  am  iii 
your  company,  or  when  I  sit  down  to 
write  to  you,  that  what  to  speak  or 
what  to  write  I  am  altogether  at  a 
loss. 

There  is  one  rule  which  I  have  hith- 
erto practised,  and  lyhich  I  shall  in* 
variably  keep ,  with  you,  and  that,  is; 
honestly  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth. 
There  is  something  so  mean  "and  unman- 
ly in  the  arts  of  dissimulation  and  false- 
hood that  I  am  surprised  tliey  can  be 
acted  by  any  one  in  so  noble,  so  gener- 
ous a  passion  as  virtuous  love.  No, 
my  dear  Eliza,  I  shall  never  endeavour 
to  gain  your  favour  by  such  detestable 
practices.  If  you  will  be  so  good  and 
so  generous  as  to  admit  me  for  your 
partner,  your  companion,  your  bosom 
friend  through  life,  there  is  nothing 
on  this  side  of  eternity  shall  give  me 
greater  transport;  but  I  shall  never 
think  of  purchasing  your  hand  by  any 
arts  unworthy  of  a  man,  and,  I  will 
add,  of  a  Christian.  There  is  one  thing, 
my  defir,  which  I  earnestly  request  of 
you,  and  it  is  this — that  you  would 
soon  either  put  an  end  to  my  hopes  by 
a  peremptory  refusal,  or  cure  me  of 
my  fears  by  a  generous  consent. 

It  would  oblige  me  much  if  you 
would  send  me  a  line  or  two  when  con- 
venient. I  shall  only  add  further  that, 
if  a  well  behaviour  regulated  (though 
perhaps  but  very  imperfectly)  by. the 
rules  of  honour  and  virtue,  if  a  heart 
devoted  to  love  and  esteem  you,  and 


348 


BUEXS'  WORKS. 


an  earnest  endeavour  to  promote  your 
happiness;  if  these  are  qnalities  you 
would  wish  in  a  friend,  in  a-  husband, 
I  hope  you  shall  ever  find  them  in  your 
real  friend  and  sincere  lover,     R.  13. 


No.  VII. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

LOCHLEA,  1783. 

I  OUGHT,  in  good  manners,  to  have 
acknowledged  the  receipt  of  your  let- 
ter before  this  time,  but  ray  heart 
was  so  shocked  at  the  contents  of  it 
that  I  can  scarcely  yet  collect  my 
thoughts  so  as  to  write  you  on  the  sub- 
ject. I  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
what  I  felt  on  receiving  your  letter. 
I  read  it  over  and  over,  again  and 
again,  and  though  it  was  in  the  politest 
language  of  refusal,  still  it  wa.s  per- 
emptory; "  you  v/ere  sorry  you  could 
not  make  me  a  return,  but  you  wish 
me,"  what,  without  you  I  never  can 
obtain,  "you  wish  me  all  kind  of 
happiness. "  It  would  be  weak  and  un- 
manly to  say  that  without  you  I 
never  can  be  happy;  but  sure  I  am 
that  sharing  life  with  you  would  have 
given  it  a  relish,  that,  wanting  you,  I 
can  never  taste. 

Tour  uncommon  pei-sonal  advan- 
tages and  your  superior  good  sense  do 
"not  so  much  strike  me ;  these  possibly 
may  be  met  with  in  a  few  instances  in 
others;  but  that  amiable  goodness, 
that  tender  feminine  softness,  that  en- 
dearing sweetness  of  disposition,  with 
all  the  charming  offspring  of  a  warm, 
feeling  heart — these  I  never  again  ex- 
pect to  meet  with  in  such  u,  degree  in 
this  world.  All  these  charming  quali- 
ties, heightened  by  an  education  much 
beyond  anything  I  have  ever  met  in 
-any  woman  I  ever  dared  to  approach, 
have  made  an  impression  on  my  heart 
jtliat  I  do  not  think  the  world  can  ever 
efface.  "My  imagination  has  fondly 
.flattered  itself  with  a  wish,  I  dare  not 
say  it  ever  reached  a  hope,  that  possi- 
bly I  might  one  day  call  you  mine.  I 
had  foi-med  the  most  deliglitful  im- 
i.agesi.and  pjy   fancy  fondly  brooded 


over  them;  but  now  I  am  wretched  for 
the  loss  of  what  I  really  had  no  right 
to  expect.  I  must  now  think  no  mor?' 
of  you  as  a  mistress;  still  I  presume  to 
asli  to  be  admitted  as  a  friend.  As 
such  I  wish  to  be  allowed  to  wait  on 
you,  and,  as  I  expect  to  remove  in  a 
few  days  a  little  further  off,  and  you, 
I  suppose,  will  soon  leave  this  place;  I 
wish  to  see  or  hear  from  you  sooA; 
and  if  an  expression  should  perhaps 
escape  me  rather  too  warm  for  friend- 
ship, I  hope  you  will  pardon  it  in,  my 
dear  Miss  (pardon  me  the  dear  ej£- 
pression  for  once) .  R.  B. 


No.  VIII. 

TO  MR.    JAMES    BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

LocHLi^,  Feb.  17, 1784. 

Deab  Cousin, — I  would  have  re- 
turned you  my  thanks  for  your  kind 
favour  of  the  13th  of  December  sooner, 
had  it  not  beeri  that  I  waited  to  give 
you  an  account  of  that  melancholy 
event,  which,  for  some  time  past,  we 
have  from  day  .to  day  expected. 

On  the  18th  current  I  lost  the  best 
of  fathers.  Though,  to  be  sure,  we 
have  had  long  warning  of  the  impend- 
ing stroke ;  still  the  feelings  of  nature 
claim  their  part,  and  I  cannot  recollect 
the  tender  endearments  and  parental 
lessons  of  the  best  of  friends  and  ables^t 
of  instructors  witliout  feeling  what 
perhaps  the  calmer  dictates  of  reason 
would  partly  condemn, 

I  hope  my  father's  friends  in  your 
country  will  not  let  their  connexion  in 
this  place  die  with  him.  For  my  ^k^ 
I  shall  ever  with  pleasure,  with  priiie, 
acknowledge  my  connexion  with  those 
who  were  allied  by  the  ties  "of  blood 
and  friendship  to  a  man  whose  mem- 
ory I  shall  ever  honour  and  revere. 

I  expect,  therefore,  my  dear  sir,  yop 
will  not  neglect  any  opportunity  of  let- 
ting me  hear  from  you,  which  will 
very  much  oblige,  my  dear  cousija, 
yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. ; 


GENERAL  OOREESPONDENCE. 


849 


No.  IX. 
;  '     TO    MB.    JAMES    BURNESS,, 
MONTROSE. 

MOSSGIEL,  Aug.  1784. 

We  liave  teen  surprised  with  one  of 
tlie  most  extraordinary  phenomena  in 
•tile  moral  world  whicli  I  dare  say  has 
happened  in  the  course  of  this  half- 
-century.  We  liave  had  a  party  of  [tlie] 
Presbytery  of  [the]  Relief,  as  they  call 
themselves,  for  some,  time  in  this 
^country.  A  pretty  thriving,  society  of 
tliera  -has  been  in  the  burgh  of.  Irvine 
for  some  years  past,  till  about'  two 
years  ago,  a  Mrs.  Bu<5han  from  Glas- 
gow came  among  them,  and  -began  to 
spread  some  fanatical  notions  of  re- 
ligion among  them ,  and  in  a  short 
time  made  many  converts;  and  among 
others,  their  .  pj;eacher,  Mr.  White, 
who,  upon  that  account,  has  been  sus- 
pended .p.nd  formally  .  deposed ,  by  hi.3 
brethren.  He  continued,  however,  to 
preach  in  private  to  his  party,  and  was 
Supported,  both  he  and  their  spiritual 
inothfer,  as  they  affect  to  call  old 
Butfliau,  by  the  contributions  of  the 
rest,  several  of  whom  were  in  good 
circumstances;  till,  in  spring  last,  the 
populace  rose  and  mobbed  Mrs. 
Buclian,  and  put  her  out  of  the  town ; 
t)n  which  all  her  followers  voluntarily 
quitted  the  place  likewise,  and  with 
•such  precipitation,  that  many  of  them 
never  shut  their  doors  behind  them: 
one  ieft  awasliihg  on  the  green, 
another  a  cow  bellowing  at  the  cril) 
Without  food,  or  anybody  to  mind  her, 
and  after  several  stages,  they  are  fixed 
at  present  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Dumfries.  Their  tenets  are  a  sli:ange 
jumble  of  enthusiastic  jargon;  among 
otliers,  she  pretends  to  give  them  the 
Holy  Ghost  by  breathin*  on  them, 
which  she  does  with  postures  and  prac- 
tices that  are  scandalously  indecent; 
they  have  likewise  disposed  of  all  their 
effects,  and  hold  a  community  of  goods, 
4hd  live  nearly  an  idle  life,  carrying 
on  a  great  farce  of  pretended  devotion 
in  barns  and  -woods,  where  they-  lodge 
and  lie  all  together,  and  hold  likewise 
a  community  of  women,  as  it  is  another 


of  their  tenets  that  they  can  comjnitno 
moral  sin.  I  am  personally.acquiintpd 
with  most  of  them,  and  1  can  assure 
you  the  above  mentioned  are  facts. 

This,  my  dear  sir,  is  one  of  the  many 
instances  of  the  folly. of  leaving  the 
guidance  of  sound  reagcSi^ajid  common 
sense  in  matters  of  religion. 

Whenever  we  neglect:  Qr..  despise 
these  sacred  monitors,  the  wliimsical 
notions  of  aperturbated  brain  are  taken 
for  the  immediate  influences  of  the 
Deity,  and  the  wildest  fanaticism,  and 
the  most  inconstant  absurdities,  will 
meet  with  abettors  and  converts,  Nay, 
I  have  often  thought  that  the.  rnqrftoiit 
of  the  way  and  ridiculous  the  fancies 
are,  if  once  they  are  sanctified  under 
the  sacred  name  of  religion,  the.  un- 
liappy  mistaken  votaries  are  the  more 
firmly  glued  to  them. 

':  R.  B; 


No.  X. 

TO  M^SS— ;-. 

Mt  dear  Countrywoman, — I  am 
so  impatient  to  show  you  that  I  am 
once  more  at  peace  with  you,  that  I 
seijd  you.the  book  I  mentioned  directly,' 
rather  than  wait  the  uncertain  time  of 
my  seeing  you.  I  am  anfraid  I  have 
mislaid  or  lost  Collins'  poems,  which  I 
promised  to  Miss  Irvine.  If  I.  can  find 
them,  I  will  forward  them  by  yon:  if 
not,  you  must  apologise  for  me. 

I  know  you  will  laugh  at  it  when  I 
tell  you  that  your  piano"  and  you  to- 
gether have  played  the  deuce  somehow 
a,bout  my  heart.  My  breast  has  been 
widowed  these  many  months,  and  I 
thought  myself  proof  against  the  ias-. 
cinating  witchcraft;  but  I  am  afraid 
you  will  ' '  feelingly  convince  me  what 
I  am."  I  say,  I  am  afraid,  because  I 
am  not  sure  what  is  the  matter  with  me. 
I  have  one  miserable  bad  symptom; 
when  you  whisper,  or  look  kindly  to 
another,  it  gives  me  a  draught  of  dam* 
nation.  I  have  a  kind  of  wayward 
wish  to  be  with  you  ten  minutes  by 
yourself,  though  what  I  would  say. 
Heaven  above  knows,  for  I  am  sure  I 
know. not.     I  have  no  formed  desijai  in 


850 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


all  tills;  but  just,  in  tlie  nakedness  of 
my  heart,  write  you  down  a  mere  mat- 
ter-of-fact story.  You  may  perhaps 
give  yourself  airs  of  distance  on  this, 
and  that  will  completely  cure  me;  but 
I  wish  you  would  not;  just  let  us  meet, 
if  you  please,  in  the  old  beaten  way  of 
friendship. 

I  will  not  subscribe  myself  your 
humble  servant,  for  that  is  a  phrase,  I 
think,  at  least  fifty  miles  off  from  the 
heart;  but  I  will  conclude  with  sin- 
cerely wishing  that  the  great  Protector 
of  innocence  may  shield  you  from  the 
barbed  dart  of  calumny,  and  hand  you 
by  the  covert  snare  of  deceit. 
'  K.  B. 


No.  XI. 

TO    MR.    JOHN    RICHMOND, 
EDINBURGH. 

MossGiEL,  Feb.  17, 1786. 

My  dear  Sir,— I  liave  not  time  at 
present  to  upbraid  you  for  your  silence 
and  neglect;  I  shall  only  say  I  received 
yours  with  great  pleasure.  I  have  en- 
closed you  a  piece  of  rhyming  ware  for 
your  perusal.  I  have  been  very  busy 
with  the  Muses  since  I  saw  you,  and 
have  composed  among  several  others, 
"The  Ordination,"  a  poem  on  Mr. 
M'Kinlay's  being  called  to  Kilmarnock; 
"  Scotch  Drink,"  a  poem;  "  The  Cot- 
ter's Saturday  Night;"  "An  Address 
to  the  Dell,"  &c.  I  have  likewise  com- 
pleted my  poem  on  "The  Twa  Dogs," 
but  have  not  shown  it  to  the  world. 
My  chief  patron  now  is  Mr.  Aiken  in 
Ayr,  who  is  pleased  to  express  great 
approbation  of  my  works.  Be  so  good 
as  to  send  me  Fergusson,  by  Connel, 
and  I  will  remit  you  the  money.  I 
have  no  news  to  acquaint  you  with 
about  Mauchline,  they  are  just  going 
on  in  the  old  way.  I  have  some  very 
important  news  with  respect  to  myself, 
not  the  most  agreeable— news  that  I  am 
sure  you  cannot  guess,  but  I  shall  give 
you  tho  particulars  another  time.  I  am 
extremely  happy  with  Smith;  he  is  the 


only  friend  I  have  now  in  Mauchline. 
I  can  scarcely  forgive  your  long  neglect 
of  me,  and  I  beg  you  will  let  meliear 
from  you  regularly  by  Connel.  If  you 
would  act  your  part  as  a  friend,  I  am 
sure  neither  good  nor  bad  fortune 
should  strange  or  alter  me.  Excuse 
haste,  as  I  got  yours  but  yesterday.—,. 
I  am,  my  dear  sir,  yours,  ,., 

Robert  Btjrnbss.  :  • 


No.  XII. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

MossGiEL,  March  3,  1786. 

Sir, — I  have  done  myself  the  pleas-, 
ure  of  complying  with  your  request  in 
sending  you  my  Cottagei-.  If  you  have 
a  leisure  minute,  I  should  be  glad  you 
would  copy  it  and  return  me  either  the 
original  or  the  transcript,  as  I  have  not 
a  copy  of  it  by  me,  and  I  have  a  friend 
who  wishes  to  see  it. 

Now,  Kennedy,  if  foot  or  horse 

E'er  bring  you  in  by  Mauchline  Corse,* 

Lord,  man,  there's  lasses  there  wad  force 

A  hermit's  fancy ; 
And  down  the  gate  in  faith  they're  worse. 

And  mair  unchancy. 

But,  as  I'm  sayin',  please  step  to  Dow's, 
And  taste  sic  gear  as  Johnnie  brews, 
Till  some  bit  callan  bring  me  news 

That  you  are  there  ; 
And  if  we  dinna  haud  a  bouze 

I'se  ne'er  drink  mair. 

It's  no  I  like  to  sit  and  swallow. 

Then  like  a  swine  to  puke  and  wallow  ; 

But  gie  me  just  a  true  ^ood  fallow, 

Wi'  right  engine. 
And  spunkie  ance  to  make  us  mellow, 

And  then  we'll  shine. 

Now,  if  ye're  ane  o'  warld's  folk, 
Wha  rate  the  wearer  by  the  cloak. 
And  sklent  on  poverty  their  joke, 

Wi'  bitter  sneer, 
Wi'  you  no  friendship  will  I  troke. 

Nor  cheap  nor  dear. 

But  if,  as  I'm  inform&d  weel, 
Ye  hate,  as  ill's  the  verra  deil, 
The  flinty  heart  that  canna  feel, 

Come,  sir,  here's  tae  you  !  - 
Hae,  there's  my  haun',  I  wissyou  wecl. 

And  gude  be  wi'  you  ! 
R.  B. 


*  The  village  market  cross. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


351 


•  .S3  No.  XIII. 

vfiTO   MR.    ROBERT    MUIR, 
^r  KILMARNOCK, 

MossGiEL,  March  20, 1786. 

Deab  Sik, — I  am  lieartily  sorry  I 
luid  not  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  as 
you  returned  through  Mauchline ;  but 
as  I  was  engaged,  I  could  not  be  in 
town  before  the  evening. 

I  here  enclose  you  my ' '  Scotch  Drink ," 
and  ' '  may  the follow  with  a  bless- 
ing for  your  edification. "  I  hope,  some- 
time before  we  hear  the  gowk,  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  Kilmar- 
nock, when  I  intend  we  shall  have  a 
gill.between  us,  in  a  mutchkin  stoup^ 
which  will  be  a  great  comfort  and  con- 
solation to,  dear  sir,  your  humble  ser- 
vant, 

Robert  Burness. 


No.  XIV. 


!W^S^SGiEL,  April  3, 1786. 
DeAk  Sir, — I  received  your  kind 
letter  with  double  pleasure,  on  account 
of  the  second  flattering  instance  of 
Mrs.  C.'s  notice  and  approbation.  las- 
sure  you  I 

"  Turn  out  the  brunt  side  o'  my  shin," 

as  the  famous  Ramsay  of  jingling 
memory  says,  at  such  a  patroness. 
Present  her  my  most  grateful  ac- 
knowledgments in  your  very  best 
manner  of  telling  truth.  I  have  in- 
scribed the  following  stanza  on  the 
blank  leaf  of  Miss  More's  work.* 

My  proposals  for  publishing  I  am 
just  going  to  send  to  press.      I  expect 
to  hear  from  you  by  the  first  oppor- 
tunity.— I  am  ever,  dear  sir,   yours, 
Robert  BuRNEss.f 


*  See  "  Lines  to  Mrs.  C- 


p.  103. 


t  f  his  was  the  last  time  the  poet  spelt  his 
Bame-according  to  the  wont  of  his  forefathers. 
The  Miss  More  alluded  to  was  Hannah  More., 


No.  XV. 

TO    MR.   M'WHINNIE,    WRITER, 

AYR. 

MossGiBL,  April  17, 1786, 

It  is  injuring  some  hearts,  those 
hearts  that  elegantly  bear  the  impres- 
sion of  the  good  Creator,  to  say  to 
thein  you  give  them'  the  trouble  of 
obliging  a  friend;  for  this  reason,  1 
only  tell  you  that  I  gratify  my  own 
feelings  in  requesting  your  fii«ndly 
offices  "with  respect  to  the  eucfosed, 
because  I  know  it  will  gratify  yours  to 
assist  me  in  it  to  the  utnaost  of  your 
power. 

I  have  sent  you  four  copies,  as  I 
have  no  less  than  eight  dozen,  which 
is  a  great  deal  more  than  I  shall  ever 
need. 

Be  sure  to  remember  a  poor  poet 
militant  in  your  prayers.  He  loolts 
iforwa,rd  with  fear  and  trembling  tp 
that,  to  him,  important  moment 
which  stamps  the -die  with — with— 
with,  perhaps,  the  eteriial  disgrace  of 
my  dear  sir,  your  hiimble,  afflicted, 
tormented,  , 

Robert  Burns.  - 


No.  XVI. 
TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

MosSGlEL,  April  20,  1786.  . 

Sir, — By  some  neglect  in  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, I  did  not  hear  of  your  kind  request 
for  a  subscription  paper  till  this  day. 
I  will  not  attempt  any  acknowledg- 
ment for  this,  nor  the  manner  i^ 
which  I  see  your  name  in  Mr.Hamil- 
ton's  subscription  list.  Allow  mo 
only  to  say,  sir,  I  feel  the  weight  of 
the  debt. 

I  have  here  likewise  enclosed  a  small 
piece,  the  very  latest  of  my  produc- 
tions.* I  am  a  good  deal  pleased  with 
"some  sentiments  myself,  as  they  are 
j  a^t  the  native  querulous  feelings  of  a 
heart  which,  as  the  elegantly  melting 

■  *  "The  Mountain  Daisy.'^ 


353 


BURNS'  WOBKS. 


Gray  says,   "  Melaijchply  has  marked 
lorlier  own."  ...     ,..       . 

'■  Our  race  comes  on  apace;  that  mucli 
expected  scene  of  revelry  and  mirth;  j 
but  to  me  il  brings  no  joy  equal  to 
that  meeting  with  which  you  last  flat- 
itered  the  expectation  of,  sir,  your  -in- 
debted humble  servant,  R.  B. 


No.  XVII. 
TO  MR.  JOHN  KENNEDY. 

MossGiEL,  May  17,  1786. 

DsAK  Str, — Ihave  cer-t  you  the  al  ore 
Jiasty  cQpyas  I  promised.*  In  about 
three  or  four  we^sl  shall  probably  set 
the  press  agoing.  I  am  much  hurried 
at  present,  otherwise  your  diligence, 
so  very  friendly  in  my  subscription, 
should  Lave  a  more  lengthened 
acknowledgment  from,  dear  sir,  your 
obliged  servant,  R.  B. 


No.  xvm. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE,  OF  AYR. 

June  1786. 

HoNOUKED  Sir, — My  proposals  came 
to  hand  last  night,  and  knowing  that 
you  would  wish  to  have  it  in  your 
power  "to  do  me  a  service  as  early  as 
aiiybody,  I  enclose  you  half-a-slieet  of 
them.  I  must  consult  you,  first  op. 
■portunity,  on  the  propriety  of  sending 
my  quondam  friend,  Mr  Aiken  a  copy. 
If  he  is  now  reconciled  to  my  char- 
acter as  an  honest  man,  I  would  do 
it  with  all  my  soul;  but  I  would  not 
be  beholden  to  the  noblest  being  ever 
God  created,  if  he  imagined  me  to  be 
a  rascal.  Apropos,  old  Mr.  Armour 
prevailed  with  him  to  mutilate  that 
unlucky  paper  yesterday.  Would  you 
believe  it  ? — though  I  had  not  a  hope, 
nor  even  a  wish,  to  make  her  mine 
after  her  conduct;  yet,  when  he  told 
me  the  names  were  all  out  of  the 
paper,  my  heart  died  within  me,  and 

*'*'The  Epistle  to  Rankine.'' 


he  cut  my  veins  with  the  news.     Per- 
dition seize,  her  falsehood !  *      R.  B.   . 


No.  XIX. 

TO  MR.  DAVID  BRICEf 

MossGiEL,  June  12, 1786^  . 
.  Deab  Beice, —  I  received  your 
message  by  G.  Patersou,  and  as  I  axrl 
not  very  throng  at  present,  I  just 
write  to  let  you  know  that  •  there  is 
such  a  worthless,  rhyming  jreprolsate 
as  your  humble  servant  sfall  in  the 
land  of  the  living,  though  I  can 
scarcely  say  in  the  place  of  hope.  I 
have  no  news  to  tell  you  that  will  give 
me  any  pleasure  to  mention  or  you  to 
hear. 

Poor,  ill-advised,  ungrateful  Ar^lourr 
came  home  on  Friday  last.:]:  You 
have  heard  all  the  particulars  of  that 
affair,  and  a  black  affair  it  is.  What 
she  thinks  of  her  conduct  now,  I  don't 
know;  one  thing  I  do  know — she  has 
made  me  completely  miserable.  Never 
man  loved,  or  rather  adored,  a  woman 
more  than  I  did  her;  and,  to  confess  a 
truth  between  you  and  me,  I  do  still  love 
her  to  distraction  after  all,  though  I 
won't  tell  her  so  if  I  were  to  see  her,, 
which  I  don't  want  to  do.  My"poor  dear 
unfortunate  Jean  !  how  happy  have  I 
been  in  thy  arms  !  It  is  not-the  losing 
her  that  luakes  me  so  unhappy,  but 
for  her  sake  I  feel  most  severely:  I  fore-1 
see  she  is  in  the  road  to,  I  am  afraid," 
eternal  ruiu.  - 

May  Almighty  God  forgive  her  in- 
gratitude and  perjury  to  me,  as  I  fronv 
my  ver  soul  forgive  her;  and  may 
His  grace  be  with  her  and  bless  her  in 
all  her  future  life !  I  can  have  no  nearer 
idea  of  the  place  of  eternal  punishment 
than  what  I  have  felt  in  my  own 
breast  on  her  account.  I  have  tried 
often  to  forget  her;  I  have  run  into 
all    kinds    of    dissipation    and    riots, 

..*  Alluding-  to  the. destruction  of  the  mar. 
riage-lines  between  the  poet  and  Jean. 

t  David  Brice,  then  a  shoemaker  in  Glas- 
gow, one  of  the  poet's  early  friends. 

t  From  Paisley,  whither  she  had  g^one  lio 
reside,  to  be  oc.t  of  the  way  of  the  poet. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


853 


mason-ineetings,  drinking-matclies. 
and  other  mischief,  to  drive  her  out  of 
my  head,  bat  all  in  vain.  And  now 
foT  a  grand  cure;  the  ship  is  on  her 
■way  home  that  is  to  take  me  out  to 
Jamaica;  and  then  farewell,  dear  old 
Scotland  !  and  farewell,  dear  ungrate- 
ful Jean !  for  never,  never  will  I  see 
you  more. 

'Yoa  will  have  heard  that  I  am  going 
to  commence  poet  in  print;  and  to- 
morrow my  works  go  to  the  press.  I 
.expect  it  will  be  a  volume  of  about 
two  hundred  pages — it  is  just  the  last 
foolish  action  1  intend  to  do;  and 
then  turn  a  wise  man  as  fast  as  possible. 
— Believe  me  to  be,  dear  Brioe,  your 
friend  and  well-wisher, 

R.  B. 


No.  XX. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AIKEN. 

■'^-'  Aybshire,  July  17S6. 

'BlR, —  I  was  with  Wilson,  my 
printer,  t'other  day,  and  settled  all  our 
bygone  matters  between  us.  After  I 
Lad  paid  him  all  demands,  I  made 
him  the  offer  of  the  second  edition,  on 
the  hazard  of  being  paid  out  of  the 
^  first  and  readiest,  which  he  declines. 
By.  his  acc3uat,  the  paper  of  a 
thousand  copies  would  cost  about 
twenty-seven  pounds,  and  the  printing 
about  fifteen  or  sixteen:  he  oi£ers  to 
agree  to  this  for  the  printing,  if  I  will 
advance  for  the  papjr,  but  this,  you 
know,  is  out  of  my  power;  so  farewell 
hop33  of  a  second  edition  till  I  grow 
richer!  an  epoch  which,  I  think,  will 
arrive  at  the  payment  of  the  British 
national  debt, 

' .  There  is  scarcely  anything  hurts  me 
so  much  in  being  disappointed  of  my 
■second  edition  as  not  having  it  in  my 
power  to  show  my  gratitude  to  Mr. 
IJallantyne, .  by.  publishing  my  poem 
'of  "  The  Brigs  of  Ayr."  I  would  de- 
test myself  as  a  wretch,  if  I  thought  I 
were  isapaWe'  in  a  very  long  life  of 
forgetting  the  honest,  warm,  and  ten- 
der delicacy  with  which  he  enters  into 
my      interests.       I    am      sometimes 


pleased  with  myself  in  my  grateful 
sensations;  but  lljelieve  on  tlie  whole; 
I  have  very  little  pierit  in  it,  as  my 
gratitude  is  not  a  virtue,  the  conse- 
quence of  reflection;  but  sheerly  the 
instinctive  emotion  of.  my  heart,  too 
inattentive  to  allow  worldly  maxims 
and  views  to  settle  into  selfish  habits. 

I  have  been  feeling  all  the  various 
rotations  and  movements  within; 
respecting  the  Excise.  There  are 
many  things  plead  strongly  against  it; 
the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon  into 
business;  the  consequences  of  my 
follies,  which  may  perhaps  make  it 
imjiracticable  for  me  to  stay  at  home  ; 
and  besides  I  have  for  some  time 
been  piiiing  uiider  secret  wretchedness, 
froin  causes  which  you  pretty  well 
know — the  pang  of  disappoihtmeutl 
the  sting  of  pride,  with  some  wander- 
ing stabs  of  remorse,  which  never  fall 
to  settle  on  my  vitals  like  vultures, 
when  attention  is  not  called  away  Uy 
the  calls  of  society,  or  the  vagaries  of 
the  Muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of  so- 
cial mirth,  my  gaiety  is  the  madness 
of  an  Intoxicated  criminal  under  the 
hands  of  the  executioner.  All  these 
reasons  urge  me  to  go  abroad,  and  to 
all  these  reasons  I  have  only  one 
answer — the  feelings  of  a  father. 
This,  in  the  present  mood  L  am  in, 
overba'lancss  everything  that  can  bd 
laid  in  the  scale  against  it.  ■ 

You  may  perhaps  think'  it  an  extrav- 
agant fancy,  but  it  is  a  sentiment  that 
strikes  homo  to  my  very  soul:  though 
skeptical  in  some  points  of  our  current 
belief,  yet,  I  think,  I  have  every 
evidence  for  the  reality  of  a  life  be- 
yond the  stinted  bourn  of  our  present 
existence;  if  so,  then  how  shbtild  I, 
in  the  presence  of  that  tremendous 
Being,  the  Author  of  existence,— ho^*^ 
should  I  meet  the  reproaches  of  those 
who  stand  to  me  in  the  dear  relation  of 
children,  "whom  I  deserted  in  the 
smiling  innocency  of  helpless  infancy"? 
O  Thou  great  unknown  Power ! — 
Thou  Almighty  God  !  who  hast  light- 
ed up  reason  in  my  breast,  and  bl'essed 
me  with  immortality  ! — I  have  fre- 
quently wandered  from  that  order 
and  regularity  necessary  for'  the  per- 


354 


BTTRNB'  WORKS. 


fection  of  Thy  works,  yet  Thou  hast 
never  left  me,  nor  forsaken  me  I 

Since  I  wrote  the  foregoing  sheet, 
I  liave  seen  something  of  the  storm  of 
mischief  thicltening  over  my  folly- 
devoted  head.  Should  you,  my 
■friends,  my  benefactors,  be  successful 
in  your  applications  for  me,*  perhaps 
it  may  not  be  in  my  power  in  that  way 
to  reap  the  fruit  of  your  friendly 
efforts.  What  I  bavo  written  in  the 
preceding  pages  is  the  settled  tenor  of 
my  present  resolution :  but  should  in- 
imical circumstances  forbid  me  closing 
with  your  kind  offer,  or  enjoying  it 
only  threaten  to  entail  further  misery. 
....  To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  little 
reason  for  complaint;  as  the  world, 
in  general,  has  been  kind  to  me  fully 
up  to  my  deserts.  I  was,  for  some 
tiqie  past,  fast  getting  into  the  pining 
distrustful  snarl  of  the  misanthrope. 
I  saw  myself  alone,  unfit  for  the 
struggle  of  life,  shrinking  at  every 
■rising  cloud  in  the  chance-directed  at- 
mosphere of  fortune,  while,  all  de- 
fenceless, I  looked  about  in  vain  for  a 
cover.  It  never  occurred  to  me,  at 
least  never  with  the  force  it  deserved, 
that  this  world  is  a  busy  scene,  and 
man,  a  creature  destined    for   a  pro- 

fressive  struggle;  and  that,  however 
might  possess  a  warm  heart  and  in- 
offensive manners,  (which  last,  by 
the  by,  was  rather  more  than  I  could 
well  boast,)  stUl,  more  than  these  pas- 
sive qualities,  there  was  something  to 
be  done.  When  all  my  schoolfellows 
and  youthful  compeers  (those  mis- 
guided few  excepted  who  joined,  to 
use  a  Gentoo  phrase,  the  "hallachores" 
of  the  human  race)  were  striking  off 
with  eager  hope  and  earnest  intent,  in 
sonie  one  or  other  of  the  many  paths 
flf  busy  life,  I  was  "standing  idle  in 
the  anarketplace,"  or  only  left  the 
chase  of  the  butterfly  from  flower  to 
flower,  to  hunt  fancy  from  whim  to 
whim." 

You  see,  sir,  that  if  to  know  one's 
errors  were"  a  probability  of  mending 
them,   I  stand  a  fair .  chance;    but. 


*  Alluding  to  the  efforts  which  were  being 
made  to  pfbcurc  him  an  appointment  in  the 
Excise. 


according  to  the  reverend  West- 
minster divines,  though  conviction 
must  precede  conversion,  it  is  very  fif 
from  always  implying  it.  K.  B, 


No.  XXI. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP  OF  DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire,  July  1786. 

Madam, — I  am  truly  sorry  I  was  not 
at  homO/  yesterday,  when  I  was  so 
much  honouredSvitli  your  order  for  my 
copie^and  incomparably  more  by  the 
handsome  compliments  you  are  pleased 
to  pay  my  poetic  abilities.  lam  fully 
persuaded  that  there  is  not  any  class  of 
mankind  so  feelingly  alive  to  the  latU- 
lations  of  applause  as  the  sons  of  Par- 
nassus: nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive  how 
the  heart  of  the  poor  bard  dances  with 
rapture,  when  those  whose  character 
in  life  gives  them  a  right  to  be  polite 
judges  honour  him  with  their  appro- 
bation. Had  you  been  thorough^  ac- 
quainted with  me,  madam,  you  could 
not  have  touched  my  darling  heart- 
chord  more  sweetly  than  by  noticing 
my  attempts  to  celebrate  your  illustri- 
ous ancestor,  the  saviour  of  his  coun- 
try. 

"  Great  patriot  hero  !  ill-requited  chief  V 

The  first  book  I  met  with  in  my  early 
years,  which  I  perused  with  pleasure, 
was,  "The  Life  of  Hannibal;"- the 
next  was  "  The  History  of  Sir  Winiam 
Wallace;"  for  several  of  my  earlier 
years  I  had  few  other  authors;  and 
many  a  solitary  hour  have  I  stqle  out, 
after  the  laborious  vocations  of  the 
day,  to  shed  a  tear  over  their  gkmous 
but  unfortunate  stories.  -  In  tlwse boy- 
ish days  I  remember  in  particular  be- 
ing struck  with  that  part  of  Wallace's 
story  where  these  lines  occur —        '- 

"  Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  kte. 
To  make  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat." 

I  chose  a  fine  summer  Sunday,  the 
only  day  my  line  of  life  allowed,  and 
walked  half-a-dozen  of  miles  to  pay 
my  respects  to  the  Leglen  wood,  Tyith 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


«56 


as  much  devout  enthusiasm  as  ever  pil- 
grim did  toLotetto;  and,  as  I  explored 
'tevery  den  and  dell  where  I  could  sup- 
pose my  heroitf  countryman  to  have 
lodged,  I  recollect  (for  even  then  I  was 
a  rhymer)  that  my  heart  glowed  with 
a  wish  to  be  able  to  make  u  song  on 
him  in  some  measure  equal  to  his 
•merits.  R.  B. 


No.  XXII. 
TO    MONS.    JAMES    SMITH, 
MAUCHLINE. 
MossGiEL,  Monday,  Morning,  1786. 
Mt  db\r  Sik, — I  went  to  Dr.  Doug- 
las yesterday,  fully  resolved  to   take 
the  ojiporturaity  of  Captaia  Smith;  but 
I  foand  the  doctor  with  a  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
"White,  both  Jamaicans,  and  they  have 
deranged  my  plans  altogether.       They 
assure  him,  that  to  send  me  from  Sa- 
vannah la  Mar  to  Port  Autonio  will  cost 
my  master,  Charles  Douglas,  upwards 
of  fifty  pounds;  besides  running  the 
risk  of- throwing  myself  into  a  pleuritic 
iever  in  consequence  of  hard  travelling 
in  the  sun.     On  these  accounts,  he  re- 
fuses sending  me  with  Smith;  but  a 
vessel  sails  from  Greenock  on  the  1st 
of  September,  right  for  the  place  of  my 
destination.     The  captain  of  her  is  an 
intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Gavin  Hamil- 
ton's, and  as  good  a  fellow  as  heart 
;  could  wish:  with  him  I  am  destined  to 
■go.     Where   I  shall    shelter,  I  know 
iiot,  but  I  hope  to  weather  the  storm. 
njEerish  the  drop  of  blood  of  mine  that 
i-fears  them  !    I  know  their  worst,  and 
-  am  prepared  to  meet  it : — 

■'     "  I'll  laugh,  and  sine,  and  shake  my  leg, 
'^- "  As  lang's  I  dow." 

.,.  On  Thursday  morning,   if  you  can 
j  muster  as  much  self-denial  as  to  be  out 
^  gf  bed  about  seven  o'clock,  I  shall  see 
'  you  as  I  ride  through  to   Cumnock. 
After  all.  Heaven  bless  the  sex  !  I  feel 
there  is  still  happiness  for  me  among 
them: — 
^^ "  O  woman,  lovely  woman !  Heaven  design'd 
you 
To  temper  man ! — we  had  been  brutes  with- 
out you  I" 

:;       :  ;  R.  B. 


No.  XXIII.  » 

TO   JOHN    RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 

MossGIEL,  July  9, 1786. 

With  the  sincerest  grief  I  read  your 
•letter.  You  are  truly  a  son  of  misfor- 
tune. I  shall  be  extremely  anxious  to 
hear  f rgm  you  how  your  health  goes 
on ;  if  it  is  any  way  re-establishing,  or  if 
Leith  prtjinises  well;  iu  short,  how  you 
feel  in  the  inner  man. 

No  news  worth  anything:  only  godly 
Bryan  was  in  the  inquisition  yesterday,' 
and  half  the  countryside  as  witnesses 
against  him.  He  still  stands  Qut  steady 
and  denying:  but  proof  was  led  yester- 
night of  circumstances  highly  sus- 
picious; almost  de  facto ;  one  of  the 
servant-girls  made  faith  that  she  upon 
a  time  rashly  entered  into  the  house, 
to  speak,  in  your  cant,  "in  the  hour  of 
cause." 

I  have  waited  on  Armour  since  her 
return  home;  not  from  the  least  view 
of  reconciliation,  but  merely  to  ask 
for  her  health,  and  to  you  I  will  con- 
fess it,  from  a  foolish  hankering  fond- 
ness,' very  ill  placed  indeed.  The 
mother  Jetrbade  me  the  house,  nor  did 
Jean  show  that  penitence  that  might, 
have  been  expected.  However,  thJ 
priest,  I  have  been  informed,  will  give 
me  a  certificate  as  a  single  man,  if  I 
comply  with  the  rules  of  the  Church, 
which  for  that  very  reason  I  intend  to 
do. 

I  am  going  to  put  on  sackcloth  and 
ashes  this  day.  I  am  indulged  so  far 
as  to  appear  in  my  own  seat.  Peccavi, 
pater,  miserere  mei.  My  book  will  be 
ready  in  a  fortnight.  If  you  have  any 
.subscribers,  return  them  by  Connell. 
The  Lord  stand  with  the  righteous. 
Amen,  amen.  R.  B. 


No.  XXIV. 
TO    MR.    DAVID    BRICE,     SHOE- 
MAKER, GLASGOW. 

MossciEL,  July  26,  1786,- 

I  HAVE  been  so  throng  printing  my 

poems  that  I  could  gcarc-jly  find  as 


356 


BURNS'   WORKS. 


maeli  time  as  to  write  to  you.  Poor 
Armour  is  come  back  again  to  Maucli- 
liue,  and  I  ^yent  to  call  for  lier,  and 
her  motherforbabe  me  the  house,  nor 
did  she  herself  express  much  sorrow 
for  what  sho  has  done.  I  have  already- 
appeared  piiblicaly  in  church,  and  was 
indulged  in  the  liberty  of  standing  in 
my  own  seat.  I  do  this  to  get  a  cer- 
tificate as  a  bachelor,  which  Mr.'  Auld 
has  promised  me.  I  am  now  fixed  to  go 
for  the  West  Indies  in  October.  Jean 
and  her  friends  insisted  much  that 
she  should  stand  Along  with  me  in  the 
kirk,  but  the  minister  would  not  allow 
it,  which  bred  a  great  trouble,  I  assure 
you,  and  I  am  blamed  as  the  cause  of 
it,  though  I  am  sure  I  am  innocent; 
but  I  am  very  much  pleased,  for  all 
that,  not  to  have  had  her  company.  I 
have  no  news  to  tell  you  that  I  remem- 
ber. I  am  really  happy  to  hear  of 
your  welfare,  and  that  you  are  so  well 
in  Glasgow.  I  must  certainly  see  you 
before  1  leave  the  country.  I  shall  ex- 
pect to  hear  from  you  soon,  and  am, 
dear  Brice,  yours,  R.  B. 


No.  XXV. 
TO    MR.    JOHN    RICHMOND. 
Old  Rome  Forest,  July  3o,'i786. 

My  deak  Richmond, — My  hour  is 
now  come — you  and  I  will  never  meet 
in  Britain  more.  I  have  orders,  with- 
in three  weeks  at  furthest,  to  repair 
aboard  the  Nancy,  Captain  Smith, 
from  Clyde  to  Jamaica,  and  to  call  at 
Antigua.  This,  except  to  our  friend 
Smith,  whom  God  long  preserve,  is  a 
secret  about  Maucliline.  Would  you 
believe  it  t  Armour  has  got  a  warrant 
to  throw  me  into  jail  till  I  find  secur- 
ity for  an  enormous  sum.*  This  they 
keep  an  entire  secret,-but  I  got  it  by  a 
channel  they  little  dream  of;  and  I  am 
wandering  from  one  friend's  house  to 
another,  and,  like  a  true  son  of  the 
gospel,  "  have  no  where  to  lay  my 
head."     I  know  you  will  pour  an  ex- 

*  The  poet  had  been  misinformed.  Armour 
had  no- wish  ro  imprison  him  ;  hs  only  sought- 
to  drive  him  from  the  country. 


ecration  on  her  head,  but  spare  the 
poor,  ill-advised  girl,  for  my  sake^ 
though  may  all  the  furies  that  rend 
the  injured,  enraged  lover's  bosom 
await  her  mother  until  her  latest  hour! 
I  write  in  a  moment  of  rage,  reileeting 
on  my  miserable  situation — exiled, 
abandoned,  forlorn.  I  can  write  no 
more — let  me  hear  from  you  by  the  ra- 
turn  of  coach.  I  will  write  you  ere  I 
go. — I  am,  dear  sir,  yours,  here  and 
hereafter,  R.  B. 


No.  XXVI. 
TO   MR.   JOHN    KENNEDY. 

Kilmarnock,  Aug,  1786. 

Mt  deab  Sib, — Your  truly  facetious 
epistle  of  the  3d  instant  gave  me  much 
entdrtainment.  I  was  sorry  I  had  not 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  as  I  passed 
your  way;  but  we  shall  bring  jip  all 
our  lee  way  on  Wednesday,  the  16th 
current,  when  I  hope  to  have  it  in  my 
power  to  call  on  you  and  take  a  kind, 
very  probably  a  last  adieu,  before  I  go 
for  Jamaica;  and  I  expect  orders  to  re- 
pair to  Greenock  every  day.  I  have  at 
last  made  my  public  appearance,  and 
am  solemnly  inaugurated  into  the 
numerous  class.  Could  I  have  got  a 
carrier,  you  should  have  had  a  score 
of  vouchers  for  my  authorship;  biit 
now  you  have  them,  let  them  speak 
for  themselves. 

R.  B. 

[The  poet' here  inserts  his  "Tare- 
well,"  which  will  be  found  at  p.  93. 


No.  XXVII. 

TO    MR.    ROBERT    MUffi," 

KILMARNOCK. 

MoS-sGiEL,  Friday  Noon,  Sept.  1786. 
My  Fkiend,  my  Brother.— Warm 
recollection  of  an  absent  friend  presses 
so  hard  upon  my  heart  that  I  send  him 
the  prefixed  bagatelle,  (''The  Calf,!") 
pleased  with  the  thoiight  that  it  will 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


307 


greeTtlie  man  of  my  bosom,  and  be  a 
kind  of  distant  language  of  friend- 
sliip. 

■  ¥ou  will  have  heard  that  poor  Ar- 
mour has  repaid  me  double.  A  very 
flfte  boy  and  a  girl  have  awakened  a 
thought  and  feelings  that  thrill,  some 
\vitli  tender  pressure  and  some  with 
foreboding  anguish;  through  my  soul. 
,  The  poem  was  nearly  an  extempora- 
:nebus  production,  on  a  wager  with 
'Mr.  Hamilton  that  I  would  hot  produce 
a  poem  on  the  subject  in  a  given  time. 
If  you  think  it  worth  while,  read  it  to 
Charles  and  Mr.  W.  Parker,  and  if  they 
choose  a  copy  of  it,  it  is  at  their  ser- 
vice, as  they  are  men  whose  friendship 
I  shall  be  proud  to  claim  both  in  this 
world  and  that  which  is  to  come. 

"I-  beHeve  all  hopes  of  staying  at 
home  will  be  abortive,  but  more  of 
this  when,  in  the  latter  part  of  next 
week,  you  shall  be  troubled  with  a 
visit  from,  my  dear  sir;  your  most  de- 
'voted,  E.  B. 


No.  XXVIII. 

TO    MR.   BURNESS,    MONTROSE. 

. .  MossGiEL,  Friday  Noon,  Sept.  26, 1786. 

'  My  dear  Sir, — I  at  this  moment 
receive  yoars — receive  it  with  the  hon- 
est, hospitable  warmth  "of  a  friend's 
Welcome.  Whatever  comes  from  you 
wakens  always  up  the  better  blood 
about  my  heart,  which  your  kind  little 
recollections  of  my  parental  friends 
carries  as  far  as  it  will  go.  'Tis  there 
that  man  is  West !  'Tis  there,  my 
friend,  man  feels  a  consciousness  of 
something  within  him  above  the  trod- 
den clod  !  The  grateful  reverence  to 
the  hbary  (earthly)  author  of  liisheing 
— the  burning  glow  when  he  clasps  the 
woman  of  his  soul  to  his  bosom — the 
tender  yearnings  of  heart  for  the  little 
angejs  to  whom  he  has  given  existence 
. — these  nature  has  poured  in  milky 
streams  about  the  human  heart;  and 
the  man  who  neVer  rouses  theni  to  ac- 
tion,  by  the  inspiring   influences  of 


their  proper  objects,  loses  by  far  the 
most  pleasurable  part  of -his  existence. 

My  departure  is  uncertain,  but  I  do 
not  tliink  it  will  be  till  after  harvest. 
I  will  be  on  very  short  allowance  of 
time  indeed,  if  I  do  not  comply  with 
your  friendly  invitation.  When  it 
will  be,  I  don't  know,  but  if  I  can 
make  my  wish  good,  I  will  endeavour 
to  drop  you  a  line  some  time  before. 

My  best   compliments  to  Mrs. ;  I 

should  [be]  equally  mortified  should  I 
drop  in  when  she  is  abroad;  but  of 
that  I  suppose  there  is  little  chance. 

What  I  have  written  Heaven  knows; 
I  have  not  time  to  review  it:  so  accept 
of  it  in  the  beaten  way  bf  friendship. 
With  the  ordinary  phrase— perhaps 
rather  more  than  the  ordinary  sincerity 
— I  am,  dear  sir,  ever  yours, 

R.  B. 


No.  XXIX. 
TO   DR.  ARCHIBALD    LAWRIE. 

MOSSGIEL,  Nov.  13,  1786. 

Dear  Sir, — I  have,  along  with  this, 
sent  the  two  volumes  of  Ossian,  with 
the  remaining  volume  of  the  songs. 
Ossian  I  am  not  in  such  a  hurry  about, 
but  I  wish  the  songs,  with  the  volume 
of  the  Scotch  Poets,  returned,  as  soon 
as  they  can  be  conveniently  despatched. 
If  they  are  left  at  Mr.  Wilson's  the 
bookseller,  Kilmarnock,  they  wUl  easUy 
reach  me.  My  most  respectable  com- 
pliments to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawrie,  and 
a  poet's  warm  vrishes  for  their  happi- 
ness;— to  the  young  ladies,  particularly 
the  fair  musician,  whom  I  think  much 
better  qualified  than  ever  David  was. 
or  could  be,  to  charm  an  evil  spirit 
out  of  Saul.  Indeed,  it  needs  not  the 
feelings  of  a  poet  to  be  interested  in 
one  of  the  sweetest  scenes  of  domestic 
peace  and  kindred  love  that  ever  I  saw, 
as  I  think  the  peaceful  unity  of  St. 
Margaret's  Hill  can  only  be  excelled 
by  the  harmonious  concord  of  the 
Apocalypse. — I  am,  dear  sir,  yours  sin- 
cerely, 

Robert  Burns.  ■ 


358- 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  XXX. 
TO  MISS  ALEXANDER. 

MOSSGIEL,  Nov.  iS.  1786. 

Madam, — Poets  are  such  outre  be- 
ings, so  much  the  children  of  way- 
ward fancy  and  capricious  whim,  that 
1  believe  the  world  generally  allows 
them  a  larger  latitude  in  the  laws  of 
propriety  than  the  sober  sons  of  judg- 
ment and  prudence.  I  mention  this 
as  an  apology  for  the  liberties  that  a 
nameless  stranger  has  taken  with  you 
in  the  enclosed  poem,  which  he  begs 
leave  to  present  you  with.  Whether 
it  has  poetical  merit  any  way  worthy 
of  the  theme,  I  am  not  the  proper 
judge;  but  it  is  the  best  my  abilities 
can  produce;  and,;  what  to  a  good 
heart  will,  perhaps,  be  a  superior 
grace,  it  is  as  sincere  as  fervent. 

The  scenery  was  nearly  taken  from 
real  life,  though  I  daresay,  madam, 
you  do  not  recollect  it,,  as  I  believe  you 
scarcely  noticed  the  poetic  reueur  as  he 
wandered  by  you.  I  had  roved  out,  as 
chance  directed,  in  the  favourite  haunts 
of  my  muse,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr, 
to  view  nature  in  all  the  gaiety  of  the 
vernal  year.  Tlie  evening  sun  was 
flaming  over  the  distant  western  hills; 
not  a  breath  stirred  the  crimson  open- 
ing blossom  or  the  verdant  spreading 
leaf.  It  was  a  golden  moment  for 
a  poetic  heart.  I  listened  to  the 
feathered  warblers,  jDouring  their  har- 
mony on  every  hand,  with  a  congenial 
kindred  regard,  and  frequently  turned 
out  of  my  path,  lest  I  should  disturb 
their  little  songs,  or  frighten  them  to 
another  station.  Surely,  said  I  to  my- 
self, he  must  be  a  wretch  indeed  who, 
regardless  of  your  harmonious  en- 
deavour to  please  him,  can  eye  your  elu- 
sive flights  to  discover  your  secret  re- 
cesses, and  to  rob  you  of  all  the  prop- 
erty nature  gives  you — ^your  dearest 
comforts.your  helpless  nestlings.  Even 
the  hoary  hawthorn  twig  that  shot 
across  the  way,  what  heart  at  such  a 
time  but  must  have  been  interested  in 
its  welfare,  and  wished  it  preserved 
from  the  rudely-browsing  cattle,  or  the 
withering   eastern  blast?    Such  was 


the  scene,  and  such  the  hour,  when  in 
a  corner  of  my  prospect  I  spied  one  of 
the  fairest  pieces  of  nature's  workman-  " 
ship  that  ever  crowned  a  poetic  land- 
scape or  met  a  poet's  eye,  those  vision^ ' 
ary  bards  excepted  who  hold  converse-;! 
with  aerial  beings  !     Had  Calumny  and 
Villainy  taken  my  walk,  they  had  at 
that  moment  sworn  eternal  peace  with? 
such  an  object. 

What  an  hour  of  inspiration  for  a 
I)oet !  It  would  have  raised  plain  dull 
historic  prose  into  metaphor  and  meas- 
ure. 

The  enclosed  song  ["The  Bonnie 
Lass  of  Ballochmyle"]  was  the  work  of 
my  return  home;  and  perhaps  it  but 
poorly  answers  what  might  have  been 
expected  from  such  a  scene.  I  have 
the  honour  to  be,  madam,  your  most 
obedient  and  very  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  XXXI. 
TO  MRS.  STEWART  OP  STAIR. 
Nov.  1786. 
Madam, — The  hurry  of  my  prepara- 
tions for  going  abroad  has  hindered  me 
from  performing  my  promise  so  soon 
as  I  intended.  I  have  here  sent  you  a 
parcel  of  songs,  &c. ,  which  never  made 
their  appearance,  except  to  a  friend  or 
two  at  most.  Perhaps  some  of  them 
may  be  no  great  entertainment  to  you, 
but  of  that  I  am  far  from  being  an 
adequate  judge.  The  song  to  the  tune 
of  "Ettrick  Banlts,"  ["The  Bonnie 
Lass  of  Ballochmyle"]  you  ^Vill  easily 
see  the  impropriety  of  exposing  much, 
even  in  manuscript.  I  think,  myself, 
it  has  some  merit:  both  as  a  tolejable 
description  of  one  of  nature's  sweetest 
scenes,  a  July  evening;  and  one  of  the 
finest  pieces  of  nature's  workmanship, 
and  the  finest  indeed  we  know  any- 
thing of,  an  amiable,  beautiful  young 
woman;  but  I  have  no  common  friend 


GENERAL .  COBEESPONDENCE. 


saa 


to.  procure  me  that  permission,  witliout 
wl^icli  I  would  not  dare  to  spread  the 
cop/.    ,      , 

£  am  quite  aware,  madam,  wliat  task 
the  world  would  assign  me  in  this  let- 
ter. The  obscure  bard,  when  any  of 
the  great  condescend  to  take  notice  of 
him,  should  heap  the  altar  with  the  in- 
cense of  ilattery.  Their  high  ancestry, 
their  own  great  and  godlike  qualities 
and  actions,  should  be  recounted  with 
the  m^ost^  exaggerated  description. 
This,  madam,  is  a  task  for  which  I  am 
altogether  unfit.  Besides  a  certain 
disqualifying  pride  of  heart,  I  know 
nbthing  of  your  connexions  in  life,  and 
hjive  no  access  to  where  your  real 
character  is  to  be  found — the  company 
of  yqur  compeers;  and  more,  I  am 
afBs[idthat  even  the  most  refined  adula- 
tion is  by  ho  means  the  road  to  your 
goQd;,opinion. 

.  One  feature  of  your  character  I  shall 
ever  with  grateful  pleasure  remember 
— the  reception  1  got  when  I  had  the 
honour  of  waiting  on  you  at  Stair.  I 
am  little  acquainted  with  politeness, 
but  I  know  a  good  deal  of  benevolence 
of  temper  and  goodness  of  heart. 
Surely  did  those  in  exalted  stations 
know  how  happy  they  could  make  some 
classes  of  their  inferiors  by  condescen- 
sion and  affability,  they  would  never 
stand  so  high,  measuring  cut  with 
every  look  the  height  of  their  eleva- 
tion, but  condescend  as  sweetly  as  did 
Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair. 

B.  E. 


No.  XXXIL 
TO   ME.    BOBEET    MUIB. 

MOSSGIEL,  Nov.  l8,  IjCG. 

.Ii/Ly  dear  Ser, — ^Enclosed  you  have 
"Tam  Samson,"  as  I  intend  to  print 
him .  I  am  thinldng  for  my  Edinburgh 
expedition  on  Monday  or  Tuesday, 
come  se'ennight,  for  pos.  I  will  see 
you  on  Tuesday  first.  I  am  ever,  your 
much  indebted, 

E.  B. 


No.  XXXIII. 
IN  THE  NAME  OP  THE  NINE. 

— Amen. 

Wb,  Bobert  Burns,  by  virtue  of  a 
warrant  from  Nature,  bearing  date 
January  35,  1759,*  Poet-Laureate  and 
Bard-in-Chief  in  and  over  the  districts 
and  countries  of  Kyle,  Cunningham, 
and  Carrick,  of  old  extent,  to  our 
trusty  and  well-beloved  William  Chal- 
mers and  John  M'Adam,  students  and 
practitioners  in  the  ancient  and  myste-. 
rious  science  of  confounding  right  and 
wrong. 

Bight  Trtjstt, — ^Be  it  known  unto 
you,  that  whereas  in  the  course  of  our 
care  and  watching  over  the  order  and 
police  of  all  and  sundry  the  manufac- 
turers, retainers,  and  venders  of  poesy; 
bards,  poets,  poetasters,  rhymers,  jing- 
lers,  songsters,'  ballad-singers,  &c.  &c.,, 
male  and  female,  wg  have  discovered 
a  certain  nefarious,  abominable,  and 
wicked  song  or  ballad,  a  copy  whereof, 
we  have  here  enclosed:  Our  will  there- 
fore is,  that  ye  pitch  upon  and  appoint 
the  most  execrable  individual,  of  that 
execrable  species,  known  by  the  ap- 
pellation, phrase,  and  nickname  of  The 
Deil's  Yell  Nowte:  f  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 
merciless  hands  the  said  copy  of  tlie 
said  nefarious  and  wicked  song;  to  be 
consumed  by  fire  in  presence  of  all  be- 
holders, in  abhorrence  of  and  terrorem 
to,  all  such  compositions  and  compos- 
ers. And  this  in  nowise  leave  ye  un-' 
done,  but  have  it  executed  in  every 
point  as  this  our  mandate  bears,  before, 
the  34th  current,  when  in  person  We. 
hope  to  applaud  your  faithfulness  and 
zeal. 

Given  at  Mauchliue,  November  30, 
A.  D.  1786.     God  save  the  Bard  ! 


*  The  poet's  birth'day,' 

t  Dr.  Currie  thinks  this  phrase  alludes  to 
old  bachelors  ;  but  the  poet's  brother,  Gilbert. 
Burns,  considers  it.a  contemptuous  appella-. 
tion'  often  piven  to  the  officers  of'  the.  law," 
and  that  it  is  in  this  sense  it  is  used  here, 
"  Holy  Willie's  Prayer"  is  the  poem  alluded 
to.  .  , 


360 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  XXXIV. 

TO    DR.     MACKENZIE,* 
-MAUCHLINE, 

•ENCLOSING    HIM   VERSES  ON  DINLNG 
'  WITH  LOKD  DAER.f 

Wedneoday  Morning,  Nov.  1786. 

Deab  Sin, — I  never  spent  an  after- 
hodn  among  great  folks  -vvith  half  that 
pleasure  as  when,  iu  company  with 
yoii,  I  had  the  honour  of  paying  my 
devpirs  to  that  plain,  honest,  worthy 
fiiah,  the  professor,  [Dugald  Stewart]. 
I  would  be  delighted  to  see  him  -per- 
form acts  of  kindness  and  friendship, 
though  I  were  not  the  object;  he  does 
it  with  such  a  grace.  I  think  his 
character,  divided  into  ten  parts, 
stands  thus — four  parts  Socrates — four 
parts  Nathanael — and  two  parts  Shake- 
speare's Brutus. 

The  accompanying  verses  were  re- 
ally extempore,  but  a  little  corrected 
since.  They  may  entertain  you  a  little 
with  the  help  of  that  partiality  with 
which  you  are  so  good  as  to  favour  the 
performances  of,  dear  sir,  your  very 
humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.   XXXV. 

TO  SAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ., 
MAUCHLINE.t 

Edinburgh,  Dec  7,  1786. 

Honoured  Sib,^1  have  paid  eveiy 
attention  to  your  commands,  but  can 


*  Dr.  Mackenzie  was  one  of  Burns'  early 
friends  and  admirers,  and  the  first  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Dugald -Stewart.  After  practis- 
ing for  many  years  as  a  surgeon  in  Irvine,  he 
retired  to  Edinburgh,  and  died  therein  1837 
at  an  advanced  age. 

t  See  the  lines,  p.  100. 

t  Gavin  Hamilton,  a  fast  friend  of  Burns*, 
was  his  landlord  -  in  the  farm  of  Mossgiel. 
Burns  was  a  frequent  and  welcome  guest  at 
his  table.  Mr.  Hamilton  had  incurred  the 
censure  of  the  session  of  the  church  of  which 
he  was  a  member,  on  account  of  alleged  non- 
attendance  at  public  worship.  Sunday  travel- 
ling, ,&c.,  and  It  was  this  which  suggested  to 
the  poet  the  writing  of  that  terrible  satire, 
*i  Holy  Willie's  Prayer.'.'  (See  page .  43.) 
Burns  wrote  a  dedicatory   poem  to  Gavm- 


only  say  what  perhaps  you  will  have 
heard  before  this  reaches  you,  that 
Muirkirklands  were  bought  by  a  Mr. 
John  Gordon,  W.  S.,  but  for  whom  I 
know  not;  Mauchlands,  Haugh  Miln, 
&c.,  by  a  Mr.  Frederick  Fothering- 
ham,  supposed  to  be  for  Ballochttiyle 
Laird  and  Adam-hill  and  Shawood 
were  bought  for  Oswald's  folks.  This 
is  so  imperfect  an  account,  and  wiil'be 
so  late  ere  it  reach  you,  that  were  it 
not  to  discharge  my  conscience  I 
would  not  trouble  you  with  it;  but 
after  all  my  diligence  I  could  make  it 
no  sooner  nor  better. 

For  my  own  affairs,  I  am  in  a  fair 
way  of  becoming  as  eminent  as 
Thomas  a  Kempis  or  John  Bunyan; 
and  you  may  expect  henceforth  to  see 
my  birthday  inserted  among  the  won- 
derful events,  in  the  Poor  Robin's  and 
Aberdeen  Almanacs,  along  with  the 
Black  Monday,  and  the  battle  of  Both- 
well  Bridge.  My  Lord  Gleneaim  and 
the  Dean  of  Faculty,  Mr.  H.  Erskine, 
have  taken  me  under  their  wing;  and  in 
all  probability  I  shall  soon  be'  the 
tenth  worthy,  and  the  eighth  wise, 
man  of  the  world.  Through 'my  lord's 
influence  it  is  inserted  in  the  records 
of  the  Caledonian  Hunt  that  they 
universally,  one  and  all,  subscribe  for 
the  second  edition.  My  subscription 
bills  come  out  to-morrow,  and  you 
shall  have  some  of  them  next  post 
I  have  met,  in  Mr.  Dalrymple  of  Or- 
angefield,  what  Solomon  emphatically 
calls  ' '  a  friend  that  sticketh  closer 
than  a  brother."  The  warmth  with 
which  he  interests  himself  in  niy 
affairs  is  of  the  same  enthusiasti'c 
kind  which  you,  Mr.  Aiken,  and  the 
few  patrons  that  took  notice  of  iriy 
earlier  poetic  days,  showed  for  th6 
poor  unlucky  devil  of  a  poet. 

I  always  remember  Mrs.  Hamilton 
and  Miss  Kennedy  in  my  poetic  pray- 
ers, but  you  both  iu  prose  and  verse. 

May  cauld  ne'er  catch  you  iui  a  Aap^*-  ■ 
Nor  hunger  but  in  plenty's  lap  ! 

Amen  !  R.  B. 

Hamilton  (see  page  90,)  which  did  not  appear 
at  the  front  of  the  volume,  though  included  ia 

its  pages.  -■  ■ 

*  Ti^ithout  sufScient  ckithiog. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


361: 


No,  XXXVI. 

■  TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNB,  ESQ., 

BANKER,  AYR.* 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  13, 1786. 

My  Honoured  FitiENi)'. — I  would 
not  write  you  till  I  could  liive  it  in 
uiy  power  to  give  you  some  account 
of  myself  and  my  matters,  which,  by 
the  by,  is  often  no  easy  task.  I  ar- 
rived hej-e  on  Tuesday  was  se'ennight, 
:  and  have  suffered  ever  since  I  came  to 
,  town  with  a  miserable  headache  and 
stomach  complaint,  but  am  now  a  good 
deal  better.  I  have  found  a  worthy, 
warm  friend"  in  Mr  Dalrymple  of  Or- 
angefield,  who  introduced  me  to  Lord 
Glencairn,  a  man  whose  worth  and 
brotherly  kindness  to  me  I  shall  re- 
member when  time  shall  be  no  more. 
By  his  interest  it  is  passed  in  the  Cal- 
edonian Hunt,  and  entered  in  their 
books,  that  they  are  to  take  each  a 
copy  of  the  second  edition,  for  which 
they  are  to  pay  one  guinea.  I  have 
been  introduced  to  a  good  many  of  the 
noblesse;  but  my  avowed  patrons  and 
patronesses  are — the  Duchess  of  Gor- 
don, the  Countess  of  Gleucaim,  with 
my  Lord,  and  Lady  Betty,f  the  Dean 
of  Faculty,  Sir  John  Whitefoord.  I 
iave  likewise  warm  friends  among 
the  literati:  Professors  Stewart, 
Blair,  and  Mr.  Mackenzie  —  "  The 
Man  of  Feeling."  An  unknown  hand 
left  ten  guineas  for  the  Ayrshire  bard 
with  Mr.  .Sibbald,  which  I  got.  I 
since  have  discovered  my  generous 
unknown  friend  to  be  Patrick  Miller, 
.Esq.,  brother  to  the  Justice-Clerk  ; 
and  drank  a  glass  of  claret  with  liim 
Jt)y  invitation  at  his  own  house  yester- 
mght.  I  am  nearly  agreed  with 
Cieech  to  print  my  book,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  will  begin  on  Monday.  I  will 
send  a  subscription  bill  or  two  next 
post,  when  I  intend  writing  my- first 
kind  patron,  Mr.  Aiken.  1  saw  his 
son  to-day,  and  he  is  very  well. 

.  *  John  Ballantyne,  a  friend  and  patron  of 
the  poet's,  to  whom  he  addressed  "  The  Brigs 
of  Ayr."  He  was  for  some  time  provost  of 
Ayr,  "and  had  shown  niuch  zeal  in  the  im- 
provement of  his  native  town. 

+  Lady  Betty  Cunningham,  an  unmarried 
sister  of  the  earl's,     ~ 


Dugald  Stewart  and-  some  of  my 
learned  friends  put  me  in  the  period- 
ical paper  called  the  Lounger  *  a  copy 
of  which  I  here  enclose  you.  I  was, 
sir,  when  I  was  first  .honoured  with 
your  notice,  too  obscure;  now  I  trem- 
ble lest  I  should  be  ruined  by  being 
dragged  too  suddenly  into  the  glare  of 
polite  and  learned  observation. 

I  shall  certainly,  my  ever-honoured 
patron,  write  you  an  .account  of  my 
every  step;  and  better  health  a,nd  more 
spirits  may  enable  me  to  maJie  it  some- 
thing better  than  this  stupid  matter-of- 
fact  epistle. — I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
good  sir,  your  ever-grateful  humble 
servant,  R.  B. 

If  any  of  my  friends  write  me,  my 
direction  is,  care  of  Mr.  Creech,  book- 
seller. 


No.    XXXVII. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT   MUIR. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  20, 1786. . 

My  DEAR  Fkiend, —  I  have  just 
time  foT  the  carrier,  to  tell  you  that  I 
received  your  lettei-;  of  which  I  shall 
say  no  more  but  what  a  lass  of  my  ac- 
quaintance said  of  her  bastard  wean; 
she  said  she  ' '  didna  ken  wha  was  the 
father  exactly,  but  she  suspected  it 
was  some  o'  thae  bonny  blackguard 
smugglers,  for  it  was  like  them."  So 
I  only-  say  your  obliging  epistle  was 
like  you.  1  enclose  you  a,  parcel  of 
subscription  bills.  Your  affair  of 
sixty  copies  is  also  1  ike  you ;  but  it  would 
not  be  like  me  to  comply. 

Your  friend's  notion  of  my  life  has 
put  a  crotchet  in  ^axj  head  of  sketching 
it  in  some  future  epistle  to  you.  My 
compliments  to  Charles  and  Mr. 
Parker.  R.  B. 


No.  XXXVIII. 

TO  MR.  CLEGHORN. 

"  Oh,  whare  did  ye  get  that  hauver  meal  ban- 

ftOCK,"  &c.t 

Dear  Cleqhorn, — You  will  see  by 

*  The  Lounger,  by  Henry  Mackenzie,  the 
author  of  "  The  Man  of  Feeling." 

t  See  the  first  version  of  "  Bonnie  Dundee," 
at  p.  206. 


S6;5 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


the  above  that  I  have  added  a  stanza 
to  "  Bonnie  Dundee."  If  you  think 
it  will  do,  you  may  set  it  agoing 

"  Upon  a  ten-string'd  instrument^ 
And  on  the  psaltery." 

R.  B. 
Mb.  Cleghorn,  Faembtr. 

God  bless  the  trade. 


>Io.  XXXIX. 

,  TO  MR.  WILLIAM  CHALMERS, 
WRITER,  AYR.* 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  27, 1786. 

Mt  deak  Friend, — I  confess  I  have 
sinned  the  sin  for  which  there  is 
hardly  any  forgiveness  — ingratitude 
to  friendship— in  not  writing  you 
sooner;  but  of  all  men  living,  I  had 
intended  to  send  you  an  entertaining 
letter;  and  by  all  the  plodding,  stupid 
powers,  that  in  nodding,  conceited 
majesty  preside  over  the  dull  routine 
of  business —  a  lieavily-solemn  oath 
this ! — I  am,  and  have  been,  ever 
since  I  came  to  Edinburgli ,  as  anfit  to 
write  a  letter  of  humour  as  to  write  a 
commentary  on  the  Revelation  of  St. 
John  the  Divine,  who  was  banished  to 
the  Islo  of  Patmos  by  the  cruel  and 
bloody  Domitian,  son  to  Vespasian  and 
brother  to  Titus,  botli  emperors  of 
Rome,  and  who  was  himself  an  em- 
I)eror,  and  raised  the  second  or  third 
persecution,  I  forget  which,  against 
the  Christians,  and  after  throwing  the 
said  apostle  John,  brother  to  the  apos- 
tle James,  commonly  called  James  the 
Greater,  to  distinguish  him  from 
another  James,  who  was,  on  some  ac- 
count or  other,  known  by  the  name  of 
James  the  Less — after  throwing  him 
into  a  caldron  of  boiling  oil|  from 
which  he  was  miraculously  preserved, 
he  banislied  the  poor  son  of  Zebedee 
to  a  desert  island  in  the  Archipelago, 

*  Mr.  William  Chalmers,  a  writer  in  Ayr, 
an  early  friend  of  the  poet's.  He  was  in  love, 
and,  as  he  was  not  so  successful  in  his  suit  as 
he  wished  to  be,  he  asked  Burns  to  endeavour 
to  propitiate  the  object  of  his  affections  by 
addressing  a  poem  to  her.  "  Willie  Chalmers'' 
(See  page  94)  was  the  result.  It  is. not  known 
wTiether  he  succeeded  in  his  suit. 


where  he  was  ^fted  with  the  second  ' 
sight,  and  saw  asteany  wild  beasts  as 
I  have  seen  since  I  cameto  Ediitbuigh;  • 
which — a  circumstance    not  very  un- 
common in  story-telling — ^brings    me 
back  to  where  I  set  out. 

To  make  you  some  amends  for  what, 
before  you  reach  this  paragraph,   you  ■' 
will  have  suffered,  I  enclose  you  two 
poems  I  have  carded  and  spun  since  I « 
past  Qlenbuck. 

One  blank  in  the  address  to  Edin- 
burgh— "Fair  B " — is  the  heavenly 

Miss  Burnet,  daughter  of  Lord  Mon- 
boddo,  at  whose  house  I  have  had  the 
honour  to  be  more  than  once. '-__  There  , 
has  not  been  anything  nearly  like  her 
in  all  the  combinations  of  beauty, 
grace,  and  goodness  the  great  Creator 
has  formed,  since  Milton's  Eve  on  the 
first  day  of  her  existence. 
'  My  direction  is — care  of  Andrew 
Bruce,  merchant.  Bridge  Street. 

R.  B. 


No.  XL.  ,^ 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ.,  '■ 

MAUCHLINE.  ' 

Edinburgh,  January  7, 17B7.  ■ ; 

To  tell  the  truth  among  friends,  I 
feel  a  miserable  blank  in  my  heart 
from  the    want    of    her   [alluding  to  ■ 
Jean  Armour],   and  I  don't  think  I  ^ 
shall  ever  meet  wth  so  delicious  an 
armful  again.      She  has  her  fatilts;  " 
but  so  have  you  and  I;  and  so  has'' 
everybody.  "^ 

Their  tricks  and  craft  hae  put  me  daft ; 

They've  taen  me  in  and  a'  that ;  ,  ,( 

But  clear  your  decks,  and  here's  the  sex, 
I  like  the  jades  for  a'  that.  ^' 

For  a  that,  and  a' that,  i'': 

And  twice  as  muckle's  a'  that. 

I  have  met  with  a  very  pretty  girl, . 
a  Lothian  farmer's  daughter,  whom<I' 
have  almost  persuaded  to  accompanye* 
me  to  the  west  country,  should  1  ever? 
return  to  settle  there. — By  the  by,  a. 
Lothian  farmer  is  about  the  same  as 
an  Ayrshire  squire  of  the  loweclcind. 
— I  had  a  most  delicious  ride  from 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


3«3- 


Laitli  to  her  house  yesterniglit,  in  a 
liackaey  coach,  with,  her  brother  and 
two  sisters,  and  brother's  wife.  We 
had  dined  all  together  at  a  comraou 
friend's  house  in  Leith,  and  drunk, 
danced,  and  sang  till  late  enough. 
The  night  was  dark,  the  claret  had 
been  good,  and  I  thirsty  .  .  . 
[.The  remainder  is  unfortunately 
wanting.] 


No.  XLI. 

TO    THE   EARL    OF    EQLINTON. 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  17S7. 

My  Lobd, — As  T  have  but  slender 
pretensions  to  philosophy,  I  cannot 
rise  to  the  exalted  ideas  of  a  citizen  of 
the  world,  but  have  all  those  national 
prejudices  which  I  believe  glow 
peculiarly  strong  in  the  breast  of  a 
Scotcliman.  There  is  scarcely  any- 
thing to  which  I  am  so  feelingly  alive 
as  the  honour  and  welfare  of  my  coun- 
try; and,  as  a  poet,  I  have  no  higher 
enjoyment  than  singing  her  sons  and 
daughters.  Fate  had  cast  my  station 
in  the  veriest  shades  of  life;  but  never 
did  a  heart  pant  more  ardently  than 
mine  to  be  distinguished;  though,  till 
very  lately,  I  looked  in  vain  on  every 
side  for  a  ray  of  light.  It  is  easy  then 
to. guess  howmuch  I  was  gratified  vrith 
the  countenance  and  approbation  of 
one  of  my  country's  most  illustrious 
sons,  when  Mr.  Wauchope  called  on 
me  yesterday  on  the  part  of  your  lord- 
ship. Your  munificence,  my  lord, 
certainly  deserves  my  very  grateful  ac- 
knowledgments; but  your  patronage  is 
a  bounty  peculiarly  suited  to  my  feel- 
ings. I  am  not  master  enough  of  the 
etiquette  of  life  to  know  whether  there 
be  not  some  impropriety  in  troubling 
your  lordship  with  my  thanks,  but  my 
hteart  whispered  me  to  do  it.  From  the 
emotions  of  my  inmost  soul  I  do  it. 
Selfish  ingratitude  I  hope  I  am  in- 
capable of ;  and  mercenary  servility,  I 
trust,  I  .shall  ever  have  so  much  honest 
pjjde  as  to  detest, 
,■•  ..  E.  B. 


No.  XLII. 
TO  JOHN  BALLANTYNE,  ESQ. 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  14,  17S7. 

My  honouked  Friend — It  gives  me- 
a  secret  comfort  to  observe  in  myself 
that  I  am  not  yet  so  far  gone  as  Willie 
Gaw's  Skate,  "  past  redemption;"*  for 
I  have  still  this  favourable  symptom  of 
grace,  that  when  my  conscience,  as  in 
the  case  of  this  letter,  tells  me  I  am 
leaving  something  undone  that  I  ought 
to  do,  it  teases  me  eternally  till  I  doit. 

I  am  still  "  dark  as  was  chaos"  in  re- 
spect to  futurity.  My  generous  friend, 
Mr.  Patrick  Miller  has  been  tallung  with 
me  about  a  lease  of  some  farm  or  other 
in  an  estate  called  Dalswintou,  which  he ' 
has  lately  bought  near  Dumfries.  Some 
life -rented  embittering  recollections, 
whisper  me  that  I  will  be  happier  any- 
where than  in  my  old  neighbourhood, 
but  Mr.  Miller  is  no  judge  of  land ;  and 
though  I  daresay  he  means  to  favour 
me,  yet  he  may  give  me  in  his  opinion, 
an  advantageous  bargain  that  may  ruin 
me.  I  am  to  take  a  toiir  by  Dumfries 
as  I  return,  and  have  promised  to  meet 
Mr.  Miller  on  his  lands  some  time  in 
May. 

I  went  to  a  mason-lodge  yesternight, 
where  the  most  Worshipful  Grand- 
master Charteris,  and  all  the  Grand 
Lodge  of  Scotland;  visited.  The  meet- 
ing was  numerous  and  elegant;  all  the 
different  lodges  about  town  were 
present  in  all  their  pomp.  The  grand- 
master, who  presided  with  great  solem- 
nity and  honour  to  himself,  as  a  gentle- 
man and  mason,  among  other  general 
toasts,  gave  "Caledonia,  and  Cale-. 
donia's  Bard,  Brother  -Burns," — which 
rang  through  the  whole  assembly  with 
multiplied  honours  and  repeated  accla- 
mations. As  I  had  no  idea  such  a 
thing  would  happen,  I  was  downright 
thunderstruck,  and  trembling  in  every 
nerve,  made  the  best  return  in  my- 
power.  Just  as  I  had  finished,  some 
of  the  grand  officers  said,  so  loud  that 
I  could  hear,  with  a  most  comforting 

*  A  proverbial  expression  denoting  utter 
ruin,  which  is  still  ia  use. 


364 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


accent,    "Very-  well  indeed!"  wliicli 
set  me  something  to  rights  again. 

I  have  to-day  corrected  my  152d 
page.  My  best  good  wishes  to  Mr. 
Aiken.  I  am  ever,  dear  sir,  your  much 
indebted  humble  servant, 

E.  B. 


No.  XLIII. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Jan.  1787. 

While  here  I  sit,  sad  and  solitary, 
by  the  side  of  a  fire  in  a  little  country 
inn,  and  drying  my  wet  clothes,  in 
pops  a  poor  fellow  of  a  sodger,  and  tells 
me  he  is  going  to  Ayr.  By  Heaven  ! 
say  I  to  myself,  with  a  tide  of  good 
spirits  which  the  magic  of  that  sound, 
auld  toun  o'  Ayr,  conjured  up,  I  will 
send  my  last  song  to  Mr.  Ballantyne. 
Here  it  is — 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair ! 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  !*  &c. 


No.  XLIV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  Jan.15, 1787. 

Madam,' — ^Yoursof  the  9th  current, 
which  I  am  this  moment  honoured 
with,  is  a  deep  reproach  to  me  for  un- 
grateful neglect.  I  will  tell  you  the 
real  truth,  ioi  I  am  miserably  awk- 
ward at  a  fib — I  wished  to  have  written 
to  Dr.  Moore  before  I  wrote  to  you; 
hut  though,  every  day  since  I  received 
yours  of  December  30th,  the  idea,  the 
wish  to  write  to  him  has  constantly 
pressed  on  my  thoughts,  yet  I  could 
not  for  my  soul  set  about  it.  I  know 
his  fame  and  character,  and  I  am  one 
of  ' '  the  sons  of  little  men. "  To  write 
him  a  mere  matter-of-fact  affair,  like  a 
merchant's  order,  would  be  disgracing 
the  little  character  I  have;  and  to 
write  tiie  author  of  "  The  View  of 
Society  and  Manners''  a  letter  of  eenti- 
inent — I  declare  every  artery  runs  cold 

*  See  "  The  Banks  o'  Doon,"  p.  203. 


at  the  thought.  I  shall  try,  however, 
to  write  to  him  to-morrow  or  next  day. 
His  kind  interposition  ^n  my  behalf  X 
have  already  experienced,  as  a  gentle-- 
man  waited  on  me  the  other  day,  on 
the  part  of  Lord  Eglinton,  with  ten 
guineas,  by  way  of  subscription  for 
two  copies  of  my  next  edition. 

-  The  word  you  object  to  in  the  men- 
tion I  have  made  of  my  glorious  couu; 
tryman  and  your  immortal  ancestor,  is 
indeed  borrowed  from  Thomson;  but 
it  does  not  strike  me  as  an  improper 
epithet.  I  distrusted  my  own  judg- 
ment on  your  .finding  fault  with  it,  and 
applied  for  the  opinion  of  some  of  tlie 
literati  here  who  honour  me  with  their 
critical  strictures,  and  they  all  allow  it 
to  be  proper.  The  song  yoa  ask  1  can- 
not recollect,  and  I  have  not  a  copy  of 
it.  I  have  not  composed  anything  on 
the  great  Wallace,  except  what  you 
have  seen  in  print;  and  the  enclosed, 
which  I  will  print  in  this  edition.* 
You  will  see  I  have  mentioned  some 
others  of  the  name.  When  I  composed 
my  ' '  Vision"  long  ago,  I  had  attempted 
a  description  of  Kyle,  of  which  the 
additional  stanzas  are  a  part,  as  it 
originally  stood.  My  heart  glows  with 
a  wish  to  be  able  to  do  justice  to  the 
merits  of  the  "saviour  of  his  country," 
which  sooner  cr  later  I  shall  at  least 
attempt. 

You  aro  afraid  I  shall  grow  intoxi- 
cated with  my  prosperity  as  »  poet; 
alas  !  madam,  I  know  myself  and  the 
world  too  well.  I  do  not  mean  any 
airs  of  affected  modesty;  I  am  willing 
to  believe  that  my  abilities  deserve 
some  notice;  but  in  a  most  enlightened, 
informed  age  and  nation,  when  poetry 
is  and  has  been  the  study  of  men  of 
the  first  natural  genius,  aided  with  all 
the  powers  of  polite  learning,  polite 
books,  and  polite  company — to  be 
dragged  forth  to  the  full  glare  of 
learned  and  polite  observation,  vrith  all 
my  imperfections  of  awkward  rusticity 
and  crude,  unpolished  ideas  on  my 
head — I  assure  you,  madam,  I  do  not 
dissemble  when  I  tell  you  I  tremble  for 
the  consequences.  The  novelty  of  apoet 


*  See  "  The  Vision,"  p.  60. 


GKNBRAL  CORRBSPONDEXCE. 


363 


in  my  obscure  situation,  without  any  of 
tliose  ladvantages  which  are  reckoned 
iledessary  for  that  character,  at  least 
at  this  time  of  day,  has  raised  a  partial 
tide  of  public  notice  which  has  borne 
me  to  a  height,  where  I  am  absolutely, 
feelingly  certain  my  abilities  are  in- 
adequate to  support  me;  and  too  surely 
do  I  see  that  time  when  the  same  tide 
will  leave  me,  and  recede,  perhaps,  as 
i&T  below  the  mark  of  truth.  I  do  not 
Say  this  in  the  ridiculous  affectation  of 
self-abasement  and  modesty.  I  have 
studied  myself,  and  know  what  ground 
I  occupy;  and,  however  a  friend  of  the 
world'may  differ  from  me  in  that  par- 
ticular, I  stand  for  my  own  opinion,  in 
silent  resolve,  with  all  the  tenacioiis- 
ness  of  property.  I  mention  this  to 
j^ou  once  for  all  to  disburden  my  mind, 
and  J  do  not  wish  to  hear  or  say  more 
abaut  it.     But, 

"  When  proud  fortune's  ebbing  tide  recedes,'' 

you  will  bear  me  witness  that,  when 
my  bubble  of  fame  ws^s  at  the  highest, 
1  stood  unintoxicated,  with  the  in- 
ebriating cup  in  my  hand,  looking  for- 
ward with  rueful  resolve  to  the  hasten- 
ing time  when  the  blow  of  Calumny 
should  dash  it  to  the  ground,  with  all 
the  eagerness  of  vengeful  triumph. 

Your  patronising  me  and  interesting 
yourself  in  my  fame  and  character  a3  a 
poet,  I^'ejoice  in;  it  exalts  rne  in  my 
own  idea:  and  whether  you  can  or  can 
not  aid  me  in  my  subscription  is  a 
trifle.  Has  a  paltry  subscription-bill 
any  charms  for  the  heart  of  a  bard, 
compared  with  the  patronasfe  of  the 
descendant  of  the  immortal  Wallace  ? 

R.  B. 


No.  XLV. 

TO  DR.  MOORE.* 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  1787. 

Stb, — Mrs.  Dunlop  has  been  so  kind 
as  to  send  me  extracts  of  letters  she 


*  Dr.  Moore,  who  thus  early  discovered  the 
talent  of  the  poet,  was  a  son  of  the  Rev. 
Charles  Moore  of  Stirling,  and  was  educated' 


has  had  from  you,  where  you  do  the 
rustic  bard  the  honour  of  noticing  hini 
and  his  works.  Those  who  have  felt 
the  anxieties  and  .solicitudes  of  author- 
ship can  only  know  what  pleasure  it 
gives  to  be  noticed  in  such  a  manner 
by  judges  of  the  first  character.  Your 
criticisms,  sir,  I  receive  with  reverence: 
only  I  am  sorry  they  mostly  came  top 
late:  a  peccant  passage  or  two,  that  I 
would  certainly  have  altered,  were 
gone  to  the  press. 

The  hope  to  be  admired  for  ?iges  is, 
in  by  far  the  greater  part  of  those  even 
who  are  authors  of  repute,  an  unsub- 
stantial dream.  For  my  part,  my  first 
ambition  Was,  and  still  my  strongest 
wish  is,  to  please  my  compeers,  the 
rustic  inmates  of  the  hamlet,  while 
ever-changing  language  and  munners 
shall  allow  me  to  be  relished  and  un- 
derstood. I  am  very  willing  to  admit 
that  I  have  some  poetical  abilities: 
and    as  few,  if  any,   writers,   either 


at  Glasgow  for  the  medical  profession.  In 
1747,  while  only  seventeen  years  of  age,  he 
was,  through  the  patronage  of  the  Duke  of 
Argyle,  attached  to  the  hospitals  connected 
with  the  British  army  in  Flanders.  On  his 
return,  he  settled  in  Glasgow ;  but  disliking 
the  drudgery  of  the  profession,  he  gave  up 
his  practice,  and  accepted  the  post  of  medical 
guardian  to  the  young  Duke  of  Hamilton, 
whose  delicate  health  rendered  the  constant 
attendant;  of  a  medical  man  necessary.  On 
the  death  of  the  young  Duke,  Dr.  Moore's 
services  were  .transferred  to  the  brother  pf 
the  deceased,  with  whom  he  spent  five  years 
of  Continental  travel.  When  the  Duke  had 
attained  his  majority,  Dr.  Moore  settled  in 
London,  and  afterwards  became  well  known 
as  an  author. 

He  wrote  "  A  View  of  Society  and  Man- 
ners, in  France,  Switzerland,  and  Germany," 
the  result  of  his  foreign  travel ;  *'  Medical 
Sketches  ;"  and  when  he  was  an  old  man,  a 
novel  entitled,  "  Zeluco."  In  I7g2,  when 
sixty-three  years  of  age,  he  was  in  Paris,  and 
witnessed  tne  insurrection  of  the  loth  of  Au- 
gust, the  dethronement  of  the  king,  and  mu^ 
of  the  horrors  of  that  year  of  blood,  and  gave 
the  result  of  his  experience  on  his  return,  in 
the  shape  of  "  A  Tourna'  during  a  Residence 
in  Francfe,"  &c.  He  was  a  man  of  undoubted 
ability, and  his  works  were  popular^in  their 
day.    In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  he 'had  ex- 

gressed  high  admiration  of  trie  poetry  of 
iurns,  and  this  letter  being  shown  to  the 
ftoet,  led  to  a  correspondence  of  a  most  f  riend- 
y  and  confidential  nature.  He  died  in  1802, 
leaving  five  sons,  one  of  whom,  General  Sir 
John  Moore,  belongs  to  history. 


366 


BUENS'  WORKS. 


moral  or  poetical,  are  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  the  classes  of  mankind 
among  whom  I  have  chiefly  mingled,  I 
may  have  seen  men  and  mannera  in  a 
different  phasis  from  what  is  common, 
which  may  assist  oiiginality  of  thought. 
Still  I  know  very  well  the  novelty  of 
my  character  has  by  far  tlie  greatest 
share  in  the  learned  and  polite  notice  I 
have  lately  had:  and  in  a  language 
where  Pope  and  Churchill  have  raised 
the  laugh,  and  Shenstone  and  Gray 
■drawn  the  tear;  where  Thomson  and 
■Beattieliave  painted  the  landscape,  and 
Lyttleton  and  Collins  described  the 
heart;  I  am  not  vain  enough  to  hope  for 
distinguished  poetic  fame. 

B.  B. 


No.    XLVI. 

TO    THE    REV.    d.  LAWRIE, 

NEWMILLS, 

STEAK     KILMAKKOCK. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  5, 1787. 

Reverend  and  dear  Sir, — When 
I  look  at  the  date  of  your  kind  letter, 
ray  heart  reproaches  me  severely  with 
ingratitude  in  neglecting  so  long  to  an- 
swer it.  I  will  not  trouble  you  with 
any  account  by  way  of  apology,  of 
my  hurried  life  and  distracted  atten- 
tion: do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that 
my  delay  by  no  means  proceeded  from 
want  of  respect.  I  feel,  and  ever 
■  shall  feel,  for  you  the  mingled  senti- 
ments of  esteem  for  a  friend  and  rever- 
ence for  a  father. 

I  thank  you,  sir,  with  all  my  soul 
for  your  f rtendly  hints,  though  I  do 
not  need  them  so  much  aa  my  friends 
are  apt  to  imagine.  You  are  dazzled 
with  newspaper  accounts  and  distant 
reports;  but  in  reality  I  have  no  great 
temptation  to  be  intoxicated  ^vith  the 
cup  of  prosperity.  Novelty  may  at- 
tract the  attention  of  mankind  awhile; 
to  it  I  owe  my  present  eclat;  but  I  see 
the  time  not  far  distant  when  the  pop- 
ular tide,  which  lias  borne  me  to  a 
height  of  which  1  am  perhaps  un- 
worthy, shall  recede  with  silent  ce- 
lerity, and  leave  me  a  barren  waste  of 


sand,  to  descend  at  my  leisure  to  my 
former  station.  I  do  not  say  this  in 
the  affectation  of  modesty;  I  see  the 
consequence  is  unavoidable,  and.  am 
prepared  for  it.  I  had  been  at  a  good 
deal  of  pains  to  form  a  jiist,  impartial 
estimate  of  my  intellectual  powers  be- 
fore I  came  here;  I  have  not  added, 
since  I  came  to  Edinburgh,  anything 
to  the  account;  and  I  trust  I  shall 
take  every  atom  of  it  back  to  my 
shades,  the  coverts  of  my  unnoticeij 
early  years. 

In  Dr.  Blacklock,  whom  I  see  very 
often,  I  have  found  what  I  would 
have  expected  in  our  friend,  a  clear 
head  and  an  excel  Iftnt  henrU- 

By  far  the  most  agreeable  hours,  I 
spend  in  Edinburgh  must  be  placed  to 
the  account  of  Miss  Lawrie  and  her 
pianoforte.  1  cannot  help  repeating 
to  you  and  Mrs.  Lawrie  a  compliment 
that  Mr.  Mackenzie,  the  celebrateid 
"  Man  of  Feeling,"  paid  to  Miss  Law- 
rie the  other  night  at  the  concert.  I 
had  come  in  at  the  interlude,  and  sat 
down  by  him  till  I  saw  Miss  Lawrie 
in  a  seat  not  very  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.  tlie .  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  sweet  simpli- 
city of  a  country  girl." 

My  compliments  to  all  the  happy  in- 
mates of  St.  Margaret's. 

R.  B. 


No.  XLVIL 

TO     DR.     MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  15, 1787. 
Sir, — Pardon  my  seeming  neglect  in 
delaying  so  long  to  acknowledge  the 
honour  you  have  done  me,  in  your 
kind  notice  of  mo,  January  23.  Not 
many  months  ago  I  knew  no  other  em- 
ployment than  following  the  plou^. 


GENERAL  COHEESPONDENCE. 


867 


nor  could  boast  anytliing  higher  than 
a  distant  acquaintance  with  a  country 
elergyman.  Mere  greatness  never 
embarrasses  me ;  I  have  nothing  to  ask 
from  the  great,  and  I  do  not  fear  their 
judgment:  but  genius,  polished  by 
learning,  and  at  its  proper  point  of 
elevation  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  this 
rof  late  I  frequently  meet  with,  and 
-tremble  at  its  approach.  I  scorn  the 
itfEeotation.  of  seeming  modesty  to 
icover  self-conceit.  That  1  have  some 
merit  I  do  not  deny;  but  I  see,  with 
frequent  wriugings  of  heart,  that  the 
novelty  of  my  character,  and  the 
■honest  national  prejudice  of  my 
countrymen,  have  borne  me  to  a 
height  altogether  untenable  to  my 
-abilities. 

'  ■  For  the  honour  Miss  Williams  has 
done  me,  please,  sir,  return  her  in  my 
name  my  most  grateful  thanks.  I 
have  more  than  once  thought  of  pay- 
ing her  in  kind,  but  have  hitherto 
quitted  the  idea  in  hopeless  despond- 
ency. I  had  never  before  heard  of 
her;  but  the  other  day  I  got  her  poems, 
which  for  several  reasons,  some  be- 
longing to  the  head,  and  others  the 
Offspring  of  the  heart,  give  me  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure.  I  have  little  preten- 
sions to  critic  lore;  there  are,  I  tliink, 
two  characteristic  feature?  in  her  poetry 
■ — ^the  unfettered  wild  flight  of  native 
genius,  and  t  le  querulous,  sombre, 
t  tenderness  of  "  time  settled  sorrow." 
I  only  know  what  pleases  me,  often 
without  being  able  to  teU  why. 

E.  B. 


be  ready  in  time,  I  will  appear  in  my 
book,  looking,  lilte  all  other  fools,  to 
my  title-page. 

R.  B. 


No.  XLVIII. 
TO' JOHN  BALLANTYNE,  ESQ. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  24,  1787.  - 

•  Mt  honoitred  Friend, — I  will  soon 
he  with  you  now  in  guid  black  prent; 
— in  a  week  or  ten  days  at  furthest. 
I  am, obliged,  against  my  own  wish, 
to  print  Subscribers'  names;  so  if  any 
of  my  Ayr  friends  have  subscription 
-bills,  they  must  be  sent  in  to  Creech 
directly.  I  am  getting  my  phiz  done 
"by  an  eminent  engraver,  and,  if  it  can 


No  XLIX. 

TO    THE  EARL  OF   GLENCAIRN. 
Edinburgh,  Feb.  1787. 

My  Lord, — I  wanted  to  purchase  a 
profile  of  your  lordship,  which  I  was 
told  was  to  be  got  in  town;  but  1  am 
truly  sorry  to  see  that  a  blundering 
painter  has  spoiled  a  "human  face 
divine."  The  enclosed,  stanzas  I  in- 
tended to  have  written  below  a  picture 
or  profile  of  your  lordship,  could  I 
have  been  so  happy  as  to  procure  one 
with  anything  of  a  likeness. 

As  I  will  soon  return  to  my  shades, 
I  wanted  to  have  something  lilte  a 
material  object  for  my  gratitude ;  I 
wanted  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  say 
to  a  friend.  There  is  my  noble  patron, 
my  generous  benefactor.  Allow  me, 
my  lord,  to  publish  these  verses.  I 
conjure  your-  lordship,  by  the  honest 
throe  of  gratitude,  by  the  generous 
wish  of  benevolence,  by  all  the  powers 
and  feelings  which  compose  the  mag- 
nanimous mind,  do  not  deny  me  tliis 
petition.  I  owe  much  to  your  lord- 
ship; and,  what  has  not  in  soma 
other  instances  always  been  the  case 
with  me,  the  weight  of  the  oblig- 
ation is  a  pleasing  load.  I  trust  I 
have  a  heart  as  independent  as  your 
lordship's,  than  which  1  can  say 
nothing  more;  and  I  would  not  be  be- 
holden to  favours  that  would  crucify 
my  feelings.  Your  dignified  character 
"in  life,  and  manner  of  supporting  that 
character,  are  flattering  to  my  pride; 
and  I  would  be  jealous  of  the  purity 
of  my  grateful  attachment,  where  I 
was  under  the  patronage  of  one  of  the 
touch  favoured  sons  of  fortune. 

Almost  every  poet  has  celebrated  his 
patrons,  particularly  when  they  were 
names  dear  to  fame,  and  illustrious  in 
their  country;  allow  me  then,  my 
lord,  if  you  think  the  verses  have  in- 
trinsic merit,  to  tell  the  world  how 


BURNS'  WOBKS. 


much  I  have  the  honour  to  be  your 
Jordship's  highly-indebted,  and  ever- 
grateful  humble  servant, 

K.  B. 


No.   L. 


TO  THE  EARL   OF  BUCHAN. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  1787. 
My  Lord, — The  honour  your  lord- 
ship has  done  me,  by  your   notice  and 
advice  in  yours  of  the    Ist   instant,  I 
shall  ever  gratefully  remember: — 

"  Praise  from  thy  lips  'tis  mine   with  joy  to 
boast. 
They  best  can  give  it  who  deserve  it  most." 

Your  lordship  touches  the  darling 
chord  of  my  heart  when  you  advise  me 
to  fire  my  Muse  at  Scottish  story  and 
Scottish  scenes.  I  wish  for  nothing 
more  than  to  make  a  leisurely  pilgrim- 
age thrpugh  my  native  country;  to 
sit  and  muse  on  those  once  hard-con- 
lested  fields,  where  Caledonia,  re- 
joicing, saw  her  bloody  lion  borne 
through  broken  ranks  to  victory  and 
fame ;  and  catching  the  inspiration,  to 
pour  the  deathless  names  in  song. 
But,  my  lord,  in  the  midst  of  these 
enthusiastic  reveries,  a  long-visaged, 
dry,  moral-looking  phantom  strides 
across  my  imagination,  and  pronounces 
these  emphatic  words: — 

"  I,  Wisdom,  dwell  with  Prudence. 
Friend,  I  do  not  come  to  open  the  ill- 
closed  wounds  of  your  follies  and 
misfortunes  merely  to  give  you 
pain :  I  wish  through  these  wounds  to 
imprint  a  lasting  lesson  on  your  heart. 
I  will  not  mention  how  many  of  my 
salutary  advices  you  have  despised:  I 
have  given  you  line  upon  line  and 
precept  upon  precept;  and  while  I 
was  chalking  out  to  you  the  straight 
way  to  wealth  and  character,  with 
audacious  effrontery  you  have  zig- 
zaged  across  the  path,  contemning  rae 
to  my  face:  you  know  the  conse- 
quences. It  is  not  yet  three  months 
since  home  was  so  hot  for  you  that 
you  were  on  the  wing  for  the  western 
shore  of  the  Atlantic,  not  to  make  a 
fortune,  but  to  hide  your  misfortune. 
"  Now  that  your  dear-loved  Scotia 


puts  it  in  your  power  to  return  to  the 
situation  of  your  forefathers,  will  you 
follow  these  will-o'-wisp  meteors  of 
fancy  and  whim,  till  they  bring  you 
once  more  to  the  brink  of  ruin?  I 
grant  that  the  utmost  ground  you  can 
occupy  is  -but  half  a  step  from  the 
veriest  poverty;  but  still  it  is  half  a 
step  from  it.  If  all  that  I  can  urge 
be  ineffectual,  let  her  who  seldom 
calls  to  you  in  vain,  let  the  call  of 
pride  prevail  with  you.  You  know 
how  you  feel  at  the  iron  gripe  of  ruth- 
less oppression:  you  know  how  you 
bear  the  .galling  sneer  of  contumelious 
greatness.  I  hold  you  out  the  con- 
veniences, the  comforts  of  life,  indei^ 
pendence,  and  character,  on  the  one 
hand ;  I  tender  you  civility,  depend- 
ence, and  wretchedness,  oh  the  other.' 
I  will  not  insult  your  understanding 
by  bidding  you  make  a  choice." 

This,  my  lord,  is  unanswerable. 
I  must  return  to  my  humble  station^ 
and  woo  my  rustic  Muse  in  my  wont- 
ed way  at  the  plough-tail.  Still,  my 
lord,  while  the  drops  of  life  warm  my 
heart,  gratitude  to  that  dear  loved 
country  in  which  I  boast  my  birth, 
and  gratitude  to  tlioSe  her  distinguished 
sons  who  have  honoured  me  so  much 
with  their  patronage  and  approbation, 
shall,  while  stealing  through  my 
humble  shades,  ever  distend  my 
bosom,  and  at  times,  as  now,  draw 
forth  the  swelling  tear.* 

B.  B. 


No.  LI. 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

Edinburgh,  Marcli  8,  1787. 

Dear  Sir, — ^Yours  came  safe,  and  I 
am   as  usual  much  indebted  to  your 

*  Cunningham  says  of  the  Earl  of  Buchan, 
"  He  was  one  of  the  most  economical  of  pa- 
trons ;  lest  the  object  of  his  kindness  might 
chance  to  feel  too  heavily  the  debt  of  obliga.%. 
lion,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  allow  a  painter  tp 
present  him'  with  a  picture,  or  a  poet  with  a  ' 
poem.    He  advised  Burns  to  make  a -pilgrim-, 
age  to  the  scenes  of  Scotland's  battles,  ih  t¥&; 
hope  perhaps  that  Ancrum  Moor    would  be 
immortalised   in  song,  and   the  name  of  the 
Commendator  of  Dryburgh'  included  in  the 
strain. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


goodness.  Poor  Captain  M[ontgom- 
.erj]  is  cast.  Yesterday  it  was  tried 
•whetber  the  husband  could  proceed 
against  tbe  unfortunate  lover  mtbout 
'first  divorcing  bis  wife,  and  their 
Oravities  oil  the  Bench  were  unani- 
mously of  opinion  that  Maxwell  may 
prosecute  for  damages,  directly,  and 
heed  not  divorce  his  wife  at  all  if  he 
pleases:  and  Maxwell  is  immediately, 
before  the  Lord  Ordinary,  to  prove, 
>vliat  I  daresay  will  not  be  denied,  the 
Crim.  Con. — ^theu  their  Lordship  s  will 
mt)dify  the  damages,  which  I  suppose 
Will  be  pretty  heavy,  as  their  Wisdoms 
have  expiressed  great  abhorrence  of 
my  gallant  Bight  Worshipful 
Brother's  conduct. 

O  all  ye  powers  of  love  unfortunate 
and  friendless  woe,  pour  the  balm  of 
sympathising  pity  on  the  grief-torn, 
tender  heart  of  the    hapless  Fair  One! 

My  two  songs*  on  Miss  W.  Alex- 
ande'r  and  Miss  P.  Kennedy  were  like- 
wise tried  yesterday  by  a  jury  of  lit- 
erati, and  found  defamatory  libels 
against  the  fastidious  powers  of  Poesy 
and  Taste;  and  the  author  forbidden 
to  print  them  under  pain  of  forfeiture 
of  character.  .  1-  cannot  help  almost 
shedding  a  tear  to  the  memory  of  two 
songs .  that  had  cost  me  some  pains, 
and  that  I  valued  a  good  deal,  but  I 
must  submit. 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to 
Mrs.  Flamilton  and  Miss  Kennedy. 

My  poor  unfortunate  songs  come 
again  across  my  memory.  Damn 
the  pedant,  frigid  soul  of  Criticism  for 
ever  and  ever  !*— I  am  ever,  dear  sir, 
your  obliged 

HOBBKT  BUBNS. 


No.  LIL 


TO  MB.  JAMES  CANDLISH.f 

Edinburgh,  March  21,  1787. 
Mr     ETEK-DBAR      OLD      ACQUAINT- 

AlfCE, — I  was  equally  surprised  and 


*  The  songs  alluded  to  were  "  Tlie  Bonnie 
Lass  of  Ballochmyle,  "  and  '*  The  Banks  o' 
BbrinieDooii." 

:t  Another  of  the  poet's  early  friends.  .He 
married  -^iss  Smithy  one  of  the  six  belles  of 


pleased  at  your  letter,  though  I  dare- 
say you  will  think  by  my  delaying  so 
long  to  write  you  that  I  am  so 
drowned  in  the  intoxication  of  good 
fortune  as  to  be  indifferent  to  old,  and 
once  dear,  connexions.  The  truth  is, 
I  was  determined  to  write  a  good  let- 
ter, full  of  argument,  amplification, 
erudition,  and,  as  Bayes  says,  all  that. 
I  thought  of  it,  and  thought  of  it,  and, 
by  my  soul,  I  could  not;  and,  lest  you 
should  mistake  the  cause  of  my  aU 
lence,  I  just  sit  down  to  tell  you  so.- 
Don't  give  yourself  credit,  though, 
that  the  strength  of  your  logic  scares 
me:  the  truth  is  I  never  mean  to  meet 
you  on  that  ground  at  all.  You  have 
shown  me  one  thing  which  was  to  be 
demonstrated;  that  strong  pride,  of 
reasoning,  with  a  little  affectation  of 
singularity,  may  mislead  the  best  of 
hearts.  I  likewise,  since  you  and  I 
were  first  acquainted,  in  the  pride  of 
despising  old  women's  stories,  ven- 
tured in  ' '  the  daring  path  Spinosa 
trod;"  but  experience  of  the  weakness, 
not  the  strength  of  human  powers,^ 
made  me  glad  to  grasp  at  revealed  re- 
ligioii. 

I  am  still,  in  the  apostle  Paul's 
phrase,  "  the  old  man  with  his  deeds," 
as  when  we  were  sporting  about  the 
"Lady  Thorn."  I  sliall  be  four  weeks 
here  yet  at  least;  and  so  I  shall  expect 
to  hear  from  you;  welcome  sense,  wel- 
come nonsense. — I  a,m,  with  the 
warmest  sincerity, 

E.  B. 


No.  Lin. 

TO  MB.  WILLIAM  DUNBAE.* 

Lawnmarket,  ) 

Monday  Morning,  [March  1787.]  f 

Dear  Sir. — In  justice  to  Spenser,  I 
must  acknowledge  that  there  is  scarce- 
ly a  poet  in  the  language  could  have 

Mauchline  ;  and  a  son  of  theirs  is  well  known 
to  all  his  countrymen  as  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cand- 
lish  of  Free  St  George's  Church;  Edinburgh, 
—probably,  since  the  death  of  Dr.  Chalmers, 
the  leading  man  in  the  Free  Church. 

*  This  gentleman  was  the  subject  of  th^ 
poet's  song  entitled,  "  Rattling,  Roaring  Wil- 
lie." He  was  a  writer  to  the  Sisrrtet  in  Edin- 


37(J 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


been  a  more  agreeable  present  to  me; 
and  in  justice  to  you,  allow  me  to  say, 
sir,  that  I  liave  not  met  with  a  man  in 
Edinburgh  to  whom  I  would  so  will- 
ingly have  been  indebted  for  the  gift. 
The  tattered  rhymes  I  herewith  pre- 
sent you,  and  the  handsome  volumes 
of  Spenser  for  which  I  am  so  much 
indebted  to  your  goodness,  may  per- 
haps be  not  in  proportion  to  one  an- 
other; but  be  that  as  it  may,  my  gift, 
though  far  less  valuable,  is  as  sincere 
a  mark  of  esteem  as  yours. 

The  time  is  approaching  when  I 
shall  return  to  my  shades;  and  I  am 
afraid  my  numerous  Edinburgh  friend- 
ships are  of  so  tender  a  construction 
that  they  will  not  bear  carriage  with 
me.  Yours  is  one  of  the  few  that  I 
coald  wish  of  a  more  robust  constitu- 
tion. It  is  indeed  very  probable  that 
when  I  leave  this  city,  we  part  never 
more  to  meet  in  this  sublunary  sphere; 
but  I  h'ave  a  strong  fancy  that  in  some 
future  eccentric  planet,  the  comet  of 
happier  systems  than  any  with  which 
astronomy  is  yet  acquainted,  you  and 
I,  among  the  harum-scarum  sons  of 
Imagination  and  whim,  with  a  hearty 
shake  of  a  hand,  a  metaphor  and  a 
laugh,  shall  recognise  old  acquaint- 
ance:— 

Where  wit  may  sparkle  all  its  rays, 
,  Uncureed  with  caution's  fears ; 

That  pleasure,  basking  in  the  blaze. 
Rejoice  for  endless  yeara. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the 
warmest  sincerity,  dear  sir,  &c., 

R.  B. 


No.  LIV. 
TO . 

as  FEEGUSSON'S  HEADSTONE. 

Edinburgh,  March  17S7. 
My  dear  Sin, — ^You  may  think,  and 
too  justly,  that  I  am  a  selfisli,  ungrate- 
ful  fellow,  having  received  so  many 
repeated  instances  of  kindness  from 

bur^h.  The  letter  was  first  published  in 
Horr^  and  Motherwell's  edition  of  the  poet's 
works,  and  was  communicated  by  Mr.  P. 
Buchan  of  Aberdeen. 


you,  and  yet  never  putting  pen  to 
paper  to  say  thank  you;  but  if  yoa: 
knew  what  a  devil  of  a  life  my  con- 
science has  led  me  on  that  account; 
your  good  heart  would  think  yourself 
too  much  avenged.  By  the  by,  there 
is  nothing  in  the  whole  frame  of  man 
which  seems  to  be  so  unaccountable 
as  that  thing  called  conscience.  Had 
the  troublesome  yelping  cur  powers 
eiBcient  to  prevent  a  mischief,  he 
might  be  of  use;  but  at  the  beginnings 
of  the  business,  his  feeble  efforts  are 
to  the  workings  of  passion  as  the  in- 
fant frosts  of  an  autumnal  morning  to 
the  unclouded  fervour  of  the  rising 
sun ;  and  no  sooner  are  the  tumultu- 
ous doings  of  the  wicked  deed  over, 
than,  amidst  the  bitter  native  conse- 
quences of  folly,  in  the  very  vortex  of 
our  horrors,  up  starts  consciencej  and 
harrows  us  with  the  feelings  of  the 
damned. 

I  have  enclosed  you,  by  way  of  ex- 
piation, some  verse  and  prose,  that,  if 
they  merit  a  place  in  your  truly  enter- 
taining miscellany,  you  are  welcome 
to.  The  prose  extract  is  literally  as 
Mr.  Sprott  sent  it  me. 

The  inscription  on  the  stone  is  as 
follows: — 

"HERE  LIES  EOBEHT  FEHGTJSSON, 
POET. 

"  Bom,   September  5th,  1751 — Died, 
October  16th,  1774. 

"  No  sculptured ,  marble  here,  nor  pompous 
lay, 
*  No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust ;' 
This  simple  stone  direct!  pale  Scotia's  waJK. 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  poet's  dust.? 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stone  is  as 
follows: — ■ 

"  By  special  grant  of  the  mana^rs  to  Rob- 
ert Burns,  who  erected  this  stone,  this  burial- 
place  is  to  remain  for  ever  sacred  to  the  mem^ 
cry  of  Robert  Fergusson." 

Session-house  within  the  Kirk  oT 
Canongate,  the  twenty-second  day,  of 
February,  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  eighty-seven  years. 

Sederunt  of  the  Managers  of  the  Kirk 
and  KirkyaTd  funds  of  Canongato. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


371 


Which  day,  the  treasurer  to  the  said 
funds  produced  a  letter  from  Mr.  Rob- 
ert Burns,  of  date  the  6th  current, 
which  was  read  and  appointed  to  be 
engrossed  in  their  sederunt  book,  and 
of  which  letter  the  tenor  follows: — 

'•■  To  the  Honourable  Bailies  of  Can- 
ongate,  Edinburgh. — Gentlemen,  lam 
sorry  to  be  told  that  the  remains  of 
Robert  Fergusson,  the  so  justly  cele- 
brated poet,  a  man  whose  talents  for 
ages  to  come  will  do  honour  to  our 
Caledonian  name,  lie  in  your  church- 
yard among  the  ignoble  dead,  unno- 
ticed and  unknown. 

"  Some  memorial  to  direct  the  steps 
of  the  lovers  of  Scottish  song,  when 
they  wish  to  shed  a  tear  over  the  *  nar- 
M>w.  house'  of  the  bard  who  is  no  more, 
is  surely  a  tribute  due  to  Fergussons 
memory;  a  tribute  I  wish  to  have  the 
honour  of  paying. 

"  I  petition  you,  then,  gentlemen, 
to  permit  me  to  lay  a  simple  sione  over 
his  revered  ashes,  to  remain  an  unal- 
ienable property  to  his  deathless  fame. 
— I  have  the  honour  to  be,  gentlemen, 
your  very  humble  servant,  (sic  sub- 
scHbituVf) 

Robert  Bttrns.'' 

Thereafter  the  said  managers,  in 
consideration  cf  the  laudable  and  dis- 
interested motion  of  Mr.  Burns,  and 
the  propriety  of  his  request,  did,  and 
hereby  do,  unanimously  grant  power 
and  liberty  to  the  said  Robert  Burns  to 
ierect  a  headstone  at  the  grave  of  the 
said  Robert  l^'ergusson,  and  to  keep  up 
and  preserve  the  same  to  his  memory 
in  all  time  coming.*  Extracted  forth 
of  the  records  of  the  managers,  by 
William  Spkott,  clerk. 


•  -  *  Mr,  Cunningham  says  : — From  the  sinking- 
-of  the  ground  of  the  neigchbouring  graves,  the 
headstone  placed  by  Burns  over  Fergusson 
was  thrown  from -its  balance;  this  was  ob- 
.^erved,^oon  after  the  death  of  the  Bard  of 
Ayr,  by  the  Esculapian  Club  of  Edinburgh, 
'who,..dnimated  by  that  pious  zeal  for  departed 
.merit  which  had  before  led  them  to  prevent 
some  other  sepulchral  monuments  from  going 
to  ruin,  refixed  the  original  stone,  and  added 
some  iron  work,  with  an  additional  inscrip- 
tioa_tD.the  memory  of  Burns.  The  poetical 
pare  of  it  is  taken,  almost  verbatim,  from  the 
El^y  oh  "Captain  Matthew  Henderson  :— 


No.  LV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh^  March  22,  1787. 

Madam, — I  read  your  letter  -with 
watery  eyes  A  little,  very  little  while 
ago,  1  had  scarce  a  friend  but  the  stub- 
born pride  of  my  own  bosom;  now  I 

"  Dz'gnufft  laude  verum  Musa  vetat  vtori. 
Lo !  Genius,    proudly,  while  to  Fame   she 

turns. 
Twines  Currie's  laurels  with  the  wreath  of 
Burnsv '  ^Roscoe. 

To  the  Memory  of 
ROBERT  BURNS.  THE  AYRSHIRE 
BARD ; 

WHO  WAS   BORN   AT  DOONSIDE, 

On  the  25th  of  January  1759 ; 

AND   DIED   AT_DUMFRIES, 

On  the  22d  of  July  1796. 

"  O  Robert  Burns !  the  Man.  the  Brother . 
And  art  thou  gone — ^and  gone  for  ever ! 
And  hast  thou  crossed  that  unknown  river. 

Life's  dreary'bound  ! 
Like  thee,  where  shall  we  find  another, 

The  world  around ! 

"  Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  great. 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state  ! 
But  by  thy  honest  turf  I'll  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth ! 
And  weep  the  sweetest  poet's  fate. 

E'er  lived  on  earth." 

To  have  raised  one  solid  monument  of  ma- 
sonry to  both,  working  Fergusson's  head- 
stone into  one  side  of  the  structure,  and  plac- 
ing the  Burns  inscription  on  the  other,  would 
perhaps  have  been  more  judicious. — See  letter 
to  Mr.  Peter  Hill,  dated  Feb.  5,  1792,  relative 
to  this  monument. 

On  the  subject  of  Fergusson's  headstone  we 
find  the  following  letter  in  Dr.  Currie's  edi- 
tion of  the  poet's  works : — 

March  8,  1787. 

I  AM  truly  happy  to  know  that  you  have 

found  a  friend  in ;  his  patronage.of  you 

does  him  great  honour.  He  is  truly  a  good 
man ;  by  far  the  best  I  ever  knew,  or  perhaps 
ever  shall  know,  in  this  world.  But  I  must 
not  speak  all  I  think  of  him,  lest  I  should  be 
thought  partial. 

So  you  have  obtained  liberty  from  the  mag- 
istrates to  erect  a  stone  over  Fergussorrs 
grave  ?  I  do  not  doubt  it ;  such  things  have 
been,  as  Shakespeare  says,  "in  the  olden 
time ;" 

"  The  poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown. 
He  ask'd    for  bread,  and   he   received  a 
stone." 

It  is,  I  believe,  upon  poor  Butler's .  tomb 
that  this  is  written.  But  how  many  brothers 
of  Parnassus,  as  well  as  poor  Butler  and '  poor 


3.73 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


am  distinguished,  patronised,  be- 
friended by  you.  Your  friendly  ad- 
vices— I  will  not  give  tlieni  the  cold 
name  of  criticisms — T  receive  with 
reverence.     I  have  made  some  small 


Fei^usspn,  have  asked  for  bread,  and  been 
served  With  the  same  sauce  ! 

The  magistrates  ^Z'ej'^'w  liberty^  did  they  ? 

O generous  magistrates!  , celebrated  over 

the  three  kingdoms  for  his  public  spirit,  gives 
a  p(.*jr  poet  liberty  to  raise  a  tomb"  to  a  poor 

poet's  memory !  most  generous  !  ,  once 

upon  a  time,  gave  that  same  poet  the  mighty 
sum  of  eighteenpence  for  a  copy  of  his  works. 
But  then  it  must  be  considered  that  the  poet 
was  at  that  time  absolutely  starving,  and  be- 
sought his  aid  with  all  the  earnestness  of  hun- 
ger.   And  over  and  above  he  received  a , 

worth  at  least  one-third  of  tlie  value,  in  ex- 
change ;  but  which,  I  believe,  the  poet  after- 
wards very  ungratefully  expunged. 

Next  week  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  in  Edmburgh;  and,  as  my  stay 
will  be  for  eight  or  ten  days,  I  wish  you  or 

would  tsdce  a  snug,  well-aired  bedroom 

for  me,  where  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  over  a  morning  cup  of  tea.  But  by 
all  accounts  it  will  be  a  matter  of  r,ome  diffi- 
culty to  see  you  at  all,  unless  your  company  is 
bespoke  a  week  beforehand.  There  is  a  great 
rumour  here  concerning  your  great  intimacy 

with  the  Duchess  of ,  and  other  ladies  of 

distinction.    I  am  really  told  that 

"  Cards  to  invite  fly  by  thousands  each 
night:" 
and  if  you  had  one,  I  suppose  there  ^ould 
also  be  *^ bribes  to  your  old  secretary."  It 
seems  you  are  resolved  to  make  hay  while  the 
-sun  shines,  and  avoid,  if  possible,  the  fate  of 
poor  Fergusson,  ....  Quarenda  pecunia 
prirnutn  est^  virtus  post  nuinmos^  is  a  good 
maxim  to  thrive  by :  you  seemed  to  despise  it 
while  in  this  part  of  the  country,  but  probably 
some  philosopher  in  Edinburgh  has_  taught 
you  better  sense. 

Pray  are  you  yet  engraving  as  well  as  print- 
ing—are you  yet  seized 

"  Withitchof  picture  in  the  front. 
With  bays  and  wicked  rhyme  upon't  ?" 

But  I  must  give  up  this  trifling,  and  attend 
to  matters  that  more  concern  myself;  so,  as, 
the  Aberdeen  wit  says,  ""  Adieu ^  dryly ;  we 
sal  drink  fan  we  meet." 

"  The  above  extract,"  says  Dr.  Currie,  "  is 
fi;pm  a  letter  of  one  of  the  ablest  of  our  poet's 
correspondents,  which  contains  some  interest- 
ing' anecdotes  of  Fergusson.  The  writer  is 
mistaken  in  supposing  the  magistrates  of  Ed- 
inburgh had  any  share  in  the  transaction 
respecting  the  monument  erected  for  Fergus- 
son  ,by  our  bard ;  this,  it  is  evident,  passed 
between  Burns  and  the  Kirk-Session  of  the 
Canongate.  Neither  at  Edinburgh,  nor  any- 
where else,  do  magistrates  usually  trouble 
themselves  to  inquire  how  the  house  of  a  poor 
poet  is  furnished,  or  how  his  grave  is 
.adorned."  _ 


alterations  in  what  I  before  had 
printed,  I  have  the  advice  of  some 
very  judicious  friends  among  the  lit- 
erati here,  but  with  them  I  sometimes 
find  it  necessary  to  claim  the  privilege 
of  thinlcing  for  myself.  The  noble 
Earl  of  Glencairn,  to  whom  I  owe 
more  than  to  any  man,  does  me  the 
honour  of  giving  me  his  strictures;  his 
hints  with  respect  to  impropriety  or 
indelicacy  I  follow  implicitly. 

You  kindly  interest  yourself  in  my 
future  views  and  prospects,  there  j 
can  give  you  no  light.     It  is  all 

"  Dark  as  was  Chaos  ere  the  infant  sun 
WasroU'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound." 

The  appellation  of  a  Scottish  bard  ^ 
by  far  my  highest  pride;  to  continue 
to  deserve  it  is  my  most  exalted  am- 
bition. Scottish  scenes  and  Scottish 
story  are  the  themes  I  could  wish  to 
sing.  I  have  no  dearer  aim  than  to 
have  it  in  my  power,  unplagued  with 
the  routine  of  business,  for  which 
Heaven  knows  I  am  unfit  enough,  to 
make  leisurely  pilgrimages  through 
Caledonia;  to  sit  on  the  fields  of  her 
battles;  to  wander  on  the  romantic 
banks  of  her  rivers;  and  to  muse  by 
th'S  stately  towers  or  venera/ble  ruins, 
once  the  honoured  abodes  of  her  heroes. 
.  But  these  are  all  Utopian  thoughts: 
I  have  dallied  long  enough  with  life; 
'tis  time  to  be  in  earnest.  I  have  a 
fond,  an  aged  mother  to  care  for:  and 
some  other  bosom  ties  perhaps  equally 
tender.  Where  the  individual  only 
suffers  by  the  consequences  of  his  own 
thoughtlessness,  indolence,  or  folly, 
he  may  be  excusable;  nay,  shining 
abilities,  and  some  of  the  nobler  vir- 
tues, may  half  sanctify  a  heedless 
character;  but  where  God  and  nature 
have  intrusted  the  welfare  of  otheris 
to  his  care;  where  the  trust  is  sacred, 
and  the  ties  are  dear,  that  man  must 
be  far  gone  in  selfishness,  or  strange^ 
lost  to  reflection,  whom  these  con- 
nexions will  not  rouse  to  exertion. 

I  guess  that  I  shall  clear  between 
two  and  three  hundred  pounds  by  my 
authorship  I*   with  that  sum  I  intend, 

*  The  clear  profit  realised  has  been  assum^ 
to  be  seven  hundred  pounds.  ;. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


373 


so  far  as  I  may  be  said  to  have  any  in- 
tention, to  return  to  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, the  plough,  aridj  if  I  can  meet 
with  a  lease,  by  which  I  can  live,  to 
commence  farmer.  I  do  not  intend  to 
^ve  up  poetry;  being  bred  to  labour, 
secures  me  independence,  and  the 
Muses  are  my  chief,  sometimes  have 
been  my  only,  enjoyment.  If  my 
practice  second  my  resolution,  I  shall 
have  principally  at  heart  the  serious 
business  of  life ;  but  while  following 
my  plough,  or  building  up  my  shocks, 
I  shall  cast  a  leisure  glance  to  that 
dear,  that  only  feature  of  my  charac- 
ter, which  gave  me  the  notice  of  my 
country,  and  the  patronage  of  a  Wal- 
lace. 

Thus,  honoured  madam,  I  have 
given  you  the  bard,  his  situation,  and 
his  views,  native  as  they  are  in  his 
own  bosom.  R.  B. 


No.  LVI. 
TO    THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  April  13,  1787. 

Madam, — There  is  an  affectation  of 
» gratitude  which  I  dislike.  •  The 
periods  of  Johnson  and  the  pauses  of 
Sterne  may  hide  a  selfish  heart.  For 
my  part,  madam,  I  trust  I  have  too 
much  pride  for  servility,  and  too  little 
prudence  for  selfishness.  I  have  this 
moment  broken  open  your  letter,  but 

"Rude  am  I  in  speech, 
.    And  therefore  little  can  I  grace  my  cause 
>-  In  speaking  for  myself ;" 

sol  shall  not  trouble  you  with  any 
fine  speeches  and  hunted  figures.  I 
shall  just  lay  my  hand  on  my  heart 
and  say,  I  hope  I  shall  ever  have  the 
truest,  the  warmest  sense  of  your 
goodness. 

I  come  abroad  in  print  for  certain  on 
Wednesday.  Your  orders  I  shall 
punctually  attend  to;  only  by  the  way, 
I  must  tell  you  that  I  was  paid  before 
for  Dr.  Moore's  and  Miss  Williams' 
copies,  through  the  medium  of  Com- 
missioner Cochrane  in  this  place,  but 
that  we  can  settle  when  I  have  the 
honour  of  waiting  ou  you. 


Dr.  Smith*  was  just  gone  to  Lon- 
don the  morning  before  I  received 
your  letter  to  him. 

R.  B. 


No.  LVIL 

TO   DR.    MOORE. 

Edinburgh,  April  23,  1787. 

I  RECEIVED  the  books,  and  sent  the 
one  you  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  I 
am  ill  skilled  in  beating  the  coverts  of 
imagination  for'  metaphors  of  grati- 
tude. I  thank  you,  sir,  for  the  honour 
yon  have  done  me;  and  to  my  latest 
hour  will  warmly  remember  it.  To 
be  highly  pleased  with  your  book  is 
what  I  am  in  common  with  the  world; 
but  to  regard  these  volumes  as  a 
mark  of  the  author's  friendly  esteem 
is  a  still  more  supreme  gratification. 

I  leave  Edinburgh  in  the  course  of 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight,  and,  after  a 
few  pilgrimages  over  some  of  the 
classic .  ground  of  Caledonia, — Cowden 
Knowes,  Banks  of  Yarrow,  Tweed, 
&c. , —  I  shall  return  to  my  rural 
shades,  in  all  likelihood  never  more  to 
quit  them.  I  have  formed  many  in- 
timacies and  friendships  here,  but  X 
am  afraid  they  are  all  of  too  tender  a 
construction  to  bear  carriage  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles.  To  the  rich, 
the  great,  the  fashionable,  the  polite, 
I  have  no  equivalent  to  offer;  and  I 
am  afraid  my  meteor  appearance  will 
by  no  means  entitle  me  to  a  settled  cor- 
respondence with  any  of  yon,  who  are 
the  permanent  lights  of  genius  and 
literature. 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to 
Miss  Williams.  If  once  this  tangent 
flight  of  sniue  were  over,  and  I  were 
returned  to  my  wonted  leisurely 
ihotiou  in  ray  own  circle,  I  may  prob- 
ably endeavour  to  return  her  poetic 
compliment  in  kind. 

R.  B. 


*  Adam  Smith,  the  distineuished  author  of 
'The  Wealth  of  Nations,"  &c. 


374 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


No.    LVIII. 
TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  April  30,  1787. 

^YouK  criticisms,  madam,  I  un- 
derstand very  well,  and  could  have 
wished  to  have  pleased  you  better. 
You  are  right  in  your  guess  that  I  am 
not  very  amenable  to  counsel.  Poets, 
much  my  superiors,  have  so  flattered 
those  who  possessed  the  adventitious 
qualities  of  wealth  and  power,  that  I 
am  determined  to  flatter  no  created 
being,  either  in  prose  or  verse. 

I  set  as  little  by  princes,  lords, 
clergy,  critics,  &c. ,  as  all  these  respec- 
tive 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,  inadam,  that  some  of 
my  own  favourite  pieces  are  distin- 
guished by  your  particular  approba- 
tion. For  my  "  Dream,"*  which  has 
unfortunately  incurred  your  loyal  dis- 
pleasure, I  hope  in  four  weeks,  or  less 
to  have  the  honour  of  appearing  at 
Dunlop  in  its  defence  in  person. 

R.  B. 


No.  LIX.t 

TO    JAMES    JOHNSON,     EDITOR 

OF  THE  "  SCOTS   MUSICAL 

MUSEUM." 

Lawnmarket,  Friday  Noon,  May  3,  1787. 

Dear  Sm,— I  have  sent  you  a 

song  never  before  known,  for  your 
collection;  the  air  by  Mr.  Gibbon,  but 
I  know  not  the  author  of  the  words, 
as  I  got  it  from  Dr.  Blacklock. 

Farewell,  my  dear  sir  !  I  wished  to 
have  seen  you,  but  I  have  been  dread- 
fully throng,  as  I  march  to-morrow. 
Had  my  acquaintance  with  you  been  a 


*  Tile  well-Icnown  poem,  beginnings,  '^  Guid 
morning  to  your  Majesty,"  (see  p.  84.)  Mrs. 
Dunlop  had  probably'recommended  its  being 
omitted  in  the  second  edition,  on  the  score  of 
prudence. — Cunningham. 

+  This  letter  first  appeared  in  Hogg  and 
Motherwell's  edition  01  the  poet's  worhs; 


little  older,  I  would  have  asked  the 
favour  of  your  correspondence;  as 
I  have  met  with  few  people  whose 
company  and  conversation  gave  me  so 
much  pleasure,  because  I  have  met 
with  few  whose  sentiments  are  so  con- 
genial to  my  own. 

When  Dunbar  and  you  meet,  tell 
him  that  I  left  Edinburgh  with  the 
idea  of  him  hanging  somewhere  about' 
my  heart. 

Keep  the  original  of  this  song  till 
we  meet  again,  whenever  that  may  be. 
R.  B. 


No.  LX. 

TO  THE  REV.  DR.  HUOH  BLAIR, 

Lawnmarket,  Edinburgh,  > 

May  3,  1787,  )    -' 

Reverend  and  much-respected 
Sir, — I  leave  Edinburgh  to-morrow 
morning,  but  could  not  go  without 
troubling  you  with  half  a  line  sincerely 
to  thank  you  for  the  kindness,  patron- 
age, and  friendship  you  have  shown 
me.  I  often  felt  the  embarrassment  of 
my  singular  situation;  drawn  forth 
from  the  veriest  shades  of  life  to  the 
glare  of  remark;  and  honoured  by  the , 
notice  of  those  illustrious  names  of  my 
country  whose  works,  while  they  are 
applauded  to  the  end  of  time,  will  ever 
instruct  and  mend  the  heart.  How- 
ever the  meteor-like  novelty  of  my 
appearance  in  the  world  might  attract 
notice,  and  honour  me  with  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  permanent  lights  of 
genius  and  literature,  those  who  are 
truly  benefactors  of  the  immortal 
nature  of  man,  I  know  very  well  that 
my  utmost  merit  was  far  unequal  to  the 
task  of  preserving  that  character  when 
once  the  novelty  was  over;  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  that  abuse,  or 
almost  even  neglect,  will  not  surprise 
me  in  my  quarters. 

I  have  sent  you  a  proof  impression 
of  Beugo's  work*  for  me,  jdone  on  In- 
dian paper,  as  a  trifling  but  sincere 
testimony  with  what  heart-warm  grati- 
tude 1  am,  &c., 

B.  B. 


>  The  portrait  of  the  poet  after  Nasmyth. 


GENEEAL  COKRESPONDENCE. 


875 


' ,-  No.  LXL 

;'  TO  WILLIAM  CREECH,  ESQ., 
EDINBURGH. 

Selkirk,  May  13,  1787. 

My  honouked  Fbibnd, — The  en- 
closed I  have  just  wrote,  nearly  extem- 
pore, in  a  solitary  inn  in  Selkirk,  after 
a  miserable  wet  day's  riding.  I  Lave 
been  over  most  of  East  Lothian,  Ber- 
wick, Roxburgh,  and  Selkirk  shires; 
and  next  week  I  begin  a  tour  through 
tlie  north  of  England.  Yesterday  I 
dined  with  Lady  Harriet,  sister  to  my 
noble  patron,*  Qiiem  Deus  consenet ! 
I  would  write  till  I  would  tire  you  as 
much  with  dull  prose,  as  I  daresay  by 
this  time  you  are  with  wretched  verse, 
but  I  am  jaded  to  death;  so,  with  a 
grateful  farewell,  I  have  the  honour  to 
be,,  good  sir,  yours  sincerely. 

R.  B. 
Auld  chuckie-Reekie's  t  sair  distrest, 
Dosvn  droops  her  ance  weel  burnish'd  crest, 
^ae  joy  her  bonaie  buskit  nest 

Can  yield  ava ; 
Her  darling  bird  that  she  lo'es  best, 

Willie's  awa. 


No.  Lxn. 
TO   MR.  PATISON,  BOOKSELLER, 
PAISLEY. 
Berrywell,  near  Dunse,  May  17, 1787. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  am  sorry  I  was  out  of 
1  J!dinburgh,  malting  a  slight  pilgrimage 
^to  the  classic  scenes  of  this  counti-y, 
when  I  was  favoured  with  yours  of  the 
11th  instant,  enclosing  an  order  of  the 
Paisley  Banking  Company  on  the  Royal 
'Bank,  for  twenty-two  pounds  seven 
shillings  sterling,  payment  in  full, 
after  carriage  deducted,  for  ninety 
copies  of  my  book  I  sent  you.  Accord- 
ing to  your  motions,  I  see  you  will  have 
left  Scotland  before  this  reaches  you, 
Otherwise  I  would  send  you  "Holy 
Willie"  with  all  my  heart.  I  was  so 
hurried  that  I  absolutely  forgot  several 
things  I  ought  to  have  minded,  among 


*  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn. 
+  Edinburgh. 


the  rest,  sending  books  to  Mr.  Cowan; 
but  any  order  of  yours  will  be  answerecl 
at  Creech's  shop.  You  will  please  re- 
member that  non -subscribers  pay  six 
shillings;  this  is  Creech's  profit;  but 
those  who  have  subscribed,  though 
their  names  have  been  neglected  in  the 
printed  list,  which  is  very  incorrect, 
they  are  supplied  at  the  subscription 
price. 

I  was  not  at  Glasgow,  nor  do  I  in- 
tend for  London;  and  I  think  Mrs. 
Fame  is  very  idle  to  tell  so  many  lies 
on  a  poor  poet.  When  you  or  Mr. 
Cowan  write  for  copies,  if  you  should 
want  any,  direct  to  Mr.  Hill,  at  Mr. 
Creech's  shop,  and  I  write  to  Mr.  Hill 
by  this  post,  to  answer  either  of  your 
orders.  Hill  is  Mr.  Creech's  first  clerk, 
and  Creech  himself  is  presently  in 
London.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure,  against  your  return  to  Pais- 
ley, of  assuring  you  how  much  I  am, 
dear  sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  LXIIL 

TO  MR.  W.  NICOL,*  MASTER  OP 
THE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  EDIN- 
BURGH. 

Carlisle,  June  i,  1787. 

Kind,  honbst-heabted  WnxiE, — 
I'm  sitten  doun  here,  after  seven-and- 
f orty  miles'  ridin',  e'en  as  forjesket  and 
fomiaw'd  as  a  forfochten  cock,  to  gie 
ye  some  notion  o'  my  land-lo^per-like 
stravagin  sin  the  sorrowfu'  hour  that  I 
sheuk  hands  and  parted  wi'  Auld 
Reekie. 

My  auld,  ga'd  gleyde  o'  a  meere  has 
huchyall'd  up  hill  and  doun  brae,  in 
Scotland  and  England,  as  teugh  and 


*  Mr.  W.  Nicol  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
Burns',  and  one  of  the  masters  of  the  High 
School.  He  accompanied  him  in  his  tour 
through  the  Highlands,  and  proved  himself 
somewhat  troublesome  as  a  travelling  com- 
panion, compelling  the  poet  a^ain  and  again 
to  go  and  come  as  he  listed.  He  was  fond  of 
good  company,  and  good  eating  and  drink- 
ing, and  died  prematurely  In  1797. 


370 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


bimie  as  a  vera  devil  wi'  me.*  ,  It's 
true,  she's  as  poor's  a  saug-maker  aud 
as  hard's  a  kirk,  and  tipper-taipers 
vriien  she  taks  the  gate,  first  like  a 
lady's  gentlewoman  in  a  minuwae,  or 
a  hen  on  a  het  girdle;  but  she's  a  yanld, 
poutherie  giriau  for  a'  that,  and  has  a 
stomach  like  Willie  Stalker's  meere 
that  wad  hae  digested  tumbler-wheels, 
for  she'll  whip  me  afE  her  five  stim- 
parts  o'  the  best  aits  at  a  doun-sittin' 
and  ne'er  fash  her  thumb.  When  ance 
her  ringbanes  and  spavies,  her  crucks 
and  cramps,  are  fairly  soupl'd  she 
beets  to,  beets  to,  and  aye  the  hind- 
most hour  the  tightest.  I  could  wager 
her  price  to  a  thretty  pennies,  that  for 
twa  or  three  ooks'  ridin'  at  fifty  mile  a 
day,  the  deil-sticket  a  five  gallopers 
acqueesh  Clyde  and  Whithorn  could 
cast  saut  on  her  tail. 

I  hae  dander'd  owre  a'  tlie  kintra  frae 
I>umbar  to  Selcraig,  and  hae  for- 
gather'd  wi'  mony  a  ^uid  fallow,  and 
monie  a  weelfaur'd  hizzie.  I  met  wi' 
twa  dink  queynes  in  particular,  ane  o' 
them  a  sonsie,  fine,  fodgel  lass,  baith 
braw  and  bonnie;  the  tither  was  a 
clean-shankit,  straught,  tight,  weel- 
far'd  winch,  as  blithe's  a  lintwhite  on 
a  flowrie  thorn,  aud  as  sweet  and 
modest's  a,  new-blawn  plumrose  in  n 
hazle  shaw.  They  were  baith  bred  to 
mainers  by  the  beuk,  and  onie  ane  o' 
them  had  as  muckle  smeddum  and 
rumblegumption  as  the  half  o'  some 
presbytries  that  you  and  I  baith  ken. 
'They  play'd  me  sic  a  deevil  o'  a  sha- 
vie  that  I  daur  say.  if  my  harigals  were 
turned  out,  ye  wad  see  twa  nicks  i'  the 
heart  o'  me  like  the  mark  o'  a  kail- 
whittle  in  a  castock. 

I  was  gaun  to  write  you  a  lang  pystle, 
but,  Gude  forgie'me,  I  gat  mysel  sae 
noutouriously  bitchify'd  the  day,  after 
kail-time,  that  lean  hardly  stoiter  but 
and  ben. 

My  best  respecks  to  the  guidwife  and 
a'  our  common  friens,    especiall  Mr. 

*  This  mare  was  the  poet's  favourite  Jenny 
Geddes.  "  She  was  named  by  him,"  says 
Cromelc,  "after  the  old  woman  who,  in  her 
zeal  against  religious  innovation,  threw  a 
stool  at  the  Dean,  of  Edinburgh's  head  when 
he  attempted,  in  1637,  to  introduce  the  Scot- 
tish I.iturgy." 


and  Mrs.  Cruikshank.  and  the  honest 
guidman  o'  Jock's  Lodge. 

I'll  be  in  Dumfries  the  morn  gif  the 
beast  be  to  the  fore,  and  the  branks  bide 
hale.    Gude  be  wi'  you,  Willie!  Amen! 

E.  B. 


No.  LXIV. 

TO  MR.  JAMES  SMITH,  AT  MIL;' 
LER  AND  SMITH'S  OFFICE,  LIN- 
LITHGOW. 

Mauchline  June  n,  1787.J  - 

My  DEAE.  Sir, — I  date  this  from 
Mauchline,  where  I  arrived  on  Fiiday 
evening  last.  I  slept  at  John  Dow's, 
and  called  for  my  daughter;  Mr.  Ham- 
ilton and  family;  your  mother,  sister, 
and  brother;  my  quondam  Eliza,- &c.', 
all — all  well.  If  anything  had  been 
wanting  to  disgust  me  completely  at 
Armour's  family,  their  mean  servile 
compliance  would  have  done  it.  Give 
me  a  spirit  like  my  favourite  hero,  Mil- 
ton's Satan: — 

*'  Hall,  horrors  !  hail. 
Infernal  world  !  and  thou,  profoundest  hell. 
Receive  thy  new  possessor !  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  \iy place  or  timet" 

I  cannot  settle  to  my  mind.  Farm- 
ing— ^tlie  only  thing  of  which  I  know 
anything,  and  Heaven  above  knows 
but  little  do  I  understand  even  of  that 
^I  cannot,  dare  not,  risk  on  farms 
as  they  are.  If  I  do  not  fix,  I  will  go 
for  Jamaica.  Should  I  stay  in  an  nn-. 
settled  state  at  home,  I  would  only 
dissipate  my  little  fortune,  and  ruin 
what  I  intend  shall  compensate  my^^ 
little  ones  for  the  stigma  I  have  brought 
on  their  names.  - 

I  shall  write  you  more  at  large  soon; 
as  this  letter  costs  you  no  postage,  if  it 
be  worth  reading  you  cannot  complain 
of  your  pennyworth.  I  am  ever,  my 
de-ir  sir,  yours,  R.  B. 


No.   LXV. 
TO  MR.  WILLIAM  NICOL. 

Mauchline,  June  18, 1787. 
My     deak    Friend,— I    am    now 
arrived  safe  .in   my   uittive    country. 


GENERAL  COKRESPONDENCE. 


8T? 


after  a  very  agreeable  jaunt,  and  have 
the  pleasure  to  find  all  my  friends 
*ell.  I  breakfasted  with  your  gray- 
Headed,  reverend  friend,  Mr.  Smith; 
and.  was  highly  pleased  both  with  the 
cordial  welcome  he  gave  me,  and  his 
most  excellent  appearance  and  sterling 
good  sense. 

I  have  been  with  Mr.  Miller  at  Dal- 
swinton,  and  am  to  meet  him  again  in 
August.  From  my  views  of  the  land, 
andhis  reception  of  my  hardship,  my 
hopes  in  that  business  are  rather 
mended;  but  still  they  are  but  slen- 
der. 

I  am  quite  charmed  with  Dumfries 
foUis — Mr.  Bumside,  the  clergyman, 
in  particular,  is  a  man  whom  1  shall 
ever  gratefully  remember;  and  his 
wife — Gude  forgie  me  !  I  had  almost 
broke  the  tenth  commandment  on  her 
account.  Simplicity,  elegance,  good 
sense,  sweetness  of  disposition,  good 
humour,  kind  hospitality,  are  the  con- 
stituents of  her  manner  and  heart;  in 
short — but  if  I  say  one  word  more 
about  her,  I  shall  be  directly  in  love 
with  her. 

I  never,  my  friend,  thought  man- 
kind very  capable  of  anything  gener- 
ous; but  the  stateliness  of  the  patri- 
cians in  Edinburgh,  and  the  servility 
of  my  plebeian  brethren  (who  perhaps 
formerly  eyed  me  askance)  since  I  re- 
turned home,  have  nearly  put  me  out 
of  conceit  altogether  ij^ith  my  species. 
I  have  bought  a  pocket  Milton,  which 
I  carry  perpetually  about  with  me,  in 
order  to  study  the  sentiments — the 
dauntless  magnanimity,  the  intrepid, 
unyielding  independence,  the  desper- 
ate daring,  and  noble  defiance  of  hard- 
ship, in  fliat  great  personage  Satan. 
'Tis  true,  I  have  just  now  a  little  cash; 
but  I  am  afraid  the  star  that  hitherto 
has  shed  its  malignant,  purpose-Wast- 
ing' rays  full  in  my  zenith ;  that  nox- 
ious planet,  so  baneful  in  its  influences 
to  the  rhyming  tribe,  I  much  dread  it 
is  not  yet  beneath  my  horizon. — Mis- 
fortune dodges  the  path  of  human  life; 
the  poetic  mind  finds  itself  miserably 
deranged  in,  and  unfit  for,  the  walks 
of  business;  add  to  all,  that  thought- 
less follies  and   harebrained   whiins, 


like  so  many  'ignes  fatui,  eternally 
diverging  from  the  right  line  of  sober 
discretion,  sparkle  witli '  step-bewitch- 
ing blaze  in  the  idly-gazing  eyes  of  tho 
poor  heedless  bard,  till,  pop,  "befalls 
like  Lucifer,  never  to  hope  again." 
God  grant  this  may  be  an  unreal  pic- 
ture with  respect  to  me  !  but  should  it 
not,  I  have  very  little  dependence  on 
mankind.  I  w-ill  close  my  letter  with 
this  tribute  my  heart  bids  me  pay  you' 
— the  many  ties  of  acquaintance  and 
friendship  which  I  have,  or  think  I 
have  in  life,  I  have  felt  along  ,the 
lines,  and,  damn  them,  they  are  al- 
most all  of  them  of  such  frail  contex- 
ture that  I  am  sure  they  would  ijot 
stand  the  breath  of  the  least  adverse 
breeze  of  fortune;  but  from  you,  my 
ever-dear  sir,  I  look  with  confidence 
for  the  apostolic  love  that  shall  wait 
on  me  ' '  through  good  report  and  bad. 
report " — ^the  love  which  Solomon  em- 
phatically says  "is  strong  as  death." 
My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Nicol,  and 
all  the  circle  of  our  common  friends. 

P.  8. — I    shall    be    in    Edinburgh 
about  the  latter  end  of  July. 

R.  B.     . 


No.   LXVL 

TO    LiR.    JAMES     CANDLISH. 
Edinburgh,  1787. 

My  dear  Friend, — If  once  I  were 
gone  from  this  scene  of  hurry  and  dis- 
sipation, I  promise  myself  the  pleasure 
of  that  correspondence  being  renewed 
which  has  been  so  long  broken.  At 
present  I  have  time  for  nothing.  Dis- 
sipation and  business  engross  every 
moment.  I  am  engaged  in  assisting 
an  honest  Scotch  enthusiast,*  a  friend 
of  mine,  wlio  is  an  engraver,  and  has 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  publish  a  col- 
lection of  all  our  songs  set  to  music, 
of  which  the  words  and  music  are 
done  by  Scotsmen.  This,  you  will 
easily  guess,  is  an  undertaking  exactly 
to  my  taste.  I  have  collected,  begged, 
borrowed,  and  stolen  all  the  songs  t 
could  meet  with.    '.'  Pompey's  Ghost," 

*  Johnson,  the  publisher  and  proprietor  of 
the  Musieat  Mttsium, 


S78 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


woras  and  music,  I  beg  from  you  im- 
mediately, to  go  into  fiis  second  num- 
ber— ^tlie  first  is  already  publishea.  I 
sball  show  you  the  first  number  when 
I  see  you  in  Glasgow,  which  will  be 
in  a  fortnight  or  less.  Do  be  so  kind 
as  to  send  me  the  song  in  a  day  or 
two:  you  cannot  imagine  how  much  it 
will  oblige  me. 

Direct  to  me  at  Mr.  W.  Cruik- 
shank's,  St.  James's  Square,  New 
"Town,  Edinburgh. 

E.  B. 


No.    LXVII. 
TO    WILLIAM    NICOL,    ESQ. 

AucHTERTYRE,*  Monday,  June  1787. 

Mt  dear  Sir, — I  find  myself  very 
comfortable  here,  neither  oppressed  by 
ceremony  nor  mortified  by  neglect. 
Lady  Augusta  is  a  most  engaging 
woman,  and  very  happy  in  her  family, 
which  makes  one's  out-goings  and  in- 
comings very  agreeable.  I  called  at 
Mr.  Ramsay's  of  Auchtertyro  [Ochter- 
tyre,  near  Stirling]  as  I  came  up  the 
country,  and  am  so  delighted  with 
him  that  I  shall  certainly  accept  of  his 
invitation  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with 
him  as  I  return.  I  leave  this  place  on 
Wednesday  or  Thursday. 

Make  my  kind  compliments  to  Mr. 
and  Mi's.  Cruikshank,  and  Mrs.  Nicol, 
if  she  is  returned. — I  am  ever,  dear  sir, 
your  deeply-indebted, 

E.  B. 


No.    LXVIIL 

TO  WILLIAM  CEUIKSHANK, 

ST.     JAMES'S     SQUAEB, 

EDINBURGH,  t 

AucHTEBTYRE,  Monday,  June  1787. 

I  HAVE    nothing,  my  dear  sir,   to 
write  to  you,  but  that   I  feel  myself 


,  „  *  The  seat  of  Sir  William  Murray,  Bart. — 
two  miles  from  Crieff. 

t  Burns  resided  with  Cruikshank  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  T787,  in  St.  James'  Square.  The 
*'  dear  little  Jeanle"  of  the  letter  was  the 
*'  Rosebud"  of  his  poem,  p.  no. 


exceedingly  comfortably  situated  in 
this  good  family:  just  notice  enough 
to  make  me  easy,  but  not  to  embar- 
rass me.  I  was  storm-stayed  two 
days  at  the  foot  of  the  Ochil  Hills, 
with  Mr.  Tait  of  Herveyston  and  Mr.; 
Johnston  of  Alva,  but  was  so  well 
pleased  that  I  shall  certainly  spend  a 
day  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon  as  I  re- 
turn. I  leave  this  place  I  suppose  on 
Wednesday,  and  shall  devote  a  day  to 
Mr.  Eamsay  at  Auchtertyre,  near 
Stirling:  a  man  to  whose  worth  I  can-- 
not  do  justice.  My  respectful  kind, 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Cruikshank,  and 
my  dear  little  Jeanie,  and,  if  you  see 
Mr.  Masterton,  please  remember  me  to. 
him — I  am  ever,  my  dear  sir,  &c., 
E.  B. 


No.    LXIX. 
TO    EGBERT    AINSLIE,    ESQ. 

Arrochar,  June  28,  1787. 
Mt  DE.4R  Sir, — I  write  you  this  on 
my  tour  through  a  country  where  sav- 
age streams  tumble  over  savage  moun- 
tains; thinly  over-spread  with  savage 
flocks,  "which  starvingly  support  as 
savage  inhabitants.  My  last  stage 
was  Inverary — to-morrow  night's  stage 
Dumbarton.  I  ought  sooner  to  have 
answered  your  kind  letter,  but  you 
know  I  am  a  man  of  many  sins. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXX. 

TO   MR.  JAMES  SMITH,  AT 

MILLER  AND  SMITH'S  OFFICE, 

LINLITHGOW. 

June  30, 1787,.. 
Mt  dear  Friend, — On  our  rieturh, 
at  a  Highland  gentleman's  hospitable 
mansion,  we  fell  in  with  a  merry 
party,  and  danced  till  the  ladies  left 
us  at  three  in  the  morning.  Our  dan- 
cing was  none  of  the  French  or  Eng- 
lish insipid  formal  movements.  The 
ladies  sang  Scotch  songs  at  intervals 
like  angels;  then  we  flew  at  "  Bab  at 
the      Bowster,"       "  Tullochgorum," 


GENERAL  COREESPONDENCB. 


37a 


"  Locherrocli  Side,"*  &o.,  like  midges 
sporting  in  the  mottie  sun,  or  craws 
prognosticating  a  storm    in    a  liairst 
day.     Wlien  the  dear  lasses  left  us, 
we  ranged   round  the  bowl,   till  the 
good-fellow  hour  of  six ;    except  a  few 
minutes  that  we  went  out  to  pay  our 
devotions  to  the  glorious  lamp  of  day 
peering  over  the  towering  top  of  Ben- 
lomoad.        We     all    kneeled.        Our 
worthy  landlord's  son   held  the  howl, 
each  man  a  full  glass  in  his  hand,  and 
I,  as  priest,  repeated  some'  rhyming 
nonsense:  like  Thomas  the  Rhymer's 
prophecies,  I  suppose. 
;  After  a  small  refreshment    of  the 
gifts  of    Somnus,  we    proceeded     to 
spend   the  day  on    Loclilomond,  and 
reached    Dumbarton  in  the   evening. 
We  dined   at   another   good    fellow's 
house,  and    consequently  pushed  the 
bottle;  when  we  went  out  to  mount  our 
horsp«,  we  found  ourselves  "  no  very 
fou,  but  gayly  yet."      My  two  friends 
and  I  rode  soberly  down  the  loch  side, 
tiU    by  came  a  Highlandman  at  the 
gallop  on  a  tolerably  good  horse,  but 
which   had  never   known  the  orna- 
ments of  iron  or  leather.     We  scorned 
to  be  out  galloped  by  a  Highlandman, 
so  off  we  started,  whip  and  spur.     My 
companions,  though  seemingly  gaily 
mounted,   fell  sadly  astern;   but  my 
old  mare,  Jenny  Geddes,  one  of  the 
Rosinante    family,  strained   past  the 
Highlandman,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts 
with  the  hair  halter.      Just  as  I  was 
passing    him,    Donald    wheeled    his 
horse,  as  if  to  cross  before  me  to  mar 
my  progress,  when    down  came  his 
horse,  and  threw  his  rider's  breekless 
bottom  into  a  dipt  hedge,  and  down 
came  Jenny  Geddes  over  all,  and  my 
hardship  between  her  and  the  High- 
landman's  horse.      Jenny   trode  over 
me  vvith  such  cautious  reverence  that 
matters  were  not  so  bad  as  might  well 
haye   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.      As  for  the 
Test  of  my  acts  and  my  wars,  and  all 
iny  wise  sayings,  and  why  my  mare 
was  called  Jenny  Geddes,  they  shall 


be  recorded,  in  a  few  weeks  hence  at 
Linlithgow,  in  the  chronicles  of  your 
memory. 

E.  B. 


*  Scotch  tunes. 


No.  LXXL 

TO  THE  SAME. 

June,  1787. 

I  HAVE  yet  fixed  on  nothing  with  re- 
spect to  the  serious  business  of  life.  I 
am  just  as  usual — a  rhyming,  mason- 
making,  raking,  aimless,  idle  fellow. 
However,  I  shall  somewhere  have  a 
farm  soon — I  was  going  to  say  a  wife 
too :  but  that  must  never  be  my  blessed 
lot.  I  am  but  a  younger  son  of  the 
house  of  Parnassus;  and,  like  other 
younger  sons  of  great  families,  I  may 
intrigue,  if  I  choose  to  run  all  risks, 
but  must  not  marry. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  almost  ruined  one 
source,  the  principal  one  indeed,  of  my 
former  happiness — that  eternal  pro- 
pensity I  always  had  to  fall  in  love. 
My  heart  no  more  glows  witli  feverish 
rapture.  I  have  no  paradisiacal  even- 
ing interviews,  stolen  from  the  restless 
carea  and  prying  inhabitants  of  this 

weary  world.     I  have  only .     This 

last  is  one  of  your  distant  acquaintan- 
ces, has  a  fine  figure,  elegant  manners, 
and,  ill  the  train  of  some  great  folks 
whom  you  know,  has  seen  the  politest 
quarters  in  Europe.  I  do  like  her 
a  deal;  but  what  piques  me  is  her  con- 
duct at  the  commencement  of  our  ac- 
quaintance.      I  frequently  visited  her 

when  I  was  in ,  and  after  passing 

regularly  the  intermediate  degrees  be- 
tween the  distant  formal  bow  and  the 
familiar  grasp  round  the  waist,  I  ven- 
tured, 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,  constru- 
ing my  words  further,  I  suppose,  than 
even  I  intended,  flew  off  in  a  tangent 
of  female  dignity  and  reserve,  like  a 
mounting  lark  in  an  April  morning; 
and  wrote  me  an  answer  which  meas- 
ured me  out  very  completely  what  an 
immense  way  I  had  to  travel  before  I 
could  reach  the  climate  of  her  favour. 


S83 


BURNS'  WOHKg. 


But  I  am  an  old  liawk  at  tlic  sport, 
and  ivrote  her  such  a  cool,  deliberate, 
prudent  reply,  as  brought  my  bird 
from  her  aerial  towerings,  pop  down 
ftt  my  foot,  like  Corporal  Trim's  hat. 
E.  B. 


No.  LXXII. 
TO  MR.  JOHN  RICHMOND. 

MossGtEL,  July  7, 1787. 

My  dear  Richmond,— I  am  all  im- 
patience to  hear  of  your  fate  since  the 
old  confounder  of  right  and  wrong  has 
turned  you  out  of  place,  by  his  journey 
to  answer  his  indictment  at  the  bar  of 
the  other  world.  He  will  find  the  prac- 
tice of  the  court  so  different  from  the 
practice  in  which  he  has  for  so  many 
years  been  thoroughly  hackneyed,  that 
his  friends,  if  he  had  any  connexions' 
truly  of  that  kind,  which  I  rather 
doubt,  may  well  tremble  for  his  sake. 
His  chicane,  his  left-handed  wisdom, 
which  stood  so  firmly  by  him,  to  such 
good  purpose,  here,  like  other  accom- 
plices in  robbery  and  plunder,  -will, 
now  the  piratical  business  is  blown,  in 
all  probability  turn  king's  evidences, 
and  then  the  devil's  bagpiper  will 
touch  him  off—"  Bundle  and  go  !" 

If  he  has  left  you  any  legacy,  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  all  this ;  if  not,  I  know 
you  will  swear  to  every  word  I  said 
about  him ; 

I  have  lately  been  rambling  over  by 
Dumbarton  and  Inverary,  and  running 
a  drunken  race  on  the  side  of  Loch 
Lomond  with  a  wild  Highlaudman; 
his  horse,  which  had  never  known  the 
ornaments  of  iron  or  leather,  zig-  zag- 
ged  across  before  my  old  spavined 
hunter,  whose  name  is  Jenny  Geddes, 
and  down  came  the  Highlandman, 
horse  and  all,  and  down  came  Jenny 
and  my  hardship;  sol  have  got  such  a 
skinful  of  bruises  and  wounds  that  I 
shall  be  at  least  four  weeks  before  I 
venture  en  my  journey  to  Edinburgh. 

Not  one  new  thing  under  the  sun  has 
happened  in  Mauchline  since  you  left 
it.  -  I  hope  this  will  find  you  as  com- 
fortably situated  as  formerly,  or,  if 
Heaven   pleases,  more  so;  biit,  at  all 


events,  I  trust  you  will  let  me  know, 
of  cour.se,  how  matters  stand  with  you, 
well  or  ill.  'Tis  but  poor  consolation 
to  tell  the  world  when  matters  go 
wrong;  but  you  know  very  well  youi 
connexion  and  mine  stands  on  a  differ- 
ent footing.  I  am  ever,  my  dear 
friend,  yottrs,  E.B. 


No.  LXXHL 
TO  ROBERT   AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

Mauchline,  July  1787. 

Mt  deak  Sir, — My  life,  since  I  saw 
you  last,  has  been  one  continued 
hurry;  that  savage  hospitality  which 
knocks  a  man  down  with  strong 
liquors  is  the  devil.  I  have  a  sore  war- 
fare in  this  world;  the  devil,  the  world 
and  the  flesh  are  three  formidable 
foes.  The  first  I  generally  try  to  fly 
from;  the  second,  alas  !  generally  flies 
from  me;  but  the  third  is  my  plague, 
worse  tlian  the  ten  plagues  of  Egypt. 

I  have  been  looking  over  several 
farms  in  this  country;  one  in  particu- 
lar, in  Nithsdale,  pleased  me  so  well 
that,  if  my  offer  to  the  proprietor  is  ac- 
cepted, I  shall  commence  farmer  at 
Whitsunday.  If  farming  do  not  ap- 
pear eligible,  I  shall  have  recourse  to 
my  other  shift;*  but  this  to  a  friend.    - 

I  set  out  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday 
morning,  how  long  I  stay  there  is  un- 
certain, but  you  will  know  so  soon  as  I 
can  inform  you  myself.  However  I 
determine,  poesy  must  be  laid  aside 
for  some  time;  my  mind  has  been 
vitiated  with  idleness,  and  it  will  take 
a  good  deal  of  effoi-t  to  habituate  it  to 
the  routine  of  business.  I  am,  my 
dear  sir,  yours  sincerely,  R.  B.     ; 


No.  LXXIV. 
TO   DR.  MOORE. 

Mauchline,  Aug.  :<,  1787.    _ 

Sir, — For  some  months  past,  1  have' 

been  rambling  over  the  country,  but  I 

am  now  confined  with  some  lingering' 

*  The  Excise. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


881 


"Complaints,  originatiug,  as  I  take  it, 
jnitlie  stomach.  To  divert  my  spirits 
a  little  in  this  miserable  fog  of  ennui, 
I  have  taken  a  whim  to  give  you  a 
■history  of  myself.  My  name  has  made 
some  little  noise  in  this  country;  you 
have  done  me  the  honour  to  interest 
yourself  very  warmly  in  my  behalf; 
and  1  think  a  faithful  account  of  what 
character  of  a  man  I  am,  and  how  1 
came  by  that  character,  may  perhaps 
amuse  you  in  an  idle  moment.  I  will 
give  you  an  honest  narrative,  though  1 
know  it  will  be  often  at  my  own  ex- 
pense; for  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  have, 
like  Solomon,  whose  character,  ex- 
cepting in  the  trifling  affair  of  wisdom, 
I  soihetimes  think  I  resemble — I  have, 
I  say,  like  him  turned  my  eyes  to  be- 
hold madness  and  folly,  and  like  him, 
too,  frequently  shaken  hands  with 
their 'intoxiwrting  friendship.  After 
yoit  have'pernsed  these  pages,  should 
you  think  them  trifling  and  imperti- 
nent, I  only  beg  leave  to  tell  you  that 
the  poor  author  wrote  them  under 
some  twitching  qualms  of  conscience, 
arising  from  a  suspicion  that  he  was 
doing  what  he  ought  not  to  do;  a 
predicament  he  has  more  than  once 
been  in  before.* 


No.  LXXV. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  JUN. , 

BERRYWELL,  DUNSE. 

Edinburgh,  Aug.  23,  1787. 

"  As  f  ^aed  up  to  Dunse, 
To  warp  a  pickle  yarn, 
Robin,  silly  body. 
He  gat  rae  wi'  bairn." 

From  henceforth,  my  dear  sir,  I  am 
detfermined  to  set  off  with  my  letters 
lilce  the  periodical  writers — viz. ,  pre- 
fix a  kind  of  text,  quoted  from  some 
classic  of  undoubted  authority,  such 
as  t'le  author  of  the  immortal  piece  of 
which  my  text  is  a  part.  What  I 
have  to  say  on  my  text  is  exhausted 
in  chatter  I  wrote  you  the  other  day, 
before  I  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving 

*  The  remaining  portion  of  this  letter,  con- 
taining the  poet's  autobiographical  sketch, 
will  be  fouod  in  the  Memoir. 


yours  from  Inverleithing;  and  sure 
never  was  anything  more  lucky,  as  I 
have  but  the  time  to  write  tliis,  that 
Mr.  Nicol  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table  takes  to  correct  a  proof  sheet  of 
a  thesis.  They  are  gabbling  Latin  so 
loud  that  1  cannot  hear  what  my  own 
soul  is  saying  in  my  own  skull,  so 
must  just  give  you  a  matter-of-fact 
sentence  or  two,  and  end,  if  time  per- 
mit, with  a  verse  de  rei  generatione. 

To-morrow  1  leave  Edinburgh  in  a 
chaise:  Nicol  thinks  it  more  comfort- 
able than  hor.seback,  to  which  I  say 
Ameri;  so  Jenny  Geddes  goes  home  to 
Ayrshire,  to  use  a  phrase  of  my 
mother's,  "  wi'  her  finger  in  her 
mouth." 

Now  for  a  modest  verse  of  classical 
authority : — 

The  cats  like  kitchen, 
The  dogs  like  broo, 
The  lasses  like  the  lads  weel, 
And  the  auld  wives  too. 

CHORUS. 

And  we're  a'  noddin, 
Nid,  nid,  noddin, 
We're  a'  noddin  fou  at  'e'en.* 

If  this  does  not  please  you,  let  me 
hear  from  you :  if  you  write  any  time 
before  the  first  of  September,  direct 
to  Inverness,  to  be  left  at  the  post- 
ofiice  till  called  for;  the  next  week  at 
Aberdeen;  the  next  at  Edinburgh. 

The  sheet  is  done,  and  I  shall  just 
conclude  with  assuring  you  that  I  am, 
and  ever  with  pride  shall  be,  my  dear 
sir,  yours,  &c. , 

Robert  Burns. 

Call  your  boy  what  you  think  pro^ 
per,  only  interject  Burns.  What  do 
you  say  to  a  scripture  name;  for  in- 
stance, Zimri  Burns  Ainslie,  or  Ahith- 
ophel,  &c.  Look  your  Bible  for  these 
two  heroes — if  you  do  this,  I  will  re- 
pay the  compliment. 


No.  LXXVL 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  MUIR. 

Stirling,  Aug.  26, 1787. 
My  dear  Sir, — I  intended  to  have 
written  you  from  Edinburgh,  and  now 

*  See  song  commencing  *'  Gudc  E'en  to  you, 
Kimmer." 


383 


BURNS'  WOEES. 


write  you  from  Stirling  to  make  an 
excuse.  Here  am  I,  on  my  way  to  In- 
verness, with  a  truly  original,  Ijut 
very  worthy  man,  a  Mr.  Nicol,  one  of 
the  masters  of  the  High  School  in 
Edinburgh.  I  left  Auld  Reekie  yes- 
terday morning,  and  have  passed,  be- 
sides by-excursions,  Linlithgow,  Bor- 
rowstouness,  Falkirk,  and  here  am  I 
undoubtedly.  This  morning  I  knelt 
at  the  tomb  of  Sir  John  the  Graham, 
the  gallant  friend  of  the  immortal 
Wallace;  and  two  hours  ago  I  said  a 
fervent  prayer  for  old  Caledonia  over 
the  hole  in  a  blue  whinstone,  where 
Robert  the  Bruce  fixed  his  royal  stand- 
ard on  the  banks  of  Bannoekburn; 
and  just  now,  from  Stirling  Castle,  I 
have  seen  by  the  setting  sun,  the  glor- 
ious prospect  of  the  windings  of  Forth 
through  the  rich  carse  of  Stirling, 
and  skirting  the  equally  rich  carse  of 
Falkirk.  Tlie  crops  are  very  strong, 
but  so  very  late  that  there  is  no  har- 
vest, except  a  ridge  or  two  perhaps  in 
ten  miles,  all  the  way  I  have  travelled 
from  Edinburgh. 

I  left  Andrew  Bruce*  and  family  all 
well. — I  will  be  at  least  three  weeks 
in  making  my  tour,  as  I  shall  return 
by  the  coast,  and  have  many  people  to 
call  for. 

My  best  compliments  to  Charles,  our 
dear  kinsman  and  fellow-saint;  and 
Messrs.  W.  and  H.  Parkers.  1  hope 
Hughoc-|-  is  going  on  and  prospering 
with  God  and  Miss  M'Causlin. 

If  I  could  think  on  anything 
sprightly,  I  should  let  you  hear  every 
other  post;  but  a  dull,  matter-of-fact 
business  like  this  scrawl,  the  less  and 
seldomer  one  writes  the  better. 

Among  other  matters-of-fact  I  shall 
add  this,  that  I  am  and  ever  shall  be, 
my  dear  sir,  your  obliged,         R.  B. 


No.    LXXVII. 
TO    GAVIN   HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

Stirling,  Aug;,  28,  17S7. 
My  DEAR  Sin,-.— Here  I  am   on  my 
way  to   Inverness.      I  have   rambled 


*  An  Edinburgh  friend. 

+  Mr.  Hugh  Parker,  just  mentioned. 


over  the  rich,  fertile  carses  of  Falkirk  1 
and  Stirling,  and  am   delighted  with " 
their  appearance :  richly  waving  crops 
of  wheat,   barley,  &c. ,  but  no  harvest  - 
at  all  yet,  except,  in  one  or  two  places, 
an  old- wife's  ridge.     Yesterday  morn- 
ing I  rode  from  this  town  up  the  me- 
andering Devon's  banks,  to  pay  my  re-.  -' 
spects  to  some  Ayrshire  folks  at  Har^  ^ 
vieston.     After  breakfast,  we  made  a. 
party  to  go  and  see  the  famous  Cau- 
drou   Linn,  a  remarkable  cascade  in  ' 
the    Devon,   about  five    miles   above 
Harvieston;    and,  after  spending  on,e 
of  the  most  pleasant  days  I  ever  had 
in  my  life,  I  returned  to  Stirling  in- 1 
the  evening.      They  are  a  family,  sir,  ' 
though  I  had  not  had  any  prior  tie-^ 
though  they  had  not  been  the  brother  " 
and  sisters  of  a  certain  generous  friend^' 
of  mine — I  would  never  forget  them. 
I  am  told  you  have   not   seen  them 
these  several  years,  so  you  can  have! 
very  little'  idea  of  what  these  young 
folks  are  now.     Your  brother  is  as  tall 
as  you  are ,  but   slender  rather  than, 
otherwise;  and  I  have  the  satisfaction 
to  inform  you  that  he  is  gettiiig  the 
better  of  those  consumptive  symptoms 
which    I    suppose    you    know    were  ' 
threatening  him. — His  make,  and  par- 
ticularly his  manner,  resemble    you, " 
but  he  vrill  still  have  a  finer  face.     (I- 
put  in  the  word  stiU  to  please  Mrs.  ' 
Hamilton.)     Good  sense,  modesty,  an^ 
at  the  same  time  a  just  idea  of  that  re- 
spect that  man  owes  to  man,  and  has  a- 
right  in  his  return  to  exact,  are  striking ' 
features  in  his  character;   and,  what ' 
with  me  is  the  Alpha  and  theOmega,''^ 
he  has  a  heart  that   might  adorn  the 
breast  of  a  poet!     Grace  has  a  good 
figure,  and  the    look  of   health    and 
cheerfulness,  but  nothing  else  remark- 
able in  her  person.      I  scarcely  ever: 
saw  so   striking  a  likeness  as  is    be- 
tween   you    and     little    Beeuie;    thei- 
mouth  and  chin  particularly.     She  is 
reserved  at  first;  but,  as  we  grewbet-^ 
ter  acquainted,  I  was  delighted  with 
the  native  frankness  of  her  manner, 
and  the  sterling  sense  of  her  observa-- 
tion.     Of  Charlotte  I  cannot  speak  in, 
common  terms  of  admiration:  she  is 
not  only  beautiful,  but  lovely„     Het 


GENERAL  GORBESPONDENCE. 


383, 


form  is  elegant;  lier  features  not  reg- 
ular, but  they  liave  the  smile  of  sweet- 
ness, and  the  settled  complacency  of 
good-nature  in  the  highest  degree: 
and  her  complexion,  now  that  she  has 
happily  recovered  her  wonted  health, 
is  equal  to  Miss  Burnet's.  After  the 
exercise  of  our  riding  to  the  Falls, 
Charlotte  was  exactly  Dr.  Donne's 
mjstress: — 

"  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought 
Tbat  one  would  almost  say  her  body  thought." 

Her  eyes  are  fascinating;  at  once  ex-^ 
pressiveof  good  sense,  tenderness,  and 
a  noble  mind.* 

I  do  not  give  you  all  this  account, 
my  good  sir,  to  flatter  you.  I  mean 
iti  to  reproach  you.  Such  relations 
the  first  peer  in  the  realm  might  own 
with  pride;  then  why  do  you  not  keep 
up  more  correspondence  with  these  so 
amiable  young  folks  ?  I  had  a  thou- 
sand questions  to  answer  about  you.: 
I  had  to  describe  the  little  ones  with 
the  minuteness  of  anatomy.  They 
were  highly  delighted  when  I  told 
them  that  Johnf  was  so  good  a  boy, 
and  so  fine  a  scholar,  and  that  Willie 
was  going  on  still  very  pretty;  but  I 
have  it  in  commission  to  tell  her  from 
them  that  beauty  is  a  poor  silly  bau- 
ble without  she  be  good.  Miss  Chal- 
mers I  had  left  in  Edinburgh,  but  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  with  Mrs. 
Chalmers,  only  Lady  Mackenzie  being 
rather  a  little  alarmingly  ill  of  a  sore 
throat,  somewhat  marred  our  enjoy- 
ment. 

I  shall  not  be  in  Ayrshire  for  four 
weeks. — My  most  respectful  compli- 
ments to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  Miss  Ken- 
n.edy,  and  Doctor  Mackenzie.  I  shall 
probably  write  him  from  some  stage 
or  other. — I  am  ever,  sir,  yours  most 
gratefully, 

R.  B. 


*'Miss  Charlotte  Hamilton  was  celebrated 
by  Burns  in  his  charming  song,  "  The  Banks 
of, the  Devon."  She  became  the  wife  of  Dr. 
Adair,  ■  "physician  in  Harrowgate,  and  has 
been  dead  for  some  years. 

.  +  Son  of  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton— the  "  wee 
curUe  Johnnie"  of  "  The  Dedication." 


No.  LXXVIIL 

TO  MR.  WALKER,  BLAIR  OP 
ATHOLE.* 

Inverness,  Sept.  5, 1787. 

My  dear  Sm,— I  have  just  time  to 
write  the  foregoing,  f  and  to  tell  you 
that  it  was  (at  least  most  part  of  it) 
the  effusion  of  a  half -hour  1  spent  at 
Bruar.  I  do  not  mean  it  was  extem- 
pore, for  I  have  endeavoured  to  brush 
it  up  as  well  as  Mr.  Nicol's  chat  and 
the  jogging  of  the  chaise  would  allow; 
It  eases  my  heart  a  good  deal,  as 
rhyme  is  the  coin  with  which  a  poet 
pays  his  debts  of  honour  or  gratitude. 
What  I  owe  to  the  noble  family  of 
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  Pall  of  Fyers.  I  shall 
never  foi-get  the  fine  family-pi^ce  I 
saw  at'  Blair;  the  amiable,  the  truly 
noble  duchess,  with  her  smiling  little 
seraph  in  her  lap,  at  the  head  of  the 
table:  the  lovely  "olive-plants,"  as 
the  Hebrew  bard  finely  says,  round 
the  Tiappy  mother:  the  beautiful  Mrs^ 

G ;  the  lovely,  sweet  Miss  C , 

&c.  I  wish  I  had  the  powers  of  Guido 
to  do  them  justice  !  My  Lord  Duke's 
kind  hospitality — markedly  kind  in- 
deed; Mr.  Graham  of  Fintray'sl 
charms  of  conversation — Sir  W.  Mur- 
ray's friendship;  in  short,  the  recol- 
lection of  all  that  polite,  agreeable 
company  raises  an  honest  glow  in  my 
bosom.  E.  B. 


No.  LXXIX. 
TO  MR.    GILBERT    BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  17,  1787. 

Mt  dear  Brother, — I  arrived  here 
safe  yesterday  evening,  after  a  tour  of 


*  Mr.  Josiah  Walker,  at  this  time  tutor  in 
the  family  of  the  Duke  of  Athole,  afterwards 
Professor  of  Humanity  in  the  University  of 
Glasgow.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
poet's,  and  wrote  a  life  of  him,  and  edited  an 
edition  of  his  works. 

+  "  The  Humble  Petition  of  Bruar  Water." 
See  p.  108,  •       .     . 


884 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


twenty-two  .days,  and  travelling  near 
six  hundred  miles,  windings.included. 
My  furthest  stretch  was  about  ten 
miles  beyond  Inverness.  I  went 
through  the  heart  of  the  Highlands  by 
Crieff,  Taymouth,  the  famous  seat  of 
Lord  Breadalbane,  down  the  Tay, 
among  cascades  and  Druidical  circles  of 
stones,  to  Dunkeld,  a  seat  of  the  Duke 
of  Athole's;  thence  across  the  Tay, 
and  up  one  of  his  tributary  streams  to 
Blair  of  Athole,  another  of  the  Duke's 
seats,  where  I  had  the  honour  of 
spending  nearly  two  days  with  his 
Grace  and  family;  thence  many  miles 
through  a  wild  country  among  cllfEs 
gray  mth  eternal  snows,  and  gloomy 
savage  glens,  till  I  crossed  the  Spey 
and  went  down  the  stream  through 
Strathspey,  so  famous  in  Scottish 
music;  Badenocli,  &c. ,  till  I  reached 
(Jrant  Castle,  where  I  spent  half  a  day 
with  Sir  James  tfrant  and  family;  and 
then  crossed  the  country  for  Fort 
George,  but  called  by  the  way  at  Caw- 
dor, the  ancient  seat  of  Macbeth; 
there  I  saw  the  identical  bed  in  which 
tradition  says  King  Duncan  was  mur- 
dered: lastly,  from  Fort  George  to  In- 
verness. 

I  returned  by  the  coast,  through 
Nairn,  Forres,  and  so  on,  to  Aberdeen, 
thence  to  Stonehive,*  where  James 
Burness,  from  Montrose,  met  me  by 
appointment.  I  spent  two  days  among 
our  relations,  and  found  our  aunts 
Jean  and  Isabel  still  alive,  and  hale 
old  women.  John  Cairn,  though  born 
the  same  year  with  our  father,  walks 
as  vigourously  as  I  can —  they  have 
had  several  letters  from  his  son  in 
New  York.  William  Brand  is  like- 
wise a  stout  old  fellow;  but  further 
particulars  I  delay  till  I  see  you, 
which  will  be  in  two  or  three  weeks. 
The  rest  of  my  stages  are  not  worth 
rehearsing:  warm  as  I  was  from  Os- 
sian's  country,  where  I  had  seen  his 
very  grave,  what  cared  I  for  fishing- 
towns  or  fertile  carses  ?  I  slept  at  the 
famous  Brodie  of  Brodie's  one  night, 
and  dined  at  Gordon  Castle  next  day, 
with  the  duke,  duchess,  and  family. 


I  am  thinking  to  cause  my  old  mare  to 
meet  me,  by  means  of  -  John  Ronald, 
at  Glasgow;  but  you  shall  hear. fur- 
ther from  me  before  I  leave  Edm- 
burgh.  My  duty  and  many  compli- 
ments from  the  north  to  my  mother; 
and  my  brotherly  compliments  to  the 
rest.  I  have  been  trying  for  a  berth 
for  WiUiam,  but  am  not  likely  to  be 
successful.     Farewell. 

K.  B. 


No.  LXXX. 
TO  MISS  MARGARET  CmVLMERS, 

AFTEBWABDS     MES.     LEWIS     HAY,    OF 


*  Stonehaven. 


EDINBURGH. 

Sept.  a6,  1787. 

I  SEND  Charlotte  the  first  number  of 
the  songs;  I  would  not  wait  for  the 
second  number;  I  hate  delays  in  little 
marks  of  friendship  as  I  hate  dissim- 
ulation in  the  language  of  the  heart. 
I  am  determined  to  pay  Charlotte  a 
poetic  compliment,  if  I  could  hit  on 
some  glorious  old  Scotch  air,  in  the 
second  number.*  You  will  see  a 
small  attempt  on  a  shred  of  paper  in 
the  book;  but  although  Dr.  Blacklock 
commended  it  very  highly,  I  am  not 
just  satisfied  with  it  myself.  I  intend 
to  make  it  a  description  of  some  kind: 
the  whining  cant  of  love,  except  in 
real  passion,  and  by  a  masterly  hand, 
is  trf  me  as  insufferable  as  the  preach- 
ing cant  of  old  Father  Smeaton,  Whig 
minister  at  Kilmaurs.  Darts,  flames, 
Cupids,  loves,  graces,  and  all  that  far- 
rago, are  just  a  Mauchline a  sense- 
less rabble. 

I  got  an  excellent  poetic  epistle  yes- 
ternight from  the  old,  venerable  author 
of  "  Tullochgorum,"  "John  of  Baden- 
yon,"  &c.\  1  suppose  you  know  he  is 
a  clergyman.  It  is  by  far  the  finest 
poetic  compliment  I  ever  got.  I  will 
send  you  a  copy  of  it. 

I  go  on  Thursday  or  Friday  to  Dum- 
fries, to  wait  on  Mr.  Miller  about  his 

*  Of  the  Sco/s  Musical  Museum. 
+  The  Rev.  John  Skinner.  Episcopal  minis, 
ter  at  Longslde,  near  Peterhead. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


383 


farms. — Do  tell  that  to  Lady  Mack- 
enzie, that  she  may  give  me  credit  for 
a  little  wisdom.  "  I,  Wisdom,  dwell 
with  Prudence."  What  a  blessed  fire- 
side ! — How  happy  should  I  be  to  pass 
^'a: Winter  evening  under  their  venerable 
roof  !  and  smoke  a  pipe  of  tobacco, 
or  drink  water-gruel  vrith  them  ! 
'What  solehin,  lengthened,  laughter- 
quashing  gravity  of  phiz  !  What  sage 
remarks  on  the  good-for-nothing  sous 
and  daughters  of  indiscretion  and 
folly !  And  what  frugal  lessons,  as 
we  straitened  tha  fireside  circle,  on  the 
uses  of  the  poker  and  tongs  ! 

*"' Miss  N is  very  well,  and  begs 

to  be  remembered  in  the, old  way  to 
you.  I  used  all  my  eloquence,  all  the 
persuasive  flourishes  of  the  hand,  and 
ll§art-melting  modulation  of  periods 
in  my  power,  to  urge  her  out  of  Har- 
yiestbn,  but  all  in  vain.  My  rhetoric 
seems  quite  to  have  lost  its  effect  on 
tlia  lovely  half  of  mankind — I  have 
teeen  the  day — but  that  is  a  "  tale  of 
other  years." — In  my  conscience  I  be- 
lieve that  my  heart  has  been  so  oft  on 
iflre  that  it  is  absolutely  vitrified.  I 
look  on  the  sex  with  something  like 
the  admiration  with  which  I  regard 
the  starry  sky  in  a  frosty  December 
iriglit.  I  admire  the  beauty  of  the 
Creatoi'i  workmanship;  I  am  charmed 
with  the  wild  but  graceful  eccentricity 
of  their  motions,  and — wish  them 
good  night.  _  I  mean  this  with  respect 
to  a  certain  passion  donl  j' ai  en,  Vlion- 
p,eur  d'itre  un  miserable  esclave:  as 
for  friendship,  you  and  Charlotte  have 
given  me  pleasure,  permanent  pleasure, 
"which  the  world  cannot  give,  nor 
take  away,"  I  hope;  and  which  will 
outlast  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 
'  R.  B. 


No.  LXXXL 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Without  date. 
'I  HATE  been  at  Dumfries,  and  at  one 
•visit  more  shall   be  decided   about  a 
farm  in  that  eountry.       I  am  rather 
iiopekss  in  it;  but  as  my  brother  is  an 


excellent  farmer,  and  is,  besides  an  ex- 
ceedingly prudent,  sober  man,  (quali- 
ties which  are  only  a  younger  brother's 
fortune  in  our  family,)  I  am  determined 
if  my  Dumfries  business  fail  me,  to 
return  into  partnership  with  him,  and 
at  our  leisure  take  another  farm  in  the  " 
neighbourhood. 

I  assure  you  I  look  for  high  compli- 
inents  from  you  and  Charlotte  on  this 
very  sage  instance  of  my  unfathom- 
able, incomprehensible  wisdom.  'I'alk- 
ing  of  Charlotte,  I  must  tell  her  that  I 
have,  to  the  best  of  ray  power,  paid  lier 
a  poetic  compliment,  now  completed. 
The  air  is  admirable :  true  old  High- 
land. It  was  the  tuiie  of  a  Gaelic  song, 
which  an  Inverness  lady  sang  me 
when  I  was  there;  and  I  was  so 
charmed  with  it  tliat  1  begged  her  to 
write  me  a  set  of  it  from  her-  singing.; 
for  it  had  never  been  set  before.  lam 
fixed  that  it  shall  go  in  .Tohnson's  next 
number;  so  Charlotte  and  you  need 
not  spend  your  precious  time  in  con- 
tradicting me.  I  won't  say  the  poetry 
is  first-rate;  though  I  am  convinced  it 
is  very  well;  and,  what  is  not  always 
the  case  with  compliments  to  ladies,  it 
is  not  only  sincere  but  just. 

[Here  follows  the  song  of  "  The 
Banks  of  the  Devon."     See  p.  207.] 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXXII. 

TO    JAMES    HOY,   ESQ.,  GORDON 
CASTLE. 

Edinburgh,  Oct.  20, 1787. 
Sm, — I  vfill  defend  my  conduct  in 
giving  you  this  trouble,  on  the  best  of 
Christian  principle — "  Whatsoever  ye 
would  that  men  should  do  unto  you, 
do  ye  even  so  unto  them."  I  shall 
certainly,  among  my  legacies,  leave 
my  latest  curse  on  that  unlucky  pre- 
dicament which  hurried — tore  me.away 
from  Castle  Gordon.  May  that  obsti- 
nate son  of  Latin  prose  [Nicol]  becirst 
to  Scotch-mile  periods,  and  damned  to 
seven-league  paragraphs;  wliile  declen- 


BUENS'  WORKS. 


sion  and  conjugation,  gender,  number 
and  time,  under  the  ragged  banners  of 
dissonance  and  disarrangement,  eter- 
nally rank  against  him  in  hostile  array. 
Allow  me,  sir,  to  strengthen  the 
small  claim  I  have  to  your  acquaint- 
ance, by  the  following  request.  An 
engraver,  James  Johnson,  in  Edin- 
burgh, has,  not  from  mercenary  views, 
but  from  an  honest  Scotch  enthusiasm, 
set  about  collecting  all  our  native 
songs  and  setting  them  to  music;  par- 
iicularly  those  that  have  never  been 
set  before.  Clarke,  the  well-known 
musician,  presides  over  the  musical 
arrangement,  and  Drs.  Beattie  and 
Blacklock,  Mr.  Tytler  of  Woodhouse- 
).ee,  and  your  humble  servant  to  the 
utmost  of  his,  small  power,  assist  in 
collecting  the  old  poetry,  or  sometimes 
for  a  fine  air  make  a  stanza,  when  it 
has  no  words.  The  brats,  too  tedious 
to  mention,  claim  a  parental  pang 
from  my  hardship.  I  suppose  it  wiU 
Appear  in  Johnson's  second  number — 
the  fiist  was  published  before  my  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  My  request  is 
: — "  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen"  is  one  in- 
tended for  this  number,  and  I  beg  a 
copy  of  his  Grace  of  Gordon's  words  to 
it,  which  you  were  so  kind  as  to  repeat 
to  me.  You  may  be  sure  we  won't 
prefix  tlie  author's  name,  except  you 
lilve,  though  I  look  on  it  as  no  small 
merit  to  this  work  that  the  names  of 
many  of  the'  authors  of  our  old  Scotch 
•songs,  names  almost  forgotten,  will 
"be  inserted.  I  do  not  well  know  where 
to  write  to  you — I  rather  write  at  you ; 
but  if  you  will  be  so  obliging,  immedi- 
ately on  receipt  of  this,  as  to  write  me 
a  few  lines,  I  shall  perhaps  pay  you  in 
kind,  though  not  in  quality.  John- 
son's terms  are:  —  Each  number,  a 
handsome  pocket  volume,  to  consist  at 
least  of  a  hundred  Scotcli.  songs,  with 
basses  for  the  harpsichord,  &c.  The 
price  to  subscribers,  5s;  to  non-s\ib- 
scribera,  6s.  He  will  have  three  num- 
bers, I  conjecture. 

My  direction  for  two  or  three  weeks 
will  be  at  Mr.  William.  Gruilvshank's, 
St.  James'  -Square,  New  Town,  Edin- 
burgh.    I  am,  sir,  yours  to  command, 

E.  B. 


No.  LXXXIII. 
TO  BEV.  JOHN  SKINNER. 

Edinburgh,  Oct.  25  1787. 

Rbvbkend  and  Venekablb  Sm,— . 
Accept  in  plain  dull  prose,  my  most 
sincere  thanks  for  the  best  poetical 
compliment  I  ever  received.  I  assure 
you,  sir,  as  a  poet,  you  have  conjured 
up  an  airy  demon  of  vanity  in  my 
fancy,  which  the  best  abilities  in  your 
other  capacity  would  be  ill  able  to  lay. 
I  regret,  and  while  I  live  1  shall  regret  j 
that,  when  I  was  in  the  north,  I  had 
not  the  pleasure  of  paying  a  younger 
brother's  dutiful  respect  to  the  author 
of  the  best  Scotch  song  ever  Scotland 
saw—'  •  TuUochgorum's  my  delight ! " 
The  world  may  think  slightingly  of  the 
craft  of  song-making,  if  they  please, 
but,  as  Job  says — "  Oh  that  mine  ad- 
versary had  written  a  book  ! "  —  let 
them  try.  There  is  a  certain  some^ 
thing  in  the  old  Scotch  songs,  a  wild 
happiness  of  thought  and  expression, 
which  peculiarly  marks  them,  not  only 
from  English  songs,  but  also  from  the 
modern  efforts  of  song-wrights,  in  our 
native  manner  and  language.  The  only 
remains  of  this  enchantment,  these 
spells  of  the  imagination,  rest  with 
you.  Our  true  brother,  Ross  of  Loch- 
lea,  was  likewise  "owrecannie" — a 
"wild  warlock" — but  now  he  sings 
among  the  "  sons  of  the  morning.  " 

I  have  often  wished,  and  will  cer- 
tainly endeavour,  to  form  a  kind  0* 
common  acquaintance  among  all  the 
genuine  sons  of  Caledonian  song.  The 
world,  busy  in  low  prosaic  pursuits, 
may  overlook  most  of  us;  but  "  rever- 
ence thyself."  The  world  is  not  our 
peers,  so  we  challenge  the  jury.  We 
can  lash  that  world,  and  find  ourselves 
a  very  great  source  of  amusement  and 
happiness    independent  of  that  world. 

There  is  a  work  going  on  in  Edin- 
burgh, just  now,  which  claims  your 
best  assistance.  An  engraver  in  this 
town  has  set  about  collecting  and 
publishing  all  the  Scotch  songs.  With 
the  music,  that  can  be  found.  Songs 
in  the  English  language,  if  by  Scotch- 
men, are  admitted,  but  the  music  must 
all  be  Scotch.     Drs.  Beattie  and  Black- 


QBNER'AL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


387 


lock  are  lending  a  liand,  and  tlie  first 
musician  in  town  presides  over  tliat 
department.  1  have  been  absolutely 
crazed  about  it,  collecting  old  stanzas, 
and  every  information  remaining  re» 
ppecting  their  origin,  authors,  &c. ,  &c. 
This,  last  is  but  a  very  fragment 
business;  but  at  the  end  of  his  second 
number — the  first  is  already  published 
—a  small  account  will  be  given  of  the 
authors,  particularly  to  preserve  those 
of  latter  times.  Your  three  songs, 
"  Tullochgoruni,"  "John  of  Baden- 
yon,"  and  "  The  Ewie  wi'  the  Crookit 
Horn,"  go  in  this  second  number.  I 
was  determined,  before  I  got  your  let- 
ter, to  write  you,  begging  that  you 
would  let  me  know  where  the  editions 
of  these  pieces  may  -be  found,  as  you 
would  wish  them  to  continue  in  future 
times,  and  if  you  would  be  so  kind  to 
this  undertaking  as  send  any  songs,  of 
your  own  or  others,  that  you  would 
think  proper  to  publish,  your  name 
will  be  inserted  among  the  other 
authors,  —  "  Nill  ye,  will  ye."  One 
half  of  Scotland  -already  give  your 
"songs  to  other  authors.  Paper'is  done. 
I  beg  to  hea:r  from  you;  the  sooner  the 
better,  as  I  leave  Edinburgh  in  a  fort- 
night or  three  weeks.  I  am,  with  the 
warmest  sincerity,  sir,  your  obliged 
humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXXIV. 

TO   JAMES    HOY,   ESQ.,  GORDON 
CASTLE. 
Edinburgh,  Nov.  6, 1787. 

Dbab  Sm, — I  would  have  wrote  you 
immediately  on  receipt  of  your  kind 
letter,  but  a  mixed  impulse  of  grati- 
tude and  esteem  whispered  to  me  that 
I  ought  to  send  you  something  by  way 

-  of  return.  When  a  poet  owes  any- 
thing, particularly  when  he  is  indebted 
for  good  offices,    the    payment    that 

-  usually  recurs  to  him — ^the  only  coin 
indeed  in  which  he  is  probably  con- 


versant— is  rhyme.  Johnson  sends 
the  books  by  the  fly,  as  directed,  and 
begs  me  to  enclose  his  most  grateful 
thanks:  my  return  I  intended  should 
have  been  one  or  two  poetic  bagatelles 
which  the  world  have  not  seen,  of, 
perhaps  for  obvious  reasons,  cannot 
see.  These  I  shall  send  you  before  I 
leave  Edinburgh.  They  may  make 
you  laugh  a  little,  which,  on  the  whole, 
is  no  bad  way  of  spending  one's  pre- 
cious hours  and  still  more  precious 
breath:  at  any  rate,  they  will  be, 
though  a  small,  yet  a  very  sincere 
mark  of  my  respectful  esteem  for  a 
gentleman  whose  further  acquaintance 
I  should  look  upon  as  a  peculiar  obli-' 
gation. 

The  duke's  song,  independent  totally 
of  his  dukeship,  charms  me.  There  is 
I  know  not  what  of  wild  happiness  of 
thought  and  expression  peculiarly 
beautiful  in  the  old  Scottish  song 
style,  of  which  his  Grace,  old  vener- 
able Skinner,  the  author  of  "  TuUoch- 
gorum,"  &c.,  and  the  late  Ross,  of 
Lochlea,  of  true  Scottish  poetic  mem- 
ory, are  the  only  modern  instances 
that  I  recollect,  since  Ramsay  with  his 
contemporaries,  and  poor  Bob  Fergus- 
son  went  to  the  wold  of  deathless  rixis- 
tence  and  truly  immortal  song.  The 
mob  of  mankind,  that  many-headed 
beast,  would  laugh,  at  so  serious  a 
speech  about  an  old  song;  but,  as  Job 
says,  "  Oh  that  mine  adversary  had 
written  a  book  !"  Those  who  think 
that  composing  a  Scotch  song  is  a 
trifling  business — let  them  try. 

I  wish  my  Lord  Duke  would  pay  a 
proper  attention  to  the  Christian  ad- 
monition—  "Hide  nob  youT  oandl'e 
under  a  bushel, "  but,  "Let  your  light 
shine  before  men. "  I  could  -  name 
half  a  dozen  dukes  that  I  guess  are 
a  devilish  deal  worse  employed;  nay, 
I  question  if  there  are  half  a  -'jiozen 
better:  perhaps  there  are  not  half  that 
scanty  number  whom  Heaven  has 
favoured  with  the  tuneful,  happy, 
and,  I  will  say,  glorious  gift. — I  am, 
dear  sir,  your  obliged  humble  servant. 

R.  B. 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


No.   LXXXV. 

TO    MISS    M N.* 

Saturday  Noon,  No.  2  St.  Jame.s*  Square,  I 
New  Town,  EDmBURGH,  Nov.  1787.         ) 

Here  have  I  sat,  my  dear  madam, 
in  the  stony  altitude  of  perplexed 
study  for  fifteen  vexatious  minutes, 
my  liead  askew,  bending  over  tlie 
intended  card;  my  fixed  eye  insensible 
to  tlie  very  liglit  of  day  poured  around; 
my  pendulous  goose-feather,  loaded 
with  inli,  hanging  over  the  future 
letter,  all  for  the  important  purpose 
of  writing  a,  complimentary  card  to 
nceonipany  your  trinket. 

Compliment  is  such  a  miserable 
Greenland  expression,  lies  at  such 
a  chilly  polar  distance  from  the  torrid 
zone  of  my  constitution  that  I  cannot, 
for  the  very  soul  of  me,  use  it  to  any 
person  for  whom  I  have  the  twentieth 
part  of  the  esteem  every  one  must 
have  for  you  who  knows  you. 

As  1  leave  town  in  three  or  four 
days,  I  can  give  myself  the  pleasure 
of  calling  on  you  only  for  a  minute. 
Tuesday  evening,  some  time  about 
seven  or  after,  I  shall  wait  on  you  for 
your  fare,well  commands. 

The  hinge  of  your  box  I  put  into 
the  hands  of  the  proper  connoisseur; 
but  .it  is,  lilie  Willy  Gaw's  Skate, 
past  redemption.  The  broken  glass 
likewise  went  under  review;  but 
deliberative  wisdom  thought  it  would 
too  much  endanger  the  whole  fabric. — 
I  am,  dear  madam,  with  all  the  sin- 
cerity of  enthusiasm,  your  very 
obedient  servant, 

R.   B. 


'  *  Inquiries  concerning  the  name  of  this  lady 
have  been  niade  in'vain.  The  communication 
appeared,  for  the  first  time,  in  Burns'  Letters 
to  Clarinda.  The  import  of  those  celebrated 
'  letters  has  been  much  misrepresented  :  they 
:  are  sentimental  flirtations  chiefly— a  sort  of 
Corydon-and-Phylis  affair,  with  here  and 
there  passages  over-warm,  and- expressions 
too  graphic,  such  as  all  had  to  endure  who 
were  honoured  with  the  correspondence  of 

^UmS.T-CuNNINGHAM. 


No.   LXXXVI. 
TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

•  Edinburgh,  Nov.  ai,  1787-. 

I  HAVE  one  vexatious  fault  to  the 
kindly  welcome,  well-filled  sheet 
which  I  owe  to  your  and  Charlotte's* 
goodness — it  contains  too  much  sense, 
sentiment,  and  good  spelling.  It  is 
impossible  that  even  you  two,  whom  I 
declare  to  my  God  I  wUl  give  credit 
for  any  degree  of  excellence  the  sex 
are  capable  of  attaining,  it  is  impossi- 
ble you  can  go  on  to  correspond  at  that 
rate;  so,  like  those  who,  Shenstone 
says,  retire  because  they  have  made  a 
good  speech,  I  shall,  after  a  few 
letters,  hear  no  more  of  you.  I  insist 
that  you  shall  write  whatever  comes 
first:  what  you  see,  what  you  readj 
what  you  hear,  what  you  admirSi 
what  you  dislike,  trifles,  bagatelles, 
nonsense;  or  to  fill  up  a  corner,  e'en 
put  down  a  laugh  at  full  length. 
Now  none  of  your  polite  hints  about 
flattery :  I  leave  that  to  your  lovers,  it 
you  have  or  shall  have  any;  thouglC,, 
thank  Heaven,  I  have  found  at  last 
two  girls  who  can  be  luxuriantly 
happy  in  their  own  minds  and  with 
one  another,  without  tliat  commonly 
necessary  appendage  to  female  bliss— 

A  LOVEU. 

Charlotte  and  you  are  just  two 
favourite  resting-places  for  my  soul 
in  her  wanderings  through  the  weary, 
thorny  wilderness  of  this  world.  God 
knows  I  am  ill  fitted  for  the  struggle: 
I  glory  in  being  a  poet,  and  I  want  to 
be  thought  u,  wise  man — I  would 
fondly  be  generous,  and  I  wish  to  be 
rich.  After  all,  I  am  afraid  I  am  a 
lost  subject.  "  Some  folk  hae  a 
hantle  o'  fauts,  an'  I'm  but  a  ne'er-do- 
weel." 

Afternoon — To  close  the  melancholy 
reflections  at  the  end  of  last  sheet,  I 
shall  just  add  a  piece  of  devotion  com^ 

*  Miss  Hamilton. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


389r 


monly  known  in  Carrick  by  the  title 
of  the  "  Wabster'^grace:" — • 

"  Some  say  we're  thieves,  and  e'en  say  are 
we  ; 
So'me  say  we  lie,  and  e'en  say  do  we  ! 
-  Gude  forgig  us,  and  I  hope  sae  will  He  ! 
'       Up  and  to  your  looms,  lads." 

R.  B. 


No.    LXXXVII. 

TO    MR.     ROBERT    AINSLIE, 

EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh,  Sunday  Morning,  I 
Nov.  23,  1787.  J 

I  BEG,  my  dear  sir,  you  would  not 
make  any  appointment  to  take  ils  to 
Mr,:  Ainslie's  to-night.  On  looking 
oyer  my  engagements,  constitutioi*, 
present  state,  of  health,  some  little 
vexatious  soul  concerns,  &c.,  I  find  I 
can't  sup  abroad  to-night.  I  shall  be 
in  to-day  till  one  o'clock  if  you  have  a 
leisure  hour. 

You  will  think  it  romantic  when  I 
^11  you  that  I  find  the  idea  of  your 
friendship  almost  necessary  to  my  ex- 
iateuce. — ^You  assume  a  proper  length 
qf  face  in  my  bitter  hours  of  blue- 
devilism,  and  you  laugh  fully  up  to 
my  highest  wishes  at  my  good  things. 
— I  don't  know,  upon  the  whole,  if 
you  are  one  of  the  first  fellows  in 
God's  world,  but  you  are  so  to  me.  I 
tell  you  this  just  now  in  the  convic- 
tion that  some  inequalities  in  my 
temper  and  manner  may  perhaps 
sometimes  make  you  suspect  that  1  am 
not  so  warmly  as  I  ought  to  be  your 
friend. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXXViri. 

TO  ROBERT   AINSLIE. 

Mauchune,  1787. 

Mt  peak  Ainslie, —  There  is  one 
iliing  for  which  I  set  great  store  by 
you.  as  a  friend,  and  it  is  this :  I  have 
not  a  friend  upon  earth,  besides  your- 
self, to  whom  I  can  talk  nonsense 
without   forfeiting     some    degree    of 


esteem.  Now,  to  one  like  me,  who'' 
never  weighs  what  he  says,  such  a, 
friend  is  a  valuable  treasure.  I  was 
never  a  knave,  but  I  have  been  a  fool 
all  my  life,  and  in  spite  of  all  my  en- 
deavours, I  see  now  plainly  that  I 
shall  never  be  wise.  Now  it  rejoices- 
my  heart  to  have  met  with  such  a  fel- 
low as  you,  who,  though  you  are  not 
just  such  *  hopeless  fool  as  I,  yet  I 
trust  you  will  never  listen  so  much  to 
the  temptation  of  the  devil,  as  to  grow 
so  very  wise  that  you  will  in  the  least ' 
disrespect  an  horjest  fellow,  because 
he  is  a  fool.  In  short,  I  have  set  you  ■ 
down  as  the  staff  of  my  old  age,  when 
the  whole  host  of  my  friends  will, 
after  a  decent  show  of  pity,  have  for- 
got me. 

"Though  in  the  morn  comes  sturt  and  strife, 
Yet  joy  may  come  ere  noon ; 
And  I  hope  to  live  a  merry,  merry  life. 
When  a'  their  days  are  done." 

Write  me  soon,  were  it  but  a  few 
lines,  just  to  tell  me  how  that  good 
sagacious  man  your  father  is — that 
kind  dainty  body  your  mother — that, 
strapping  chiel  your  brother  Douglas 
^and  my  friend  Rachel,  who  is  as  far 
before  Rachel  of  old  as  she  was  before 
her  blear-eyed  sister  Leah. 

■     R.  B. 


No.  LXXXIX. 

TO  JAMES   DALRYMPLE,  ESQ., 

ORANGEFIELD. 

Edinburgh,  1787. 

Dear  Sir, — I  suppose  the  devil  is' 
so  elated  with  his  success  with  you 
that  he  is  determined  by  a  coup  de 
main  to  complete  his  purpose  on  you 
all  at  once,  in  making  you  a  poet.  I 
broke  open  the  letter  you  sent  me; 
hummed  over  the  rhymes;  and,  as  I 
saw  they  were  extempore,  said  to  my- 
self they  were  very  well ;  but  when  I  saw 
at  the  bottom  a  name  that  I  shall, ever 
value  with  grateful  respect,  "  I  gapit- 
wide,  but  naething  spak."  I  was 
nearly  as  much  struck  as  the  friends, 
of  Job,  of  affliction-bearing  memory, 
when  they  sat  down  with  him  seweff 


S9Qr 


BURNS'  WOKKa. 


days  and  seven  nights,  and  spake  not 
a  word. 

.  I  am  naturally-  of  a  superstitious 
cast,  and  as  soon  as  my  -wonder- 
scared'  imagination  regained  its  con- 
sciousness, and  resumed  its  functions, 
I  cast  about  what  this  mania  of  yours 
might  portend.  My  foreboding  ideas 
had  the  wide  stretch  of  possibility; 
and  several  events,  great  ii^heir  mag- 
nitude, and  important  in  their  conse- 
quences, occurred  to  my  fancy.  The 
downfall  of  the  conclave,  or  the 
crushing  of  the  Cork  rumps;  a  ducal 
coronet  to  Lord  George  Gordon,  and 
the  Protestant  interest;  or  St.  Peter's 
keys,  to . 

.  You  want  to  know  how  I  come  on. 
I  am  just  in  statu  quo,  or,  not  to  Insult 
a  gentleman  witli  my  Latin,  in  ' '  auld 
use  and  wont."  The  noble  Earl  of 
Glencairn  took  me  by  the  hand  to-day, 
and  interested  himself  in  my  concerns, 
with  a  goodness  like  that  benevolent 
Being  whose  image  he  so  richly  bears. 
He  is  a  stronger  proof  of  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul  than  any  that  philos- 
ophy ever  produced.  A  mind  like 
his  can  never  die.  Let  the  worship- 
ful squire  H.  L.  or  the  reverend  Mass 
J.  M.  go  into  his  primitive  nothing. 
At  best,  they  are  but  ill-digested 
lumps  of  chaos,  only  one  of  them 
strongly  tinged  with  bituminous  par- 
ticles and  sulphureous  effluvia.  But 
my  noble  patron,  eternal  as  the  heroic 
swell  of  magnanimity,  and  the  gen- 
erous throb  of  benevolence,  shall  look 
on  with  princely  eye  at  "  the  war  of 
elements,  the  wreck  of  matter,  and 
the  crash  of  worlds." 

E.  B. 


No.  XC. 

TO  THE   EARL  OF   GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787. 

My  Lord, —  I  know  your  lordship 
will  disapprove  of  my  ideas  in  a  re- 
quest I  am  going  to  make  to  you;  but  I 
have  weighed,  long  and  seriously 
\veighed,  my  situation,  my  hopes  and 


turn  of  mind,  and  am  fully  fixed  to 
my  scheme  if  I  can  poasibly  effec- 
tuate it.  I  wish  to  get  into  the  Excise; 
I  am  told  that  your  lordship's  interest 
will;  easily  procure  me  the  grant  from 
the  commissioners;  and  your  lord- 
ship's patronage  and  goodness,  which 
have  already  rescued  me  from  obscur- 
ity, wretchedness,  and  exile,  em- 
bolden me  to  ask  that  interest,  You 
have  likewise  put  it  in  my  power  to 
save  the  little  tie  of  home  that 
sheltered  an  aged  mother,  two 
brothers,  and  three  sisters  from  de- 
struction. There,  my  lord,  you  have 
bound  me  over  to  the  highest  grati- 
tude. 

My  brother's  farm  is  hut  a  wretched 
lease,  but  I  think  he  will  probably; 
weather  out  the  remaining  seven  years 
of  it;  and,  after  the  assistance  which  I 
have  given  and  will  give  him,  to  keep 
the  family  together,  I  think,  by  my 
guess,  I  shall  have  rather  better  than 
two  hundred  pounds,  and  instead  of 
seeking,  what  is  almost  impossible  at 
present  to  find,  a  farm  that  I  can  cer- 
tainly live  hy,  with  so  small  a  stock, 
I  shall  lodge  this  sum  in  a  banking; 
house,  a  sacred  deposit,  excepting  only 
the  calls  of  uncommon  distress  or- 
necessitous  old  age. 

These,  my  lord,  are  my  views:  I 
have  resolved  from  the  maturest  de- 
liberation; aiid  now  I  am  fixed,  I  shall- 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  carry  my= 
resolve  into  execution.  Your  lord- 
ship's patronage  is  the  strength  of  my 
hopes;  nor  have  I  yet  applied  to  any- 
body else.  Indeed  my  heart  sinks 
within  me  at  the  idea  of  applying  to 
any  other  of  the  great  who  have  hon- 
oured me  with-  their  countenance.  I 
am  ill  qualified  to  dog  the  heels  of 
greatness  with  the  impertinence  of 
solicitation,  and  tremble  nearly  as  mucli 
at  the  thought  of  the  cold  promise  as 
the  cold  denial;  but  to  your  lordshipi 
I  have  not  only  the  honour,  this  com- 
fort, but  the  pleasure  of  being'  your, 
lordship's  much-obliged  and  deeply- 


indebted  humble  servant. 


E.  B. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


391 


No.  XCI. 
TO    MISS    CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  12,  1787. 

I  AM  liere  under  the  care  of  a  sur- 
geon, with  a  bruised  limb  extended  on 
agushion;  and  the  tints  of  my  mind 
vyiiig  with  the  livid  horror  preceding 
a  midnight  thunder-storm.  A  drunken 
coachman  was  the  cause  of  the  first, 
and  incomparably  the  lightest  evil; 
misfortune,  bodily  constitution,  hell, 
andimyself,  have  formed  a  "quadruple 
alliance"  to  guax-antee  the  other.  I 
got  my  fall  on  Saturday,  and  am  get- 
ting slowly  better. 

I  have  taken  tooth  and  nail  to  the 
Bible,  and  am  got  through  the  five 
books  of  Moses  and  half  way  in  Joshua. 
It  is  really  a  glorious  book.  I  sent  for 
my  bookbinder  to-day,  _  and  ordered 
him  to  get  me  an  octavo  Bible  in 
sheets,  the  best  paper  and  print  in 
town,  and  bind  it  with  all  the  elegance 
of  his  craft. 

I  would  give  my  best  song  to  my 
worst  enemy,  I  mean  the  merit  of  mak- 
ing it,  to  have  you  and  Charlotte  by 
me.  You  are  angelic  creatures,  and 
would  pour  oil  and  wine  into  my 
wounded  spirit. 

I  enclose  you  a  proof  copy  of  the 
"  Banks  of  the  Devon,"  which  present 
■with  my  best  wshes  to  Charlotte.  The 
"Ochil  Hills"*  you  shall  probably 
have  next  week  for  yourself.  None  of 
your  fine  speeches ! 

E.  B. 


No.  XCII. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  ig,  1787. 

'  I  BESIN  this  letter  in  answer  to  yours 
of  the  17th  curt.,  which  is  not  yet  cold 
since  I  read  it.  The  atmosphere  of  my 
soul  is  vastly  clearer  than  when  I 
wrote  you  last.  For  the  first  time  yes- 
terday I  crossed  the  room  on  crutches. 


*  The' song  in  honour  of  Miss  Chalmers,  be- 
ginninir,  "Where,  braving  angry,  winter's 
storfils.'*   Sec  p.  207.  ■ 


It  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  my 
hardship,  not  on  my  poetic,  but  on  my 
oaken,  stilts;  throwing  my  best  leg 
with  an  air,  and  with  as  much  hilarity 
in  my  gait  and  countenance  as  a  May 
frog  leaping  across  the  newly-har- 
rowed ridge,  enjoying  the  fragrance  of 
the  refreshed  earth  after  the  long-ex- 
pected shower ! 

I  can't  say  I  am  altogether  at  my 
ease  when  I  see  anywhere  in  my  path 
that  meagre,  squalid,  famine-faced 
spectre,  poverty;  attended,  as  he  al- 
ways is  by  iron-fisted  oppression,  an4 
leering  contempt;  but  I  have  sturdily 
withstood  his  bufEetings  many  a  hard- 
laboured  day  already,  and  still  my 
motto  is — 1  DARE  !  My  worst  enemy 
is  moi-meme.  I  lie  so  miserably  open 
to  the  inroads  and  incursions  of  a  mis- 
chievous, light-armed,  well -mounted 
banditti,  under  the  banners  of  imagi- 
nation, whim,  caprice,  and  passion; 
and  the  heavy-armed  veteran  regulars 
of  wisdom,  prudence,  and  forethought 
move  so  very,  very  slow,  that  I  am  al- 
most in  a  state  of  perpetual  warfare, 
and,  alas  !  frequent  defeat.  There  are 
just  two  creatures  I  would  envy,  a 
liorse  in  his  wild  state,  traversing  the 
forests  of  Asia,  or  an  oyster  on  some 
of  the  desert  shores  of  Europe.  The 
one  has  not  a  wish  without  enjoyment, 
the  other  has  neither  wish  nor  fear. 

E.  B. 


No.  XCIII. 

TO    CHAELES    HAY,   ESQ., 
ADVOCATE,* 

ENCLOSING  VBBSES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
THE  LOBD  PEBSIDENT.f 

Dec.  1787. 

Sm, — The  enclosed  poem  was  writs 
ten  in  consequence  of  your  suggestion 
the  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you.  It  cost  me  an  hour  or  two  of 
next    morning's    sleep,    but    did  not 


*  Ultimately,  a  judge,  under  the  designatiori 
of  Lord  Newton. 

-+  See  the  lines,  p.  iii.  ^  ■    ^ 


593 


BURNS'-  WORKS. 


please  me;  so  it  lay  by,  an  ill-digested 
effort,  till  the  other  day  that  I  gave  it 
a  critic  brush. 

These  kind  of  sabjects  are  much 
liackneyed;  and,  besides,  the  wailing 
of  the  rhyming  tribe  over  the  ashes  of 
the  great  are  cursedly  suspicious,  and 
out  of  all  character,  for  sincerity. 
These  ideas  damped  my  muse's  fire; 
however,  I  have  done  the  best  I  could, 
and  at  all  events  it  gives  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  declaring  that  I  have  the  hon- 
our to  be,  sir,  your  obliged  humble  ser- 
vant, K.  B. 


No.  5CIV. 

TO   SIR  JOHN  WHITEFOORD. 
Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787. 

SiK, — Mr.  Mackenzie,  in  Mauchline, 
my  very  warm  and  worthy  friend,  has 
informed  me  how  much  you  are  pleased 
to  interest  yourself  in  my  fate  as  a 
man,  and  (what  to  me  is  incomparably 
dearer)  my  fame  as  a  poet.  I  have; 
!3ir,  in  one  or  two  instances,  been 
patronised  by  those  of  your  character 
inlife,  when  I  was  introduced  to  their 
notice  by  ...  .  friends  to  them, 
and  honoured  acquaintances  to  me;  but 
you  are  the  first  gentleman  in  the 
country  whose  benevolence  and  good- 
ness of  heart  has  interested  himself 
for  me,  unsolicited  and  unknown. 

I  am  not  master  enough  of  the  eti- 
iquette  of  these  matters  to  know,  nor 
did  I  stay  to  inquire,  whether  formal 
duty  bade,  or  cold  propriety  disallow- 
ed, my  thanking  you  in  this  manner, 
as  I  am  convinced,  from  the  light 
in  which  you  kindly  view  me,  that  you 
will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  this 
letter  is  not  the  manoeuvre  of  the 
needy,  sharping  author,  fastening  on 
those  in  upper  life  who  honour  him 
with  a  little  notice  of  him  or  his  works. 


Indeed,  the  situation  of  poets  is  gener- 
ally such,  to  a  proverb,  as  may  in  some 
measure  palliate  that  prostitution  of 
heart  and  talents  they  have  at  times 
been  guilty  of.  I  do  not  think  prodi- 
gality is  by  any  means  a  necessary  con- 
comitant of  a  poetic  turn,  but  I  believe 
a  careless,  indolent  attention  to  econ- 
omy 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  impudence  and  foot-licking  ser- 
vility. It  is  not  easy  to  imagine  a 
more  helpless  state  than  his  whose 
poetic  fancy  unfits  him  for  the  world, 
and  whose  character  as  a  scholar  gives 
him  some  pretensions  to  the  politesse 
of  life,  yet  is  as  poor  as  I  am. 

For  my  part.  I  thank  Heaven  my 
star  has  Ijeen  kinder;  learning  never 
elevated  my  ideas  above  the  peasant's 
shed,  and  I  have  an  independent  for- 
tune at  the  plough-tail. 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  that  any  one 
who  pretended  in  the  least  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  gentleman  should  be  so 
foolish,  or  worse,  as  to  stoop  to  traduce 
the  morals  of  such  a  one  as  I  am,  and  so 
inhumanly  cruel,  too,  as  to  meddle  with 
that  late  most  unfortunate,  unhappy 
part  of  my  story.  With  a  tear  of  grati- 
tude, I  thank  you,  sir,  for  the  warmth 
with  which  you  interposed  in  behalf  of 
my  conduct,  I  am,  I  acknowledge,  too 
frequently  the  sport  of  whim,  caprice, 
and  passion;  but  reverence  to  God, 
and  integrity  to  my  fellow-creatures, 
I  hope  I  shall  ever  preserve.  I  have 
no  return,  sir,  to  make  you  for  ypur 
goodness  but  one — a  return  which,  I 
am  persuaded,  will  not  be  unaccept- 
able— ^the  honest,  warm  wishes  of  a 
grateful  heart  for  your  happiness,  and 
everyone  of  that  lovely  flock,  who 
stand  to  you  in  filial  relation,  if  ever 
calumny  aim  the  poisoned  shaft  at 
them,  may  friendship  be  by  to  ward 


the  blow  ! 


E.  R 


GENERAL  ■  CORRESPONDENCE. 


393 


No.  XCV, 
■         TO  MISS  WILLIAMS,* 

.ox   BEADING    THE    POEM  O?    "THE 
BLAVE-TKADE." 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787. 

I  KNOW  very  little  of  scientific  criti- 
cism, so  uU  I  can  pretend  to  in  that  in- 
tricate art  is  merely  to  note,  as  I  read 
along,  wliat  passages  strike  me  as  be- 
ing uncommonly  beautiful,  and  where 
the  expression  seems  to  be  perplexed 
or  faulty. 

The  poem  opens  finely.  There  are 
none  of  these  idle  prefatory  lines  which 
one  may  sliip  over  before  one  comes  to 
the  subject.  Verses  9  and  10  in  par- 
ticular, 

"  Where  ocean's  unseen  bound 
Leaves  a  drear  world  of  waters  round," 

are  truly  beautiful.  The  simile  of  the 
hurricane  is  likewise  fine;  and,  indeed, 
beautiful  as  the  poem  is,  almost  all 
the  similes  rise  decidedly  above  it. 
From  verse  31  to  verse  50  is  a  pretty 
eulogy  on  Britain.  Verse  36,  "  That 
foul  drama  deep  with  wrong,"  is  nobly 
expressive.  Verse  46,  I  am  afraid,  is 
rather  unworthy  of  the  rest;  "to  dare 
to  feel"  is  au  idea  that  I  do  not  alto- 
gether like.  Tlie  contrast  of  valour 
and  mercy,  from  the  46th  verse  to  the 
50th,  is  admirable. 

Either  my  apprehension  is  dull,  or 
there  is  something  a  little  confused  in 
the  apostrophe  to  Mr.  Pitt.  Verse  55 
is  the  antecedent  to  verses  57  and  58, 
but  in  verse  58  the  connexion  seems 
tingrammatical : — 

'*  Powers 


With  no  gradations  mark'd  their  flight,. 
But  rose  at  once  to  glory's  heights 

Hisen  should  be  the  word  instead  of 
rose.  Try  it  in  prose.  Powers, — 
their  flight  marked  by  no  gradations, 
but  [the  same  powers]  risen  at  once  to 

*  Miss  Williams  had  in  the  previous  June 
addressed  a  complimentary  epistle  to  Burns, 
which  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  Magazine 
for  Sept.  1817,  That  she  was  a  lady  of  some 
ineritwill  appear  from  the  fact  that  one  of  her 
«ongs,  "  Evan  Banks,"  had  the  honour  to  be 
imputed  to  Burns  himself. 


the  height  of  glory.  Likewise,  verse 
53,  "For this,"  is  evidently  meant  to 
lead  on  the  sense  of  verses  59,  60,  61, 
and  63;  but  let  us  try  how  the  thread 
of  connexion  runs: — 


'  For  this 


The  deeds  of  mercy,  that  embrace 
A  distant  sphere,  an  alien  race. 
Shall  virtue's  lips  record,  and  claim 
The  fairest  honours  of  thy  name." 

I  beg  pardon  if  I  misapprehend  the 
matter,  but  this  appears  to  me  the  only 
imperfect  passage  in  the  poem.  The 
comparision  of  the  sunbeam  is  fine. 

The  compliment  to  the  Duke  of  Rich- 
mond is,  I  hope,  as  just  as  it  is  cer- 
tainly elegant.     The  thought, 

"  Virtue      .,.,.,, 

Sends  from  her  unsullied  source 

The  gems  of  thought  their  purest  force," 

is  exceedingly  beautiful.  'flic  idea, 
from  verse  81  to  85,  that  the  "  blest 
degree"  is  like  the  beams  of  morning 
ushering  in  the  glorious  day  of  liberty, 
ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed  or  unap- 
plauded.  From  verse  85  to  verse  108, 
is  an  animated  contrast  between  the 
unfeeling  selfishness  of  the  oppressor 
on  the  one  hand,  and  the  misery  of  the 
captive  on  the  other.  Verse  88  might 
perhaps  be  ameuded  thus:  "  Nor  ever 
jmf  her  narrow  maze."  We  are  said 
to  'pass  a  bound,  but  we  quit  a  maze. 
Verse  100  is  exquisitely  beautiful: — 

"They  whom  wasted  blessings  tire."-, 
Verse  110  is,  I  doubt  a  clashing  of 
metaphors  ;  "  to  load  a  span  "  is,  I  am 
afraid,  an  unwarrantable  expression. 
In  verse  114,  "  Cast  the  universe  in 
shade,"  is  a  fine  idea.  Prom  the  115th 
verse  to  the  143d  is  a  striliing  descrip- 
tion of  the  wrongs  of  the  poor  African. 
Verse  130,  "  The  load  of  unremitted 
pain,"  is  a  remarkable,  strong  expres- 
sion. The  address  to  the  advocates 
for  abolishing  the  slave-trade,  from 
verse  143  to  verse  308,  is  animated 
with  the  true  life  of  genius.  The  pic- 
ture of  oppression — 

"  While  she  links  her  impious  chain. 
And  calculates  the  price  of  pain  ; 
Weighs  agony  in  sordid  scales, 
And  marks  if  death  or  life  prevails''-^* 

is  nobly  executed. 


894 


BUENS-  WORKS. 


-  What  a  tender  idea  is  in  verse  180  ! 
Indeed,  that  whole  description  of  homo 
may  vie  ■with  Thomson's  description 
of  home,  somewhere  in  the  beginning 
of  his  "  Autumn."  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  seen  a  stronger  expression  of 
misery  than  is  contained  in  these 
verses: — 

"  Condemn'd,  severe  extreme,  to  live 
When  all  is  fled  that  life  can  give." 

"the  comparison.of  our  distant  joys  to 
distant  objects  is  equally  original  and 
striking. 

The  character  and  manners  of  the 
dealer  in  the  infernal  traffic  is  a  well 
done,  though  a  horrid,  picture.  I  am 
not  sure  how  far  introducing  the  sailor 
was  right;  for,  though  the  sailor's 
common  characteristic'  is  generosity, 
yet,  in  this  case,  he  is  certainly  not 
only  an  unconcerned  witness,  but,  in 
some  degree,  an  efficient  agent  in  the 
business.     Verse    224    is    a    nervous 

.  .  .  expressive — ' '  The  heart  con- 
vulsive anguish  breaks."  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  captive  wretch  when  he  ar- 
rives in  the  West  Indies  is  carried  on 
with  equal  spirit.  The  thought  that 
the  oppressor's  sorrow  on  seeing  the 
slave  pine  is  like  the  butcher's  regret 
when  his  destined  lamb  dies  a  natural 
death  is  exceeding  fine. 

I  am  got  so  much  into  the  cant  of 
criticism  that  I  begin  to  be  afraid  lest 
I  have  nothing  except  the  cant  of  it; 
and,  instead  of  elucidating  my  author, 
am  only  benighting  myself.  For  this 
reason  I  will  not  pretend  to  go  through 
the  whole  poem.  Some  few  remaining 
beautiful  lines,  however,  I  cannot  pass 
over.  Verse  380  is  the  strongest  de- 
scription of  selfishness  I  ever  saw.  The 
comparion  in  verses  285  and  286  is 
new  and  line;  and  the  line,  "Your 
arms  to  penury  you  lend,"  is  excellent. 

In  verse  317,  "like"  should  cer- 
tainly be  "as"  or  "so;"  for  instance — 

*'  His  sway  the  harden'd  bosom  leads 
To  cruelty's  remorseless  deeds ;    fsprings 
As  (or,  so)  the  blue  liefhtning,  when  it 
With  fury  on  its  livid  wintrs. 
Darts  on  the  goal  with  rapid  force, 
Nor  heeds  that  ruin  marks  its  course." 

If  you  insert  the  word  "  like"  where 
I  have  placed   "as,"  you  must  alter 


"  darts"  to  "  darting,"  and  "heeds"  to 
"  heeding,"  in  order  to  make  it  gram-, 
mar.  A  tempest  is  a  favourite  subject  ^ 
with  the  poets,  but  I  do  not  remembe; 
anything  even  in  Thomson's  "Winter" 
superior  to  your  verses  from  the  347th 
to  the  351st.  Indeed,  the  last  simile, 
beginning  with  "  Fancy-  may  dress, 
&c.,"  and  ending  with  the  350th  verse, 
is,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  beautiful- 
passage  in  the  poem;  it  would  do  hon- 
our to  the  greatest  names  that  ever 
graced  our  profession. 

I  will  not  beg  your  pardon,  madam, 
for  these  strictures,  as  my  conscience 
tells  me  that  for  once  in  my  life  I  hava 
acted  up  to  the  duties  of  a  Christian, 
in  doing  as  I  would  be  done  by. 

R.  B 


No.  XCVI. 

TO  MR.    RICHARD    BROWN, 
IRVINE.^ 
Edinburgh,  Dec,  30, 1787. 

Mt  deak  Sir, — I  have  met  with 
few  things  in  life  which  have  given 
me  more  pleasure  than  Fortune's  kind- 
ness to  you  since  those  days  in  which 
we  met  in  the  vale  of  misery;  as  I  can 
honestly  say  that  I  never  knew  a  man 
who  more  truly  deserved  it.  or  to 
whom  my  heart  more  truly  wished  it. 
I  have  been  much  indebted  since  that, 
time  to  your  story  and  sentiments  for 
steeling  my  mind  against  evils,  of 
which  I  have  had  a  pretty  decent  share. 
My  will-o'-wisp  fate  you  know.  Do 
you  recollect  a  Sunday  we  spent  to- 
gether in  Eglinton  woods  ?  You  told 
me;  on  my  repeating  some  verses  to 
you,  that  you  wondered  I  could  resist 
the  temptation  of  sending  verses  of 
such  merit  to  a  magazine.  It  was 
from  this  remark  I  derived  that  idea  of 
my  own  pieces  which  encouraged  me 
to  endeavour  at  the  character  of  a  poet. 
I  am  happy  to  hear  that  you  will  be 

*  Richard  Brown  was  the  individual  whonj 
Burns,  in  his  autobiosrraphical  letter  to  Dn 
Moore,  describes  as  his  companion  at  Irvine 
—whose  mind  was  fraught  with  every  manly 
virtue,  but  who,  nevertheless,  was  the  means 
of  making  him  regard  illicti^loye  with  levity,; 


GENERA-L  CORRESPONDENCE. 


SQa: 


two  or  tliree  months  at  liome.  As  soon 
as  a  bruised  limb  will  permit  me,  I 
shall  return  to  Ayrshire,  and  we 
shall  meet;  "and,  faith,  I  hope  we'll 
not  sit  dumb,  nor  yet  cast  out !" 

I  have  much  to  tell  you  ' '  of  men, 
their  manners,  and  their  ways,"  per- 
haps a  little  of  the  other  sex.  Apro- 
pos, I  beg  to  be  remembered  to  Mrs. 
Brown.  There  I  doubt  not,  my  dear 
friend,  but  you  have  found  substantial 
happiness.  I  expect  to  find  you  some- 
thing of  an  altered,  but  not  a  different 
man;  the  wild,  bold,  generous  young 
fellow  composed  into  the  steady  affec- 
tionate husband,  and  the  fond  careful 
parent.  For  me,  I  am  just  the  same 
will-o'-wisp  being  I  used  to  be.  About 
the  first  and  fourth  quarters  of  the 
moon,  I  generally  set  in  for  the  trade- 
wind  of  wisdom;  but  about  the  full 
and  change,  I  am  the  luckless  victim 
of  mad  tornadoes  which  blow  me  into 
cliaos.  Almighty  love  still  reigns  and 
revels  in  my  bosom ;  and  I  am  at  this 
moment  ready  to  hang  myself  for  a 
young  Edinburgh  widow.*  who  has 
wit  and  wisdom  more  murderously 
fatal  than  the  assassinating  stiletto 
of  the  Siciliau  bandit,  or  the  poisoned 
arrow  of  the  savage  African.  My  High- 
land dirk,  that  used  to  "hang  beside  in'y 
crutches,  I  have  gravely  removed  into 
a  neighbouring  closet,  the  key  of 
which  I  cannot  command  in  case  of 
springtide  paroxysms.  You  may 
guess  of  her  wit  by  the  following 
verses,  which  she  sent  me  the  other 
day. 

My  best  compliments  to  our  friend 
Allan.— Adieu  !  E.  B. 


No.  XCVII. 
TO   GAVIN    HAMILTON. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787. 

Mt  dear  Sir, — It  is  indeed  with  the 

highest  pleasure  that  I  congratulate 

you    oh    the  return    of  days  of  ease 

and  nights  of  pleasure,  after  the  hor. 


*  This  was  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  (Clarinda.)  She 
was  not  a  widow,  but  was  separated  from  her 
husband,  who  was  in  J<vnialc;a. 


rid  hours  of  misery  in  which  I  saw 
you  suffering    existence  when  last  in- 
Ayrshire.     1  seldom  pray  for  anybody 
— "I'm  baithdead-sweer  and  wretched 
ill  o't; "  but  most  fervently  do  I  beseech 
the  Power  that  directs  the  world  that  ■ 
you  may  live  long ,  and  be  happy,  but  ■ 
live  no  longer  than  you  are  happy.    It 
is  needless  for  me  to  advise  yoU  to 
have  a  reverend  care  of  -your  health.  I 
know  you  will  make  it  a  point  never 
at  one  time  to  drink  more  than  a  pint 
of  wine  (I  mean  an  English  pint,)  and 
that  you  will  never  be  witness  to  more . 
than  one  bowl  of  punch  at  a  time,  and, 
that  cold  drams  you  will  never  more 
taste;  and,  above  all  things  I  am  con- 
vinced  that  after    drinking   perhaps 
boiling  punch  you  will  never  mount- 
your  horse  and  gallop  home  in  a  chill 
late    hour.     Above    all   things,   as    I 
understand  you  are  in  habits  of  inti-  • 
macy  with  that  Boanerges  of  gospel 
powers.  Father  Auld,  be  earnest  with  ■ 
him  that  he  will  wrestle  in  prayer  for 
you,  that  you  may  see  the  vanity  of 
vanities  in  trusting  to,  or  even  practis- 
ing the  .casual  moral  works  of,  charity, 
humanity,    generosity,    and    forgive- 
ness of  things,  which  you  practised  so . 
flagrantly  that  it  was  evident  you  de- 
lighted in  them,  neglecting,  or  perhaps 
profanely    despising,    the   wholesome, 
doctrine  of  faith  without  works,  the. 
only  author  of  salvation.     A  hymn  of 
thanlisgiving  would,  in  my  Opinion  be 
highly  becoming  from  you  at  present,: 
■and,  in  my  zeal  for  your  wellbeing,  I- 
earnestly  press  on  you  to  be  diligent  in 
chanting  over  the  two  enclosed  pieces ; 
of  sacred  poesy.  My  best  compliments; 
to  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  Miss  Kennedy.  ■ 
—Yours,  &c.,  R.  B. 


No;  XCVIII. 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  1787, 

My  deah  Madam, — I  just  now  have 
read  yours.  The  poetic  compliments 
I  pay  cannot  be  misunderstood.  They 
are  neither  of  them  so  particular  as  tq 
point  you  out.  to. the  world  at  larger 


396 


BURNS'  WOEKS. 


and  tlie  circle  of  your  acquaintances 
will  allow  all  I  have  said.  Besides,  I 
have  complimented  you  chiefly,  almost 
solely,  on  your  mental  charms.  Shall 
I  be  plain  with  you?  I  will;  so  look 
to  it.  Personal  attractions  madam, 
you  have  much  above  par:  wit,  under- 
standing, and  worth,  you  possess  in 
the  first  class.  This  is  a  cursed  flat 
way  of  telling  you  these  truths,  -but  let 
me  hear  no  more  of  your  sheepish  tim- 
idity. I  know  the  world  a  little.  I 
know  what  they  will  say  of  my  poems 
-^by  second  sight  I  suppose — for  I  am 
seldom  out  in  my  conjectures;  and  you 
may  believe  me,  my  dear  madam,  I 
would  not  run  any  risk  of  hurting  you 
by  any  ill-judged  compliment.  I  wish 
to  show  to  the  world  the  odds  between 
a  poet's  friends  and  those  of  simple 
prosemen.  More  for  your  informa- 
tion— both  the  pieces  go  in.  One  of 
them,  "  Where,  braving  angry  win- 
ter's storms,"  is  already  set — the  tune 
is  Neil  Gow's  Lamentation  for  Aber- 
cairny;  the  other  is  to  be  set  to  an  old 
Highloind  air  in  Daniel  Dow's  collec- 
tion of  ancient  Scots  music;  the  name 
is  "Ha  a  Chaillich  air  mo  Dheith." 
My  treacherous  memory  has  forgot 
every  circumstance  about  "  Les  Incas," 
only  I  think  you  mentioned  them  as 
being  in  Creech's  possession.  I  shall 
ask  him  about  it.  I  am  afraid  the 
song  of  "Somebody"  will  come  too 
late,  as  I  shall,  for  certain  leave  town 
in  a  week  for  Ayrshire,  and  from  that 
to  Dumfries,  but  there  my  hopes  are 
slender.  I  leave  my  direction  in  town, 
so  anything,  wherever  I  am,  will 
reach  me. 

I  saw  yours  to ;  it  is  not  too 

severe,  nor  did  he  take  it  amiss.  On 
the  contrary,  like  a  whipt  spaniel,  he 
talks  of  being  with  you  in  the  Christ- 

ma§  days.  Mr, has  given  him  the 

invitation,  and  he  is  determined  to  ac- 
cept of  it.  O,  selfishness  !  he  owns, 
in  his  sober  moments,  that  from  his 
own  volatility  of  inclination,  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  he  is  situated, 
and  his  knowledge  of  his  fatlier's  dis- 
position, the  whole  affair  is  chimerical 
.  ■ — yet  he  vyiU  gratify  an  idle  pencJmnt 
at  .  the    enormous,  cruel   expense,  of 


perhaps  ruining  the  peace  of  the 
very  woman  for  whom  he  pro- 
fesses the  generous  passion  of  love! 
he  is  a  gentleman  in  his  mind  and 
manners — tant  pis  !  He  is  a  volatilft 
schoolboy— the  heir  of  a  man's  for- 
tune who  well  knows  the  value  of  two 
times  two! 

Perdition  seize  them  and  their  foT^ 
tunes,    before  they  should  make  the 

amiable,  the  lovely  the  derided 

object  of  their  purse-proud  contempt! 

I  am  doubly  happy  to  hear  of  Mrs. 

's     recovery,    because     I     really 

thought  all  was  over  with  her.  There 
are  days  of  pleasure  yet  awaitiiig  her: 

"  As  I  came  in  by  Glenrp, 

I  met  with  an  aged  woman  ; 
She  bade  me  cheer  up  my  heart, 

For  the  best  o'  my  days  was  comlnV  * 

This  day  will  decide  my  affairs  with 
Creech.  Things  are,  like  myself,  not 
what  they  ought  to  be;  yet  better  than 
what  they  appear  to  be.    ^ 

"  Heaven's  Sovereign  saves  all  beings  but  > 
Himself 
That  hideous  sight — a  naked  human  heart !" 

Farewell  I  remember  me  to  Char- 
lotte. 

H.  B. 


No.  XCIX. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  zr,  1788. 

After  six  weeks'  confinement,  I  am 
beginning  to  walk  across  the  room. 
They  have  been  six  horrible  weeks; 
anguish  and  low  spirits  made  me  un- 
fit to  read,  write,  or  think. 

I  have  a  hundred  times  wished  that 
one  could  resign  life  as  an  oflBcer  re- 
sigBs  a  commission;  for  I  would  not 
take  in  any  poor  ignorant  wretch  by 
selling  out.  Lately  I  was  a  sixpenny 
private;  and,  God  knows,  a  miserable 
soldier  enough;  now  I  march  to  the 
campaign  a  starving  cadet — a  little 
more  conspicuously  wretched. 

I  am  ashamed  of  all  this ;  for.though 

*  This  is  an  old  popular  'rhyme,  and  was  a 
great  favourite  with  the  poet.  Glenap  is  xsi 
the  south  of  Ayrshire.         _.  '    '-:- 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


307 


-I.  do  want  bravery  for  tlie  warfare  of 
life,  I  eould  wish,  lUte  some  other  sol- 
diers, to  have  as  much  fortitude  or 
cunning  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal  my 
cowardice. 

As  soon  as  I  can  bear  the  journey, 
which  will  be,  I  suppose,  about  the 
jniddle  of  next  week,  I  leave  Edin- 
burgh: and  soon  after  I  shall  pay  my 
grateful  duty  at  Dunlop  House. 

R.  B. 


No.   C. 


j;XTRACT   FROM   A  LETTER   TO 

THE  SAME. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  12, 1788. 

Some  things  in  your  late  letters  hurt 
me:  not  that  you  say  tlism,  but  that 
you  mistake  me.  Religion,  my  hon- 
oured madam,  has  not  only  been  all 
my  life  my  chief  dependence,  but  iny 
dearest  enjoyment.  I  have,  indeed, 
been  the  luckless  victim  of  wayward 
follies;  but,  alas!  I  have  ever  been 
"more  fool  than  knave."  A  mathe- 
matician without  religion  is  a  probable 
character:  an  irreligious  poet  is  a 
monster. 

R.  B. 


No.  CI. 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKINNER. 
Edinburgh,  Feb.  14, 1788. 
Revekbnd  and  deak  Sie, — I  have 
been  a  cripple  now  near  three  months, 
though  I  am  getting  vastly  better,  and 
,  have  been' very  much  hurried  besides, 
or  else  I  would  have  written  you  soon- 
er.  .  I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  the 
epistle  you  sent  me  appearing  in  the 
magazine.     I  had  given  a  copy  or  two 
to  some  of  my  intimate  friends,  but 
did  not  know  of  the  printing  of  it  till 
the  publication  of  the  magazine.  How- 
ever, as  it  does  great  honour  to  us 
bbth,  you  -vvill  forgive  it. 

The  second  volume  of  the  songs  I 
mentioned  to  you  in  my  last  is  pub- 
lished to-day.      I  send  you  a  copy, 


which  I  beg  you  will  accept  as  a  mark 
of  the  veneration  I  have  long  had,  and 
shall  ever  have,  for  your  character, 
and  of  the  claim  I  make  to  your  con- 
tinued acquaintance.  Tour  songs  ap- 
pear in  the  third  volume,  with  your 
name  in  the  index ;  as  I  assure  you,  sir, 
I  have  heard  your  "  TuUochgorum," 
particularly  among  our  west-country 
folks,  given  to  many  different  names, 
and  most  commonly  to  the  immortal 
author  of  ."The  Minstrel,"  who,  in- 
deed, never  wrote  anything  superior  to 
"Gie's  a  sang,  Montgomery  cried." 
Your  brother  has  promised  ine  your 
verses  to  the  Marquis  of  Huntley's  reel, 
whicli  certainly  deserve  a  place  in  the 
collection.  My  kind  host,  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank,  of  the  High  School  here,  and 
said  to  be  one  of  the  best  Latinists  of 
this  age,  begs  me  to  make  you  his 
grateful  acknowledgments  for  the 
entertainment  he  has  got  in  a  Latin 
publication  of  yours,  that  I  borrowed 
for  him  from  your  acquaintance  and 
much-respected  friend  in  this  place; 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Webster.  Mr.  Cruilt- 
shank  maintains  that  you  write  the 
best  Latin  since  Buchanan.  I  leave 
Edinburgh  to-morrow,  but  shall  return 
in  three  weeks.  Your  song  you  men- 
tioned in  your  last,  to  the  tune  of 
"Dumbarton  Drums,"  and  the  other, 
which  you  say  was  done  by  a  brother 
in  trade  of  mine,  a  ploughman,  I  shall 
thank  you  much  for  a  copy  of  each. — I 
am  ever,  rev.  sir,  with  the  most  re- 
spectful esteem  and  sincere  veneration, 
yours,  R.  B. 


No.  CII. 

TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  15,  1788. 
My  DEAR  Fkibnd, — I  received  yours 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I  shall 
aiTivc  at  Glasgow  on  Monday  evening; 
and  beg,  if  possible,  you  will  meet 
me  on  Tuesday,  I  shall  wait  for  you 
Tuesday  all  day.  I  shall  be  foand  at 
Davies's  Black  Bull  Inn.  I  am  hur- 
ried, as  if  hunted  by  fifty  devils,  else 
I  should  go  to  Greenock;  but  if  you 
cannot  possibly  cgme,  write  me,  if  pos- 


398 


BURNS'  WOBKS. 


sible,  to  Glasgow,  on  Monday;  or 
direct  to  me  at  Mossgiel  by  Mauchline ; 
and  name  a  day  and  place  in  Ayrshire, 
■within  a  fortnight  from  this  date, 
■where  I  may  meet  you.  I  only  stay  a 
fortnight  in  Ayrshire,  and  return  to 
Edinburgh. — I  am  ever,  my  dearest 
friend,  yours,  E.  B. 


No.  cm. 

TO  -MISS  CHALMERS. 
Edinburgh,  Sunday,  Feb.  15,  1788, 

To-MORRO'W,  my  dear  madam,  I 
leave  Edinburgh.  I  have  altered  all 
my  plans  of  future  life.  A  farm  that  I 
could  live  in  I  could  not  find;  and,  in- 
deed, after  the  necessary  support  my 
brother  and  the  rest  of  the  family  re- 
quired, I  could  not  venture  on  farming 
in  that  style  suitable  to  my  feelings. 
You  will  condemn  me  for  the  next  step 
I  have  taken.  I  have  entered  into  the 
Excise.  I  stay  in  the  west  about  three 
weeks,  and  then  return  to  Edinburgh 
for  six  weeks'  instructions;  afterwards, 
for  I  get  employ  instantly,  1  go  oil  il 
plait  a  Dieu  et  mon  roi.  I  have 
chosen  this,  my  dear  friend,  after 
mature  deliberation.  The  question  is 
not  at  what  door  of  fortune's  palace 
we  shall  enter  in,  but  what  doors  does 
she  open  to  ns.  I  was  not  likely  to  get 
anything  to  do.  I  wanted  «!!,  hut, 
which  is  a  dangerous,  an  unhappy  situ- 
ation. I  got  this  without  any  hanging 
on  or  mortifying  solicitation;  it  is 
immediate  bread,  and,  though  poor  in 
comparison  of  the  last  eighteen  months 
of  my  existence,  'tis  luxury  in  com- 
parison of  all  my  preceding  life:  be- 
sides, the  commissioners  are  some  of 
them  my  acquaintances,  and  all  of 
them  my  firm  friends.  R.  B. 


No.  CIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

[No  date.] 
Now  for  that  wayward,  unfortunate 
thing,  myself.     I  have  broke  measures 
with  Creech,  and  last  week  I  wrote  him 


a  frosty,  keen  letter.  He  replied  in 
terms  of  chastisement,  and  promised 
me  upon  his  honour  that  I  should  have 
the  account  on  Monday;  but  this  is 
■Tuesday,  and  yet  I  have  not  heard  a 
word  from  him.  God  have  mercy;  on 
me !  a  poor  damned,  incautious,  duped', 
unfortunate  fool!  The  sport,  the 
miserable  victim  of  rebellious  pride, 
hypochondriac  imagination,  agonizing 
sensibility,  and  bedlam  passions! 

"  I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm 
no  like  to  die!"  I  had  lately  "  a  hair- 
breadth 'scape  i'  th'  imminent  deadly 
breach  "  of  love  too.  Thank  my  stars 
I  got  off  heart-whole,  "  waur  fleyeii 
than  hurt. " — Interruption. 

I  have  this  moment  got  a  hint:  I  fear 
I  am  something  like — undone;  but  I 
hope  for  the  best.  Come,  stubborn 
pride  and  unshrinking  resolution;  ac- 
company me  through  this,  to  me  miser- 
able world  1  You  must  not  desert  me! 
Your  friendship  I  think  I  can  count  on, 
though  I  should  date  my  letters  from 
a  marching  regiment.  Early  in  life, 
and  all  my  life,  I  reckoned  on  a  recruit- 
ing drum  as  my  forlorn  hope.  Serious- 
ly, though  life  at  present  presents  me 
with  but  a,  melancholy  path;  but — 
my  limb  mil  soon  be  sound,  and  I 
shall  struggle,  on.  ■    R.  B. 


No.  CV. 
TO  MRS.  ROSE  OP  KILRAVOCK. 

Edinburgh,  Feb.  17^  1788.    ■ 

Madam, — You  are  much  indebted  to 
some  indispensable  business  I  have  had 
on  my  hands,  otherwise  my  gratitude 
threatened  such  a  return  for  your 
obliging  favour  as  would  have  tired 
your  patience.  It  but  poorly  expresses- 
my  feelings  to  say  that  I  am  sensible 
of  your  kindness:  it  may  be  said  of 
hearts  such  as  yours  is,  and  such  I  hope, 
mine  is,  much  more  justly  than  Addi- 
son applies  it, — 

"  Some  souls  by  instinct  to  each  other  turn." 

There  was  something  in  my  recep- 
tion at  Kilravock  so  different  from,  the 
cold,  obsequious,  dancing-school  bow 


GENERAL  CORRESPOJilOENCE. 


899 


of  politeness,  that  it  almost  got  into 
my  head  that  friendship  had  occupied 
her  ground  without  the  intermediate 
march  of  acquaintance.  I  wish  I  could 
transcribe,  or  rather  transfuse,  into 
language  the  glow  of  my  heart  when  I 
read  your  letter.  My  ready  fancy, 
with  colours  more  m.ellow  than  life 
itself,  painted  the  beautifully-wild 
scenery  of  Kilravock— the  venerable 
grandeur  of  the  castle— 'the  spreading 
woods — the  winding  river,  gladly  leav- 
ing his  unsightly,  heathy  source,  and 
lingering  with  apparent  delight  as  he 
passes- the  fairy  walk  at  the  bottom  of 
the  .  garden  ; — your  late  distressful 
anxieties — your  present  enjoyments — 
youT  dear  little  angel,  the  pride  of 
youE  hopes  ;-:-^my  aged  friend,  vener- 
able in  worth  and  years,  whose  loyalty 
and  other  virtues  will  strongly  entitle 
her  to  the  support  of  the  Almighty 
Spirit  here,  and  His  peculiar  favour  in 
a  happier  state  of  existence.  You  can- 
not imagine,  madam,  how  much  such 
feelings  delight  me;  they  are  the  dear- 
est proofs  of  my  own  immortality. 
Should  I  never  revisit  the  north,  as 
probably .  I  never  will,  nor  again  see 
your  hospitable  mansion,  were  I,  some 
twenty  years  hence,  to  see  your  little 
fellow's  name  making  a  proper  figure 
in  a  newspaper  paragraph,  my  heart 
would  bound  with  pleasure. 
.  I  am  assisting  a  friend  in  a  collec- 
tion of  Scottish  songs,  set  to  their 
iproper  tunes;  every  air  worth  preserv- 
ing is  to  be  included;  among  others,  I 
Jiave  given  "Morag,"  and  some  few 
Highland  airs  which  pleased  me  most, 
a  dress  which  will  be  moie  generally 
known,  though  far,  far  inferior  in  real 
merit.  As  a  small  mark  of  my  gratc- 
!ful  esteem,  I  beg  leave  to  present  you 
with  a  copy  of  the  work,  as  far  as  it  is 
printed;  the  Man  of  Feeling,  that  first 
of  men,  has  promised  to  transmit  it 
hy  the  first  opportunity. 

I  beg  to  be  remembered  most  re- 
spectfully to  my  venerable  friend,  and 
to  your  little  Highland  chieftain. 
jWhen  you  see  the  "two  fair  spirits  of 
the  hili"  at  Kildrummie,*  tell  them  I 


have  done  myself  the  honour  of  setting 
myself  down  as  one  of  their  admirers- 
for  at  least  twenty  years  to  come,  con- 
sequently they  must  look  upon  me  a? 
an  acquaintance  for  the  same  period; 
but,  as  the  apostle  Paul  says,  "this  I 
ask  of  grace,  not  of  debt. " — I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  madam,  &c. , 

K.  B. 


*  Miss  Sophia  Brodie  of  L- 
Rose  of.  Kilravock. 


,  and   Miss 


No.  CVI. 
TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

MossGiEL,  Feb.  24,  1788, 

My  dear  Sra,  —  I  cannot  get  the 
proper  direction  for  my  friend  in  Ja- 
maica, but  the  following  will  do:-^To 
Mr.  Jo.  Hutchinson,  at  Jo.  Brown- 
rigg's.  Esq.,  care  of  Mr.  Benjamin 
Henriquezj  merchant.  Orange  Street, 
Kingston.  I  arrived  here,  at  my  broth- 
er's only  yesterday,  after  fighting  my 
way  through  Paisley  and  Kilmarnock 
against  those  old  powerful  foes  of 
mine,  the  devil,  the  world,  and  the 
flesh — so  terrible  in-  the  fields  of  dissi- 
pation; I  have  met  with  few  incidents 
in  my  life  which  gave  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  meeting  you  in  Glasgow. 
'JThere  is  a  time  of  life  beyond  which 
we  cannot  form  a  tie  worthy  the  name 
of  friendship.  "0  youth  !  enchanting 
stage,  profusely  blest."  life  is  a  fairy 
scene:  almost  all  that  deserves  the 
name  of  enjoyment  or  pleasure  is  only 
a  charming  delusion;  and  in  comes 
repining  age,  in  all  the  gravity  of  hoary 
wisdom,  and  wretchedly  chases  away 
the  bewitching  phantom.  When  I 
think  of  life,  I  resolve  to  keep  a  strict 
look-out  in  the  course  of  economy,  for 
the  sake  of  worldly  convenience  and 
independence  of  mind;  to  cultivate  in- 
timacy with  a  few  of  the  companion? 
of  youth  that  they  may  be  the  friends 
of  age:  never  to  refuse  my  liquorish 
humour  a  handful  of  the  sweetmeats 
of  life,  when  they  come  not  too  dear; 
and,  for  futurity — 

Tlie  present  moment  is  our  ain, 
Tlie  neist  we  never  saw  ! 

How  like  you  my  philosophy  1  Give 
my  best  compliments  to  Mrs.-  B.;  and 


400 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


believe  me  to  be,  my  dear  sir,  yours 
most  truly,  ^-  "■ 

[The  poet  was  now  nearly  recovered 
from  the  disaster  of  the  "maimed 
limb."  He  endured  his  confinement 
with  the  more  patience  that  it  en- 
abled him  to  carry  on  his  correspond- 
ence with  Clarinda,  and  write  songs 
for  Johnson's   Musical    Museum. — 

,      CUKNINGHAM.] 


No.  evil.      ' 

TO  . 

MossGiEL,  Friday  Morning. 

Sm, — The  language  of  refusal  is  to 
me  the  most  difficult  language  on  earth, 
and  you  are  the  [only]  man  of  the 
world,  excepting  one  of  Rt.  Honle.  des- 
ignation, to  whom  it  gives  me  the 
greatest  pain  to  hold  such  language. 
My  brother  has  already  got  money,  and 
shall  want  nothing  in  my  power  to  en- 
able him  to  fulfil  his  engagement  with 
you:  but  to  be  security  on  so  large  a 
scale,  even  for  a  brother,  is  what  I 
dare  not  do,  except  I  were  in  such  cir- 
cumstances of  life  as  that  the  worst 
that  might  happen  could  not  greatly 
injure  me. 

I  never  wrote  a  letter  which  gave  me 
so  much  pain  in  my  life,  as  I  know  the 
unhappy  consequenpes;  I  shall  incur 
the  displeasure  of  a  gentleman  for 
whom  I  have  the  highest  respect,  and 
to  whom  I  am  deeply  obliged. — I  am 
ever,  sir,  your  obliged  and  very  humble 
servant,  Kobbrt  Burns. 


No.  CVIII. 
TO  MR.  WILLIAM  CRUIKSHANK. 

Mauchline,  March  3,  1788. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  Apologies  for  not 
writing  are  frequently  like  apologies 
for  not  singing  —  the  apology  better 
than  the  song.  I  have  fought  my  way 
severely  through  the  savage  hopitality 
of  this  country  to  send  every  guest 
drunk  to  bed  if  they  can. 


I  executed  your  commission  in  Glas- 
gow, and  I  hope  the  cocoa  came  safe. 
'Twas  the  same  price  and  the  veiy 
same  kind  as  your  former  parcel,  for 
the  gentleman  recollected  your  buying 
there  perfectly  well. 

I  should  return  my  thanks  for  your 

hospitality  (I  leave  a  blank  for 

the  epithet,  as  I  know  none  can  do  it 
justice)  to  a  poor  %vay-faring  bard,  who 
was  spent   and  almost  overpowered, 
fighting  with  prosaic  wickedness ;  in 
high  places;  but  I  am  afraid  lest  you 
should  bum  the  letter  whenever  you 
come  to  the  passage,  so  I  pass  over  it 
in  silence.      I  am  just  returned  from 
visiting  Mr.  Miller's  farm.    The  friend 
whom  I  told  you  I  would  take  with  me 
was  highly  pleased  with  the  farm;  and 
as  he  is  without  exception  the  most  iu- 
telligent  farmer  in  the' country,  he  has 
staggered  me  a  good  deal.     I  have  the 
two_  plans  of  life  before  me;  I  shall 
balance  them  to  the  best  of  my  judg- 
ment, and  fix  on  the  most  eligible.'    I 
have  written  Mr.  Miller,  and  shall  wait 
on  him  when  I  come  to  town,  which 
shall  be  the  beginning  or  middle  of 
next  week;  I  would  be  in  sooner,  but 
my  unlucky  knee  is  rather  worse,  and 
I  fear  for  some  time  will  scarcely  stand 
the  fatigue  of  my  excise  instructions. 
I  only  mention  these  ideas  to  you:  and 
indeed,  except  Mr.  Ainslie,  whom  I  in- 
tend writing  to  to-morrow,  I  will  not 
write  at  all  to  Edinburgh  till  I  return 
to  it.    I  would  send  my  compliments  to 
Mr.  Nicol,    hut  he  would  be  hurt  if  he 
knew  I  wrote  to  anybody  and  not  to 
him:   so  I   shall   only  beg  my  best, 
kindest   compliments    to    my  worthy 
hostess  and  the  sweet  little  rosebud. 
So  soon  as  I  am  settled  in  the  routina 
of  life,  either  as  an  Excise-officer,  os 
as  a  farmer,  I  propose  myself  great 
pleasure  from  a  regular  correspond- 
ence with  the  only  man  almost  I  eves 
saw  who  joined  the  most  attentive  pru- 
dence with  the  warmest  generosity. 

I  am  much  interested  for  that  best  0} 
men,  Mr.  Wood;  I  hope  he  is  in  bet. 
ter  health  and  spirits  than  when  X  saw 
him  last. — I  am  ever,  my  dearest  friend, 
your  obliged,  humble  servant, 

E.  B. 


GENEBAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


'4fll 


No.  CIX. 
TO  ROBERT  AINSLIE,  ESQ. 

Mauchline,  March  3, 17S3. 

Mt  deak  Friend, — I  am  just  re- 
turned from  Mr.  Miller's  farm.  My 
old  friend  whom  I  took  with  me  was 
highly  pleased  with  the  bargain,  and 
advised  me  to  accept  of  it.  He  is  the 
most  intelligent  sensible  farmer  in  the 
county,*  and  his  advice  has  staggered 
me  a  good  deal.  I  have  the  two  plans 
before  me :  I  shall  endeavour  to  balance 
them  to  the  best  of  my  judgment,  and 
fix  on  the  most  eligible.  On  the  whole, 
if  I  find  Mr.  Miller  in  the  same  favour- 
able disposition  as  when  l  saw  him 
last,  I  shall  in  all  probability  turn 
fanner. 

I  have  been  through  sore  tribula- 
tion, and  under  much  buffeting  of  the 
wicked  one  since  I  came  to  this  coun- 
try.' Jean  I  found  banished,  forlorn, 
destitute,  and  friendless;  I  have  recon- 
ciled her  to  her  fate,  and  I  have  recon- 
<!iled  her  to  her  mother,  f 

I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  the  middle 
of  next  week.  My  farming  ideas  I  shall 
keep  private  till  I  see.  I  got  a  letter 
.from  Clarinda  yesterday,  and  she  tells 
me  she  has  got  no  letter  of  mine  but 
one.  Tell  her  that  I  wrote  to  her  from 
Glasgow,  from  Kilmarnock,  from 
Mauchline,  and  yesterday  from  Cum- 
nock as  I  returned  from  Dumfries.  In- 
.deed  she  is  the  only  person  in  Edin- 
•burgh  I  have  written  to  till  this  day. 
How  are  your  soul  and  body,  putting 
up  V — ^a  little  like  man  and  wife,  I  sup- 
pose. R.  B. 


No.  ex. 
TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Mauchline,  March  7, 1788. 

I  n.'tVE  been  out  of  the  country,  my 
dear  friend,  and  have  not  had  an  op- 

*  The  "  sensible"  farmer  who  accompanied 
Burns  to  Dalswinton,.and  influenced  him  in 
/talcing:  the  farm- of-  Ellisland,  was  Mr.  Tait  of 
'Glenconner.  to  whom  the  poet  addressed  a 
jnetrical  epistle.    (See  p.  170.) 

t  On  the  very  day  this  -was  written  Jean 
wras  delivered  of  twins — girls — the  unfortu- 
jlate  result  of  their  renewed  intimacy.  The 
infants  died  a  few  days  after  their  birth. 


portunity  of  writing  till  now,  when  I 
am  afraid  you  will  ^e  gone  out  of  the 
country  too.  I  have  been  looking  at 
farms,  and,  after  all,  perhaps  I  may 
settle  in  the  character  of  a  farmer.  I 
have  got  so  vicious  a  bent  on  idleness, 
and  have  ever  been  so  little  a  man  of 
business,  that  it  will  take  no  ordinary 
effort  to  bring  my  mind  properly  into 
the  TOUtine:  but  you  will  say  a  "  great 
effort  is  worthy  of  you."  I  say  so  my- 
self;  and  butter  up  my  vanity  with  ajl 
the  stimulating  compliments  I  can 
think  of.  Men  of  grave,  geometrical 
minds,  the.  sons  of  ' '  which  was  to  be 
demonstrated,"  may  cry  up  reason  as 
much  as  they  please;  but  I  have 
always  found  an  honest  passion,  or 
native  instinct,  the  truest  auxiliary  in 
the  warfare  of  this  world.  Reason 
9.1most  always  comes  to  me  like  an  ud!- 
lucky  wife  to  a  poor  devil  of  a  hus- 
band, jnst  in  suflScient  time  to  add  her 
reproaches  to  his  other  grievances. 

I  am  gratified  with  your  kind  in- 
quiries after  Jean;  as,  after  all,  I  may 
say  with  Othello — 

'*  E  icellent  wretch ! 
Perdition  catch  my  soul,  but  I  do  love  thee !" 

I  go  for  Edinburgh  on  Monday. — 
Yours, 

R.  B. 


No.  CXI. 

TO  ME.    MUIR,    KILMARNOCK.  ] 

MossGiEL,  March  7,  1788. 

Dear  Sir, — I  have  partly  changed 
my  ideas,  iny  dear  friend,  since  I  saw 
you.  I  tookold  Glenconner  with  me  to 
Mr.  Miller's  farm,  and  he  was  so 
pleased  with  it  that  I  have  w:ritten  an 
offer  to  Mr.  Miller,  which,  if  he  ac- 
cepts, I  shall  sit  down  a  plain  farmer, 
the  happiest  of  lives  when  a  man  can 
live  by  it.  In  this  case  I  shall  not 
stay  in  Edinburgh  above  a  week.  I 
set  out  on  Monday,  and  would  have 
come  by  Kilmarnock,  but  there  arp 
several  small  sums  owing  me  for  my 


402 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


first  edition  about  Galston  and  New- 
mills,  and  I  shall  set  oS  so  early  as  to 
despatch  my  business  and  reach  Glas- 
gow by  .  night.  When  I  return,  I 
shall  devote  a  forenoon  or  two  to  make 
aome  kind  of  acknowledgment  for  all 
the  Idndness  I  owe  your  friendship. 
Jfpw  that  I  hope  to  settle  with  some 
credit  and  comfort  at  home,  there  was 
not  any  friendship  or  friendly  corres- 
pondence that  promised  me  more 
pleasure  than  yours;  I  hope  I  will  not 
he  disappointed.  I  trust  the  spring 
will  renew  your  shattered  frame,  and 
make  your  friends  happy.  You  and 
I  have  often  agreed  that  life  is  no 
great  blessing  on  the  whole.  The 
close  of  life,  indeed,  to  a  reasoning  age. 


"  Dark  as  was  chaos  ere  the  infant  sun  -s 
Was  roU'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound." 

But  an  honest  man  has  nothing  to 
fear.  If  we  lie  down  in  the  grave, 
the  whole  man  a  piece  of  broken 
machinery,  to  moulder  with  the  clods 
of  the  valley,  be  it  so;  at  least  there  is 
an  end  of  pain,  cure,  woes,  and  wants: 
if  that  part  of  us  called  mind  does  suf- 
_Yive  the  apparent  destruction  of  the 
man — away  with  old  wife  prejudices 
and  tales !  Every  age  and  every 
iation  has  had  a  different  set  of 
stories;  and  as  the  many  are  always 
weak  of  consequence,  they  have  often, 
perhaps  always,  been  deceived:  a  man 
conscious  of  having  acted  an  honest 
part  among  his  fellow  creatures — even 
granting  that  he  may  have  been  the 
sport  at  times  of  passions  and  instincts 
— he  goes  to  a  great  unknown  Being, 
who  could  have  no  other  end  in  giving 
him  existence  but  to  make  him  happy. 
Who  gave  him  those  passions  and  in- 
stincts, and  well  knows  their  force. 

These,  my  worthy  friend,  are  my 
ideas;  and  I  know  they  are  not  far 
different  from  yours.  It  becomes  a 
man  of  sense  to  think  for  himself,  par- 
ticularly in  a  case  where  all  men  are 
equally  interested,  and  where,  indeed, 
all  men  are  equally  in  the  dark. — 
Adieu,  my  dear  sir;  (Jod  send  us  a 
cheerful  meeting  ! 

R.  B. 


No.  CXII. 
TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

MossGiEL,  March  17.  1788. 

Madam, —  The  last  paragraph  in 
yours  of  the  30th  February  affected 
me  most,  so  I  shall  begin  my  answer 
where  you  ended  your  letter.  That  i 
am  often  a  sinner  with  any  little  wit  I 
have,  I  do  confess:  but  I  have  taxed 
my  recollection  to  no  purpose  to  find 
out  when  it  was  employed  against 
you.  I  hate  an  ungenerous  sarcasm  a 
great  deal  worse  than  I  do  the  devil; 
at  least  as  Milton  describes  him;  and 
though  I  may  be  rascally  enough  to  be 
sometimes-.guilty  of  it  myself,  I  cannt^ 
endiireit  in  others.  You,  my  hon- 
oured friend,  who  cannot  aj^ear  ia 
any  light  but  you  are  sure  of  being  re- 
spectable, you  can  afford  to  pass  hy  an 
occasion  to  display  your  wit,  because 
you  may  depend  for  fame  on  your 
sense;  or,  if  you  choose  to  be  silent, 
you  know  you  can  rely  on  the  grati- 
tude of  many,  and  the  esteem  of  all; 
but  God  help  us  who  are  wits -or- wit- 
lings by  profession,  if  we  stand  not 
for  fame  there,  we  sink  unsupported! 

I  am  highly  flattered  by  the  news 
you  tell  me  of  Coila.  1  may  say  to 
the  fair  painter*  who  does  me  so  much 
honour,  as  Dr.  Beattie  says  to  Ross, 
the  poet  of  his  muse  Scota,  f  rom  whichi 
by  the  by,  I  took  the  idea  of  Coila  ftis 
a  poem  of  Beattie's  in  the  Scottish  dia- 
lect, which  Derhaps  you  have  never 
seen): — 

'^  Ye  shake  your  head,  but  o*  my  fegs 
Ye*ve  set  auld  Scota  on  her  legs  ;     ■         i 
Lang  had  she  lien  wi'  beffs  and  flegs, 

Bumbazed  and  dizzje ; 
Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pegs, 

Wae*s  me,  poor  hizzie !" 

E.  B. 


No.  cxiii; 

TO    MISS    CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh,  March  14, 1788; 

I  KNOW,  my  ever-dear  friend,  tha^ 
you  will  be  pleased  with  the  news  wheij 

*  One  of  the  daughters  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  is 
here  intimated.  She  was  painting  a  sketch 
from' the  Coila  of  "  The  vision."  -   . 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


403 


1  tell  you  I  liav6  at  last  taken  a  lease  of 
a  farm.  Yesternight  I  completed  a 
bargain  with  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton 
for  the  farm  of  Ellisland,  on  the  banks 
the  Nith,  between  five  and  six  miles 
above  Dumfries.  1  begin  at  Whitsun- 
day to  build  a  house,  drive  lime,  &c. ; 
and  Heaven  be  my  help  !  for  it  will 
take  a  strong  effort  to  ijring^  my  mind 
into  the  routine  of  business.  I  have 
discharged  all  the  army  of  my  former 
pursuits,  fancies,  and  pleasures;  a  mot- 
ley host  !  and  have  literally  and  strict- 
ly retained  only  the  ideas  of  a  few 
friends,  which  I  have  incorporated  in- 
to a  lifeguard,  I  trust  in  Dr.  John- 
Bon's  observation,  "  Where  much  is 
attempted,  something  is  done."  Firm- 
mess,  both  in  sufferance  and  exertion, 
is"  a  character  I  would  wish  to  be 
thought  to  possess:  and  have  always 
despised  the  whining  yfelp  of  com> 
plaint,  and  the  cowardly,  feeble  re- 
solve. 

Poor  Miss  K is  ailing  a  good  deal 

this  winter,  and  begged  me  to  remem- 
ber her  to  you  the  first  time  I  wrote 
to  you.  Surely  woman,  amiable 
woman,  is  often^  made  in  vain.  Too 
delicately  formed  for  the  rougher  pur- 
suits of  ambition;  too  noble  for  the 
dirt  of  avarice,  and  even  too  gentle  for 
the  rage  of  pleasure;  formed  indeed 
for,  and  highly  susceptible  of,  enjoy- 
ment, and  rapture;  but  that  enjoy- 
ment, alas !  almost  wholly  at  the 
mercy  of  the  caprice,  malevolence, 
stupidity,  or  wickedness  of  an  animal 
at  all  times  comparatively  unfeeling, 
and  often  brutal. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXIV. 

TO    RICHARD    BROWN. 

Glasgow,  March  26,  1783. 

I  AM  monstrously  to  blame,  my  dear 
sir,  in  not  writing  to  you,  and  sending 
you  the  Directory.  I  have  been  get- 
ting my  tack  extended,  as  I  have  {aken 
a  farm;  and  I  have  been  racking  shop 
accounts .  with  Mr.  Creech,  both  of 
which,   together  with    watching,  fa- 


tigue, and  a  load  of  care  almost  too 
heavy  for  my  shoulders,  have  in  .sonife 
degree  actually  fevered  me.  1  really 
forgot  tho  Directory  yesterday,  which 
vexed  me;  but  I  was  convulsed  with 
rage  a  great  part  of  the  day.  1  have  to 
thank  you  for  the  ingenious,  frrencjly 
and  elegant  epistle  from  your  friend 
Mr.  Crawford.  I  shall  certainly  write 
to  him,  but  not  now.  This  is  merely 
a  card  to  you,  as  I  am  postiaj'to  Dum- 
friesshire, where  many  perplexing  ar- 
rangements await  me.  1-^  vexed 
about  tlie  Directory;  but,  my  iear  sir, 
forgive  me;  these  eight  days  I  have 
been  positively  crazed.  My  compli- 
ments to  Mrs.  B.  I  shall  write  to  yoa 
at  Grenada.  I  am  ever,  my  dearest 
friend,  yours, 

R.  B. 


No.  CXV. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 
Mauchune,  March  31,  1788.  \. 

Yesterday,  my  dear  sir,  as  I  wa^ 
riding  through  a  track  of  melancholy^, 
joyless  moors,  between  Galloway  and 
Ayrshire,  it  being  Sunday,  I  turned  my 
thoughts  to  psalms,  and  hymns,  an^ 
spiritual  songs;  and  your  favourite aift 
"  Captain  O'Rean,"  coming  at  length 
into  my  head,  I  tried  these  words  to  it. 
You  will  see  that  the  first  part  of  the 
tune  must  be  repeated.* 

I  am  tolerably  pleased  with  these 
verses;  but  as  I  have  only  a  sketch  of 
the  tune,  I  leave  it  with  you  to  try  if 
they  suit  the  measure  of  the  music. 

I  am  so  harassed  with  care  and 
anxiety,  about  this  farming  project  of 
mine,  that  ray  muse  has  degenerateid 
into  the  veriest  prose-wench  that  ever 
picked  cinders,  or  followed  a  tinker. 
When  I  am  fairly  got  into  the  routine 
of  business,  I  shall  trouble  you  with  a 
longer  epistle;  perhaps  with  some 
queries  respecting  farming:  at  present, 
the  world  sits  such  a  load  on  my  •  mind 
that  it  has  effaced  almost  every  trace  Of 
the  poet  in  me. 

*  Here  the  bard  gives  the  first  two  stanzas 
of  "  The  Chevalier^  Lament." 


:404 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


My  very  best  compliments  and  good 
wishes  to  Mrs.  Cleghorn.  K.  H. 


No.  CXVI. 

TO    MR.    WILLIAM    DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

Mauchline,  April  7, 1788. 

I  HAVE  not  delayed  so  long  to  write 
to  you,  my  much  respected  friend,  be- 
cause I  thought  no  farther  of  my 
promise.  I  have  long  since  given  up 
that  kind  of  formal  correspondence 
where  one  sits  down  irksomely  to  write 
n,  letter  Ijecause  we  think  we  are  in 
duty  bound  so  to  do. 

•1  have  been  roving  over  the  country, 
as  the  farm  I  have  taken  is  forty  miles 
from  this  place,  hiring  servants  and 
preparing  matters;  but  most  of  all,  I 
am  earnestly  busy  to  bring  about  a 
revolution  in  my  own  mind.  As,  till 
within  these  eighteen  months,  I  never 
Was  the  wealthy  master  of  ten  guineas, 
■my  knowledge  of  business  is  to  learn; 
•add  to  this,  my  late  scenes  of  idleness 
and  dissipation  have  enervated  my 
mind  to  an  alarming  degree.  Skill  in 
the  sober  science  of  life  is  my  most 
serious  and  hourly  study.  I  have 
dropt  all  conversation  and  all  reading 
(prose  reading)  but  what  tends  in  some 
■way  or  other  to  my  serious  aim. 
Except  one  worthy  young  fellow,  I 
have  not  one  single  correspondent  in 
Edinburgh.  You  have  indeed  kindly 
made  me  an  ofEer  of  that  kind.  The 
world  of  wits  and  gens  comme  il  faut 
which  I  lately  left,  and  with  whom  I 
never  again  will  Intimately  mix  — 
from  that  port,  sir,  I  expect  your 
'  Gazette:  what  les  beaux  esprits  are 
skying,  what  they  arc  doing,  and  what 
they  are  singing.  Any  sober  intelli- 
gence from  my  sequestered  walks  of 
life;  any  droll  original;  any  passing 
remark,  important  forsooth,  because 
'  it  is  mine;  any  little  poetic  effort, 
however  embryoeth;  these,  my  dear 
sir,  are  all  you  have  to  expect  from 
•  toe:  When  I  talk  of  poetic  efforts,  I 
"must  have  it  always  understood  that 


I  appeal  from  your  wit  and  taste  to 
your  friendship  and  good  nature. 
The  first  would  be  my  favourite  trib- 
unal, where  I  defied  censure;  but  the 
last,  where  I  declined  justice. 

I  have  scarcely  made  a  single  dis- 
tich since  I  saw  you.  When  I  meet 
with  an  old  Scots  air  that  has  any 
facetious  idea  in  its  name,  I  have  a 
peculiar  pleasure  in  following  out 
that  idea  for  a  verse  or  two. 

I  trust  that  this  will  find  you  in  better 
health  than  I  did  last  time  I  called  for 
you.  A  few  lines  from  you,  directed 
to  me  at  Mauchline,  were  it  but  to  let 
me  know  how  you  are,  will  set  my 
mind  a  good  deal  [at  rest.]  Now, 
never  shun  the  idea  of  writing  me 
because  perhaps  you  may  be  out  of 
humour  or  spirits.  I  could  give  you 
a  hundred  good  consequences  attend- 
ing a  dull  letter;  one,  for  example, 
and  the  remaining  ninety-nine  some 
other  lime^it  will  always  serve  to 
keep  in  countenance,  my  much-re- 
spected sir,  your  obliged  friend  and 
humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.    CXVIL 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS. 

Mauchline,  April  7, 1788, 

I  AM  indebted  to  you  and  Miss 
Nimmo  for  letting  me  know  Miss  Ken- 
nedy. Strange,  how  apt  we  are  to  in- 
dulge prejudipes  in  our  judgments  of 
one  another  !  Even  I,  who  pique  my- 
self on  my  skill  in  mai'king  characters 
— because  I  am  too  proud  of  my  char- 
acter as  a  man  to  be  dazzled  in  my 
judgment  tor  glaring  wealth,  and  too 
proud  of  my  situation  as  a  poor  man 
to  be  biased  against  squalid  poverty 
— I  was  unacquamted  with  Miss  K-'s 
very  uncommon  worth.  * 

I  am  going  on  a  good  deal  progres- 
sive in  mon  grand  but,  the  sober,  sci- 
ence of  life.  I  have  lately  made  some 
sacrifices,  for  which,  were  I  wd  Mce 
with  you  to  paint  the  situation  and  rs- 


GENERAL,  CORRESPONDENCE. 


■m 


count   the  circumstances,  you  would 
applaud  me.* 

R.  B. 


No.  CXVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Mauchune,  April  28, 1788. 

Madam, — Your  powers  of  reprehen- 
sion must  be  great  indeed,  as  I  assure 
■you  they  made  my  heart  ache  with 
penitential  pangSj  even  though  I  was 
really  not  guilty.  ,  As  I  commence 
farmer  at  Whitsunday,  you  will  easily 
guess  I  must  be  pretty  busy;  but  that 
.  is  not  all.  As  I  got  the  offer  of  the 
Jlxcise  business  without  solicitation, 
arid  as  it  costs  me  only  six  months'  at- 
tendance for  instructions,  to  entitle 
ine  to  a  commission — which  commis- 
sion lies  by  me,  and  at  atiy  future 
period,  on  my  simple  petition,  can  be 
resumed — I  thought  five-aud-thirty 
pounds  a  year  was  no  bald  dernier  res- 
sort  for  a  paor  poet,  if  fortune  in  her 
jade  tricks  should  kick  him  down 
from  the  little  eminence  to  which  she 
has  lately  helped  him  up. 

For  this  reason  I  am  at  present  at- 
tending these  instructions  to  have 
them  completed  before  Whitsunday. 
Still,  madam,  I  prepared  with  the 
sincerest  pleasure  to  meet  you  at  the 
Mount,  and  came  to  my  brother's  on 
Saturday  night,  to  set  out  on  Sunday; 
but  for  some  niglits  preceding  I  had 
slept  in  an  apartment  where  the  force 
of  the  winds  and  rains  was  only'  miti- 
•;  gated  by  being  sifted  through  number- 
less apertures  in  the  windows,  walls, 
&c.  In  consequence  I  was  on  Sunday, 
Monday,  and  part  of  Tuesday,  unable 
•to  stir  oiit  of  bed,  with  all  the  miser- 
able effects  of  a  violent  cold. 

You  see,  madam,  the  truth  of  the 
French  maxim,  ie  wai  n'estpas  ton- 
jours  le  waisembldble.  Your  last  was 
so  full  of  expostulation,  and  was  some- 
.thing  so  like  the  language  of  an 
•  offended  friend,  that  I  began  to  trem- 
:ble  for  a  correspondence  which  I  had 


*The  sacrifices  alluded  to  referred  to  his 
deVeriMfkatton  to  marry  Jean  Armour. 


with  grateful  pleasure  set  down  as  one 
of  the  greatest  enjoyments  of  my  fu- 
ture life.  ' 
Your  books  have  delighted  me. 
Virgil,  Dryden,  and  Tasso,  were  all 
equally  strangers  to  me;  but  of  this 
more  at  large  in  my  next. 

E.  B. 


No.  CXIX. 

TO   MR.    JAMBS   SMITH,  AVON' 
PRINTFIELD,  LINLITHaOW.;    , 

Mauchi4ne,  April  28, 1788. 

Beware  of  your  Strasburg,  my 
good  sir  !  Look  on  this  the  opening 
of  a  correspondence,  like  the  opening 
pf  a  twenty-four  gun  battery  !j 

There  is  no.  understanding  a  man 
properly  without  knowing  something 
of  his  previous  ideas  (that  is  to  say,  if 
the  man  ■  has  any  ideas;  for  I  kiiow 
many  who,  in  the  animal  muster,  pass 
for  men,  that  are  the  scanty  masters  of 
only  one  idea  on  any  given  subject, 
and  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  your 
acquaintances  and  mine  can  barely 
boast  of  ideas,  1  '25 — 1  -5 — 1  '75  (or  some 
such  fractional  .matter);  so  to  let  you 
a  little  into  the  secrets  of  my  peri- 
cranium, there  is,  you  must  know,  a 
certain  clean-limbed,  handsome,  be- 
witching young  hussy  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, to  whom  I  have  Is^tely 
and  privately  given  a  matrimonial 
title  to  my  corpus. 

"  Bode  a  robe  and  wear  it. 
Bode  a  pock 'and  bear  it," 

says  the  wise  old  Scots  adage.  I  hate 
to  presage  ill-luck;  and  as  my  girl  lias 
been  doubly  kinder  to  me  than  even 
•the  best  of  women  usually  are  to 
their  partners  of  our  sex  in  similar 
circumstances,  I  reckon  on  twelve 
times  a  brace  of  children  against  I  cel- 
ebrate my- twelfth  wedding  day:  these 
twenty-four  will  give  me  twenty-four 
gossipings,  twenty-four  christenings, 
(I  mean  one  equal  to  two,)  and  I  hope, 
by  the  blessing  of  the  God  of  my 
fathers,  to  make  them  twenty-four 
dutiful  •  children   to   their     parents, 


406 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


twenty-four  useful  members  of  society, 
and  twenty-four  approven  servants 
of  their  God. 

"  Light's  heartsome,"  quo'  the  wife 
jvhen  slie  was  stealing  sheep.  You 
see  what  a  lamp  I  have  hung  up  to 
lighten  your  paths,  when  you  are  idle 
enough  to  explore  the  combinations 
and  relations  of  my  ideas.  'Tis  now 
as  plain  as  a  pikestaff  why  a  twenty- 
four  gun  battery  was  a  metaphor  I 
could  readily  employ. 

Now  for  business — I  intend  to  pre- 
sent Mrs.  Burns  with  a  printed  shawl, 
an  article  of  which  I  daresay  you  have 
a  variety;  'tis  my  first  present  to  her 
since  I  have  irrevocably  called  her 
mine,  and  I  have  a  kind  of  whimsical 
wish  to  get  her  the  first  said  present 
from  an  old  and  much-valued  friend 
of  hers  and  mine,  a  trusty  Trojan,  on 
whose  friendship  I  count  myself  pos- 
sessed of  as  a  life-rent  lease. 

Look  on  this  letter  as  a  "  beginning 
of  sorrows;"  I  will  write  you  till  your 
eyes  ache  reading  nonsense. 

Mrs.  Burns  ('tis  only  her  private 
designation)  begs  her  best  compliments 
to  you. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXX. 

TO  PROFESSOR   DUGALD 
STEWART.* 

Mauchline,  May  3,  1788. 

Sir, — I  enclose  you  one  or  two  more 
of  my  bagatelles.  If  the  fervent 
wishes  of  honest  gratitude  have  any 
iniluence  with  that  great  unknown 
Being,  who  frames  the  chain  of  causes 
and  events,  prosperity  and  happiness 
will  attend  your  visit  to  the  Continent, 
and  return  you  safe  to  your  native 
shore. 

Wherever  I  am,  allow  me,  sir,  to 
claim  it  as  my  privilege  to  acquaint 

*  The  kindness  of  heart  and  amenity  of 
manners  of  this  distinguished  philosopher 
were  as  conspicuous  as  his  talents.  The  poet 
has  given  an  interesting  estimate  of  hi9  ac- 
complished friend's  character  In  a  letter  to 
Dr.  Mackenzie,  which  see  at  p.  360. 


you  with  my  progress  in  my  trade  of 
rhymes;  as  I  am  sure  I  could  say  it 
with  truth,  that,  next  to  my  little 
fame,  and  the  having  it  in  my  power 
to  make  life  more  comfortable  to  those 
whom  nature  has  made  dear  to  me,  I 
shall  ever  regard  your  countenance, 
your  patronage,  your  friendly  good 
oflBces,  as  the  most  valued  consequence 
of  my  late  success  in  life. 

R.  B. 


No.    CXXI. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  May  4,  1788. 

Madam, —  Drydeh's  Virgil'  has  de- 
lighted me.  I  do  not  know  whethfer' 
the  critics  will  agree  with  ih^,-but  iibe 
Georgics  are  to  me  by  far  the  best  part' 
of  Virgil.  It  is  indeed  a  species  of 
writing  entirely  new  to  me;  and  had 
filled  my  head  with  a  thousand  fancies 
of  emulation :  but,  alas  !  when  I  read 
the  Georgics,  and  then  survey  my  own 
powers,  'tis  like  the  idea  of  a  Shetland 
pony  drawn  up  by  the  side  of  a 
thoroughbred  hunter,  to  start  for  the 
plate.  I  own  I  am  disappointed  in  the 
Mneii.  Faultless  correctness  may 
please,  and  does  highlj'  please,  the  let- 
tered critic;  but  to  that  awful  char- 
acter I  have  not  the  most  distant  pre- 
tensions. I  do  not  know  whether  I 
do  not  hazard  my  pretensions  to  be  a 
critic  of  any  kind  when  I  say  that  I 
think  Virgil,  in  many  instances,  a  ser- 
vile copier  of  Homer.  If  I  had  the 
Odyssfey  by  mc,  I  could  parallel  many 
passages  where  Virgil  has  evidently 
copied,  but  by  no  means  improved 
Homer.  Nor  can  I  think  there  is  any- 
thing of  this  owing  to  the  translators; 
for,  from  everything  I  have  seen  of 
Dryden,  1  think  him,  in  genius  and 
fluency  of  language.  Pope's  master. 
I  have  not  perused  Tasso  enough  to 
form  an  opinion:  in  sonic  future  let- 
ter, you  shall  have  my  ideas  of  him; 
though  I  am  conscious  my  criticisrns 
must  be  very  inaccurate  and  imperfect, 
as  there  I  have  ever  felt  and  lamented 
my  want  of  learning  most. 

R.  B.  ; 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


407- 


No.  CXXII. 
TO   MR.    ROBERT    AINSLIE. 

.^  Mauchunh^  May  26,  1788. 

■  My  dear  Fkibn-d, — I  am  two  kind 
letters  in  your  debt,  but  I  liave  been 
fiom-home,  and  horridly  busy,  buying 
and  preparing  for  my  farming  busi- 
ness, over  and  above  tlie  plague  of  my 
Excise  instructions,  which  this  week 
will  iinish. 

As  I  flatter  my  wishes  that  I  foresee 
many  future  years'  correspondence 
between  us,  'tis  foolish  to  talk  of  ex- 
casing  dull  epistles;  a  dull  letter  may 
be  a  Tery  kind  one.— I  have  the 
pleasure  to  tell  yoa .  that  I  have  been 
extremely  fortunate  in  all  my  buyings 
and  bargainings  hitherto;  Mrs.  Bnrns 
not  excepted;  which  title  I  now  avow 
to  the  world.  I  am  truly  pleased 
with  this  last  affair:  it  has  indeed 
a^ed  to  anxieties  for  futurity,  but  it 
has  given  a  stability  to  my  mind  and 
resolutions  unknown  before;  and  the 
poor  girl  has  the  most  sacred  enthu- 
siasm of  attachment  to  me,  and  has 
not  a  wish  but  to  gratify  my  every  idea 
of  her  deportment.  I  am  interrupted. 
Farewell  !  my  dear  sir. 

B.  B. 


No.  CXXIII. 
TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

May  27,  17BS. 
Madam, — I  have  been  torturing  my 
philosophy  to  no  purpose,  to  ac- 
count for  that  kind  partiality  of  yours 
which  has  followed  me,  in  my  return 
to  the  shade  of  life,  with  assiduous 
benevolence.  Often  did  I  regret,  in  the 
fleeting  hours  of  my  late  will-o'-wisp 
appearance,  that  "here  I  had  no  con- 
tinuing city;"  and,  but  for  the  consola- 
tion of  a  few  solid  guineas,  could  al- 
most lament  the  time  that  a  momen- 
tary acquaintance  ■with  wealth  and 
splendour  put  me  so  much  out  of  con- 
ceit vrith  the  sworn  companions  of  my 
toad  through  life— insignificance  and 
poverty; 


There  are  few  circumstances  relat- 
ing to  the  unequal  distribution  of  the 
good  things  of  this  life  that  give  me 
more  vexation  (I  mean  in  what  I  see 
around  me)  than  the  importance  the 
opulent  bestow  on  their  trifling  family; 
alfairs,  compared  with  the  very  same 
things  on  the  contracted  scale  of.  a 
cottage.  Last  afternoon  I  had  the 
honour  to  spend  an  hour  or  to  at  a  good 
woman's  fireside,  where  the  planks 
that  composed  the  floor  were  decorated! 
with  a  splendid  carpet,  and  the  gay 
table  sparkled  with  silver  and  china. 
'Tis  now  about  termday,  and  there  has 
been  a  revolution  among  those  crea- 
tures, who  though  in  appearance  par- 
takers, and  equally  noble  partakers,  of 
the  same  nature  with  madam,  are  from 
time  to  time  —  their  nerves,  their 
sinews,  their  health,  strength,  wisdom.' 
experience,  genius,  time,  hay,  a  good 
part  of  their  very  thoughts— sold,  for 
months  and  years,  not  only  to  the 
necessities,  the  conveniences,  but  the 
caprices  of  the  important  few.  We 
talked  of  the  insignificant  creatures, 
nay,  notwithstanding  their  general 
^.stupidity  and  rascality,  did  some  of  the 
poor  devils  the  honour  to  commend 
them.  But  light  be  the  turf  upon  his 
breast  who  taught,  "  Reverence  thy- 
self !"  We  looked  down  on  the  un- 
polished wretches,  their  impertinent 
wives  and  clouterly  brats,  as  the  lordly 
bull  does  on  the  little  dirty  anthill, 
whose  puny  inhabitants  lie  crushes  in 
the  carelessness  of  his  ramble,  or 
tosses  in  the  air  in  the  wantonness  of  his 
pride. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXIV. 
TO  THE    SAME. 

AT    MR.    DUNLOP'S,    HADDINGTOJiT. 

,  Ellisland,  June  13,  1788, 

"  Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  I  see,.. 
My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  friend   it  turns  with  ceaseless 

pain, 
And'  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthen'd 

chain."  — Goldsmith. 

This  is  the  second  day,  my  hon- 
oured friend,  that  I  have  been  on  my 


BURNS'  WORKS, 


farm.  A  solitary  inmate  of  an  old 
smoky  Spence;  far  from  every  object  I 
iove,  or  by  whom  I  am  beloved;  not 
any  acquaintance  older  than  yesterday, 
except  Jenny  Geddes,  the  old  mare  I 
ride  on ;  while  uncouth  cares  and  novel 
plans  hourly  insult  my  awkward  ig- 
norance and  bashful  inexperience. 
There  is  a  foggy  atmosphere  native  to 
iny  soul  in  the  hour  of  care;  conse- 
quently the  dreary  objects  seem  larger 
ihan  the  life.  Extreme  sensibility, 
irritated  and  prejudiced  on  the  gloomy 
side  by  a  series  of  misfortunes  and 
disappointments,  at  that  period  of  my 
existence  when  the  soul  is  laying  in 
Jier  cargo  of  ideas  for  the  voyage  of 
life,  is,  I  believe,  the  principal  cause 
of  his  unhappy  frame  of  mind. 

"  The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  ?^' 

&c. 
Your  surmise,  madam,  is  just;   I  am 
indeed  a  husband. 

To  jealousy  or  infidelity  I  am  an 
equal  stranger.  My  preservative  from 
f  he  first  is  the  most  thorough  conscious- 
ness of  her  sentiments  of  honour,  andf 
her  attachment  to  me:  my  antidote 
against  the  last  is  my  long  and  deep- 
rooted  affection  for  her. 
.  In  housewife  matters,  of  aptness  to 
learn  and  activity  to  execute,  she  is 
eminently  mistress:  and  during  my 
Absence  in  Nithsdale,  she  is  regularly 
iind  constantly  apprentice  to  my  mother 
and  sisters  in  their  dairy  and  other 
rural  business. 

The  muses  must  not  be  offended 
when  I  tell  them  the  concerns  of 
my  wife  and  family  will  in  my  mind 
always  take  the  pns/  but  I  assure  them 
their  ladysjiips  will  ever  come  next  in 
place. 

You  are  right  that  a  bachelor  state 
would  have  insured  m«  more  friends; 
but,  from  a  cause  you  will  easily  guess, 
conscious  peace  in  the  enjoyment  of 
my  own  mind,  and  unmistrusting  con- 
fidence in  approaching  my  God,  would 
seldom  have  been  of  the  number. 

I  found  a  once  much-loved  and  still 
much-loved  female,  literally  and  truly 
cast  out  to  the  merey  of  the  naked  ele- . 


ments;  but' I  enabled  her  to  purcliasa 
a  shelter;— there  is  no  sporting  with  a 
fellow-creature's  happiness,  or  misery. 
The  most  placid  good  nature  and 
sweetness  of  disposition;  a  warm  heart, 
gratefully  devoted  with  all  its  powers 
to  love  me;  vigorous  health  and 
sprightly  cheerfulnes,  set  off  to  the 
best  advantage  by  a  more  than  com- 
monly handsome  figure;  these,  I  think, 
in  a  woman,  may  make  a  good  wife, 
though  she  should  never  have  read  a 
page  but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and 
the  New  Testament,  nor  have  danced 
in  a  brighter  assembly  than  a  penny 
pay-wedding. 

K.  B. 


No.  CXXV. , 
TO   MR.  ROBERT  AINSLTE. 


Ellisland,  June  74, 1788-   ' 

This  is  now  the  third  day,  my  dear- 
est sir,  that  I  have  sojourned  in  these 
regions;  and  during  these  three  days 
you  have  occupied  more  of  my  thoughts 
than  in  three  weeks  preceding;  in  Ayr- 
shire I  have  several  variations  of 
friendship's  compass — here  it  points  in- 
variably to  the  pole.  My  farm  gives 
me  a  good  many  uncouth  cares  and 
anxieties,  but  T hate  the  language  of 
complaint.  Job,  or  some  of  his  friends, 
says  well — "  Why  should  a  living  man 
complain  ?" 

I  have  lately  been  much  mortified 
with  contemplating  an  unlucky  imper- 
fection in  the  very  framing  and  con- 
struction of  my  soiil;  namely,  a  blun- 
dering  inaccuracy  of  her  olfactory  or= 
gans  in  hitting  the  scent  of  craft  or  de- 
sign in  my  fellow-creatures.  I  do  not 
mean  any  compliment  to  my  ingenu- 
ousness, or  tohint  that  the  defect  is  in 
conssquenceof  the  unsuspicious  sim.- 
plicity  of  conscious  truth  and  honour: 
I  take  it  to  be,  in  some  way  or  other, 
an  imperfection  in  the  mental  sights 
or,  metaphor  apart,  some  modification 
of  dulness.  In  two  or  three  small-  in- 
stances lately,  I  have  been  most  shame? 
fully  out. 

I  have  all  along  hitherto,  in  the  Wat' 
fare  of  life,  been  bred  to  arms  among 


GENERAL  COBRESPONDENCE. 


409 


the  light-liorse — ihe  picket-guards  of 
fancy;  a  kind  of  hussars  and  High- 
landers of  the  brain;  but  I  am  firmly  re- 
solved to  sell  out  of  these  giddy  battal- 
ions', who  have  no  ideas  of  a.  battle  but 
fighting  the  foe,  or  of  a  siege  but 
storming  the  town.  Cost  whatsit  will, 
I  am  determined  to  buy  in  among  the 
grave  squadrons  of  heavy  -  armed 
thought,  or  the  artillery  corps  of  plod- 
ding contrivance. 

■  What  books  are  you  reading,  or  what 
is  the  subject  of  your  thoughts,  be- 
sides the  great  studies  of  your  pro- 
fi9ssio3?  You  said  something  about 
religion  in  your  last.  1  don't  exactly 
remember  what  it  was,  as  the  letter  is 
in  Ayrshire ;  but  I  thought  it  not  only 
pi-ettily  said,  but  nobly  thought.  You 
will  make  a  noble  fellow  if  once  you 
were^na^ried.  I  malce  no  reservation 
of  your  being  well  married:  you  have 
BO  much  sense,  and  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  that,  though  you  may 
not  realise  perhaps  the  ideas  of 
romance,  yet  you  will  never  be  ill  mar- 
ried. 

Were  it  not  for  the  terrors  of  my 
ticklish  situation,  respecting  provision 
for  a  family  of  children,  I  am  decidedly 
of  opinion  that  the  step  I  have  taken  is 
vastly  for  ray  happiness.  As  it  is,  I 
look  to  the  Excise  scheme  as  a  cer- 
tainty of  maintenance;  a  maintenance  ! 
■nr^luxury  to  what  either  Mrs..  Burns  or 
I  were  born  to.     Adieu  ! 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXVI. 
TO   THE    SAME. 

Mauchline,  June  25, 1788. 
This  letter,  my  dear  sir,  is  only  a 
business  scrap.  Mr.  Miers,  profile 
painter  in  your  town,  has  executed  a 
profile  of  Dr.  Blacklock  for  me:  dome 
the  favour  to  call  for  it,  and  sit  to  him 
yourself  for  me;  which  put  in  the  same 
size  as  the  doctor's.  The  account  of 
both  profiles  will  be  fifteen  shillings, 
which  I  Tiave  given  to  James  Connel, 
.our  Mauchline  carrier,  to  pay  you  when 
you  give  him  the  parcel.  You  must 
hot,  my  friend,    refuse  to  sit.      The 


time  is  short;  when  I  sat  to  Mr.  Miers, 
I  am  sure  he  did  not  exceed  two  mia- 
utes.  I  propose  hanging  Lord  Glen- 
cairn,  the  doctor,  and  yon,  in  trio  over 
my  new  chimney  piece  that  is  to  be; 
Adieu. 

R.  B. 


No.  cxxvn. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Ellisland,  June  30,  1788. 

My  dear  Sm, — I  just  now  re- 
ceived your  brief  epistle;  and,  to  take 
vengeance  on  your  laziness,  I  have,  you 
see,  taken  a  long  sheet  of  writing* 
paper,  and  have  begun  at  the  top  of  the 
page,  intending  to  scribble  on  to  the 
very  last  corner. 

I  am  vexed  at  that  affair  of  the  ,  .  , 
but  dare  not  enlarge  on  the  subject  un- 
til you  send  me  your  direction,  as  I 
suppose  that  will  be  altered  on  your 
late  master  and  friend's  death.*  I  am 
concerned  for  the  old  fellow's  exit,  only 
as  I  fear  it  may  be  to  your  disadvant- 
tage  in  any  respect,  for  an  old  man's 
dying,  except  he  have  been  a  very 
benevolent  character,  or  in  some  par. 
ticular  situation  of  life  that  the  wel- 
fare of  the  poor  or  the  helpless  depen- 
ded on  him  I  think  it  an  event  of  the 
most  trifling  moment  to  the  world." 
Man  is  naturally  a  kind,  benevolent 
animal,  but  he  is  dropped  into  such  a 
needy  situation  here  in  this"  vexatious 
world,  and  has  such  a  whoreson,  hun- 
gry, growling,  multiplying  pack  of 
necessities,  appetites,  passions,  and  de- 
sires about  him,  ready  to  devour  him 
for  want  of  other  food,  that  in  fact  he 
must  lay  aside  his  cares  for  others  that 
he  may  look  properly  to  himself.  You 
have  been  imposed  upon  in  paying  Mr. 

Miers  for  the  profile  of  a  Mr.  H .  I 

did  not  mention  it  in  my  letter  to  you, 
nor  did  I  ever  give  Mr.  Miers  any  such 
order.  I  have  no  objection  to  lose  the 
money,  but  I  will  not  have  any  such 
profile  in  my  possession. 

I  desired  the  carrier  to  pay  you,  but 
as  I  mentioned  only  15s.  to  him,   I 

*  Mr.  Sattiuel  Mit.chelson,  W.  S. 


410 


BURNS'  WOEKS. 


will  Tather  enclose  you  a  guinea  note. 
I  have  it  not,  indeed,  to  spare  here,  as 
I  am  only  a  sojourner  in  a  strange  land 
in  this  place;  but  in  a  day  or  two  I  re- 
turn to  Mauehline,  and  tliere  I  have 
tlie  bank-notes  through  the  house  like 
sajt  permits. 

There  is  a  great  degree  of  foHy  in 
talking  unnecessarilj*  of  one's  private 
affairs.  I  have  just  now  been  inter- 
rupted by  one  of  my  new  neighbours, 
who  has  made  himself  absolutely  con- 
temptible  in  my  eyes  by  his  silly,  gar- 
rulous pruriency.  I  know  it  has  been  a 
fault  of  my  own ,  too ;  but  from  this  mo- 
ment I  abjure  it  as  I  would  the  service 
of  hell !  Your  poets,  spendthrifts,  and 
other  fools  of  that  kidney,  pretend,  for- 
sooth, to  crack  their  jokes  on  prudence; 
but  'tis  a  squalid  vagabond  glorying  in 
his  rags.  Still,  imprudence  respecting 
money  matters  is  much  more  pardon- 
able than  imprudence  respecting  char- 
acter. I  have  no  objection  to  prefer 
prodigality  to  avarice,  in  some  few  in- 
.stances;  but  I  appeal  to  your  observa- 
tion, if  you  have  not  met,  and  often 
met,  with  the  same  disingenuousness, 
the  sahie  hollow-hearted  insincerity, 
and  disintegritive  depravity  of  prin- 
ciple, in  the  hackneyed  victims  of  pro- 
fusion, as  in  the  Unfeeling  children  of 
parsimony.  I  have  every  possible 
reverence  for  the  much-talked-of  world 
beyond  the  grave,  and  I  wish  that 
which  piety  believes  and  virtue  de- 
serves may  be  all  matter  of  fact.  But 
in  things  belonging  to  and  terminating 
in  this  present  scene  of  existence,  man 
lias  serious  and  interesting  business  on 
hand.  Whether  a  man  shall  shake 
hands  with  welcome  in  the  distin- 
guished elevation  of  respect,  or  shrink 
from  contempt  in  the  abject  corner  of 
insignificance;  whether  he  shall  wan- 
ton under  the  tropic  of  plenty,  at  least 
enjoy  himself  in  the  comfortable  lati- 
tudes of  easy  convenience,  or  starve  in 
the  arctic  circle  of  dreary  poverty; 
whether  he  shall  rise  in  the  manly  con- 
sciousness of  a  self-approving  mind,  or 
sink  beneath  a  galling  load  of  regret 
and  remorse — these  are  alternatives  of 
the  last  moment. 

You  see  how  I  preach.      You  used 


occasionally  to  sermonise  too;   I  ^vJcih 
you  would,  in  charity,  favour  me  with 
a  sheet  full  in  your  own  way.    .  I  ad-_ 
jnire  the  close  of  a  letter  J...ord  Bolingii 
broke  wrote  to  Dean  Swift: — "  Adieuj' 
dear  Swift !   with  all  thy  faults  I'  love 
thee  entirely:  make  an  effort  to  love 
me  with  all  mine  !"      Humble  servant, 
and  all  that  trumpery,  is  now  such  a 
prostituted  business  that  honest  friendJ; 
ship,  in  her  sincere  way,  must  have  re- 
course to  the  primitive,  simple^are- 
well !  . 

it.  a 


No.  CXXVIII. 

TO   MR.    GEORGE    LOCKHAlJT,  . 
MERCHANT,  GLASGOW.. 

Mauchline,  July  i3,  1788. 

Mt  dbar  Sin, — I  am. just  going 
for  Nithsdple,  else  I  would  certainly 
have  transcribed  some  of  my  rhyming 
things  for  you.  The  Misses  Baillie  i 
have  seen  in  Edinburgh.  "Fair  and 
lovely  are  Thy  works,  Lord  God  Al- 
mighty !  Who  would  not  praise  Thee 
for  these  Thy  gifts  in  Thy  goodness  tui 
the  sons  of  men  !"  It  needed  not  your 
fine  taste  to  admire  them.  1  declarej- 
one  day  ITiad  the  honour  of  dining  at 
Mr.  Baillie's,  I  was  almost  in  the  pre- 
dicament of  the  children  of  Israel, 
when  they  could  not  look  on  Moses' 
face  for  the  glory  that  shone  in  it  when 
he  descended  from  Mount  Sinai. 

I  did  once  write  a  poetic  address 
fi'om  the  Falls  of  Bruar  to  his  Grace 
of  Athole,  when  I  was  in  the  High- 
lands. When  you  return  to  Scotland, 
let  me  know,  and  I  will  send  such  of 
my  pieces  as  please  myself  best.  I  re- 
turn to  Mauchline  in  about  ten  days. 

My  compliments  to  Mr.  Purden.  I 
am  in  truth,  but  at  present  irt  hasfe| 
yours, 

E.  B. 


No.  CXXIX. 
TO    MR.    PETER    HILL. 

My  deau  Hill,— I  shall  saynothiiig:. 
to  your  mad  present,  you  have  so  loiig 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


411: 


and  often  been  of  important  service  to 
rae;  and  I  suppose  you  mean  to  go  on 
conferring  obligations  until  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  lift  up  my  face  before  you. 
In  the  meantime,  as  Sir  Roger  de 
Goverley,  because  it  happened  to  be  a 
cold  day  in  winch  he  made  his  will, 
ordered  his  servants  great-coats  for 
mourning,  so,  because  I  have  been 
this  week  plagued  with  an  indigestion, 
I  have  sent  you  by  the  carrier  a  lino  old 
ewe-milk  cheese; 

Indigestion  is  the  devil:  nay,  'tis  the 
devil  and  all.  It  besets  a  man  in 
every  one  of  his  senses.  I  lose  my 
appetite  at  the  sight  of  successful 
knavery,  and  sicken  to  loathing  at  the 
noise, and  nonsense  of  self-important 
folly.  When  tlie  hollow-hearted 
wretch  takes  me  by  the  hand,  the 
feeling  spoils  my  dinner;  the  proud 
man's  wine  so  offends  my  palate  that 
it  chokes  me  in  the  gullet;  and  the 
pulvilised,  feathered,  part  coxcomb,  is 
so  disgustful  in  my  nostril  that  my 
Stomach  turns. 

If  ever  you  have  any  of  these  dis- 
agreeable sensations,  let  me  prescribe 
for  you  patience  and  a  bit  of  my 
chease.  I  know  that  you  are  no  nig- 
gard of  good  thingps  among  your 
friends,  and  some  of  them  are  in  much 
need  of  a  slice.  There,  in  my-  eyes,  is 
our  friend  Smellie;  a  man  positively 
of  the  first  abilities  and  greatest 
strength  of  mind,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
best  hearts  and  keenest  wits  that  I 
have  ever  met  with;  when  you  see 
hiin,  as,  alas!  he  too  is  smarting  at  the 
pincii  of  distressful  ciTcumstances, 
aggravated  by  the  sneer  of  contumelir 
ous  greatness — a  bit  of  my  cheese  alone 
will  not  cure  him,  but  if  you  add  a 
tankard  of  brown  stout,  and  superadd 
ainagnum  of  right  Oporto,  you  will 
see  his  sorrows  vanish  like  the  morn- 
ing mist  before  the  summer  sun. 

Candlish,  the  earliest  friend,  except 
my  only  brother,  that  I  have  on  earth, 
and  one  of  the  worthiest  fellows  that 
ever  any  man  called  by  the  name  of 
friend, — if  a  luncheon  of  my  cheese 
would  help  to  rid  him  of  some  of  his 
superabundant  modesty,  you  would  do 
well  to  give  it  to  Iiim. 


David,"*  with  his  C'fiurant,  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  mon  in 
a  certain  great  town.     I  grant  you  the 
Pfiriods  are  very  well  turned;   so,  a 
fresh   egg  is  u  very  good  thing,  ijut. 
when  thrown  at  a  man  in  a  pillory,  it. 
does  not  at  all  improve  his  figure,  not 
to  mention  the  irreparable  loss  of  the 

My  facetious  friend  Dunbar  I  would  . 
wish  also  to  be  a  partaker,  not  to  di- 
gest his  spleen,  for  that  he  laughs  off, 
but  to  digest  his  last  ni^if^  wine  at 
the  last  field-day  of  the  Crochallau 
corps,  f 

AniOTg  our  common  friends  I  must 
not  forget  one  of  the  dearest  of  them 
— Cunningham.  The  brutality,  inso-. 
lence,  and  selfishness  of  a  world  un- 
worthy of  having  such  a  fellow,  as  he 
is  in  it,  I  know,  sticks  in  his  stomach, 
and.  if  you  can  help  him  to  anj-thing 
that  will  make  him  a  little  easier  on  . 
that  score,  it  will  be  very  obliging. 

As  to  honest  John  Somerville,  he  is 
such  a  contented,  happy  man,  that  I, 
knov/  not  what  can  annoy  him,  except, . 
perhaps,  he  may  not  have  got  the  bet- 
ter of  a  parcel  of  modest  anecdotes, 
which  a  certain  poet  gave  him  one 
night  at  supper,  the  last  time  the  said 
poet  was  in  town. 

Though  I  have  mentioned,  so  many 
men  of  law,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  . 
with  them  professedly — the  faculty  are 
beyond  my  prescription.  As  to  their 
clients  that  is  another  thing;  God 
knows  they  have  much  to  digest ! 

The  clergy  I  pass  by;  their  pro- 
fundity of  erudition,  and  their  liber- 
ality of  sentiment;  their  total  want  of 
pride,  and  their  detestation  of,  hypoc- 
risy, are  so  proverbially  notorious  as 
to  place  them  far,  far  above  either  my 
praise  or  censure. 

I  was  going  .  to  mention  a  man  of 
worth,  whom  I  have  the  honour  to  call 

*  Mr.  David  Ramsay,  printer  of  the,  £tiin- 
biirgh  Evening  Courani. 
+  A  club  of  choice  spirits. 


413 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


friend ,  tlie  Lai  rd  of  Crstigdarrock ;  but 
I  have  spoken  to  the  landlord  of  the 
King's- Arms  Inn  lierc,  to  have  at  the 
next  county  meeting  a  large  ewe-milk 
cheese  on  tlie  table,  for  tlie  benefit  of 
the  Dumfriesshire  Whigs,  to  enable 
them  to  digest  the  Dako  of  Queens- 
berry's  late  political  conduct. 

I  have  just  this  moment  an  oppor- 
tunity of  a  private  hand  to  Edinburgh, 
as  perhaps  you  would  not  digest  double 
postage. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXX. 

TO    ROBERT    GRAHAM,  ESQ.,  OF 

FINTRAY. 

Sir, — When  I  had  the  honour  of  be- 
ing introduced  to  you  at  Athole  House, 
I  did  not  think  so  soon  of  asking  a 
favour  of  you.  When  Lear,  in  Shake- 
speare, asked  old  Kent,  why  he  wished 
to  be  in  his  service,  he  answers,  "  Be- 
cause you  have  that  in  your  face  which 
I  would  fain  call  master."  For  some 
such  reason,  sir,  do  I  solicit  your  pat- 
ronage. You  know,  I  daresay,  of  an 
application  I  lately  made  to  your  Board 
to  be  admitted  an  olficer  of  Excise.  I 
have,  according  to  form,  been  ex- 
amined by  a  supervisor,  and  to-day  I 
give  in  his  certificate,  with  a  request 
for  an  order  for  instructions.  In  this 
affair,  if  I  succeed,  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
but  too  much  need  a  patronising  friend. 
Propriety  of  conduct  as  a  man,  and 
fidelity  and  attention  as  an  officer, 
I  dare  engage  for;  but  with  any- 
thing like  business,  except  manual 
lalxjr,  I  am  totally  unacquainted. 
-  I  had  intended  to  have  closed  my 
late  appearance  on  the  stage  of  life  in 
the  character  of  a  country  fanner;  but 
after  discharging  some  filial  and  fra- 
ternal claims,  I  find  I  could  only  fight 
for  existence  in  that  miserable  manner 
which  I  have  lived  to  see  throw  a  ven- 
erable parent  into  the  jaws  of  a  jail ; 
whence  death,  the  poor  man's  last,  and 
often  best,  friend,  rescued  him.* 

*  The  filial  and  fraternal  claims  to  which 
_  this  letter  refers  were  two  hundred  pounds 


I  know,  sir,  that  to  need  your  goodt- 
ness  is  to  have  a  claim  on  it;  may  I, 
therefore,  beg  your  patronage  to  for- 
ward me  in  this  affair,  till  I  be  ap- 
pointed to  a  division;  where,  by  the 
help  of  rigid  economy,  I  will  try  to 
support  that  independence  so  dear  to 
my  soul,  but  which  has  been  too  often 
so  distant  from  my  situation. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXXL 

TO  WILLIAM  CRUIKSHANK.    ; 
Ellisland,  Aug.  ,1788. 

I  HAVE  not  room.my  dear  friend,'  to 
answer  all  the  particulars  of  your  last 
kind  letter.  I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh 
on  some  business  very  soon;  and  as  I 
shall  be  two  days,  or  perhaps  throe,  in 
town,  we  shall  discuss  matters  i!im 
voce.  My  knee,  I  believe,  will  never 
be  entirely  well;  and  an  unlucky  fall 
this  winter  has  made  it  still  worse.  I 
well  remember  the  circumstance  you 
allude  to,  respecting  Creech's^  opinion 
of  Mr.  Nicol;  but  as  the  first  gentle- 
man owes  me  still  about  fifty  pounds, 
I  dare  not  meddle  in  the  affair. 

It  gave  me  a  very  heavy  heart  to 
read  such  accounts  of  the  consequence 
of  your  quarrel  with  that  puritanic, 
rotten  -  hearted,  hell  -  commissioned 
scoimdrel,  A .  If,  notwithstand- 
ing your  unprecedented  industry  in 
public-,  and  your  irreproachable  con- 
duct in  private  life,  he  still  has  you  so 
much  in  his  power,  what  ruin  may  he 
not  bring  on  some  others  I  could  name  ? 

Many  and  happy  returns  of  seasons 
to  you,  with  your  dearest  and  worthiest 
friend,  and  the  lovely  little  pledge  of 
your  happy  union.  May  the  great 
Author  of  life,  and  of  every  enjoyment 
that  can  render  life  delightful,  make 
her  that  comfortable  blessing  to  you 
both,  which  you  so  ardently  wish  for,- 
and  which,  allow  me  to  say,  you  so 
well  deserve  !  Glance  over  the  forego- 


lent  to  his  brother  Gilbert  to  enable  him  to 
fight  out  the  remainder  of  the  leasi  of  Moss- 
pel— and  a  considerable  sum  given  to  his 
mother.  -         "    ,  - 


GENEHA-L  CORRESPONJJEXCE. 


J413 


iag    verses,   and    let   me  liave    your 
blots  I*    Adieu. 

K.  B. 


No.  CXXXII. 

TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Mauchline,  Aug.  2, 1788. 

Honoured  Madam, — Your  kinS  let- 
ter welcomed  me,  yesterniglit,  to  Ayr- 
shire! I  am  indeed  seriously  angry 
with  you  at  the  quantum  of  your  luck- 
penny;  but,  vexed  and  hijrt  as  I  was, 
I  could  not  help  laughing  very  heartily 
at  the  noble  lord's  apology  for  the 
missed  napkin. 

I  would  write  you  from  Nithsdale, 
and  give  you  my  direction  there,  but  I 
have  scarce  an  opportunity  of  calling 
at  a  post-office  once  in  a  fortnight.  I 
am  six  miles  from  Dumfries,  am 
scarcely  ever  in  it  myself,  and  as  yet 
have  little  acquaintance  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. &sides,  I  am  now  very 
busy  on  my  farm,  building  a  dwelling- 
house;  as  at  present  I  am  almost  an' 
evangelical  man  in  Nithsdale,  for  I 
have  scarce  "  where  to  lay  my  head." 

There  are  some  passages  in  your  last 
that  brought  tears  in  my  eyes.  ' '  The 
heart  knoweth  its  own  sorrows,  and  a 
stranger  intermeddleth  not  therewith." 
The  repository  of  these  "  sorrows  of 
tlje  heart"  is  a  kind  of  sanctum  sanc- 
torum: and  tis  only  a  chosen  friend, 
and  that,  too,  at  particular,  sacred 
times,  who  dares  enter  into  them  :— 

"  Heaven  of  tears,  the  bosom  chords 
That  nature  finest  strung." 

Ton  will  excuse  this  quotation  for 
the  sake  of  the  author.  Instead  of  en- 
tering on  this  subject  farther.  I  shall 
transcribe  you  a  few  lines  I  wrote  in  a 
■hermitage  belonging  to  a  gentleman  in 
iuy  Nithsdale  neighbourhood.  They 
are  almost  the  only  favours  the  Muses 
.liave  conferred  on  me  in  that  country. ■)■ 
',    Since  I  am    in  the    way  of    tran- 


*  The  verses  enclosed  were  the  lines  writ- 
'  te^  in  Friars'  Carse  Hermitage. 
j^t  See  Lines  written  in  Friars'  Carse  Her- 
'  mitage,  p.  113. 


scribing,  the  following  v.-ere  tho  pro- 
duction of  ,  yesterday  as  I  jogged 
through  the  wild  hilis  of  New  Cum- 
nock. I  intend  inserting  them,  or 
something  like  them,  in  an  epistle  I 
am  going  to  write  to  the  gentleman  on 
v/hose  friendship  my  Excise  hopes 
depend,  Mr  Graham  of  Fintray,  one 
of  the  worthiest  and  most  accomplislied 
gentlemen,  not  only  of  this  country, 
but,  I  will  dare  to  say  it,  of  this  ago. 
The  following  are  just  the  first  crude 
thoughts  "unhousel'd,  unanointed, 
unanneal'd:" — * 

Here  the  muse  left  me.  I  an>  astou-: 
ished  at  what  you  tell  me  of  Anthony's 
writing  me.  I  never  received  it.' 
Poor  fellow !  you  vex  me  much  by 
telling  me  that  he  is  unfortunate.  I 
shall  be  in  Ayrshiro  in  ten  days  from, 
this  date.  1  have  just  room  for  an  old 
Roman  farewell. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXXIII. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

Mauchline,  Aug.  10,  1788. '  ' 

My  much-honoured  Friend, — 
Yours  of  the  24th  June  is  before  me. 
I  found  it,  as  well  as  another  valued 
friend — my  wife — waiting  to  welcome 
me  to  Ayrshire  :  I  met  uotli  with  tlie 
sincerest  pleasure. 

When  I  write  you,  madam,  I  do  not' 
sit  down  to  answer  every  paragraph 
of  yours  by  echoing  every  sentiment, 
lilie  the  faithful  Commons  of  Great 
Britain  in  Parliament  assembled  ans- 
wering a  speech  from  the  best  of  kings. 
I  express  myself  in  the  fulness  of  my 
heart,  and  may,  perhaps,  be  guilty  of 
neglecting  some  of  your  kind  inquiries; 
but  not,  from  your  very  odd  reasbn, 
tliat  I  do  not  read  your  letters.  AU 
your  epistles  for  several  months  have 
cost  me  nothing,  except  a  swelling 
throb  of  gratitude,  or  a  deep-felt  sen- 
timent of  veneration. 

*  See  "  First  Epistle  to  Robert  Graham,"  p. 
169.— "Pity  the  tuneful  muses'  hapless 
strain."  .  ^ 


414 


BURNS'  WOEKS. 


When  Mrs  Burns,  madam,  first 
found  liersejf  "as  women  wish  to  be 
who  love  their  lords,"  as  I  loved  her 
nearly  to  distraction,  we  took  steps  for 
a  private  marriage.  Her  parents  got 
the  hint;  and  not  only  forbade  me  her 
company  and  their  house,  but,  on  my 
rumoured  West  Indian  voyage,  got  a 
warrant  to  put  me  in  jail,  till  1  should 
find  security  in  my  about-to  be  pater- 
nal relation.  You  know  my  lucky  re- 
verse of  fortune.  On  my  eelatani  re- 
turn to  Mauchline,  I  was  made  very 
welcome  to  visit  my  girl.  The  usual 
consequences  began  to  betray  her;  and, 
as  1  was  at  that  time  laid  up  a  cripple 
in  Edinburgh,  she  was  turned,  liter- 
ally turned  out  of-  doors,  and  I  wrote 
to  a  friend  to  shelter  her  till  my 
return,  when  our  marriage  was  de- 
clared. Her  happiness  or  misery  was 
in  my  hands,  and  who  could  trifle  with 
such  a  deposit  ? 

I  can  easily  fancy  a  more  agreeable 
companion  for  my  journey  of  life;  but, 
upon  my  honour,  I  have  never  seen 
the  individual  instance. 

Circumstanced  as  I  am,  I  could  never 
have  got  a  female  partner  for  life  who 
could  have  entered  into  my  favourite 
studies,  relished  my  favourite  authors, 
&c. ,  without  probably  entailing  on  me 
at  the  same  time  expensive  living,  fan- 
tastic caprice,  perhaps  apish  affecta- 
tion, with  all  the  other  blessed  board- 
ing-school acquirements,  which  (par- 
donnez-moi  madame)  are  sonietimes  to 
be  found  among  females  of  the  upper 
ranks,  but  almost  universally  pervade 
the  misses  of  the  would-be  gentry. 

I  like  your  way  in  your  churchyard 
lucubrations.  Thoughts  that  are  tho 
spontaneous  result  of  accidental  situa- 
tions, either  respecting  health,  place, 
or  company,  have  often  a  strength  and 
always  an  originality  that  would  in  vain 
be  loolied  for  in  fancied  circumstances 
and  studied  paragraphs.  For  mo,  I  have 
often  thought  of  keeping  a  letter,  in  pro- 
gression by  me,  to  send  you  when  the 
sheet  was  written  out.  Now  I  talk  of 
sheets,  I  must  tell  you,  my  reason  for 
writing  to  you  on  paper  of  this  kind  is 
my  pruriency  of  writing  to  you  at 
large.     A  page  of  post  is  on  such  a  dis- 


social,   narrow-minded    scale,  that    I 
cannot  abide  it;  and  double  letters,  at 
least  in  my  miscellaneous  reverie  man- : 
ner,  are  a  monstrous  tax  in  a  close 
correspondence. 

E.  B. 


No.  CXXXIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Ellisland,  Aug^.  i6,  1788. 

I  AM  in  a  fine  disposition,  my  hon- 
oured friend,  to  send  you  an  elegiac , 
epistle;  and  want  only  genius  to  make' 
it  quite  Shenstonian : — 

*'  Why-  droops  my  heart  with  fancied  woes 

forlorn  ?  [sky  ?" 

Why  sinks  my  soul  beneath  each  wintry 

My  increasmg  cares  in  this,  as  yet,~ 
strange  country — gloomy  conjectures 
in  the  dark  vista  of  futurity — con- 
sciousness of  my  own  inability  for  the 
struggle  of  the  world — my  broadened 
mark  to  misfortune  in^  a  wife  and 
/ihildren; — I  could  indulge  these  reflec- 
tions till  my  humour  should  ferment 
into  the  most  acid  chagrin  that  would 
corrode  the  very  thread  of  life. 

To  counterwork  these  baneful  feel- 
ings, I  have  sat  down  to  write  to  you; 
as  I  declare  upon  my  soul  I  always 
find  that  the  most  sovereign  balm  for  . 
my  wounded  spirit. 

I  was  yesterday  at  Mr.  Miller's  to 
dinner,  for  the  first  time.     My  recep-,,, 
tion  was  quite  to  my  mind — from  the 
lady  of  the  house  quite  flattering.    She 
sometimes  hits  on  a  couplet  or  two 
impromptu.     She  repeated  one  or  two 
to  the  admiration  of  all  present.     My 
suffrage,  as  a  professional  man,  was 
expected:    I  for  once   went  agonizing  ■ 
over  the  belly  of  my  conscience.     Par-:  ^ 
don    me,   ye,   my    adored    household 
gods,  independence  of  spirit,  and  in- 
tegrity of  soul  !     In  the  course  of  con- 
versation, Johnson's  Musical  Museum,  ■_■ 
a  collection  of  Scottish  songs,  with  the;  • 
music,  was  talked  of.     We  got  a  song.f 
on  the  harpsichord,  beginning, 

"  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing."*    ' 

. : , : •    '    -    «'  - 

*  See  p.  2<x).     ■ 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


415 


'The  air  was  much  admired:  the 
lady  of  the  house  asked  me  whose  were 
the  words,  "  Mine,  madam — they  are 
indeed,  my  very  best  verses ;"  she  tooit 
not  the  smallest  notice  of  them  !  The 
old  Scottish  proverb  says  well,  '  'King's 
chafE  is  better  than  ither  folks' com." 
1  was  going  to  make  a  New-Testament 
quotation  about  "casting  pearls,"  but 
that  would  be  too  virulent,  for  the 
lady  is  actually  a  woman  of  sense  and 
taste. 

After  all  that  has  been  said  on  the 
other  side  of  the  question,  man  is  by 
no  means  a  happy  creature.  I  do  not 
speak  of  the  selected  few,  favoured  by 
partial  Heaven,  whose  souls  are  tuned 
to  gladness  amid  riches  and  lionours, 
and  prudence  and  wisdom.  I  speak  of 
the  neglected  many,  whose  nerves, 
whose  sinews,  whose  days  are  sold  to 
the  minions  of  fortune. 

If  I  thought  you  had  never  seen  it 
I  would  transcribe  for  you  a  stanza  of 
an  old  Scottish-  ballad,  called,  "  The 
Life  and  Age  of  Man;"  beginning 
thus: — 

"  'Twas  in  the  sixteenth  hunder  year 
Of  God  and  fifty-three, 
Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  dear, 
As  writings  testifie." 

I  had  an  old  granduncle  with  whom 
my  mother  lived  a  while  in  her  girlish 
years;  the  good  old  man,  for  such  he 
was,  was  long  blind  ere  he  died,  during 
which  time  his  highest  enjoyment  was 
to  sit  down  and  cry,  while  my  mother 
would  sing  the  simple  old  song  of  "The 
Life  and  Age  of  Man." 

It  is  this  way  of  thinking,  it  is  these 
melancholy  truths,  that  make  religion 
so  precious  to  the  poor,  miserable 
children  of  men.  If  it  is  a  mere  phan- 
tom,, existing  only  in  the  heated  ira- 
agihation  of  enthusiasm, 

"  What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  the  lie  1" 

My  idle  reasonings  .sometimes  make 
mea  little  sceptical,  but  the  necessi- 
ties of  iny  heart  always  give  the  cold 
pHilOsophisings  the  lie.  Who  looks  for 
the  heart  weaned  from  earth;  the  soul 
atfianced  to  her  God;  the  correspond- 
ence fixed  with  Heaven;  the  pious  sup- 
plication   and   devout    thanksgiving. 


constant  as  the  vicissitudes  of  even  and 
morn;  who  thinks  to  meet  with  these 
in  the  court,  the  palace,  in  the  glare  of 
public  life  ?  No:  to  find  them  in  their 
precious  importance  and  divine  effica- 
cy, we  must  search  among  the  obscure 
recesses  of  disappointment,  affliction, 
poverty,  and  distress. 

I  am  sure,  dear  madam,  yoii  are  now 
more  than  pleased  with  the  length  of 
my  letters.  I  return  to  Ayrshire  thfe 
middle  of  next  week:  and  it  quickens 
my  pace  to  think  that  there  will  be  a 
letter  from  you  waiting  me  there.  I 
must  be  here  again  very  soon  for  my 
harvest. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXXV. 

TO  MR.  BEUGO,   ENGRAVER, 
EDINBURGH. 

EllislanI),  Sept.  9,  1788. 

Mt  dear  Sir, — There  is  not  in  Edin- 
burgh above  the  number  of  the  graces 
whose  letters  would  have  given  me  So 
much  pleasure  as  .  yours  of .  the  3d  in- 
stant, which  only  reached  me  yester^ 
night. 

I  am  here  on  my  farm,  busy  with 
my  harvest;  but  for  all  that  most 
pleasurable  part  of  life  called  socia-l 
cokMUNlCATiON,  I  am  here  at  the 
very  elbow  of  existence.  The  only 
things  that  are  to  be  found  in  this 
country,  in  any  degree  of  perfection, 
are  stupidity  and  canting.  Prose,  they 
only  know  in  graces,  prayers,  &c. ,  arid 
the  value  of  these  they  estimate  as 
they  do  their  plaiding  webs — by  the 
ell  !  As  for  the  Muses,  they  have  as 
much  idea  of  a  rhinoceros  as  of  a  poet. 
For  my  old  capricious,  but  good-na- 
tured hussy  of  a  muse — 

By  banks  of  Nith  1  sat  and  wept 

When  Coila  I  thought  on, 
In  midst  thereof  I  hung  my  harp 

The  willow-trees  upon. 

I  am  generally  about  half  my  time  in 
Ayrshire  with  my  "  darling  Jean,"  and 
then  I,  at  lucid  intervals,  throw  my' 
horny  fist  across  my  becobwebbed  lyrq, 
much  in  the  same  manner  us  an  old 


-416 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


wife  throws  her  hand  across  the  spokes 
of  her  spinning-wheel. 

I  will  send  the  "  Fortunate  Shep- 
herdess," as  soon  as  I  return  to  Ayr- 
shire, for  there  I  keep  it  with  other 
precious  treasure.  I  shall  send  it  by  a 
careful  hand,  as  I  would  not  for  any- 
thing it  should  be  mislaid  or  lost.  I 
do  not  wish  to  serve  you  from  any 
benevolence,  or  other  grave  Christian 
virtue;  'tis  purely  aselfish  gratification 
of  my  own  feelings  whenever  I  think 
of  you. 

If  your  better  functions  would  give 
you  leisure  to  write  me,  I  should  be 
extremely  happy;  that  is  to  say,  if  you 
neither  keep  nor  look  for  a'  regular 
correspondence..  I  hate  the  idea  of 
being  obliged  to  write  a  letter.  I  some- 
times write  a  friend  twice  a  week,  at 
other  times  once  a  quarter. 

^  I  am  exceedingly  pleased  with  your 
fancy  in  making  the  author  you  men- 
tion place  a  map  of  Iceland  instead  of 
his  portrait  before  his  works:  'twas  a 
a  glorious  idea. 

Could  you  conveniently  do  me  one 
thing  ? — whenever  you  finish  any  head 
I  should  like  to  have  a  proof  copy  of 
it.  I  might  tell  you  a  long  story 
about  your  fine  genius;  but  as  what 
everybody  knows  cannot  have  escaped 
you,  I  shall  not  say  one  syllable  about 
it. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXXVI. 
TO     MISS     CHALMERS,      EDIN- 
BURGH. 

EllislAnd,  (near  Dumfries,)  Sept.  i6,  1788. 

Where  are  you  ?  and  how  are  you  ? 
.and  is  Lady  Mackenzie  recovering  her 
health  ?  for  I  have  had  but  one  solitary 
letter  from  you.  I  will  not  think  you 
liave  forgot  me,  madam;  and  for  my 
part, 

''  When  thee.  Jerusatem,  I  forget. 
Skill  part  from  my  right  hand  !" 

"  My  heart  is  not  of  that  rock;  nor 
my  soul  careless  as  that  sea."  I  do 
not  make  my  progress  among  mankind 
as  a  bowl  does   among  its  fellows. — 


rolling  through  the  crowd  vvithout 
bearing  away  any  mark  or  impression, 
except  where  they  hit  in  hostile  col- 
lision. 

I  am  here  driven  in  with  my  harvest 
folks  by  bad  weather;  and  as  you  and 
your  sister  once  did  me  the  honour  of 
interesting  yourselves  much  d  I'egard 
de  moi,  I  sit  down  to  beg  the  continu- 
ation of  your  goodness.  I  can  truly 
say  that,  all  the  exterior  of  life  apart, 
I  never  saw  two  whose  esteem  flattered 
the  nobler  feelings  of  my  soul — I  will 
not  say  more,  but  so  much,  as  Lady 
Mackenzie  and  Miss  Chalmers.  When 
I  think  of  you — hearts  the  best,  minds 
the  noblest  of  human  kind — unfortu- 
nate even  in  the  shades  of  life — when  I 
think  I  have  met  with  you,  and  have 
lived  more  of  real  life  with  you  in  eight 
days  than  I  can  do  with  almost  any- 
body I  meet  with  in  eight  yearS'^when 
I  thinlcon  the  improbability  of; meet- 
ing you  in  this  world  again— t  could 
sit  down  arid  cry  like  a  child  !  If  ever 
you  honoured  me  with  a  place  in  your 
esteem,  1  trust  I  can  now  plead  more 
desert.  I  am  secure  against  tha^«rush- 
ing  grip  of  iron  poverty,  whichf,ialas!  ife 
less  or  more  fatal  to  the  native  worth 
and  purity  of,  I  fear,  the  noblest  souls; 
and  a  late  important  step  in  my  life 
has  kindly  taken  me  out  of  the  way  of 
those  ungrateful  iniquities,  which' 
however  overlooked  in  fashionable  li- 
cence, or  varnished  in  fashionable 
phrase,  are  indeed  but  lighter  and 
deeper  shades  of  yillasy. 

Shortly  after  my  last  return  to  Ay. 
rshire,  I  married  "my  Jean."  This 
was  not  in  consequence  of  the  attach- 
ment of  romance,  perhaps;  but  I  had  a 
long  and  much  loved  fellow -creature's 
happiness  or  misery  in  my  determina^ 
tiou,  and  I  durst  not  trifle  with  so  im- 
portant a  deposit.  Nor  have  I  any 
cause  to  repent  it.  If  I  have  not  got 
polite  tattle,  modish  manners,  and 
fashionable  dress,  I  am  not  sickened 
and  disgusted  with  the  multiform 
curse  of  boarding-school  aifectationj 
and  I  have  got  the  handsomest  figurfij; 
the  sweetest  temper,  the  soundest  coB» 
stitution,  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the 
county.     Mrs.  Burns  believes,  as  Arm- 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


417 


ly  as  her  creed,  that  I  am  le  plus  bel 
.esprit,  et  le  plus  lionnMe  homme  in  the 
universe;  althoughshe  scarcely  ever  in 
her  life,  except  the  Scriptures  of  tlie 
Old,  and  the.  New  Testament,  and  the 
Psalms  of  David  in. metre,  spent  five 
minutes  together  on  either  prose  or 
verse.  I  must  except  also  from  this 
iast  a  cei^in  late  publication  of  .  Scots 
poems,  .which  slie  has  perused  very  de- 
voutly; aind  all  the  ballads  in  the  coun- 
try, as.she  has  (O  the  partial  lover ! 
you  will  cry) .  the  fineat  ' '  wood- note 
wild  "  I  ever  heard.  I  am  the  more 
particular  in  this  lady's  character,  as  I 
know  she  will  henceforth  have  the 
honour  of  a  share  in  your  best  wishes. 
She  is  still  atMauchline,  as  I  am  build- 
ing my  house;  for  this  hovel  that  I 
sjielter  dn  while  occasionally  here  is 
pervious  to  every  blast  that  blows  and 
every  shower  that  falls;  and  I  am  only 
preserved  from  being  chilled  to  death 
by  being  suffocated  with  smoke.  I  do 
not  find  my  farm  that  pennyworth  I 
was  taught  to  expect,  but  I  believe,  in 
time,  it  may  be  a  saving  bargain.  You 
will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  have 
laid  aside  idle  iclat,  and  bind  every 
day  after  my  reapers. 
;  To  save  me  from  that  horrid  situa- 
tion of  at  any  time  going  down,  in  a 
losing  bargain  of  a  farm,  to  misery,  I 
have  taken  my  excise  instructions,  and 
have  my  commision  in  my  pocket  for 
any  emergency  of  fortune.  If  I  could 
set  all  before  your  view,  whatever  dis- 
respect you,  in  common  with  the  world, 
have  for  this  business,  I  know  you 
would  approve  of  ray  idea. 

I  will  make  no  apology,  dear  madam, 
for  this  egotistic  detail;  I  know  you 
and  your  sister  will  be  interested  in 
every  circumstance  of  it.  Wliat  signify 
the  silly,  idle  gewgaws  of  wealth,  or 
the  ideal  trumpery  of  greatness !  When 
fellow-partakerS  of  the  same  nature 
fear  the  same  God,  have  the  same 
benevolence  of  heart,  the  same  noble- 
ness of  soul,  the  same  detestation  at 
everything  dishonest,  and  the  same 
Scorn  of  Everything  unworthy — if  they 
arejiot  in  the  dependence  of  absolute 
beggary,  in  the  name  oi  common  sense 
are  they  not  b^juals  1  -  And  if  the  bias. 


the  instinctive  bias  of  their  souls  run 
the  same  way,  may  they  ■  not  be 
FRIENDS  ?  ,  . 

When  I  may  have  an  opportunity  of 
sending  you  this.  Heaven  only  kiiows. 
Shenstone  says,  "  When  one  is  con- 
fined idle  within  doors  by  bad  w-eather, 
the  best  antidote  against  ennui.is'to 
read  the  letters  of,  or  write  to,  one's 
friends;"  in  that  case  then,  if  the 
weather  continues  thus,  I  may  scrawl 
half  a  quire. 

I  very  lately— to  wit,  since  harvest 
began — wrote  a  poem,  not  in  imitation, 
but  in  the  manner,  of  Pope's  "Moral 
Epistles."  It  is  only  a  short  essay,, 
]ust  to  try  the  strength  of  my  muse's 
pinion  in  that  way.  I  will  send  you  a 
copy  of  it,  when  once  I  have  heard 
from  you.  I  have  likewise  been  laying, 
the  foundation  of  some  pretty  large 
poetic  works:  how  the  supei-structure 
will  come  on,  I  leave  to  that  great 
maker  and  marrer  of  projects— Time. 
Johnson's  collection  of  Scots  songs  is 
going  on  in  the  third  volume;  and  of 
consequence  finds  me  a  consumpt  for  a 
great  deal  of  idle  metre.  One'  of  the 
most  tolerable  things  I  have  done  in 
that  way  is  two  stanzas  I  made  to  an 
air  a  musical  gentleman  of  my  ac- 
quaintance composed  for  the  anniver- 
sary of  his  wedding-day,  which  hap- 
pens on  the  7th  of  November.  Take 
it  as  follows: — 

The  day  returns — my  bosom  burns — 
The  bUssful  day  we  twadid  meet,  &c.* 

I  shall  give  over  this  letter  for 
shame.  If  I  should  be  seized  with  a 
scribbling  fit  before  this  goes  away,  I 
shall  make  it  another  letter;  and  then 
you  may  allow  your  patience  a  week's, 
respite  between  the  two.  I  have  not 
room  for  more  than  the  old,  kind, 
hearty  farewell  1 

To  make  some  amends  mes  elieres 
mesddmes,  for  dragging  you  on  to  this 
second  sheet;  and  to  relieve  a  little 
the  tiresomeness  of  my  unstudied  and 
uncorrectible  prose,  I  shall '  tran- 
scribe you  some  of  my  late  poetic  bag- 
atelles; though  I  have  these  eight  or 

*  See  p. 212.  .  . 


418 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ten  months  done  very  little  that  way. 
One  day,  in  a  hermitage  on  the  banks 
of  Nith,  belonging  to  a  gentleman  in 
my  neighbourhood,  who  is  so  good  as 
give  me  a  key  at  pleasure,  I  wrote  as 
follows;  supposing  myself  the  seques- 
tered, venerable  inhabitant  of  the 
lonely  mansion: — 

■LINES  WRITTEN  IN   FRIAKS'  CARSE  HERMITAGE. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 
Be  thou  clad  in  russet  weed,  &c.* 

E.  B. 


No.  CXXXVII. 
TOME.  MORRISON,  MAUCHLINE.f 

Ellisland,  Sept.  22,  1788. 

My  deak  Sir, —  Neccessity  obliges 
me  to  go  into  my  new  house  even  before 
It  be  plastered.  I  will  inhabit  the  one 
end  until  the  other  is  finished.  About 
tliree  weelcs  more,  I  think,  will  at  far- 
thest be  my  time,  beyond  which  I 
cannot  stay  in  this  present  house.  If 
«svor  you  wished  to  deserve  tlie  bless- 
ing of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish; 
if  ever  you  were  in  a  situation  that  a 
little  Icindness  would  have  rescued  you 
from  many  evils;  if  ever  you  hope  to 
find  rest  in  future  states  of  untried 
being  —  get  these  matters  of  mine 
ready.  My  servant  will  be  out  in  the 
loeginning  of  next  week  for  the  clock. 
My  compliments  to  Mrs.  Morrison. — I 
am,  after  all  my  tribulation,  dear  sir, 
yours, 

R.  B. 


No.  CXXXVIII. 
To  MRS.    DUNLOP  OF   DUNLOP. 

MAUCHLINE.Sept.  27,  1788. 

I  HAVE  received  twins,  dear  madam, 
more  than  once;  but  scarcely  ever 
with  more  pleasure  than  when  I  re- 
fceived  yours  of  the  12th  instant.  To 
make  myself  understood;  I  had  written 
to  Mr.    Graham,  enclosing  my  poem 


*  See  p.  113. 
+  Mr.  Morrison  was  a  Mauchline  cabinet- 
maker.--He  made  the  furniture  required  for 
the  new  house  at  Ellisland. 


addressed  to  him,  and  the  same  post 
which  favoured  me  with  yours  brought 
me  an  answer  from  him.  It  was  dated 
the  very  day  he  had  received  mine; 
and  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  say  whether 
it  was  most  polite  or  kind. 

Your  criticisms,  my  honoured  bene- 
factress, are  truly  the  work  of  a  friend. 
They  are  not  the  blasting  depredations, 
of  a  canker-toothed,  caterpillar  criti'S, 
nor  are  they  the  fair  statement  of  cold 
impartiality,  balancing  with  unfeeling 
exactitude  the  pro  and  con  of  aii 
author's  merits;  tliey  are  the  judicious 
observations  of  animated  friendship, 
selecting  the  beauties  of  the  piece.  I 
have  just  arrived  from  Nithsdale,  and 
will  be  here  a  fortnight.  I  was  on 
horseback  this  morning  by  three 
o'clock;  for  between  my  wife  and  my 
farm  is  just  forty-six  miles.  As  I  jog- 
ged on  in  the  dark,  I  was  taken  with 
a  poetic  fit,  as  follows: — 

MRS.  FERGUSSON    OF  CRAIGDARROCH's    LAMENTA- 
TION FOR  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON  ; 

A  ti  Uncommonly  ^roiitising  youth  0/ eighteen 

or  nineteen  years  0/ nge. 

Fate  gave  the  word — the  arrow  sped 

And  pierced  my  darling^s  heart,  &c.* 

You  will  not  send  me  your  poetic, 
rambles,  but,  you  see,  I  am  no  niggard 
of  mine.  I  am  sure  your  impromptus 
give  me  double  pleasure;  what  falls 
from  your  pen  can  neither  be  unenter- 
taining  in  itself  nor  indifferent  to 
me. 

Tlie  one  fault  you  found  is  just ;  but 
I  cannot  please  myself  in  an  emenda- 
tion. 

What  a  life  of  solicitude  is  the  life 
of  a  parent !  You  interested  me  much 
in  your  young  couple. 

I  would  not  take  my  folio  paper  for 
this  epistle,  and  now  I  repent  it.  I 
am  so  jaded  with  my  dirty  long  jour- 
ney that  I  was  afraid  to  drawl  into  the 
essence  of  duluess  with  anything 
larger  than  a  quarto,  and  so  I  must 
leave  out  another  rhyme  of  this 
morning's  manufacture. 

I  will  pay  the  sapientipotent  George, 
most  cheerfully,  to  hear  from  you  ere 
I  leave  Ayrshire. 

R.  B. 

*  See  p.  114. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


419 


•  No.  CXXXIX. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Mauchune,  Oct.  1, 1788. 

I  HAVE  been  liere  in  this  country 
about  three  days,  and  all  that  time  my 
chief  reading  has  been  the  ' '  Address 
to  Lochlomond"  you  were  so  obliging 
as  to  send  to  me.*  Were  I  empan- 
rielled  one  of  the  author's  jury,  to  de- 
ttermine  his  criminality  resi^ecting  the 
sin  of  poesy,  my  verdict  should  be, 
'^Guilty  ! — a  poet  of  nature's  malting  !" 
It  is'an  excellent  method  for  improve- 
ment, and  what  I  believe  every  poet 
does,  to  place  some  favourite  classic 
author  in  his  own  walks  of  study  and 
composition  before  him  as  a  model. 
Though  your  author  had  not  men- 
tioned the  name,  I  could  have,  at  half 
a  glance,  guessed  his  model  to  be 
Thoihson.  Will  my  brother-poet  for- 
give me  if  I  venture  to  hint  that  his 
imitation  of  that  immortal  bard  is  in 
two  or  three  places  rather  more  servile 
than  such  a  genius  as  his  required ! 
—e.g., 

"To  soothe  the  madd'ning-  passions  all  to 
'   '■     peace."  ^Address. 

"To    soothe    the    throbbing   passions    into 
peace."  — Thomson. 

■  I  think  the  "Address"  is  in  simpli- 
city, harmony,  and  elegance  of  versifi- 
cation, fully  equal  to  the  "Seasons." 
Like  Thomson,  too,  he  has  looked 
into  nature  for  himself:  you  meet 
with  no  copied  description.  One  par- 
ticular 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  nature's  making, 
kindles  in  his  course.  His  beginning 
is  simple  and  modest,  as  if  distrustful 
of  the  strength  of  his  pinion;  only,  I 
do  not  altogether  like — 

"  Truth, 
The  soul  of  every  song  that's  nobly  great." 

Fiction  is  the  soul  of  many  a  song 
that  is  nobly  great.  Perhaps  I  am 
wrong;  this  may  be  but  a  prose  criti- 
cism. Is  not  the  phrase,  in  line  7,  page 
6,  "  Great  lake,"  too  much  vulgarized 


^  *  A  poem  written,  by  one  of  the  masters  of 
the  Edinburgh  High  School. 


by  every-day  language  for  so  sublime 
a  poem  V 

"  Great  mass  of   waters,  theme   for  nobler 
song," 

is  perhaps  no  emendation.  His  enu- 
meration of  a  comparison  with  other 
lakes  is  at  once  harmonious  and  poetic. 
Every  reader's  ideas  must  sweep  the 

"  Winding  margin  of  a  hundred  miles." 

The  perspective  that  follows  moun- 
tains blue — the  imprisoned  billows 
beating  in  vain — the  wooded  isles — 
the  digression  on  the  yew-tree — "  Ben- 
lomond's  lofty,  cloud-envelop'd  head," 
&c.,  are  beautiful.  A  thunder-storm 
is  a  subject  which  has  often  been  tried, 
yet  our  poet  in  his  grand  picture  has 
interjected  a  circumstance,  so  far  as  I 
know,  entirely  original: — 

"  The  gloom 
Deep  seam'd  with  frequent  streaks  of  moving. 

fire." 

In  his  preface  to  the  storm,  "  the 
glens  how  dark  between,"  is  noble 
Highland  landscape  !  The  ' '  rain 
ploughing  the  red  mould."  too,  is 
beautifully  fancied.  .  "  Benlomond's 
lofty,  pathless  top,"  is  a  good  expres- 
sion; and  the  surrounding  view  from  it 
is  truly  great:  the 

"  Silver  mist, 
Beneath  the  beaming  sun," 

is  well  described;  and  here  he  has  con- 
trived to  enliven  his  poem  with  a  little 
of  that  passion  which  bids  fair,  Itliink, 
to  usurp  the  modern  muses  altogether. 
I  know  not  how  far  this  episode  is  a 
beauty  upon  the  whole,  but  the 
swain's  wish  to  carry  ' '  some  faint  idea' 
of  the  vision  bright, "  to  entertain  her 
"partial  listening  ear,"  is  a  pretty 
thought.  But  in  my  opinion  the  most 
beautiful  passages  in  the  whole  poem 
are  the  fowls  crowding,  in  wintry 
frosts,  to  Lochlomond's  "  hospitable 
flood;"  their  wheeling  round,  their 
lighting,  mixing,  diving,  &c. ;  and  the 
glorious  description  of  the  sportsman. 
This  last  is  equal  to  anything  in  the 
' '  Seasons. "  The  idea  of  ' '  the  floating 
tribes  distant  seen,  far  glistering  to 
the  moon,"  provoking  his  eye  as  he  is 
obliged  to  leave  them,  is  a  noble  ray  of 
poetic  genius.     "The  howling  winds," 


430 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


tUe  ' '  hideous  roar"  of  ' '  the  white  cas- 
cades," are  all  in  the  same  style. 

I  forget  that  while  I  am  thus  hold- 
ing fortii  with  the  heedless  warmth  of 
au  enthusiast,  I  am  perhaps  tiring  you 
with  nonsense.  I  must,  however,  men- 
tion that  the  last  verse  of  the  sixteenth 
page  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  compli- 
ments I  have  ever  seen.  1  must  like- 
wise notice  that  beautiful  paragraph 
beginning  "  The  gleaming  lake,"  &c. 
I  dare  not  go  into  the  particular  beau- 
ties of  the  two  last  paragraphs,  but 
they  are  admirably  fine,  and  truly 
Ossianic. 

I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  this 
lengthened  scrawl — I  had  no  idea  of  it 
when  I  began.  I  should  like  to  know 
who  the  author  is;  but,  whoever  he 
be,  please  present  him  with  my  grate- 
ful thanks  for  the  entertainment  he 
has  afforded  me. 

A  friend  of  mine  desired  me  to  com- 
mission for  him  two  books,  ' '  Letters 
on  the  Religion  Essential  to  Man,"  a 
book  you  sent  me  before;  and  "The 
World  Unnlasked;  or,  The  Philoso- 
pher the  Greatest  Cheat."  Send  me 
them  by  the  first  opportunity.  The 
Bible  you  sent  me  is  truly  elegant;  I 
only  wish  it  had  been  in  two  volumes. 

E.  B. 


No.  CXL. 

« 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  STAR. 

Nov.  8, 1788. 
Sir, — Notwithstanding  the  oppro- 
brious epithets  with  which  some  of 
our  philosophers  and  gloomy  secta- 
rians have  branded  our' nature — the 
principle  of  universal  selfishness,  the 
proneness  to  all  evil,  they  have  given 
us— still,  the  detestation  in  which  in- 
humanity to  the  distressed,  or  inso- 
lence to  the  fallen,  are  held  by  all 
mankind,  shows  that  they  are  not 
natives  of  the  human  heart.  Even  the 
unhappy  partner  of  our  kind  who  is 
undone — the  bitter  consequence  of  his 
follies  or  his  crimes — who  but  sympa- 
thises with  the  miseries  of  this  ruined 
profligate  brother?  We  forget  the  in- 
juries, and  feel  for  the  man. 


I  went  last  Wednesday,  to  my  parish 
church,  most  cordially  to  join  in  grate- 
ful acknowledgment  to  the  Aothor 
OF  ALL  Good  for  the  consequent, 
blessings  of  the  glorious  revolution. 
To  that  auspicious  event  we  owe  no 
less  than  our  liberties,  civil  and  relig- 
ious; to  it  we  are  likewise  indebted 
for  the  present  royal  family,  the  rul- 
ing features  of  whose  administration 
have  ever  been  mildness  to  the  subject, 
and  tenderness  of  his  rights. 

Bred  and  educated  in  revolutioa 
principles,  the  principles  of  reason 
and  common  sense,  it  could  not  be  any 
silly  political  prejudice  which  made 
my  heart  levolt  at  the  harsh,  abusive 
manner  in  which  the  reverend  gentle»i 
man  mentioned  the  house  of  Stuart, 
and  which,  I  am  afraid,  was  too  mndL 
the  language  of  the  day.  We  mjqr 
rejoice  sufficiently  in  our  deliverance 
from  past  evils,  without  cruelly  raking 
up  the  ashes  of  those  whose  misfor- 
tune it  was,  perhaps,  as  much  as  their 
crime,  to  be  the  authors  of  those  evils; 
and  we  may  bless  God  for  all  His 
goodness  to  us  as  a  nation,  without  at 
the  same  time  cursing  a  few  ruined, 
powerless  exiles,  who  only  harboured 
ideas  and  made  attempts  that  most  of 
us  would  have  done,  had  we  been  in 
their  situation. 

"The  bloody  and  tyrannical  house 
of  Stuari;,"  may  be  said  with  pro- 
priety and  justice,  when  compared 
with  the  present  royal  family,  and  the 
sentiments  of  our  days;  but  is  there 
no  allowance  to  be  made  for  the  man- 
ners of  the  times  ?  Were  the  royal  cour 
temporaries  of  the  Stuarts  more  atten- 
tive to  their  subjects'  rights  ?  Might 
not  the  epithets  of  "  bloody  and  tyran- 
nical" be,  with  at  least  equal  justice, 
applied  to  tlie  house  of  Tudor,  of 
York,  or  any  other  of  their  predeces- 
sors? 

The  simple  state  of  the  case,  sir, 
seems  to  be  this  : — at  that  period  the 
science  of  government,  the  luiowledge 
of  the  true  relation  between  king  and 
subject,  was,  like  other  sciences  and 
other  knowledge,  just  in  its  infancy, 
emerging  from  dark  ages  of  ignorance 
and  barbarity.  , 


GENERAL'  CORRESPONDENCE. 


421 


I'The  Stuarts  only  contended  for  pre- 
legatives  wliioli  tliey  knew  tlieir  pre- 
decessors enjoyed,  and  which  tliey  saw 
their  contemporaries  enjoying;  but 
thiese  prerogatives  were  inimical  to  the 
happiness  of  a  nation  and  the  rights  of 
subjects. 

In  this  contest  between  prince  and 
pfeople,  the  consequence  of  that  light 
df  science  which  had  lately  dawned 
over  Europe,  the  monarch  of  France, 
for  example,  was  victorious  over  tho 
struggling  liberties  of  his  people: 
with  us,  luckily,  the  monarch  failed, 
and  his  unwarrantable  pretensions  fell 
a  sacrifice  to  our  rights  and  happiness. 
Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  wisdom 
of  leading  individuals,  or  to  the  just- 
ling  of  parties,  I  cannot  pretend  to  de- 
termine; but  likewise,  happily  for  us, 
the  kingly  power  was  shifted  into  an- 
other branch  of  the  family,  who,  as 
they  owed  the  throne  solely  to  the  call 
of  a  free  people,  could  claim  nothing 
inconsistent  with  the  covenanted 
terms  which  placed  them  there. 

The 'Stuarts  have  been  condemned 
and  laughed  at  for  the  folly  and  im- 
practicability of  their  attempts  in  1715 
and  1745.  That  they  failed,  I  bless 
God;  but  cannot  join  in  the  ridicule 
against  them.  Who  does  not  know 
that  the  abilities  or  defects  of  leaders 
and  commanders  are  often  hidden  un- 
til put  to  the  touchstone  of  exigency; 
and  that  there  is  a  caprice  of  fortune, 
an  ctmnipotence  in  particular  accidents 
and'  conjunctures  of  circumstances, 
which  exalt  us  as  heroes,  or  brand  us 
as  madmen,  just  as  they  are  for  or 
against  us? 

■  Man,  Mr.  Publisher,  is  a  strange, 
weak,  inconsistent  being;  who  would 
believe,  sir,  that  in  this  our  Aug^istan 
age  of  liberality  and  refinement,  while 
we  seem  so  justly  sensible  and  jealous 
of  our  rights  and  liberties,  and  anima- 
ted with  Such  indignation  against  the 
very  memory  of  those  who  would 
have  subverted  them,  that  a  certain 
people  under  our  national  protection 
should  complain,  not  against  our  mon- 
arch and  a  few  favourite  advisers,  but 
against  our  .  wnOLB  i<echslativb 
BODY,  for  similar  oppression,  and  al- 


most in  tho  very  same  terms,  as  our 
forefathers  did  of  the  house  of  Stuart] 
I  will  not,  I  cannot,  enter  into  the 
merits  of  the  cause;  but  I  daresay  the 
American  Congress,  in  1776,  will  bo 
allowed  to  be  as  able  and  as  enlight- 
ened as  the  English  Convention  was 
in  1688;  and  that  their  posterity  will 
celebrate  the  centenary  of  their  deliver- 
ance from  us  as  duly  and  sincerely  as 
we  do  ours  from  the  oppressive  mea- 
sures of  the  wrong-headed  house  of 
Stuart. 

To  conclude,  sir;  let  every  man  who 
has  a  tear  for  the  many  miseries  inci- 
dent to  humanity,  feel  for  a  family 
illustrious  as  any  in  Europe,  and  un- 
fortunate beyond  historic  precedent; 
and  let  every  Briton  (and  particularly 
every  Scotsman)  who  ever  looked  with 
reverential  pity  on  the  dotage  of  a 
parent,  cast  a  veil  over-  the  fatal  mis- 
takes of  the  kings  of  his  forefathers. 

R.  B. 


No.    CXLI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  AT  MOREHAM 
MAINS. 
Mauchline,  Nov.  13, 1788. 

Madam, —  I  had  the  very  great 
pleasure  of  dining  at  Dunlop  yester- 
day. Men  are  said  to  flatter  women 
because  they  are  weak;  if  it  is  so, 
poets  must  be  weaker  still;  for  Misses 

R and  K ,  and  Miss  G.  M'K , 

with  their  flattering  attentions  and  art- 
ful compliments,  absolutely  turned 
my  head.  I  own  they  did  not  lard  me 
over  as  many  a  poet  does  his  patron, 
but  they  so  intoxicated  me  with  their 
sly  insinuations  and  delicate  inuendos, 
of  compliment,  that,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  lucky  recollection  now  much' 
additional  weight  and  lustre  your, 
good  opinion  and  friendship  must  give 
me  in  that  circle,  I  had  certainly 
looked  upon  myself  as  a  person  of  no 
small  consequence.  I  dare  not  say 
one  word  how  much  I  was  charmed 
with  the  major's  friendly  welcome, 
elegant  manner,  and  acute  remark, 
lest  I  should  be  thought  to  balance 
my    orientalisms    of    applause    over 


4B'3 


BUKNS'  WORKS. 


against  tlie  finest  quey  (heifer)  in  Ayr- 
sbire,  which  he  made  me  a  present  of 
to  help  and  adorn  my  farming  stock. 
As  it  was  on  hallowday,  I  am  deter- 
mined annually  as  that  day  returns, 
to  decorate  her  horns  with  an  ode  of 
gratitude  to  the  family  of  Dunlop. 

So  soon  as  I  know  of  your  arrival  at 
Dunlop,  I  will  take  the  first  con- 
venience to  dedicate  a  day,  or  perhaps 
two,  to  you  and  friendship,  under  the 
guarantee  of  the  majpr's  hospitality. 
There  will  soon  be  threescore  and  ten 
miles  of  permanent  distance  between 
us;  and  now  that  your  friendship  and 
friendly  correspondence  is  entwisted 
with  the  heart-strings  of  my  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  I  must  indulge  myself  in 
a  happy  day  of  "the  feast  of  reason 
and  the  flow  of  soul." 

B.  B. 


No.  CXLII. 

TO  MB.  JAMES  JOHNSON, 
ENGRAVEB. 

Mauchline,  Nov.  15,  1788. 

My  Deak  Sm, —  I  have  sent  you 
two  more  songs.  If  you  have  got  any 
tunes,  or  anything  to  correct,  please 
send  them  by  return  of  the  carrier. 

I  can  easily  see,  my  dear  friend,  that 
you  will  very  probably  have  four  vol- 
umes. Perhaps  you  may  not  find  your 
account  lucratively  in  this  business; 
but  you  are  a  patriot  for  the  music  of 
your  country;  and  I  am  certain  poster- 
ity will  look  on  themselves  as  highly 
indebted  to  your  public  spirit.  Be  not 
in  a  hurry;  let  us  go  on  correctly,  and 
your  name  shall  be  immortal. 

I  am  preparing  a  flaming  preface  for 
your  third  volume.  I  see  every  day 
new  musical  publications  advertised; 
but  what  are  they?  Gaudy,  hunted 
butterflies  of  a  day,  and  then  vanish 
for  ever  :  but  your  work  will  outlive 
the  momentary  neglects  of  idle  fashion, 
and  defy  the  teetli  of  time. 
,  Have  you  never  a  fair  goddess  that 
leads  you  a  wild-goose  chase  of  amor- 
ous devotion  ?  Let  me  know  a  few  of 
her  qualities^  such  as  whether  she  be 


rather  black,  or  fair;   plump,  or  thin;  • 
short,  or  tall,  &c. ;  and  choose  your  air,. 
and  I  shall  task  my  muse  to  celebrate 
her. 

B.  B.    V 


No.  CXLIII. 

TO  DB.   BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline,  Nov.  15, 1788. 

Reverend  and  deab  Sir, — As  I 
hear  nothing  of  your  motions,  but  that 
you  are,  or  were,  out  of  town,  I  do  not 
know  where  this  may  find  you,  or- 
whether  it  will  find  you  at  all.  I 
wrote  you  a  long  letter,  dated  from  the 
land  of  matrimony,  in  June;  but  either 
it  had  not  found  you,  or,  what  I  dread- 
more,  it  found  you  or  Mrs.  Blackiock  in: 
too  precarious  u,  state  of  health  and- 
spirits  to  take  notice  of  an  idle  packet.: 

I  have  done  many  little  things  for 
Johnson  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you;  and  have  finished  one 
piece  in  the  way  of  Pope's  "Moral: 
Epistles;"  but,  from  your  silence,  I 
have  everything  to  fear,  so  I  have  only 
sent  you  two  melancholy  things,  which 
I  tremble  lest  they  should  too  well  suit 
the  tone  of  your  present  feelings. 

In  a  fortnight  I  move,  hag  and  bag- 
gage, to  Nithsdale ;  till  then  my  direc- 
tion is  at  this  place;  after  that  period 
it  will  be  at  EUisland,  near  Dumfries. 
It  would  extremely  oblige  me,  were  it 
but  half  a  line  to  let  me  know  how  you 
are  and  where  you  are.  Can  I  be  in- 
different to  the  fate  of  a  man  to  whom. 
I  owe  so  much  ?  A  man  whom  I  not 
only  esteem,  but  venerate. 

My  warmest  good  wishes  and  most 
respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Black- 
lock,  and  Miss  Johnston,  if  she  is  with, 
you. 

I  cannot  conclude  without  telling 
you  that  I  am  more  and  more  pleased 
with  the  step  I  took  respecting  "my 
Jean."  Two  things,  from  my  happy 
experience,  I  set  down  as  apophthegms 
in  life — A  wife's  head  is  immaterial 
compared  with  her  heart ;  and — "Vir- 
tue's (for  wisdom  what  poet  pretends 
to  it  ?)  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,-, 
and  all  her  paths  are  peace."     Adieu  I 

B.  B.„ 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE; 


■433 


[Here  follow  ' '  The  mother's  lament 
for  the  loss  of  her  son,"  and  the  song 
beginning  "  The  lazy  mist  hanggfrom 
the  brow  of  the  hill."  See  pp.114, 
313.] 


No.  CXLIV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Elusland,  Dec.  17,  1788. 

Mt  DBAR  HONOUKBD  FniBND,  — 
Yours,  dated  Edinburgh,  which  I  have 
just  read,  makes  me  very  unhappy. 
"Almost  blind  and  wholly  deaf,"  is 
melancholy  news  of  human  nature; 
but  when  told  of  a  much-loved  and 
honoured  friend  they  carry  misery  in 
the  sound.  Goodness  on  your  part 
and  gratitude  on  mine  began  a  tie 
which  has  gradually  entwined  itself 
amongthe  dearest  chords  of  my  bosom, 
and  I. tremble  at  the  omens  of  your 
late  and  present  ailing  habit  and  shat- 
tered health.  You  miscalculate  mat- 
ters widely  when  you  forbid  my  wait- 
ing on  you,  lest  it  should  hurt  my 
worldly  concerns.  My  small  scale  of 
farming  is  exceedingly  more  simple 
and  easy  than  what  you  have  lately 
seen  at  Moreham  Mains.  But  be  that 
as  it  may,  the  heart  of  the  man  and 
the  fancy  of  the  poet  are  the  two  grand 
considerations  for  which  I  live;  if  miry 
ridges  and  dirty  dunghills  are  to  en- 
gross the  best  part  of  the  functions  of 
my  soul  immortal,  I  had  better  been  a 
rook  or  a  magpipe  at  once,  and  then  I 
should  not  have  been  plagued  with 
any  ideas  superior  to  breaking  of  clods 
and  picking  up  grubs;  not  to  mention 
barn-door  cocks  or  mallards,  creatures 
with  which  I  could  almost  exchange 
lives  at  any  time.  If  you  continue  so 
deaf,  I  am  afraid  a  visit  will  be  no  great 
pleasure  to  either  of  us;  but  if  I  liear 
yoii  have  got  so  well  again  as  to  be 
-  able  to  relish  conversation,  look  you  to 
it,  madam,  for  I  will  make  my  threat- 
enings  good.  I  am  to  be  at  the  New- 
year-day  fair  of  Ayr;  and,  by  all  that 
is  sacred  in  the  world,  friend,  I  will 
come  and  see  you. 

-   Your  meeting,  which  you  so   well 
describe,  with  your  old  school-fellow 


and  friend,  was  tritly  interesting.  Out 
upon  the  ways  of  the  world! — They 
spoil  these  "social  offsprings  of  the 
heart."  Two  veterans  of  the  "men of 
the  world  "  would  have  met  with  little 
more  heart- workings  than  two  old 
hacks  worn  out  on  the  road.  Apropos, 
is  not  the  Scotch  phrase,  "auld  lang 
syne,"  exceedingly  expressive  ?  There 
is  an  old  song  and  tun5  which  have 
often  thrilled  through  my  soul.  You 
know  I  am  an  enthusist  in  old  Scotch 
songs.  Ishall  give  you  the  verses  on  the 
other  sheet, 

"  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot?"* 

as  I  suppose  Mr.  Ker  will  save  you 
the  postage. 

Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of 
■the  Heaven-inspired  poet  who  com- 
posed this  'glorious  fragment!  There 
is  more  of  the  fire  of  native  genius  in 
it  than  half-a-dozen  of  modern  En- 
glish Bacchanalians!  Now-  I  am  on 
my  hobby-horse,  1  cannot  help  insert- 
ing two  other  old  stanzas,  which 
please  me  mightily: — 

"  Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  of  wine."  •^ 
E.  B. 


No.  CXLV. 

TO  MISS  DAVIES. 

Dec.  17S8. 

Madam,  —  I  understand  my  very 
worthy  neighbour,  Mr.  Riddel,  has  in- 
formed you  that  I  have  made  you  the 
subject  of  some  verses.  There  is  some- 
thing so  provoking  in  the  idea  of  being 
the  burthen  of  a  ballad  that  I  do  hot 
think  Job,  or  Moses,  though  such  pat- 
terns of  patience  and  meekness,  could 
have  resisted  the  curiosity  to  know 
what  that  ballad  was:  so  my  worthy 
friend  has  done  me  a  mischief,  which 
I  daresay  he  never  intended;  and  re- 
duced me  to  the  unf o  rtunate  alterna- 
tive of  leaving  your  curiosity  ungrati- 
fied,  or  else  disgusting  you  with  foolish 
Verses,  tlie  unfinished  production  of  a 
random  moment,  and  never  meant  to 


*  See  p.  213. 


t  See  p.  214- 


434 


BXTRNS'  WORKS. 


have  met  your  eai.  I  liave  heard  or 
read  somewhere  of  a  gentleman  who 
had  some  genius,  much  eccentricity, 
and  very  considerable  dexterity  with 
his  pencil.  In  the  accidental  group  of 
life  into  which  one  is  thrown,  wherever 
this  gentleman  met  with  a  character  in 
a  more  than  ordinary  degree  congenial 
to  his  heart,  he  used  to'steal  a  sketch 
of  the  facfe,  merely,  he  said,  as 
a  nota  bene,  to  point  out  the  agreeable 
recollection  to  his  memory.  Wliat 
this  gentleman's  pencil  was  to  him, 
my  muse  is  to  me;  and  the  verses  I  do 
myself  the  honour  to  send  you  are  a 
memento  exactly  of  the  same  kind  that 
he  indulged  in. 

It  may  be  more  owing  to  the  fastid- 
iousness of  my  caprice  than  the  delica- 
cy of  my  taste ;  but  I  am  so  often  tired, 
disgusted,  and  hurt  with  the  insipidity, 
affectation,  and  pride  of  mankind,  that 
when  I  meet  with  a  person  ' '  after  my 
own  heart,"  I  positively  feel  what  an  or- 
thodox Protestant  would  call  a  species 
of  idolatry,  which  acts  on  my  fancy  like 
inspiration;  and  I  can  no  more  resist 
rhyming,  on  the  impulse,  than  an 
Eolian  harp  can  refuse  its  tones  to  the 
&l;reaming  air.  A  distich  or  two 
would  bo  the  consequence,  though  the 
object  which  hit  my  fancy  were  giay- 
bearded  age;  but  where  my  theme  is 
youth  and  beauty,  a  young  lady  whos^ 
personal  charms,  wit,  and  sehtiment 
are  equally  striking  and  unaffected — 
by  heavens!  though  I  had  lived  three- 
score years  a  married  man,  and  three- 
score yearc  before  I  was  a  married  man, 
my  imagination  would  hallow  the  very 
idea:  and  I  am  truly  sorry  that  the  en- 
closed stanzas  have  done  such  popr 
justice  to  such  a  subject.*        R.  3., 


No.  CXLVI. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  TENNANT.f 

Dec.  22,  1788. 

1  YESTERDAY  tried  my  cask  of  whis- 
ky for  the  first  time,  and  I  assure  you 

*  See  p.  230, 
t  Mr.  Tennant  of  Ayr,  one  of  the  poet's 
early  friend;. 


it  does  you  great  credit.  It  will  bear 
five  waters,  strong; -or  .six, ,  ordinaipr 
toddy.  The  whisky  of  this  country  is 
a  most  rascally  liquor;  and,  b^  conse- 
quence, only  drunk  by  the  most  ras- 
cally part  of  the  inhabitants.  I  am 
persuaded,  if  you  once  get  a  footing 
here,  you  might  do  a  great  deal  of 
business,  in  the  way  of  consumpt;  and 
should  you  commence  distiller  again, 
this  is  the  native  barley  country.  I 
am  ignorant  if,  in  your  present  way  of 
dealing,  you  would  think  it  worth  your 
while  to  extend  your  business  so  far  as 
this  country  side.  I  write  you  this  on  the 
account  of  an  accident,  which  I  must 
take  the  merit  of  having  partly  de- 
signed to  a  neighbour  of  mine,  a  John 
f^rrie,  miller  in  Carse-milWa  man, 
who  is,  in  a  word,  a  "very"  good 
man,  even  for  a  £500  bargain.  He 
and  his  wife  were  in  my  house  the 
time  I  broke  open  the  cask.  They 
keep  a  country  public-house  and  sell  a 
great  deal  of  foreign  spirits,  but  all 
along  thought  that  whisky  would 
have  degraded  their  house.  They 
wereperfectly^astonished  at  my  whisky ' 
both  for  its  taste  and  strength;  and 
by  their  desire  I  write  you  to  know  if 
you  could  supply  them  with  liquor  of 
an  equal  quality  and  what  price. 
Please  write  me  by  first  pest,  and  di- 
rect to  me  at  Ellisland,  near  Dumfries. 
W\-ou  could  take  a  jaunt  this  way  your-. 
self,  I  have  a  spare  spoon,  knife,  and 
fork  very  much  at  your  service.  My  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  Tennant,  and  all  the' 
good  folks  in  Glenconner  and  Bar- 
quhaTrie^ 

R.  B. 


No.  CXLVir. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  ) 

New-year-day  Momiogt,  1789.     )       , 

This,  dear  madam,  is  a  morning  of' 
vrishes,  and  would  to  God  that  I  came- 
under  the  apostle  James'  description^-^- 
the  prayer  of  a  righteous  man  availeth 
much.  In  that  case,  madam,  you- 
should  welcome  in  a  year  full  of  bless., 
ings:  everything -that  obstructs  or  dia- 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


425 


tnrba '  tranquility  and  self-enjoyment 
should  be  removed,  and  every  pleasure 
that  frail  humanity  can  taste  should 
he -yours.  I  own  myself  so  little  a 
Presbyterian  that  I  approve  of  set 
times  aiid-  seasons  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary acts  of  devotion,  for  breaking  in 
on  that  habituated  routine  of  life  and 
feought  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce  our 
existence  to  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  even 
sometimes,  and  with  some  minds,  to  a 
state  very  little  superior  to  mere  ma- 
chinery. 

This  day — ^the  first  Sunday  of  May 
—a  breezy,  blue-skyed  noon  some 
time  about  the  beginning,  and  a  hoary 
ruorning  and  calm  sunny  day,  about 
the  end  of  autumn;  these,  times  out  of 
mind,  have  been  with  me  a  kind  of 
holiday. 

I  believe  I  owe  this  to  that  glorious 
paper  in  the  Spectator,  "  The  Vision 
of  Mirza,"  a  piece  that  struck  my 
young  fancy  before  I  was  capable 
of  fixing  an  idea  to  a  word  of  three 
Syllables:  "On  the  5th  day  of  the 
moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom 
of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy, 
after  having  washed  myself,  and  of- 
fered up  my  morning  devotions,  I  as- 
cended the  high  hill  of  Bagdad,  in  or- 
der to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
meditation  and  prayer." 

We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  noth- 
ing, of  the  substance  or  structure  of 
our  souls,  so  cannot  account  for  those 
seeming  caprices  in  them  that  one 
should  be  particularly  pleased  with 
this  thing,  or  struck  with  that,  which, 
on  minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes 
no  extraordinary  impression.  I  have 
some  favourite  flowers  in  spring, 
among  which  are  the  inountain- daisy, 
tlie  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the  wild 
briar-rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the 
hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang 
over  with  particular  delight.  I  never 
hear  the  loud,  solitary  whistle  of  the 
curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild 
mixing  cadence  of  a  troop  of  gray  plov- 
ers in  an  autumnal  morning,  without 
feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the 
enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry. 
Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can 
this  be  owing?    Are  we  a  piece  of  ma- 


chinery, which,  like  the  Eolian  harp, 
passive,  takes  the  impression  of  the 
passing  accident?  Or  do  these  work- 
ings argue  something  within  us  above 
the  trodden  clod?  I  own  myself  par- 
tial to  such  proofs  of  those  awful  and 
important  realities — a  God  that  made 
all  things — man's  immaterial  and  im- 
mortal nature — and  a  world  of  weal  or 
woe  beyond  death  and  the  grave. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXLVIII. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Elusland,  Jan.  4, 1789. 

SlK, — As  often  as  I  think  of  writing 
to  you,  which  has  been  three  or  four 
times  every  week  these  six  months,  it 
gives  me  something  so  like  the  idea  of 
an  ordinary-sized  statue  ofEering  at  a 
conversation  with  the  Rhodian  colos- 
sus, that  my  mind  mis^ves  me,  and 
the  affair  always  miscarries  somewhere, 
between  purpose  and  resolve.  I  have 
at  last  gpt  some  business  with  you,  and 
business  letters  are  written  by  the. 
style-book.  1  say  my  business  is  with 
you,  sir,  for  you  never  had  any  with 
me,  except  the  business  that  benevo- 
lence has  in  the  mansion  of  poverty. 

The  character  and  employment  of  a 
poet  were  formerly  my  pleasure,  but 
are  now  my  pride.  I  know  that  a  very 
great  deal  of  my  late  idat  was  owing 
to  the  singularity  of  my  situation, 
and  the  honest  prejudice  of  Scotsmen; 
but  still,  as  I  said  in  the  preface  to  my 
first  edition,  I  do  look  upon  myself  as 
having  some  pretensions  from  nature 
to  the  poetic  character.  I  have  not  a 
doubt  but  the  knack,  the  aptitude,  to, 
learn  the  Muses'  trade,  is  a  gift  be- 
stowed by  Him  ' '  who  forms  the  .secret 
bias  of  the  soul :  " — but  I  as  firmly  be- 
lieve that  excellence  in  the  profession 
is  the  fruit  of  industry,  labour,  atten- 
tion, and  pains.  At  least  I  am  resolved 
to  try  my  doctrine  by  the  test  of  expe- 
rience. Another  appearance  from  the 
press  I  put  off  to  a  very  distant  day,  a 
day  that  may  never  arrive — but  poesy 
I  am  determined  to  prosecute  with  all 
my  vigour.     Nature   has   given  very 


42a 


BTJKNS'  WORKS. 


few,  if  any,  of  the  profession,  the  tal- 
ents of  shining  in  every  species  of  com- 
joosition.  I  shall  try  (for  until  trial  it 
is  -impossible  to  know)  whether  she  has 
qualified  me  to  shine  in  any  one.  The 
Worst  of  it  is,  by  the  time  one  has  fin- 
ished a  piece,  it  has  been  so  often 
viewed  and  reviewed  before  the  men- 
tal eye,  that  onel  oses,  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  teacher  with  a  young  learner, 
to  praise  perhaps  a  little  more  than  is 
exactly  just,  lest  the  thin-skinned  ani- 
mal fall  into  that  most  deplorable  of 
all  poetic  diseases — heart  breaking  de- 
spondency of  himself. — Dare  I,  sir, 
already  immensely  indebted  to  your 
goodness,  ask  the  additional  obligation 
of  your  being  that  friend  to  me  ?  I  enclose 
you  an  essay  of  mine  in  a  walk  of  poesy 
to  me  entirely  new;  I  mean  the  epistle 
addressed  to  R.  G.,  Esq.,  or  Robert 
Graham,  of  Fintray,  Esq. ,  a  gentleman 
of  uncommon  worth,  to  whom  I  lie 
under  very  great  obligations.  The 
story  of  the  poem,  like  most  of  my 
poems,  is  connected  vrith  my  Own 
story,  and  to  give  you  the  one,  I  must 
give  you  something  of  the  other.  I 
caimot  boast  of  Mr.  Creech's  ingenuous 
fair  dealing  with  me.  He  kept  me  hang- 
ing about  Edinburgh  from  the  7th 
August  1787,  until  the  13th  April  1788, 
before  he  would  condescend  to  give 
me  a  statement  of  affairs;  nor  had  I 
got  it  even  then,  but  for.  an  angry 
letter  I  wrote  him,  which  irritated  his 
pride.  "  I  could  "  not  a  "  tale  "  but  a 
detail  "unfold,"  but  what  am  I  that 
should  speak  against  the  Lord's  an- 
ointed Bailie  of  Edinburgh  ? 

I  believe  I  shall,  in  the  whole,  (£100 
copyriglit  included,)  clear  about  £400, 
some  little  odds;  and  even  part  of  this 
depends  upon  what  the  gentleman  has 
yet  to  settle  with  me.  I  give  you  this 
information,  because  you  did  me  the 
honour  to  interest  yourself  much  in 
jny  welfare.  I  give  you  this  informa- 
tion, but  I  give  it  to  yourself  only,  for 
I  ;am  still  much  in  the  .gentleman's 
mercy.     Perhaps  I  injure  the  m^n  in 


the  idea  I  am  sometimes  tempted  to 
have  of  him — God  forbid  I  should!  A 
little  time  will  try,  for  in  a  month  t 
shall  go  to  town  to  wind  up  the  busij 
ness  if  possible. 

To  give  the  rest  of  my  story  in  brief, 
I  have  married  ' '  my  Jean  "  and  taken 
a  farm:  with  the  first  step  I  have  every 
day  more  and  more  reason  to  be  satis- 
fied: with  the  last,  it  is  rather  the  re- 
verse. I  have  a  younger  brother,  who 
supports  my  aged  mother;  another  still 
younger  brother,  and  three  sist&rs,  in- 
a  farm.  On  my  last  return  from  Edin- 
burgh, it  cost  me  about  £180  to  sav& 
them  from  ruin.  Not  that  I  have  lostsa 
much — I  only  interposed  between  my 
brother  and.  his  impending  fate  by  the 
loan  of  so  much.  I  give  myself  no 
airs  on  this,  for  it  was  mere  selfishness 
on  my  part:  I  was  conscious  that  the 
wrong  scale  of  the  balance  was  pretty 
heavily  charged,  and  I  thought  that 
throwing  n  little  filial  piety  and  fra- 
ternal aSection  into  the  scale  in  my 
favour,  might  help  to  smooth  matters 
at  the  grand  reckoning.  There  is  still 
one  thing  would  make  my  circumstan- 
ces quite  easy:  I  have  an  Excise  offi- 
cer's commission,  and  I  live  in  the 
midst  of  a  country  division.  My  re- 
quest to  Mr.  Graham,  who  is  one  of 
the  Commissioners  of  Excise,  was,  if 
in  his  power,  to  procure  me  that  divi- 
sion. If  I  were  very  sanguine,  I  might' 
hope  that  some  of  my  great  patrons 
might  procure  me  a  treasury  warrant 
for  supervisor,  surveyor-general,  &3.   , 

Thus,  secure  of  a  livelihood,  "to 
thee,  sweet  poetry,  delightful  maid,"  I 
would  consecrate  my  future  days. 

R.  B.  - 


No.  CXLIX. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Bllisland,  Jan.  6, 1789.. 
Many  happy  returns  of  the  season 
to  you,  my  dear  sir!  May  you  be  com- 
paratively happy  up  to  your  compara- 
tive worth  ariiong  the  sons  of  men; 
which  wish  would,  I  am  sure,  make 
you  one  of  the  most  blest  of  the.hu; 
man  race.  ,     , 


.  GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


437 


I  do  not  know  if  passing  as  a  writer 
to  the  signet  be  a  trial  of  scientific 
msrit,  or  a  mere  business  of  friends 
and  interest.  However. it  be,  let  me 
quote  you  my  two  favourite  passages, 
wliicli,  thougli  I  have  repeated  tbem 
ten  thousand  times,  still  they  rouse  my 
manhood  and  steel  my  resolution  like 
inspiration: — 

"  On  reason  build  resolve, 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man." 

— Young.  . 

"  Hear,  Alfred,  hero  of  the  state. 
Thy  genius  Heaven's  high  will  declare  ; 
The  triumph  of  the  truly  great 
Is  never,  never  to  despair ! 
Is  never  to  despair !" 

— Masque  of  Alfreds 

I  grant  you  enter  the  lists  of  life, 
to  struggle  for  bread,  business,  notice, 
and  distinctioUj  lu  common  with  hun- 
dreds.— But  who  are  they  ?  Men,  like 
yourself,  and  of  that  aggregate  body 
your  compeers,  seven- tenths  of  whom 
come  short  of  your  advantages  natural 
and  accidental;  while  two  of  those 
that  remain  either  neglect  their  parts, 
as  flowers  blooming  in  a  desert, 
or  misspend  their  strength,  like  a  bull 
goring  a  bramble  bush. 

But  to  change  the  theme:  I  am  still 
catering  for  Johnson's  publication; 
Mid  among  others,  I  have  brushed  up 
the  following  old  favourite  song  a  lit- 
tle, with  a  view  to  your  worship.  I 
have  only  altered  a  word  here  and 
there;  but  if  you  like  the  humor  of  it, 
we  shall  think  of  a  stanza  or  two  to 
add  to  it.  E.  B. 


No.  CL. 

TO      PROFESSOR       DTTGALD 
STEWART. 

Ellisland,  Jan.  20,  T789. 

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  the 
Continent.  I  have  now  added  a  few 
more  of  my  productions,  those  for 
which  I  am  indebted  to  the  Nitlisdale 
Muses.  The  piece  inscribed  to  R.  G. , 
Esq.,  is  a  copy  of  verses  I  sent  Mr. 


Graham  of  Fintray,  accompanying  a 
request  for  his  assistance  in  a  matter, 
to  me,  of  very  great  moment.  To  tliat 
gentleman  1  am  already  doubly  indebt- 
ed for  deeds  of  kindness  of  serious  im- 
port to  my  dearest  interests — done  in 
a  manner  grateful  to  the  delicate  feel- 
ings of  sensibility.  This  poem  is  a 
species  of  composition  new  to  me;  but 
I  do  not  intend  it  shall  be  my  last 
essay  of  the  kind,  as  you  will  see  by 
the  "Poet's  Progress."  These  frag- 
ments, if  my  design  succeed,  are  but  a 
small  part  of  the  intended  whole.  I 
propose  it  shall  be  the  work  of  my  ut- 
most exertions,  ripened  by  years;  of 
course  1  do  not  wish  it  much  known. 
The  fragment  beginning  ' '  A  little, 
upright,  pert,  tart,^'  &c. ,  I  have  not 
shown  to  man  living,  till  I  now  send  it 
you.  It  forms  the  postulata,  the  axioms, 
the  definition  of  a  character,  which,  if 
it  appear  at  all,  shall  be  placed  in  a 
variety  of  lights.  This  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  to  let  it  be  for 
your  single,  sole  inspection. 

Need  I  make  any  apology  for  this 
trouble  to  a  gentleman  who  has  treat- ^ 
ed  me  with  such  marked  benevolence 
and  peculiar  kiiadness — who  has  en- 
tered into  my  interests  with  so  much 
zeal,  and  on  whose  critical  decisions  I 
can  so  fully  depend  ?  A  poet  as  I  am 
by  trade,  these  decisions  are  to  me  of 
the  last  consequence.  My  late  tran- 
sient acquaintance  among  some  of  the 
mere  rank  and  file  of  greatiiess,  I  re- 
sign with  ease;  biittothe  distinguished 
champions  of  genius  and  learning  I 
shall  be  ever  ambitious  of  being- 
known.  The  native  genius  and  accu- 
rate discernment  in  Mr.  Stewart's  crit- 
ical strictures;  the  justness  (iron  just- 
ness, for  he  lias  no  bowels  of  compas- 
sion for  a  poor  poetic  sinner)  of  Dr. 
Gregory's  remarks,*  and  the  delicacy 
of  Professor  Dalziel's  taste,  I  shall  evec 
revere. 

I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  some  time 

■•  The  poet  alludes  to  the  merciless  stric-, 
tures  of  Dr.  Gregory  on  the  poem  of  thq_ 
'•  Wounded  Hare." 


'436 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


next  montli.-^I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
sir,  your  highly-obliged,  and  very  hum- 
ble servant,  K.  B. 


No.  CLI. 
TO  BISHOP  GEDDES.* 

Ellisland,  Feb.  3, 1789. 

Venerable  Father, — As  I  am  con- 
scious that,  wherever  lam,  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  interest  yourself  in  my 
welfare,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  inform 
you,  that  I  am  here  at  last,  stationary 
in  the  serious  business  of  life,  and 
have  now  not  only  the  retii'ed  leisure, 
but  the  hearty  inclination,  to  attend 
to  those  great  and  important  questions 
— What  am  I  ?  where  am  1 1  and  for 
what  am  I  destined? 

In  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  ftf 
man,  there  was  ever  but  one  side.on 
which  I  was  habitually  blamable,  and 
there  I  have  secured  myself  in  the 
way  pointed  out  by  nature  and  nature's 
God.  I  was  sensible  that,  to  so  help- 
less a  creature  as  a  poor  poet,  a  %ife 
and  family  were  encumbrances,  which 
a  species  of  prudence  would  bid  him 
shun;  but  when  the  alternative  was 
being  at  eternal  warfare  with  my.self 
on  account  of  habitual  follies,  to  give 
them  no  worse  name,  which  no  gener- 
al example,  no  licentious  wit,  no  so- 
phistical Infidelity,  would,  to  me,  ever 
justify,  I  must  have  been  a  fool  to 
have  hesitated,  and  a  madman  to  have 
made  another  choice.  Besides,  I  had 
in  ' '  my  Jean  "  a  long  and  much-loved 
fellow-creature's  happiness  or  misery 
among  my  hands — and  who  could  tri- 
fle with  such  a  deposit  ? 

In  the  affair  of  a  livelihood,  I  think 
myself  tolerably  secure:  I  have  good 
hopes  of  my  farm,  but  should  they 
fail,  I  have  an    Excise  commission, 


*  Alexander  Geddes,a  bishop  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  was  a  man  of  undoubtetii 
talents,  but  much  too  liberal  for  his  Church.; 
He  was  the  author  of  a  clever  rustic  poem,- 
beginning, 
\'  There  was  a  wee  wiiielcie,  was  coming  frae 

the  fair," 
and  had  translated  one  of  the  books  of  the 
Iliad. 


which,  on  my  simple  petition,  will,  at 
any  time,  procure  me  bread.  There 
is  a  certain  stigma  affixed  to  the  char- 
acter of  an  Excise-officer,  but  1  do  not 
pretend  to  borrow  honour  from  my 
profession;  and  though  the  salary  be 
comparatively  small,  it-is  a  luxury  to 
anything  that  the  first  twenty-five 
years  of  my  life  taught  me  to  expect.  - 

Thus,  with  a  rational  aim  and  meth- 
od in  life,  you  may  easily  guess,  my 
reverend  and  much  honoured  friend, 
that  my  characteristical  trade  is  not 
forgotten.  I  am,  if  possible,  more  than 
ever  an  enthusiast  to  the  Muses.  I 
am  determined  to  study  man  and  na-, 
ture,  and  in  that  view  incessantly; 
and  to  try  if  the  ripening  and  correc- 
tions of  years  can  enable  me  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  lyire  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nith.  Some  large  poetic 
plans  that  are  floating  in  my  imagina- 
tion, or  partly  put  in  execution,  I  shall 
impart  to  you  when  1  have  the  pleas-, 
ure  of  meeting  with  you ;  which,  if 
you  are  then  In  Edinburgh,  I  shall 
have  about  t'-e  beginning  of  March. 

That  acquaintance,  worthy  sir,  with 
which  you  were  pleased  to  honor  me, 
you  must  still  allow  me  to  challenge  j 
for  with  whatever  unconcern  I  give  up 
my  transient  connexion  with  the  merely 
great,  I  cannot  lose  the  patronising 
notice  of  the  learned  and  good,  without, 
the  bitterest  regret.  1 

R.  B. 


No.  CLII. 
TO  MR.  JAMES  BURNESS. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  g,  1789. 

My  deak  Sm,— Why  I  did  not  write 
to  you  long  ago  is  what  even  on  the 
rack  I  could  not  answer.  If  you  can  in 
your  mind  form  an  idea  of  indolence, 
^^ipation,  hurry,  cares,  changn  of 
Gentry,  entering  on  untried  scenes  of 
life,  all  combined,  you  will  save  me 
the  trouble  of  a  blushing  apology.  It 
could  not  be  want  of  regard  for  a 
man  for  whom  I  had  a  high  esteem 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


439 


before  I  knew  him — an  esteem  which 
has  much  increased  since  .1  did  know 
him  ;  and,  this  caveat  entered,  I  shall 
plead  guilty  to  any  other  indictment 
with  which  you  shall  please  to  charge 
me. 

'■After  I  parted  from  you,  for  many 
filbnths  my  life  was  one  continued 
scene  of  dissipation.  Here  at  last  I 
am  become  stationary,  and  have  taken 
a'  farm  and — a  wife. 

The  farm  is  beautifully  situated  on 
the  Nith,  a  large  river  that  runs  by 
Dumfries,  and  falls  into  the  Solway 
Frith.  I  have  gotten  a  lease  of  my 
fatm  as  long  as  1  please  ;  but  how  it 
may  turn  out  is  just  a  guess;  and  it  is 
yet  to  improve  and  enclose,  &c.  ;  how- 
ever, I  ha-e  good  hopes  of  my  bargain 
on  the  whole. 

My  wifj  is  my  Jean,  with  whose 
Btory  you  are  partly  acquainted.  I 
found  I  had  a  much-loved  fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness  or  niisery  among  my 
hands,  and  I  durst  not  trifle  with  so 
sacred  a  deposit.  Indeed  I  have  not 
any  reason  to  repent  the  step  I  have 
lakenT  as  I  liave  attached  myseir  to  a, 
very  good  >vife,  and  have  shaken  my- 
self loose  of  every  bad  feeling. 

I  have  found  my  book  a  very  profit- 
able business,  and  with  the  profits  of 
it  I  have  begun  life  pretty  decently. 
Should  fortune  not  favour  me  in 
farining,  as  I  have  no  great  faith  in 
her  fickle  ladyship,  I  have  provided 
myself  in  another  resource,  which, 
however  some  folks  may  affect  to  de- 
spise it,  is  still  a  comfortable  shift  in 
the  day  of  misfortune.  la  the  heyday 
of  ray  fame,  a  gentleman,  whose  name 
at  least  I  daresay  you  know,  u  his  es- 
tate lies  somewhere  near  Dundee,  Mr. 
Graham  of  Fintray,  one  of  the  Commis- 
sioners of  Excise,  offered  me  the  com- 
mission of  an  Excise-officer.  I  thoufjht 
it-prudent  to  accept  the  offer  ;  and  ac- 
cordingly I  took  my  instructions,  and 
have  my  commission  by  me.  Whether 
I  may  ever  do  d.ity,  or  be  a  penny  the 
Setter  for  it,  is  what  I  do  not  know  ; 
but  I  have  the  comfortable  assurance 
that,  come  whatever  ill  fate  will,  I 
can,  on  my  simple  petition  to  the  Ex- 
cise Board,  get  into  employ. 


We  have  lost  poor  Uncle  Robert  this 
winter.  He  has  long  been  very  weak, 
and,  with  very  little  alteration  on  him, 
he  expired  on  the  3d  Jan. 

His  sou  William  has  been  with  me 
this  winter,  and  goes  in  May  to  be  an 
apprentice  to  a  mason.  His  other  son, 
the  eldest,  John,  comes  to  me  I  expect 
in  summer.  They  are  both  remark- 
ably stout  young  fellows,  and  promise 
to  do  well.  His  only  daughter,  Fanny, 
has  been  with  me  ever  since  her 
father's  death,  and  I  purpose  keeping 
her  in  my  family  till  she  be  quite 
woman  grown,  and  fit  for  better  ser- 
vice. She  is  one  of  the  cleverest  girls, 
and  has  one  of  the  most  amiable  dis- 
positions, I  have  ever  seen. 

All  friends  in  this  country  and  Ayr- 
shire are  well.  Remember  me  to  all 
friends  in  the  north.  My  wife  joins 
me  in  compliments  to  Mrs.  B.  and 
family.  I  am  ever,  my  dear  cousin, 
yours  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


No.  CLin. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  March  4,  1789. 

Hebe  am  I,  my  honoured  friend,  re- 
turned safe  from  the  capital.  "To  a 
man  who  has  a  home,  however  humble 
or  remote — if  that  home  is,  like  mine, 
the  scene  of  domestic  comfort — the 
bustle  of  Edinburgh  will  soon  be  a 
business  of  sickening  disgust. 

**Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate 
you  i" 

When  I  must  skulk  into  a  corner, 
lest  the  rattling  equipage  of  some  gap- 
ing blockhead  should  mangle  me  in 
the  mire,  I  am  tempted  to  exclaim 
— ' '  What  merits  has  he  had,  or  what 
demerit  have  I  had,  in  some  state  of 
pre-existence,  that  he  is  ushered  into 
this  state  of  being  with  the  sceptre  of 
rule,  and  the  key  of  riches  in  his  puny 
fist,  ond  I  am  kicked  into  the  worldj 
the  sport  of  folly,  or  the  victim  of 
pride  ?  "  I  have  read  somewhere  of  a 
monarch  (in  Spain  I  think  it  was)  who 
was  so  out  of  humour  with  the  Ptolo- 
mean   system  of  astronomy  that   lie 


^30 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


said  had  he  been  of  tho  Creator's  coun- 
cil, he  could  have  saved  Him  a  great 
deal  of  labour  and  absurdity;  I  will 
not  defend  this  blasphemous  speech; 
but  often,  as  I  have  glided  with  hum- 
ble stealth  through  tho  pomp  of 
Princess  Street,  it  has  suggested  itself 
to  me,  as  an  improvement  on  the 
present  human  figure,  that  a  man,  in 
proportion  to  his  own  conceit  of  his 
consequence  in  the  world,  could  have 
pushed  out  the  longitude  of  his  com- 
mon size,  as  a  snail  pushes  out  his 
horns,  or  as  we  draw  out  a  perspective. 
This  trifling  alteration,  not  to  mention 
the  prodigious  saving  it  would  be  in 
the  tear  and  the  wear  of  the  neck  and 
limb  sinews  of  many  of  his  ma- 
jesty's liege  subjects,  in  the  way  of 
tossing  the  head  and  tiptoe  strutting, 
would  evidently  turn  out  a  vast  advan- 
tage, in  enabling  us  at  once  to  adjust 
the  ceremonials  in  malting  a  bow,  or 
making  way  to  a  great  man,  and  that 
too  within  a  second  of  the  precise 
.spherical  angle  of  reverence,  or  an  inch 
of  the  j)articular  point  of  respectful 
distance,  which  the  important  creature 
itself  requires;  as  a  measuring-glance 
at  its  towering  altitude  would  deter- 
mine the  affair  like  instinct. 

You  arc  right,  madam,  in  your  idea 
61  Mylne's  poem,  which  he  has  ad- 
dressed to  me.  The  piece  has  a  good 
deal  of  merit,  but  it  has  one  great 
fault — it  is,  by  far,  too  long.  Besides, 
iuy  success  has  encouraged  such  a 
shoal  of  ill-spawned  monsters  to  crawl 
into  public  notice,  under  the  title  of 
Scottish  poets,  that  the  very  term 
Scottish  poetry  borders  on  the  bur- 
lesque. When  I  write  to  Mr.  Carfrae, 
I  shall  advise  him  rather  to  try  one  of 
his  deceased  friend's  English  pieces. 
I  am  prodigiously  hurried  with  my  own 
matters,  else  I  would  have  requested  a 
perusal  of  all  Mylne's  poetic  perform- 
ances; and  would  have  offered  liis 
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  oppresses  my  spirits,  shall  fill  up 
a  paragraph  in  some  future  letter.  In 
the  meantime,  allow  me  to  close  this 


epistle  with  a  few  lines  done  by  a  friend 
of  mine  .  .  .  .  I  give  you  them, 
that,  as  you  have  seen  the  original, 
you  may  guess  whether  one  or  two  al- 
terations I  have  ventured  to  make  in 
them  be  any  real  improvement: — ; 

"  Like  the  fairplant  that  from  our  touch  with.-, 
draws. 
Shrink,  mildly  fearful,  even  from  applause, 
Be  all  a  mother's  fondest  hope  can  dream, 
And  all  you  are,  my  charming  ....  seem. 
Straight  as  the  foxglove  ere  her  bells  dis- 
close, i       [blo*s, 
Mild    as    the    maiden-blushing;  hawthotl. 
Fair  as  the  fairest  of  each  lovely  kind. 
Your  form  shall  be  the  image  of  your  mind  ; 
Your  manners  shall  so  true  your  soul'  ex- 
press,      -  feiic^T' 
That  all  sliall  long  to  know  the  worth  they 
Congenial  hearts  shall  greet  with  kindred 

love, 
And  even  sicVning  envy  must  approve." 

R.  B. 


No.  CLIV. 
TO  THE  REV.  P.  CARFRAE. 
March  17S9. 

Rev.  Sir, — I  do  not  recollect  that  I 
have  ever  felt  a  severer  pang  of  shame 
than  on  looking  at  the  date  of  your 
obliging  letter  which  accompanied  Mr. 
Mylne's  poem. 

1  am  much  to  blame:  the  honour 
Mr.  Mylne  has  done  me.  greatly  en- 
hanced in  its  value  ■; :'  the  endearing, 
though  melancholy,  circ-mstance  of 
its  being  the  last  production  of  his 
muse,  deserved  a  better  return. 

I  have,  as  you  hint,  thought  of  send- 
ing a  copy  of  the  poem  to  some  period- 
ical publication;  but,  on  second 
thdaglits,  I  am  afraid  that,  in  the 
present  case,  it  would  be  an  improper 
step.  My  success,  perhaps  as  much' 
accidental  as  merited,  has  brought  an 
inundation  of  nonsense  under  the  name 
of  Scottish  poetry.  Subscription-bills 
for  Scottish  poems  have  so  dunned,^ 
and  daily  do  dun  the  public,  that  the 
very  name  is  in  danger  of  contempt. 
For  these  reasons,  if  publishing  any  of 
Mr.  Mylne's  poems  in  a  magazine,  &c. ; 
be  at  all  prudent,  in  my  opinion  it  cer- 
tainly should  not  be  a  Scottish  poem. 
The  profits -of  the  labours  of  a  man  of 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


431 


genius  are,  I  hope,  as  lionourable  as 
any  profits  whatever  ;  and  Mr.  Mylne's 
relations  are  most  justly  entitled  to 
that  honest  harvest  which  fate  has 
denied  liimself  to  reap.  But  let  the 
friends  of  Mr.  Mylne's  fame  (among 
whom  I  crave  the  honour  of  ranking 
iflyself )  always  keep  in  eye  his  respect- 
ability as  a  man  and  as  a  poet,  and 
take  no  measure  that,  before  the  world 
knows  anything  about  him,  would  risk 
his  name  and  character  being  classed 
with  the  fools  of  the  times. 

I  have,  sir,  some  experience  of  pub- 
lishing ;  and  the  way  in  which  I  would 
proceed  with  Mr.  Mylne's  poems  is 
this  : — I  would  publish,  in  two  or  three 
English  and  Scottish  public  papers, 
any  one  of  his  English  poems  which 
should  by  private  judges,  be  thought 
the  most  excellent,  and  mention  it,  at 
the  same  time,  as  one  of  the  produc- 
tions of  a  Lothian  farmer,  of  respect- 
able character,  lately  deceased,  whose 
poems  his  friends  had  it  in  idea  to  pub- 
lish soon  by  subscription,  for  the  sake 
of  his  numerous  family: — ^not  in  pity 
to  that  family,  but  in  justice  to  what 
his  friends  think  the  poetic  merits  of 
the  deceased ;  and  to  secure,  in  the 
most  effectual  manner  to  those  tender 
connexions,  whose  right  it  is,  the  pe- 
cuni  ary  reward  of  those  merits. 

R.  B. 


No.    CLV. 

TO   DR.  MOORE. 

Ellislakd,  March  23, 1789, 
Sm, — The  gentleman  who  will  de- 
liver you  this  is  a  Mr.  Nielson,  a  wor- 
thy clergyman  in  my  neighbourhood, 
and  a  very  particular  acquaintance  of 
mine.  As  I  have  troubled  him  with 
this  packet,  I  must  turn  him  over  to 
your  goodness,  to  recompense  him  for 
it  in  a  way  in  which  he  much  needs 
your  assistance,  and  where  you  can 
effectually  serve  him: — Mr.  Nielson  is 
on  his  way  for  France,  to  wait  on  his 
©race  of  'Queensberry,  on  some  little 


business  of  a  good  deal  of  importance 
to  him,  and  he  wishes  for  your  instruc- 
tions- respecting  the  most  eligible 
mode  of  travelling,  &c. ,  for  him,  when 
he  has  crossed  the  Channel.  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  talce  this  liberty, 
with  you;  but  that  I  am  told,  by  those" 
who  have  the  honour  of  your  personal 
acquaintance,  that  to  be  a  poor  honest 
Scotchman  is  a  letter  of  recommenda- 
tiou  to  you,  and  that  to  have  it  in  your 
power  to  serve  such  a  character  gives 
you  much  pleasure. 

The  enclosed  ode  is  a  compliment  to 
the  memory  of  the  late  Mrs.  Oswald  of 
Auchencruive.  You  probably  knew 
her  personally,  an  honour  of  which  I 
cannot  boast;  but  I  spent  my  earl/ 
years  in  her  neighbourhood,  and 
among  her  servants  and  tenants.  1  knoW^ 
that  she  was  detested  with  the  most 
heartfelt  cordiality.  However,  in  the 
particular  part  of  her  conduct  which 
roused  my  poetic  wrath,  she  was  much 
less  blamable.  In  January  last,  on 
my  road  to  Ayrshire,  I  had  put  up  at 
Bailie  Wighani's,  in  Sanquhar,  the 
only  tolerable  inn  in  the  place.  The 
frost  was  keen,  and  the  grim  evening 
and  howling  wind  were  ushering  in  a 
night  of  snow  and  drift.  My  horse 
and  I  were  both  much  fatigued  with 
the  labours  of  the  day,  and  just  as  my 
friend  the  bailie  and  I  were  bidding 
defiance  to  the  storm  over  a  smoking 
bowl,  in  wheels  the  funeral  pageantry 
of  the  late  great  Mrs.  Oswald,  and 
poor  I  was  forced  to  brave  all  the  hor- 
rors of  the  tempestuous  night,  and  jade 
my  horse,  my  young  favourite  horse, 
whom  I  had  just  christened  Pegasus, 
twelve  miles  farther  on,  through  the 
wildest  moors  and  hills  of 'Ayrshire, 
to  New  Cumnock,  the  next  inn.  The 
powers  of  poesy  and  prose  sink  under 
me,  when  I  would  describe  wha,t  I  felt. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that,  when  a  good  fire 
at  New  Cumnock  had  so  far  recovered 
my  frozen  sinews,  I  sat  down  and 
wrote  the  enclosed  ode. 

I  was  at  Edinburgh  lately,  and  set- 
tled finally  with  Mr.  Creech;  and  I 
must  own  that,  at  last,  he  has  been 
amicable  and  fair  with  me. 

R.  B. 


432 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CLVI. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  BURNS. 

Isle,  March  25, 1789. 
I  HAVE  stolen  from  my  ovra  com- 
Bowing  this  minute  to  write  a  line  to 
accompany  your  sliirt  and  hat,  for  I 
can  no  more.  Your  sister  Nannie  ar- 
rived yesternight,  and  begs  to  be  re- 
membered to  you.  Write  me  every 
opportunity — never  mind  postage.  My 
head,  too,  is  as  addle  as  an  egg  this  morn- 
ing with  dining  abroad  yesterday.  _  1 
received  yours  by  the  mason.  li'orgive 
me  this  foolish-looking  scrawl  of  an 
espistle. — I  am  ever,  my  dear  William 
yours,  R.  R. 

p.  S. — If  you  are  not  then  gone 
from  Longtown,  I'll  write  you  a  long 
letter  by  this  day  se'ennight.  If  you 
should  not  succeed  in  your  tramps, 
don't  be  dejected,  nor  take  any  rash 
step — return  to  us  in  that  case,  and  we 
will  court  Fortune's  better  humor. 
Remember  this,  I  charge  you. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLVII. 
TO    MR.    HILL. 

Ellisland,  April  2,  1789. 

I  WILL  make  no  excuse,  my  dear 
Bibliopolus,  (God  forgive  me  for  mur- 
dering language !)  that  I  have  sat  down 
to  write  you  on  this  vile  paper. 

It  is  economy,  sir;  it  is  that  cardinal 
virtue,  prudence;  so  1  beg  you  will  sit 
down,  and  either  compose  or  borrow  a 
panegyric.   If  you  are  going  to  borrow, 

apply  to to  compose,  or  rather  to 

compound,  something  very  clever  on 
my  remarkable  frugality  ;  that  I  write 
to  one  of  my  most  esteemed  friends  on 
this  wretched  paper;  which  was  origin- 
ally intended  for  the  venal  fist  of  some 
drunken  exciseman,  to  take  dirty 
notes  in  a  miserable  vault  or  an  ale- 
cellar. 

O  Frugality!  thou  mother  of  ten 
thousand  blessings — thou  cook  of  fat 
beef  and  dainty  greens! — thou  manu- 
facturer of  warm  Shetland  hose,  and 
comfortable  surtouts ! — thou  old  house- 


wife, darning  thy  decayed  stockings 
with  thy  ancient  spectacles  on  thy 
aged  nose! — lead  me,  hand  me  in  thy 
clutching  palsied  fist,  up  .these  heights 
and  through  those  thickets,  hitherto 
inaccessible,  and  impervious  to  my 
anxious,  weary  feet:— not  those  Par- 
nassian crags,  bleak  and  barren,  where 
the  hungry  worshippers  of  fame  are, 
breathless,  clambering,  hanging  be- 
tween heaven  and  hell ;  but  those  glit- 
tering cliffs  of  Potosi,  where  the  all- 
sufficient,  all-powerful  deity,  Wealth, 
holds  his  immediate  court  of  joys  and 
pleasures;  where  the  sunny  exposure 
of' plenty,  and  the  hot  walls  of  profu- 
sion, produce  those  blissful  fruits  of 
luxury,  exotics  in  tljis  world,  and 
natives  of  Paradise  !-ri./rhou  withered 
sibyl,  my  sage  conductress,  usher  me 
into  thy  refulgent,  adored  presence!-r 
The  power,  splendid  and  potent  as  he 
now  is,  was  once  ■  the  puling  nursling 
of  thy  faithful  care,  and  tender  arms! 
— Call  me  thy  son,  thy  cousin,  thy 
kinsman,  or  favourite,  and  adjure  the 
god  by  the  scenes  of  his  infant  years, . 
no  longer  to  repulse  me  as  »  stranger, 
or  an  alien,  but  to  favour  me  with  liis 
peculiar  countenance  and  protection! 
— He  daily  bestows  his  greatest  kind- 
ness on  the  undeserving  andthewortji- 
less — assure  him  that  I  bring  ample  doc-, 
uments  of  meritorious  demerits!  Pledge 
yourself  for  me,  that,  for  the  glorious 
cause  of  Lucre,  I  will  -do  anything,  be 
anything — but  the  horse-leech  of  pri- 
vate oppression,  or  the  vulture  of  pub- 
lic robbery! 

But  to  descend  from  heroics. 

I  want  a  Shakespeare;  I  want  like- 
wise an  English  dictionary — Johnson's, 
I  suppose,  is  the  best.  In  these,  and 
all  my  prose  commissions,  the  cheapest 
is  always  the  best  for  me.  There  is  a 
small  debt  of  honour  that  I  owe  Mr. 
Robert  Cleghorn,  in  Saughtou  Mills, 
my  worthy  friend,  and  your  well- 
wisher.  Please  give  him,  and  urge 
him  to  take  it,  the  first  time  you  see 
him,  ten  shillings'  worth  of  anything 
you  have  to  sell,  and  place  it  to  my  ac- 
count. The  library  scheme  that  I 
mentioned  to  you .  is  already  begun, 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


under  the  direction  of  Captain  Riddel. 
Tliere  is  anotlier  in  emulation  of  it  going 
on  at  Closeburn,  under  tlie  auspices  of 
Mr.  Monteitli  of  Closeburn,  wHcli  will 
be  on  a  greater  scale  than  ours.  Cap- 
tain Riddel  gave  his  infant  society  a 
great  many  of  his  old  books,  else  I 
had  written  you  on  that  subject;  but 
one  of  these  days  I  shall  trouble  you 
with  a  commission  for  ' '  The  Monk- 
land  Friendly  Society"—  a  copy  of  the 
the  Spectator,  Mirror, aiiA  Lounger, 
"Man  of  Fealiug,"'  "Man  of  the 
World,"  Guthrie's  "  Geographical 
Grammar,"  with  some  religious  pieces, 
will  likely  be  our  first  order. 

When  I  grow  richer,  I  will  write  to 
you  on  gilt  post,  to  make  amends  for 
this  sheet.  At  present,  every  guinea 
has  a  five  guinea  errand  with,  my  dear 
sir,  your  faithful,  poor,  but  honest 
friend,  R.  B. 


No.  CLVIII. 

TO   MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  April  4,  1789. 

I  NO  sooner  hit  on  a,ny  poetic  plan  of 
fancy  but  I  wish  to  send  it  to  you:  and 
if  knowing  and  reading  these  give 
half  the  pleasure  to  you  that  commu- 
nicating them  to  you  gives  to  me,  I  am 
satisfied. 

I  have  a  poetic  whim  in  my  head, 
which  I  at  present  dedicate,  or  rather 
inscribe,  to  the  Right  Hon.  Charles 
James  Fox;  but  how  long  the  fancy 
may  hold,  I  cannot  say.  A  few  of  the 
first  lines  I  have  just  rough-sketched 
as  follows.* 

On  the  20th  current  I  hope  to  have 
the  honour  of  assuring  you  in  person 
how  sincerely  I  am 

R.  B. 


No.  CLIX. 

TO    MRS.     M'MURDO, 
DRUMLANRIG. 

Ellisland,  May  2, 1789. 
Madam:, — I  have  finished  the  piece 
which  had  the  happy  fortune  to  be 

*  See  the  entire  sketch  at  p.  117. 


honoured  with  your  approbation;  and 
never  did  little  Miss  with  more  spark- 
ling pleasure  show  her  applauded  sam- 
pler to  partial  mama  than  I  now  send 
ray  poem*  to  you  and  Mr.  M'Murdo,  if 
he  is  returned  to  Drumlanrig.  You 
cannot  easily  imagine  what  thin-skin- 
ned animals — what  sensitive  plants 
poor  poets  are.  How  do  we  shriulc  in- 
to the  embittered  corner  of  self-abase- 
ment when  neglected  or  condemned 
by  those  to  whom  we  look  up  !  and 
how  do  we,  in  erect  importance,  add 
another  cubit  to  our  stature,  on  being 
noticed  aijd  applauded  by  those  whom 
we  honour  and  respect  !  My  late  visit 
to  Drumlanrig  has,  I  can  tell  you,  ma- 
dam, given  me  a  balloon  waft  up  Par- 
nassus, where  on  my  fancied  elevation 
I  regard  my  poetic  self  with  no  sm^U 
degree  of  complacency.  Surely,  with 
all  their  sins,  the  rhyming  tribe  are 
not  ungrateful  creatures.: — I  recollect 
your  goodness  to  your  humble  guesti 
I  see  Mr.  M'Murdo  adding  to  the  polite- 
ness of  the  gentleman  the  kindness  of 
a  friend,  and  my  heart  swells,  as  it 
would  burst  with  warm  emotions  and 
ardent  wishes  !  It  may  be  it  is  not 
gratitude —  it  may  be  a  mixed  sensa- 
tion. That  strange,  shitting,  doubling 
animal  man  is  .so  generally  at  best  but 
a  negative,  often  a  worthless,  creature, 
that  we  cannot  see  real  goodness  and 
native  .  worth  without  feeling  the 
bosom  glow  with  -sympathetic  appro- 
bation.—  With  every  sentiment  of 
grateful  respect,  I  have  the  honour  to 
be,  madam,  your  obliged  and  grateful 
humble  servant, 

B.  B. 


No.  CLX. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellislakd,  May  4, 1789. 

My  DBAS  Sm, — ^Your  duty-free 
favor  of  the  26th  April  I  received  two 
days  ago  ;  I  will  not  say  I  perused  it 


*  The  poem  alluded  to  is  the  song  entitled 
"  There  was  a  lass  and  she  was  fair,"  p.  254. 
The  heroine  was  the  eldest  daughter  01  Mrs. 
M'Murdo,  and  sister  to  Phillis;       •  ■' 


■434 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


.with  pleasure ;  that  is  the  cold  com- 
pliment of  ceremony  ;  I  perused  it,  sir, 
With  delicious  satisfaction  ; — in  short, 
it  is  such  a  letter  as  not  you,  nor  your 
_  friend,  hut  the  Legislature,  by  express 
proviso  in  their  postage  laws,  should 
frank.  A  letter  informed  with  ilie 
soul  of  friendship  is  such  an  honour 
to  human  nature,  that  they  should 
.Order  it  free  ingress  and  egress  to  and 
i'rom  their  bags  and  mails,  as  an  en- 
cDuragement  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  morn- 
ing lately,  as  I  was  out  pretty  early  in 
the  fields,  sowing  some  grass  seeds,  I 
heard  the  burst  of  a  shot  from  a  neigh- 
bouring plantation,  and  presently  a 
poor  little  wounded  hare  came  crip- 
pling by  me.  You  will  guess  my  in- 
dignation at  the  inhuman  fellow  who 
could  shoot  a  hare  at  this  season,  when 
all  of  them  have  young  ones.  Indeed 
there  is  something  in  that  business  of 
destroying  for  our  sport  individuals  in 
the  animal  creation,  that  do  not  injure 
us  materially,  which  1  could  never  re- 
concile to  my  ideas  of  virtue. 

Inhuman  man !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  art. 
And  blasted  be  thy  murder-aiming^  eye  ! 
May  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thycruelhe^tl 

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. 

Cruikshank  is  a  glorious  production 
of  the  Author  of  man.  You,  he,  and 
the  noble  Colonelf  of  the  Crochallan 
Fencibles  are  to  me       ■ 

"  Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  which  yvarm  my 
heart." 

I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  verses  on 
you  all,  to  the  tune  of  ' '  Three  good 
fellows  ayont  the  glen." 

R.  B. 


*  The  poem  on  the  Wounded  Hare.  Burns 
had  also  sent  a  copy  to  Dr.~  Greg^ory  for  his 
criticism. 

+  Mr.  WilUam  Dunbar,  W.  S, 


No.  CLXL 

TO  MB.  SAMUEL  BROWN.*  . 
MossGiEL,  May  4, 1789. 

De.\r  Uncle, — This,  I  hope,  wiU 
lind  you  and  your  conjugal  yoke-fel- 
low in  your  good  old  way;  I  am  impa- 
tient to  linow  if  the  Ailsa  fowling  be 
commenced  for  this  season  yet,  as  I  want 
three  or  four  stones  of  feathers,  and  I 
hope  you  will  bespeak  tliem  for  me. 
It  would  be  a  vain  attempt  for  me  to 
enumerate  the  various  transactions  I 
have  been  engaged  in  since  I  saw  you 
last;  but  this  know — I  am  engaged  in 
a.  smuggling  trade,  and  God  knows  if 
ever  any  poor  man  experienced  better 
returns,  two  for  one;  but  as  freight  and 
delivery  have  turned  out  so  dear,  I  am 
thinking  of  talking  out  a  ligense  and 
beginning  in  fair  trade.  I  have  taken 
a  fann  on  the  borders  of  the  Nith, 
and,  in  imitation  of  the  old  Patriarchs, 
get  men-servants  and  niaid-servants, 
and  flocks  and  herds,  and  beget  sons 
and  daughters. 

I'our  obedient  nephew,  E.  B. 


No.  CLXIL 
TO  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Mauhcune,  May  21,  1789.  " 

Mt  dbab  Fbiend,— I  was  in  the 
country  by  accident,  and  hearing  of 
your  safe  arrival,  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  wishing  you  joy  on  your 
return — wishing  you  would  write  to 
me  before  you  sail  again^wishing 
you  would  always  set  me  down  as  your 
bosom  friend— wishing  you  long  life 
and  prosperity,  and  that  every  good 
thing  may  attend  you — wishing  Mrs. 
Brown  and  your  little  ones  as  free 
of  the  evils  of  this  world  as  is  con- 
sistent with  humanity — wishing  you 
and  she  were  to  make  two  at  the  en- 


"■■  Samuel  Brown  was  brother  to  the  poet's 
mother,  and  seems  to  have  been  a  joyous  and 
tolerant  sort  of  person.  He  appears  also  to 
have  been  somewhat  ignorant  o(  the  poet's 
motions,  for  Ihe  license  to  which  he  alludes 
was  taken  out  nearly  a  twelvemonth  before 
this  letter  was  written. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


'435 


suing  lying-in,  with  which  Mrs.  B. 
threatens  very  soon  to  favour  me — 
wishing  I  had  longer  time  to  write  to 
you  at  present;  and,  finally,  wishing 
that,  if  tliere  i^  to  be  another  state  of 
existence,  Mr.  B.,  Mrs.  B.,  our  little 
ones,And  both  families,  and  you  and  I 
in  some  snug  retreat,  may  malte  a 
:  joTial  party  to  all  eternity! 

My  direction    is  at   Ellisland,  near 
Djimfries. — Yours.  R.  B. 


No.  CLXIII. 
TO  MR.  JAMES  HAMILTON.* 

Elusland,  May  26, 1789. 

Dear  Sir, — I  send  you  by  John 
(Jlover,  carrier,  the  above  account  for 
Mr.  TurnbuU,  as  I  suppose  you  know 
his  address. 

I  would  fain  offer,  my  dear  sir,  a 
word  of  sympathy  with  your  misfor- 
tunes; but  it  is  it  tender  string,  and  I 
know  not  how  to  touch  it.  It  is  easy 
to.flovirisli  a  set  of  high-flown  senti- 
ments on  the  subjects  that  would  give 
great  satisfation  to — a  breast  quite  at 
ease;  but  iis  one  observes  who  was 
very  seldom  mistaken  in  the  theory  of 
life,  ' '  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  sor- 
rows, and  a  stranger  intermeddleth 
not  therewith." 

Among  some  distressful  emergen- 
cies that  I  have  experienced  in  life,  I 
ever  laid  this  down  as  my  foundation 
of  comfort — I'hat  he  who  has  lived  the 
life  of  an  honest  man  has  by  no  means 
Uvedintiainf 

With  every  wish  for  your  welfare 
and  future  success,  I  am,  my  dear  sir, 
sincerely  yours,  R.  B. 


No.  CLXIV. 

TO  WILLIAM  CREECH,  ESQ. 

Elusland,  May  30, 1789, 

Sm, — I  had  .intended  to  have  trou- 
,  bled  you  with  a  long  letter,  but  at 

'     *.One,  of,  the  poet's  early  friends,  whose 
'  misfortunes  called  forth  this  letter  of  condo- 
lence from  Bums. 


present  the  delightful  sensations  of  an 
omnipotent  tootliache  so  engross  all  my 
inner  man  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power 
even  to  write  nonsense.  However,  as 
in  duty  bound,  I  approach  my  booksel- 
ler with  an  offering  in  my  hand — a  few 
poetic  clinches  and  a  song.  To  expect 
any  other  kind  of  offering  from  the 
rhyming  tribe  would  be  to  know  them 
much  less  than  you  do.  I  do  not  pretend 
that  there  is  much  merit  in  these 
morceaux,  but  I  have  two  reasons  for 
sending  them — Prima,  they  are  most- 
ly ill-natured,  so  are  in  unison  with 
my  present  feelings,  while  fifty  troops 
of  infernal  spirits  are  driving'  post 
from  ear  to  ear  along  my  jaw  bones; 
and  secondly,  they  are  so  short,  that  you 
cannot  leave  off  in  the  middle,  and  so 
hurt  my  pride  in  the  idea  that  you 
found  any  work  of  mine  too  heavy  to 
get  through. 

I  have  a  request  to  beg  of  you,  and 
I  not  only  beg  of  you,  but  conjure  you, 
by  all  your  wishes  and  by  all  your 
hopes  that  the  muse  will  spare  the 
satiric  wink  in  the  moment  of  your 
foibles;  that  she  will  warble  the  song 
of  rapture  round  your  hymeneal  couch^ 
and  that  she  will  shed  on  your  turf 
the  honest  tear  of  elegiac  gratitude: 
grant  my  request  as  speedily  as  possible 
— send  me  by  the  very  first  fly  or  coach 
for  this  place  three  copies  of  the  last 
edition  of  my  poems,  which  place  to 
my  account. 

Now  may  the  good  things  of  prose, 
and  thegood  things  of  verse,  come 
among  thy  hands,  until  they  be  filled 
with  the  good  things  of  this  life,  pray- 
eth  R.  B. 


No.  CLXV. 

TO  MR.  MACAULAY,  OP 
DUMBARTON. 

Ellisland,  June  4, 1789. 

Dear  Sir, — Though  I  am  not  with- 
out my  fears  respecting  my  fate  at 
that  grand,  universal  inquest  of  right 
and  wrong,  commonly  callfed  the  Last 


438 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Day,  yet  I  trust  there  is  one  sin,  wliich 
that  arch- vagabond,  Satan,  who  I  un- 
derstand is  to  he  king's  evidence,  can- 
riot  throw  in  my  teeth — I  mean  ingrat- 
-itude.  "There  is  a  certain  pretty  large 
quantum  of  liindness  for  which  I  re- 
main, and,  from  inability,  I  fear  must 
still  remain,  your  debtor ;  but,  though 
unable  to  repay  the  debt,  I  assure  you 
sir,  I  shall  ever  warmly  remember  tho 
obligation.  It  gives  me  the  sincerest 
-pleasure  to  hear  by  my  old  acquain- 
tance, Mr  Kennedy,  that  you  are,  in 
immortal  Allan's  language,  "  Hale, 
and  weel,  and  living  ;"  and  that  your 
charming  family  are  well,  and  promis- 
ing to  be  an  amiable  and' respectable 
addition  to  the  company  of  performers, 
whom  the  great  manager  of  the  drama 
of  man  is  bringing  into  action  for  the 
succeeding  age. 

With  respect  to  my  welfare,  a  sub- 
ject in  which  you  once  warmly  and 
effectively  interested  yourself,  I  am 
here  in  my  old  way,  holding  my  plough , 
marking  the  growth  of  my  corn,  or  the 
health  of  my  dairy  ;  and  at  times  saun- 
tering by  the  delightful  windings  of 
the  Nitli,  on  the  margin  of  wliich  I 
Taave  built  my  humble  domicile,  pray- 
ing for  seasonable  weather,  or  holduig 
an  intrigue  with  the  Muses  ;  the  only 
gypsies  with  whom  I  have  now  any  in- 
'tercourse.  As  I  am  entered  into  the 
holy  state  of  matrimony,  I  trust  my 
face  is  turned  completely  Zion  ward  ; 
and  as  it  is  a  rule  with  all  honest  fel- 
lows to  repeat  no  grievances,  I  hope 
that  the  little  poetic  licences  of  former 
days  will  of  course  fall  under  the  ob- 
livious influence  of  some  good-natured 
statute  of  celestial  prescription.  In 
my  family  devotion,  which,  like  a  good 
Presbyterian,  I  occasionally  give  to  my 
household  folks,  I  am  extremely  fond 
of  the  psalm,  ' '  Let  not  the  errors  of  my 
youth," &c.;  and  that  other;  "Lo! 
children  are  God's  heritage,"  &e. ;  in 
which  last  Mrs.  Burns,  who  by  the  by 
has  a  glorious  "wood-note  wild"  at 
either  old  song  or  psalmody,  joins  me 
with  the  pathos  of  Handel's  "Mes- 
siah." 

R.  B. 


No.   CLXVI. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT   AINSLIE.     ' 

Ellisland,  June  8,  lySg,  • 

Mt  Dear  Friend, — I  am  perfectly 
ashamed  of  myself  when  I  look  at  the 
date  of  your  last.  It  is  not  that  I  for- 
get the  friend  of  my  heart  and  the 
companion  of  my  peregrinations;  but 
I  have  been  condemned  to  drudgery 
beyond  sufferance,  though  not,  thank 
God,  beyond  redemption.  I  have  had 
a  collection  of  poems  by  a  lady  put 
into  my  hands  to  prepare  for  the  press, 
which  horrid  task,  mth  sowing  corn 
with  my  own  hand,  a  parcel  of  masons, 
Wrights,  plasterers,  &c.,  to  attend  to, 
roaming  on  business  through  Ayrshire 
■ — all  this  was  against  me,  and  the  very 
first  dreadful  article  was  of  itself  too 
much  for  me. 

13i/i. — I  have  not  had  a  moment  to 
spare  from  incessant  toil  since  the  8tli. 
Life,  my  dear  sir,is  a  serious  matter.  You 
know,  by  experience,  that  a  man's  indi- 
vidual self  is  a  good  deal ,  but  belie  ve  me, 
a  mfe  and  family  of  children,  whenever 
you  have  the  honour  to  be  a  husband 
and  a  father,  will  show  you  that  your 
present  and  most  anxious  hours  of  Sol- 
itude are  spent  on  trifles.  The  welfare 
of  those  who  are  very  dear  to  us, 
whose  only  support,  hope,  and  stay 
we  are — this  to  a  generous  mind  is 
another  sort  of  more  important  object 
of  care  than  any  concerns  whatever 
which  centre  merely  in  the  individual. 
On  the  other  hand,  let  no  young,  un- 
married, rake-helly  dog  among  you 
make  a  song  of  his  pretended  liberty.and 
freedom  from  care.  If  the  relations  we 
stand  in  to  king,  country,  kindred,  and 
friends,  be  anything  but  the  visionary 
fancies  of  dreariiing  metaphysicians;  if 
religion,  virtue,  magnanimity,  gener- 
osity, humanity,  and  justice,  be  augut 
but  empty  sounds;  then  the  man' who 
may  be  said  to  live  only  for  others,  for 
the  beloved,  honourable  female,  whose 
tander,  faithful  embrace  endears  life, 
and  for  the  helpless  little  innocents  who 
are  to  be  the  men  and  women,  the 
worshippers  of  his  God,  the  subjects 
of  his  king,  and  the  supportj  nay  the 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


m 


very  vital  existence  of  his  country,  in 
the  ensuing  age; — compare  such  a  man 
with  any  tellow  whatever,  who, 
whether  he  bustle  and  push  in  busi- 
ness, among  labourers,  clerks,  states- 
men; or  whether  he  roar  and  rant,  and 
drink  and  sing  in  taverns — a  fellovvover 
whose  grave  no  one  will  ever  breathe 
a  single  "  Heigh-ho!  "  except  from 
the  cob-web  tie  of  what  is  called  good 
fellowship — who  has  no  view  nor  aim 
but  what  terminates  in  himself — if 
there  be  any  grovelling  earth-bom 
wretch  of  our  species,  a  renegade  to 
common  sense,  who  would  fain  be- 
lieve that  the  noble  creature  man  is  no 
better  than  a  sort  of  fungus,  generated 
out  of  nothing,  nolxidy  knows  how, 
and  soon  dissipating  in  nothing,  no- 
body knows  where;  such  a  stupid 
-beast,  such  a  crawling  reptile,  might 
halauce  the  foregoing  unexaggerated 
comparison,  but  no  one  else  would 
have  the  patience. 

,  Fop^ve  me,  my  dear  sir,  for  this 
long  silence.  To  make  you  ame7ids,  I 
shall  send  you  soon,  and  more  encourag- 
ing still,  with  out  any  postage,  one  or 
two  rhymes  of  my  later  manufacture. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXVU. 

TO  MR.  M'MURDO.* 

Ellisland,  June  19, 1789. 

SiK, — A  poet  and  a  beggar  are  in  so 
many  points  of  view  alike,  that  one 
,  might  take  them  for  the  same  individ- 
ual character  under  different  designa- 
tions ;  were  it  not  that,  though  with  a 
'trifling  poetic  licence,  most  poets  may 
be  styled  beggars ;  yet  the  converse  of 
the  proposition  does  not  hold — that 
eveiy  beggar  is  a  poet.  In  one  par- 
ticular, however,  they  remarkably 
iigree ;  if  you  help  either  the  one  or 
the  other  to  a  mug  of  ale,  or  the  pick- 


ing of  a  bone,  they  will  very  willingly 
repay  you  with  a  song.  This  occurs 
to  me  lit  present,  as  1  have  just  dis- 
patched a  well-lined  rib  of  John  Kirk- 
patrick's  Highlander :  a  bargain  for 
which  1  am  indebted  to  you,  in  the 
style  of  our  ballad  printers,  ' '  Five  ex- 
cellent new  songs."  The  enclosed  is 
nearly  my  newest  song,  and  one  that 
has  cost  me  some  pains,  though  that 
is  but  an  equivocal  mark  of  its  excel- 
lence. Two  or  three  others,  which  1 
have  by  me,  shall  do  themselves  the 
honour  to  wait  on  your  after  leisure  ; 
petitioners  for  admittance  into  favour 
must  not  harass  the  condescension  of 
their  benefactor. 

You  see,  sir,  what  it  is  to  patronise 
a  poet.  "Tis  like  being  a  magistrate 
in  a  petty  borough  ;  you  do  them  the 
favour  to  preside  in  their  council  for 
one  year,  and  your  name  bears  the  pre- 
fatory stigma  of  bailie  for  life. 

With,  not  the  compliments,  but  the 
best  wishes,  the  sincerest  prayers  of 
the  season  for  you,  that  you  may  see 
many  and  happy  years  with  Mrs. 
M'Murdo  and  your  family  ;  two  bles- 
sings by  the  by  to  which  your  rank 
does  not  by  any  means  entitle  you — a 
loving  wife  and  fine  family  being  al- 
most the  only  good  things  of  this  life 
to  which  the  farm-house  and  cottage 
have  an  exclusive  right. — I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  sir,,  your  much-indebted 
and  very  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


■  .  *  John  M'Murdo.  of  Druralanrig  was  one  of 

'T3urns'  firmest  Nithsdale  friends,  and  was 
lini'ted  with  others,  at  the  poet's  death,  in  the 

■'management  of  his  affairs,  which  prospered  so 
v/ell  that  two  hundred  pounds  per  annum  be- 
came the  widow's  portion  for    many  years 

.  before  she  was  laid  in  the  orave. 


No.  CLXVIII. 
TO    MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  June  21, 1789. 

Dear  Madam, — ^Will  you  take  the 
effusions,  the  miserable  effusions  of 
low  spirits,  just  as  they  flow  fronl  their 
bitter  spring  ?  I  know  not  of  any 
particular  cause  for  this  worst  of  all 
my  foes  besetting  me,  but  for  some 
tiine  my  soul  has  been  beclouded  with 
a  thicltening  atmosphere  of  evil  im- 
aginations and  gloomy  presages. 

MonAay  Emning. — I  have  just  heard 
Mr.  Kirkpatrick  preach  a  sermon.     He 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


is  a  man  famous  for  his  benevolence, 
and  I  revere  liim,  but  from  such  ideas 
of  my  Creator,  good  Lord,  deliver  me  ! 
Religion,  my  honoured  friend,  is  surely 
a  simple  business,  as  it  equally  con- 
cerns the  ignorant  and  the  learned,  the 
poor  and  the  rich.  That  there  is  an 
incomprehensible  great  Being,  to  whom 
I  owe  my  existence,  and  that  He  must 
be  intimately  acquainted  with  the  oper- 
ations and  progress  of  the  internal  ma- 
chinery, and  consequent  outward  de- 
portment of  this  creature  which  He 
has  made — these  are,  I  think,  self-evi- 
dent propositions.  That  there  is  a  real 
and  eternal  distinction  between  virtue 
and  vice,  and  consequently,  that  1  am 
an  accountable  creature  ;  that,  from  the 
seeming  nature  of  the  human  mind, 
as  well  as  from  the  evident  imperfec- 
tion, nay,  positive  injustice,  in  the  ad- 
ministration of  affairs,  both  in  the  nat- 
ural and  moral  worlds,  there  must  be 
a  retributive  scene  of  existence  beyond 
the  grave,  must,  I  think,  be  allowed 
by, every  one  who  will  give  himself  a 
moment's  reflection.  I  will  go  farther, 
and  affirm  that,  from  the  sublimity, 
excellence,  and  purity  of  His  doctrine 
and  precepts,  unparalleled  by  all  the 
aggregated  wisdom  and  learning  of 
many  preceding  ages,  though  to  wp- 
pearance.  He  himself  was  theobscur- 
est  and  most  illiterate  of  our  species — 
therefore  Jesus  Christ  was  from  God. 

Whatever  mitigates  the  woes  or  in- 
creases the  happiness  of  others,  this  is 
my  criterion  of  goodness  ;  and  what- 
ever injures  society  at  large  or  any  in- 
dividual in  it,  this  is  my  measure  of 
iniquity.' 

What  think  you,  madam,  of  my 
creed  ?  I  trust  that  I  have  said  noth- 
ing that  will  lessen  me  in  tlie  eye  of 
one  whose  good  opinion  I  value  almost 
next  to  the  approbation  of  my  own 
mind.  R.  B. 


No.  CLXIX. 

TO  MISS  WILLIAMS. 

EllislaNd,  Aug.  1789 . 
Madam, — Of  the  many  problems  in 
the  nature  of  that  wonderful  creature. 


man,  this  is  one  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary, that  he  shall  go  on  from  day 
to  day,  from  week  to  week,  from 
month  to  month,  or  perhaps  from  year 
to  year,  suffering  a  hundred  times  more 
in  an  hour  from  the  impotent  conscious- 
ness of  neglecting  what  he  ought  to  do,  ;C 
than  the  very  doing  of  it  would  cost  < 
him.  1  am  deeply  indebted  to  you, 
first  for  a  most  elegant  poetic  compli- 
ment ;  then,  for  a  polite,  obliging  let- 
ter ;  and,  lastly.for  your  excellent  poem 
on  the  slave  trade  ;  and  yet,  wretch 
that  I  am !  though  the  debts  were 
debts  of  honour,  and  the  creditor  a 
lady,  I  have  put  ofi  and  put  off  even,,, 
the  very  acknowledgment  of  the  obli- 
gation, until  you  must  indeed  be  the 
very  angel  I  take  you  for  if  you  can 
forgive  me. 

Your  poem  I  have   read  with  the 
highest  pleasure.     I  have  a  way  when- 
ever I  read  a  book — I  mean  a  book  in 
our  own  trade,  madam,  a  poetic  one —  , 
and  when  it  is  my  own  property,  that 
I  take  a  pencil  and  mark  at  the  ends  of 
the  verses,  or  note  on  margins  and  odd  . 
papers,  little  criticisms  of  approbation 
or  disapprobation  as  I  peruse  along.    I 
will  make  no  apology  for  presenting 
you  with  a  few  unconnected  thoughts 
that    occurred  to  me  in  my  repeated 
perusals    of    your    poem.     I  want  to., 
show  you  that  I  have  honesty  enough  . 
to  tell  you  what  I  take  to  be  truthsi, 
even  when  they  are  not  quite  on  the 
side  of'apf)robation;  and  I  do  it  in  the  . 
firm  faith  that  you  have  equal  great- 
ness of  mind  to  hear  them  with  pleasr 
ure. 

I  had  lately  the  honour  of  a  letter 
from  Dr.  Mepre,  where  he  tells  me 
that  he  has  sent  me  some  books:  they 
are  not  yet  come  to  hand,  but  I  hear 
they  are  on  the  way. 

Wishing  you  all  success  in  your  pro- 
gress in  the  path  of  fame;  and  that 
you  may  equally  escape  the  danger  of 
stumbling  through  incautious  speed, 
or  losing  ground  through  loitering' 
neglect,  I  am,  &c., 

R.  B.,„. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


4C9 


•         No.   CLXX. 
TO  MR.   JOHN  LOGAN.* 

ELLISLANDf  NEAR  DUMFRIES,  Aug.  7,  1789. 

Dear  Sie, — I  intended  to  have  writ- 
ten you  long  ere  now,  and  as  I  told 
you  I  liad  gotten  three  stanzas  and  a 
half  on  my  way  in  a  poetic  epistle  to 
yoii;  liut'that  old  enemy  of  all  good 
works,  the  devil,  threw  me  into  a  pro- 
saic mire,  and  for  the  soul  of  me  I  can- 
not get  out  of  it.  I  dare  not  write  you 
a  long  letter,  as  I  am  going  to  intrude 
on  your  time  with  a  long  ballad.  I 
have,  as  you  will  shortly  see,  finished 
"  Tlie  Kirk's  Alarm;  "  but  now  tjiat  is 
done,  and  that  I  have  laughed  once  or 
twice  at  the  conceits  in  some  of  the 
stanzas,  I  am  determined  not  to  let  it  get 
into  the  public;  so  I  send  you  this  copy, 
the  first  that  I  have  sent  to  Ayrshire, 
except  some  few  of  the  stanzas,  which 
I  wrote  off  in  embryo  for  Gavin  Hamil- 
ton, under  the  express  provision  and 
request  that  you  will  only  read  it  to  a 
few  of  us,  and  do  not  on  any  account 
give,  oT  permit  to  be  taken,  any  copy 
ot-the  baUad.  If  I  could  be  of  any  ser- 
vice to  Dr.  M'Gill,  I  would  do  it, 
though  it  should  be  at  much  greater 
expense  than  irritating  a  few  bigoted 
priests;  but  I  am  afraid  serving  him 
in  his  present  embarras  is  a  taslt  too 
hard  for  me.  I  have  enemies  enow, 
God  knows,  though  I  do  not  wantonly 
add  to  the  number.  Still,  as  I  think 
there  is  some  merit  in  two  or  three  of 
the  thoughts,  I  send  it  to  you  as  a 
small  but  sincere  testimony  how  much 
and  with  what  respectful  esteem,  I 
am,  dear  sir,  your  obliged  humble  ser- 
vant, 

E.  B. 


No:  CLXXl. 
TO  MR.  


Ellisland,  Sept.  1785. 
!Mt  DEAK  SrR,^The  hurry  of  a  far- 
mer in  this  particular  season,  and  the 
indolence  of  a  poet  at  all  times   and 


*  Of  Knockshionock,  in  Glen  Afton,  Ayr- 
shire. 


seasons,  will,  J  hope,  plead  my  excuss 
for  neglecting  so  long  to  answer  your 
obliging  letter  of  the  5th  of  August. 
That  you  have  done  well  in  quitting 

your  laborious  concern   in ,  I   do 

not  doubt;  the  weighty  reasons  you 
mention  were,  I  hope,  very,  and  de- 
servedly indeed,  weighty  ones,  and 
your  health  is  a  matter  of  the  last  im- 
portance; but  whether  the  remaining 
proprietors  of  the  paper  have  also 
done  well  is  what  1  mnch  doubt. 
The ,  so  far  as  1  was  a  reader,  ex- 
hibited such  a  brilliancy  of  point, 
such  an  elegance  of  paragraph,  and 
such  a  variety  of  intelligence,  that 
I  can  hardly  conceive  it  possible  to 
continue  a  daily  paper  in  the  saine  de- 
gree of  excellence:  but  if  there  was  a 
man  who  had  abilitips  equal  to  the 
task,  that  man's  assistance  the  pro^ 
prietors  have  lost. 

When  I  received  your  letter  I  was 

transcribing  for my  letter  to  the 

magistrates  of  the  Canongate,  Edin- 
burgh, begging  their  permission  to 
place  a  tombstone  over  poor  Fergus- 
son,  and  their  edict  in  consequence  of 
my  petition,  but  now  I  shall  send  them 

to .     Poor  Fergusson!      If   there 

be  a  life  beyond  the  grave,  which  I 
trust  there  is;  and  if  there  be  a  good 
God  presiding  over  all  nature,  which  I 
am  sure  there  is;  thou  art  now  enjoy=- 
ing  existence  in  a  glorious  world; 
where  worth  of  the  heart  alone  is  dis- 
tinction in  the  man;  where  riches,  de^ 
prived  of  all  their  pleasure-purchasing 
powers,  return  to  their  native  sordid 
matter;  where  titles  and  honours  are 
the  disregarded  reveries  of  an  idle, 
dream:  and  where  that  heavy  virtue, 
which  is  the  negative  consequence-  of 
steady  dulness,'  and  those  thoughtless, 
though  often  destructive,  follies,  which 
are  the  unavoidable  aberrations  of 
frail  human  nature,  will  be  thrown 
into  equal  oblivion  as  if  they  had  never 
been! 

Adieu,  my  dear  sir!  So  soon  as 
your  present  views  and  schemes  are 
concentrated  in  an  aim,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  hear  from  you;  as  your  welfare  and 
happiness  is  by  no  means  a  subject  in- 
different to  yours,  R.,B. 


440 


BURN'S'  WORKS. 


No.  CLXXII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  Sept.  6, 1789. 

Dear  Madam, — I  liave  mentioned 
in  my  last  my  appointment  to  the  Ex- 
cise, and  the  birth  of  little  Frank; 
who,  by  the  by,  1  trust  will  be  no  dis- 
credit to  the  honourable  name  of  Wal- 
lace,* as  he  has  a  fine  manly  counten- 
ance, and  a  figure  that  mia;ht  do  credit 
to  a  little  fellow  two  months  older; 
and  likewise  an  excellent  good  temper, 
though  when  he  pleases  he  has  a  pipe 
only  not  quite  so  loud  as  the  horn  that 
his  immortal  namesake  blew  as  a  sig- 
nal to  take  out  the  pin  of  Stirling 
bridge. 

I  had  some  time  ago  an  epistle,  part 
poetic,  and  part  prosaic,  from  your 
poetess,  Mrs.  J.  Little,  a  very  ingeni- 
ous but  modest  composition,!  I  should 


*  This  child,  named  Francis  Wallace,  after 
Mrs.  Dunlop,  died  at  the  early  age  of  four- 
teea, 

t  The  following  letter  accompanied  Miss 
Janet  Little's  poetical  epistle : — 

Loudon  House,  July  12;  1789. 
Sir  : — ^Though  I  have  not  the  happiness  of 
being  personally  acquainted  with  you,  yet 
amongst  the  number  of  those  who  have  read 
and  admired  your  publications,  may  I  be  per- 
mitted to  trouble  you  with  this  ?  Vou  must 
know»  sir,  I  am  somewhat  in  love  with  the 
Muses,  though  I  cannot  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  Ecclefechan,  (where  my 
parents  resided,)  in  the  station  of  a  servant, 
and  am  now  come  to  Loudon  House,  at  pres- 
ent possessed  by  Mrs. ;  she  is  daughter 

to  Mrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  whom  I  under- 
stand you  are  particularly  acquainted  with. 
As  I  had  the  jileasure  of  perusing  your  poems, 
I  felt  a  partiality  for ,  the  author,  which  I 
should  not  hpive  experienced  had  you  been  in 
a  more  dlgilified  station.  I  wrote  a  few  verses 
of  address  to  you,  which  I  did  not  then  think 
of  ever  presenting:  but  as  fortune  seems  to 
have  favoured  me  in  this,  by  bringing  me  in- 
to a  family  by  whom  you  are  well  known,  and 
much  esteemed,  and  where,  perhaps.  T  may 
rhave  an  opportunity  of  seeing  you.. I  shall,  in 
hopes  of  your  future  friendship,  talce  theiib- 
erty  to  transcribe  them : — 

Fair  fa'  the  honest  rustic  swain. 
The  pride  o'  a*  our  Scottish  plain  ; 
Thou  gies  us  joy  to  hear  thy  strain. 
And  notes  cae  sweet ; 


have  written  her  as  she  requested,  but 
for  the  hurry  of  this  new  business. 
I  have  heard  of  her  and  her  composi- 
tions in  this  country;  and  I  am  happy 
to  add,  always  to  the  honour  of  her 


Old  Ramsay's  shade  revived  again. 
In  thee  we  greet. 

Loved  Thalia,  that  delightfu'  muse, 
Seem'd  lan^  shut  up  as  a  recluse  ; 
To  all  she  did  her  aid  refuse. 

Since  Allan's  day ; 
Till  Burns  arose,  then  did  she  choose 

To  grace  his  lay. 

To  hear  thy  sang  all  ranks  desire, 
Sae  weei  you  strike  the  dormant  lyre, 
Apollo  with  poetic  fire 

Thy  breast  doth  warm. 
And  critics  silently  admire 

Thy  art  to  charm. 

Caesar  and  Luath  weel  can  speak, 
'Tis  pity  e'er  their  gabs  should  steekj^ 
Butinlo  human  nature  keek. 

And  knots  unravel : 
To  hear  their  lectures  once  a  week. 

Nine  miles  I'd  travel. 

Thy  dedication  to  G.  H., 

An  unco  bonnie  hame-spun  speech, 

Wi'  winsome  glee  the  heart  can  teach 

A  better  lesson, 
Than  servile  bards,  who  fawn  and  fiee<fi, 

Like  beggar's  messon. 

When  slighted  love  becomes  your  theme. 
And  woman's  faithless  vows  you  blame, 
With  so  much  pathos  you  exclaim. 

In  your  Lament ; 
But,  glanced  by  the  most  frigid  dame, 

She  would  relent. 

The  daisy,  too,  ye  sing  wi'  skill. 
And  weel  ye  praise  the  whiskjr  gill ; 
In  vain  I  blunt  my  feckless  quill, 

Vour  fame  to  raise ;    ,  > 
While  echo  sounds  frae  ilka  hill, 

To  Burns'  praise. 

Did  Addison  or  Pope  but  hear. 
Or  Sam,  that  critic  most  severe, 
A  ploughboy  sing  wi*  throat  sae  clear, 

■  -  They,  in  a  rage. 

Their  works  would  a'  in  pieces  tear. 
And  curse  your  page. 

Sure  Milton's  eloquence  we're  faint. 
The  beauties  of  your  verse  to  paint : 
My  rude  unpolish'd  strokes  but  taint 

Their  bnlliancy : 
.The  attempt  would  doubtless  vex  a  saint, 

And  weel  may  thee. 

The  taskTU  drop,  wi*  heart  sincere. 
To  Heaven  present  my  humble  prayer, 
That  all  the  blessings  mortals  share. 

May  be  by  turns 
Dispensed  by  an  indulgent  care 

To  Robert  Burns  !'     .    . 


genekal'  correspondence. 


441 


eliaracter.  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  ani  no  daub  at  fine- 
drawn letter-  writing;  and,  except  when 
prompted  by  friendship  or  gratitude, 
or,  which  happens  extremely  rarely, 
inspired  by  the  Muse  (I  know  not  her 
name)  that  presides  over  epistolary 
writing,  I  sit  down,  when  necessitated 
to  write,  as  I  would  sit  down  to  beat 
hemp. 

Some  parts  of  your  letter  of  the  20th 
August  struck  me  with  the  most  mel- 
ancholy, concern  for  the  state  of  your 
mind  at  present. 

Would  I  could  write  you  a  letter  of 
comfort;  I  would  sit  down  to  it  with 
as  much  pleasure  as  I  would  to  write 
an  epic  poem  of  my  own  composition 
that  should  equal  the  Iliad.  Religion, 
jny  dear  friend,  is  the  true  comfort  ! 
A  strong  persuasion  in  a  future  state 
of  existence;  a  proposition  so  obviously 
probable  that,  setting  revelation  aside, 
every  nation  ajid  people,  so  far  as 
investigation  has  reached,  for  at 
least  near  four  thousand  years,  have 
in  some  mode  or  other  firmly  believed 
it.  In  vain  would  we  reason  and  pre- 
tend to  doubt.  I  have  myself  done  so 
to  a  very  daring  pitch;  but  when  I  re- 
flected that  I  was  opposing  the  most 
ardent  wishes  and  the  most  darling 
hopes  of  good  men,  and  flying  in  the 
face  of  all  human  belief  in  all  ages,  I 
was  shocked  at  my  own  conduct. 

I  know  not  whether  I  have  ever  sent 
you  the  following  lines,  or  if  you  have 
ever  seen  them;  but  it  is  one  of  my 
favourite  quotations,  which  I  keep  con- 
stantly by  me  in  my  progress  through 
life,  in  the  language  of  the  book  of 
Job, 

"Against  the  day  of  battle  and  of  war  "— 

spoken  of  religion: — 
'."Tis  this,  toy  friend)  that  strealts  our  morn- 
ing bright, 

'Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 

When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends 
are  few, 

When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes 
pursue ;  [smart, 

'Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the 

nisarms  affliction,  or  repels  his  dart ; 

Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 

Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloud- 
less skies." 


I  have  been  busy  with  "Zeluco."' 
The  Doctor  is  so  obliging  as  to  request 
my  opinion  of  it;'  and  I  have  been  re- 
volving in  my  mind  some  kind  of 
criticisms  on  novel-writing,  but  it  is  a 
depth  beyond  my  research.  I  shall, 
however,  digest  my  thoughts  on  the 
subject  as  well  as  I  can.  "  Zeluco"  is 
a  most  sterling  performance. 

Farewell  !  A  IHeu,le  bon  Dieu,je 
vous  commende  ! 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXJII. 
TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL,  CARSE. 
Ellisland,  Oct.  16, 1789. 

SiK, — Big  with  -the  idea  of  this  im- 
portant day  at  Friars'  Carse,  I  have 
watched  the  elements  and  skies,  in 
the  full  persuasion  that  they  would 
announce  it  to  the  astonished  world 
by  some  phenomena  of  terrific  portent. 
Yesternight  until  a  very  late  hour  did 
I  wait  with  anxious  horror  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  some  comet  firing  half  tlio 
sky;  or  aerial  armies  of  sanguinary. 
Scandinavians,  darting  athwart  the 
startled  heavens,  rapid  as  the  ragged 
lightning,  and  horrid  as  those  convul- 
sions of  natnre  that  bury  nations. 

The  elements,  however,  seem  to 
take  the  matter  very  quietly:  they  did 
not  even  usher  in  this  morning  with 
triple  siins  and  a  shower  of  blood,  sym- 
bolical of  the  three  potent  heroes,  and 
the  mighty  claret-shed  of  the  day. — 
For  me,  as  Thomson  in  his  "'Winter" 
says  of  the  storm,  I  shall  "  Hear  aston- 
ished, and  astonished  sing" 

The  whistle  and  the  man  ;  I  sing 
The  man  that  won  the  whistle,  &c. 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys. 
Three  merry  boys  I  trow  are  we ; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been« 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be. 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 
A  cuckold  coward  loon  is  he  ; 

Wha  iast  beside  his  chair  shall  fa" 
He  is  the    king  amang  us  three.'^ 

To  leave  the  heights  of  Parnassus 
and  c(  ne  to  the  humble  vale  of  prose 


*  See  the  poem  of  "  The  Whislle,"  p.  120. 


443 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


—I  have  some  misgivings  that  I  take 
too  much  upon  me,  when  I  request  you 
to  get  your  guest,  Sir  Robert  Lawrie, 
to  frank  the  two  enclosed  covers  for 
me,  the  one  of  them  to  Sir  William 
Cunningham,  of  Robertland,  Bart.,  at 
Kilmarnock,— the  other  to  Mr.  Allan 
Masterton,  writing-master,  Edinburgh. 
The  first  has  a  kindred  claim  on  Sir 
Robert,  as  being  a  brother  Baronet, 
and  likewise  a  keen  Foxite;  the  other 
is  one  of  the  worthiest  men  in  the 
world,  and  a  man  of  real  genius;  so, 
allow  me  to  say  he  has  a  fraternal 
claim  on  you.  I  want  them  franked 
for  to-morrow,  as  1  cannot  get  them  to 
the  post  to-night.  —  I  shall  send  a 
servant  again  for  them  iu  the  evening. 
Wishing  that  your  head  may  be  crown- 
ed with  laurels  to-night,  and  free  from 
aches  to-morrow,  I  have  the  honour  to 
be,  sir,  your  deeply-indebted  humble 
servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXIV. 
TO    THE    SA.ME. 

Ellisland,  1789. 

Sib, — I  wish  from  my  inmost  soul 
it  were  in  my  power  to  give  you  a  more 
substantial  gratification  and  return  for 
all  the  goodness  to  the  poet,  than  tran- 
scribing a  few  of  his  idle  rhymes. 
However,  "an  old  song,"  though  to 
a  proverb  an  instance  of  insignificance, 
is  generally  the  old  coin  a  poet  has 
to  pay  with. 

If.  my  poems  which  I  have  tran- 
scribed, and  mean  still  to  transcribe, 
into  your  book,  were  equal  to  the 
grateful  respect  and  high  esteem  I 
bear  for  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  pre- 
sent them,  they  would  be  the  finest 
poems  in  the  language;  as  they  are, 
they  will  at  least  be  a  testimony  with 
what  sincerity  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
sir,  your  devoted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXV. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE.         ' 
Ellisland,  Nov.  i,  1789. 

My  dear  Friend,  —  I  had  written 
you  long  ere  now,  could  I  have  guessed 
where  to  find  you,  for  I  am  sure  you 
have  more  good  sensethan  to  waste  tlie  ; 
precious  days  of  vacation  time  in  the 
dirt  of  business  and  Edinburgh.  Wher- 
ever you  are,  God  bless  you,  and'  lead 
you  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  '" 
you  from  evil  ! 

I  do  not  know  if  I  have  informed  you  ' 
that  I  am  now  appointed  to  an  Excise 
division,  in  the  middle  of  which  my 
house  and  farm  lie.  In  this  I  was  ex-  - 
tremely  lucky.  Without  (ever  having 
been  an  expectant,  as  they  call  their 
journeymen  excisemen,  I  was  directly 
planted  down  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses an  officer  of  Excise;  there  to 
flourish  and  bring  forth  fruits  worthy 
of  repentance. 

I  know  not  how  the  word  exciseman, 
or  still  more  opprobrious  ganger,  will 
sound  in  your  ears.      I  too  have  seen 
the    day  when    my    auditory  nerves 
would  have  felt  very  delicately  on  this 
subject;   but  a  wife  and  children  are 
things  which  have  a  wonderful  power 
iu  blunting  these  kind  of  sensations,  v 
Fifty  pounds  a  year  for  life,  and  a  prO' 
vision  for  widows  and  orphans,  you 
will  allow  is  no  bad  settlement  for  a 
poet     For  the  ignominy  of  the  profes-  J 
sion,  I  have  the  encouragement  which 
I  once  heard  a  recruiting-sergeant  give 
to  a  numerous,  if  not  to  a  respectable,.  , 
audience,  in  the  streets  of  Kilmarnock: 
"  Gentlemen,  for  your  further  and  bet- , 
ter  encouragement,  I  can   assure  you 
that  our  regiment  is  the  most  black- 
guard corps  under  the  Crown,  and  con- 
sequently with  us  an  honest  fellow  > 
has  the  surest  chance  of  preferment." 

You  need  not  doubt  that  I  find  sev- 
eral very  unpleasant  and  disagreeable 
circumstances  in  my  business;  but  I 
am  tired  with  and  disgusted  at  the  lan- 
guage of  complaint  against  the  evils  of  . 
life.  Human  existence  in  tlie  most  • 
favourable  situations  does  not  abound 
with  pleasures,  and  has  its  inconve'i. 
iences  and  ills;  capricious  foolish  maa 


GENEKAn  COKRESPONDENCE. 


443 


mistakes  these  iuconveoiences  and  ills 
as  if  they  were  the  peculiar  property 
of  his  particular  situation;  and  hence 
that  eternal  fickleness,  that  love  of 
change,  which  has  ruined,  ajid  daily 
does  ruin  many  a  fine  fellow,  as  well 
as  many  a  blockhead,  and  is  almost 
without  exception  a  constant  source  of 
disappointment  and  misery. 

I  long  to  hear  from  you  how  you  go 
on-rrOiot  so  much  in  business  as  in  life. 
Are  you  pretty  well  satisfied  with  your 
own  exertions,and  tolerably  at  ease  in 
your  internal  reflections  ?  'Tis  much 
to  be  a  great  character  as  a  j^wyer, 
but  .beyond  comparison  more  to  be  a 
great'  character  as  a  man.  ,  That  you 
may  be  both  the  one  and  the  other  is 
the  earnest  wish,  and  that  you  will  be 
both  is  the  firm  persuasion,  of,  my 
dear  sir,  &c., 

E.  B. 


No.   CLXXVI. 
TO  MR.  RICHARD  BROWN. 

Ellisland,  Nov.  4,  1789. 

I  HAVE  been  so  hurried,  my  ever- 
dear  friend,  that  though  I  got  both 
your  letters,  I  have  not  been  able  to 
command  an  hour  to  answer  them  as  I 
wished;  and  even  now  you  are  to  look 
on  this  as  merely  confessing  debt,  and 
craving  days.  Few  things  could  have 
given  me  so  much  pleasure  as  the 
news  that  you  were  once  more  safe 
and  sound  on  terra  jwma,  and  happy 
in  that  place  where  happiiless  is  alone 
to  be  found,  in  the  fireside  circle. 
May  the  benevolent  Director  of  all 
things  peculiarly  bless  you  in  all  those 
endearing  connexions  consequent  on 
'  the  tender  and  venerable  names  of 
husband  and  father  !  I  have  indeed 
been  extremely  lucky  in  getting  an  ad- 
ditional income  of  £50  a  year,  while 
at  the  same  time,  the  appointment  will 
not  cost  me  above  £10  or  £12  per  an- 
num of  expenses  more  than  I  must 
have  inevitably  incurred.  The  worst 
circumstance  is  that  the  Excise  div- 
ision which  1  have  got  is  so  extensive 
—no  less  than  ten  parishes  to  ride  over 


— and  it  abounds  besides  with  so  much 
business,  that  I  can  scarcely  steal  a 
spare  moment.  However,  labour  en- 
dears rest,  and  both  together  are  ab- 
solutely necessary  for  the  proper  en- 
joyment of  human  existence.  I  can- 
not meet  you  anywhere.  No  less  than 
an  order  from  the  Board  of  Excise  at 
Edinburgh  is  necessary  before  I  can 
have  so  much  time  a.s  to  meet  you  in 
Ayrshire.  But  do  you  come  and  see 
me.  We  must  have  a  social  day,  and 
perhaps  lengthen  it  out  with  half  the 
night,  before  you  go  again  to  sea. 
Tou  are  the  earliest  friend  I  now  have 
on  earth,  my  brothers  excepted:  and 
is  not  that  an  endearing  circumstance  ? 
When  you  arid  I  first  met,  we  were  at 
the  green  period  of  human  life.  The 
twig  would  easily  take  a  bend,  but 
would  as  easily  return  to  its  former 
state.  You  and  I  not  only  took  a  mu- 
tual bent,  but,  by  the  melancholy, 
though  strong  influence  of  being  both 
of  the  family  of  the  unfortunate,  we 
were  entwined  with  one  another  in 
our  growth  towards  advanced  age; 
and  blasted  be  the  sacrilegious  hand 
that  shall  attempt  to  undo  the  union  ! 
You  and  I  must  have  one  bumper  to 
my  favourite  toast,  "May  the  com- 
panions of  our  youth  be  the  friends  of 
our  old  age  1"  Come  and  see  me  one 
year;  I  shall  see  you  at  Port  Glasgow 
the  next,  and  if  we  can  contrive  to 
have  a  gossiping  between  our  two  bed- 
fellows, it  will  be  so  much  additioiial 
pleasure.  Mrs.  Burns  joins  me  in 
kind  compliments  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Brown.  Adieu  1^— I  am  ever,  my  dear 
sir,  yohrs, 

R.  B. 


OP 


No.  CLXXVII. 
TO     R.     GRAHAM,    ESQ. 
FINTRAY. 

Dec,  9,  1789. 

Sra,— I  have  a  good  while  had  a 
wish  to  trouble  you  with  a  letter,  and 
had  certainly  done  it  long  ere  now, 
but  for  a  humiliating  something  that 
throws  cold  water  on  the  resolution; 
as  if    one  should  say,    "  You    have 


444 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


found  Mr.  Gralmm  u,  very  powerful 
and  kind  friend  indeed,  and  that  in- 
terest lie  is  so  kindly  taking  in  your 
concerns  you  ought,  by  everything  in 
your  power,  to  keep  alive  and  cherish." 
Now,  though  since  God  has  thought 
proper  to  make  one  powerful  and  an- 
other helpless,  the  connexion  of  ohliger 
and  obliged  is  all  fair:  and  though  my 
being  under  your  patronage  is  to  me 
highly  honourable;  yet,  sir,  allow  me 
to  Hatter  myself  that,  as  a  poet  and  an 
honest  man,  you  first  interested  your- 
self in  ray  welfare,  and  principally  as 
such  still  you  permit  me  to  approach 
you. 

I  have  found  the  Excise  business  go 
on  a  great  deal  smoother  with  me  than 
1  expected ;  owing  a  good  deal  to  the 
generous  friendship  of  Mr.  Mitchell, 
my  collector,  and  the  kind  assistance 
of  Mr.  Findlater,  my  supervisor.  I 
dare  to  be  honest,  and  I  fear  no  labour. 
Nor  do  I  find  my  hurried  life  greatly 
inimical  to  my  correspondence  with 
the  Muses.  Their  visits  to  me,  indeed, 
and  I  believe  to  most  of  their  acquain- 
tance, like  the  visits  of  good  angels, 
are  short  and  far  between :  but  I  meet 
them  now  and  then,  as  I  jog  through 
the  hills  of  Nithsdale,  jast  as  I  used 
to  do  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr.  I  take 
the  liberty  to  enclose  yoa  a  few  baga- 
telles, all  of  them  the  productions  of 
my  leisure  thoughts  in  my  Excise 
rides. 

If  you  know,  or  have  ever  seen  Cap- 
tain Grose,  the  antiquary,  you  will 
enter  into  any  humour  that  is  in  the 
verses  on  him.  Perhaps  you  have  seen 
them  before,  as  I  sent  them  to  a  Lon- 
don newspaper.  Though  I  daresay  you 
have  none  of  the  solemu-leagne-and 
covenant  fire,  which  shone  so  conspic- 
uous in  Lord  George  Gordon  and  the 
Kilmarnock  weavers,  yet  I  think  you 
m  have  heard  of  Dr.  M'Qill,  one  of 
the  clergymen  of  Ayr,  and  his  hereti- 
cal book.  God  help  him,  poor  man  ! 
Though  he  is  one  of  the  worthiest,  as 
well  as  one  of  the  ablest,  of  the  whole 
priesthood  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  in 
every  sense  of  that  ambiguous  term, 
yet  the  poor  Doctor  and  his  numerous 
family  are  in  imminent  danger  of  being 


thrown  out  to  the  mercy  of  the  winter- 
winds.  The  enclosed  ballad  on  that 
business  is,  I  confess,  too  local,  but  1 
laughed  myself  at  some  conceits  in  it, 
though  I  aru  convinced  in  my  con- 
science that  there  are  a  good  many 
heavy  stanzas  in  it  too. 

The  election  ballad,  as  you  will  see, 
alludes' to  the  present  canvass  in  onr 
string  of  boroughs.  I  do  not  believe 
there  will  be  such  a  hard-run  match 
in  the  whole  general  election. 

1  am  too  little  a  man  to  have  any  po- 
litical attachments ;  I  am  deeply  indebt- 
ed to,  ajjd  have  the  warmest  veneration 
for,  individuals  of  both  parties;  but  a 
man  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  be  the 
father  of  a  country,  and  who  .  .  .  ., 
is  a  character  that  one  cannot  «peak  of 
with  patience.* 

Sir  J.  J.  does  "  what  man  can  do,'' 
but  yet  I  doubt  his  fate.f 


No.  CLXXVIII. 
TO  MRS.   DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  Dec.  13,  1789. 
Many  thanks,  dear  madam,  for  your 
sheetful  of  rhymes.  Though  at  present 
I  am  below  the  veriest  prose,  yet  from 
you  everything  pleases.  I  am  groaning 
under  the  miseries  of  a  diseased  nervous 
system;  a  system,  the  state  of  which  ■ 
is  most  conducive  to  our  happiness?ir 
or  the  most  productive  of  our  misery. 
For  now  near  three  weeks  I  have  been 
so  ill  with  a  nervous  headache  that  I 
have  been  obliged  for  a  time  to  give  up 
my  Excise  books,  being  scarce  able  to 
lift  my  head,  much  less  to  ride  ome  a 
week  over  ten  muir  parishes.  What  is 
man?  To-day,  in  the  luxuriance  of 
health,  exulting  in  the  enjoyment  of 
existence;  in  a  few  days,  perhaps  in  a 
few  hours,  loaded  with  conscious  pain- 
ful being,  counting  the  tardy  pace  of 
the  lingering  moments  by  the  reper- 
cussions of  anguish,  and  refusing  or 

*  Dr.  Currie  h- s  here  obviously  suppressed  a 
bitttr  allusion  to  the  Duke  of  Queensbury.  ,  - 

t  The  enclosures  in  this  letter  were  *'  The 
Kirk's  Alarm,"  the  verses  on  Grose,  and  the 
first  ballad  on  Captain  Miller's  election. 


GENERAL.  CORRESPONDENCE. 


denied  a  comforter.  Day  follows  nlglit, 
pjid  uiglit  comes  after  day,  only  to 
curse  liim  witli  life  whicli  gives  him 
no  pleasure;  and  yet  the  awful,  dark 
termination  of  that  life  is  something  at 
which  he  recoils. 

'*  Tell  us,  ye  dead  ;  will  none  of  you  in  pity 
Disclose  the  secret 

IVhat  'tis  you  are^  and  ive  must  shortly  be  ? 

'Tis  no  matter,  [are." 

A  little  time  will  make  us  learn'd  as  you 

Can  it  be  possible  that  when  I  resign 
this  frail,  feverish  being,  I  shall  still 
find  myself  in  conscious  existence  V 
When  the  last  gasp  of  agony  has  an- 
nounced that  I  am  no  more  to  those 
that  knew  me;  and  the  few  who  loved 
-me;  when  the  cold,  stiffened,  uncon- 
scious, ^ghastly  corse  is  resigned  into 
the  earth,  to  be  the  prey  of  unsightly 
reptiles,  and  to  become  in  time  a  trod- 
den clod,  shall  I  be  yet  warm  in  life, 
seeing  and  seen,  enjoying  and  en- 
joyed ?  Ye  venerable  sages,  and  holy 
itiamens,  is  there  probability  in  your 
conjectures,  truth  in  your  stories,  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  hu- 
mane; what  a  flattering  idea,  then,  is 
a  world  to  come  J  Would  to  God  I  as 
firmly  believed  it  as  lardently  wish  it ! 
•  -There  I  should  meet  an  aged  parent, 
now  at  rest  from  the  many  buffetings 
of  an  evil  world,  against  which  he  so 
long  and  so  bravely  struggled.  There 
ishould  I  meet  the  friend,  the  disin- 
terested friend  of  my  early  life;  the 
man  who  rejoiced  to  see  me,  because 
he  loved  me  and  could  serve  me. — 
Muir,*  thy  weaknesses  were  the  aber- 
rations of  human  nature,  but  thy  heart 
glowed  with  everything  generous, 
inanly,  and  noble;  and  if  ever  emana- 
tion from  the  all-good  Being  animated 
a  human  form,  it  was  ttiine  !  There 
should  I,  with  Speechless  agony  of 
rapture,  again  recognise  my  lost,  my 
ever-dear  Mary !  whose  bosom  was 
fraught  with  truth,  honour,  constancy, 
and  love. 


*  Muir  was  one  of  the'poet's  eafliest  friends. 


"  My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  heavenly  rest  ?  . 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid?  ■  [brSast?" 
Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his' 

Jesus  Christ,  tbou  amiablest  of  char- 
acters !  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  im- 
positions which  time  after  tiine'  have 
been  palmed  on  credulous  man- 
kind. I  trust  that  in  Thee  "  shall  all 
the  families  of  th  e  earth  be  blessed," 
by  being  yet  connected  together  in  a 
better  world,  where  every  tie  that 
bound  heart  to  heart,  in  this  state  of 
existence,  shall  be,  far  beyond  our 
present  conceptions,  more  endearing. 

I  am  a  good  deal  inclined  to  think 
with  those  who  maintain  that  what  are 
called  nervous  affections  are  in  fact 
diseases  of  the  mind.  I  cannot  reason, 
I  cannot  think;  and  but  to  you  I  would 
not  venture  to  write  anything  above  an 
order  to  a  cobbler.  You  have  felt  too 
much  of  the  ills  of  life  not  to  sympa- 
thise with  a  diseased  wretch,  who  has 
impaired  more  than  half  of  any  facul- 
ties he  possessed.  Your  goodness  will 
excuse  this  distracted  scrawl,  which 
the  writer  dare  scarcely  read,  and 
which  he  would  throw  into  the  fire, 
were  he  able  to  write  anything  better, 
or  indeed  anything  at  all. 

Rumour  told  me  something  of  a  sort 
of  yours  who  was  returned  from  the 
East  or  West  Indies.  If  you  have  got- 
ten news  from  James  or  Anthony,  it 
was  cruel  in  you  not  to  let  me  know  ; 
as  I  promise  you,  on  the  sincerity  of  a 
man,  who  is  weary  of  one  world,  and 
anxious  about  another,  that  scarce  any- 
thing could  give  me  so  much  pleasure 
as  to  hear  of  any  good  thing  befalling 
my  honoured  friend. 

If  you  have  a  minute's  leisure,  take 
up  your  pen  in  pity  to  Ic  pauvre  mis, 
ercAle,  E.  B. 


No.  CLXXIX. 
TO    LADY   Wr 


LADY   WriNIFRED]    M[AX- 
WELL]  CONSTABLE. 

Ellisland,  Dec.  i6,  17S9. ' 
My  Lady, — In  vain  have  I  from  day 
to  day  expected  to  hear  from  Mrs. 


446 


BUENS'  WOEKS. 


Young,  as  she  promised  me  at  Dals- 
winton  tliat  slie  would  do  me  the  hon- 
our to  introduce  me  at  Tinwald  ;  and 
it  was  impossible,  not  from  your  lady- 
ship's accessibility,  but  from  my  own 
feelings,  that  I  couldgo  alone.  Lately, 
indeed,  Mr.  Maxwell  of  Carruchen,  in 
his  usual  goodness,  ofEered  to  accom- 
pany me,  when  an  unlucky  indispooi- 
tioa  on  my  part  hindered  my  embrac- 
ing the  opportunity.  To  court  the 
notice  or  the  tables  of  the  great,  except 
where  I  sometimes  have  had  a  little 
matter  to  ask  of  them,  or  more  often 
the  pleasanter  task  of  witnessing  my 
gratitude  to  them,  is  what  I  never 
have  done,  and  I  trust  never  shall  do. 
But  with  your  ladyship  1  have  the 
honour  to  be  connected  by  one  of  the 
strongest  and  most  endearing  ties  in 
the  whole  moral  world.  Common  suf- 
ferers in  a  cause  where  even  to  be  un- 
fortunate is  glorious,  the  cause  of 
heroic  loyalty !  Though  my  fathers 
had  not  illustrious  honours  and  vast 
properties  to  hazard  in  the  contest, 
though  they  left  their  liumble  cottso;es 
only  to  add  so  many  units  more  to  thft 
unnoted  crowd  that  followed  their 
leaders,  yet  what  they  could  they  did, 
and  what  they  had  they  lost :  with  un- 
shaken firmness  and  unconcealed  polit- 
ical attachments,  they  shook  hands 
with  ruin  for  what  they  esteemed  the 
cause  of  their  king  and  their  country. 
This  language  and  the  enclosed  verses 
are  for  *  for  your  ladyship's  eye  alone. 
Poets  are  not  very  famous  for  their 
prudence  :  but  as  I  can  do  nothing  for 
a  cause  which  is  now  nearly  no  more, 
I  do  hot  wish  to  hurt  myself.  I  have 
the  honour  to  be,  my  lady,  your  lady- 
ship's pbliged  and  obeient  humble 
servant,  B.  B. 


No.  CLXXX. 

TO  PROVOST  MAXWELL,  OP 

LOCHMABEN. 

Ellisland,  Dec.  20, 1789. 
Dear  Provost, — As  my  friend  Mr. 
Graham  goes  for  your  good  town  to- 


*  Those  addressed  to  Mr.  William  Tytler.- 
See  p.  110. 


morrow,  I  cannot  resist  the.  tempta- 
tion to  send  you  a  few  lines,  and  asl 
have  nothing  to  say,  I  have  chosen 
this  sheet  of  foolscap,  and  begun 'as 
you  see  at  the  top  of  the  first  page, 
because  I  have  ever  observed  that 
when  once  people  have  fairly  set  out 
they  know  not  where  to  stop.  Now 
that  my  first  sentence  is  concluded,  I 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  pray  Heaven 
to  help  me  on  to  another.  Shall  I 
write  you  on  politics  or  religion, 
two  master-subjf ets  for  your  sayers  of 
nothing?  Of  the  fiigt  I  dare  say  by 
this  time  you  are  nearly  surfeited  ;  and 
for.  the  last,  vifhenever  they  may  taJk 
of  it  who  make  it  a  kind  of  company 
concern,  I  never  could  endure  it  beyond 
a  soliloquy.  I  might  write  you  on 
farming,  on  building,  on  marketing, 
but  my  poor  distracted  mind  is  so  toruj 
so  jaded,  so  racked,  and  bedeviled 
with  the  task  of  the  superlatively 
damned  to  make  one  guinea  do  the  busi- 
ness of  three,  that  1  detest,  abhor,  and 
swoon  at  the  very  word  business, 
though  no  less  than  four  letters  of  my 
very  short  surname  are  in  it. 

Well,  to  make  the  matter  short,  I 
shall  betake  myself  to  a  subject  ever 
fruitful  of  themes  ;  a  subject  the  tur- 
tle feast  of  the  sons  of  Satan,  and  the 
delicious  secret  sugar  plum  of  the 
babes  of  grace — a  subject  sparkling 
with  all  the  jewels  that  wit  can  find  in 
the  mines  of  genius ;  and  pregnant 
with  all  the  stores  of .  learning  from 
Moses  and  Confucius  to  Franklin  and 
Priestley — in  short,  may^jt  please  your 
lordship,  I  intend  to  write.  .  .  . 

{Here  the  poet  inserted  a  song  whieh 
can  only  he  sung  at  times  when  the 
punch  howl  has  done  its  duty,  and 
wUd  wit  is  setfree.l 

If  at  any  time  you  expect  a  field- 
day  *  in  your  town,  a  day  when  dukes, 
earls,  and  knights  pay  their  court  to 
weavers,  tailors,  ajid  cobblers,  I  should 
like  to  know  of  it  two  or  three  days 
beforehand.  It  is  not  that  I  care  three 
skips  of  a  cur  dog  for  the  politics,  but 
I  should  like  to  see  such  an  exhibition 

*  TJie  poet  alludes  to  the  Miller  and  Joliti- 
stone  contest. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


447 


of  human  nature.  If  you  meet  witli 
that  worthy  old  veteran  in  religion  and 
good  fellowship,  Mr.  Jeffrey,*  or  any 
of  his  amiable  fainily,  I  beg  you  will 
give  them  my  best  compliments. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXXI. 

'        TO  SIR  JOHN  SINCLAIR. 

1790. 

Sm, — The  following  circumstance 
has,  I  believe,  been  omitted  in  the  sta- 
tistical account  transmitted  to  you  of 
the  parish  of  Dunscore  in  Nithsdale. 
;I  beg  leave  to  send  it  to  you,  because 
it  is  n^w  and  may  be  useful.  How 
far  it  is  deserving  of  a  place  in  your 
patriotic  publication  you  are  the  best 
■judge: 

■  To  store  the  minds  of  the  lower 
elasses  with  useful  knowledge  is  cer- 
tainly of  very  great  importance,  both 
to  them  as  individuals,  and  to  society 
at  large.  Giving  them  a  turn  for 
reading  and  reflection  is  giving  them  a 
source  of  innocent  and  lauda,ble 
amusement;  and  besides,  raises  them 
to  a  more  dignified  degree  in  the  scale 
of  rationality.  Impressed  with  this 
idea,  a  gentleman  in  this  parish, 
Robert  Riddel,  Esq.,  of  Glenriddel, 
set  on  foot  a  species  of  circulating  li- 
brary, on  a  plan  so  simple  as  to  be 
practicable  in  any  corner  of  the  coun- 
try; and  so  useful  as  to  deserve  the 
•notice  of  every  country  gentleman  who 
thinks  the  improvement  of  that  part  of 
his  own  species,  whom  chance  has 
throvvn  into  the  humble  walks  of  the 
peasant  and  the  artisan,  a  matter 
worthy  of  his  attention. 
'  Mr.  Riddel  got  a  number  of  his  own 
tenants  and  farming  neighbours  to 
form  themselves  into  a  society  for  the 
purpose  of  having  a  library  among 
themselves.  They  entered  into  a  legal 
engagement  to  abide  by  it  for  three 
years;  with  a  saving  clause  or  two,  in 

"'*  The' Reverend  Andrew  Jeffrey,  minister 
of  Lochmaben,  and  father  of  the  heroine  of 
that, exquisite  song,  "  The  Blue-Eyed  Lass  " 
("  I  gaed  a  waefu' gate  yestreen.") 


case  of  a  removal  to  a  distance,  or 
death.  Each  member,  at  his  entry, 
paid  five  shillings;  and  at  each  of  their 
meetings,  which  were  held  every 
fourth  Saturday,  sixpence  more.  With 
their  entry-money,  and  the  credit  which 
they  took  on  the  faith  of  their  future 
funds,  they  laid  in  a  tolerable  stock 
of  books  at  the  commencenJeut.  What 
authors  they  Vi^ere  to  purchase  was  al- 
ways decided  by  the  majority.  At 
every  meeting,  all  the  books,  under 
certain  fines  and  forfeitures,  by  way 
of  penalty  were  to  be  produced  ;  and 
the  members  liad  their  choice  of  the 
volumes  in  rotation.  He  whose  name 
stood  for  that  night  first  on  the  list 
had  his  choice  of  what  volume  he 
pleased  in  the  whole  collection;  the 
second  had  his  choice  after  the  first; 
the  third  after  the  second,  and  so  on  to 
the  last.  At  next  meeting,  he  who 
had  been  first  on  the  list  at  the  pre- 
ceding meeting  was  last  at  this;  he 
who  had  been  second  weis  first;  and  so 
on  through  the  whole  three  years.  At 
the  expiration  of  the  engagement,  the 
books  were  sold  by  auction,  but  only 
among  the  members  themselves;  each 
man  had  his  share  of  the  common 
stock,  in  money  or  in  books,  as  he 
chose  to  be  a  purchaser  or  not. 

At  the  breaking  up  of  this  little 
society,  which  was  formed  under  Mr. 
Riddel's  patronage,  what  with  bene- 
factions of  books  from  him,  and  what 
with  their,  own  purchases,  they  had 
collected  together  upwards  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  volumes.  It  will 
easily  be  guessed  that  a  good  deal  of 
trash  would  be  bought.  Among  the 
books,  however,  of  this  little  library, 
were  Blair's  Sermons,  Robertson's 
Histwy  of  Scotland,  Hume's  History  0} 
of  the  Stuarts,  the  Spectator,  Idler, 
Adventurer,  Mirror,  Lounger,  Ob- 
server, "Man  of  Peeling,"  "Man 
of  the  World,"  "  Ghrysal,"  '  Don 
Quixote,'"  "  Joseph  Andrews,"  <i:c.  A 
peasant  who  can  read  and  enjoy  such 
books  is  certainly  a  much  superior 
being  to  his  neighbour,  who  perhaps 
stalks  beside  his  team,  very  little  re- 
moved, except  in  shape,  from  the 
brutes  he  drives. 


-448 


BUKNS'  WOEKS. 


Wisliing  yx)ur  patriotic  exertions 
their  somucli-merited  success,  I  am, 
■  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

A  Peasant. 


No.  CLXXXII. 

TO   CHARLES   SHABPE,  ESQ.,  OF 
HODDAM. 

(UNDER  A  FICTITIOUS  SIGNATtJIlE, 

ENCLOSING  A  BALLAD. 

1790  OE  1791.) 

It  is  true,  sir,  you  are  a  gentleman 
of  rank  and  fortune,  and  I  am  a  poor 
devil;  you  are  a  feather  in  the  cap  of 
society,  and  I  am  a  very  hobnail  in  his 
shoes;  yet  I  have  the  honour  to  belong 
to  the  same  family  with  you,  and  on 
that  score  I  now  address  you.  You 
will  perhaps  suspect  that  I  am  going 
to  claim  affinity  with  the  ancient  and 
honorable  liouse  of  Kirkpatrick.  No, 
no,  sir;  I  cannot  indeed  be  properly 
said  to  belong  to  any  house,  or  even 
any  province  or  kingdom;  as  my 
mother,  who  for  many  years  was 
spouse  to  a  marching  regiment,  gave 
me  into  this  bad  world  aboard  the 
packet  boat,  somewhere  between 
Ponaghadee  and  Portpatrick.  By  our 
common  family,  I  mean,  sir,  the  family 
of  the  Muses,  I  am  a  fiddler  and  a 
poet;  and  you,  I  am  told,  play  an  ex- 
quisite violin,  and  have  ,a  standard 
taste  in  the  belles  lettres.  The  other 
day,  a  brother  catgut  gave  me  a  charm- 
ing Scots  air  of  your  composition.  If 
I  was  pleased  with  the  tune,  I  was  in 
raptures  with  the  title  you  have  given 
it;  and,  taking  up  the  idea,  I  have  spun 
it  into  the  three  stanzas  enclosed.  Will 
you  allow  me,  sir,  to  present  you  them, 
as  the  dearest  offspring  that  a  misbe- 
gotten son  of  poverty  and  rhyme  has  to 
give  ?  I  have  a  longing  to  take  you 
by  the  hand  and  unburthen  my  heart 
by  saying,  "Sir,  I  honour  you  as  a  man 
who  supports  the  dignity  of  Imman 
nature,  amid  an  age  when  frivolity 
jand  avarice  have,  between  them,  de- 
(based  us  below  the  brutes  that  perish !" 
But,  alas,  sir,  to  mi;  you  are  .unap- 


proachable. It  is  true,  the  Muses 
baptized  me  in  Castalian  streams,  but 
the  thoughtless  gipsies  forgot  to  give 
me  a  name.  As  the  sex  have  served 
many  a  good  fellpw,  the  Nine  have 
given  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure, 
but,  bewitching  .  jftdes  !  they  have 
beggared  me.  Would  they  but  spare 
me  a  little  of  their  cast  linen  !  Were 
it  only  in  my  power  to  say  that  I 
have  a  shirt  on  my  back  I  But  the 
idle  wenches,  like  Solomon's  lilies, 
"they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin;" 
so  I  must  e'en  continue  to  tie  my  rem- 
nant of  a  cravat,  like  the  hangman's 
rope,  round  my  naljed  throat,  and 
coax  my  galligaskins  to  keep  together 
their  many-coloured  fragments.  As 
to  the  affair  of  shoes,  I  have  given 
that  up.  My  pilgrimages  in  my  bal- 
lad trade,  from  town  to  town,  and  on 
your  stony-hearted  turnpikes,  too,  are 
what  not  even  the  hide  of  Job's  behe- 
moth could  beaf.  The  coat  on  my 
back  is  no  more:  I  shall  not  speak  evil 
of  the  dead.  It  would  be  equally  un- 
handsome and  ungrateful  to  find  fault 
with  my  old  suitout,  which  so  kindly 
supplies  and  conceals  the  want  of  that 
coat.  My  hat  indeed  is  a  great  fa- 
vourite; and  though  I  got  it  literally 
for  an  old  song,  I  would  not  exchange 
it  for  the  best  beaver  in  Britain.  I 
was,  during  several  years,  a  kind  of 
factotum  servant  to  a  country  clergy- 
man, where  I  pickt  up  a  good  many 
scraps  of  learning,  particularly  in 
some  branches  of  the  mathematics. 
Whenever  I  feel  inclined  to  rest  my- 
self on  my  way,  I  take  my  seat  under 
a  hedge,  laying  my  poetic  wallet  on 
the  ore  side,  and  my  fiddle-case  on  the 
other,  and  placing  my  hat  between  my 
legs,  1  can  by  means  of  its  brim,  or 
rather  brims,  go  through  the  whole 
doctrine  of  the  conic  sections. 

However,  sir,  don't  let  me  mislead 
you,  as  if  I  would  interest  your  pity. 
Fortune  has  so  much  forsaken  me 
that  she  has  taught  me  to  live  without 
her;  and,  amid  all  my  rags  and  pov- 
erty, I  am  as  independent,  and  much 
more  happy  than  a  monarch  of  the 
world.  According  to  the  hackneyed 
metaphor,  I  value  the  several  actors 


GENERAL  COBEESPONDENCE. 


*449 


intlie  great  drama  of  life  simply  as 
they  act  their  parts.  I  caa  look  on 
a  worthless  fellow  of  a  duke  with  un- 
qualified contempt,  and  can  regard  an 
honest  scavenger  with  sincere  respect. 
As  you,  sir,  go  through  your  r6le  with 
such  distinguished  .  merit,  permit  me 
to  make  one  in  the  chorus  of  universal 
applause,  and  assure  you  that  with  the 
highest  respect,  I  have  the  honour  to 
he,  &c. 


No.  CLXXXIII. 
TO   MR.  GILBERT    BURNS. 

ELLisuufD,  Jan.  ii,  1790. 

'  Deab  Bbothek, —  I  mean  to  take 
advantage  of  thtj  frank,  though  I  have 
not  in  my  present  frame  of  mind  much 
appetite  for  exertion  in  writing.  My 
nerves  are  in  a  cursed  state.      1  feel 

'  that  horrid  hypochondria  pervading 
every  atom  of  both  body  and  soul. 
This  farm  has  undone  my  enjoyment 
of  myself.     It  is  a  ruinous  affair  on  all 

'  hands.      But  let  it  go  to  hell !    I'll 

"fight  it  out  and  be  off  with  it. 

I  We  have  gotten  a,  set  of  very  de- 
cent players  here  just  now.  I  have 
seen  them  an  evening  or  two.  David 
Campbell,  in  Ayr,  wrote  to  me  by  the 
manager  of  the  company,  a  Mr.  Suth- 
erlajid,  who  is  a  man  of  app3.rent 
worth.  On  New-year-day  evening  I 
gave  him  the  following  prologue,* 
which  he  spouted  to  his  audience 
with  applause. 

I  can  no  more.  If  once  I  was  clear 
of  this  cursed  farm,  I  should  respire 
more  at  ease. 

E.  B. 


No.  CLXXXIV. 
TO  WILLIAM    DUNBAR,  W.  S. 

EllislaKd,  Jan.  14,  1790. 

SnfCB  we  are  here  creatures  of  a  day, 
since  "  a  few  summer  days,  and  a  few 
winter  nights,  and  the  life  of  man  is 
at  an  exid.,"  why,  my   dear,   much-es- 


*  See  prologue,,  p.  124. 


teemed  sir,  should  you  and  I  let  negli- 
gent indolence,  for  I  know  it  is  nothing 
worse,  step  in  between  us  and'  bar  the 
enjoyment  of  a  mutual  correspondence? 
We  are  not  shapen  out  of  the  common, 
heavy,  methodical  clod,  the  elemental 
stuff  of  the  ploddmg  selfish  race,  the 
sons  of  arithmetic  and  prudence;  our 
feelings  and  hearts  are  not  benumbed 
and  poisoned  by  the  cursed  influence 
of  riches,  which,  whatever  blessings 
they  may  be  in  other  respects,  are  no 
f  riendis  to  the  nobler  qualities  of  the 
heart:  in  the  name  of  random  sensi- 
bility, then,  let  never  the  moon 
change  on  our  silence  any  more.  I 
have  had  a  tract  of  bad  health  most 
pait  of  the  winter,  else  you  had  heard 
from  me  long  ere  now.  Thank 
Heaven,  I  am  now  got  so  much 
better  as  to  be  able  to  partake  a  little 
in  the  enjoyments  of  life. 

Our  friend  Cunningham  will  per- 
haps have  told  you  of  my  going  into 
the  Excise.  The  truth  is,  I  found  it  a 
very  cor(venient  business  to  have  £50 
per  annum,  nor  have  I  yet  felt'any  of 
these  mortifying  circumstances  in  it 
that  I  was  led  to  fear.» 

Jfd).  2. — I  have  not  for  sheer  hurry 
of  business,  been  able  to  spare  five 
minutes  to  finish  my  letter.  Besides 
my  farm  business,  I  ride  on  my  Excise 
matters  at  least  300  miles  every  week. 
I  have  not  by  any  means  given  up  the 
Muses.  You  will  see  in  the  3d  vol- 
ume of  Johnson's  Scots  songs  that  I 
have  contributed  my  mite  there. 

But,  my  dear  sir,  little  ones  that 
look  up  to  you  for  paternal  protection 
are  an  important  cliarge.  I  have  al- 
ready two  fine  healthy  stout  little  fel- 
lows, and  I  wish  to  throw  some  light 
upon  them.  I  have  a  thousand  rev- 
eries and  schemes  about  them,  and 
their  future  destiny.  Not  that  I  am 
a  Utopian  projector  in  these  things. 
I  am  resolved  never  to  breed  up  a  son 
of  mine  to  any  of  the  learned  profes- 
sions. I  know  the  value  of '  indepen- 
dence; and  since  I  cannot  give  my 
sons  an  independent  fortune,  I  shall 
give  them  an  independent  line  of  life. 
What  a  chaos  of  hurry,  chance,  and 
changes  is  tliis  world  when  one  sits 


430 


'BURNS' 'WORKS:  " 


soberly  down  to  reflect  on  it !  To-a 
father,  who  himself  knows  the  ■world, 
the  thought  that  he  shall  have  sons  to 
•usher  into  it  must  flU  him  with 
dread;  but  if  he  have  daughters,  the 
prospect  in  a  thoughtful  moment  is 
apt  ta  uhock  him. 

I  liope  Mrs.  Fordyee  and  the  two 
.  young  ladies  are  -well.  Do  let  me  for- 
get that  they  are  nieces  of  yours, 
and  let  me  say  that  I  never  saw  a 
more  interesting,  sweeter  pair  of  sis- 
ters  in  my  life.  I  am  the  fool  of  my 
feelings  and  attachments.  I  often  take 
up  a  volume  of  my  Spenser  to  realise 
you  to  my  imagination,  and  think  over 
the  social  scenes  we  have  had  together. 
God  grant  that  there  may  be  another 
■world  more  congenial  to  honest  fel- 
lows beyond-  this.  A  world  where 
these  rubs  and  jilagues  of  absence, 
distance,  misfortunes,  ill  health,  &c., 
shall  no  more  damp  hilarity  and  di- 
vide friendship.  This  I  know  is  your 
throng  season,  but  half  a  page  will 
much  oblige,  my  dear  sir,  yours  sin- 
cerely, 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXXV. 
TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Elljsland,  Jan.  25, 1790. 

It  has  been  owing  to  unremitting 
hurry  of  business  that  I  have  not  writ- 
ten to  you,  madam,  long  ere  now.  My 
health  is  greatly  lietter,  and  I  now  be- 
gin once  more  to  share  in  satisfaction 
and  enjoyment  with  the  rest  of  my 
fellow  -creatures. 

Many  thanks,  my  mucli-esteemed 
friend,  for  your  kind  letters;  but  why 
will  you  make  me  run  the  risk  of  be- 
ing contemptible  and  mercenary  in  my 
own  eyes  ?  When  I  pique  myself  on 
my  independent  spirit,  I  hope  it  is 
neither  poetic  licence,  nor  poetic  rant; 
and  I  am  so  flattered  with  the  honour 
you  have  done  me,  in  making  me  your 
compeer  in  friendship  and  friendly 
correspondence,  that  I  cannot,  without 
pain  and  a  degree  of  mortification,  be 
reminded  of  the  real  inequality  be 
tween  our  situations. 


Mosfsincerely  do  I  rejoice  ■with  you, 
dear  madam,  in  the  good  news  of  An- 
thony. Not  only  your  anxiety  about 
his  fate,  but  my  own  esteem  for  such 
a  noble,  warm-hearted,  manly  young 
fellow,  in  the  little  I  liad  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, has  interested  me  deeply 
in  his  fortunes. 

Falconer,  the  unfortunate  author  of 
the  "  Shipwreck,"  which  you  so  much 
admire,  is  no  more.  After  witnessing 
the  dreadful  catastrophe  he  so  feel- 
ingly describes  in  his  poem,  and  after 
weathering  many  hard  gales  of  for- 
tune, he  went  to  the  bottom  ^vith  the 
Aurora  frigate! 

I  forget  what  part  of  Scotland  had 
the  honour  of  giving  him-  birth;  but 
he  was  the  son  of  obscurity  and  mis- 
fortune. He  v^as  one  of  those  daring 
adventurous  spirits,  which  Scotland, 
beyond  any  other  country,  is  remark- 
able for  producing;  Little  does  the 
fond  mother  think,  as  she  hangs  de- 
lighted over  the  sweet  little  leech  at 
her  bosom,  where  the  poor  fellow  may 
hereafter  wander,  and  what  may  be  his 
fate.  I  remember  a  stanza  in  an  old 
Scottish  ballad,  which,  notwithstand- 
ing its  rude  simplicity,  speaks  feelingly 
to  the  heart— 

"  Little  did  my  mother  think. 
That  day  she  cradled  me,- 

What  land  1  was  to  travel  in. 
Or  what  death  I  should  die  !'** 

Old  Scottish  songs  are,  you  know,  a 
favourite  study  and  pursuit  of  miiie, 
and  now  I  "am  bri  that  subject,  allow 
me  to  give  you  two  stanzas  of  another 
old  simple  ballad,  which  1  am  surp 
will  please  you.  The  catastrophe  of 
the  piece  is  a  poor  ruined  feraale,"  la- 
menting her  fate.  She  concludes  with 
this  pathetic  wish: — 

"  Oh  that  my  father  had  ne'er  on  me  smiled^- 
Oh  that  my  mother  had  ne'er  to  me  sung  ! 
Oh  that  my  cradle  had  iievei-  been  lock'd  f 
But  that  1  had  died  when  1  -was  young! 

Oh  that  the  grave  it  were  my  bed  ; 

My  blankets  were  my  winding-ateet;' 
The  clocks  and  the  worms  my  bed-fellows  a' 

And,  oh,  sae  sound  as  1  should  sleep !" 

♦This  touching  sentiment  occurs  in  the  Bal-. 
lad  of  the  "  Queen's  Marie,"  or,  as  some  sets 
have  it,  ^  Mary  Hamilton." 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


431 


I  do  not  remember,  in  all  my  read- 
ing, to  have  met  with  anything  more 
truly  the  language  of  misery  than  the 
exclamation  in  the  last  line.  Misery 
is  like  love ;  to  speak  its  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  n/c  in  the  coiintry, 
.jind  I  tremble  for  his  fate.  Hy  the  way, 
I  cannot  help  congratulating  you  on 
his  looks  and  spixit.  Every  person 
who  sees  him  acknowledges  him  to  be 
the  finest,  handsomest  child  he  has 
.ever  seen.  I  am  myself  delighted  with 
the  manly  ^well  of  his  little  chest,  and 
a  certain  miniature  dignity  in  the  car- 
riage of  his  head,  and  the  glance  of 
his  fine  black  eye,  which  promise  the 
undaunted  gallantry  of  an  independent 
inind.  . 

I  ,tlionght  to  have  sent  you  some 
rhymes,  but  time  forbids.  1  promise 
you  poetry  until  you  are  tijted  of  it, 
next  time  I  have  the  honour  of  assur- 
ing you  how  truly  I  am,  &c, 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXXVI. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL, 
BOOKSELLER,    EDINBURGH. 

Ellislakd,  Feh.  2, 1790. 
No  !  I  will  not  say  one  word  about 
apologies  or  excuses  for  not  writing — 
-I  am  a  poor  rascally  ganger,  condemn- 
,ed  to  gallop  at  least  300  miles  every 
week  to  inspect  dirty  ponds  and  yeasty 
barrels,  and  where  can  I  find  time  to 
■write  to,  or  importance  to  interest  any- 
body? The  upbraidings  of  my  con- 
science, nay,  the  upbraidings  of  my 
wife,  have  persecuted  me  on  your  ac- 
count these  two  or  three  months  past. 
I  wish  to  God  I  was  a  great  man,  that 
my  correspondence  might  throw  light 
upon  you,  to  let  the  world  see  what 
you,  leally  are;  and  then  I  would  make 
.your  fortune,  without  puttingmy  hand 
in  my  pocket  for  you,  which,  like  all 
-fither  great  men,  1  suppose  I  would 


*  The  bard's  second  son,  Francis, 


avoid  as  much  as  possible.  .  What  i^re 
you  doing,  and  how  are  you.  doing  1! 
Have  you  lately  seen  any  of  my  few 
friends?  What  has  become  of  the 
BOROUGH  KEFOKM,  OX  how  is  the  fate 
of  my  poor  namesake.  Mademoiselle 
Bums  decided  ?  0  man  !  but  for  thee 
and  thy  selfish  appetites,  end  dishonest 
artifices,  that  beauteous  form,  and  that 
once  innocent  and  still  ingenuous  mind, 
might  have  shone  conspicuous  and 
lovely  in  the  faithful  wife,  and  the  af- 
fectionate mother;  and  shall  the  un- 
fortunate sacrifice  to  thy  pleasures  have 
no  claim  on  thy  humanity  1  * 

I  saw  lately  in  a  review  some  ex- 
tracts from  a  new  poem,  called  the 
"  Village  Curate  ;"  send- it  me.  I  want 
likewise  a  cheap  copy  of  ' '  The,  World. " 
Mr.  Armstrong,  the  young  poet,  who 
does  me  the  honour  to  mention  me  so 
kindly  in  his  works,  please  give  him 
my  best  thanks  for  the  copy  of  his 
book — I  shall  write  him  my  first  leisure 
hour.  I  like  his  poetry  much,  but  I 
think  his  style  in  prose  quite  astonish- 
ing. 

Your  book  came  safe,  and  I  am  go- 
ing to  trouble  you  with  further  com- 
missions. I. call  it  troubling  you— 
because  I  want  only  books  ;  the  cheap- 
est way,  the  best;  so  you  may  have  to 
hunt  for  them  in  the  evening  auctions. 
I  want  Smollett's  Works,  for  the  sake 
of  his  incomparable  humour.  I  have 
already  "Roderick  Random,"  and 
"Humphrey  Clinker."  "Peregrine 
Pickle,"  "  Laiincelot  Greaves,"  and 
"Ferdinand,  Count  Fatliohi,"  I  still 
want;  but  as  I  said,  the  veriest  ordi- 
nary copies  will  serve  me.  I  am  nice 
only  in  the  appearance  of  my  poets.  I 
forget  the  price  of  Cowper's  Poems, 
but,  I  believe,  I  must  have  them.  I 
saw  the  other  day  proposals  for  a  pub- 
lication, entitled,  "  Banks'  New  and 
Complete  Christian's  Family  Bible," 
printed  for  C.  Cooke,  Paternoster  Row, 
London.  He  promises,  at  least,  to  give 
in  the  work,  I  think  it  is  three  hun- 
dred and  odd  engravings,  to  which  he 

*  The  frail  female  Here  alluded  to  had  been 

the  subject.oi  .some  rather  oppressive  magisi 

terial  proceedings,  which  took  their  char^ctei 

from  Creechiakia  roused  some  public  feeling  id 

I  ber  behalf. 


BUKNS'  WOEKS. 


has  put  the  names  of  the  first  a.rtists  in 
London.  You  will  know  the  character 
of  the  performance,  as  some  numbers 
of  it  are  published;  and,  if  it  is  really 
what  it  pretends  to  be,  set  me  down  as.a 
subscriber,  and  send  me  the  published 
numbers. 

Let  me  hear  from  you,  your  first  lei- 
sure minute,  and  trust  me  you  shall 
in  future  have  no  reason  to  complain 
of  my  silence.  The  dazzling  perplex- 
ity of  novelty  will  dissipate,  and  leave 
me  to  pursue  my  course  in  the  quiet 
path  of  methodical  routine. 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXXVII. 

TO  MR.  W.  NICOL. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  g,  1790. 

My  dear  Str, — That  (lamned  mare 
of  yours  is  dead.  I  would  freely  have 
given  her  price  to  have  saved  her:  she 
has  vexed  me  beyond  description.  In- 
debted as  I  was  to  your  goodness  beyond 
what  I  can  ever  repay,  I  eagerly  grasp- 
ed at  your  offer  to  have  the  mare  with 
me.  That  I  might  at  least  show  my 
readiness  in  wishing  to  be  grateful,  I 
took  every  care  of  her  in  my  power. 
She  was  never  crossed  for  riding  above 
halt  a  score  of  times  by  me,  or  in  my 
keeping.  I  drew  her  in  the  plough, 
one  of  three,  for  one  poor  week.  I  re  • 
fused  fifty-fiveshillings  for  her,  which 
was  the  highest  bode  I  could  squeeze 
for  her.  I  fed  her  up  and  had  her  in 
fine  order  for  Dumfries  fair;  when, 
four  or  five  days  before  the  fair,  she 
was  seized  with  an  unaccountable  dis- 
order in  the  sinews,  or  somewhere  in 
the  bones  of  the  neck,  with  a  weakness 
or  total  want  of  power  in  her  fillets, 
and  in  short  the  whole  vertebrae  of 
her  spine  seemed  to  be  diseased  and 
unhinged,  and  in  eight-and- forty  hours, 
■in  spite  of  the  two  best  farriers  in  the 
country,  she  died,  and  be  damned  to 
her  !  The  farriers  said  that  she  had 
been  quite  strained  in  the  fillets  be- 
yond cure  before  you  had  bought  her  ; 
and  that  the  poor  devil,  though  she 
might  keep  a  little  flesh,  had  been 
jaded  and  quite  worn  out  with  fatigue. 


and  oppression.  While  she  was  with 
me,  she  was  under  my  own  eye,  and  I 
assure  you,  my  much-valued  friend^ 
everything  was  done  for  her  that  could 
be  done;  and  the  accident  has  vexed 
me  to  the  heart.  In  fact  I  could  not 
pluck  up  spirits  to  write  to  you,  on 
account  of  the  unfortunate  business. 

There  is  little  new  in  this  country. 
Our  theatrical  company,  of  which  you 
must  have  heard,  leave  us  this  week. 
Their  merit  and  character  are  indeed 
very  great,  both  on  the  stage  and  in 
private  life;  not  a  worthless  creature 
among  them;  and  their  encouragement 
has  been  accordingly.  Their  usual  run 
is  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five  pounds 
anight;  seldom  less  than  the  one,  and 
the  house  will  hdlii  no  more  than  the 
other.  There  Imve  been  repeated  in- 
stances of  sending  away  six,  and  eight, 
and  ten  pounds  a  night  for  want  of 
room.  A  new  theatre  is  to  be  built  by 
subscription;  the  first  stone  is  to  be 
laid  on  Friday  first  to  come.  Three 
hundred  guineas  have  been  raised  by 
thirty  subscribers,  and  thirty  more 
might  have  been  got  if  wanted.  The 
manager,  Mr.  Sutherland,  '-was  intro- 
duced to  me  by  a  friend  from  Ayr;  and 
a  worthier  or  cleverer  fellow  I  have 
rarely  met  with.  Some  of  our  clergy 
have  slipt  in  by  stealth  now  and  then; 
but  they  have  got  up  a  farce  of  their 
own.  You  must  have  heard  how  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Lawson,  of  Kirkinahoe, 
seconded  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kirkpatricfc, 
of  Dunscore,  and  the  rest  of  that  fac- 
tion, have  accused,  in  formal  process, 
the  unfortunate  and  Rev.  Mr.  Herqir, 
of  Kirkgunzeon,  that,  in  ordaining 
Mr.  Nieleon  to  the  cure  of  souls  in 
Kirkbean,  he,  the  said  Heron,  feloni- 
ously and  treasonably  bound  the  said 
NielsQn  to  the  confession  of  faith,  so 
far  as  it  was  agreeable  to  reason  and 
the  word  of  God  ! 

Mrs.  B.  begs  to  be  remembered  most 
gratefully  to  you.  Little  Bobby  and 
Frank  are  charmingly  well  and  healthy. 
I  am  jaded  to  death  with  fatigue.  For 
these  two  or  three  months,  on  an  aver- 
age, I  have  not  ridden  less  than  two 
hundred  miles  per  week.  I  have  done 
little  in  the  poetic  way..    I  have  given 


GENERAL  tTORRESPONDENCE. 


^53 


Mr.  Sutherland  two  Prologues;  one  of 
which  was  delivered  last  week.  I  have 
likewise  strung  fcur  or  five  barbarous 
stanzas,  to 'the  tune  of  "  Chevy  Chase," 
by  way  of  Elegy  on  your  poor  unfor- 
tuna<.a  mare,  beginning  (the  name  she 
got  nere  was  Peg- Nicholson.) 

"  Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare. 
As  ever  trode  on  aim  ; 
But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  past  the  mouth  o'  Cairn." 

(Seep.  127.) 

My  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Nicol, 
and  little  Neddy,  and  all  the  fariiily;  I 
hope  Ned  is  a  good  scholar,  and  will 
come  out  to  gather  nuts  and  apples 
with  mo  next  harvest. 

R.   B. 


No.  CLXXXVIII. 
TO  MR.    CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  13,  1790. 

I  BEG  your  pardon,  my  dear  and 
much- valued  friend,  for  writing  to  you 
on  this  very  unfashionable,  unsightly 
sheet —    , 

"  My  poverty,  but  not  my  will,  consents." 

But  to  make  amends,  since  of  modish 
post  I  have  none,  except  one  poor 
widowed  half-sheet  of  gilt,  which  lies 
in  my  drawer  among  my  plebeian  fools- 
cap pages,  like  the  widow  of  a  man  of 
fashion,  whom  that  unpolite  scoundrel, 
iJecessity,  has  driven  from  Burgundy 
a.nd  pineapple,  to  a  dish  of  Bohea,  with 
the  scandsil-bearing  helpmate  of  a  vil- 
lage priest;  or  a  glass  of  whiskey -tod- 
dy, with  a  ruby-nosed  yoke-fellow  of  a 
foot-padding  exciseman — I  make  a  vow 
to  enclose  this  sheetful  of  epistolary 
jfragments  in  that  my  only  scrap  of 
gilt  paper. 

I  am  indeed  your  unworthy  debtor 
for  three  friendly  letters.  I  ought  to 
have  written  to  you  long  ere  now,  but 
it  is  a  literal  fact  I  have  scarcely  a 
spare  moment.  It  is  not  that  I  imll  not 
write  to  you;  M'ss  Burnet  is  not  more 
dear  to  her  guardian  angel,  nor  his 
grace  the  Duke  of  Queensberry  to  the 
powers  of  darkness,  than  my  friend 
Cunningham  to  me.     It  is  not  that  I 


cannot  write  to  you;  should  you  doubt 
it,  take  the  following  fragment,  which 
was  intended  for  you  some  time  ago, 
and  be  convinced  that  1  can  antitliisite 
sentiment,  and  circumvolute  periods, 
as  well  as  any  coiner  of  phrase  in  the 
regions  of  philology: — 

December,  1789. 

My  deab  Cunningham,  —  Where 
are  you  ?  And  what  are  you  doing  1 
Can  you  be  that  son  of  levity,  who 
takes  up  a  friendship  as  he  takes  up  a 
fashion;  or  are  you,  like  some  other  of 
the  worthiest  fellows  in  the  world, 
the  victim  of  indolence,  laden  with 
letters  of  ever-increasing  weight  ? 

What  strange  beings  we  are  !  Since 
we  have  a,  portion  of  conscious  ex- 
istence, equally  capable  of  enjoying 
pleasure,  happiness,  and  rapture,  or 
of  suffering  pain,  wretchedness,  and 
inisery,  it  is  surely  worthy  of  an  in- 
quiry, whether  there  be  not  such  a, 
thing  as  a  science  of  life;  whether 
method,  economy,  and  fertility  of  ex- 
pedients, be  not  applicable  to  enjoy- 
ment: and  whether  there  be  not  a 
want  of  dexterity  in  pleasure,  which 
renders  our  little  scantling  of  happi- 
ness still  less;  and  a  profuseness,  an 
intoxication  in  bliss,  which  leads  to 
satiety,  disgust,  and  self-abhorrence. 
There  is  not  a  doubt  but  that  health, 
talents,  character,  decent  competency, 
respectable  friends,  are  real  substantial 
blessings,  and  yet  do  we  not  daily  see 
those  who  enjoy  many  or  all  of  these 
good  things  contrive  notwithstanding 
to  be  as  unhappy  as  others  to  whose 
lot  few  of  them  have  fallen  ?  I  believe 
one  great  source  of  this  mistake  or 
misconduct  is  owing  to  a  certain  stim- 
ulus, with  us  called  ambition,  which 
goads  us  up  the  hill  of  life,  not  as  we 
ascend  other  eminences,  for  the  laud- 
able curiosity  of  viewing  an  extended 
landscape,  but  rather  for  the  dishonest 
pride  of  looking  down  on  others  of  our 
fellow-creatures,  seemingly  diminutive 
in  humbler  stations,  &c. 

Sunday,  Feb.  14, 1790. 

God  help  me  I    I  am  now  obliged  to 
join 
*'  Night  to-day,  and  Sunday  to  the  week." 


434 


BUHXS'  WORKS. 


If  tliere  be  any  tnitli  in  the  ortliodox 
faith  of  these  churches,  I  am  damned 
past  redemption,  and  what  is  worse, 
damned  to  all  eternity.  I  am  deeply 
read  in  Boston's  Fourfold  State,  Mar- 
shall on  Sanotification,  Guthrie's  Trial 
of  a  Saving  Interest,  &c. ;  but  "there 
is  no  balni  in  Gilead,  there  is  no 
physician  there,''  for  me;  so  I  shall 
e'en  turn  Arminian,  and  trust  to  "  sin- 
cere though  imperfect  obedience.  " 

Tuesday,  i6th. 

Ltjckilt  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  I  fear 
every  fair  unprejudiced  inquirer  must 
in  some  degree  be  a  sceptic.  It  is  not 
that  there  are  any  very  staggering  ar- 
guments against  the  immortality  of 
man;  but,  like  electricity,  phlogiston, 
&c.,  the  subject  is  so  involved  in  dark- 
ness that  we  want  data  to  go  upon. 
One  thing  frightens  me  much;  that  we 
are  to  live  forever,  seems  too  good  news 
to  he  true.  That  we  are  to  enter  into 
^  new  scene  of  existence,  where,  ex- 
empt from  want  and  pain,  we  shall  en- 
joy ourselves  and  our  friends  without 
satiety  or  separation  —  how  much 
should  I  be  indebted  to  any  one  who 
could  fully  assure  me  that  this  was 
certain ! 

My  time  is  once  more  expired.  I 
will  write  to  Mr.  Gleghorn  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  influ- 
ence, when  the  bearer  of  this,  Mr. 
Syme,  and  you  meet !  I  wish  I  could 
also  make  one. 

Finally,  brethren,  farewell  !  What- 
soever things  are  lovely,  whatsoever 
things  are  gentle,  whatsoever  things 
are  charitable,  whatsoever  things,  are 
kind,  think  on  these  things  and  think 
on 

K.  B. 


No.  CLXXXIX. 
TO     MR.     HILL. 

Ellisland,  March  a,  1790. 

At  a  late  meeting  of  the  Monkland 
Friendly  Society,  it  was  resolved  to 
augment  their  library  by  the  following 
books,  which  you  are  to  send  us  as 
soon  as  possible: — The  Mirror, 'l^e 
Lounger,  "  Man  of  Feeling,"  "  Man  of 
the  World,",  (these,  for  my  own  salve, 
I  wish  to  have  by. the  first  carrier,) 
Knox's  History  of  the  Reformation  f 
Rae's  History  of  the  Rebellion  in  17151 
any  good  History  of  the  Rebellion  j^ 
1745 ;  A  Display  of  the  Secession  Afi 
and  Testimony,  by  Mr;'Gilj)b;  Hervey's 
Meditations;  Beveridge's'.,  Thojights; 
and  another  copy  of  tVitsbn's  Body  of 
Divinity. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  A.  Masterton, three  or 
four  months  ago,  to  pay  some  money 
he  owed  me  into  your  hands,  .and 
lately  I  wrote  to  you  to  the  same  pur- 
pose, but  I  have  heard  from  neither 
one  nor  other  of  you. 

In  addition  to  the  books  I  commisr 
sioned  in  my  last,  I  want  very  much 
an  Index  to  the  Excise  Laws,  or  an 
Abridgment  of  all  the  Statutes  now  in 
force,  relative  to  the  Excise,  by  Jel- 
linger  Symons;  I  want  three  copies  of 
this  book :  if  it  is  now  to  be  had,  cheap 
or  dear,  get  it  for  me.  An  honest 
country  neighbour  of  mine  wants,  too, 
a  Family  Bible,  the  larger  the  better, 
but  second-handed,  for  he  does  not 
choose  to  give  above  ten  shillings  for 
the  book.  I  want  likewise  for  myself, 
as  you  can  pick  them  up,  second- 
handed  or  cheap,  copies  of  Otway's 
Dramatic  Works,  Ben  Jonson's,  Dry- 
den's,  Congreve's,  Wycherley's,  Van- 
brugh's,  Cibber's,  or  any  Dramatic 
Works  of  the  more  modern  Macklin, 
Garrick,  Foote,  Colman,  or  Sheridan. 
A  good  copy,  too,  of  Moliere,  m 
French,  I  much  want.  Any  otlier 
good  dramatic  authors  in  that  lan- 
guage I  want  also;  but  comic  authors 
chiefly,  though  1  should  wish  to  have 
Racine,  Corneille,  and  Voltaire  too. 
lam  in  no*  hurry  for  all,  or  any  of 
these,   but  if   you  accidentally  meet 


OENERAIi  COERESPONDENCE. 


455 


with,  them  very  cheap,  get  them  for 
me. 

And  now,  to  quit  the  dry  walk  of 
business,  how  do  you  do,  my  dear 
friend  ?  and  how  is  Mrs.  Hill  ?  I 
^rust,  if  now  and  then  not  so  elegantly 
handsome,  at  least  as  amiable,  and 
sings  as  divinely  as  ever.  My  good 
wife,  too,  has  a  charming  ' '  wood-note 
wild;"  now  could  we  four 

I  am  out  of  all  patience  with  this 
vile  world,  for  one  thing.  Mankind 
are  hy  nature  benevolent  creatures,  ex- 
cept" in  a  few  scoundrelly  instances. 
I  dp  not  think  that  avarice  of  the  good 
things  we  chance  to  have  is  born  with 
us;  bat  we  are  placed  here  amidst  so 
much  nakedness,  and  hunger,  and 
poverty,  and  want,  that  we  are  under 
(f  cursed  necessity  of  stiidying  selfish- 
ness, In  order  that  we  may  exist  ! 
Still  there  ure,  in  every  age,  u,  few 
sbills  that  all  the  wants  and  woes  of 
life  cannot  debase  to'  selfishness,  or 
even  to  the  necessary  alloy  of  caution 
and  prudence.  If  ever  I  am  in  danger 
of  vanity,  it  is  when  I  contemplate 
myself  on  this  side  of  my  disposition 
and  character.  God  knows  I  am  no 
saint;  I  have  a  whole  host  of  follies 
and  sins  to  answer  for,  but  if  1  could, 
and  I  believe  I  do  it  as  far  as  I  can,  I 
would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all 
byes.    Adieu  ! 

R.  B. 


No.  CXC. 
TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  April  lo,  1790. 

I  HAVE  just  now,  my  ever-honoured 
friend,  enjoyed  a  very  high  luxury, 
in  reading  a  paper  of  the  Lounger. 
Tfou  know  iny  national  prejudices.  I 
had  often  read  and  admired  the  Spec- 
tator, Adventurer,  Rambler,  and 
World;  but  still  with  a  certain  regret 
that  they  were  so  thoroughly  and  en- 
..tirely  English.  Alas  !  have  I  often 
said  to  myself ,  what  are  all  the  boasted 
advantages  which  my  country  reaps 
from  the  union,  thatcan  counterbalance 
■tlieannyiilation  of  her  independence. 


and  even  her  very  name  !  I  often  re- 
peat that  couplet  of  my  favourite  poet, 
(loldsuiith — 

,     "States,  of  native  liberty  pdssest, 
1  hough  very  poor  may  yet  be  very  blest." 

Nothing  can  reconcile  me  to  the 
common  terms,  "English  Ambassador, 
English  Court,"  &c.  And  I  am  out  of 
all  patience  to  see  that  equivocal  char- 
acter, Hastings,  impeached  by  "  the 
Commons  of  England."  Tell  me,  my 
friend,  is  this  weak  prejudice  ?  I  be-' 
lieve  in  my  conscience  such  ideas  as 
"my  country;  her  independence;  her 
honour;  the  illuatrious  names  that 
mark  the  history  of  my  native  land;" 
&c.  I  believe  these,  among  your 
men  of-  the  'world,  men  who  in  fact 
guide  for  the  most  part  and  govern 
our  world,  are  looked  on  as  so  many 
modifications  of  wrong-headedness.' 
They  know  the  use  of  bawling  out 
such  terms,  to  rouse  or  lead  the  kab- 
BLE;  but  for  their  own  private  use; 
with  almost  all  the  able  statesmen  that 
ever  existed,  or  now  exist,  when  they 
talk  of  right  and  wrong,  they  oiily" 
mean  proper  and  improper;  and  theii* 
measure  of  conduct  is,  not  what  they 
OUGHT,  but  what  they  dare.  For 
the  truth  of  this  I  shall  not  ransack 
the  history  of  nations,  but  appeal  to 
one  of  the  ablest  judges  of  men  that 
ever  lived — the  celebrated  Earl  of 
Chesterfield.  In  fact,  a  man  who 
could  thoroughly  control  his  vices 
whenever  they  interfered  with  his 
interests,  and  who  could  completely 
put  on  the  appearance  of  every  vir- 
tue as  often  as  it  suited  his  pur- 
poses, is,  on  the  Stanhopian  plan,  the 
perfect  man;  a  man  to  lead  nations. 
But  are  great  abilities,  complete  with- 
out a  flaw,  and  polished  without  a 
blemish,  the  standard  of  human  ex- 
cellence ?  This  is  certainly  the  stanch 
opinion  of  m&n  of  the  world;  but  I  call 
on  honour,  virtue,  and  worih,  to  give 
the  S'rgian  doctrine  a  loiid  negative  I 
Ho\^ovor,  this  must  be  allowed,  that, 
if  you  abstract  from  man  the  idea  of 
an  existence  beyond  the  grave,  then 
the  true  measnreof  human  conduct  is 
proper  and  improper:  virtue  and  vice, 
as  dispositions  of  the  heart,   are,  in 


45S 


BtTEj^fS'  WOEKS. 


that  case,  of  scarcely  the  ^ame  import 
and  value  to  the  world  at  large  as  har- 
mony and  discord  in  the  modifications 
of  sound;  and  a  delicate  sense  of  honour, 
liite  a  nice  ear  for  music,  though  it 
may  sometimes  give  the  possessor  an 
ocstacy  unknown  to  the  coarser  organs 
of  the  herd,  yet,  considering  the  harsh 
gratings,  and  inharmonic  jars,  ia  this 
ill-tuned  state  of  being,  it  is  odds  hut 
the  individual  would  be  as  happy,  and 
certainly  would  be  as  much  respected 
by  the  true  judges  of  society  as  it  would 
then  stand,  without  either  a  good  ear, 
or  a  good  heart. 

You  must  know  I  have  just  met 
with  the  Mirror  aud  Lounger  for  the 
first  time,  and  I  am.  quite  in  raptures 
with  them;  I  should  bo  glad  to  have 
your  opinion  of  some  of  the  papers. 
The  one  I  have  just  read.  Lounger, 
No.  61,  has  cost  me  more  honest  tears 
than  anything  I  have  read  of  a  long 
time.*  Mackenzie  has  been  called  the 
Addison  of  the  Scots,  and,  in  my 
opinion,  Addison  would  not  be  hurt  at 
the  comparison.  If  ■  he  has  not  Addi- 
son's exquisite  humour,  he  as  certainly 
outdoes  Mm  in  the  tender  and  the  pa- 
thetic. His  "  Man  of  Feeling  "  (but  I 
am  not  counsel  learned  in  the  laws  of 
criticism)  I  estimate  as  the  first  per- 
formance in  its  kind  I  ever  saw.  From 
what  book,  moral  or  even  pious,  will 
the  susceptible  young  mind  receive  im- 
pressions more  congenial  to  humanity 
and  kindness,  generosity  and  benevo- 
lence; in  short,  more  of  all  that  en- 
nobles the  soul  to  herself,  or  endears 
her  to  others— than  from  the  simple 
affecting  tale  of  poor  Harley  ? 

Still,  with  all  my  admiration  of 
Mackenzie'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,  (for  such 
there  certainly  are)  there  may  be  a 
purity,  a  tenderness,  a  dignity,  and 
elegenee  of  soul  which  are  of  no  use, 


*  This  paper  relates  to  attachments  between 
servants  and  masters,  and  concludes  with  the 
story  of  Albert  Blane, 


nay,  in  some  degree,  absolutely  dis- 
qualifying for  the  truly  important 
business  fff  making  u,  man's  way  into 
life  ?    If  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  my 

gallant  young  friend,  A ,*  is  very 

much  under  these  disqualifications; 
and  for  the  young  females  of  a  famiiy 
I  could  mention,  well  may  they  excite 
pai-ental  solicitude,  for  I,  a  common  ac- 
quaintance, or  as  my  vanity  will  have 
it,  an  humble  friend,  have  often 
trembled  for  u,  turn  of  mind  which 
may  render  them  eminently  happy  or 
peculiarly  miiierable. 

I  have  been  manufacturing  some 
verses  lately;  but  as  I  have  got  the 
most  hurried  season  of  Excise  business 
over,  I  hope  to  have  morelelsure  to 
transcribe  anything  that  niay  show 
how  much  I  have  the  honout  to  bej 
madam,  yours,  &c., 

E.  B. 


No.  CXCI. 

TO  COLLECTOE  MITCIIELL.     f- 
Elusland,  179?.  '-*■ 

SiE, —  I  shall  not  fail  to  wait  on 
Captain  Eiddel  to-night — I  wish  and 
pray  that  the  goddess  of  justice  her; 
self  would  appear  to-morrow  among 
our  lion,  gentlemen,  merely  to  .give 
them  a  word  in  their  ear  that  mercy  to 
the  thief  is  injustice  to  the  honest  man. 
For  my  part  I  have  galloped  over  ray 
ten  parishes  these  four  cla-ys,  until  this 
moment  that  I  am  just  alighted,  or 
rather,  tha,t  my  poor  jackass-skeleton 
of  a  horse  has  let  me  down;  for  the 
miserable  devil  has  been  on  his  knees 
half  a  score  of  times  within  the  last 
twenty  miles,  telling  me  in  his  own 
way,  "  Behold,  am  not  I  thy  faithful 
jade  of  a  horse,  on  which  thou  liast 
ridden  these  many  years  t " 

In  sliort,  sir,  I  have  broke  my  horse's^ 
wind,  and  almost  broke  my  own  neck; 
besides  some  injuries  in  a  part  that 
shall  be  nameless,  owing  to  a  hard- 
hearted stone  for  a  saddle.  I  find  that 
every  offender  has  so  many  great  men 

*  Supposed  to  be  Anthony,  a'  son  of  Mre. 
Dun  lop  s.  -  .      -  .       . 


GENERAL  COKRESPOiSDENCE. 


45T 


to  espoase  liis  cause  tllat  I  shall  not  be 
swfprised  if  am  committed  to  the 
strong  hold  of  the  law  to-morrow  for 
insolence  to  the  dear  friends  of  the 
gentleuien  of  the  country.  I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  sir,  your  obliged  and 
obedient  humble,  R.  B. 


No.  CXCII. 
TO    DR.    MOORE. 

Excise-Office,  Dumfries,  July  14,  1790. 

Sib, — Coming  into  town  this  morn- 
ing to  attend  my  duty  in  this  office,  it 
being  collection-day,  I  met  with  a 
gentleman  who  tells  mo  he  is  on  his 
way  to  London;  so  I  take  the  oppor- 
tunity of  writing  to  yon,  as  franking 
is  at  present  under  a  temporary  death'. 
I  shall  have  some  snatches  of  leisure 
through  the  day,  amid  our  horrid  busi- 
ness and  bustle,  and  I  shall  improve 
them  as  well  as  I  can;  but  let  my  let- 
ter be  as  stupid  as ,  as  miscella- 
neous 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, 
considering  circumstances,  you  will 
forgive  it;  and  as  it  will  put  you  to  no 
expanse  of  postage,  I  shall  have  the 
less  reflection  about  it. 

I  am  sadly  ungrateful  in  not  return- 
ing you  my  thanks  for  your  most 
valuable  present,  "Zeluco."  In  fact, 
you  are  in  some  degree  blamable  for 
my  neglect.  You  were  pleased  to  ex- 
press a  wish  for  my  opinion  of  the 
work,  which  so  flattered  me  that  noth- 
ing less  would  serve  my  overweening 
fancy  than  u,  formal  criticism  on  the 
book.  In  fact,  I  have  gravely  planned 
a  comparative  view  of  you,  Fielding, 
iRichardson,  and  Smollett,  in  your  dif- 
ferent 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  the  spirit  young  Blihu 
shows  In  the  book  of  Job — "  And  I 
said,  I  willalso  declare  my  opinion." 
I  have  quite  disfigured  my  copy  of  the 


book  with  my  annotations.  I  never 
take  it  up  without  at  the  same  time 
taking  my  pencil,  and  marking  witlj 
asterisms,  parentheses,  &c,  where- 
ever  I  meet  with  an  original  thought, 
a  nervous  remarJt  on  life  and  manners, 
a  remarkably  well-turned  period,  or  a 
character  sketched  with  uilcommon 
precision. 

Though  I  should  hardly  think  of 
fairly  writing  out  my  ' '  Comparative 
View,"  I  shall  certainly  trouble  you 
with  my  remarks,  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  1" 

The  little  collection  of  sonnets*  have 
some  charming  poetry  in  them.  If 
indeed  I  am  indebted  to  the  fair  author 
for  the  book,  and  not,  as  1  rather  sus- 
pect, to-  a  celebrated  author  of  the 
other  sex,  I  should  certainly  have 
written  to  the  lady,  with  my  grateful 
acknowledgments,  and  my  own  ideas 
of  the  comparative  excellence  of  her 
pieces.  I  weiild  do  this  last,  not  frojn 
any -vanity  of  thinking  that  my  re:; 
marks  could  be  of.  much  consequence 
to  Mrs.  Smith,  but  merely  from  my 
own  feelings  as  an  author,  doing  as  I 
would  be  done  by.  R.  B.    . 


No.  CXCIII. 

TO  MR.  MURDOCH,  TEACHER  OP 
FRENCH,'  LONDON. 

Ellisland,  July  16,  1790. 

My  dear  Sir,^    received   a   let: 
ter    from  you   a  long  time    ago,   but 


*  The  sonnets  to  which  Burns  alludes  were 
those  of  Charlotte  Smith ,  in  the  volume  which 
belong^ed  to  the.  poet  one  note  alone  intimates 
that  the  bop^  passed  through  his  hands  ;  the 
fair  authoress,  in  giving  the  source  of  line  14, 
in  the  8th  sonnet — 

"  Have  power  to  cure  all  sadness  but  despair," 
quotes  Milton — 

"  Vernal  delight  and  joy,  able  to  drive 

All  sadness  but  despair."  : 

To  this  Burns  added  with  the  pen  • 

"  He  sang  sae  sweet  as  might  dispel         ' 

A'  rage  but  fell  despair." 
These  lines  are  to  be  found  in  one  version  at 
least  of  the  fine  ballad  of  Gil  Moric'e. — ^Cun- 
ningham. ,    --     -;-^ 


45& 


BUENS'  WORKS. 


unfortunately  as  it  was  in  the  time  of 
my  peregrinations  and  journeyings 
tlirougli  Scotland,  I  mislaid  or  lost  it, 
and  by  consequence  your  direction 
along  with  it.  Luckily  my  good  star 
brought  me  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Kennedy,  who,  I  understand,  is  an  ac- 
quaintance of  yours :  and  by  his  means 
and  mediation  I  hope  to  replace  that 
link  which  my  unfortunate  negligence 
had  so  unluckily  broken  in  the  chain 
of  our  correspondence.  1  was  the  more 
vexed  at  the  vile  accident  as  my 
brother  William,  a  journeyman  sad- 
dler, has  been  for  some  time  in  Lon- 
don ;  and  wished  above  all  things  for 
your  direction,  that  he  might  have  paid 
his  respects  to  his  father's  friend. 

His  last  address  he  sent  me  was, 
"Wm.  Burns,  at  Mr.  Barbers,  saddler, 
No.  181,  Strand."  I  wrote  him  by 
Mr.  Kennedy,  but  neglected  to  ask  him 
fox  your  address;  so,  if  you  find  a 
spare  half  minute,  please  let  my  brother 
know  by  a  card  where  and  when  he 
will  find  you,  and  the  poor  fellow  will 
joyfully  wait  on  you,  as  one  of  the  few 
surviving  friends  of  the  man  whose 
name,  and  Christian  name  too,  he  has 
the  honour  to  bear. 

The  next  letter  I  write  you  shall  be 
a  long  one.  I  have  much  to  tell  you  of 
"  hairbreadth  'scapes  in  th'  imminent 
deadly  breach,"  with  all  the  eventful 
history  of  a  life,  the  early  years  of 
which  owed  so  much  to  your  kind 
tutorage;  but  this  at  an  hour  of 
leisure.  My  kindest  compliments  to 
Mrs.  Murdoch  and  family.  I  am  ever, 
my  dear  sir,  your  obliged  friend, 

E.  B. 


You  knew  Henderson — I  have  not 
flattered  his  memory.  I  have  the  hon- 
our to  be,  sir,  your  obliged  humble 
servant, 

E.  B.* 


No.  CXCIV. 

TO   MR.    M'MURDO. 

Ellisland,  Aug.  2, 1790. 

Sir, — Now  that  you  are  over  with 
the  sirens  of  Flattery,  the  harpies  of 
Corruption,  and  the  furies  of  Ambition, 
these  infernal  deities,  that  on  all  sides, 
and  in  all  parties,  preside  over  the 
villanous  business  of  politics,  permit 
a  rustic  muse  of  your  acquaintance  to 
do  her  best  to  soothe  you  with  a  song; . 


No.  CXCV. 

TO    MBS.    DUNLOP.  : 

Aug.  8, 1790.' ' 

Dear  Madam, — After  a  long  day's 
toil,  plague  and  care,  I  sit  down  to. 
write  to  you.  Ask  me  not  why  riiax^ 
delayed  it  so  long  !  It  was  .owing  to 
hurry,  indolence,  and  fifty  other  things; 
in  short  to  anything — but  for^etful- 
ness  of  la  plus  aimabk'di!  son  sexe^  By 
the  by,  ybii  are  indebted  your  best 
couit3sy  to  me  for  this  la^' compliment j 
as  I  pay  it  from  my  sincere  conviction 
of  its  truth — a  quality  rather  rare  in 
compliments  of  these  griniiing,  bow- 
ing, scraping  times. 

Well,  I  hope  writing  to  i/ou  will 
ejse  a  little  my  troubled  soul.  Sorely 
has  it  been  bruised  to-day  !  A  d-devant 
friend  of  mine,  and  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance of  yours,  has  given  my 
feelings  a  wound  that  I  perceive  will 
gangrene  dangerously  ere  it  cure.  He 
has  wounded  my  pride  ! 

B.   B. 


No.  cxcvr. 

TO  ME.  CUNNINGHAM. 

ElXlSLAMD,  Aug.  8,  179a 

FoKGivE  me,  my  once  dear,  and  evet 
dear,  friend,  my  seeming  negligence. 
You  cannot  sit  down  and  fancy  the 
busy  life  I  lead. 

I  laid  down  my  goose  feather  to  beat 
my  brains  for  an  apt  simile,  and  had 
some  thoughts  of  a  country  grannurn. 
at  a  family  christening;  a  bride  on  the 
market-day  before  her  marriage;    .    .' 

or  a  tavern-keeper  at  an  election  din- 

*  This  brief  letter  enclosed  the  poem  on  the 
death  of  Captain  Matthew  Henderson,  whoiti 
the  poet  had  frequently  met  while  in  Edin- 
burgh. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


459. 


ner;  bat  tlie  resemblance  that  hits  my 
fancy  best  is  that  blackguard  miscre- 
amt>'  SataUj  who  roams  about  lilce  a 
roaring  lion,  seeking,  searching  whom 
he  may  devour.  However,  tossed  about 
as  I  am,  if  I  choose  (and  who  would  not 
choose)  to  bind  down  with  the  crampets 
of  attention  the  brazen  foundation  of 
integrity,  I  may  rear  up  the  super- 
structure of  'independence,  and,  from 
its  dariijg  turrets,  bid  defiance  to  the 
storms  of  fate.  And  is  not  this  a  ' '  con- 
summation devoutly  to  be  wished  ?" 

*'  Thy  spirit.  Independence,  let  me  share : 
Lord  of  the  lion-heart,  and  eagle-eye  ! 

Thy  steps  I-fbUpw  with  my  bospm  bare. 
Nor  heed  tHe  storm  that  howls  along  the 
.  "   skyl" 

,  Are  not  these  noble  verses  ?  They 
are  the  introduction  of  SmoUet's  "Ode 
to  Iudependence;"-if  you  have  not  seen 
the  poem,  I  will  send  it  to  you.  How 
wretched  is  the  man  that  hangs  on  by 
the  favours  of  the  great  !  To  shrink 
from  every  dignity  of  man,  at  the  ap- 
proach of  a  lordly  piece  of  self -conse- 
quence, who  amid  all  his  tinsel  glitter, 
and  stately '^Mtewr,  is  but  a  creature 
formed  as  thou  art — and  perhaps  not 
so  well  formed  as  thou  art — came  into 
the  world  a  puling  infant  as  thou 
didst;  and  must  go  out  of  it  as  all  men 
must,  a  naked  corse. 

B.  B. 


No.  CXCVII. 

TO  DR.  ANDERSON. 

[1790-] 
Sir, — ^I  am  much   indebted  to  my 
worthy  friend  Dr.  Blacklock  for  intro- 
•    ducingmeto  a  gentleman  of  Dr.  An- 
derson's celebrity;   but  when  you  do 
me  the  honour  to  ask  my  assistance  in 
your  proposed  publication,  alas,   sir  ! 
you  might  as  well  think  to  cheapen  a 
little  honesty  at  the  sign  of  an  advo- 
cate's wig,  or  humility  under  the  Ge- 
neva baud.     I  am  a  miserable  hurried 
devil,  worn  to  the  marrow  in  the  fric- 
tion of  holding  the  noses  of  the  poor 
'  publicans  to  the  grindstone  of  the  Ex- 
-"  cise  I  and  like  Milton's  Satan,  for  pri- 
vate reasons,  am  forced 
>'  To  da  what  yet,  thou^  damn'd,  I  would 
abhor i' 


— and  except  a  couplet  or  two  of  honest 
execration, 
B.  B. 


No.  cxcvin. 

TO    CRAWFORD    TAIT,  ESQ., 
EDINBURGH. 

ELUSLANDjOct.    IS,  I79O,       . 

Deae  Sir, — Allow  me  to  introduce 
to  your  acquaintance  the  bearer,  Mr. 
Wm.  Duncan,  a  friend  of  mine,  whom 
I  have  long  known  and  long  loved. 
His  father,  whose  only  son  he  is,  has 
a  decent  little  property  in  Ayrshire, 
and  has  bred  the  young  man  to  the  law, 
in  which  department  he  comes  up  an 
adventurer  to  your  good  town.  I 
shall  give  you  my  friend's  character 
in  two  words:  as  to  his  head,  he  has 
talents  enough,  and  niore  than  enough, 
for  common  life;  as  to  his  heart,  when' 
nature  had  kneaded  the  kindly  clay 
that  composes  it,  she  said,  ' '  I  can  no' 
more." 

You,  my  good  sir,  were  bom  under 
kinder  stars;  but  your  fraternal  sym-" 
pathy  I  well  know,  can  enter  into  the 
feelings  of  the  young  man,  who  goes 
into  life  with  the  laudable  ambition  to 
do  something,  and  to  te  something' 
a,mong  his  fellow -creatures:  but  whom 
the  consciousness  of  friendless  ob- 
scurity presses  to  the  earth;  and^ 
wounds  to  the  soul ! 

Even  the  fairest  of  his  virtues  are 
against  him.  That  independent  spirit, 
and  that  ingenuous  modesty,  qualities 
inseparable  from  a  noble  mind,  are, 
with  the  million,  circumstances  not  a 
little  disqualifying.  What  pleasure 
is  in  the  power  of  the  fortunate  and 
the  happy,  by  their  notice  and  patron- 
age, to  brighten  the  countenance  and 
glad  the  heart  of  such  depressed 
youth  I  I  am  not  so  angry  with  man- 
kind for  their  deaf  economy  of  the 
purse — the  goods  of  this  world  cannot 
be  divided  without  being  lessened; — 
but  why  be  a  niggard  of  that  which 
bestows  bliss  on  a  fellow-creatiire, 
yet  takes  nothing  from  our  own  means 
of  enjoyment?  We  wrap  ourselves 
up  in  a  cloak  of  our  own  better  for- 


460 


3URNS'  WORKS. 


tune,  ahd  turn  away  our  eyes,  lest  the 
wants  and  woes  of  our  brotlier  mor- 
tals sliould  disturb  the  selfish  apathy 
of  our  souls  ! 

I  am  the  worst  hand  in  the  world  at 
asking  a  f  a vour.  That  indirect  address, 
that  insinuating  implication,,  which, 
without  any  positive  request,  plainly  ex- 
presses your  wisli,  is  a  talent  not  to  be 
acquired  at  a  plough-tail.  Tell  me 
then,  for  you  can,  in  what  periphrasis 
of  language,  in  what  circumvolution 
of  phrase,  I  shall  envelop,  yet  not  con- 
ceal this  plain  story.  — "My  dear 
Mr.  Tait, .  my  friend  Mr.  Duncan, 
whom  I  have  the  pleasure  of  intro- 
ducing to  you,  is  a  young  lad  of  your 
profession,  and  »  gentleman  of  much 
modesty,  and  great  worth.  Perhaps 
it  may  be  in  your  power  to  assist  him 
in  the,  to  him,  important  considera- 
tion of  getting  a  place;  but  at  all 
events  your  notice  and  acquaintance 
will  be  a  very  great  acquisition  to  himi 
and  I  dare  pledge  myself  that  he  will 
never  disgrace  your  favour." 
.  You  maypossibly  be  surprised,  sir, 
at  such  a  letter  from  me ;  'tis,  I  own, 
in  the  usual  way  of  calculating  these 
matters,  more  than  our  acquaintance 
entitles  me  to;  but  my  answer  is  short: 
Of  all  the  men  at  your  time  of  life, 
whom  I  knew  in  Edinburgh,  you  are 
the  most  accessible  on  the  side  on 
which  I  have  assailed  you.  You  are 
very  much  altered  indeed  from  what 
you  were  when  I  knew  you,  if  gener- 
osity point  the  path  you  \yill  not  tread, 
or  humanity  call  to  you  in  vain. 

As  to  myself,  a  being  to  whose  in- 
terest I  believe  you  are  still  a  well- 
wisher,  I  am  here,  breathing  at  all 
times,  thinking  sometimes,  and  rhym- 
ing now  and  then.  Every  situation 
has  its  share  of  the  cares  and  pains  of 
life,  aud  my  situation,  I  am  persuaded, 
has  a  full  ordinary  allowance  of  its 
pleasures  and  enjoyments. 

My  best  compliments  to  your  Tather 
and  Miss  Tait.  if  you  have  an  oppor- 
tunity, please  remember  me  in  the 
solemn-league-and-covenant  of  friend- 
ship to  Mrs.   Lewis  Hay.*    I  am  a 

*  Formerly  Miss  Margraret  Chalmers. 


wretch  for  not  writing  her;  but  I  am 
so  hackneyed  with  self- accusation  in 
that  way  that  my  conscience  lies  in 
my  bosom  with  scarce  the  sensibility 
of  an  oyster  in  its  shell.  Where  is 
Lady  M'Kenzie  ?  wherever  she  is,  God 
bless  her  !  I  likewise  beg  leave  to 
trouble  you  with  compliments  to  Mr. 
Wm.  Hamilton;  Mrs.  Hamilton  and 
family;  and  Mrs.  Chalmers,  when 
you  are  in  that  country.  Should  you 
meet  with  Miss  Nimmo,  please  remem- 
ber me  kindly  to  her. 

R.  B. 


No.  CXCIX. 


TO 


Ellisland,  !■ 


793. 


De.411  Sih, — Whether  in  the  way 
of  my  trade,  I  can  be  of  any  service 
to  the  Rev.  Doctor,  is,  I  fear,  very 
doubtful.  Ajax's  shield  consisted,  I 
think,  of  seven  bull  hides  and  a  plate 
of  brass,  which  altogether  set  Hector's 
utmost  force  at  defiance.  Alas  !  I  am 
not  a  Hector,  and  the  worthy  Doctor's 
foes  are  as  securely  armed  as  Ajax 
was.  Ignorance,  superstition,  bigotry, 
stupidity,  malevolence,  self-conceit, 
envy — all  strongly  bound  in  a  massy 
frame  of  brazen  impudence !  Good  Uod, 
sir  !  to  such  a  shield,  humour  is  the 
peck  of  a  sparrow,  and  satire  the  pop- 
gun of  a  schoolboy.  Creation-disgrac- 
ing scelsrats  such  as  they,  God  only 
cau  mend,  and  the  devil  only  can 
punish.  In  the  comprehending  way 
of  Caligula,  I  wish  they  all  had  but 
one  neck.  I  feel  imix)tent  as  a  child 
to  the  ardour  of  my  wishes  !  Oh  for 
a  withering  curse  to  blast  the  germins 
of  their  wicked  machinations  !  Ohfor 
a  poisonous  tornado,  winged  from  the 
torrid  zone  of  Tartarus,  to  sweep  the 
spreading  crop  of  their  villanous  con,- 
trivances  to  the  lowest  hell!* 

R.   B. 


*  Mr.  Cunningham  surmises  that  this  letter, 
which  contained  a  copy  c£  "The  Kirk's 
Alarm,"  was  addressed  to  Gavin  Hamilton. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


461 


No.  CC. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  Nov.  1790. 

^'As  cold  waters  to  a  thirsty  soul, 
BO  is  good  news  from  a  far  country." 

Fate  has  long  owed  me  a  letter  of 
good  news  from  you,  in  return  for  the 
inany  tidings  of  sorrow  wliicli  I  have 
received.  In  this  instance  I  most  cor- 
dially obey  the  apostle — "  Rejoice  with 
them  that  do  rejoice  " — for  me,  to  sing 
for  joy,  is  no  new  thing;  but  to  preach 
for  joy,  as  I  have  done  in  the  com- 
mencement of  this  epistle,  is  a  pitch  of 
extravagant  rapture  to  which  I  never 
rose  before. 

I  read  your  letter — ^I  literally  jump- 
ed for  joy.  How  could  such  a  mercu- 
rial creature  as  a  poetlumpishly  keep 
his  seat,  on  the  receipt  of  the  best  news 
from  his  best  friend  ?  I  seized  my 
gilt-headed  wangee  rod,  an  instrument 
indispensably  necessary  in  my  left 
hapd,  in  the  moment  of  inspiration  and 
rapture;  and  stridti,  stride — quick  and 
quipker — out  skipt  I  among  the  broomy 
banks  of  Nith  to  muse  over  my  joy  by 
retail.  To  keep  within  the  bounds  of 
prose  was  impossible.  Mrs.  Little's  is 
a  more  elegant,  but  not  a  more  sincere, 
compUment  to  the  sweet  little  fellow 
than  I,  extempore  almost,  poured  out 
to  him  in  the  following  verses: — 

"Sweet  flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love, 
-",  And  ward  o'  mony  a-prayer, 
^hat  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 
Sae  helpless,  sweet,  and  fair ! " 

(See  p.  134.) 

I  am  much  flattered  by  your  appro- 
bation of  my  "  Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  which 
you  express  in  your  former  letter; 
though,  by  the  by,  you  load  me  in  that 
said  letter  witli  accusations  heavy  and 
many;  to  all  which  I  plead,  not  guilty  ! 
Your  book  is,  I  hear,  on  the  road  to 
reach  me.  As  to  printing  of  jjoetry, 
when  you  prepare  it  for  the  press,  you 
have  only  to  spell  it  right,  and  place 
the  capital  letters  properly;  as  to  the 
punctuation,  the  printers  do  that  them- 
selves. 

I-have  a  copy  of  "  Tarn  o'  Shanter" 
ready  to  send  you  the  first  opportu- 
nity; it  is-too  heavy  to  send  by  post. 


I  heard  of  Mr.  Corbet*  lately.  He, 
in  consequence  of  your  recommenda- 
tion, is  mo§t  zealous  to  serve  me. 
Please  favour  me  soon  with  an  ac 
count  of  your  good  folks;  if  Mrs.  H.  is 
recovering,  and  the  young  gentlemen 
domg  well. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCL 

TO  LADY  W.  M.  CONSTABLE. 

Ellisland,  Jan.  11,  1791. 

Mt  Lady, — Nothing  less  than  the 
unlucky  accident  of  having  lately 
broken  my  right  arm  could  have  pre- 
vented me,  the  moment  I  received  your 
ladyship's  elegant  present  by  Mrs. 
Miller,  from  returning  you  my  warm- 
est and  most  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments; 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  lay  inspiring  genius.  When 
I  would  breathe  the  comprehensive 
wish  of  benevolence  for  the  happiness 
of  others,  I  shall  recollect  your  lady- 
ship; when  1  would  interest  my  fancy 
in  the  distresses  incident  to  humanity; 
I  shall  remember  the  unfortunate 
Mary.f 

R.  B. 


No.  ccn. 

TO  WILLIAM  DUNBAR,  W.  S. 

Ellisland,  Jan.  17,  1791. 
I  AM  not  going  to  Elysium,  most 
noble  colonel,  J  but  am  still  here  in 
this  sublunary  world,  serving  my  God 
by  propagating  his  image,  and  honour- 
ing my  king  by  begetting  him  loyal 
subjects. 


*  One  of  the  general  supervisors  of  Excise, 
+  This  letter  was  written  acknowledgingf 
the  present  of  a  valuable  snuff-box,  with 
a  fine  picture  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  on  the 
lid.  This  was  the  gift  of  Lady  Winifred 
Maxwell  Constable,  in  grateful  return  for  the 
Poet's  "  Lament "  of  that  ill-starred  Princess. 
t  So  styled  as  President  of  the  Convivial 
Society,  known  hy  the  name  of  The  Crochal- 
lan  Fencibles.  -•  ' 


462 


13UENS'  WORKS. 


,  Many  happy  returns  6i  the  season 
■await  my  friend.  May  the  thorns  of 
care  never  beset  his  path  !  May  peace 
be  aa  inmate  to  his  bosonij  and  rapture 
a  frequent  visitor  of  his  soul  1  May 
the  blood-hounds  of  misfortune  never 
track  his  steps,  nor  the  screech-owl  of 
sorrow  alarm  his  dwelling  !  May  en- 
joyment tell  thy  hours,  and  pleasure 
number  thy  days,  thou  friend  of  the 
bard!  "Blessed  be  he  that  blesseth 
thee,  and  cursed  he  he  that  curseth 
thee !  !  !  " 

As  a  further  proof  that  I  am  still  in 
the  land  of  existence,  I  send  you  a 
poem,  the  latest  I  have  composed.  I 
have  a  particular  reason  for  wishing 
you  only  to  shov/  it  to  select  friends, 
should  you  think  it  worthy  a  friend's 
perusal ;  but  if,  at  your  first  leisure 
hour,  you  will  favour  me  with  your 
opinion  of,  and  strictures  on,  the  per- 
formance, it  will  be  an  additional  ob- 
ligation on,  dear  sir,  your  deeply  in- 
debted humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCIII. 

TO  MRS.  GRAHAM  OF  FINTEAY. 

Elusland,  Jan.  1791. 

Madam,  —  Whether  it  is  that  the 
story  of  our  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  has 
a  peculiar  effect  on  the  feelings  of  a 
poet,  or  whether  I  have,  in  the  enclosed 
ballad,  succeeded  beyond  my  usual 
poetic  success,  I  know  not;  but  it  has 
pleased  me  beyond  any  effort  of  my 
muse  for  a  good  while  past;  on  that 
account  I  enclose  it  particularly  to  you. 
It  is  true,  the  purity  of  my  motives 
may  be  suspected.  I  am  already  deep- 
ly indebted  to  Mr.  Graham's  goodness; 
and  what,  in  the  usual  ways  of  men.  is 
of  infinitely  greater  importance,  Mr. 
G.  can  do  me  service  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance in  time  to  come.  I  was  born 
a  poor  dog;  and  however  1  may  occa- 
sionally pick  a  better  bone  than  I  used 
to  do,  Iknow  I  must  live  and  die  poor: 
but  I  will  indulge  the  flattering  faith 
that  ray  poetry  will  considerably  out- 
live my  poverty;  and,  without  any  fus- 


tian affectation,of  spirit,  I  can  promise 
and  affirm  that  it  must  bo  no  ordinary 
craving  of  the  latter  shall  ever  malce 
iije  do  anything  injurious  to  the  honest 
fame  of  the  former.  Whatever,  may 
be  my  failings,  for  failings  are  a  fSart 
of  human  nature,  may  they  ever  be 
those  of  a  generous  heart,  and  an  in-' 
dependent  niind  !  It  is  no  fault  of  mine 
that  I  was  born  to  dependence;  nor  is 
it  Mr.  Graham's  chiefest  praise  that  he 
can  command  influence;  but  it  is  his 
merit  to  bestow,  not  only  with  the 
kindness  of  a  brother,  but  with  the  po- 
liteness of  a  gentleman ;  and  I  trust  it 
shall  be  mine  to  receive  with  thank- 
fulness, and  remember  with  undimin- 
ished gratitude. 

K.  B, 


No.  CCIV. 

TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Ellisland,  Jan.  17, 1791.  - 

Take  these  two  guineas,  and  place 
them  over  against  that  damned  account 
of  yours  !  which  has  gagged  my  moutii 
these  five  or  six  months  !  I  can  as  little 
write  good  things  as  apologies  to  the' 
man  I  owe  money  to.  Oh,  the  supreme 
curse  of  making,  three  guineas  do  the 
business  of  five  !  Not  all  the  labours 
of  Hercules ;  not  all  the  Hebrews'-, 
three  centuries  of  Egyptian  bondage, 
were  such  an  insuperable  business', 
such  an  infernal  task  ! !  Poverty;  thou 
half-sister  of  death,  thou  cousin-ger- 
man  of  hell !  where  shall  I  find  force 
of  execration  equal  to  the  amplitude 
of  thy  demerits  ?  Oppressed  by  thee, 
the  venerable  ancient,  grown  hoary  in 
the  practice  of  every  virtue,  laden  with 
years  and  wretchedness,  implores  a  lit- 
tle— ^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  insult- 
ed. Oppressed  by  thee,  the  man  of 
sentiment,  whose  heart  glows  with  in- 
dependence, and  melts  with  sensibility, 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


463 


iniy  pines  under  the  neglect,  or  writhes 
in  bitterness  of  soul  under  the  con- 
tumely, of  arrogant,  unfeeling  wealth. 
Oppressed  by  thee,  the  sou  of  genius^ 
whose  ill-starred  ambition  plants  him 
at  the  tables  of  the  fashionable  and 
polite,  must  see,  in  suffering  silence, 
his  remarks  neglected,  and  his  person 
despised,  while  shallow  greatness,  in 
his  idiot  attempts  at  wit,  shall  meet 
with  countenance  and  applause.  Nor 
Is  it  only  the  family  of  worth  that  have 
reason  to  complain  of  thee:  the  chil- 
dren of  folly  and  vice,  though  in  com- 
mon with  thfie  the  offspring  of  evil, 
smart  equally  under  thy  rod.  Owing 
to.  thee,  the  man  of  unfortunate  dis- 
position and  neglected  education  is 
condemned  as  a  fool  for  his  dissipation, 
despised  and  shunned  as  a  needy 
wretch,  when  his  follies,  as  usual, 
'  .bring  him  to  want;  and  when  his  un- 
principled necessities  drive  him  to  dis- 
honest practices,  he  is  abhorred  as  a 
miscreant,  and  perishes  by  the  justice 
of  his  country.  But  far  otherwise  is 
the  lot  of  the  man  of  family  and  for- 
tune. His  'early  follies  and  extrava- 
gance are  spirit  and  fire;  hU  consequent 
wants  are  the  embarrassments  of  an 
honest  fellow;  and  when,  to  remedy 
the  matter,  he  has  gained  a  legal  com- 
mission to  plunder  distant  provinces, 
or  massacre  peaceful  nations,  he  re- 
turns, perhaps,  laden  with  the  spoils 
of  rapine  and  murder;  lives  wicked 
and  Mspeeted,  and  dies  a  scoundrel, 
and  a  lord.  Nay,  worst  of  all,  alas 
for  helpless  woman  !  the  needy  prosti- 
tute, who  has  shivered  at  the  corner  of 
tlie  street,  waiting  to  earn  the  wages 
of  casual  prostitution,  is  left  neglected 
and  insulted,  ridden  down  by  tlie  char- 
iot wheels  of  the  coroneted  ElP,  hurry- 
ing 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 
tljey  please;  but  execration  is  to  the 
ipind  wliat  phlebotomy  is  to  the  body: 
the  vital  sluices  of  both  are  wonderful- 
ly relieved  by  their  respective  evacua- 
tions. 

E..B. 


No.  CCV. 

TO  MR.  ALEX.  CUNNINGHAM. 
Ellisland;  Jan.  23, 17(31. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season 
to  you,  my  dear  friend  !  As  many  of 
the  good  things  of  this  life  as  are  con- 
sistent with  the  usual  mixture  of  good 
and  evil  in  the  cup  of  Being  ! 

I  have  just  finished  a  poem  ("  Tanj 
o'  Shanter ")  which  ypu  will  receive 
enclosed.  It  is  my  first  essay  in  the 
way  of  tales. 

I  have  these  several  months  been 
hammering,  at  an  elegy  on  the  amiable 
and  accomplished  Miss  Bamet.  I  have 
got,  and  can  get,  no  further  than  the 
following  fragment,  on  which  please 
give  me  your  stricftires.  In  all  kind? 
of  poetic  composition,  I  set  great  store 
by  your  opinion;  but  in  sentimental 
verses,  in  the  poetry  of  the  heart,  no 
Boman  Catholic  ever  set  more  value  on 
the  infallibility  of  the  Holy  Father 
than  I  do  on  yours. 

I  mean  the  in.troductory  couplets  as 
text  verses.  .    ^ 

[Here  follows  a  portion  of  the  elegy 
on  Miss  Burnetj.f  or  the  whole  of  which 
see  p.  134] 

Let  me  hear  from  you  soon.   Adieu  1 
E.  B. 


No.  CCVL 
TO  A.  F.  TXTLER,  ESQ. 

Bllisland,  Feb,  1791. 

Sib, — Nothing  less  than  the  unfor-: 
tunate  accident  I  have  met  with  could 
have  prevented  my  grateful  acknowlt 
edgments  for  your  letter.  His  own 
favourite  poem,  and  that  an  essay  in 
the  walk  of  the  Muses  entiraly  new  to 
him,  where  consequently  his-  hope? 
and  fears  were  on  the  most  anxious 
alarm  for  his  success  in  the  attempt; 
to  have  that  poem  so  much  applauded 
by  one  of  the  first  judges,  was  the 
most  delicious  vitutition  that  ever 
thrilled  along  the  heart-strings  of  a ' 
poor  poet.  However,  Providence,  to 
keep  up  the  proper  proportion  of  evij 


464 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


with  the  good,  which  it  seems  is  ne- 
cessary in  this  sublunary  state,  thought 
proper  to  check  my  exultation  by  a 
very  serious,  misfortune.  A  day  or 
two  after  I  received  your  letter,  my 
horsa  came  down  with  me  and  broke 
ray  right  arm.  As  this  is  the  first  ser- 
vice my  arm  has  done  me  since  its  dis- 
aster, I  find  myself  unable  to  do  more 
than  just,  in  general  terms  thank  you 
for  this  additional  instance  of  your 
patronage  and  friendship.  As  to  the 
faults  you  detected  in  the  piece,  they 
are  truly  there:  one  of  them,  the  hit 
at  the  lawyer  and  priest,  I  shall  cut 
out;  as  to  the  falling  ofE  in  the  catas- 
trophe, for  the  reason  you  justly  ad- 
duce, it  cannot  easily  be  remedied. 
Your  approbation,  sir,  has  given  me 
such  additional  spirits  to  persevere  in 
this  species  of  poetic  composition  that 
I  am  already  revolving  two  or  three 
stories  in  my  fancy.  If  I  can  bring 
these  floating  ideas  to  bear  any  kind 
of  embodied  form,  it  will  give  me  an 
additional  opportunity  of  assuring  you 
how  much  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
&c. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCVII. 

TO   MBS.    DUNLOP. 

Elusland,  Feb.  7, 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  my  hand  have  been  able  to 
serve  me  in  writing;  you  will  allow 
that  it  is  too  good  an  apology  for  my 
seemingly  ungrateful  silence.  I  am 
now  getting  better,  and  am  able  to 
rhyme  a  little,  which  implies  some  tol- 
erable ease;  as  I  cannot  think  that  the 
most  poetic  genius  is  able  to  compose 
on  the  rack. 

I  do  not  remember  if  ever  I  men- 
tioned to  you  my -having  an,  idea  of 
composing  an  elegy  on  the  late  Miss 
Burnet  of  Monboddo.  I  had  the  hon- 
our of  being  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  her,  and  have  seldom  felt  so  much 
at  the  loss  of  an  acquaintance  as  when 


I  heard  that  so  amiable  and  accom- 
plished a  piece  of  God's  work  was  no 
more.  I  have,  as  yet,  gone  no  further 
than  the  following  fragment,  of  wnich 
please  let  me  have  your  opinion.  You 
know  that  elegy  is  a  subject  so  much 
exhausted  that  any  new  idea  on  the 
business  is  not  to  be  expected:  'tis  well 
if  we  can  place  an  old  idea  in  a  new 
light.  How  far  I  have  succeeded  as 
to  this  last,  you  wUl  judge  from  what 
follows:— (See  the  "Elegy,"  p.  134.) 
I  have  proceeded  no  further. 

Your  kind  letter,  with  your  kind  re- 
membrance 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  for  a  long  time  seen.  He  is  now 
seventeen  months  old,  has  the  small- 
pox and  measles  over,  has  cut  several 
teeth,  and  never  had  a  grain  of  doctor's ' 
drugs  in  his  bowels. 

I  am  truly  happy  to  hear  that  the 
"little  flowret"  is  blooming  so  fresh 
and  fair,  and  that  the  "  mother  plant" 
is  rather  recovering  her  drooping  head. 
Soon  and  well  may  her  "  cruel 
wounds  "  be  healed  !  I  have  written 
thus  far  with  a  good  deal  of  difficulty. 
When  I  get  a  little  abler  you  shall  hear 
further  from,  madam,  yours, 

K  B. 


No.  CCVIII. 
TO  THE  REV.  ARCH.  ALISON.* 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  1 
Feb.  14, 1791.  f 

Sir, — ^You  must  by  this  time  have 
set  me  down  as  one  of  the  most  un- 
grateful of  men.  You  did  me  the  hon- 
our to  present  me  with  a  book,  which 
does  honour  to  science  and  the  intel- 
lectual powers  of  men,  and  I  have  not 
even  so  much  as  acknowledged  the  re- 
ceipt of  it.  The  fact  is,  you  yourself 
are  to  blame  for  it.  Flattered  as  I  was 
by  your  telling  me  that  you  wished  to 

'*  The    Rev.  Archibald    Alison,    author  of 
Essays  on  the  Principles  of  Taste."  was  the 
father  of  the  historian  of  Europe 


GENERA-Ii'  CORRESPONDENCE. 


'465 


Itave  my.  opinion  of  the  work,  the  old 
•apiritual  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  per- 
formance with  the  look-oat  of  a  critic, 
and  to  draw  up,  forsooth,  a  deep  learn- 
ed digest  of  strictures  on  a  composition, 
of  wliich,  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-triimpet  had  something  in  it  vast- 
ly, more  grand,  heroic,  and  sublime, 
than  the  twii^le  twangle  of  a  Jew's 
liarp;  that  the  delicate  flexure  of  a 
rose-twig,  when  the  half -blown  flower 
is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  the  dawn, 
was  infinitely  more  beautiful  and  ele- 
gant than  the  upright  stock  of  a  bur- 
dock; and  that  from  something  innate 
and  independent  of  all  associations  of 
ideas  ;-^these  I  had  set  down  as  irre- 
fragable, orthodox  truths,  until  per- 
using your  book  shook  my  faith.  In 
short,  sir,  except  Euclid's  Elements  of 
Geometry,  which  I  made  a  shift  to  un- 
ravel by  my  father's  fireside,  in  the 
winter  evening  of  the  first  season  I 
held  the  plough,  I  never  read  a  book 
whicli  gave  me  such  a  quantum  of  in- 
formation, and  added  so  much  to  my 
Stock  of  ideas,  as  your  "  Essays  on  the 
Principles  of  Taste."  One  thing,  sir, 
you  must  forgive  my  mentioning  as  an 
uncommon  merit  in  the  work,  I  mean 
the  language.  To  clothe  abstract  phi- 
losophy in  elegance  of  style  sounds 
something  like  a  contradiction  in  terms; 
but  you  have  convinced  me  that  they 
are  qoite  compatible. 

I  enclose  you  some  poetic  bagatelles 
of  my  late  composition.  The  one  in 
print  is  my  first  essay  in  the  way  of 
telling  a  tala — I  am,,  sir,  &c., 

B.  B. 


No.  GCIX. 

TO  THE  REV.  G.  BAIBD. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  1791. 
J^^^Bevebend  Sir,— Why  did  you,  my 
dear  sir,  write  to  me  in  such  a  hesita- 


ting style  on  the  business  of  poor 
Bruce?  Don't  I  know,  and  have  1  not- 
felt,  the  many  ills,  the  peculiar  ills, 
that  poetic  flesh  is  heir  to  1  You  shall 
have  your  choice  of  all  the  unpublish- 
ed poems  I  have;  and,  had  your  letter 
had  my  direction  so  as  to  have  reached 
me  sooner,  (it  only  came  to  my  hand 
this  moment,)  I  should  have  directly 
put  yoii  out  of  suspense  on  the  subject. 
1  only  ask  that  some  prefatory  adver- 
tisement in  the  book,  as  well  as  the 
subscription  bills,  may  bear  that  the 
publication  is  solely  for  the  benefit  of 
Bruco's  mother.  I  would  not  put  it 
into  the  power  of  ignorance  to  surmise, 
or  malice  to  insinuate,  that  I  cljibhed 
a  share  in  the  Work  froni  mercenary 
motives.  Nor  need  you  give  me  credit 
for  any  remarkable  generosity  in  my 
part  of  the  business.  .  I  have  such  a 
host  of  peccadilloes,  failings,  follies, 
and  backslidings,  (anybody  but  myself 
might  perhaps  give  some  of  them  a 
worse  appellation,)  that  by  way  of 
some  balance,  however  trifling,  in  the 
account,  I  am  fain  to  do  any  good  that 
occurs  in  my  very  limited  power  to  a 
fellow-creature,  just  for  the  selfish 
purpose  of  clearing  a  little  of  the  vista 
of  retrospection. 

B.  B. 


No.  CCX. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

Ellisland,  Feb.  28, 1791. 

I  DO  not  know,  sir,  whether  you  are 
a  subscriber  to  Grose's  "  Antiquities  of 
Scotland."  If  you  are,  the  enclosed 
poem  will  not  be  altogether  new  to 
you.  Captain  Grose  did  me  the  fav- 
our to  send  ine  a  dozen  copies  "of  the 
proof  sheet  '  of  which  this  is  one. 
Should  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  you  for  all 
your  goodness  to  the  rustic  bard;  and 
also  of  showing  you  that  the  abilities 
you  have   been  pleaded  to  commend 


466 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


and  patronise  are  still  employed  in  the 
way  you  wish. 

■  The  "Elegy  on  Captain  Henderson" 
is  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  man  I 
loved  much.  Poets  have  in  this  the 
same  advantage  as  Roman  Catholics; 
they  can  be  of  service  to  their  friends 
after  they  have  passed  that  bourn 
where  all  other  kindness  ceases  to  be 
of  avail.  Whether,  after  all,  either 
the  one  or  the  other  be  of  any  real  ser- 
vice to  the  dead  is,  I  fear,  very  prob- 
lematical; but  I  am  sure  they  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  society,  and  is  of 
positive  enjoyment,  is  of  God,  the 
giver  of  all  good  things,  and  ought  to 
be  received  and  enjoyed  by  His  crea- 
tures with  thankful  delight.  As 
almost  all  my  religious  tenets  origi- 
nate from  my  heart,  I  am  wonderfully 
pleased  with  the  idea  that  I  can  still 
keep  up  a  tender  intercourse  with  the 
dearly-beloved  friend,  or  still  more 
dearly-beloved  mistress,  who  is  gone 
to  the  world  of  spirits. 

The  ballad  on  Queen  Mary  was  be- 
gun while  I  was  busy  with  Percy's 
"  Reliques  of  English  Poetry."  By 
the  way,  how  much  is  every  honest 
heart,  which  has  a  tincture  of  Cale- 
donian prejudice,  obliged  to  you  for 
your  glorious  story  of  Buchanan  and 
Targe  !  'Twas  an  unequivocal  proof 
of  your  loyal  gallantry  of  soul  giving 
Targe  the  victory.  I  should  have 
been  mortified  to  the  ground  if  you 
had  not. 

I  have  just  read  over,  once  more  of 
many  times,  your  "  Zeluco."  ,  I  marked 
with-  my  pencil,  as  I  went  along, 
every  passage  that  pleased  me  partic- 
ularly above  the  rest;  and  one  or  two, 
I  think,  which,  with  humble  defer- 
ence, I  am  disposed  to  think  unequal 
to  the  merits  of  the  book.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  to  transcribe  these 
marked  passages,  or  at  least  so  much 
of  them  as  to  point  where  they  are, 
and  send  them  to  you.  Original 
strokes  that  strongly  depict  the  human 
heart  is  your  and  Fielding's  province. 


beyond  any  other  novelist  I  have  ever 
perused.  Richardson  indeed  might, 
perhaps,  be  excepted;  but  unhappily, 
his  dramatis  personw  are  beings  "of 
another  world;  and,  however  they 
may  captivate  the  inexperienced,  ro- 
mantic fancy  of  a  boy  or  a  girl,  they 
will  ever,  in  proportion  as  we  have 
made  human  nature  our  study,  dis- 
satisfy our  riper  years. 

As  to  my  private  concerns,  I  am 
going  on,  a  mighty  tax-gatherer  be-, 
fore  the  Lord,  and  have  lately  had  the 
interest  to  get  myself  ranked  on  the 
list  of  Excise  as  a  supervisor.  I  am 
not  yet  employed  as  such,  but  in  a  few 
years  I  shall  fall  into  the  file  of  super- 
visorship  by  seniority.  I  have  had  an 
immense  loss  in  the  death  of  the  Earl 
of  Glencairn;  the  patron  from  whom 
all  my  fame  and  fortune  took  its  rise. 
Independent  of  my  grateful  attach- 
ment to  him,  which  was  indeed  so 
strong  that  it  pervaded  my  very  soul,, 
and  was  entwined  with  the  thread  of 
my  existence;  as  soon  as  the  prince's 
friends  had  got  in,  (and  every  dog  you 
know  has  his  day,)  my  getting  for- 
ward in  the  Excise  would  have  been 
an  easier  business  than  otherwise  it 
will  be.  Though  this  was  a  consum- 
mation devoutly  to  be  wished,  yet, 
thank  Heaven,  I  can  live  and  rhyme  as 
I  am  1  and  as  to  my  boys,  poor  little 
fellows  !  if  I  cannot  place  them  on  as 
high  an  elevation  in  life  as  I  could' 
wish,  I  shall,  if  I  am  favoured  so 
much  by  the  Disposer  of  events  as  to 
see  that  period,  fix  them  on  as  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  best. 
Better  be  the  head  o'  the  commov/iUy 
than  the  tail  o'  the  gentry. 

But  I  am  got  on  a  subject  which, 
however  interesting  to  me.  Is  of  no  man- 
ner of  consequence  to  you;  so  I  shall 
give  you  a  short  poem  on  the  other 
page,  and  close  this  with  assuring  you 
how  sincerely  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
yours,  &c., 

R.  B. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


467 


CCXI. 

TO  MR.  ALEX.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland,  March  12, 1791. 

If  the  foregoing  piece  he  worth  your 
Btriotures,  let  me  have  them.  For  my 
own  part,  a  thing  that  I  have  just  com- 
posed always  appears  through  a  double 
portion  of  that  partial  medium  in 
which  an  author  will  ever  view  his 
own  works.  I  believe,  in  general, 
novelty  has  something  in  it  that  in- 
ebriates the  fancy,  and  not  unfrequont- 
]y  dissipates  and  fumes  away  like 
other  intoxication,  and  leaves  the  poor 
patientj  as  usual,  with  an  aching  heart. 
A  striking  instance  of  this  might  be 
adduced,  in  the  revolution  of  many  a 
hymeneal  honeymoon.  But  lest  I  sink 
into  stupid  prose,  and  so  sacrilegiously 
intrude  on  the  office  of  my  parish 
priest,  I  shall  fiU  up  the  page  in  iny 
own  way,  and  give  you  another  song 
of  my  late  composition,  which  will  ap- 
pear perhaps  in  Johnson's  work,  as  well 
as  the  former. 

You  must  know  a  beautiful  Jacobite 
air,  "  There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie 
comes  hame."  When  political  com- 
bustion ceases  to  be  the  object  of 
princes  and  patriots,  it  then,  you  know, 
becomes  the  lawful  prey  of  historians 
and  poets. 

"By  yon  castle  wa"  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
I  heard  a  man  sing,  though  his  head  it  was 

gray,  [came — 

And  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  fast  down 
There'll  never  be   peace   till  Jamie   comes 

hame."* 

(See  p-  230.] 

,  If  you  like  the  air,  and  if  the  stanza 
hit  your  fancy,  you  cannot  imagine, 
my  dear  friend,  how  much  you  would 
oblige  me  if,  by  the  charms  of  your 

*  This  beautiful  little  Jacobite  ditty  having 
appeared  in  Johnlsor's  Museujn  with  the  old 
Efcing  mark  at  it,  it  has  I  een  received  as  an  old 
song  all  over  Scotland.  There  ivas  an  old 
sbdg,  but  I  do  not  know  where  to  find  it.  I 
remember  only  two  lines  : 

"My  heart  it  is  sair,  and  will  soon  break  in 

.  tvva  j  [awa." 

For  -there's  few   good    fellflws  sin'  Jamie's 

This  last  line  is  the  name  of  the  air  in  the 
very  old  collections  of  Scottish  tunes. — Hogg. 


delightful  voice,  you  would  give  my 
honest  effusion  to  "the  memory  of 
joys  that  are  past,"  to  the  few  friends 
whom  you  indulge  in  that  pleasure. 
But  I  have  scribbled  on  till  I  hear  the 
clock  has  intimated  the  near  approach 
of — 

"  That    hour  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key- 
stane." 

So  good  night  to  you  I  Sound  be  your 
sleep,  and  delectable  your  dreams  I 
Apropos,  how  do  you  like  this  thought 
in  a  ballad  I  have  just  now  on  the 
tapis  1 

"  I  look  to  the  west  when  I  gae  to  rest. 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slumbers 
may  be ; 

Far,  far  in  the  west  is  he  I  lo'e  best, 
The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  me  !  " 

Good  night,  once  more,  and  God 
bless  you ! 

R.  B. 


CCXII. 


TO   MR.  ALEXANDER  DALZEL, 
FACTOR,  FINDLAYSTON. 

Ellisland,  March  ig,  1791. 

My  deab  Sir, — I  have  taken  the 
liberty  to  frank  this  letter  to  you,  as  it 
encloses  an  idle  poem  of  mine,  which 
I  send  you;  and  God  knows  you  may 
perhaps  pay  dear  enough  for  it  if  you 
read  it  through.  Not  that  this  is  my 
own  opinion;  but  the  author,  by  the' 
time  he  has  composed  and  corrected 
his  work,  has  quite  pored  away  all  his 
powers  of  critical  discrimination. 

I  can  easily  guess  from  my  own 
heart  what  you  have  felt  on  a  late 
most  melancholy  event.  God  knows 
what  I  have  suffered,  at  the  loss  of  my 
best  friend,  my  first  and  dearest  patron 
and  benefactor;  the  man  to  whom  I  owe 
all  that  I  am  and  have  !  I  am  gone  into 
mourning  for  him,  and  with  more  sin- 
cerity of  grief  than  I  fear  some  will, 
who  by  nature's  ties  ought  to  feel  on 
the  occasion. 

I  will  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you 
indeed,  to  let  me  know  the  news  of  the 
noble  family,  how  the  poor  mother 
and  the  two  sistors  support  their  loss. 


469 


BURNS'  WOEKS. 


I  had  a  packet  of  poetic  bagatelles 
ready  to  send  to  Lady  Betty,  wlien  I 
saw  the  fatal  tidings  in  the  newspaper. 
I  see  by  the  same  cliannel  that  the  hon- 
oured REMAINS  of  my  noble  patron  are 
designed  to  be  brought  to  the  family 
burial-place.  Dare  I  trouble  you  to  let 
me  know  privately  before  the  day  of 
interment  thati  may  cross  the  country, 
and  steal  among  the  crowd,  to  pay  a 
tear  to  the  last  sight  of  my  ever  re- 
vered benefactor?  It  will  oblige  me 
beyond  expression. 

R.  B. 


No.  ccxrii. 

TO — . 


Ellisi-and,  March  1791. 

Deab  Sib,  —  I  am  exceedingly  to 
blame  in  not  writing  you  long  ago; 
but  the  truth  is  that  I  am  the  most  in- 
dolent of  all  human  beings;  and  when 
I  matriculate  iutlie  herald's  office,  I  in- 
tend that  my  supporters  shall  be  two 
sloths,  my  crest  a  slowworm,  and  the 
motto,  "Deil  tak  the  foremost."  So 
much  by  way  of  apology  for  not  thank- 
ing you  sooner  for  your  kind  execution 
of  my  commission. 

I  would  have  sent  you  the  poem; 
but  some  how  or  other  it  found  its 
way  into  the  public  papers,  where  you 
must  have  seen  it.* — I  am  ever,  dear 
sir,  youra  sincerely, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXIV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Klusland,  April  11, 1791. 
I  AM  once  more  able,  my  honoured 
friend,  to  return  you,  with  my  own 
hand,  thanks  for  the  many  instances  of 
your  friendship,  and  particularly  for 
your  kind  anxiety  in  this  last  disaster 
that  my  evil  genius  had  in  store  for 
me.  However,  life  is  chequered — joy 
and  sorrow^  for  on  Saturday  morning 

*  The' poem  to  which  the'  poet  alludes  is'the 
Lament  of  Mary  Queen  01  Scots." 


last,  Mrs.  Burns  made  me  a  present  of 
a  fine  boy;  rather  stouter,  but  not  so 
handsome  as  your  godson  was  at  his 
time  of  life.  Indeed  I  look  on  yoiir 
little  namesake  to  be  my  chef-d'muvre 
in  that  species  of  manufacture,  as  I 
look  on  ' '  Tarn  o'  Shanter"  to  be  mj 
standard  performance  in  the  poetical 
line.  'Tis  true,  both  the  one  and  the 
•other  discover  a  spice  of  roguish  wag- 
gery tjiat  might  perhaps  be  as  well 
spared;  but  then  they  also  show,  in 
my  opinion,  a  force  of  genius,  and  a 
finishing  polish,  that  I  despair  of 
ever  excelling.  Mrs.  Bums  is  getting 
stout  again,  and  laid  as  lustily  about 
her  to-day  at  breakfast  as  a  reaper 
from  the  corn-ridge.  That  is  the 
peculiar  privilege  and  blessing  of  our 
hale,  sprightly  damsels,  that  are  bred 
among  the  hay  and  heather.  We  can- 
not hope  for  that  highly-polished 
mind,  that  charming  delicacy  of  soul, 
which  is  found  among  the  female 
world  in  the  more  elevated  stations  of 
life,  and  which  is  certainly  by  far  the 
most  bewitching  charm  in  the  famous 
cestus  of  Venus.  <  It  is  indeed  such  an 
inestimable  treasure  that,  where  it  can 
be  had  in  its  native  heavenly  purity, 
unstained  by  some  one  or  other  of  the 
many  shades  of  affectation,  and  unal- 
loyed by  some  one  or  other  of  the 
many  species  of  caprice,  I  declare  to 
heaven,  I  should  think  it  cheaply  pur- 
chased at  the  expense  of  every  other 
earthly  good  !  But  as  this  angelic 
creature  is,  I  am  afraid,  extremely 
rare  in  any  station  and  rank  of  life, 
and  totally  denied  to  such  a  humble 
one  as  mine,  we  meaner  mortals  must 
put  up  with  the  next  rank  of  female 
excellence — as  fine  a  figure  and  face 
we  can  produce  as  any  rank  of  life 
whatever;  rustic,  native  grace;  unaf- 
fected modesty,  and  unsullied  purity; 
nature's  mother-wit,  and  the  rudi- 
ments of  taste;  a  simplicity  of  soul, 
unsuspicious  of,  because  unacquainted 
with,  the  crooked  ways  of  a  selfish,  in- 
terested, disingenuous  world;  and  the 
dearest  charm  of  all  the  rest,  a  yield- 
ing sweetness  of  disposition,  and  a 
generous  warmth  of  heart,  grateful 
for  love  on  our  part,    and    ardently 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


glowing  with  a  more  tha,n  equal  xe- 
tftrn;  these,  with  a  healthy  frame;  a 
^ound,  vigorous  constitution,  which 
your  higher  ranks  can  scarcely  ever 
hope  to  enjoy,  are  the  charms  of  lovely 
woman  in  my  liumble  walk  of  life. 

This  is  the  greatest  effort  my  broken 
arm  has  yet  made.  Do  let  me  hear, 
by  the  first  post,  how  cher  getit  Mon- 
sieur* comes  on  with  the  small-pox. 
May  Almighty  Goodness  preserve  and 
restore  him  1 

R.  B. 


No.   CCXV. 
TO  MR.  ALEX.  CUNNINGHAM. 
June  n,  1791. 

Let  me  interest  you,  my  dear  Cun-  • 
ningham,  in  behalf  of  the  gentleman 
who  waits  on  you  with  this.  He  is  a 
Mr.  Clarke,  of  Moffat,  principal  school- 
master there,  and  is  at  present  suffer- 
ing severely  under  the  persecution  of 
one  or  two  powerful-uidividuals  of  his 
employers.  He  is  accused  of  harshness 
to  boys  that  were  placed  under  his 
care.  God  help  the  teacher,  if  a  man 
of  sensibility  and  genius,  and  such  is 
my  friend  Clarke,  when  a  booby  father 
presents  him  with  his  booby  son,  and 
insists  on  lighting  up  the  rays  of 
science  in  a  fellow's  head  whose  skull 
is  impervious  and  inaccessible  by  any 
other  way  than  a  positive  fracture  with 
a  cudgel:  a  fellow  whom  in  fact  it 
savours  of  impiety  to  attempt  making 
a  scholar  of,  as  he  has  been  marked  a 
blockhead  in  the  book  of  fate,  at  the 
almighty  fiat  of  his  Creator. 

The  patrons  of  Moffat  School  are, 
the  ministers,  magistrates,  and  Town 
Council  of  Edinburgh,  and  as  the  busi- 
ness comes  now  before  them,  let  me 
beg  my  dearest  friend  to  do  everything 
in  his  power  to  serve  the  interests  of  a 
man  of  genius  and  worth,  and  »  man 
"Whom  I  particularly  respect  and  es- 
teem. You  know  some  good  fellows 
ainong  the  magistracy  and  council,  hut 
particularly  you  have   much  to  say 

*  Mrs.  Henri's  child,  and  the  grandchild  of 
Mrs..Dunlop. 


with  a  reverend  gentleman  to  whom 
you  have  the  honour  of  being  very 
nearly  related,  and  whom  this  country 
and  age  have  had  the  honour  to  pro- 
duce. I  need  not  name  the  historian 
of  Charles  V.*  I  tell  him,  through 
the  medium  of  his  nephew's  influence, 
that  Mr.  Clarke  is  a  gentleman  who 
will  not  disgrace  even  his  patronage. 
I  know  the  merits  of  the  cause 
thoroughly,  and  say  it,  that  my  friend 
is  falling  a  sacrifice  to  prejudiced  ig- 
norance. 

God  help  the  children  of  depend- 
ence I  Hated  and  persecuted  by  their 
enemies,  and  too  often,  alas  !  almost 
unexceptionably,  received  hy  their 
friends  with  disrespect  and  reproach, 
under  the  thin  disguise  of  cold  civility 
and  humiliating  advice.  Oh  to  be  a 
sturdy  savage,  stalking  in  the  pride  of 
his  independence,  amid  the  solitary 
wilds  of  his  deserts,  ratherthan  in  civil 
ized  life,  helplessly  to  tremble  for  a 
subsistence,  precarious  as  the  caprice  of 
a  fellow-creature  1  Every  man  has.his 
virtues,  and  no  man  is  w^ithout  his 
failings;  and  curse  on  that  privileged 
plain-dealing  of  friendship  which,  in 
the  hour  of  my  calamity,  cannot  reach 
forth  the  helping  hand  without  at  the 
same  time  pointing  out  those  failings, 
and  apportioning  them  their  share  in 
procuring  my  present  distress.  My 
friends,  for  such  the  world  calls  ye, 
and  such  ye  thinlc  yourselves  to  be, 
pass  by  my  virtues,  if  you  please,  but 
do,  also,  spare  my  follies;  the  first 
will  witness  in  my  breast  for  them- 
selves, and  the  last  will  give  pain 
enough  to  the  ingenuous  mind  without 
you.  And,  since  deviating  more  or 
less  from  the  paths  of  propriety  and 
rectitude  must  be  incident  to  human 
nature,  do  thou,  Fortune,  put  it  in  my 
power  always  from  myself  and  of  my- 
self to  bear  the  consequence  of  those 
errors  I  I  do  not  want  to  be  independ- 
ent that  I  may  sin,  but  I  want  to  be 
independent  in  my  sinning. 

To  return  in  this  ramhling  letter  to 
the  subject  I  set  out  with,  let  me  re- 


*  Dr.  Robertsao  was  uncle   to  Mr.  Alex. 
Cunningham. 


470 


BtJRJsS'  WORKS. 


commend  my  friend,  Mr.  Clarke,  to 
your  acquaintance  and  good  offices; 
his  worth  entitles  him  to  the  one,  and 
his  gratitude  will  merit  the  other.* 
I  long  much  to  hear  from  you.  Adiea ! 
E.   B. 


No.  CCXVI. 
TO  THE  EARL  OP  BUCHAN. 

Ei.LiSLAND,  June  1791. 

My  Lokd, —  Language  sinks  under 
the  ardour  of  my  feelings  when  I  would 
thank  your  lordship  for  the  honour 
you  have  done  me  in  inviting  me  to 
make  one  at  the  coronation  of  the  hust 
of  Thomson.  In  my  first  enthusiasm 
in  reading  the  card  you  did  me  the 
honour  to  write  me,  I  overlooked 
every  obstacle,  and  determined  to  go; 
hut  I  fear  it  will  not  be  in  my  power. 
A  week  or  two's  absence,  in  the  very 
middle  of  toy  harvest,  is  what  I  much 
doubt  I  dare  not  venture  on.  I  once 
already  made  a  pilgrimage  up  the 
whole  course  of  the  Tweed,  and  fondly 
would  I  take  the  same  delightful  jour- 
ney down  the  windings  of  that  de- 
lightful stream. 

Your  lordship  hints  at  an  ode  for 
the  occasion:  but  who  would  write 
after  CoUius  ?  I  read  over  his  verses 
to  the  memory  of  Thomson,  and  de- 
spaired. I  got  indeed  to  the  length  of 
three  or  four  stanzas,  in  the  way  of 
address  to  the  shade  of  the  bard;  on 
crowning  his  bust  I  shall  trouble  your 
lordship  with  the  subjoined  copy  of 
them,  whicli,  I  am  afraid,  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  declaring  how  sincerely 
and  gratefully  I  have  the  honour  to 
be,  &c., 

R.  B. 

[Here  follow  the  verses,  for  which  see 
p.  137.] 


*  The  poet  addressed  many  letters  to  Mr. 
Clarke.  After  the  death  of  her  husband,  Mrs. 
Clarke,  taking  offence  at  some  freedom  of  ex- 
pression -in   them,  coramitjed    them    to  the 


No.  CCXVII. 

TO   MR.    THOMAS    SLOAN. 

Ellisland,  Sept.  z,  1791. 

My  dear  Sloan,— Siispense  is  worse 
than  disappointment;  for  that  reason  I 
hurry  to  tell  you  that  I  just  now  learn 
that  Mr.  Ballantine  does  not  choose  to 
interfere  more  in  the  business.  I  am 
truly  sorry  for  it,  but  cannot  help  it. 

You  blame  me  for  not  writing  you 
sooner,  but  you  will  please  to  recollect 
that  you  omitted  one  little  necessary 
piece  of  information — your  address. 

However,  you  know  equally  well 
my  hurried  life,  indolent  temper,  and 
strength  of  attachment.  It  must  be  a 
longer  period  than  the  longest  life  "in 
the  world's  hale  and,  undegenerate 
days,"  that  will  make  me  forget  so 
dear  a  friend  as  Mr.  Sloan.  I  am 
prodigal  enough  at  times,  but  I  will 
not  part  with  such  a  treasure  as  that. 

I  can  easily  enter  into  the  embarras 
of  your  present  situation.  You  know 
my  favourite  quotation  from  Young — 

"  On  Reason  build  Resolve  ! 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man." 

And  that  other  favourite  one  froni 
Thomson's  Alfred — 

"  What  proves  the  hero  truly  great, 
Is  never,  never,  to  despair.' 

Or  shall  I  quote  you  an  author  of 
your  acquaintance  ? 

''  Whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing, 
You  may  do  miracles  by — persevering." 

I  have  nothing  new  to  tell  you.  The 
few  friends  we  have  are  going,  on  in 
the  old  way.  I  sold  my  crop  on  this 
day  se'ennight,  and  sold  it  very  well. 
A  guinea  an  acre,  on  an  average,  above 
value.  But  such  a  scene  of  drunken- 
ness was  hardly  ever  seen  in  this 
country.  After  the  roup  was  over, 
about  thirty  people  engaged  in  a  bat- 
tle, every  man  for  his  own  hand,  and 
fought  it  out  for  three  hours.  Nor  was 
the  scene  much  better  in  the  house. 
No  fighting;  indeed,  but  folks  lying 
drunk  on  the  floor,  and  decanting,  un- 
til both  my  dogs  got  so  drunk  by  at- 
tending them  that  they  could  not 
stand.     You  will  easily  guess  how  I 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


471 


enjoyed  the  scene;    as  I  was  no  further 
over  than  yon  used  to  see  me. 

Mrs.   B.   and  family  have  been  in 
Ayrshire  this  many  weeks. 
'    Farewell!   and  God  bless  you, my 
dear  friend ! 

E.  B. 


No.  CCXVIII. 

TO  LADY  B.  CUNNINGHAM.* 
Elusland,  Sept.  i/gj. 

My  Lady, — I  would,  as  usual,  have 
availed  myself  of  the  privilege  your 
goodness  has  allowed  me,  of  sending 
you  anything  I  composed  in  my  poet- 
ical way;  but  as  I  had  resolved  so  soon 
as  the  shock  of  my  irreparable  loss 
would  allow  me,  to  pay  a  tribute  to 
my  late  benefactor,  I  determined  to 
make  that  the  first  piece  I  should  do 
myself  the  honour  of  sending  you. 
Had  the  wing  of  my  fancy  been  equal 
to  the  ardour  of  my  heart,  the  enclosed 
Lad  been  much  more  worthy  your  pe- 
rusal; as  it  is,  I  beg  leave  to  lay  it  at 
your  ladyship's  feet.  As  all  the  world 
knows  my  obligations  to  the  late  Earl 
of  Glencairn,  I  would  wish  to  show,  as 
openly,  that  my  heart  glows,  and  shall 
ever  glow,  with  the  most  grateful 
sense  and  remembrance  of  his  lord- 
ship's goodness.  The  sables  I  did  my- 
self the  honour  to  wear  to  his  lord- 
ship's memory  were  not  the  "  mockery 
pf  woe."  Nor  shall  my  gratitude  perish 
with  me  !  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  Glencairn  1 

I  was  about  to  say,  my  lady,  that  if 
yea  think  the  poem  may  venture  to 
see  the  light,  I  would,  in  some  way  or 
other,  give  it  to  th3  world,  f 

E.  B. 


*  Sister  of  the  Earl  of  Glencairn.    Her  lady- 
ship died  unmarried,  in  August  1804. 

'  t "  The  Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glen- 
cairn *'  See  p.  135. 


No.  CCXIX. 

TO  COLONEL  FULLARTOX,  OF 
FULLAETON.* 

El^ISLAND,  Oct.  3,  1791. 

Sm, — I  have  just  this  minute  got 
the  frank,  and  next  minute  must  send 
it  to  post,  else  I  purposed  to  have  sent 
you  two  or  three  other  bagatelles  that 
might  have  amused  a  vacant  hour.about 
as  well  as  "  Six  excellent  new  Songs," 
or  the  ' '  Aberdeen  prognostications  for 
the  year  to  come."  1  shall  probably 
trouble  you  soon  with  another  packet, 
about  the  gloomy  month  of  November, 
when  the  people  of  England  hang  and 
drown  themselves — anything  general- 
ly is  better  than  one's  own  thoughts. 

Fond  as  I  may  be  of  my  own  pro- 
ductions, it  is  not  for  their  sake  that  I 
am  so  anxious  to  send  you  them.  I 
am  ambitious,  covetously  ambitious,- 
of  being  known  to  a  gentleman  whom 
I  am  proud  to  call  my  countryman ;  a 
gentleman  who  was  a  foreign  ambas- 
sador as  soon  as  he  was  a  man;  and  a 
leader  of  armies  as  soon  as  he  was  a 
soldier;  and  that  with  an  eclat  un- 
known to  the  usual  minions  of  a  court 
— men  who,  with  all  the  adventitious 
advantages  of  princely  connexions  and 
princely  fortunes,  must  yet,  like  the 
caterpillar,  labour  a  whole  lifetime 
before  they  reach  the  wishedrfor 
height,  there  to  roost  a  stupid  chrysa- 
lis, and  doze  out  the  remaining  glim- 
mering existence  of  old  age.  ' 

If  the  gentleman  that  accompanied 
you  when  you  did  me  the  honour  of 
calling  on  me  is  with  you,  I  beg  to  be 
respectfully  remembered  to  him.  I 
have  the  honour  to  be  your  highly- 
obliged  and  most  devoted  humble  ser- 
vant, 

E.  B. 


No.  CCXX. 

TO  MR.  AINSLIE. 

ELL-.i-i,A:;i,  ir,- 
My  dear  Ainslie, — Can  you  min- 
ister to  a  mind  diseased  ?    Can  -  you, 


*  Colonel    Fullarlon    is    lionourably  men- 
tioned in  "  The  Vision." 


47* 


BURNS'  WOEKS. 


amid  tlie  horrors  of  penitence,  regret, 
remorse,  headache,  nausea,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  damned  hounds  of  hell  that 
beset  a  poor  wretch  who  has  been 
guilty  of  the  sin  of  drunkenness — can 
you  speak  peace  to  a  troubled  soul  ? 

Miserable  perdu  that  I  am,  I  have 
tried  everything  that  used  to  amuse 
me,  but  in  vain:  here  must  I  sit,  a 
monument  of  the  vengeance  laid  up  in 
store  for  the  wiclied,  slowly  counting 
every  chick  of  the  clock  as  it  slowly, 
slowly  numbers  over  these  lazy  scoun- 
drels of  hours;  who,  damn  them,  are 
ranked  up  before  me,  every  one  at  his 
neighbour's  backside,  and  every  one 
with  a  burthen  of  anguish  on  his  back, 
to  pour  on  my  devoted  head — and  there 
is  none  to  pity  me.  My  wife  scolds 
me;  my  business  torments  me,  and  my 
sins  come  staring  me  in  the  face,  every 
one  telling  a  more  bitter  tale  than  his 
fellow.     When  I  tell  you  even 


has  lost  its  power  to  please,  you  will 
guess  something  of  my  liell  within, 
and  all  around  me — I  began  "Eli- 
banks  and  Elibraes,"  but  the  stanzas 
fell  unenjoyed  and  unfinished  from 
my  listless  tongue:  at  last  I  luclcily 
thought  of  reading  over  an  old  letter 
of  yours,  that  lay  by  me  in  my  book- 
case, and  I  felt  something,  for  the 
first    time   since   I   opened    my  eyes, 

of  pleasurable  existence. Well — I 

begin  to  breathe  a  little,  since  I  began 
to  write  to  you.  How  are  you,  and 
what  are  you  doing  ?  How  goes  Law  ? 
Apropos,  for  connexion's  sake  do  not 
address  to  me  supervisor,  for  that  is 
an  honour  I  cannot  pretend  to — I  am 
on  the  list,  as  we  call  it,  for  a  super- 
visor, and  will  be  called  out  by  and  by 
to  act  as  one;  but  at.  present,  lama 
simple  ganger,  though  t'other  day  I  got 
an  appointment  to  an  excise  division 
of  £35  per  annum  better  than  the  rest. 
My  present  income,  down  money,  is 
£70  per  annum. 

.  I  have  one  or  two  good  fellows  here 
whom  you  would  be  glad  to  know. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXXI. 
TO    MISS    DAVIE8.* 

It  is  impossible,  madam,  that  the 
generous  warmth  and  angelic  purity  of 


*  Those  who  remember  the  pleasing  society 
which,  in  the  yeariygii-Dumfries  afforded, 
cannot  have  forgotten  "  the  charming  lovely; 
Davies  "  of  the  lyrics  of  Burns.  Her  maiden, 
name  was  Deborah,  and  she  was  the  youngest 
daughter  of  Dr.  Davies  of  Tenby  in  Pem- 
brokeshire ;  between  her  and  the  Riddels 
of  Friar^s  Carse  there  were  ties  of  blood  or 
friendship,  and  her  eldest  sister,  Harriet,  was 
married  to  Captain  Adam  Gordon  of  the  noble 
family  of  Kenmure.  Her  education  was 
superior  to  that  of  most  young  ladies  of  her 
station  of  life  ;  she  was  equally  agreei.ble  and 
witty ;  her  company  was  much  courted  in 
Nithsdale,  and  others  than  Burns  respected 
her  talents  in  poetic  composition.  She  was 
then  in  her  twentieth  year,  and  so  little  and  so 
handsome  that  some  one,  who  desired  to  com- 
pliment her,  welcomed  her  to  the  Vale  of  Nith 
as  one  of  the  Graces  in  miniature. 

It  was  the  destiny  of  Miss  Davies  to  become 
acquainted  with  Captain  Delany,  a  pleasant 
and  sightly  man,  who  made  himself  acceptable 
to  her  by  sympathising  in  her  pursuits,  and 
by  writing  verses  to  her,  calling  her  _  his 
^'  Stella," — an  ominous  name,  which  might 
have  brought  the  memory  of  Swift's  unhappy, 
mistress  to  her  mind.  An  offer  of  marriage 
was  made  and  accepted ;  but  Delany's  cir- 
cumstances were  urged  as  an  obstacle  ;  delays 
ensued  ;  a  coldness  on  the  lover's  part  follow- 
ed ;  his  regiment  was  called  abroad — he  ent 
with  it ;  she  heard  from  him  once  and  no 
more,  and  was  left  to  mourn  tlie  change  of 
affection — to  droop  and  die.  He  perished  in 
battle,  or  by  a  foreign  climate,  soon  after  the 
death  of  the  young  lady  of  whose  love  he  was 
unworthy.  .  .- 

The  following  verses  on  this  unfortunate 
attachment  form  part  of  a  poem  found  among 
her  papers  at  her  death;  she  takes  Delany's 
portrait  from  her  bosom,  presses  it  to  her  lipsj 
and  says, 

"  Next  to  thyself  'tis  all  on  earth 

Thy  Stella  dear  doth  hold. 
The  glass  is  clouded  with  my  breath, 

And  as  my  bosom  cold  :  ■  - 

That  bosom  which  so  oft  has  glowed 

With  love  and  friendship's  name, 
Where  you  the  seed  of  love  first  sowed, 

That  kindled  into  flame. 

"  You  there  neglected  let  it  burn. 

It  seized  the  vital  part. 
And  left  my  bosom  as  an  um 

To"  hold  a  broken  heart : 
I  once  had  thought  I  should  have  been     - 

A  tender  happy  wife, 
And  past  my  future  days  serene- 
With  thee,  my  James,  through  life." 
The  information  contained  in  this  note  Was 
obligingly  communicated    by  H.  P.  Davies, 
Esq.,  nephew  of  the  lady.— CunSingha.\i.'  ' 


GENERAL  C0EEE9P0NDENCE. 


47J 


your  youthful  mind  can  have  any  idea. 
of  that  moral  disease  under  wliich  I 
unhappily  must  rank  as  the  chief  of 
sinners;  I  mean  a  torpitude  of  the 
moral  powers,  and  that  may  be  called 
a  lethargy  of  conscience.  In  vain  Re- 
morse rears  her  horrent  crest,  and 
rouses  all  her  snakes:  beneath  the 
deadly-flxed  eye  and  leaden  hand  of 
Indolence,  their  wildest  ire  is  charmed 
iiito  the  torpor  of  the  bat,  slumbering 
out  the  rigours  of  winter  in  the  chink 
of  a  ruined  wall.  Nothing  loss,  mad- 
am, could  have  made  me  so  long  neg- 
lect your  obliging  commands.  Indeed 
I  had  one  apology —  the  bagatelle  was 
not  worth  presenting.  Besides,  so 
strongly  am  I  interested  in  Miss  l)av- 
ies'  fate  and  welfare  in  the  serious 
business  of  life,  amid  its  chances  and 
changes,  that  to  malce  her  the  subject 
of  a  silly  ballad  is  downright  mockery 
of  these  ardent  feelings;  'tis  like  an 
impertinent  jest  to  a  dying  friend. 

Gracious  Heaven  !  why  this  dis- 
parity between  our  wishes  and  our 
powers  ?  Wliy  is  the  most  generous 
wish  to  make  others  blest  impotent 
tni  inefEectual — as  the  idle  breeze  that 
crosses  the  pathless  desert?  In  my 
walks  of  life  I  have  met  with  a  few 
people  to  whom  how  gladly  would  I 
have  said — "  Go,  be  happy  !  I  know 
that  your  hearts  have  been  wounded 
by  the  scorn  of  the  proud,  whom  acci- 
dent 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.  In- 
dependence, and  look  justly  down  on 
their  littleness  of  soul.  Make  the 
■worthless  tremble  under  your  indigna- 
tion, and  the  foolish  sink  before  your 
contempt;  and  largely  impart  that 
happiness  to  others  which  I  am  cer- 
tain, will  give  yourselves  so  mUcli 
pleasure  to  bestow!" 

Why,  dear  madam,  must  I,  wake 
from  this  delightful  reverie,  and  find 
it  all  a  dream  ?  Why,  amid  my  gen- 
erous enthusiasm,  must  I  find  myself 
poor  and  powerless,  incapable  of 
wiping'one  tear  from  the  eye  of  pity, 
or  of  adding  one  comfort  to  the  friend 
riove  !     Out  upon  the  world  !   say  I, 


that  its  affairs  are  administered  so  ill  I 
They  talk  of  reform; — good  Heaven! 
what  a  reform  would  I  m^ke  among 
the  sons,  and  even  the  daughters,  oi 
men  !  Down,  immediately,  should  go 
fools  from  the  high  places  where  mis- 
begotten chance  has  perked  them  up, 
and  through  life  should  thfey  skulk, 
over  haunted  by  their  native  insig- 
nificance, as  the  body  marches  accom- 
panied by  its  shadow.  As  for  a  much 
more  formidable  class,  the  knaves,  I 
am  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  them: 
had  I  a  world,  there  should  not  be  a 
knave  in  it. 

But  the  hand  that  could  give '  I 
would  liberally  fill :  and  I  would  pour 
delight  on  the  heart  that  could  Riudly 
forgive,  and  generously  love. 

Still  the  inequalities  of  life  are, 
among  men,  comparatively  tolerable — 
but  there  is  a  delicacy,  a.  tender- 
ness, accompanying  every  view  in 
v/hich  we  can  place  lovely  wo- 
man, that  are  grated  an  shocked 
at  the  rude,  capricious  distinctions  of 
Fortune.  Woman  is  the  blood-royal 
of  life:  let  there  be  slight  degrees  of 
precedency  among  them — but  let  them 
be  ALL  sacred. — Whether  this  last  sen- 
timent be  right  or  wrong,  I  am  not  ac- 
countable; it  is  an  original  component 
feature  of  my  mind. 

E.  B. 


No.  CCXXII. 
TO    MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellisland,  Dec.  17,  1791, 

Many  thanks  to  you,  madam,  for 
your  good  news  respecting  the  iittl6 
floweret  and  the  mother  plant.  I  hope 
my  poetic  prayers  have  been  heard, 
and  will  be  answered  up  to  the  warm- 
eat  sincerity  of  their  fullest  extent; 
and  then  -Mrs.  Henri  will  find  her  lit- 
tle darling  the  representative  of  his 
late  parent,  in  every  thing  but  his 
abi-idged  existence. 

I  have  just  finished  the  following 
song  which,  to,  a.  lady  the  descendant 
of  Wallace — and  many  heroes  of  his 
truly  illustrious  line — and  herself  tho 


474 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


mother    of    several     soldiers,   needs 
neither  preface  nor  apology. 

"  Scene — Afield  of  battle — tiim  of  the 
day,  evening;  tJie  wounded  and  dying 
of  the  metorious  army  are  supposed 
to  join  in  the  foV 


SONG  OF  DEATH. 

"  Farewell,  thou  ^air  day,  thou  sreen  earth, 
and  ye  skies,  ■ 
Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun  : 
Farewell,  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear,  ten- 
der ties — 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run ! " 

(See  p.  231.) 

The  circumstance  that  gave  rise  to 
the  foregoing  verses  was — looking  over 
with  a  musical  friend  M'Donald's  col- 
lection of  Highland  airs,  I  was  struck 
with  one,  an  Isle  of  Skye  tune,  enti- 
tled, ' '  Oran  an  Aoig,  or,  the  Song  of 
Death,"  to  the  measure  of  which  I 
have  adapted  my  stanzas.  I  liave  of 
late  composed  two  or  three  other  little 
pieces,  which,  ere  yon  full-orhed  moon, 
whose  broad  impudent  face  now  stares 
at  old  mother  earth  all  night,  shall 
have  shrunk  into  a  modest  crescent, 
just  peeping  forth  at  dewy  dawn,  I 
shall  find  an  hour  to  transcribe  for  you. 
A  Dieuje  vous  commende. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXXIII. 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries,  Jan.  22,  1792. 

I  SIT  down,  my  dear  sir,  to  intro- 
duce a  young  lady  to  you,  and  a  lady 
in  the  first  ranks  of  fashion  too.  What 
a  taslc  I  to  you  —  who  care  no  more 
for  the  herd  of  animals  called  young 
ladies  than  you  do  for  the  herd 
of  animals  called  young  gentlemen. 
To  you — who  despise  and  detest  the 
groupings  and  combinations  of  fashion, 
as  an  idiot  painter  that  seems  indus- 
trious to  please  staring  fools  and 
unprincipled  knaves  in  the  foreground 
of  his  picture,  while  men  of  sense  and 
honesty  are  too  often  thrown  in  the 


dimmest  shades.  Mrs.  Riddel,*  who 
will  take  this  letter  to  town  with  her, 
and  send  it  to  you,  is  a  character  that, 
even  in  your  own  way,  as  a  naturalist 
and  a  philosopher,  would  be  an  acqui- 
sition to  your  acquaintance.  The  lady, 
too,  is  a  votary  of  the  muses;  and,  as 
I  think  myself  somewhat  of  a  judg6,in 
my  own  trade,  I  assure  you  that  her 
verses,  always  correct,  and  often  ele- 
gant, are  much  beyond  the  common 
run  of  the  lady -poetesses  ot  the  day. 
She  is  a  great  admirer  of  your  book;f 
and,  hearing  me  say  that  I  was 
acquainted  with  you,  she  begged  to  be 
known  to  you,  as  she  is  just  going  to 
pay  her  first  visit  to  our  Caledonian 
capital.  I  told  lier  that  her  best  way 
was  to  desire  her  near  relation,  and 
your  intimate  friend,  Craigdarroch, 
to  have  you  at  his  house  while  she  was 
there;  and,  lest  you  might  think  of  a 
lively  West  Indian  girl  of  eighteen,  as 
girls  of  eighteen  too  often  deserve 
to  be  thought  of,  I  should  take  care  to 
remove  that  prejudice.  To  be  impar- 
tial, however,  in  appreciating  the 
lady's  merits,  she  has  one  unlucky 
failing:  a  failing  which  you  will  easily 
discover,  as  she  seems  rather  pleased 
with  indulging  in  it;  and  a  failing  that 
you  will  easily  pardon,  as  it  is  a  sin 
which  very  much  besets  yourself;— 
where  she  dislikes,  or  despises,  she  is 
apt  to  make  no  more  a  secret  of  it  than 
where  she  esteems  and  respects. 

I  will  not  present  you  with  the 
unmeaning  compliments  of  the  season^ 
but  I  will  send  you  my  warmest  wishes 
and  most  ardent  prayers,  that  Fortune 
may  never  throw  your  subsistence  to 
the  mercy  of  a  knave,  nor  set  your 
CHAKACTBE  on  the  judgment  of  a 
fool;  but,  that,  upright  and  erect,  you 
may  walk  to  an  honest  grave,  where 
men  of  letters  shall  say,  ' '  Here  lies  a 
man  who  did  honour  to  science,"  and 
men  of  worth  shall  say,  "Here  lies  a 
man  who  did  honour  to  human 
nature." 

E.  B. 

*  Mrs.  Riddel  of  Woodley  Park,  near  Dum- 
fries. She.  is  to  be  carefully  distinguished 
from  Mrs.  Riddel,  of  Friar's  Carse,  another 
friend  of  the  poet's. — Chambers. 

t  The  Philosophy  of  Natural  History. 


GENERAL  COREESPONDBNCB. 


475 


No.  CCXXIV. 

TO    MR.    PETER     HILL,    BOOK- 
SELLER,   EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries,  Feb.  5,  1792. 

My  dbak  Friend, — I  send  you  by 
the  bearer,  (Mr.  Clark,  a  particular 
friend  of  mine,)  sis  pounds  and  a 
shilling,  whicb.  you  will  dispose  of 
as  follows: — Five  pounds  ten  shillings, 
per  account  I  owe  Mr.  R.  Burn,  archi- 
tect, for  erecting  the  stone  over  tho 
grave  of  poor  Fergusson.  He  was  two 
years  in  erecting  it,  after  I  had  com- 
missioned him  for  it;  and  I  have  been 
two  years  in  paying  him,  after  he  sent 
me  his  account;  so  he  and  I  are  quits. 
He  had  the  hardiesse  to  ask  me 
interest  on  the  sum;  but,  considering 
that  the  money  was  due  by  one  poet 
for  putting  a  tombstone  over  the 
grave  of  another,  he  may,  with  grate- 
fiil  surprise,  thank  Heaven  that  ever 
he  saw  a  farthing  of  it. 

With  the  remainder  of  the  money 
pay  yourself  for  the  "  Office  of  a  Mes- 
senger," that  I  bought  of  you;  and 
send  me  by  Mr.  Clark  a  note  of  its 
price.  Send  me,  likewise,  the  fifth 
volume  of  the  "Observer,"  by  Mr. 
Clark ;  and  if  any  money  remain  let 
it  stand  to  account. 

My  best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Hill. 

I  sent  you  a  maukin  by  last  week's 
fly,  which  I  hope  you  received.  — Yours 
most  sincerely, 

R.  B, 


No.  CCXXV. 

TO  MR.  W.  NICOL. 

Feb.  20, 1732. 

0  THOTJ,  wisest  among  the  wise, 
meridian  blaze  of  prudence,  full  moon 
of  discretion,  and  chief  of  many  coun- 
sellors !  How  infinitely  is  thy  puddle- 
headed,  rattle-headed,  wrong-headed, 
round-headed  slave  indebted  to  thy 
super-eminent  goodness,  that  from  the 
luminous  path  of  thy  own  right-lined 
rectitude,  thou  lookest  benignly  down 


on  an  erring  wretch,  of  whom  the  zig- 
zag wanderings  defy  all  the  powers  of 
calculation,  from  the  simple  copula- 
tion of  units,  up  to  the  hidden  myste- 
ries of  fluxions  !  May  one  feeble  ray 
of  that  light  of  wisdom  which  darts 
from  thy  sensorium,  straight  as  the 
arrow  of  heaven,  and  bright  as  the 
meteor  of  inspirrtion,  may  it  be  my 
portion,  so  that  it  may  be  less  un- 
worthy of  the  face  and  favour  of  that 
father  of  proverbs,  and  master  of  max 
ims,  that  antipode  of  folly,  and  mag- 
net among  the  sages,  the  wise  and  witty 
Willie  Nicol  !  Amen  !  Amen  1  Yes,  so 
belt! 

For  me  !  I  am  a  beast,  a  reptile,  and 
know  nothing  !  From  the  cave  of  my 
ignorance,  amid  the  fogs  of  my  dul- 
ness,  and  pestilential  fumes  of  my  po- 
litical heresies,  I  look  up  to  thee,  as 
doth  a  toad  through  the  iron-barred 
lucerne  of  a  pestiferous  dungeon,  to 
the  cloudless  glory  of  a  summer  sun  ! 
Sorely  sighing  in  bitterness  of  soul,  I 
say,  when  shall  my  name  be  the  quo- 
tation of  the  wise,  and  my  countenance 
be  the  delight  of  the  godly,  like  the 
illustrious  lord  of  Laggan's  many  hills  ? 
As  for  him,  his  works  are  perfect ! 
never  did  the  pen  of  calumny  blur  the 
fair  page  of  his  reputation;  nor  the 
blot  of  hatred  fly  at  his  dwelling. 

Thou  mirror  of  purity,  when  shall 
the  elfin  lamp  of  my  glimmerous 
understanding,  purged  from  sensual 
appetites  and  gross  desires,  shine  like 
the  constellation  of  thy  intellectual 
powers  !  As  for  thee,  thy  thoughts 
are  pure,  and  thy  lips  are  holy.  Never 
did  the  unhallowed  breath  of  the 
powers  of  darkness,  and  the  pleasures 
of  darkness,  pollute  the  sacred  flame 
of  thy  sky-descended  and  heaven-bound 
desires:  never  did  the  vapours  of  im- 
purity stain  the  unclouded  serene  of 
thy  cerulean  imagination.  Oh,  that 
like  thine  were  the  tenor  of  my  life, 
like  thine  the  tenor  of  my  conversa- 
tion !— then  should  no  friend  fear  for 
my  strength,  no  enemy  rejoice  in  my 
weakness !  Then  should  I  lie  down 
and  rise  up,  and  none  to  make  me 
afraid.  May  thy  pity  and  thy  prayer 
be  exercised  for,  0  thou  lamp  of  wis- 


4T6 


EURNS'  WORKS. 


dom  and  mirror  of  morality  !  thy  de- 
voted slave," 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXXVI. 

TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  ESQ.,  F.  O.A.t 
Dumfries,  1792. 

Sir, — I  believe  among  all  our  Scots 
literati  you  have  not  met  with  Profes- 
sor Dugald  Stewart,  who  fills  the 
moral  philosophy  chair  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgli.  To  say  that  he  is 
a  man  of  the  first  parts,  and,  what  is 
more,  a  man  of  the  first  worth,  to  a 
gentleman  of  your  general  acquaint- 
ance, and  who  so  much  enjoys  the  lux- 
ury of  unencumbered  freedom  and  un- 
disturbed privacy,  is  not  perhaps  re- 
commendation enough: — but  when  I 
inform  you  that  Mr.  Stewart's  princi- 
pal characteristic  is  your  favourite 
feature;  that  sterling  independence  of 
mind,  which,  though  every  man's 
right,  so  few  men  have  the  courage  to 
claim,  and  fewer  still  the  magnanimity 
to  support;  when  I  tell  you  that,  un- 
seduced  by  splendour,  and  undisgusted 
by  wretchedness,  ho  appreciates  the 
merits  of  the  various  actors  in  the 
great  drama  of  life,  merely  as  they 
perform  their  parts — in  short,  he  is  a 
man  after  your  own  heart,  and  I  com- 
ply witli  his  eai-nest  request  in  letting 
you  know  that  he  wishes  above  all 
things  to  meet  with  you.  His  house, 
Catrine,  is  within  less  than  a  mile  of 
Sorn  Castle,  which  you  proposed  visit- 
ing; or,  if  you  could  transmit  him  the 


*  Mr.  Nicol  in  a  letter  to  the  poet  had  given 
him  much  good  advice,  lience  the  irony  of  h:s 
reply. 

t  Mr.  Grose,  in  the  introduction  to  his 
'•Antiquities  of  Scotland,"  acknowledges  his 
obligations  to  Burns  in  the  following  para- 


obligations  to  Burns  in  the  following  para- 
graph, some  of  the  terms  of  which  will  scarce- 
ly fail  to  amuse  the  modern  reader ; 

"  To  my  ingenious  friend,  Mr.  Robert  Bums, 
I  have  been  seriously  obligated  ;  he  was  not- 
only  at  the  pains  of  malting  out  what  was 
most  worthy  of  notice  in  Ayrshire,  the  coun- 
try honoured  by;  his  birth,  but  he  also  wrote, 
expressly  for  this  work,  the/rf«j/  inle  annex- 
ed to  Alloway  Church. "• 

This  "pretty  tele"  being  "  Tam  o'  Slianter !" 


enclosed,  ho  would  with  the  greatest 
pleasure  meet  you  anywhere  in  the 
neighbourhood.  I  write  to  Ayrshire  to 
infonu  Mr.  Stewart  that  I  have  acquit- 
ted myself  of  my  promise.  Should 
your  time  and  spirits  permit  j-our 
meeting  with  Mr.  Stewart,  'tiswell;  if 
not,  I  hope  you  will  forgive  this  'lib- 
erty, and  I  have  at  least  an  opportti- 
nity  of  assuring  you  with  what  truth 
and  respect,  I  am,  sir,  your  great  ad- 
mirer, and  very  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  ecxxvii. 

TO    THE   SAME. 

Dumfries,  1792. 

Among  the  many  witch  stories .  I 
have  heard,  relating  to  Alloway  kirk, 
I  distinctly  remember  only  two  or 
three. 

Upon  a  stormy  night,  amid  whistling 
squalls  of  wind,  and  bitter  blasts  of 
hail;  in  short,  on  such  a  night  as  the 
devil  would  choose  to  take  the  air  in: 
a  farmer  or  farmer's  servant  was  plod- 
ding and  plashing  homeward  with  his 
plough-irons  on  his  shoulder,  having' 
been  getting  some  repairs  on  them  at 
a  neighbouring  smithy.  His  way  lay 
by  the  kirk  of  Allov/ay,  and,  being 
rather  on  the  anxious  look-out  in 
approaching  a  place  so  well  Imown  to 
be  a  favourite  haunt  of  the  devil,  and 
the  devil's  friends  and  emissaries,  he 
was  struck  aghast  by  discovering 
through  the  horrors  of  the  storm  and 
stormy  night,  a  light,  -which  on  his 
nearer  approach  plainly  showed  itself 
to  proceed  from  the  haunted  edifice. 
"Whether  he  had  been  fortified  from 
above  on  his  devout  supplication,  as  is 
customary  with  people  when  they  sus- 
pect the  immediate  presence  of  Satan; 
or  whether,  according  to  another 
custom,  he  had  got  courageously  drunk 
at  the  smithy,  I  will  not  pretend  to  de- 
termine; but  so  it  was  that  he  ventur- 
ed to  go  up  to,  nay,  into,  the  very  kirk: 
As  luck  would  have  it,  his  temerity 
came  off  unpunished. 

The  members  of  the  infernal  junto 
were  all  out  on  some  midnight  business 


GENERAIi  COREBSPONDENCE. 


477 


or  .other,  and  he  saw  nothing  but 
a  Itind  of  kettle  or  caldron,  depending 
f I'oni  the  roofj  over  the  fire,  simmering 
some  heads  of  unchristened  children, 
limbs  of  executed  malefactors,  &c., 
foj  the  husintsj  of  the  night.  It  was 
in  for  a  penny  in  for  a  pound  with  the 
honest  ploughman:  so  without  cere- 
mony he  unliooked  the  caldron  from 
off  the  fire,  and  pouring  out  the  dam- 
nable ingredients,  inverted  it  on  his 
head,  and  carried  it  fairly  home,  where 
it  remained  long  in  the  family,  a  living 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  story. 

Another  story,  which  I  can  prove  to 
be  equally  autlientic,  was  as  follows : — 

On  a  market  day  in  the  town  of  Ayr, 
a  farmer  from  Carrick,  and  conse- 
quently whose  way  lay  by  the  very 
gate  of  Alloway  kirkyard,  in  order  to 
cross  the  river  Doon  at  the  old  bridge, 
which  is  about  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  farther  on  than  the  said  gate, 
had  been  detained  by  his  business,  till 
by  the  time  he  reached  Alloway  it  was 
the  wizard  hour,  between  night  and 
morning. 

Though  he  was  terrified  with  a 
blaze  streaming  from  the  kirk,  yet  it 
is  a  well-known  fact  that  to  turn  back 
on  these  occasions  is  running  by  far 
the  greatest  tisk  of  mischief, — ^he  pru- 
dently advanced  on  his  road.  When 
ho  had  reached  the  gate  of  the  kirk- 
yard, he  was  surprised  and  entertain- 
ed, through  the  ribs  and  arches  of  an 
old  Gothic  window,  which  still  faces 
the  highway,  to  see  a  dance  of  witches 
merrily  footing  it  round  their  old  sooty 
blackguard  master,  who  was  keeping 
them  all  alive  with  the  power  of  his 
bagpipe.  The  farmer,  stopping  his 
horse  to  observe  them  a  little,  could 
plainly  descry  the  faces  of  many  old 
women  of  his  acquaintance  and 
neighbourhood.  How  the  gentleman 
was  dressed  tradition  docs  not  say, 
but  that  the  ladies  were  all  in  their 
smocks:  and  one  of  them  happening 
unluckily  to  have  a  smock  which  was 
considerably  too  short  to  answer  all 
tlie  purpose  of  that  piece  of  dress,  onr 
fanner  was  so  tickled  that  he  invo- 
luntarily burst  out,  with  a  loud  laugh, 
V.  Weellnppcu,  Maggy  wi' the  short 


sark  1"  and,  recollecting  himself,  in- 
stantly spurred  his  horse  to  the  top  of 
his  speed.  1  need  not  mention  the  uni- 
versally known  fact  that  no  diabolical 
power  can  pursue  you  beyond  the  mid- 
dle of  a  running  stream.  Lucidly  it 
was  for  the  poor  farmer  that  the  river 
Doon  was  so  near,  for  notwithstanding 
the  speed  of  his  horse,  which  was  a 
good  one,  against  he  reached  the  mid- 
dle of  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  and  con- 
sequently the  middle  of  the  stream, 
the  pureuing,  vengeful  hags,  were  so 
close  at  his  heels  that  one  of  them  ac- 
tually sprung  to  seize  him;  but  it  was 
too  late,  nothing  was  on  her  side  of 
the  stream  but  the  horse's  tail,  which 
immediately  gave  way  at  her  infernal 
grip,  as  if  blasted  by  a  stroke  of  light- 
ning; but  the  farmer  was  beyond  her 
reach.  However,  the  unsightly,  tail- 
less condition  of  the  vigorous  steed 
was,  to  the  last  hour  of  the  noble  crea- 
ture's life,  an  awful  warning  to  the 
Carrick  farmers  not  to  stay  too  late  in 
Ayr  markets. 

The  last  relation  I  .shall  give,  though 
equally  true,  is  not  so  well  identified 
as  the  two  former,  with  regard  to  the 
scene,  but,  as  the  best  authorities  give 
it  for  Alloway,  I  shall  relate  it. 

On  a  summer's  evening,  about  the 
time  that  nature  puts  on  her  sables  to 
mourn  the  expiry  of  the  cheerful  day, 
a  shepherd  |3oy  belonging  to  a  farmer 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of 
Alloway  kirk  had  just  folded  his 
charge,  and  was  returning  home.  As 
he  passed  the  kirk,  in  the  adjoining 
field,  he  fell  in  with  a  crew  of  men 
and  women,  who  were  busy  pulling 
stems  of  the  plant  Kagwort.  He  ob- 
served that,  as  each  person  pulled  a 
Ragwort,  he  or  she  got  astride  of  it, 
and  called  out,  "  Up  hgrsiel "  on  which 
the  Ragwort  flew  off,  like  Pegasus, 
through  the  air  with  its  rider.  The 
foolish  boy  likewise  pulled  his  Rag- 
wort, and  cried  with  the  rest,  "Up 
horsie  !"  and,  strange  to  tell,  away  he 
flew  with  the  company.  The  first 
stage  at  which  the  cavalcade  .stopt  was 
a  merchant's  wine  cellar  in  Bordeaux, 
where,  without  saying,  "By  your 
leave,"  they  quaffed  away  at  the  best  the 


478' 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


cellar  could  afford,  until  the  morning, 
foe  to  the  imps  and  works  of  darkness, 
threatened  to  throw  light  on  the  mat- 
ter, and  frightened  them  from  their 
carousals. 

The  poor  shepherd  lad,  being 
equally  a  stranger  to  the  scene  and 
the  liquor,  heedlessly  got  himself 
drunk;  and  when  the  rest  took  horse, 
he  "fell  asleep,  and  was  found  so  next 
day  by  some  of  the  people  belonging 
to  the  merchant.  Somebody,  that  un- 
derstood Scotch,  asking  him  what  he 
was,  he  said  such-a-one's  lierd  in 
Allovvay,  and,  by  some  means  or  other 
getting  home  again,  he  lived  long  to 
tell  the  world  the  wondrous  tale. — I 
am,&c., 

K.  B. 


No.  CCXXVIII. 
TO  MR.  J.  CLARKE,  EDINBURGH. 

July  i6,  1792, 

Mr.  Burns  begs  leave  to  present  his 
most  respectful  compliments  to  Mr. 
Clarke. — Mr.  B.  some  time  ago  did 
liimself  the  honour  of  writing  Mr.  C. 
respecting  coming  out  to  the  country, 
to,  give  a  little  musical  instruction  in  a 
highly  respectable  family,*  where  Mr. 
C.  may  have  his  own  terms,  and  may 
be  as  happy  as  indolence,  the  devil, 
and  the  gout  will  permit  him.  Mr.  B. 
knows  well  how  Mr.  C.  is  engaged 
with  another  family;  but  cannot  Mr. 
C.  find  two  or  three  weeks  to  spare  to 
each  of  them?  Mr.  B.  is  deeply  im- 
pressed with,  and  awfully  conscious  of, 
the  high  importance  of  Mr.  C.'s  time, 
whether  in  the  winged  moments  of 
symphonious  exhibition,  at  the  keys  of 
harmony,  while  listening  seraphs  cease 
their  own  less -delightful  strains;  or  in 
the  drowsy  arms  of  slumberous  repose, 
in  the  arms  of  his  dearly-beloved 
elbow-chair,  where  the  frowsy,  but 
potent  power  of  indolence  circumfuses 
her  vapours  round,  and  sheds  her 
dews  on  the  head  of  her  darling  son. 
But  half  a  line  conveying  half  a  meau- 

*  The  family  to  whom  this  letter  refers  was 
that  of  M'Murdo's  of  Drumlanrig. 


ing  from  Mr.  C.  would  make  Mr.  B. 
the  happiest  of  mortals. 


No.  CCXXIX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 
Annan  Water  Foot,  Aug,  22,  1792.    ' 

Do  not  blame  me  for  it  madam — my- 
own  conscience,  hackneyed  and; 
weather-beaten  as  it  is,  in  watching, 
and  reproving  my  vagaries,  follies,  in- 
dolence, &c.,  has  continued  to  punish 
me  suflSciently. 

Do  you  think  it  possible,  my  dear 
and  honoured  friend,  that  I  could  be  so 
lost  to  gratitude  for  many  favours,  to 
esteem  for  much  worth,  and  tQ  the 
honest,  kind,  pleasurable  tie  of  now 
old  acquaintance,  and  I  hope  and  am 
sure  of  progressive,  increasing  friend-- 
ship  as  for  a  single  day  not  to  think  of ' 
you — to  ask  the  Fates  what  they  are 
doing  and  about  to  do  with  my  much- 
loved  friend  and  her  wide  scattered' 
connexions,  and  to  beg  of  them  to  be 
as  kind  to  you  and  youi-s  as  they 
possibly  can  ? 

Apropos,  (though  how  it  is  apropos, 
I  have  not  leisure  to  explain,)  do  you, 
know  that  I  am  almost  in  love  with  au 
acquaintance  of  yours  ?  Almost !  said. 
I — I  am  in  love,  souse,  over  head  and: 
ears,  deep  as  the  unfathomable  abyss 
of  the  boundless  ocean;  but  the  word 
love,  owing  to  the  intermingledorm  of 
the  good  and  the  bad,  the  pure  and  the . 
impure  in  this  world,  being  rather 
an  equivocal  term  for  expressing  one's 
sentiments  and  sensations,  I  must  do 
justice  to  the  sacred  purity  of  my 
attachment.  Know,  then,  "that  the 
heart-struck  awe;  the  distant  humble 
approach;  the  delight  we  should  have 
in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to  a 
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  emotions  of  my  soiil  oa' 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


479 


meeting  the  other  day  -with  '  Miss 
Lesley  Baillie,  your  neighbour,  at 
M .  Mr.  B.  with  his  two  daugh- 
ters, accompanied  by  Mr.  H.  of  U., 
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  Itnows  I 
could  ill  spare  the  time,)  and  accom- 
panied them  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles, 
and  dined  and  spent  the  day  with 
them.  'Twas  about  nine,  I  think, 
when  I  left  them,  and,  riding  home,  I 
composed  the  following  ballad,  of 
which  you  will  probably  think  you 
have  a  dear  bargain,  as  it  will  cost  you 
another  groat  of  postage.  You  must 
know  that  there  is  an  old  ballad 
beginning  with — 

"  My  bonnie  Lizzie  Baillie, 

I'll  rowe  thee  in  my  plaidie,"  &c. 

So  I  parodied  it  as  follows,  which 
is  literally  the  first  copy,  "  uuauointed, 
unanneal'd,"  as  Hamlet  says — 

"  O  saw  ye  bonny  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Border? 

She's  grane  like  Alexander, 
To  spread  her  conquests  farther." 
(See  p.  234.) 

So  much  for  ballads.  I  regret  that 
you  are  gone  to  the  east  country,  as  I 
am  to  be  in  Ayrehire  in  about  a  fort- 
night. This  world  of  ours,  notwith- 
standing it  has  many  good  things  in  it, 
yet  it  lias  ever  had  this  curse,  that  two 
or  three  people,  who  would  be  the  hap- 
pier the  oftener  they  met  together,  are, 
almost  without  exception,  always  so 
placed  as  never  to  meet  but  once  or 
twice  a  year,  which  considering  the 
few  years  of  a  man's  life,  is  a  very 
great  "evil  under  the  sun,"  which 
I  do  not  recollect  that  Solomon  has 
mentioned  in  his  catalogue  of  the 
miseries  of  man.  I  hope  and  believe 
that  there  is  a  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  us,  ye  dead, 
Wrll  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 
What 'lisyoli -are,  ind  we  must-shortly  be ? ' 


A  thousand  times  have  I  made  this 
apostrophe  to  the  departed  sons  of 
men,  but  not  one  of  them  has  ever 
thought  fit  to  answer  the  question. 
"  Oh  that  some  courtous  ghost  would 
blab  it  out!"  but  it  cannot  be;  you 
and  I,  my  friend,  must  make  the 
experiment  by  ourselves,  and  for  our- 
selves. However,  I  am  so  convinced 
that  an  unshalsen  faith  in  the  doctrines 
of  religion  is  not  only  necessary,  by 
jnaking  us  better  men,  but  also  by 
malting  us  happier  men,  that  I  should 
take  every  care  that  your  little  godson, 
and  every  little  creature  that  shall  call 
me  father,  shall  be  taught  them. 

So  ends  this  heterogeneous  letter, 
written  at  this  wild  place  of  the  world, 
in  the  intervals  of  my  labour  of  dis- 
charging a  vessel  of  rum  from  An- 
tigua. R.  B. 


No.  CCXXX. 
TO  MR.    CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries,  Sept.  10,  1792. 

No  I  I  will  not  attempt  an  apology.- 
Amid  all  my  hurry  of  business,  grind- 
ing the  faces  of  the  publican  and  the 
sinner-on  the  merciless  wheels  of  tho 
Excise;  making  ballads,  and  then 
drinking,  and  then  singing  them; 
and,  over  and  above  all,  the  correcting 
the  press- work  of  two  different  pub- 
lications; still,  still  ■  I  might  have 
stolen  five  minutes  to  dedicate  to  one 
of  the  first  of  my  friends  and  fellow- 
creatures.  I  might  have  done,  as  I  do 
at  present,  snatched  an  hour  near 
"  witching  time  of  night,"  a..d 
scrawled  a  page  or  two.  I  might 
have  congratulated  my  friend  on  his 
marriage;  or  I  might  have  thanked 
the  Caledonian  archers  for  the  honour 
they  have  done  me,  (though  to  do  my- 
self justice,  I  intended  to  have  done 
both  in  rhyme,  else  I  had  done  both 
long  ere  now.)  Well,  then,  here  is  to 
yoiir  good  health  !  for  you  must  know 
I  have  set  a-nipperkin  of  toddy  by  me, 
just  by  way  of  spell,  to  keep  away  the 
meikle-homed  deil,  or  any  of  his  sub- 
altern imps  who  may  be  on  their 
nightly  rounds. 


480 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


But  wliat  sliall  I  write  to  you? — 
"The  voice  said,  Cry,"  and  I  said, 
"  What  shall  I  cry  ?"— 0  thou  spirit  ? 
■whatever  thou  art,  or  wherever  thou 
makest  thyself  visible  !  be  thou  a  bo- 
gle by  the  eerie  side  of  an  auld  thorn, 
in  the  dreary  glen  through  which  the 
herd-callan  maun  bicker  in  his  gloam- 
in'  route  frae  the  fauld ! — be  thou  a 
brownie,  set,  at  dead  of  night,  to  thy 
task  by-  the  blazing  ingle,  or  in  the 
solitary  barn,  where  the  repercussions 
of  thy  iron  flail  half  affright  thyself, 
as  thou  performest  the  work  of  twenty 
of  the  sons  of  men,  ere  the  cock-crow- 
ing 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  foundering  horse,  or  in  the 
tumbling  boat  ! —  or,  lastly,  be  thou  a 
ghost,  paying  thy  nocturnal  visits  to 
the  hoary  ruins  of  decayed  grandeur; 
or  performing  thy  mystic  rites  in  the 
shadow  of  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,  portraying  on  his' dreaming 
fancy,  pictures,  dreadful  as  the  hor- 
rors of  unveiled  hell,  and  terrible  as 
the  wrath  of  incensed  Deity  ! —  Come, 
thou  spirit,  but  not  in  these  horrid 
forms;  come  with  fhe  milder,  gentle, 
easy  inspirations,  which  thou  breathest 
round  the  wig  of  a  prating  advocate, 
or  the  tete  of  a  tea-sipping  gossip, 
while  their  tongues  run  at  the  .light- 
horse  gallop  of  clish-ma-claver  forever 
and  ever — come  and  assist  a  poor  devil 
who  is  quite  jaded  in  the  attempt  to 
share  half  an  idea  among  half  a  hun- 
dred words;  to  fill  up  four  quarto 
pages,  while  he  has  not  got  one  single 
sentence  of  recollection,  information, 
or  remark,  worth  putting  pen  to  paper 
for. 

.  I  feel,  I  feel  the  presence  of  super- 
natural assistance  !  circled  in  the  em- 
brace of  my  elbow-chair,  my  breast 
labours,  like  the  bloated  Sybil  on  her 


tliree-footed  stool,  and  like  her,  too, 
labours  with  Nonsense.  —  Nonsense, 
auspicious  name  1  Tutor,  friend,  and 
finger-post  in  the  mystic  mazes  of  law; 
the  cadaverous  paths  of  physic;  and 
particularly  in  the  sightless  soarings 
of  SCHOOL,  DIVINITY,  who,  leaving  . 
Common  Sense  confounded  at  his 
strength  of  pinion,  Reason,  delirious 
with  eyeing  his  giddy  flight;  and 
Truth  creeping  back  into  the  bottom 
of  her  well,  cursing  the  hour  that  ever 
she  offered  her  scorned  alliance  to  the 
wizard  power  of  Theologic  vision  — • 
raves  abroad  on  all  the  winds.  "  On. 
earth  discord  !  a  gloomy  heaven  above, 
opening  lier  jealous  gates  to  the  nine- 
teen thousandth  part  of  the  tithe  of 
mankind  I  and  below,  an  "inescapable 
and  inexorable-^hell,  expanding  its  le- 
viathan jaws  for  the  vast  residue  of 
mortals  !  !  !  " — 0  doctrine  !  comfortable 
and  healing  to  the  weary,  wounded 
soul  of  man  !  Ye  sons  and  daughters 
of  affliction,  yepauvres  miser aMes,  to 
whom  day  brings  no  pleasure,  and 
night  yields  no  rest,  be  comforted  ! 
"'Tis  but  one  to  nineteen  hundred 
thousand  that  your  situation  will  mend 
in  this  world;"  so,  alas,  the  experience 
of  the  poor  and  the  needy  too  often  sf- 
firms;  and  'tis  nineteen  hundred  thou- 
sand to  one,  by  the  dog-mas  of , 

that  you  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  illiberalise 
the  heart?  They  are  orderly;  they 
may  be  just;  nay,  I  have  known  them 
merciful;  but  still  your  children  of 
sanctity  move  among  their  fellow- 
creatures  with  a  nostril-snuffing  pu- 
trescence, and  a  foot-spurning  filth,  in 
short,  with  a  conceited  dignity  that 
your  titled  .  .  ,  .  .or  any  other 
of  your  Scottish  lordlings  of  seven  cen- 
turies' standing  display,  when  they  ac- 
cidentally mix  among  the"  many -apron- 
ed, sons  of  mechanical  life.  1  remem- 
ber, in  my  ploughboy  days,  I  could  not 


GENERAL  CORRBSPONDENCE. 


481 


conceiye  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  g<my  woman  may  be  a !  — 

■But  hold — Here's  t'ye  again — this  rum 
is  generous  Antigua,  so  a  very  uniit 
menstruum  for  scandal. 
'  Apropos,  how  do  you  like,  I  mean 
v'eally  like,  the  married  life  ?  Ah,  my 
friend  !  matrimony  is  qiiite  a  different 
thing  from  what  your  lovesick  youths 
and  sighing  girls  talie  it  to  be  !  But 
marriage,  we  are  told,  is  appointed  by 
God,  and  I  shall  never  quarrel  with 
any  of  his  '  institutions.  1  am  a  1ms- 
band  of  older  standing  than  you,  and 
shall  give  you  my  ideas  of  the  conju- 
gal state  (ere  ^a««a«</  you  know.  I  am 
no.  Latinist,  is  not  conjugal  derived 
iiora  jugttm,  ayolte?)  Well  then,  the 
scale  of  good  wifeship  I  divide  into  ten 
parts. — Goodnature,  four;  Good  Sense, 
two;  Wit,  one;  Personal  Charms, 
viz. ,  a  sweet  face,  eloquent  eyes,  fine 
limbs,  graceful  carriage,  (I  would 
add  a  fine  waist  too,  but  that  is  so  soon 
spoilt,  you  know,)  all  these  one:  as 
for  the  other  qualities  belonging  to,  or 
attending  on  a  wife,  such  as  fortune, 
connexion,  education,  (I  mean  educa- 
tion extraordinary,)  family  blood,  &c., 
divide  the  two  remaining  degrees 
among  them  as  you  please;  only  re- 
member that  all  these  minor  proper- 
ties must  be  expressed  hj  fractions, 
for  there  is  not  any  one  of  them  in 
the  aforesaid  scale,  entitled  to  the  dig- 
nity of  an  integer. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  fancies  and 
reveries — how  I  lately  met  with  Miss 
Lesley  Baillie,  the  most  beautiful,  ele- 
gant woman  in  the  world- — how  I 
accompanied  her  and  her  father's  fam  ■ 
ily  fifteen  miles  on  their  journey,  out 
of  pure  devotion,  to  admire  the  loveli- 
ness of  the  works  of  God  in  such  an 
unequalled  display  of  them — how  in 
galloping  home  at  niglit,  I  made  a  bal- 
lad on  her,  of  which  these  two  stanzas 
!  a  part — 

•-"Thou,  bonnie  Lesley,art  a  queen. 

Thy  subjects  we  before  thee  ; 

Thou,  bonnie  Lesley,  art  divine, 

The  hearts  o'  men"  adore  thee. 


The  very  Dtil  he  couldna  scathe 
Whatever  wad  belang  thee  ! 
He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie -face, 
And  say,  '  I  canna  wrang^  thee.'  " 

—behold,  all  these  things  are  written 
in  the  chronicles  of  my  imagination, 
and  shall  be  read  by  thee,  my  dear 
friend,  and  by  thy  beloved  spouse,  my 
other  dear  friend,  at  a  more  convenient 
season. 

Now,  to  thee,  and  to  thy  before-de- 
signed 6o«o»i-companion,  be  given  the 
precious  things  brought  forth  by  the 
sun,  and  the  precious  things  brought 
forth  by  the  moon,  and  the  benignest 
influences  of  the  stars,  and  the  living 
streams  which  flow  from  the  fountains 
of  life,  and  by  the  tree  of  life,  for  ever 
and  ever  1  Amen  ! 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXXXL 

TO    MRS.    DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  Sept.  24,  1792. 

1  HAVT?  this  moment,  my  dear  mad- 
am, yours  of  the  33d.  All  your  other 
kind  reproaches,  your  news,  &c. ,  are 
out  of  my  head  when  I  read  and  think 
on  Mrs.  Henri's  situation.  Good  God  ! 
a  heart- wounded  helpless  young  wo- 
man—rin  a  strange,  foreign  land,  and 
that  land  convulsed  with  every  horror 
that  can  harrow  the  human  feelings — 
sick — looking,  longing  for  a  comforter, 
but  finding  hoiie — a  mother's  feelings, 
too:  but.it  is  too  much:  lie  who 
wounded  (He  only  can)  may  He  heal ! 

I  wish  the  farmer  great  joy  of  his 
new  acquisition  to  his  family.  — —  ! 
I  cannot  say  that  1  give  him  joy  of  his 
life  as  a  farmer.  'Tis,  as  a  farmer 
paying  a  deaT,  unconscionable  rent,  a 
cursed  life  !  As  to  a  laird  farming  his 
own  property:  sowing  his  own  corn  in 
hope;  and  reaping  it,  in  spite  of  brit; 
tie  weather,  in  gladness;  knowing 
that  none  can  say  unto  him,  "  What 
dost  thou?" — fattening  his  herds; 
shearing  his  flocks;  rejoicing  at  Christ' 
mas;  and  begetting  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, until  he  be  the  venerated,  gray- 
haired  leader  of  a  little  tribe — 'tis  a 


4S3 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


heavenly  life  I  but  devil  take  tlie  life 
of  reaping  the  fruits  that  another 
jtniist  eat. 

,  Well,  your  kind  wishes  will  he 
gratified,  as  to  seeing  me  when  I 
make  my  Ayrshire  visit.  I  cannot 
leave  Mrs.  B.  \mtil  her .  nine  months' 
race  is  run,  which  may  perhaps  be  in 
three  or  four  weeks.  She,  too,  seems 
determined  to  make  me  the  patriarchal 
leader  of  a  band.  However,  if  Heaven 
will  be  so  obliging  as  to  let  me  have 
them  in  the  proportion  of  three  boys 
to  one  girl,  I  shall  be  so  much  the 
more  pleased.  I  hope,  if  I  am  spared 
with  them,  to  show  a  set  of  boys  that 
will  do  honour  to  my  cares  and  name; 
but  I  am  not  equal  to  the  task  of  rear- 
ing; girls.  Besides  I  am  too  poor;  a 
girl  should  always  have  a  fortune! 
Apropos,  your  little  godson  is  thriving 
charmingly,  but  is  a  very  devil.  He, 
though  two  years  younger,  has  com- 
pletely mastered  his  brother.  Bobert 
is  indeed  the  mildest,  gentlest  creature 
I  ever  saw.  He  has  a  most  surprising 
memory,  and  is  quite  the  pride  of  his 
schoolmaster. 

You  know  how  readily  we  get  into 
prattle  upon  a,  subject  dear  to  our 
heart — you  can  excuse  it.  God  bless 
you  and  yours  I 

K.  B. 


No.  ccxxxn. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

SUPPOSED    TO     HAVE      BEEN     WRITTEN      ON     THE 
DEATH    OF  MRf.    HENRI,   HER  DAUGHTER.* 

Dumfries,  Sept.  1792. 

1  HAD  been  from  home,  and  did  not 
receive  your  letter  until  my  return  the 
other  day. — What  shall  -I  say  to  com- 
fort you,  ray  much-valued,  much-af- 
flicted friend  !  I  can  but  grieve  with 
you ;  consolation  I  have  none  to  offer, 
except  that  which  religion  holds  out 
to  the  children  of  affliction — children 
of  affliction  ! — ^how  just  the   expres- 

*  Mrs.  Henri,,  daughter  of  Mrs,  Dunlop, 
died  at  Muges^  near  Aiguillon^  September 
i5tli,  1792.  The  above  letter  is  one  of  condo- 
'lence  on  this  melancholy  event. 


sion  I  and,  like  every  other  family, 
they  have  matters  among  them  which 
they  hear,  see,  and  feel  in  a  serious, 
all-important  manner,  of  which  the 
world  has  not,  nor  cares  to  have,  any 
idea.  The  world  looks  indifferently 
on,  makes  the  passing  remark,  and 
proceeds  to  the  next  novel  occurrence. 

Alas,  madam  !  who  would  wish  for 
many  years  ?  What  is  it  but  to  drag 
existence  until  our  joys  gradually  ex- 
pire, and  leave  us  in  a  night  of  misery 
— like  the  gloom  which  blots  out  the 
stars  one  by  one,  from  the  face  of 
night,  and  leaves  us,  without  a  ray  of 
comfort,  in  the  howling  waste. 

I  am  interrupted  and  must  leave 
off.  You  shall  soon  hear  from  ma 
again. 

E.  B. 


No.  CCXXXIII. 

TO  CAPTAIN  JOHNSTON,  EDITOR 

OF  THE  EDINBURaH  QAZET-^ 

TEEB* 

Dumfries,  Nov.  13, 1792. 

SiR,^I  have  just  read  your  pro- 
spectus of  the  Edinburgh  Gazetteer.  If 
you  go  on  in  your  paper  with  the  sam6 
spirit,  it  will,  beyond  all  comparison," 
be  the  first  composition  of  the  kind, in 
Europe.  I  beg  leave  to  insert  my  name 
as  a  subscriber,  and,  if  you  have  al-. 
ready  published  any  papers,  pleasS 
send  me  them  from  the  beginning; 
Point  out  your  own  way  of  settling 
payments  in  this  place,  or  I  shall  set- 
tle with  you.  through  the  medium  of 
my  friend,  Peter  Hill,  bookseller,  in 
Edinburgh. 

Go  on,  sir  !  Lay  bare  with  undaunti 
ed  heart  and  steady  hand,  that  horrid 
mass  of  corruption  called  politics  and 
state-craft. — Dare  to  draw  in  their  na- 
tive colours  these — 

"  Calm,  thinking  villains  whom  no  faith  caii 
fix," — 


*  Captain  Johnston  originated,  and  for  some 
time  conducted  the  Gazetteer  alluded  to 
above;  but  having,  in  the  spring  of  1793, 
ottended  the  Government,  he  was  seized  and 
imprisoned,  and  the  paper  was  shortlv  after- 
wards discontinued. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


183 


whatever  be  the  shibholeth  of  their 
pretendfed  pferty. 

The  address  to  me  at  Dumfries  will 
find,  sir,  your  very  humble  servant, 
EOBBKT  Burns. 


No.  CCXXXIV. 
TO    MRS.     DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  Dec.  6, 1792. 

I  SHALL  be  in  Ayrshire,  I  think, 
next  week;  and,  if  at  all  possible,  I 
shall  certainly,  my  much-esteemed 
friend,  have  the  pleasure  of  visiting 
at  Dunlop  House. 

Alas,  madam  I  how  seldom  do  we 
meet  in  this  world,  that  we  have  rea- 
son to  congratulate  ourselves  on  acces- 
sions of  happiness  I  I  have  not  passed 
half  the  ordinary  term  of  an  old  man's 
life,  and  yet  I  scarcely  look  over  the 
obituary  of  a  newspaper  that  I  do  -not 
see  some  names  that  I  have  known, 
and  which  I  and  other  acquaintances 
little  thought  to  meet  with  there  so 
sqon.  Every  other  instance  of  the 
mortality  of  our  kind  makes  uS  cast  an 
anxious  look  into  the  dreadful  abyss  of 
uncertainty,  and  shudder  with  appre- 
hension for  our  own  fate. — But  of  how 
different  an  importance  are  the  lives 
of  different  individuals  1  Nay^  of  what 
importance  is  one  period  of  the  same 
IHe,  more  than  another  !  A  few  years 
ago,  I  could  have  laid  down  in  the 
dust,  "careless  of  the  voice  of  the 
morning;"  and  now  not  a  few,  and 
tljesemost  helpless  individuals,  would, 
on  losing  me  and  my  exertions,  lose 
bpth  their ."  staff  and  shield."  By  the 
way,  these  helpless  ones  have  lately 
got  an  addition;  Mrs.  B.  having  given 
me  a  fine  girl  since  I  wrote  you.  There 
is  a  charming  passage  in  Thomson's 
"  Edward  and  Eleanora:" 

"The  valiant,  in /timsel/,yh^t  can  he  suffer? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  ? "  &c. 

As  I  am  got  in  the  way  of  quota- 
tions, I  shall  give  you  another  from 
tbe  same  piece,  peculiarly,  alas !  too 
peculiarly  apposite,  my  dear  madam, 
to  your  present  frame  of  mind  : 


*'  Who  so  unworthy  but  may  proudly  deck 

him 
With  his  fair-weather  virtue,  that  exults 
Glad  o'er  the  summer  main  ?    the  tempest 
.  comes,  [helm 

The  rough  winds  rage  aloud  ;  when  from  the 
This  virtue  shrmks,  and  in  a  corner  lies 
Lamenting — Heavens  !  if  privileged  from  trial 
How  cheap  a  thing  were  virtue  ! 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard 
you  mention  Thomson's  dramas.  I 
pick  up  favourite  quotations,  and 
store  them  in  my  mind  as  ready  ar- 
mour, offensive  or  defensive,  amid  the 
struggle  of  this  turbulent  existence. 
Of  these  is  one,  a  very  favourite  one, 
from  his  "Alfred:" 

"  Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deeds 

And  oflfices  of  life  ;  to  life  itself, 

With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sirigpse.'-^ 

Probably  I  have  quoted  some  of 
these  to  you  formerly,  as  indeed', 
when  I  write  from  the  heart,  I  am  apt 
to  be  guilty  of  suah  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  ex^ 
tremely  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  you  before,  but  1  cannot  resist 
the  temptation.  The  subject  is  re- 
ligion— speaking  of  its  importance  to 
mankind,  the  author  says, 

'*  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morn- 
ing bright." 

I  see  you  are  in  for  double  postage, 
so  I  shall  e'en  scribble  out  t'other 
sheet.  We,  in  this  country  here, 
have  many  alarms  of  the  reforming, 
or  rather  the  republican,  spirit  of  your 
part  of  the  kingdom.  Indeed,  we  are 
a  good  deal  in  commotion  ourselves. 
For  me,  I  am  a  placeman,  you  know; 
a  very  humble  one  indeed.  Heaven 
knows,  but  still  so  much  as  to  gag  me. 
What  my  private  sentiments  are,  you 
will  find  out  without  an  interpreter. 


I  have  taken  up  the  subject,  and  the 
other  day,  for  a  pretty  actress'  benefit 
night,  I  wrote  an  address,  which  I  will 


484 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


give  on  the  otlier  page,  called  "  The 
Rights  of  Woman:" 

"While    Europe's   eye  is   fix'd   on   mighty 
things." 

(See  p.  139.) 

I  shall  have  the  honour  of  receiving 
your  criticisms  in  person  at  Dunlop. 
H.  R. 


No.  CCXXXV. 

TO  R.  GRAHAM,   ESQ.,  FINTRAY. 
December  1792. 

SiK, — 1  have  been  surprised,  con- 
founded, and  distracted  by  Mr.  Mit- 
chell, the  collector,  telling  me  that  he 
has  received  an  order  from  your 
Board  to  inquire  into  my  political  con- 
duct, and  blaming  me  as  a  person  dis- 
affected to  government. 

Sir,  you  are  a  husband  —  and  a 
father. — Ton  know  wliat  you  would 
leel  to  see  the "  much-loved  wife  of 
your  bosom,  and  your  helpless,  prat- 
tling little  ones  turned  adrift  into  the 
world,  degraded  and  disgraced  from  a 
situation  in  which  they  had  been  re- 
spectable and  respected,  and  left  al- 
most without  the  necessary  support  of 
a  miserable  exi.stence.  Alas,  sir  !  must 
1  think  tliat  such,  soon,  will  be  my 
lot  1  and  from  the  damned,  dark  insin- 
uations of  hellish,  groundless  envy 
too  !  I  believe,  sir,  I  may  aver  it,  and 
in  the  sight  of  Omnisciefice,  that  I 
would  not  tell  a  deliberate  falsehood, 
no,  not  though  even  worse  horrors,  if 
worse  can  be,  than  those  I  have  men- 
tioned, hung  over  my  head;  and  I  say 
that  the  allegation,  whatever  villain 
has  made  it,  is  a  lie  !  To  the  British 
Constitution,  on  revolution  principles, 
next  after  my  God,  I  am  most  devout- 
ly attached;  you,  sir,  have  been  much 
and  generously  my  frined.  —  Heaven 
knows  how  warmly  I  have  felt  the  ob- 
ligation, and  how  gratefully  I  have 
thanked  you.  Fortune,  sir,  has  made 
you  powerful,  and  me  impotent;  has 
given  you  patronage,  and  me  depend- 
ence.— I'would  not'  for  my  single  self, 
call  on  your  humanity;  were  such  my 
insular,  unconnected  situation,  I  would 
despise  the  tear  that  now  swells  in  my 


eye I  could  brave  misfortune,  I  could 

face  ruin;  for  at  the  worst,  "Death's 
thousand  doors  stand  open;"  but  good 
God  !  the  tender  concerns  that  I  have 
mentioned,  the  claims  and  ties  that  I 
see  at  this  moment,  and  feel  around 
me,  how  they  unnerve  courage,  and 
wither  resolution  !  To  your  patronage, 
as  a  man  of  some  genius,  you  have  al- 
lowed me  a  claim;  and  your  esteem,  as 
an  honest  man,  I  know  is  my  due.  To 
these,  sir,  permit  me  to  appeal;  by 
these  may  I  adjure  you  to  save  me 
from  that  misery  which  threatens  to 
overwhelm  me,  and  wjiich,  with  my 
latest  breath  I  will  say  it,  I  have  not 
deserved. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXXXVI. 
TO    MRS.     DUNLOP. 

DUiMFRIES,  Dec.  31,  1792. 

Dear  m.\dam, — A  hurry  of  busi- 
ness, thrown  in  heaps  by  my  absence, 
has  until  now  prevented  my  returning 
my  grateful  acknowledgments  to  the 
good  family  of  Dunlop,  and  you  in  par- 
ticular for  that  hospitable  kindness 
which  rendered  the  four  days  I  spent 
under  that  genial  roof,  four  of  the 
pleasantest  I  ever  enjoyed. — Alas,  my 
dearest  friend !  how  few  and  fleeting 
are  those  things  we  call  pleasures  !  on 
my  road  to  Ayrshire,  I  spent  a  night 
with  a  friend  whom  I  much  valued;  a 
man  whose  days  promised  to  be  many; 
and  on  Saturday  last  we  laid  him  in 
the  dust  ! 

Jan.  2, 1793. 

I  HAVE  just  received  yours  of  the 
30th,  and  feel  much  for  your  situation. 
However,  I  heartily  rejoice  in  youi: 
prospect  of  recovery  from  that  vile 
jaundice.  As  to  myself,  I  am  better, 
though  not  quite  free  of  my  com- 
plaint.— Yon  must  not  think,  as  yoii 
seem  to  insinuate,  that  in  my  way  of 
life  I  want  exercise.  Of  that  I  have 
enough;  but  occasional  hard  drinking 
is  the  devil  to  me.  Against  this  I  have 
.again  and  again  bent  my  resolution, 
and  have  greatly  succeeded.  Taverns 
1  have  totally  abandoned;  it  is  the  pri- 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


483 


vate  parties  in  the  family  way,  among 
tlie  liard  drinldng  gentlemen  of  this 
country,  that  do  me  the  mischief — but 
even  this,  I  have  more  than  half  given 
over.* 

Mr.  Corbet  can  be  of  little  service  to 
me  at  present;  at  least,  I  should  be 
gliy  of  applying.  I  cannot  possibly  be 
Settled  as  a  supervisor  for  several 
years.  I  must  wait  the  rotation  of  the 
list,  and  there  are  twenty  names  be- 
fore .mine. — I  might  indeed  get  a  job 
of  officiating,  wbere  a  settled  super- 
visor was  ill,  or  aged;  but  that  hauls 
me  from  my  family,  as  1  could  not  re- 
move them  on  such  an  uncertainty. 
Besides,  some  envious,  malicious  devil 
has  raised  a  little  demur  on  my  polit- 
ical principles,  and  I  wish  to  let  that 
matter  settle  before  I  offer  myself  too 
much  in  the  eye  of  my  supervisors.  I 
have  set,  henceforth,  a  seal  on  my 
lips,  as  to  these' unlucky  politics;  but 
to  you  I  must  breath  my  sentiments. 


*"The  following -extract,"  says  Cromek, 
"from  a  letter  Addressed  by  Robert  Bloom- 
field  to.lhe  Earl  of  Buchan,  contains  so  inter- 
esting an  exhibition  of  the  modesty  inherent 
in  real  worth,  and  so  philosophical,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  poetical  an  estimate  of  the  differ- 
ent characters  and  destinies  of  Burns  and  its 
author,  that  I  should  esteem  myself  culpable 
were  I  to  withhold  it  from  the  public  view. 
'  '•  *  The  illustrious  soul  that  has  left  amongst 
us  the  name  of  Burns,  has  often  been  lowered 
down  to  a  comparison  with  me  ;  but  the  com- 
parison exists  more  in  circumstances  than  in 
essetitials.  -That  man  stood  up  with  the 
stamp  of  superior  intellect  on  his  brow ;  a 
visible  greatness;    and    great   and  patriotic 

.'silbjects  would  only  have  called  into  action 
tlte  powers  of  his  mind,  which  lay  inactive, 

■Jyhile  he  played  calmly  and  exquisitely  the 
pastoral  pipe. 

"  *  The  letters  to  which  I  have  alluded  in  my 
preface  to  the  "  Rural  Tales  "  were  friendly 
warnings,  pointed  with  immediate  reference 
to  the  fate  of  that  extraordinary  man.  "  Re- 
merhber  Burns  !"  has  been  the  watchword  of 
my  friends.  ■  I  do  remember  Burns:  but  I  tijji 
not  Burns  '  neither  have  I  his  fire  to  fan  or  to 
quench  ;  nor  his  passions  to  control !  Where 
t^en  is  my  merit  if  I  make  a  peaceful  voyage 
on  a  smooth  sea,  and  with  no  mutiny  on 
board?  To  a  lady  (I  have  it  from  herself). 
who  remonstrated  with  him  on  his  danger 
from  drink,  and  the  pursuits  of  some  of  his 
Associates,  he  replied,  "  Madame,  they  would 
not  thank  me  for  myxompany,  if  I  did  not 
drink  with  them. — I  must  give  them  a  slice  of 
niy,c;9::stitution."  How  much  to  be  regretted 
that  he  did  not  give  them  thinner  slices  of  his 

"Constitution,    that    it     might    have     lasted 
longer!'" 


In  this,  as  in  everything  else.  I  shall 
show  the  undisguised  emotions  of  my 
soul.  War  I  deprecate:  misery  and 
ruin  to  thousands  are  in  the  blast  that 
announces  the  destructive  demon. 

R.   B. 


No.  CCXXXVII. 

TO    THE    SAME. 

Jan.  s,  1793. 
You  see  my  hurried  life,  madam;  I 
can  only  command  starts  of  time;  how- 
ever, I  am  glad  of  one  thing;  since  I 
finished  the  other  sheet,  the  political 
blast  that  threatened  my  welfare  is, 
overblown.  I  have  corresponded  with 
Commissioner  Graham,  for  the  Board 
had  made  me  the  subject  of  their  ani- 
madversions; and  now  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  informing  you  that  all  is 
set  to  rights  in  that  quarter.  Now  as 
to  these  informers,  may  the  devil  be 

let  loose  to but,  hold  1 

I  was  praying  most  fervently  in  my 
last  siieet,  and  I  must  not  so  soon  fall 
a  swearing  in  this.  • 

Alas  !  how  little  do  the  wantonly  or 
idly  oflBcious  think  what  mischief  they 
do  by  their  malicious  insinuations,  in-, 
direct  impertinence,  or  thoughtless, 
blabbings  !  What  a  difference  there 
is  in  intrinsic  worth,  candour,  benevo- 
lence, generosity,  kindness, — in  all  the 
charities  and  all  the  virtues — between 
one  class  of  huiuan  beings  and  another.- 
For  instance,  the  amiable  circle  I  so 
lately  mixed  with  in  the  hospitable 
hall  of  Dunlop,  their  generous  hearts 
—  their  uncontaminated  dignified 
minds —  their  informed  and  polished 

understandings what     a.    contrast, 

when  compared —  if  such  comparing 
were  not  downright  sacrilege —  with 
the  soul  of  the  miscreant  who  can  de- 
liberately plot  the  destruction  of  an 
honest  man  that  never  offended  him, 
and  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction  see  the 
unfortunate  being,  his  faithful  wife, 
and'  prattling'  innocents,  turned  Over 
to  beggary  and  ruin  ! 

Your  citp,  my  dear  madam,  arrived 
safe.  I  had  two  worthy  fellows  din. 
ing  with  me  the  other  day,  when  I. 


488 


-  BURNS'  WORKS. 


with  great  formality  j  produced  my 
wliigraaleerie  cup,  and  told  them  that 
it  had  been  a  family-piece  among  the 
descendeuts  of  William  Wallace. 
This  roused  such  an  enthusiasm  that 
they  insisted  on  bumpering  the  punch 
round  in  it,  and,  by  and  by,  never  did 
your  great  ancestor  lay  a  Suthron 
more  completely  to  rest  than  for  a 
.time  did  your  cup  my  two  friends. 
Apropos,  this  is  the  season  of  wishing. 
May  God  bless  you,  my  dear  friend, 
and  bless  me,  the  humblest  and  sin- 
cerest  of  your  friends,  by  granting  you 
yet  many  returns  of  the  season  !  May 
all  good  things  attend  you  and  yours 
wherever  they  are  scattered  over  the 
earth ! 

R.  B. 


No.   CCXXXVIII. 

TO    MR.    CUNNINGHAM. 

March  3,  1793. 

Since  I  wrote  to  you  the  la.st  lugu- 
brious sheet,  I  have  not  had  time  to 
write  farther.  When  I  say  that  I  had 
not  tiine,  that  as  usual  means  that  the 
three  demons,  indolence,  business, 
and  ennui,  have  so  completely  shared 
my  hours  among  them  as  not  to  leave 
me  a  five  minutes'  fragment  to  take 
up  a  pen  in. 

Thank  heaven,  I  feel  my  spirits 
buoying  upwards  with  the  renovating 
year.  Now  I  shall  in  good  earnest 
take  up  Thomson's  songs.  1  daresay 
he  thinks  I  have  used  him  unkindly, 
and,  I  must  own,  with  too  much  ap- 
pearance of  truth.  Apropos,  do  you 
know  the  much  admired  old  Highland 
air  called  "The  Sutor's  Dochter  ?"  It 
is  a  first-rate  favourite  of  mine,  and  I 
have  written  what  I  reckon  one  of  my 
best  songs  to  it.  I  will  send  it  to  you, 
as  it  was  sung  with  great  applause  in 
some  fashionable  circles  by  Major 
Robertson,  of  Lude,  who  was  here 
with  his  corps. 

There  is  one  commission  that  I  must 
trouble  you  with.  I  lately  lost  a  val- 
uable seal,  a  present  from  a  departed 
friend,  which  vexes  me  much. 


I  have  gotten  one  of  your  Highland 
pebbles,  which  I  fancy  would  make  a 
very  decent  one;  and  I  want  to  cut 
my  armorial  bearing  on  it;  will  you  be 
so  obliging  as  inquire  what  will  be  the 
expense  of  such  a  business  ?  I  do  not 
know  that  my  name  is  matriculated^ 
as  the  heralds  call  it,  at  all ;  but  I 
have  invented  arms  for  myself,  so 
you  know  I  shall  be  chief  of  the 
name;  and,  by  courtesy  of  Scotland, 
will  likewise  be  entitled  to  supporters. 
These,  however,  I  do  not  intend  hav~ 
ing  on  my  seal.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  herald, 
and  shall  give  you,  secundum,  artem, 
my  arms.  On  a  field,  azure,  a  holly 
bush,  seeded,  proper,  in  base;  a  shep- 
herd's pipe  and  crook,  saltier-wise, 
also  proper,  in  chief.  On  a  wreath  of 
the  colours,  a  wood-lark  perching  on  a 
sprig  df  bay-tree,  proper,  for  crest. 
Two  mottoes;  round  the  top  of  the 
crest.  Wood  notes  mid;  at  the  bottom 
of  the  shield,  in  the  usual  place.  Bet- 
ter a  wee  hush  t/ian  nae  beild.*  By 
the  shepherd's  pipe  and  crook  I  do  not 
mean  the  nonsense  of  painters  of  Ar- 
cadia, but  a  Stoch  and  Horn,  and  a 
Clui,  such  as  you  see  at  the  head  of 
Allan  Ramsay,  in  Allan's  quarto  edi- 
tion of  the  "  Gentle  Shepherd."  By 
the  by,  do  you  know  Allan  ?  He  must 
be  a  man  of  very  great  genius — Why 
is  he  not  more  known? — Has  he  no 
patrons?  or  do  " Poverty's  cold  wind 
and  crushing  rain  beat  keen  and 
heavy"  on  him  ?  I  once,  and  but 
once,  got  a  glance  of  that  noble  edi- 
tion of  the  noblest  pastoral  in  the 
world;  and  dear  as  it  was,  I  mean, 
dear  as  to  my  pocket,  I  would  have 
bought  it;  but  I  was  told  that  it  was 
printed  and  engraved  for  subscribers 
only.  He  is  the  only  artist  who  has 
his  genuine  pastoral  costume.  What, 
my  dear  Cunningham,  is  there  in 
riches,  that  they  narrow  and  harden 
the  heart  so  ?  I  think  that,  were  I  as 
rich  as  the  sun,  I  should  be  as  gener- 
ous as  the  day,  but  as  I  have  no  rea 
son  to  imagine  my  soul  a  nobler  one 


*  The  seal  with  the  anns  which  the  inge- 
nius  poet  invented  was  carefully,  cut  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  used  by  him  for  the  i:«mainder',il'f 
his  life.  ■  -  "  ^ 


GENEEiaj  CORRESPONDENCE. 


487 


titan  any  other  man's,  I  must  conclude 
that  wealth  Imparts  a  bird-lime  qual- 
ity 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  nahob 
or  government  contractor  possesses, 
and  why  they  do  not  form  a  mutual 
league.  Let  wealth  shelter  and  cher- 
ish unprotected  merit,  and  the  grati- 
tude and  celebrity  of  that  merit  will 
richly  repay  it. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXXXIX. 

TO  MISS  BENSON,  AFTERWARDS 
MRS.  BASIL  MONTAGU. 

Dumfries,  March  21, 1793. 

Madam, — Among  many  things  for 
which  I  envy  those  bale,  long-lived 
old  fellows  before  the  flood,  is  this 
in  pa,rticular,  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  fleeting  existence,  when  you 
now  and  then,  in  the  chapter  of  acci^ 
dents,  meet  an  individual  whose  ac- 
quaintance is  a  real  acquisition,  there 
are  all  the  probabilities  against  you 
that  you  shall  never  meet  with  that 
valued  character  more.  On  the  other 
hand,  brief  as  this  miserable  being  is, 
it  is  none  of  the  least  of  the  miseries 
belonging  to  it,  that  if  there  is  any 
miscreant  whom  you  liate,  or  creature 
whom  you  despise,  the  ill-run  of  the 
chances  shall  be  so  against  you  that, 
in  the  overtakings,  turnings,  and  jost- 
lings  of  life,  pop,  at  some  unlucky 
corner,  eternally  comes  the  wretch  upon 
you,  and  vrill  not  allow  your  indignation 
qr  contempt  a  moment's  repose.  As  I  am 
a  sturdy  believer  in  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness, I  take  these  to  be  the  doings  of 
that  old  author  of  mischief,  the  devil. 
It  is  well-known  that  he  has  some 
kind  of  short-hand  way  of  taking  down 
our  thoughts,  and  I  make  no  doubt 
that  he  is  perfectly  acquainted  with 


my  sentiments  respecting  Miss  Benson: 
how  much  I  admired  her  abilities  and 
valued  her  worth,  and  how  very  fortu- 
nate I  thought  myself  in  her  acquaint- 
ance. For  this  last  reason,  my  dear 
madam,  I  must  entertain  no  hopes  of 
the  very  great  pleasure  of  meeting 
with  you  again." 

Miss. Hamilton  tells  me  that  she  is 
sending  a  packet  to  you,  and  \l  beg 
leave  to  send  you.  the  enclosed  sonnet, 
though,  to  tell  you  the  real  truth,  the 
sonnet  is  a  mere  pretence,  that  I  may 
have  the  opportunity  of  declaring  with 
how  much  respectful  esteem,  1  have 
the  honour  to  be,  &c,, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXL. 

TO   PATRICK    MILLER,    ESQ.   OP 
DAJ;SWINTON. 

Dumfries,  April  1793. 

SiK, — ^My  poems  having  just  come 
out  in  another  edition — will  you  do  me 
the  honour  to  accept  of  a  copy  ?  A  mark 
of  my  gratitude  to  you,  as,  a  gentleman 
to  whose  goodness  I  have  been  much 
indebted;  of  my  respect  for  you,  as  a 
patriot  who,  in  a  venal,  sliding  age, 
stands  forth  the  champion  of  the  lib- 
erties of  my  country;  and  of  piy  ven- 
eration for  you,  as  a  man  whose  be- 
nevolence of  heart  does  honour  to 
human  nature. 

There  was  a  time,  sir,  when  I  was 
your  dependant:  this  language  then 
would  have  been  like  the  vile  incense 
of  flattery — I  could  not  have  used  it.^ 
Now  that  connexion  is  at  an  end,  do 
me  the  honour  to  accept  of  this  Iwnest 
tribute  of  respect  from,  sir,  your  much- 
indebted  humble  servant, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXLI. 

TO    JOHN     FRANCIS     ERSKINE,. 
ESQ.,  OF  MAR. 

Dumfries,  April  13, 1793. 

.   SlB,^-Degenerate  as  human  nature 
is  said  to  bftr-and,  in  many  instances. 


EUENS'  WORKS. 


■wortliless  and  unprincipled  it  is — still 
there  are  briglit  examples  to  the  con- 
trary :  examples  that,  even  in  the  eyes 
of  superior  beings,  must  shed  a  lustre 
on  the  name  of  man. 

Such  an  example  have  I  now  before 
me,  when  you,  sir,  cqjne  forward  to 
patronize  and  befriend  a  distant  ob- 
scure stranger,  merely  because  poverty 
had  made  him  helpless,  and  his  British 
hardihood  of  mind  had  provoked  the 
arbitrary  wantonness  of  power.  My 
much  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Riddel  of 
Glenriddel,  has  just  read  me  a  para- 
graph, of  a  letter  he  had  from  you. 
Accept,  sir,  of  the  silent  throb  of  grat- 
itude; for  words  would  but  mock  the 
emotions  of  my  soul. 

You  have  been  misinformed  as  to 
my  final  dismission  from  the  Excise ;  I 
am  still  in  the  service; — Indeed,  but 
for  the  exertions  of  a  gentleman  who 
must  be  known  to  you,  Mr.  Graham  of 
Fintray — a  gentleman  who  has  ever 
been  my  warm  and  generous  friend — I 
l^ad,  without  so  much  as  a  hearing, 
or  the  sliglitest  previous  intimation, 
been  turned  adrift,  with  my  helpless 
family,  to  all  the  horrors  of  want. — 
Had  I  had  any  other  resource,  proba- 
bly I  might  have  saved  t^em  the 
trouble  of  a  dismission;  but  the  little 
money  I  gained  by  my  publication  is 
almost  every  guinea  embarked,  lo  save 
from  ruin  an  only  brother,  who,  though 
one  of  the  worthiest,  is  by  no  means 
one  of  the  most  fortunate  of  men. 

In  my  defence  to  their  accusations,  I 
said  tliat  whatever  might  be  my  sen- 
timents of  republics,  ancient  or  mod- 
em, as  to  Britain,  I  abjure  the  idea: 
^-That  a.  constitdtion,  which,  in  its 
original  principles,  experience  had 
proved  to  be  in  every  way  fitted  for 
our  happiness  in  society,  it  would  be 
insanity  to  sacriiice  to  an  untried  vis- 
ionary theory: — That,  in  consideration 
of  my  being  situated  in  a  department, 
however  humble,  immediately  in  the 
hands  of  people  in  power,  I  had  for- 
borne taking  any  active  part,  either 
personally,  or  as  an  author,  in  the 
present  business  of  Rbfoem.  But 
that,  where  I  must  declare  my  senti- 
ments, I  wQuld  say  there  existed  a  sys- 


tem of  corruption  between  the  execu- 
tive power  and  the  representative  part 
of  the  legislature,  which  boded  no 
good  to  our  glorious  CONSTITUTIOST  ; 
and  which  every  patriotic  Briton  must 
wish  to  see  amended.— Some  such  sen- 
timents as  these,  I  stated  in  a  letter  to 
my  generous  patron  Mr.  Graham, 
whicu  he  laid  before  the  Board  at 
large;  w^here,  it  seems,  iny  last  remark, 
gave  great  offence;  and  one  of  our 
supervisors-general,  a  Mr.  Corbet,  was 
instructed  to  inquire  on  the  spot,  and- 
to  document  me — "that  my  business 
was  to  act,  not  to  tliinh;  and  that, 
whatever  might  be  men  or  measures, 
it  was  for  mc  to  be  silent  and  obedient." 
Mr.  Corbet  was  likewise  my  steady; 
friend;  so  between  Mr.  Graham  and 
him,  1  have  been  partly  forgiven;  only 
I  understand  "that  all  hopes  of  my  get- 
ting officially  forward  are  blasted. 

Now,  sir,  to  the  business  in  which' 
I  would  more  immediately  interest 
you.  The  partiality  of  my  COUKTKY- 
MEN  has  brought  me  forward  as  a 
man  of  genius,  and  has  given  me 
a  character  to  support.  In  the 
Poet  I  have  avowed  manly  and 
independent  sentiments,  which  - 1 
trast  will  be  found  in  the  man.  Rea- 
sons of  no  less  weigbt  than  the  sup- 
port of  a  wife  and  family,  have  pointed 
out  as  the  eligible,  smd,  situated  as  I 
was,  the  only  eligible,  line  of  life  for 
me,  my  present  occupation.  Still  my 
honest  fame  is  my  dearest  concern ;! 
and  a  thousand  times  have  I  trembled 
at  the  idea  of  those  degrading  epithets 
that  malice  or  misrepresentation  may 
affix  to  my  name.  I  have  often,  in 
blasted  anticipation,  listened  to  some 
future  hackney  scribbler,  with  the 
heavy  malice  of  savage  stupidity  ex- 
ulting in  his  hireling  paragraphs  — 
"Burns,  notwithstanding  i\ie fanfar- 
onade of  independence  to  be  found  in 
his  works,  and  after  having  been  held 
forth  to  public  view  and  to  public  es- 
timation as  a  man  of  some  genius,  yet, 
quite  destitute  of  resources  within 
himself  to  support  his  borrowed  dig-, 
nity,  he  dwindled  into  a  paltry  excise- 
man, and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his  in-' 
significaat  existence  in  the  meanest  of 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


48^ 


pursuits,  and  among  tlie  vilest  of  man- 
kind." 

•'  In  your  illustrious  hands,  sir,  per- 
Jnlt  mo  to  lodge  my  disavowal  and  de- 
fiance of  tliese  slanderous  falsehoods. 
Burns  was  a  poor  man  from  birth, 
and  an  exciseman  by  necessity:  but — 
I  will  say  it !  the  sterling  of  his  honest 
worth  no  poverty  could  debase,  and 
his  independent  British  mind  oppres- 
sion might  bend,  but  could  not  subdue. 
— Have  not  I,  to  me,  a  more  precious 
stake  in  my  country's  welfare,  than 
the'richest  dukedom  in  it?  I  have  a 
large  family  of  children,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  many  more.  I  have  three 
sons,  who,  I  see  already,  liave  brought 
into  the  world  souls  ill -qualified  to  in- 
habit the  bodies  of  slaves. —  Can  I 
look  tamely  on,  and  see  any  machina- 
tion to  wrest  from  them  the  birthright 
of  my  boys, —  the  little  independent 
BKfTONS  in  whose  veins  runs  my  own 
blood  ?— No  !  I  will  not !  should  my 
heart's  blood  stream  around  my  attempt 
to  defend  it ! 

Does  any  man  tell  m3  that  my  full 
efforts  can  be  of  no  service;  and  that  it 
does  not  belong  to  my  humble  station 
to  meddle  with  the  concern  of  a  na- 
tion? 

I  can  tell  him  that  it  is  on  such  in- 
dividuals as  I  that  a  nation  has  to  rest, 
both  for  the  hand  of  support  and  the 
eye  of  intelUgence.  The  uninformed 
MOB  may  swell  a  nation's  bulk;  and 
the  titled,  tinsel,  courtly  throng  may 
be  its  feathered  ornament;  but  the 
number  of  those  who  are  elevated 
enough,  in  life  to  reason  and  to  reflect, 
yet  low  enough  to  keep  clear  of  the 
venal  contagion  of  a  Court — these  are 
a  nation's  strength ! 

I  know  not  how  to  apologise  for  the 
impertinent  length  of  this  epistle;  but 
one  small  request  I  must  ask  of  you 
further — When  you  have  honoured 
this  letter  with  a  perusal,  please  to 
commit  it  to  the  flames.  Buhns,  in 
whose  behalf  you  have  so  generously 
interested  j-ourself,  I  have  here,  in  his 
native  colours,  drawn  as  he  is:  but 
should  any  of  the  people  in  whose 
hands  is  the  very  bread  he  eats  get 


the  least  knowledge  of  the  picture,  it 
would  ruin  the  poor  saud  for  ever  ! 

My  poems  have  just  come  out  in 
another  edition,  I  beg  leave  to  present 
you  with  a  copy  as  a  small  mark  of 
that  high  esteem  and  ardent  gratitude 
with  which  1  have  the  honour  to  be,, 
sir,  your  deeply-indebted,  and  ever 
devoted  humble  servant, 

R.  B.     ' 


No.  CCXLII. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

April  26th,  1793. 

I  AM  damnably  out  of  humour,  my 
dear  Ainslie,  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  I  take  up  the  pen  to  you:  'tis  the 
nearest  way  (probatum  est)  to  recover 
my  spirits  again. 

I  received  your  last,  and  was  much 
entertained  with  it;  but  I  will  not 
at  this  time,  nor  at  any  other  time, 
answer  it. — Answer  a  letter  I  I  never 
could  answer  a  letter  in  my  life — I 
have  written  many.a  letter  in  return  for 
letters  I  have  received;  but  then — they 
were  original  matter — spurt  away  !  zig 
here;  zag  there;  as  if  the  devil,  that 
my  grannie  (an  old  woman  indeed) 
often  told  me,  rode  on  will-o'-'visp,  or 
in  her  more  classic  phrase,  Spunkie, 
were  looking  over  my  elbow. — Happy 
thought  that  idea  has  engendered  in 
my  head  !  Spunkie — thou  shalt  hence : 
forth  be  my  symbol,  signature,  and 
tutelary  genius  !  Like  thee,  hap-step- 
and-loup,  here-awa-there-awa  higgle- 
ty-pigglety,  pell-mell,  hither- and-yont, 
ram-stam,  happy-go-lucky,  up  tails-a'- 
by-the-light-o'-the-moon — has  been,  is, 
and  shall  be,  my  progress  through  the 
mosses  and  moors  of  this  vile,  bleak, 
barren  wilderness  of  a  life  of  ours. 

Come  then,  my  guardian  spirit  !  like 
thee,  may  I  skip  away,  amusing  myself 
by  and  at  my  own  light !  and  if 
any  opaque-Souled  lubber  of  mankind 
complain  that  my  elfin,  lambent,  glim- 
merous  wanderings  have  misled  his 
stupid  steps  over  precipices,  or  Into 
bogS;  let  the  thick-headed  Blunderbuss 


430 


BURKS'  WORKS. 


recollect  that  lie  is  not  Spunkie:- 
that 

Spunkie's  wanderings  could  not  copied  be : 
Amid  these  perils  none  durst  walk  but  he. 


I  have  no  doubt,  but  scholar  craft 
may  be  cauglit,  as  a  Scotsman 
catclies  the  itch, — by  friction.  How 
else  can  you  account  for  it  that  born 
blocldieads,  by  mere  dint  of  handling 
books,  grow  so  wise  that  even  they 
themselves  are  equally  convinced  of 
and  surprised  at  their  own  parts?  I 
once  carried  this  philosophy  to  that 
degree  that  in  a  knot  of  country-folks 
who  had  a  library  amongst  them,  and 
who,  to  the  honour  of  their  good  sense, 
made  me  factotum  in  the  business; 
one  of  our  members,  a  little,  wise- 
looking,  squat,  upright,  jabbering 
body  of  a  tailor,  I  advised  him,  instead 
of  turning  over  the  leaves,  to  hind  the 
hook  on  his  back. — Johnnie  took  the 
hint;  and,  as  our  meetings  were  every 
fourth  Saturday,  and  Pricklouse  hav- 
ing a  good  Scots  mile  to  walk  in 
coming,  and  of  course,  another  in 
returning.  Bodkin  was  sure  to  lay  liis 
hand  on  some  heavy  quarto,  or  ponder- 
ous folio,  with,  and  nnder  which, 
wrapt  up  in  his  gray  plaid,  he  grew 
wise,  as  he  grew  weary,  all  the  way 
home.  Hj3  carried  this  so  far  that  an 
old  musty  Hebrew  Concordance,  which 
we  had  in  a  present  from  a  neighbour- 
ing priest,  by  mere  dint  of  applying  it, 
as  doctors  do  a  blistering  plaster,  be- 
tween his  shoulders,  Stitch,  in  a  dozen 
pilgrimages,  acquired  as  much  rational 
theology  as  the  said  priest  had  done  by 
forty  years'  perusal  of  the  pages. 

Tell  me,  and  tell  me  truly,  what  you 
think  of  this  theory. — Yours, 

Spunkie. 


No.  CCXLIII. 

TO     MISS     KENNEDY, 
EDINBTJRGH. 

Madam, — ^Permit  me  to  present  you 
with  the  enclosed  song*  as  a  small, 


*  "  The  Banks  o'  Doon." 


though  grateful  tribute,  for  the  hon- 
our of  your  acquaintance.  I  have  in 
these  verses,  attempted  some  faint 
sketches  of  your  portrait  in  the  unem- 
bellished  simple  manner  of  descriptive 
TRUTH. —  Flattery,  I  leave  to  your 
LOVEKS,  whose  exaggerating  fancies 
may  malie  them  imagine  you  still- 
nearer  perfection  than  you  reaHy  are. 

Poets,  madam,  of  all  mankind,  feel 
most  forcibly  the  powere  of  bbauty{ 
as,  if  they  are  really  poets  of  nature^s 
making,  their  feelings  must  be  finer, 
and  their  taste  more  delicate  than 
most  of  the  world.  In  the  cheerful 
bloom  of  SPRING,  or  the  pensive  mild- 
ness of  AUTUMN;  the  grandeur  of 
BUMMER,  or  the  hoary  majesty  of  win- 
ter, the  poet  feels  a  charm  unknown 
to  the  rest  of  Ms  species.  Even  the 
sight  of  a  fine  flower,  or  the  company 
of  a  fine  woman,  (by  far  the  finest 
part  of  God's  works  below,)  have  sen- 
sations for  the  poetic  heart  that 'the 
herd  of  man  are  strangers  to. —  On 
this  last  account,  madam,  I  am,  as, in 
many  other  things,  indebted  to  Mr. 
Hamilton's  kindness  in  introducing  me 
to  you.  Your  lovers'  may  view  you 
with  a  wish,  I  look  on  you  with 
pleasure:  their  hearts,  in  your  pres- 
ence, may  glow  with  desire,  mine  rises 
with  admiration. 

That  the  arrows  of  misfortune,  how- 
ever they  should,  as  incident  to  hu- 
manity, glance  a  slight  wound,  may 
never  reach  your  Jieart  —  that  the 
snares  of  villany  may  never  beset 
you  in  the  road  of  life — that  inno- 
cence may  hand  you  by  the  path  of 
HONOUR  to  the  dwelling  of  peace,  is, 
the  sincere  wish  of  him  who  has  the 
honour  to  be,  &o., 

R.  B. 


No.  CCXLIV. 

TO    MISS    CRAIK. 

Dumfries,  Aug.  1793. 
Madam, — Some  rather  unlooked-for 
accidents  have  prevented  my  doing 
myself  the  honour  of  a  second 
visit  to  Arbigland,  as  I  was  so  hos- 
pitably   invited,    and    so    positively 


GENERAL  COERESPONDENCE. 


491 


meant  to  have  done.  However,  I  still 
hope  to  have  that  pleasure  before  the 
busy  months  of  liarvest  begin. 

I, enclose  you  two  of  my  late  pieces, 
as  some  kind  of  return  for  the  pleasure 
I  have  received  in  perusing  a  certain 
MS.  volume  of  poems  in  the  pos- 
session of  Captain  Riddel.  To  repay 
one  with  an  old  song,  is  a  proverb, 
whose  force,  you,  madam,  1  know, 
will  not  allow.  What  is  said  of  illus- 
trious descent  is,  I  believe,  equally 
true  of  a  talent  for  poetry,  none  ever 
despised  it  who -had  pretensions  to  it. 
The  fates  and  characters  of  the  rhym- 
ing tribe  often  employ  my  thoughts 
when  I  am  disposed  to  be  melancholy. 
There  is  not,  among  all  the  martyrolo- 
gies  thai  ever  were  penned,  so  rueful 
a  narrative  as  the  lives  of  the  poets.— 
In  the  comparative  view  of  wretches, 
the  criterion  is  not  what  they  are 
doomed  to  suffer,  but  how  they  are 
formed  to  bear.  Take  a  biing  of  our 
kind;  give  him  a  stronger  imagination 
and  a  more  delicate  sensibility,  — 
which,  between  them,  will  ever  en- 
gender a  more  ungovernable  set  of 
passions  than  are  the  usual  lot  of 
man;  implant  in  him  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  some  idle  vagary,  such  as 
arranging  wild  flowers  in  fantastical 
nosegays,  tiaring  the  grasshopper  to 
his  haiint  by  his  chirping  song,  watch- 
ing the  frisks  of  the  little  minnows  in 
tile  sunny  pool,  or  hunting  after 
tlie  intrigues  of  butterflies — in  short, 
send  him  adrift  after  some  pursuit 
which  shall  eternally  mislead  him 
from  the  paths  of  lucre,  and  yet  curse 
him  with  a  keener  relish  than  any  man 
living  for  the  pleasures  that  lucre  can 
purchase;  lastly,  fill  up  the  measure 
of  his  woes  by  bestowing  on  him  a 
spurning  sense  of  his  own  dignity,  and 
you  have  created  a  wight  nearly  as 
miserable  as  a  poet.  To  you,  madam, 
I  need  not  recount  the  fairy  pleasures 
the  muse  bestows  to  counterbalance 
this  catalogue  of  evils.  Bewitching 
poetry  is  like  be  witching  woman :  she 
4^  in  all  ages  been  accused  of  mis- 
leading mankind  from  the  councils  of 
wisdom  and  the  patlis  of  prudence,  in- 
volving them  in  difficulties,  baiting 


them  with  poverty,  branding  them 
with  infamy,  and  plunging  them  in 
the  wliirling  vortex  of  ruin;  yet, 
where  is  the  man  but  must  own  that 
all  cur  happiness  on  earth  is  not  wor- 
thy the  name  —  that  even  the  holy 
hermit's  solitary  prospect  of  paradi- 
siacal bliss  is  but  the  glitter  of  a  north- 
ern sun,' rising  over  a  frozen  region,^ 
compared  witli  the  many  pleasures, 
the  nameless  raptures  that  we  owe  to 
the  lovely  queen  of  the  heart  of  man  ! 
R.     B. 


No.   CCXLV. 

TO  LADY  GLENCAIRN. 

My  Lady, — The  honour  you  have 
done  your  poor  poet,  in  writing  him 
so  very  obliging  a  letter,  and  the 
pleasure  the  enclosed  beautiful  verses 
have  given  him,  came  v^jy  seasonably 
to  his  aid  amid  the  cheerless  gloom- 
and  sinking  despondency  of  diseased 
nerves  and  December  weather.  As  to 
forgetting  the  family  of  Glencaim, 
Heaven  is  my  witness  with  what  siu' 
cerity  I  could  use  those  old  verses 
which  please  me  more  in  their  rude 
simplicity  than  the  most  elegant  lines 
I  ever  saw : — 

"  If  thee,  Jerusalem,  I  forget, 
Skill  part  from  my  right  hand. 

"  My  tongue  to  my  mouth's  roof  let  cleave, 

If  I  do  thee  forget, 
Jerusalem  and  thee  above 

My  chief  joy  do  not  set." 

When  I  am  tempted  to  do  anything 
improper,  I  dare  not,  because  X  look 
on  myself  as  accountable  to  your  lady- 
ship, and  family.  Now  and  then, 
when  I  have  the  honour  to  be  called 
to  the  tables  of  the  great,  if  I  happen 
to  meet  with  any  mortification  from 
the  stately  stupidity  of  self-sufficient 
squires,  or  the  luxurious  insolence 
of  upstart  nabobs,  I  get  above  the  crea- 
tures by  calling  to  remembrance  that  I 
am  patronized  by  the  noble  house 
of  Glencaim:  and  at  gala-times,  such 
as  New-year's  day,  a  christening,  or 
the  kirn-night,  when  my  punch-bowl 
is  brought  from  its  dusty  corner  and 
filled  up  in  honour  of  the  occasion. 


493 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


I  begin  with,—  The  Countess  of  Qlen- 
cairn!  My  good  woman,  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  grateful  heart,  next 
cries.  My  Lord!  and  so  the  t6ast  goes 
on  until  I  end  with  Lcidy  Harriefs 
little  angel,*  whose  epithalamium  I 
have  pledged  myself  to  write. 

When  I  received  your  ladyship's 
letter,  I  was  just  in  the  act  of  tran- 
scribing for  you  some  verses  I  have 
lately  composed;  and  meant  to  have 
sent  them  my  first  leisure  hour,  and 
acquainted  you  with  my  late  change  of 
life.  I  mentioned  to  my  lord  my  fears 
concerning  my  farm.  -Those  fears 
were  indeed  too  true;  it  is  a  bargain 
would  have  ruined  me,  but  for  the 
lucky  circumstance  of  my  having  an 
Excise  commission. 

People  may  talk  as  they  please  of 
the  ignominy  of  the  Excise;  fifty 
pounds  a  year  will  support  my  wife 
and  children,'  and  keep  me  indepen- 
dent of  the  world;  and  I  would  much 
rather  have  it  said  that  my  profession 
borrowed  credit  from  me  than  that 
T  borrowed  credit  from  my  profession. 
Another  advantage  I  have  in  this  busi- 
ness, is  the  knowledge  it  gives  me  of 
the  various  shades  of  human  character, 
consequently  assisting  me  vastly  in  my 
poetic  pursuits.  1  had  the  most 
ardent  enthusiasm  for  the  muses  when 
nobody  knew  me  but  myself,  and  that 
ardour  is  by  no  means  cooled  now  that 
my  lord  Olencairn's  goodness  has 
introduced  me  to  all  the  world.  Not 
that  I  am  in  haste  for  the  press.  I 
have  no  idea  of  publishing,  else  I  cer- 
tainly had  consulted  my  noble  gener- 
ous jjatron;  but  after  acting  the  part 
of  an  honest  man,  and  supporting  my 
family,  my  whole  wishes  and  views 
are  directed  to  poetic  pursuits.  I 
am  aware  that  though  I  were  to  give 
performances  to  the  world  superior  to 
my  former  works,  still,  if  they  were  of 
the  same  kind  with  those,  the  compar- 
ative reception  they  would  meet  with 
would  mortify  me.  I  have  turned  my 
thoughts  oa   the    drama.     1   do    not 


»  Lady  Harriet  Don  was  the  daughter  of 
Lady  G'encdirn. 


mean  the  stately  buskin  of  the  tragic 
muse.  ' '-  '■ 

Does  not  your  ladyship  think  that 
an  Edinburgh  theatre  would  be  more 
amused  with  affectation ,  folly,  and  whim 
of  true  Scottish  growth,  than  manners, 
which  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  the 
audience  can  only  know  at  second 
hand  ?— I  have  the  honour  to  be,  your 
ladyship's  ever-devoted  and  grateful 
humble  servant, 

E.  B. 


No.  CCXLVI. 

TO  JOHN  M'MURDO,  ESQ. 

Dumfries,  Dec.  1793. 

Sir, — It  is  said  that  we  take  the 
greatest  liberties  with  our  greatest 
friends,  and  I  pay  myself  a  very  high 
compliment  in  the  manner  in  which  I 
am  going  to  apply  the  remark.  I  have 
owed  you  money  longer  than  I  have 
owed  it  to  any  man. — Jlere  is  Ker's  ac- 
count, and  here  are  six  guineas;  and 
now,  I  don't  owe  a  shilling  to  man— - 
nor  woman  either.  But  for  these  damn- 
ed dirty,  dog's-ear'd  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  consciousnegs'.of 
your  superiority  in  the  rank  of  mail 
and  gentleman,  of  itself  was  fully  as 
much  as  I  ever  could  make  head 
against;  but  to  owe  you  money,  too, 
was  more  than  I  could  face. 

I  think  I  once  mentioned  something 
of  a  collection  of  Scots  song  I  have  for 
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.  When  you  are  tired  of 
them,  please  leave  them  with  Mr. 
Clint,  of  the  King's  Arms.  There  is 
not  another  copy  of  the  collection  in 
the  world;  and  1  should  be  sorry  that 
any  unfortun.ate  negligence  should  de. 


-*  Scottish  bank-notes. 


GENERAL.  CORRESPONDENCE. 


prive  me  of  what  lias  cost  me  a  good 
deal  of  pains.* 

E.  B. 


No.  CCXLVII. 

TO   JOHN   M'MURDO,    ESQ., 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Dumfries,  1793. 

Will  Mr.  M'Murdo  do  me  the 
favour  to  accept  of  these  volumes;  a, 
trifling  but  sincere  marlc  of  the  very 
high  respect  I  bear  for  his  worth  as  a 
man,  his  manners  as  a  gentleman,  and 
his  liindness  as  a  friend  ?  However  in- 
ferior, now,  or  afterwards,  I  may  rank 
as  a  poet;  one  honest  virtue  to  which 
few  poets  can  pretend,  I  trust  I  shall 
ever  claim  as  mine: — to  no  man,  what- 
ever his  station  in  life,  or  his  power  to 
serve  me,  have  I  ever  paid  a  compli- 
ment at  the  expense  of  truth,  f 

The  A0THOH. 


No.   CCXLVIIL 
TO  CAPTAIN 


Dumfries,  Dec.  5,  1793. 

Sin, — ^Heated  as  I  was  with  wine 
yesterniglit,  I  was  perhaps,  rather 
seemingly  impertinent  in  my  anxious 
■«ish  to  be  honoured  with  your  ac- 
quaintance. You  will  forgive  it:  it 
was  tlie  impulse  of  heartfelt  respect. 
"He  is  the  fatlier  of  the  Scottish 
county  reform,  and  is  a  man  who  does 
honour  to  the  business  at  the  same 
time  that  the.  business  does  lionour  to 
him,"  said  my  worthy  friend  Glen- 

*  The  collection  of  songs  mentioned  in  this 
letter  is  not  unknown  ■  to  the  curious  in  such 
loose  lore.    They  were  printed  by  an  obscure 

.b.QQkseller  v-nen  death  had  secured  him 
against  the  indignation  of  Burns.  It  was  of 
SQdi  compositicins  that  the  poet  thus  entreat- 
ed the  world— "The  author  begs  whoever 
into  whose  hands  they  may  fall,  thst  they  will 

,do  him  the  justice  not  to  publish  what  he  him- 
self thought  propei-  ^  suppress. 

t  These  words  are  written  on  the  blank  leaf 
of  the  poet's  works,  published  in  two  small 
volumes  m  1793  :  the  handwriting  is  bold  and 
free— the  pen  seems  tc  have  been  conscious 
that  if  was  making  a  declaration  of  indepen- 
dence.— Cunningham.  ;  . 


riddel  to  somebody  by  me  who  was 
talking  of  your  coming  to  this  country 
with  your  corps.  "  Then,"  1  said,  "  I 
have  a  woman's  longing  to  take  him 
by  the  hand,  and  say  to  him,  '  Sir,  I 
honour  you  as  a.  man  to  whom  the 
interests  of  humanity  are  dear,  and  as 
a  patriot  to  whom  the  rights  of  your 
country  are  sacred. ' " 

In  times  like  these,  sir,  when  our 
commoners  are  barely  able,  by  the  glim- 
mer of  their  own  twilight  understand- 
ings, to  scrawl  a  frank,  and  when  lords  - 
are  what  gentlemen  would  be  ashamed, 
to  be,  to  whom  shall  a  sinking  country 
call  for  help?  To  the  independent 
country  gentleman.  To  liim  who  has 
too  deep  a  stake  in  his  country  not  to 
be  in  earnest  for  her  welfare;  and  who 
in  the  honest  pride  of  man  can  view 
with  equal  contempt  the  insolence 
of  oflBce  and  the  allurements  of  cor- 
ruption. 

I  mentioned  to  you  a  -Scots  ode  or 
song  I  had  lately  composed,  and  which 
I  think  has  some  inerit.  Allow  me  to 
enclose  it.  Wlien  I  fall  in  with  you 
at  tlie  theatre,  I  shall  be  glad  to  liave 
your  opinion  of  it.  Accept  of  it,  sir, 
as  a  very  liumble,  but  most  sincere, 
tribute  of  respect  from  a  man  wlio, 
dear  as  he  prizes  poetic  fame,  yet 
holds  dearer  an '  independent  mind. — I 
have  the  honour  to  be,  R.  B. 


No.  CCXLIX. 
TO  MRS.  RIDDEL, 

WHO  WAS  ABOUT  TO  BESPEAK  A  PLAY 
ONE  EVENING  AT  THE  DUMPBIES 
THEATHE. 

I  AM  thinlcing  to  send  my  "Address" 
to  some  periodical  publication,  but 
it  has  not  got  your  sanction,,  so  pray 
look  over  it. 

As- to  the  Tuesday's  play,  let  me  beg 
of  you,  my  dear  madam,  to  .  give 
us,  "The  Wonder,  a  Woman  Keeps  a 
Secret'"  to  which  jjlease  add,  "The 
Spoilt  Cliild  " — you  will  highly  oblige 
mo  by  so  doing.  . 


494 


EUliNS'  WORKa 


■  Ah,  what  an  enviable  creature  you 
are  I  Tliere  now,  this  cursed  gloomy 
blue  devil  day,  you  are  going  to  a 
party  of  choice  spirits — 

"  To  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy,  and  incess^t  form 
Those  rapid  pictures,  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  ideas,  never  j'oined  before, 
Wherfe  lively  lOtt  excites  to  gay  surprise  ; 
Or  folly-painting  humour^  grave  himself. 
Calls    laughter    forth,    deep-shaking    every 

nerve." 

But  as  you  rejoice  with  them  that 
do  rejoice,  do  also  remember  to  weep 
with  them  that  weep,  and  pity  your 
melancholy  friend. 

R.  B. 


No.  OCL. 
TO    A    LADY, 

IN  FAVOTIR  OP  A  PLAYER'S  BENEFIT. 
Dumfries,  1794. 

Madam, — You  were  so  very  good  as 
to  promise  me  to  honour  my  friend 
with  your  presence  on  his  benefit 
night.  That  night  is  fixed  for  Friday 
first;  the  play  a  most  interesting  one — 
"The  Way  to  Keep  Him."  I  have 
the  pleasure  to  know  Mr.  G.  well. 
His  merit  as  an  actor  is  geiicr-illy 
acknowledged.  He  has  genius  and 
worth  which  would  do  honour  to 
patronage:  he  is  a  poor  and  modest 
man;  claims  which  from  their  very 
silence  have  the'  lb  ore  forcible  power 
on  the  generous  heart.  Alas,  for  pity  ! 
that  from  the  indolence  of  those  who 
have  the  good  things  of  this  life 
in  their  gift,  too  often  does  brazen- 
fronted  importunity  snatch  that  boon, 
tlie  rightful  due  of  retiring,  humble 
want  1  Of  all  the  qualities  we  assign 
to,  the  Author  and  Director  of  nature, 
by  far  the  most  enviable  is^o  be  able 
"To  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all 
eye's."  Oh,  what  insignificant,  sordid 
wretches  are  they,  however  chance 
may  have  loaded'them  with  wealth, 
■yyho  go  to  their  graves,  to  their  mag- 
nificent mausoleums,  with  hardly  the 
consciousness  of  having  made  one  poor 
honest  heart  happy ! 

But  1  crave  your  pardon,  madam;  I 
came  to  beg,  not  to  preach.       R.  B. 


No.  CCLI. 
TO  THE  EARL  OP  BUCHAN,\ 


),;!J 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  BBUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO 
HIS  TROOPS  AT  BANNOCKBIXKN. 

Dumfries,  Jan.  12, 1794. 

My  Lord, — Will  your  lordship 
allow  me  to  present  you  with  the  en- 
closed little  composition  of  mine,  as  a 
small  tribute  of  gratitude  for  the 
acquaintance  with  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  honour  me?  Indepen- 
dent of  my  enthusiasm  as  u,  Scotsman, 
I  have  rarely  met  with  anything  in- 
history  which  interests  my  feelings  as 
a  man  equal  with  the  story  of  Bannock- 
burn.  •  On  the  one  hand,  -a  cruel,  but 
able,  usurper,  leading  on  the  finest- 
army  in  Europe  to  extinguish  the  last, 
spark  of  freedom  among  a  greatly-: 
daring  and  rrcatly-injured  people;  on 
the  other  hand,  the  desperate  relics  of; 
a  gallant  nation  devoting  themselves 
to  rescue  their  bleeding  country,  or 
perish  with  her. 

Liberty  1  thou  art  a  prize  truly  and 
indeed  invaluable  !  for  never  canst 
thou  be  too  dearly  bought ! 

If  my  little  ode  has  the  honour  of 
your  lordship's  approbation,  it  mil 
gratify  my  highest  ambition. — I  have- 
the  honour  to  be,  &c. , 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLII. 

TO    CAPTAIN    MILLER, 
DALSWINTON. 

Dear  Sir, — The  following  ode*  is 
on  a  subject  which  I  know  you  by  no 
means  regard  with  indifEerence.  0 
Liberty, 

"  Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay,! 
Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleasure  to  the' 
day.'' 

It  does  me  much  good  to  meet  with 
a  man  whose  honest  bosom  glows  with 
the  generous  enthusiasm,  the  heroic 
daring  of  liberty,  that  I  could  not- 
forbear  sending  you  a  composition  of, 

*  Bruce's  Address.  ;  > 


GENERAL-  CORRESPONDENCE. 


499 


my  own  on  the  subject,  ■which  I  really 
think  is  in  my  best  manner.  I  have 
the  honour  to  be,  dear  sir,  &c., 

R.  B. 


.  No.  CCLIII. 
TO    MRS.     RIDDEL.* 

•  Dkar  Madam,  —  I  meant  to  have 
sailed  on  you  yesternight,  but  as  I 
edged  up  to  your  box-door,  the  first 
object  wliich  greeted  ray  view  was 
one  of  those  lobster-coated  puppies, 
Bitting' like  another  dragon,  guarding 
1)lie  Hesperian  fruit.  On  the  conditions 
and  capitulations  you  so  obligingly  of- 
fer, I  sha,ll  certainly  make  my  weath- 
er-beaten rustic  phiz  a  part  of  your 
box-furniture  on  Tuesday;  when  we 
maj  arrange  the  business  of  the  visit. 
Among  the  profusion  of  idle  com- 
]^liments,  which  insidious  craft,  or 
unmeaning  folly,  incessantly  offer  at 
your  shrine — a  shrine,  how  far  exalt- 
ed above  such  adoration — permit  me, 
were  it  but  for  rarity's  sake,  to  pay 
you  the  honest  tribute  of  a  wann 
heart  and  an  independent  mind;  and 
to  assure  you,  that  I  am,  thou  most 
amiable,  and  most  accomplished  of 
thy  sex,  with  the  most  respectful  es- 
teem, and  fervent  regard,  thine,  &c., 
R.  B. 


No.  CCLIV. 
TO    THE    SAME. 

I  WILL  wait  on  you,  my  ever- valued 
triend,  but  whether  in  the  morning  I 
am  not  sure.  Sunday  closes  u,  period 
of  our  curst  revenue  business,  and  may 
probably  keep  me  employed  with  my 
pen  uutU  noon.  Fine  employment  for 
a  poet's  pen  !  There  is  a  species  of 
tlie  human  genus  that  I  call  the  gin- 


.  j»*  The  following  five  letters  to  Mrs.  Riddel, 
aa& 'those  marked' 267-8,  evideiitly  relate  to 
iBS-paet's  quarrel  with  that  lady  :  but,  being 
^itnouVdate,  Dr.  Currie  has  inextricably  con- 
teed  them..  Probably  No.  249  should  be 
printed  first,  and  the  rest  after  an  interval,  as 
*ell~as  "in  a  different  arrangement.— Cham- 


liorse-dasi  :  what  enviable  dogs  they 
are  !  Round,  and  round,  and  round 
they  go,-^MundeirB  ox,  that  drives 
his  cotton  mill,  is  their  exact  proto- 
type —  without  an  idea  or  wish  be- 
yond their  circle;  fat,  sleek,  stupid, 
patient,  quiet,  and  contented;  while 
here  I  sit,  altogether  Novemberish,  a 
damned  melange  of  fretfulness  and' 
melancholy;  not  enough  of  the  one  to 
rouse  me  to  passion,  nor  of  the  other 
to  repose  me  in  torpor:  my  soul  floun- 
cing and  fluttering  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  was  of  me  the  Hebrew  sage 
prophesied,  when  he  foretold — "And 
behold,  on  whatsoever  this  man  doth 
set  his  heart,  it  shall  not  prosper  !"  If 
my  resentment  is  awaked,  it  is  sure  to 
be  where  it  dare  not  squeak;  and  if 


Pray  what  wisdom  and  bliss  be  more 
frequent  visitors  of 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLV. 
TO    THE    SAME. 

I  HAVE  this  moment  got  the  song 
from  Syme,  and  I  am  sorry  to  see  that 
he  has  spoilt  it  a  good  deal.  It  shall 
be  a  lesson  to  me  how  I  lend  him  any- 
thing again. 

I  have  sent  you  "Werter,"  truly 
happy  to  have  any  the  smallest  op- 
portunity of  obliging  you. 

'Tib  true,  madam,  I  saw  yon  once 
since  I  was  at  Woodlee:  and  that  once 
froze  the  very  life-blood  of  my  heart. 
Your  reception  of  me  was  such  that  a 
wretch  meeting  the  eye  of  his  judge, 
about  to  pronounce  sentence  of  death 
on  him,  could  only  have  envied  my 
feelings  and  situation.  Bat  I  hate  the 
theme,  and  never  more  shall  write  of 
speak  on  it. 

One  thing  I  shall  proudly  say,  that 
I  can  pay  Mrs.  R.  a  higheir  tribute  of 
esteem,  and  appreciate  her  amiable 
worth  more  truly,  than  any  man  whom 
I  have  seen  approach  her. 

-  '  -  R.  B. 


496 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CCLVI; 
TO    THE    SAME. 

I  HAVE  often  told  you,  my  dear 
friend,  that  you  had  a  spice  of  caprice 
in  your  composition,  and  you  have  as 
often  disavowed  it;  even  perhaps  while 
your  opinions  were,  at  tlie  moment, 
irrefragably  proving  it.  Could  any- 
thing estrange  me  from  a  friend  such 
as  you  ? — No  !  To-morrow  I  shall  have 
the  honour  of  waiting  on  you. 

Farewell,  thou  first  of  friends,  and 
most  accomplished  of  women;  even 
v^ith  all  thy  little  caprices  1 

E.  B. 


No.  CCLVII. 
TO    THE    SAME. 

Madam, — I  return  your  Common- 
place Book.  I  have  perused  it  with 
much  pleasure,  and  would  have  con- 
tinued my  criticisms,  but,  as  it  seems 
the  critic  has  forfeited  your  esteem,  his 
strictures  must  lose  their  value. 

If  it  is  true  that  ' '  offences  come 
only  from  the  heart,"  before  you  I  am 
guiltless.  To  admire,  esteem,  and 
prize  you,  as  the  most  accomplished 
of  women,  and  the  first  of  friends — if 
these  are  crimes,  I  am  the  most  offend- 
ing thing  alive. 

In  a  face  where  I  used  to  meet  the 
kmd  complacency  of  friendly  confi- 
dence, now  to  find  cold  neglect  and  con- 
temptuous scorn — is  a  wrench  that  my 
heart  can  ill  bear.  It  is,  however, 
some  kind  of  miserable  good  luck, 
that  while  de-lmut- en-has  rigour  may 
depress  an  imoffending  wretch  to  the 
ground,  it  has  a  tendency  to  rouse  a 
stubborn  something  in  his  bosom 
which,  though  it  cannot  heal  the 
wounds  of  his  soul,  is  at  least  an  opiate 
to  blunt  their  poignancy. 

With  the  profoundest  respect  for 
your  abilities;  the  most  sincere  es- 
teem, and  ardent  regard  for  your  gen- 
tle heart  aud  amiable  manners;  and 
the  most  fervent  wish  and  prayer  for 
your  welfare,  peace,  and'  bliss,  I  have  J 


the  honour  to  be,  madam,  your  most 
devoted  humble  servant, 

B.  B.* 


No.  CCLVIIL 

TO    JOHN     SYME,    ESQ.f 

You  know  that,  among  other  high 
dignities,  you  have  the  honour  to  bo 
my  supreme  court  of  critical  judica- 
ture, from  which  there  is  ii"o  appeal. 
I  enclose  you  a  song  which  I  composed 
since  I  saw  you,  and  I  am  going  to 
give  you  the  history  of  it.  Do  you  know- 
that  among  much  that  I  admire  in  the 
characters  and  manners  of  those  great 
folks  whom  I  have  now  the  honour  to 
call  my  acquaintances,  the  Oswald 
family,  there  is  nothing  charms  me 
more  than  Mr.  Oswald's  unconcealable 
attachment  to  that  incomparable  wo- 
man. 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  pleas- 
ing exterior;  self-evident  amiable  dis-- 
positions,  and  an  ingenuous  upright 
mind,  aud  that  informed,  too,  much  be- 
yond the  usual  run  of  young  fellows 
of  his  rank  and  fortune:  and  to  all- 
this,  such  a  woman  ! — but  of  her  I 
shall  say  nothing  at  all,  in  despair  ot 
saying  anything  adequate :  in  my  song, 
I  have  endeavoured  to  do  justice  to 
what  would  be  his  feelings,  on  seeing,, 
in  the  scene  I'have  drawn,  the  habita- 
tion of  his  Lucy.  As  I  am  a  good  deal 
pleased  with  my  performance,  I  in  my 
first  fervour  thought  of  sending  it  to 
Mrs.  Oswald,  but  on  second  thoughts, 
perhaps  wlialt  I  offer  as  the  honest  in- 
cense of  genuine  respect  might,  from 
the  well-known  character  of  poverty 
and  poetry,  be  construed  into  some 
modification  or  other  of  that  servility 
which  my  soul  abhors. 

R.  B. 


*  The  offended  lady  was  soothed  by  this 
letter,  and  forgave  any  offence  the  poet  had 
given  her.  .  .     .  • 

t  This  gentleman  held  the  office  of  distribu- 
tor of  stainps  at  Duihfries. 


GBNERA-L  GORRESPONDENCE. 


497 


No.   CCLIX. 
TO    MISS    


Dumfries,  1794. 

Madam, — Nothing  short  of  a  kind 
of  absolute  necessity  could  have  made 
me  trouble  you  with  this  letter.  Ex- 
cept my  ardent  and  just  esteem  for 
your  sense,  taste,  and  worth,  every 
sentiment  arising  in  my  breast,  as  1 
put  pen  to  paj)er  to  you,  is  painful. 
The  scenes  I  have  psissed  with  the 
friend  of  my  soul  and  his  amiable  con- 
nexioJis  !  the  wrench  at  my  heart  to 
think  that  he  has  gone,  for  ever  gone 
from  me,  never  more  to  meet  in  the 
wanderings  of  a  weary  world !  and 
the  cutting  reflection  of  all,  that  I  had 
most  unfortunately,  though  most  un- 
deservedly, lost  the  confidence  of  that 
soul  of  worth,  ere  it  took  its  flight ! 

Tliese,  madam,  are  sensations  of  no 
ordinary  r njuish. —  However,  you  also 
may  be  offended  with  some  imputed 
improprieties  of  mine;  sensibility  you 
know  I  possess,  and  sincerity  none  will 
deny  me. 

To  oppos3  these  prejudices,  which 
have  been  raised  against  me,  is  not  the 
business  of  this  letter.  Indeed  it  is  a, 
warfare  I  know  not  how  to  wage.  The 
powers  of  positive  vice  I  can  in  some 
degree  calculate,  and  against  direct 
malevolence  I  can  be  on  my  guard  ; 
but  who  can  estimate  the  fatuity  of 
giddy  caprice,  or  ward  off  the  unthink- 
ing mischief  of  precipitate  folly  ? 

I  have  a  favour  to  request  of  you, 

madam;  and  of  j-our  sister,  Mrs. , 

through  your  means.  You  know  that, 
at  the  wish  of  my  late  friend,  I  made 
a  collection  of  all  my  trifles  in  versa 
which  I  had  ever  written.  They  are 
many  of  them  local,  .some  of  them 
puerile  and  silly,  and  all  of  them  unfit 
for  the  public  eye.  As  I  have  some  little 
fame  at  stake — a  fame  that  I  trust 
may  live  when  the  hate  of  those  who 
"  watch  for  my  halting,"  and  the 
contumelious  sneer  of  those  whom  ac- 
cident has  made  my  superiors,  will, 
with  themselves,  be  gone  to  the  regions 
of  oblivion — 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  be- 
stowed; and  that  circumstance  indeed 
was  all  their  merit.  Most  unhappily 
for  me,  that  merit  they  no  longer  pos-, 
sess;  and  I  hope  that  Mrs. 's  good- 
ness, which  I  well  know,  and  ever  will 
revere,  will  not  refuse  this  favour  to  a 
man  whom  she  once  held  in  some  de- 
gree of  estimation. 

With  the  sincerest  esteem,  I  havei 
the  honour  to  be,  madam,  &c., 

R.  B. 


No.   CCLX. 

TO    MR.     CUNNINGHAM. 

Feb.  26, 1794. 
Canst  thou  minister  to  a  mind  dis- 
eased? Canst  thou  speak  peace  and 
rest  to  a  soul  tost  on  a  sea  of  troubles, 
without  one  friendly  star  to  guide  hei 
course,  and  dreading  that  the  next 
surge  may  overwhelm  her?  Canst 
thou  give  to  a  frame  tremblingly  alive' 
as  the  tortures  of  suspense,  the  stabil- 
ity and  hardihood  of  the  rock  that 
braves  the  blast  ?  If  thou  canst  not 
do  the  least  of  these,  why  wouldst  thou 
disturb  me  in  my  miseries,  with  thy 
inquiries  after  me  ? 

>         •  •         •         •  * 

For  these  two  months  I  have  not 
been  able  to  lift  a  pen.  My  constitu- 
tion and  frame  were,  ab  origine,  blast- 
ed with  a  deep  incurable  taint  of  hypo- 
chondria, which  poisons  my  existence.- 
Of  late  a  number  of  domestic  vexa- 
tions, and  some  pecuniary  share  in  the 
ruin  of  these  cursed  times  —  losses 
which,  though  trifling,  were  yet  what 
I  could  ill  bear — have  so  irritated  me 
that  my  feelings  at  times  could  not  be 
envied  by  a  reprobate  spirit  listening 
to  the  sentence  that  dooms  it  to  per- 
dition. 

Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of 
consolation  ?  I  have  exhausted  in  re- 
flection every  topic  of  comfort.  A 
heart  at  ease  would  have  been  charmed 
with  my  sentiments  and  reasoninga; 
but  as  to  myself,  I  was  like  Judas  Is-' 


498 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


cariot  preacliing  the  gospel;  lie  might 
melt  and  mould  the  hearts  of  those 
around  him,  but  his  own  kept  its  na- 
tive incorrigibility. 

Still  there  are  two  great  pillars  that 
bear  us  up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfor- 
tune and  misery.  The  one  is  com- 
posed of  the  different  modifications  of 
a  certain  noble,  stubborn  something  in 
.  man,  known  by  the  names  of  courage, 
fortitude,  magnanimity.  The  othek 
is  made  up  of  those  feelings  and  senti- 
ments which,  however  the  sceptic  may 
deny  them,  or  the  enthusiast  disfigure 
them,  are  yet,  I  am  convinced,  original 
and  component  parts  of  the  human 
soul;  those  senses  of  the  mind — if  I 
may  be  allowed  the  expression — ^which 
connect  us  with,  and  link  us  to,  those 
awful  obscure  realities — an  all-power- 
ful, and  equally  beneficent  God,  and 
a  world  to  come,  beyond  death  and  the 
grave.  The  first  gives  the  nerve  of 
combat,  while  a  ray  of  hope  beams  on 
the  field:  the  last  poui-s  the  balm  of 
comfort  into  the  wound  which  time 
can  never  cure. 

I  do  not  remember,  my  dear'-Gun- 
ningham,  that  you  and  I  ever  talked 
on  the  subject  of  religion  at  all.  I 
know  some  who  laugh  at  it,  as  the 
trick  of  the  crafty  few,  to  lead  the 
undiscerning  many;  or  at  the  most  as 
an  uncertain  obsbwrity,  which  mankind 
can  never  know  anything  of,  and  with 
which  they  are  fools  if  they  give  them- 
selves much  to  do.  Nor  would  I 
quarrel  with  a  man  for  his  irreligion, 
any  more  than  I  would  for  his  want  of 
a  musical  ear.  I  would  regret  that 
he  was  shut  out  from  what,  to  me  and 
to  others,  were  such  superlative  sources 
of  enjoyment.  It  is  in  this  point  of 
view,  and  for  this  reason,  that  I  will 
deeply  imbue  the  mind  of  every  child 
of  mine  with  religion.  If  my  son 
should  happen  to  be  a  man  of  feeling, 
sentiment  and  taste,  I  shall  thus  add 
largely  to  his  enjoyments.  Let  me 
flatter  uiyself  that  this  sweet  little  fel- 
low, who  is  just  now  running  about 
my  desk,  will  be  a  man  of  a  melting, 
ardent,  glowing  heart;  and  an  imagi- 
nation, delighted  with  the  painter,  and 
rapt  with  the  poet.    Let  me  figure  him 


wandering  out  in  a  sweet  evening,  to 
inhale  the  balmy  gales,  and  enjoythe 
growing  luxuriance  of  the  spring;  hilh- 
self  the  while  in  the  blooming  youth 
of  life.  He  looks  abroad  on  all  nattire, 
and  through  nature  up  to  nature's 
God.  His  soul, -by  swift,  delighting 
degrees,  is  rapt  above  tliis  sublunary 
sphere  until  he  can  be  silent  no  longer, 
and  bursts  out  into, the  glorious  enthu- 
siasm of  Thomson — 

"These,  as  they  change,  Almij^hty  Father, 

these 
Are  but  the  varie4  God.— The  rolling  year 
Is  full  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  delights  among 
the  sons  of  men  are  superior,  not  to 
say,  equal  to  them  !  And  they  have 
this  precious,  vast  addition — that  con- 
scions  virtue  stamps  them  for  her  own; 
and  lays  hold  on  them  to  bring  herself 
into  the  presence  of  a  witnessing,  judg- 
ing and  approving  God. 

K.  B. 


No.  CCLXI. 
TO   THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN. 

J  May  T794. 

My  Lord,  —  When  you  cast  your 
eye  on  the  name  at  the  bottom  of  this 
letter,  and  on  the  title-page  of  the 
book  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  send 
j'our  lordship,  a  more  pleasurable  feel- 
ing than  my  vanity  tells  me  that  it 
must  be  a  name  not  entirely  unknown 
to  you.  The  generous  patronage  of 
your  late  illtistrious  brother  found  me 
in  the  lowest  obscurity :  he  introduced 
my  rustic  muse  to  the  partiality  of  my 
country;  and  to  him  I  owe  all.  My 
sense  of  his  goodness,  and  the  anguish 
of  my  soul  at  losing  my  truly  noble 
protector  and  friend,  1  have  endeav- 
oured to  express  in  a  poem  to  hismem- 
ory,  which  I  have  now  published. 
This  edition  is  just  from  the  pre^; 
and  in  my  gratitude  to  the  dead,  and 
my  respect  for  the  living,  (fame  belies 
yoii,  my  lord,  if  you  possess  not  the 
same  dignity  of  man  which  was  your 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


499 


noble  brother's  characteristic  feature,) 
I' had  destined  a  copy  for  the  Earl  of 
Glencairn.  1  learut  just-rrow  that  you 
are  in  town: — allow  me  to  present  it 
you. 

I  know,  my  lord,  such  is  the  vile, 
venal  contagion  which  pervades  the 
world  of  letters,  that  professions  of 
Tespect  from  an  author,  particularly 
from  a  poet  to  a  lord,  are  more  than 
suspicious.  I  claim  my  by-past  con- 
duct, and  my  feelings  at  this  moment, 
as  exceptions  to  the  too  just  conclusion. 
Exalted  as  are  the  honours  of  your 
lordship's  name,  and  unnoted  as  is  the 
obscurity  of  mine;  with  the  upright- 
ness of  an  honest  man,  I  come  before 
your  lordship,  with  an  offering,  how- 
ever humble — 'tis  all  I  have  to  give — 
of  my  grateful  respect;  and  to  beg  of 
you,  my  lord, — 'tis  all  I  have  to  ask  of 
you — that  you  will  do  me  the  honour 
to  accept  of  it. — I  have  the  honour  to 
be,  R.  B. 


No.   CCLXII. 
TO  DAVID  MACCULLOCH,  ESQ. 

Dumfries,  Juae  21,  1794. 

My  dear  Sir, — My  long  projected 
journey  through  your  country  is  at 
last  fixed:  and  on  Wednesday  next,  if 
you  have  nothing  of  more  importance 
to  do,  take  a  saunter  down  to  Gate- 
house about  two  or  three  o'clock.  I 
shall  be  happy  to  take  a  draught  of 
M'Kune's  best  with  you.  Collector 
Syme  will  be  at  Glens  about  that  time, 
and  will  meet  us  about  dish-of-tea 
'  hour.  Syme  goes  also  to  Kerrough- 
tree,  and  let  me  remind  you  of  your 
kind  promise  to  accompany  me  there; 
I  will  need  all  the  friends  I  can  muster, 
tor  I  am  indeed  ill  at  ease  whenever  I 
approach  your  honou  rabies  and  right 
honourables. — Yours  sincerely, 

R.  B.* 


*  The   endorsement   on    the    back   of  the 
original  letter  shows  what  is  felt  about  Burns 
in  far  distant  lands. 
"  Given  to  me  by  David  M'CuUoch,  Penang, 
-  ,  1801.    A.  Fraser." 

.!,  'Received  rsth  December,  1823,  in  Calcutta, 
'from  Captain  Fraser's  widow  by  me,_ 
'■"  "     Thomas  Rankine." 


No.  CCLXIII. 

TO  MRS.  &UNLOP. 
Castle  Douglas,  June  23,  1794. 

HuRE,  in  a  solitary  inn,  in  a  solitary 
village,  am  I  set  by  myself,  to  amuse 
my  brooding  fancy  as  I  may.  ^Solitary 
confinement,  you  know,  is  Howard's 
favourite  idea  of  reclaiming  sinners; 
so  let  me  consider  by  what  fatality 
it  happens  that  I  have  so  long  been 
so  exceeding  sinful  as  to  neglect  the 
correspondence  of  the  most  valued 
friend  I  have  on  earth.  To  tell  you 
that  I  have  been  in  poor  health  will 
not  be  excuse  enough,  though  it  is 
true.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  about 
to  suffer  for  the  follies  of  my  youth. 
My  medical  friends  threaten  me  with 
a  fiying  gout;  but  I  trust  they  are 
mistaken.  , 

I  am  just  going  to  trouble  your 
critical  patience  with  the  first  sketch 
of  a  stanza  I  have  been  framing  as  I 
passed  along  the  road.  The  subject-is 
liberty:  you  know,  my  honoured  friend, 
how  dear  the  theme  is  to  me.  I  design 
it  as  an  irregular  ode  for  General 
Washington's  birth-day.  After  hav- 
ing mentioned  the  degeneracy  of  other 
kingdoms,  I  come  to  Scotland  thus: — 

•'Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  wild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song. 

To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes  ; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  Freedom  fled  ? 
Immingled  with  the  mighty  dead  !  [lies  ! 

Beneath  the  hallowed  turf  where  Wallace 
Hear  it  not,  Wallace,  in  thy  bed  of  death ! 

Ye  babbling  winds  in  silence  sweep, 

Disturb  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep." 

with  the  additions  of 

"  That  arm  which,  nerved  with  thundering 
fate. 
Braved  usurpation's  boldest  daring!*  [star, 
One  quenched  in  darkness,  like  the  sinking 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  oif  tottering  power- 
less age." 

(See  Fragment  on  Liberty,  p.  144.) 

You  will  probably  have  another 
scrawl  from  me  in  a  stage  or  two. 

R.  B. 


•'Transmitted  to  Archibald  Hastie,  Esq., 
London ;  March  27th,  1S24,  fi'om  Bom- 
bay." 

*  Sir  William  Wallace. 


530 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CCLXIV. 
TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON. 

Dumfries,  1794. 

Mt  deab  Friend, — You  sliould 
liave  heard  from  me  long  ago;  but 
over  and  above  some  vexatious  share 
in  the  pecuniary  losses  of  these  accurs- 
ed times,  I  have  all  this  winter  been 
plagued  with  low  spirits  and  blue 
devils,  so  that  /  Iw/oe  almost  hung  my 
7ia/rp  on  the  imUow  trees. 

I  am  just  now  busy  correcting  a  new 
edition  of  my  poems,  and  this,  with 
my  ordinary  business,  finds  me  in  full 
employment. 

I  send  you  by  my  friend,  Mr.  Wa:!- 
lace,  forty-one  songs  for  your  fifth 
volume;  if  we  cannot  finish  it  in  any 
other  way,  what  would  you  think 
of  Scots  words  to  some  beautiful  Irish 
airs  ?  In  the  meantime,  at  your  leisure, 
give  a  copy  of  the  Museum  to  my 
worthy  friend,  Mr.  Peter  Hill,  book- 
seller, to  bind  for  me,  interleaved  with 
blank  leaves,  exactly  as  he  did  the 
Laird  of  Glenriddel's,  that  I  may  insert 
every  anecdote  I  can  learn,  together 
with  my  own  criticisms  and  remarks 
on  the  songs.  A  copy  of  this  kind, 
I  shall  leave  with  you,  the  editor, 
to  publish  at  some  after  period,  by  way 
of  making  the  Museum  a  book  famous 
to  the  end  of  tirae,  and  you  renowned 
for  ever.* 

I  have  got  a  Highland  dirk,  for 
which  I  have  great  veneration;  as 
it  once  was  the  dirk  of  Lord  Balmerino. 
It  fell  into  bad  hands,  who  stripped  it 
of  the  silver  mounting,  as  well  as  the 
knife  and  fork.  I  have  some  thoughts 
of  sending  it  to  your  care,  to  get  it 
mounted  anew. 

Thauk  you  for  the  copies  of  my 
Volunteer  Ballad. — Our  friend  Clarke 
has  done  indeed  well !  'tis  chaste  and 
beautiful.  I  have  not  met  with  any- 
thing  that  has  pleased  me  so  much. 


*  Burns'  anxiety  with  regard  to  the  correct- 
ness of  his  writings  was  very  great.  Being 
questioned  as  to  his  mode  of  composition,  he 
.replied, 'I  AU  my  poetry  is  the  effect  of  easy 
composition,  but  of  lai)'orious  correciiony — 
-Ckomeis. 


You  luiow  I  am  no  connoisseur:  but 
that  I  am  an  amateur,  will  be  allowed 
me.  R.  B. 


No.  CCLXV. 

TO   PETER  MILLER,  JUN.,  ESQ., 
OF  DALSWINTON. 

Dumfries,  Nov.  1794. 

De.\b  Sm,^Your  offer  is  indeed 
truly  generous,  and  most  sincerely 
do  I  thank  you  for  it;  but,  in  my 
present  situation,  I  find  that  I  dare  not 
accept  it.  You  well  know  my  political 
sentiments;  and  were  I  an  insular 
individual,  unconnected  with  a  wife 
and  family  of  children,  with,  the  most 
fervid  enthusiasm  1  would  have  volun- 
teered my  services;  I  then  could  and 
would  have  despised  all  consequences 
that  might  have  ensued. 

My  prospect  in  the  Excise  is  some- 
thing; at  least,  it  is,  encumbered  as  I 
am  with  the  welfare,  the  very  exist- 
ence of  near  half-a-score  of  helpless 
individuals,  what  I  dare  not  sport 
with. 

In  the  meantime,  they  are  most 
welcome  to  my  Ode;  only,  let  them  in- 
sert it  as  a  thing  they  have  met  with 
by  accident  and  unknown  to  me.  Nay, 
if  Mr.  Perry,  whose  honour,  after 
your  character  of  him  I  cannot  doubt, 
if  he  will  give  me  an  address  and  chan- 
nel by  which  anything  will  come  safe 
from  those  spies  with  which  he  may 
be  certain  that  his  correspondence  is 
beset,  I  will  now  and  then  send  him  a 
bagatelle  that  I  may  write.  In  the 
present  hurry  of  Europe,  nothing  but 
news  and  politics  will  be  regarded; 
but  against  the  days  of  peace,  which 
Heaven  send  soon,  my  little  assistance 
may  perhaps  fill  up  an  idle  column  of 
a  newspaper.  I  have  long  had  it  in 
rny  head  to  try  my  hand  in  the  way  of 
little  prose  essays,  which  I  propose 
sending  into  the  world  through  the 
medium  of  some  newspaper ;  and 
should  these  be  worth  his  while,  to 
these  Mr.  Perry  shall  be  welcome;  and 
all  my  reward  shall  be  his  treating  me 
with  his  paper,  which,  by  the'  by,  ■  to 
anybody  who  has  the  least  relish 'for 


GENEEAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


601 


wit,  is  a  liigli  treat  indeed.* — With 
tlie  most  grateful  esteem,  I  am  ever, 
dear  sir, 

E.  B. 


No.  CCLXVl. 

TO  MR.  SAMUEL  CLARKE,  JUN., 
DUMFRIES. 

Sunday  Morning. 

Dear  Sir, — I  was,  I  know,  drunk 
last  night,  but  I  am  sober  this  morn- 
ing.    From  the  expressions  Capt. 

made  use  of  to  me,  had  I  had  nobody's 
welfare  to  care  for  but  my  own,  we 
,should  certainly  have  come,  according 
to  the  manners  of  the  world,  to  the 
necessity  of  murdering  one  another 
about  the  business.  The  words  were 
such  as  generally,  I  believe,  end  in  a 
brace  of  pistols;  tat  I  am  still  pleased 
to  think  that  I  did  not  ruin  the  peace 
and  welfare  of  a  wife  and  a  family  of 
children  in  a  drunken  squabble.  Fur- 
ther you  know  that  the  report  of  cer- 
tain political  opinions  being  mine  has 
already  once  before  brought  me  to  the 
brink  of  destruction.  ^  dread  lest  last 
night's  business  may  be  misrepresent- 
ed in  the  same  way.  Yda,  I  beg,  will 
take  care  to  prevent  it.  I  tax  your 
wish  for  Mr.  Burns'  welfare,  with  the 
task  of  waiting,  as  soon  as  possible,  on 
every  gentleman  who  was  present,  and 
state  this  to  him  ;nl,  as  you  please, 
show  bim  this  letter.  What,  after  all, 
was  the  obnoxious  toast?  "  May  our 
success  in  the  present  war  be  equal  to 
the  justice  of  our  cause  " — a  toast  that 
the  most  outrageous  frenzy  of  loyalty 
cannot  object  to.     I  request  and  beg 


*.Ia  a  conversation  with  his  friend  Mr. 
Perirjr,  (the  proprietor  of  the  Morning 
■Chronicle^  Mr.  Miller   represented    to  that 

.gentleman. the  insufficiency  of  Burns'  salary 
to  answer  the  Imperious  demands  of  a  numer- 
ous family.'  In  their  sympathy  for  his  misfor- 
tunes, and  in  their  regret  that  his  talents  were 
nearly  lost  to  the  world,  of  letters,  these  gen- 

-jtlemen  agreed  on  the  plan  of  settling  him  in 

'  London.  To  accomplish  this  most  desirable 
object,  Mr.  Perry,  very  spiritedly,  made  the 
poet  a  handsome  offer  of  an  annual  stipend 
for  the  exercise  of  his  talents  in  his  news- 
paper. .  Burns'    reasons   for    refusing    this 

'Difer  are-  stated  in  the-  present"  letter. — ■ 
Cromrk, 


that  this  morning  you  will  wait  on  the 
parties  present  at  the  foolish  dispute. 
I  shall  only  add  that  I  am  truly  sorry 
that  a  man  who  stood  so  high  in  my 

estimation  as  Mr. ,  should  use  me 

in  the  manner  in  which  I  conceive  he 
has  done. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXVn. 
TO    MRS.     RIDDEL. 

SUPPOSES      HmSELP  TO  BE     WRITING 
FROM  THE  DEAD  TO  THE  LIVING. 
Dumfries,  1795- 

Madam, —  I  daresay  that  this  is  the 
iirst  epistle  you  ever  received  from 
tills  nether  world.  I  write  you  from 
the  regions  of  hell,  amid  the  horrors 
of  the  damned.  The  time  and  -man- 
ner of  my  leaving  your  earth  I  do  not 
exactly  know,  as  I  took  my  departure 
in  the  heat  of  afever  of  intoxication, 
contracted  at  your  too  hospitable  man- 
sion; but,  on  my  arrival  here,  I  was 
fairly  tried,  and  sentenced  to  endure 
the  purgatjiial  tortures  of  this  infernal 
confine  for  the  space  of  ninety-nine 
years,  eleven  months,  and  twenty-nine 
days,  and  all  on  account  of  the  impro- 
priety of  my  conduct  yesternight  un- 
der your  roof.  Here  am  I,  laid  on  a 
bed  of  pitiless  furze,  with  my  aching 
head  reclined  on  a  pillow  of  ever- 
piercing  thorn,  while  an  infernal  tor- 
mentor, wrinkled,  and  old,  and  cruel, 
his  name  I  think  is  Itecollectian,  with 
a  whip  of  scorpions,  foruids  peace  or 
rest  to  approach  me,  and  keeps  an- 
guish eternally  awake.  Still,  madam, 
if  I  could  in  any  measure  be  reinstated 
in  the  good  opinion  of  the  fair  circle 
whom  my  conduct  last  night  so  much 
injured,  I  think  it  would  be  an  allevia- 
tion to  my  torments.  For  this  reason 
I  trouble  you  with  this  letter.  To  the 
men  of  the  company  I  will  make  no 
apology.  Your  husband,  who  insisted 
on  my  drinking  more  than  I  chose, 
has  no  right  to  blanio  me;'  and  the 
other  gentlemen  were  partakers  of  my 
guilt.  But  to  you,  madam,  I  have  to 
apologise.      Your  good  opinion  I  val- 


503' 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ued  as  one  of  the  greatest  acquisitions 
I  had  made  on  eartli,  and  I  was  truly 
a  tieast  to  forfeit  it.  There  was  a  Miss 
I ,  too,  a  woman  of  fine  sense,  gen- 
tle and  unassuming  manners  —  do 
make,  on  my  part,  a  miserable  damned 
wretch's  best  apology  to  her.      A  Mrs. 

Q- .  a  charming  woman,  did  me  the 

honour  to  be  prejudiced  in  my  favour; 
this  makes  me  hope  that  1  have  not 
outraged  her  beyond  all  forgiveness. 
To  all  the  other  ladies  please  present 
my  humblest  contrition  for  my  con- 
duct, and  my  petition  for  their  gra- 
cious pardon.  0  all  ye  powers  of  de- 
cency and  decorum  !  whisper  to  them 
that  my  errors,  though  great,  were  in- 
voluntary— that  an  intoxicated  man  is 
the  vilest  of  beasts — ^that  it  was  not  in 
my  nature  to  be  brutal  to  any  one — 
that  to  be  rude  to  a  woman,  when  in 
my  senses,  was  impossible  with  me — 
but^" 

Regret !  Remorse  !  Shame  I  ye  three 
heil-hounds  that  ever  dog  my  steps 
and  bay  at  my  heels,  spare  me  !  spare 
mo  ! 

Forgive  the  ofEences,  and  pity  the 
perdition  of,  madam,  your  humble 
slave,  K.  B. 


No.  CCLXVIII. 
TO    MRS.     RIDDEL. 

Dumfries,  1795. 
Mr.  Bubns'  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Riddel — is  much  obliged  to  her  for 
her  polite  attention  in  sending  him  the 
book.  Owing  to  Mr.  B.  being  at  present 
acting  as  supervisor  of  Excise,  a  de- 
partment that  occiipies  his  every 
hour  of  the  day,  he  has  not  that  time 
to  spare  which  is  necessary  for  any 
belles-lettres  pursuit;  but,  as  he  will, 
in  a  week  or  two,  again  return  to  his 
wontedleisure,  he  will  then  pay  that 
attention  to  Mrs.  R.  's  beautiful  song, 
"  To  thee,  loved  Nijli" — which  it  so 
well  deserves.*    When  "  Anacliarsis' 


*  In  the  song  alluded  to,  there  are  some 
fine  verses. 
"  And  now  your  banks  and  bonnie  braes 

But  waken  sad  remembrance'  smart : 


Travels  "  come  to  hand,  wliich  Mrs. 
Riddel  mentioned  as  her  gift  to  the  pub- 
lic library,  Mr.  B.  will  feel  honoured 
by  the  indulgence  of  a  perusal  of  them 
before  presentation;  it  is  a  book  he  has 
never  yet  seen,  and  the  regulations  of 
the  library  allow  too  little  leisure  for 
deliberate  reading. 

Friday  Evening. 

P.  S.  — Mr.  Burns  will  be  much 
obliged  to  Mrs.  Riddel  if  she  will 
favour  him  vrith  a  perusal  of  any  of 
her  poetical  pieces  which  he  may  not 

have  seen. 


No.  CCLXIX. 
TO  MISS  FONTENELLE. 

Dumfries,  1795. 

Madam, — In  such  a  bad  world  as 
ours,  those  who  add  to  the  scanty  sum 
of  our  pleasures  are  positively  our  ben- 
efactors. To  you,  madam,  on  our 
humble  Dumfries  boards,  I  have  been 
more  indebted  for  entertainment  than 
ever  I  was  in  prouder  theatres.  Tour 
charms  as  a  woman  would  insure  ap- 
plause to  the  most  indifferent  actress, 
and  your  theatrical  talents  would  in- 
sure admiration  to  the  plainest  figure. 
This,  madam,  is  not  the  unmeaning  or 
insiduous  compliment  of  the  frivolous,, 
or  interested;  I  pay  it  from  the  same 
honest  impulse  that  the  sublime  of 
nature  excites  my  admiration,  or  her' 
beauties  give  me  delight. 

Will  the  foregoing  lines*  be  of  any 
service  to  you  in  your  approaching' 
benefit  night  ?    If  they  will  I  shall  be 

The  very  shades  I  held  most  dear 
Now  strike  fresh  anguish  to  my  heart : 

Deserted  bower !  where  are  they  now  ? 
Ah  !  where  the  garlands  that  I  wove 

With  faithful  care — each  mom  to  deck 
The  altars  of  ungrateful  love  ? 

"  The  flowers  of  sprin.^how  gay  they  bloom'd 

When  last  with  him  I  wander'd  here, 
The  flowers  of  spring  are  past  away 

For  wintry  horrors  dark  and.drear. 
Yon  osier'd  stream,  by  whose  lone  banks 

My  son^s  have  luU'd  him  oft  to  rest, 
Is  now  in  icy  fetters  lock'd — 

Cold  as  my  false  love's  frozen  breast." 

*  See  "Address  spoken  by  Miss  Fbntenelle," 
p.  147. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


503 


prouder  of  my  miisG  than  eye^.  They 
are  nearl;'  extempore:  I  know  they 
have  no  great  merit;  bat  though  they 
should  add  but  little  to  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  evening,  they  give  me  tlie 
happiness  of  an  opportunity  to  declare 
how  much  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
&c.,  R.  B. 


No.  CCLXX. 
■.'      TO.  MRS.     DUNIiOP. 

Dec.  15,  1795. 

My  deak  Friend,  -7-  As  I  am  in 
a  complete  Decemberish  humour, 
gloomy,  sullen,  stupid,  as  even  the 
d^ty  of  dulness  herself  could  wish,  I 
shall  not  drawl  out  a  heavy  letter  with 
a  number  of  heavier  apologies  for  my 
late  silence.  Only  one  1  shall  mention, 
because  I  know  you  will  sympathise  in 
it:  these  four  months  a  sweet  little 
girl,  my  youngest  child,  has  been  so 
ill  that  every  day,  a  week,  or  less, 
threatened  to  terminate  her  existence. 
There  had  much  need  bo  many  pleas- 
ures annexed  to  the  states  of  husband 
and  father,  for,  God  knows,  they  have 
many  peculiar  cares.  '  I  cannot  de- 
scribe to  you  the  anxious,  sleepless 
hours  these  ties  frequently  give  me. 
I  see  a  train  of  helpless  little  folks: 
me  and  my  exertions  all  their  stay: 
anji  on  what  a  brittle  thread  does  the 
life  of  man  hang  !  If  I  am  nipt  off  at 
the  command  of  fate  !  even  in  all  the 
vigour  of  manhood  as  I  am  —  such 
things  happen  every  day  —  Gracious 
Go'd !  what  would  become  of  my  little 
flock  !  'TiS  here  that  J.  envy  your  peo- 
ple of  fortune. — A  father  on  his  death- 
bed, taking  an  everlasting  leave  of  his 
children,  lias  indeed  woe  enough;  but 
the  man  of  competent  fortune  leaves 
his  sons  and  daughters  independency 
and  friends;  while  I — but  I  shall  run 
distracted  if  I  think  any  longer  on  the 
subject. 

To  leave  talking  of  the  matter  so 
gravely,  I  shall  sing  with  the  old  Scots 
ballad — 

- .    *'  O  that  I  had  ne'er  been  married, 
''  '  I  would  never  had  nae  care  ; 


Now  I've  gotten  wife  and  bairns, 
They  cry  crowdie  evermair, 

"Crowdie  ance:  crowdie  twice  ; 

Crowdie  three  times  in  a  day ; 
An  ye  crowdie  ony  mair, 

Ye'll  crowdie  a'  my  meal  away." 


December  24. 
We  have  had  a  brilliant  theatre  here 
this  season;  only,  as  all  other  business 
does,  it  experienced  a  stagnation  of 
trade  from  the  epidemical  complaint 
of  the  country,  want  of  cash,  I  men- 
tioned our  theatre  merely  to  lug  in  an 
occasional  Address  which  I  wrote  for 
the  benefit-night  of  one  of  the  ac- 
tresses, and-  which  is  as  follows — 
(Sec  p.  147.) 

2sth,  Christmas  Morning. 

This,  my  much-loved  friend,  is  a 
morning  of  wishes;  accept  mine — so. 
Heaven  hear  mo  as  they  are  sincere  ! 
— ^that  blessings  may  attend  your  steps,, 
and  affliction  know  you  not  !  In  the 
charming  words  of  my  favourite. 
author,  ' '  The  Man  of  Feeling,"  ' '  May 
the  great  Spirit  bear  up  the  weight  of 
thy  gray  hairs,  and  blunt  the  arrow 
that  brings  them  rest  !" 

Now  that  I  talk  of  authors,  how  do 
you  like  Cowper?  Is  not  the  '■  Task" 
a  glorious  poem  'I  The  religion  of  the 
"Task,"  bating  a  few  scraps  of  C'al- 
vinistic  divinity,  is  the  religion  of 
God  and  nature;  the  religion  that  ex- 
alts, that  ennoi)les  man.  Were  not 
you  to  send  mc  your  "  Zeluco,"  in  re- 
turn for  mine  ?  Tell  me  how  yoi^ke 
my  marks  and  notes  through  the 
book.  I  would  jiot  give  a  farthing  for 
a  book,  unless  I  were  at  liberty  to 
blot  it  with  my  criticisms.  . 

I  have  lately  collected,  for  a  friend's 
perusal,  all  my  letters  ;  I  mean  those 
which  I  first  sketched,  in  a,  rough 
draught,  and  afterwards  wrote  out 
fair.  On  looking  over  some  old  musty 
papers,  which,  from  time  to  time,  I 
had  parcelled  by,  as  trash  that  were 
scarce  worth  preservings  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 


504 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


always  to  you  tlie  rliapsody  of  tlie  mo- 
ment, I  cannot  find  a  single  scroll  to 
you,  except  one,  about  the  commence- 
ment of  our  acquaintance.  If  there 
were  any  possible  conveyance,  I 
■would  send  you  a  perusal  of  my 
book. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXI. 
TO    MR.     ALEXANDER     FIND- 
LATER,     SUPERVISOR    OP 
EXCISE,.    DUMFRIES. 

Sm, — ^Enclosed  are  the  two  schemes. 
I  would  not  have  troubled  you  with  the 
collector's  one,  but  for  suspicion  lest  it 
be  not  right.  Mr.  Erskine  promised 
me  to  make  it  right,  if  you  will  have 
the  goodness  to  show  him  how.  As  I 
have  no  copy  of  the  scheme  for  my- 
self, and  the  alterations  being  very 
considerable  from  what  it  was  for- 
merly, I  hope  that  I  shall  have  access 
to  tliis  scheme  I  send  you,  when  I 
come  to  face  up  my  new  books.  So 
much  for  schemes.  —  And  that  no 
scheme  to  betray  a  friend,  or  mis- 
lead a  STRANGER;  to  seduce  a  youNG 
GIRL,  or  rob  a  hen -BOOST;  to  subvert 
LIBERTY,  or  bribe  an  exciseman;  to 
disturb  the  general  assembly,  or 
annoy  a  gossiping;  to  overthrow  the 
credit  of  orthodoxy,  or  tlie  authority 
of  OLD  SONGS;  to  oppose  your  wishes, 
or  toustrate  my  hopes — may  prosper 
— is  me  sincere  wish  and  prayer -of 
R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXII. 

TO     THE     EDITOR    OP    THE 
MOBNINQ     GHBONIOLE.'' 

Dumfries,  1795. 

Sir, —  You  will  .see  by  your  sub- 
scribers' list  that  I  have  been  about 
nine  months  of  thatnumber. 

I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  in 
that  time  seven  or  eight  of  your 
papers  either  have    never  been  sent 

*  James  Perry,  a  native  of  Aberdeen. 


me,  or  else  have  never  reached  me. 
To  be  deprived  of  any  one  number  of 
the  first  newspaper  in  Great  Britain 
for  information,  ability,  and  independ- 
ence, is  what  I  can  ill  brook  and  bear; 
but  to  be  deprived  of  that  most  admi- 
rable oration  of  the  Marquis  of  Lans- 
downe;  when  he  made  the  great, 
though  ineffectual  attempt  (in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  poet,  I  fear  too  true)  • '  to 
save  a  sinking  STATE"^^this  was  a 
loss  that  I  neither  can  nor  will  for- 
give you.  —  That  paper,  sir,  nevfir 
reached  me;  but  I  demand  it  of  you. 
I  am  a  Briton;  and  must  be  interested 
in  the  cause  of  libbbty, — I  am  a  man; 
and  the  rights  of  hximan  natxjre 
cannot  be  indifferent  to  me.  However, 
do  not  let  me  mislead  you:  I  am  not  a 
man  in  that  situation  of  life  which,  as 
your  subscriber,  can  be  of  any  conse- 
quence to  you,  in  the  eyes  of  those  to 
whom  SITUATION  op  life  alone  is 
the  criterion  of  man. — I  am  but  a 
plain  tradesman,  in  this  distant,  ob- 
scure country  town :  but  that  humble 
domicile  in  which  I  shelter  my  wife 
and  children  is  the  Castelltim  of  a 
Briton;  and  that  scanty,  hard-earned 
income  which  supports  them  is  as 
truly  my  property  as  the  most  mag- 
nificent fortune  of  the  most  puissant 
member  of  your  house  of  nobles. 

These,  sir,  are  my  sentiments;  and 
to  them  I  subscribe  my  name:  and, 
were  I  a  man  of  ability  and  conse- 
quence enough  to  address  the  public, 
with  that  name  should  they  appear, — 
I  am,  &c.* 


*  "  This  letter,"  says  Cromek,  "  owes  its 
origin  to  the  following  circumstance : — A 
neighbour  of  the  poet  at  Dumfries,  called  on 
him  and  complained  that  he  had  been  greatly 
disappointed  in  the  irregular  delivery  of  the 
Morning-  Chronicle.  Burns  asked,  *Why  do 
not  you  write  to  the  editors  of  the  paper?" 
'  Good  God,  sir,  can  /  presume  to  write  to  the 
learned  editors  of  a  newspaper  ?  '  '  Well,  if 
yott  are  afraid  of  writing  to  the  editors  of  a 
newsp  '  '   ■*  '  ■  ' 

per.  I  11  draw  up  a 
may  copy.' 

"  Burns  tore  a  leaf  from  his  excise  book, 
and  instantly  produced  the  sketch  which  I 
have  transcribed,  and  which  is  here  printed. 
The  poor  man  thanked  him,  and  took  the 
letter  home.  However,  that  caution  which 
the  watchfulness  of  his  enemies  had  taught 
him  to  exfcrcise  prompted  him  to  the  prudence 


I'spaper,  /  am  not ;  and,  if  you  think  pro- 
.  1 11  draw  up  a  sketch  of  aletter  which  you 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


•50s 


No.   CCLXXni. 
TO   COLONEL   W.    DUNBAR.* 

I  AM  not  gone  to  Elysium,  most  no- 
lale  Colonel,  but  am  still  here  in  tliis 
sublunary  world,  serving  my  God  by 
propagating  his  image,  and  honouring 
my  lung  by  begetting  hhu  loyal  sub- 
jects. Many  happy  returns  of  the  sea- 
son await  my  friend  I  May  the  thorns 
of  care  never  beset  his  path  !  May 
peace  be  an  inmate  of  his  bosom,  and 
rapture  a  frequent  visitor  of  his  soul  ! 
May  the  bloodhounds  of  misfortune 
never  trace  his  steps,  nor  the  screech- 
owl  of  sorrow  alarm  his  dwelling ! 
May  enjoyment  tell  thy  hours,  and 
pleasure  number  thy  days,  thou 
friend  of  the  Bard  !  Blessed  be  he 
that  blesseth  thee,  and  cursed  be  he 
that  curseth  thee ! 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXIV. 
TO  MR.  HERON,  OF  HERON. 

Dumfries,  1795. 

Sir, — I  enclose  you  some  copies  of 
a  couple  of  political  ballads;  one  of 
which,  I  believe,  you  have  never  seen.f 
Would  to  Heaven  I  could  make  you 
master  of  as  many  votes  in  the  Stew- 
artry — but — 

"  Who  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 
Does  well,  ^cts  nobly — angels  could  no  more." 

In  order  to  bring  my  humble  efforts 
to  bear  with  more  efEect  on  the  foe,  I 
have  privately  printed  a  good  many 
copies  of  both  ballads,  and  have  sent 
them  among  friends  all  about  the 
country. 

To  pillory  on  Parnassus  the  rank 


of  begging  a  friend  to  wait  on  the  person  for 
whom  It  was  written,  and  request  the  favour 
to  have  it  returned.  This  request  was  com- 
plied with,  and  the  paper  never  appeared  in 
print." 

*  William  Dunbar  was  an  Edinburgh  friend 
of  the  poet's;  and  the  title  of  Colonel  here 
given  refers  to  his  position  in  "  the  Croch- 
allfin  Fencibles,"  a  club  of  choice  spirits. 

t  For  these  ballads  which  related  to  Mr. 
Heron's  contest  for  the  representation  of  the 
Stewartry  of  Kirkcudbright,  see  p.  279. 


reprobation  of  character,  the  utter  de- 
reliction of  all  principle,  in  a  profligate 
junto  which  has  not  only  outraged 
virtue,  but  violated  common  decency; 
which,  spurning  even  hypocrisy  as 
paltry  iniquity  below  their  daring; — 
to  unmask  their  flag^tiousness  to  the 
broadest  day — to  deliver  such  over  to 
their  merited  fate — is  surely  not  mere- 
ly innocent,  but  laudable;  is  not  only 
propriety,  but  virtue.  You  have  al- 
ready, as  your  auxiliary,  the  sober 
detestation  of  mankind  on  the  heads  of 
your  opponents;  and  I  swear  by  the 
lyre  of  Thalia  to  muster  on  your  side 
all  the  votaries  of  honest  laughter,  and 
fair,  candid  ridicule  ! 

I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for 
your  kind  mention  of  my  interests  in 
a  letter  which  Mr.  Syme  showed  me. 
At  present,  my  situation  in  life  must 
be  in  a  great  measure  stationary,  at 
least  for  two  or  three  years.  The 
statement  is  this — I  am  on  the  su^r- 
visor's  list;  and,  as  we  come  on  there 
by  precedency,  in  two  or  three  years  I 
shall  be  at  the  head  of  that  list,  and 
be  appointed  of  course.  37i6?iariiiEND 
might  be  of  service  to  me  in  getting  mo 
into  a  place  of  the  kingdom  which  I 
would  like.  A  supervisor's  income  va- 
ries from  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  to 
two  hundred  a  year;  but  the  business 
is  an  incessant  drudgery,  and  would 
be  nearly  a  complete  bar  to  every 
species  of  literary  pursuit.  The  mo- 
ment I  am  appointed  supervisor,  in 
the  common  routine,  I  may  be  nomi- 
nated on  the  collector's  list;  and  this 
is  always  a  business  purely  of  political 
patronage.  A  collectorship  varies 
much,  from  better  than  two  hundred  a 
a  year,  to  near  a  thousand.  They  also 
come  forward  by  precedency  on  the 
list;  and  have,  besides  a  handsome 
income,  a  life  of  complete  leisure.  A 
life  of  literary  leisure,  with  a  decent 
competency,  is  the  summit  of  my 
wishes.  It  would  be  the  prudish  af- 
fectation of  silly  pride  in  me  to  say 
that  I  do  not  need,  or  would  not  be 
iiJdebted  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; 


506 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


If,  in  my  progress  of  life,  an  opening 
sliould  occur  where  the  good  offices  of 
a  gejntleman  of  your  public  character 
and  political  consequence  might  bring 
me  forward,  I  shall  petition  your  good- 
ness with  the  same  frankness  as  I  now 
do  myself  the  honour  to  subscribe 
myself, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXV. 

TO  MRS.   DUNLOP,  IN   LONDON. 
Dumfries,  Dec,  20,  1795. 

I  HAVE  been  prodigiously  disappoint- 
ed in  this  London  journey  of  yours.  In 
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  nest 
place,  I  thought  you  would  certainly 
take  this  route;  and  now  I  know  not 
what  is  become  of  you,  or  whether  this 
may  reach  you  at  all. — God  grant  that 
this  may  iind  you  and  yours  in  pros- 
pering health  and  good  spirits  !  Do 
let  me  hear  from  you  the  soonest  pos- 
sible. 

As  I  hope  to  get  a  frank  from  my 
friend.  Captain  Miller,  I  shall  every 
leisure  hour  take  up  the  pen,  and  gos- 
sip away  whatever  comes  first,  prose 
or  poetry,  sermon  or  song. — In  this 
last  article  I  have  abounded  of  late.  I 
have  often  mentioned  to  you  a  superb 
publication  of  Scottisli  songs,  which  is 
making  its  appearance  in  your  great 
metropolis,  and  where  I  have  the  hon- 
our to  preside  over  the  Scottish  verse, 
as  no  less  a  personage  than  Peter  Pin- 
dar does  over  the  English. 

Dec.  29. 

Since  I  began  this  letter,  I  have 
been  appointed  to  act  in  the  capacity 
of  supei'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  ap- 
pointment is  only  temporary,  and 
during  the  illness  of  the  present  in- 


cumbent; but  I  look  forward  to  an 
early  period  when  I  shall  be  appointed 
in  full  form:  a  consummation  devout- 
ly to  be  wished  !  My  political  sins 
seem  to  be  forgiven  me. 

This  is  the  season  (New-year's-day  ia 
now  my  date)  of  wishing;  and  mine 
are  most  fervently  offered  up  for  you  ! 
May  life  to  you  be  a  positive  blessing 
while  it  lasts,  for  your  own  sake,  and 
that  it  may  yet  be  greatly  prolonged  is 
my  wish  for  my  own  sake,  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  rest  of  your  friends  !  What 
a  transient  business  is  life  ! .  Very  late- 
ly I  was  a  boy;  but  t'other  day  I  was  a 
young  man  ;  and  already  I  begin  to 
feel  the  rigid  fibre  and  stiffening 
joints  of  old  age  coming  fast  o'er  my 
frame.  With  all  my  follies  of  youth, 
and,  I  fear,  a  f ew  vicfe  of  manhood, 
still  I  congratulate  myself  on .  having 
had  in  early  days  religion  strongly 
impressed  on  my  mind.  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say  to  any  one  as  to  which  sect 
he  belongs  to,  or  what  creed  he  be- . 
lieves;  but  I  looic  on  the  man  who  is, 
firmly  persuaded  cif  infinite  wisdom 
and  goodness,  superintending  and  di- 
recting every  circumstance  that  can 
happen  in  his  lot — I  felicitate  such  a 
man  as  having  a  solid  foundation  for 
his  mental  enjoyment;  a  firm  prop  and  , 
sure  stay  in  the  hour  of  difficulty, 
trouble,  and  distress;  and  a  never-fail- 
ing anchor  of  hope,  when  he  looks  be-  ^ 
yond  the  grave. 

Jan.  12, 

You  will  have  seen  our  worthy  and 
ingenious  friend,  the  Doctor,  long  ere 
this.  I  hope  he  is  well,  and  beg  to  be 
remembered  to  him.  I  have  just  been 
reading  over  again,  I  daresay  for  the 
hundred  and  fiftieth  time,  his  "View 
of  Society  and  Manners;"  and  still  I 
read  it  with  delight.  His  humour  is 
perfectly  original — it  is  neither  the 
humour  of  Addison,  nor  Swift,  nor 
Sterne,  nor  of  anybody  but  Dr.  Moorel 
— By  the  by,  you  have  deprived  me  of 
"  Zeluco;"  remember  that,  when  you 
are  disposed  to  rake  up  the  sins  of  "rby 
neglect  from  among  the  ashes  of  my'  ' 
laziness. 

He  has  paid  me  a  pretty  compli- 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


D07> 


ment,  by  quoting  me  in  his  last  publi- 
cation.* R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXVI. 

ADDRESS    OP    THE    SCOTCH 

DISTILLERS 

TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  WILLIAM  PITT. 

Sir, — While  pursy  burgesses  crowd 
yoiir  gate,  sweating  under  the  weight 
of  heavy  addresses,  permit  us,  the 
quondam  distillers  in  that  part  of 
Great  Britain  called  Scotland,  to  ap- 
proach you,  not  with  venal  approba- 
tion, but  with  fraternal  condolence; 
not  as  what  you  are  just  now,  or 
forsome  time  have  been;  but  as 
what  in  all  probability,  you  will 
shortly  be. — We  shall  have  the  merit 
of  not  deserting  our  friends  in  the  day 
of  their  calamity,  and  you  wiU  have 
the  satisfaction  of  perusing  at  least 
one  holiest  address.  You  are  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  dissection  of  human 
nature;  nor  do  you  need  the  assistance 
of  a  fellow-creature's  bosom  to  inform 
you  that  man  is  always  a  selfish,  often 
a  perfidious  being. — This  assertion, 
however  the  hasty  conclusions  of 
superficial  observation  may  doubt  of 
it,  or  the  raw  inexperience  of  youth 
may  deny  it,  those  who  make  the  fatal 
experiment  we  have  done  will  feel. — 
Tou  are  a  statesman,  and  consequently 
are  not  ignorant  of  the  traflBc  of  these 
corporation  compliments. —  The  little 
great  man  who  drives  the  borough  to 
market,  and  the  very  great  man  who 
buys  the  borough  in  that  market,  they 
two  do  the  whole  business:  and,  you 
well  know;  they,  likewise,  have  their 
price:  With  that  sullen  disdain 
which  you  can  so  well  assume,  rise, 
illustrious  sir,  and  spurn  these  hire- 
ling ef^rts  of  venal  stupidity.  At 
hest  they  are  the  compliments  of  a 
man's  friends  on  the  morning  of  his 
execution:  they  take  a  decent  fare- 
well; resign. you  to  your  fate:  and 
hurry  away  from  your  approaching 
hour. 

*  The  novel  entitled  "  Edward." 


If  fame  say  true,  and  omens  be  not 
very  much  mistalven,  you  are  about  to 
make  your  exit  from  that  world  where, 
the  sun  of  gladness  gilds  the  paths  of 
prosperous  men;  permit  us,  great  sir, 
with  the  sympathy  of  fellow-feeling, 
to  haU  your  passage  to  the  realms  of 
ruin. 

Whether  the  sentiment  proceed 
from  the  selfishness  or  cowardice  of 
mankind  is  immaterial ;  but  to  point 
out  to  a  child  of  misfortune  those  who 
are  still  more  unliappy  is  to  give  him 
some  degree  of  positive  enjoyment, 
lathis  light,  sir,  our  downfall  may  be 
again  useful  to  you: — Though  not  ex- 
actly in  the  same  way,  it  is  not  per- 
haps the  first  time  it  has  gratified  your 
feelings.  It  is  true,  the  triumph  of 
your  evil  star  is  exceedingly  despite- 
ful.—  At  an  age  when  others  are  the 
votaries  of  pleasure,  or  underlings  in 
business,  you  had  attained  the  highest 
wish  of  a  British  statesman;  and  with 
the  ordinary  date  of  human  life,  what 
a  prospect  was  before  you  !  Deeply 
rooted  in  Boyal  Fa/oour,  you  over- 
shadowed the  land.  The  birds  of  pas- 
sage, which  follow  ministerial  sun- 
shine through  every  clime  of  political 
faith  and  manners,  flocked  to  your 
branches;  and  the  beasts  of  the  field 
(the  lordly  possessors  of  hills  and  val- 
leys,) crowded  under  your  shade. 
"But  behold  a  watcher,  a  holy  One, 
came  down  from  heaven,  and  cried 
aloud,  and  said  thus:  Hew  down  the 
tree,  and  cut  off  his  branches;  shake 
off  his  leaves,  and  scatter  his  fruit; 
let  the  beasts  get  away  from  under  it, 
and  the  fowls  from  his  branches  1" 
A  blow  from  an  unthought  of  quarter, 
one  of  those  terrible  accidents  which 
peculiai-ly  mark  the  hand  of  Omnipo- 
tence, overset  your  career,  and  laid  all 
your  fancied  honours  in  the  dust. 
But  turn  your  eyes,  sir,  to  the  tragic 
scenes  of  our  fate. — An  ancient  nation 
that  for  many  ages  had  gallantly  main- 
tained the  unequal  struggle  for  inde- 
pendence with  her  much  more  power- 
ful neighbour,  at  last  agrees  to  an 
union  v/hich  should  ever  after  make 
them  one  jieople.  In  consideration  of 
certain  circumstances,  it 'was  covenant- 


508 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ed  that  the  former  should  enjoy  a 
stipulated  alleviation  in  her  share  of 
the  public  burdens,  particularly  in 
that  branch  of  the  revenue  called  the 
Excise.  This  just  privilege  has  of 
late  given  great  umbrage  to  some  in- 
terested, powerful  individuals  of  the 
more  potent  part  of  the  empire,  and 
they  have  spared  no  wicked  pains, 
under  insidious  pratexts,  to  subvert 
what  they  dared  not  openly  to  attack, 
from  the  dread  vfhich  they  yet  enter- 
tained of  the  spirit  of  their  ancient 
enemies. 

In  this  conspiracy  we  fell ;  ■  nor  did 
vre  alone  snffer  —  our  country  was 
deeply  wounded.  A  number  of  (we 
•will  say)  respectable  individuals, 
largely  engaged  in  trade,  where  we 
were  not  only  useful,  but  absolutely 
necessary,  to  our  country  in  her  dear- 
est interests;  we,  with  all  that  was 
near  and.  dear  to  us,  wece  sacrificed 
without  remorsa,  to  the  infernal  deity 
of  political  expediency  I  We  fell  to 
gratify  the  wishes  of  dark  envy,  and 
the  views  of  unprincipled  ambition. 
Your  foes,  sir,  were  avowed;  were  too 
brive  to  take  an  ungenerous  advan- 
tage; you  fell  in  the  face  of  day. — On 
the  contrary,  our  enemies,  to  complete 
our  overthrow,  contrived  to  make 
their  guilt  appear  the  villainy  of  a  na- 
tion. Your  downfall  only  drags  with 
you  your  private  friends  and  partisans : 
in  our  misery  are  more  or  less  involved 
the  most  numerous  and  most  valuable 
part  of  the  community — all  those  who 
immediately  depend  on  the  cultivation 
of  the  soil,  from  the  landlord  of  a  prov- 
ince down  to  his  lowest  hind. 

Allow  us,  sir,  yet  further,  just 
to  hint  at  another  rich  vein  of 
comfort  in  the  dreary  regions  of  ad- 
versity; the  gratulations  of  an  ap- 
proving conscience. — In  a  certain  great 
assembly,  of  which  you  are  a  distin- 
guished member,  panegyrics  on  pri- 
vate virtues  have  so  often  wounded 
your  delicacy  that  we  shall  not  dis- 
tress you  with  anything  on  the  sub- 
ject. There  is,  however,  one  part  of 
your  public  conduct  which  our  feel- 
ings will  not  permit  us  to  pass  in 
silence;  our  gratitude  must  trespass  on 


your  modesty;  we  mean,  worthy  sir, 
your  whole  behaviour  to  the  Scots  Dis- 
tillers.— In  evil  hours,  when  obtrusive 
recollection  presses  bitterly  on  the 
sense,  let  that,  sir,  come  like  a  healing 
angel,  and  speak  the  peace  to  your 
soul  which  the  world  can  neither  give 
nor  take  away. — We  have  the  honour 
to  be,  sir,  your  sympathising  fellow- 
sufferers,  and  grateful  humble  ser- 
vants. 

John  Baeletcorn — Prseses.* 


No.  CCLXXVUi 

TO  THE  HON.  THE  PROVOST, 
BAILIES,  AND  TOWN  COUNCIL 
OF  DUMFRIES. 

Gentlemen, — The  literary  taste  and 
liberal  spirit  of  your  good  town  has  so 
ably  filled  the  various  departments  of 
your  schools  as  to  make  it  a  very  great 
object  for  a  parent  to  have  his  children 
educated  in  them.  Still  to  me,  a 
stranger,  with  my  large  family,  and 
very  stinted  income,  to  give  my  young 
ones  that  education  I  wish,  at  the  high 
school  fees  which  a  stranger  pays,  will 
bear  hard  upon  me. 

Some  years  ago  your  good  town  did 
me  the  honour  of  making  me  an  hon- 
orary Burgess. — Will  you  allow  me  to 
request  that  this  mark  of  distinction 
may  extend  so  far  as  to  put  me  on  a 
footing  of  a  real  freeman  of  the  town, 
iu  the  schools  ? 

If  you  are  so  very  kind  as  to  grant 
my  request,  it  will  certainly  be  a  con- 
stant incentive  to  me  to  strain  every 
nerve  where  I  can  officially  serve  you; 
and  will,  if  possible,  increase  that 
grateful  respect  with  which  I  have  the 
honour  to  be,  gentlemen,  your  devoted 
humble  servant, 

R.  B.f 


*  This  ironical  address  was  found  among 
the  papers  of  the  poet. 

t  The  Provost  and  Bailies  complied  at  once 
with  the  humble  request  of  the  poet. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


509 


No.  CCLXXVm. 
TO    MRS.     RIDDEL. 

Dumfries,  Jan.  20, 1796. 

I  CANNOT  express  my  gratitude  to 
you  for  allowing  me  a  longer  perusal 
jof  "  Anarcliarsis."  In  fact,  I  never 
met  with  a  book  that  bewitched  me  so 
much;  and  I,  as  a  member  of  the 
library,  must  warmly  feel  the  obliga- 
tion you  have  laid  us  under.  Indeed, 
to  me,  the  obligation  is  stronger  than 
to  any  other  individual  of  our  society, 
as  "  Anarcharsis  "  is  an  indispensable 
desideratum  to  a  son  of  the  muses. 

The  health  you  wished  me  in  your 
morning's  card  is,  I  think,  flown  from 
me  for  ever.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
leave  my  bed  to-day  till  about  an  hour 
ago.  These  Wickedly  unlucky  adver- 
tisements I  lent  (I  did  wrong)  to  a 
friend,  and  I  am  ill  able  to  go  in  quest 
of  him. 

The  muses  have  not  quite  forsaken 
me.  The  following  detached  stanzas 
I  intend  to  interweave  in  some  disas- 
trous tale  of  a  shepherd. 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXIX. 
TO    MRS.     DTJNLOP. 

Dumfries,  Jan.  31,  1796. 

These  many  months  you  have  been 
two  packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of 
ignorance  I  have  committed  against  so 
highly  valued  a  friend  I  am  utterly  at 
jB,  loss  to  guess.  Alas  !  madam, -ill  can 
I  afford,  at  this  time,  to  be  deprived 
of  any  of  the  small  remnant  of  my 
pleasures.  I  have  lately  drunk  deep  of 
the  cup  of  aflBiction.  The  autumn 
robbed  me  of  my  only  daughter  and 
darling  child,  and  that  at  a  distance, 
too,*  and  so  rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of 
my  power  to  pay  the  last  duties  to  her. 
I  had  scarcely  begun  to  recover  from 
that  shock  when  I  became  myself  the 
victim  of  a  most  severe  rheumatic 
fever,  and  long  the  die  spun  doubtful ; 
until,  after  many  weeks  of  a  sick  bed, 
it  seems  to  have  turned  up  life,  and  I 


*  The  child  died  at  Mauchiine. 


am  beginning  to  crawl  across  my  room, 
and  once  indeed  have  been  before  my 
own  door  in  the  street. 

"  When  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight, 

Affliction  purifies  the  visual  ray, 
Religion  hails  the  drear,  the  untried  night, 
And  shuts,  for  ever  shuts !  life's  doubtful 
day." 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXX. 
TO    MRS.     RIDDEL, 

WHO  HAD  DESIRED  HIM  TO  GO  TO  THE  BIRTH- 
DAY ASSEMBLY  ON  THAT  DAY  TO  SHOW  HI? 
LOYALTY. 

Dumfries,  June  4,  1796. 

I  AM  in  such  miserable  health  as  to 
be  utterly  incapable  of  showing  my 
loyalty  in  any  way.  Rackt  as  I  am 
with  rheumatisms,  I  meet  every  face 
with  a  greeting,  like  that  of  Balak  to 
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  circumstances  copy 
you  out  a  love-song  ? 

I  may  perhaps  see  you  on  Saturday, 
but  I  will  not  he  at  the  hall — Why 
should  I?  "man  delights  not  me,  nor 
woman  either  !"  Can  you  supply  me 
with  the  song,  "  Let  us  all  be  unhap- 
py together  ?"  —  do  if  you  can,  and 
ablige  le  pauvre  miserable.'^ 

R.  B. 


*  Mr.  Cunningham  says : — '■'  This  is  the  last 
letter  which  Burns  addressed  to  the  beautiful 
and  accomphshed  Mrs.  Riddel.  In  addition 
to  the  composition  of  a  very  admirable  memoir 
of  the  poet,  that  lady  bestirred  herself  much 
in  rousing  his  friends  both  in  Scotland  and 
England  to  raise  a  monument  at  Dumfries  to 
his  memory.  She  subscribed  largely  herself : 
she  induced  others  to  do  the  same,  and  she 
corresponded  with  both  Banks  and  Flaxman 
on  the  subject  of  designs.  The  following 
letter  will  suffice  to  show  the  reader  that  Mrs. 
Riddel  had  forgiven  the  bard  forall  his  lam- 
poons, and  was  earnest  in  doing  his  memory 
honour:  " — 

Richmond,  May  20, 1799. 
Sir— In  answer  to  youra  of  the  loth  of  last 
month,  I  will  trouble  you  with  a  few  lines  on 
the  subject  of  the  bard's  monument,  having 
corresponded  with  several  persons  (Dr. 
Currie,  &c,)  respecting  it,  whose  judgment  is 
very  far  preferable  to  mine,  and  we  all  agree 


510 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CCLXXXI. 

TO     MR.     CLARKE,     SCHOOL- 
MASTER, FORFAR. 

Dumfries,  June  s6,  1796. 

My  deak  Clarke, — Still,  still  the 
victim  of  affliction  !  Were  you  to  see 
the  emaciated  figure  who  now  holds 
the  pen  to  you,  you  would  not  know 
your  old  friend.  Whether  I  shall  ever 
get  about  again,  is  only  known  to  Him, 
the  Great  Unknown,  whose  creature  I 
am.  Alas,  Clarke  !  I  begin  to  fear 
the  worst.  As  to  my  individual  .self, 
1  am  tranquil,  and  would  despise  my- 
self if  1  were  not;  but  Burns'  poor 
widow,  and  half-a-dozen  of  his  dear 
little  ones — helpless  orphans  ! — there 
I  am  weak  as  a  woman's  tear.  Enough 
of  this  !     'Tis  half  of  my  disease. 

I  duly  received  your  last,  enclosing 
the  note.  It  came  extremely  in  time, 
and  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  punc- 
tuality. Again  I  must  request  you  to 
do  me  the  same  kindness.  Be  so  very 
good  as,  by  return  of  post,  to  enclose 
me  another  note.  I  trust  you  can  do 
it  without  inconvenience,  and  it  will 


that  the  first  thingr  to  be  done  is  to  collect 
what  money  can  be  got  for  that  purpose,  in 
which  we  will  aU  do  what  service  we  can,  as 
soon  as  the  posthumous  works  are  published  ; 
but  those  who  are  at  all  saddled  with  that 
business  must  get  it  off  their  hands  before 
they  commence  another  undertaking.  Per- 
haps an  application,  or  at  any  rate  the  consult- 
ing with  Mr.  Flaxman  on  the  subject  of  the 
design,  &c.,  might  answer  better  from  and 
with  persons  he  is  already  acquainted  with, 
and  -mor;  heads  than  one  should  be  called  in 
counsel  on  the  occasion.  If,  therefore,  you  or 
the  other  gentlemen  concerned  in  this  project 
think  it  proper,  I  will  talk  it  over  with  Mr. 
Flaxman  and  some  other  artists,  friends  of  his, 
whom  I  know,  and  Mr.  F.  can  then  let  you 
know  his  ideas  on  the  subject.  The  monu- 
ment should  be  characteristic  of  him  to  whom 
it  is  raised,- and  the  artist  must  somehow  be 
made  acquamted  with  him  and  his  ivorks^ 
which  it  is  possible  he  may  not  be  at  present. 
The  inscription  should  be  first  rate.  I  think 
either  Roscoe  or  Dr.  Darwin  would  contri- 
bute their  talents  for  the  purpose,  and  it 
could  not  be  given  into  better  hands.  I  have 
no  names  to  add  to  your  list ;  but  whenever 
-that  for  the  posthumous  works  is  closed.,  I  will 
set  to  work  m  earnest.  Pray  remember  me  to 
Mr.  Syme  when  you  see  \i\va^J'romtvkom.  I 
know  not  ivhy.,  I  never  hear  now. — I  am,  sir, 
your  humble  servant, 

•  -■  Makia  RidPel. 


seriously  oblige  me.  If  I  must  go,  I 
shall  leave  a  few  friends  behind  me, 
whom  I  shall  regret  while  conscious- 
ness remains.  1  know  I  shall  live  in 
their  remembrance.  Adieu,  dear 
Clarke;  That  I  shall  ever  see  you 
again  is,  I  am  afraid,  highly  improb- 
able. ' 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXXII. 

TO    MR.     JAMES     JOHNSON, 
EDINBURGH. 

Dumfries,  July  4,  1796. 

How  are  you,  my  dear  friends  aad 
how  comes  on  )our  fifth  volume? 
You  may  probably  think  that  for  some 
time  past  I  have  neglected  you  and 
your  work;  but,  alas  !  the  hand  of 
pain,  and  sorrow,  and  care,  has  these 
many  mouths  lain  heavy  on  me  !  Per- 
sonal and  domestic  affliction  have 
almost  entirely  banished  that  alacrity 
and  life  with  which  I  used  to  woo  the 
rural  muse  of  Scotia. 

Vou  are  a  good,  worthy  honest  fel- 
low, and  have  a  good  right  to  live  in 
this  world  —  because  you  deserve  it. 
Many  a  merry  meeting  this  publica- 
tion has  given  us,  and  possibly  it  njay 
give  us  more,  though,  alas  !  I  fear  it. 
'rhis  protracting,  slow,  consuming  ill- 
ness which  hangs  over  me,  will,  I 
doubt  much,  my  ever  dear  friend,  ar- 
rest my  sun  before  he  has  well  reached 
his  middle  career,  and  will  turn  over 
the  poet  to  far  more  important  con- 
cerns than  studying  the  brilliancy  of 
wit,  or  the  pathos  of  sentiment !  How- 
ever, liope  is  the  cordial  of  the  human 
heart,  and  I  endeavour  to  cherish  it  as 
well  as  I  can. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as 
convenient. — Your  work  is  a  great  one; 
and  now  that  it  is  finished,  I  see,  if  we 
were  to  begin  again,  two  or  three 
things  that  might  be  mended;  yet  I 
will  venture  to  prophesy  that  to  futilre 
ages  your  publicatioa  will  be  the  text- 
book and  standard  of  Scottish  songaiid 
music.  ■   ■ 


GENERAL  CORRESPONbENCE. 


5U 


;  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  another  favour 
Qfryou,  because  you  have  been  so  very 

Jgpodfliready;  but  my  wife  has  a  very 
.particular  friend  of  hers,  a  young  lady 

ijffho  sings  well,  to  whom  she  wishes 
to  present  the  Scots  Musical  Museum. 
If  you  have  a  spare  copy,  will  you  be 
so  obliging  as  to  send  It  by  the  very 
first  fiy,  as  I  am  anxious  to  have  it 
soon.* — Yours  ever, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXXIII. 

TO     MR.     CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow,  Sea-Bathing.Quakteks,  1 
July  7, 179b.  i 

,  My  DBAS  CcKto*GHAM, — I  received 
yours  here  this  [moment,  and  am  in- 
deed highly  flattered  with  the  appro- 
bation 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 
Jchair — ^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 
quarters  and  riding. — ^The  deuce  of  the 
matter  is  this;  when  an  Exciseman  is 
off  duty,  his  salary  is  reduced  to  £35 
instead'  of  £50.  —  What  way,  in  the 
name  of  "thrift,  shall  I  maintain  my- 
self, and  keep  a  horse  in  country 
quarters — with  a  wife  and  five  children 
■at  home,  on  £35  ?  I  mention  this,  be- 
cause I  had  intended  to  beg  your  ut- 

*  In  this  humble  and  delicate  manner  did 
"poor  Burns  ask  for  a  copy  of  a  work  oi  which 
he  was  principally  the  founder,  and  to  which 
he  had  cotHrWmted, gratuitausfy,  not  less  than 
184  (rHginal^  altered^  and  corrected  songs  I 
The- editor  has  seen  180  transcribed  by  his 
own  hand  for  the  AfaifK"'-— Cromek. 


most  interest,  and  that  of  all  the 
friends  you  can  muster,  to  move  our 
Commissioners  of  Excise  to  grant  me 
the  full  salary;  I  dare  say  you  know 
them  all  personally.  If  they  do  not 
grant  it  me,  I  must  lay  my  account 
with  an  exit  truly  en  poeie — If  1  die 
not  of  disease,  1  must  perish  with 
hunger.* 

.  I  have  sent  you  one  of  the  songs; 
the  other  my  memory  does  not  serve 
me  with,  and  I  have  no  copy  here;  but 
I  shall  be  at  home  soon,  when  I  will 
send  it  you.  —  Apropos  to  being  at 
home,  Mrs.  Burns  threatens,  in  a  week 
or  two,  to  add  one  more  to  my  paternal 
charge,  which,  if  of  the  right  gender, 
I  intend  shall  be  introduced  to  the 
world  by  the  respectable  designation 
of  Alexander  Cunningham  Burns.  My 
last  was  Jamss  Oleneairn,  so  you  can 
have  no  objection  to  the  company  of 
nobility. — ^Farewell. 

R.B. 


No.  CCLXXXIV. 

TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

July  10, 1796. 

Dear  Bkothek, — ^Itwill  be  no  very 
pleasing  news  to  you  to  be  told  that  I 
am  dangerously  ill,  and  not  likely  to 
get  better.  An  inveterate  rheumatism 
has  reduced  me  to  such  a  state  of  de- 
bility, and  my  appetite  is  so  totally 
gone,  that  I  can  scarcely  stand  on  my 
legs.  1  have  been  a  week  at  sea-bath- 
ing, and  I  will  continue  there,  or  in  a 
friend's  house  in  the  country,  all  the 
summer.  God  keep  my  wife  and. 
children:  if  I  am  taken  from  their 
head,  they  will  be  poor  indeed.  I 
have  contracted  one  or  two  serious 
debts,  partly  from  my  illness  these 
many  months,  partly  from  too  much 
thoughtlessness  as  to  expense  when  I 
came  to  town,  that  will   cut  in  too 


*  Mr.  Cunningham  very  properly  says : — It 
is  truly  painful  to  mention— and  with  indigna- 
tion we  record  it — that  the  poet's  .  humble 
request  of  the  continuance  of  his  full  .salary 
was «<>/ granted  !  "The  Commissioners,"  says 
Currie,  "were  guilty  of  no  such  weakness." 
To  be  merciful  was  no  part  of  their  duty. 


■513 


BURNS'  WOBKS. 


mucli  on  tlie  little  I  leave  them  in 
your  hands.  Bemeniber  me  to  my 
mother. — Yours, 

E.  B. 


No.  GCLXXXV. 
TO    MRS.     BURNS. 

Crow,*  Thursday. 

My  DEAitEST  LovK,  —  I  delayed 
■writing  until  I  could  tell  you  ^vhat 
effect  sea-l)athiug  was  likely  to  pro- 
duce. It  would  be  iiijustico  to  deny 
that  it  has  eased  my  pains,  and  I  think 
has  strengthened  mo;  but  my  appetite 
is  still  extremely  bad.  No  flesh  nor 
fish  can  I  swallow ;  porridge  and  milk 
are  the  only  thing  I  can  taste.  I  am 
very  happy  to  hear,  by  Miss  Jesse  Le- 
■wars,  that  you  are  all  well.  .  My  very 
best  and  kindest  compliments  to  her, 
and  to  all  the  children.  I  will  see 
you  on  Sunday.  —  Your  affectionate 
husband, 

R.  B. 


No.  CCLXXXVI. 

TO    MRS.     DUNLOP. 

Crow,  Saturday,  July  12,  1796. 
Madam,  —  .  have  written  you  so 
often,  .without  receiving  any  answer, 
that  I  vrould  not  trouble  you  again, 
but  for  the  circumstances  in  which  I 
am.  An  i '  .less  which  has  long  hung 
about  me,  in  all  probability  will  speed- 
ily send  me  '  eyond  that  bourn  whence 
no  traveller  returns.  Your  friendship, 
with  which  for  many  years  you  hon- 
oured me,  was  a  friendship  dearest  to 
my  soul.  Your  conversation,  and  es- 
pecially your'  correspondence,  were  at 
once  highly  entertaining  and  instruc- 
tive.    With  what  pleasure  did  I  use 


to  break  up  the  seal  I  The  remem- 
brance yet  adds  one  pulse  more  to  my 
poor  palpitating  heart.     Farewell !  !  !* 


*  One  evening-  during  Burns'  stay  at  the 
Brow,  he  was  visited  by  two  young  laHies  who 
lived  in  the  neighbourhood  and  who  sympa- 
thised in  his  sufiEennss.  During  their  stay,' 
the  sun  setting  on  tlie  western  hills,  threw 
a  strong  lierhtupon  him  through  the  viindow : 
a  child  perceived  this,  and  proceeded  to  draw 
the  curtain.  "  Let  me  look  at  the  sun,  my 
love,"  said  the  sinking  poet;  "  it  will  be  long 
before  he  will  shine  for  me  again !  " 


No.  CCLXXXVII. 

TO    MR.     JAMES     BURNESS, 
WRITER,  MONTROSE. 

Dumfries,  July  13. 

My  dear  Cousiiir,^-When  you  of- 
fered me  money  assistance,- little  did  I 
think  I  should  want  it  so  soon.  A 
rascal  of  a  haberdasher,  to  whom  I 
owe  a  considerable  bill ,'  taking  it  into 
his  head  that  I  am  dying,  has  com- 
menced a  process  against  me,  and  will 
infallibly  put  my  emaciated  body  into 
jail.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  ac- 
commodate me,  and  that  by  return  of 
post,  with  ten  pounds  ?  O  James  !  did 
you  know  the  j  ide  of  my  heart,  you 
would  feel  doubly  for  me  !  Alas  !  I 
am  not  used  to  beg  !  The  worst  of  it 
is,  my  health  was  coming  about  fine- 
ly; you  know,  and  my  physician  as- 
sured me,  that  melancholy  and  low 
spirits  are  half  my  disease :  guess,  then, 
my  horrors  since  tuis  business  began. 
If  1  had  it  settled,  I  would  be,  I 
think,  quite  well  in  a  manner.  How 
shall  I  use  the  language  to  you  ?  O  do 
not  disappoint  me  !  but  strong  uecesi- 
sity's  curst  command. 

I  have  been  thinking  over  and  over 
my  brother's  affairs,  and  I  fear  I  must 
cut  him  up; — but  on  this  I  will  corres- 


*  "  Burns  had,  however,  the  pleasure,"  says 
Currie,  "  of  receivings  a  satisfactory  explana- 
ti  Lk.  his  friend's  silence,  and  an  assurance 
of  the  continuance  of  her  friendship  to  his 
widow  and  children ;  an  assurance  that  has 
been  amply  fulfilled.  It  is. probable  that  the 
greater  part  of  her  letters  to  him  were 
destroyed  by  our  bard  aboutthetime  that  this 
last  was  written.  He  did  not  foresee  that  his 
own  letters  to  her  were  to  appear  in  print,- 
nor  conceive  the  disappointment  that  will 'be 
felt  that  aiew  of  this  excellent  lady's  epistles: 
have  not  served  10  enrich  and  adorn  the  ■ 
collection.  The  above  letter  is  supposed  to 
be  the  last  production  of  Robert  Burns,  who 
died  on  the  21st  of  the  month,  nine  days 
afterwards." 

There  are,  however,  others  of  a  date  still 
later. 


GENERAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 


Dia 


poud  at  another  time,  particularly  as  I 
shall  [require]  your  advice. 

Forgive  me  for  once  more  mention- 
ing by  return  of  post; — save  me  from 
the  horrors  of  a  jail ! 

My  compliments  to  my  friend  James, 
and  to  all  the  rest.  I  do  not  know 
what  I  have  written.  The  subject  is 
BO  horrible,  I  dare  not  look  it  over 
aeain.  Farewell.* 
^  R.  B. 


*  James  Burness  sent  his  cousin  ten  pounds 
the  moment  he  received  his  letter,  thoug^h  lie 
could  ili  Spare  the  money,  and  concealed  his 
kindness  from  the  world;,  till,  on  reading- the 
life  and  letiers^pf  the  poet,  he  was  constrain- 
ed, in  support  ^of  his  own  good  name,  to 
conceal  it  ixo  longer.  I  was  informed  by 
my  friend,  Dr,  Burness,  that  his  grandfather 
now  in  his  eighty-fourth  year,  was  touched 
by  the  dubious  way  in  which  I  had  left  the 
subject,  in  the  poet's  life,  and  felt  that  he  was 
liable  to  the  imputation  of  coldness  of  heart. 
In  a  matter  of  such  delicacy,  I  could  not  ask 
the  family,  and  accordingly  had  left  it  as  I 
found  it,  without  comment  or  remark.  The 
following  letters  will  make  all  as  clear  as  day, 
and  right  my  venerable  friend  in  a  matter 
respectmg  which  he  cannot  be  but  anxious. — 
A1.1.AN  Cunningham. 


TO  MR.  BURNESS,  MONTROSE. 

Sir— At  the  desire  of  Mrs.  Bums,  I  have  to 
acquaint  you  with  the  melancholy  and  much 
regretted  event  of  your  friend's  degth.  He 
expired  on  the  mornms  of  the  21st,  about  five 
o'clock.  The  situation  of  the  unfortunate 
Mrs.  Bums  and  her  charminfj  boys,  your 
feeling  heart  can  easily  paint.  It  is,  however, 
much  to  her  consolation  that  a  few  of  his 
friends,  particularly  Mr.  John  Syme,  collector 
ot  the  stamps,  and  Dr.  William  Maxwell,  both 
gentlemen  of  the  first  respectability  and  con- 
nexions, have  stepped  forward  with  their 
assistance  and  advice;  and  I  think  there  can 
be  no  doubt  but  that  a  very  handsome  provi- 
sion will  be  raised  for  the  widow  and  family. 
"The  former  of  these  gentlemen  has  written  to 
most  of  the  Edinburgh  professors  with  whom 
either  he  or  Mr.  Burns  were  acquainted,  and 
to  several  other  particular  friends.  You  will 
easily  excuse  your  not  having  sooner  an 
answer  to  your  very  kind  letter,  with  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  contents,  for,  at  the 
time  it  was  received,  Mr.  Burns  was  totally 
unable  either  to  write  or  dictate  a  letter,  and 
Mrs.  Bums  wished  to^defer  answering  it  till 
she  saw  what  turn  affairs  took. 

I  am,  with  much  respect,  your  most  obedi- 
ent and  very  humble  servant, 

John  Lewars. 

Dumfries,  July  23, 1796. 


No.  CCLXXXVIIL 
TO  JAMES  GRACIE,  ESQ. 

Brow,  Wednesday  Morning,  I 
July  16,  1796.  f 

My  DEAU  Sm, — It  would  [be]  doing 
high  injustice  to  this  place  uot  to  ac- 
knowledge that  my  rheumatisms  have 


TO  MRS.  ROBERT  BURNS,  DUMFRIES. 

My  dear  Cousin, — It  was  with  much  con^ 
cejcn  I  received  the  melancholy  news  of  the 
death  of  your  husband.  Little  ,did  I  expect, 
when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  and 
hira,  that  a  change  so  sudden  would  have 
happened. 

I  sincerely  sympathise  with  you  in  your 
affliction,  and  will  be  very  ready  to  do  any- 
thing in  my  power  to  alleviate  it. 

I  am  sensible  that  the  education  of  his 
family  was  the  object  nearest  to  my  cousin's, 
heart,  and  I  hope  you  will  make  it  your  study 
to  follow  up  his  wish  by  carefully  attending 
to  that  object,  so  far  as  maj  be  possible  for 
you  ;  or,  if  you  think  of  parting  with  your  son 
Robert,  and  will  allow  me  to  take  charge 
of  him,  I  v/iU  endeavour  to  discharge  towards 
liim  the  duty  of  a  father  and  educate  him  with 
my  own  sons. 

I  am  happy  to  hear  that  something  is  to  be 
done  for  you  and  the  family :  but  as  that  may 
take  some  time  to  carry  into  effect,  I  beg-ytm 
will  accept  of  the  enclosed  five  pounds  to 
supply  your  present  necessities. 

My  friend  mentioned  to  me  that  any  little 
thing  he  had  was  in  the  hands  of  his  brother 
Gilbert,  and  that  the  payment  of  it,  at  present, 
would  be  hard  upon  him ;  I  have  therefore  to 
entreat  that,  so  far  asi  your  circumstances  will 
permit,  you  will  use  lenity  in  setthng  with 
him. 

I  have  further  to  request  that  you  will  offer 
my  best  thanks  to  Mr-  Lewars  for  his  very 
fnendly  letter  to  me  on  this  melancholy 
event,  with  my  sincere  wishes  that  such  a 
warm  heart  as  his  may  never  want  a  friend. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  of  your  welfare,  and 
your  resolution  in  regard  to  your  son,  and 
I  remain,  dear  cousin,  your  affectionate 
friend,  James  Burness. 

Montrose,  July  29, 1796. 


TO  MR.  BURNESS,  MONTROSE. 

Dear  Sir,— I  was  duly  favoured  with  your 
letter  of  the  29th  July.  Your  goodness  is 
such  as  to  render  it  wholly  out  of  my  power 
to  make  any  suitable  acknowledgment,  or  to 
express  what  I  feel  for  so  much  kindness. 

With  regard  to  my  son  Robert,  I  cannot  as 
yet  determine ;  the  gentlemen  here  (particu- 
larly Dr.  Maxwell  and  Mr.  Syme,  who  have 
so  much  interested  themselves  for  me  and  the 
family)  do  not  wish  that  I  should  come  to  any 
resolution  as  to  partings  v  ith  any  of  them, 
and  I  own  my  own  feelings  ra'.her  incline  me 
to  keep  them  with  me.    I  think  they  will  be  a 


514 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS 


derived  great  benefits  from  it  already; 
but,  alas  1  my  loss  of  appetite  still 
continues.  I  shall  not  need  your  kind 
offer  this  week,  and  I  return  to  town 
the  beginning  of  next  week,  it  not 
being  a  tide  week.  I  am  detaining  a 
man  in  a.  burning  hurry.  So,  Sod 
bless  you. 

R.  B. 


comfort  to  me,  and  my  most  agreeable  com- 
panions ;  but  should  any  of  them  ever  leave 
me,  you,  sir,  would  be.  of  all  others,  the 
gentleman  under  whose  charge  I  should  wish 
to  see  any  of  them,  and  I  am  perfectly  sensible 
of  your  very  obliging  offer. 

Since  Mr.  Lewars  wrote  you,  I  have  got  a 
young  son,  who,  as  well  as  myself  is  doing 
well. 

,  What  you  mention  about  my  brother,  Mr. 
Gilbert  BumSf  is  what  accords  with  my  own 
Opinion,  and  every  respect  shall  be  p^d  to 
your  advice— I  am,  dear  sir,  with  the  greatest 
respect  and  regard,  your  very  much  obliged 
friend,  Jean  Burns. 

Dumfries,  Aug.  3,  1796, 


No.  CCLXXXIX. 

TO    JAMES     ARMOUR,     MASON, 
MAUCHLINE,* 

Dumfries,  July  18,  1796. 

Mt  deak  Sir, — Do,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  send  Mrs.  Armour  here  immedi- 
ately. My  wife  is  hourly  expecting 
to  be  put  to  bed.  Good  God  !  wbat  a 
situation  for  lier  to  be  in,  poor  girl, 
■without  a  friend  !  I  returned,  from  . 
sea-bathing  quarters  to-day,  and  my 
medical  friends  would  almost  per- 
suade me  that  I  am  better,  but  I 
think  and  feel  that  my  strength  is  so 
gone  that  the  disorder  will  ^ove  fatal 
to  me.f — Your  son-in-law,f^ 

^~^    B. 


*  The  father  of  Mrs.  Burh^ 
t  This  is  the  last  of  all  the  c^offpoS^i^ons  of 
the  great  poet  of  Scotland,  being'written  only 
three  days  before  his  death.— CSjnningham. 
1834. 


CORRESPONDENCE    OF    BURNS 


WITH 


GEORGE    THOMSON. 


In  1793  George  Thomson  announced 
the  -work  which  was  henceforward  to 
associate  his  name  with  that  of  Robert 
Burns  in  the  memory  of  his  country- 
men ;  he  entitled  it,  "A  Select  Col- 
lection of  Original  Scottish  Airs  for 
the  Voice  :to  which  are  Added  Intro- 
ductory and  Concluding  Symphonies 
and  Accompaniments  for  the  Piano- 
forte and  Violin,  by  Pleyel  and  Kose- 
luck,  with    Select   and  Characteristic 


Verses  by  the  most  Admired  Scottish 
Poets."  As  Burns  was  the  only  poet 
of  the  period  who  could  worthily  assist 
him  in  his  ambitious  undertaking,  he 
was  immediately  applied  to,  and  he  re- 
sponded to  the  call  with  the  utmost 
enthusiasm.  We  shall  allow  Mr. 
Thomson  to  speak  for  himself  as  to 
his  own  personal  history  and  his  con- 
nexion with  the  poet — the  latter  at 
one  time  a  subject  of  fierce  discussion. 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


B*15 


The  letter  we  reprint  was  addressed  to 
Mr.  Robert  Cliambers,  and  first  ap- 
peared in  tlie  "  Land  of  Burns:" — 

*'Trustees'  Office  Edinburgh,  f 
March  29, 1838.  j 

"Deae  Sir, — To  your  request  that 
I  should  furnish  you  with  a  few  par- 
ticulars respecting  my  personal  history, 
I  really  know  not  well  what  to  say,  be- 
cause my  life  has  been  too  unimportant 
to  merit  much  notice.  It  is  in  con- 
nexion with  national  music  and  song, 
and  my  correspondence  on  that  subject 
with  Burns  chiefly,  that  I  can  have 
any  reasonable  hope  of  being  occasion- 
ally spoken  of.  I  shall  therefore  con- 
tent myself  with  a  brief  sketch  of 
what  belongs  to  my  personal  history, 
and.  then  proceed  to  the  subject  of 
Scottish   music  and  Burns. 

"  I  was  born  at  Limekilns,  in  Fife, 
■  about  the  year  1759,  as  I  was  inform- 
ed, for  I  scarce  can  believe  I  am  so 
old.  My  father  taught  a  school  there, 
and  having  been  invited  in  that  capa- 
city to  the  town  of  Banff,  he  carried 
me  thither  in  my  very  early  years,  in- 
structed me  in  the  elementary  branches 
of  knowledge,  and  sent  me  to  learn  the 
dead  languages  at  what  was  called  Jie 
grammar  school.  He  had  a  hard 
struggle  to  maintain  an  increasing 
family,  and,  after  trying  some  mer- 
cantile means  of  enlarging  his  income 
without  success,  he  moved  with  his 
family  to  Edinburgh  when  I  was  about 
seventeen.  In  a  short  time  I  got  into 
a  writer  to  the  signet's  oflBce,  as  a 
clerk,  and  remained  in  that  capacity 
with  him,  and  another  W.  S.,  till 
the  year  1780,  when,  through  the 
influence  of  Mr.  John  Home,  author 
of  '  Dpuglas,'  with  one  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Honourable  Board  of  Trus- 
'tees.I  was  recommended  to  that  Board, 
and  became  their  junior  clerk.  Not 
long  after,  upon  the  death  of  their 
principal  clerk,  I  succeeded  to  his  sit- 
uation, Mr.  Robert  Arbuthnot  being 
then  their  secretary;  under  whom,  and 
afterwards  under  Sir  William,  his  son 
and  successor.  I  have  served  the  Board 
for  upwards  of  half  a  century;  enjoy- 


ing their  fullest  confidence,  and  the 
entire  approbation  of  both  secretaries, 
whose  gentlemanly  manners  and  kind 
dispositions  were  such  (for  I  never  saw 
a  frown  on  their  brows,  nor  heard  an 
angry  word  escape  from  their  lips) 
that  I  can  say,  with  heartfelt  gratitude 
to  their  memory,  and  to  all  my  superi- 
ors, in  this  the  58th  year  of  my  clerk- 
ship, that  I  never  have  felt  the  word 
servitude  to  mean  anything  in  the  least 
niortifying  or  unpleasant,  but  quite 
the  reverse. 

' '  In  my  twenty-fifth  year,  I  married 
Miss  Miller,  whose  father  was  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  50tli  Regiment,  and  her 
mother  the  daughter  of  a  most  re- 
spectable gentleman  in  Berwickshire, 
George  Peter,  Esq.,  of  Chapel,  and 
this  was  the  wisest  act  of  my  life.  She 
is  happily  still  living,  and  has  pre- 
sented me  with  six  daughters  and  two 
sons,  the  elder  of  the  two  being  now 
a  lieutenant-colonel  of  Engineers,  and 
the  other  an  assistant-commissary- 
general. 

"  From  my  boyhood  I  had  a  passion 
for  the  sister  arts  of  music  and  paint- 
ing, which  I  have  ever  since  continued 
to  cherish  in  the  society  of  the  ablest 
professors  of  both  arts.  Having  studied 
the  violin ,  it  was  my  custom,  after  the 
hours  of  business,  to  con  over  our 
Scottish  melodies,  and  to  devour  the 
choruses  of  Handel's  oratorios;  in 
which,  when  performed  at  St.  Cecilia's 
Hall,  I  generally  took  a  part,  along 
with  a  few  other  gentlemen,  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Wight,  one  of  the  most  eminent 
counsel  at  the  bar,  Mr.  Gilbert  Innes 
of  Stow,  Mr.  John  Russel,  W.  S.,  Mr. 
John  Hutton,  &c. ;  it  being  then  not 
uncommon  for  grave  amateurs  to  as- 
sist at  the  St.  Cecilia  concerts,  one  of 
the  most  interesting  and  liberal  musi- 
cal institutions  that  ever  existed  in 
Scotland,  or  indeed  in  any  country.  1 
had  so  much  delight  in  singing 
those  matchless  choruses,  and  in 
practising  the  violin  quartettes  ol 
Pleyel  and  Haydn  that  it  was  with  joy 
I  hailed  the  hour  when,  like  the  young 
amateur  in  the  good  old  Scotch  song,  J 
could  hie  me  hame  to  my  Cremona, 
and  enjoy  Haydn's  admirable  fancies. 


6ie 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


*I  stiM  was  pleased  where'er  I  wem;   and 

when  I  was  alone, 
I  screw'd  my  pegs  and  pleased  myself  with 

John  o'  Badenyon.* 

' '  At  the  St.  Cecilia  concerts  I  lieard 
Scottisli  songs  sung  in  a  style  of  ex- 
cellence far  surpassing  any  idea  which 
I  had  previously  had  of  their  beauty, 
anj  that,  too,  from  Italians,  Signor 
Tenducci  the  one,  and  Signora  Dome- 
nica  Corri  the  other.  Tenducoi's  'I'll 
never  leave  thee,'  and  '  Braes  o'  Bal- 
lenden,'  and  the  Siguora's  'Ewebughts, 
Marion,'  and  '  Waly,  waly,'  so  delight- 
ed every  hearer,  that  in  the  most 
crowded  room  not  a  whisper  was  to  be 
heard,  so  entirely  did  they  rivet  the  at- 
tention and  admiration  of  the  audience. 
Tenducci's  singing  was  full  of  passion, 
feeling,  and  taste:  and,  what  we  hear 
very  rarely  from  singers,  his  articula- 
tion of  the  words  was  no  less  perfect 
than  his  expression  of  the  music.  It 
was  in  consequence  of  my  hearing 
him  and  Signora  Corri  sing  a  number 
of  our  songs  so  charmingly,  that  I 
conceived  the  idea  of  collecting  all  our 
best  melodies  and  songs,  and  of  obtain- 
ing accompaniments  to  them  worthy 
of  .their  merit. 

"On  examining  with  great  atten- 
tion the  various  collections  on  which  I 
could  by  any  means  lay  my  hands,  I 
found  them  all  more  or  less  exception- 
able, a  sad  mixture  of  good  and  evil, 
the  pure  and  the  impure.  The  mel- 
odies in  general  were  without  any 
symphonies  to  introduce  and  conclude 
them;  and  the  accompaniments  (for 
the  piano  only)  meagre  and  common- 
place:— while  the  verses  united  with 
the  melodies  were  in  a  great  many  in- 
stances coarse  and  vulgar,  the  produc- 
tions of  a  rude  age,  and  such  as  could 
not  be  tolerated  or  sung  in  good  so- 
ciety. 

"Many  copies  of  the  same  melody 
both  in  print  and  manuscript,  differ- 
ing more  or  less  from  each  other,  came 
! under  my  view:  and  after  a  minute 
comparison  of  copies,  and  hearing 
them  sung  over  and  over  by  such  of 
my  fair  friends  as  I  knew  to  be  most 
conversant  with  them,  I  chose  that  set 
or  copy  of  each  air  which  I  found  the 
most  simple  and  beautiful. 


"  For  obtaining,  accompaniments  to 
the  airs,  and  also  symphonies  to  intro- 
duce and  conclude  each  air — a  most  in- 
teresting appendage  to  the  airs  that 
had  not  before  graced  any  of  the  col- 
lections—  I  turned  my  eyes  first  on 
Pleyel,  whose  compositions  were  re- 
marltably  popular  and  pleasing;  and 
afterwards,  when  I  had  resolved  to  ex- 
tend my  work  into  a  complete  collec- 
tion of  all  the  airs  that  were^worthy  of 
preservation,  I  divided  thein  into  diff- 
erent portions,  and  sent  them  from 
time  to  time  to  Hadyn,  to  Beethoven, 
to  Weber,  Hummell,  &c. ,  the  greatest 
musicians  then  flourishing  in  Europe. 
These  artists,  to  my  inexpressible  sat- 
isfaction, proceeded  con  amore  with 
their  respective  portions  of  the  work, 
and  in  the  symphonies,  which  are  orig- 
inal and  characteristic  creations  of  their 
own,  as  well  as  in  their  judicious  and 
delicate  accompaniments  for.  the  piano- 
forte, and  for  the  violin,  flute  and  violon  ■ 
cello,  they  exceeded  my  most  sanguine 
expectations,  and  obtained  the  decided 
approval  of  the  best  judges.  Their 
compositions  have  been  pronounced  by 
the  Bdinburgh  Review  to  be  wholly 
unrivalled  for  originality  and  beauty. 

' '  The  poetry  became  next  the  sub- 
ject of  my  anxious  consideration,  and 
engaged  me  in  a  far  more  extensive 
correspondence  than  I  had  ever  anti- 
cipated, which  occupied  nearly  the 
whole  of  my  leisure  for  many  years; 
For,  although  a  small  portion  of  the 
melodies  had  long  been  united  with 
excellent  songs,  yet  a  much  greator 
number  stood  matched  with  such  un- 
worthy associates  as  to  render  a 
divorce  and  a  new  union  absolutely 
necessary. 

"Fortunately  for  the  melodies,  I 
turned  my  eyes  towards  Robert  Burns, 
who  no  sooner  was  infoi-med  of  my 
plan  and  wishes,  than,  with  all  the 
frankness,  generosity,  and  enthusiasm 
which  marked  his  character,  he  under- 
took to  write  whatever  songs  I  wanted 
for  my  work;  but  in  answer  to  my 
promise  of  remuneration,  he  declared, 
in  the  most  emphatic  terms,  that  he 
would  receive  nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
proceeded  with  the  utmost  alacrity-  to 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


517 


execute  what  he  had  undertaken,  and 
from  tlie  year  1793  till  the  tune  of  his 
death  in  1796,  I  continued  to  receive 
his  exquisitely-beautiful  compositions 
for  the  melodies  I  had  sent  him  from 
time  to  time:  and,  in  order  that  noth- 
ing should  be  wanting  which  m^ight 
suit  my  work,  he  empowered  me  to 
make  use  of  all  the  other  songs  that 
he  had  Avritten  for  Johnson's  Scots- 
Musical  Museum,  &c.  My  work  thus 
contains  above  one  hundred  and  twenty 
of  his  inimitable  songs;  besides  many 
of  uncommon  beauty  that  I  obtained 
from  Thomas  Campbell,  Professor 
Smyth,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Joanna  Bail- 
lie,  and  other  admired  poets :  together 
with  the  best  songs  of  the  olden  time. 
"  Upon,  my  publishing  the  first 
twenty-five  melodies  with  Pleyel's 
symphonies  and  accompaniments,  and 
songs  by  different  authors,  six  of 
Burns'  songs  being  of  the  number, 
(and  those  sis  were  all  I  published  in 
his  lifetime,)  I,  of  course,  sent  a  copy 
of  this  half  volume  to  the  poet;  and  as 
a  mark  of  my  gratitude  for  his  exces- 
sive kindness,  I  ventured,  with  all 
possible  delicacy,  to  send  him  a  small 
pecuniary  present,  notwithstanding 
what  he  had  said  on  the  subject.  He 
retained  it  after  much  hesitation,  but 
wrote  me  (Letter  XXIV.)  that,  if  I 
presumed  to  repeat  it,  he  would, ,  on 
the  least  motion  of  it,  indignantly 
spurn  what  was  past,  and  commence 
entire  stranger  to  me. 

"  Who  that  reads  the  letter  above 
referred  to,  and  the  first  one  which  the 
poet  sent  me,  can  think  I  have  deserv- 
ed the  abuse  which  anonymous  scrib- 
blers have  poured  upon  me  for  not  en- 
deavouring to  remunerate  the  poet? 
If  I  had  dared  to  go  further  than  I  did, 
in  sending  him  money,  is  it  not  per- 
fectly clear  that  he  would  have  deem- 
ed it  an  insult,  and  ceased  to  write 
another  song  for  me? 
.  <'  Had  I  been  a  selfish  or  avaricious 
man,  I  had  a  fair  opportunity,  upon 
the  death  of  the  poet,  to  put  money 
in  my  pocket;  for  I  might  then  have 
published,  for  my  own  behoof,  all  tlie 
beautiful  lyrics  he  had  written  for  me, 
i-the  loriginal   manuscripts    of    which 


were  in  my  possession.  But  instead 
of  doing  this,  I  was  no  sooner  inform- 
ed that  the  friends  of  the  poet's  family 
had^come  to  a  resolution  to  collect  liis 
works,  and  to  publish  them  for  the 
benefit  of  the  family,  and  that  they 
thought  it  of  importance  to  include  my 
MSS.,  as  being  lilvely,  from  their 
number,  their  novelty,  and  beauty,  to 
grove  an  attraction  to  subscribers,  than 
I  felt  it  at  once  my  duty  to  put  them 
in  possession  of  all  the  songs  and  of 
the  correspondence  between  the  poet 
and  myself,  and  accordingly,  through 
Mr.  John  Syme  of  Ryedale,  1  transmit- 
ted the  whole  to  Dr.  Currie,-who  had 
been  prevailed  on,  immensely  for  the 
advantage  of  Mrs.  Burns  and  her  chil- 
dren, to  take  on  himself  the  task  of 
editor. 

' '  For  thus  .  surrendering  the  manu- 
scripts, I  received  both  verbally  and 
in  writing,  the  warm  thanks  of  the 
trustees  for  the  family,  Mr.  John 
Syme  and  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns;  who 
considered  what  I  had  done  as  a  fair 
return  for  the  poet's  generosity  of  con- 
duct to  mei. 

"  If  anytliing  more  were  wanting  to 
set  me  right,  with  respect  to  the 
anonymous  calumnies  circulated  to  iny 
prejudice  in  regard  to  the  poet,  I  have 
it  in  my  power  to  refer  to  a  most  re- 
spectable testimonial  which,  to  my 
very  agreeable  surprise,  was  sent  me 
by  Professor  Josiah  Walker,  one  of 
the  poet's  biographers:  and,  had  I  not 
been  reluctant  to  obtrude  myself  ga 
the  public,  I  should  long  since  ha^fe 
given  it  publicity.  The  professdr 
wrote  me  as  follows  : — 

"  '  Perth,  April  14, 1811. 

"  '  Dear  Sih,— Before  I  left  Edin- 
burgh, I  sent  a  copy  of  my  account  of 
Burns  to  Lord  Woodhouselee;  and 
since  my  return  I  have  had  a  letter 
from  his  lordship,  which  among  other 
passages,  contains  one  that  I  cannot 
withhold  from  you  1  Ho  writes  thus: 
— "  I  am  glad  that  you  have  embraced 
the  occasion  which  lay  in  your  way  of 
doing  full  justice  to  Mr.  George  Thom- 
son, who,  I  agree  with  you  in  think- 
ing,  was  most  harshly  and  illiberally 
treated  by  aa  anqnymoua  doll  calura- 


518 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


niator.  I  have  always  regarded  Mr. 
Thomson  as  a  man  of  great  worth  and 
most  respectable  character:  andl  have 
every  reason  to  believe  that  poor  Burns 
felt  himself  as  much  indebted  to  his 
good  counsels  and  active  friendship  as 
a  man  as  the  public  is  sensible  he  was 
to  his  good  taste  and  judgment  as  a 
critic  !" 

"  '  Of  the  unbiassed  opinion  of  such 
a  highly  respectable  gentleman  and 
accomplished  scholar  as  Lord  Wood- 
houselee,  I  certainly  feel  not  a  little 
proud:  it  is  of  itself  nioi'e  than  suffi- 
cient to  silence  the  calumnies  by  which 
I  have  been  assailed,  first,  anonymous- 
ly, and  afterwards,  to  my  great  sur- 
prise, by  some  writers  who  might  have 
been  expected  to  possess  sufficient 
judgment  to  see  the  matter  in  its  truo 
light.  .       G.  T.'" 

"To  this  letter  of  my  excellent 
friend  Mr.  Thomson,"  says  Chambers, 
"  little  can  be  addei  His  work,  the 
labour  of  his  lifetime,  has  long  been 
held  the  classical  depository  of  Scot- 
tish memory  and  song,  and  is 
extensively  known.  His  own  char- 
acter, in  the  city  where  he  has 
spent'  so  many  years,  has  ever  stood 
iiigh.  It  was  scarcely  necessary  that 
Mr.  Thomson  should  enter  into  a  de- 
fence of  himself  against  the  inconsid- 
erate charges  which  have  been  brought 
against  him. 

"When  Burns  refused  remunera- 
tion from  one  whom  he  knew  to  be, 
like  himself,  of  the  generation  of 
Apollo,  rather  than  of  Plutus,  and 
while  his  musical  friend  was  only  en- 
tering upon  a  task,  the  results  of 
which  no  one  could  tell,  how  can  Mr 
Thomson  be  fairly  blamed  ? 

"  If  a  moderate  success  ultimately 
crowned  his  enterprise  and  toil — and 
the  success  has  probably  been  much 
more  moderate  than  Mr.  Thomson's 
assailants  suppose  —  long  after  the 
poor  bard  was  beyond  the  reach  of 
money,  and  all  superior  consolations, 
who  can  envy  it,  or  who  can  say  that  it 
offers  aiiy  offence  to  the  manes  of  the 
unhappy  poet?  The  charge  was  indeed 
never  preferred  but  in  ignorance,  and 
would  be  totally  unworthy  of  notice, 


if  ignorant  parties  were  stUl  apt  to  be 
imposed  upon  by  it." 


No.  I. 


G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  September  1792. 

SiK, — For  some  years  past  I  have, 
with  a  friend  or  two,  employed  many 
leisure  hours  in  selecting  and  collating 
the  most  favourite  of  our  national  mel- 
odies for  publication.  We  have  en- 
gaged Pleyel,  the  most  agreeable  com- 
poser living,  to  put  accompaniments 
to  these,  and  also  to  compose  an  in- 
strumental prelude  and  conclusion  to 
each  air,  the  better  to  fit  them  for  con- 
certs, both  public  and  private.  To 
render  thiswork  perfect  we  are  desir- 
ous to  have  the  poetry  improved  wher- 
ever it  seems  unworthy  of  the  music; 
and  that  it  is  so  in  many  instances  is 
allowed  by  every  one  conversant  with 
our  musical  collections.  The  editors 
of  these  seem  in  general  to  have  de- 
pended on  the  music  proving  an  ex- 
cuse for  the  verses;  and  henco  some 
charming  melodies  are  united  to  mere 
nonsense  and  doggerel,  while  others 
are  accommodated  with  rhymes  so  loose 
and  indelicate  as  cannot  be  sung  in 
decent  company.  To  remove  this  re- 
proach would  be  an  easy  task  to  the 
author  of  the  ' '  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night;''  and,  for  the  honour  of  Cale- 
donia, I  would  fain  hope  he  may  be 
induced  to  take  up  the  pen.  If  so,  we 
shall  be  enabled  to  present  the  publio 
with  a  collection  infinitely  more  inter- 
esting than  any  that  has  yet  appeared, 
and  acceptable  to  all  persons  of  taste, 
whether  they  wish  for  correct  melo- 
dies, delicate  accompaniments,  or  char- 
acteristic verses.  —  We  will  esteem 
your  poetical  assistance  a  particular 
favour,  besides  paying  any  reasonable 
price  you  shall  please  to  demand  for  it. 
— Profit  is  quite  a  secondary  considera- 
tion with  us,  and  we  are  resolved  to 
spare  neither  pains  nor  expense  on  the 
publication.  Tell  me  frankly,  then, 
whether  you  will  devote  your  leisure 
to  •writing  twenty  or  twenty-five  songs; 


WITH  GEOROE  THOMSON; 


519 


suited  to  the  particular  melodies 
wlxich  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  be  all  ex- 
amined by  Mr.  Burns,  and,  if  he  is  of 
opinion  that  any  of  them  are  deserving 
of  the  music,  in  such  cases  no  divorce 
shall  take  place. 

Belying  on  the  letter  accompanying 
this,  to  be  forgiven  for  the  liberty 
I  have  taken  in  addressing  you,  I  am, 
with  great  esteem,  sir,  your '  most 
obedient  humble  servant, 

a.  Thomson. 


No.  n. 


BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  i6th  Sept.  1792. 
Sir, — I  have  just  this  moment  got 
your  letter.  As  the  request  you  make 
to  me  will  positively  add  to  my  enjoy- 
ments in  complying  with  it,  I  shall 
enter  into  your  undertaking  with  all 
the  small  portion  of  abilities  I  have, 
strained  to  their  utmost  exertion  by 
the  impulse  of  enthusiasm. — Only, 
don't  hurry  me:  "Deil  take  the  hind- 
most "  is  by  no  means  the  eri  de  guerre 
of  my  muse.  Will  you,  as  I  am  in- 
ferior to  none  of  you  in  enthusiastic 
attachment  to  the  poetry  and  music  of 
old  Caledonia,  and,  since  you  request 
it,  have  cheerfully  promised  my  mite 
of  assistance — will  you  let  me  have  a 
list  of  your  airs  with  the  first  line 
of  the  printed  verses  you  intend  for 
them,  that  I  may  have  an  opportunity 
of  suggesting  any  alteration  that  may 
occur  to  me?  You  know  'tis  in  the 
way  of  my  trade;  still  leaving  you, 
gentlemen,  the  undoubted  right  of 
publisliers  to  approve  or  reject  at  your 
pleasure  for  your  own  publication. — 
Apropos  !  if  you  are  for  English  verses, 
there  is,  on  my  part,  an  end  of  the 


matter.  Whether  in  the  simplicity  of 
the  ballad  or  the  pathos  of  the  song,  I 
can  only  hope  to  please  myself  in  being 
allowed  at  least  a  sprinkling  of  our 
native  tongue.  English  verses  par- 
ticularly the  works  of  Scotsmen,  that 
have  merit,  are  certainly  very  eligible. 
"  Tweedside  1 " — "  Ah  1  the  poor  shep- 
herd's mournful  fate!" — "AIil 
Chloris,  could  I  now  but  sit,"  &c.,  you 
cannot  mend:  but  such  insipid  stuff  as 
"  To  Fanny  fair  could  I  impart,"  &c., 
usually  set  to  "  The  Mill,  Mill,  0  ! "  is 
a  disgrace  to  the  collections  in  which  it 
has  already  appeared,  and  would 
doubly  disgrace  a  collection  tliat  will 
have  the  very  superior  merit  of  yours. 
But  more  of  this  in  the  further  prose- 
cution of  the  business,  if  I  am  called 
on  for  my  strictures  and  amendment^ 
— I  say  amendments;  for  I  will  not 
alter  except  where  I  myself  at  least 
think  that  I  amend. 

As  to  any  remuneration,  you  may 
think  my  songs  either  above  or  below 
price;  for  they  shall  absolutely  be  the 
one  or  the  other.  In  the  honest  enthu- 
siasm with  which  I  embark  in  your 
undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages; 
fee,  hire,  &c.,  would  be  downrigjit 
prostitution*  of  soul  I  A  proof  of  each 
of  the  songs  that  I  compose  or  amend, 
I  shall  receive  as  a  favour.  In  the 
rustic  phrase  of  the  season,  "  Gude 
speed  the  wark  ! " — I  am,  sir,  your 
very  humble  servant, 

B.    BUKNS. 

p.  8.  —  I  have  some  particular 
reasons  for  wishing  my  interference 
to  be  known  as  little  as  possible. 


No.  III. 

G.  THOMSON  TO   BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Oct.  13,  1792. 

Deae  Sir, — I  received  with  much 
satisfaction  your  pleasant  and  obliging 
letter,  and  I  return  my  warmest  ac- 
knowledgments   for    the    enthusiasm 

*Wc  have  been  Informed  that  Burns  marked 
his  loathing  of  remuneration  by  the  use  of 
even  a  stronger  term  than  this,  which  was 
substituted  by  the  original  editor. — Chambers. 


530 


COHKESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


■with  which  you  have  entered  into  our 
undertaking.  We  have  now  no  doubt 
of  heing  able  to  produce  a  collection 
highly  deserving  of  public  attention  in 
all  respects. 

I  agree  with  you  in  thinking  Eng- 
lish verees  that  have  merit  very  eligi- 
ble wherever  new  verses  are  necessary; 
because  the  English  becomes  every 
year  more  and  more  the  langauge  of 
Scotland;  but  if  you  mean  that  no 
English  verses  except  those  by  Scot- 
tish authors  ought  to  be  admitted,  I 
am  hall  inclined  to  differ  from-  you.  I 
should  consider  it  unpardonable  to 
sacrifice  one  good  song  in  the  Scottish 
dialect,  to  make  room  for  English 
verses;  but  if  we  can  select  a  few  ex- 
cellent ones  suited  to  the  unprovided 
or  ill-provided  airs,  would  it  not  be 
the  very  bigotry  of  literary  patriotism 
to  reject  such  merely  because  the  au- 
thors were  born  south  of  the  Tweed  ? 
Our  sweet  air,  "  My  Nannie,  0,"  which 
in  the  collections  is  joined  to  the  poor- 
est stuff  that  Allan  Ramsay  ever 
wrote,  beginning,  "While  some  for 
pleasure  pawn  their  health,"  answers 
so  finely  to  Dr.  Percy's  beautiful  song, 
"O  Nancy,  wilt  thou  go  with  me?" 
that  one  would  think  he  wrote  it  on 
purpose  for  the  air.  However,  it  is 
not  at  all  our  wish  to  confine  you  to 
English  verses:  you  shall  freely  be  al- 
lowed a  sprinkling  of  your  native 
tongue,  as  you  elegantly  express  it; 
and  moreover  we  will  patiently  await 
your  own  time.  One  thing  only  I  beg, 
which  is,  that  however  gay  and  sport- 
ive tlie  muse  may  b6,  she  may  always 
be  decent.  Let  her  not  write  what 
beauty  would  blush  to  speak,  nor 
wound  that  charming  delicacy  which 
forms  the  most  precious  dowry  of  our 
daughters.  I  do  not  conceive  the 
sOng  to  be  the  most  proper  vehicle  for 
witty  and  brilliant  conceits:  simpli- 
city, I  believe,  should  be  its  prominent 
feature;  but  in  some  of  our  songs 
the  writers  have  confounded  simpli- 
city with  coarseness  and  vulgarity;  al- 
though between  the  one  and  the  other, 
as  Br.  Beattie  well  observes,  there  is  as 
great'a  difference  as  between  a  plain  suit 
of  clothes  and  a  bundle  of  rags.     The 


humourous  ballad,  or  pathetic  com- 
plaint, is  best  suited  to  our  artless 
melodies;  and  more  interesting,  in- 
deed, 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 
writing.  I  shall  soon  transmit  -the 
rest,  and  at  the  same  time  a  prospec- 
tus of  the  whole  collection ;  and  yon 
may  believe  we  will  receive  any  hints 
that  you  are  so  kind  as  to  give  for  im- 
proving the  work  with  the  greatest 
pleasure  and  thankfulness. — 1  remain, 
dear  sir,  &e., 

G.  Thomson. 


No.  IV. 


BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Friday  Night. 

My  dear  Sik, — Letme  tell  you  that 
you  are  too  fastidious  in  youi  ideas  of 
songs'  and  ballads.  I  own  that  your 
criticisms  are  just;  the  songs  you 
specify  in  your  list  have,  all  Ijut  one, 
the  faults  you  remark  in  them;  but 
who  shall  mend  the  matter?  Who 
shall  rise  up  and  say — Go  to,  I  will 
make  abetter?  For  instance,  on  read- 
ing over  "The  Lea-Rig,"  I  immedi- 
ately set  about  trying  my  hand  on  it, 
and,  after  all,  I  could  make  nothing 
more  of  it  than  the  following,  which. 
Heaven  knows,  is  poor  enough : — [See 
"My  ain  kind  dearie,  O,"  p.  242.] 

Your  observation  as  to  the  aptitude 
of  Dr.  Percy's  ballad  to  the  air,  "  Nan- 
nie, O,"  is  just.  It  is  besides,  perhaps, 
the  most  beautiful  ballad  in  the  Eng- 
lish language.  But  let  me  remark  to 
you,  that  in  the  sentiment  and  style  of 
our  Scottish  airs  there  is  a  pastoral  sim- 
plicity, a  something  that  one  may  call 
the  Doric  style  and  dialect  of  vocal 
music,  to  which  a  dash  of  our  native 
tongue  and  manners  is  particularly, 
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 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


521 


you  please)  .that  my  ballad  of  "Nan- 
nie, 0  !"  miglit  perhaps  do  for  one  set 
of  verses  to  the  tune.  Now  don't  let  it 
enter  into  your  head  that  you  are  un- 
der any  necessity  of  taking  my  verses. 
I  have  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  as 
to  my  own  reputation  in  the  business 
of  authorship;  and  have  nothing  to  be 
pleased  or  offended  at  in  your  adoption 
or  rejection  of  my  verses.  Though  you 
should  reject  one  half  of  what  I  give 
you,  I  shall  be  pleased  with  your 
adopting  the  other  half,  and  shall 
continue  to  serve  you  with  the  same 
■assiduity. 

In  the  printed  copy  of  my  "Nannie, 
0,"  the  name  of  the  river  is  horridly 
prosaic.     I  wUl  alter  it — 

''  Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows." 
Girvan  is  the  name  of  the  river  that 
suits  the  idea  of  the  stanza  best,  but 
Lugar  is  the  most  agreeable  modula- 
tion of  syllables. 

I  will  soon  give  you  a  great  many 
more  remarks  on  this  business;  but  I 
have  just  now  an  opportunity  of  con- 
veying you  this  scrawl,  free  of  post- 
age, an  expense  that  it  is  ill  able  to  pay: 
so,  with  my  best  compliments  to  l^n- 
est  Allan,  Gude  be  wi'  ye,  &c., 

R.  B. 


Saturday  Morning. 

As  I  find  I  have  still  an  hour  to  spare 
this  morning  before  my  conveyance 
goes  away,  I  will  give  yoii  "Nannie, 
0 !"  at  length. 

Your  remarks  on  "Ewe-bughts, 
Marion,"  are  just;  still  it  has  obtained 
a  place  among  our  more  classical 
Scottish  songs;  and,  what  with  many 
beauties  in  its  composition,  and  more 
prejudices  in  its  favour,  you  will  not 
find  it  easy  to  supplant  it. 

In  my  very  early  years,  when  I  was 
thinlting  of  going  to  the  West  Indies, 
I  took  the  following  farewell  of  a  dear 
girl.  [See  "  Will  you  go  to  tlie  In- 
dies, my  Mary  1 "  p.  200.  J  It  is  quite 
trifling,  and  has  nothing  of  the  merits 
of.  "Ewe-bughts;"  but  it  will  fill  up 
tys-page.  You  must  know  that  all 
my  earlier  love-songs  were  the  breath- 
;.ings, of.  ardent  pasaioi),    and  though 


it  might  have  been  easy  in  aftertimes 
to  have  given  them  a  polish,  yet  that 
polish,  to  me,  whose  they  were,  and 
who  perhaps  alone  cared'  for  them, 
would  have  defaced  the  legend,  of  my 
heart,  which  was  so  faithfully  inscrib- 
ed on  them.  Their  uncouth  simpli- 
city was,  as  they  say  of  wines,  their 
race. 

'.'Gala  Water,"  and  "Auld  Rob 
Morris,"  I  think,  will  most  probably 
be  the  next  subject  of  my  musings. 
However,  even  on  my  verses,,  speak 
out  your  criticisms  with  equal  frank- 
ness. My  wish  is,  not  to  stand  aloof, 
the  uncomplying  bigot  of  opinidtrete, 
but  cordially  to  join  issue  with  you  in 
the  furtherance  of  the  work. 


No.  V. 


BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Nov.  8,  1792. 

If  you  mean  my  dear  sir,  that  all 
the  songs  in  your  collection  shall 
be  poetry  of  the  first  merit,  I  am 
afraid  you  will  find  more  difficulty  in 
the  undertakingthan  you  are  aware  of. 
There  is  a  peculiar  rhythraus  in  many 
of  our  airs,  and  a  necessity  for  adapt- 
ing syllables  to  the  emphasis,  or  what 
1  would  call  the  feature-notes  of  the 
tune,  that  cramp  the  poet,  and  lay  him 
under  almost  insuperable  difficulties. 
For  instance,  in  the  air,  "  My  wife's  a 
wanton  wee  thing,"  if  a  few  lines 
smooth  and  pretty  can  be  adapted  to 
it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  The  fol- 
lowing ["My  wife's  a  winsome  wee 
thing,"  p.  342]  were  made  extempore 
to  it;  and  though,  on  further  study,  I 
might  give  you  something  more  pro- 
found, yet  it  might  not  suit  the  ligUt- 
horse  gallop  of  the  air  so  well  as  this 
random  clink. 

1  have  just  been  looking  over  tlie 
"  Collier's  Bonny  Poehter;"  and  if  the 
following  rhapsody,  which  I  composed 
the  other  day,  on  a  charming  Ayrshire 
girl.  Miss  Lesley  BaUlie  (afterwards 
Mrs.  Gumming  of  Logic,)  as  she  passed 
through  this  place  to  England,  will 
suit  your  taste  better  than  the  "  Collie* 


523 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


—fall  on  and  welcome: — [See 
"  Bonnie  Lesley,"  p.  334.] 

I  have  hitherto  deferred  the  sub- 
limer,  more  pathetic  airs,  until  more 
leisure,  as  they  will  take,  and  deserve, 
a  greater  effort.  However,  they  are 
all  put  into  your  hands,  as  clay  into 
the  hands  of  the  potter,  to  make  one 
vessel  to  honour,  and  another  to  dis- 
honour.— Farewell,  &c.,  B.  B. 


No.  vr. 


BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Nov.  14,  1792. 

My  bear  sib, — I  agree  with  you 
that  the  song,  "  Katherine  Ogie,"  is 
very  poor  stuff,  and  unworthy,  alto- 
gether unworthy,  of  so  beautiful  an 
air.  I  tried  to  mend  it;  but  the  awk- 
ward sound,  Ogie,  recurring  so  often 
in  the  rhyme,  spoils  every  attempt  at 
introducing  sentiment  into  the  piece. 
The  foregoing  song  ["  Highland 
Mary,"  p.  343]  pleases  myself;  1  think 
it  is  in  my  happiest  manner:  yoa  will 
see  at  first  glance  that  it  suits  the  air. 
The  subject  of  the  song  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  passages  of  my  youth- 
ful days;  and  I  own  that  I  should  be 
much  flattered  to  see  the  verses  set  to 
an  air  which  would  insure  celebrity. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  'tis  the  still  glow- 
ing prejudice  of  my  heart  that  throws 
a  borrowed  lustre  over  the  merits  of 
the  composition. 

I  have  partly  taken  your  idea  of 
"  Auld  Rob  Morris."  I  have  adopted 
the  first  two  verses,  and  am  going  on 
with  the  song  on  a  new  plan,  which 
promises  pretty  well.  I  take  up  one 
or  another,  just  as  the  bee  of  the  mo- 
ment buzzes  in  my  bonnet-lug;  and  do 
you,  sans  eeremonie,  make  what  use 
you  choose  of  the  productions. — Adieu, 
&c.  R.    B. 


No.  VII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Nov.  1792. 
Dear  Sir,  —  I  was  just  going  to 
write  to  you,   that  on  meeting  .with 


your  Nannie,  I  had  fallen  violently  in 
love  with  her.  I  thank  you,  there- 
fore, in  sending  the  charming  rustic  to 
me  in  the  dress  you  wish  her  to  ap- 
pear before  the  public.  She  does  you 
great  credit,  and  will  soon  be  admit- 
ted into  the  best  company. 

I  regret  that  your  song  for  the 
"Lea-Rig"  is  so  short;  the  air  is  easy, 
soon  sung,  and  very  pleasing:  so  that, 
if  the  singer  stops  at  the  end  of  two 
stanzas,  it  is  a  pleasure  lost  ere  it  is 
well  possessed. 

Although  a  dash  of  our  native 
tongue  and  manners  is  doubtless  pecu- 
liarly congenial  and  appropriate  to  our 
melodies,  yet  I  shall  be  able  to  present 
a  considerable  number  of  the  vei^. 
Flowers  of  English  Song,  well  adapt- 
ed to  these  melodies,  which,  in  Eng- 
land 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  English 
writers  shall  follow  as  additional 
songs,  for  the  choice  of  the  singer. 

What  you  say  of  the  "  Ewe-bughts", 
is  just;  I  admire  it,  and  never  meant 
to  supplant  it. — All  I  requested  was, 
that  you  would  try  your  hand  on  some 
of  the  inferior  stanzas,  which  are  ap- 
parently no  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  all  the  songs 
to  be  of  superlative  merit:  that  were 
an  unreasonable  expectation.  I  am 
sensible  that  no  poet  can  sit  down  dog- 
gedly to  pen  verses,  and  succeed  well, 
at  all  times. 

I  am  highly  pleased  with  your 
humorous  and  amorous  rhapsody  on 
"  Bonnie  Lesley;"  it  is  a  thousand 
times Jjetter  than  the  "Collier's  Las- 
sie." "  The  deil  he  cou'd  na  scaith 
thee,"  &c.,  is  an  eccentric  and  happy 
thought.  Do  you  not  think,  however, 
that  the  names  of  such  old  heroes  as 
Alexander  sound  rather  queer,  unless 
in  pompous  or  mere  burlesque  verse  ? 


WITH  GEOEGE  TH0MS0:N. 


523 


Instead  of  the  line,  "  And  never 
made  anither,"  I  would  humbly 
suggest,  "  And  ne'er  made  sic 
anither,"  and  I  woiild  fain  have  you 
substitute  some  other  line  for  "Re- 
turn to  Caledonie,"  in  the  last  verse, 
because  I  think  this  alteration  of  the 
orthography,  and  of  the  sound  of  Cal- 
edonia, disfigures  the  word,  and 
renders  it  Hudibrastic. 

Of  the  other  song — "My  wife's  a 
winsome  wee  thing,"  I  think  the  first 
eight  lines  very  good:  but  I  do  not  ad- 
mire the  other  eight,  because  four  of 
them  are  a  bare  repetition  of  the  first 
verse.  I  have  been  trying  to  spin  a 
stanza,  but  could  make  nothing  better 
than  the  following:  do  you  mend  it, 
or,  as  Yorick  did  with  the  love-letter, 
whip  it  up  in  your  way : — 

O  leeze  me  on  my  wee  things. 
My  bonnie  blithesome  wee  thing ; 
Sae  land's  1  hae  my  wee  thing, 
I'll  thmk  my  lot  divine. 

Though  warld's  care  we  share  o't, 
And  may  see  meikle  mair  o't, 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithely  bear  it, 
And  ne'er  a  word  repine. 

Tou  perceive,  my  dear  sir,  I  avail 
myself  of  the  liberty,  which  you  con- 
descend to  allow  me,  by  speaking 
freely  what  I  think.  Be  assured,  it  is 
not  my  disposition  to  pick  out  the 
faults  of  any  poem  or  picture  I  see: 
my  first  andchief  object  is  to  discover 
and  be  delighted  with  the  beauties  ,of 
the  piece.  If  I  sit  down  to  examine 
critically,  and  at  leisure,  what  perhaps, 
you  have  written  in  haste,  I  may  hap- 
pen to  observe  careless  lines,  the  re- 
perusal  of  which  might  lead  you  to 
improve  them.  The  wren  will  often 
see  what  has  been  overlooked  by  the 
eagle. — I  remain  yours  faithfully,  &c., 

P.  S. — Your  verses  upon  "  High- 
land Mary"  are  just  come  to  hand; 
they  breathe  the  genuine  spirit  of 
poetry,  and,  like  the  music,  will  last 
for  ever.  Such  verses,  united  to  such 
an  air,  with  the  delicate  harmony  of 
Pleyel  superadded,  might  form  a 
treat  worthy  of  being  presented  to 
Apollo  himself.  I  have  heard  the 
sad  story  of  your  Mary:  you  always 
seem  inspired  when  yoa  write  of  her. 


No.  vm. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  Dec.  i,  1792. 

Your  alterations  of  my  "  Nannie, 
0,"  are  perfectly  right.  So  are  those 
of  "  My  wife's  a  winsome  wee  thing." 
Your  alteration  of  the  second  stanza  is 
a  positive  improvement.  Now,  my 
dear  sir,  with  the  freedom  which 
characterises  our  correspondence,  I 
must  not,  cannot,  alter  "Bonnie  Les- 
ley." You  are  right,  the  word  "Alex- 
ander "  makes  the  line  a  little  uncouth, 
but  I  thinli  the  thought  is  pretty.  Of 
Alexander,  beyond  all  other  heroes, 
it  may  be  said,  in  the  sublime  language 
of  Scripture,  that  "  he  went  forth  con- 
quering and  to  conquer. " 

"  For  nature  made,  her  what  she  is, 
And  never  made  anither."    (Such  a  person 
as  she  is.) 

This  is,  in  my  opinion,  more  poeti- 
cal than  "ne'er  made  sic  anither." 
However,  it  is  immaterial:  make  it 
either  way.  "  Caledonie,"  I  agree 
with  you,  is  not  so  good  a  word  as 
could  be  wished,  though  it  is  sanction- 
ed in  three  or  four  instances  by  Allan 
Ramsay:  but  I  cannot  help  it.  In 
short,  that  species  of  stanza  is  the 
most  difficult  that  I  have  ever  tried. 

The  "Lea-Rig"  is  as  follows.  — ; 
(Here  the  poet  repeats  the  first  two 
stanzas,  and  adds  an  additional  one.) 

I  am  interrupted. — Yours,  &c. 


No.  IX. 


BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

December  4,  1792. 

The  foregoing  ["  Auld  Rob  Morris," 
p.  343,  and  "  Duncan  Gray,"  p.  343]  I 
submit,  my  dear  sir,  to  your  better 
judgment.  Acquit  them,  or  condemn 
them,  as  seemeth  good  in  your  sight. 
"  Duncan  Gray"  is  that  kind  of  light- 
horse  gallop  of  an  air  which  precludes 
sentiment.  The  ludicrous  is  its  rulilig 
feature, 


524 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


No.  X. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Jan.  1793. 

Many  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  sir.  How  comes  on  your  pub- 
lication? will  tliese  two  foregoing  ["  O 
poortitli,  cauld,  and  restless  love,"  p. 
349,  and  "  Gala  Water,"  p.  350]  he  of 
any  service  to  you  ?  I  should  like  to 
know  what  songs  you  print  to  each 
tune,  besides  the  verses  to  which  it  is 
set.  In  short,  I  would  wish  to  give 
you  my  opinion  on  all  the  poetry  you 
publish.  You  know  it  is  my  trade, 
^nd  a  man  in  the  way  of  his  trade  may 
suggest  useful  hints  that  escape  men 
of  much  superior  parts  and  endow- 
ments in  other  things. 

If  you  meet  with  my  dear  and  much- 
valued  Cunningham,  greet  him,  in  my 
name,  with  the  compliments  of  the 
season. — Yours,  &c. 


No.  XI. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  20,  1793. 

YoTJ  make  me  happy,  my  dear  sir, 
and  thousands  will  be  happy  to  see 
the  charming  songs  you  have  sent  me. 
Many  merry  returns  of  the  season  to 
you,  and  may  you  long  continue, 
among' the  sons  and  daughters  of  Cal- 
edonia, to  delight  them  and  to  honour 
yourself. 

The  last  four  songs  with  which  you 
favoured  me,  viz.,  "Auld  Rob  Mor- 
ris," "  Duncan  Gray,"  "Gala  Water," 
and  "  Cauld  Kail,"  are  admirable. 
Duncan  is  indeed  a  lad  of  grace,  and 
his  humour  will  endear  him  to  every- 
body. 

The  distracted  loverin  "Auld  Rob," 
and  the  happy  shepherdess  in  "Gala 
Water,"  exhibit  an  .excellent  contrast: 
they  speak  from  genuine  feeling,  and 
powerfully  touch  the  heart. 

The  number  of  songs  which  I  had 
originally  in  view  was  limited;  but  I 
now  resolve  to  include  every.  Scotch 


air  and  song  worth  singing;  leaving 
none  behind  but  mere  gleanings,  to 
which  the  publishers  of  omnium- 
gatlierum  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  subscribers 
with  two  beautiful  stroke  engravings; 
the  one  characteristic  of  the  plaintive, 
and  the  other  of  the  lively,  songs;  and 
I  have  Dr.  Beattie's  promise  of  an  es- 
say 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  events,  or  by  the  charms  of 
peerless  damsels,  there  must  be  many 
curious  anecdotes  relating  to  them. 

The  late  Mr.  Tytler  of  Woodhouse- 
lee,  I  believe,  knew  more  of  this  than 
anybody;  for  he  joined  to  the  pursuits 
of  an  antiquary  a  taste  for  poetry,  be- 
sides being  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
possessing  an  enthusiasm  for  music 
beyond  most  of  his  contemporaries. 
He  was  quite  pleased  with -this  plan  of 
mine,  for  I  may  say  it  has  been  solely 
managed  by  me,  and  we  had  several 
long  conversations  about  it  when  it 
was  in  embryo.  If  I  could  simply 
mention  the  name  of  the  heroine  of 
each  song,  and  the  incident  which  oc- 
casioned the  verses,  it  would  be  grati- 
fying. Pray,  will  you  send  me  any 
information  of  this  sort,  as  well  with 
regard  to  your  own  songs,  as  the  old 
ones  ? 

To  all  the  favourite  songs  of  the 
plaintive  or  pastoral  kind,  will  be 
joined  the  delicate  accompaniments, 
&c. ,  of  Pleyel.  To  those  of  the  comic 
and  humorous  class,  I  think  accom- 
paniments scarcely  necessary ;  they  are 
chiefly  fitted  for  the  conviviality  of  the 
festive  board,  and  a  tuneful  voice, 
with  a  proper  delivery  of  the  words, 
renders  them  perfect.  Nevertheless, 
to  these  I  propose  adding  bass  accom- 
paniments, because  then  they  are  fit- 
ted either  for  singing,  or  for  instru- 
mental performance,  when  there  hap- 
pens to  be  no  singer.  I  mean  to  em- 
ploy our  right  trusty-friend  Mr.  Clarke^ 
I  to  set  the  bass  to  these,  which  he  as- 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


535 


Bures  me  lie  will  do  core  amore,  and 
with  much  greater  attention  tliau  he 
ever  bestowed  on  anything  of  the  kind. 
But  for  this  last  class  of  airs  I  will  not 
attempt  to  find  more  than  one  set  of 
verses. 

That  eccentric  bard,  Peter  Pindar, 
lias  started  I  know  not  how  many 
diflSculties  about  writing-  for  the  airs  I 
sent  to  him,  because  of  the  peculiarity 
of  their  measure,  and  the  trammels  they 
impose  on  his  flying  Pegasus.  I  subjoin 
for  your  perusal  the  only  one  I  have 
yet  got  from  him,  being  for  the  fine  air 
"  Lord  Gregory."  The  Scots  verses 
printed  with  that  air,  are  taken  from 
the  middle  of  an  old  ballad,  called 
"The  Lass  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  re- 
plete with  wit  and  humour :  might 
not  the  best  of  these  be  included  in 
our  volume  of  comic  songs  t 


POSTSCRffT. 

FROM  THE  HON.  A.  ERSKINE. 

Mr.  Thomson  has  been  so  obliging 
as  to  give  me  a  perusal  of  your  songs. 
"Highland  Mary"  is  most  euchantingly 
pathetic,  and  "Duncan  Gray"  pos- 
sesess  native  genuine  humour:  "  Spak 
o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn,"  is  a  line  of  itself 
that  should  make  you  immortal.  I 
sometimes  hear  of  you  from  our  mu- 
tual friend  Cunningham,  who  is  a 
most  excellent  fellow,  and  possesses, 
above  all  men  I  know,  the  charm  of  a 
most  obliging  disposition.  You  kindly 
promised  me,  about  a  year  ago,  a  col- 
lection of  your  unpublished  produc- 
tions, religious  and  amorous;  I  know 
from  experience  how  irksome  it  is  to 
copy.  If  you  will  get  any  trusty  per- 
son in  Dumfries  to  write  them  over 
fair,  I  will  give  Peter  Hill  whatever 
money  he  asks  for  his  trouble,  and  I 
certainly  shall  not  betray  your  con- 
fidence.— ^I  am  your  hearty  admirer, 

Andrew  Ebskine. 


No.  XH. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Jan.  26, 1793. 

I  APPROVE  greatly,  my  dear  sir,  of 
your  plans.  Dr.  Beattie's  essay  will  of 
itself  be  a  treasure.  On  my  part,  I 
mean  to  draw  up  an  appendix  to  the 
Doctor's  essay,  containing  my  stock  of 
anecdotes,  &c.,  of  our  Scots  songs. 
All  the  late  Mr.  Tytler's  anecdotes  I 
have  by  me,  taken  down  in  the  course 
of  my  acquaintance  with  him,  from 
his  own  mouth.  I  am  such  an  enthu- 
siast that,  in  the  course  of  my  several 
peregrinations  through.  Scotland,  I 
made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  individual- 
spot  from  which  every  song  took  its 
rise,  "Lochaber"  and  the  "  Braes  of 
Ballenden"  excepted.  So  far  as  the 
locality  either  from  the  title  of  the  air, 
or  the  tenor  of  the  song,  could  be  as- 
certained, I  have  paid  my  devotions 
at  the  particular  shrine  of  every  Scots 
muse. 

I  do  not  doubt  but  you  might  make 
a  very  valuable  collection  of  Jacobite 
songs;  but  would  it  give  no  offence? 
In  the  meantime,  do  not  you  think 
that  some  of  them,  particularly  "The 
sow's  tail  to  Geordie,"  as  an  air,  with 
other  words,  might  be  well  worth  a 
place  in  your  collection  of  lively 
songs  ? 

If  it  were  possible  to  procure  songs 
of  merit,  it  would  be  proper  to  have 
one  set  of  Scots  words  to  every  air, 
and  that  the  set  of  words  to  which  the 
notes  ought  to  be  set.  There  is  a 
naweU,  a  pastoral  simplicity,  in  a 
slight  intermixture  of  Scots  words  and 
phraseology,  which  is  more  in  unison 
(at  least  to  my  taste,  and,  I  will  add, 
to  every  genuine  Caledonian  taste) 
with  the  simple  pathos,  or  rustic 
sprightliness  of  our  native  music,  than 
any  English  verses  whatever. 

The  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  an 
acquisition  to  your  work.  His  "  Greg- 
ory "  is  beautiful.  I  have  tried  to 
give  you  a  set  of  stanzas  in  Scots,  on 
the  same  subject,  which  are  at  your 
service.  [See  the  ballad  of  ' '  Lord 
Gregory,"  p.  250.]    Not  that  I  intend 


536 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS 


t,o  enter  the  lists  with  Peter:  that 
would  be  ;  presumption  indeed.  My 
liong,  though  much  inferior  in  poetic 
merit,  lias,  I  thinli,  more  of  the  ballad 
i5iriiplicity  in  it. 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to 
tlie  lionourable  gentleman  who  favour- 
ed me  with  a  postscript  in  your  last. 
He  shall  hear  from  me  and  receive  his 
MSS.  soon.  K.  B. 


No.  XIII. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

March  20, 1793. 

My  dear  Sir, — The  song  prefixed 
["Mary  Morison  "]  is  one  of  my  ju- 
venile works.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands. 
[  do  not  thinlc  it  very  remarkable, 
either  for  its  merits  or  demerits.  It  is 
impossible  (at  least  I  feel  it  so  in  my 
Btinted  powers)  to  be  always  original, 
entertauiing,  and  witty. 

What  is  become  of  the  list,  &c. ,  of 
your  songs  ?  I  shall  be  out  of  all 
temper  with  you  by  and  by.  I  have 
always  looked  on  myself  as  the  prince 
of  indolent  correspondents,  and  valued 
myself  accordingly;  and  I  will  not, 
cannot  bear  rivalship  from  you,  nor 
anybody  else.  R.  B. 


No.  XIV. 

G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  April  2,  1793. 

I  WILL  not  recognize  the  title  you 
give  yourself,  ' '  the  prince  of  indolent 
correspondents;"  but  if  the  adjective 
were  taken  away,  I  thinli  the  title 
would  then  fit  you  exactly.  It  gives 
me  pleasure  to  find  you  ca,n  furnish 
anecdotes  with  respect  to  most  of  the 
songs:  these  will  be  a  literary  curios- 
ity. 

I  now  send  you  my  list  of  the  songs, 
which  I  believe  will  be  found  nearly 
complete.  I  have  put  down  the  first 
lines  of  all  the  English  songs  which  I 
propose  giving  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  strictures  upon 
everything  else  relating  to  the  work. 

Pleyel  has  lately  sent  me  a  number 
of  the  songs,  with  his  symphonies  and 
accompaniments  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  accompaniments  — 
they  are,  indeed,  beyond  all  praise. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  the 
several  last  productions  of  your  muse: 
your  "Lord  Gregory,"  in  my  estima- 
tion, is  more  interesting  than  Peter's, 
beautiful  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  I 
have  mentioned,  whose  fine  taste  you 
are  no  stranger  to,  is  so  well  pleased, 
both  with  the  musical  and  poetical 
part  of  our  work,  that  he  has  volun- 
teered his  assistance,  and  has  already 
written  four  songs  for  it,  which,  by 
his  own  desire,  I  send  you  for  your 
perusal.  G.  T. 


No.  XV. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

April  7, 1793. 

Thakk  you,  my  dear  sir,  for  your 
packet.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
much  this  business  of  composing  for 
your  publication  has  added  to  my  en- 
joyments. What  with  my  early  at- 
tachment to  ballads,  your  book,  &c., 
ballad-making  is  now  as  completely 
my  hobbyhorse  as  ever  fortification 
was  Uncle  Toby's;  so  I'll  e'en  canter 
it  away  till  I  come  to  the  limit  of  ray 
race,  (God  grant  that  I  may  take  the 
right  side  of  the  winning-post !)  and 
then,  cheerfully  looking  back  on  the 
honest  folks  with  wliom  I  have  been 
happy,  I  shall  say,  or  sing,  "  Sae 
merry  as  we  a'  hae  been,"  and,  raising 
my  last  looks  to  the  whole  human  race, 
the  last  words  of  the  voice  of-Cou« 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


527 


shall  be  ' '  Good  night,  and  joy  be  wi' 
you  a'  1"  So  much  for  my  last  words: 
now  lor  a  few  present  remarks,  as 
they  have  occured  at  random  on  look- 
ing over  your  list. 

The  first  lines  of  "  The  last  time  I 
came  o'er  the  moor,"  and  several  other 
lines  in  it,  are  beautiful;  but  in  my 
opinion — pardon  me,  revered  shade  of 
Kamsay  !  the  song  is  unworthy  the 
divine  air.  I  shall  try  to  malre  or 
mend.  "  For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou 
prove,"  is  a  charming  song;  but  "  Lo- 
gan Burn  and  Logan  Braes  "  are  sweet- 
ly susceptible  of  rural  imagery:  I'll 
try  that  likewise,  and,  if  I  succeed, 
the  other  song  may  class  among  the 
English  ones.  I  remember  the  two 
last  lines  of  a  verse  in  some  of  the  old 
songs  of  "liOgan  Water"  (for  I  know 
a  good  many  difEerent  ones)  which  I 
think  pretty: — ■ 

*'  Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes." 

"My  Patie  is  a  lover  gay"  is  un- 
equal. ' '  His  mind  is  never  muddy, " 
is  a  muddy  expression  indeed. 

"  Then  I'll  resign  and  marry  Pate, 
And  syne  my  cockernony  !  " 

This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Kam- 
say or  your  book.  My  song,  "  Rigs  of 
Barley,"  to  the  same  tune,  does  not  al- 
together please  me;  but  if  I  can  mend 
it  and  thrash  a  few  loose  sentiments 
out  of  it,  I  will  submit  it  to  your  con- 
sideration. "  The  Lass  o'  Patie'sMill" 
is  one  of  Ramsay's  best  songs;  but 
there  is  one  loose  sentiment  in  it, 
which  my  much-valued  friend,  Mr. 
Erskine,  will  take  into  his  critical 
consideration.  In  Sir  J.  Sinclair's 
Statistical  volumes  are  two  claims; 
one,  I  think,  from  Aberdeenshire,  and 
the  other  from  Ayrshire,  for  the  hon- 
our of  this  song.  'The  follovnng  anec- 
dote, which  I  had  from  the  present 
Sir  William  Cunningham  of  Robert- 
land,  who  had  it  of  the  late  John,  Earl 
of  Loudon,  I  can,  on  such  authorities, 
believe: — 

Allan  Ramsay  was  residing  at  Lou- 
don Castle  with  the  then  Earl,  father 
to  Earl  John;  and  one  forenoon  riding 
or  walking  out  together,  his  lordship 


and  Allan  passed  a  sweet,  romantic 
spot  on  Irvine  Water,  still  called 
"Patie's  Mill,"  where  a  bonny  lass 
was  "tedding  hay,  bareheaded,  on  the 
green."  My  lord  observed  to  Allan 
that  it  would  be  a  fine  theme  for  a 
song.  Ramsay  took  the  hint,  and  lin- 
gering behind,  he  composed  the  first 
sketch  of  it,  which  he  produced  at 
dinner. 

"  One  day  I  heard  Mary  say,"  is  a 
fine  song;  but,  for  consistency's  sake, 
alter  the  name  "Adonis."  Were 
there  ever  such  banns  published  as  a 
purpose  of  marriage  between  Adonis 
and  Mary?  I  agree  with  you  that  my 
song,  "There's  nought  but  care  on 
every  hand,"  is  much  superior  to 
"  Poortith  cauld."  The  original  song, 
"  The  Mill,  Mill,  O,"  though  excellent, 
is,  on  account  of  delicacy,  inadmis- 
sible ;  still  I  like  the  title,  and  think  a 
Scottish  song  would  suit  the  notes 
best;  and  let  your  chosen  song,  which 
is  very  pretty,  follow,  as  an  English 
set.  "  I'he  banks  of  the  Dee"  is,  you 
know,  literally,  ".Langolee,"  to  slow 
time.  The  song  is  well  enoughs  hut 
has  some  false  imagery  in  it;  for  in- 
stance, 

"And    sweetly  the   nightingale   sung   from 
the  tree" 

In  the  first  place,  the  ■  nightingale 
sings  in  a  low  bush,  but  never  from  a 
tree;  and  in  the  second  place,  there 
never  was  a  nightingale  seen,  or  heard, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  or  on  the 
banks  of  any  other  river  in  Scotland. 
Exotic  rural  imagery  is  always  com- 
paratively flat.  If  I  could  hit  on  an- 
other stanza,  equal  to  ' '  The  small 
birds  rejoice,"  &c.  I  do  myself  hon- 
estly avow  that  I  think  it  a  superior 
song.  "  John  Anderson,  my  Jo,"  the 
song  to  this  tune  in  Johnson's  Museum 
is  my  composition,  and  I  think  it  not 
my  worst:  if  it  suit  you,  take  it  and 
welcome.  Your,  collection  of  senti- 
mental and  pathetic  songs  is,  in  my 
opinion,  very  complete;  but  not  so 
your  comic  ones.  Where  are  "  Tul- 
iochgorum,"  "Lumps  o'  puddin'," 
"Tibbie  Fowler,"  and  several  others, 
which  in  my  humble  judgment,  are 
well  worthy  of  preservation?      There 


528 


COBEESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


is  also  one  sentimental  song  of  mine 
in  the  Museum,  which  never  was 
known  out  of  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood, until  I  got  it  taken  down 
from  a  country  girl's  singing.  It  is 
called  "  Craigieburn  Wood;"  and  in 
the  opinion  of  Mr  Clarke,  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  Scottish  songs.  He  is  quite 
an  enthusiast  about  it;  and  I  would 
take  his  taste  in  Scottish  music  against 
the  taste  of  most  connoisseurs. 

You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the 
last  five  in  your  list,  thougli  they  are 
certainly  Irish.  "Shepherds,  I  have 
lost  my  love  !"  is  to  me  a  heavenly  air 
— what  would  you  think  of  a  set  of 
Scottish  verses  to  it  ?  I  have  made  one 
to  it  a  good  while  ago,  but  in  its  orig- 
inal state  it  is  not  quite  a  lady's  song. 
I  enclose  an  altered,  not  amended, 
copy  for  you,  if  you  choose  to  set  the 
tune  to  it,  and  let  the  Irish  verses  fol- 
low. 

Mr.  Erskine's  songs  are  all  pretty, 
but  his  "  Lone  Vale"  is  divine. — 
Yours,  &c., 

E.  B. 

Let  me  know  just  how  you  like 
these  random  hints. 


No.  XVI. 

G.  THOMSON   TO  BUENS. 

Edinburgh,  April  1793. 

I  REJOICE  to  find,  my  dear  sir,  that 
ballad-making  continues  to  be  your 
hobbyhorse. —  Great  pity  'twould  be 
were  it  otherwise.  I  hope  you  will 
amble  it  away  for  many  a  year,  and 
"  witch  thoTvorld  with  your  horseman- 
ship." 

I  know  there  are  a  good  many  lively 
songs  of  merit  that  I  have  not  put 
down  in  the  list  sent  you;  but  I  have 
them  all  in  my  eye. — "My  Patie  is  a 
lover  gay,"  though  a  little  unequal,  is 
a  iiatural  and  very  pleasing  song,  and 
I  humbly  think  we  ought  not  to  dis- 
.  place  or  alter  it,  except  the  last  stahza. 


No.  XVII. 

BUENS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

April  1793. 

I  HAVE  yours,  my  dear  sir,  this  mo- 
ment. I  shall  answer  it  and  your  for- 
mer letter  in  my  desultory  way  of  say- 
ing wliatever  comes  uppermost. 

The  business  of  many  of  our  tunes, 
wanting  at  tlie  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 
heather," 

you  may  alter  to 

"  Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braefe. 
Ye  wander,"  &c. 

My  song,  "  Here '  awa,  there  awa," 
as  amended  by  Mr.  Erskiiie,  I  eutireiy 
approve  of,  and  return  you. 

Give  me  leave  to  criticise  your  taste 
in  the  only  thing  in  which  it  is,  in  my 
opinion,  reprehensible.  You  know  I 
ought  to  know  something  of  my  own 
trade.  Of  pathos,  sentiment,  and 
point,  you  are  a  complete  judge;  but 
there  is  a  quality  more  necessary  than 
either  in  a  song,  and  which  is  the  very 
essence  of  a  ballad;  I  mean  simplicity: 
now,  if  I  mistake  not,  this  last  feature 
you  are  a  little  apt  to  sacrifice  to  the 
foregoing. 

Eamsay,  as  every,  other  poet,  has  not 
been  always  equally  happy  in  his 
pieces:  still  I  cannot  approve  of 
taking  such  liberties  with  an  author 
as  Mr.  W.  proposes  doing  with  "  The 
last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor."  Let 
a  poet,  if  he  chooses,  take  up  the  idea 
of  another,  and  work  it  into  a  piece  of 
his  own;  but  to  mangle  the  works  of 
the  poor  bard,  whose  tuneful  tongue 
is  now  mute  for  ever,  in  the  dark  and 
narrow  house,— by  Heaven,  'twould  be 
sacrilege  t  I  grant  that  Mr.  W.'s  ver- 
sion is  an  improvement;  but  I  know 
Mr.  W.  well,  and  esteem  him  much; 
let  him  mend  the  song  as  the  High- 
lander mended  his  gun:  he  gave  it  a 
new  stock,  a  new  lock,  and  a  new  barrel. 

I  do  not,  by  this,  object  to  leavino- 
out  improper  stanzas,  where  that  can 
be  done  without  spoiling  the  whole. 
One    stanza    in  "The  Lass  o'  Patio's 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


Mill"  must  be  left  out:  the  song  will 
he  notliing  worse  for  it.  1  am  not 
sure  if  we  can  take  the  same  liberty 
with  "  Corn  rigs  are  bonnie."  Per- 
liaps  it  migUt  want  the  last  stanza, 
and  be  the  better  for  it.  "  Cauld 
Kail  in  Aberdeen"  you  must  leave 
with  mo  yet  a  while.  I  have  vowed 
to  have  a  song  to  that  air,  on  the  lady 
whoin  I  atteuipted  to  celebrate  in  the 
verses,  ' '  Poortith  cauld  and  restless 
love."  At  anyrato,  my  other  song, 
"  Green  grow  the  liashes"  will  never 
suit.  That  song  is  current  in  Scotland 
under  the  old  title,  and  to  the  merry 
old  tune  of  that  name;  which,  of 
course,  would  mar  the  progress  of  your 
song  to  celebrity.  Your  booic  will  be 
the  standard  of  Scot?  songs  for  the  fu- 
ture: let  this  idea  ever  keep  your 
judgment  on  the  alarji. 

1  send  a._sODg  on  a  celebrated  toast 
in  this  country,  to  suit  ' '  Bonnie  Dun- 
dee." I  send  you  also  a  ballad  to  the 
"  Mill,  Mill,  O." 

"  The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the 
moor"  I  would  faiu  attempt  to  make  a 
Scots  song  for,  and  let  Ramsay's  be  the 
English  set.  You  shall  hear  from  me 
soon.  When  you  go  to  London  on 
this  business,  can  you  come  by  Dum- 
fries ?  1  haye  still  several  MS.  Scots 
airs  by  me,  which  I  have  picked  up, 
mostly  from  the  singing  of  country 
lasses.  They,  please  me  vastly;  but 
your  learned  lugs  would  perhaps  be 
displeased  with  the  very  feature  for 
which  I  like  them.  I  call  them  sim- 
ple; you  would  pronounce  them  silly. 
Do  you  know  a  fine  air  called  "  Jackie 
Hume's  Lament  ?"  I  have  a  song  of 
considerable  merit  to  that  air.  I'll  en- 
plose  you  both  the  song  and  tune,  as 
I  had  them  ready  to  send  to  John- 
son's Museum.  I  send  you  likewise, 
to  me,  a  beautiful  little  air,  which  I 
had  taken  down  from  viva  Doee. — 
Adieu!  E.  B. 


when  I  took  up  the  subject  of  ' '  The 
last  time  I  came  o'er  the  moor,"  and 
ere  I  slept  drew  the  outlines  of  the 
foregoing.  How  far  I  have  succeeded, 
I  leave  on  this,  as  on  every  other,  oc- 
casion, to  you  to  decide.  I  own  my 
vanity  is  flattered  when  j'ou  give  my 
songs  a  place  in  your  elegant  and  su- 
perb work;  but  to  be  o'f  service  to  the 
work  is  my  first  wish.  As  I  have 
often  told  you,  I  do  not  in  a  single  in- 
stance wish  you,  cut  of  compliment 
to  me,  to  insert  anything  of  mine. 
One  hint  let  me  ^ve  yon — whatever 
Mr.  Pleyel  does,  let  him  not  alter  one 
iota  of  the  priginal  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  mod- 
ern rules;  but  on  that  very  eccentri- 
city, perhaps,  depends  a  great  part  of 
their  effect. 

R.  B. 


No.  xvin. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

April  1791. 
My  DB.\ii  SiK,— I  had  scarcely  put 
my   last    letter    into    the    post-oftce, 


No.  XIX. 

G.  THOMSON   TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  April  26, 1793, 

I  HEARTILY  thank  you,  my  dear  sir, 
for  your  last  two  letters,  and  the  songs 
wliich  accompanied  them.  I  am 
always  both  instructed  and  entertained 
by  your  observations;  and  the  frank- 
ness with  which  you  speak  out  your 
mind  is  to  me  highly  agreeable.  It  is 
very  possible  I  may  not  have  the  true 
idea  of  simplicity  in  composition.  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  witli  country  people,  would  per- 
liaps  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  agree- 
able, as  well  as  a  natural  picture.  On 
this  subject  it  were  easy  to  enlarge; 
but  at  present  suffice  it  to  say  that  1 
consider  simplicity,  rightly  under- 
stood, as  a  most  essential  quality  in 
composition,  and    the  groundwork  of 


530 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


■beauty  in  all  tlie  arts.  I  will  gladly 
appropriate  your  most  interesting-  new 
ballad,  "Wlien  wild  war's  deadly 
Wast,"  &c. ,  to  the  "Mill,  Mill,  0," 
as  well  as  the  two  otber  songs  to  their 
respective  airs;  but  the  third  and 
fourth  lines  of  the  first  verse  must  un- 
dergo some  little  alteration  in  order 
to  suit  the  music.  Pleyel  does  not 
alter  a  single  note  of  the  songs.  That 
would  he  absurd  indeed  !  With  the 
airs  which  he  introduces  into  the  sona- 
tas, I  allow  him  to  take  such  liberties 
as  lie  pleases,  bat  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  songs. 

P.  S. — I  wish  you  would  do  as  you 
proposed  with  your  "  Rigs  of  Barley." 
If  the  loose  sentiments  are  thrashed 
out  of  it,  I  will  find  an  air  for  it;  but 
as  to  this  there  is  no  hurry. 

G.  T. 


No.  XX. 
BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

June  1793. 

When  I  tell  you,  my  dear  sir,  that 
a  friend  of  mine,  in  whom  I  am  much 
interested,  has  fallen  a  sacrifice  to 
these  accursed  times,  you  will  easily 
allow  that  it  might  unhing«  me  for 
doing  any  good  among  ballads.  My 
own  loss  as  to  pecuniary  matters,  is 
trifling:  but  the  total  ruin  of  a  much- 
loved  friend  is  a  loss  indeed.  Pardon 
my  seeming  inattention  to  your  last 
commands. 

1  can  not  alter  the  disputed  lines  in 
the  "Mill,  MiU,  O."  What  you 
think  a  defect,  I  esteem  as  a  positive 
beauty:  so  you  see  how  doctor  s  differ. 
I  shall  now,  with  as  much  alacrity  as 
I  can  muster,  go  on  with  your  com- 
mands. 

You  know  Fraser,  the  hautboy  player 
in  Edinburgh — he  is  here,  instructing 
a  band  of  music  for  a  fencible  corps 
quartered  in  this  country.  Among 
many  of  his  airs  that  please  me,  there 
is  one,  well  Itnown  as  a  reel  by  the 
name  of  "The  Quaker's  Wife,"  and 
which  I  remember  a  grandaiint  of  mine 
used  to  sing,  by  the  name  of  "  Lig- 
geram   Cosh,  my-  bonny  wee    lass." 


Mr.  Fraser  plays  it  slow,  and  with  an 
expression  that  quite  charms  me.  I 
became  such  an  enthusiast  about  it 
that  I  made  a  song  of  it,  which  I  here 
subjoin,  and  enclose  Fraser'sset  of  the 
tune.  [See  "Blithe  hae  I  been,"  p. 
253.]  If  they  hit  your  fancy  they  are 
at  your  service;  if  not,  return  me  the 
tune,  and  I  will  put  it  in  Johnson's 
Museum.  I  think  the  song  is  not  in 
my  worst  manner.  I  should  wish  to 
hear  how  this  pleases  you. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXI. 
BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

June  25,  179J. 

Have  you  ever,  my  dear  sir,  felt 
your  bosom  ready  to  burst  with  indig- 
nation on  reading  of  those  mighty  vil- 
lains who  divide  kingdom  against 
kingdom,  desolate  provinces,  and  lay 
nations  waste,  out  of  the  wantonness  of 
ambition,  or  often  from  still  more  ig- 
noble passions  ?  In  a  mood  of  tlus 
kind  to-day,  I  recollected  the  air  of 
"liogan  Water,"  and  it  occurred  to 
me  that  its  querulous  melody  prob- 
ably had  its  origin  from  the  plaintive 
indignation  of  some  swelling,  suffer- 
ing heart,  fired  at  the  tyrannic  strides 
of  some  public  destroyer;  and  over- 
whelmed with  private  distress,  the 
consequence  of  a  country's  ruin.  If  I 
have  done  anything  at  all  like  justice 
to  my  feelings,  the  following  song, 
composed  in  three-quarters  of  an 
hour's  meditation  in  my  elbow-chair, 
ought  to  have  some  merit:— ["  Logan 
Braes,"  p.  253.] 

Do  you  know  the  following  beautiful 
little  fragment,  in  Witherspoon's  col- 
lection of  Scots  songs  t 

^/r— "Hughie  Graham." 
"  Oh,  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose, 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa*: 
And  I  mysel  a  drap  o'  dew. 

Into  her  bonny  breast  to  fa' ! 

"  Oh,  there  beyond  expression  blest, 
I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 

Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest. 
Till  fley'd  awa  by  PhcEbus'  light." 

This  thought  is  inexpressibly  beauti- 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


581 


f ul ;  and  quite,  so  far  as  I  know,  orig- 
inal. It  is  too  sliort  for  a  soUg,  else  I 
would  forswear  you  altogether,  unless 
you  gave  it  a  place.  X  have  often 
tried  to  eke  a  stanza  to  it,  but  in  vain. 
After  balancing  myself  for  a  musing 
five  minutes,  on  the  hind-legs  of  my 
elbow-chair,  I  produced  the  following. 
The  verses  are  far  inferior  to  the 
foregoing,  I  frankly  confess;  but,  if 
worthy  of  insertion  at  all  they  might 
be  first  in  place;  as  every  poet,  who 
knows  anything  of  his  trade,  will  hus- 
band his  best  thaughts  for  a  conclud- 
ing stroke: — 

Oh  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair 
Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring ; 

And  I,  a  bird  to  shelter  there. 
When  wearied  on  my  little  wing  I 

How  I  wad  mourn,  when  it  was  torn 
By  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  ! 

But  I  would  sing  on  wanton  wing, 
When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renew'd. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Monday,  July  i,  1793. 

I  AM  extremely  sorry,  my  good  sir, 
that  anything  should  happen  to  un- 
hinge you.  The  times  are  terribly  out 
of  tune,  and  when  harmony  will  be  re- 
stored. Heaven  knows. 

The  first  book  of  songs,  just  pub- 
lished, will  be  despatched  to  you  along 
with  this.  Let  me  be  favoured  with 
your  opinion  of  it,  frankly  and  freely. 

X.  shall  certainly  give  a  place  to  the 
song  you  have  written  for  the  ' '  Qua- 
ker's Wife;"  it  is  quite  enchanting. 
Pray  will  you  return  the  list  of  songs, 
with  such  airs  added  to  it  as  you  think 
ought  to  be  included?  The  business 
now  rests  entirely  on  myself,  the 
gentleman  who  originally  agreed  to 
join  the  speculation  having  requested 
to  be  off.  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 
pleasure    I   shall    receive    from    the 


music.  I  cannot  express  how  much  I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  the  exquisite 
new  songs  you  are  sending  me;  but 
thanks,  my  friend",  are  a  poor  return 
for  what  you  have  done:  as  I  shall  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 
respectable  and  interesting, 

Wednesday  Morning.  • 
I  thank  you  for  your  delicate  addi- 
tional verses  to  the  old  fragment,  and 
for  your  excellent  song  to  "  Logjin 
Water:  "  Thomson's  truly  elegant  one 
will  follow  for  the  English  singer. 
Your  apostrophe  to  statesmen  is  admi- 
rable, but  I  am  not  stare  if  it  is  quite 
suitable  to  the  supposed  gentle  charac- 
ter of  the  fair  mourner  who  speaks  it. 

G.  T. 


No.  xxm. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

July  2,  1793. 

Mt  DBAii  Sm,— I  have  just  finished 
the  following  ballad: — ["  There  was  a 
lass,  and  she  was  fair,"  p.  254,]  and, 
as  I  do  think  it  in  my  best  style,  I  send 
it  you.  Mr.  Clarke,  wlio  wrote 
down  the  air  from  Mrs.  Burns'  wood- 
note  wild,  is  very  fond  of  it;  and 
has  given  it  a  celebrity  by  teaching 
it  to  some  young  ladies  of  the  first 
fashion  here.  If  you  do  not  like  the 
air  enough  to  give  it  a  place  in  your 
collection,  please  return  it.  The  song 
you  may  keep,  as  I  remember  it. 

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.     ,1 


532 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


have  not  painted  lier  in  the  rank  which 
she  holds  in  life,  but  in  the  dress  and 
character  of  a  cottager. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXIV. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

July  1793. 

I  ASSURE  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  affectation;  but  as  to  any 
more  traffic  of  that  debtor  and  creditor 
kind,  I  swear,  by  that  Honour  which 
crowns  the  upright  statue  of  ROBBRT 
BoKNS'  Integrity  —  on  the  least 
motion  of  it,  I  will  indignantly  spurn 
the  by-past  transaction,  and  from  that 
moment  commence  entire  stranger  to 
you  !  Burns'  character  for  generosity 
of  sentiment  and  independence  of  mind 
will,  [  trust,  long  outlive  any  of  his 
wants,  which  the  cold  unfeeling  ore 
can  supply:  at  least,  I  will  take  care 
that  such  a  character  he  shall  deserve. 

Thank  you  for  my  copy  of  your  pub- 
lication. Never  did  my  eyes  behold, 
in  any  musical  work,  such  elegance 
and  correctness.  Your  preface,  too,  is 
admirably  writteft:  only  your  partial- 
ity to  jne  lins  made  you  say  too  much: 
■however,  it  will  bind  me  down  to 
double  every  effort  in  the  future  pro- 
gress of  the  work.  The  following  are 
a  few  remarks  on  the  songs  in  the 
list  you  sent  me.  I  never  copy  what  1 
write  to  you,  so  I  may  be  often  tauto- 
logical or  perhaps  contradictory. 

"The  Flowers  o'  the  Forest"  is 
charming  as  a  poem;  and  should  be, 
and  must  be,  set  to  the  notes,  but, 
though  out  of  your  rule,  the  three 
stanzas,  beginning 

"  I  hae  seen  the  smiling  o'  fortune  begfuiling," 

are  worthy  of  a  place,  were  it  but  to 
immortalise  the  author  of  them,  who 
is  an  old  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  and 
at  this  moment  living  in  Edinburgh. 
She  is  a  Mrs.  Cockburn;  I  forget  of 
what  place;  but  from  Roxburghshire. 
-What  a  diarming  apostrophe  is 


"  O  fickle  fortune,  why  this  cruel  sporting;,    __ 
Why,  why  torment  us— poor  sons  of  a  day ! ' 

The  old  ballad,  "I  wish  I  were 
where  Helen  lies,"  is  silly  to  contempti- 
bility.  My  alteration  of  it  in  John- 
son is  not  much  better.  Mr.  Pinker- 
ton,  in  his,  what  he  calls,  ancient  bal- 
lads (many  of  them  notorious,  though 
beautiful  enough,  forgeries)  has  the 
best  set.  It  is  full  of  his  own  inter- 
polations,— but  no  matter. 

In  my  next  I  will  suggest  to  your 
consideration  a  few  songs  which  may 
have  escaped  your  Imrried  notice.  In 
the  meantime  allow  me  to  congratulate 
you  now,  as  a  brother  of  the  quill. 
You  have  committed  your  character 
and  fame ;  which  will  now  be  tried,  for 
ages  to  come,  by  the  illustiious  jury  of 
the  Sons  and  Daughters  of  Taste 
— all  whom  poesy  can  please,  or  music 
charm. 

Being  a  bard  of  Nature,  I  have  some 
pretensions  to  second  sight;  and  I  am 
warranted  by  the  spirit  to  foretell  and 
affirm  that  yomr  great-grandchild  will 
hold  up  your  volumes,  and  say,  with 
honest  pride,  "  This  so  much  admired 
selection  was  the  work  of  my  ances- 
tor !" 


No.  XXV. 

G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  August  i,  1793. 

Dear  Sir, — I  had  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  your  last  two  letters,  and  am 
happy  to  find  you  are  quite  pleased 
with  the  appearance  of  the  first  book. 
When  you  come  to  hear  the  songs  sung 
and  accompanied,  you  will  be  charmed 
with  them. 

' '  The  Bonny  Brucket  Lassie "  cer- 
tainly deserves  better  verses,  and  I 
hope  you  vidll  match  her.  "  Cauld 
Kail  in  Aberdeen,"  "  Let  me  in  this  ae 
night,"  and  several  of  the  livelier  airs, 
wait  the  muse's  leisure:  these  are  pe- 
culiarly worthy  of  her  choice  gifts: 
besides,  you'll  notice  that,  in  airs  of 
this  sort,  the  singer  can  always  do 
greater  justice  to  the  poet  than  in  the 
slower  airs  of  "  The  bush  aboon  Tra- 
quair,"  "Lord  Gregory,"  and  the  like; 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


€33 


for,  in  the  manner  the  latter  are  fre- 
quently sung,  you  must  be  contented 
with  the  sound  without  the  sense.  In- 
deed, both  the  airs  and  words  are 
disguised  by  the  very  slow,  languid, 
psalni-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  us  a  yawning  ! 

Your  bsfllad,  "  There  was  a  lass,  end 
she  was  fair,"  is  simple  and  beautiful, 
and  shall  undoubtedly  grace  my  col- 
lection. G.  T. 


No.  XXVI. 

BUENS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

August  1793. 

Your  objection,  my  dear  sir,  to  the 
passage  in  my  song  of  ' '  Logan 
Water,"  is  right  in  one  instance;  but 
it  is  difficult  to  mend  it;  if  I  can  I 
will.  The  other  passage  you  object  to 
does  not  appear  in  the  same  light  to 
me. 

I  have  tried  "my  hand  on  "  Eobin 
Adair,"  [See  "  Phillis  the  Fair,"  p. 
354]  and,  you  will  probably  think,  with 
little  success:  but  it  is  such  a  cursed, 
cramp,  out-of-the-way  measure  that  I 
despair  of  doing  anything  better  to  it. 

So  much  for  namby-pamby.  I  may, 
after  all,  try  my  hand  on  it  in  Scots 
verse.  There  I  always  find  myself 
most  at  home. 

I  have  just  put  the  last  hand  to  the 
song  I  meant  for  "  Oauld  Kail  in  Aber- 
deen." If  it  suits  you  to  insert  it,  I 
shall  be  pleased,  as  the  heroine  is  a 
favourite  of  mine:  if  not,  I  shall  also 
Jje  pleased;  because  I  wish,  and  will 
be  glad,  to  see  you  act  decidedly  on  the 
business.  'Tis  a  tribute  as  a  man  of 
taste,  and  as  an  editor,  which  you  owe 
yourself.  E.  B. 


attending  this  publication  of  mine  tliat 
it  has  procured  me  so  many  of  your 
much-valued  epistles.  Pray  make  my 
acknowledgments  to  St.  Stephen  for 
the  tunes:  tell  him'  I  admit  the  just- 
ness of  his  complaint  on  my  staircase 
conveyed  in  his  laconic  postscript  to 
your  jeu  d^espritj  which  I  perused 
more  than  once,  without  discovering 
exactly  whether  your  discussion  was 
music,  astronomy,  or  politics:  though 
a  sagacious  friend,  acquainted  with  the 
convivial  habits  of  the  poet  and  the 
musician,  offered  me  a  bet,  of  two  to 
one,  you  were  just,  drowning  care 
together,  that  an  empty  bowl  was  thp 
only  thing  that  would  deeply  affect 
you,  and  the  only  matter  you  could 
then  study  how  to  remedy  ! 

I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  give 
"Eobin  Adair"  a  Scottish  dress. 
Peter  is  furnishing  him  with  an  Eng- 
lish suit  for  a  change,  and  you  are 
well  matched  together.  Eobin's  air  is 
excellent,,  though  he  certainly  has 
an  out-of-the-way  measure  as  ever  poor 
Parnassian  wight  was  plagued  with. 
I  wish  you  would  invoke  the  muse  for 
a  single  elegant  stanza  to  be  substituted 
for  the  concluding  objectionable  verses 
of  "  Down  the  burn,  Davie,"  so  that 
this  most  exquisite  song  may  no  longer 
be  excluded  from  good  company. 

Mr.  Allan  has  made  an  inimitable 
drawing  froni  your  "John  Anderson, 
my  Jo,"  which  I  am  to  have  engraved 
as  a  frontispiece  to  the  humorous  class 
of  songs;  you  will  be  quite  charmed 
witli  it,  I  promise  you.  The  old 
couple  are  seated  by  the  fireside.  Mrs. 
Anderson,  in  great  good-humour,  is 
clapping  John's  shoulders,  while  he 
smiles  and  looks  at  her  with  such  glee 
as  to'  show  that  he  fully  recollects 
the  pleasant  days  and  nights  when 
they  were  "  first  acquent."  .  The  draw- 
ing would  do  honour  to  the  pencil 
of  Teniers.  G.  T. 


No.   XXVII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

August,  1793. 

My  good  Sni, — I  consider  it  one  of 
the    most     agreeable     circumstances 


No.  XXVIII. 
BUENS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

August  1793. 

That  crinkum-crankum  tune  "Robin 
Adair",  lias  run  so  in  niy  head,  and 


634 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS 


I  succeeded  so  ill  in  my  last  attempt, 
that  I  have  ventured,  in  this  morning's 
walk,  one  essay  more.  You,  my  dear 
sir,  will  remember  an  unfortunate  part 
of  our  worthy  friend  Cunningham's 
story,  which  happened  about  three 
years  ago.  That  struck  my  fancy,  and 
I  endeavoured  to  do  the  idea  justice, 
as  follows: — [See  "Had  I  a  cave," 
p.  255.] 

By  the  way,  I  have  met  with  a  musi- 
cal Highlander,  in  Breadalbane's  Fen- 
"cibles,  which  are  quartered  here,  who 
assures  me  that  he  well  remembers  his 
mother  singing  Gaelic  songs  to  both 
"Robin  Adair"  and  "  Gramachree. " 
They  certainly  have  more  of  the  Scotch 
than  the  Irish  taste  in  them. 

This  man  comes  from  the  vicinity 
of  Inverness;  so  it  could  not  be  any 
intercourse  with  Ireland  that  could 
bring  them; — except,  what  I  shrewd- 
ly suspect  to  be  the  case,  the  wander- 
ing minstrels,  harpers,  and  pipers, 
used  to  go  frequently  errant  through 
the  wilds  both  of  Scotland  and  Ireland, 
and  so  some  favourite  airs  might  be  com- 
mon to  both.  A  case  in  point — they  have 
lately,  in  Ireland,  published  an  Irish 
air,  as  they  say,  called  ' '  Caun  du  de- 
lish."  The  fact  is,  in  a  publication  of 
Corri's  a  great  while  ago,  you  will  find 
the  same  air,  called  a  Highland  one, 
with  a  Gaelic  song  set  to  it.  Its  name 
there,  I  think,  is  "  Oran  Gaoil,"  and  a 
fine  air  it  is.  Do  ask  honest  Allan,  or 
the  reverend  Gaelic  parson,-  about 
these  matters. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXIX. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Aug:ust  1793. 

Mt  dear  Sir, —  "  Let  me  in  this  ae 
night "  I  will  re-consider.  I  am  glad 
that  you  are  pleased  with  my  song, 
"  Had  I  a  cave,"  &c.,  as  I  liked  it  my- 
self. 

.    I  walked    out    yesterday  evening, 
with  a  volume  of  the  Museum  in  my 


*  The  Gaelic  parson  referred  to  was  the 
Rev.  Joseph  Robertson  Macgregor.  ^.^ 


hand;  when,  turning  up  "  All£in 
Water,"  "  What  numbers  shall  the 
muse  repeat,"  &c.,  as  the  words  ap- 
peared to  me  rather  unworthy  of  so 
fine  an  air,  and  recollecting  that  it  is 
on  your  list,  I  sat  and  raved  under  the 
shade  of  an  old  thorn,  till  I  wrote  one 
to  suit  the  measure.  [See  "  By  Allan 
stream,"  p.  255]  I  may  be  wrong;  but 
I  think  it  not  in  my  worst  style.  Toa 
must  know,  that  in  Ramsay's  "  Tea 
Table,"  where  the  modern*  song  first 
appeared,  the  ancient  name  of  the 
tune,  Allan  says,  is  "Allan  Water;" 
or,  "My  love  Annie's  very  bonny." 
This  last  has  certainly  been  a  line  of 
the  original  song;  so  I  took  up  the 
idea,  and,  as  you  will  see,  have  intro- 
duced the  line  in  its  place,  which,  I 
presume,  it  formerly  occupied;  though 
I  likewise  give  you  a  choosing  line,  if 
it  should  not  hit  the  cut  of  your  fancy. 

Bravo!  say  I:  it  is  a  good  song. 
Should  you  think  so  too,  (not  else,) 
you  can  set  the  music  to  it,  and  let  the 
other  follow  as  English  verses. 

Autumn  is  my  propitious  season.  I 
make  more  verses  in  it  than  all  the 
year  else. — God  bless  you  ! 

R.  B. 


No.  XXX 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

August  1793. 

Is  "  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you, 
my  lad,"  one  of  your  airs?  I  admire 
it  much;  and  yesterday  I  set  the  fol- 
lowing verses  to  it.  [See  "  Oh,  whis- 
tle, and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad,"  p. 
255.]  Urbani,  whom  I  have  met  with 
here,  begged  them  of  me,  as  he  ad- 
mires the  air  much;  but,  as  I  under- 
stand that  he  looks  with  rather  an  evil 
eye  on  your  work,  I  did  not  choose  to 
comply.  However,  if  the  song  does 
not  suit  your  taste,  I  may  possibly 
send  it  him.  The  set  of  the  air  which 
I  had  in  my  eye  is  in  Johnson's  Mu- 
seum. 

Another  favourite  air  of  mine  is, 
"  The  muckin'  o'  Geordie's  byre." 
When  sung  slow,  with  expression. 
I  have  wished  that  it  had  had  better 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


535 


poetry:  that  I  liave  endeavoured  to 
supply,  as  follows.  [See  "Adown 
■winding  Nith,"  p.  256.] 

Mr.  Clarke  begs  you  to  give  Miss 
Pliillis  a  corner  in  your  book,  as  sb.e  is 
a  particular  iiame  of  his.  She  is  a 
Miss  P.  M. ,  sister  to  ' '  Bonny  Jean. " 
Tliey  are  both  pupils  of  his.  You 
shall  hear  from  me,  the  very  first  grist 
I  get  from  my  rhyming-mill. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXXI. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

August  1793. 

That  tune,  "  Cauld  Kail,"  is  such  a 
favourite  of  yours  that  I  once  more 
roved  out  yesterday  for  a  gloamin- 
shot  at  the  muses:  when  the  muse  that 
presides  o'er  the  shores  of  Nith,  or 
rather  my  old  inspiring  dearest  nympli, 
Coila,  whispered  me  the  following. 
["Come,  let  me  take  thee,"  p.  256.] 
1  have  two  reasons  for  thinking  that  it 
was  my  early,  sweet  simple  inspirer 
that  was  by  my  v.lbo w,  "  smooth  glid- 
ing without  step,"  and  pouring  the 
song  on  my  glowing  fancy.  In  the 
first  place,  since  I  left  Coila's  native 
haunts,  not  a  fragment  of  a  poet  has 
arisen  to  cheer  her  solitary  musings, 
by  catching  inspiration  from  her;  so  I 
more  than  suspect  that  she  has  follow- 
ed me  hither,  or  at  least  makes  me 
occasional  visits:  secondly,  the  last 
stanza  of  this  song  I  send  you  is  the 
very  words  that  Coila  taught  me  many 
years  ago,  and  which  I  set  to  an 
old  Scots  reel  in  Johnson's  Museum. 

If  you  think  the  above  will  suit  your 
idea  of  your  favourite  air,  I  shall 
be  highly  pleased.  "The  last  time 
I  came  o'er  the  moor"  I  cannot 
meddle  with,  as  to  mending  it;  and 
the  musical  world  have  been  so  long 
accustomed  to  Ramsay's  words  that 
a  different  song,  though  positively 
superior,  would  not  be  so  well 
received.  I  am  not  fond  of  choruses 
to  songs,  so  I  have  not  made  one  for 
the  foregoing. 

R.  B. 


No-.    XXXII. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

August  1793. 

So  much  for  Davie.  [See  "Dainty 
Davie,"  p.  356,  which  the  poet  enclos- 
ed.] 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 
drawled  out  the  tune  to  twelve  lines  of 
poetry,  which  is  cursed  nonsense. 
Four  lines  of  song,  and  four  of  chorus, 
is  the  way.  R.  B. 


No.  XXXIII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  1, 1793. 

My  deab  Sik, — Since  writing  you 
last,  I  have  received  half  a  dozen 
songs,  with  wliich  I  am  delighted 
beyond  expression.  The  humour  and 
fancy  of  "Whistle  and  I'll  come  to 
you,  my  lad,",  will  render  it  nearly  as 
great  a  favourite  as  "Duncan  Gray." 
' '  Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my 
breast,"  "Adown  winding  Nith,"  and 
"By  Allan  Stream,"  &c.,  ai'e  full 
of  imagmation  and  feeling,  and  sweet- 
ly suit  the  airs  for  which  they  are 
intended.  "  Had  I  a  cave  on  some 
wild  distant  shore "  is  a  striking  and 
affecting  composition.  Our  friend,  to 
whose  story  it  refers,  read  it  with 
a  swelling  heart,  I  assure  you. — The 
union  we  are  now  forming,  I  think, 
can  never  be  broken:  these  songs  of 
yours  will  descend  with  the  music 
to  the  latest  posterity,  and  will  be 
fondly  cherished  so  long  as  genius, 
taste,  and  sensibility  exist  in  our  island. 

While  tlie  muse  seems  so  propitious, 
I  think  it  right  to  enclose  a  list  of  all 
the  favours  I  liave  to  ask  of  her — no 
fewer  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  English  poet  not  a  little; 
they  are  of  that  peculiar  measure  and 
rhythm,  that  they  must  be  familiax  to 
him  who  writes  for  them. 

G.  T. 


536 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


No.  XXXIV. 

BURNS  TO  a.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1793. 

You  may  readily  trust,  my  dear  sir, 
tliat  any  exertion  in  my  power  is 
heartily  at  your  service.  But  one 
thing  I  must  hint  to  you;  the  very 
name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  of  great  ser- 
vice to  your  publication,  so  get  a  verse 
from  him  now  and  then:  though  I 
have  no  objection,  as  well  as  I  can,  to 
bear  the  burden  of  the  business. 

You  know  that  my  pretensions  to 
musical  taste  are  merely  a  few  of 
nature's  instincts,  untaught  and  untu- 
tored by  art.  For  this  reason,  many 
musical  compositions,  particularly 
wliere  much  of  the  merit  lies  in  coun- 
terpoint, however  they  may  transport 
and  ravish  the  ears  of  you  connois- 
seurs, affect  my  simple  lug  no  other- 
wise than  merely  as  melodious  din. 
On  the  other  hand,  by  way  of  amends, 
1  am  delighted  with  many  little  melo- 
dies which  the  learned  musician  de- 
spises as  silly  and  insipid.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  old  air,  "Hey, 
tuttie  taitie,"  may  rank  among  this 
number:  but  well  I  know  that,  with 
Fraser's  hautboy,  it  has  often  filled  my 
eyes  with  tears.  There  is  a  tradition, 
which  I  have  met  with  in  many  places 
of  Scotland,  that  it  was  Robert  Bruce's 
march  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn. 
This  thought,  in  my  solitary  wander- 
ings, warmed  me  to  a  pitch  of  enthu- 
siasm on  the  theme  of  liberty  and 
independence,  which  I  threw  into  a 
kind  of  Scottish  cde,  ["Bruce's  Address 
to  his  Army  at  Bannockburn,"  p.  3S7] 
fitted  to  the  air  that  one  miglit  suppose 
to  be  the  gallant  Royal  Scot's  address 
to  his  heroic  followers  on  that  eventful 
morning. 

So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause 
of  truth  and  liberty,  as  He  did  that 
day ! — Amen. 

P.  8. — I  showed  the  air  to  Urbani, 
who  was  highly  pleased  with  it,  and 
begged  me  to  make  soft  verses  for  it, 
but  I  had  no  idea  of  giving  myself  any 
trouble  on  the  subject,  till  the  acci- 
dental recollection  of  that  glorious 
struggle  for  freedom,  associated  with 


the  glowing  ideas  of  some  other  strugr 
gles  of  the  same  nature,  not  quite  so 
ancient,  roused  my  rhyming  mania. 
Clarke's  set  of  the  tune,  with  his  bass, 
you  will  find  in  the  Museum  ;  though 
I  am  afraid  that  the  air  is  not  what  will 
entitle  it  to  a  place  in  your  elegant  se- 
lection. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXXV. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1793. 

I  DARE  say,  my  dear  sir,  that  you 
will  begin  to  think  my  correspondence 
is  persecution.  No  matter,  I  can't 
help  it;  a  ballad  is  my  hobby-horse, 
which,  though  otherwise  a  simple  sort 
of  harmless  idiotical  beast  enough,  has 
yet  this  blessed  headstrong  property, 
that,  when  once  it  has  fairly  made  off 
with  a  hapless  wight,  it  gets  so  en- 
amoured with  the  tinkle-gingle,  tiu- 
kle-gingle  of  its  own  bells,  that  it  is 
sure  to  run  poor  pilgarlick,  the  bed^- 
lam  jockey,  quite  beyond  any  useful 
point  or  post  in  the  common  race  of 
man. 

The  following  song  ["  Behold  the 
Hour,"  p.  333]  1  have  composed  for 
"  Oran  Gaoil,"  the  Highland  air  that^ 
you  tell  me  in  your  last,  you  have  re- 
solved 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. 

R.  B. 


No.  XXXVL 

G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  5, 1793. 
I  BELIEVE  it  is  generally  allowed 
that  the  greatest  modesty  is  the  sure 
attendant  of  the  greatest  merit.  While 
you  are  sending  me  verses  that 
even  Shakespeare  might  be  proud  to 
own,  you  speak  of  them  as  if  they 
were  ordinary  productions  !  Your 
heroic  ode  is,  to  me,  the  noblest  com- 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


537 


position  of  the  kind  in  the  Scottish 
language.  I  happened  to  dine  yester- 
day witli  a  party  of  your  friends,  to 
whom  I  read  it.  They  were  all  charm- 
ed with  it,  entreated  me  to  find  out  a 
suitable  air  for  it,  and  reprobate  the 
idea  of  giving  it  a  tune  so  totally  de- 
void of  interest  or  grandeur  as  "  Hey, 
"tuttie  taitie."  Assuredly  your  parti- 
ality for  this  tune  must  arise  from  the 
ideas  associated  in  your  mind  by  the 
tradition  concerning  it;  for  I  never 
heard  any  person,  and  I  have  con- 
versed again  and  again  with  the  great- 
est enthusiasts  for  Scottish  airs — I 
say,  I  never  heard  any  one  speak  of  it 
as  worthy  of  notice. 

I  have  been  running  over  the  whole 
hundred  airs  of  which  I  lately  sent  you 
the  list,  and  I  think  "  Lewie  Gordon" 
is  the  most  happily  adapted  to  your 
ode;  at  least  with  a  very  slight  varia- 
tion of  the  fourth  line,  which  I  shall 
presently  submit  to  you.  There  is  in 
"  Lewie  Gordon"  more  of  the  grand 
than  the  plaintive,  particularly  when 
it  is  sung  with  a  degree  of  spirit 
which  youx  words  would  oblige  the 
singer  to  give  it.  I  would  have  no 
scruple  about  substituting  your  ode  in 
the  room  of  "Lewie  Gordon,"  which 
has  neither  the  interest,  the  grandeur, 
nor  the  poetry  that  characterise  your 
verses.  Now  the  variation  I  have  to 
suggest  upon  the  la-st  line  of  each 
verse — ^the  only  line  too  short  for  the 
air— is  as  follows: — 

Verse  1st,  Or  to  glorious  victorie. 

2d,  Chains — chains  and  slaverie, 
3d,  Let  him,  let  him  turn  and 

flee. 
4th,  Let  him  bravely  follow  me. 
5th,  But  tfisy  shall,  they  shall 

be  free. 
6th,  Let  us,  let  us  do  or  die  ! 

If  you  connect  each  line  with  its  own 
verse,  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  that 
either  the  sentiment  or  the  expression 
loses  any  of  its  energy.  The  only  line 
which  I  dislike  in  the  whole  of  the 
song  is,  "  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed." 
Would  not  another  word  be  prefer- 
able to  "welcome?"  In  your  next  I 
will  expect  to  be  informed    whether 


you  agree  to  what  I  have  proposed. 
The  little  alterations  I  submit  with  the 
greatest  deference.  The  beauty  of  the 
verses  you  have  made  for  "Oran 
Gaoil"  will  insure  celebrity  to  the  air. 
G.  T. 


No.  xxxvn. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

September  1793. 

I  HAVE  received  your  list,  my  dear 
sir,  and  here  go  my  observations  on 
it. 

"  Down  the  burn,  Davie."  I  have 
this  moment  tried  an  alteration,  leay- 
ing  out  the  last  half  of  the  third  stanza, 
and  the  first  half  of  the  last  stanza 
thus: — 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way. 

And  through  the  flowery  dale  ; 
His  cheek  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay, 

And  love  was  aye  the  tale. 
With  *.'  Mary,  when  shall  we  return. 

Sic  pleasure  to  renew  ? " 
Quoth  Mary,  "  Love,  I  like  the  bum, 

And  aye  shall  follow  you." 

"  Through  the  wood  .laddie."  I  am 
decidedly  of  opinion  that  both  in  this, 
and  "  There'll  never  be  peace  till 
Jamie  comes  hame,"  the  second  or 
liisrh  part  of  the  tune  being  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  first  part  an  octave  higher, 
is  only  for  instrumental  music,  and 
would  be  much  better  omitted  in  sing- 
ing. 

"  C!owdenknowes."     Remember,  in 
your  index,  that  the  song  is  pure  Eng- 
lish to  this  tune,  beginning— 
"When  summer  comes,  the  swains  on  Tweed," 

is  the  production  of  Crawford.      Rob- 
ert was  his  Christian  name. 

"Laddie,  lie  near  me,"  must  lie  by 
me  for  some  time.  I  do  not  know  the 
air;  and,  until  I  am  complete  inaster 
of  a  tune,  in  my  own  singing  (such  as 
it  is,)  I  can  never  compose  for  it.  My 
way  is:  I  consider  the  poetic  sentiment 
correspondent  to  my  idea  of  the  musi- 
cal expression;  then  choose  my  theme  ; 
begin  one  stanza — when  that  is  com- 
posed, which  is  generally  the  most 
diflicult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk 
out,  sit  down  now  and  then,  look  out 


538 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


for  objects  in  nature  round  me  that 
are  in  unison  or  harmony  with  tlie 
cogitations  of  my  fancy,  and  workings 
of  my  bosom;  humming  every  now 
and  then  the  air,  with  the  verses  I 
have  framed.  When  I  feel  my  muse 
beginning  to  jade,  I  retire  to  the  soli- 
tary fireside  of  my  study,  and  there 
commit  my  effusions  to  paper;  swing- 
ing at  intervals  on  the  hind-legs  of  my 
elbow  chair,  by  way  of  calling  forth 
my  own  critical  strictures,  as  my  pen 
goes  on.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  ij 
almost  invariably  my  way. 

What  cursed  egotism  ! 

"  Gil  Morris"  I  am  for  leaving  out. 
It  is  a  plaguy  length ;  the  air  itself  is 
never  sung,  and  its  place  can  be  well 
supplied  by  one  or  two  songs  for  fine 
airs  that  are  not  in  your  list.  For  in- 
stance, "  Craigieburn  Wood,"  and 
"Roy's  Wife."  The  first,  beside  its 
intrinsic  merit,  has  novelty;  and  the 
last  has  high  merit  as  well  as  great 
celebrity.  I  have  the  original  words 
of  a  song  for  the  last  air,  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  lady  who  composed  it : 
and  they  are  superior  to  any  edition 
of  the  song  which  the  public  has  yet 
seen. 

"Highland  laddio."  The  old  set 
will  please  a  mere  Scotch  oar  best; 
and  the  new  an  Italianised  one.  There 
is  a  third,  and,  what  Oswald  calls,  the 
old  "  Highland  laddie,"  which  pleases 
me  more  than  either  of  them.  It  is 
sometiraes  called  "Jinglan  Johnnie;" 
it  being  the  air  of  an  old  humorous 
tawdry  song  of  that  name.  You  will 
find  it  in  the  Museum,  "  I  hae  been  at 
Crookieden,"  &c.  I  would  adviseyou, 
in  this  musical  quandary,  to  offer  up 
your  prayers  to  the  muses  for  inspir- 
ing direction;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
waiting  for  his  direction,  bestow  a 
libatiou  to  Bacchus;  and  there  is  no 
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's  Wife." 

"  Blithe  hae  I  been  o'er  the  hill," 
is  one  of  the  finest  songs  I  ever  made 
in  my  life ;  and,  besides,  is  composed 
on  a  young  lady,  positively  the  most 


beautiful,  lovely  woman  in  the  world. 
As  I  purpose  giving  you  the  names 
and  designations  of  all  my  heroines,  to 
appear  in  some  future  edition  of  your 
work,  perhaps  half  a  century  hence, 
you  must  certainly  include  "The 
bonniest  lass  in  a'  the  warld  "  in  your 
collection. 

"Dainty  Davie,"  I  have  heard  sung 
nineteen  thousand  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  times,  and  always  with  the 
chorus  to  the  low  part  of  the  tune;  and 
nothing  has  surprised  me  so  much  as 
your  opinion  on  this  subject.  If  it 
will  not  suit,  as  I  proposed,  we  will 
la,y  two  of  the  stanzas  together,  and 
then  make  the  chorus  follow. 

"Fee  him.  Father,"  I  enclose  you 
Fraser's  set  of  this  tune  when  he  plays 
it  slow;  in  fact,  he  makes  it  the  lan- 
guage of  despair.  I  shall  here  give 
you  two  stanzas  in  that  style,  merely  to 
try  if  it  will  be  any  improvement.  [See 
the  song  "  Thou  hast  left  me  ever,"  p. 
257J.  Were  it  possible,  in  singing,  to 
give  it  half  the  pathos  which  Fraser 
gives  it  in  playing,  it  would  make  an 
admirably  pathetic  song.  I  do  not  give 
these  verses  for  any  merit  they  have. 
I  composed  them  at  the  time  in  which 
"  Patie  Allan's  mither  died,  that  was, 
about  the  back  o'  midnight;"  and  by 
the  lee-side  of  a  bowl  of  punch,  which 
had  overset  every  mortal  in  com- 
pany, except  the  hautbois  and  the 
muse. 

"Jockey  and  Jenny"  I  would  dis- 
card, and  in  its  place  would  put 
"  There's  nae  luck  about  the  house," 
which  has  a  very  pleasant  air;  and 
which  is  positively  the  finest  love-bal- 
lad in  that  style  in  the  Scottish,  or  per- 
haps any  other  language.  "  When 
she  cam  ben  she  bobbet,"  as  an  air  is 
more  beautiful  than  either,  and  in  the 
andante  way  would  unite  with  a  charm- 
ing sentimental  ballad. 

"  Saw  ye  my  Father?"  is  one  of  my 
greatest  favourites.  The  evening  be- 
fore last  I  wandered  out  and  began  a 
tender  song,  in  what  I  think  is  its  na- 
tive style.  I  must  premise  that  the 
old  way,  and  the  way  to  give  most  ef- 
fect, is.  to  have  no  starting  note,  as 
the  fiddlers  call  it,  but  to  burst  at  once 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


539 


into  the  pathos.      Every  country  girl 
sings — ' '  Saw  ye  my  Father  V"  &c. 

My  song  is  but  just  begun;  and  I 
shoiild  like,  before  I  proceed,  to  know 
your  opinion  of  it.  I  have  sprinkled  it 
■with  the  Scottish  dialect,  but  it  may 
bo  easily  turned  into  correct  English. 

"  Todlin'  hame."  Urbani  mention- 
ed an  idea  of  his,  which  has  long  been 
mine — ^that  this  air  is  highly  suscep- 
tible of  pathos:  accordingly,  you  v/ill 
soon  hear  him  at  your  concert  try  it  to 
a  song  of  mine  in  the  Museum — ^^"Ye 
banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon."  One 
song  more  and  I  have  done — "  Auld 
langsyne."  The  air  is  but  mediocre; 
but  the  following  song,  ["Auld  lang- 
syne," p.  213]  the  old  song  of  the  old- 
en times,  and  which  has  never  been  in 
print,  nor  even  in  manuscript,  until  I 
took  it  down  from  an  old  man's  sing- 
ing, is  enough  to  recommend  any  air. 

Now,  1  suppose,  I  have  tired  your 
patience  fairly.  You  must,  after  all  is 
over,  have  a  number  of  ballads,  prop- 
erly so  called.  "  Gil  Morice,"  "Tran- 
ent Muir,"  "Macpherson's  Farewell," 
"Battle  of  Sherriffmuir,"  or,  "We 
ran  and  they  ran,"  (I  know  the  author 
of  this  charming  ballad,  and  his  his- 
tory,) "  Hardiknute,"  "Barbara  Al- 
lan," (I  can  furnish  a  finer  set  of  this 
tune  than  any  that  has  yet  appeared;) 
and  besides  do  you  know  that  I  really 
have  the  old  tune  to  which  "  The 
Cherry  and  the  Slae "  was  sung;  and 
which  is  mentioned  as  a  well-known 
air  in  "  Scotland's  Complaint,"  a  book 
published  before  poor  Mary's  days? 
It  was  then  called  "The  banks  o' 
-Helicon;"  an  old  poem  which  Pinker- 
ton  has  brought  to  light.  You  will 
see  all  this  in  Tytler's  history  of  Scot- 
tish music.  The  tune,  to  a  learned  ear, 
may  have  no  great  merit;  but  it  is  a 
great  curiosity.  I  have  a  good  many 
original  things  of  this  kind. 

R.  B. 


No.  xxxviir. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

September  1793. 

I  AM  happy,  my  dear  sir,  that  my 
ode  pleases  you  so  much.     Your  idea, 


"  honour's  bed,"  is,  though  a  beauti- 
ful, a  hackneyed  idea;  so,  if  you 
please,  we  will  let  the  line  stand  as  it 
is.  I  have  altered  the  song  as  follows. 
[See  "Scots  wha  hae,"  p.  257.] 

N.  B. —  I  have  borrowed  the  last 
stanza  from  the  common  stall  edition 
of  Wallace: — 

"  A  false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe, 
And  liberty  returns  with  every  blow." 

A  couplet  worthy  of  Homer.  Yester- 
day you  had  enough  of  my  corresppn- 
dence.  The  post  goes,  and  my  head 
aches  miserably  One  comfort  —  I 
suffer  so  much  just  now,  in  this  world, 
for  last  night's  joviality,  that  I  shall 
escape  scot-free  for  it  in  the  world  to 
come.     Amen ! 

R.  B. 


No.  XXXIX. 
G.    THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

September  12,  1793. 

A  THonS-\ND  thanks  to  you,  my 
dear  sir,  for  your  observations  on  the 
list  of  my  songs.  I  am  happy  to  find 
your  ideas  so  much  in  unison  with  my 
own,  respecting  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  Davie"  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  tenderness  at  least,  in  the 
air  of  "Fee  him,  Father,"  when  per- 
formed with  feeling;  but  a  tender 
cast  may  be  given  almost  to  any  lively 
air,  if  you  sing  it  very  slowly,  expres- 
sively, and  with  serious  words.  I  am, 
however,  clearly  and  invariably  for  re- 
taining the  cheerful  tunes  joined  to 
their  own  humorous  verses,  wherever 
the  verses  are  passable.  But  the 
sweet  song  for  "Fee  him.  Father," 
which  you  began  about  the  back  of 
midnight,  I  will  publish  as  an  addi- 
tional one.      Mr.  James  Balfour  the 


54D 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


king  of  good  fellows,  and  the  best 
singer  of  the  lively  Scottish  ballads 
that  ever  existed,  has  charmed  thou- 
sands of  companies  with  "Fee  him, 
Father,"  and  with  "  Todlin'  hame" 
also,  to  the  old  words,  which  never 
should  be  disunited  from  either  of 
these  airs.  Some  Bacchanals  I  would 
wish  to  discard.  "  Fye,  let's  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  colliers: 
and  ' '  Saw  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  pru- 
dent general  would  avoid  say- 
ing anything  10  his  soldiers  which 
might  tend  to  make  death  more 
frightful  than  it  is.  ' '  Gory  "  presents 
a  disagreeable  image  to  the  mind;  and 
to  tell  them,  ' '  Welcome  to  your  gory 
bed,"  seems  rather  a  discouraging  ad- 
dress, notwitlistajiding  the  alternative 
which  follows.  I  have  shown  tlie 
song  to  three  friends  of  excellent  taste, 
and  each  of  them  objected  to  this  line, 
which  emboldens  me  to  use  the  free- 
dom of  bringing  it  again  under  your 
notice.     I  would  suggest, 

"  Now  prepare  for  honour's  bed, 
Or  for  glorious  victorie." 

G.  T. 


No.  XL. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

"  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors 
disagree?"  My  ode  pleases  me  so 
much  that  I  cannot  alter  it.  Your 
proposed  alterations  would,  in  my 
opinion,  make  it  tame.  I  am  exceed- 
ingly obliged  to  you  for  putting  me  on 
re-considering  it;  as  I  think  I  have 
much  improved  it.  Instead  of  "  soger! 
hero  !"  I  will  have  it  "Caledonian  !  on 
wi'  me !" 

I  have  scrutinised  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  liurt  me  should 
you  leave  it  out  altogether,  and  adhere 


to  your  first  intention  of  adopting  Lo- 
gan's verses. 

I  liave  finished  my  song  to  "  Saw  ye 
my  Father;"  and  in  English,  as  you 
will  see.  'fhat  there  is  a  syllable  too 
much  for  the  expression  of  the  air,  it 
is  true;  but,  allow  me  to  say  that  the 
mere  dividing  of  a  dotted  crotchet  into 
a  crotchet  and  a  quaver  is  not  a  great 
matter:  however,  in  that,  I  have  no 
pretensions  to  cope  in  judgment  with 
you.  Of  the  poetry  I  speak  with  con- 
fidence; but  the  music  is  a  business 
where  I  hint  my  ideas  with  the  utmost 
difBdencel 

The  old  verses  have  merit,  though 
unequal,  and  are  popular:  my  advice 
is  to  set  the  air  to  the  old  words;  and 
let  mine  follow  as  English  verses. 
Here  they  are^[See  ' '  Fair  Jenny,"  p. 
257.] 

Adieu,  my  dear  sir!  The  post  goes, 
so  I  shall  defer  some  other  remarks 
until  more  leisure.  R.  B. 


No.   XLI. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

I  HAVE  been  turning  over  some 
volumes  of  songs  to  find  verses  whose 
measures  would  suit  the  airs  for  which 
you  have  allotted  me  to  find  English 
songs. 

For  "Muirland  Willie,"  you  have 
in  Ramsay's  "  Tea-table  Miscellany," 
an  excellent  song,  beginning,  "  Ah, 
why  those  tears  in  Nelly's  eyes  ?"  As 
for  "The  Collier's  Dochter,"  taJve  the 
following  old  Bacchanal.  [See  the  song, 
"Deluded  Swain,  the  Pleasure,"  n. 
258.]  ^ 

The  faulty  line  in  "Logan  Water," 
I  mend  thus  : — 

"  How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 
The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry?  " 

The  song,  otherwise,  will  pass.  As 
to  "M'Gregoira  Hua-Ruth,''  you  will 
see  a  song  of  mine  to  it,  with  a  set  of 
the  air  superior  to  yours  in  the  Jfa- 
seum.     The  song  hegins —         - 

"  Ravinsr  winds  around  her  blowing." 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


541 


Your  Irish  airs  are  pretty,  but  they 
are  downright  Irish.  If  they  were 
like  the  "  Jiauks  of  Banna,"  for  in- 
stance, though  really  Irish,  yet  in  the 
Scottish  taste,  you  might  adopt  them. 
Since  you  are  so  fond  of  Irish  music, 
what  say  you  to  twenty-five  of  them 
in  an  additional  number?  We  could 
easily  find  this  quantity  of  charming 
airs  ;  I  will  take  care  that  you  shall 
not  want  son^s  ;  and  I  assure  yon  that 
you  will  find  it  the  most  saleable  of  the 
whole.  If  you  do  not  approve  of 
"Roy's  wife,"  for  the  milsic's  sake, 
wo  shall  not  insert  it.  "  I)eil  tak  the 
wars,"  is  a  charming  song ;  so  is 
"  Saw  ye  my  Peggie  ?"  "  There's  nae 
luck  about  the  house  "  well  deserves  a 
place.  I  cannot  say  that  "O'er  the 
hills  and  far  awa,"  strilves  me  as  equal 
to  your  selection.  "  This  is  no  my 
ain  house,"  is  a  great  favourite  air  of 
mine  ;  and  if  you  will  send  me  your 
set  of  it,  I  will  task  my  muse  to  her 
highest  effort.  What  is  your  opinion 
of"Iliaelaid  a  herriu' in  sawt  ?"  I 
like  it  much.  Your  .Jacobite  airs  are 
pretty  :  and  there  are  many  others  of 
the  same  kind,  pretty  ;  but  you  have 
not  room  for  them.  You  cannot,  I 
think,  insert,  "  Fye,  let's  a'  to  the  bri- 
dal "  to  any  other  words  than  its  own. 

What  pleases  me  as  simple  and 
naive  disgusts  you  as  ludicrous  and 
low.  For  this  reason,  "Fye,  gie  me 
my  coggie,  sirs,"  "  Fye,  let's  a'  to  the 
bridal,"  with  several  others  of  that 
cast,  are,  to  me,  highly  pleasing ; 
while  "  Saw  ye  my  father,  or  saw  ye 
my  mother  ?"  delights  me  with  its  de- 
scriptive simple  pathos.  Thus  my 
song,  "  Ken  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill 
has  gotten  V  pleases  myself  so  much 
that  I  cannot  try  my  hand  at  another 
song  to  the  air,  so  I  shall  not  attempt 
it.  I  know  you  will  laugh  at  all  this  ; 
but  "  Ilka  man  wears  his  belt  his  ain 
gait."  R.  B. 

No.  XLIl. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

October  1793. 
Yomt  last  letter,  my  dear  Thomson, 
was  indeed  laden  with  heavy  news. 


Alas  1  poor  Erskine  !*  The  recollec: 
tion  that  he  was  a  coadj  utor  in  yoiij: 
publication  has,  till  now,  scared  mo 
from  writing  to  you,  or  turning  my 
thoughts  on  composing  for  you. 

I  am  pleased  that  you  are  reconciled 
to  the  air  of  the  "  Quaker's  Wife  ;" 
though,  by  the  by,  an  old  Highland 
gentleman  and  a  deep  antiquary,  tells 
me  it  is  a  Gaelic  air,  and  known  by 
the  name  of  "  Leiger  m'  choss."  The 
following  verses  ["  My  lovely  Nancy," 
p.  232],  1  hope  mil  please  you,  as  an 
Englislv  song  to  the  air. 

Your  objection  to  the  English  song 
I  proposed  for  ' '  John  Anderson,  my 
jo,"  is  certainly  just.  The  following 
is  by  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  and 
I  think  has  merit.  The  song  was 
never  in  print,  wliich  I  think  is  so 
much  in  your  favour.  The  more  orig- 
inal good  poetry  your  collection  con- 
tains, it  certainly  has  so  much  the 
more  merit  : — 

SONG. 
By  Gavin  Turndull. 

"O  CONDESCEND,  dear  charming  maid. 

My  wretched  state  to  view  ; 
A  tender  swain  to  love  betray'd, 

And  sad  despair,  by  you. 

"  While  here,  all  melancholy, 

My  passion  I  deplore, 
Yet  urged  by  stern  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  lover'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  thy  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  generous  pity  warm  thee, 

My  wonted  peace  restore  ; 
And,  grateful,  I  shall  bless  thee  still, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more." 

The  following  address  of  Turnbull's 
to  the  Nightingale  will  suit  as  an  Eng- 


*  The  Honourable  A.  Erskine,  brother  to 
Lord  Kelly,  whose  melanc.ioly  death  Mr.^ 
Thomson  had  communicated  in  an  excellent" 
letter  which  he  has  suppressed,— Cvkkie; 


543 


CORRESPONDEIsrCE  OF  BUENS 


lish  song  to  tlie  air,  "  There  was  a  lass 
and  she  wjs  fair."  By  the  by,  Turn- 
bull  has  a  great  many  songs  in  MS., 
which  I  can  command,  if  you  like  his 
maimer.  Possibly,  as  he  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  1  may  be  prejudiced 
in  his  favour  ;  but  I  like  some  of  his 
pieces  very  much  : — 

THE  NIGHTINGALE." 
By  G.  Tuenbull. 

"  Thou  sweetest  minstrel  of  the  grove 
That  ever  tried  the  plaintive  strain  ; 

Awake  thy  tender  tale  of  love, 
And  soothe  a  poor  forsaken  swain. 

"  For,  though  the  muses  deign  to  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  tlie  solemn  hours  again. 

Begin,  sweet  bird,  thy  melody. 
And  soothe  a  poor  forsaken  swain." 

I  shall  just  transcribe  another  of 
Turnbull's,  which  would  go  charming- 
ly to  "Lewie  Gordon  : — 

I-AURA. 

By  G.  Turnbull. 

*'  Let  me  wander  where  I  will. 
By  shady  wood,  or  winding  rill ; 
Where  the  sweetest  May-born  flowers 
Paint  the  meadows,  deck  the  bowers  ; 
Where  the  linnet's  early  song 
Echoes  sweet  the  woods  among ; 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

"  If  at  rosy  dawn  I  choose 
To  indulge  the  smiling  muse  ; 
If  I  court  some  cool  retreat. 
To  avoid  the  noontide  heat ; 
If  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray. 
Through  unfrequented  wilds  I  stray ; 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still. 

"  When  at  night  the  drowsy  god 
Waves  his  sleep-compelling  rod. 
And  to  fancy's  wakeful  eyes 
Bids  celestial  visions  rise  ; 
While  with  boundless  joy  I  rove 
Through  the  fairy  land  of  love  : 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will, 
Laura  haunts  my  fancy  still." 

The  rest  of  your  letter  I  shall  answer 
at  some  other  opportunity. 
[Gavin  Turnbull  was  the  author  of 


a  volume  entitled  "Poetical  Essays," 
published  in  Glasgow  in  1788.] 


No.  XLin. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Nov.  7,  T793« 

My  good  Sm, — After  so  long  a  si- 
lence it  gave  me  peculiar  pleasure  to 
recognise  your  well-known  hand,  for  I 
had  begun  to  be  apprehensive  that  all 
was  not  well  with  you.  I  am  happy 
to  find,  however,  that  your  silence  did 
not  proceed  from  that  cause,  and  that 
you  have  got  among  the  ballads  once 
more. 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  English 
song  to  "Leiger  m' choss,"  which  I 
think  extremely  good,  although  the 
colouring  is  warm-  Tour  friend  Mr. 
Turnbull's  songs  have  doubtless  con- 
siderable merit;  and,  as  yon  have  the 
command  of  his  manuscripts,  I  hope 
you  may  find  out  some  that  will  answer 
as  English  songs,  to  the  airs  yet  un- 
provided. '  G.  T. 


No.    XLIV. 
BURNS  TO   G.  THOMSON. 

Dec.  1793. 

Tell  me  how  you  like  the  following 
verses  [""My  spouse,  Nancy,"  p.  358] 
to  the  tune  of  "Jo  Janet. " 


No.  XLV. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Aprili7,  1794. 
My  dear  Sib,— Owing  to  the  dis- 
tress of  our  friend  for  the  loss  of  his 
child,  at  the  time  of  his  receiving  your 
admirable  but  melancholy  letter,  I  had 
not  an  opportunity  till  lately  of  perus- 
ing it.*  How  sorry  I  am  to  find  Bums 
saying,  "  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a 
mind  diseased  ?"  while  he  is  delight- 
ing others  from  one  end  of  the  island 


*  A  letter  to  Mr.  Cunningham,  to  be  found 
in  the  correspondence,  under  the  date  of  Feb 
23,  1794. 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


543 


to  the  other.  Like  the  hypochondriac 
■who  went  to  consult  a  physician  upon 
his  case — "  Go,"  says  the  doctor,  "  and 
see  the  famous  Carlini,  who  keeps  all 
Paris  in  good  humor."  "Alas!  sir," 
replied  the  patient,  "I  am  that  un- 
happy Carlini." 

Your  plan  for  our  meeting  to- 
gether pleases  me  greatly,  and  I  trust 
that  by  softie  means  or  other  it  will 
soon  talie  place  ;  bat  your  Bacchana- 
lian challenge  almost  frightens  me,  for 
I  am  a  miserably  weak,  drinker  ! 

Allan  is  much  gratified  by  your  good 
opinion  of  his  talents.  He  has  just  be-' 
gun  a  sketch  from  your  "  Cotter's  Sat- 
urday Night,"  and  if  it  pleases  him- 
self in  the  design,  he  will  probably 
etch  or  engrave  it.  In  subjects  of  the 
pastoral  or  humorous  kind,  he  is  per- 
haps unrivalled  by  any  artist  living. 
He  fails  a  little  in  giving  beauty  and 
grace  to  his  females,  and  his  colouring 
is  sombre;  otherwise,  his  paintings  and 
drawings  would  be  in  greater  request. 

I  like  the  music  of  the  "  Sutor's 
doehter,"  and  will  consider  whether  it 
shall  be  added  to  the  last  volume;  your 
verses  to  it  are  pretty;  but  your  hu- 
morous English  song  to  suit  "Jo 
Janet,"  is  inimitable.  What  think  you 
of  the  air,  "  Within  a  mile  of  Edin- 
burgh '!"  It  has  always  struck  me  as 
a  modern  English  imitation,  but  it  is 
said  to  be  Oswald's,  and  is  so  much 
liked  that  I  believe  I  must  include  it. 
The  verses  are  little  better  than  nam- 
by-pamby. Do  you  consider  it  worth 
a  stanza  or  two '! 

G.  T. 


quite  charmed  with  Allan's  manner.  I 
got  him  a  peep  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd; 
and  he  pronounces  Allan  a  most  origi- 
nal artist  of  great  excellence. 

For  my  part,  I  look  on  Mr.  Allan's 
choosing  my  favourite  poem  for  his 
subject  to  be  one  of  the  highest  com- 
pliments I  have  ever  received. 

I  am  quite  vexed  at  Pleyel's  being 
cooped  up  in  France,  as  it  will  put  an 
entire  stop  to  our  work.  Now,  and 
for  six  or  seven  months,  I  shall  be 
quite  in  song,  as  you  shall  see  by  and 
by.  I  got  an  air,  pretty  enough,  com- 
posed by  Lady  Elizabeth  Heron,  of 
Heron,  which  she  calls  "  The  banks  of 
Cree."  Cree  is  a  beautiful  romantic 
stream:  and,  as  her  ladyship  is  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  mine,  I  have  written 
the  following  song  to  it — [See  "  Here 
is  the  Glen,"  p.  263.] 


No.  XLVL 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

May  1794. 

My  dkab  Sm, — I  return  you  the 
plates,  with  which  I  am  highly  pleased;' 
I  would  humbly  propose,  instead  of 
the  younker  knitting  stockings,  to  put 
a  stock  and  horn  into  his  hands.  A 
friend  of  mine,  who  is  positively  the 
ablest  judge  on  the  subject  I  have  ever 
met  with,  and,  thonsrh  an  unknown,  is 
yet  a  superior,  artist  with  the  burin,  is 


No.  XLVII. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

July  J794. 

Is  there  yet  no  news  of  Pleyel  ?  Or 
is  your  work  to  be  at  a  dead  stop  until 
the  allies  set  our  modern  Orpheus  at 
liberty  from  the  savage  thraldom  of 
democratic  discords  ?  Alas  the  day  1 
And  woe  is  me !  That  auspicious 
period,  pregnant  with  the  happiness 
of  millions — * 


No.  XLVIII. 

G.  THOMSON   TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Aug.  10, 1794. 

Mt  dbak  Sib, — I  owe  you  an  apol- 
ogy for  having  so  long  delayed  to  ac- 
knowledge the  favour  of  your  last. 
I  fear  it  will  be  as  you  say,  I  shall 
have  no  more  songs  from  Pleyel  till 
France  and  we  are  friends;  but,  never- 
theless, I  am  very  desirous  to  be  pre- 
pared with  the  poetry,  and,  as  the  sea- 
son approaches  in  which  your  muse  of 
Coila  visits  you,  I  trust  I  shall,  as  for- 

*  A  portion  of  this  letter  has  been  left  out, 
for  reasons  that  will  be  easily  imagined. 


^^ 


CORKESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


nierly,  be  frequently  gratified  with  tlie 
result  of  your  amorous  and  tender  in- 
terviews ! 

G.  T. 


No.  XLIX. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Aug.  30,  1794. 

The  last  evening,  as  I  was  straying 
out,  and  thinldng  of  "  O'er  the  hills 
and  far  away,"  Ispun  the  following 
stanza  for  it,  [see  "On  the  Seas  and 
Far  Away,"  p.  363;]  but  whether  my 
spinning  will  deserve  to  be  laid  up  in 
Store,  like  the  precious  thread  of  the 
silk- worm,  or  brushed  to  the  devil  like 
the  vile  manufacture  of  the  spider,  I 
leave,  my  dear  sir,  to  your  usual  can- 
did criticism.  I  was  pleased  with  sev- 
eral lines  in  it,  at  first;  but  I  own  that 
now  it  appears  rather  a  fiimsy  busi- 
ness. 

This  is  just  a  hasty  sketch,  until  I 
see  whether  it  be  worth  a  critique. 
We  have  many  sailor  songs;  but,  as 
far  as  I  at  present  recollect,  they  are 
mostly  the  effusions  of  the  jovial 
sailor,  not  the  wailings  of  the  lovelorn 
mistress.  I  must  here  make  one 
sweet  exception — "  Sweet  Annie  frae 
the  Sea-beach  came." 

I  gave  you  leave  to  abuse  this  song, 
but  do  it  in  the  spirit  of  Christian 
meekness. 

R.  B. 


No.  L. 


G.  THOMSON   TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Sept.  16,  1794. 

My  deak  Sir, — You  have  anticipat- 
ed my  opinion  of  "On  the  seas  and 
far  away;"  I  do  not  think  it  one  of  your 
very  happy  productions,  though  it  cer- 
tainly contains  stanzas  that  are  worthy 
of  all  acceptation. 

The  second  stanza  is  the  least  to  my 
liking,  particularly  "  Bullets,  spare 
my  only  joy."  Confound  the  bullets  ! 
It  might,  perhaps,  be  objected  to  the 
third  verse,  "  At  the  starless  mid- 
night   hour,"   that  it  has  too   much 


grandeur  of  imagery,  and  that  greater 
simplicity  of  thought  would  have  bet- 
ter suited  the  character  of  a  sailor's 
sweetheart.  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  if  con- 
sisted only  of  the  first  and  last  verses, 
with  the  choruses.  ► 


No.  LI. 


BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1794. 

I  SHALL  withdraw  my  "  On  the  seas 
and  faraway"  altogether:  it  is  unequal, 
and  unworthy  the  work.  Making  a 
poem  is  like  begetting  a  son:  you  can- 
not 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  ofE- 
spring  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 
yowes  to  the  knowes,"  as  it  was  owing 
to  me  that  it  ever  saw  the  light. 
About  seven  years  ago,  1  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  a  worthy  little  fellow 
of  a  clergyman,  a  Mr.  Clunie,  who 
sung  it  charmingly:  and,  at  my  re- 
quest, Mr.  Clarke  took  it  down  from  his 
singing.  When  I  gave  it  to  Johnson, 
I  added  some  stanzas  to  the  song,  and 
mended  others,  but  still  it  will  not  do 
for  you.  In  a  solitary  stroll,  which  I 
took  to-day,  I  tried  my  hand  on  a  few 
pastoral  lines,  following  up  the  idea  of 
the  chorus,  which  I  would  preserve. 
Here  it  is,  with  all  its  crudities  and 
imperfections  on  its  head.  rSee"Ca' 
the  Yowes,"  p.  263.]  . 

I  shall  give  you  my  opinion  of  your 
other  newly  adopted  songs,  my  fijst 
scribbling  fit.  R_  b. 


No.  LII. 
BURNS    TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Sept.  1794. 
Do  you  know  a  blackguard  Irish  song 
called  "  Onagh's  waterfall  ?"    The  air 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSOlSr. 


545 


■  is  chamiiug,  and  I  have  often  regrct- 
,ted  the  want  of  decent  verses  to  it.  It 
is  too  much,  at  least  for  iny  humble 
.rustic  musei  to  expect  that  every  effort 
of  hers  shall  have  merit:  still  I  think 
that  it  is  better  to  have  mediocre  ver- 
ses to  a  favourite  air  than  none  at  all. 
On  this  principle  I  have  all  along  pro- 
ceeded in  the  Scots  Musical  Museum; 
and,  as  that  publication  is  at  its  last 
volume,  I  intend  the  following  song, 
["  She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a',"  p. 
368]  to  the  air  above  mentioned,  for 
that  work. 

If  it  does  not  suit  you  as  an  editor, 
you  may  be  pleased  to  have  verses  to 
it  that  you  can  sing  before  ladies. 

Not  to  compare  small  things  with 
great,  my  taste  in  music  is  like  the 
mighty  Frederick  of  Prussia's  taste  in 
painting:  we  are  told  that  he  frequent- 
ly admired  wliat  the  connoisseurs  de- 
cried, and  always,  without  any  hypocri- 
sy, confessed  his  admiration.  I  am  sensi- 
ble that  my  taste  in  music  must  be  in- 
elegant and  vulgar,  because  people  of 
undisputed  and  cultivated  taste  can 
find  no  merit  in  my  favourite  tunes. 
Still,  because  I  am  cheaply  pleased,  is 
that  any  reason  why  I  should  deny  ray- 
self  tliat  pleasure?  Many  of  our 
strathspeys,  ancient  and  modem,  give 
me  most  exquisite  enjoyment,  where 
you  and  other  judges  would  probably 
be  showing  disgust.  For  instance,  I 
am  just  now  making  verses  for 
"  Rothemurche's  Rant,"  an  air  which 
puts  me  in  raptures;  and,  in  fact,  un- 
less 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. 
"  Bothemurche,"  he  says,  is  an  air 
both  original  and  beautiful;  and,  on 
liis  recommendation,  I  have  taken  the 
first  part  of  the  tune  for  a  chorus,  and 
the  fourth,  or  last  part,  for  the  song. 
I  am  but  two  stanzas  deep  in  the  work, 
and  possibly  you  may  think,  and  just- 
ly, that  the  poetry  is  as  little  worth 
your  attention  as  the  music. 

I  have  begun  angw,  "Let me  in  this 
ae  night."  Do  you  think  we  ought  to 
retain  the  old  chorus?  I  think  we 
must  retain  both  the  old  chorus  and 


the  first  stanza  of  the  old  song.  I  do 
not  altogether  like  the  third  line  of  the 
first  stanza,  but  cannot  alter  it  to  please 
myself.  I  am  just  three  stanzas  deep 
in  it.  Would  you  have  the  denoue- 
ment to  be  successful  or  otherwise? 
Should  she  "  let  him"  in  or  not? 

Did  you  not  once  propose  ' '  The 
Sow's  tail  to  Geordie  "  as  an  air  for 
your  work?  I  am  quite  delighted  with 
it;  but  I  acknowledge  that  is  no  mark 
of  its  real  excellence.  I  once  set  abdut 
verses  for  it,  which  I  meant  to  be  in 
the  alternate  way  of  a 'lover  and  his 
mistress  chanting  together.  I  h?ive  not 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mrs.  Thom- 
son's Christian  name,  and  yours,  I  am 
afraid,  is  rather  burlesque  for  senti- 
ment, else  I  had  meant  to  have  made 
you  and  her  the  hero  and  heroine  of 
the  little  piece. 

God  grant  you  patience  with  this 
stupid  epistle  ? 

R.  B. 


No.  LIII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

I  PEBCBIVE  the  sprightly  muse  is 
now  attendant  upon  her  favourite  poet, 
whose  "  wood  notes  wild  "  are  become 
as  enchanting  as  ever.  "  She  says  she 
lo'es  me  best  of  a',"  is  one  of  the 
pleasantest  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 
powerfully  proclaim  its  merit.  1  am 
far  from  undervaluing  your  taste  for 
the  strathspey  music;  on  the  contrary, 
1  think  it  highly  animating  and  argree- 
able,  and  that  some  of  the  strathspeys, 
when  graced  with  such  verses  as  yours, 
will  make  very  pleasing  songs,  in  the 
same  way  that  rough '  Christians  are 
tempered  and  softened  by  lovely 
women,  without  whom,  you  know, 
they  had  been  brutes. 

I  am  clear  for  having  the  "  Sow's 
tail,"  particularly  as  your  proposed 
verses  to  it  are  sb  extremely  promising. 
Geordie,  as  you  observe,  is  a  name 
only  fit  for  burlesque  composition. 
Mrs.  Thomson's  name  (Katharine,)  is 
not  at   all   poetical.      Retain  Jeanie; 


.545 


CORRESPONDENCE  OP  BURNS 


.therefore,  and  make  the  other  Jamie, 
or  any  other  that  sounds  agreeably. 

Your  "  Ca'  the  ewes"  is  a  precious 
ViMe  morgeau.  Indeed,  lam  perfect- 
ly astonished  and  charmed  with  the 
endless  variety  of  your  .  fancy.  Here 
let  me,  ask  you  whether  you  never  se- 
riously turned  your  thoughts,  upon 
dramatic  writing?  That  is  a  field 
worthy  of  your  genius,  in  which  it 
might  shine  forth  in  all  its  splendour. 
One  or  two  successful  pieces  upon  the 
.London  stage  would  make  your  for- 
tune. The  rage  at  present  is  for 
musical  dramas:  few  or  none  of  those 
which  have  appeared  since  the  "  Du- 
enna" possess  much  poetical  jnerit: 
there  is  littte  in.tlie-  conduct  of  the 
fable,  or  in  the  dialogue, .  to  interest 
the  audience.  They  are  chiefly  ve- 
hicles for  music  and  pageantry.  I 
think  you  might  produce  a  comic  opera 
in  three  acts,  which  would  live  by  the 
poetry,  at  the  same  time  that  it  would 
he  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  left  to  the  London  composer — Sto- 
race  for  Drnry  Lane,  or  Shield  for 
Co  vent  Garden :  both  of  them  very 
able  and  popular  musicians.  I  believe 
that  interest  and  nianceuvring  are  often 
necessary  to  have  a  drama  brought  on: 
so  At  may  be  with  the.  namby-pamby 
■tribe  of  flowery  scribblers;  but  were 
you  to  address  Mr.  Sheridan  himself 
by  letter,  and  send  him  a  dramatic 
piece,  I  am  persuaded  he  would,  for 
the  honour  of  genius,  give  it  a  fair  and 
candid  trial.  Excuse  me  for  obtruding 
these  hints  upon  your  consideration. 


No.  LIV. 
a.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Oct.  14, 1794. 
The  last  eight  days  have  been  de- 
voted to  the  re-esamination  of  the 
Scottish  collections.  I  have  read,  and 
sung,  and  fiddled,  and  considered,  till 
I  am  half  blind  and  wlioUy  stupid. 
The  few  airs  1  have  added  are  en- 
closed. 


_  Peter  Pindar,  has  at  length  sent  me 
all  the  songs  I  expected  from  him, 
which  are^  in  general,  elegant  and 
beautiful.  Have  you  heard  of  _  a 
London  collection  of  Scottish  airs 
and  songs  just  published,  by  Mr. 
■Ritson,  an  Englishman  ?  I  shall 
send  you  a  copy.  His  introductory 
essay  on  the  subject  is  curious,  and 
evinces  great  reading  and  research,  but 
does  not  decide  the  question  as  to  the 
origin  of  our  melodies;  though  he 
shows  clearly  that  Mr.  Tytler,  in  his 
ingenious  dissertation,  has  adduced  no 
sort  of  proof  of  the  hypothesis  he 
wished  to  establish ;  and  that  his  clas- 
sification of  the  airs  according  to  the 
eras  when  they  were  composed  is  mere 
fancy  and  conjecture.  On  John  Pink- 
erton,  Esq.,  he  has  no  mercy;  but  con- 
signs him  to  damnation !  He  snarls  at 
my  publication  on  the  score  of  Pindar 
being  engaged  to  write  songs  for  it, 
uncandidly  and  unjustly  leaving  it  to 
be  inferred  that  the  songs  of  Scottish 
writers  had  been  sent  a  packing  to 
make  room  for  Peter's.  Of  you  he 
speaks  with  some  respect,  but  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  Scot- 
tish airs  are  taken,  he  says,  from  the 
oldest  collections  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  coun- 
try, that  we  can  scarcely  recognise  the 
feiitures  of  our  favourites.  By  going 
to  the  oldest  collections  of  our  musics 
it  does  not  follow  that  we  find  the  melo- 
dies in  their  original  state.  These 
melodies  had  been  preserved,  we  know 
not  how  long,  by  oral  communication, 
before  being  collected  and  printed :  and, 
as  ilifferent  persons  sing  the  same  air 
very  differently,  according  to  their  ac- 
curate or  confused  recollection  of  it,  so, 
even  supposing  the  first  collectors  to 
have  possessed  the  industry,  the  taste, 
and  discernment  to  choose  the  best 
they  could  hear,  (jehich  is  far  from 
certain,)  still  it  must  evidently  be  a 
chance  whether  the  collections  exhibit 
any  of  the  melodies  in  the  state  they 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSOX. 


"Were  first  composed.  In  selecting  tlic 
melodies  for  my  own  collection,  X  have 
*beeu  as  much  guided  by  the  living  as 
Jjy  the  dead.  Where  these  differed,  I 
preferred  the  sets  that  appeared  to  inp 
the  most  simple  and  beautiful,  and  the 
most  generally  approved :  and  without 
meaning  any  compliment  to  my  own 
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  affected  graces  on  the  other. 

G.  T. 


IJo.  LV. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Oct.  19,  1794. 

My  dear  Friend — By  this  morn- 
ing's post  1  have  your  list,  and,  in  gen 
eral,  I  highly  approve  of  it.  1  shall, 
at  more  leisure,  give  you  a  critique  on 
the  wliole.  Clarke  goes  to  your  town 
by  to-day's  fly,  and  I  wish  you  would 
call  on  him  and  take  his  opinion  in 
■general:  you  loiowhis  taste  is  a  stand- 
ard. He  vpill  return  here  again  in  a 
week  or  two;  so,  please  do  not  miss 
asking  for  him.  One  thing  I  hope  he 
will  do,  persuade  you  to  adopt  my  fav- 
orite, "  Craigie-bum  Wood,"  in  your 
selection ;  it  is  as  great  a  favorite  of  his 
as  of  mine.  The  lady  on  whom  it  was 
made  is  one  of  the  finest  women  in 
Scotland;  and,  in  fact,  entre  notia,  is 
in  a  manner,  to  me,  what  Sterne's 
Eliza  was  to  him — a  mistress,  or  friend, 
or  what  you  will,  in  the  guileless  sim- 
plicity of  Platonic  love.  (Now  don't 
put  any  of  your  squinting  constructions 
on  this,  or  have  any  clishmaclaver 
about  it  among  our  acquaintances.)  I 
assure  you  that  to  my '  lovely  friend 
you  are  indebted  for  many  of  your  best 
songs  of  mine.  Do  you  think  that  the 
sober,  gin-horse  routine  of  existence 
could  inspire  a  man  with  life,  and 
love,  and  joy— could  fire  him  with  en- 
thusiasm, or  melt  him  with  pathos 
equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book  1 — 
No  !  no  I — Whenever  I  want  to  be 
more  than  ordinary  in  song;  to  be  in 
some  degree  equal  to  your  itiner  airs; 


do  you  imagine  I  fast  and  pray  for  the 
celestial  emanation?  Tout  au  contrai-' 
re !  I  have  a  glorious  recipe  ;  the 
very  one  that  for  his  own  use  was  in- 
vented by  the  divinity  of  healing  and 
poetry,  when  erst  he  piped  to  the 
flocks  of  Admetus.  I  put  myself  on  a 
regimen  of  admiring  a  fine  woimm  ; 
and  in  proportion  to  the  adorability'of 
her  charms,  in  proportion  you  arc  do- 
lighted  with  my  verses.  The  light- 
ning of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Par- 
nassus, and  the  witchery  of  her  smile 
the  divinity  of  Helicon  ! 

To  descend  to  business;  if  you  like 
my  idea  of  "  When  she  cam  ben  she 
bobbit,"  the  following  stanzas  of  mine, 
["  Saw  ye  my  Phely,"  p.  265],  altered 
a  little  from  whafthey  were  formerly, 
when  set  to  another  air,  may  perhaps 
do  instead  of  worse  stanzas. 

Now  for  a  few  miscellaneous  re- 
marks. "The  Posie "  (in  the  MUseurrt) 
is  my  composition  ;  the  air  was  taken 
down  from  Mrs.  IJurns'  voice;  It  i's 
well  known  in  the  west  country,  but 
the  old  words  are  trash.  By  the  by, 
take  a  look  at  th6  tune  agtin,  and  tell 
me  if  you  do  not  think  it  is  the  origirad. 
from  which  "Roslin  Castle"  is  com- 
posed. The  second  part,  in  particnlai', 
forthe  first  two  or  three  bars^  is  ex- 
actly the  old  air.  "  Stratlialla'n-'s  La" 
ment"  is  mine:  the  music  is  by  out 
right  trusty  and  deservedly  well-bd; 
loved  Allan  Masterton.  "  Donoclifr- 
Head"  is  not  mine:l  would  give  teil 
pounds  it  were.  It  appeared  "first  in 
the  Edinburgh  Herald;  and  came  to 
the  editor  of  that  paper  with  the  New- 
castle post-mark  on  it.*  "Whistle 
o'er  the  lave  o'f'is  mine:  the  musH; 
said  to  be  by  a  John  Bruce,  a  celebrated 
violin  player  in  Dumfries,  about  the 
beginning  of  this  century.  This  I 
know,  Bruce,  who  was  an  honest  man, 
though  a  red-wud  Hfghlandman,  con- 
stantly claimed  it ;  and  by  all  the  old 
musical  people  here,  is  believed  to  be 
the  author  of  it. 

"  Andrew  and  his  cutty  gun."    The 

*  "  Donochl-Head,."  which  the  poet  praises 
so  highly,  was  written  by  a  gentleman,  now 
dead,  of  the  name  of  Pickering,  who  lived  at 
Newcastle. 


648 


COERESPONDENCE  OP  BURlSfS 


song  to  wliich  this  is  set  in  the  Musmim 
is  mine,  and  was  composed  on  Miss 
Euphemia  Murray,  of  Lintrose,  com- 
monly and  deservedly  called  the 
Flower  of  Strathmore, 

"  How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night." 
I  met  with  some  such  words  m  a  col- 
lection 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  arranged  it  anew,  as 
you  will  find  on  the  other  page — [See 
"Ilowlang  and  dreary  is  the  night," 
p.  265.] 

Tell  me  how  you  like  this.  I  difEer 
from  your  idea  of  the  expression  of 
the  tune.  There  is,  to  me,  a  great 
deal  of  tenderness  iu  it.  Xou  cannot, 
in  my  opinion,  dispense  with  a  bass  to 
your  addenda  airs.  A  lady  of  uiy  ac- 
quaintance, a  noted  performer,  plays 
and  sings  at  the  same  time  so  charm- 
ingly that  I  shall  never  bear  to  see  any 
of  her  songs  sent  into  the  world,  as 
naked  as  Mr.  What  -  d'ye  -  call  -  um 
(Ritson)  has  done  in  his  London  col- 
lection. 

These  English  songs  gravel  me  to 
death.  I  have  not  that  command  of 
the  language  that  I  have  of  my  native 
tongue.  I  have  been  at  "  Duncan 
Oray,"  to  dress  it  iu  English,  but  all 
I  can  do  is  deplorably  stupid.  For 
instance — [See  "  Let  not  woman  e'er 
complain,"  p.  266.] 

Since  tlie  above,  I  have  been  out  in 
the  country  taking  a  dinner  with  a 
friend,  where  I  met  with  the  lady 
whom  I  mentioned  in  the  second  page 
of  this  odds-and-ends  of  a  letter.  As 
usual,  I  got  into  song;  and,  returning 
home  I  composed  the  following  — 
["  'The  Lover's  Morning  Salute  to  his 
Mistress,"  p.  264.] 

If  you  honour  my  verses  by  setting 
the  air  to  them,  I  will  vamp  up  the 
old  song,  and  make  it  English  enough 
to  be  understood. 

I  enclose  you  a  musical  curiosity,  an 
East  Indian  air,  which  you  would 
swear  was  a  Scottish  one.  I  know  the 
authenticity  of  it,  as  the  gentleman 
who  brought  it  over  is  a  particular 
acquaintance  of  mine.   Do  preserve  me 


the  copy  I  send  you,  as  it  is  the  only 
one  I  have.  Clarke  has  set  a  bass  to 
it,  and  I  intend  to  put  it  into  the 
Musical  Museum.  Here  follow  the 
verses  I  intend  for  it — 

THE  AULD  MAN. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day. 
Thro'  gentle  showers  the  laughing  flowers 

In  double  pride  were  gay  : 
But  now  our  joys  are  fled. 

On  winter  blasts  awa ! 
Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array, 

Again  shall  bring  them  a'. 
But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thowe 

Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age  ; 
Mjr  trunk  of  eild,  but  buss  or  beild. 

Sinks  in  time's  wintry  rage. 
Oh,  age  has  weary  days. 

And  nights  o'  .sleepless  pain  ! 
Thou  golden  time  o*  .youthfu'  prime,. 
Why  comest  thou  not  again  ! 

I  would  be  obliged  to  you  if  you 
would  procure  me  a  sight  of  Ritson's 
collection  of  English  songs,  which  you 
mention  in  your  letter.  I  will  thank 
you  for  another  information,  and  that 
as  speedily  as  you  please  —  whether 
this  miserable  drawling  hotch-potch 
epistle  has  not  completely  tired  you 
of  my  correspondence  ? 

R.  B. 


No.  LVI. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Oct  27,  1794. 
I  AM  sensible,  my  dear  friend,  that 
a  genuine  poet  can  no  more  exist  with- 
out his  mistress  than  his  meat.  I 
wish  I  knew  the  adorable  she,  whose 
bright  eyes  and  witching  smiles  have  so 
often  enraptured  the  Scottish  bard,  that 
I  might  drink  her  sweet  health  when 
the  toast  is  going  round.  "  Craigie- 
burn  Wood"  must  certainly  be  adopt- 
ed into  my  family,  since  she- is  the' ob- 
ject of  the  song;  but,  iu  the  name  of 
decency,  I  must  beg  a  new  chorus 
verse  from  you.  "  Oh  to  be  lying  be- 
yond thee,  dearie,"  is  perhaps,  a  con- 
summation to  be  wished,  but  will  not 
do  for  singing  in  the  company  of  ladies 
The  songs  in  your  last  will  do'  you 
lasting  credit,  and  suit  the  respective 
airs  chaAiingly.      I  am  perfectly  of 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


549- 


your  opinion  witli  respect  to  the  ad- 
ditional airs:  tlie  idea  of  sending  tliem 
into  the  world  naked  as  tliey  were 
born  was  ungenerous.  They  must  all 
he  clothed  and  made  decent  hy  our 
friend  Clarke. 

I  find  I  am  anticipated  by  the  friend- 
ly Cunningham  .  in  sending  you  Kit- 
son's  Scottish  Collection.  Permit  me, 
therefore,  to  present  you  with  his 
English  Collection,  which  you  will  re- 
ceive by  the  coach,  I  do  not  find  his 
historical  Essay  on  Scottish  song,  in- 
teresting. Your  anecdotes  and  mis- 
cellaneous remarks  will,  I  am  sure,  be 
much  more  so.  Allan  has  just  sketch- 
ed a  charming  design  from  "Maggie 
Lauder."  She  is  dancing  with -such 
spirit  as  to  electrify  the  piper,  who 
seems  almost  dancing  too,  while  he  is 
playing  with  the  most  exquisite  glee. 
I  am  much  inclined  to  get  a  small 
copy,  and  to  have  it  engraved  in  the 
style  of  Ritson's  prints. 

■jP.  8. — Pray  what  do  your  anecdotes 
say  concerning  "Maggie  Lauder?" 
Was  she  a  real  personage,  and  of  what 
rank?  You  would  surely  "spier  for 
her  if  you  ca'd  at  Anstruther  town." 

G.  T. 


No.  LVII. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Nov.  1794. 
Mastt  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  sir, 
for  your  present  :  it  is  a  book  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  me.  I  have 
yesterday  begun  my  anecdotes,  &c., 
for  your  work.  I  intend  drawing 
them  up  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  you, 
which  will  save  me  from  the  tedious 
dull  business  of  systematic  arrange- 
ment. Indeed,  as  all  I  have  to  say 
consists  in  unconnected  remarks,  anec- 
dotes, scraps  of  old  songs,  &c.,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  give  the  work 
a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end, 
which  the  critics  insist  to  be  absolute- 
ly necessary  in  a  work.  In  my  last  I 
told  you  my  objections  to  the  song  you 
had  selected  for  "  My  lodging  is  on  the 
cold  ground."  On  my  visit,  the  other 
j^y,  to  my  fair  Chloris  (that  is  the 


poetic  name  of  the  lovely  godaess  of 
my  inspiration),  she  suggested  an  idea, 
which  I,  on  my  return  from  the  visit, 
wrought  into  the  following  song  — 
["  Chloris,"  p.  264.] 

How  do  you  like  the  simplicity  and 
tenderness  of  this  pastoral? — I  think  it 
pretty  well. 

I  like  you  for  entering  so  candidly 
and  so  kindly  into  the  story  of  ma 
chere  amie.  I  assure  you  I  was  never 
more  in  earnest  in  my  life  than  in  the 
account  of  that  affair  which  I  sent  you 
in  my  last.  Conjugal  love  is  a  passion' 
which  I  deeply  feel,  and  highly  ven- 
erate ;  but  somehow  it  does  not  make 
such  a  figure  in  poesy  as  that  other 
species  of  the  passion, 

"  Where  Love  is  liberty,  and  Nature  law." 
Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  in- 
strument of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty 
and  confined,  but  the  tones  inexpressi- 
bly sweet  ;  while  the  last  has  powers 
equal  to  all  the  intellectual  modulations 
of  the  human  soul.  Still,  I  am  a  very, 
poet  in  my  enthusiasm  of  the  passion. 
The  welfare  and  happiness  of  the  belov- 
ed object  is  the  first  and  inviolate  senti- 
ment that  pervades  my  soul;  and  what- 
ever pleasure  I  might  wish  for,  or 
whatever  might  be  the  raptures  they 
would  give  me,  yet,  if  they  interfere 
with  that  first  principle,  it  is  having 
these  pleasures  at  a  dishonest  price; 
and  justice  forbids,  and  generosity  dis- 
dains the  purchase. 

Despairing  of  my  own  powers  to 
give  you  variety  enough  in  English 
songs,  I  have  been  tum'.ug  over  old 
collections,  to  pick  out  songs,  of, 
which  the  measure  is  something  simi- 
lar to  what  I  want;  and,  with  a  little, 
alteration,  so  as  to  suit  the  rhythm  of 
the  air  exactly,  to  give  you  them  for 
your  work.  Where  the  songs  have 
hitherto  been  but  little  noticed,  nor 
have  ever  been  set  to  music,  I  think 
the  shift  a  fair  one.  A  song,  which, 
under  the  same  first  verse,  you  will 
find  in  Ramsay's  "Tea-table  Miscel- 
lany," I  have  cut  down  for  aai  English 
dress  to  your  "  Daintie  Davie,"  as  fol- 
lows—[See  "The  charming  month  of 
May, "  p.  266.] 
You  may  think  meanly  of  this,  but 


550' 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


take  a  look  at  the  bombast  original, 
and  yoa  will  be  surprised  tliat  I  have 
made- so  much  of  it.  I  have  finished 
my  song  to  "  Rotliemurclie's  Rant;" 
and  you  have  Clarke  to  consult,  as  to 
the  set  of .  the  air  for  singing — ["  Las- 
sie wi'  the  lint-white  locks,"  p.  S66.] 

This  piece  has  at  least  the  merit  of 
being  a  regular  pastoral:  the  vernal 
morn,  the  summer  noon,  the  autumnal 
evening,  and  the  winter  night,  are 
regularly  rounded.  If  you  like  it, 
well:  if  not,  I  will  insert  it  in  the  Mu- 
seum. R.  B. 


No.  LVIII. 
BURNS  TO  a.  THOMSON. 

I  AM  out  of  temper  that  you  should 
set  so  sweet,  so  tender  an  air  as  "  Deil 
tak  the  Wars,"  to  the  foolish  old 
verses.  You  talk  of  the  silliness  of 
"  Saw  ye  my  father;"  by  heavens, 
the  odds  is  gold  to  brass  !  Besides  the 
old  song,  though  now  pretty  well  mod- 
ernised into  the  Scottish  language,  is 
originally,  and  in  the  early  editions,  a 
bungling  low  imitation  of  the  Scottish 
manner,  by  that  genius,  Tom  D'Urfey; 
so  has  no  pretensions  to  be  a  Scottish 
production.  There  is  a  pretty  English 
song,  by  Sheridan,  in  the  "  Duenna," 
to  this  air,  which  is  out  of  sight  supe-' 
rior  to  D'Urfey's.  It  begins — 
"  When  sable  night  each  drooping  plant 
restoring." 

The  air,  if  I  understand  the  expression 
of  it  properly,  is  the  very  native  lan- 
guage   of    simplicity,   tenderness, 
and  love. 

Now  for  my  English  song  to  "  Nan-- 
cy's  to  the  Greenwood,"  &c. — [See 
"Farewell,  thou  stream,"  p.  367.] 

There  is  an  air,  "  The  Caledonian 
Hunt's  Delight,"  to  'which  I  wrote  a 
song  that  you  will  find  in  Johnston, — 
"  Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon;" 
this  air,  I  think,  might  find  a  place 
aniong  your  hundred,  as. Lear  says  of 
his  nights.  Do  you  know  the  history 
of  the  air  ?  It  is  curious  enough.  A 
good  many  years  ago,  Mr.  James  Mil- 
ler, writer  in  your  good  town, — a  gen- 
tleman whom  possibly,  you  know, — 
was    in    company    with    pur    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  correc- 
tions, fashioned  into  the  tune  in  ques- 
tion. Ritson,  you  know,  has  the  same 
story  of  the  black  keys;  but  this  ac- 
count which  I  have  just  given  you, 
Mr.  Clarke,  informed  me  of  several 
years  ago.  Now,  to  sliow  you  how 
difficult  it  is  to  trace  the  origin  of  our 
airs,  I  have  heard  it  repeatedly  asserted 
that  this  was  an  Irish  air; — nay,  I  met 
with  an  Irish  gentleman  who  affirmed 
he  had  heard  it  in  Ireland  among  the 
old  women;  while,  on  the  other  "hand, 
a  countess  informed  me  that  the  first 
person  who  introduced  the  air  into 
this  country  was  a  baronet's  lady  of 
her  acquaintance,  who  took  down  the 
notes  from  an  itinerant  piper  in  the 
Isle  of  Man.  How  difficult  then  to  as- 
certain the  truth  respecting  our  poesy 
and  music  1  I,  myself,  have  lately 
seen  a  couple  of  ballads  sung  through 
the  streets  of  Dumfries,  with  my  name 
at  the  head  of  them  as  the  author, 
though  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
seen  them. 

I  thank  you  for  admitting  "  Craigie- 
burn  Wood,"  and  I  shall  take  care  to 
furnish  you  with  a  new  chorus.  In 
fact,  the  chorus  was  not  ray  work,  but 
a  part  of  some  old  verses  to  the  air.  If 
I  can  catch  myself  in  a  move  than  ordi- 
nary propitious  moment,  I  shall  write 
anew  "  Craigie-burn  Wood"  alto-, 
gcther.  My  heart  is  much  in  the 
theme. 

I  am  ashamed,  my  dear  fellow,  to 
make  the  request;  'tis  dunning  your 
generosity;  but  in  a  moment  when  I 
had  forgotten  whether  I  was  rich  or 
poor,  I  promised  Chloris  a  copy  of 
your  songs.  It  wrings  my  honest- 
pride  to  write  you  this; but  an  ungra- 
cious request  is  doubly  so  by  a  tedious 
apology.     To  make  you  some  amends^ 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSOJf. 


651. 


as  soon  as  I  have  extracted  the  neces- 
sary information  out  of  them,  I  will 
return  you  Ritson's  volumes. 

The  lady  is  not  a  little  proud  that 
she  is  to  make  so  distinguished  a  fig- 
ure in  your  collection,  and  I  am  not  a 
little  proud  that  I  have  it  in  my  power 
to  please  her  so  much.  Lucky  it  is 
for  your  patience  that  my  paper  is 
done,  for  when  I  am  in  a  scribbling 
humour,  I  know  not  when  to  give 
over.  li.  B. 


No.   LIX. 
G.   THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Nov.  IS,  1754. 

My  GOOD  Sir,  —  Since  receiving 
your  last,  I  have  had  another  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Clarke  and  a  long 
consultation.  He  thinks  the  "  Cale- 
donian Hunt"  is  more  Bacchanalian 
than  amdrous  in  its  nature,  and  recom- 
mends it  to  you  to  match  the  air  ac- 
cordingly. Pray,  did  it  ever  occur  to 
you  how  peculiarly  well  the  Scottish 
airs  are  adapted  for  verses  in  the  form 
of  a  dialogue  ?  The  first  part  of  the 
air  is  generally  low,  and  suited  for  a 
man's  voice,  and  the  second  part,  in 
many  instances,  cannot  be  sung  at  con- 
cert pitch,  but  by  a  female  voice.  A 
song,  thus  performed,  makes  an  agree- 
able variety,  but  few  of  ours  are  writ- 
ten in  this  form :  I  wish  you  would 
think  of  it  in  some  of  those  that  re- 
main. The  only  one  of  the  kind  you 
have  sent  me  is  admirable,  and  will  be 
a  universal  favourite. 

Your  verses  for  "  Rothemurche " 
are  so  sweetly  pastoral,  and  your  sere- 
nade to  Chloris,  for  "Deil  tak  the 
Wars,"  so  passionately  tender,  that  I 
have  sung  myself  into  raptures  with 
them.  Your  song  for  "  My  lodging  is 
on  the  cold  ground,"  is  likewise  a  dia- 
mond of  the  first  water ;  I  am  quite 
dazzled  and  delighted  with  it.  Some 
of  your  Chlorises,  I  suppose,  have 
flaxen  hair,  from  your  partiality  for 
this  colour  ;  else  we  differ  about  it ; 
for  I  should  scarcely  conceive  a  woman 
to  be  a  beauty,  and  reading  that  she 
had  lint-white  looks  I    .  


_    "Farewell,  thou  stream  that-wind-^ 
mg  flows,"  I  think  excellent,  but  it  is 
much  too  serious  to  come  after  "Nan- 
cy :"  at  least  it  would  seem  an  incon- 
gruity to  provide  the  same  air  with' 
merry  Scottish,  and  melancholy  Eng-; 
lish,  verses  !  The  more  that  the  two  sets ; 
of  verses  resemble  each  other  in  their 
general  character  the  better.     Those- 
you  have  manufactured  for  "Dainty 
Davie  "   will  answer  charmingly.      I 
am  happy  to  find  you  have  begun  your 
anecdotes.     I  care  not  how  long  they 
be,  for  it  is  impossible  that  anything 
from  your  pen  can  be  tedious.     Let  me 
beseech  you   not  to  use  ceremony  in 
telling  me  when  you  wish  to  present 
any  of  your  friends  with  the,  songs  : 
the  next  carrier  will  bring  you  three 
copies,   and  you  are  as   welcome    to 
twenty  as  to  a  pinch  of  snufE. 


No.  LX. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Nov,  19,  1794. 
Yon  see,  my  dear  sir,  what  a  punc-' 
tual  correspondent  I  am  ;  though  in- 
deed you  may  thank  yourself  for  the' 
tedium  of  my  letters,  as  you  have  so 
flattered  me  on  my  horsemanship 
with  my  favourite  hobby,  and  have 
praised  the  grace  of  his  ambliiig  so 
much,  that  I  am  scarcely  ever  off  his 
back.  For  instance,  this  morning, 
though  a  keen  blowing  frost,  in  my 
walk  before  breakfast,  I  finished  my 
duet,  which  you  were  pleased  to  praise 
so  much.  Whether  I  have  uniformly 
succeeded,  I  will  not  say  ;  buf  here  it 
is  for  you,  though  it  is  not  g.n  hour 
old — [See  "O  Philly,  happy  be  that 
day,"  p.  367.] 

Tell  me,  honestly,  how  you  like  it; 
and  point  out  whatever  you  think 
faulty. 

I  am  mueli  pleased  with  your  idea  of 
singing  our  songs  in  alternate  stanzas, 
and  regret  that  you  did  not  hint  it  to 
me  sooner.  In  those  that  remain  I 
shall  have  it  in  my  eye.  I  remem- 
ber your  objections  to  the  name, 
Pliilly ;  but  it  is  the  common  abbre- 
viation of   Philljs.     Sally,   the    only 


GoS 


COERESPOKDENCE  OP  BURNS 


other  name  tliat  suits,  has,  to  my  ear, 
a  vulgarity  about  it,  wliicli  unfits  it 
for  anything  except  burlesque.  The 
legion  of  Scottish  poetasters  of  tlie  day, 
whom  your  brother  editor,  Mr.  Ritson, 
ranl^  with  me,  as  my  coevals,  have 
always  mistaken  vulgarity  for  simpli- 
city: whereas,  simplicity  is  as  much 
Uoignee  from  vulgarity,  on  the  one 
hand,  as  from  affected  point  and  pue- 
rile conceit  on  the  other. 

I  agree  with  you,  as  to  the  air 
"  Craigie-burn  Wood,"  that  a  chorus 
would,  in  some  degree,  spoil  the  effect ; 
and  shall  certainly  have  none  in  my 
projected  song  to  it.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, a  case  in  point  with  "Rothe- 
murche;"  there,  as  in  "Roy's  Wife 
of  Aldivalloch,"  a  chorus  goes,  to  my 
taste,  well  enough.  As  to  the  chorus 
going  first,  that  is  the  case  with  '  'Roy's 
Wife"  as  well  as  ' '  Rothemurche. " 
In  fact,  in  the  first  part  of  both  tunes, 
the  rhythm  is  so  peculiar  and  irregu- 
lar, and  on  that  irregularity  depends 
so  much  of  their  beauty,  that  we  must 
e'en  take  them  with  all  their  wildness, 
and  humour  the  verse  accordingly. 
Leaving  out  the  starting-note  in  both 
tunes  has,  I  think,  an  effect  that  no 
regularity  could  counterbalance  the 
want  of. 

q.  (  O  Rcy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch. 

^       \  O Lassie  v/V  the  lint-white  locks, 
and 
compare  j  J^oy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch. 
with      1  Lassie  wV  the  lint-white  locks. 

Does  not  the  tameness  of  the  prefixed 
syllable  strike  you  ?  In  the  last  case, 
with  the  true  furor  of  genius,  you 
strike  at  once  into  the  wild  originality 
of  the  air;  whereas,  in  the  first  insipid 
method,  it  is  like  the  grating  screw  of 
the  pins  before  the  fiddle  is  brought 
into  tune.  This  is  my  taste;  if  I  am 
wrong,  I  beg  pardon  of  the  cognos- 
centi. 

"The  Caledonian  Hunt"  is  so 
charming  that  it  would  make  any  sub- 
ject in  a  song  go  down;  but  pathos  is 
certainly  its  native  tongue.  Scottish 
Bacchanalians  we  certainly  want, 
though  the  few  we  have  are  excellent. 
For  instance,  "  Todlin'  Hame"  is,  for 
wit  and  humour,  an  unparalleled  com- 


position; and  "Andrew  and  his  €utty> 
Gun"  is  the  work  of  a  master.  By  the 
way,  are  you  not  quite  vexed  to  think- 
that  those  men  of  genius,  for  such 
they  certainly  were,  who  composed 
our  fine  Scottish  lyrics,  should  be  un- 
known? It  has  given  me  many  a 
heart-ache.  Apropos  to  Bacchanalian 
songs  in  Scottish,  I  composed  one  yes- 
terday, for  an  air  I  like  much — 
"  Lumps  o'  pudding."  [See  "  Con- 
tented wi'  Little,"  p.  368.J 

If  you  do  not  relish  the  air,  I  will 
send  it  to  Johnson. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXL 
BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Since  yesterday's  penmanship,  I 
have  framed  a  couple  of  Ejlglish  stan- 
zas, by  way  of  an  English  song  to 
"Roy's  Wife."  You  will  allow  me 
that,  in  this  instance,  my  English  cor- 
responds in  sentiment  with  the  Scot- 
tish. [See  ' '  Canst  thou  leave  me 
thus,  my  Katy?"  p.  268.] 

Well  !  I  think  this,  to  be  done  in 
two  or  three  turns  across  my  room, 
and  with  two  or  three  pinches  of  Irish 
black-guard,  is  not  so  far  amiss.  You 
see  I  am  determined  to  liave  my  quan- 
tum of  applause  from  somebody. 

Tell  my  friend  Allan  (for  I  am  sure 
that  we  only  want  the  trifling  circum- 
stance of  being  known  to  one  another 
to  be  the  best  friends  on  earth)  that  I 
much  suspect  he  has,  in  his  plates, 
mistaken  the  figure  of  the  stock  and 
horn.  I  have  at  last  gotten  one;  but 
it  is  a  very  rude  instrument:  it  is  com- 
posed of  three  parts;  the  stock,  which 
is  the  hinder  thigh-bone  of  a  sheep, 
such  as  you  see  in  a  mutton-ham; 
the  horn,  which  is  a  common  Highland 
cow's  horn,  cut  off  at  the  smaller  end, 
until  the  aperture  be  large  enough  to 
admit  the  stock  to  be  pushed  up 
through  the  horn,  until  it  be  held  by 
the  thicker  end  of  the  thigh-bone;  and 
lastly,  ail  oaten  reed,  exactly  cut  and 
notched  like  that  which  you  see  every 
shepherd  boy  have,  when  the  corn 
stems  are  green  and  full-grown.     The 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


ssa 


reed  is  not  made  fast  in  tlie  bone,  but 
is  held  by  tlie  lips,  and  plays  loose  in 
the  smaller  end  of  the  stock;  while  the 
stock,  with  the  horn  hanging  on  its 
larger  end,  is  held  by  the  hands  in 
playing.  The  stock  has  six  or  seven 
ventiges  on  the  upper  side,  anri  one 
back  ventige,  lilie  the  comnlon  flute. 
This  of  mine  was  made  by  a  man  from 
the  braes  of  Athole,  and  is  exactly 
what  .the  shejjherds  were  wont  to  use 
in  that  country. 

However,  either  it  is  not  quite  prop- 
erly bored  in  the  holes,  or  else  we 
have  not  the  art  of  blowing  it  rightly; 
for  we  can  make  little  of  it.  If  Mr. 
Allan  chooses,  I  will  send  him  a  sight 
of  mine;  as  I  look  on  myself  to  be  a 
kind  of  brother-brush  with  him. 
"Pride  in  poets  is  nae  sin,"  and,  I 
will  say  it,  that  1  look  on  Mr.  Allan 
and  Mr.  Burns  to  be  the  only  genuine 
and  real  painters  of  Scottish  costume 
in  the  world. 


No.  LXII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Nov.  29. 1794. 
I  ACKNOWLEDGE,  my  dear  sir,  you 
are  not  only  the  most  punctual,  but  the 
most  delectable  correspondent  I  ever 
met  with.  To  attempt  flattering  you 
never  entered  my  head;  the  truth  is,  I 
look  back  with  surprise  at  my  impu- 
dence, in  so  frequently  nibbling  at 
lines  and  couplets  of  your  incom- 
parable lyrics,  for  which,  perhaps,  if 
you  had  served  me  right,  you  would 
have  sent  me  to  the  devil.  On  the 
contrary,  however,  you  have,  all  along, 
condescended  to  invite  my  criticism 
with  so  much  courtesy  that  it  ceases 
to  be  wonderful  if  I  have  sometimes 
given  myself  the  airs  of  a  reviewer. 
Your  last  budget  demands  unqualified 
praise;  all  the  songs  are  charming, 
but  the  duet  is  a  ehef-d'oiuvre. 
"Lumps  of  pudding"  shall  certain- 
ly make  one  of  my  family  dishes: 
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  good  spirits;  these  conviv- 
ial 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  efEect  to  the  latter, 
while  the  former  are  easily  sung,  and  • 
acceptable  to  everybody.  I  participatfti 
in  your  regret  that  the  authors  of 
some  of  our  best  songs  are  unknown: 
it  is  provoking  to  every  admirer  of  ge- 
nius. 

I  mean  to  have  a  picture  painted 
from  your  beautiful  ballad,  "  The 
Soldier's  Return,"  to  be  engraved  for. 
one  of  my  frontispieces.  The  most  in- 
teresting point  of  time  appears  to  me, 
when  she  recognises  her  ain  dear 
Willy,  ' '  She  gazed,  she  reddened  like 
a  rose. "  The  three  lines  immediately, 
following  are,  no  doubt,  more  impree-; 
sive  on  the  reader's  feelings;  but  were 
the  painter  to  fix  on  these,  then  you'll 
observe  the  animation  and  anxiety  of 
her  countenance  is  gone,  and  ]?e  could 
only  represent  her  fainting  in  the  sol- 
dier's- arms.  But  I  submit  the  matter 
to  you,  and  beg  your  opinion. 

Allan  desires  me  to  thank  you  for 
your  accurate  description  of  the  stock 
and  horn,  and  for  the  very  gratifying 
compliment  you  pay  him,  in  consider- 
ing him  worthy  of  standing  in  a  niche, 
by  the  side  of  Burns,  in  the  Scottish 
Pantheon.  He  has  seen  the  rude  in- 
strument you  describe,  so  does  not 
want  you  to  send  it;  but  .wishes  to 
know  whether  you  believe  it  to  have 
ever  been  generally  used  as  a  musical 
J)ipe  by  the  .  Scottish  shepherds,  and 
when,  and  in  what  part  of  the  country, 
chiefly.  I  doubt  miich  if  it  was  ca- 
pable of  anything  but  routing  and 
roaring.  A  friend  of  mine  says,  he 
remembers  to  have  heard  one  in  his. 
younger  days  (made  of  wood  instead  of 
your  bone),  and  that  the  sound  was 
abominable. 

Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  return  any 
books.  G-  T. 


No.  Lxni. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Dec.  1794.    , 

It  is,  I  assure  you,  the  pride  of  my 

heart  to  do  anything  to  forward,  or  add 


§54' 


CORRESPONDENCE  OF  BURNS 


to  the  value  of,  your  book;  aud,  as  I 
agree  with  you  that  the  Jacobite  song 
in  the  Museum,  to  "  There'll  never  be 
peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,"  would 
not  so  well  consort  with  Peter  Pindar's 
excellent  love  song  to  that  air,  I  have 
just  framed  for  you  the  following — 
["My  Nannie's  awa,"  p.  333.] 
■  How  does  this  please  you  ? — As  to 
the  point  of  time  for  the  expression, 
in  your  proposed  print  from  my  "  Sod- 
ger's  Return,"  it  must  certainly  be 
at — "  She  gazed."  The  Interesting 
dubiety  and  suspense  talcing  posses- 
sion of  her  countenance,  and  the  gush- 
ing fondness,  with  a  mixture  of 
roguish  playfulness  in  his,  strike  me 
as  things  of  wliich  a  master  will  make 
a  great  deal. — In  great  haste,  but  in 
great  truth,  yours,  R.  B. 


No.  LXIV. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Jan.  1795. 

I  FEAK  for  my  songs,  however,  a 
few  may  please,  yet  originality  is  a  coy 
feature  in  composition,  and  in  a  multi- 
plicity of  efforts  ill  the  same  style, 
disappears  altogether.  For  these 
three  thousand  years,  we  poetic  folks 
have  been  describing  the  spring,  for 
instance;  and,  as  tlie  spring  continues 
the  same,  there  must  soon  be  a  same- 
ness in  the  imagery,  &c. ,  of  these  said 
rhyming  folks. 

A  great  critic  (Aikin)  on  songs  says 
that  love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive 
themes  for  song-writing.  The  follow- 
ing is  on  neither  subject,  and  conse- 
quently is  no  song:  but  will  be  allow- 
ed, I  think,  to  be  two  or  three  pretty 
good  prose  thoughts,  inverted  into 
rhyme — [See  '■  Is  there  for  honest  pov- 
erty," p.  278.] 

I  do  not  give  you  the  foregoing  song, 
for  your  book,  but  merely  by  way  of 
vive  la  bagatelle,-  for  the  piece  is  not 
really  poetry.  How  will  the  following 
do  for  '  Craigie-burn  Wood?"  [See 
"  Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craarie-burn," 
p.  235.] 

Farewell  !     God  bless  you. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXV. 

G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  Jan.  30,  1795.  ' 
My  dear  Sik, — I  thank  you  hearti-' 
ly  fot  "  Nannie's  awa,"  as  well  as  for 
"  Cragie,burn,"  which  I  think  a  very  ■ 
comely  pair.        Your  observation   on 
the  difficulty  of  original  writing  in  a, 
number  of  efEorts,  in  the  same  style, 
strikes  me  very  forcibly;    and  it  has  ■ 
again  and  again  excited  my  wonder  to 
find  you  continually  surmountiiig  this 
difficulty,    in    the    many     delightful 
songs  you  have  sent  me.     Your  lyive  la 
bagatelle  song,  "  For  a'  that,"  shall  un- 
doubtedly be  included  in  my  list. 

G.  T. 


No.  LXVI. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Feb.  179s. 
Herb  is  another  trial  at  your  favour- 
ite air.       [See   "  O  Lassie,  art  thou 
sleeping  yet  V"  p.  279.] 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  will  do. 
R.  B. 


No.  LXVII. 
BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

EcCLEFECHAN,  Feb.  7,  1795. 

Mt  dear  Thomson, —  You  cannot 
have  any  idea  of  the  predicament  in 
which  I  write  to  you.  In  the  course 
of  my  duty  as  supervisor,  (in  which 
capacity  I  have  acted  of  late,)  I  came 
yesternight  to  this  unfortunate, 
wicked,  little  village.*  I  have  gone 
forward,  but  snows,  of  ten  feet 
deep,  have  impeded  my  progress: - 
I  have  tried  to  "  gae  back  the  gate 
I  cam  again,"  but  the  same  obstacle 
has  shut  me  up  within  insuperable] 
bars.  To  add  to  my  misfortune, 
since  dinner,  a  scraper  has  been  tor- 


*  Ecclefechan  is  a  little  thriving  village  in 
Annandale.  The  poet  paid  it  many  a  visit 
friendly  and  official  and  even  brought  its 
almost  unpronounceable  name  into  a  couple 
of  songSi — Cunningham.  . 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


555i 


turing  catgut,  in  sounds  tliat  would 
have  insulted  the  dying  agonies  of 
a  sow  under  the  hands  of  a  butcher, 
and  thinks  himself,  on  that  very 
account,  exceeding  good  company.  In 
fact,  I  have  been  in  a  dilemma,  either  to 
get  drunk,  to  forget  these  miseries;  or 
to  hang  myself,  to  get  rid  of  them: 
like  a  prudent  man,  (a  character  con- 
genial to  my  every  thought,  word,  and 
deed,)  I,  of  two  evils,  have  chosen  the 
least,  and  am  very  drunk,  at  your  ser- 
vice ! 

I  wrote  you  yesterday  from  Dum- 
fries. I  had  not  time  then  to  tell  you. 
all  I  wanted  to  say;  and.  Heaven 
knows,  at  present!  have  not  capacity. 

Do  you  know  an  air — I  am  sure  you 
must  know  it — ' '  We'll  gang  nae  mair 
to  yon  town?"  I  think,  in  slowish 
time,  it  would  make  an  excellent  song. 
I  am  highly  delighted  with  it;  and  if 
you  should  think  it  worthy  of  your  at- 
tention, I  have  a  fair  dame  in  my  eye, 
to  whom  1  would  consecrate  it. 

As  I  am  just  going  to  bed,  I  wish 
you  a  good   night.  R.  B. 


No.  LXVUI. 

G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Feb.  25,  T795. 

I  HATE  to  thank  you,  my  dear  sir, 
for  two  epistles,  one  containing  "Let 
me  in  this  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  he  arrested 
some  days  at  Ecclefechan,  and  be 
obliged  to  beguile  the  tedious  fore- 
noons by  song-making.  It  will  give 
me  pleasure  to  receive  the  verses  you 
intend  for  "O  wat  ye  wha's  in  yon 
town. " 

G.  T. 


No.  LXIX. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

May  1795. 

Let  me  know,  your  very  first 
leisure,  how  you  like  this  song  ["Ad- 
dress to  the  Woodlark,"  p.  283.] 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing? 
["On  Chloris  being  ill,"  p.  283.]'  The 
Jjrish  air,  "Humours  of  Glen,"  is  a. 
great  favourite  of  mine,  and  as,  except  ■ 
the  silly  stuff  in  the  "Poor  soldier," 
there  are  not  any  decent  verses  for  it, 
I  have  written  for  it  as  follows — [See 
the  song  entitled,  "  Caledonia,"  p.  284, 
and  "  "i'was  na  her  bonnie  blue  ee,"  p. 
285,  which  accompanied  the  thred  for- 
mer.] 

Let  me  hear  from  you.  R.  B. 


No.  LXX. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

You  must  not  think,  my  good  sir, 
that  I  have  any  intention  to  enhance 
the  value  of  my  gift,  when  I  say,  in 
justice  to  the  ingenious  and  worthy 
artist,  that  the  design  and  execution  of 
the  "  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  "  is,  in 
my  opinion,  one  of  the  happiest  pro- 
ductions of  Allan's  pencil.  I  shall  be. 
grievously  disappointed  if  you  are  not 
quite  pleased  with  it. 

The  figure  intended  for  your  por- 
trait I  think  strikingly  like  you,  as 
far  as  I  can  remember  your  phiz.  This 
should  make  the  piece  interesting  to 
your  family  every  way.  .  Tell  me 
whether  Mrs.  Burns  finds  you  out 
among  the  figures.    ' 

I  cannot  express  the  feeling  of  ad- 
miration with  which  I  have  read  your 
pathetic  "Address  to  the  Wood-lark," 
your  elegant  panegyric  on  "Caledo- 
nia," and  your  affecting  verses  on 
"  Chloris'  illness."  Every  repeated 
perusal  of  these  gives  new  delight. 
The  other  song,  to  "Laddie,  lie  near 
me,"  though  not  equal  to  these,  is 
very  pleasing. 


5o6 


COERESPONDENCE  OF  BtTRNS 


No.  LXXI. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Well  !  this  is  not  amiss.  You  see 
how  I  answer  your  orders.  [The  poet 
liad  enclosed  the  two  songs,  "How 
cruel  are  thy  parents,"  p.  385,  and 
"Mark  yonder  Pomp,"  p.  284.]  Your 
tailorcould  not  be  more  punctual.  I 
am  just  now  in  a  high  fit  for  poetising, 
provided  that  the  strait-jacket  of  crit- 
icism 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  servant's 
phrenzy  to  any  height  you  want.  I 
am  at  this  moment  "holding  high 
converse"  with  the  Muses,  and  have 
not  a  word  to  throw  away  on  such  a 
prosaic  dog  as  you  are. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXII. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

May  1795. 

Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your 
elegant  present;  though  lam  ashamed 
of  the  value  of  it,  being  bestowed  on 
a  man  who  has  not  by  any  means 
merited  such  an  instance  of  kindness. 
I  have  shown  it  to  two  or  three  judges 
of  the  first  abilities  here,  and  they  all 
agree  with  me  in  classing  it  as  a  first- 
rate  production.  My  phiz  is  sae  ken- 
speckle  that  the  very  joiner's  appren- 
tice 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  muse  so  much 
with  his  masterly  pencil.  One  strange 
coincidence  is,  that  the  little  one  who 
is  making  the  felonious  attempt  on  the 
cat's  tail,  is  the  most  striking  likeness 
of  an  ill-deedie,  damn'd  wee,  rumble- 
gairie  urchin  of  mine,  whom,  from  that 
propensity  to  witty  wickedness  and 
manfu'  mischief,  which,  even  at  twa 
days'  auld,  I  foresaw  would  form  the 
striking  features  of  his  disposition,  I 


named  Willie  Nicol,  after  a  certain 
friend  of  mine  who  is  one  of  the 
masters  of  a  grammar  school  in  a  city 
which  shall  be  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  military  and  literary  char- 
acter. Colonel  Dirom. 

You  do  not  tell  me  how  you  liked 
my  two  last  songs.  Are  they  condemn- 
ed? 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXIII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

May  13, 1795. 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  find 
that  you  are  all  so  well  satisfied  with 
Mr.  Allan's  production.  The  chance 
resemblance  of  your  little  fellow, 
whose  promising  disposition  appeared 
so  very  early,  and  suggested  whom  he 
should  be  named  after,  is  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  j-ou  have  not  merited  the 
drawing  from  me.  I  do  not  think  I 
can  ever  repay  you,  or  sufficiently  es- 
teem and  respect  you,  for  the  liberal 
and  kind  manner  in  which  you  have 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  my  under- 
taking, which  could  not  have  been 
perfected  without  you.  So  I  beg  you 
would  not  make  a  fool  of  me  again,  by 
speaking  of  obligation. 

I  like  your  two  last  songs  very  much,. 

and  am  happy  to  find  you  are  in  such 

a  liigh  fit  of  poetising.     Long  may  it 

last !     Clarke  has  made  a  fine  pathetic 

air  to  Mallet's  superlative  ballad   of 

"  William  and  Margaret,"  and  is  to 

give  it  to  me,  to  be  enrolled  among 
4.1.  „  .,1 — 4.  ° 


the  elect. 


G.  T. 


"WITH  GEORGE  TH0M30K 


5S7 


■         ■»  No.  LXXIV. 

BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

In  "  Whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye, 
my  lad,"  the  iteration  of  that  line  is 
tiresome  to  my  ear.  Here  goes  what  I 
think  is  an  improvement : — 

O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad, 

O  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 

Though  father,  and  mother,  and  a'  should  eae 

•  ,  mad. 

Thy  Jeaaie  will  venture  wi'  ye,  my  lad. 

In  fact,  a  fair  dame,  at  whose  shrine 
J,  the  Priest  of  the  Nine,  offer  up  the 
incense  of  Parnassus;  a  dame  whom 
the  Graces  have  attired  in  witchcraft, 
and  whom  the  Loves  have  armed  with 
lightning;  a  fair  one,  herself  the  hero- 
ine of  the  song,  insists  on  the  amend- 
ment, and  dispute  her  commands  if 
you  dare  !  [See  the  song  entitled, 
"This  is  no  my  ain  lassie,"  p.  286 
which  the  poet  enclosed.] 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  roused 
the  torpidity  of  Clarke  at  last?  He 
has  requested  me  to  write  three  or  four 
songs  for  him,  which  he  is  to  set  to 
music  himself.  The  enclosed  sheet 
contains  two  songs  for  him,  which 
please  to  present  to  my  valued  friend, 
Cunningham. 

I  enclose  the  sheet  opan,  both  for 
your  inspection,  and  that  you  may 
copy  the  song  ' '  Oh,  bonny  was  yon 
rosy  brier."  I  do  not  know  whether  I 
am  right;  but  that  song  pleases  me, 
and,  as  it  is  extremely  probable  that 
Clarke's  newly-roused  celestial  spark 
will  be  soon  smothered  in  the  fogs  of 
indolence,  if  you  lilce  the  song,  it  may 
go  as  Scottish  verses  to  the  air  of  "I 
wish  my  love  was  in  a  mire;"  and 
poor  Erskine's  English  lines  may 
follow. 

R.  B. 


No.  LXXV. 

G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

Edinburgh,  August  3, 1795. 

My  dear  Sir, — This  will  be  de- 
livered to  you  by  a  Dr.  Brianton,  who 
has  read  your  works,  and  pants  for  the 
honour  of   your  acquaintance.     I  do 


not    know   the    gentleman;     but    his 
friend,   who  applied  to  me  for  this 
introduction,  being  an  excellent  young . 
man,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  worthy  of 
all  acceptation. 

My  eyes  have  just  been  gladdened, 
and  my  mind  feasted,  with  your  last 
packet — full  of  pleasant  things  indeed. 
What  an  imagination  is  yours !  it 
is  superfluous  to  tell  you  tliat  I  am  de- 
lighted with  all  the  three  songs,  as 
well  as  with  your  elegant  and  tender 
verses  to  Chloris. 

I  am  sorry  that  you  should  be  induc- 
ed to  alter  "0  whistle,  and  I'll  come 
to  ye,  my  lad,"  to  the  prosaic  line, 
"Tliy  Jeanie  will  venture  wi'  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  jeanie,  whoever 
she  be,  to  let  the  line  remain  unaltered. 

I  should  be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Clarke 
produce  a  few  airs  to  be  joined  to  your 
verses. — Everybody  regrets  his  writ- 
ing so  very  little,  as  everybody 
acknowledges  his  ability  to  write  well. 
Pray,  was  the  resolution  formed  coolly 
before  dinner,  or  was  it  a  midnight 
vow,  made  over  a  bowl  of  punch  with 
the  bard? - 

I  shall  not  fail  to  give  Mr.  Cunning- 
ham what  you  have  sent  him. 

G.  T. 


No.  LXXVI. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing? 
["  Forlorn,  my  love;  no  comfort  near," 
p.  283.  ]  I  have  written  it  within  this 
hour:  so  much  for  the  speed  of  my 
Pegasus;  but  what  say  jou  to  his 
bottom?  R.  B. 


No.  LXXVII. 
BURNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

[This  letter  contained  "Last  May  a 
braw  Wooer,"  p.  285,  and  the  frag- 
ment beginning  ' '  Whv,  why,  tell  thy 
lover,"  p.  284.J 


55§ 


CORRESPOlSrDENCE  OF  BURNS 


Suck,  Is  the  peculiarity  of  tlie  rliythm 
of  this  air,  ["Caledonian  Hunt's  De- 
light,"] that  I  find  it  impossible  to 
make  anotkei-stanza  to  suit  it. 

I  am  at  present  quite  occupied  with 
the  charming  sensations  of  the  tooth- 
ache, so  have  not  a  word  to  spare. 

R.  B. 


No.  Lxxvm. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

June  3,  1755. 

My  deab  Sib, — Your  English  ver- 
ses to  "Let  me  in  this  ae  night,"  are 
tender  and  beautiful;  and  your  ballad 
to  the  ' '  Lothian  Lassie"  is  a  master- 
piece for  its  humour  and  naivete.  The 
fragment  of  the  "  Caledonian  Hunt" 
is  quite  suited  to  the  origmal  measure 
of  the  air,  and,  as  it  plagues  you  so, 
the  fragment  must  content  it.  I 
would  rather,  as  I  said  before,  have 
had  Bacchanalian  words,  had  it  so 
pleased  the  poet;  but,  nevertheless, 
for  what  we  have  received,  Lord, 
make  us  thankful ! 

a.  T. 


No.  LXXIX. 
G.  THOMSON   TO  BURNS. 

Feb.  5,  1796. 

O  Robby  Burns,  are  ye  sleeping:  yet? 
Or  are  ye  wauking,  I  would  wit? 

The  pause  you  have  made,  my  dear 
sir,  is  awful !  Am  I  never  to  hear 
from  you  again  ?  I  know  and  I  lament 
how  much  you  have  been  afflicted  of 
late,  but  I  trust  that  returning  health 
and  spirits  will  now  enable  you  to  re- 
sume the  pen,  and  delight  us  with 
your  musings.  I  have  still  about  a 
dozen  Scotch  and  Irish  airs  that  I  wish 
"married  to  imnlortal  verse."  We 
have  several  true-born  Irishmen  on 
the  Scottish- list;  but  they  are  now 
naturalised  aui  reckoned  our  own 
good  subjects;  indeed  we  have  none 
.better.  .  I  believe  I  before  told  you 
that  I  had  been  much  urged  by  some 
friends  tcfpuMish  a  collection  of  all  our 
favourite  airs  and  songs  in  octavo,  em- 


bellished with  a  number  of  etchings 
by  our  ingenious  fHend  Allan:  what 
is  your  opiuian  of  this  ?* 

G.  T. 


No.  LXXX. 

BURNS  TO  G;  THOMSON.  T 

Feb.  17, 17961  -  0 

Many  thanks,  my  dear  sir,  for  your 
handsome,  elegant  present  to  Mi-s." 
Bums,  and  for  my  remaining  volume' 
of  Peter  Pindar. — Peter  is  a  delightfiil  ■ 
fellow,  and  a  first  favourite  of  mine.  ' 
I  am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of 
publishing  a  collection  of  our  songs 
in  octavo,  with  etchings.  I  am  ex- 
tremely willing  to  lend  every  assist- 
ance in  my  power.  The  Irish  airs  I 
shall  cheerfully  undertake  the  task  of 
finding  verses  for. 

I  have,  already,  you  know,  equipt 
three  with  words,  and  the  other  day  I 
strung  up  a  Jcind  of  rhapsody  to  an- 
otlier  Hibernian  melody,  which  I  ad- 
mire much.  [See  "  Hey  for  a  lass  wi' 
a  tocher,"  p.  387.] 

If  this  will  do,  you  have  now  four 
of  my  Irish  engagement.  In  my  by- 
past  songs,  I  dislike  one  thing:  the 
name  Chloris — I  meant  it  as  the  ficti- 
tious name  of  a  certain  lady;  but,  on 
second  thoughts,  it  is  a  high  incongru- 
ity to  have  a  Greek  appellation  to  a 
Scottish  pastoral  ballad.  Of  this,  and 
some  things  else,  in  my  next:  I  have 
more  amendments  to  propose.-— What 
you  once  mentioned  of  "  flaxen  locks  " 
is  just:  they  cannot  enter  into  an  ele- 
gant description  of  beauty. — Of  this 
also  again-— God  bless  you  ! 

R.  B. 


No.    LXXXL 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 
Your  "  Hey  for  a  lass  wi'atocher," 
is  a  most  excellent  song,  and  with  vo'u 


.•  Burns  had  made  a  pause  in  his  correspond  4 
ence  from  June  1793  to  February  1796 ;  and 
Thomson,  feeling  alarm,  as  much  for  the 
poet  5  sake  as  for  the  "  dozen  of  Scotch  and 
Irish  airs"  which  he  wished  "wedded  10  im 
mortal  verse,"  wrote  to  make  inquiries  — 
Cunningham.- 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON: 


S59 


the  subjectis  sometliing  new  indeed. 
It  ig  th&  first  time  I  have  seen  you  de- 
basing the  god  of  soft  desire  into  an 
amateur  of  acres  and  guineas. 

I  am  happy  to  find  you  approve  of 
my  proposed  octavo  edition.  Allan 
has  designed  and  etched  about  twenty 
plates,  and  I  am.  to  have  my  choice  of 
them  for  that  work.  Independently 
of  the  Hogarthian  humour  with  which 
they  abound,  they  exhibit  the  charac- 
ter and  costume  of  the  Scottish  peas- 
antry with  inimitable  felicity.  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  so  with  the  aquatinta, 
which  he  could  not  manage  to  his 
mind. 

The  Dutch  boors  of  Ostade  are 
scarcely  more  characteristic  and  natu- 
ral than  the  Scottish  figures  in  those 
etchings.  G.  T. 


No.  LXXXII. 
BUKNS  TO  G.  THOMSON. 

April  1796. 
Alas  !  my  dear  Thomson,  I  fear  it 
•will  be  some  time  ere  I  tune  my  lyre 
again  I  "By  Babel  streams  I  have  sat 
fend  wept,"  almost  ever  since  I  wrote  yoa 
last:  I  have  only  known  existence  by 
the  pressure  of  the  heavy  hand  of  sick- 
ness; and  have  counted  time  by  the 
re-percussions  of  pain  !  Rheumatism, 
told,  and  fever,  have  formed  to  me  a 
terrible  combination.  I  close  my  eyes 
in  misery,  and  open  them  without 
hope.  I  look  on  the  vernal  day,  and 
say  with  poor  Fergusson — 

"Say,  wherefore  has  an  all-indulgent  Heaven 
Light  to  the  comfortless  and  wretched  given?" 

This  -will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a 
Mrs.  Hyslop,  landlady  of  the  Globe 
Tavern  "here,  which  for  these  many 
years  has  been  my  howff,  and  where 
our  friend  Clarke  and  I  have  had  many 
a  merry  squeeze.*    I  am  highly  de- 

*  Like  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap,  and 
the  Mer^naid  in  .Friday  Street,  London,  im- 
moHalised  as  these  have  been  by  the  geaiuB 


lighted  with  Mr.  Allan's  etchings. 
"  Woo'd  andmarried  an'  a',"  is  admir- 
able; the  grouping  is  beyoiid  all 
praise.  The  expression  of  the  figures, 
conformable  to  the  story  in  the  ballad, 
is  absolutely  faultless  perfection.  I 
next  admire  "  Turnimspike."  What 
t  like  least  is  '•  Jenny  said  to  Jocky." 
Besides  the  female  being  in  her  ap- 
pearance ....  if  you  take  hor 
stooping  into  the  account,  she  is  at  least 
two  inches  taller  than  her  lover.  Poor 
Cleghorn !  I  sincerely  sympathize 
with  him  I  Happy  am  1  to  think  that 
he  yet  has  a  well-grounded  hope  of 
health  and  enjoyment  in  this  world. 
As  for  me — ^butthat  is  a  sad  subject  f 

R.  B. 

and  wit  of  Shakespeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher, 
and  Ben  Jonson,  and  many  other  of '  "the 
prime  spirits  of  their  age ;  so  the  Globe 
Tavern  in  Dumfries,  the  favourite  haunt  of 
our  poet  while  resident  in  that  town,  appears 
to  be  destined  to  a  similar  acceptation  in  the 
eyes  of  posterity. 

.  The  *^  howff,  -of -which  -Burns  speaks,  was  a 
small,  comfortable  tavern,  situa.ted  iu  the 
mouth  of  the  Globe  close,  and  it  held  at 
that  time  the  rank  as  third  among  the  houses 
of  public  accommodation  in  ^Dumfries.  The  . 
excellence  of .  the.  drink  and  the  attentions 
of  the  oroprietor  were  not,  however,  all  its 
attractions.  "Anna  with  the  go  wd  en  locks  " 
was  one  of  the  ministering  damsels  of  the 
establishment ;  customers  loyed  to  be  served 
by  one  who  was  net  or.ly  cheerful,  but  whose 
charms  were  celebrated  by  the  Bard  of  Kyle. 
On  one  of  the  last  visits  paid  by  the  poet,  the 
wine  of  the  "howff"  was  more  than  commonly 
strong — or,  served  by  Anna,  it  went  more 
glibly  over  than  usual ;  and  when  he  rose  to 
.be  gone,  he  found  he  could'  do  no  more  than 
keep  his  balance.  The  lifgKt  was  frosty  and 
the  hour  late  ;  the  poet  sat  down  on  the  steps 
of  a  door  between  the  tavern  and  his  own 
house,  fell  asleep,  and  j0id  not  awaken  till  he 
•was  almost  dead  with  cold.  To  this  exposure 
his  illness  has  been  imputed  ;  and  no  doubt  it 
contributed,  with  disappointed  hope  and  in^ 
suited  pride,  to  bring  him  to  an  early  grave.— 
Cunningham. 

On  the  panes  of  glass-  in  the  Globe,  Bums 
was  frequently  in  the  habit  of  writing  many 
of  his  witty  >aj:  d  'esprit,  as  well  .as  Iragmen-. 
tary  portions  of  his  most  celebrated  songs. 
We  fear  these  precious  relics  have  now  been 
wholly  abstracted  by  the  lovers  and  collectors 
of  literary  rarities.  John  Speirs,  Esq.,  of 
Elderslie,  has  in  his  possession  one  of  these 
panes  of  glass,  upon  which  is  written  m 
Bums'. .  autograph,  the  loilowing  «erse  oJ 
"  Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets,"  p.  263  ; —  > 
^  Hers  are  the  willing  chains  of  love. 

By  conquering  Beauty's  sovereign  law  j 
Bui  st.ll  my  ehloris'  dteresl  charm, 
She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'l  "• ' 


560 


CORRESPONDEXCE  OF  BURNS 


No.  LXXXIII. 

a  THOMSON 'to  burns. 

May  4,  1796. 

I  KEKD  not  tell  you,  my  good  sir, 
wliat  concern  tlio  receipt  of  your  last 
gave  me,  and  liow  much  I  sympathise 
in  your  sufferings.  But  do  not,  I  be- 
seech you,  give  yourself  up  to  de- 
spondency, nor  speak  the  language  of 
4espair.  The  vigour  of  your  constitu- 
tion, I  trust,  will  soon  set  you  on  your 
feet  again;  and  then,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
you  will  see  the  wisdom  and  necessity 
of  taking  due  care  of  a  life  so  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, 

a.  T. 

P.  S. — Mrs.  Hyslop,  I  doubt  not, 
delivered  the  gold  seal*  to  you  in  good 
condition: 


No.  LXXXIV. 

BURNS    TO  a.  THOMSON. 

My  DEA.11  SiR,^I  once  mentioned  to 
you  an  air  which  I  have  long  admired, 
"Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
hinny,"  but  I  forget  if  you  took  any 
notice  of  it.  I  have  just  been  trying 
to  suit  it  with  verses;  and  1  beg  leave 
to  recommend  the  air  to  your  atten- 
tion once  more.  I  have  only  begun  it. 
[See  the  beautif\j.l  song  beginning, 
"  Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'c  dear," 
p.  287.] 


No.    LXXXV. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

This  will  be  delivered  by  a  Mr.  Lo- 
•wars,  a  young  fellow  of  uncommon 
merit.     As  he  will  be  a  day  or  two  in 


*  On  this  gold  seal  the  poet  caused  his  coat 
of  arms  to  be  engraven,  viz.,  a  small  bush  ;  a 
bjrd'  singing ;  the  legend,  "wood-notes  wild," 
with  the  motto  "  Better  hae  a  wee  bush  than 
xiae  bield." 


town,  you  will  have  leisure,  if  y" 
choose,  to  write  me  by  him;  and  if  you 
have  a  spare  half  hour  to  spend  with 
him,  I  shall  place  your  kindness  to  my 
account.  I  have  no  copies  of  the  songs 
I  have  sent  you, — and  I  have  talcen  a 
fancy  to  review  them  all,  and  possibly 
may  mend  some  of  them;  so,  when 
you  have  complete  leisure,  I  will 
Ihank  you  for  either  the  originals  or 
copies.  I  had  rather  be  the  author  of  five 
well- written  songs  than  of  ten  other- 
wise. I  have  great  hopes  that  the  ge- 
nial influence  of  the  approaching  sum- 
mer will  set  me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I 
cannot  boast  of  returning  health.  I 
have  now  reason  to  believe  that  my 
complaint  is  a  flying  gout:  a  sad  bus- 
iness ! 

Do  let  me  know  how  Cleghorn  is, 
and  remember  me  to  him. 

This  should  have  been  delivered  to 
you  a  month  ag'o.  I  am  still  very 
poorly,  but  should  like  much  to  hear 
from  you. 


No.  LXXXVI. 

BURNS   TO  G.  THOMSON. 

Brow,  on  the  Solway  Firth,  ) 
July  12,  1796.  J 

After  all  my  boasted  independence, 
curst  necessity  compels  me  to  implore 
you  for  Ave  pounds.  A  cruel  wretch 
of  a  haberdasher,  to  whom  I  owe  an 
account,  taking  it  into  his  head  that  I 
am  dying,  has  commenced  a  process, 
and  will  infallibly  put  me  into  jail. 
Do,  for  God's  salce,  send  me  that  sum, 
and  that  by  return  of  post.  Forgive 
me  this  earnestness,  but  the  horror^ 
of  a  jail  have  made  ma  half  distracted.' 
I  do  not  ask  all  this  gratuitously;  fori 
upon  returning  health,  I  hereby  pro- 
mise and  engage  to  furnish  you  with 
five  pounds' worth  of  the  neatest  song: 
genius  you  have  seen.  I  tried  my 
hand  on  "Rothemurche"  this  morning- 
The  measure  is  so  difficult  that  it  % 
impossible  to  infuse  much  genius  into 
the  lines;  they  are  on  the  other  side 
[See  the  song,  "  Fairest  Maid  on  Dev' 
on  Baulcs,"  p.  389.]  Forgive,  forrfvo 
me  I 


WITH  GEORGE  THOMSON. 


'561 


No.  LXXXVII. 
G.  THOMSON  TO  BURNS. 

,July  14,  J796. 

My  deak  Sir,  —  Ever  since  I  re- 
ceived your  melancholy  letters  by 
Sirs.  Hyslop,  I  have  been  ruminatiag 
in  what  maimer  I  could  endeavour  to 
alleviate  your  sufferings.  Again  and 
again  1  thought  of  a  pecuniary  offer, 
but  the  recollection  of  one  of  your  let- 
ters on  this  subject,  and  the  fear  of 
offending  your  independent  spirit, 
checked  my  resolution.  I  thank  you 
heartily,  therefore,  for  the  frankness 
of  your  letter  of  the  12th,  and,  with 
great  pleasure,  enclose  a  draft  for  the 
very  sum  I  proposed  sending.  Would 
I  were  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
but  for  one  day,  for  your  sake-!  - 

Pray,  my  good  sir,  is  it  not  possi- 
ble for  you  to  muster  a  volume  of 


poetry  ?  If  too  much  trouble  to  you, 
in  the  present  state  of  your  health' 
some  literary  friend  might  be  found  • 
here,  who  would  select  and  arrange 
from  your  manuscripts,  and  take  upon 
liim  the  task  of  editor.  In  the  mean, 
time  it  could  be  advertised  to  be  pub- 
lished by  subscription.  Do  not  shun 
this  mode  of  obtaining  the  value  of 
your  labour:  remember  Pope  publish- 
ed the  Iliad  by  subscription.  Think 
of  this,  my  dear  Burns,  and  do  not 
reckon  me  intrusive  with  my  advice. 
You  are  too  well  convinced  of  the  re- 
spect and  friendship  I  bear  you^  to 
impute  anything  I  say  to  an  unworthy, 
motive.     Yoiirs  faithfully, 

G.  T. 

The  verses  to  "  Rothemurche  "  will 
answer  finely.  I  am  happy  to  see  you 
can  still  tune  your  lyre. 


PREFATORY    NOTE. 


The  Clarinda  of  the  following  correspondence  was  a  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  who  resided  in 
General's  Entry,  Pottcrrow — so  called  from,  a  tradition  that  General  Monk  had  lodged  there. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Agnes  Craig  ;  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  highly-respectable  surgeon- 
in  Glasgaw,  and  when  only  seventeen  years  of  age  waa  married  to  a  Mr.  M'Lehose,  a  law 
agent.  Her  husband  secms.to  have  been  in  no  way  worthy  of  her,  and  a  separation  was  tlie. 
conscquence.  At~lTie  tune  Burns  met  her.  (1787,)  her  husband  was  in  the  West  Indies.  In 
addition  to  being  beautiful  in  |)erson  and  fascinating'  in  manner,  she  was  something  of 
a  poetess,  and  more.ihan  ofdinanty  intelligent ;  need  it  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  she  made 
a  powerful  impression  on  the  susceptible  poet,  who  was  always  ready  to  burst  into  aglow, 
even  whert  the  lady  was  not  so  attractive  as  Mrs.  M'Lehose  appears  to  have  been.  There  caa 
be  no  doubt  of  the  genuinq  passion  with  which  Burns  inspired  ner:  for  all  through  the  corres- 
pondence we  can  see  that  ner  love  for  the  poet  was  leading  her  into  acts  01  questionable 
propriety  in  a  woman  in  hct  position,  and  that  she  felt  this  acutely. 

Burns  has  been  blamed  by  several  of  his  biographers  for  his  connexion  with  Mrs.  M'Lehose 
in  the  face  of  his  engagement  with  Jean  Armour;  but  at  the  time  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
he  believed,  and  was  justified  in  believing,  that  his  engagement  with  her  had  come  to  an  end. 
How  slight  was  the  impression  made  upon  the  poet  by  Clarinda  will  be  seen  from  the  speedy 
maJcing  up  of  all-his  differences  with  Jean  Armour  and  her  family,  acd  the  rapid  disappearance 
of  Clarinda"  from  his  thoughts  and  correspondence.  Mrs.  M'Lehose  acutely  felt  the  poet  s 
forgetfulnessof  her,  but  never  ceased  to  hold  his  memory  in  affectionate  remeinbranpe. 
In  her  private  journal,  written  forty  years  after  the  date  of  her  last  interview,  with  him,  she 
writes:— "6//*  i3£'<:.i83i.— This  day  I  never  can  forget.  Parted  with  Burns  m  the  year  r/oi, 
Aever-mprc -to  mcerinthis  world.-  Oh,  may  we  meet  in  heaven!"' 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


In  her  reply  to  Letter  XII.  of  the  correspondence,  she  says :— "  Never  were  there  two  hearts 
formed  so  exactly  alike  as  ours.  Oh,  let  the  scenes  of  nature  remind  you  of  Clarinda.  la 
■winter,  remember  the  dark  shades  of  her  fate  ;  in  summer,  the  warmth  of  her  friend^ip ;  in 
autumn,  her  glowing  wishes  to  bestow  plenty  on  all :  and  let  spriirg"  animate  you  with  hopes 
that  your  friend  may  yet  surmount  the  wintry  blasts  of  life,  and  revive  to  taste  a  spfmg-time 
pf  happiness.  At  all  events,  Svlvander,  the  storms  of  lifc'will  quickly  pass,  and  one 
Unbounded  spring' encircle  alL'  Love  there  is  not  a  crime.  I  charge,  you  to  meet  me  there. 
O  G<3d"!  I  must  lay  down  my  pen."  "Mr.  Chambers  says  :— "  I  have  heard  Clarinda,  at  sevenlj^^ 
-  five,  express  the  same  hope  to  meet  in  another  spherd  the  one '  heart'  that  she  had  ever  f^u"*^ 
lierself  able  entirely  to  sympathize  with,  but  which  -had'been  divided  from  her  on  earth  by 
such  pitiless  obstacles."  .  ,        . 

She  died  in  1841,  in  her  eighty-second  year.  There  is  but  one  opinion  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  correspondence.  She  can  be  charged  with  nothing  more  serious  than  the  imprudence  Of 
loving  and  giving  warm  expression  to  her  love  for  the  poet  while  she  was  still  the  wife  of 
another-  P^otwithstanding-  this,  Clarinda  appears-  to  better  advantage  in  the  corcespondeoc^ 
than  Sylvander,  and  there  can.  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  reality  and  intensity  of  her  love  and 
admiration  for  him  ;  while  his  letters  and  after  fdrgetfulness  prove  the  truth  of  Gilbert  Bums 
iissertion,  that  he  was  "  constantly  the  victim  of  some  fair  enslaver.  One  generally  reigned 
paramount  in  his  affections  ;  but  as  Vc^ridc's  affections  flowed  out  towards  Madame  de  L-; — -^- 
at  the  remise  door,  while  the  eternal  vows  of  Eliza  were  upon  him.  so  Robert  was  frequently 
eiicouaterlDg  Other  ^tkactions,  which  formed  so  many  under-plots  in  the  drama  of  his  love. ' 


LETTERS  TO  CLARINDA. 


No..  I. 

Thursday  Evening. 

.  MaDAM,^!'  had  set  no  small  store 
by  my  tea-drinking  to-nlglit,  and  have 
not  often  been  so  disappointed.  Sat- 
urday evening  I  shall  embrace  the  op- 
portunity with  the  greatest  pleasure. 
I  leave  this  town  this  day  se'en-night, 
,^nd,  probably,  for  a  couple  of  twelve- 
months; but  must  ever  regret  that  I 
so  lately  got  an  acquaintance  I  shall 
ever  highly  esteem,  and  in  whose  wel- 
fare I  shall  ever  be  warmly  interested. 
Our  vforthy  common  friend,  in  her 
usual.pleasant  way,  rallied  me  a  good 
deaL  on  my  .new  acquaintance,  and  in 
the  .humour  of  her  ideas  I  wrote  some 
lines,  which  I  enclose  you,  as  I  think 
they  haye  a  gopd  deal  of  poetic  merit; 

and  Miss tells  me    you  are  not 

pnly  a,  pritic,  but  a  poetess.  Fiction, 
you  know,  is  the  native  region  of  poe- 
try; and  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my 
vanity  in  sending  you  the  bagatelle  as 


a  tolerably  off-hand  J6M-«fe«pnY.  1  have 
several  poetic  trilles,  which  I  shall 
gladly  leave  with  Miss  — — ,  or  you,  if 
they  were  worth  house  room:  as  there 
are  scarcely  two  people  on  earth  by 
whom  it  would  mortify  me  more  to  be 
-forgotten,  though  at  the  distance  of 
nine-score  miles. — I  am,  madam,  with 
the  highest  respect,  your  very  humble 
servant, 


No.  II. 

Saturday  Evening. 
I  CAN  say  with  truth,  madam,  that 
I  never  met  with  a  person  in  my  life 
whom  I  more  anxiously  wished  to 
meet  again  than  yourself.  To-night  I 
was  to  have  had  that  very  great  pleas- 
ure; I  was  intoxicated  with  the  idea, 
but  an  unlucky  fall  from  a  coach  has 
so  bruised  one  of  my  knees  that  I  can't 
stir  my  leg;  so  if  I  don't  see  you  again 


LETTEES  TO  CLARINDA, 


Isliall  not  rest  in  my  grave  for  cbagrin. 
I  was  vexed  to  the  soul  I  had  not  seen 
you  sooner;  I  determined  to  cultivate 
your  friendship  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  religion;  but  thus  has  Fortune  ever 
served  me.  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of 
leaving  Edinburgli  witliout  seeing 
yOH.  I  know  not  how  to  account  for 
it — I  am.  strangely  taken  with  some 
people,  nor  am  I  often  mistaken.  You 
are  a  stranger  to  me;  but  I  am  an  odd 
being;  some  yet  unnamed  feelings, 
things,  not  principles,  but  better  than 
whims,  carry. me  farther  than  boasted 
reason  ever  did  a  philosopher. — Fare- 
well !  every  happiness  be  yoiirs  1 


No.  III. 


Friday  Evening. 

1  BEG  your  pardon,  my  dear  "  Clar- 
inda,"  for  the  fragment  scrawl  I  sent 
you  yesterday.  I  really  do  not  know 
what  I  wrote.  A  gentleman ,  for  whose 
character,  abUities,  and  critical  knowl- 
edge I  have  the  highest  veneration, 
called  in  just  as  I  had  begun  the  second 
sentence,  and  I  would  not  make  the 
porter  wait.  I  read  to  my  miich- 
respected  friend  several  of  my  own 
bagatelles,  and,  among  others,  your 
lines,  which  I  had  copied  out.  He 
-began  some  criticisms  on  them  as^on 
tlie  other  pieces,  when  I  informed  him 
they  were  the  work  cf  a  young  lady  in 
this  town,  which,  I  assure  yon,  made 
him  stare.  My  learned  friend  serious- 
ly protested  that  he  did  not  believe 
any  young  woman  in  Edinburgh  was 
capable  of  such  lines:  and  if  you  know 
anything  of  Professor  Gregory,  you 
will  neither  doubt  of  his  abilities  nor 
his  sincerity.  I  do  love  you,  if  possi- 
ble, still  better  for  having  so  fine 
a  taste  and  turn  for  poesy.  I  have 
«igain  gone  wrong  in  my  usual  un- 
;guarded  way,  but  you  may  erase  the 
word,  and  put  esteem,  respect,  or  any 
other  tame  Dutch  expression  you 
please,  in  its  place.  1  believe  there  is 
no  holding  converse,  nor  carrying  on 
correspondence,  with  an  amiable 
woman,  much  less  a  gloriously  amiable 
Jine  wonum,  without  some  mixture  of 


that  delicious  passion,  whose  most  de- . 
voted  slave  I  have  more  than  once  had 
the  honour  of  )jeing — But  why  be  hurt 
or  offended  on  that  account?  Can  no 
honest  man  have  a  prepossession  for  a, 
line  woman,  but  he  must  run  his  liieaid 
against,  an  intrigue?  Take  a  littjte  of 
tlie  tender  witchcraft  of  love,  and  add 
to  it  the  generous,  the  honourable  sjpn- , 
timents  of  manly  friendship:  and  1 
know  but  one  more  delightful  morsel, 
■which  few,  few  in  any  rank  ever  taste, 
Such  a  composition  is  like  adding 
cream  to  strawberries;  it  not  only 
gives  the  fruit  a  more  elegant  richness, , 
but  has  a  peculiar  deliciousness  of  its 
own. 

I  enclose  you  a  few  lines  I  composed- 
on  a  late  mdanclioly  occasion.  I  will 
not  give  above  five  or  six  copies  of  it 
at  all,  and  I  would  be  hurt  if  any 
friend  should  give  any  copies  without 
my  consent. 

You  cannot  imagine,  Clarinda,  (I  like 
the  idea  of  Arcadian  names  in  a  com- 
merce of  this  kind,)  how  much  store  I 
have  set  by  the. hopes  of  your  future 
friendship.  I  do  not  know  if  yon  have 
a  just  idea  of  my  character,  but  I  wish 
you  to  see  me  as  lam.  I  am,  as  most 
people  of  my  trade  are,  a  strange  will- 
o'-wisp  being;  the  victim,  too  frequent- 
ly, of  much  imprudence  and  many 
follies.  My  great  constituent  eleinents 
a:  e  pride  and  passion.  The  first  I  ha;ve 
endeavoured  to  humanise  into  integrity 
and  honour;  the  last  makes  me  a 
devotee  to  the  warmest  degree  of  en- 
thusiasm, in  love,  religion,  or  friend- 
ship— either  of  them,  or  altogether,  as 
I  happen  to  be  inspired.  'Tis  true,  I 
never  saw  you  but  once;  but  how 
much  acquaintance  did  I  form  with 
you  in-  that  once  I  Do  not  think  I 
flatter  you,  or  have  a  design  upon  you, 
Clarinda;  I  haVe  too  much  pride-  for 
the  one,- and  too  little  cold  dontriyanoe 
for  the  other';  but  of  all  God's-  crea- 
tures I  ever  could  -approach  in  the 
beaten  way  of  my  acquaintance,  you 
Struck  me  With  '  the  deepest,  the 
strongest,  the  most  ■  permanent  im- 
pression. I  say,  the  most  permanent 
because  I  know  myself  well,  and  how- 
far  I  can  promise  either  in  my  prepos- 


5U 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


sessions  or  powers.  Why  are  you  ua- 
happy  1  And  why  are  so  many  of  our 
fellow-creatures,  unworthy  to  belong 
to  the  same  species  with  you,  blest 
with  all  they  can  wish?  You  have  a 
hand  all  benevolent  to  give— rWhy 
were  you  denied  the  pleasure  ?  You 
have  a  heart  formed — gloriously  form- 
ed— for  all  the  most  refined  luxuries  of 
love:  Why  was  that  heart  ever  wrung? 

0  Clarinda !  shall  we  not  meet  in 
a  state,  some  yet  unknown  state  of 
being,  where  the  lavish  hand  of  plenty 
shall  minister  to  the  highest  wish 
of  benevolence;  and  where  the  chill 
north-wind  of  prudence  shall  never 
blow  over  the  flowery  fields  of  enjoy- 
ment ?  If  we  do  not,  man  was  made 
in  vain !.  I  deserved  most  of  the 
unhappy  hours  that  have  lingered  over 
my  head;  they  were  the  wages  of  my 
labour:  l)ut  what  unprovoked  demon, 
malignant  as  hell,  stole  upon  the  confi- 
dence of  unmistrusting  busy  Fate,  and 
dashed  your  cup  of  life  with  unde- 
served sorrow  ? 

Let  me  know  how  long  your  stay 
will  be  out  of  town:  I  shall  count  the 
hours  till  you  inform  me  of  your 
return.  Cursed  etiquette  forbids  your 
seeing  me  just  now;  and  so  soon  as  I 
can  walk  I  must  bid  Edinburgh  adieu. 
Lord,  why  was  I  born  to  see  misery 
which  I  cannot  relieve,  and  to  meet 
with  friends  whom  I  cannot  enjoy  ?  I 
look  back  with  the  pang  of  unavailing 
avarice  on  my  loss  in  not  knowing  you 
sooner:  all  last  winter,  these  three 
months  past,  what  luxury  of  inter- 
course have  I  not  lost !  Perhaps, 
though,  'twas  better  for  my  peace. 
You  see  I  am  either  above,  or  incapa- 
ble of,  dissimulation.  I  believe  it  is 
want  of  that  particular  genius.  I  de- 
spise design,  because  I  want  either 
coolness  or  wisdom  to-be  capable  of  it. 

1  am  interrupted. — Adieu  !  my  dear 
Clarinda  1  StOiVANDBR. 


No.  IV. 


You  are  rigbt,  my  dear  Qarinda:  a 
friendly  correspondence  goes  for  noth- 
ing, except  one -writes  his  or  her  undis- 
guised sentiments.     Yours  jplease  me 


ior  their  •intrinsic  merit,  ar,  well  as  be- 
cause they  are  yours,  which  1  assure 
you,  is  to  me  a  high  recommenda- 
tion. Your  religious  sentiments,  mad- 
am, I  revere.  If  you  have,  an  some  sus- 
picious evidence,  from  some  lying  ora- 
cle, learned  that  I  despise  or  ridicule  so 
sacredly  important  a  matter  as  real  re- 
ligion, you  have,  my  Clarinda,  much 
misconstrued  your  friend. — "  I  am  not 
mad,  most  noble  Festus  !"  Have  you 
ever  met  a  perfect  character  ?  Do  we 
not  sometimes  rather  exchange  faults 
than  get  rid  of  them  ?  For  instance,  I 
am  perhaps  tired  with,  and  shocked 
at,  a  life  too  much  the  prey  of  giddy 
inconsistencies  and  thoughtless  follies; 
by  degrees  I  grow  sober,  prudent,  and 
statedly  pious — I  say  statedly,  because 
the  most  unaffected  devotion  is  not  at 
all  inconsistent  with  my  first  charac- 
ter— I  join  the  world  in  congratulating 
myself  on  the  happy  change.  But  let 
me  pry  more  narrowly  into  this  affair. 
Have  I,  at  bottom,  anything  of  a 
secret  pride  in  these  endowments  and 
emendatious?  Have  I  nothing  of  a 
presbyterian  sourness,  an  hypocritical 
severity,  when  I  survey  my  less  regu- 
lar neighbors?  In  a  word,  have  I 
missed  all  those  nameless  and  number- 
less modifications  of  indistinct  selfish- 
ness, which  are  so  near  our  own  eyes 
that  we  can  scarcely  bring  them  within 
the  sphere  of  our  vision,  and  which  the 
known  spotless  cambric  of  our  charac- 
ter hides  from  the  ordinary  observer  ? 

My  definition  of  worth  is  short; 
truth  and  humanity  respecting  our 
fellow-creatures;  reverence  and  hu- 
mility in  the  presence  of  that  Being, 
my  Creator  and  Preserver,  and  who,  I 
have  every  reason  to  believe,  will  one 
day  be  my  Judge.  The  first  part  of 
my  definition  is  the  creature  of  un- 
biassed instinct;  the  last  is  the  child 
of  after  reflection.  Wliere  I  found 
these  two  essentials,  I  would  gently 
note,  and  slightly  mention,  any  attend- 
ant  flaws— flaws,  the  marks,  the  con- 
sequences, of  human  nature. 

I  can  easily  enter  into  the  sublime 
pleasures  that  your  strong  imagination 
and  keen  sensibility  must  derive  from 
religion,  particularly  if  a  little  m  the 


LETTERS  TO  CLAKINDA. 


565 


shade  of  misfortuTie:  but  I  own  I  can- 
not, withoiit  a  marked  grudge,  see 
Heaven  totally  engross  so  amiable,  so 
cliarming,  a  woman  as  my  friend  Clar- 
inda;  and  should  be  very  well  pleased 
at  a  circumstance  that  would  put  it 
in  the  power  of  somebody  (happy  some- 
body !)  to  divide  her  attention,  with 
all  the  delicacy  and  tenderness  of  an 
earthly  attachment. 

You  will  not  easily  persuade  me  that 
you  have  not  a  grammatical  knowl- 
edge of  the  English  language.  So  far 
from  being  inaccurate,  you  are  elegant 
beyond  any  woman  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, except  one,  whom  I  wish  you 
knew. 

Your  last  verses  to  me  have  so  de- 
lighted me  that  I  have  got  an  excellent 
old  Scots  air  that  suits  the  measure, 
and  you  shall  see  them  in  print  in  the 
Scots  Musical  Museum,  a  work  pub- 
lishing by  a  friend  of  mine  in  this 
town.  I  want  four  stanzas;  you  gave 
me  but  three,  and  one  of  them  alluded 
to  an  expression  iu  my  former  letter; 
so  I  have  taken  your  first  two  verses, 
with  a  slight  alteration  in  the  second, 
and  have  added  a  third;  but  you  must 
help  me  to  a  fourth.  Here  they  are : 
the  latter  half  of  the  first  stan2a  would 
have  been  worthy  of  Sappho;  I  am  in 
raptures  with  it. 

*'  Talk  not  of  Love,  it  gives  me  pain, 

For  Love  has  been  my  foe  ; 
He  bound  me  with  an  iron  chain, 

And  sunk  me  deep  in  woe. 

"  But  friendship's  pure  and  lasting  joys 
'  My  heart  was  formed  to  prove  ; 
There,  welcome,  win,  and  wear  the  prize, 
But  never  talk  of  love. 

"  Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest. 

Oh  why  that  bliss  destroy  ! 
Why  urge  the  odious  [only]  one  request. 

You  know  I  must  [will]  deny." 

The  alteration  in  the  second  stanza 
is  no  improvement,  but  there  was  a 
slight  inaccuracy  in  your  rhyme.  The 
third  I  only  offer  to  your  choice,  and 
have  left  two  words  for  your  deter- 
mination. The  air  is  "  The  banks  of 
Spey,"  and  is  most  beautiful. 

To-morrow  evening  I  intaud  taking 
a  chair,  and  paying  a  visit  at  Park 
Place  to  a  muoli-valued  old  friend. 
If  I  could  be  sure  of  finding  you  at 


home,  (and  I  will  send  one  of  the 
chairmen  to  call,)  I  would  spend  from 
five  to  six  o'clock  with  you,  as  I  go 
past.  I  cannot  do  more  at  this  time, 
as  I  have  something  on  my  hand  that 
hurries  me  much.  I  propose  giving 
you  the  -first  call,  my  old  friend  ■  the 

second,   and    JMiss  as  I    return 

home.  Do  not  break  any  engagement 
for  me,  as  I  will  spend  another  even- 
ing with  you,  at  any  rate  -before  I 
leave  town. 

Do  not  tell  me  that  you  are  pleased 
when  your  friends  inform  you  of  your 
faults.  I  am  ignorant  what  they  are; 
but  1  am  sure  they  must  be  such  evan- 
escent trifles,  compared  with  your  per- 
sonal and  mental'  accomplishments, 
that  I  would-  despise,  the  ungenerous 
narrotv  soul  who  would  notice  any 
shadow  of  imperfections ,  you  may 
seem  to  have,  any  other  way  than  in 
the  most  delicate  agreeable  raillery. 
Coarse  minds  are  not  aware  how  much 
they  injure  the  keenly  feeling  tie  of 
bosom -friendship,  when,  in  their  fool- 
ish officiousness,  the}'  mention  what 
nobody  cares  for  recollecting.  People 
of  nice  sensibility  and  generous  minds 
have  a  certain  intrinsic- dignity  that 
fires  at  being  trifled  with,  or  lowered, 
or  even  too  nearly  approached. 

You  need  make  no  apology  for  long 
letters:  I  am  even  with  you.  Many 
happy  new  years  to  you,  charming 
Clarinda !  I  can't  dissemble,  were  it 
to  shun  perdition.  He  who  sees  you 
as  I  have  done,  and  does  not  love ,  yon, 
deserves  to  bedamn'dfor  his  stupidity! 
He  who  loves  you,  and  would  injure 
you,  deserves  to  be  doubly  damn'd  for 
his  villainy !    Adieu. 

SVLVANDKR. 

p.  S.— What  would  you  think  of 
this  for  a  fourth  stanza? 

Your  thought,  if  love  must  harbour  there. 

Conceal  it  in  that  thought, 
Nor  cause  me  from  my  bosom  tear 

The  very  friend  I  sought. 


No.  V. 


Monday  Evening,  ii  o'clock. 
Why  have  I  not   heard  from  you, 
Clarinda 2     To-day  I  expected  It;  .and 


56S 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


t'e'fore  supper,  wlien  a  letter  to  me 
was  annoanced,  my  heart  danced 
with  rapture;  but  behold,  'twas  some 
fool  who  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
.  turn  poet,  and  made  me  an  offering  of 
the  first  fruits  of  Ills  nonsense.  "It  is 
not  poetry,  but  prose  run  msTd. "  Did 
I  ever  repeat  to  you  an  epigram  I 
made  on  a  Mr.  Elphinstone,  who  has 
given  you  a  translation  of  Martial,  a 
famous  Latin  poet  ? — Tlie  poetry  of 
Elphinstone  can  only  equal  his  prose 
notes.  I  was  sitting  in  the  shop  of  a 
hierchant  of  my  acquaintance-,  waiting 
somebody;  he  put  Elphinstone  into 
my  hand,  and  asked  my  opinion  of  it; 
I  begged  leave  to  write  it  on  a  blank 
leaf,  which  I  did.     [See  p.  179.]      ' 

I  am  determined  to  see  you,. if  at  all 
possible,  on  Saturday  evening. '  Next 
week  I  must  sing 

"  The  night  is  njy  departing^  night 

The  morn's  the  day  I  maun  awa ; 
There's  neither  friend  nor  foe  o'  mine, 

But  wishes  that  1  were  awa !  ' 
What  I  hae  done  for  laclc  o'  wit, 

I  never,  never  can  reca'; 
I  hope  ye're  a'  my  friends  as  yet, 

Guid  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a' !  " 

If  I  could  see  you  sooner,  I  would  be 
so  mucli  the  happier;  but  I  would  not 
purchase  the  dearest  gratification  on 
earth,  if  it  must  be  at  your  expense  in 
worldly  censure,  far  less  inward  peace ! 

I  shall  certainly  be  ashamed  of  thus 
scrawling  whole  sheets  of  incoherence. 
The  only  unity  (a  sad  word  with  poets 
and  critics  !)  in  my  ideas  is  Clakinda. 
Tliere  my  heart  "  reigns  and  revels." 

*'  What  art  thou,   Love  ?   whence  are  those 
charms 

That  tlius  thou  bear'st  a  universal  rule? 
For  thee  the  soldier  quits  his  arms, 
'  The  Icing  turns  slave,  the  wise  man  fool. 
In  vain  we  chase  thee  from  the  field, 

And  with  cool  thoughts  resist  thy  yoke  : 
Next  tide  of  blood,  alas  !  we  yield  ; 

And  all  those  high  resolves  are  broke  ! " 

I  like  to  have  quotations  for  every 
occasion.  They  give  one's  ideas  so 
pat,  and  save  one  the  trouble  of  find- 
ing expression  adequate  to  one's  feel- 
ings. I  tiiink  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures,  attending  a  poetic  genius, 
that  we  can  give  our  woes,  care's,  joys, 
lt3ves„  &c.,  an  embodied  fdrm^iu  vei^e, 


which  to  me  is  ever  immediate  ease. 
Goldsmith  says  finely  of  his  Muse — 

"  Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe. 
Thou  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st 
roe  so." 

My  limb  has  been  so  well  to-day 
that  I  have  gone  up  and  down  stairs 
often  without  my  staff.  To-morrow  1 
hope  to  walk  once  again  on  my  own 
legs  to  dinner.  It  is  only  next  street. 
— Adieu.  Stlvaudek. 


No.    VI. 

Saturday  Noon. 

Some  days,  some  nights,  nay,  some 
liours,  like  the  ten  righteous  persons 
in  Sodom,"  save  the  rest  of  the  vapid, 
tiresome  miserable  months  and  years 
of  life.  One  of  these  hours,  raj  dear 
Clarinda  blessed  me  with  yesternight. 

"  One  well  spent  hour. 
In  such  a  tender  circumstance  for  friends, ' 
Is  better  tlian  an  age  of  common  time  1" 

— Thomson. 

My  favourite  feature  in  Milton's  Sa- 
tan is  his  manly  fortitude  in  support- 
ing what  cannot  be  remedied — ^in  short, 
the  wild,  broken  fragments  of  a  noble 
exalted  mind  in  ruins.  I  meant  no 
more  by  saying  he  was  a  favourite 
hero  of  mine. 

I  mentioned  to  you  my  letter  to  Dr. 
Moore,  giving  an  account  of  my  life; 
it  is  truth,  every  word  of  it;  and  will 
give  you  the  just  idea  of  a  man  whom 
you  have  honoured  with  your  friend- 
ship. 1  am  afraid  you  will  hardly  be 
able  to  make  sense  of  so  torn  a  piece. 
— Your  verses  I  shall  muse  on  de- 
liciously,  as  I  gaze  on  your  image  in 
my  mind's  eye,  in  my  heart's  core;  they 
will  be  in  time  enough  for  a  week  to 
come.  1  am  truly  happy  your  head- 
ache is  better.  Oh,  how  can  pain  or 
evil  be  so  daringly,  unfeelingly, 
cruelly  savage  as  to  wound  so  noble 
a  mind,  so  lovely  a  form  i 

My  little  fellow  is  all  my  namesake. 
—Write  me  soon;     My  every  strongest 
good  wishes  attend  you,  Clarinda  1 
Sylvander. 

1  know  not  what  I  have  written— I 
am  pestered  with  people  around  me. 


LETTERS  TO  CLARINDA. 


m. 


No.  YII. 

Sunday  Night. 
The  impertinence  of  fools  lias  joined 
with  a  return  of  an  old  indisposition, 
to  make  me  good  '  for  nothing  to-day. 
Tlie  paper  has  lain  before  me  all  this 
evening,  to  write  to  my  dear  Clarinda", 
but— 

"  FqoIs  rushed  on  fools,  as  waves  succeed  to 
waves." 

I  curse  them  in  my  soul;  they  sacri- 
legiously disturbed  my  meditations  on 
her  who  holds  my  heart.  What  a 
creature  is  man  !  A  little  alarm  last 
night  and  to-day,  that  I  am  mortal, 
has  made  such  a  revolution  on  my 
spirits  !  There  is  no  philosopliy,  no 
divinity,  comes  half  so  home  to  ihe 
mind.  I  have  no  idea  of  courage  that 
braves  heaven.  .  'Tis  the  wild  ravings 
of  an  Imaginary  hero  in  bedlam. 

I  can  no  more,  Clarinda;  I  can 
scarcely  hold  up  my  head;  but  I 
am  happy  you  do  not  know  dt,  you 
would  be  so  uneasy. 

Stlvandee. 


Monday  Morning. 

I  am,  my  lovely  friend,  much  better 
this  morning  on  the  whole;  but  I  have 
a  horrid  languor  on  my  spirits. 

"  Siclc  of  the  world,  and  all  its  joys. 
My  soul  in  pining  sadness  mourns ; 

Dark  scenes  of  woe  my  mind  employs. 
The  past  and  present  in  their  turns." 

"  Have  you  ever  met  with  a  saying  of 
the  great,  and  likewise  good,  Mr. 
Locke,  author  of  the  famous  Essay  on 
the  Human  Understanding  ?  He  wrote  a 
letter  to  a  friend,  directing  it  "  not  to 
be  delivered  till  after  my  decease:"  it 
ended  thus — "I  know  you  loved  me 
when  living,  and  will  preserve  my 
memory  now  I  am  dead.  All  the  use 
to  be  made  of  it  is  that  this  life  affords 
no  solid  satisfaction,  but  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  done  well,  and 
the  hopes  of  another  life.  Adieu  J  I 
leave  my  best  wishes  with  you. — J. 
Locke." 

Clarinda,  may  I  reckon  on  your 
friendship  for  life  !  I  think  I  may. 
Thou  ajmight;^  Preserver  pi  men.!  thy 


friendship,  which  hitherto  I  have  too 
much  neglected,  to  secure  it  shall,  all 
the  future  days  and  nights  of  my  life, 
be  my  steady  care  1  The  idea  of  m^ 
Clarinda  foUovfs — 

"  Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise: 
Where,  mix  d  with  God's,  her  loved  idea  lies.'l 

But  I  fear  inconstancy,  the  conse- 
quent imperfection  of  human  weak- 
ness. Shall  I  meet  witli  a  friend- 
ship tliat  defies  years  of  absence,  and 
the  clumces  and  changes  of  fortune  ? 
Perhaps  "such  things  are;"  (Wie /jore- 
est  man  I  have  great  hopes  from  that 
way:  but  who,  except  a  romanciS 
writer,  would  think  On  a  love  that 
could  promise  for  life,  in  spite  of  dis- 
tance, absence,  chance,  and  change; 
and  that,  too,  with  slender  hopes  of 
fruition  ?  For  my  own  part,  I,  can 
say  to  myself  in  both  requi"iitions, 
"  Thou  arttlie  man  !"  I  dare,  in  cool 
resolve  I  dare,  declare  myself  that 
friend,  and  that  lover.  If  womankind 
is  capable  of  such  things,  Clarinda  is. 
I  trust  that  she  is; '  and  feel  I  shall 
be  miserable  if  she. is  not.  There  is 
not  one  virtue  which  gives  worth,  nor 
one  sentiment  which  does  honour  to 
the  sex,  that  she  does  not  possess, 
superior  to  any  wonian  1  ever  saw: 
her  exalted  mind,  aided  a  little,  per- 
haps, by  her  situation,  is,  I  think,  ca- 
pable of  that  nobly- romantic  love-en- 
thusiasm. 

May  I  see  you  on  Wednesday  even- 
ing, my  dear  angel  ?  The  next  Wed- 
nesday again  will,  I  conjecture,  be -a 
hated  day  to  us  both.  I  tremble  for 
censorious  remark,  for  your  sake;  but 
in  extraordinary  cases,  may  not  usual 
and  useful  precaution  be  a  little  dis- 
pensed with?  Three  eyenings,  three 
swift  winged  evenings,  with  pinions 
of  down,  are  all  the  past;  I  dare  not 
calculate  the  future.      I  shall  call  at 

Miss 's  to-morrow  evening;  'twill 

be  a  farewell  call. 

I  have  written ,  out  my  last  sheet  of 
paper,  so  I  am  reduced  to  my  last 
half-shieet.  What  a  strange  myste- 
ious  faculty  is  that  thing  called  imag- 
ination !  We  have  ho. ideas  almost  -at 
all  .of  another  world;  but  I  have  often 


m 


BURNS'  WOKKS.* 


ainused  myself  with  visionary  scliemes 
of  what  happiness  might  be  enjoyed 
by  small  alterations — alterations, that 
we  can  fully  enter  into,  in  this  present 
state  of  existence.  For  instance,  sup- 
pose you  and  I,  just  as  we.are  at  pres- 
ent; the  same  reasoning  powers,  senti- 
ments, and  even  desires;  the  same 
fond  curiosity  for  knowledge  and  re- 
marking observation  in  our  minds; 
and  imagine  our  bodies  free  from  pain 
and  the  necessary  supplies  for  the 
wants  of  nature  at  all  times,  and 
easily  within  our  reach ;  -imagine  fur- 
ther, that  we  were  set  free  from  the 
laws  of  gravitation,  which  bind  us  to 
this  globe,  and  could  at  pleasure  fly, 
without  inconvenience,  through  all 
the  yet  unconjectured  bounds  of  crea- 
tion, what  a  life  of  bliss  would  we 
lead,  in  our  mutual  pursuit  of  virtue 
and  knowledge,  and  our  mutual  enjoy- 
ment of  friendship  and  love  ! 

I  see  you  laughing  at  my  fairy 
fancies,  and  calling  me  a  voluptuous 
Mohammedan;  but  i  am  certain  I 
would  be  a  happy  creature,  beyond  any- 
thing we  call  bliss  here  below;  nay, 
it  would  be  a  paradise  congenial  to 
you  too.  Don't  you  see  us,  hand  in 
hand,  or  rather,  my  arm  about  your 
lovely  waist,  making  our  remarks  on 
Sirius,  the  nearest  of  the  fixed  stars; 
or  surveying  a  comet,  flaming  innoxi- 
ous by  us,  as  we  just  noiv  would  mark 
the  passing  pomp  of  a  travelling  mon- 
arch; or  in  a  shady  bower  of  Mercury 
or  Venus,  dedicating  the  hour  to  love, 
in  mutual  converse,  relying  honour,  and 
revelling  endearment,  whilst  the  most 
exalted  strains  of  poesy  and  harmony 
would  be  the  ready  spontaneous  lan- 
guage of  our  souls  !  Devotion  is  the 
favourite  employment  of  your  heart;  so 
is  it  of  mine:  what  incentives  then  to, 
and  powers  for  reverence,  gratitude, 
faith,  and  hope,  in  all  the  fervours  of 
adoration  and  praise  to  that  Being, 
whose  unsearchable  wisdom,  power, 
and  goodness,  so  pervaded,  so  in- 
spired, every  sense  and  feeling! — By 
this,  time,  I-dare  say  you  will  be  bless- 
ing the.negleet  of  the  maid  that  leaves 
me  destitute  of  paper  1 

.  -  .     Stltandek. 


No.  VIII. 

Tuesday  Night. 

Jam  deliglited,  charming  Clarinda, 
with  your  honest  enthusiasm  for  relig^ 
ion.  Those  of  either  sex,  but  partic- 
ularly the  female,  who  are  lukewarm 
in  that  most  important  of  all  things, 
"  0  my  soul,  come  not  thou  into  their 
secrets  !" — 1  feel  myself  deeply  inter- 
ested in  your  good  opinion,  and  will 
lay  before  you  the  outlines  of  my  be- 
lief. He,  who  is  our  Author  and  Pre- 
server, and  will  one  day  be  our  Judge, 
must  be  (not  for  his  sake  in  the  way 
of  duty,  but  from  the  pative  impulse 
of  our  hearts)  the  object  of  our  rever- 
ential awe  and  grateful  adoration:  He 
is  Almighty  and  all-bounteous,  wo  aro 
weak  and  dependent;  hence  prayer  and 
every  other  sort  of  devotion. — ^— "  He 
is  not  willing  that  any  should  perish; 
but  that  all  should  come  to  everlasting 
life;"  consequently  it  must  be  in  every 
one's  power  to  embrace  his  offer  of 
"  everlasting  life;"  otherwise  he  could 
not,  in  justice,  condemn  those  who  did 
not.  A  mind  pervaded,  actuated,  and 
governed,  by  purity,  truth,  and  charity, 
though  it  does  not  merit  heaven,  yet  is 
an  absolutely  necessary  pre-requisite, 
without  which  heaven  can  neither  be 
obtained  nor  enjoyed ;  and,  by  divine 
promise,  such  a  mind  shall  never  fail 
of  attaining  "  everlasting  life:"  hence 
the  impure,  the  deceiving,  and  the  un- 
charitable, extrude  themselves  from 
eternal  bliss,  by  their  unfitness  for  en- 
joying it.  The  Supreme  Being  has 
put  the  immediate  administration  of 
all  this,  for  wise  and  good  ends  known 
to  himself,  into  the  hands  of  Jesus 
Christ,  a  great  personage,  whose  re- 
lation to  him  we  cannot  comprehend, 
but  whose  relation  to'  us  is  a  guide  and 
Saviour;  and  who,  except  for  our  own 
obstinacy  and  misconduct,  will  bring 
us  all,  through  various  ways,  and  by 
various  means,  to  bliss  at  last. 

These  are  my  tenets,  my  lovely 
friend;  and  which,  I  think,  cannot  be 
well  disputed.  My  creed  is  pretty 
nearly  expressed  in  the  last  clause  of 
Jamie  Dean's  grace,  an  honest  weaver 
in  Ayrshire;   "Lord,  grant  that  we 


£ET.TERS  TO  CLAEINDA. 


569 


may  lead  a  guid  life  !  for  a  guid  life 
maks  a  guid  end,  at  least  it  helps 
weel  1" 

I  am  flattered  by  the  entertainment 
you  tell  me  you  have  found  in  my 
packet.  You  see  me  as  I  have  been, 
jou  know  me  as  I  am,  and  may  guess 
at  what  I  am  likely  to  be.  I  too  may 
say,  "Talk  not  of  love,"  &c.,  for  in- 
deed he  has  ''  plunged  me  deep  in 
woe  !"  Not  that  I  ever  saw  a  woman 
who  pleased  unexceptionably,  as  my 
Clarlnda  elegantly  says,  "  In  the 
companion,  the  friend,  and  the  mis- 
treis."  One  indeed  I  could  except—  One, 
before  passion  threw  its  mists  over  my 
discernment,  I  knew  the  first  of  wo- 
men !  Her  name  is  indelibly  written 
in  my  heart's  core — but  I  dare  not  look 
in  on  it — a  degree  of  agony  would  be 
the  consequence.  O  thou  perfidious, 
cruel,  mischief-making  demon,  who 
presldest  over  that  frantic  passion — 
thon  mayest,  thou  dost  poison  my 
peace,  but  thou  shalt  not  taint  Hxj  hon- 
oiir— I  would  not,  for  a  single  mo- 
ment, give  an  asylum  to  the  most  dis- 
tant imagination  that  would  shadow 
the  faintest  outline  of  a  selfish  gratifi- 
cation, at  the  expense  of  her  whose 
happiness  is  twisted  with  the  threads 

of '  my  existence. May  slie   be  as 

happy  as  she  deserves  !  And  if  my 
tenderest,  faithfullest  friendship  can 
add  to  lier  bliss,  I  shall  at  least  have 
one  solid  mine  of  enjoyment  in  my 
bosom  !    Don't  gusss  at  these  ravings  ! 

I  watched  at  our  front  window  to- 
day, but  was  disappointed.  It  has 
been  a  day  of  disappointments.  I  ani 
just  risen  from  a  two  hours' bout  after 
supper,  with  silly  or  sordid  souls,  who 
could  relish  nothing  in  common  with 

me  but  the  Port. One 'Tis  now 

"witching  time  of  night;"  and  what- 
ever is  out  of  joint  in  the  foregoing 
scrawl,  impute  it  to  enchantment  and 
spells;  for  I  can't  look  over  it,  but 
will  seal  it  up  directly,  as  I  don't  care 
for  to-morrow's  criticisms  on  it. 

Tou  are  by  this  time  fast  asleep, 
Clarinda;  may  good  angels  attend  and 
guard  you  as  constantly  and  faitlif uUy 
as  my  good  wishes  do  ! 


"  Beauty,  which,  whether  waking  or  asleep, 
Shot  forth  peculiar  graces." 

John  Milton,  I  wish  thy  soul  better 
rest  than  I  expect  on  my  pillow  to^ 
night  !  0  for  a  little  of  the  cart-horse 
part  of  human  nature  !  Uood  night, 
my  dearest  Clarinda  !  ' 

Stlvander. 


No.  IX. 


Thursday  Noon. 
I  AM  certain  I  saw  you,  Clarinda; 
but  you  don't  look  to  the  proper  story 
for  a  poet's  lodging — 

"  Where  speculation  roosted  near  the  sky."  • 
I  could  almost  have  thrown  mj-self 
over  for  very  vexation.  Whydidn't 
you  look  higher  !  It  has  spoiled  niy 
peace  for  this  day.  To  be  so  near  my 
charming  Clarinda;  to  miss  her  look 
when  it  was  searching  for  me — I  am 
sure  the  soul  is  capable  of  disease,  for 
mine  has  convulsed  ,  itself  into  an  in- 
flammatory fever. 

You  have  converted  me,  Clarinda  I 
(I  shall  love  that  name  while  I .  live : 
there  is  heavenly  music  in  it.)  Booth 
and  Amelia  I  know  well.*  Your  sei  - 
timents  on  that  subject,  as  they  arc  on 
every  subject,  are  just  and  noble.  "To 
be  feelingly  alive  to  kindness,  and  to 
unkindness,"  is  a  charming  female 
character.  ! 

What  I  said  in  my  last  letter,  the  - 
powers  of  fuddling  sociality  only  know 
for  me.  By  yours,  I  understand  my 
good  star  has  been  partly  in  my  hori-- 
zon,  when  I  got  wild  in  my  reveries.- 
Had  that  evil  planet,  which  has  almost 
all  my  life  shed  its  baleful  rays  on 
my  devoted  head,  been  as  usual,  in- 
my  zenith,  I  had  certainly  blabbed 
something  that  would  have  pointed, 
out  to  you  the  dear  object  of  my  tend- 
erest friendship,  and,  in  spite  of  me,, 
something  more.  Had  that  fatal  in- 
formation escaped  me,  and  it  waa 
merely  chance,  or  kind  stars,  that  it 
did  not,  I  had  been  undone  !  You 
would  never  have  have  written  me  ex- 


I         *  An  allusion  to  Fielding's  "  Amelia." 


sra 


BURNS'  ^WGEKS. 


«ept  perliaps  once  more  !  Oh,  I  could 
curse  cireumstalices,  and  the  coarse 
■tie  of  human  laws,  which  keep  fast 
what  common  sense  would  loose,  and 
which  bars  that  happiness  itself  can- 
jiot  give — happiness  which  otherwise 
Love  and  Honour  would  warrant ! 
But  hold — I  shall  make  no  more  "hair- 
breadth 'scapes." 

My  friendship,  Clarinda,  is  a  life- 
rent business.  My'  likings  are  both 
strong  and  eternal.  I  told  you  I  had 
but  one  male  friend:  I  have  but  two 
female.  I  should  have  a  third,  but 
sl)e  is  surrounded  by  the  blandish- 
ments of  flattery  and  courtship.  .  . 
I  register  in  my  heart's  core —    .     .   _. 

Miss  N can  tell  how  divine  she  is. 

She  Is  worthy  of  a  place  in  tho  same 
bosom  with  my  Clarinda.  That  is  the 
highest  compliment  I  can  pay  her. 

Farewell,  Clarinda!    Remember 
Sylvandbr. 


No.    X. 


Saturday  Morning^. 

TotJK  thoughts  on  religion,  Cla- 
rinda, shall  be  welcome.  You  may, 
perhaps,  distrust  me,  when  I  siy  'tis 
also  my  favourite  topic;  but  mine  is 
the  religion  of  the  bosom.  I  hate  the 
very  idea  of  a  controversial  divinity; 
as  I  firmly  believe  that  every  honest 
upright  man,  of  whatever  sect,  will  bo 
accepted  of  the  Deity.  If  your  verses, 
as  you  seem  to  hint,  contain  censure, 
except  j-ou  want  an  occasion  to  break 
with  me,  don't  send  them.  I  have  a 
little  infirmity  in  my  disposition,  that 
v/here  I  fondly  love  or  highly  esteem, 
I  cannot  bear  reproach. 

"Reverence  thyself"  is  a  sacred 
iliaxim,  and  I  wish  to  cherish  it.  I 
think  I  told  you  Lord  Bolingbroke's 
saying  to  Swift — "  Adieu,  dear  Swift, 
with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  entirely; 
inake  an  effort  to  love  me  with  all 
mine."  A  glorious  sentiment,  and 
without  which  tlieri  can  be  no  friend- 
ship!  I  do  highly,  very  highly  es- 
teem 70U  indeed,  Clarinda, — ^you  merit 
it  allt  Perhaps,  too,.  I  scorn  dissimu- 
lation.L    I  could   fondly  love   you: 


judge  then,  what  a  maddening  sting 
your  -  reproach  would  be.  "  Oh !  1 
have  sins  to  Heaven,  but  none  to  youj" 
— V/ith  what  pleasure  would  I  meet 
you  to-day,  but  I  cannot  walk  to  meet 
the  fly.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  see  you 
on.  foot  about  the  middle.of  next  week, 
I  am  interrupted — perhaps  you  are 
not  sorry  for  it,  you  will  tell  me — ^but 
I  won't  anticipate  blame.  0  Clarinda  ! 
did  yon  know  how  dear  to  me  is  your 
look  of  kindness,  your  smile  of  appro- 
bation !  you  would  not,  either  in  prose 
or  verse,  risk  a  censorious  remark. 

"  Curst  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow. 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe!" 

Sylvandbr. 


No.  XI. 


Tuesday  Momingf. 

I  CANNOT  go  out  to-day,  my  dearest 
Clarinda,  without  sending  you  half  a 
line,  by  way  of  a  sin-offering;  but,  be- 
lieve me,  'twas  the  sin  of  ignorance. 
Could  you  think  that  I  intended  to 
hurt  you  by  anything  I  said  yester- 
night ?  Nature  has  been  too  kind  to 
you  for  your  happiness,  your  delicacy, 
your  sensibility. — 0  why  should  siich 
glorious  qualifications  be  the  fruitful 
source  of  woe  !  You  have  "murder- 
ed sleep  "  to  me  last  night.  I  went  to 
bed,  impressed  with  an  idea  that  you 
were  unhappy:  sfnd  every  start  I  closed 
my  eyes,  busy  Fancy  painted  you  in 
such  scenes  of  romantic  misery  that  I 
would  almost  be  persuaded  you  were 
not  well  this  morning. 

"  If  I  nnwittinfjly  have  offended. 
Impute  it  not." 

"  But  while  we  live, 
But  one  short  hour,  perhaps,  between  us  two, 
Let  there  be  peace." 

If  Mary  is  not  gone  by  the  time  this 
reaches  you,  give  her  my  best  compli- 
ments. She  is  a  charming  girl,  and 
highly  worthy  of  the  noblest  love. 

I  send  you  a  poem  to  read  till  I  call 
on  you  this  night,  which  will  be  about 
nine.  I  wish  I  could  procure  some 
potent  spell,  some  fairy  charm  that 
woulil  protect  from  injury,  or  restore 
to  rest  that  bosom-chord,  "  trembling- 


LETTERS  TO  CLAKINDA. 


571' 


fy  "live  all  o'er,"  on  wliicli  hangs  your 
peace  of  mind.  I  thought,  Vainly,  I 
fear,  thought  that  the  devotion  of  love 
^-love'  strong  as  even  you  can  feel — 
love  guarded,  invulnerably  guarded, 
by  all  the  purity  of  virtue,  and  all  the 
pride  of  honour;  I  tUouglit  such  a  love 
Would  make  you  happy— will  I  be 
mistaken  !     I  can  no  more  for  huiry 


No.  xn. 

Sunday  Morning. 

I  HAVE  just  been  before  the  throne 
of  my  God,  Clarinda;  according  to  my 
association  of  ideas,  my  sentiments  of 
love  and  friendship,  I  next  devote  my- 
self to  you.  Yesterday  night  I  was 
happy  —  happiness  ' '  that  the  world 
cannot  give."  I  kindle  at  the  recol- 
lection; but  it  is  a  flame  whore  inno- 
cence looks  smiling  on,  and  honour 
stands  by  a  sacred  guard.  —  Tour 
heart,  your  fondest  wishes,  your  dear^ 
est  thoughts,  these  are  yours  to  be- 
stow, your  jjerson  is  unapproachable 
by  tho  laws  of  your  country;  and  he 
loves  not  as  I  do  who  would  make  you 
miserable. 

You  are  an  angel,  Clarinda;  you  are 
surely  no  mortal  that  "  the  earth 
owns." — To  kiss  your  hand,  to  live  on 
your  smile,  is  to  me  far  more  exquisite 
bliss  than  the  dearest  favours  that  the 
fairest  of  the  sex,  yourself  excepted. 
Can  bestow. 

Sunday  Evening. 

You  are  the  constant  companion 
of  my  thoughts.  How  wretched  is  the 
condition  of  one  who  is  haunted  with 
conscious  guilt,  and  trembling  under 
the  idea  of  dreaded  vengeance  I  and 
what  a  placid  calm,  what  a  charming 
secret  enjoyment  it  gives,  to  boso»i  the 
kind, feelings  of  friendship,  and  the 
iond  throes  of  love  !  Out  upon  tho 
tempest  of  anger,  the  acrimonious  gall 
of  fretful  impatience,  the  sullen  frost 
of  lowering  resentment,  or  the  corrod- 
ing poison  of  withered  envy  !  They 
eat  vip  the  immortal  part  of  man  I  If 
they  spent  their  fury  only  on  tho 
unfortunate  objects  of  them,  it  would 


be  something  in  tluir  favour;  but 
these  miserable  passions,  like  traitor^ 
Iscariot,  betray  their  lord  and -master. 

Thou  Almighty  Author  of  peace, 
and  goodness;  and  love;  do  thou  give 
me  the  social  heart  that  kindly  tastes 
of  every  man's  cup  !-^Is  it  a  draught 
of  joy  V — warm  and  open  my  heart  to 
share  it  with  cordial  nnenvying  rejoic- 
ing !  Is  it  the  bitter  potion  of  sorrow  V 
— melt  my  heart  with  sincerely  sympa- 
thetic woe  !  Above  all,  dq  thou  give 
me  the  manly  mind,  that  resolutely 
exemplifies  in  life  and  manners  those 
sentiments  which  I  would  wish  to  be, 
thought  to  possess  !  The  friend  of  my 
soul — there,  may  I  never  deviate  from 
the  firmest  fidelity  and  most  active 
kindness  !  Clarinda,.  the  dear  object 
of  my  fondest  love;  there,  may  the 
most  sacred  inviolate  honour,  the  most 
faithful  kindling  constancy*  ever  Watch 
and  animate  my  every  thought  and 
imagination  ! 

Did  you  ever  meet  with  the  follow- 
ing lines  spoken  of  Religion,  your 
darling  topic  ? 

^^■'Tis  thisy  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morn- 
ing bright ! 

'  Tis  this  that  gilds,  ths  horrors  of  pur  night ; 

When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  wjien  friends 
are  few,  [pursue  ; 

When  friends   are   faithless,  or   wlien   foes 

'Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the 
,smart. 

Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  its  dart ; 

Within  the  brtast  bids  purest  rapture  rise. 

Bids  smiling  Consciencfe  spread  her  cloudless 
skies.^' 

I  met  with  these  verses  very  early 
in  life,  and  was  so  delighted  with  them 
that  I  have  them  by  me,  copied  at 
school. 

Good  night  and  sound  rest,  my 
dearest  Clarinda ! 

Sylvakdbe. 


No.  XIII. 

I  WAS  on  the  way,  my  Love,  to  meet 
you,  (I  never  do  -things  by  halves) 
when  I  got  your  card.  M — -  goes  out 
of  town  to-morrow  morning  to  see  a 
brother  of  his  who  is  newly  arrived 

from .     I  am  determined,  that  he 

and  I  shall  calL  on  you  together;  so. 


m 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


look  you,  lest  I  should  never  see 
to-morrow,  we  will  call  on  you  to-night; 

and  you  may  put  off  tea  till  about 

seven;  at  which  time  in  the  Galloway 
phrase,  ' '  an  the  beast  bs  to  the  fore, 
an  the  branks  bide  hale,"  expect 
the  humblest  of  your  humble  servants, 
and  his  dearest  friend.  We  propose 
sbaying  only  half  an  hour,  "  for  aught 
■we  ken."  I  could  suffer  the  lash  of 
misery  eleven  months  in  the  year,- 
were  the  twelfth  to  be  composed  of 
hours  like  yesternight.  You  are  the 
soul  of  my  enjoyment:  all  else  is  of 
the  stuff  of  stocks  or  stones. 

Sylvander. 


No.  XIV. 

Thursday  Morning. 
"  Unlavish  Wisdom  never  works  in  vain." 

I  HAVE  been  tasking  my  reason, 
Clarinda,  why  -"i  woman ,  who  for  na- 
tive genius,  poignant  wit,  strength  of 
mind,  generous  sincerity  of  soul,  and 
the  sweetest  female  tenderness,  is 
without  ii,  peer,  and  whose  personal 
charms  have  few,  very,  very  few  par- 
allels among  her  sex;  why,  or  liow 
she  should  fall  to  the  blessed  lot  of  a 
poor  hairum  scairum  poet,  whom  For- 
tune had  kept  for  her  particular  use, 
to  wreak  her  temper  on  whenever  she 
was  in  ill  humour.  One  time  I  con- 
jectured that,  as  Fortune  is  the  most 
capricious  jade  ever  known,  she  may 
have  taken,  not  a  fit  of  remorse,  but  a 
paroxysm  of  whim,  to  raise  the  poor 
devil  out  of  the  mire,  where  he  had  so 
oftdu  and  so  conveniently  served  her 
as  a  stepping  stone,  and  given  him 
the  most  glorious  boon  she  ever  liad  in 
her  gift,  merely  for  the  maggot's  sake, 
to  see  how  his  fool  head  and  his 
fool  heart  will  bear  it.  At  other 
times  I  was  vain  enough  to  think 
that  Nature,  who  has  a  great  deal 
to  say  with  Fortune,  had  given  the 
coquettish  goddess  some  such  hint 
as;  '•  Here  is  a  paragon  of  female  excel- 
lence, whose  equal,  in  all  my  former 
compositions,  I  never  was  lucky 
enough  to  hit  on,  and  despair  of  ever 
doing  so    again;    you  have  cast  her 


rather  in  the  shades  of  life;  there  is  a 
certain  poet  of  my  making;  among 
your  frolics  it  would  not  be  amiss  to  at- 
tach him  to  this  masterpiece  of  my 
hand,  to  give  her  that  immortality 
among  mankind  which  no  woman  of 
any  age  ever  more  deserved,  and  which 
few  rhymesters  of  this  age  are  better 
able  to  confer. " 

Evening^g  o'clock.    . 

I  AM  here,  absolutely  unfit  to  finish 
my  letter — pretty  hearty  after  a  bowl, 
which  has  been  constantly  plied  since , 
dinner  till  this  moment.  I  have  been 
with  Mr.  Schetki.  the  musician,  and 
he  lias  set  it*  finely. 1  have  no  dis- 
tinct ideas  of  anything,  but  that  I  have 
drunk  your  health  twice  to-night,  and 
that  you  are  all  my  soul  holds  dear  in 
this  world.                     Sylvandek. 


No.  XV. 

Saturday  Morning*. 

There  is  no  time,  my  Clarinda, 
when  the  conscious  thrilling  chords  of 
Love  and  Friendship  give  such  delight 
as  in  the  pensive  hours  of  what  our 
favourite,  Thomson,  calls  "  Philoso- 
phic Melancholy."  The  sportive  in- 
sects who  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  pros- 
perity: or  the  worms  that  luxuriant 
crawl  amid  their  ample  wealth  of 
earth — they  need  no  Clarinda:  they 
would  despise  Sylvauder — ^if  they 
durst.  The  family  of  Misfortune,  a 
numerous  group  of  brothers  and  sis- 
ters !  they  need  a  resting-place  to  their 
souls:  unnoticed,  often  condemned  by 
the  woi-ld;  in  some  degree,  perhaps, 
condemned  by  themselves,  they  feel 
the  full  enjoyment  of  ardent  love,  del- 
icate tender  endearments,  mutual  es- 
teem, and  mutual  reliance. 

In  fftis  light  I  have  often  admired  re- 
ligion. Id  proportion  as  we  are  wrung 
witli  grief,  or  distracted  ^vith  anxiety, 
the  ideas  of  a  compassionate  Deity,  an 
Almighty  Protector,  are  doubly  dear. 

" '  TYj  i/iis.  my  Friend,  that  streaks  our  morn- 
ing bright ; 
'  7"w  t/ii'i  that  gilds  the  horrors  of  our  night." 

*  "  Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul,"  p.  na. 


LETTlEKS  TO  CLARINDA. 


57» 


I  have  been  this  morning  talcing  a 
peep  through,  as  Young  finely  says, 
' '  the  dark  postern  of  time  long 
elaps'd;"  and,  you  -vvill  easily  guess, 
'twas  a  rueful  prospect.  Wliat  a  tis- 
sue of  thoughtlessness,  weakness,  and 
folly!  My  life  reminded-  me  of  a 
ruined  temple;  what  strength,  what 
proportion  in  some  parts  1  what  un- 
sightly gaps,  what  prostrate  ruins  in 
others  !  I  kneeled  down  before  the 
Father  of  mercies,  and  said,  "Father, 
I  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and  in 
thy  siglit,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to 

be  called  thy  son  !" 1  rose,  eased 

and  strengthened.  I  despise  the  super- 
stition of  a  fanatic,  but  I  love  the  relig- 
ion of  a  man.  "  The  future,"  said  I 
to  myself,  "is  still  before  me;"  there 
let  me 

"  On  reason  build  resolve, 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man  '  " 

"  I  have  diflBculties  many  to  encoun- 
ter," said  1;  "  but  they  are  not  abso- 
lutely insuperable:  and  where  is  iirm- 
ness  of  mind  shown  but  in  exertion  ? 
mere  declamation  is  bombastic  rant." 
Besides,  wherever  I  am,  or  .in  what- 
ever situatou  I  may  be — 

"  'Tis  nought  to  me : 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ;      [joy  ! " 
And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must  be 

Saturday  Night— half  after  Ten. 

What  luxury  of  bliss  I  was  enjoy- 
ing this  time  yesternight  !  My  ever- 
dearest  Clarinda,  yon  have  stolen  away 
my  soul:  but  you  have  refined,  you 
have  exalted  it:  you  have  given  it  a 
stronger  sense  of  virtue,  and  a  stronger 
relish  for  piety. — Clarinda,  first  of  your 
sex,  if  ever  I  am  the  veriest  wretch  on 
earth  to  forget  you;  if  ever  your  love- 
ly image  is  effaced  from  my  soul, 

"-May  I  be  lost,  no  eye  to  weep  my  end  ; 
And  find  no  earth  that's  base  enough  to  bury 
me!" 

Wliat  trifling  silliness  is  the  childish 
fondness  of  the  every-day  children  of 
the  world  !  'tis  the  unmeaning  toying 
of  the  younglings  of  the  fields  and 
forests :  but  where  Sentiment  and 
Fancy  unite  their  sweets  ;  wjiere  Taste 


and  Delicacy  refine  ;  where  Wit  adds 
the  flavour,  and  Goodness  gives, 
strength  and  spirit  to  all,  what  a  de- 
licious draught  is  the  hour  of  tender 
endearment — Beauty  and  Grace,  in  the 
arms  of  Truth  and  Honour,  in  all  the, 
luxury  of  mutual  love. 

Clarinda  have  you  ever  seen  the  pic-, 
turo  realised  I  Not  in  all  its  very 
richest  colouring. 

Last  night,  Clarinda,  but  for  one- 
slight  shade,  was  the  glorious  pic- 
ture— 

Innocence 
Look'd  gaily  smiling, on  ;  while  rosy  Pleasure 
Hid  young  Desire  amid  her  flowery  wreath. 
And  pour'd  heccup  luxuriant;  mantling  high, 
The  sparkling   heavenly   vintage — love  and 
bliss ! 

Clarinda,  when  a  poet  and  poetess  of 
Nature's  making,  two  of  Nature's  no- 
blest productions  I  when  they  drink  to- 
gether of  the  same  cup  of  love  and  bliss 
— attempt  not,  ye  coarser  stuff  of  hu- 
man nature,  profanely  to  measure  en- 
joyment ye  never  can  know  !  —  Good 
night,  my  dear  Clarinda  ! 

Sylvander. 


No.  XVI. 

My  bveu-deakest  Clarinda,  —  I 
make  a  numerous  dinner  party  wait 
me  while  I  read  yours,  and  write  this.  ; 
Do  not  require  that  1  should  cease  to 
love  you,  to  adore  you  i!n  my  soul — 
'tis  to  me  impossible — your  peace  and 
happiness  are  to  me  dearw  than  my 
soul — name  the  terms  on  which  you 
wish  to  see  me,  to  correspond  with  me, 
and  you  have  them — I  must  love,  pine, 
mourn,  and  adore  in  secret — ^this  you. 
must  not  deny  me — ^.vou  will  ever  be 
to  me —  * 

"  Dear  as  the  light  that  vis.its  these  sad  eyes., 
Dear   as   the   ruddy   drops   that. warm  my.' 
heart!" 

I  have  not  patience  to  read  the  puri- 
tanic scrawl.  —  Vile  sophistry  !  —  Ye 
heavens  1  thou  God  of  nature  !  thou- 
Kedeemer  of  mankind  !  ye  look  down 
with  approving  eyes  on  a  passion  in- 
spired by  the  purest  flame,  and-guard- 
ed  by  truth,  delicacy,  and  honour;  bu*. 
the  half-inch  soul  of  an    unfeeling,. 


$-14 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


cold-b}oo!Jed,  pitiful  Presbyterian 
bigct  cannot  forgive  anything  above 
his  dungerfn  bosom  and  fojggy  head. 

Farewell;  I'll  be  with  you  to-mor- 
row evening-r*nd  be  at  rest  in  your 
mind — I  will  be  yours  in  the  way  you 
think  most  to  your  happiness  1  I  dare 
not  proceed — I  love,  and  will  love  you, 
and  will  with  joyous  confidence  ap- 
proach the  throne  of  the  Almighty 
judge  of  men,  with  your  dear  idea, 
and  will  despise  the  scum  of  senti- 
ment, and  the  mist  of  sophistry, 

Stlvandbr. 


No.  XVII. 

Tuesday  Evening. 

That  you  have  faults,  my  Clarinda, 
I  never  (^(ibted;  but  I  knew  not  where 
they  existed,  and  Saturday  night 
made  me  more  in  the  dark  than  ever. 
O  Clarinda  I  why  will  you  wound  my 
soul,  by  hinting  that  last  night  must 
have  lefeened  my  opinion  of  yoii  ? 
True,  I  was  "  behind  the  scenes  with 
you;"  but  wjiat  did  I  see?  A  bosom 
glowing  with  hoiioiir  aiid  benevolence; 
a  mind  enuobleij  by  genius,  informed 
and  refined  by  education  and  reflec- 
tion, and  exalted  by  native  religion, 
genuine  as  in  the  climes  of  heaven;  a 
heart  formed  for  all  the  glorious  melt- 
ifi*s  of  friendship,  love,  and  pity. 
These  1  saw. — I  saw  the  noblest  im- 
mortal soul  creation  ever  showed  me. 

I  looked  long,  my  dear  Clarinda,  for 
your  letter;  and  am  vexed  that  you  are 
complaining.  I  have  not  caught  you 
BO  far  wrong  as  in  your  idea,  that  the 
commerce  you  have  with  one  friend 
hurts  you,  if  you  cannot  tell  every  tit- 
tle of  it  to  aitOther.  Why  have  so  in- 
jurious a  suspicion  of  a  good  God, 
Clarinda,  as  to  think  that  Friendship 
and  Love;  on  the  sacred  inviolate  prin- 
ciples of  Truth,  Honour,  and  Religion, 
can  be  anything  else  than  an  object 
of  His  divine  ajjprobation  t 

1  have  mentioned,  in  some  of  my 
former  scrawls,  Saturday  evening 
next.  Do  allow  me  to  wait  on  you 
that '  evening.  Oh,  my  angel  !  how 
soon  must  we  part  I  and  when  can  we 


meet  again  I  I  look  forward  onitbe 
horrid  interval  with  tearful  eyes  I 
What  have  I  lost  by  not  knowing  you 
sooner  I  I  fear,  I  fear  my  acquaintance! 
with  you  is  too  short  to  make  that 
lasting  impression  on  your  heart  I: 
could  wish. 

SYI/VAKDER. 


No.  xvni. 

"I  AM  distressed  for  thee,  my 
brother  Jonathan."  I  have  suffered, 
Clarinda,  from  your  letter.  My  soul 
was  in  arms  at  the  sad  perusal:  I 
dreaded  that  1  had  acted  wrong.  .  If  1 
have  robbed  you  of  a  friend,  (iod  foii- 
give  me  I  Butj  Clarinda,  be  comforted: 
let  us  raise  the  tone  of  our  feelings  a 
little  higher  and  bolder.  A  fellow- 
creature  who  leaves  us,  who  spurns  .us 
without  just  cause,  though  once  our 
bosom  friend — up  with  a  little  honest 
pride— let  him  go  1  How  shall  I  com- 
fort you,  who  am  the  cause  of  the  in- 
jury ?  Can  1  wish  that  I  had  never 
seen  you?  that  we  had  never  met? 
No  !  I  never  will.  But  have  I  thrown 
you  friendless  ? — ^there  is  almost  dis- 
traction in  that  thought. 

Father  of  mercies  I  against  Thee 
often  have  I  sinned;  through  thy  grace 
I  will  endeavour  to  do  so  no  more ! 
She  who.  Thou  knowest,  is  dearer  to 
me  than  myself,  pour  Thou  the  balm 
of  peace  into  her  past  wounds,  and 
hedge  her  about  with  Thy  peculiar 
care,  all  her  future  days  and  nights  1 
Strengthen  her  tender  noble  mind, 
firmly  to  suffer,  and  magnanimously  to 
bear  1  Make  me  worthy  of  that  friend- 
ship she  honours  me  with.  May  my 
attachment  to  her  be  pure  as  devotion, 
and  lasting  as  immortal  life  I  O  Al- 
mighty Goodness,  hear  me  I  Be  to  her 
at  all  times,  particularly  in  the  hour 
of  distress  or  trial;  a  Friend,  and  Com- 
forter, a  Guide  and  Guard. 

"  How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord, 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ? 
Eternal  Wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help.  Omnipotence  ! " 

Forgive  me,  Clarinda,  the  injury  I 
have  done  you  I    To-night   I  shall  be 


LETTERS,  TO  CLARINDA. 


with  you:  as  indeed   I  shall  be  ill  at 
ease  till  I  see  you. 

Syltandbr. 


No.  XIX. 

Two  o'clock. 

I  -njST  now  received  your  first  letter 
of  yesterday,  by  the  careless  negli- 
gence of  the  penny  post.  Clarinda, 
matters  are  grown  very  serious  with 
us;  then  seriously  hear  me,  and  hear 
me,  Heaven  —  I  meet  you,  my  dear 

.  .  .  .  by  far  the  first  of  woman- 
kind, at  least  to  me;  I  esteemed,  I 
loved  you  at  first  sight;  the  longer  I 
am  acquainted  with  you,  the  more  in- 
nate amiableness  and  worth  I  discover 
in  you.— You  have  suffered  a  loss,  I 
confess,  for  my  saJie:  but  if  the  firm- 
est, steadiest,  warmest  friendship;  if 
every  endeavour  to  be  worthy  of  your 
friendship;  if  a  love,  strong  as  the  ties 
of  nature,  and  holy  as  the  duties  of 
religion — if  all  these  can  make  any- 
thing like  a  compensation  for  th6  evil 
I  have  occasioned  you,  if  they  be  worth 
your  acceptance,  or  can  in  the  least 
add  to  your  enjoyments — so  help  Syl- 
vander,  ye  Powers  above,  in  his  hour 
of  need,  as  he  freely  gives  these  all  to 
Clarinda  ! 

I  esteem  you,  I  love  you  as  a  friend; 
I  admire  you,  I  love  you  as  a  woman, 
beyond  any  one  in  all  the  circle  of 
creation;  1  know  I  shall  continue  to 
esteem  you,  to  love  you,  to  pray  for 
you,  nay,  to  pray  for  myself  for  your 
sake. 

Expect  me  at  eight;  and  believe  me 
to  be  ever,  my  dearest  madam,  yours 
most  entirely, 

Sylvandeb. 


No.  XX. 

When  matters,  ray  love,  are  des- 
perate, we  must  put  on  a  desperate 
face — 

"  On  reason  build  resolve, 
That  column' of  true 'majesty  in  man." 

Or,  as  the  same  author  finely  says  in 
another  place — 


"  Let  thy  &ov\  spring  up, 
And  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  Him  that 
made  thee," 

I  am  yours,  Clarinda,  for  life.  Never 
be  discouraged  at  all  this. .  Look  f0r. 
ward;  in,a  few  weeks  I  shall  be  some- 
where or  other  out  of  the  possibiUty  of 
seeing  you;  till  then,  I  shall  write  you 
often,  but  visit  you  seldom.  Your 
fame,  your  welfare,  your  happiness, 
are  dearer  to  me  than  any  gratification 
whatever.  Be  comforted,  my  love  1 
the  present  moment  is  the  worst:  the 
lenient  hand  of  Time  is  daily  and 
hourly  either  lightening  the  burden, 
or  making  us  insensible  to  the  weight.' 
None  of  these   friends,  I  mean   Mr. 

and  the  other  gentlemen,  can 

hurt  your  worldly  support,  and  for 
their  friendship,  in  a  little  time  you 
will  le§,rn  to  be  pasy,  and,  by  and  by, 
to  be  happy  without  it.  A  decent 
means  of  livelihood  in  the  world,  ah 
approving  God,  a  peaceful  conscience^  ' 
and  one  firm  trusty  friend — can  any- 
body that  has  these  be  said  to  be  un- 
happy ?    These"  are  yours. 

To  morrow  evening  I  shall  be  with 
you  about  eight;  probably  for  the  last 
time  till  I  return  to  Edinburgh.  In. 
the.  meantime,  should  any  of  these 
two  unlucky  friends  question  you  re- 
specting me,  whether  I  am  the  man,  I 
do  not  think  they  are  entitled  to  any 
information.  As  to  their  jealousy  and 
spying,  I  despise  them. — Adieu,  my 
dearest  madam  \ 

Syltandeb. 


No.  XXL 
Glasgow,  B^onday  Evening,  9  o'clock- 

The  attraction  of  -  love,  I  find,  is  ia 
an  inverse  proportion  to  the  attraction 
of  the  Newtonian  philosophy.  In  the 
system  of  Sir  Isaac,  the  nearer. objects . 
are  to  one  another  the  stronger  is  the  • 
attractive  force;  in  my  system,  every 
mile-stone  that  marked  my  progress 
from  Clarinda  awakened  a  keener  pan^ 
of  attachment  to  her. 

How  do  you  feel,  my  love  ?  Is  your 
heart  ill  at  ease  ?  I  fear  it, — God  for- 
bid that  these  persecutors  should 
harass  that  peace  which  is  more  pxe-' 


576 


BURKS'  WOEKS. 


cioas  to  me  than  my  own.  Be  assured 
I  sliall  ever  think  of  you,  muse  on 
you,  and,  in  my  moments  of  devotion, 
pray  for  yon.  The  hour  that  you  are 
not  in  all  my  thoughts — "  he  that  hour 
darkness  !  let  the  shadows  of  death 
cover  it !  let  it  not  he  numbered  in  the 
hours  of  the  day  !" 

"  When  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Be  my  tongue  mute  !  my  fancy  paint  no  more! 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! " 

I  have  just  met  with  my  old  friend, 
the  ship  captain;*  guess  my  pleasure. 
—To  meet  yon  could  alone  have  given 
me  more.  My  brother  William,  too, 
the  young  saddler,  has  come  to  Glas- 
gow to  meet  me;  and  here  are  we 
three  spending  the  evening. 

I  arrived  here  too  late  to  write  by 
post;  hut  I'll  wrap  half  a  dozen  sheets 
of  blank  papar  together,  and  send  it 
by  the  fly,  under  the  name  of  a  parcel. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  next  post 
town.  I  would  write  you  a  long  let- 
ter, but  for  the  present  ciroumstances 
of  my  friend. 

Adieu,  my  Clarinda  !  I  am  just  go- 
ing to  propose  your  health  by  way  of 
grace-drink. 

Sylvander. 


No.  XXIL 

Cumnock,  March  2,  1788. 

I  HOPE,  and  am  certain,  that  my 
generous  Clarinda  will  not  think  my 
silence,  for  now  a  long  week,  has  been 
in  any  degree  owing  to  my  forgetful- 
ness.  I  have  been  tossed  about  through 
the  country  ever  since  I  wrote  you; 
and  am  here,  returning  from  Dum- 
friesshire, at  an  inn,  the  post-offioe  of 
,the  place,  with  just  so  long  time  as 
my  horse  eats  his  corn,  to  write  you. 
I  have  been  hurried  with  business  and 
dissipation  almost  equal  to  the  insidi- 
ous decree  Of  the  Persian  monarch's 
mandate,  when  he  forbade  asking  pe- 
tition of  God  or  man  for  forty  days. 
Had  the  venerable  prophet  been  as 
throng  as  I,  he  had  not  broken  the 
decree,  at  least  not  thrice  a  day. 


*  His  early  friend^  Richard  Broivn,  ef  Ifvine. 


I  am  thinking  my  fanning  scheme 
will  yet  hold.  A  worthy  intelligent 
farmer,  my  father's  friend  and  my 
own,  has  been  with  me  on  the  spot:  ho 
thinks  the  bargain  practicable.  I  am 
myself,  on  a  more  serious  review  of 
the  lands,  much  better  pleased  with 
them.    I  won't  mention  this  in  writijig 

to  anybody  but  you  and .     Don't 

accuse  me  of  being  fickle:  I  have  the 
two  plans  of  life  before  me,  and  I 
wish  to  adopt  the  one  most  likely  to 
procure  me  independence.  I  shall  be 
in  Edinburgh  next  week.  1  long  to 
see  you:  your  image  is  omnipresent 
to  me;  nay,  I  am  convinced  1  would 
soon  idolatrise  it  most  seriously;  so 
much  do  absence  and  memory  improve 
the  medium  through  which  one  sees 
the  much-loved  object.  To-night,  at 
the  sacred  hour  of  eight,  I  expect  to 
meet  you — at  the  Throne  of  Grace.  I 
hope,  as  I  go  home  to-night,  to  find  a 
letter  from  you  at  the  post-office  in 
Mauphline.  I  have  just  once  seen  that 
dear  hand  since  I  left  Edinburgh — a 
letter  which  indeed  much  affected  me. 
Tell  me,  first  of  woman-kind  !  will  my 
warmest  attachment,  my  sincerest 
friendship,  my  correspondence,  will 
they  be  any  compensation  for  the  sac- 
rifices you  make  for  my  sake  !  If  they 
will,  they  are  yours.  If  I  settle  on  the 
farm  I  propose,  I  am  just  a  day  and  a 
half's  ride  from  Edinburgh.  We  wUl 
meet  —  don't  you  say,  ' '  perhaps  too 
often  !" 

Farewell,  my  fair,  my  charming 
poetess  !  May  all  good  things  ever 
attend  you  !  I  am  ever,  my  dearest 
tnadam,  yours, 

Syltandkr.     ' 


No.  XXIII. 

MossGiEL,  March  7,  1788. 
Clarinda,  I  have  been  so  stung 
with  your  reproach  for  unkindness,'  a 
sin  so  unlike  me,  a  sin  I  detest  more 
than  a  breach  of  the  whole  Decateo-ue,- 
fifth,  sixth,  seventh,  and  ninth  artfcles 
excepted,  that  I  believe  I  shall  not 
rest  in  my  grave  about  it,  if  I  die  be- 
fore I  sea  you.  You  have  often  allow- 
ed me  the  head  to  judge,  and    the 


LETTERS  TO  CLARINDA. 


*4:;i 


heart  to  feel,  the  -  influence  of  female 
excellence.  Was  it  not  blasphemy, 
then,  against  your  own  charms,  and 
against  my  feelings,  to  suppose  that  a 

T^iiort  fortnight  could  abate  my  pas- 
sion 1  You,  my  love,  may  have  your 
cai-es  and  anxieties  to  disturb  you,  but 
they  are  the  usual  recurrences  of  life;' 

.your  future  views  are  fixed,  and  your 
mind  in  a  settled  routine.  Could  not 
you,  my  ever  dearest  madam,  make  "a 
little  allowance  for  a  man,  after  long 
absence,  ■pajHng  a  short  visit 'to"  a 
country  full  of  friends,  delations,  and 
early  intimates?  -  Cannot  you  guesg, 
my  Clarinda,'  what  thouglvts,  what 
cares,  what  anxious*  forebodikgg,. 
hopes,  and  fears,  Jniisfcro^d  the 
breast  of  the  man  of  keen  'sensihility, 
when  no  less  is  on  the  tapis  than  his 
aim,  his  employment,  his  very  exist- 
ence, through  future  life  ?  < 

Now  that,  not  my  apology,  but  my 
defence,  is  made,  I-  feel  my  soul  re- 
spire more  easily.  I  know  yaa  will 
go  along  with  me  in  my  justification 
— wouid  to  Heaven  you  could  in  iny 
adoption  too  !  I  mean  an  adoption  be- 
neath the  stars — an  adoption  where  I 
might .  revel  in  the  immediate  beams 
of 

"She,  the  bright  sun  of  all  her  sex.^'  - 

I  would  not  have  you,  my  dear,  ma- 
dam, so  much  hurt  at  Miss  — ^— 's  cold- 
ness, "lis  placing  yourself  below  her, 
ah  honour  she  by  no  means  deserves. 
We  ought,  when  we  wish  to  be  econ- 
omists in  happiness — we  ought,  in  the 
first  place,  to  &k  the  standard  of  our 
own  character;  and  when,  on  f,ull  ex-' 
amination,  we  know  where  we  stand, 
and  how  much  ground  we  occupy,  let 
us  contend  for  it  as  property:  and  those 
who  seem  to  doubt,  or  deny  us  what  is 
justly  ours,  let  us  either  pity  their 
prejudices,  or  despise  their  judg- 
ment. I  know,  my  dear,  you  ■will  say 
this  is  self-conceit;  but  I  call  it  self- 
knowledge.  The  one  is  the  overween- 
ing opinion  of  a  fool,  who  fancies  him- 
self to  be  what  he  wishes  himself  to 
be  thought;  the  other  is  the'  honest 
justice  that  a  man  of  sense,  who  has 
*thoroughly  examined  the  subject,  owes 
to  himself.  ■•  Withou?fc-'-this  standard. 


this  column  in  our.  own-  mind',  we  a];e 
perpetually  at  the  mercy  of  the  petu- 
lance, the  mistakes,  the  prejudices, 
hay,  the  very'  weal^ness  and  '^vicked- 
nesS  of,.oul^  felloe-creatures.  ,    ,,, 

I  urge'thjs,  'iny  dear,  both  to  confirm 
myself  in  the  doctrine,  which, ,  I  assure 
you,  I  sometimes  need;  and  because  I 
know  that  this  causes  you  often  much 

disquiet. — To  return  to  Miss  ■ :  s]ie 

is  most  certainly  a  worthy  soul,  and 
equalled  by  very,  very  few,  in  good- 
ness of  Jie^rt.  Butcan she. bqast  more 
goodness  of  heart  .than  (Jl^irinda  1 ',  Not 
even  prejudice  ,will  dare  to  say  so. 
Eor  penetration  and  discernment,  Cl.ai- 
inda.s^ees  far  beyond- her:  to  wit.  Miss 

dare  make  no  pretence;   to  Clai- 

inda's  wit,  scarcely  any  pf  her  sex  dare 
niq,ke  pretence. '  ,.  Personal  charms,  it 
would  be ,  ridiculous  to  run  the. -par- 
allel."   And  for,  conduct  in  life,   Miss- 

was  never  called  o,ut>  either  much 

to  do  or  to  sufEer;  Clarinda  has  been 
l?oth;  •  .and  jl\as    performed   Iter  part 

where  Miss would  have  sunk  at 

the  bare  idea. 

Away,  then,,  with  these  disquie- 
tudes !  Let  us  pray  with  the  honest 
weaver  of  Kilbarchan  — "  Lord,  send 
us  a  guid  conceit  o'  ourself  !"  Or,  m 
the  words  of  the  auld  sang, 

'  Who  does  me  disdain,  I  can  scorn  them 
And  I'll  neyer  mind -any  such  foes."  [again. 

There  is  an  error  in  the  commerce 
of  intimacy 


way  of  exchange  have 
not  an  equivalent  to  give  us;  and, 
what  is  still  worse,  have  no  idea-of  the 
value  of  our  goods.  Happy  is  our  lot, 
indeed,  when  we  meet  with  an, honesty 
merchant,  who  ,  is  qualified  to,  deal 
with  us  on  our  own  terms;  hut  that  is 
a  rarity.  .  With  almost,  everybody  we 
must  pocket  our  pearls,  less  or  more, 
and  learn,  in  the  ojd  .  Scotch  phrase— 
"  To  gie  sic  like  as  we  get."  For  -this 
reaspn  one  ,  sfiould  try  to  erect  ,a  kind 
of  banji,  or  storehouse' in  one'si  own 
mind;  or,  as  the  Psalmist  says,  ''We 
■should  commune  with  our  own  hearts, 
and  be  still,"  .  /TJiip  is  exactly    .      . , 


578 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  XXIV. 

I  OWN  myself  guilty,  Clarinda;  I 
shiould  tave  written  you  last  week; 
but  when  you  recollect,  my  dearest 
madam,  that  yours  of  this  night's  post 
is  only  the  third  I  have  got  from  you, 
and  that  this  is  the  fifth  or  sixth  I 
have  sent  to  you,  you  will  not  reproach 
me,  with  a  good  grace,  for  unkindness. 
I  have  always  some  kind  of  idea,  not 
to  sit  down  to  write  a  letter,  except  I 
have  time  and  possession  of  my  facul- 
ties so  as  to  do  some  justice  to  my  letter; 
which  at  present  is  rarely  my  situation. 
For  instance,  yesterday  I  dined  at  a 
friend's  at  some  distance;  the  savage 
hospitality  of  this  country  spent  me 
the  most  part  of  the  night  over  the 
nauseous  potion  in  the  bowl : — ^this  day 
— sick — ^headache — low  spirits — miser- 
able— fasting,  except  for  a  draught  of 
water  or  small  beer:  now  eight  o'clock 
at  night — only  able  to  crawl  ten  min- 
utes' walk  into  Mauchline  to  wait  the 
post,  in  the  pleasurable  hope  of  hear- 
ing from  the  mistress  of  my  soul. 

But,  truce  with  all  this  !  When  I 
sit  down  to  write  to  you,  all  is  har- 
mony and  peace.  A  hundred  times  a 
day  do  I  figure  you,  before  your  taper, 
your  book,  or  work,  laid  aside,  as  I 

fet  within  the  room.  How  happy  have 
been !  and  how  little  of  that  scant- 
ling portion  of  time,  called  the  life  of 
man,  is  sacred  to  happiness  !  I  could 
moralize  to-night  like  a  death's  head. 

"Oh,  what  is  lif  e^  that  thoughtless  wish  of  all! 
A  drop  of  honey  in  a  draught  of  gall." 

Nothing  astonishes  me  more,  when 
a  little  sickness  clogs  the  wheels  of 
•life,  than  the  thoughtless  career  we 
run  in  the  hour  of  health.  "None 
saith,  where  is  God,  my  maker,  that 
giveth  songs  in  the  night;  who  teach- 
eth  us  more  knowledge  than  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  and  more  understanding 
than  the  fowls  of  the  air." 

Give  me,  my  Maker,  to  remember 
thee  !  Give  me  to  act  up  to  the  dig- 
nity of  my  nature  !  Give  me  to  feel 
"  another's  woe;"  and  continue  with 
me  that  dear-loved  friend  that  feels 
with  mine ! 


The  dignified  and  dignifying  con- 
sciousness of  an  honest  man,  and  the 
well-grounded  trust  in  approving 
Heaven,  are  two  most  substantial 
sources  of  happiness. 

Sylvandbr. 


No.   XXV.* 


1793- 


Before  you  ask  me  why  I  have  not 
written  you,  first  let  me  be  informed 
of  you  how  I  shall  write  you ?  "In 
friendship,"  you  say;  and  I  have  many 
a  time  taken  up  my  pen  to  try  an 
epistle  of  f  riendsliip  to  you ,  but  it  will 
not  do:  'tis  like  Jove  grasping  a  pop- 
gun, after  ha\  g  wielded  his  thunder. 
When  I  take  up  the  pen  recollection 
ruins  me.  Ah  !  my  ever  dearest  Cla- 
rinda !  Clarinr'-  ! — what  a  host  of 
memory's  tenderest  offspring  crowd  on 
my  fancy  at  that  sound  !  But  I  must 
not  indulge  that  subject — ^you  have 
forbid  it. 

I  am  extremely  happy  to  learn  that 
your  precious  health  is  re-established, 
and  that  you  are  once  more  fit  to  enjoy 
that  satisfaction  in  existence,  which 
health  alone  can  give  us.  My  old 
friend  has  indeed  been  kind  to  you. 
Tell  him,  that  I  envy  him  the  power 
of  serving  you.  I  had  a  letter  from 
him  a  while  ago,  but  it  was  so  dry,  so 
distant,  so  like  a  card  to  one  of  his 
clients,  that  I  could  scarcely  bear  to 
read  it,  and  have  not  yet  answered  it. 
He  is  a  good  honest  fellow;  and  can 
write  a  friendly  letter,  which  would 
do  equal  honour  to  his  head  and  his 
heart;  as  a  whole  sheaf  of  his  letters  I 
have  by  me  will  witness:  and  though 
Fame  does  not  blow  her  trumpet  at  my 
approach  now,  as  she  did  then,  when 
he  first  honoured  me  with  his  friend- 
ship, yet  I  am  as  proud  as  ever;  and 
when  I  am  laid  in  my  grave,  I  wish  to 
be  stretched  at  my  full  length,  that  I 
may  occupy  every  inch  of  ground 
which  X  have  a  right  to. 

You  would  laugh  were  you  to  see 


*  This  letter  was  written  after  the  poet's 
marriage. 


COMMONPLACE  BOOK. 


57d 


me  where  I  am  just  now  ! — would  to 
heaven  you  were  here  to  laugh  with 
me  !  though  I  am  afraid  that  crying 
would  be  our  first  employment.  Here 
am  I  set,  a  solitary  hermit,  in  the  sol- 
itary room  of  a  solitary  inn,  with  a 
solitary  bottle  of  wine  by  me — as  grave 
and  as  stupid  as  an  owl — but,  like  that 
owl,  still  faithful  to  my  old  song.  In 
confirmation  of  which,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Mack,  here  is  your  good  health  !  may 
the  hand-waled  benisons  o'  Heaven 
bless  your  bonnie  face;  and  the  wretch 
wha  skellies  at  your  weelfare,  may  the 
auld  tinkler  diel  get  him  to  clout  his 
rotten  heart  !     Amen. 

You  must  know,  my  dearest  madam, 
that  these  now  many  years,  wherever 
I  am,  in  whatever  company,  when 
a  married  lady  is  called  on  as  a  toast,  I 
constantly  give  you;  but  as  your  name 
has  never  passed  my  lips  even  to  my 
most  intimate  friend,  I  give  you  by 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Mack.  This  is  so 
vpeil  known  among  my  acquaintances 
mat  when  my  married  lady  is  called 


for,  the  toast-master  will  say — "Oh, 
we  need  not  ask  him  who  it  is — here's 
Mrs.  Mack  !"  1  have  also,  among  my 
convivial  friends,  set  on  foot  a  round 
of  toasts,  which  I  call  a  round  of  Ar- 
cadian Shepherdesses;  that  is  a  round 
of  favourite  ladies,  under  female 
names  celebrated  in  ancient  song;  and 
then  you  are  my  Clarinda.  So,  my 
lovely  Clarinda,  I  devote  this  glass  of 
wine  to  a  most  ardent  wish  for  your 
happiness  ! 

In  vain  would  Prudence,  with  decorous  sneers 
Point  out  a  cens'ring  world,  arid  bid  me  fear  ; 
Above  that  world  on  wings  of  love  I  rise, 
I  know  its  worst,  and  can  that  worst  despise. 
"  Wrong'd,  injured,  shunn'd,  unpitifed,  unre- 

drest, 
The  mock'd  quotation  of  the  scorner's  jest," 
Let  Prudence'  direst  bodements  on  me  fall, 
Clarinda,  rich  reward  !  o'erpays  them  all ! 

I  have  been  rhyming  a  little  of  late, 
but  I  do  not  know  if  they  are  worth 
postage. — Tell  me 

SlIiVAUDBE. 


COMMONPLACE    BOOK. 

BEGUN  IN  APRIL  1783. 


TO  EGBERT  RIDDEL,  Esq. 

My  j>ear  Sik, — In  rummaging  over 
some  old  papers,  I  lighted  on  a  MS.  of 
my  early  years,  in  which  I  had  deter- 
mined to  write  myself  out;  as  I  was 
placed  by  fortune  among  a  class  of 
men  to  whom  my  ideas  would  have 
been  aonsense.  I  had  meant  that  the 
book  should  have  lain  by  me,  in  the 
foiid  hope  that  some  time  or  other, 
even  after  I  was  no  more,  my  thoughts 
would  fall  into  the  hands  of  somebody 
capable  of  appreciating  their  value. 
It  sets  off  thus: — 

"  Obsbkvations,    Hints,     Songs, 


Scraps  op  Poetht,  &c.,  by  Robert 
BuRNBSS; — a  man  who  had  little  art  in 
making  money,  and  still  less  in  keep- 
ing it;  but  was,  however,  a  man  of 
some  sense,  a  great  deal  of  honesty; 
and  unbounded  good- will  to  every  crea- 
ture, rational  and  irrational. — As  he 
was  but  little  indebted  to  scholastic 
education,  and  bred  at  a  plough-tail, 
his  performances  must  be  strongly 
tinctured  with  his  unpolished  rustic 
way  of  life;  but  as  I  believe  they  are 
really  his  own,  it  may  be  some  enter- 
tainment to  a  curious  observer  of  hu- 
man nature  to  see  how  a  ploughman 
thinks  and  feels  under  the  pressure  of 


580 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


love,  ambition,  anxiety,  grief,  witli 
the  like  cares  and  passions,  wliioli, 
however  diversified  by  the  modes  and 
manners  of  life,  operate  pretty  much 
alike,  I  believe,  on  all  the  species. " 

"  There  are  numbers  in  the  world  who  do 
not  want  sense  to  make  a  figure,  so  much 
as  an  opinion  of  their  own  abilities,  to  put 
them  upon  recording  their  observations,  and 
allowing  them  the  same  importance  which 
they  do  to  those  which  appear  in  print.'* — 
Shenstone. 

"  Pleasing,  when  youth  is  long  expired,  to 

trace 

The  forms  our  pencil,  or  our  pen,  design'd  ! 

Such  was  our  youthfiri  air,  and  shape,  and 

face. 

Such  the  soft  image  of  our  youthful  mind*" 

Ibid. 


April    1783. 

Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been 
said  against  love,  respecting  the  folly 
and  weakness  it  leads  a  young  inex- 
perienced mind  into;  still  I  think  it 
in  a  great  measure  deserves  the  high- 
est encomiums  that  have  been  passed 
upon  it.  If  anything  on  earth  de- 
serves the  name  of  rapture  or  trans- 
port, it  is  the  feelings  of  green  eight- 
een in  the  company  of  the  mistress  of 
his  heart,  when  she  repays  him  with 
an  equal  return  of  affection. 


August. 
There  is  certainly  some  connexion 
between  love,  and  music,  and  poetry; 
and,  therefore,  I  have  always  thought 
it  a  fine  touch  of  nature,  that  passage 
in  a  modern  love-composition: 

"  As  towards  her  cot  he  jog^'d  along, 
Her  name  was  frequent  in  his  song. 

For  my  own  part,  I  never  had  the 
least  thought  or  inclination  of  turning' 
poet  till  I  got  once  heartily  in  love, 
and  then  rhyme  and  song  were,  in  a 
manner,  the  spontaneous  language  of 
my  heart.  The  following  composition 
was  the  first  of  my  performances,  and 
done  at  an  early  period  of  life,  when 
my  heart  glowed  with  honest  warm 
simplicity;  unacquainted  and  uucor- 
rupted  with  the  ways  of  a  wicked 
world.     The  performance  is,  indeed. 


very  puerile  and  silly;  but  I  am  al- 
ways pleased  with  it,  as  it  recalls  to 
my  mind  those  happy  days  when  my 
heart  was  yet  honest,  and  my  tongue 
was  sincere.  The  subject  of  it  was  a 
young  girl  who  really  deserved  all  the 
praises  I  have  bestowed  on  her.  I  not 
only  had  this  opinion  of  her  then — but 
I  actually  think  so  still,  now  that  the 
spell  is  long  since  broken,  and  the  en- 
chantment at  an  end. 

*'  Oh,  once  I  loved  a  bonnie  lass,"  &c.* 


September. 

I  entirely  agree  with  that  judicious 
philosopher,  Mr.  Smith,  in  his  exeel- 
lent  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,  that 
remorse  is  the  most  painful  sentiment 
that  can  embitter  the  human  bosom. 
Any  ordinary  pitch  of  fortitude  may 
bear  up  tolerably  well  under  those 
calamities,  in  the  procurement  of 
which  we  ourselves  have  had  no  hand; 
but  when  our  own  follies  or  crimes 
have  made  us  miserable  and  wretched, 
to  bear  up  with  manly  firmness,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  have  a  proper  and 
penitential  sense  of  our  misconduct,  is 
a  glorious  effort  of  self-command. 


March  1784. 

I  have  often  observed,  in  the  course 
of  my  experience  of  human  life,  that 
every  man,  even  the  worst,  has  some- 
thing good  about  him: — though  very 
often  nothing  else  than  a  happy  tem- 
perament of  constitution  inclining  him 
to  this  or  that  virtue.  For  this  reason, 
no  man  can  say  in  what  degree  any 
other  person,  besides  himself,  can  be, 
with  strict  justice,  called  wicked.  Let 
any  of  the  strictest  character  for  regu- 
larity of  conduct  among  us  examine 
impartially  how  many  vices  he  has 
never  been  guilty  of,  not  from  any 
care  or  vigilance,  but  for  want  of  op- 
portunity, or  some  accidental  circum- 
stance intervening;  how  many  of  the 
weaknesses  of    mankind  he    has   es- 


*  See  "  My  Handsome  Nell','p.  189. 


COMMONPLACE  BOOK. 


581 


caped  because  he  was  out  of  tlie  line 
of  sucli  temptation;  and  wliat  often,  if 
not  always,  weighs  more  than  all  the 
rest,  how  much  he  is  indebted  to  the 
world's  good  opinion,  because  the 
world  does  not  know  all;  I  say,  any 
man  who  can  thus  think  will  scan  the 
failings,  nay,  the  faults  and  crimes, 
of  mankind  around  him  with  a  broth- 
er's eye. 

1  have  often  courted  the  acquaint- 
ance of  that  part  of  mankind  common- 
ly known  by  the  ordinary  phrase  of 
blackguards,  sometimes  farther  than 
was  consistent  with  the  safety  of  my 
character;  those  who,  by  thoughtless 
prodigality  or  headstrong  passions, 
have  been  driven  to  ruin.  Though 
disgraced  by  follies,  nay,  sometimes 
stained  \vith  guilt,  I  have  yet  found 
among  them,  in  not  a  few  instances, 
some  of  the  noblest  virtues,  magna- 
nimity, generosity,  disinterested  friend- 
ship, and  even  modesty. 

Shenstone  finely  observes,  that  love- 
verses,  written  without  any  real  pas- 
sion, 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  in- 
stances, have  been  a  warm  votary  of 
this  passion.  As  I  have  been  all  along 
a  miserable  dupe  to  love,  and  have 
been  led  into  a  thousand  weaknesses 
and  follies  by  it,  for  that  reason  I  put 
"the  more  confidence  in  my  critical 
skill  in  distinguishing  foppery  and 
conceit  from  real  passion  and  nature. 
Whether  the  following  song  will 
stand  the  test,  I  will  not  pretend  to 
say,  because  it  is  my  own;  only  I  can 
say  it  was,  at  the  time,  genuine  from 
the  heart. 
"  Behind  yon  hills  where  Lugar  flows,"  &c.* 


March  1784. 
There  was  a  certain  period  of  my  life 
that  my  spirit  was  broken  by  repeated 
losses  and  disasters,  which  threat- 
ened, and  indeed  effected,  the  utter 
rain  of  my  fortune.      My  body,  too. 


was  attacked  by  that  most  dreadful 
distemper,  a  hypochondria,  or  confirm- 
ed melancholy.  In  this  wretched 
state,  the  recollection  of  which  makes 
me  yet  shudder,  I  hung  my  harp  on 
the  willow  trees,  except  in  some  lucid 
intervals,  in  one  of  which  I  composed 
the  following: — 

"  O  Ihou  Great  Being !  what  thou  art,"  &c.* 


April. 

The  following  song  is  a  wild  rhap- 
sody, miserably  deficient  in  versifica- 
tion; but,  as  the  sentiments  are  the 
genuine  feelings  of  my  heart,  for  that 
reason  I  have  a  particular  pleasure  in 
conning  it  over. 

"  My  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Carrick 
border  O,"  &c.t 


*  See  "  My  Nannie,  O,"  p.  igo. 


April. 

I  think  the  whole  species  of  young 
men  may  be  naturally  enough  divided 
into  two  grand  classes,  which  1  shall 
call  the  gram  and  the  merry;  though, 
by  the  by,  these  terms  do  not,  with 
propriety  enough,  express  my  ideas. 
The  grave  1  shall  cast  into  the  usual 
division  of  those  who  are  goaded  on  by 
the  love  of  money,  and  those  whose 
darling  wish  is  to  make  a  figure  in  the 
world.  The  merry  are  the  men  of 
pleasure  of  all  denominations;  the 
jovial  lads,  who  have  too  much  fire 
and  spirit  to  have  any  settled  rule  of 
action;  but,  without  much  delibera- 
tion, follow  the  strong  impulses  of  na- 
ture; the  thoughtless,  the  careless,  the 
indolent — in  particular  he  who,  with  a 
happy  sweetness  of  natural  temper, 
and  a  cheerful  vacancy  of  thought, 
steals  through  life— generally,  indeed, 
in  poverty  and  obscurity;  but  poverty 
and  obscurity  are  only  evils  to  him 
who  can  sit  gravely  down,  and  make 
a  repining  comparison  between  his 
own  situation  and  that  of  others;  and 
lastly,  to  grace  the  quorum,  such  are, 
generally,  those  whose  heads  are  ca- 
pable of  all  the  towerings  of  genius, 

*  See  "Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  Violent 
Anguish,"  p.  35-  +  See  p.  192. 


583 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


and  whose  hearts  are  warmed  with  all 
the  delicacy  of  feeling. 


August. 
The  foregoing  was  to  have  been  an 
elaborate  dissertation  on  the  various 
species  of  men;  but  as  I  cannot  please 
myself  in  the  arrangement  of  my  ideas, 
I  must  wait  till  further  experience  and 
nicer  observation  throw  more  light  on 
the  subject. — In  the  meantime,  I  shall 
set  down  the  following  fragment, 
which,  as  it  is  the  genuine  language 
of  my  heart,  will  enable  anybody  to 
determine  which  of  the  classes  I  be- 
long to: — ■ 

"  There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han'. 
In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O,"  &c.*- 

As  the  grand  end  of  human  life  is 
to  cultivate  an  intercourse  with  that 
Being  to  whom  we  owe  life,  with 
every  enjoyment  that  renders  life  de- 
lightful; and  to  maintain  an  integri- 
tive  conduct  towards  our  fellow- 
creatures;  that  so,  by  forming  piety 
and  virtue  into  habit,  we  may  be  fit 
members  for  that  society  of  the  pious 
and  the  good,  which  reason  and  rev- 
elation teach  us  to  expect  beyond  the 
grave,  I  do  not  see  that  the  turn  of 
mind,  and  pursuits  of  such  a  one  as 
the  above  verses  describe — one  who 
spends  the  hours  and  thoughts  Which 
the  vocations  of  the  day  can  spare, 
with  Ossian,  Shakespeare,  Thomson, 
Shenstone,  Sterne,  &c. ;  or,  as  the 
maggot  takes  him,  a  gun,  a  fiddle,  or 
a  song  to  make  or  mend;  and  at  all 
times  some  heart's  dear  bonnie  lass  in 
view — I  say  I  do  not  see  that  the  turn 
of  mind  and  pursuits  of  such  a  one  are 
in  the  least  more  inimical  to  the  sacred 
interests  of  piety  and  virtue  than  the 
even  lawful  bustling  and  straining 
after  the  world's  riches  and  honours: 
and  I  do  not  see  but  he  may  gain 
heaven  as  well — which,  by  the  by,  is 
no  mean  consideration  —  who  steals 
through  the  vale  of  life,  amusing  him- 
self with  every  little  flower  that  for- 
tune throws  in  his  way,  as  he  who, 
straining  straight  forward,  and  perhaps 
spattering  all  about  him,  gains  some 


*  See  "  Green  grow  the  Rashes,  O,"  p.  195. 


of  life's  little  eminences,  where,  after 
all,  he  can  only  see  and  be  seen  a  lit- 
tle more  conspicaously  than  what,  in 
the  pride  of  his  heart,  he  is  apt  to  term 
the  poor  indolent  dev%  he  has  left  be- 
hind him.  -  -    &!• 


August. 

A  prayer,  when  fainting  fits,  and 
other  alarming  symptoms  of  a  pleurisy 
or  some  other  dangerous  disorder, 
which  indeed  still  threatens  me,  first 
put  nature  on  the  alarm  : — 


"  O  thou  unknown, 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  !** 


r  Cause 


EGOTISMS  FROM  MY  OWN   SENSATIONS. 

May. 
I  don't  well  know  what  is  the  reason 
of  it,  but  somehow  or  other,  though 
I  am,  when  I  have  a  mind,  pretty 
generally  beloved,  yet  I  never  could 
get  the  art  of  commanding  respect — I 
imagine  it  is  owing  to  my  being  de- 
ficient in  what  Sterne  calls  "  that  uu- 
derstrappjng  virtue,  of  discretion." — I 
am  so  apt  to  a  lapsus  lingucB  that  I 
sometimes  think  the  character  of  a 
certain  great  man  I  have  read  of  some- 
where is  very  much  apropos  to  my- 
self -that  he  was  a  compound  of  great 
taleats  and  great  folly. — N.  B.—To 
try  if  I  can  discover  the  causes  of  this 
•wiei-hed  infirmity,  and,  if  possible,  to 
mend  it. 


August. 
However  I  am  pleased  with  the 
works  of  our  Scottish  poets,  particular- 
ly the  excellent  Ramsay,  and  the  still 
more  excellent  Pergusson,  yet  I  am  hurt 
to  see  other  places  of  Scotland,  their 
towns,  rivers,  woods,  haughs,  &c. ,  im- 
mortalised in  such  celebrated  perform- 
ances, while  my  dear  native  country, 
the  ancient  baileries  of  Carrlck,  Kyle, 
and  Cunningham,  famous  both  in  an- 
cient and  modern  times  for  a  gallant 
and  warlike  race  of  inhabitants;  a 
country  where  civil,  and  particularly 
religious,  liberty  have  ever  found  their 

*  See  "A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death  " 
p.  37- 


COMMONPLACE  BOOK. 


583 


first  support  and  their  last  asylum;  a 
country,  the  birthplace  of  many  fa- 
mous philosophers,  soldiers,  and 
statesmen,  and  the  scene  of  many  im- 
portant events  recorded  in  Scottish 
history,  particularly  a  great  many  of 
the  actions  of  the  glorious  Wallace, 
the  saviour  of  his  country;  yet  we 
have  never  had  one  Scotch  poet  of  any 
eminence,  to  make  the  fertile  banks  of 
Irvine,  the  romantic  woodlands  and 
•  sequestered  scenes  on  Ayr,  and  the 
heathy  mountainous  source  and  wind- 
ing sweep  of  DoON,  emulate  Tay, 
Forth,  Ettrick,  Tweed,  &c.  This  is  a 
complaint  I  would  gladly  remedy,  but 
alas!  I  am  far  unequal  to  the  task, 
both  in  native  genius  and  education. 
Obscure  I  am,  and  obscure  I  must  be, 
though  no  young  poet,  nor  young  sol- 
dier's heart  ever  beat  more  fondly  for 
fame  than  mine — 

"  And  if  there  is  no  other  scene  of  beinff, 
Where  my  insatiate  wish  may  liave  its  fill. — 
This  sQmething  at  my  heart  that  heaves  for 

room 
My  best,  my  dearest  part,  was  made  in  vain." 


September. 
There  is  a  great  irregularity  in  the 
old  Scottish  songs,  a  redundancy  of 
syllables  with  respect  to  the  exact- 
ness of  accent  and  measure  th,'"^.  the 
English  poetry  requires,  but  triich 
glides  in,  most  melodiously,  with  the 
respective  tunes  to  which  they  are  set. 
For  instance,  the  fine  old  song  of  The 
Mill,  Mill,  O,"  to  give  it  a  plain,  pro- 
saic reading,  it  halts  prodigiously  out 
of  measure;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
song  set  to  the  same  tune  in  Bremner's 
collection  of  Scotch  songs,  which  be- 
gins "  To  Fanny  fair  could  I  impart," 
&c. ,  it  is  most  exact  measure,  and  yet, 
let  them  both  be  sung  before  a  real 
critic,  one  above  the  biases  of  preju- 
dice, but  a  thorough  judge  of  nature, 
— how  flat  and  spiritless  will  the  last 
appear,  how  trite,  and  lamely  method- 
ical, compared  with  the  wild-warbling 
cadence,  the  heart-moving  melody  of 
the  first  !— This  is  particularly  the 
case  with  all  those  airs  which  end 
with  a  hypermetrical  syllable.  There 
is  a  degree  of  wild  irregularity  in 
many  of  the  compositions  and  frag- 


ments which  are  dally  sung  to  them 
by  my  compeers,  the  common  people 
— a  certain  happy  arrangement  of  old 
Scotch  syllables,  and  yet,  very  fre- 
quently, nothing,  not  even  like  rhyme, 
a  sameness  of  jingle,  at  the  ends  of  the 
lines.  This  has  made  me  sometimes 
imaguie  that,  perhaps,  it  might  be 
possible  for  a  Scotch  poet,  with  a  nice 
judicious  ear,  to  set  compositions  to 
many  of  our  most  favourite  airs,  par- 
ticularly that  class  of  them  mentioned 
above,  independent  of  rhyme  alto- 
gether. 

There  is  a  noble  sublimity,  a  heart- 
melting  tenderness,  in  some  of  our  an- 
cient ballads,  which  show  them  to  be 
the  work  of  a  masterly  hand;  and  it 
has  often  given  me  many  a  heartache 
to  reflect  that  such  glorious  old  bards 
— bards  who  very  probably  owed  all 
their  talents  to  native  genius,  yet  have 
described  the  exploits  of  heroes;  the 
pangs  of  disappointment,  and  the 
ineltings  of  love,  with  such  fine  strokes 
of  nature — that  their  very  names  (oh, 
how  mortifying  to  a  bard's  vanity  !) 
are  now  "  buried  among  the  wrecks  of 
things  which  were." 

0  ye  illustrigus  names  unknown  ! 
who  could  feel  so  strongly  and  de- 
scribe so  well :  the  last,  the  meanest  of 
the  muses'  train — one  who,  though  far 
inferior  to  your  flights,  yet  eyes  your 
path,  and  with  trembling  wing  would 
sometimes  soar  after  you — a  poor  rus- 
tic bard  unknown,  pays  this  sympa- 
thetic pang  to  your  memory  !  Some 
of  you  tell  us,  with  all  the  charms  of 
verse,  that  you  have  been  unfortunate 
in  the  world — unfortunate  in  love:  he, 
too,  has  felt  the  loss  of  his  little  for- 
tune, the  loss  of  friends,  and  worse 
than  all,  the  loss  of  the  woman  he 
adored.  Like  you,  all  his  conso- 
lation was  his  muse :  she  taught 
him  in  rustic  measures  to  com- 
plain. Happy  could  he  have  done 
it  with  your  strength  of  imagination 
and  flow  of  verse!  May  the  turf  lie 
lightly  on  your  bones  I  and  may  you 
now  enjoy  that  solace  and  rest  which 
this  world  rarely  gives  to  the  heart 
tuned  to  all  the  feelings  of  poesy  and 
love! 


584 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


September. 

There  is  a  fragment  in  imitation  of 
an  old  Scotch  song,  well  known 
among  the  country  ingle  sides.  I  can- 
not tell  the  name,  neither  of  the  song 
nor  the  tune,  but  they  are  in  fine 
unison  with  one  another. — By  the 
way,  these  old  Scottish  airs  are 
so  nobly  sentimental  that  when 
one  would  compose  to  them,  to  "south 
the  tune,"  as  our  Scotch  phrase  is, 
over  and  over,  is  the  readiest  way  to 
catch  the  inspiration,  and  raise  the 
bard  into  that  glorious  enthusiasm  so 
strongly  characteristic  of  our  own  Scot- 
tish poetry.  I  shall  here  set  down  one 
verse  of  the  piece  mentioned  above, 
both  to  mark  the  song  and  tune  I 
mean,  and  likewise  as  a  debt  I  owe  to 
the  author,  as  the  repeating  of  that 
verse  has  lighted  up  my  flame  a 
thousand  tipies  :— 

"  When  clouds  in  skies  do  come  together 
To  hide  the  brightness  of  the  sun, 
There  will  surely  be  some  pleasant  weather  / 
When  a'  their  storms  are  past  and  gone.* 


*  Alluding  to  the  misfortunes  he  feelingly 
laments  before  this  verse. — B, 


October  1785. 

If  ever  any  young  man,  in  the  vesti- 
bule of  the  world,  chance  to  throw  his 
eye  over  these  pages,  let  him  pay  a 
warm  attention  to  the  following  ob- 
servations, as  I  assure  him  they  are  the 
fruit  of  a  poor  devil's  dear-bought  ex- 
perience.— I  have  literally,  like  that 
great  poet  and  great  gallant,  and  by 
consequence,  that  great  fool,  Solomon, 
' '  turned  my  eyes  to  behold  madness 
and  folly."  Nay,  I  have,  with  all  the 
ardour  of  a  lively,  fanciful,  and  whim- 
sical imagination,  accompanied  with  a 
warm,  feeling,  poetic  heart,  shaken 
hands  with  their  intoxicating  friend- 
ship. 

In  the  first  place,  let  my  pupil,  as 
he  tenders  his  own  peace,  keep  up  a 
regular  warm  intercourse  with  the 
Deity.  R.  B 

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